strawberrysandcream

[strawberrysandcream]

imagine trying to keep up with clark 🤯 (18+)

clark kent is an undeniably gentle lover—clumsy at times, almost bashful, his movements hesitant in a way that’s endearing. sometimes, he looks to you for reassurance, those soft blue eyes pleading, asking if he’s making you feel good.

and he always does.

he knows your body so well it’s almost frustrating. his hands, his mouth, the way his voice drops just slightly when he whispers your name—it’s enough to leave you trembling every time.

he always tells you that you do. ��perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath warm and uneven as he buries his face in the crook of your neck. his voice is wrecked, raw in a way that makes you believe him—for a moment.

but there are things you’ve started to notice.

like the way he lingers for just a second too long, his lips brushing your temple as if hesitating to pull away or draw you closer. or how his hands tremble slightly when they release you, the strength behind them still careful, too careful. then, there are the moments he waits for you to fall asleep—the soft creak of the mattress, the shuffle of his feet as he slips out of bed, barely disturbing the air.

it’s always the same. the quiet click of the bathroom door, the faint rush of water as he turns on the shower.

you know what he’s doing in there.

and it eats at you, imagining him under the stream of hot water, head tilted back, his chest heaving as he works through the need that still claws at him. need that you weren’t able to fully satisfy.

once, you caught him. half-asleep and bleary-eyed, you stirred when the bed dipped, his weight returning as if nothing had happened. his skin was still damp, his hair darker and curling against his forehead.

but you want to be the one to help him blow off that steam.

“just blowing off some extra steam,” he said softly, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

no, you need to be the one.

you want him completely undone—panting, his chest heaving, red staining his cheeks while he’s too wrecked to say anything but your name. you want him shaking with pleasure, the same way he leaves you, winded and unable to think of anything else.

you want him gasping, moaning louder, his voice breaking apart as he tries to keep himself together. you want to see spit pooling at the corners of his lips, his body shuddering uncontrollably. you want him to blow load after load—on you, with you, inside you—until neither of you can take any more.

you just have to make sure you don’t turn the tables on yourself.

“you got another one for me, hun?” clark pleads, his voice soft but ragged.

his curls stick to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his face is flushed deeper than you’ve ever seen. his big hands hold your hips gently, fingers twitching as if he’s trying to resist gripping you tighter.

you’re blubbering, incoherent, your eyes unfocused as your nails scrape at his shoulders. it’s ridiculous trying to leave marks on steel skin, but the feeling of him, the weight of him, makes it impossible to stay still.

you’ve finally managed to corner him. after weeks, nearly a month of easing him into the idea that you could keep up with him, he let you try. and now he’s showing you a side of himself you’ve never seen before.

his body trembles against yours, his movements are frantic, urgent, a stark contrast to the measured pace he usually sets. your legs ache as you struggle to keep up, your body pliant and exhausted, while he bucks up against you, doing most of the work after you had given up on riding him.

he moves you easily, up and down his cock, his strength apparent even in his restraint. his head falls back against the headboard, blue eyes locked on yours, his glasses long discarded.

in all honesty, you don’t know if you have another one in you. you’d lost count three orgasms ago. you must’ve been delusional thinking you could keep up with clark kent, a man who is finally breaking a sweat, his broken moans and soft whimpers starting to turn into ones you’ve never heard from him before. even after cumming countless times, making a mess of your sheets, he still wants more, asks for it, begs for it—he needs more, he can take more, wants to give you more.

the slow drag of his cock, sliding in and out of you, has you mewling, tears staining your cheeks as the pleasure mounts again. his grip is firm but careful, guiding you, ensuring you can take everything he’s giving.

he makes you feel so good. your body trembling in his hands, every nerve alight and melting under his touch. you’ve become putty for him to mould.

it’s a little embarrassing, honestly—that he’s got you like this. you were supposed to be the one pleasing him, breaking him down, undoing him. not the other way around.

but he seems perfectly satisfied with the way things are right now.

you’re fully collapsed onto him now, your strength all but gone. his hips jerk upwards, his movements frantic and desperate, breath puffing hot air against your ear.

“can you… can you look at me?” he pleads, his voice cracking as his hands shift from your hips to cradle your face, tilting your head so you’re staring into his glassy, almost desperate eyes. “look at me while you come—it’ll make me come, too. please.”

you mean to whine, his touch burning against your skin, but the sound catches in your throat when you see him.

he looks utterly wrecked.

his eyes are clouded, unfocused, his lips slick and parted, his brow furrowed with something between pain and pure desire. you imagine you look much the same—spit glistening on your chin, cheeks flushed and tear-streaked, wetness trailing down your thighs.

he holds your gaze for a moment, his thumb brushing your lower lip before slipping into your mouth.

then, both of you move at once—you surge forward to kiss him, capturing those perfect, pink lips, your movements slow and languid while he remains restless. he adjusts to your pace, pulling you impossibly closer.

his blue eyes roll back as he thrusts into you again. one hand traces lines up your spine while his lips devour yours, leaving you trembling and teetering on the edge within minutes.

his kisses turn softer, trailing to your cheek, his teeth catching on your skin as he nips gently. “i’m not hurting you, am i?” he murmurs, his voice trembling. “i know it’s sensitive, baby. tell me if it’s too much, okay? i can stop if—”

“no, please,” you whimper, terrified he might actually stop. “it’s so good.”

you’re drunk with desire, clenching tightly around him.

“you feel so good, baby. so fucking good. you’re taking me so well.” his next thrust is sharp, deep, dragging a cry from your lips as he stills, buried to the hilt. “you’re gonna make me come again,” he groans, his voice breaking.

“fuck, please—”

“i want you to come for me again,” he interrupts, his desperation bleeding through. “you’re so tight and hot when you do. i need it again—please, baby, one more for me. can you give me one more?”

“i—yeah,” you nod, trembling, your body already vibrating on the verge of release.

he hardly gives you a moment to recover before he’s crooning, “one more, just one more, please, please, please—”

clark kent is completely undone.

[strawberrysandcream]

nsfw alphabet- c. kent

word count 1.5k

banner is from @cafekitsune

a is for aftercare 

he's soso gentle with you, normally runs a hot shower for the both of you and always makes sure to clean up any messes he left behind. if you aren't too tired he might cook something small for you to eat, and after you both end up in bed. has a bad habit of making sure you're flushed against his chest

b is for body part 

if he had to pick, clarks favorite body part of his would have to be his hands. its what he uses to write, to help people, and to make you feel good. one of his favorite things to do is use his x-ray vision to see his fingers curling into you just right

on you, i legitimately don't think he could pick. he loves and worships your body so wholly that to just pick one part of you would be a disservice. that being said, i think one of his favorite views of you is when you're trying to ride him, the way your nails dig into his shoulder and your chest moves as you go up and down has him feeling dizzy

c is for cum

he would prefer to finish inside of you, something about letting go while he's fully inside you gets him off like nothing else. this doesn't stoop him from finishing elsewhere if you prefer, there's been many a time he's pulled out to give you backshots. it's days like those your showers go for a bit longer

d is for dirty secret

sometimes he wonders what it would be like to fully let himself go, no holding back. obviously he could never actually do it because humans just don't have the stamina to keep up with him. the closest he's ever gotten was when you wanted to see how much you could take, but you ended up tapping out after 6 rounds

e is for experience

before coming to metropolis clark wasn't that experienced. there had been some people while he lived on the farm, but he had never gotten to truly explore and figure out what he liked. now as he's settled in though, he definitely has his fair share of experience, he knows how to put himself to use

f is for favorite position

he would prefer more intimate positions like missionary or cowgirl. he loves being able to see your face as he makes you feel good, it's the best reassurance he can get. also likes being able to whisper sweet nothings into your ear as he ruts into you

g is for goofy

it depends, are you fucking clark kent or are you fucking superman?

when it's just clark normally he's very sweet, gentle, not too serious but also not super unserious if that makes any sense. superman on the other hand is a whole other beast; sex with him is intense, rough even

h is for hair

his parents raised him to be very organized and put together, and that reflects in some aspects of his life. keeps himself trimmed, but if you prefer it bare he's open to getting rid of it

i is for intimacy 

sex in general is definitely more intimate and romantic with clark, it's an extension of his love and adoration of you. at the same time though, it isn't always like that with him. he can be mean when he wants to

j is for jack off

since getting with you, he doesn't really need to jerk off as much, you're infinitely better than his right hand. but for nights where he's away for work, or you're out of town he definitely does

k is for kink

one of his biggest kinks is praise, he loves the reassurance of being told he's doing a good job, and he loves feeling you flutter around him while he compliments you. i feel like he would also have a size kink, something about being able to just tower over you, dwarf you even, makes heat rush to his dick

l is for location

clarks a pretty vanilla person in my mind, so i think his favorite place to do it would be in bed. something about the familiar sheets, wether they be yours or his is comforting to him

m is for motivation

one of the more unexpected (to him) things to turn him on was having you tell him what to do. before you, everyone he's ever been with has expected him to be dominant, in control, the one deciding. maybe it's because of his size, or his muscles he doesn't really know. but something about you telling him to get on his knees has a tent pitching in his pants faster than he thought was possible

n is for no 

this might be a hot take, but i don't think he could ever choke you or put you in a headlock. even if you really wanted him to, even begged him he couldn't bring himself to do it. the last thing he wants to do is hurt you, and if he did he wouldn't know what to do with himself

o is for oral 

clark is a much. this shouldn't be a surprise, his favorite thing to do is make you feel good. he can and does spend hours in between your legs, something about being able to taste you leaves his head spinning and eyes rolling back. don't expect him to stop until you've finished at least twice

he also doesn't mind receiving, it's just that most of the people he's been with struggle to fully take him in, and he doesn't want them to injure themselves. but if you can actually manage it, you'll be able to hear the soft whimpers that nobody else gets to. the way his hands grab at your hair, gently so as not to hurt you, but firm, guiding you to take him deeper and deeper until tears start to prick in your eyes

p is for pace 

he prefers to be slow, and deep, taking his time with you to make sure you both feel as good as he can. you can feel him inside you as he softly presses kisses to your neck. but on days where work is a little too much, or he caused more property damage than he would like, he can't help but fuck you until he can't even remember why he was mad. you aren't one to complain though, because on nights like this he lets himself go, just like you ask

q is for quickie

clark wouldn't be opposed to a quickie if eitehr of you were horny enough, sometimes there's a certain thrill to having a time limit. h e likes to take it as a challenge to see how many times he can make you finish before you guys need to leave

r is for risk 

he normally isn't one to take risks, but he's easy to convince if it's something you really want. after all, who's gonna see you and him 60 some stories in the air? sure, you being pressed against the glass doesn't help, but the chances are still slim to none

s is for stamina 

his stamina is essentially never ending, as long as you can still go, so can he. there's been times where you guys have fucked literally all night and he can still go for another round as the sun rises outside

t is for toys

clark doesn't own any himself, but when you guys moved in together you had bought your old ones with you. they're currently in a corner picking up dust because honestly, none of them are half as good as he is

u is for unfair 

normally he isn't one to tease, but sometimes seeing you get riled up is worth being a little mean to you. sure he'll deny you an orgasm, but he'll give you three to make up for it

v is for volume 

wether he's in control or not, he can't help but make sounds. sometimes they're the smallest whimpers, other times broken moans, but superman is anything but quiet

w is for wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

a few weeks after moving in together, you had jokingly suggested getting mirrors to put on the ceiling above the bed so that you guys could watch yourselves while being intimate. you thought he hadn't taken you seriously, but a few weeks later they were up and installed, waiting to be "broken in" using clarks words

x is for x-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

we all know he's big, but not only is it long, it's also thick. there are times where you can't even wrap your hand all the way around it. has one prominent vein, running along his left side

visual link (be logged into twt to view it)

y is for yearning

his sex drive is decently high, you guys have sex at least twice a week, sometimes more if you're ovulating

z is for zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

refuses to fall asleep until you have, makes sure to keep you close, depending on your positioning he keeps his hands around your waist, settled on the small of your back

if you want to read more about clark, reqs are open!

[strawberrysandcream]

oh what a curse it is to be a lover (boy)

some whipped clark headcanons ------

clark kent who never lets you wake up to anything but a freshly made breakfast— and he can cook. he knows just about every kent family recipe ma could teach him and he never lets you lift a finger in the kitchen. he insists that the view of you, in one if his old smallville t-shirts, bleary-eyed and giggly in the soft lull of the morning is worth the labor of a thousand breakfasts.

clark kent who is the perfect gentleman. before you even realize you’re cold he has his gray cotton suit jacket around your shoulders and an arm tight around your waist. you two go grocery shopping? he won’t even let you touch a bag, carrying them like it’s a badge of honor after you’ve long since given up on trying to help him. if there’s a puddle on the sidewalk? he lifts you by the waist like you’re featherlight, twirling you over it so your shoes don’t get wet and pressing a kiss atop your head once he sets you down. 

clark kent who can’t keep himself off of you, like, ever. his hands, which are huge compared to yours, are always holding you, your hands, your waist, your thighs, etc. his fingers card through your hair constantly, and his nose presses into the crook of your neck like it belongs there. he wraps himself around you in giant bear hugs, refusing to let go for hours on end (not that you mind). it’s almost a compulsion, how close he has to be to you at all times to ground himself, to remind himself that you, the person he loves most in this world and any other, are real and somehow love him as much as he loves you. 

clark kent who is really good with kids, in the kind of way that makes your heart just melt to see. he takes conversations with children seriously, nodding along as they babble on like it’s the most important thing in the world, helping them without a second thought. when he meets your niece, it only takes about five minutes for him to swing her on his shoulders and earn the title of “uncle clark!” the whole thing makes you swoon. 

clark kent who is a giant dork and makes sure you know it. he practically pins you down against him and forces you to watch all six of the star wars movies in an order that seems completely random to you when you make the mistake of telling him that you’ve never seen them. he spoons you on the couch, arms wrapped around you, softly whispering his favorite lines along with the movie, his breath warm against your ear. 

clark kent who sees you as a literal goddess. he thinks you’re ethereal, full of warmth and made of light. he loves you like it’s worship, tending to you like it’s his divine purpose— because it is. he’s so gentle with you, large hands capable of great destruction ghosting over your body like you’re something fragile. he keeps you safe, happy, and warm with everything he has. you’re his girl, by some grace of god, and he’d rather die than let you feel anything but absolutely beloved. 

clark kent who kisses you like he forgets you have to breathe— because he does. after crashing into you, he gets so lost in the waves that it takes you nearly passing out for him to pull back, giving you a million apologies while you catch your breath, but you pull him back into it before he can feel any real guilt. 

clark kent who is undeniably the love of your life, in a way that is permanent and unbelievable. you have him whipped, barely able to think about anything but you and the way you glow like starlight in his eyes. perfection cannot begin to describe what you are to him, they way you make him weak in his knees and dizzy when he smells your perfume on his skin. he doesn’t need to travel to distant planets with red suns to get wasted when the sound of your voice makes him drunker than any beverage could hope to. yes, you, the woman of his dreams, are the owner of clark’s heart and if shattering it would make you smile he’d glue it back together so you could do it all over again. 

-------

he is all i can think about i think ate ive read over 100 fics about my sweet beautiful princess he is so beautiful to me. this obsession is a sickness but hot damn

[strawberrysandcream]

Sex pollen - Clark Kent x reader

Word count: 3.2k

Description: When Clark gets poisoned with sex pollen, he tries everything in his power to stay away from you. Until he ends up crashing into your living room, and you have a god on his knees, with your name in his mouth and your body at his will.

Tags/warnings: smut, established relationship, clark is sorry, he gets freaky with his powers, consent kink, breaks you and worships you at the same time, begging, praising, hovering (yes hovering👀), so much dirty talk (he’s feral but sweet), overstimulation.

Note: Guess who watched superman today and got a new man to obsess about🙂‍↕️ honestly I don’t even know what took over me when I wrote this but all I can say is go ahead, live your best life and enjoy the sweet filth 🫶🏼

archive / masterlist

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You wake up with a loud crash coming from your living room. You jolt upright from your bed as you hear glass shatter, sprinting toward the noise. You curse as your body, only covered by Clark’s giant shirt, gets hit with the crisp midnight air as wind gushed through your apartment like a hurricane just passed by.

A figure stood where your glass door used to be, leaning weakly on what was left of the frame. You turned on the lamp next to you, illuminating your boyfriend’s stumbling body.

“Clark!?” you exclaim, confused by his abrupt arrival.

He doesn’t look up, just stands there against the frame, chest heaving, fists clenched. Like he is barely holding himself together.

Worry washes your features, something must be really wrong. You start making way over to him, but as soon as you take a step forward he puts a warning hand in front of him.

“Stop! Don’t move,” his deep voice comes out strangled, like he’s been screaming for hour. “Don’t come closer… please. Just–just stay there.”

He keeps his hand up to stop you, panting heavily as he swallowed to try to soothe his dry throat. He slowly looks up, and groans when he meets your eyes. His pupils are blown wide, dry lips parted, his breath ragged like he’s been flying across the globe. His usually perfect wavy hair is now flat, messy, sticking to his sweaty forehead.

“I didn’t want to come here,” he whines. “I–I didn’t want you to see me like this.”

“What happened to you?” You ask from your spot, fighting the urge to run to his aid.

“I’ve been infected,” he chokes out, and your brows furrow more. “Some kind of … alien pollen. It hit me out there. I flew straight into it and–fuck ... It’s messing with my head, my body, I…”

He suddenly turns away, pacing in small frantic circles on your balcony like he’s trying to shake something off. His hands tremble as he fights to not make eye contact, like just looking at you hurts.

“What do you need? D-do you have the antidote?” You ask, scared as hell. He never acts like this.

He just shakes his head first with a bitter laugh, only to nod frantically afterwards.

God, if only you knew.

“I tried to wait it out,” he groans, fists now in his hair. “I swear I did, my love, I locked myself away for hours … tried to fly as far as I could but I kept turning back because I could smell you.”

Your breath catches in your throat, somehow understanding what this was about.

“I can smell you, sweetheart. Even from across the city … I can hear you breathing … your heartbeat. I didn’t want to hurt you but right now I have you in front of me and I can see–dammit … I’m sorry–“

He stumbles backward like he’s ashamed of himself, like he can’t even look at you.

“You know can’t turn it off,” he whispers. “I never mean to look, I swear, but I can see you now. Everything.”

Of course you know what he means. You know he can see right past his giant shirt covering your body. And the guilt on his face is gutting. He looks like he’s trying to claw his own powers out of his skin.

“Clark… it’s okay. You don’t have to explain, ”you step forward, slowly, gently. “It’s not like we haven’t–“

“No you don’t get it!” He snaps, his voice booming through your walls so loud you were sure everyone on the block heard him. He instantly feels worse with the way you flinched to his volume. “S-sorry darling … you just don’t get it … you have no idea what it’s like to smell you and know how soft you are, how warm. My instincts are going crazy. I just need to be inside you … I need to touch you, mark you, fill you up until I can’t think straight,” he just rambles, eyes raking through your body.

You take a deep breath, his words making you clench your thighs together and he noticed. Of course you’ve had sex before. You know what he sounds like when he’s needy. But this? This is feral. You’ve never seen him like this.

But you’re willing to do anything to help him. Always.

“Clark… you don’t even have to ask,” you speak softly, your own eyes darkening with desire.

He shakes his head. You don’t even understand the amount of restraint he’s having right now.

“I do … I always do. Especially now. Because I’m not going to touch you like I should. I’m not going to make it about you. I’m going to use you. Because you’re the only one who can fix me … you are the antidote and I hate it. I hate that I can’t even think straight unless I’m inside you … I need you so bad, darling, I’m shaking–“ He cries, an actual tear comes out his desperate eyes.

You’re watching a god fall apart in front of you.

Because of you.

You finally cross the space left, and he doesn’t stop you this time. You grab his face between your hands, and kiss him without hesitation. His arms immediately cling to your frame, cold hands slipping under your shirt to roam every inch of your warm skin.

You moan into his lips, when you taste the salty tears on his face. His hands land on your ass, and he squeezes hard, bruising, making you squeal. He immediately pulls back, apologizing. Like he still can’t let himself go.

“I love you, I’m sorry–” he blurts out immediately, hands soothing the skin he pinched while he fought the urge to do it again, harder. “God I love you … and I would never hurt you. Never. I swore I’d never touch you like this. Unless you asked me to. Unless you wanted me to. So please … tell me you want this too. Say yes, or I’ll leave. I swear I will.”

He nods, frantically, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“I’ll leave if you tell me to,” he breathes. “I’ll fly through a mountain. I’ll bury myself in the ocean. Just don’t say yes unless you want this. I’m barely holding on– if you say it, I won’t be able to stop.”

You want him. God you always want him.

The way he keeps asking makes you want him even more. Even if he’s not your Clark now. Even if he won’t take care of you like he always does. Even if you can’t breathe or move after. Because you love him too.

“I want it,” you whisper against his lips, nodding. “I want you. You need me? Use me. Take all you want … I can take it.”

It’s over.

The moment you say yes there’s no going back. He lunges forward, tightening his grip on you as he lifts you off the ground to fly you towards the wall, knocking the lamp when your back hit the wall, leaving you both in complete darkness. Only the moonlight left to shine over his hungry eyes.

His massive hand cradles the back of your head to protect it from the hit, while the other tears off your shirt like he needs your skin on his or he’ll die. Your panties don’t even last two seconds before they fly away too.

His lips hit yours. Tongue desperate, hands everywhere, so large, so shaky, everywhere at once. He groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst finally tasting water.

“Thank you,” he gasps between kisses. “Thank you sweetheart … I’m so sorry I can’t help you first … but I need you … I need to feel you inside, please just let me…”

He knows it hurts you when he doesn’t prepare you properly, when he doesn’t make you cum at least twice on his fingers before he fucks you …but he can’t right now. Not when he can smell how soaked you are already, not when he swears it’s dripping on the carpet.

“Do it,” you pant, hungry for him. “Clark just do it … please.”

He doubts only for a second, and then without thinking he rips the suit. Literally tears it at the waist, tugging it to get rid of it completely. He’ll care about that later.

Right now he was just muscle in front of you.

His painful cock springs up, and he presses himself to you with a wet slap, your back hitting the wall again. Your pussy throbs at how impossibly huge he is over your stomach.

You’ve had him before. You’ve barely made it. You still want him to rearrange your guts.

“Feel that?” he groans. “That’s what you do to me, that’s what’s been driving me insane all day, darling.”

He’s not even pretending anymore, his cock is throbbing, massive, already leaking. He aligns himself between your soaked folds, rutting the tip against your pussy a few times like he’s lost control of his body entirely. You moan at the friction. Every nerve ending screaming.

You know he’s gonna wreck you. You weren’t ready. But at the same time you’ve never been more ready.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it against the wall, before whispering against your lips. “I’m sorry…”

He pushes his hips forward, and when he finally slides home with a snap … raw, hard, you let out a strangled scream.

One long, broken sound, high pitched and helpless, because he stretches you brutally, all at once, bottoming out with a growl. An actual growl. Like he finally felt some type of relief since he got hit with the pollen.

You fight back a cry, lunging forward to bite his shoulder. He starts fucking you into the wall as he whispers ‘I love you’ ‘thank you’ ‘sorry’ like some sort of chant. Like it’s the only thing keeping him rooted to the version of him that is still careful with you when you have sex.

Your breath leaves you in a gasp, your bare back against the cold plaster, legs around his waist, and arms clinging to his biceps for dear life. All you can do is moan as you get adjusted to his unfairly thick cock slamming in and out of you.

“Just like that … you’re taking me so well,” he pants. “You can do it, sweetheart … you’re doing so good … fuck, you were made for this … made for me.”

His hands grip your thighs. He fucks you like he’s possessed, no rhythm, no thought into it, just deep, hard thrusts that hit something devastating every time, shaking the wall with every slam of his hips.

And the whole time, he keeps whimpering into your neck.

“I love you … I’m sorry … I love you …I’m gonna ruin you …I need it…”

You think you’re about to white out when the room starts moving, but you quickly realize what’s happening.

He’s lifting your bodies off the ground.

Still fucking you.

Going up as much as your ceiling allowed him too. He pins you high on the wall when his head touches the roof, like gravity doesn’t apply anymore. It never does, not to you, not to him.

So now you’re fucking hovering. Literally. Unable to do anything but take it.

And you feel him like never before. A complete moaning mess. Nails dragging down his back, mouth open in shock as you look down to the floor. Your whole body is a live wire, and he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His cock twitches inside you. He’s already close. Has been since he walked through that window. But he���s holding it, fighting it, because he needs to stay inside. Needs to keep taking. You can’t.

“Fuck Clark … I’m gonna–“

“Yes? do it … darling please, you’re doing so well. I’ve got you … cum all over this cock baby I got you.”

Your body breaks before you can breathe. Your first climax of the night hits hard, clenching down on him, while you pant into his chest. Your whole body goes limp and he feels it.

He fucks you through it. Rough thrusts with his hand stroking your back and the other wrapped under your thighs. He keeps thanking you as his cock splits you open over and over.

“I wanna give you everything,” he groans, voice cracking. “Fill you up, stuff you full of me … Can I? Please? Let me finish inside you …. let me have you–“

“Yes, yes, fill me up,” you blurt out, still seeing stars.

He slams in once more and chokes, hips locked, whole body shuddering as he comes with a moan so broken it feels like it came from his soul. He shakes as he fills you, mouth pressed to your neck.

He doesn’t pull out yet. He holds you there, trembling, pressed against the wall like he knows you’ll fall if he loosens his grip.

Even after the first wave passes, after the groans, the shaking, the desperate I love you’s, he holds you like you’re the only thing anchoring him to this planet.

“…Are you okay?”

You just nod, breathless, a blissed out smile in your face. He smiles too. And then, slowly, he lowers you back down to the floor.

But he’s not soft for long. He doesn’t even give you a minute to recover. He can’t. The second round starts before the first one even finishes sinking in.

You’re still trembling in his arms, leaking down your thighs, whimpering his name into the crook of his neck. And he’s still inside you. Still painfully hard.

Still needing you.

“One more, please. Just–just one more,” he begs. “Let me have you again. Please, darling I need it.”

“Take it Clark, take all you need,” you nod, absolutely wrecked.

But what’s a few more rounds with your unearthly strong boyfriend?

He melts.

You usually go multiple rounds, but he’s softer, he gives you downtime, even brings you water in between orgasms. But right now he can’t believe the way he fucked you and you still let him have more. But he needs more. The pollen is fogging his brain.

He finally pulls out, just to set you down on the floor. The second your back hits the rug, he’s on top of you again. And god he’s heavy. Solid. He doesn’t even hold his weight like he usually does because all he’s thinking about is fucking you senseless.

He buries himself deep again, groaning, cursing under his breath. You close your eyes, nails digging the carpet, back arching when you feel him deeper from this angle. You pant small whines from the feeling.

“Shhh … don’t–“ he coos, he wants to be slow, but he can’t. His hips snap hard without even thinking. “You’re doing so good, sweetheart … so good for me… just need one more.”

You know it’s not just one more. And he fucking knows that too.

None of you cares.

“You’re so wet … so perfect” he groans, the filthy sound gushing loudly every time he thrusted. “I didn’t even give you time to come down … didn’t even let you breathe and you still take me so well”

He praises. Worships. He looks down to where your bodies meet, and he sees right through your skin. He can see his huge cock filling you with every thrust. He can see your walls clenching around him. And he looses it.

You’re suddenly running out of air when he presses his chest to yours, pining you tighter to the floor with his body as he pushes harder. And you feel all of him. The broadness of his chest against your ribs. The strain of his thighs bracketing yours. His cock still buried deep, rock hard.

You hit his bicep with your hand first, but he’s not paying attention, he’s too caught up on the way your pussy takes him to notice.

It’s not smooth. Not rhythmic. Just sharp, ragged thrusts that hit you so hard your body jerks on impact, tits bouncing, nails clawing at his back as he crushes you into the floor with every rut of his hips.

Your head starts spinning.

“Clark,” you choke out, hitting his bicep again. “I can’t–can’t breathe…”

His head finally snaps at you, eyes going wide. He lifts up a bit, but he doesn’t pull out, he just … can’t.

You finally gasp for air as he shushes you softly, tucking away the hair sticking to your sweaty forehead.

“I’m sorry … I can’t … can’t stop. I tried, I swear I tried,” his forehead presses to yours, without crushing you alive this time.

His hips don’t stop moving. You pant between moans. You’re close again, you can feel it.

“It’s okay, you’re just … you’re so big …so heavy.”

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. “I’m sorry, I know. I just … I don’t want to let you go–”

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t let me go.”

His expression breaks. Because he knows. And you know. He’s not really letting you go. Not all the way. He’s still pressing his weight into you, even as he tries not to. Because he needs to. Because letting go means losing you, even just for a second.

He doesn’t know what takes over him, he grabs your hands and pins them above your head. Watching you sob, moan, eyes rolling back, skin already bruising in multiple places by his grip. He’s not like this. He should be apologizing. Begging. But you just feel so damn good.

And you like it, god you love it.

“I–I love it when you fuck me like this,” you confess, voice barely above a whisper, dumb smile on your face as he hits that spot repeatedly. “I just- I can’t…”

“I know darling, I know … just a little more,” he groans. “One more please. You can take it …you’re doing so good.” He soothes, but he can’t slow down, not when you’re clenching him like that.

He picks up the pace.

“C-Clark … please, I’m gonna-“

“I’ve got you, darling …I’ve got you, let yourself go for me.”

You see white this time. You’re not even moaning anymore. Just gasping. Twitching. Letting him take what he needs because you want to. Because this is Clark, your Clark, and you’d give him your whole body a thousand times if he needed it.

And he does.

He fucks you like you’re his last breath.

Even after you’re wrecked, limp, twitching … he keeps going.

You don’t even remember the next time he finishes. Or the time after that. Or where it happened. Your body is a mess, trembling and raw and wet and full. Marked. Praised.

All while he keeps saying, “Just one more … just let me stay inside you a little longer… please sweetheart, I’m still hard I know you can take it … this is the last time I promise…”

Again and again. You’ve never heard him lie so much before.

Yet still, with your hair splayed, legs shaking, literal tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the pleasure, the pain, the strain, the goddamn pollen he pumps into your body every time he comes…

You are having the time of your life being drunk on his cock.

“Fuck me harder.”

You beg, even when you can’t feel it anymore. Maybe that’s why you need it harder … deeper.

And because you knew that once he came back to normal he wouldn’t fuck you like this again. And he makes sure to let you know.

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry I’m hurting you. I just need you so fucking much … I love you I love you I love you—”

You just nod, because it hurts embarrassingly good.

You lose count of how many times he comes in total. How many times you come. You only know time’s passed when the sky starts to lighten outside your broken window, and Clark is rocking into you so slowly it’s more like he’s just holding you in place, his mouth pressed to your shoulder, whispering thank you with every lazy thrust.

By the time he finally slows down, finally wears the substance out of his body after dumping it all inside you … you can’t move. You’re limp in his arms, boneless and dripping and his.

Your bed feels incredibly soft in contrast to all the spots he fucked you on last night.

You’re draped across his chest, tracing the muscles under his bare skin. His fingers are in your hair. Barely moving, just tracing small patterns. Soothing you like he didn’t cause all the pain in your body.

You’re still trembling a little. Just from… after. Your body’s still echoing with everything he gave you. Everything he took.

Worth it.

Clark kisses your temple. He hasn’t stopped kissing you every few minutes. It’s like he’s trying to apologize without saying it. Like he’s trying to prove that he’s still the man you love, the man who flinches when he bumps your head by accident, who picks you flowers and gets flustered when you kiss him in public. The one who always put you first in bed.

Not the one who just broke the sound barrier flying to your apartment because his cock told him to.

“…I broke your window,” he finally breaks the silence, a chuckle makes his chest vibrate against your ear.

“Clark … you broke a lot more than my window.”

You both start giggling … glowing. Your throat hurts, you’re sore, probably can’t even walk today or the whole week, and somehow, it feels like the safest place on Earth.

“I love you,” he whispers. “So much.”

“I know,” you whisper back. “You said it like 87 times while destroying me.”

⋆⋅ ♡ ⋅⋆

Feedback and sharing is always appreciated, thank you so much for reading <3

[strawberrysandcream]

this is (not) fine [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x personal assistant!reader

personal assistant rules: don’t crush on bucky barnes. definitely don’t misinterpret a flower purchase and spiral into silent heartbreak, and absolutely never ever get stuck alone with him in an elevator.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, smut, oral (f receiving), public (ish) sex?, wall sex (?), okay they fuck in an elevator guys, kissing, angst, miscommunication (not badly), hurt/comfort, there's some plot if you squint, insecure/self-conscious reader undertones, reader is an overthinker, reader is horny lol, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 9.1k

A/N: hi, hopefully this will keep you all fed while i work on part five to lessons in lovemaking. finally getting around to some of these requests in my inbox. this one is based off this request, but i changed it up so the reader is a PA instead of an avenger. lmk your thoughts thanx for reading <3 sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You’d never pegged Natasha as the type who enjoyed flowers.

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

---

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[strawberrysandcream]

wherever you stray, i’ll follow

alpha!joel miller x omega f!reader

Joel resents the choice to allow an unmated omega into Jackson—until he’s the only one who can help her feel at home.

warnings/tags: MDNI. Jackson era. Joel’s POV. Alternate universe: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics. Implied Soulmates. Alpha!Joel. Omega!Reader. SoftDom!Joel. Sub!Reader. Enemies-ish to lovers. Grumpy x Sunshine. Joel is emotionally constipated. Unspecified age gap. Stereotypical gender roles. Fluff. Angst. Self-flagellation. Poor coping & communication skills. Explicit smut. Dub-con elements due to the nature of heats, but everything is explicitly consented to. Size kink/size difference—Joel is huge in this, like 6’5, thick, broad, and burly. Reader has pubic hair. Pet names. Dirty talk. Scenting/scent marking. Man-handling. Fingering. Squirting. Drinking bodily fluids. Oral (f receiving). Multiple orgasms, somewhat uncontrolled. Unprotected PIV. Tummy bulge. Knotting. Breeding kink. Pregnancy implications. Adult Alpha!Ellie, Beta!Tommy, & Alpha!Maria make an appearance. Ambiguous-ish ending. wc: 10.7k

➻ a/n: this fic has been a long time coming & means so, so much to me. this won’t be for everyone, & that’s ok. i pictured game!joel for majority of this, but he is left to your imagination as always. thank you to @kiwisbell for beta reading and supporting me during the writing process. any feedback is so appreciated. enjoy. x

playlist | fic inspo tag | read it on ao3 | art by @kiwisbell

Tommy Miller had always been the foolish brother, but even Joel found his particular lack of cautiousness that night out of the ordinary. 

There were three members. What was left of a pack, likely separated or raided. They had entered the walls of Jackson that fateful evening—the walls Joel and his brother happened to be manning—dirty and famished, overly emotional and outwardly grateful for the sanctuary. The first two, an elderly woman and a teenage boy, betas. He could tell just by the way they walked, the monotonous way they carried themselves, crossing the threshold of their haven with Maria at the helm of the herd. 

“The boy’ll be a good addition to routes, whenever he’s old enough,” Tommy had remarked. Ever the optimist, too keen on seeing the good in people to even acknowledge the risk that was posed every time another body came through those gates. 

And a risk it was. 

Joel Miller had experienced a fair share of fear in his life. Real, unadulterated fear, enough to bring a grown man to his knees despite his efforts to rise above it. A fear contrived by something entirely out of his control, forces working against the walls he’d built around himself, the rough exterior that fought, and bled, and killed, and protected. But the fear he felt that ghastly night remained unlike any other. It was entirely from within, something deeply embedded in himself. Fear, once harnessed as a means of survival, reduced to a shackle, left entirely at its disposal. It rose from his toes into his head where his ears rang and his face burned. 

Time stalled. His senses were numb to everything but this walking force of nature that, at first glance, was an indiscernible canvas of shivering limbs. But as it drew closer, the details were impossible to avoid. The shape of lips and sad eyes. The foreboding sound of a beating heart. Oxygen was no longer a necessity of survival, but vanilla and lilac and something so distinctly, uniquely sweet became the vice in his lungs. 

And it happened so fast, the way fear turned to panic and panic into anger—angry that he had no control or say over how the thing inside of him responded to the thing emerging before him. Powerless. He watched at a standstill as each body lining the wall stiffened upon your entrance. Even his brother, whose composure hardly faltered, could be heard inhaling a sharp breath of disbelief.

Omega. 

She isn’t stopping. Why isn’t she stopping? 

Joel’s eyes shot toward Maria, her indomitable gaze remaining forward on the parting doors. He had to fight the sudden urge to jump the gate over how seemingly unfazed she looked. His sister-in-law was a lot of things, but foolish wasn’t one of them. How could she be so foolish? 

A question left unspoken, unanswered, because his body was not his own. The sound of pounding rattled in his chest, blaring in his ears. A flame ignited. A switch flipped. The world as he knew it became mute to the battling voice that rang inside his head. 

Why isn’t she stopping? What is she doing here? It’s not real. There’s no more. There’s not supposed to be any more. It’s cold. It’s too cold, she’s not wearing a proper jacket. Where’s her jacket? She can’t be here. She’s not allowed to be here. How could she survive this long? Alone? She’s alone. No Alpha. Alone—

He vaguely recalled the sound of his brother shouting his name; a growl settled low in his chest and the heels of his hands pressed against his temples as he tore himself away from the perimeter and stormed through town. 

He needed to get away. Put as much distance between him and that thing that poked and prodded at what was to remain untouched. That stirred him, that set him quick to anger as those of his kind were notorious for. What he worked hard to not be. 

He wasn’t sure how long he paced. How many glasses of whiskey he downed, or the number of curses he threw at his walls, but later that evening, when he had subdued himself to some sort of composure, Joel sought after his brother and his wife, making it a point to address the issue head-on. He burst through their door without knocking: 

“Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?” 

“Joel—!” snapped the younger Miller, bouncing to his feet from the couch where he sat beside Maria, already engaged in conversation over what Joel could assume was the reckless decision at hand. 

“It’s fine, Tommy,” Maria interjected, extending a cautionary hand toward her husband. Her focused eyes took a once over of the fuming man in front of her. “Joel, I’m not turning away perfectly capable people. They pose no threat to us; we’ll find each of them a place here.” 

People. Them. Joel knew his sister-in-law wasn’t so naive as to think he was distressed over a couple of betas. The patronizing calm of her voice stirred him on, and he flashed his teeth at her when he spoke, low and gritty. A fight for dominance. 

“She’s an omega. Unmated.”

“And we’ll be sure to make accommodations for that.” Maria nodded slowly, carefully. She was all too familiar with the taming of beasts. 

Joel shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “There are twelve goddamn unmated alphas in these walls, Maria.” 

“Yeah, you included,” she clipped, and that shut him up good. “And with the way things are progressing, soon enough, Ellie.” 

That made him nauseous. 

Ever since her eighteenth birthday, she had been showing all the tell-tale signs of an emerging alpha. Joel knew—despite his unpreparedness and objections to the thing called nature—there was nothing he could do to stop it. The only other option was to prepare. And up until that point, Joel had thought his adopted daughter's presentation was the worst of his worries. 

He wasn’t prepared to reevaluate his own self-control. 

He hadn’t dealt with a rut since Boston; it was only the start of FEDRA’s reign, before the suppressants had been sufficiently pumped into the population, and fiery instinct was reduced to a dull nuisance. And while his access to the aid was now nonexistent, he still hadn’t considered it possible anymore before you showed up. Upon his and Ellie's arrival, the measly two other omegas in his vicinity had already inhabited Jackson. Both mated. 

Joel assumed the next time he encountered the type, it would be when one in the community presented. And by that point, he hoped he’d be far too old for the monster inside his head to have any more biological control. 

The solution had been to set you up in the cottage furthest from the center of town. It was a decent little space that had been used for storage until late, having cleared the fireplace last fall for ample central heating and restoring some of the rotten infrastructure. As deliriously naive as he saw it, the belief appeared to be that the distance of your dwelling from the rest of Jackson would prevent any complications if they arose. When they did. Joel couldn’t decipher what genius course of action his sister-in-law had for when the time came, but his protests were silenced by the majority. And by morning, you had claimed your corner of sanctuary. 

That was six months ago. 

And while the winds of winter kept the newcomers isolated with adjustment, the summer's heat brings livelihood—and much more of you. 

Your voice, your laughter, your scent. It permeates Jackson’s walls like a disease, saturating Joel’s life despite his efforts to avoid your very existence. 

You contribute your share at the daycare, of all places, often seen with a young pup clinging to your neck. Sometimes, the little ones chase after you in the center of town—running towards you with excited, grubby hands and beaming smiles. You always grace them with an embrace. It’s in your nature, the ability to comfort, to nurture. 

You’re gentle. Kind. Considerate. A smile brighter than a thousand stars. Perfection didn’t appear to have a name until the universe made you, and there is no denying the intrinsic effect you have on those around you. 

Because the rest of the town fucking adores you. 

There is no escaping you. As hard as he tries, you linger at every turn, in every breath of the wind that creeps down his back and stands the hair up on his skin. Most are in awe, admiring the creature that glides before them, whose presence adds to balance the very nature they all endure. A missing piece of a puzzle, something delightful and pure. 

Rare. 

Not diamonds, or rubies, or gold can compare. But in tandem comes those who feed on things that shine, and he knows that some—a very specific some—leer with less adoration and increased selfishness. Some who believe they are owed for the mark you bear, whose pride and lust drive their ambition, whose power is unmatched in the face of something so helpless. 

He’s aware, by the principle of semantics, that he falls into this greedy some. Though he could not identify further from it. And while the monster may heave and thrash within the dwindling confines of his chest, lured to all that is so rare, Joel had decided the moment you walked through those gates he would have none of it. He would not reduce himself to the thing he worked tirelessly to tame, nor would he entertain the force of nature that drove someone like you to something like him. 

You’re aware of his distaste for you. That much is obvious in how you blatantly evade him in town, skirting around when you are forced to share the vicinity, a terrified thing, so easily spooked. 

Once, a few months prior, he had been asked to repair some of the leaky ceiling panels in the schoolhouse. Unbeknownst to him—and you, he assumed, judging by the way your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull at the sight of him and how the honeyed stench of the room turned sour—they were all located in the daycare room. 

What followed could only be described as two hours of slow, burning torture. He tried his very best to stay on task, he really did. But he was hindered by the discernible discomfort you exhibited and all it did to the thing inside of him. You tripped over your words to the fellow attendants in the room, couldn’t seem to locate anything you were looking for, and at one point, had to excuse yourself for what turned into a twenty-minute-long disappearance. And where he stood, high up on the ladder, trying to balance his body and his mind, Joel hated how worried your absence made him. He couldn’t see you, couldn’t hear you, couldn’t smell you for those agonizing twenty minutes, and that anger he felt the first day he laid eyes on you returned. Because he was not a man that gave up control. 

And you, for whatever reason, wielded a great deal of it over him. 

The first day of summer promises a bonfire. Dusk, in the open plain beyond the stables, the laughter of children and the strum of music are bringing the community to life. These are cherished moments amongst the whole of Jackson, and Joel isn’t the kind of man to be so self-absorbed that he can’t understand why. He had, up until six months ago, once enjoyed the camaraderie. It was the first time in decades he felt a semblance of impulse to let go. No more running, fighting, grieving. 

He can hardly remember that feeling now. In its place returns caution, unpredictability. Six months and the work of years lost. He feels insane—the lurking monster that haunts his own shadow. And as hard as he tries to shake it, he fails every time. The feeling is embedded, brought to life by its complimentary fragment that, much to his dismay, walks the very same walls. Lurks in the same shadows. 

He used to feel stable, steady. Not any longer. 

Your hair is tied half up today, out of your eyes—he’s watching you. Not watching, observing. This is the trade-off, the compromise to keep the beast satiated. Always from afar, and never with the intent of action, he observes you and all you are. It’s a part of his routine, studying the way you move, the way you exist in this space you’re both forced to inhabit. Constantly drawn to one another, even in distance, even without trying. Magnetic. 

Frustrating. 

You’re smiling at something. And then laughter, like the sweetest song rattles his eardrums. You sit on a blanket across the mountainous flames, your legs tucked under you, beside two other girls he couldn’t care to remember the names of. Briefly, he wonders what it is that you find so amusing. 

A misfortune at the hand of another? 

No, he cannot imagine you to be so cruel. 

An anecdote from the daycare? 

Seems far more likely. The type to find joy in what you do, in all that is around you. 

He’s envious of this, maybe. The effortless way of being attracted to what is deemed good. He tries to remember a time when he knew another person like that; all that ever follows are brief memories full of sorrow. The hazy outline of something, someone, so perfect in a way no one should be. He always dismisses the thought. He would never know what it means to be that way, after all. 

“Nice night.” 

He damn near jumps out of his boots. Tommy’s sudden materialization beside him diminishes any spirals of imagination, a blessing in disguise. 

Still, Joel is bothered by the disturbance. His little haven of borderline-stalker tendencies crushed under his brother's obnoxious foot. He merely grunts in response. 

“Glad we finally got this event together,” Tommy continues nonetheless, a hand on his hip, sipping his beer bottle and glancing similarly across the flames. Joel’s eyes have already left you, his arms folding taut across his chest while he casts his gaze anywhere else, if only for the sake of avoiding his brother's inevitable chastising. “Good to get the kids out… good to get everyone out, really. Nice chance to mingle.” 

Subtle. Real subtle. 

“Out with it, Tommy.” He doesn’t feel like playing this game tonight. He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the sake of appeasing his brother, or rather, his brother's wife. “Whatever it is you wanna say to me… out with it.” 

Tommy shrugs. “Nothin’ to come out with, Joel. Just that y’all have been here two years already and still seems like you have a tough time with these things.” 

He doesn’t miss the chosen emphasis. And it’s true, to an extent. While precarious in her initial adjustment, Ellie has been far more social than he. He talks to people. He just doesn’t trust them. Not those outside his immediate circle. And why should he? Joel does his work. He lends a hand to the community where he can. He’s polite. Punctual. Reliable. But he’s still living in the end of the fucking world, a world he has seen more brutality and injustice in than he ever would have cared to. So what if he doesn’t want to roast marshmallows and sing campfire songs? 

“What is it that you want from me, Tommy? I’m here, ain’t I?” 

“Don’t want nothin’ from you, brother,” Tommy says with a shake of his head, and Joel still can’t pinpoint just when his little brother finally grew the fuck up. Twenty years of lost time will do that to a person. “Just wanna be sure you’re livin’ this second chance to the fullest.”     

A second chance. 

He can pinpoint a time where he would have killed for one of those. 

And perhaps he did just that, and the real fault lies in being unable to embrace the outcome. Or maybe, the misery he lives in is the price he pays for the choices that led him here. Second chance shrouded in self-loathing. 

His brother persists: “Take advantage of how lucky ya are to be here, how lucky we all are to be here, to have…options.”  

Has he ever been good at weighing those? Twenty years ago, he would have had a different answer. Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t have known the debilitating options of life or death. This isn’t the first time Tommy has presented the topic of conversation, and he’s certain it won’t be the last. He wonders when he’ll find a response that appeases him, if ever. 

“Just try to enjoy yourself a little tonight, alright?” 

He doesn’t answer. He lacks the discipline to say something of substance. Instead, he turns his head forward and strains his arms against his chest, silent and brooding, until his brother sighs, pats him on the shoulder, and slips away. 

This is enjoyable enough; left to his own devices, keen to observe the joy around him, a silent hope that some of it may permeate, keep an eye on—

He’d been too preoccupied with Tommy’s noise to notice you’d disappeared from his line of sight. His brows furrow and he scans the perimeter of the bonfire. Your friends have moved to the beverage stand, but the spot you had occupied beside them is vacant. 

He cocks his head left, then right, scanning for signs; the cadence of your voice, the shape of you, your scent. And he’s frustrated. Because how could he let you vanish so fast? Where? Why? 

It’s something instinctive that compels him to act at the first sign of trouble. It’s the faintest thing, a subtle waft in the wind he’s certain no one would catch unless they were searching for it. Sour and burnt, his nose wrinkles. 

He does a one-eighty and panic seizes his chest.

Your silhouette may be foreign to the common eye, but he’s learned it well. It tramples and scrambles through the foliage, distressed; a good two, three hundred yards away from the crowd and headed in the direction of your dwelling. 

He’s honed in. A nerve fires inside his chest. His heart ticks to a beat that suffocates his eardrums, and there’s a churning in his gut that threatens to yank him forward. 

He turns back toward the flames, only once, before his footsteps fall in stride with you. 

He wonders just how long he’s been blind. How many days had passed since the tell-tale signs began to emerge. When you knew, if you knew, or if this very moment, here and now, is the one mother nature decided to take you by the hand and guide you down the imminent path. 

Joel always watches you. Observes. How could he have let this slip under his radar? 

He’s imagined this exact scenario numerous times before. Though in his head, havoc rained, blood was shed, and carnage laid bare across the whole of town. A wreckage for all to witness, to acknowledge the barbarous creatures that walk amongst them. Twelve starved, selfish alphas seeking a single, undeserved prize. 

In theory, his expectations aren’t all that far-fetched. In a time before, they may have been a reality. When there was no order. When creatures with perceived power could take and take, and others would be remiss to challenge them. 

But here, in the haven he occupies, those expectations are mere theatrics. 

Here, the air is frighteningly quiet, save for the joyous voices in the distance, the whistle of the breeze. He’s aware of the sound of his boots crunching against the ground, how the weight of them seems to melt into the earth with each daunting step. They follow after lighter, fluttering tip-toes; a scared, scampering thing on the run from all that could harm her. Alone.

Vulnerable. 

The closer he follows, the clearer your labored huffs reach his ears. The aroma in the air loses its earthy notes and adopts the sweetness you shed. A trail of seeds yet to sprout, bathed in moonlight, beckoning him closer. A single lantern is left lit on the cottage steps, a beacon. You clamber up them two at a time, and in tandem, his careless foot snaps a twig beneath his boot. 

Your head whips around, sharp eyes pinning daggers to his chest.

“I ain’t here to hurt you.” 

He puts his hands up in careful defense, leaving the vast space of the porch steps between you. Your chest is heaving and your temples are already damp. Your eyes have glossed over, a crazed look, and he knows the fever has taken the reins. 

But there is no urge to pounce. No incessant need to satisfy a selfish craving. It’s there, it lives, but it does not drive him the way he always suspected it would. It’s evicted from the home of fears that feed on his consciousness, and in its place, emerges something just as innate. As plain and clear as all other parts of him he once tried to diminish. 

“What do you need?” he asks softly, carefully. Unprotected prey are easily spooked. 

Your eyes dart every which way, searching for the complimentary predators. They glisten with tears under the porch lights, sweat reflecting off your forehead the more you lose yourself, and he knows that you’re afraid. He can feel it. 

“Omega,” Joel commands, and your wide eyes snap right back to him. Drawn to him and all that he is. If his instincts weren’t so hellbent on curbing your fears, he would’ve scolded himself for abusing such a power. “What do you need?” he repeats, a bit more pointedly. 

He watches the way your throat constricts when you swallow, brows twitching together in study of him. Searching for some ulterior motive, no doubt, but the trepidation is brief. Your nostrils flare in deep inhalation, and he wonders what remedy he must exude to ease you so effortlessly. 

You trust him. 

A terrifyingly naive mistake. 

And yet, there is no denying the way his chest swells with pride and how the monster inside of him roars to life. 

“Keep the rest of them away,” you say finally, and it’s all he needs to hear. The rest is second nature. 

He nods dutifully, lingering at the bottom of the steps. He waits until you blink the haze out of your darkening eyes, giving him a final once over, and scramble the door open and shut, before he climbs to the top of the steps. He turns his back to the door, his arms crossed over his chest like they had been while he watched you through the fire, his eyes forward—focused. An unmatched mode of protection activates. He hears the deadbolt lock, and he’s grateful for your diligence. Though he knows it’s useless. Every alpha in a ten-mile radius would smell you within minutes. 

And that smell. 

It’s only now that he notices its potency. It grows and swells the longer you’re hidden inside; waves of vanilla and citrus that are almost too sweet. They burn his nose. Coat the back of his throat in thick tar, making it impossible for him to swallow without a taste of you. 

The beast grows, a second skin now. It occupies him further as each moment passes by. His fingers twitch, his own brow dampens, and an unrelenting ache settles low in his stomach. 

He gruffs out a breath, shaking his head rapidly. He needs to keep it together. He needs to move. 

He’s stalking the perimeter in a craze, eyes and ears on high alert. He leaves his mark behind wherever he can, brushing up against trees, allowing the dense pheromones that seep out of his skin to pollute the air. It isn’t foolproof, but it’s enough to dampen the sweet nectar radiating off your walls, at least for a time. 

He starts to panic when he finally hears the first little moan slip through the walls. A soft, restless thing, and the ache in his gut flourishes, threatening to send him to his knees. He seeks purchase on the rail of the porch, having made his way back to the door. He squeezes his eyes shut. This cannot be happening. 

Clarity becomes overshadowed by instinct, and the ache expands into his chest, his fingertips, his toes. It’s been years, and the onset is no less overwhelming. He’ll do what he can to prolong it, ensure that he is of his right mind when the height of the fever takes you. He can’t imagine what he’ll do, otherwise. 

But his patience is tested. The soft scratch beyond the front door makes sure of it. 

His ears perk up and his nostrils flare. He can make out a faint creak, weight shifting. Palms to the panes, a body pressing against the wood. Warmth seeps through the cracks. 

“Joel?” 

There you are. 

His body carries him up the steps–he doesn’t have to think about moving. His muscles and joints, his very soul seem to be linked to your command. He stands with his toes pressed to the bottom of the door, and it’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to discern what’s right in front of him. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

“I’m here.” 

Your breath wavers, a sigh of relief. He zeros in on what he can make of you through the barrier, the last shred of sanity. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally croak, and his eyes shoot open, brows laced in confusion. 

“You have nothin’ to be apologizing for–”

“No, I do,” you press, and the words come with great difficulty. Heavy and strained, as if it is critical you say them now. 

Perhaps it is. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows it’s only a matter of time before you’re not entirely yourself. Before he won't be able to get a coherent answer out of you, when every action you take relies solely on relief. 

He’ll take the opportunity to listen to what you have to say while you still can. You seem to realize it too as your words start to pour out, staggered and rushed:

“I know I’ve done something… something to upset you for all this time, and—and I’m sorry. Whatever it is, I’m sorry, and I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it, Joel. I promise. Just please—”

“Stop that.” 

He can't even begin to believe what he’s hearing. Can’t possibly fathom the damage he’s caused, all he’s insinuated with his behavior, his choices. 

Him. He is to blame. 

Yet, you’re the one near tears. You’re the one who begs for forgiveness, where no plea nor apologies need be. You’ve convinced yourself, or rather, he’s indoctrinated you into believing you are the one to blame. 

That you are the monster. 

And oh, does it make his blood boil with well-acquainted self-loathing. 

“You don’t—you haven’t—”

Now he’s the one sputtering. Where does one find the words to right infinite wrongs? 

You’ve reached an impasse, and this is surely the desperation speaking. He’ll have to be the level headed one, steer you in the right direction. A chance to redeem himself, as great a feat it’s proving to be. He musters up the courage, sets his pride aside. 

“You ain’t done nothin’ wrong, you hear me?” His lips are near pressed against the wood, seething through them, desperate for you to latch on to each painful word. “You needa know that, all right? You… you ain’t the one to blame here.” 

The admission is ash on his tongue. Speaking it aloud, bringing it to life. His ears strain for any sign of you, fallen silent. Something inside possesses the urge to break clean through the wood. 

“Help me.” 

Forgiveness. Guilt welded to his chest now shattered and set free by the capabilities of kindness. You hardly know one another, and yet, there is mutual understanding. An agreement that surpasses time, bonded to what you’re made of. 

“Alpha,” you call, and Joel has to brace himself against the frame to keep from falling. His chest beams, his belly stirs, and the sting of desire plagues him. “Please.” 

He had read about the process once, long before. Disorientation. Excruciating aches that make it nearly impossible to stand upright. A tingling sensation so intense, that it replicates that of burning on the skin. 

Pain. 

You’re in pain, and he knows he can stop it. 

And soon enough knowing turns to needing, and he can feel a fraction of the pain you’re enduring. It’s enough to shatter his resolve. 

A heavy hand rests on the doorknob. A beat. And then, as if on cue, he hears the deafening sound of the deadbolt unlatching. 

He hesitates, opportunity served on a golden platter. Sifts through the repercussions of what could follow. But when the door opens and shuts again, he’s on the other side of it. The lock latches, this time, under his own hand. 

You’ve shuffled your way back from the door. Standing, though by the looks of it, with great difficulty. You’re no longer in your pretty summer dress, but a t-shirt large enough to swallow you and little shorts so short he can smell right through them. 

Even from a distance, his height climbs above you in the way only predators leverage prey. But he knows you’re unafraid. He can sense your fascination with him just by observing you; it’s as plain as the air he breathes, something intrinsic and right as hard as he’s worked to deem it wrong. It’s in the way that you stiffen, your body having no other choice than to respond to him. Wide eyes appraise every inch of him, and you trouble your bottom lip with your teeth in a spot he would very well like to taste. 

The aroma is suffocating; it seeps into his pores and wraps its eager hands around his throat. He won’t be able to rid himself of you for days, even if he tries. 

He’s grown pompous, it seems. For the thought of those he passes enduring a whiff of you on his skin stirs his cock in his jeans. The idea that awakens him, the prospect of becoming his. 

“I’m scared,” you hiccup, and he suddenly remembers he has greater things to tend to. 

He has a million questions, torn between action and rationale. 

When was the last time this happened? Do you have enough supplies prepared? How long is it expected to last? 

But none of that matters right now. She matters. And she needs you. 

“I know, baby.” He’s terrified, and the words spill out. “But you’re gonna get through it, ya hear me?” He takes another step closer. “We’re gonna get through it.” 

And there is a glimmer in your eyes, that of hope, and he knows that he is powerless in this battle he’s fought against himself for so long. He’s only prolonging the inevitable. 

“You’ll help me?” It's all pleas and hope and teetering near the symphony of begging, but he can’t hear you beg. He can’t bear the sound nor the implication, as he’s certain it will ruin him. But: “Please,” you whimper, plucking his kryptonite out of thin air and wielding it against him. And it’s only then that he notices the way your thighs tremble together, desperately searching for some sort of friction. “It hurts.” 

And he loses, loses the fight. He is lost to you. He always has been. 

“Turn around,” he beckons, and you obey him because you’re good. You’ll be so good for him. 

Because you know exactly what she needs. 

The floorboards creek beneath his feet, and when he reaches you, fingers drag the bulk of your hair over one shoulder. He watches the muscles flex below his touch, the way your hands ball into tight fists at your sides. He’s hit with the overwhelming scent of your exposed gland, and his mouth waters. 

Focus, the thing inside him chastises. You’ll have plenty of time to taste. 

He takes a final step, flushing the front of his chest with your backside. Greedy hands latch on to your waist, followed by the slump of your body into him. Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, and your lips part in a sigh—a pretty little sound, though he’s determined to alleviate the burden it stems from.

He reaches for one of your fists, taking you by the wrist. Your fingers unfurl upon his touch, and he uses it as an opportunity to fold his own overtop your knuckles. He guides your joint hands, settling them low over your belly. 

“Show me,” he murmurs, dipping his head to the crook of your neck. His lips dance over the skin, and your legs begin to tremble. He keeps the hand at your hip firm, an anchor. “Show me where it hurts.” 

Your breath catches and your eyelids flutter, half-open. Your fingers squeeze around his, and without hesitation, he squeezes back. He’s here. He’s got you. He won't let you go. 

And with that reassurance, hands descend, following your lead. You claw away the t-shirt hem, idling above the waistband of your shorts before sinking underneath. A low growl rumbles in his chest at his findings, muffled into your hair. You comb his fingers through soft curls, the flesh below hot and throbbing. Together, you cup the little seam of your cunt, and Joel has to fight the urge to fall to his knees, pry you open here and now. 

You’re dripping. Warm slick pools in his hand, sticky against your thighs. He feels a pulse of it spill out of you when his fingertips prod at your hole, your back arching off his chest, another devastating gasp of air choking you. 

He’s already dizzy, high on the fumes of you. He shuts his eyes when his vision begins to blur. And he’s hard. So achingly stiff against your back, if he thinks about it for too long, he's sure to lose control. You’ll send him into a full blown rut, he’s certain of it. Likely, you already have, teetering at the edge. And as these minutes tick, the less time he has to prepare you. To warm you up and slather you in pleasure before brute nature runs its course. 

“Joel,” you whine. His eyes flash back open, pupils doubled in size.

“Bedroom. Now.” 

He releases you, but only after giving a handful of your ass a terse squeeze. You squeal, nearly leaping out of his touch. You flash him your eyes only once before tiptoeing forward, and he’s hot on your heels, stalking after you. Patience drowned deep, mangled by desire. 

Your room is to be expected, cozy and warm, entirely you. Under any other circumstance, he’d have more appreciation for the homemade candles and delicate tapestries, the various posters displaying your interests and the native plants you’ve taken the care to pot and house. 

But he’s immediately drawn to your mattress, the piles of pillows and blankets strewn about in a fashion only you are to understand. You’ve been busy since you left him on the porch. 

You stop a few feet shy of the bed, glancing over your shoulder at him, uncertain. There’s a shift in your aura, suddenly grown timid. There’s a guilty sort of gleam in your eyes, but he recognizes it for what it really is—shame. That you cannot control your erratic breathing, or the heat that creeps over your brow. That your body faces the impulse of preparation for something beyond your control, and now, you’re forced to lay it bare for him to witness. 

He holds no judgment, only empathy. There is beauty in this vulnerability, and for the first time, he understands the gravity of your trust in him. Something in the shape of fulfillment blooms. 

“Here?” he asks, nudging his chin toward the heap. 

You nod once, and he shrugs the flannel off his shoulders. An offering, and you accept it wordlessly, eagerly. You eye it in your hands, then him, back again, hesitant. You’re shy now that he’s indulged you.  

That’s alright. She just needs you to take your time with her. 

Finally, you slowly bring the wad of it up to your nose and inhale. Your eyes droop shut, lashes kissing the apples of your cheeks, and his chest beams with pride at the notable fall of your shoulders. Tension evades you, replaced with the comfort of his scent. His. 

“Go on,” he instructs gently, once he has your eyes again. He wishes he could peer inside your head, decipher the wary thoughts that live so plainly on your face. 

Nonetheless, you shuffle your way to the mattress, carefully crawling on top of it. It’s painfully adorable, the way you gnaw at your bottom lip and analyze the space, his flannel still clutched in your fist. 

He also recalls reading about this, how it’s imperative that your space be designed to your exact liking. The assistance of a trusted alpha’s scent is a surefire way to heighten comfort. 

So when you drape his flannel over the pillow you lay your head upon at night, and tuck it in tight around the edges, he’s overcome with a mighty wave of emotion. He is strengthened, his affliction no longer a weakness, but a gift. A means of sustaining your well-being. He almost feels unworthy. Almost. But when you sit up on your knees at the edge and give him those expectant eyes, he imagines what it would be like to rid the town of the eleven other hungry beasts who could have ended up outside your door. So that they may never get a breath of you. 

That they may never touch what’s his. 

He approaches with caution—slowly, toeing off his boots in the process, fighting every urge to pounce. Droplets begin to roll down your temples, and he thinks you’re the most beautiful like this; wild eyes, a little frenzied. Awaiting some treat like a starved puppy who's already forgotten how to chew, how to swallow. He will remedy this. He’ll feed you, satiate you. 

You’re an antsy little thing now, nearly bouncing up and down, toes curling and uncurling beneath you. And as soon as his shins meet the bed frame, you’re rising on your knees, nearly his height now. You study one another and the heat between you, the uneven breath and the palpable compulsion to touch. His brows rise on his forehead, surprise, when you reach out first. Shaky, dainty hands coming to rest upon his shoulders that glow under your willing gesture. 

He can’t help himself; his hands splay over your ribcage, curving around your lungs, and yanking your chest against his. You yelp out, but the tiny grin that follows on your lips and the way you wind your arms around his neck flash a million green lights. He can hardly keep up, and he realizes now he’s the one panting; his fingers bruise into your skin, and his tongue seems to swell three sizes with need, starvation.  

And he hesitates, because if he proceeds, he’ll finally know the sensation of kissing you. He’ll have a taste of you. He’ll understand what it means to have your body pressed against his, and how the scent of him will change, saturated by pieces of you. 

But it’s you and your willingness to be so kind, so undeniably what you are, that breaks him from the mold he’s cast. You scratch him gently just below his ear to get his attention, and his worried eyes find yours—a pure contradiction, only certainty and peace to be found. 

It’s alright. She’s ready for you. 

This voice is different, warped. A mixture of two. He’s not sure if he hears it from him, or you. 

He doesn’t care. 

His lean into the kiss is measured, but it’s not long before it descends into madness. You’re wound and fiery against him, clawing at the nape of his neck, baring tongue and teeth. He’s willing, eager to keep up, bending you at the small of the back and crowding over you. Licking you open and shoving his tongue between your lips, until the sharp sounds of saliva echo through the room and his palate is coated in sweetness. 

He loses himself a bit, winding a hand up your back until it’s latching around tendrils of hair and pulling taut. You gasp, arching into him, and he growls at the opportunity of more of you, to taste all of you. 

His lips clamber down your throat, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses in their wake. You’re mumbling something, indescribable under the mask of your flourishing heat, but the pliancy of your body is all he needs to make way for instinct. 

When he reaches the base, the tip of his nose traces your clavicle, sniffing like a mad dog. He continues up the curve of your neck until he finds the rough little patch behind your ear. Here, he inhales deep, audibly; your scent is most potent here and it clouds his judgment. His tongue juts out from his lips, salivating, searing across the gland and sealing his invasion with a gentle kiss, and oh, you like that. He hears the strangled sound that rips through your throat, feels your sharp nails dig deeper into his skin and the weight of your body shuddering against him. 

He yanks at the hem of your t-shirt. “Arms up.” 

You heed his command, and he pulls the fabric over you, tossing it into oblivion. 

He’s got you on your back, sprawled amongst the nest of your things and his, in no time. He sinks to his knees, huffing at the stiffness of them. He bullies himself between your shaking thighs and drags his paws across your torso. He cups both of your tits in an unforgiving grasp, heaving himself forward and suctioning his lips around one. You howl and pant, pain and pleasure, weaving fingers through his locks of hair and tugging just as hard as he sucks. He switches to the other, leaving welts behind, memories of his ardor. 

He wants them to linger. Knowing that he can’t mark you—won’t, not while you’re like this—in the way he longs to. A greedy act of ownership he hopes will ward off the others until he can map out this newfound territory. 

Your thighs suffocate his hips, radiating warmth. He feels the little gyrations of your hips, seeking friction, and he can’t find it in himself to deny you any longer. He licks a trail down your sternum, the tangy taste of fever, peppering kisses over your belly. His fingers curl over the waistband of your shorts, taking two fistfuls, and he rips them in two. Joel doesn’t think you’ve even noticed the destruction, already pawing needy hands across his shoulders to guide him where you need him most. 

Your legs part instantly, willingly, and his mouth drops open at the sight. He’s suddenly reminded of his own struggle, his cock seeming to swell another size in his jeans at the sight of your bare, swollen cunt. Creamy liquid coats your wet skin, pearly clit swollen and wanting. He rests a cheek upon your inner thigh, latches his hands around the outer to keep you steady, and admires. Lets his eyes fall shut and leans in, burying his nose in the soft curls on your mound. He inhales long and groans; the earthy musk, the inviting sweetness. 

“God, look at this pretty fuckin’ hole.” He starts blathering aloud, but you smolder under his praise. Bucking your hips and grabbing at all the bits of him you can find. “This all for me, Omega?” 

Yes, yes, yes, you pant, speaking with your body and your mouth, nodding so frantically. He enjoys the way your cunt flutters around nothing, each little pulse oozing another drop of sweet slick, coaxing him in. 

He wets his lips, takes another whiff of you. He’s certain he’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t taste you, so he does. Flattens his tongue against your impatient pussy, and watches as you all but combust when he suckles up the nectar seeping out, all for him. 

It’s more heavenly, more euphoric than he could’ve imagined. The stain of you against his tongue, ambrosia, a remedy for all ailments. He laps into you, dehydrated and desperate for every drop, smearing his tongue all over your cunt, your mound, your thighs. A feast for the taking. 

You wail above him when his lips latch onto your clit, and heavy hands force your thighs back against the mattress—he needs you spread, and still. Needs you to understand the severity of this famine he’s experienced for so long; maybe, as long as he’s existed. You yank at his hair and your heels dig into his back, pushing and pulling all at once, and when he finally comes up for air, he’s feeding you his fingers. Catches your eyes and the way they grow when he sinks two, thick digits inside of you, groaning at the squeeze of your plush walls, ripe and ready for him. 

“Gonna open you up for me, darlin’,” he rasps, lips and cheeks and chin gleaming with you. You hastily prop yourself up on your elbows, getting a view of the way he learns you. Moonlight glows across sheen skin, angelic. 

“B-but Joel—” you whine, but he silences you with a thrust of his fingers, curving them up, up, up, and beaming when your legs jerk and your eyes roll back. He taps his fingertips against the spongy little spot he’s discovered.

“Hush, now,” he bites, but his taunting fingers promise a better outcome than his tone. Your head has already fallen back into the pillows, hands mindlessly grabbing and twisting the sheets around you. “M’gonna open you up, get you nice and ready to take me.” He starts his steady pace then, gradually pulling his fingers back and rocking them forward, maintaining the hook, searching for the sweet little spot that makes you cry out every time he bumps it. “You’re gonna be patient, let me make it all better, yeah?” 

“Yes, Alpha. Yes, yes.” 

He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t enjoy this descent into submission. How the further you slip away from him, the further he is from himself. Two parts of a whole lost to what nature made them, somehow, finding one another to latch onto. 

He leans into it. Embraces it. He needs to make this last. Take advantage of all that it is, fearing it may be the first and only time he’ll be lucky enough to have it. 

A heavy hand, his free one, presses against your lower belly. He can feel the drag of his fingers inside of you, just below his palm, sending his blood to a boil. Sweat graces his own brow; these are shared symptoms, that of your fever and his rut. Cosmic, burning from the inside out, like stars. Everything he is, created for you. 

He can feel the wave, the buildup of pressure in your gut that makes his own ache. Feels the wet tip of his cock in his jeans when you start to pant his name, when a flimsy hand reaches for the flannel you tucked away so neatly, and yanks it toward your face. Smothering yourself with it, shoving your nose to his scent. 

“Alpha—nghh!” 

“C’mon, baby. C’mon,” he chants; a mantra. Presses harder onto your burning belly, extends his thumb to circle over your throbbing clit in time with his flexing wrist. 

Your body seizes, soft, full breasts rising and falling as you desperately gulp the air. Your poor legs tremble so hard, you can’t keep them upright anymore without his help, so they drape over his shoulders. Squeeze them tight, claws nearly drawing blood against his scalp, and your pussy sucks him into the knuckle. Grips on like a vice before the wave crashes, and you’re gushing around his fingers. Crying out ecstasy, soaking his chin, his chest, your limp legs. 

“Fuuuck,” he’s growling, in awe of the little spurts of cum that keep flowing out of you with each measured jingle of his digits. He wants to see how much he can drain you before he removes them, how much pretty, perfect, omega slick you’ll make for him, every drop an homage to your yearning for what he’s preparing to give you. The thing that swells, and aches, and burns at the base of his cock, and he can’t help but rub it up against the side of the mattress, desperately seeking some of his own relief. 

You’ve lost yourself entirely now, he knows this. The orgasm he’s granted you sets your full heat into motion, and you’ll require more. Can sense it in the haze of your eyes, the delirious babbling of his name mingled with Alpha, Alpha, please. Tears coating your cheeks, an emptiness in the pit of you only he can fill. 

But one taste isn’t enough, and he’s greedy. Greedy, greedy alpha of a man, who needs more. Can’t help it as he watches the liquid pour from around his fingers, so he unsheathes them, quickly replacing them with his open mouth again to drink the goodness right out of you. A fountain of excellence he’s certain he’ll never tire of. 

He must be lost in this, the incessant need to quench his thirst, for some time. Because you start to whine and thrash below him, strings of pleas and sorrow alike. Pulling at his t-shirt, trying to tear it from him at this awkward angle. Telling him over and over that it hurts, Alpha, it hurts—and that just won’t do. 

He quickly replaces your wandering fingers, tugging his shirt up and off of him and retreating to his feet to battle with his belt buckle. You jolt up at this, suddenly alert, perching at the edge of the mattress, wet hair sticking to your face, eyes taking a curious path down bare skin. 

There’s a momentary wave of self-consciousness; he can’t remember the last time a woman saw him naked, let alone after the safety and comfort that Jackson provided. 

He’s aged. Gained a few pounds in his belly, muscles bulky and lined with fat instead of the lean mass they once were. But then, you place your palms on his chest. Flutter your eyes up at him as you glide your hands slowly over his torso, and make sure he’s watching when you lean forward and press a chaste kiss to his sternum. His eyes go dark, his insecurity silenced. 

“Wanna taste it, Alpha,” you demand, voice breaking at the edges. Sounding simultaneously foreign and never more like yourself. Shaky fingers reach down, cupping him through his boxers, making his dick jump, and he sucks the air through his teeth. “Can I taste it, please?” 

He grins down at you, because yeah, you’re good. So good. So polite. Just like he knew you would be. Good, kind, generous little omega, too much so for her own good. You rake at his bare chest, start to palm him slowly, batting dangerous eyes up at him. So tempting. He reaches down, takes your chin between his fingers, and pets your bottom lip with his thumb. Hoping to soothe away disappointment. Because as much as he wants to be selfish, he needs to be inside of you. 

“No time for that now, sweet baby. Not this time. Wanna give it to you somewhere else.” He drops his hand, splaying his fingers low over your abdomen. “Right in here, huh? Isn’t that what you want?”

Oh, yes. Yes, it is. You nod up at him, frantic, mouth hung open and drool spilling out the sides. Ravenous thing you are, just as hungry as he. 

“C’mere. Let me help you.” 

He’s got you by the hips, lowering you properly back against the pillows. He shuffles out of his boxers, and you watch him, dazed; your fingers in your mouth, chewing on them. Knees up to your chest, thighs rubbing back and forth, slipping so easily with all the pretty slick he’s pulled out of you. 

Vulnerable little creature you are, you welcome him into your nest. Pull your fingers out from your teeth and extend them towards him, and spread your legs for him to settle his mass between. And when he does, there’s a shared sounding of pleasure. He sits back on his heels, guiding the weight of his heavy cock over your cunt, and fuck, if you aren’t just perfect like this. 

Your body burns, a fire he must extinguish. He leans forward, exasperating you a bit when he drapes his weight over you, caging you in with elbows on either side of your head. His knees still cradle your ass, and he uses the mounted leverage to grind his cock against you. He huffs, his knot blazing, painful and stiff, and his gut is on fire. You’re so warm, so wet, and he slips so easily between you. He can’t help but growl out when you begin to meet his thirst with needy rocks of your own. 

Your eyes droop shut, hands seeking purchase on his shoulders, and he uses his to cradle each side of your scalp. He presses his forehead to yours, captures your parted lips in a searing kiss. 

“You’re gonna give me another one,” he mumbles, drawing back from you, reaching for his stiff cock and gripping it tight. His eyes drop to where you’re nearly connected, so close. You glisten along his shaft, and he uses it to rub the angry tip of him back and forth over your folds, parted petals that threaten to suck him in each time he catches on the opening. He taps it on your tender clit; you quiver and clench, wailing out frustration. 

“N-no please—please,” you beg, eyes brimming with tears again. You slide your hands underneath his arms, digging your nails under his shoulder blades. “Please put it inside me, Alpha. Please, please.” 

“You can do it, baby.” 

“I can’t, please. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” 

And you do. You chase the high vigorously. The jerks of your hips follow him, taking great precision in the way he slides his shaft up and down your swollen little seam, paying special attention to your clit. He can feel the way it jumps and throbs, all the juices flowing out of you dowsing over him, dripping down onto his knot. 

He can’t look away, an obscenely beautiful sight. And the next time you quiver, clench around nothing, and call out his name, he just can’t help himself. 

He slips inside of you with one, tenacious thrust. Met with no resistance, only warmth and fullness. Your entire body goes rigid, eyes bulged and lips hung open in surprise, before relaxing entirely. You melt into him, the fury of your need thawing with his gift, and you sigh a beautiful sound of reprieve. Vanilla melds with leather, interwoven, and he knows he’s ruined you for any others. 

And he. He’s sweating, and panting, and the shudder won’t leave his spine. He’s never felt anything quite like it, the flutter of a fertile omega’s cunt around his cock. He was dreaming before, and now he’s awake. Startled by all that is perfectly right. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it.” He rolls his hips once, the tip of him bruising your cervix, and you sigh his name. “Promised I’d make it all better, yeah?”

You use the leverage of his shoulders to crane your neck up, pressing your forehead to his. Your thighs straddle his ribcage, clinging to him, needy little pet that you are. 

“S-so full, Alpha. It’s so big.” 

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos. “But look.” He parts with a fleeting kiss to your chin, sitting back on his heels and dropping his gaze to where you’re connected. A thick ring of cream sits above his knot, and it pulses at the sight. “Look how well she’s taking me.” 

You shakily bring yourself to your elbows, peering with drunken eyes and O-shaped lips. Your brows knit at the center of your forehead, and the precious, fucked-out look you cast up is enough to send him into motion. 

He grunts, wrapping his hands around your hips and yanking your bum up and onto his thighs. His pace is slow but deep, focused on kissing your womb with every thrust. Now that he’s inside of you, he can focus on nothing but the result. How imperative it’s become that he fills you. Satiate the ache by pumping you with his seed. He bares his teeth, images of his spend dripping out of you flashing before his eyes. He needs it. Chases it with fury, a conquest. But he won’t let it go to waste. No, he needs to knot you. Be certain that every drop of it touches your womb. How it would feel to have you latched to him, the prospect of its ramifications—a swollen belly, a piece of you carrying a part of him—sounding nothing but appealing.  

“JoelJoelJoel.” You’re repeating his name like a prayer, looking at him with such devotion. 

He’s picked up his pace, instinctive. Hard enough now that your flimsy mattress springs squeak, and the headboard thumps against the wall. You’ve fallen back into your pillows, your hands coming up to knead and pull at your breasts, and fuck, if it doesn’t gratify him to see you lean into the pleasure. 

He knows you're close when the tears at your waterline begin to stream down your cheeks. He scoots you further up his thighs, places a heavy hand back on your belly, and sure enough, on his next thrust, he can feel the bulbous tip of his cock through the skin. He grits his teeth, and he knows you must feel it too because you gasp as if he’s committed some sort of crime, shock and disbelief. 

“Feel you—haa—in-in my stomach, Alpha.”

“That’s right, baby,” he grunts. “In your fuckin’ guts. Just where you needed me.” 

His thumb drops to your clit, circles it with the rhythm of his thrusts, and makes you sing. There isn’t, and he’s sure there never will be, anything like the way you feverishly clench around him. Actively trying to suck him in, the steady flow of tears and cum, your incoherent babbles, beyond your control. He needs you closer, he needs to saturate you with every part of him. 

He rolls onto his back, scooping you into his chest and dragging you along with him. Gets you good and propped on his bent legs before he drives up into you. You collapse onto his chest, desperate hands clinging to his pecs. You burrow your nose into his neck, and he nearly bursts at the seams when you tease your teeth across his beating gland. 

“One more,” he seethes, bouncing you up and down with a great force; you needn’t even help him. He takes palm-fulls of your ass, secures the reins. Your hips will bruise by morning, but he doesn’t care. It’s worth the desperation in the way you cling to him, call to him. “Give me one more, Omega, and I promise I’ll give you what you need.” 

You wail out, half protest, half pledge, and you’re actively clamping down on him. Working your tight cunt over his shaft, milking him closer and close to the shining edge, and he feels his belly begin to boil. His head pounds and his gland aches, and as soon as you release again, unable to curb yourself from the pleasure he vows, the voice worms its way back into his ear. Chanting now, now, now. 

He spills into you with a mighty roar, stuffing his knot up inside of you as soon as it expands. He digs his teeth into your shoulder, pushes your hips further, and further down, nowhere else to go, but he has to be sure he’s filled you tight. That he can keep you here, locked onto him for as long as it takes to eradicate the delirium, as many times as you need him to fill your fertile little womb. 

And you come again, all from just this. Tight, soft, and bruised, you clamp around his knot as if you’re worried you’ll lose it. And he squeezes his eyes shut at the overstimulation, bites on his tongue to curb the pain, and lets it flourish in glorious pleasure. His cock releases another string of cum, and Joel groans. 

You’re hardly lucid on his chest, trembling, breathing heavily. One of your hands wraps around his sticky shoulder, clutching into his skin, trying to steady yourself. He works carefully to soothe you, to nurture the heavy come down, and avoid a dangerous drop. He scoots himself up the mattress, taking you with him until you’re both comfortably propped against the headboard; there’s no telling how long you’ll be united like this, but he has no intention of rushing it. He drags his large palms over the length of your spine, litters kisses along your hairline, and you both share a whining sound each time he stiffens and spurts inside of you. He allows his eyes to shut, focusing on steadying his breath, the sound of your beating heart. 

Eventually, your body settles. You start to breathe evenly again, grow limp, purring little sounds of contentment. He lifts a hand to push away the hair that sticks to your cheeks, and you reach for it, latching your bony fingers around his wrist. You nuzzle your nose into his palm and wrap your lips around two of his fingers. He lets you suck on them like this for a while, humming, the salty taste of him seeming to quiet your nervous system and ease you back into a state of equilibrium. 

There will be consequences for what’s transpired here. The post-euphoric clarity lays his transgressions bare and forces him to examine them. He feels, quite regrettably, the return of war. That between himself and his nature, though here and now, they are far more intertwined than they’ve ever been. 

He has a decision to make, one that months, days, hours ago seemed so clear. That he will not give way for the monstrosity he harbors, if only to save you from a lifetime of horror and regret. 

But the hours, minutes, seconds have passed, and they dwindle to this moment where he realizes, almost jarringly, how wrong he may have been. That the great fight against what nature bestowed him retreats within your stronghold. The worry is silenced, the weight lifted, the burden removed. He isn’t a soldier, but a man. 

Only a man. So simple, and so freeing. 

“Stay with me?” you mumble as if you can read his mind, letting his fingers slip from your lips, and already drifting to a place somewhere deep between sleep and wake. It’s a single question worth a million, holding the weight of your existence, the entire world. 

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that if he stays, no amount of self-control will prevent him from indulging your needs over and over again. He knows how brittle his distaste is—was, a façade—and how quickly he will devote himself to you. 

You’re all he would require to live and breathe. 

Most terrifying, he knows the primal urge will only continue to spread. And for some purpose far beyond him, while he’s coated in your scent and slick and the haven of your arms, he won’t be able to find a reason to stop himself from sinking his teeth into that sweet spot upon your neck. 

He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness, your kindness, you. You’re a chance at redemption, something he is certain he relinquished decades ago. You’re an opportunity, an outlet to release his grief, his anger, his hatred for this world and his place in it, and turn it into devotion, protection. 

He doesn’t deserve it. 

But the way you look at him now, head nuzzled against his chest, pupil-blown eyes the picture of vulnerability, it satisfies the beast. Sets every nerve ending on fire. Tugs him forward frighteningly taut, unable to recoil. 

You look at him like you need him. 

And he needs to be needed. It’s all he’s ever wanted. 

“Alright,” he whispers. “I’ll stay.” 

[strawberrysandcream]

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

Welcome to my 1st Bucky Barnes Masterlist, lovelies, and I hope you enjoy! Header and banner by @sgt-seabass​ and dividers by @firefly-graphics​. Check them out! ​

Main Masterlist | 2nd Bucky Barnes Masterlist (darker fics)

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🔥 smut 💓 fluff 💔 angst 💞 AU 🛑 dark content 💙 Navy’s faves

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[strawberrysandcream]

Your daddy know 'bout this?

(Don't be fooled, there's no daddy kink!)

Pairings: dbf!cowboy!bucky x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: A few days short of your 21st birthday, you decide to celebrate with your friend at the local bar. Unbeknownst to you, a close friend of your dad's is there.

When he sees you with beer in hand and in the lap of another man, things get heated. Somehow, you end up in his shirt, at his house.

Word count: 5.1k

Warnings: pinv sex, passionate sex, forbidden realationship, violence, blood, underaged drinking, slight angst, cum eating, I love yous', mentions of masturation, tension, arguments, slight jealousy and protectiveness, pet names (girl, woman, ma'am, princess, sweetheart)

AN: not yet proofread, might be rough around the edges! Enjoy girlies🥹🫶

It was his one free night in a long time, and his buds pulled him along for a drink. He had no real objections, for he was in a good mood and it'd get even better once he had a drink in him.

The group of men emerged from the damp, rainy night and dove into the smoke tainted air and usual bustle of the local dive. They ordered their drinks and made their way to the back where the booths were, a jumble of familiar faces greeting them on their way. Until-

Bucky saw a face he ought not to see in a place like this. "Excuse me a moment, fellas. I got somethin' to take care of."

Their group turned to him, confused. "Wha-" and looked in the direction he was already headed. "Well shit, good thing her daddy ain't come with us." The group shared a few nervous glances, then shrugged and chuckled. "Wouldn't want to be one of those boys right now."

-

"Well . . . " a voice chuckled loudly.

She could see the source approaching their table from her peripheral, his form vaguely illuminated by soft lamp light through the gloom. " . . . Aint this a sight?"

She knew that voice, she could hear the telltale grin that shaped it.

Catching onto the change in energy, the giggles and boisterous laughter of their small group died down. Tense glances exchanged between them, all eventually landing on the intruder, all except her own.

Commotion continued sounding around them, their table the only to emit an unusually low amount of noise. "Anyone wanna tell me whats goin' on here?" The voice asked.

Swallowing, she realised she'd been intently staring into a cadleflame. She belived that maybe she'd have a chance at going unnoticed if she sat still enough.

"I asked you a question, doll."

She winced. That was his nickname for her. Fuck. She tore her gaze from the candle, snapping it to her friend across the table and gave her a sidelong glance that meant 'trouble' to which her friend nodded in agreement.

The low light that made the place cosy just moments before now only existed to muddle her thoughts. But, it could work in her favour. She carefully pushed her drink behind her elbow, hoping it wasn't too late to hide, and her friend followed her lead.

She turned toward the man, a cheap grin plaster on her face. "Hey . . . Buck," she spoke slowly, as if it'd somehow make him more agreeable.

"Hey there, princess," he grinned. Hat on his head. "Wanna explain this to me?" Pointing lazily to their gathering.

She shrugged, attempting to act nonchalant. Because admitting your wrong would confirm it's wrong. "Nothin special, we were just leavin', in fact."

A scoff blew past her ear. "The hell we are." The lap she sat on stiffened beneath her, tapping his feet–once, twice–in a show of impatience, and rocking her body in the process. The man then whispered in her ear. "Who is this guy anyway?"

She inclined her head, nervous eyes avoiding the big cowboy that stood imposing at the end of their table, and murmured a quiet reply over her shoulder. "No one. . . in particular." A lie, of course. "Let's just go."

The cowboy chuckled. "You're not leavin' with him, you're leavin' with me." That drawl could make the most steeled stumaches jittery with butterflies. Her friend must've felt it too by they way she squirmed in her seat.

She had to screw her eyes shut in a moment of contemplation. Why'd he have to be here tonight? Why'd they have to go to a bar he frequented?

She looked back at her friend with panic in her eyes. Boy, were they in for it. She could think of nothing else then to simply ask nicely, hoping it'd appeal. "Please, just go."

He smirked, putting a hand on his hips and showing a stern but playful disposition. "Your daddy know 'bout this?" He tipped his hat in their direction.

She pinned him with her eyes, narrowing them with independent annoyance. "Im my own woman, B-"

'What's it to you?' The guy beneath cut her off.

Bucky switched his attention to the guy, and she could feel him shrink a little under Bucky's gaze. "Hell, no need for that tone! I was just sittin' with my buds over there." He pointed to the group of men Buck came with, no doubt to put some pressure on the poor guy. From the looks of it, they'd been listening in on our conversation, and now waved to her, idly laughing at the situation, ready to jump in at any moment.

She shyly waved back, a tight smile on her lips.

"See, I just saw your little group havin' a grand ol' time over here and wanted to join you," Bucky laughed. "And when I noticed that fine woman in your lap, I thought I'd have a chat with her." He disguised it well, but she could hear the anger beneath his humoured exterior.

"You two know each other?" The guy asked, I'll at ease.

"Well enough." Bucky took a moment to look her over, a scan for any harm. But his eyes stuck on the short skirt and thin shirt. If possible, he looked even more bothered. "Wouldn't you say, sweetheart?" He glanced at her, and she could see the danger that lurked in his eyes. It began to dawn on her more and more how knee deep in trouble she was.

She cleared her throat, a nervous blush creeping up her cheeks. "Mhm," she hummed. It felt like he could see through her.

The guy's hand slunk to the bare skin of her thigh, attempting to mark his territory when seamingly he'd decided his dislike of the situation. "Huh, what's with the hat anyway, you some kind of sheriff?" He asked. But cut Bucky off as he was about to answer. "Either way," he waved his hand dismissively. "She's fine where she is. She can make her own decisions." And just like that, he'd successfully stolen the point she'd been trying to make.

She shook her head. Stupid, stupid boy.

Bucky's face hardened, any sign of humour gone from him. "I assure you, I dont need a sheriff's badge to take her home, It's within my right." He braced his hand against the table, leaning closer to them.

Her uterus roiled at that. 'take her home'

"Now, get that hand off of her, boy." He snarled, annoyance and authority resounding in his voice, promising a solution to the mans cocky demeanor. "She ain't yours to touch."

"Why?" The guy asked. "She yours?" His hand slid higher, squeezing her thigh, challenging the much broader man.

She exhaled, releasing a frustrated hum in early defeat, he'd doomed them both.

The cowboys jaw tensed. Silently, but undoubtedly steaming, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and pushed them above his elbows. The veins on his forearms pop from strain, knuckles turning white from his fists clenching. "Fella. . ." He began, calming his composure, then pointed two loose fingers at the girl in the mans lap. "Had she been mine, you'd be on the floor already. Now, that girl, ain't of drinkin' age, neither is she to be touched by a slimy bastard like yourself."

Fuck, so he did see the drink. She shook her head again, warning him. "Bucky. . ." A very bad attempt at dissuading him from doing whatever he was about to do. She could almosy feel the guy beneath her sink into the booth they were sitting in. Perhaps he had some sense after all.

Her friend grabbed her arm, loosely yanking on it as her anxious eyes flickered between the men in conflict. She herself sitting in the lap of the guy's friend, who was preparing to step in if necessary. "We should go before this gets ugly," her friend whispered.

"Respectfully, ma'am, she ain't going nowhere without me." The cowboy opposed, directing his attention to her friend.

No, no, no no. . . Dread filled her, he'd drive her straight home to her parents.

Bucky's eyes fell back on the guy, now shrunken and small under his gaze. "So. . . Stand up, 'n leave, boy," he spoke with the authority of a sheriff but stood with the confidence of an outlaw. "There's no need for altercations, I was enjoyin' my night. N' I don't wish that to change-"

"I'll call on the bouncer," the guy shot out, his face probably as pale as his overly white and fragile shirt, pointing to a man behind the cowboy. Her eyes followed the steps down from the seating area, and through the dimly lit dive where a big man stood posted by the door. The guy beneath her then glanced at his friend across from them, both extending curt nods to one another.

She wanted to wretch, he was acting a coward and standing up to Bucky with the threat of enlisting two other men to his side. She sighed loudly, making a point for him to hear as she eyed her friend. "Well, I sure know how to pick em'." And her friend, inspite of the commotion they found themselves in, covered her mouth in snicker.

Bucky narrowed his eyes in a second of silent fury, then answered with a laugh, not missing a beat. "You mean that bouncer?" He asked and turned around, calling a greeting to the bouncer, who in turn tipped his hat with a smile. The type of gesture that indicated a longstanding friendship. "We're well aquainted," Bucky grinned. "But im sure he'd love to sort this situation out."

If they had any sense at all, the two men would leave with what little dignity they had left and realise that they were already outnumbered inspite of being 2 to 2.

"Leave, girls," the guy easily dismissed them.

She gave him a pointed look, flashed her eyebrows, and jerked her head to the side in a 'you had it coming' motion, and then grabbed her friend's hand.

"Asshole," she sighed and steered them out of the booth, taking the cider in her other hand. Silly as she was, she thought she could simply leave, perhaps just slip by Bucky. But no, his strong hand grabbed her bicep as she passed by, and set his blues deep into her own. "Wait by the truck, I'll drive ya' home." He said, looking between the two girls.

"Fine . . . " She sighed.

"N' dont even think of running, cause I'll catch ya'," he warned, and she rolled her eyes inspite of the burning that settled in her core.

She tried to yank herself free, but he didn't let go. "What? You wanna hear a 'yes sir'?" She dared the words, teasing, as nervousity built in her gut.

His eyes searched hers, a slow grin spreading over his lips as he leaned closer, bending down to whisper in hear ear. "Dont get cocky with me, girl." And his hand began sliding downward, making her shiver, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his touch.

She swallowed, that tone, the hat? God. Her uterus purred, and in a sudden surge on confidence, she answered. "No, sir."

He grabbed the glass bottle from her hand and grinned, taking a sip. "Good, girl. Now go." And pointed to the door.

Would it be wrong to say she started salivating? His words, together with his lips making contact with the same surface she had? There was something about it, something that made her . . . Pulse.

Bucky whistled and his friend–the bouncer–came bounding up the steps, him along with the group of dad's and bucky's friends only a few steps behind.

The bouncer tipped his hat to her and her friend in passing, a smirk on his lips. Nice to know there was still some gentlemen in the world.

She smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. He was quite handsome too.

"Dont even think 'bout it," Bucky warned.

She rolled her eyes, and then they were finally on their way out, meeting Bucky's group of friends on the way, all nodding and greeting her. "Tell your daddy we missed him tonight." One said, and they all chuckled.

The girls hurried off, giggling. But anxiety lingered in the depths of her chest. Those men were rogue witnesses in all of this.

As she held the door open, voices raised behind them. She could see the crowd turning to look in Buckys direction, anf she herself followed their gazes. And found them just in time to see Bucky's knuckles collide with the jaw of the guy she'd spent her night on, sending him sprawling.

-

Plunging into the deep night, the cold swept over them. "He's hot, ain't he?"

She didn't want to answer, or simply didn't want to admit it and just gave her friend a look of understanding.

"God, I was ready to pounce on him the second he called me ma'am."

The girl understood that too.

-

After about ten minutes wait, Bucky emerged from the bar. Unscathed, apart form bloody knuckles and dark cloud around his head. Before even saying a thing, he'd already removed his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders. "I only got one of them. Apologies, ma'am," he told her friend and opened the truck door for them both. "The truck'll warm you up."

"Thats ok, thank you," her friend answered, and the girls shared a knowing look. Their thoughts connecting in fiendish collectivity.

"Alright, get in. We'd better get goin'."

-

The ride was relatively quiet. We knew better than to anger him further. Anxiety was growing within her, though, she didnt wanna know what would happen when her friend was let off.

"Text me ok? I'll se ya' later." Her friend said, eyeing Bucky. She leaned her head through the open window of the truck. "But- let me know how that goes," she whispered. "And good luck." She raised her eyebrows with a smirk on her lips.

The girl rolled her yes. "Sure will." And with one last wave, they were off.

-

When there were only the two of them, they could say whatever they wanted with confidence. But so far, there'd only been a few sighs and breaths of shared irritation. Neither of them were particularly pleased with the situation.

But she wanted to be the first to speak. "I'll be 21 in a few days, Buck."

"Doesn't mean you have good judgement."

She bristled. "I'm not a little girl anymore!"

" 'Course not, I can tell by the way you dress. That what a grown woman look like to you?" He nodded to her body, barely covered apart from his thick jacket over her torso.

She pulled it closer around herself. "Like what exactly? What do I look like to you? A slut, a hooker?" Her face stung from embaressment. She felt like a child again, being berated for something she wasn't able to puzzle together by herself.

He clicked his tongue, jerking his head to the side. His patience was running thin. "Dont twist my words, doll. I'm callin you careless."

"That dont matter comin' from you, you're not my daddy." She knew the comment would get a rise out of him, because she knew he'd ment no ill intent, and she knew he cared for her. But she was mad, and so was he.

"No, n' you should thank fucking god he wasn't there to bust you. I was the better option, I can promise you that."

She exhaled a frustrated breath, turning her attention toward the windshield. Watching droplets of water paving their way over the condensation covered glass. "You weren't the only one to bust me, though, were you?" She spoke lowly, feeling like a coward for even asking. "The boys gonna say something?"

He gripped the steering wheel harder, his roughed up knuckles tearing. "I told em' I'd take care of it." It must've stung, but he took no notice. Other things pestered his mind.

Worry mixed in with all other emotions as her gaze drifted to his hands, and her mind immidetly moved into recovery mode. "So what's that mean, you gonna tattle on me now?"

He looked over at her, brows furrowed right beneath the rim of his hat. He couldnt begin to understand her. "That all you care about?"

"Right now? Well, yeah. I dont want a scolding."

"All grown and still daddy's little girl, worried about his opinions."

"And if I say yes, what then, girl?

"I dunno, m' gonna have to convince you not to."

"Like you convinced that guy to buy you beer, huh? What'd you do, flirt with him? Give him a handjob, suck him off? What did I miss before catching you?"

Her mouth hung open in disbelief. "You fucking asshole!" She shook from anger, she never expected words like that to be thrown at her. Especially not by him. But she'd get him back, there was no reason behind her actions now. "Maybe I would've, I even bet it would've worked if I'd asked you. Right? You would've just loved having your friends pretty daughter gettin' you off, huh!" She half shouted the last sentence, her chest heaving with effort and fury.

"That's enough." His tone was unforgiving, shooting a sense of reality back into her.

"I'll shut up if you answer the god damned question Buck, would it have worked?"

But Bucky didn't answer, his jaw clenched and unclenched, biting back his words. If she thought the silence had been bad before? It was deafening now.

After calming down again, her words hit her like a freight train. She always had a friend in Buck, but now she wasn't sure. The words that'd been thrown back and forth had set them off balance, their entire relationship was on unsteady ground. Something had been rewritten in the rules between them.

There'd always been attraction, but that wasn't something they ever spoke of. They'd always been close, good friends even. But now, something had changed. And it made her feel sick. She'd had an ally in him, but now, she wasn't so certain.

After a long whole of shutting her mouth out of stubbornness, the fate of her father finding out was worse, so she broke. "Please don't bring me home, Buck. Dad'll throw a fit." She tried to smile, to soften her voice. But it felt wrong.

After a moments uncertainty on her part, and strained breathing on his, he spoke. "Im not makin' the detour, you can sleep at mine, that was always the plan anyway." He admitted, sounding utterly tired.

And now she felt extremely guilty, eyes studying him as he gripped the steering wheel harder. Her gaze drifted over his body, his face, his hands. Stopping on the roughed up and bloody knuckles. He'd beaten that guy for her. Out of jealousy, or simply because he was protective?

She turned away, her chest feeling hollow and followed the birches and sprucetress as they flashed by the truck. Their colors and textures blending together as they met the dark consistent sky above them.

Bucky's house was dark, he only lit a few tablelamps when they arrived. It was better that way, she recognized herself here, within the gloom and the safety of his home. It was second to her own.

"I'll get your something more comfortable," he said, his eyes avoiding her clothes, her body as a whole and disappeared into his bedroom.

Was it because he thought they didn't fit her, or the opposite? Had he been mad at himself for being attracted to her?

She nodded slowly, calling out to him, "we should do something about that hand of yours."

"It's fine, I'm fine." He said, re-emerging, meeting her eyes. "Here," he handed here a t-shirt and a pair of shorts, most likely too big for her. "I'll take the couch, n' you can take my bed."

She nodded again, and headed into the bathroom.

Buckys t-shirt was longer on her than the skirt she'd worn, so she opted out of the shorts. Luckily findig a roll of gauze in the bathroom cabinet.

She emerged from the bathroom, a pair of panties and the oversized t-shirt the only things on her body. "You want something to-" Bucky paused as she rounded the corner, and suddenly she herself stopped short–caught off guard.

Bucky stared at her, and whatever he'd been about to say was lost the second he looked up. Bucky cleared his throat, and with the weight of a 15 year long friendship on his shoulders, his eyes stayed glued to hers.

Inwardly, she smiled and hoped the lowly lit livingroom couldn't reveal the blush on her cheeks. "Found some gauze," she held the roll up, indirectly asking for permission to bandage him.

He opened his mouth to decline, she could even see his head begin to shake in dismissal.

But she cut in before he had the chance. "Just let me help, you can be mad and still let me help."

His eyes hardened, but hesitantly, he nodded all the same. "Im fine, doll."

She raised her brows with skepticism and made her way toward him, the fabric of buckys shirt doing its best at showcasing her breats.

Bucky clenched his fist in an attempt to control himself, he winced, the wounds on his knuckles re-opening.

"Yeah," she scoffed. "Sure seems fine to me." And placed herself infront of him. From his position on the couch, he had to look up at her. At that, a flicker of heat blazed in her core. Oh, those eyes. His big, pleading eyes, all sad and hurt. Did he want her gone or want her in some other way?

She kneeled, settling between his thighs and grabbed his hand. "You don't got to be so stubborn all the time. . . Just wanna help you." She wrapped his hand carefully, enjoying every second of his corse skin over hers. Once done, he tried flexing his hand, and winced again. He still hurt, that much was clear, but was too proud to admit it. "Want me to kiss it better?" She joked, hoping it would lighten the mood. But he did that thing again, where he said nothing, and instead clenched his jaw, as if holding back a yes. So she took her chance.

Keeping their eyes locked, she brought his wrapped knuckles to her lips, and kissed them through the bandage once, then moving further up to kiss the softer skin of the back of his hand. Again, his eyes were pleading, and he moved the hand to cup her cheek, stroking her cheekbone with his thumb. She took it as encouragement and kissed his palm, his wrist, his forearm. She stood up on her knees, kissing his bicep and reached for his shirt to pull him closer. She cupped his face and brought him inches from her own, nuzzling her nose against his.

Finally, when her lips reached for his, he pulled away. "Stop, stop," he nudged his forehead against hers. "We can't," he moved his lips away, cheek to cheek, he kissed the soft spot in front of her ear. "We can't."

"Cant, or wont?" She asked dully.

Those pleading eyes were back, begging her not to make him answer that question. She nodded absentmindedly, pulled into her thoughts. She stood up and moved away from him, his hand sliding down her arm and locking around her wrist, stopping her. "Dont leave."

"I'm comin' back."

After a few minutes of bustling in the kitchen, she returned to him. Sidling up next to him on the couch, her curled up legs lulling into his lap as she handed him a whiskey glass, then cradled her own. He whispered a thank you, looking into her eyes, and she whispered a you're welcome, looking into his. Then they sat like that for a while, quiet, unmoving. Bucky's hands finding their home on her legs, glas in one hand and her knee in the other. Somehow, this wasn't crossing a line for them, this was their normal, this was something not even her family questioned, this was them.

"Im sorry, doll." he said finally. "I never meant to imply-"

"It's ok, Buck." He opened his mouth to speak again, but she stopped him. "Really, It's fine. I'd rather not dwell on it."

Another moments silence passed between them, it was uncomfortable, but the unsaid lingered in the air like a thick wall between them, and hung over them with the threat of smothering. "We need to talk about us."

"I didn't like the way he was touchin' you," he said, choosing the topic before she had a chance at it. If he had to approach them, he would do it indirectly. "It didn't look like you were enjoyin' it."

Her eyebrows raised, "You would've punched him even if I were enjoying it." She commented sourley.

He squeezed her knee, gently rubbing circles into the skin beside. "He acted like he owned you," He turned his unscathed hand upside down, brushing his knuckles up and down her sensitive skin.

It all went straight to her head, veins throbbed with heat she didn't know she could feel. All brought out by a single touch of his hand.

But she wouldn't let off. "And what do you 'spouse beating him for it is?"

He stayed silent, his hand turned again, this time to grab her soft flesh, squeezing it with purpose. Much like the guy had done, but this felt different. This felt good, real good.

She swallowed, closing her eyes to focus on the words she needed to say. "What made you think you had the right? If not that I already belonged to–" she stopped, and their eyes met in a quick glance.

He let out a frustrated sigh. "I was only protectin' you." He defended, but it didn't quite sound like he believed the words himself. Nor did she. But if he wasn't ready to see it as it was, she wouldn't pressure him.

Instead, she laid her head on his shoulder. "It shouldn't be this hard."

He shook his head, the words seemingly struck a cord within him. For he sat insilence, pondering, a long while. "I would've said no, you know. And it would've killed me." She looked at him strangely, forgetting what he was referring to for a moment. "I would've said yes, if you hadn't felt forced to it, like it was a last resort to keep your secret."

Oh. . . "Had I wanted it, you'd said yes?" She stared unbelieving into the dark space infront of them.

"Nothin' could stand in my way." He slid his hand further up her thigh, fingers exploring the skin just beneath the hem of his/her shirt.

She sat up straight to look at him properly, she couldn't tell if he was serious. "You want me?"

"More than anything," his voice was breathless, barely a whisper. His index and long finger reaching further up, exploring more than he'd ever dared. "Cant even explain how many times I imagined you gettin' me off after you said it. How much I hated the thought, the sight of you with that guy, his hands all on you."

A pang of need shot through her. She put her whiskey down, and braced her hands against his chest. "But why tell me now, whats changed? Whats changed in this last hour?" His fingers rubbed the skin of her hips beneath her panties, sending shivers running over her body, shivers she'd only previously dreamed he'd be the cause of.

"You're right, it shouldn't be this hard. I'm makin' it too hard." His hand slid to her waist, still invisible to him, but no longer untouchable. Magnetically, they were pulled together, faces inching closer and closer to oneanother.

"And what about daddy?" It was becoming hard to focus, she wouldn't stop him for the world. Bow, they were close enough to feel the dampness of their breaths.

His hand continued exploring farthur up, fingertips finally reaching the soft, plush flesh below her breast. "Your daddy ain't here, is he?"

She began shaking her head in disbelief, lips brushing against eachother. "Dont promise something if you can't follow through."

His hand stopped, "I can, please," he begged, waiting for her go-ahead. "I can. . ."

His words vibrated against her skin, electrifying her body. "Fuck," she moaned, he's right there. Right, there, infront of her, for her. "Then do, please do, Buck."

And just like that, both hands were beneath her shirt, pulling her into his lips and squeezing her breasts.

Breathless moans filled the silent air, they tore at eachother greedily. Pulling and pushing eachothers bodies, fighting to get Bucky free of his clothes.

Snaking one arm behind her back, he guided her down onto cushions and placed himself above her. Still clothed by jeans, he rolled his hips against her core, grinding the rough fabric against her barely clothed clit. This, is what she had been craving. The exact static friction, the heat and movement between their bodies producing all the pleasure she needed. She moaned heavily, beacause still, she wanted more. Pulling her legs up and her panties off, she wordlessly signaled for him to do the rest.

With a groan, Bucky dove into her neck, kissing and sucking, all the while he unzipped his jeans and pulled them off together with his boxers. No time was wasted, he lined his member up with her core within a second, prodding and teasing at the opening. "Please, please, please." She sounded desperate, but fuck, she was. And feeling it was worse then sounding it.

"Yes ma'am." He said, and thrusted into her. A gasp escaped them in unisome. With the arm still around her waist, he pulled her into his hips, his body straining as he delved deeper inside her than she thought possible.

"Yes. . ." She whined. "More."

He kissed his way up her throat, their hips freed and collided into eachother with steady, strong thrusts, pushing her deeper into the cushions with every rut. Nothing could compare, he was unparalleled. Bucky, despite what he was already achieving, kissed his way up her neck, unfaltering in his duty.

Her hands found his face, cupping it and bringing him back to her, and their lips met again. "Taste so sweet," he murmured, sinking his tongue into her. The salt of her skin mixing with her saliva. "Want all of you."

She smiled against him. "Harder."

He did as ordered, keeping his pace and adding pressure. "Yeah," he moaned. "Being so good for me, girl." And pulled her deeper onto his member. Her breaths grew rapid and shallow, fingers clawing at his back as she had nowhere to go, all pleasure directed straight into her. "Close, so fucking close," she cried.

"Good," he chuckled breathely against her skin, and that was a she needed. Her back arched in euphoria, and stars stung her eyelids, speckling the darkness. "Good job, sweetheart. Just breathe," he continued thrusting into her, softly, easing her through the orgasm. "Good girl. Well done. . ." He whispered, kissing her jaw. The stars began fading and she regained her senses, tears rolling down her cheeks. "Beautiful, girl." He moaned, still rutting into her, chasing his own high while wiping the tears from her face. Her body began tingling, on the vege of breaking down.

"Dont know how much more I can take, Buck." She kissed his cheek, focusing on the skill of his lips.

"Almost there, almost. . ." he moaned, increasing his pace. The slickness of her core created a sickening sound together with the slapping of their skin. It was heavenly, but she could feel the pressure building within her again.

"Mmmh, m' gonna cum again, please buck, dont stop."

He didn't, he continued, intent on coming together with her. He bit into her lip, causing her to yelp and yield the hold on his face and licked a trail down her chest and breast, then taking it into his mouth. Sucking and slurping in an insane rythm with the slapping. "Yes, yes! Fuck, Bucky." she called out, and Bucky pulled out of her.

Coming only a second after, his seed spilling over her abdomen. "I love you, I love you." He moaned with faltering breaths, bracing himself on his forearms on either side of her, kissing every part of skin that he could reach.

Holy shit? "I love you too." She smiled lazily, drunk off of her two consequent orgasms. Laying her hand on her stumache, she felt his sticky substance coat her fingers.

His eyebrows knit together in guilt. "Sorry 'bout that sweetheart, I'll get a towel-"

She grabbed his bicep and shook her head, locking her eyes onto his as she brought the fingers to her lips and licked them off, popping them in her mouth to suck them clean.

Bucky stared, unable to form words.

"Cat got your tongue, cowboy?" She asked, a coy smile on her glistenting lips.

"Fuck," he awed breathlessly. "I just love you." He whispered, lowering himself onto her once again, this time striking his tongue into her core.

-

[strawberrysandcream]

twin flame sex on fire chapter eleven

thank you all for being so patient and kind, and loving this story no matter how terribly long i take with it. anyway, here's wonderwall. (shout out to @bageldaddy who saved this on numerous occasions lmao)

pairing: ceo!joel x fem!reader

summary: doing it with a broken heart is harder than it looks.

warnings: age gap (reader is late 20s, joel late 40s), workplace relationship, imbalance of power dynamic, reader's a Real Tough Kid she can (not) Handle Her Shit, kale!!!!!!, alcohol consumption, cursing, soft!joel, fluff and angst. angst angst angst angst

word count: 7.7k

series masterlist | main masterlist | playlist | follow @macfroglets w notifs on to be the first to hear when i post 💚

Five days lasts a year.

So it feels, anyway, when you spot Martha from the corner of your eye – pulling her coat on and hooking her purse over her shoulder. She tucks her peroxide blonde layers behind her ears, gives one last check of her makeup in a compact mirror, and looks up.

“You coming?”

It’s five thirty on Friday. You haven’t said more than two words to Joel since you walked out on him, Monday morning.

She knows by now – Martha. Or at least, she has a pretty good idea.

You haven’t told her, as if you’d even be able to begin explaining it all. But she pieced it together by herself, didn’t she? You’re hardly subtle. She figured you out less than five minutes after you stormed out of his office, fists balled and face tight with rage.

She says your name, and the sound is muffled. Distorted by the sour backwash of that feeling: the hot temper which dissipated so quickly into an ache behind your ribs all day.

You finally look up. “Huh?”

She fixes the collar on her trench coat. Flattens her thin, merlot lips and says, “Let’s go, kid. It’s been a long week.”

And that, you think, might just be the understatement of the fucking year.

She slips her arm through yours in the elevator, and you don’t protest. It’s not like she’d let you go even if you tried to shake her off – but there’s a comfort to it. Something sweet; soft and motherly. Martha’s not often this affectionate.

You want to slot your cheek on her shoulder. Ask her how long her worst heartbreak lasted. Ask if that’s even what this is, if you can give a two-month hurricane of sex and secrets enough power to split you open this badly.

Ask her how long until the gnawing in your chest eases. How lung until you’re finally able to look at him again, without wanting to cuss him out – or run into his arms.

But you stare ahead, swaying with the dropping elevator, wrap your arms tight around yourself and swallow shallow breaths of her rosy perfume.

Your reflection splits in two, pulled apart by the rumble of the doors. Something akin to a growl from between Martha’s teeth.

The skeleton of the lobby sears behind your eyes, every surface bleeding gold. Silver arrows of rain pelt against the windows, slicing through the blazing sunlight. Dark figures shake umbrellas open at the doors; others yank their collars over their heads as they run to cars.

A gaggle of square suits separates to let you pass, black material shining and soaked through. Nodding to both of you, your names dripping from their lips as they load into the elevator.

Under the canopy outside, Martha hoists her purse over her head.

“Monday then?” she yells over the drumming rain. And without waiting for an answer – because she isn’t so much asking as she is telling – she totters off through the drizzle towards Alan’s Volvo.

One last glance over her shoulder, a wink as her six-inch heels swing into the car. Like a Bond girl, off to wrangle her preteen into eating his vegetables.

You call a cab, leaning against the building to watch the clouds roll overhead.

Two words. That’s all you’ve managed to force over your tongue.

Sure and okay. Both uttered between teeth, as though your body might be trying to hold them back. Mundane and fucking meaningless; pushing by everything else you want so desperately for Joel to hear. How could you? Why would you? I think I hate you, you know that?

I hate you and I miss you so much that it makes me hate you all over again for it.

He’s doing as you asked, at least. He’s following your rules. No looking, no touching, no talking.

To a point.

He is still talking – saying a little more to you than you are to him. You’re allowing it, given that he is still your boss and they’re only ever boss things to say. Schedule this meeting, look out that old file. Pick up his drycleaning when it’s mid-afternoon and he spots your boredom from across the office.

But he never comes near.

Not anymore.

He doesn’t brush by, stealing a giggle when his elbow nudges your waist. He doesn’t order you lunch, then wait until you’re sat opposite him in his office to eat together.

He doesn’t kiss you as soon as the elevator doors close. He doesn’t perch on the edge of your desk to steal snacks and gossip with you and Martha. He doesn’t play with your hand, he doesn’t hold you by the hips, he doesn’t whisper dirty jokes and sweet nothings in your ear.

He keeps his distance. He acts like your boss again.

And – Jesus. You’ve never wanted to hate him so much in your life.

“Waitin’ for a cab?”

“Shit –” You twirl, rain flicking from the tail of your coat.

Joel takes your arm steady. His grip is so familiar, so safe you feel yourself melting into it already. “Easy, easy,” he says, his voice much the same. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you there.”

“You didn’t, you…Yeah,” you sigh, “I guess you did. What did you say?”

He smiles. It’s weak, humored, but completely unsure. “I just asked if you’re waiting for a cab.

And goddamn it, just the sight of him this close thaws you from the inside out. It’s like warmth against the wound, softening you like the creases by the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah,” you start, “I just called one. Figure there’s traffic.” You gesture to the bodies scurrying down towards yellow cabs.

Joel tosses his thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the sleek Rolls by the curb. The rain bounces off its roof. “Rand can take you, if you like. Save you waitin’.”

“Oh, no. No, I’m good, thanks.”

“I’ll take your cab,” he clarifies. “I’ll take the cab; Rand can take you home.”

“Really, Joel,” you reply, hugging your purse. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Thank you.”

He nods, looking down. There was – there is – nothing he wants more than to look out for you. There’s probably nothing that stings more right now, than the fact you won’t let him.

He makes to leave, then hesitates. Hands in his pockets, he turns back and says, “You ever need anything, just let me know. Alright?”

Your lips flatten. “Mhm.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you do.”

“Alright,” he says. “Okay. I’ll see you Monday.”

He strides off towards the Rolls. So much cooler than the suits scrambling around him; dipping his head as he slides into the backseat, fixing his tie before he pulls the door closed.

The car doesn’t move until yours arrives. Until he’s seen you run over, settle in the backseat. Rand pulls out behind as your driver sets off; turns in the opposite direction at the first set of traffic lights.

You watch as it shrinks into a speck from the back window, wondering if Joel’s watching you, too.

The driver tuts and shakes his head. He flicks his fingers to the windshield, some comment about this goddamn rain and ain’t let up for five goddamn days.

You fish your phone from your pocket, turning the weight of it over in your hands like turning the dilemma in your mind. Thinking up something like, Hey, I was gonna order food in tonight. Wanna come over?

Something like, Or not, if you don’t feel like it.

Sorry, I don’t even know why I’m –

The screen lights.

Your heart jumps to your throat.

The driver rambles on, “…said it’d dry by Wednesday – well, you can’t trust a damn one of ‘em…”

Your eyes are glued to the name onscreen.

Joel headers the first notification. And the second. A text, then an email.

Your thumbs hover over the messages for a few seconds, vision blurring around his name. Frantic circles while you decide whether or not you actually want to read them. But it gets the better of you – morbid curiosity – and you tap on the text.

As quickly as it leapt, your heart plummets.

Forwarded Jean-Marc’s email, in case you need it. Have a good weekend.

Three, four, five times. You read over it five fucking times before it sinks in. Switch to your emails, where Joel Miller sits proudly at the top of the list.

“Why are you…?” you mumble, blinking at the screen. Salt stings across your waterline. “You – you fucking…”

It boils through your veins, pools in the pit of your stomach. That ache winds again, twisting around your ribcage.

Anger.

Anger, and…something much worse.

You bite hard on your lip, refusing to let the tears spill over. Your heart hammers against your chest. Your fist balls, like tightening around the leash of a misbehaving dog, pulling it back into place.

Your voice is barely a whisper.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Steam slowly swallows your silhouette whole. In the mirror, you shake the shell of the office from your shoulders, watching as she disappears entirely behind the heated glass. Relieved just to see her go.

You sob under the scorching stream until your skin prunes and your head throbs. You order in food and burrow deep in your couch to pick at it.

Drowning in the same hoodie he once pulled over himself – his landscape of a body, strong as rock and soft as the earth. The material unwashed, still smelling of mint and men’s cologne.

You thumb through the chick flicks on offer: all perfect grins and power couples; the commercial dream that is a two-tone poster with a quirky, conversational title. And then, worse: the breakup movies.

Women flat-out in bed, picking from a tray of chocolates. Two-day pajamas and three-day bedhead. Slumber parties to burn love letters and gauge out their exes’ eyes in photographs, swear themselves off men and then down heavy cocktails until they puke.

Then – the epiphany. Right before some pop rock track from the noughties sends the heroine off into the sunset. The I’m better off without him, or Maybe he wasn’t so bad moment.

Love truly exists, after all. Roll end credits.

“Oh, fuck off,” you mumble, chewing wetly on popcorn. “You’re all bullshit, anyways.”

Maybe you’re just fucking miserable. You liked the bullshit, two weeks ago.

Blake Carter – he was chocolates in bed and feminist handshakes. He was one night at your mom’s, one night at your best friend’s, then back in your old place before the week was out.

This is different. It’s like a sickness.

Rotting from the inside out. Deep in your chest, a fierce fever spreading from the split, the empty cage of ribs. An anxiety which gathers and festers in the barren corners, like teetering along a wire with no idea how high the drop really is – only that you’re not going to make the landing.

How were you ever going to make the landing, letting go of his hand like that?

You manage three mouthfuls of a greasy hamburger, then shove the bags across the coffee table. Too sick and too unsettled to eat without feeling it roll around your stomach in a furious tide.

You ever need anything, just let me know.

Asking for help is not something you do. Not since you were sixteen, and even before then. There is nothing – nothing, you swore – a man could offer you that you couldn’t go find yourself.

But then – then, you found someone who wasn’t looking for you to ask. Didn’t want or expect you to need him for anything, only wanted you to know that he was around if you ever did. Being near you was all he ever really gave a shit about.

You found someone who was on your tail every time you looked back. All your running, all the times you swore you wouldn’t let him catch you. And there you were – turning to make sure he was still trying.

He was. He was always trying. He’s the closest anyone ever came to proving you wrong.

And now…he’s letting you go.

If you had the energy to laugh, you’d laugh. You’d march back into the bathroom and wait for your reflection to clear again, just to point your finger right in her face.

The same woman who walked away from Blake Carter and his heirloom diamond ring; from Sundays forcing down quiche Lorraine at his parents’ house, and pretending to enjoy bouncing his nephew on your knee.

The same woman who left that diamond ring on his bedside table, packed a bag full of clothes, and fled the apartment before he could plead anymore.

The same woman who had seen the entire thing as a bird breaking free from her cage, in the end.

You understand it now.

You spend long enough in that cage, long enough planted on your feet – you forget how to use your wings.

The weekend is slow and sleepless.

Your sheets wind up a twisted mess each night. Kicked to the foot of the bed, cocooned back around your shoulders, then whipped from your body again when you feel too hot, too smothered.

He’s all over your apartment. Dozing in the reflection of the TV screen, bass voice reverberating off each wall, kisses in the clinking of mugs.

Each night, you stare blankly at the ceiling. Sleep becomes a tide you float on the surface of, pooling across your stomach and only ever wetting to your ears. Face skyward, bone dry. Desperately waiting for a wave that never intends on turning.

Come Monday, you’re running on something like four hours sleep and as many coffees.

Martha recognizes it instantly, the way she fawns. She hasn’t let up all day. Not since you walked in this morning, looking like shit and avoiding Joel’s office at all costs. She’s spent more time staring, delivering snacks, making sickly-sweet conversation that hurts your teeth – than she has actually working.

And it was touching. Until ten o’clock.

Joel has two assistants for good fucking reason, it turns out.

“I do not understand a goddamn word I’m reading…” Martha flips the Cosmo she stole from you last week. “The hell is a retrograde?”

Your head tilts. “Do you even know which sign you are?”

Her thin, penciled brows quirk. “Taurus, but I don’t like the way this bull’s lookin’ at me.”

She wiggles her mouse before the monitor switches off, then prods a shard of cucumber with her fork. The rain scatters across the window at her back, dragging golden shadows down her blazer.

“Did you eat today?” she asks.

“Mhm,” you lie, “This morning. Before you came in.”

She chews suspiciously. “Liar.” She offers you the salad bowl. “Eat.”

“Martha,” you push it away, “I’m not –”

“I don’t care whether you’re hungry.”

She thrusts the tub towards you, cherry tomatoes trembling.

“Martha.”

“Eat.”

“I’m not gonna eat your salad, will you stop –?”

“One bite. Just one.”

“I don’t even like –”

She’s holding out a forkful. “Eat the damn –”

“Get a drink with me.”

She halts, greens dangling in front of your face. Her expression twists, loosens, and then twists into bewilderment again. “Pardon me?”

You sigh, deflating into the leather. “Stop tryna force feed me salad, and get a drink with me.”

“On a Monday?” She scoffs. “What’s the occasion?”

“I don’t…I don’t have one,” you groan, pushing to your feet. “At least, not a good one. I just need something a little stronger than kale.”

An all too familiar click over your shoulder plucks her attention. Her eyes flash across the room.

She tracks Joel from his office over to the water cooler, a forced smile when he must glance up. Her eyes snap back to yours at the trickle of water into his mug.

Please? you mouth, and she grumbles.

“Joel?”

His voice is strained; he’s bending at the cooler. “Yep?”

Martha links her arm through yours and forces you to turn. “You mind if we take a long lunch? We were thinking of trying that wine bar up by the golf course.”

Joel lingers on the other side of the office, sipping from his mug. He’s almost unrecognizable: no bear left in him. Declawed, toothless. Dark crescents like the shadows of a bruise beneath his eyes, the ghosts of smile lines on his cheeks.

“Wine bar?” he asks. “Didn’t even know there was one up that way.”

“It’s new,” Martha says, popping the lid back on her salad bowl. “Alan told me about it. Says it costs an arm and a leg, but apparently, it’s worth it.”

He wanders over – hesitant, like approaching the desk of a wild animal. You can feel the heat of his stare on you when he replies, “’s nice up that way. Take the afternoon. You need a ride?”

“All good,” Martha chirps. She squeezes your arm. “I’ll go call a cab.”

She drapes your coat over your shoulders, then twirls off in the direction of the elevator. A girlish little strut, quietly pleased with herself.

She’s deliberately leaving you stranded. Both of you.

Joel steps back when you move. His breath catches in his throat. He slips a hand in one pocket, and says, “Be nice to have a relaxing afternoon.”

“Yep,” you choke, elbow brushing against his. “Nice to have some girl time, I guess.”

“Oh,” he sniffs, “I was talking about me. Empty office, two of you off my ass. Peace and quiet.”

You smile, feeling the weight of him rock gently against your side. “Hilarious,” you murmur, glancing up at him.

He stares straight ahead, sunlight catching rare amber in his eyes. Smiling to himself, calm and content, he says, “Have a good night. I’ll see you tomorrow,” and turns back for his office.

Your chest twinges as he closes the door behind him. A tight fist around your vocal cords.

“See you tomorrow, Joel.”

Oasis is a trendy little bar out west, which looks anything but its namesake. All exposed brick and smirk of silver pipework, industrially rustic and injected with the silky scent of wine and wealth.

Exactly the type of place you’d go to get over your millionaire ex.

Martha slinks in like she’s made of the place. Coat loose over her arm, hips swaying and heels clicking. She hops onto a stool at the bar, drums her glossy nails on the varnished wood.

You settle awkwardly into the stool beside her, prodding at what turns out to be a very real cactus. You jump at the sharp prick.

A waiter behind the bar clocks you, and laughs to himself.

“Nice, huh?” Martha asks, scanning the place. The low-hanging lights, the spill of foliage from the rafters. She seems to fit into it a whole lot better than you do.

“Sure,” you mumble around your fingertip, “Are you buying?”

She rolls her eyes. “You asked me out, remember?”

“I was thinking some two-for-one cocktails dive, not the fucking Ritz, Martha.”

“Call it a pick-me-up,” she says, accepting a menu from the waiter. “We’re treating ourselves.”

You pinch your fingertip, watching a scarlet bead bloom from the wound. A satisfying sort of pain, a tender break your hands won’t stay away from. You squeeze until it balloons into a trembling bubble of blood, then swipe the cut clean. Squeeze, then swipe.

Martha orders some vino she says she’s always wanted to try. Two glasses, because when the waiter looks to you to take your order, you’re still staring at your bloody finger.

He slides the drinks over and smiles politely, eyes daring to meet yours only twice. He’s handsome: chiseled jawline and the smudge of a dimple on one cheek. Chin speckled with stubble, shorter and blonder than you’d like.

Your fingertip throbs, and you look down to find it closed in your fist. You take a gulp of wine.

Martha smacks her lips and hums. “Not half bad,” she says, and then slots her glass next to yours. “Alright,” she clasps her hands, “What is it? What’s been goin’ on?”

You spin the base of your glass, staring at the swirl of honeysuckle. “I just needed some air and…wine.”

She buys it about as much as you do.

“Only one thing in the world that makes me need air and wine,” she says. “A man.”

A laugh flutters from your chest, as if by accident. As natural as the sun splitting the clouds. No thinking about it, no forcing it.

Either the expensive alcohol works fast – or Martha does.

She lifts her nose, like sniffing out the truth. “Come on, no bullshit. Why’d you ask me to get a drink?”

It rolls from one shoulder to the other in a tired shrug. You’ve no fucking idea why you asked her to get a drink.

The office was becoming claustrophobic, bursting with the grief of it all. Joel was nowhere to be seen and yet everywhere you looked. Here’s the wall he’d kissed you against, there’s the spot you’d first shaken hands.

Here’s all of it, really: the shame and the anger and the heartbreak all knotted together. Holding yourself back from doodling hearts on his sticky note messages, busying yourself with shredding instead of nosing around his office.

No bullshit, you were about to scream. Martha’s just the first person you laid eyes on.

Her and her fucking kale.

“Because,” you summarize, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing anymore.”

Her eyes are wide, serious. She’s hooked already. “With Joel?” she asks, sipping.

“With any of it,” you reply. And then, hearing her properly: “What do you know about me and Joel?”

She swallows quickly. “He hasn’t told me a word, I swear,” she says, “but I wasn’t born yesterday. Paris was always a solo trip, darling.”

You massage your forehead, grumbling into your palms. “Jesus Christ,” you whisper. There’s a heavy ache blooming behind your eyes.

Martha smiles. “I thought it was sweet. He’s never been serious enough about anyone to take ‘em over there with him. But,” her eyes ladder down your figure, “I’m guessing it didn’t work out.”

“Something like that, yeah.”

“Okay,” she squints, reading you, “And are we relieved? Are we hurt? Angry?”

“We are four and a half coffees Monday morning, and a wine bar Monday afternoon.”

“Got it,” she says, face stony. “That little shit. You need me to yell at ‘im?”

You lift your wine, shake your head. “I did enough yelling at him last week,” you admit. “It wasn’t just him, anyways. He fucked up, but it was the both of us.”

Martha nods, and you both take a long drink.

She taps her nails against the swell of her glass. “I thought you two were really great together,” she says – polite, pensive.

The least Martha you’ve ever heard her.

“You did?”

She nods. “You just always had this camaraderie. It was palpable. From the moment he met you, he was different. Better for it. I don’t know when you were…whatever you were, but –” she takes a deep breath, looking off past you, “– I know I liked it when you were.”

It’s not something you ever considered, even in the thick of it. What it might look like from outside, this little love affair: promises whispered into coffee mugs and glances stolen from behind paperwork.

It was never a secret – at least, not one either of you were trying to keep. It was just…yours. You and Joel. Two names etched at the bottom of a birthday card, no room for anyone else’s.

And if anyone did find out – Martha, Rand, Jean-fucking-Marc – they felt more like collateral. Just the landscape, the backdrop for your fated meteoric crash down to Earth.

God, it felt good to fall.

Martha sighs, dabbing a knuckle at the corner of her lips. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she says, gently. “I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you hoped.”

Your eyes drift across the room. The waiter pours a deep red wine for a silver-haired couple over by the window. The man’s thumb surfs back and forth across his wife’s knuckles, dipping to circle the ring on her third finger.

The split in your skin opens again, your nail pressing clumsily into your finger. A tiny wave of pain rocks through the tip.

“Yeah, well,” you sniff, “Shit happens, right?”

“Sure does,” she says, and holds her glass out.

You cheers, the clink piercing the bumbling jazz in the air. The wine thrashes against the side of the glass, and you gulp back a sour mouthful.

“He sent me an offer for a job in Paris,” you confess into your drink. “That’s what our fight was about – the fact he didn’t want me to go. Then on Friday, he sent it anyway.”

“Paris?” Martha straightens in her chair. It’s easy to tell her, easy to pretend it’s some third-floor gossip when she reacts the same way. “That’s big,” she says. “Are you gonna go for it?”

“No,” you admit. “It’s with that guy Jean-Marc.”

Her upper lip curls, a bend of burgundy. “You can do better.”

“I guess,” you frown, “if I were looking.”

“You’re not looking?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

It twists in your throat. A million answers which fizzle into nothing at all on your tongue. Because because because –

“Who would read all of Joel’s boring emails?” It comes with a smirk, which drops as quickly as you realize Martha’s expression isn’t shifting.

“I would. And he’d find a replacement for you eventually. Not half as good, but…”

“Ha,” you stare at her, “Funny.”

“I’m not kidding. “I’m not,” she adds, when you roll your eyes. “It’s about damn time you realized you’re head and shoulders above all this.

“Maybe,” she continues, with an almost bloodthirsty interest, “Joel didn’t let on about Paris because he thinks you’re better than that, too. You don’t think he sees your potential? Hell, I do. You’re too good to be making coffee and taking minutes.”

Tell me something I don’t know, you think.

Joel’s never been quiet about how he feels about you – professionally or otherwise. He said as much in his office last week: I didn’t want to lose you. Those exact words kept you up all weekend, for crying out loud.

Sure, Joel sees something in you. Assistant, colleague, friend, not-friend. It’s not enough to stop the need you have – pinhole pupils hunting, blood jumping in your veins. Like it’d kill you to catch your breath, to shake your hackles and loosen your muscles.

Watch, watch. I can answer your questions before you’ve even come up with them. Watch, watch. I can show up early and leave late, barely pause for breath in between.

Watch, watch. I can break your heart and make it look just like mine.

You squirm under Martha’s glare.

“I don’t…I don’t even know what else I’d do,” you garble, playing with your hands. “I like this job. I’m good at this job. It’s…it’s –”

“– comfortable,” you say together.

“And that’s exactly the problem,” Martha nods, “You’ve outgrown it. You’re nothing but a monster in red bottoms now, baby – too scared to find something that fits you better in case it turns to shit. So what if it does? Is it the end of the world?”

“Feels like it right now,” you reply. She’s cloudy, blurred behind the ocean of tears teetering along your waterline. “And this is barely even a breakup, never mind failing at a career.”

She chuckles, shaking her head. “You think you’d be the first? The last? People fail at things all the damn time. Better to do it now, young as you are – little elastic band of resilience and nerve.”

“Poetic,” you scoff.

She tilts her glass and her head follows.

“Listen to me,” she says, leaning in. “Do not spend one more second paralyzed by fear. I know you’re scared. You’re supposed to be. One day, you’re going to miss the time you gave enough of a shit to feel this fear.

“It’s like electricity in your veins. Everything’s so intense, everything hurts ten times worse and feels ten times more exhilarating. You think something might bring about the end of the goddamn world, and then the sun comes up the next morning just to prove you wrong.

“And Lord almighty, you are going to get it wrong. You’ll say the wrong thing, trust the wrong feeling. You’ll make the same mistakes over and over again. But Jesus, I’d rather you blew it all to hell and at least learned somethin’, than never did it at all.

“You know what my mom would say? World’s been waitin’ on you, kid. Grab a paddle.”

Another laugh spurts from your lips, tears spilling into your mouth, a crackly, wet sniffle. “What the hell does that even mean?” you giggle.

She smiles and wipes your cheek. “Means dive in. Get your hands dirty. Fall in love, get hurt, grow the hell up. Stop standing in the way of yourself and the things you want. That electricity won’t be there forever – so use it.”

“Use it…” you echo, taking the mascara-stained tissue from her.

“Promise me,” she implores, wrapping her hands around yours, “Promise me that you will.”

It’s not just Martha asking, you know this. She’s the one staring at you like a madwoman, sure – but her plea is echoed by a littler, quieter voice.

She’s nervous, scared. A crumpled math paper in her backpack. Her whole world tipped upside down one Wednesday afternoon, soul cursed forever – or so she thought.

When you reply, it’s not Martha you see. It’s the sixteen-year-old version of yourself.

So you look her dead in the eye, and say –

“I promise.”

The world is hazy by the time you leave the bar. Vignetted, a saffron sunset seeping across the sky. Mingling with the city skyline and losing herself over the horizon.

You totter up the steps to your building and wave Martha and Alan off, twirling inside. The weight of wine heavy in your veins, pulling you from one side to the other, and still – you feel lighter, somehow.

You spent all afternoon giggling, once the heartache thawed and the alcohol kicked in. It felt nice; bubbly and nostalgic, the peachy tint of girlhood.

Swapping stories about your old, ridiculous love lives – Martha’s overall-donned boyfriend in high school, or the guy you went on two dates with last year before realizing he was the same dude one of your girlfriends had ghosted three months prior.

For a few hours on a Monday afternoon, you were fifteen again – and the worst thing that could happen was a pimple sprouting on your chin the night before picture day. All you’d ever know was the shiny film on magazine pages, reading two-week old horoscopes to see if they came true.

You slump against the side of the elevator, head spinning as it carries you home. It’s something like seven. You’re too buzzed to fall asleep, but too tipsy to do much more than roll around your apartment.

And by the time you’re back in your sweats, sunken into the couch, one very final nightcap in hand – you’re too tired to even move.

Promise me, she’d said, wildfire behind her eyes. Martha’s notorious for her talents in convincing anyone of anything, wriggling her own way out of any circumstance.

This felt different.

She’s just your colleague. At best, a passerby. Technically – going by her track record with almost everyone else in the company – she doesn’t have to take any more interest in you than the parking attendants in the basement lot do.

But she took your hand and led you out of that office without thinking, the second she understood. She bought you drink after drink, and slapped your hand away when you tried to pay. She listened to you, dried your tears, and then kicked your ass into gear.

By all standards, she was the best first date you’ve ever had.

And promise me, she’d said.

It starts as a joke. Humoring her, humoring yourself. A dare whispered to you by the tinkling of ice in your glass. Innocent curiosity, mixed with a dash of Martha’s good influence.

The perfect cocktail of chaos.

Your first online search brings up so many results that it dizzies you. Marketing executive and project coordinator, business support manager and production lead. They blur into a gray fog, a taunting swirl on your laptop screen.

“Jesus,” you mutter, mouthful of wine. “What the fuck do I…?”

Business and art. That’s what you know. One you’ve been in long enough that you reckon you could do it with your eyes closed – and the other…your little pipedream.

‘s not stupid, Joel had said, that night by the river. Not a pipedream, either.

And – fuck it, maybe you ought to listen for once. Stop standing in the way of yourself and the things you want, and all that.

You dig your knuckles into your eyes, letting the spatter of stars clear your vision, and start again.

A second search threads together a list which feels a little cleaner. A little more you. Sophisticated websites with sleek designs, smooth wording which makes it feel like you’re being sold something.

And so what, if you are? Maybe you’re looking to buy.

You click through image after image of bright offices and beaming staff, sipping sharply through your straw. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, unsure whether the lightheaded feeling is from the rosé, or the promise of a successful career and competitive salary. Memorizing brand manifestos, learning company values like prayers passing through your hands.

It’s manic. Crazed. Like you’re stood on the brink of an abyss, thick fog kissing your ankles.

You laugh to yourself. This must be the fucking electricity.

Promise me. And what can it hurt, anyway, turning in an application form? Who says it’ll even go anywhere? They might take one look at your resume and laugh you all the way into the trashcan.

Or – they might see what Joel sees. What Martha sees. For the love of God, what you see.

Your resume looks much the same as it did four years ago – still molded into the shape of the kind of girl you thought Joel Miller, CEO might like to meet. And he did, very much so. It’s just – he met all shapes of her. Even the ones she tried to hide.

He found them all out, eventually.

Your thumb pauses, hovering over the mousepad. A slow guilt slithering over your shoulders, coiling deep in your gut. You think of Paris; those streets you walked down with Joel on your arm. Talking, laughing, spilling secrets and keeping them, too.

Your shadows are probably still on those avenues. Your reflections still bobbing in the Seine. Kisses hidden behind steam-coated mirrors, bodies joining in a darkened hotel room.

It twinges some, deep in your chest. A little numbed, what with all the alcohol and – well, Martha. But it’s still there. The same wound you’ve had for twelve years now.

It’s there. It will probably always be there.

So – fuck it.

You’re grabbing a goddamn paddle.

It’s been a quiet, fruitless week. No calls, no emails, no messages written in the stars.

Which is probably a good thing, given you were more than a few glasses of wine deep – and still on some kind of high from Martha’s speech. God only knows what kind of shit you were filling those applications with.

Nothing quite like liquid courage and a broken heart, right?

The light from the Xerox flickers, swiping memories from that afternoon back and forth. Martha’s hand locked around yours, the perfumed wine she kept buying. The waiter with the dimples, Joel’s Have a good night I’ll see you tomorrow, the pine air freshener in Alan’s car.

Things have mellowed, settled in your stomach. The world is back to beige – as plain as it always was before that night of tequila and AC/DC. You’ve made peace with it, this idea of letting go. Letting him go.

Martha – soapbox queen, microphone in one hand and glass of Sauvignon Blanc in the other – has checked in every day since. Expectant eyes from across the room, treasure chest emails full of job ads she’s collected.

Anything? she texted this morning, with six praying emojis. One more since yesterday, two since the day before that.

But no – nothing, for almost eight days now.

Maybe that’s for the best.

Maybe you can swallow back the knot of misplaced disappointment, slip back into your heels and forget any of it ever happened. That fire Martha struck so effortlessly, snuffed by a cruel, cold wind.

His knuckles on the door scatter your thoughts.

“Hey,” Joel says, leant against the frame. “Everything okay?”

“All good,” you reply. “What’s up?”

He looks…frustratingly good. Like he’s pieced himself back together. Sharp and smart, brand new. And yet – warm, homey, in all the places only you know to look.

Your fingers flinch by your side, as though they’re seeking him out. You want to run them through his hair, through his beard. Want to straighten his tie, smooth the shirt over his chest. Breathe him in and feel him melt under your touch.

Feel him change, feel him soften – just for you.

Only for you.

He floats over, hands in his pockets, and perches on the desk by the copier. “Exciting stuff,” he muses, tapping the machine twice.

“Hm,” you nod, “You’re an exciting man.”

“How was the wine bar?”

“It was good,” you reply. “Little above my price range, but – it got us drunk, so.”

“Did the job.”

“Did the job,” you agree.

“Good,” Joel says, crossing his ankles. “I’m glad to see you a little more your old self.”

Your lips flatten into a smile. “Well, Martha has a way with words.”

He snorts. “Don’t I know it.”

He lingers, then. An awkward air about him. He scratches his nose, stuffs his hands back in his pockets. Sucks in a deep breath, swallows what seems to be a soliloquy of sentiment, or secrets, or something else.

Whatever it is, his nerves rub off on you.

You cross your arms, twist your toe into the carpet. Stare at the paper churning out of the machine, stare at your nails, stare at anything that isn’t the man sitting right in front of you.

But then – he murmurs, as though the words splinter from his tongue, “I had an interesting email this morning.”

The copier shudders at his side.

Your eyebrows lift. “Oh, yeah?”

Joel clears his throat. “Yeah. Pertaining to you.”

And you realize.

You look up at him, the tight knit of his brows. His fixed jaw, the way it flexes as he chews on the words.

“Pertaining to me,” you echo – a nudge.

The light from the machine catches a wet glint in his eye. He blinks it away.

“Request for a reference,” he says.

And – shit.

“Shit,” you hiss.

Fuck.

“Oh, fuck,” louder.

His expression sharpens into a perplexed smirk. “Surprised?”

“Yes,” you start, “I mean – no. No, I just – Shit, I didn’t think they’d…I thought they’d talk to me first. Why didn’t they talk to me first?”

He shrugs. “I know of the company, met the CEO once at a gala. From what I know, she runs a pretty tight ship. Probably just wanted to gauge you before reaching out. It’s okay,” his voice is kind, hushed, “Doesn’t mean you won’t still hear.”

“Oh, Jesus, Joel,” you pull on your cheeks, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“Woah, woah,” he pats the air, moves so close you worry he might hear the thud of your heart, “No apologies, alright? That ain’t why I brought it up.”

“I just didn’t mean for you to find out that way. I wanted to be the one to – to tell you.”

He stands, hands finding your elbows. Gentle, a little timid. Barely brushing the sleeves of your shirt, and yet your whole body ignites.

“Darlin’,” his voice is serious, “I don’t care. I don’t give a shit, I promise. I mean…” he shakes his head, “…I give a shit. I give a lotta shits. I’m not – I don’t mean that, I meant –”

“I know what you meant,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he sighs, “you always do.”

You pick a speck of fluff from his tie. He watches your hand, then takes it in both of his. Two big paws wrapped around one of yours, swallowing it whole.

It’s a familiar feeling, staring at the shape of your fingers tangled in his. Two in the morning at your first sleepover, praying Mom will pick up the phone. The first night alone in a new apartment, the babble of reality television for company right until sunrise.

You’re homesick.

Homesick for a man who’s standing right in front of you.

“I just wanted you to know,” Joel says, “that I sent it off just now. Just in case somethin’ goes wrong with the email, it doesn’t go through, I sent it to the wrong goddamn place – I don’t know. I just wanted you to know that it’s done.”

He holds your hand to his chest, his heartbeat against your knuckles. When you don’t reply, throttled by the threat of tears, he gives your wrist a little shake.

“Okay? You in there?”

“I’m here,” you breathe, and your hand slips from his grasp. “Thank you. I’m still sorry. You musta felt a little blindsided.”

His head bobs, considering. “Was a surprise, but a good one. Junior art director, huh? That sounds pretty damn exciting.”

“Yeah,” you reply, relaxing as he settles back on the desk. “Really exciting. Flex those creative muscles again.”

He grins. “You plan on working your way up?”

“Yup. Earn my stripes.”

“Alright, little tiger,” he says, and your heart leaps. “Proud of you.”

A silly smirk on your lips, you give him a tiny curtsy. “Here’s hoping your reference seals the deal.”

Joel laughs. “I don’t know about that, darlin’. It’s pretty shitty.”

“Is that so?”

“Oh, yeah. Talked all about how sarcastic you are, how you forgot the charger for your toothbrush – and then stole mine. Told ‘em about the Bart Simpson socks, force-feeding me Patrick Swayze. The lot.”

“The Bart socks,” you snicker, “They really stuck with you, huh?”

“Sure did.”

You slide onto the desk beside him. “What did you really write?” you ask, leaning in.

Joel glances to you. It should be obvious, with the way he’s looking at you, exactly what he wrote.

“Tell me,” you say, elbowing him.

“I told them…” he sighs, “…I told them not even to think about it, just hire you. They’d be outta their goddamn minds not to. Told them I wouldn’t be anywhere without you – or your Bart socks.

“Told them you’re the best thing that ever happened to this place. The best thing that ever happened to me. And you think – you think you never know what you have until you lose it, whatever that saying is, but I did. I knew from the second I met you. And they will, too. So – I told ‘em.”

The photocopier cuts, huffs, and falls silent. The room is plunged into a suffocating silence. You’re not sure you’re even breathing.

Joel’s arms are crossed protectively over his chest. You want so badly, more than anything, to burrow under them. To wriggle your way into his grasp – because you know he’d let you – cling to his chest, let his heartbeat regulate yours.

Let his entire body become yours; forget which parts are you, and which are him. Crawl into his skin, envelop yourself in him.

You want to cry into him. Hand him back all those mangled shapes of yourself you tried so hard to hoard – realizing now, that he knew what he was doing all along.

He was never trying to break them. He was never trying to hurt them. He only ever wanted to love them.

He only ever wanted to love you.

“Anyway,” Joel says, dusting his thighs, “Why don’t you finish that up, head on home for the day?”

“Uh –” you swipe the tears from your cheeks, “– no, it’s okay. I got a to-do list as long as my arm, and I still owe you, like, three hours from last week.”

Joel watches as you leap back over to the copier, swing the documents under one arm.

“I’m sure the to-do list will keep,” he assures, taking the ream from your clutches. “Go home, clear your head. Wait for that invite to interview to come through.”

“Joel –”

“Look at me,” he towers over you, “Anything urgent is Martha’s job now. She’ll love the drama of it. You want me to email that company back ‘n have them add Doesn’t follow orders to your reference?”

You breathe a laugh. “No.”

“No,” he repeats, brushing by.

All the times you’ve missed him before – landing back home after Paris, sat with some lovestruck financier in a golf club, fighting like kids in his office – and none of them compare to right now. Stood in the copy room, mere inches and yet entire worlds between you.

And Joel seems to know, like he knows everything you’re thinking. He glances over his shoulder, flame in his eyes, and he smiles. All sweet and charming, the real kind that softens him, lightens him.

Everything that makes him yours.

“Go on, git,” he says, heading for the door. “‘fore I change my mind.”

“Hey, wait. Joel?”

He turns back.

Your voice trembles. “How are you so calm about all this?”

His jaw flicks uncomfortably. He considers it for a moment, then says, “If you love something, you let it go.”

You repeat his own words back to him, whispered to you while you lay intertwined on his childhood bed. When they leave your mouth, they sound more like a plea. Fight back.

“But then you’d be losing something,” you say.

Joel shrugs. Earnestly. “Can’t lose somethin’ I never had.”

He doesn’t get it. He must get it. He’s twenty years older, twenty years wiser. He must know, by now. Christ, he had you to a tee two weeks ago.

How doesn’t he get it?

Your chest heaves. Your head shakes.

“You had it. You had me the second we walked into that dive bar.”

[strawberrysandcream]

ohhh this prompt:

‘i told you not to fall in love with me’

would go so well with like a brothers best friend!carlos situationship

i told you, he told you 𐙚 or the one where things don't quite go according to plan (1k words)

d rambles. . . i hope this was okay, and i hope it was enough. thank u for requesting

Carlos’s fingers comb through your hair to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in to press a kiss against your forehead. “I have to go.” 

You knew why he was doing this. It’s meant to be precautionary, to keep the lines from blurring and muddling the mess of a situation you’re in any further. But what did it matter if you had blurred the lines yourself? What’s the harm then? 

“Why can’t you just spend the night?” You make your voice small, look up at him with wide eyes in hopes that maybe it’d be enough to make him feel guilty. 

Though it isn’t guilt that you see etched into his face. It’s much more stern, maybe even annoyed because he knows you know why. He sighs your name, resigned. Tired. “You know why.”

“There are worse things than spending that night,” You defend, tugging the blanket against your chest as you sit up, “We’ve done worse things.” 

“That’s different.” 

“Still worse.” 

Carlos rolls his eyes, no longer amused by your act. “I don’t wanna have this argument with you.” 

“It’s not an argument, it’s a discussion.” You reach for the shirt sprawled on the bed, slipping it over your bare body as you begin to clamber out of bed after him. 

Carlos collects his belongings, slips on his clothing one by one in haste, like he couldn’t get further from you quick enough. It’s an argument, he refutes as he slides his sweats over his hips, “when you and I disagree, it’s always an argument.” 

“I just don’t understand why you’re so repulsed by the idea of sleeping over.” 

“And I don’t understand why you’re so insistent I stay.”

Your reluctance to give him an answer sits in the heavy silence. Its a brief moment where neither of you move, neither of you gather the guts to answer the questions posed. Instead the mystery brews above you, makes the air thicker and harder to swallow. 

You knew why you were so insistent, but you beckoned to know why he was resistant. 

“We’ve been sleeping with each other for months now and I just can’t wrap my head around—” 

“— Why is it suddenly such a big deal?”

You pause, frozen in the spot you stand in. Your body is rigid, nerves and anxiety holding you tightly. You couldn’t tell him when this became such a big deal to you, even if you wanted to. All you know is one day you looked at him and everything was different. Suddenly every little thing had become a big deal. The playful touches, the knowing smiles across the rooms, the late nights of sneaking over, everything meant more. 

“It’s like you’re scared or something,” You shake your head, turning away from him and walking over to your vanity. You lean on the desk, trying to steady your breathing and calm your nerves, “Scared that it might make all this mean something.”

You stare at the wood of the desk, stained by every attempt to impress, every attempt to make yourself appealing and ideal. Every swipe of a brush, blot of a sponge, just so Carlos could see you as something more. You’re too afraid to meet Carlos’s gaze in the the reflection of your mirror. But you know he’s looking, you feel his bright brown eyes staring at you, studying you, trying to find a flicker of emotion that might be able to tell him what has suddenly gotten into you. Where words fail, your expression compensates. You face the fear anyway, locking eyes with Carlos and staring at him hopelessly. And then it clicks. Like a flick of a light switch, everything begins to come together and the boy is able to make sense of the situation before him. 

He shakes his head. He smiles, but it’s pained— unamused. Your name slips past his lips, every letter despondent in tone. “I told you—”

“—I know what you told me—” “—I told you not to fall in love with me.”

The words, the indignation and resignation bumping into each other— much like dousing a camp fire with more gasoline. Salt to a wound. Twisting the knife when it’s already embedded in your chest.

You push yourself off your vanity, crossing your arms over your chest, “You act like I wanted this to happen. Like I planned to.” 

You didn’t. Falling in love with Carlos was never part of the plan.

Committing his mannerisms and ticks, the crinkles by his eyes and the small dimples above his lip to memory was a complete accident. Finding comfort in the way he touches you, in the way his skin feels against yours, was never the intention. What was meant to be a hot and heavy temporary fix, became an addiction. You never meant to grow this attached to him, never meant for all this to be anything more than what you agreed upon four months ago. Carlos was never meant to be more than the person to entertain you in your boredom, to make nights a little less lonely.

There was no point in denying the obvious, in denying a truth you’ve known for much longer than you would ever admit out loud. Why hide it? Tears skew your vision, drips down your face and forces you to turn away. 

“I should go.” Carlos mumbles behind you. 

You nod, pretend like your ego isn’t wounded and your hear cracked beneath your ribs, “Yeah. Maybe you should.”

There’s a pause, a beat of silence. You hear the hesitation in the breath he takes, the words that are stuck at the top of his throat and held back by the pride he wears so comfortably. It’s the longest second you’ve ever lived through, just waiting— anticipating something you know would never happen. Hoping in the impossible, you were too good at doing that.

Carlos walks out of your room, leaving you to wonder what he wanted to say if it weren’t for the sake of his ego. He shuts your door softly, and then he’s gone. 

‎‧₊˚✧ add to the mix ✧˚₊‧

[strawberrysandcream]

Heart of the Great Wolf

41 - Past Becomes the Present

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 15.4k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, past character death, discussion of medical distress, references to previous trauma, imagery of blood and gore, breeding kink, smut, mentions of anal

Notes: Reference to a specific book originated event with Ramsay this chapter, so if you catch it, I am sorry in advance. It not don't worry everything is fine, I promise. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

It wasn't so much disappointment, but more an exasperated feeling tiring him out. Hand running down his face, yourself biting down on your tongue to keep whatever it was that wanted to come out dismissively, still inside.

The last thing Jon wanted to do was bring you up to speed on everything immediately, but you dove right into things far to quick for him to catch up and force you to slow down. Getting to what he had uncovered, he struggled with now. Trying to fight between telling you the truth, and wanting you to just listen to him and rest instead. You both knew which one you'd rather have win out.

He had tried imploring you to rest, but by this point there had been little use in trying to dissuade you. You knew what he was planning, you knew he had done it while you were unconscious, but questions kept coming up and through what point you were trying to make separately. “How would he even know he could persuade her to do this in the first place? That feels like a huge risk.”

With what little was in front of you in the first place, Jon silently all but tossed more food on it with a pointed stare before he answered. “She hated my father, and he's betrayed you and my father before. With you and Robb gone, the timing never seemed better.” You had opened your mouth to speak but almost with a sternness did he gesture back to your plate to interrupt first. “Eat.”

He and Ghost both, lately. One wolf starts acting over protective and the other follows suit without failure.

You two were at least grateful that this part of the castle was on the quieter, less busy side then others. Since coming back to this place proper, any of what was used as the Starks normal living quarters seemed to be as minimally populated as Jon could have it, moreso then it used to be.

More a man of privacy then many Starks before him, Jon was. It also meant many weren't there to walk in and disturb when you both used the privacy to sort out the piling array of obstacles coming for you every which way. “Something still doesn't add up. Hating your father doesn't give her something in common with Littlefinger. He didn't hate the Starks anymore then the other people he manipulates.”

Eyes drifting to the side, squinting in thought you came up with the answer far slower then Jon had long since put the dots together. Voice low, and a bit on the air of tense himself. “He didn't need to have it in common, but he used it as a way to manipulate her against us.” Asking what that was, the answer took you back a slight bit. “My Uncle Brandon.”

“What does he-”

It was neither you nor him whose voice spoke out coming from the door frame. Theon walking in with a pointed look in your direction. “You weren't the only one with a secret Stark lover.” Brows narrowing just before your face fell a bit in a realization before shifting all together into a bit more of a grimace. A connection was asked and answered despite how little it sounded appealing. Taking a seat of his own, Theon continued, more towards Jon. “At least you have better taste then your Uncle did. No offence meant.”

Muttering rough and low into the mug up to his lips, “None taken.” The sounds of footsteps came down the hall and one more had intention of joining. Unbeknownst to them, rescuing you for now, from Jon swinging the conversation back to what you knew was on his mind the most in present thought. But this one was a safer bet amongst this company at the least.

Arya practically speaking through her first bites soon as she sat down, “Everything that's going on, and she risks it all for something that happened, what? Thirty years ago? Why not let it go, why risk betraying us over it?”

Raising your eyebrows with a slightly tilt of your head towards her, you spoke it more casually then gave away your thought process behind it. “You hold onto your anger long enough, it needs to eventually go somewhere.”

The younger wolfs face twisting in a similar fashion as the brother next to her, but with more of an open aggravation attached to her spoken words. “The other families haven't held it against us. Why should she get to blame us for something no one else does.” Her eyes an anger without something to latch it onto, Arya had let it fester into something irritated the entire day.

Once more Jon only muttering, barley a noticeable nod towards your once more not eating figure, as he did so. “I won't know until I question her, but it's not that simple. Getting over something you've spent a long time obsessing over.”

One lead to another and once more it felt as if the world was telling you that the coming winter was not the thing to focus on. The rest of the realm begged you to divert your focus to it's constant circle of backstabbing and scheming. It never stopped and it was the least important in what was to come, but it stood in your way. Telling you that you'd be a fool to prioritize winter over this and that.

The South were all were missing the point you and Jon were trying to do, that you were fighting towards the wrong ends. None of this will matter if you let it become the only importance. But it was still in front of you, and you couldn't just ignore it beacuse it should be secondary. Leaning forward, not quite looking at the others but as your arms crossed in front of you on the wooden surface, your mind felt distant.

“So, Roose Bolton betrays Robb, which leads to Barbery Dustin to betray you,” Hand vaguely gesturing in Jons direction, not even noting that you kept yourself out of it all. “If Littlefinger wants the North, he needs to get rid of one or both of us knowing we'd never trust him. And if you're right, if Sansa is with him, she'd be the only way to even get him here possibly unscathed. But still, he can't do anything when he's here. He has no actual ties to her.”

Arya piping up through bites, “What about if he marries her?”

Shaking your head, your face twisted in a doubt that was far too passing for the three of them to follow. And yet it was your next words which made that all the more confusing. “He can't. And even if it were possible, Sansa has nothing to claim.”

Flickering to their gazes now all on you, and matching in a narrow confusion, you hadn't yet realized that there was no reasonable way for any of them to have this knowledge. They all were immensely far from it's occurrence. And if you were to have spent more then a few moments considering it, you would have attempted to approach it with far more tact then none at all. Which was how it slipped out.

“The Faith will never annul a marriage between two highborns both found guilty of regicide. With Sansa on the run first, and now Tyrion? To split them up now would give the people the idea that Sansa had nothing to do with Jofferys murder. And the Faith would never concede to that.” It was only mid chewing did you notice the silence in the seconds that followed as awkward and stiff.

Looking over with a rough swallow, did it occur to you then of their uninformed positions. And that was information delivered in the worst possible manner. Theon looked around as uncharacteristically uncomfortable at the image as you had, but it was the matching wide eyed and entirely taken back expressions matching of Jon and Arya that clued you in. Lips parting just slightly enough as you whispered into the air, almost only to yourself, “Right. You three wouldn't have had any reason to know about that.”

Thankfully, Theon who was far more what you felt gave the same response you had hearing it for the first time. Much easier to divert your attention towards, and both wolves slowly looked from you, to the other and back again. “She married the Imp?”

Nodding, you inhaled with a hesitation in your eyes glazing over before it flashed out of existence in a flicker of flames in wind. Tilting your head slightly, you reached far beyond the realms of this life to gather information once learned both within the ruins of Harrenhal and the grieving halls of Riverrun. Considering, you were long since at war at that point, you were fairly certain the onslaught of horror and painful news hitting one after the other made learning of this with Robb a bit easier to swallow then it was for them now.

Calm and collected however, you thought to yourself as you looked to Theon, simply answer as the events occurred. Not the why. “Tywin Lannister had pushed my fathers forces out of Kings Landing, meaning he had a lot more reach as proper Hand of the King by then. So he started working to find ways to gain and upper hand against Robb, since he had spent the past three years losing horrendously.”

One way to put it. Another was Robb had taken control of every battle he fought and scared the great Tywin Lannister into hiding. Only willing to come out to drive back your fathers army in a last moment rescue effort. The Lannisters fell apart after his death, and thus you suspected Cersei had not anywhere near the same drive as her own father to go after Jon the way Tywin failed against Robb.

But you pressed on, voice only so on the edge of a grating tone that Jon alone could pick it up. “Joffery took Margaery Tyrell as a bride when they aided Tywins forces. The easy version I'm sure the Lannisters would rather have spread is that they simply wanted to secure the North.”

Theon was the only one to speak. Jon and Arya both, felt like they were listening to a made up story which they only caught half way through. As close as Arya was to the war for so long, she knew next to nothing about its happenings and Jon was so far from the Seven Kingdoms by then, he was beyond the Wall when there were still free folk there to lie to.

Perhaps though, it also was the fact that as close as you and Theon were to the Starks, there was the disconnect that you two were not bound to the family by your own blood. In the back of your mind, were you to hear a similar story of Shireen being married off to what you would consider the enemy, you likely would be as silent and taken back as they were.

Theon learning forward, matching the crossed placement of your arms to his looking towards you with a gaze further in wonder. “Hypothetically speaking, let's say Sansa was found innocent, her marriage to the imp annulled. Why would they need to get rid of you two first if Littlefinger thinks he can control the North through Sansa?”

Your eyes found grey ones, a knowing in one way and a struggle in acceptance of the other. Jon never wanted to seem as if he was taking anything from his siblings, and the way that woman had spoken of him as if it was an irrefutable fact. Soft and something distant in your gaze flickered away from him with a pain not his fault, but existed in your tone all the same. “We only found out about Sansa right before we left for the Twins. We received a raven with the news, and by that night all of the Northern Lords had all heard and signed in agreement to Robbs will. Which included his line of succession.”

No one was devoid of the fact that you were speaking around it, but no one tried to fill in such gaps anyways. Which was all you could appreciate as each word was very noticeably chosen with care as you said them. “Sansa marrying Tyrion was why Robb declared an heir in the first place. We knew it meant Tywin was planning something. We didn't know what he had planned, but if he was preparing for a North without Robb then we needed to as well. And the first thing he did was disinherit Sansa from any claim to the North. By marriage she's a Lannister, and any children they'd have would be Lannisters and Robb refused to give them any way to take the North. Even if she came home right now, free as a bird, she still wouldn't have a single claim to any rule. Robb made sure that was clear.”

What the others reactions were, you didn't find it in you to look. It didn't feel good saying, especially so far from that night. None of it was in malice, and as soon as Robb put it forth you both understood the weight of such a choice. But to repeat it here, so far from that without any of the way Robb could spin anything in such a manner? Out of your mouth it only sounded distant and cold.

It was incredibly hard to determine what was behind the strained roughness in Jons voice, and you had yet to find it in you to look at either Stark. Yourself slipping easily into the mask of panic at seeing a disappointment looking towards you, or worse. “And now that Arya's back?”

Were you looking, you would've seen the way her head whipped over to Jon with as close to a glare as she had ever directed his way. Her own voice raising in an instant to an offended yell of protest, “I never said I wanted to-”

Jon only replying back just as held back as you were feeling for any number of reasons. “It's not about want, Arya. You're a Stark-”

Only shouting back with something even angrier then before, “So are you,”

Cutting both of them off, you only somewhat looked in their direction but found not their faces yet, not the bravery of whatever expression they held even as your voice overpowered them. “It doesn't matter. You being here, if Sansa came back, if Bran came through the gates right now, it doesn't matter. If Robb had an heir of his own, the North is Jons until they would've come of age. Without one, as long as Jon and whatever bloodline runs through him is alive, the North is his.” Jons eyes flashed over with something that no one caught as he looked tensely towards you, still avoiding his gaze for not at all the same reasons he wanted to find yours. “He's the rightful King in the North and Robb wouldn't budge on anything less then that.”

Arya was quiet as was everyone else, waiting for either wolf to make the first move to break the heavy silence and all words left your willingness to do so for their sake. This all would have sounded so much less stern coming from Robb when he explained it then. Everything just sounded as callous and unfeeling coming from you as it did your father.

Too formal, too matter of fact. Made even worse speaking as such in front of a family as close as the Starks, and siblings as bonded as Jon and Arya. It made you feel as if you were putting words in Robbs mouth to drive a wedge between them, when it was the truth you spoke. Only the truth was warm and soothing when Robb said it.

Perhaps if you were more of a coward and less stubborn, you'd have fled from the remainder of what this conversation became. Instead, it was your words and so you had to defend them. The High lords would confirm the truth of facts, but only you could defend Robbs emotions and thoughts over the matter.

If he wanted you to do a good job as such, Robb chose a terrible Queen to carry his memory with warmth.

The low bass of his voice rippled through the air and deep into your veins, having waited until it was only you two left until Jons warmth came up close next to you. “You want to tell me what's going on up here before I have to guess?” His hand gently reaching up to run through loose strands of your hair closest to him.

In a way you think you surprised him, the way which you so easily looked over with a softness that hadn't been there since earlier that day. Nails tapping mindlessly beneath on the table, no more then a gentle murmur was how loud you managed to get. “It's strange, looking back on those final days. It feels like it was so long ago I'm thinking back to a version of myself that doesn't even exist anymore.”

His hand still running through the strands, moving piece by piece more back over your shoulder or tucking strays behind your ear as he somehow was as patient as ever. “You aren't that same girl.” Narrowing your eyes, you looked up at him. Nothing in accusation or malice, just an almost too innocent look towards him in question. Jon moved his hand, now firmly running along the bulk of your hair behind your head. “We can't go back to who we were, and we can't change where we are now. No matter what happens, we stay together. All of us. Whether that includes Sansa one day or not.”

Eyes slipping closed as you exhaled, you would've moved your head away if his touch didn't feel so soothing. “The last time I even saw her, she was still just a girl. Naive and daydreaming..I don't think I want to imagine what kind of person Cersei or Littlefinger could've turned her into..”

Quiet sat between you both, Jon never let go of his touch against your hair as he smoothed along it, but it matched the weight in his voice that held not the same defeat. Leaning a bit more, imploring you to meet his brighter eyes. “We can't change that. You and I have been here long enough that she must know it's safe to come home by now. But that's where she is, and she still didn't come home, or even try to reach out to any of us..we can't force her to come back and be part of this.”

Jaw clenched, you couldn't stop hearing the way Stoneheart acted as if Jon sitting here as King was some great offence. As if he didn't try harder to be the person he was more then anyone left in these kingdoms. Scouring his own grey eyes, you sighed lightly before letting them fall to nothing on him in particular.

“You know not a single person out there would choose anyone else to rule them, right?” Brows narrowing a bit hoping to get an easy answer, but Jons silence was as unsure as you felt in your own mind personally. Sighing out, a hand of your own reached up finally, running over the facial hair at his jaw. The scratching coarseness raw against your palm even as one thumb reached up to trace what you could reach of his cheek. “They didn't choose you to be a King, they chose you to be their King They'll follow you no matter what, no matter who tries coming back here claiming for themselves. Half of those men denied pledging to my father even though they were trapped under the Boltons control. Robb was gone, I'm not even a Northerner, they could have said no. If they wanted anyone else to rule them, they wouldn't have wanted you in the first place.”

He was almost close enough his natural warmth took away any remaining chill in the night air, no matter the howling wind floating about outside the stone walls. “When I said no to being Lord of Winterfell, part of me didn't think I deserved it. That whoever was still out there should have it more then me, it was their birthright not mine. But now I'm more then that and not beacuse some Southern King said so.” Gently back and forth your thumb traced, almost letting the rest of your fingertips slide down to trace what you could of his neck too. “I don't want any of them to think I'm trying to take it away from them, but there's more to this now. They don't understand whats coming for us, what's at stake. If Arya or Sansa took over from me tomorrow, none of the free folk would listen to them, they'd still ally with me.”

“That's beacuse you know what it takes. If you're right, if he wants Sansa to be part of this, she isn't a leader, a ruler. Not even close to the way you are.” You were quiet for a moment before letting your face fall a slight bit. “I didn't realize before that none of you would've known about her marrying Tyrion Lannister. Would have perhaps been a little less mindless about it had I remembered.”

Jons face almost fell to something amusingly baffled, twisting as his head jolted back a bit. “I don't know if I can't picture that or I don't want to.” Nodding with him, he sighed out, glancing between you and nothing a few times before choosing a side of him internally.

Rather then another word getting out, Jon gently pulled you to him from his grip at the back of your head. Lips gently capturing yours, while his other hand draped along the side of your neck and collarbone. The hand along his jaw slinking behind his neck to better steady yourself leaning up to his kiss.

Always the one to gently guide you, you merely were to follow along as he deepened it before having the proper sense to just pull back. Slowly as each of your remaining breathe was stolen by him, did his hand drift down you side. Tracing along your waist before settling at your hip, curling as if to pull you to him, but without the commitment. Only pulling back enough each word brushed his lips still against yours. “Selyse told me what happened.”

Sighing, Jon didn't let you go, but allowed your head to drop slightly in his touch. His own moving to press his forehead against yours, the hand at your hair drifting to your cheek once more. Not altering where you were looking, just cupping your cheek as he kept you close. Barley a whisper leaving you, “I know it's a lot to ask, but I need you to trust me just this time. When I know what's really happening, I promise I'll tell you.”

“Next time you don't feel alright, you need to tell me. You scared me a lot today.”

You'd apologize if you thought he at all would accept such an thing. Instead, you let the quiet sit between you both until you nodded your head. Leaning up a bit more, stealing one more chaste kiss from his lips before you muttered, “This may happen more often.” You could feel his brows furrowing as you elaborated. “Lord Howland's son has this ability, and he said these sorts of dreams and visions can take a toll of ones health.” His grip on your cheek grew a little tighter as you felt his muscles tense so close to you. Your own scratching along the back of his neck almost in a soothing manner matching your voice. “Which means if I don't learn how to control this, it might get worse sooner.”

Jaw clenched, he almost indiscernibley shook his head no before tilting your head down again to press a kiss to your forehead. Whispering against you, “I want you by my side more for the next while.” Asking why, he tilted your head back up to meet his eyes. Bright and shining finally passed the sorrow of the days toll. “You really haven't figured it out yet?”

An amused grin fell over your lips as you pulled back from him slightly, “What's that supposed to imply, Snow?” Only a tilt of his head in lieu of a shrug was your response. A tender smile as bright as the grey lovingly in your eyes as well did you shake your head. Leaning back to his lips yourself muttering, “Unbelievable, you Starks are.”

More then once Sam had to draw Jons attention back, as if the man was tied between focused and utterly distracted. His eyes kept drawing themselves to the partially open door, looking out to where he could see you and Gilly, a book in front of her and so Little Sam had found himself asking to be held by you. Pacing a little around the table back and forth, guiding Gilly through what you were introducing as increasingly more complicated books to test her.

Still early enough in the morning, Little Sam had been dozing in and out, and currently was leaned right into your front with eyes barley open as you focused on both parties. Not once did you turn as distracted and catch anything close to where Jon was, but more then once he had to peel his eyes from you back to the matter at hand.

If he were to accurately go over the numbers in his head, it had only been around a fortnight and Jon had only known for half of that time. You wouldn't have a clue, but it was making him feel even more obsessive. Seeing you collapse the other day only made that feeling stronger, as if his heart begun to race now if you were out of his sight for too long.

Tearing them back, Jons hands perched on the table as the lot of them found themselves debating what it could mean. Tormund had confirmed that Mance had indeed been searching for the Horn of Winter and as they now stood looking at what seemed like it, the question of what to do with it plagued them.

Jons voice was a low rasp, a bit on the edge of agitated as he considered too what you had seen. “My Uncle might have given his life to hide this, I'm not letting him die in vein by burning it now.” That was the suggestion both Ser Davos and Lord Howland gave, but it didn't add up. “It's been hiding in my families crypt for thousands of years, if the best option was to destroy it why wouldn't they have done it already?”

Sam had most of the level head these days, almost every night he and Jon went over what he had learned and attempted to put it all together into something which made sense. Some of it did, some of it seemed as if any answer brought into the existence of too many new questions they didn't know as it was.

Tormund was the only other one here who truly understood what they were up against, a curious look as Ser Davos mentioned that he thought the red woman had it. Jon shook his head, but without much thought passed what he said, “I told her it was said to bring down the wall, and she burned it.”

A glance between them passed with the same idea in their minds, neither of them believed it then and certainly not now. Tormund rumbling out in a bemused tone, “Well she burned a horn, just not the right one. Mance had us digging for it, until one day he leaves and only when he comes back did he say he had found it, whether I believed him or not.” Jon's head dropped, that too late was beacuse his Uncle Benjen had arrived that night of the feast, and took it. As soon as he left Jon from their conversation in the cold, he likely went straight to the crypts before Mance could get it.

He could somewhat hear Theon asking, “What did he want with it in the first place?”

“He wanted the crows to think he had it, so he could blow the damn Wall down to their knees. Thought if no one's ever seen it, no one would know the difference. Then this one showed up.” Gesturing across the table to Jon. His own brows narrowing in question what that even meant, knowing at that point Tormund could read his expressions well as anyone. “Knew right away you didn't believe it was the real thing, means if you went back to the crows you'd call him on the lie if he tried using it to threaten his way through.”

Lord Howland asking why Mance would think Jon would go back and tell the Nights Watch but still let him travel with them. Jon had to think of the actual answer, don't think about any of the rest, he told himself. His time with the free folk was more complicated then her alone, but it felt as if everytime his memory was dragged back to those years it was all he could think and see.

Inhaling deeply, Jon stood straighter as his arms crossed over his front. “Ned Starks son is a bad enemy to have walk into your camp, but a good ally if you can convert him.” Trying to keep an even tone, as much as any of these men knew, none really understood. None of them could imagine why Jon struggled to look back to any of it.

Ser Davos, thankfully, interjected the spiral forming in Jons mind. “Not a smart gambler, he was. I don't think I've known any man to look at the Starks and think they'd turn their backs on their own.”

Jon and Theon shared only a single glance, but said nothing of it. It was the past now.

Whatever conversation brewed around him, Jon still found himself trapped in those days. The free folk had all talked endlessly and so much of it seemed as if they were only stories with no true understanding of any importance they may hold. Or what they meant. As if it wasn't until Hardhome did many understand what was at stake in truth.

When it slipped out, Jon knew he almost had to back up and reconsider what he even meant. “I don't think it brings the Wall down.” Glancing up to Sam, elaborating, “If the Wall was built with some kind of magic to protect it, why then make something that can tear it down? Why make it so easy?”

Something akin to realization passed over Sams eyes, looking to Tormund. “When they say it can bring down the Wall, does it say exactly that? Wherever it's written?”

A chuckle passing over the taller man, and an amusement in his eyes growing. “It's written nowhere, boy. Just stories we'd tell each other when there's nothing better to do.”

His own eyes squinting in a hint of thought, Jon caught onto the thought passing through Sam. The later man asking almost to himself, “Meaning it's possible it does something else entirely. After all, if it's that dangerous why hide it under Winterfell where there's this many innocent people?”

Flickering to the door and back again, trying to contain that feeling trying to rise back up, Jon almost shook the thoughts from his head. “If my Uncle didn't want anyone to find it, he wouldn't have buried it where he did.”

Your eyes drifted more then once to where they were all discussing things. Bright sun reflecting off the snow shined in the window as you paced slightly, peeling your gaze back to the now slumbering one fully resting against your front. Gilly breaking the quiet, “Do you want me to take him?”

Glancing with a raised brow, she specified because he was asleep. A soft smile fell over you however, looking down at him before returning to her. Pacing a bit closer. “I've helped raise a number of little ones over the years, but Sam here might be the most well behaved of them all so far.” Moving ever so carefully, you slunk into the seat adjacent to her. “As long as he's not crying, I can handle him, I assure you.”

Looking between the book in front of her, and you, there was a hesitation on Gilly's mind. Luckily for you, she was good at speaking in the quiet now. “How old were you? When you learned how to read?”

Inhaling as you leaned back a slight more comfortably, only did the vaguest of stretches in your mind reach that far off. “Around three I imagine it was. As soon as I was old enough to hold a quill, my father would have me spend the morning with our Maester reading the letters, and then in the afternoon he'd take me and have me write out everything I had learned before.”

Eyes a bit wider, you almost were envious of Gilly's mannerisms. How she still found intrigue in the world that came to her with such an ease. You weren't sure you had ever been like that. “And that's normal for you? South of the wall, to learn so early?”

Almost going to shrug a shoulder before the weight by it reminded you to stay put. “Maybe not that early for most, but learning young for highborns is normal. Most people though, plenty will go their entire lives without ever being able to read a single letter. They live in villages where all but none know how, so who would be there to teach them?” It was easy sometimes to forget that most of the world did not have the kind of privilege of learning. It came so naturally around the noble women and high Lords you grew up around.

Arms now perched along the top of the page, she narrowed her eyes with a flashing of not quite envy or even sorrow, but an accepted defeat. “I think my father knew how to read, but he never really told us beacuse he didn't want us learning and reading anything that the Nights Watch would come by with. I didn't used to know why, but maybe if we knew how to read he'd think we didn't need to rely on him.”

Glancing down slightly to Little Sam still fast asleep with a strain in tone, as you tried not to clear your throat, “Keep your lessons up, and you'll have more going for you then over half the people in Westeros. A woman who knows how to read is a dangerous thing.”

The smile on her almost bashful, it was so easy to see why she and Sam fit with one another. Both had a spirit about them that wasn't yet broken by the world. Despite everything giving them reasons too. She shrugged her own shoulders, looking back to the page. “Sam will be three next year, do you think I'll know enough I can start teaching him that early?”

The boy in question shifting slightly again, your hand moving along with him to gently lean his head more into the space between your shoulder and neck and running comfortingly down his back. “If we keep up at this rate, I don't see why you wouldn't be able to start trying. When you're more ready for it, I can have you start writing as well. You need to know the letters before you can write them, but they go hand in hand once you are used to both.”

Fluttering back and forth between focuses, you had Gilly read out the entire passage in her head before turning to you without looking and summarizing exactly what it is it said. The past few days especially she had gotten very good at it. Something you always recalled your father telling you, that you needed to be able to do more then read the words on a page. That if you could read them but not understand them, you're no smarter then the average fool.

“You know, you used to be good at hiding what you were feeling.” Face twisting in a confusion, Jon turned half way from where he stood near the door to look at the approaching Sam. Nodding to just out the partially open space, the clearest eyeline from where Jons stood ended right where you were sitting. “I thought you didn't want children.”

The willpower it took for Jon to remain impassive despite the way his heart threw itself about in his chest, was almost impressive. Looking at him with barley a change in expression but a bit more of a sternness, Jon turned to look right back. Voice quiet as to not distract or catch your attention. “I didn't want any child I had to be a bastard. I never said I didn't want them ever.”

The tone attached to Sams voice got on Jons nerves and both men were entirely aware Sam was doing it on purpose. Just to garner that agitation. “Alright, so you want children. You're a married man now, and you're King in the North. What's stopping you?”

“Nothing.”

His answer was quick enough that it had Jon glance only partially to the side as if to try and gauge if Sam had noticed, but not committing to truly finding out. Arms crossed as he shifted to lean against the book case behind him a little less obviously staring at you. Whatever was on Sams expression Jon didn't want to see it. “Does she know you want that?”

Jaw clenching, his head dropped a bit as the rest of his face twisted too into something a bit more siding of pain, and his voice strained the same. “It's not that simple for her. Her child was murdered while he was still growing inside her. It doesn't matter what I want, only that she's ready for it when the time comes.” Everyday he saw the scar across you, and he knew you still tried to look at it as little as possible.

No offence meant, and only Sam could say it so casually as well. “If I were her, I'd get pregnant just to get you to stop watching me like that.” Brows narrowed as Jon in mostly a jest, glared at him but Sam had nothing but more of it at the ready. “Oh, you're going to tell me you aren't obsessing over the idea of getting her pregnant? It's only a coincidence you've barley been able to focus today beacuse you're twenty feet away from her walking around caring for Little Sam like that?”

Sam's name coming out in warning and the glare only increased. But no lines were crossed that were anything but blatantly true. “I can do more then one thing at once.”

Comfortable silence passing only with the muffled sounds of the outside peaking through when Sam spoke up once again. “Last time I saw you, we all still thought she was dead. Then I come back, and you're already married to her. I can't even imagine what it must have been like, seeing her again after all that time. It makes sense to at least think about it.”

But something was deepening in Jons eyes, the grey tinting darker and darker as it twisted around his heart like an addiction. That part of Jon wished he had kept you with him that night in Castle Black, away from the rest of them, away from anything to remind you of what nightmare you escaped. And unable to stop the fantasy in his mind, of keeping you on his cock without stop. Of not returning to the living world until he filled you with life of his own.

Jon aggravatingly thinking that if he had, you'd be about ready to give birth by now. His hands clenched tight as his arms stayed crossed over his chest. Not the time, nor the place to think about this. He didn't have you alone, he wouldn't for hours. He couldn't think about what you'd look like at every stage being with his child. Something he once thought he'd never get a chance with you.

Whatever playing along the woman once did, was all but gone.

Nothing but a bitter spite was left, and a glint in her eye that never quite got over itself. Something in her which if smiled, felt as if it were creeping and meaningfully distrustful. In truth it was easy to see the affiliation between her and the Boltons.

A similar coldness in her eyes that stayed quiet and collected in an unbecoming manner. If this was once a pleasant woman, she had been long gone. All that was left was someone who had been brought into the room as she moved that as a snake. Slinking about without effort but lacking the grace to give her presence. Being brought in, she stayed quiet as if to play games of who goes first, but she was going up against an opponent who refused to see fit for playing along.

“How long have you been spying for Lord Baelish?”

Barbery Dustin was not well suited for captivity, and yet as she glared with a spite in her eyes towards Jon, she did not attempt in anyway to make this easy on herself. Her voice cold and even less held back of a resentment then before. “You mean to tell me you have put everything else together but the when?” It wasn't really a question, only a demeaning accusation of character she knew nothing about.

Stayed quiet by the back wall of the room, Theon trained behind where she was sat and two guards on either side of him, all eyes were on her. But it was the unblinking complicated stare of Jon which set off the most nerves. Any chance she had looking to you was met with the same degree of stoic unchanging firmness.

Voice low but with a confidence that wasn't anywhere near her arrogance, Jon barley moved an inch as he looked at her. “This won't go any better if you avoid answering my questions. You and I both know you're guilty, but I'm giving you the chance to tell the truth on your own.” She didn't look away not speak, and neither did Jon for the seconds to follow.

Instead of any irritation, as if expecting just this, Jon moved on. “Every raven you've sent and received from the Vale as long as you have been here has a written copy in Maester Wolkan's study. I know you've been in contact with him. A man who had already betrayed my father, your Liege Lord.”

A twist of her face made her look that much more unpleasant, swift to drop her tone to a judgment that came out with a ill tempered ease. “You think it is wise to blindly trust what it is he claims? A fools choice. If I were Queen, the first thing I would do, would be to kill all those grey rats.”

Raise of your eyebrow as you looked to her, an interesting mistrust. Grudges of houses were one, but it was not common Maesters in the general sense were the untrustworthy party. But you kept quiet, Jon wanted you there but this was his questioning. His prisoner. Jon however continued to frustrate her, not paying any mind to her attitude nor unnecessary insults. “I trust in people who have shown loyalty and respect. Maester Wolkan isn't here to lie or trick me. He's here, beacuse I trust him, and I trust the ravens scrolls he's shown me are true.”

Quiet followed just as it had when he gave her the same chances in front of far more of their own people. Now though, the quiet was inexcusable. Jon's voice cutting through like a blade in the tense air between them. “Was it always your intention to betray my family? Or did you take the first opportunity that presented itself after your King was already dead?”

Both Jon, and yourself knew her eyes flickered up to you but nothing was stated about it as such. Jon would get to that. One thing at a time. Peeling her eyes back, sharp and on their own edge did she speak out in just the same shortness. “If you wish to know whether or not there was a time you could have kept my loyalty, I am afraid you are far too many decades late. Your father saw to that.”

Your eyes narrowed as did the racing of blood in your veins, and if you felt that defence coming rushing to the forefront it was tenfold in Jon. But he was better at composing himself them most, hardly a twist in his expression and tint darker falling over his eyes, were you not one keen on what meant what on Jons face only the rougher deepness of his tone could give away that anger. “My father didn't drag your husband and great Uncle to war by force. They went of their own free will.”

Anger in her grew just as held back. “And yet he came back when they did not.” Jon once more specifying that wasn't his fathers fault, but they both stared at one another until she found the wrong string to pull at. Or in her mind, the right one. “He came back, Howland Reed came back, but what did I receive? Willam's stallion, not his body, just his horse. He had room to bring home a corpse and some whore's baby but not a man who died for him.”

You could see in an instant how tense Jons shoulders became even from here. Muscles no doubt screaming as was the noise in his head and before he had the chance to let it get to him, you broke for his sake, giving a chance for him to breath in quiet. If such a comment would be a sore spot once, it was something else entirely now. Louder then either of them had been and with a sharpness giving no room for interjection. “Tell me, Lady Barbery. Would your former lover take so kindly to you speaking about his family in such a way?”

Oh the way her eyes snapped up to yours, as if she was caught red handed. Her lie was not convincing in the slightest. “William was not relative to the Starks-”

Jon didn't move, and you would speak until your eyes could flicker down and see him on the side of calmer. “I believe I said lover, not husband. The man you felt cheated out of having beacuse he was promised to a woman who wasn't you. I ask again, do you think the way you want to remember Brandon Stark is to call the sister he died trying to save, nothing more than a corpse? Or to have sided with the man who murdered his nephew? Were I to take you down to the crypts this moment, could you truly say you would be able to even look at the statue of where he is buried with pride?”

You gave away even less to the woman then Jon had. Once more, it seemed few outside of the circle you already were close with, had no patience for such an unfeeling demeanour. Her glare far more furious then before. “Roose was following orders-”

Rough and once more full of a heavy weight did Jon force her eyes back to him. “Robb was his King. And he didn't murder him for anything but power and money. But the thing is, I can't see Tywin Lannister reaching out to him so directly. That's a risk going right to him about committing treason.” Leaning forward, it seemed as if his confidence dwindled her own the more he spoke. “If I go looking, will I find a trail of ravens from Kings Landing, to the Vale, to Barrowton and finally reaching all the way to Harrenhal? I'm willing to bet I would. Beacuse I think, Petyr Baelish played you right into his hands to give Roose Bolton an offer.”

That time she looked away. Nowhere to go or distract herself with. Just the quiet as if forcing her to reflect on where she was, what she needed to say or not say. How far was she willing to fight this when there were no more secrets of it? That time you spoke, but softer. “You approached Roose Bolton about betraying Robb Stark, and then in turn when he needed to smuggle me into the North undetected, you helped him to do so. He was married to your sister, you were fond of his firstborn son, it's understandable you wouldn't want to turn him away.”

Not being able to see the narrowing in his eyes slightly, you missed how Jon seemed taken back by the sympathy, even moreso as you continued. “So you convince Lord Roger to side with the Boltons, but you and I both know Ramsay, my lady. He murdered your nephew, and then he murdered your only real ally in the North.”

Tilting her head suspicious to the side, she asked in a whisper nearly, “How did you know about Domeric?”

Your eyes found Theon in silence and unease. If there was anything Ramsay did more of then torment, it was talk endlessly. Putting it all together now, it was no wonder Roose having a son with Walda was a threat. He likely poisoned Roose's first trueborn son in the first place. No wonder he was so violent about getting you back, Ramsay had always sought more power and positions then he ever deserved. Long before Robb Stark's widow was there to be forced to birth a Bolton heir.

“Lady Barbery,” Jon catching her focus once more. “Whatever the grudge you held against my father, you still were once someone my Uncle Brandon cared about. It's for his sake I'm giving you a chance to be honest with me. Tell me what you know. All of it.”

She was quiet, eyes looking through him at you before focusing once more. Sitting straight as she could, face impassive and cold as ever. “I will share what it is I know, but only if they leave.”

Only from what you could see did Jon give a single nod, and you looked up to beckon Theon over without further question. “Come on, give them the room.” Her eyes met yours only for a few final moments, in a way maybe you could've felt pity, but you knew Jon struggled to grace her with that as well.

She had one more thing to say though, calling out to you with something unreadable in her eyes. “Tell me, your grace, do you miss them? Those hounds of Ramsays? You were awfully fond of them.”

You said not a single word before you left.

It had felt like years ago again, thinking herself back to the day Barbrey Dustin walked the hall of her Keep towards the main gates. She was to expect two arrivals, but this first was far before the second would ever arrive. Receiving word from her brother in law, he and the remainder of their bannermen would be making their return home but would take more time then expected.

As she stepped out into the brisk air as men yelled to open the gates, a group of horses rode in with the sigil she had long grown accustomed to within her life. Men she knew, many she did not care to learn the names of, and yet her eyes looked to one thing then the other. Dragging along a cage now covered up from any sight, she knew something not of the plan had occurred, and she did not greatly appreciate surprises at that point.

But her eyes, dark and stern as if a smile had not graced her face in decades withheld whatever existed of ire of the sight. She was large, but Barbrey knew she would be. Young, but she did not care of what age men took for wives when not her business. What she cared about, was that this new wife was in her home at all. But she would play nice.

Allowing them to approach her, neither her nor he bothered with formalities. She and Roose Bolton went far back enough that this Walda was likely still a babe then. “My lord.”

Curt as always, and he returned in his normal flat nature. Turning to the girl, “Walda, this is Barbrey Dustin. An old friend.” Thinking to herself, so he was keeping it simple in front of her. Good she thought, let her be ignorant.

The girl gave a naive hello, as with only a nod in return Barbrey turned to the servants waiting behind her. “Tend to the horses. Assure they are fed, watered and rubbed down. And show Lady Walda to one of our guest chambers.” One of the maids passing her by, guiding her into the Keep, Barbrey did not presume that time to hide the snide manner in which her eyes narrowed. Following the girls path until she was no longer in sight. Flickering them to then the cage and back she stepped forward as her tone lowered. “I presume that is the issue you wished to speak with me about?”

Only a nod, he kept it as even as she did. “Our situation has changed.”

Settled a bit more, walking into her study Barbrey dismissed the servants already inside. Closing the door leaving mostly firelight to illuminate her preferably hidden away room. She had known Roose enough to not even bother with a drink other then water, he was insistent about his lack of consuming anything of an alcoholic nature.

It had been one of the first things Barbrey's sister Bethany had shared about her new husband many years ago. Her husband's strange tendencies, but her sister never seemed to be deterred by it so Barbrey took up the same mantle. Placing it in front of him as she faced his sitting position, she was in little mood for whatever this was.

“I do not appreciate being blind sighted that you wish to use my city as your personal smuggling route.” He begun with an insistence that was not the case, but Barbrey raised an eyebrow. “No? So you are not hiding what you have dragged into my home, other then your young wife.”

Hardly twitching at all, “I wouldn't have expected you to care about such differences in age.”

“Perhaps Roose you could place yourself in my position. I inform you I will be coming into your home uninvited, needing something discreetly handled, after being gifted a brand new title with the lands I killed a King and a Queen for, and offer you nothing but inconveniences when I arrive.” The stare went on for some time, both well knowing she would not fold before any else.

Raising his head a slight bit he elaborated. “I need something smuggled with me to the Dreadfort. Something that cannot be taken on any main paths or go through anywhere near a populated area.” Asking what this item would be, she did not expect the answer. “The Queen.”

Barbrey narrowed her eyes as her tone shifted to something akin to a lecture. “You brought a rotting corpse into my home-”

“She's alive.”

Nothing but wind was heard from the outside walls. That was not the arrangement, she did not pass on such information with such risk for him to fumble arguably one of the most important aspects. Were she a woman to fly off the handle, she'd have dove right into a lecture to him for his irresponsibility. Killing Robb Stark was one thing, but the entire purpose of killing the Queen in the North first, was because she was carrying his child, his heir. “I don't believe keeping her alive and with a son in her womb was part of the instructions given to you.”

He only kept his calm towards her held back ire. “I did kill her.”

Once more her irritation flared up. Taking a step closer as if speaking to a child looking down at him. “If she is alive, then you did a poor job of killing her, didn't you?”

But what he said was odd. “I did kill her, Barbrey.” Taking pause she tilted her head in confusion. Roose stood up slowly explaining his position. “I stabbed her in the stomach, three times. Tore her womb open significantly enough that she bled to death within a minute. No pulse, no heartbeat, no life in her eyes, not even anything in the way of blood left when I was finished with her.” Still Barbrey did not move. “She was as dead as the King, and yet when I returned to the hall some time later, she was alive. Unconscious, but alive, and she has been ever since.”

Something unnerved sat within her chest. Such a feat was impossible. “I presume Tywin Lannister has not heard this story.” Ensuring only he, the small garrison of men with him and now her knew about it.

“I need to get her into the Dreadfort unseen, unknown, before the North has a chance to hear she's alive. Before the Starks hear shes alive.” As she told him sternly that the Stark men were all dead, Roose rose only an eyebrow before passing her by.

Moving further into her study, she turned to follow with shortness on her tone. “Theon Greyjoy killed the two Stark boys, there is no one left to support her-”

He had not turned to face her, but was looking at whatever bit of information kept out on her desk he felt entitled to glance at. “Robb Stark has a bastard brother at Castle Black. From what I have gathered he and the girl were extremely close. If she is the only survivor of the night which killed the rest of the family-”

It came out suddenly but with an anger she knew he did not understand. “A massacre you mean to call it.” Roose looked at her with a curiosity at her change in tone, and she stepped further into his proximity to now prominently speak down to him. “You did not loose men that night, Roose. I did. My men. Do not speak of it as if the Starks were the only casualty. You lose no men while I lose many, and then you drag the Queen into my home telling me I need to help smuggle her into the Dreadfort? For what purpose?”

The problem was he was right, and it frustrated her to no end over it. Roose knew she despised that bastard of his, he himself never denied her suspicions that that Ramsay Snow had killed Domeric, her own nephew. Roose and Bethany's own son, but he kept the vile thing around and was parading him around the North now as if he was always meant to stand in Domerics shoes.

But he could not be ensured Walda would deliver him a son, and even if she did, the boy would not be of suitable marrying age to tie him to you for far too long to wait. He had the Queen in the North alive, secretly in his grasp and he intended not to waste such an opportunity. But he could not smuggle her there alone, which was why he was here. Why Barbrey was expected to put up with his new wife which was not her sister, and eat what precious food from her own harvest she had.

She had to be sure though. The dead of night the two made their path to where the cage was being kept as both dismissed Locke watching guard over her. Low words spoken between as to not carry in the night wind. “If the Lannisters are not considering the bastard as dangerous, why should we? If he is at Castle Black, what is he to do with the knowledge his sister in law is alive?”

Roose picked at a sore spot on purpose. “How many Starks do you know Barbrey, that take threats to those in their family lightly?” Her glare spoke many volumes, they both knew that was uncalled for but he said it anyways and she would remember it.

The coverings were lifted, and the sight was something she had never seen. Barbrey almost did not recognize her as a person. Utterly soaked in blood she could not even tell what colour her gown was meant to resemble in the first place. Lifting enough to show the wounds now littering her womb her eyes went wide as the rest of her frowned at the brutality. Not a man to spare a single mercy she knew Roose was, but it did give credence to his words.

No. Bastard or not, none of Stark blood would take kindly to this kind of sight being carved into a person they cared about. But feeling the pulse now existing as well as the faint sight of breathing moving up and down in her chest, Barbrey knew that this was indeed a secret needed to be kept tightly bound.

Perhaps it was why as she agreed to help smuggle the Queen in the North across to the Dreadfort, did she also withhold the information that she was still in contact with the man who brought her into such plans in the first place. Or that she would withhold this information from Lord Petyr Baelish in return.

Staring at the sight of the living, blood soaked body of their Queen, Barbrey had felt a strange feeling that the future was not anywhere near as promised to be fruitful as the men in her lives full of deception wished it was going to be.

And sitting across from that same bastard, now King in the North with you alive and married at his own side, she perhaps begun to finally feel the resentment for Roose Bolton. She should have turned him away the moment he dared ride into her home with a young wife at his side that was not Bethany.

But now the Boltons were dead and Barbrey was not. Perhaps she thought as she sat across from Jon Snow, that honesty this time, might be the only way to ensure he would not sentence her to a fate which would have her finally join all the dead which came before.

“You think she'll tell him the truth?”

Inhaling deeply you forced yourself to remain calm, not to let the scorching horror seep too deeply and from the way Theon walked just as tense you both were one in the same. “She has no allies left, and by now word likely has already reached Barrowton. The only family she has is in Lord Willam's brother, and he's been nothing but loyal to Jon since the fight against Ramsay. But everyone else here knows what she's done now. She has nowhere else to hide.”

Glancing at the other, once more you could read how easily you were each walking around the actual subject as he asked with a rough clearing of this throat. “She's still an ally of Littlefinger.”

But you shook your head, stern voice with no room for doubt. “Littlefinger doesn't have allies. Only friends he fakes until they are no longer of use. And with the North knowing what she's done, Barbery Dustin is an inconvenience to him.”

These very halls were almost the problem, it was ones you and Theon both had spent so many years in but also the ones faking themselves as home in horror. If you truly thought on it, most places you had called home were always filled with it, with pain and trauma.

It was inescapable your whole life.

The warmth around was the only solace you found for quite a while as you were there. Just enough steaming water that you could handle it, and quiet around to soothe the grating beat in your head that persisted. Somewhere in the back of your mind you noticed the sound but nothing really came to you until the warmth in the water was almost overtaken by above.

A large figure learning down from behind where you sat in the water as a hand slunk around your front, palm resting along your collarbones to pull you back better. Your own head tilting back somewhat as the feeling of Jons lips finding the top of your head came to you, his curls brushing down along your skin as his other hand tilted you by your jaw somewhat to him.

Your hand reached back with a sigh leaving you, running through the strands as you could, eyes slipping closed at how even in muffled mumbles, Jons voice still found a way to entrance you. “Is it too much to ask, I come here at the end of the day and find you like this more often?”

Trying to turn to see him a bit better, but not quite being able to move beyond his hold. Soft your tone came out as if not to disturb the quiet peace between you both with a hum. “Not quite sure, sacrificing the peace and quiet for your company? A hard decision, your grace.”

Putting gold on it, you'd be willing to bet Jon playfully rolled his eyes as he leaned his head better to find your neck, pressing his lips there with only a feather lightness. Breath warm as he mumbled into you, “What if I made it a command?”

A breathy laugh left you on a whim, pulling a far more comforting sounding chuckle as from Jon as he sung it right back. Your tone that time only genuine in an affectionate want, “I don't prefer the water as scolding hot as you do, so I'd suggest joining sooner rather then later before it's cold by your standards.”

Another laugh into you followed by a much longer left kiss to your neck, your eyes slipped shut with almost a sigh as soon as Jon pulled away. Heart longing in your chest to plunge out and reach back for him as you felt him stand.

It almost was intimidating, having nothing to see. Only the sounds of clothes being pulled off, and your nerves festering about as you waited for Jon to do or say anything. Once he may have gently prompted you to move up for him, but by now, Jon had little care for waiting. Climbing in right behind you, Jon grasped at your hips under the hot water and lifted you somewhat up and back into his chest.

Only sitting you back down at his front before one of those hands slipped along the skin. Fingertips tracing along your stomach until laying flat and soothing on your scar. Pulling back for you to rest your head back by his shoulder, as the other hand of his rose up. Resting ever so carefully at the base of your neck only enough to prompt your head to tilt so he could better keep his dark eyes on you.

Your eyes closing as he leaned down to your space, nudging your nose with his before cupping your jaw to keep you there long enough. But only with a tease, a kiss so barley there you may have otherwise imagined it had he not spoken, hot breathe flashing along your skin to follow. “Are you sure you're alright?”

Exhaling deeply, you kept your eyes closed. Unwilling to look at what you knew on him was far too much worry bright in his eyes. For a while he didn't move even as you shifted to face forward once more, just kept you at bay against him in the water before you found a softer voice. “I know you don't like these visions, but you cannot pretend they don't exist. I'm having more of them and more then once it's like we've been in the others dreams when they happen.”

Hands rising up from the water, you slowly moved one along his arm by your neck, before he moved, grasping your hand best he could from that angle. The other resting just along his wrist, should you press your thumb down you'd feel his pulse, every so slightly faster anytime he had you like this. Rasping in your ear, an insecurity hinting in what he said. “We had them before, but it was easier when I thought it was only me. Then I saw you that day, knew you were looking right at me and I know what you thought you saw.”

Not quite relaxing was the word, but certainly using him more for any support you needed to keep as upright as he wanted. “I knew you had every right to move on, we didn't even know if we'd ever see each other again. But, seeing it firsthand was..I only ever had dreams before. That was the first time I saw anything awake like that..so I knew I couldn't pretend it wasn't real.”

He sighed deeply, moving his head down to find your neck almost as if hiding there. Muscles behind you against your back tensed, as did the hand holding yours. Only slightly did you move your head, back a nudge against him almost the way Ghost would do so in his own managing of comfort. The hand on your scar almost tightened enough it didn't pass your notice before he roughly hissed out, “When I came back to Castle Black and Sam told me about you and Robb, I was so mad. At the Lannisters, the Boltons, the Freys, all of them. But I was also so mad you saw that, saw her. I thought you died thinking I didn't love you anymore.”

Lie, a small voice whispered inside you. Lie and comfort him, but would he want that? Would Jon believe you if you did? “I did.” If he could have hidden himself in your neck more, Jon would've managed it. Your grip on his own hand tightened, and hardly a sound would be heard if not mere feet way from you both. “I hated that I would think about you when Ramsay would...” Your eyes slipping shut as your lungs tightened enough it strangled the waters behind your eyes. “I'd think of anything we did all those years ago, and I'd hate it beacuse I knew you had forgotten about me. I didn't even know if you still cared.”

Brows furrowing, Jon raised his head to look at you, a rough drop in his throat as he couldn't decide on feeling angry and offended or horrified at the thought. “I never wanted you to see her. I never wanted you to see any of it. I didn't go to the Wall thinking I'd get over you one day.” If he'd ease up on how tight his arms held you, a temptation swam through your veins asking you to turn around to see him properly. But Jon was stronger and more stubborn then that. “None of the things you've seen, dreams, visions whatever they are, they've never done anything but hurt you. They're still hurting you, only now I have to watch.”

Your whisper was faint against the temperamental way Jon was holding himself back. “And it isn't going to stop.” He was quiet, heavy breaths dancing along your skin at your neck. “They're getting stronger for a reason, Jon. I can't ignore them, I won't.”

“Why?”

Rasping harsh against you, you felt his urge to raise his voice against not wanting you to think he wanted to shout at you. Your hand moving enough in his, to run your thumb just along the back of his hand, a soothing back and forth that didn't help. “I came back for you. Whatever brought me back, did so, for you. To bring you back, fight beside you, and now whatever this is, is happening to me so that I can help you.”

You heard him quite muffled, and too indistinguishable to sense the feeling behind. “I don't care-”

Somehow, your gentle tones were louder then his muffles. “Thoros has the power he does, beacuse he's meant to use it to help Lord Beric. That's his purpose. And I won't ignore that mine is you.” He repeated himself, albeit a bit louder but you fought against the tense hold around your frame. “How much death we're surrounded by, and the only two people who have ever brought someone back to life, are in the same place as the only people who've ever been the ones to come back. But I can't just whisper words and bring the dead back, instead I have whatever this is and if-”

Grip around you tight, Jon pulled from his hold as the edge against your ear raised with his anger, and cracking with something painful unable to hide behind it. “I don't care about any of that.” Jaw clenched as his words hissed in your ear as if offended by every word you had just spoken. “Winter is coming and it isn't going to stop for us to figure out whose special and why. I didn't come back for any fate, I came back beacuse you brought me back. And I don't care about wasting my time figuring out what that means to anyone else. I'm fighting to protect my people, and my family where I couldn't before. Don't ask me to put you at risk just so I can figure out how to stop all of this a little bit faster.”

“Jon-”

Interrupting you, his tone dropped from a yell down to a rasp as his head rested against the side of yours. “You don't matter to me because you could be useful. You matter beacuse I love you, I always have been in love with you, and now that you're my wife you want to sit here and justify to yourself why I do.” Stripping you down to your bare frame, even moreso then the physical one sitting before him, your blood slowed down until it came to a dramatic stop. As did your lungs, no air leaving your slightly parted lips as his grip around you tightened once again. “You're right, I can't stop these visions from happening to you, but don't ask me to help make them worse.”

Pushing up enough, you slightly turned your head to see the curls by your side vision as your breathless ask sounded almost meek in comparison to him. “I'm sorry.” Sighing deeply, Jon almost read your own mind, moving his hands to your hips, prompting you to turn to face him.

Settling you gently in his lap, while one hand cupped your cheek as he sat up to better reach your perched height. His eyes far softer then the grating scold just given to you, bright and wide and so easy to read you could melt. “You were a Queen longer then I've been a King. You've proven yourself enough, let me catch up at least.” A hint of a smile twitched in your lips, but Jon caught every single moment of it. A brighter shine in his own as a gentle smile did fall over his own. “How about, you tell me when you see something, and we handle it then, but not before. I'm protective about you enough.”

Your hands draped along his shoulders, one dancing your fingertips up to scratch gently along the facial hair covering his jaw. Inhaling deeply, you held back the very worry you knew he could sense. Nodding your head, you leaned a bit closer to his warmth. Jon letting the hand on your cheek slink to keep you stable pressed against the top of your spine. “I think the word protective might be underselling yourself a little.”

Expression on him changing none, the same brightness as he used the leverage of his hold to pull you closer. “Choose any other word, but they're all the same thing to me. Winter is getting closer then everyone thinks, and I'm not about to start easing up on how much I want to keep you safe when it gets here.”

Heart was too light, as if it was ready to rise from your chest and fling itself into his possession. Leaving a trail of only need and a lightheadedness in it's wake. “If this is you being obsessed, I can't imagine how you could possibly get any worse.”

A handsome smirk fell over his face, eyes narrowing playfully as he toyed with the hair loose down your back. “Not much of an imagination, you have.” A small laugh left you, telling him that was a given and it only brought out even more of what you adored across him. Such a bright and easy laugh that you would do anything to see and hear the rest of your life.

Slinking to rake through your hair with more of a hold, Jon pulled you down the remaining distance as he leaned up to brush gently against your lips with his. Words coming out as a husk, with his dark eyes almost hooded as he looked to them, down further and back. “Just wait until the day I get to bring you out to our people, and tell them you're the mother of my child. You won't be able to leave my sight then.”

His eyes growing greedier, he no doubt caught the flush travelling up from between your legs, along your chest and spreading across your face as your nails dug into his shoulders more. Something inside your head almost begging you to submit as if it was all you were good for, but you resisted.

He liked when you were patient.

Though, it was unmistakable that he could drift his gaze down and see your bare chest for him heaving just a little more as your breathing grew faster. Only a whisper against what was a beaming shine of confidence in his touch, words and gaze. “Whatever you want.”

Roughly, Jon forced your lips to meet in the middle. Wrapping an arm around your back to pull your lower half in the water firmly against his hips, but keeping your lips right against his at no mercy but what he chose or did not chose to give you. Rough and deep in an instant, Jon just barley felt you pressing against his cock before he bit at your bottom lip.

Hand twisting your hair to serve at his call, Jon ran his tongue along yours and tasted inside of your mouth with a growl forming in his chest. Pulling you down into his kiss as much as he could, the whimper leaving you as already you felt that breathlessness dizzying, which made his cock throb. Hard as he could be and yet if something could make him even harder, it was such an innocent sound contrasted to how he touched you.

Hands tangling in his curls, his own drifted from around your back to forcing your hips up against his with a hand spread roughly across what he could reach of your ass. Fingertips digging into the plush skin, and another whimper much needier this time was gifted into his kiss, forcing another growl in his own chest.

It hadn't been brought up since, but you knew too well Jon was tied between two things. Wanting to sink deep inside your cunt like the wolf he was, and turning you around then and there and reliving how cruel it felt to pound into your ass so roughly. One was an addicted, obsessive instinct that was driven by something far more feral, while the other was something much more perverse and debauched that before him, was something you never would have even considered wanting.

He started so gentle too, but by the end he was so lost in the feeling, so far gone that unlike the Jon you knew, he had all but shoved you onto your hands and knees. Desperately needing the leverage from such a hold to pound his cock inside your ass so roughly that it brought tears, and yet your moans of confusing pleasure to mix with his grunts. Something about how much he let loose that night, something inside of you almost craved it again.

You wanted to be good for Jon, but you also wanted him to use you for what you knew, was a multitude of dark and utterly dishonourable ways he desired to fuck you. Wrapping your arms more around his shoulders and back, Jon grasped your waist to keep your bare breasts pressed against his torso, still not a hint of leaving your lips alone to gasp for air.

Finally as he tore from your lips, swollen and shining both of yours did he press your hips into him even more as he moved to your neck. Biting and licking and sucking a bruise into the now bite dented skin, you knew if he were more selfish he'd have pulled you down onto his cock already. But perhaps, it was for the best.

Considering that the next loud sound to emerge in the room was not from either of you. It was a knock to his chamber door. Pausing, Jon grasped your waist as he pulled back somewhat. Grey eyes almost black as he looked up at you, the innocent, overwhelmed need in your own eyes just made his cock throb between you again.

Then the next knock welcomed itself, along with the guards voice calling out. “Samwell Tarly to speak with you, your grace.”

The grip on you Jon had tightened to the same degree his jaw clenched it was almost funny. Muttering in a low hiss as his eyes peeled from your eyes, down your frame, soaked from the water and perfect for him, “I'm going to kill him.”

If that wasn't enough, the ease in which you let out a high pitched giggle once more, made his cock scream so much more to ravage you. His eyes forced themselves closed likely you knew to calm down his racing heart, a few deep breaths leaving him as well. Your hands gently ran down his curls to tame the more obvious mess you had started to put it in before he collected himself enough.

Surging up, Jon moved you with him, yanking you up and out of the water. Your hands braced against his shoulders to steady yourself as he muttered for you to wait. The cold air chilling against your bare skin enough to shiver by the time Jon returned. Having yanked on pants only enough to cover himself modestly, Jon wrapped something around you. Short and a dark silk like fabric to cover you too just enough.

Many men would have taken it with intimidation. The aggressive and short tempered manner in which Jon yanked the door open enough only he could be seen. “What?”

Sam's head jolted back just a bit. Many emotions scattered across his face as he took in the subsequent scattered scars of fatal nature littered about Jons torso. From an unsettled devastation at what he had never known took place before, to a slow realization of just why Jon had opened his door in such a state of undress when it was entirely unlike him.

“Oh...Oh.” From a short knowing sound, Sam devolved it quickly to that of an exaggerated mocking of pride for what he interrupted. Adding insult to injury, the same mocking as he asked “Bad time?”

It truly was a testament of how close the two men were, the degree to which Jon aggressively wanted to slam the door in his face and Sam taking full advantage of how he knew he wouldn't. “What is it, Sam?”

Waggling his eyebrow a bit, “I don't mean to interrupt, I just thought there was something you should know..but if you're busy..”

A heavy exhale left Jon as he closed his eyes. Words clear, and loud and short he was as controlled as he could be, considered how close he had gotten with you. “It can't wait until tomorrow?”

It was an amusing stand off. Jon, who was too honourable to actually force Sam to go away, and Sam, who was too much like a brother to Jon to give up taking advantage of that for his amusement. “I mean, it isn't life or death at this very moment, but it is important. Though, I suppose you were deep in something rather important as well.”

You had to turn away, covering your mouth to keep the laugh so desperately wanting to slip out from making it all the worse for Jon as it was. “Sam-”

“No, I understand. You're busy. I'll be where I always am if you find the time, if not I can always come back bright and early first thing.” You'd feel bad for how little Jon couldn't catch a break, if it weren't also terribly funny. Judging by the look you shared with Sam as you, once much more modestly dressed, followed Jon out, you both found a new shared activity. Having the innate ability to annoy Jon, with the advantage that he won't lash out for it.

The hand pressed at the small of your back the entire time however, spoke not of affection, but in how much Jon was going to tear everything off of you the second he closed his chambers door once more. A hint of just how roughly he was going to take you for enjoying his suffering, over and over until it was you the one begging for mercy.

Knowing Jon well enough, when his cock was deep inside of you, he had no mercy.

“I was thinking about what you said, about the horn being left for a reason.” Animated in his findings, there were many pages of what he had been transcribing laying about as well, moreso then you had seen that morning. “But I started wondering, what if only certain people can use it. If it's that dangerous then you're right, leaving it in Winterfell seems risky, but what if your ancestors kept it here, because they're the only ones who could use it?”

Brows narrowing, you stood next to Jon, looking over the work scattered about trying to see at the same time anything which way stand out. Jon asking, “Why would they make it so only House Stark can use it?”

“Well, you don't think it takes the Wall down the way everyone says. Maybe it's not for that though, if it took down the Wall it means your ancestors made something that destroys any defences they built themselves. That didn't make sense, so I started to wonder what else it would be used for. But what if it's similar to the way we use the horn at the Wall? What if somehow they used it to communicate something?” Your eyes flickered up, question on both your lips as he elaborated once more. “Think about it, we used a horn to communicate at the Wall, and everything you described makes it sound like they're not unlike us. They have people, ranks, they communicate but we can't with them..what if you're ancestors found a way through whatever this does?”

Nodding a bit, his eyes squinted as he grabbed it from where Sam stood opposite of him. Turning it slightly as you leaned more to his side to look it over. You asking quietly, “How would that end up turning to a story where it destroys the Wall?”

Jon had a quick answer to that. “Same reasons why we know next to nothing about the Long Night. No one's ever translated the runes of the First Men to our written language. So the story gets passed down until there's nothing left to learn from.” Putting it down gently, Jon affirmed they needed to figure out exactly how it works and quickly.

You were quiet, eyes trained on the horn with little more then a mutter. “How can we be sure it's even possible? Doesn't seem like they've tried peaceful negotiation before.” Gently you felt a slightly movement of his hand on your lower back, more of a massaging pressure at the wavering uncertainty in you.

Jons voice more gentle with you on an instant then with Sam, much to the later ones enjoyment. “They understand each other. They talk, even if we can't understand them. Means, they know language the way we do. Even if all they want is to kill us all, I want to know why. I want to know what we're dying to defend against.”

Words fluttered around you, but your eyes were trained on the horn. The bronze around each end with runes carved, you couldn't help but look between four of them. All desperate which did not stand out yet you kept looking at them. The way they were carved almost looked like something you'd seen before even though you couldn't place it.

Eyes drifting up to the papers about his desk, the images passed in your mind. Once only in dreams thought to mean nothing, next in a sight before your eyes not belonging to you but you knew them all the same. Cold and ice and crackling you couldn't stop seeing it and hearing it gathering around you as it went dark until your eyes had opened belonging to you once more.

You had seen it before. Moving quick, you paced around to a better angle of Sams desk as you grabbed paper and ink. The horn and transcribing both, you pulled them to you as Jon called your name in question. Shaking your head to let you think, both watched you looked between all three, penning something into the paper of an image.

“They attacked your brothers at the Fist of the First Men, and when you came across it Jon, you said the horses were scattered around in a symbol?” Asking in quick tones without yet looking up.

Coming around, an arm somewhat across your back as it to keep you between him and the desk as you leaned over it, Jon subsequently leaned over your shoulder. “Mance said that they had left symbols like that before. When they attacked people, some of the bodies get left behind on purpose.” Catching Sam up to speed on what it was he saw that day, leaving out the overwhelming fact that it was in fact that day, that Jon hadn't known if anyone he cared about there survived.

And the fear he felt having to pretend he didn't care in front of them.

You kept drawing, “Another attack on a small group of your rangers, they found a group of free folk they were tracking and found them the same way but in a different form. Like this.” Finally standing up proper, you looked to Jon with wide eyes. “The one you saw did it look anything like either of these?”

Leaning back down, Jon narrowed his eyes before motioning to one of them. “There. The spirals, that's how the horses were mutilated.” Looking to the other before finding your eyes, both of you with something unsure in them that did not hide. “That's what you saw?” You nodded, and Jon tilted his head a bit, hand coming back more along your waist to your back once more as you inhaled deeply.

Nerves coming through you. Looking to Sam, “Do you think you can find out what these symbols put together mean?” But instead of a curiosity, Sam had the same expression.

Only, for a different reason. “I could..but..I've seen those too.” Jons head snapped up to Sam in question, “It wasn't like that, not on any dead bodies..but I've seen those symbols before. In fact I've only ever seen them somewhere very specific.”

As Jon asked where, the answer was very clearly not at all what he was expecting.

[strawberrysandcream]

Heart of the Great Wolf

40 - Darkness Heavy in a World

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 13.4k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, disturbing imagery, past character deaths, implied sexual encounters, inferences to smut, unknown illnesses, medical distress, discussion of betrayal

Notes: Important to remember that the messages and omens of greendreams are not always as obvious as they appear initially. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

Fire was all around, there was nothing beyond your sights but a rich darkness illuminated distantly by signs of a bright sight. Figures nothing but black, nothing but shadows and yet it was not them which led you here from where you felt you had been trapped in a dark inescapable void. The sight of the raven was which you first saw, feathers dripping in blood as it flapped their wings looking to you.

Footsteps slow as you came towards it and yet the moment your hand outstretched to see if such blood was true, it flew off into the black distance. Beckoning you once more, the only other feeling creeping up on you was eyes watching from above. Another bird, a crow with three eyes watching as the bloody red raven guided you out of the path.

That was when the fire crackling built and built until you stepped out into the sand. The sight one you knew but not as it occurred. Idols on the beach of your home, the raven landing on the top of one as if unaffected of the statue engulfed in fire, the crow another as if to place you in between the burning. That was the only other sights beyond shadows in the distance. One standing before them all as a voice did not speak from it, but echo in the airs above as if on another plane of existence you could not see.

“Lord of Light, come to us in our darkness. We offer you these false gods. Take them and cast your light upon us. For the night is dark and full of terrors.”

Voices responded from the shadowy figures and your pacing towards them made none clearer, they were all dark even against the lights of fire. None shifted an inch and none moved at your closeness, one stood before them all. Twisted like smoke radiated off of them, tendrils creeping towards one figure you still could not see. Your feet however, landed in the trappings of them, circling your leg before snatching at your wrist, burning even through the misty black.

"Darkness will fall heavy upon the world. Stars will bleed. The cold breath of winter will freeze the seas, and the dead shall rise in the North.”

Closer and closer it crept and you felt the fire burning the idols surround you as so did the tendrils wrapping. The voice you had realized as the figure invaded your space, the manipulation the air of seduction in works and fanaticism but it was you she tried to drag towards in the darkness.

“In the ancient books, it's written that a warrior will draw a burning sword from the fire. And that sword shall be Lightbringer. Warrior of light, your sword awaits you.”

It was a false act, drawing away as if to offer you the freedom to walk but your feet did not carry on a path you chose, but walked regardless. Tendrils only stretching tight around you to force you back if needed. Up to the statue of the burning idol did you look bright eyed at the sword plunged in it. Reaching with your bare hands the fire did not burn as the mists touch, and the moment your hand touched metal did the tendrils leave you, a shadow in the shape of a man yielding the burning sword held high in the air as it left you behind, the fires flowing down your hand.

The crow and the raven watching, your hand did not feel the flames as it burned, nor did it engulf you in pain nor terror. You stood on the beach of shadows, burning as the idols did and yet as they melted you kept the light from your very skin all over.

But the raven and the crow both cawed, as something crept up. Not black nor tendrils but the shaking cold you recognized with terror. But it was not such a sight you turned too. The white cold sat in a form misting just as the red woman did in a form of shadows, but it stood on it's own without the feeling of terror. Somehow, the cold in the air coming from the mist was warm as it seemed to flow towards you, the feeling of it circling your wrist looked a tendril but grasped your burning skin in the feeling of a hand and in such the same instance did both birds begin to call out in caws.

The sky changing as the cold mist surrounded you, fire still lit but now a shield of white cold hiding you from the flyings of the world until it landed you. Once more dark was all around you, but there were pillars of ice in the middle of the snow you stood on. Only black surrounded your vision, but each step you took looking at it looked a flat ice slab sat in the middle of it, carvings within which you could not make out.

The cold whipped wildly around, and just as your hand reached to trace over them, did the blood red wings of the raven take your vision, perched where you were looking, as it cawed so loud it startled you back. The fire nor white cold around you protected from the freezing over taking.

But it was figure you turned around too, tall with eyes blue as crystals and in the same moment you jumped back, the bloody raven cawed wildly once more. The crow with three eyes watching from the darkness, cawing and cawing the raven yelled as the eyes stepped closer. The bloody raven landing on your shoulder and cawing so loud you felt something shake through your veins, and it was then which you flew up in bed with an aggressive gasp of air. Briefly not understanding how you got from the meeting hall of Winterfell to here, nor why your mother was worried watching over you, now trying to calm your sudden wakening panic.

It took seconds for air to return, as it did your memory to fill in the blanks of what came in the hours before such a dream.

You were fairly certain you had not looked nor blinked from the same spot your eyes were stuck on for almost twenty minutes. Everything inside you seemed to stop as you put the connections together the more Jon laid it all out. It was clear why he had kept so much of this to himself, he had an immense amount of moving parts to look at and determine.

He and Maester Wolkan were the only ones who truly knew anything about it, others including yourself only were a small part in putting it together, but you still hadn't come to the conclusion of why. Why do any of this? Why put so much effort into this plan when there was so little gain yet so much cost?

Jon hadn't sent you to learn information he didn't know, he had sent you to confirm the conclusion he had already put together. He needed more then one source to affirm it was the truth before he considered how to act. Sat on the opposite side of the table, your elbow had kept your staring gaze propped up on your palm as your nails mindlessly dug into the skin of your lips. Arya adjacent to you, paced back and forth working herself up, leaving Jon on the other side where you were. Standing firm and collected to even out the vastly opposite reactions playing out before him.

The frustration in Arya's tone was evident. “I knew I didn't trust him. He always rubbed me the wrong way, even then.” Jon trying to call her name firmly, but she continued as if she hadn't heard. “He's already Roberts Lord Father, he almost controls the Vale himself. Why butt in on the North's business, he has nothing to do with us.”

If an answer sat on your mind, it worked against your mouth and throat to try and form it to words.

Jon however, had an answer for you. “Maybe almost isn't enough for him.” Your brows narrowed slightly, but let the two wolves converse between the other without interruption. Jon elaborating on what likely was a questioning expression on Aryas face. “He's the only child of a minor House, if he's gotten this far already, maybe he doesn't want to stop.”

Sighing deeply, Arya approached Jons side of the room, her arms now crossed from what you could see as she approached the raven scrolls which started this entire debacle. “He doesn't have any connections to the North though. What's the point of trying to ruin things here when we're the only ones who could help give him what he wants?”

Once more, Jon already put the pieces together. “He doesn't want our help. We've never been anything but in his way. He gets rid of the Starks he can't control, and it'd be a lot easier to manipulate his way into the North.”

Moving, both your elbows now sat on the wooden surface, hands wrung together as your forehead found a place against them. The pressure doing little for what was starting to feel like screeching in your head. Whenever you expected him least, Petyr Baelish wormed his slimy way back into ways of backstabbing the Starks.

Were you to lay such a plan out, it would be immense by now. Arya thought of that as well. “You can't set this up overnight, it'd take ages to do. You both wouldn't even have been married by then, why would he already know to get in between you?”

Finding your voice, low and strained as it was, you dropped your hands down to the table. Looking between Arya and Jon with a defeat in your gaze. “He would have found out I'm alive, and likely somewhere along the way one of his spies told him Jon and I were working together in moving against the Boltons. That's all he needed to know where he and I were heading together.”

Jons brows narrowed, not with any doubt, but a question low on his breath. “Why?”

You didn't even need a deeper inhale this time, there was little left of any sort of surprise between you and Jon by this point. Head tilting a bit, your tone was on the frustrated side but slid closer to acceptance. “When your father and I were getting close to uncovering Cersei's secret, Littlefinger tried to intimidate me into silence.” Jons expression however, twisted right from posed on confused right into an anger you knew would be the inevitable as you explained. “He thought it would scare me into staying quiet, if he implied he might let it slip that he knew about you and I. That we were..close before.”

The grey in Jon's eyes tinted darker as did the sharpness in his gaze just as you expected. Arya, her own offence much more obvious in her own incredulous expression in addition to the raise in her voice. “Guess he isn't as smart as he thinks he is, if he thought that was going to work.”

Nodding a slight bit to her, she had a point. It didn't, not even for a second did it work. Not when Jon was the one insistent on keeping everything he loves in one place again. “If he wants the North, Jon and I ruling it together is the worst case scenario for him. He knows he can't muster anywhere near enough loyalty here for anyone up against both of us together. Easier to do that if we're apart.”

Interrupting low, Jons hands braced on the table with a far more stressful weight now adorning across his shoulders. “Or if one of us goes back to being dead.” With your eyes wide and uncertain, but his dark and stern, it was a mixture realizing for you, that the Brotherhood was no coincidence. That was why Stoneheart was sure of what she said was true.

The source she got it from, was one she'd trusted one too many times before. Once more, even in the state of death she lived in now, the man knew exactly where to instigate the worst of her, beacuse he of all people obviously knew Jon was once Catelyn's biggest sore spot. So he exploited it, and used you as means to do so.

It didn't matter the truth Jon really knew now, Catelyn Starks hatred of Jon still followed him all the same.

Your brows narrowing for a moment, finding Jons gaze once more. “Something still doesn't make sense. Even if he succeeded in getting rid of me, he knows after everything he's done he would never be able to get you to trust him. No one until she got here even knew Arya was alive. What would he even have planned to do, if you never figured this all out?”

Jon had the answer to that too. And as it turns out, being a man raised by Eddard Stark taught him that there's not much honour in being a liar. But Jon by this point in his life, had found the second reason to be truthful upfront. If the wrong people hear your lie, they could dismantle it piece by piece without you even realizing they had done so.

Ser Royce had spoken something about Littlefinger arriving at the Vale with his bastard in toe, to move into the home he was about to marry into. Lady Arryn suddenly dies, leaving in control of the highest order of the Vale to the young Robin Arryn, under the guidance of Petyr Baelish and the family member he took there with him.

Arya asking quietly, “I don't understand, what does that have anything to do with-”

But your eyes had widened, and looked up to meet Jons knowing one. No wonder he kept this all to himself until he was sure. Your eyes slipped shut with a shaking exhale as Jon leaned forward for only you three to hear. “Littlefinger doesn't have a bastard. There was no written record of them until they showed up at the Vale with him,” Your eyes found his once more and suddenly whatever reunion might have been, was no longer one looking like it could be dreamt with hope.

Petyr Baelish didn't just not have a bastard child. But Alyane Stone didn't even exist until after Jofferys murder.

Many discussions of what to do later, and in the quiet aftermath when some time had passed, a warm hand made it's way around the back of your neck, caressing with just a soothing amount of pressure before the same warmth came close. Jons free hand sliding across to tilt your head enough to the side his leaned down form, could reach to press his lips firmly against the side of your head. Your eyes slipping closed at the feeling with a sigh, did he keep his grip massaging the muscle right at the back of your neck and sitting in the spot close next to you.

Murmuring quietly, you leaned more into the gentle sound of his rasping voice. “Darling,”

Glancing over to him, you pretended not to notice Arya pretending she hadn't just been staring at the pair of you. Only in his little sisters company alone, did Jon feel comfortable enough to be more openly gentle with you as he liked. Glancing to him, eyes bright and the greys stood out as concerned as they always looked these days. Speaking quietly, your own hands tensed in flexing trying to distract your nerves. “I still don't understand where she fits into all of this. What she has to gain from trying to get between us.”

A sigh left Jon, hand sliding from your neck just further enough his thumb could brush your jaw and sensitive skin at your neck, eyes drifting downward to the rest of you. Not with any greed, but a concern and a need that radiated an affection more then anything else. He already knew what Daisy had told you, but he needed to hear the answer from somewhere but what he put together between he and Wolkan alone. “She hated my father.”

Eyes drifting for a moment, you bit your tongue trying to find the same logic, only to come up short. “Then why betray you so openly, but not Robb? You're both your fathers sons.”

Attention elsewhere, it passed your notice, Aryas head shooting up from where she was across the room and watching the pair of you with keen eyes. Jon hadn't found it in him to want to discuss it the past week or so since you've been back, leaving Arya with no idea as to if you knew the truth about him or not. But, Jons attention was squarely on you, missing her watchful gaze as well.

“Hard to back stab someone when they're thousands of miles away from you. It's a lot easier when you can sit in the same room as him.” Nails turning to dig into the wood below you rather then into the palms of your hands, you couldn't quite get there this time. Something was missing, and you couldn't tell if Jon didn't know what it was, or if he was keeping it to himself until necessary. He hadn't quite been walking on eggshells around you, but he had been treating you more delicately for days on end now. Not afraid of breaking you, but perhaps not willing to weigh you down with too much when you were sitting there asking for it regardless.

Arya hadn't quite been as insistent as Jon, but she still did similar things. And the amount of times Ghost would follow you no matter what? You weren't complaining about it, but you certainly were beginning to feel as if wolves on either side were circling around you every day.

Jons rasp bringing you back to the world, just as much as the feeling of his hot breathe dancing across your neck. Thumb trying to tilt you back to face his direction more. “If you have something you want to say, you know I'd rather you just tell me, right?” A hum of question in your throat, but Jon only moved to try and tilt you more to see part of his profile. “My decision, if you don't agree-”

“I do.” Turning to look at him, your eyes hoping confidence sat convincingly in them. “You're King, Jon. Your decision is your decision and that's the end of it.”

His brows furrowed, a frown more on his face as unfair as it was, the troubled look the on him you were more used too. Voice a bit on the rough side trying to stay quiet. “That's not what I mean. You shouldn't agree with me beacuse of that. I'd rather hear what you have to say before I do something.”

A familiar feeling grew in your chest. How frustrating it was that Jon wouldn't simply force your hand on things. It would be easier on him if he accepted that you'd always follow where he leads. Regardless of what it meant or where you would be taken. But that wasn't what Jon liked to hear, and you'd rather not get into such a sensitive subject in front of Arya anyways. So you tried placating him without causing any disruption in his thought process. “I know, but it means I trust in what you do. If you think this is the right way to handle this, then that's what we do.”

Only a flashing pass dashed across Jons eyes, but you caught it all the same. This was not the last of this specific conversation. Sighing a bit, you could see his eyes flickering between yours and down then back and a twisting formed behind his head you still struggled to read. He had too much on his shoulders.

Surprisingly though, Jon turned slightly to face Arya. “Can you give us a moment?”

Her own eyes darting between you, she agreed without much thought on it. The door slowly closing behind her, leaving just the crackling of the fire on another side of the room to fill the void. Until it was Jon pushed up from his limited movement on the seat to crouch in front of you. Cupping your cheek properly as his other hand ran along your upper arm. Trying to placate him before he could speak, “Jon-”

But he shook his head, eyes narrowed slightly. “No, I want you to listen. My opinion isn't more important then yours. I meant it when I said I didn't marry you to have a Queen. I married you beacuse I've wanted to marry you since I was a boy. My word isn't final beacuse it's the most important. It's final beacuse it's my duty to make sure everyone around me has advised me and led me to the right thing to do. And that includes you.” The thumb running over the skin of your cheek, barley did you notice Jon moved to cup the side of your face more. Not realizing in your notice, how much you had begun leaning into his touch instinctively. The thumb on your arm taking it's spot of soothingly running back and forth, just a little firmer so you could feel it under the layers.

Opening your mouth for a moment, you then closed it with a drop of your shoulders. Before repeating the pattern again and only at the very last second finding your voice. One of your hands reaching up to where his sat on your arm. Without breaking his gaze on your eyes, Jon moved to hold your hand as much as he could, now slipping out to cover yours and keep it in his larger, warmer hand.

The other still debating it's role as your voice slowly put the thoughts together. “Sometimes I worry, perhaps a little too much.” Your brows lifting for a moment almost to make a jesting point of obvious, and heart warming at how easily it brought a breathy chuckle out of him. “I don't want you to think any of that means I disagree with you. The last thing I want is for you to assume my anxieties over something is a question of your judgment.”

Jon though, continued making things difficult by being too soft and reasonable for your insecurities own good. He knew you too well, it wasn't fair. “Ser Alliser once said to me that if the person in charge start's questioning his own decisions, it's the end for him, and everyone else. But he was wrong. If something you say, Arya says, anyone out there says that makes me stop and question what I'm about to do?” His thumb running over the back of your hand he held. “It means other people are also making sure I'm doing the right thing. If everyone blindly agrees with me beacuse I'm King, that's not really leading. That's just..subjugating.”

In truth, it just slipped right out before your sensibility could stop it. “Big word for an unruly brute.” His eyes narrowed right away but the playfulness shined just as quick and bright.

Leaning into you, he slipped from your cheek to pulling at your waist to turn towards him more, the faintings of a smirk trying to hide on both your faces. His words deep and rough and entirely exaggerated with the direct purpose of making you laugh. “Not the only thing about me that's big,”

Your grin was instant, the need to laugh evident in your wavering voice. Trying to move away but Jon grinned brightly right as he pulled you back to him. “You're an idiot.”

Jon though, didn't waver in his playful glint in smile and eyes. Leaning forward, he moved to hold the back of your head as he leaned closer to your personal space, enough you once more felt his breathe along you with each word. Muttering back, “You're the one who married me, darling. What's that say about you?”

More at ease then most of the day, your hands danced up his torso until they found his shoulders, toying with the curls fallen loose throughout the hours passing. A small shrug as you dropped much of the tone, leaving a fairly raw affection in it's wake. Jon's expression fell too, much the same as you murmured. “That I'm blinded by how in love with you I am?”

That time, you leaned forward to gently press your lips to his. Jon cupping your cheek firmly with his other hand as he deepened it in mere seconds. Only able to pull away before his own need sent him right back into your kiss of his own accord. Stopping to tilt your head down, and press his lips finally to your forehead.

His words not at all matching the gentle, tender way he held you. “Or we're both just idiots.”

The sound of ink scratching across paper had been the only sound to accompany you for some time now. Back and forth between there and the ink bottle before once more scratching being the only sound you could focus on. You had wanted to get these done earlier, but you had been amusingly interrupted by a certain direwolf.

Ghost had approached you, moving to place something down at your feet as he all but smiled as much a wolf could. Looking down, there was a bloody and freshly killed smallish fox, likely no more then a few minutes old. A panting as he shuffled on his feet, you almost laughed. Unable to stop yourself though, from reaching forward. Your hands running along his fur near his ears until Ghost shook out happily from the sensation. A low grumble in him as he seemed to gesture down to the small animal again.

Sighing out, you wasted no hesitation picking it up blood and all as you stood. Noting by then, Ghost almost came up to your chest he had grown so large since those first days you knew him. A nod of your head to the hall, you spoke quite casually as you walked through with a bloody animal. “If this was your attempt at a gift, the thought is quite sweet. But if this is your way of telling me you want me to cook it for you, then you are just taking advantage of my kindness.”

Leaving it with the cooks, Ghost almost whined as you turned to leave. Glancing at it before you once more, almost nudging you in the abdomen. Uncharacteristic for being around a number of people, the direwolf normally preferring to stand back and watch when many were there. Managing to snag a few slices of whatever was currently cooking, you tossed one to Ghost before having a bite yourself of the other.

Raising an eyebrow as if to ask if he was satisfied and finally he and you left to return to your work without much more fuss. Now sitting dutifully by the window, Ghost looked as white as the snow around Winterfell from where you could see. Still was strange, how much he was everything that the North represented in one direwolf.

Ears perking up, he turned to look behind you before settling any aggression possibly growing as a rumble came about near the door frame somewhat behind you. “You waiting for me to come back for anything exciting to happen again?”

Turning halfway to around, your eyes switching from narrow to amused and brighter you let a smirk easy fall on your face. An eyebrow raising as did your tone, “I think perhaps you and I have very different definitions of exciting.”

Tormund has been busy, his people settling around the Gift and having to navigate being looked to as the one who leads them, he had to settle them and prepare them. All the while knowing his place belonged more working at Jons side, both being the ones representing the different aspects of the North now. He had been playfully offended that you chose to get yourself kidnapped while he had been gone, jesting that he could have played saviour to the damsel in distress instead of Jon for once.

Though, you supposed missing out on that incident was more then made up for that same week he returned. Only gone a few days this time, but you found it strange but relieving that there was not the nerves in his presence you feared you'd feel after it.

Shaking his head in a playful doubt, Tormund came more into the room. Pacing about at his usual striding leisure, giving you the chance to turn back to once more scratching away. “I've seen you enjoy yourself, pretty crow. You're too stubborn to admit you should have fun more often.” If he caught the flush behind the jesting roll of your eyes, he knew you better by now then to comment.

Coming to lean against the edge of the desk you sat at, arms crossed he looked down at you with a squinting gaze. Your own resolve unaffected by the staring from him, especially by that point. You worked until he chose to the one to fill the gap of silence. “Knew weird things happened to you, but this is the first time I've heard one of you proper Southerners having green dreams.”

Your head flew up to him in an instant, brows narrowed enough you almost felt dizzy, as you dropped what was in your hand. “You know what they are?”

Nodding with a but of a shrugging shoulder, Tormund elaborated with a surprising steadiness. “I told you once, shit happens north of the Wall you'd never believe. Not the only one I've heard of that sees the future in their dreams. Just the first of your people.”

In honestly, it didn't look mocking or questioning or even judgmental. He sounded as sure as he did for the truths of horror you all knew was beyond too. Turning your head away, you considered for a moment before your nails started tapping nervously at the wood. Catching his glance, you grimaced and relented. Not really knowing what more you had to hide about what was happening. “It isn't just the future. It's the past too. Sometimes I'm walking through it..other times it's like I'm seeing it through someone elses eyes..sometimes they're just dreams that feel more like riddles then a message.”

“Maybe it's both.” That did not make you feel better. Turning once more to glance up at him with a more irritated gaze, he had the audacity to smirk. “Gods don't like doing anything that's easy. More fun watching us run around like chickens until we either figure it out or get our heads chopped off.”

Eyes flickering to the side, you muttered a bit on the dry side, “Not sure I quite grasp your comparison there, but I see what you mean. They'd rather I figure it out without their help.” Pausing, you glanced up at him once more. “Are you in here for a reason, or just disturbing my work for the fun of it?”

Tormund, as one could expect, found little care in hiding exactly what he thought. “Snow's making his way up, figured I could use this chance to make him jealous.” Asking with a breath of a laugh for what, he narrowed his expression at you as if you should already know. “He trusts me, and he trusts you but he doesn't trust me alone with you anymore.”

An easy laugh came out that time, putting things to the side as you moved to stand. “Can't imagine why that is.” Leaning against the same desk, your hip pressed to it as another hand braced somewhat against the chair as you heard a deep rumbling laugh from the man.

Eyes drifting to the side, losing yourself in the sights and sounds of a memory only recalled back to the world at a lower rumble a few steps closer to you in wonder. “Still with me, pretty crow?”

Your answer however, was not what he expected. “What did Mance Rayder want with the Horn of Winter?” Taken back, you pressed onward with the same tense look in your eye. “He had his people looking for it, he came to Winterfell looking for it. What did he want with it?”

It likely had been a while since Tormund thought anything of it. Moving to lean against the desk from his back once more, arms crossed searching his memory. Voice trailed further as he spoke. “Said he wanted to use it with the crows so our people could cross the Wall.”

Your voice, was rather quiet and so was his. “Do you believe that?”

“I believe Mance wanted us to believe that. What he really was going to do with it? Who knows.” Your gaze finding nothing in particular, but the sights of a long gone Stark hiding it from the man for reasons you couldn't still fathom. “Knew him for decades, doesn't mean I had a clue what went through his head.”

But you couldn't shake the feeling. The oddity of everything which kept coming from the far North and how it all connected in some manner which made hardly any sense. “They say it can bring down the Wall.”

Once more though, for everything he had seen, sometimes Tormund surprised you with the way he approached the world. You suspected had he been born on your side of the Wall, he'd be a skeptic of such things. Yet he spoke of them as if stories of such strange Northern magic were heard all his life. “If it were that simple someone would've found it and burned it long before Mance ever went searching. Most nothing about the Others is that easy.” It certainly seemed that way.

The thought was odd as it came to you, but dreams of a silhouette against cold touches of freezing wind passed through your mind, almost muttering to yourself. “Maybe winning this won't be as easy as a fight then, either.”

If Tormund intended on asking what you meant by it, a certain figure interrupted and just as Tormund had suspected, there was a far more dark colour in Jons grey eyes and a rougher tone short in nature as he beckoned you to come with him for something.

There was no threat in leaving you two alone together, but Tormund enjoyed watching Jon squirm all the same.

Whatever these things you were seeing meant, it all confused everything you presumed you already knew. In more then one way. Only, you had little opportunity to think of what it meant, you barley thought of it in a long time.

More then simply a few months, and this wasn't visions or dreams or anything you had come across in your or Jons own journeys. This was something else, these were somehow chilling words of something far worse to you then a mystery storm beyond north. This was something red, and terrible. Something that only ever took from you and refused to give anything back.

It was late into the afternoon when most in the hall had cleared. Giving your resolve just the right amount to find it in you to say something. “Ser Davos?” Coming more near you, almost in nerves, you wrapped the shall around your front even more, keeping your hands and arms hidden away as they tensed over and back. He watched you stammer between breaths for a moment.

Eyes catching the stragglers, not staring but almost as if you didn't want to seem more out of your mind in front of them. Or perhaps, you were trying not to look back at the two Starks who you'd fear thinking that even more. Clearing your throat a bit, Ser Davos guided you to the side just a bit, keeping your voice further from the echos of the room. “Do you remember that day in the field? During the war?”

Nodding, he didn't beat around the bush and you were thankful for it. “Couldn't not remember. Was the last time I thought I'd have ever seen you again.” Head dropping just a bit, you couldn't tell if it was a smirk or a grimace but you found not judgment in his eyes but an understanding. “Wasn't one I liked looking back on, certainly not with thinking that's how we would always be.”

Your eyes searched for the sights and it was clear as day. Still, she was terrible and red. Draped in it like fire and looking deep into your eyes as if she had any rights to say she knew what was to come. She didn't know, not a thing. She had no right and you still wished you finished her that day atop the wall for what she implied.

More like a whisper, you still did not meet his gaze. “Do you remember what she said? The red woman?”

Head jolting back a bit, “To you?” Nodding in confirmation, he twisted his face looking back on it but not with the stretch you had. “She said it more then just that day, your grace. It's what she'd tell your father over and over. Convincing him you'd come back to his side, claiming all that she saw in her flames.” Ser Davos held the same edged blade against his words as you felt in your beating heart.

A man who looked back on her like the monster she was as you do.

But you had to know. “She said it was something she saw in the flames. Not anywhere else, not something she read or heard..just what she saw herself..” Your gazes met and a widening unsettled look painted across your face while your voice lowered. “So there would be no way someone would know what she said that day, without her being the one to repeat it?”

“I doubt it. She'd say her god was speaking to her, and I've never known anyone else to claim any of those things she did.” But that made you feel worse. That, made your head spin dizzy. Or, was the room the one spinning?

Coming forward, an arm reached out as if ready to steady you when your hand shot out to grasp the top of the chair closest to you both. “Your grace?”

Your head shook, trying to tell him it was fine, but the room still spun as did your heart start to race enough it hurt. You could hear her voice, you could hear the angry way Robb defended you from her words and you heard the strangers voice with something only the red woman knew. Something only she had ever called Robb by your side. When it was the world closed around you, you weren't sure but it felt as if your heart would stop and then start too fast to keep up.

Whatever else anyone said muffled as if your head sunk under the water, and you heard only the red woman until you heard nothing else, and saw nothing else either. Only the visions of dreams you had of fire, a strangers skin crawling gaze, and of something whispering to it in red of things long thought never came true.

To Jon, he may as well have been thrusted back in time twenty years. The circumstances all too similar and all too terrifying in his mind. Eyes and discussions all too busy to notice anything out of the ordinary until through a lull of quiet did everyone hear the concerned tone of Ser Davos cutting through the air.

Only this time, as soon as Jon spotted the waver in your stance, the manner in which you gripped the top of the chair beside you as if to steady yourself, he practically had already made his way to you instantly. Surprised and concerned murmurs rippling though those still there, as Jon grabbed you the second you lost your balance.

Everyone moved his way, as Jon gently knelt more to the ground to shift his grip for you more supportingly but nothing could stop the raging burst of panic which seemed to explode within him. A gentle calling of your name as he ran a hand over the side of your face but you didn't open your eyes or even give an indication you heard him.

Anyone who was not Jon or Maester Wolkan was told to leave the moment Jon gently laid you down on his bed. Theon hovering by the door with a hesitation which he seemed to spend a great deal of effort to make appear as calm, his voice a little less so with a question in his tone. “Your grace?”

Jon however, barley even turned around to face him, sparing hardly a glance as he roughly muttered out, “Find Selyse for me, let her know what happened.” Only as Theon tried to find any more words, Jon turned away back to where he was leaned somewhat over the bed as Wolkan had taken up his work opposite side to him. A rough dismissal leaving Jon a bit harsher then Theon knew he intended. “Now, Theon.”

Nodding, he turned to leave. The unease in his throat as he swallowed closing the door behind him, only to find somewhat of a comfort that those who remained seemed to share the same quiet concern as the rest of him. If something once might have been on his tongue sharply, it came out none in mind nor words. Just moved swiftly passed the remaining onlookers before it became clear how much it bothered him.

Inside the now closed room, Jon could only hope he wasn't coming off as impatient as he watched Wolkan look you over. But the image was too close. Another time, another Maester looking over you after collapsing unconscious to the ground and his heart raced too much to not begun to hurt. You didn't look nor feel feverish, but he couldn't take it all the same. The strange pull in his heart when Maester Luwin said you may not make it through the night was nothing compared to standing here now.

Something overwhelming seemed as if it overtook every inch of his brain, the worst case scenarios one after the other and it only made his blood pump harsher, his lungs tightening in response. Without you, Jon was lost. He couldn't do this, any of this without you. The entire reason he could stand here now was beacuse of you. No god nor power brought him back, only you.

Jon had drive, focus, determination and a purpose and he'd never stop fighting. But Jon knew without you he had no real life, nothing there to keep his heart grounded on earth. Wolkan didn't appear to be as worried as Luwin had that day all those years ago, but Jon could not keep from letting his mind scream of the worst things which could happen. You were right, he had never stood in the real, physical world and seen your body that night and he couldn't handle doing it now.

Had he blinked? He wasn't even sure. His muscles ached from how tense every part of him stood as, trying desperately to give the man space but yearning to go to you himself. As if something obsessed had taken hold in his panic, and replaced each of his controlled senses with a collapsing world around him despite nothing hinting at it.

Jon knew he could admit it now, he was selfish. What world was he fighting for if he didn't get to have you with him in it? What was the point of everything you two had done to get here if it was all gone? Slowly, his eyes darkened as they trailed along your person and landed on one thing of you in particular, he couldn't handle that either.

Wolkan's voice cut through the swirling chaos formed in Jons panic, and it was a tone not matching of anything close what so ever. “I am confident, your grace, that there is nothing needed to panic about.” If the uncertainty in Jons expression was obvious, it seemed Wolkan picked up on it in an instant. “Physically there is nothing wrong, I would say very likely a combination of stress and anxieties pushed her a little too far.”

Jons hands clenched as they sat crossed over his chest, trying to keep his eyes on the man instead of gliding back over to watching you with unblinking eyes. His voice forced out more sounding a bit like a roughed husk trying to remain neutral. “You're certain it's nothing else? Nothing worse?”

Shaking his head, he looked over you once more with a confidence Jon envied before returning his gaze back. “If I may speak freely,” Nodding, Wolkan granted permission in silence against the stiff, on edge posture of the King before him. “I would suspect she has been running herself ragged for many days now, but would rather try to hide all of it from us, from you.”

Little air was found still in him, and Jon knew it wouldn't return until he was right at your side. Breathing out nothing but a short, “Why?”

And he couldn't help but appreciate that Wolkan approached the topic of you without any judgment or distance on the strangeness. “Northerners in my experience, tend to be a bit more focused. You all have very strong drives and push yourselves harder then many in the South. I suspect the queen sees her position as needing to be equal to those around her. And would rather sacrifice some of her own well being to do so for the sake of others.”

Jaw clenched, Jon tilted his head in slight indication of understanding. He knew that too well, it was a constant battle his entire life with you that you didn't always need to be just like them. You could take care of yourself like few woman Jons ever known, but he hated that you sometimes seemed to take that as you couldn't let yourself still be seen as someone who deserved to be taken care of.

Minimizing how much you'd let Jon do it and for what, but in truth Jon didn't want you to be just like him. He didn't fall in love with you, to try and make you anyone but exactly who you already were. He didn't see the rough and determination in Stannis and expect his daughter to be just like that as well.

Jon knew that maybe, it was time he be a bit stricter with you. He tried keeping you from some of the more stressful parts of ruling the North gently, but maybe the way his father did things had a point. Sometimes, Jon might need to have a firmer hand to protect the ones he loved even if it made him look harsh for it.

It also, only meant that he needed to deal with her even sooner. Her actions here couldn't be allowed to put any more stress on you then what already had been done. Not now especially.

Coming up to sit at your bedside, the vulnerability slipped through enough that there was no longer hiding the brightness in Jons eyes, the gentle manner in which he let his hand run along your hair. Still toned in a forcing husk, but more of a mutter trying to keep the rest of it down, as if any louder would startle you in your sleep. “Coming back the way we have, doesn't make any of this any easier.”

By that point, Wolkan had long since seen your scars, and since his time in Winterfell now, had seen Jons. There would now always be a degree of unknown between things that happened to both of you, but there was no point in Jon dancing around it.

Wolkan was quiet, but never doubting or skeptical in tone. “I can only speak for what I can see with my own eyes. I have no understanding of what it is like to experience what you both have, but I can confidently say that she relies on you more then she wishes to admit.”

Hand drifting down, Jons thumb tracing gently along your cheek as the gaze baring down on you bled profusely with a deep adoration. He had thought it many times, but never spoken to another, not in that way, not in such a raw manner. “She's afraid of being a burden on me, but there's nothing I wouldn't do for her. It feels like I didn't only come back in love with her, I came back obsessed with her, addicted to her.”

“Maybe that is precisely what she needs.” Jons brows furrowed, but he didn't look up from you and Wolkan didn't at all expect him too. “None offence meant, your grace. But were you two normal people, I would suggest such thoughts weren't healthy. If I'm not mistaken, there has not been a time since your return that has been without her. Returning to a new life, she has always been in it. But when I had met her, she was alone and ready to die all over again. It was months she spent alone in a dungeon cell and when they finally dragged her out of it..” Both men let the silence sit for a beat before a heavier weight came across the man. “At the time, death likely was a better life for her then what Ramsay Bolton had done instead. She came back alone and tortured, and worse. Maybe, what she needs, is to know without a doubt, that the man she brought back needs her more, then she fears that she is in the way.”

Many months now, Jon had spent worried that his intensity was the problem. He knew he came back different, he knew it was not normal to feel this dark, this angry, this possessive. It was not who he used to be, nor the way Jon looked at you with such an all consuming addiction. The Jon he used to be would never have spent the first moments reuniting with you like that, but in this new life, all Jon could think as he stood there looking at you? Your wide, shocked eyes bright and shining with more raw honesty then he had ever seen on you before?

Take whatever love he once felt for you, and multiply that by a thousand and maybe then one would get somewhere close to where Jon stood now. It wasn't normal, nothing about this anymore was normal but it was the new life he was given and he couldn't change that. The darker, more animalistic sides he had shown you so far didn't chase you away.

But he hated that he knew who he would need to talk to about this, and already he felt uncomfortable that his only source of true understanding was in them. For now though, Jon let himself sit properly on the bed to look at you, letting his hand switch to the other, reaching over your body to cup the side of your face, thumb once more running along the skin of your cheek.

Jon felt words trying to come out, but they blocked themselves with something choking his throat. He was grateful Wolkan didn't hover. Turning before he made his leave proper, he did add in a bit of lightness, “When she awakes, I would recommend perhaps taking advantage of your command, your grace. As a Maester I can only implore her to eat a proper meal so many times before it begins to fall on deaf ears.”

Jon's thanks were quiet, and almost passing but he knew they were recognized anyways. However long he had been there alone since, Jon scarcely took notice of where his eyes had drifted down to, and how much his stare at been switching between there and your still sleeping face.

Long enough, that his mind was so deep within itself he hadn't heard a thing until she spoke behind him. “Some days, my daughter is the worst of her fathers family.” Jon turning somewhat to see Selyse, something almost as distant as was in his eyes, but a bit easier to read for once. Nodding towards you as she approached, her tone was low but tinged with something almost light for the woman he knew. “The more stubborn parts of Stannis, and the most self destructive side of Robert. Not for the same things, but both still push themselves even when they know it is blatantly terrible for them.”

You didn't get all the worst parts of Robert Baratheon, Jon thought. Not the parts that sent Ned Stark to hide away his son for almost twenty five years in fear. You embraced that truth better then even Jon was handling it. But he couldn't say that, not even close to that. “She doesn't try to be.”

Circling around, as if to give him a wide space as Selyse came to the other side, gently perching on bed opposite Jon. But a little more held back in any willingness to reach out to you as Jon still was running a hand over you. “No. She's nowhere near keen enough to understand what putting up with her is actually like.”

Eyes flying up sharply, but there was such a familiar tease as Selyse raised an eyebrow looking at you. A very clear trait you both shared, it wasn't often Jon really saw mother and daughter in you both. But, the bit of tease in her gaze towards you, felt a bit of warmth return to his heart. Not anywhere near a chuckle or even a smirk, but his grey eyes much less weightful then before as he hummed. “Tiring?”

“Very.”

Both breathed something of a huff out which could have been a laugh once upon a time. The quiet between them for once wasn't stilted. It wasn't easy, getting used to Selyse in such a manner, and she clearly felt the same in return. But Jon knew, if he was sitting here as your husband, she was still also here as your mother. And he had to treat that with a fairness, and an honesty.

Not expecting the direction he took his words, but Jon wasn't short about it either. Eyes finding your face one more as he ran two knuckles just down the side of your face by your hair, trying not to disrupt her own gaze on her daughter. “Selyse, I know you weren't happy she married me.” Much like you, she didn't react in emotion, rather stayed quiet to find the end of the intention of his point before making a judgment.

Jon didn't look at her still, only her finding his side as he watched you with a softness she had never even once, seen come close to the way Stannis ever looked at her.

“No mother wants to see her daughter marry a bastard. Take away a strong family name, bring her down to my place and call her a Snow. At least Robb was a highborn. You didn't have to be happy about it, but at least it wasn't insulting.” Jons tone was tight, trying to remain controlled. You were so free about how you did not think calling yourself a Snow when marrying him mattered, and not once since did you indicate it bothered you, but he knew it bothered Selyse.

“Stannis admires you, and I had to respect that. But seeing the way you looked at her, the way you were when you were around her? Stannis looked passed that you're a bastard, but I couldn't. I still struggle with it, asking a mother to rid herself of an entire life of perspective to honour her daughters choice of husband.” Jon roughly muttering that he wasn't asking her too, but Selyse sighed out. Eyes closing for a moment before turning her gaze back to you and then Jon once more, voice much firmer then before. “I never knew your brother, never saw them together. But seeing the way she looks at you..it'll take getting used too, but I don't resent you for it. I'm simply not quite talented at changing my opinions so quickly.”

Soft strands of your hair running through his fingers, both looked to the other for a moment, and yet it hit him how drastically opposite it was. Too many years ago was a similar position. Someone he loved, laying unconscious in bed, their mother on one end with a distant Jon on the other. But Selyse came in on you both instead of him intruding, and she did it with quiet respect, no short words or angry dismissal. No glares sent his way while he was at their bed side.

That day Jon had looked up to Catelyn, an unsure look marred in the very insecurity she fostered in him for his entire life. All he did was say goodbye to his little brother, and she gave him that same spiteful glare. Quiet as she barley spat out in a hate, “I want..you..to leave.”

The only thing stopping any words further was his father coming into the room. Jon had never seen her again until her reawoken corpse dragged you in front of her and demanded you pay with your life for simply loving him. Death had made her worse, and it was what made Jon force Arya to stay behind.

She didn't know the truth of what Catelyn thought of him, none of his siblings actually knew the extent of it. Jon didn't want Arya's memories of the mother she lost, to be so violent and vengeful against the brother she came back to Westeros for. She wasn't the mother Arya loved and he didn't want her anywhere near it, to have Catelyn Stark's memory soured for her the way it now was for you.

It didn't change for Jon, she hated him then and she hated him now. But there was no hate as Jon looked over to Selyse. Just a gentle understanding between both, that just beacuse whatever their dynamic now was, was slow, didn't mean they weren't trying. They didn't at all hate one another, and Selyse never treated him with anything less then genuine respect.

An understanding was felt in the moment they looked to one another. Awkward or not, the two of them were family now, bound by law. So Jon had to start trusting her as such. Clearing his throat slightly to shove down the weight of emotions sat too close to his throat, Jon rasped out, “There's something I need to take care of before she wakes up...would you-”

Selyse, unlike the spitting whisper of hate the last time, only spoke in a tender fairness that held no judgment or spite. “If she wakes up before you get back, I'll send for someone to let you know right away.”

Weight in his mind trying to hold back, Jon nodded before looking back to you. He didn't hide his love for Bran that day in front of the woman who hated him, so instead of standing right away to leave, Jon once more let is hand drift to the other side of your face. Keeping you steady as he leaned down, not sparing the raw feeling scratching at him as he pressed his lips to your forehead.

Like the last all the same, Jon left without another word. He need not hide the love he felt for you in front of your mother, but it didn't change the way he was uncomfortable with being so openly vulnerable in front of anyone.

But, there was one thing he wanted to do before you woke up, beacuse he was finished with letting this sort of thing be tolerated in the North he was trying to rebuild. This wasn't the rats den that is Kings Landing. This sort of deception and betrayal wasn't at all welcome. Not here.

He knew all too well what this would look like if he approached this with anything but the blunt truth, no matter what those listening wanted to hear. The amount of times in the Nights Watch would Jon stand in the meeting hall and again and again have his brothers not listen or argue back but he refused to stand there and use flowery language to soften the blow.

Many of his people in and around the main halls, it felt as if Winterfell was busier then it ever was, but if he did this in front of all of them here and now it was going to be as blunt as he could approach it. Standing tall with a slight clear of his throat, “My lords,”

Some looked, others didn't over the usual chatter. Theon stood near one table with Olly, both glancing with a more stern look across their faces noting the one sat over Jons was unequivocally without a shred of humour. Your lack of presence might have been worrying, were the expression not clearly that in an anger instead of any form of a sorrow.

Sat by a table, Sam with Gilly and Little Sam glanced in a quiet to one another. They knew seeing Jon as Lord Commander was one thing, but a whole other as he stood there with the aura of a King. But at the same time, Sam knew the look behind Jons eyes. It was something he had seen in an unblinking intensity the same day which was Lord Janos Slynt's last.

In the few seconds it took for not all attention to be on him, the mantle of fixing such an issue was taken up by where Arya was, speaking to the lords and what not she had at least somewhat known of before. Whatever maturity she returned home with, was not overpowered by the quickness of her loud tone over them all. “Shut it,”

Quiet faded from the voices, and only the smallest of slight nods was given in return to the much more innocent look Arya gave towards him. As always, Jon stood on their level, talking to them, not down to them. If he was going to do this, he wanted it to be heard fairly, not as law.

Tone rough as it rasped out, the agitation right on the surface. “There's something that needs to be put out in the open, and I'm going to be as honest as I can. One of our own has stabbed you all in the back. Watched us, whispered about us, fed information to an outsider who means to ruin what we've spent all this time rebuilding.” Glances and whispers chattered through the crowd like a ripple, and yet as grey eyes looked across them all, he saw the only one he needed too.

There was little Jon did not see, and she was watching him with the steadfast resolve of a hawk out for the hunt. But Jon was not the prey any longer, wolves aren't prey. They attack to protect their own. Not every detail was needed, but certainly Jon would give her a chance to step forward on her own.

Collected but loud his voice echoed in the hall, and Arya the only one who was with narrow eyes watching as knowing as he spoke. Your name falling from his lips, “Not long ago as you know, she was attacked and taken prisoner by a group of Southern outlaws. They knew where she was, where she went and when, and attacked our own people to lure her into going with them.” Head nodding somewhat towards his sister, Jon hid no credit. “Were it not for Arya, we wouldn't have gotten there in time and she'd have been dead. But these men only did this, beacuse someone was following and spying on her, just like they're doing right now with the rest of us.”

The speculation had begun, but still she did not move an inch.

So Jon kept going pacing a bit along the top stretch of the room as he'd give her every chance until he came to the final conclusion to which there was no return. He had mercy for one who came forward guilty of their own accord, he had far less for those who would force him to do so after it was too late. “There are spies all over the North, we can't track them all, but that doesn't mean they're welcome. Not when they're working with means us harm. And in this case, the person watching us, is one of you.”

That had the crowd like a watering wave speak up and about. Words and heads flew trying to comprehend it, some were quiet and watchful and only one stared without question. Still though, the stare was in silence. Come forward on your own, Jon thought. Make this easier on yourself.

“I'm asking you, is the kind of North we're fighting for one where we can't trust our own? Where we have to watch what we say where beacuse someone we might call a friend is ready to run whatever we say and do somewhere else?” The answer was a strong no, still the people Jon knew they were.

Loyal to their own. Including loyalty to protect their own against one of them trying to disrupt that.

Stopping his back and forth, he turned to look to his people with a confidence once more. “All my life my father taught me to have room for honour, and mercy. Come forward, and you will be given that.”

Hardly since returning to life, have you awoken so aggressively. Flying up from where you lay in a manner you never had even in the worst of nightmares, and yet braced up on your palms your lungs screamed for air. Quick to your side, Selyse calmly called your name. A hand resting on your shoulder in comfort from her, yet the sudden contact has you pulling away in a flinch as if still surprised.

“It's okay, it's fine-” Your mother trying to placate whatever it was which brought forth this strange and sudden onslaught of gasping, when you were not in the same state when you had fallen. Not that you even remembered that by this point. No, you were somewhere else. Trying to catch your breath, you barley managed to begin what sounded of the word where, and the reasonable assumption she came to was not unreasonable. Palm now on the fur next to you, Selyse leaned in as calm as she could manage to bring you down, to no avail. “They brought you to your chambers, you fainted in the middle of the great hall.”

Shaking your head, it was as if you heard her but barley understood her. Your head almost underwater and in a slightly sweating state of disarray it was as if you ran miles in only your sleep, if judging by appearance alone. But it sounded as if she spoke that way too, your ears ringing with the same words over and over as they were spat at you.

Finding a voice proper, you managed to gasp out, “Where's Maester Wolkan?”

Learning forward, you barley could determine your mother was playing calm in a manner that was as motherly as she could but this was not the time. “He's with Jon, I'll send for them both-” Suddenly interrupting herself, she called your name in a louder scolding.

You shook your head no before moving from the bed in an instant. Light on your feet as the haze in your head but you only moved across the room to grab a warmer shall to wrap around in the cold. Only, it wasn't so cold to your mother but it certainly was for you. Shivering even as your skin sweat. Calling your name once more, you passed her by. “No, I need something.”

Head jolting back, Selyse stood as you tried going for the door. Only to haul herself in front of you, hands at your upper arms as her face twisted in a stern disapproval as well as the sound of your name in a similar tone. “You need to rest,”

Heart racing and pounding enough you felt short breathed from the exertion as well, you had not the time stored away in yourself to be respectful. Rolling your eyes as you moved to brush passed her. “I have to find something first.”

Once more Selyse stood her ground, not that either of you truthfully were much in the way of physically imposing to the other, let alone anybody. “If you need something tell me, I can get it for you. But you need to rest,”

Your determination won out against her groundedness, slipping quicker then she expected by and moving to the door. Flinging it open with whatever strength your arms could muster, it was as if all that vision had left your body to react in real pain. But you moved through the halls, more empty then you expected but not the mind to notice. “It's not-it's easier if I look for it myself.”

No doubt a frustrated sigh came from her as Selyse. Stopping to request something from a passing guard only to then have to all but run to catch up. “What is it you're looking for?” Your only answer being that of a book, did not give her any help but you couldn't explain yourself in this state nor did you want to try.

Maester Wolkan's study was quiet and empty as you expected. Moving right to the other side in a small nook, you rummaged through a pile of large books without sparing a second glance to the ones you cared not for. Your mother as frustrated with your insolence as she was confused. None the less, she stood by watching you search until it came around.

The large tome was not unlike one many years before needed for such as strange reasons, but this time it was not your own you didn't know you'd be searching for. A History of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms. What was it Pycelle once called it? A ponderous read. That it was, but when you needed one thing only, it was the most important.

Slamming the large book open, Selyse came to your side as you started flipping through the pages upon pages of great houses. You somehow knew exactly what you were looking for, but not truly. Living in their shadow for your entire life meant most of the knowledge was stored somewhere far in your mind, you need just jostle it to bring it back to the forefront.

Jon's voice projected loud in the hall when only silence was found in his offer of mercy. “Lord Howland,” Without a shred of worry, from his seat did he stand up with all the respect he had arrived with. “You saved my fathers life during the rebellion. You and five others went with him to rescue his sister, Lyanna Stark.” The skip in his heart, Jon pushed down with as much force as he could possibly muster. Not right now. “But only you two survived that day.”

With a nod, the pieces still only clear to one, not even Arya had been told what Jon was about to put together. Lord Howland responding with the same weight he spoke the only day he and Jon ever discussed anything of those events. “We were, your grace. Seven of us went against only three Kingsguard, but it was a fight your father and myself never forgot. We may not have been able to bring the Lady Lyanna home alive, but their deaths in fighting to get to her were not in vain.”

Finding their face in the crowd, Jon moved moreso to fill the space in the bit of clearing, voice projecting as meaningful but with a weight heard better in closer proximity. “Lord Galbert, I know one of those men was your cousin, Ethan Glover.”

Standing with a look of, not sorrow, but almost a fond smile. “He was, your grace. I used to say to your father that Ethan rather have died young swinging that bloody sword, then living and dying to the ripe age of eighty. And standing by his side, I know there was no place he'd rather have fallen.”

Her eyes needed not seek Jons out when he turned to her next, already they were trained on him with a sharpness behind, a blade ready to strike. “Lady Barbary, I know you lost not one, but two that day. Your great uncle, Lord Mark Ryswell. And your husband. Lord Willam Dustin.” But she stayed seated, and unlike the others, the air between her and Jon thickened as she said not a word.

And neither did one look away from the other as Jon continued. “He never blamed you for it, but I know there had been bad blood between you towards my father for their deaths. Even despite it, your families both answered Robb's call for war against the Lannisters. To save my fathers life, to rescue my sisters.” Once more your name came out, and whatever whispering existed around suddenly seemed to die off. “She called the banners to bring the North together, reclaim it against the Boltons. Who were given the North as reward for murdering my brother. You sent men when answering the call to Robb when he had not yet been called King in the North, but not when your own Queen sent pleads for help when she thought she had no one.”

Eyes begun to turn, and some shifted closer as it was clear, Jon only had one person in his mind and it seemed he walked in already knowing as such. Giving a chance to be brave, and do the right thing on their own accord before he dragged the truth out for all to see on his own. Voice short and almost shrill with the tone she hissed. “Had the wildlings didn't she?”

A rumbling came from one leaning against the wall. Tormund standing back from politics not any of his business or even concern, but they were Jons problems and so he was there all the same. Looking at her with push from his leaned place to almost scold her in a way Jon had seen Tormund do on his behalf before. “Aye, we helped her beacuse he,” Pointing to Jon himself, “Convinced us. She didn't know us, wasn't going to ask us to give our lives for her cause, but your King in the North is why we fought, why we're still all here. It didn't matter what we wanted on our own, you do the right thing beacuse what else has he been letting other people kill him for?”

He felt the anger, Jon knew it was something begging to protect you from what he was too late to save you from but it was there all the same. “The truth is you couldn't side with her could you? It would ruin everything you already stabbed her in the back for.” If Barbary Dustin thought she was going to lie her way out of this, she was mistaken. “You already knew you were going to side against us, beacuse you already knew she was alive. Far before any of us. The Boltons had to smuggle her in quietly so no one found out, so they snuck into the North through the only person that would help them.”

Nails dug into the wood below her fingertips, and the resentment was rising as was the wide knowing stare between he and her, that they knew this was happening. “Your sister, Lady Bethany. She died of a fever over ten years ago, her son not long after that. And I know for a fact my lady, that losing your sibling and their child is a powerful way to bring you and their widow together. Only, your sisters husband wasn't just anyone, was he? She was married to Roose Bolton.”

Five then ten seconds had passed before she hissed out, “Not all of us are so lucky to get to pick the ones we marry, your grace. I did not choose to have my sister marry into House Bolton-”

Only, the voice that spoke up wasn't Jon. It was one however, that made her quiet in an instant at the certainty and trust in Theon's tone. “But you chose to side with him, work with him. He murdered your King and you helped smuggle your own Queen into the Dreadfort and kept quiet about it beacuse you and Roose Bolton worked together.”

Everyone knew some of the story by now, and Theon had not a single reason to make such a detail up, not in front of these people. Eyes flickering to Jon, she was silent, muscles looking as if she twitched to shoot up but remained seated with a burning anger under, matching the statued stillness seething from Jons own eyes.

“You aided Roose Bolton in smuggling the Queen in the North into the Dreadfort where she was kept prisoner, tortured and far worse for over a year. And when she escaped? I helped her reclaim the North, and you blamed us for the Boltons deaths as well. So you turned to another, and tried to have her killed by outlaws and murderers.” Opening her mouth, Jon had one last trick. “I'd think twice about lying, my lady. Maester Wolkan kept copies of every raven scroll coming in and out of Winterfell and the Dreadfort. If it's been in your hands since you've been here, he's already seen it, and so have I.”

If the swiftness she stood from her seat with a sharp anger about to erupt from her tongue spoke of any action, it was ceased in an instant. Bodies standing as a ripple of noise rang through the air the moment Barbrey Dustin moved, she got no further then being kept at bay by those once allies around her.

The Northerners were loyal, but not to those who stood against their own. It was a long way from Jons days in this very home, thinking his name meant he could never truly belong. But it wasn't the trueborn noble woman they sided with, but a bastard King called Snow.

The book was long winded, pages upon pages one after the other and many hands had written this over whichever Maester was in Winterfell. Three hundred years of documents were kept and there were far too many and your patience ran thin.

But Selyse stood by watching as you scoured. It was there, you had heard it and it all had to connect. It could not be, not when the red womans words were not either. It all was one connecting tendril wrapping around too many mysteries of the world trying to implode in your own dreams. But if you were back in this world, in this new life to be here for Jon, then you had to understand the gift the gods gave you to do so for him.

Flipping once, twice again, you found names which stood out. Shoulders deflating for only a moment, you leaned with your palms braced on the wooden surface either side of the large tomb. Voice ragged and still in a state of distressed appearance, you whispered exactly what it was you woke with such a startled desperation to remember.

“Brynden Rivers, born to King Aegon the Fourth and his mistress Lady Melissa Blackwood. Legitimized by his father in the one hundred and eighty fourth year after Aegons landing. Hair of white, eyes of red, and pale complected.” Your voice muttering out in a breathlessness as you skimmed over many details of wars and rebellions and many conflicts as was never ending in such the families entire reign, but you found the end, and you knew you had remembered exactly.

“Accepted offer of the Nights Watch given by King Aegon the Fifth shortly following his arrest. Was elected Lord Commander of the Nights Watch in his sixty fourth year. Disappeared while ranging beyond the Wall, whereabouts until his death...unknown..” Your gaze rose up with wide eyes, mouth slightly parting as something found itself both an answer and a mystery anew.

You sought one answer, and found too much. But the one answer was there in a simple line of text that none left alive would have looked twice at. Your nerves too warm inside you and froze it and you right to the spot, beyond a shock into a baffled confusion.

Otherwise known by his title, Lord Bloodraven.

[strawberrysandcream]

Heart of the Great Wolf

39 - Great Wolves of White Mists

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 15.9k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, past character deaths, smut, oral (f receiving), exhibitionism, p in v, threats of sexual violence

Notes: Lots of world building going on behind the scenes, but I assure you everything does come together logically when we're ready. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

Words had continued to reach you long after you assumed much communication would have ceased to be. Yet, they still came, and you still heard whispers that disturbed you beyond what you were willing to speak so freely on. What were you to make of them on your own, let alone bring them to his attention when you were not sure? He knew it bothered you, but without any confirmation all there was to do was speculate about the unknown.

You knew little about that part of the world, though that was the case for many. Asshai was the furthest east most maesters knew anything substantial about, and it sounded like a place that draws in those looking to shed what good in them remained. Darkness and shadow binders, old powers speaking of magic that was unnatural in the world you knew. And the red woman was said to be from there, yet here she had sat atop her horse beside your father as if she had any right.

Speaking as if he was this great warrior, born amidst salt and smoke. Her fire god's chosen, and yet you only saw a man. A just man, a leader and a King, but like the husband at your side, Stannis Baratheon was still only a man. Heroes of such tales were best left in the books you had long since passed onto Shireen's dutiful imagination. In the world you knew, good men were rare to come by, and most seemed to die before they had a chance to be spun into such heroes.

Your father had a witch at her side, but no magic of any power from her would have you trade away standing with only your love and honour at Robb Stark's side.

And yet, it was that stance which your father took issue with. Demeaning you in front of your men and your King, as if a child needing scolding. Claiming you betrayed your duty at his side, when he had the audacity to bring a woman such as her to this meeting. Robb did not fight with magic tricks and dishonour, he fought the same bloody battles which his men did beacuse that was the leader which found worship from his people.

Stannis's men were loyal to him, but they worshipped the fires of a god only one woman spoke of in these lands. You felt that biting rage inside, heart beating harsh enough it hurt against your chest as your eyes sat steadfast in a glare towards him. You made your choice, and so did he. But you did not stand there and berate him for his choices, for what you heard this woman told him to do. But he thought he had the right to tell you that it was not Robb's side you belonged at.

You only belonged in one place, and it was with him. Your destiny was not your fathers choice anymore, your destiny was with the future you and Robb were fighting for together. Sacrificing the life you should be forming in your home where you both belong, to do what needed to be done.

Stannis spoke it with such an even tone, but only you knew what it spoke of. It was an irritation that you dared speak against him in front of everyone when you never dared defy his command before. “You truly think yourself so highly, that you can deny your duty as my daughter, that you can choose your destiny now?”

Your lungs struggled to breath you moved so little, but the sound did not appear all dissimilar coming from beside you. Teeth almost bared as he controlled what little he could of his possessiveness, and one you suspected Robb almost did not care to hide from your father. “She is my wife, your grace. My Queen. Which means her destiny lies with me.”

Caring not for if he tried to argue against it, he did not know. Your father married you to the North without ever even bothering to be there to hand you over himself, but now he expected you to betray the husband he chose for you? Not even in a chance of your existence, would you have gone to your father instead of Robb. There hadn't even been a thought the day you escaped.

You had a home and a family and a duty, and Robb Stark was all three within your life and heart.

The red woman however, beckoned your father to let her speak. Capturing your attention as the blood inside you felt too cold against the terrible red she represented. You would rather not have approached her, but she did not pose a threat. Not in this fashion. You suspected her danger lay in what persuasion her words held within the manipulated minds of men. Still, she made her try to entice you.

“I have seen your fate, a destiny showed to me in the flames, princess.”

Eyes flickering to Robb, he did not wish for you to approach her but as you did, sensed no physical threat towards you from the woman on her own. Only a blur in the side of your vision did a large grey figure stalk around the perimeter of where you all stood, Grey Wind prowling forward in watch and guard. A direwolf always ready to attack, just as The Young Wolf behind you now.

Your horse approached hers, and the chilling in your blood only grew and grew until sights and sounds of ice and cold flashed. She could not see them, she was only one to serve fire, but it was as if she looked to you with a knowing you did not like. Not even Robb knew of the kind of dreams you were truly having at night, but you did not want this woman pretending as if she had a clue.

Eyes so blue they shined like terrifying crystals were not haunting her dreams, only yours.

Yet she sensed something. “Do you believe in the old powers?”

Once, you would not have been sure. Memories of a flame long gone, memories of nightmares only as a child on an isolated island, you lived most a life in the world before you. Men only made of flesh and bone, and the mystery of the world long passed. But now? Now you knew for one reason or the other, you and Robb no longer could be so sure of what you once thought impossible. But none of that was what came out of your mouth.

Your own tone as even and matching as what came out of your fathers. “I’ve been told you are from Asshai, Lady Melisandre. I imagine preaching such a foreign religion to the people includes a lot of convincing people of the old powers. Most would think that isn’t an easy task, and yet here you stand so close by my fathers side.”

She was quiet as she stared at you, and you could only be confident she knew nothing of the freezing dreams of a crying infant in the night you had. There were other dreams, but that was the one you saw over and over, that was the one that left you without telling a soul. A nightmare shouldn't scare you the way that one did.

Her own intentions did not match what you and Robb came here for. Whatever she wanted, was not what you and Robb were spending years fighting for. Her tone confident as it was aggravating to listen to it's words attached. “The King has seen the truth in flames shown by that of the Lord of Light. He is his chosen, a warrior born amidst salt and smoke. The red comet signalling a rebirth of power that will lead him to his true destiny. One that I have seen you in, princess.” But it wasn't red in your dreams, not even close.

Watching her turn to Robb, you could have knocked her off her horse then and there for even thinking she had the right to try and sway him to her poison. Something about her put you on a blades edge of tensity. “The princess only has one destiny, your grace. You are not so far away from that fate.”

Something crawled under your skin, and in an instant it was as if you moved your horse without realizing it. Closer back to Robb's side in more proximity then you had even before. You wanted to be nowhere near this womans words as she spoke. But her eyes found yours, and what they spoke was something you didn't comprehend.

“Your fate does not lie here, princess. The Lord has shown me, you are destined to stand behind your father. The coming of a great war and you will only find your fate there. With your love, with the heart of your Great Wolf at your side, you will stand prosperous in such battles to come. A future written for you already, princess. Your Great Wolf to stand with you and your children together only if you accept the truth that your fate lies behind that of the Lord’s chosen.”

Life for her was found in flames, but yours was frozen in ice and snow like that of the very wolf at your side she spoke of. Seeing you in her lies was one thing, you would do much to keep Robb out of whatever her sights in red showed her, though.

Only, Robb was gone. Dead and lost in the Riverlands and the future in your womb too was just as butchered as what ended you both together. The red woman tried to manipulate you by saying your Great Wolf would stand with you, with your children, and yet you three all died in one night soaked in the others blood.

Too often you still wished you ended her that day you both stood at the top of the Wall.

There used to be a point in his life where there weren't many memories which stuck out so heavily in his mind. His life was one day to the next and never quite with any importance that should be cared about. He didn't even remember his mother, all he could ever come up with was that she had pretty yellow hair and a high, lovely voice to which she would sing to him in.

She died when he was little, he didn't even remember how he came into Tobho Mott's care, but he became his apprentice. Perhaps if he had any ambition to do something else or leave, he'd have taken a thought of how he was sold off as if a slave trade, but he didn't.

In those days, there was very little to stand out in Gendry's life. That was until one strange day when the Hand of the King came to see his master. Though, it wasn't a memory that stuck out much in the moment. No, it was the things which came after. The memory of Lord Stannis with a narrow eyed glare as he said nothing but watched him as Lord Arryn was the one asking all of the questions.

Then Lord Arryn died, and the next Hand of the King, Lord Stark came to ask the same questions only this time he had Lord Stannis's daughter working beside him instead.

He recalled you doing the same, narrow sharp eyes watching him close, but unlike your father you took the time to speak to him at the least. You had been stern and short with him, but he had the feeling now it was simply your temperament in general instead of the previous Baratheon's ire. Asking about his mother. Then you had a strange look, stepping a bit closer as you told him “Look at me,” and parting without another word. He could recall the passing thought as he returned to his work, that if he didn't know any better he'd have thought you were his twin.

That encounter was strange yet, but it wasn't until the events occurring with the red woman, did Gendry finally recall that day as you looked at him and what exactly the shock was you felt. Well, he recalled two faces he couldn't stop seeing what one was for very different reasons.

With not a clue what happened to her for years, or what became of her the moment they parted ways, all Gendry could think of in those days was how angry Arya was for what they had done. He had Beric Dondarrian agree to keep him on as one of them, only for a beautiful woman all in red come and take him away in exchange for gold. Found a purpose perhaps, and maybe just one person who he could care about, only to be sold off like a slave once more.

“You are more than they can ever be. They're just foot soldiers in the great war. You will make kings rise and fall.” Was what she said to him. Gendry had not a clue what that meant, but he didn't care. He was being sold off like cattle to a strange woman and for years, he had thought he'd never seen Arya again. Not a clue if she was safe, alive, what happened to her or where she could have gone and it still made him upset.

The first time he found someone genuine who he actually cared about. She was a huge pain in his ass, there was no doubt about it but he liked that about her. She didn't know when to not say something like a smart ass, was quick to take care of others or defend those weaker and smaller then her even against soldiers. Once Arya cared about you, she'd protect you. Except for that last time and he used to wonder if she thought he was dead like he worried she was.

But he hadn't been given that chance to think on it. He had been told his father was a King, the King. Robert Baratheon was said to be his father and as he finally was taken to Dragonstone did he see the man once more. Saw Stannis Baratheon and he realized what your look had meant.

Stannis looked unimpressed, whereas you had looked shocked. And you looked shocked, because he was right. Well, not exactly. It wasn't twins you were, but you were cousins. It all felt unusual to him, being dragged here in a cage, being brought to Stannis Baratheon who was waging wars against many, including you. He knew a bit about you without realizing much of it, you had been married to Arya's oldest brother.

Robb Stark was King in the North, but Gendry didn't feel like he belonged anywhere in these people's lives of royalty. But that was because he didn't. It was nothing more then a trick, not knowing if it was clever or cruel. The red woman knew, sensing his inexperience and played perfectly into such a tactic. Had all of the right words, knew the right way to look at him and knew how little to wear and when to take that little amount off to make him pliable enough to not have much in him to protest.

Then she tied him up. And leeched blood from his skin as the man he then knew was his uncle came in with another. He was left to suffer there as if he meant nothing and he felt as such, used and tricked and he hated that this was the only family he had properly met. If his life depended on it, Gendry couldn't say what even it was they discussed in that room. Names passed around as the leeches filled with his blood were tossed into the burning brazier.

What Arya had described of you sounded nothing like the people your father surrounded himself with, with the uncaring dismay as if he was nothing. A mix of highborn and lowborn and all the lowborn side of him did was make him someone to be tossed away. That wasn't the way Arya made you seem, and the longer he was on Dragonstone the more he felt as if you were the enemy to Stannis Baratheon as well.

Gendry couldn't understand what kind of people his true family were, or why he at all thought he would fit into it when there was nothing but darkness and fire around it. Ultimately it was Ser Davos who enlightened him on some truths he couldn't have known. Rumours of prophecies and visions and he hated all of it. He didn't care about any of it.

He had seen Beric Dondarrian come back from death and all he recalled of the man was that he sold him to these people for gold just like everyone else. Whatever this magic in his blood was meant nothing if it's only use was to make others suffer for it.

“I met her once, in King's Landing.” The two men had been leaning against his cell bars on opposite sides as they spoke quietly. “Her and Lord Stark came to see me, asking what Lord Arryn wanted to know about me. Think maybe it took her a minute, two the most to figure out we were related. Didn't realize why she looked shocked by it until now.”

Davos huffed a laugh, “I see why, put you two side by side and I'd think you were twins. And I know if she heard what her father was doing to you, she'd be furious, her and Robb Stark both. Tried convincing Stannis to make peace, do the right thing, fight by each others side but he turned their offer down and now I have no clue how he think she'll come back to him this way.”

Arya had tried to tell him coming with her to find Robb Stark, her brother, was a good idea and maybe Gendry should've believed her when he had the chance. Because the day Ser Davos came to help him escape the island he realized what the true extent of plans for him were, and he couldn't imagine Arya trying to convince him for someone anything close to whatever this was.

So he escaped to King's Landing, only to find little for him there either. Less then little and nothing but hints of a life he would never know. His purpose wasn't on Dragonstone or in King's Landing so where in seven hells could it be?

For a while, Gendry wondered if he made the wrong call trying to figure it out on his own. Most of his life the new places he found were no control of his, sold to Tobho Mott, sold to the Nights Watch, sold to Stannis Baratheon and the red woman. But it had been the first time he chose his own path and had yet to have it knock him back for it.

If you asked him now, he would be honest and say he had no clue why he reached out to you. He was alone and had no one. He couldn't stand being in Kings Landing after knowing the truth, knowing that the remaining royal family there had wanted him dead. Living in the shadow of a father he never knew and would never live anywhere near as in luxury of.

The rest of the country was poor, hungry, torn apart from years of war but Gendry had one skill that was not exclusive to one place. So he found work wherever he could, usually around port cities as if he was too paranoid to stay too long in case someone recognized who he looked like. For the first time he realized he had to forge his own path of his own accord.

Learning that you were alive, he thought maybe he was crazy, but he'd try it anyways. He had asked around where he could get work up North until he was offered a spot on a ship heading for Barrowton and it was as far as he was going to get on his own. Writing to you made him feel like an idiot. If you were dead and the rumours were all a lie, he'd be gullible. If you were alive but didn't actually care, he'd look pathetic.

But again, he had nothing else left. So he wrote to you as discreet as he could manage, and for almost two months he spent his days the exact same way. Finding himself a usual patron of one specific tavern knowing it was the only place he described. Eventually he realized what an idiot he really was, for thinking a royal would care about any of this.

Until he walked into the tavern one day, and saw you and a young boy trying to blend in as much as possible. Reuniting with Arya however, that somehow was stranger then meeting you properly that day. Though, were he honest, it may be due in part to the way Aryas older brother would watch him when they'd interact. From what you told Gendry about Robert Baratheon, Gendry had not walked into Winterfell with his fathers reputation on his side.

He hadn't told the truth, few knew. He didn't want people to know. No good ever came of questions from highborns and he certainly didn't want people looking at him as if being Robert Baratheons son meant a damn thing. The only thing he could say however, was how much he was grateful in which that you found it incredibly easy to refuse to ever divulge his secret.

More then once he'd hear Arya try to get it out of you, and she was not quiet about doing so. Gendry was just lucky Winterfell was busy enough his eavesdropping was never noticed by her.

“I swear you are the only one who would be annoyed at not having more to do.”

You wished to roll your eyes, and they looked flat enough at Arya that she got the concept without needing a follow through on the action. If Jon was keeping you out of things before, he was certainly doing it more now. It had been over a week still since that dream, and yet he seemed to be finding new ways at forcing you to not lift a finger. “Pleasure to meet you for the first time.”

It was Arya's turn to let her face fall flat, and your smirk came about easier then her one to hide. As you worked with her out there, you were at least grateful you were stronger then her, everytime she'd try and do more heavy lifting then you, you'd be able to yank it from her. As if both of you were children but vying for the place of doing more work.

Sighing out, she moved beside you, accepting that you were going to at least share the manual labour on this occasion. “Why are you asking me and not him?”

Tilting your head to the side as you glanced at her pointedly. “Beacuse you still aren't good at not knowing when to stop talking, and Jon is an expert at it.” You knew that was a point you had her on, everytime you asked Jon what he seemed to find his mind so preoccupied with the past day or so, he would give no answer and change the subject with ease.

He knew that you knew he was avoiding the answer, but you didn't know why.

Maybe it would annoy you more if you were worried it was something you couldn't trust him for, but it was certainly more he was keeping you out of the loop of something he assumed may weigh down on you. In a strange way, it almost seemed to remind you of many years ago.

Keeping you busy and distracted with different tasks in Kings Landing so you did not know what it was your father and Jon Arryn were looking into. Yet this time it was a different Jon who was doing the work elsewhere and using Arya directly to keep you distracted instead of piling more work upon your desk.

Looking over to you, Aryas eyes squinted in thought. “How about we make a trade?” Your brows raised in question, and her answer was just as unfeasible as you thought. “I'll tell you what Jon is doing, and you tell me how you and Gendry know each other.” Face falling more flat, were such a feat even possible, Arya's shoulders dropped as did her tone, only adding an annoyed bit of a whine that made you amused in your chest. “Come on, he won't tell me and neither will you. He didn't know I was in the North, you went to Barrowton to find him, clearly you both know each other for something and don't just say you met in Kings Landing. That's not a real answer.”

Shaking your head, you turned to her, arms crossing over your chest. “Gendry won't tell you?” She shook her head no, and the lack of change in your expression annoyed her on you just as it did when Gendry gave her an identical look. “Then that is the end of that. I'm not here to share other people's secrets Arya.”

“So it's a secret then?” Your look got even more narrow, and she didn't back down. “What is with you two? You're both just as stubborn as each other, no wonder you both get on.” If you weren't so good at keeping it all very stone faced, you would have laughed. So close she was sometimes, but yet not even anywhere near finding the answer on her own.

Not that the answer was something any had reason to guess out of nowhere.

The unfortunate part, was that in your steadfast nature to take care of things for Jon anyways did you come across the thing he hadn't intended for you to know. He didn't hide things from you, not that you knew but this seemed like you came across a raven scroll in the middle of something you knew nothing about. The sigil was clear, bordered with runes and black studs within the middle of it, you knew were it not in wax it would be bronze in colour.

Jon was in the middle of a correspondence with Ser Yohn Royce of the Vale.

On it's face that seemed strange but not out of the question impossible. He knew Ned Stark during his time in the Eyrie as a ward, it wasn't as if there was nothing to connect there, but still you sat there looking over words you could read and yet did not quite understand. They clearly had been going back and forth about something for a bit of time now, and seemed to be very careful in choice of words.

Nothing about the Vale stood out to you, nothing really told you why Jon had any business there considering it's lack of effort in the war. Then again, you also seemed to be the one without knowledge of the realm anymore, and so you felt uncharacteristically stupid. Insecurity told you he was keeping things from you beacuse he thought you couldn't handle it, even though you knew that voice wasn't fair it still spoke loud as you sorted through other things for him.

Eyes trailing back to that letter, speaking about things you weren't privy to nor did it seem Jon wanted you to be. You had no right to bring up questions about keeping secrets, not a single right. But you also weren't quite sure what it was you were uneasy over. Was it really that Jon was keeping a secret, or was it that you didn't seem to be anywhere near keeping up with how much was spinning in the world around you that bothered you.

Or, more realistically the more you thought on it in the quiet that afternoon, maybe it was the wonder that bothered you the most, if you were being kept so out of the loop beacuse Jon didn't think you could handle it. How much worse at standing by a Kings side have you gotten that Jon of all people didn't think you could handle something like this anymore?

With night falling over Winterfell, you were far too in your head to notice how obvious you were being, despite trying otherwise. Standing by the window in his chambers, your attention was busy trying to stitch something of his up. Back to him, your head rose just a slightly inch at the sound of the door but your heart beat irregular in your chest, so you doubled down on keeping your eyes on what as right in front of you.

If you not turning to really look at him wasn't obvious enough, Jon knew right away something was wrong considering how you didn't move to him whatsoever. It was always a routine, you went to him to help take off the heaviest of layers and Jon playfully protested that he never gets to do the same, considering you were normally dressed down by that point. But you didn't move to him or look, and it wasn't until you caught sight of him at the corner of your eye did you realize he even was that close.

Looking over what you had organized, normally a smirk falling a tinge on his lips at how diligent you went through and sorted by importance, urgency, order, everything just like your own work but just in the right way you knew Jons mind needed it to be laid out. Instead, his eyes were wide, shining bright with something soft but worried as he flickered his gaze between his desk and you.

His own voice low and rasping as he tried to settle his own unease as to not set you off the edge further, “Anything I need to know about?” Your face twisted, trying to remain neutral but it took that effort to look normal in the first place rather then such an expression being a fixed position.

Your voice murmuring quiet gave it away perfectly. “Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow.” It wasn't angry, worried, on edge. It was a soft tone, held back akin to a whisper. A tone Jon knew too well, was when you were trying to hide something insecure. Something upset inside your mind. Since finding each other again, Jon was all too knowledgeable about when you tried to hide yourself like that from him.

His head rose, tilting as if to implore you to look over at him but you were stubborn he knew, and you were not willing to look in case he was disappointed in you. The thought made your hands work faster, coming close to pricking the skin and your jaw tensing trying to keep the choking feeling from rising in your throat. The gentle voice calling your name only making that choking feeling skip past your mouth and burrow itself right into the back of your eyes in a sting.

Head barley turning to the side to show you were listening but his warmth enveloped your back before you could sense where he was. For once, you fought between tensing and relaxing into him, as he leaned over your shoulder, resting the side of his head against yours as his hands ran down your upper arms gently. “Can you put that down for me?”

Your eyes flickering up to the night outside before sitting the leather and stitching on the open window sill. Another sign to easy for him to spot, you didn't go to gently find something of his hand or person to wrap around your front, didn't move to take advantage of how close he was to hold him. You knew he knew and he knew it too. You weren't very good at hiding this, never with him.

What were you to say? Bring up that he was keeping a secret, that would be the most hypocritical thing you would ever say or do in your life. Instead your eyes kept firm on the outside. The sky was clear, black with just a crescent moon adorning it. You could feel him leaning more to look over your shoulder, one hand leaving your arm to wrap around your stomach. Pulling you back into his chest more and still you didn't gently grasp his hand or wrist.

Jon of course, found the most blunt approach. “If you don't want to tell me what's wrong, at least tell me what I can do to make it better.” Gods, you hated how hard he made things. You wanted him to not care and this silence could continue beacuse he didn't notice. Sometimes being in love with such an attentive man was inconvenient to your insecurities.

Mumbling out, “Everything is fine.” You both knew Jon didn't believe that. Your hands itched to grab him, reach back and seek Jons touch out somewhere but your mind was too much a coward.

“You're not. I know when somethings upsetting you.” The words didn't find themselves though, you didn't want it to start a problem. You didn't want to pester him, interrogate him. You didn't want to act as if you were entitled to everything just beacuse he was kind enough to take pity and marry you. Only before you could get a lie from your lips, Jon found the roots of it himself rather quickly. “I'm not trying to keep secrets from you.”

If you could shrug in his hold you would have, eyes drifting more to the side attempting to feel anything but the uncomfortable you did. “It's alright. I understand you don't want me getting in the way.” Jon lowly said your name almost in scolding but you persisted. “I just don't know what I have to do to try and prove you I can do otherwise.”

Jon let the hand not across your stomach move up, turning your head slightly to the side so he could see you a bit better, his voice deep and something hurt behind it in cracks. “Why would you think that?”

You wanted to walk away from this conversation, you didn't want to stand here and feel so pathetic in front of him. Trying to swallow the feeling back down, it was as if the need to let tears form came out of nowhere. “Everything that's happened, you can't have me screwing things up..”

Jon felt both stiff yet ready to fall apart behind you, his voice barley a murmur as he let his thumb run gently over your cheek. “Darling,” You shook your head but Jon only pulled you in tighter to his hold. “I don't know where you're getting this from, but that's not what this is, not even close.”

You couldn't really tell, but Jon certainly was realizing that something in you was blowing this way out of proportion.

Running a thumb from what he could of your scar over your dress, Jon rasped low behind you once more, almost in your ear. “All your life you run around trying to do everything for everyone, but now it can be different. Those men out there,” Head somewhat nodding to the open window before you, “They're the ones who called me King in the North. They look to me to lead them. But you're my Queen.”

In honest, your heart skipped a beat. You really hadn't ever head Jon say it so blatantly. It was like that with Robb, you both referring to each other as such as a way to get used to it alone and it almost turned into using it as endearments alone with one another. But you hadn't truly heard such a sentence so blunt from Jon before.

“I didn't want to marry you so you could do my job for me. I wanted to marry you, make you my wife, not because I wanted a Queen, but beacuse you're the only girl I've ever wanted. I don't care what other people think a King and Queen should be like. This is my kingdom to protect, but you're my wife. Which means it's also my duty to take care of you, not add to your stress more.” Only slightly, did your hands just barley lift up. Finding the bravery to move to him.

Not anything much, not even pushing the sleeve of his forearm up to feel his pulse. Just lightly sitting atop the material as you indescribably leaned back into him, Jon pulling you closer with every shift you didn't realize you made. Part of you wanted to deflect, wanted to obsess, but what came out of your mouth was the most honest of what rawness lay behind you. What Maege was trying to tell you not to do.

Softly, you spoke with a bit less weight in your throat. “No one actually believed Margaery Tyrell loved my Uncle Renly, no one believed when she went on to say she loved Joffery. Everyone knows she's faking. Doing what she has to, beacuse she wants to be the Queen. So everyone believes the lie that she's this innocent maiden falling for Kings and doing her duty. Everyone knows it's all an act to be Queen.” It was hard to focus on not looking at him, but the frown twisting into Jons face was deep.

The last thing he wanted, was for you to worry about what the North thinks of you. The last thing his people thought, was that you only did things to be Queen. He knows you and Robb loved each other beacuse anytime those years are brought up everyone is honest about how much you two were in love.

Jon also knew, everyone from one end of the North to the other was well aware of how deeply Jon felt for you. He didn't hide it for a second, he didn't want too. His came back to life beacuse of you, and not once did he hide the fact that it was you he laid his affections onto. Jon didn't have to lie anymore beacuse the threats lording over him didn't matter in this new life. Everyone knew, everyone talked about how much Jon had staked his claim.

But you continued despite the loud yelling in his head. “I grew up on Dragonstone, spent years in Kings Landing. I'm practically a foreigner compared to these people, and marrying the second King in the North looks as if I seduced my way back in.”

You could feel that tear in your heart and you hated that you didn't know why things felt so messy in your mind, or why the entrancing rasp of Jons deep voice lulled you back to something grounding as if he had bewitched you. “If you recall, I'm the one who tore all your clothes off that night, not the other way around.” Slowly, a fluster grew in your mind and radiated through an embarrassed look you tried to hide, but it only made Jon grin.

The small huffing breath was as much of a laugh as Jon was going to get, but his grip was softening a slight bit around you, easing up as you relaxed a bit in his touch. More life finding your voice then one at all. “I care about these people, I don't want them thinking I'm not doing everything I can to protect them.”

Thumb running back and forth still, not moving from your scar over the fabric as if he could rub a hole into it feel it with his bare touch. “Maybe I should call our men into court, let them know I can't seem to get my wife to stop trying to do everything and anything every moment of the day. Ask them how to force you to relax.”

Muttering quiet, you weren't judgmental but an honesty that simply was as sounding. “Jon, I'm fairly certain you've given Arya more responsibilities then you've given me since she's been back.”

Dropping down to someone rather monotone, Jon was so calm saying it you could almost forget what it took for her to even get back to him, like no time had passed. “That's beacuse if I don't give Arya something to do, she'll start chewing on the furniture trying to figure it out herself.” That got a real laugh, a light breathy one that lit you heart up a bit, and had Jons explode within the confines of his scarred chest. Moving close to somewhat nuzzle against the side of your head Jon debated turning you in his arms entirely. “After everything done, trying to burn it all to nothing...we still have a lot of work to do on top of that to make sure we're ready for winter. Gives her a chance to feel a bit more at home after all these years. Helping to fix it. But winter is coming, and that's how you're helping me. On the only fight that matters. That's where I need you.”

Nodding firmly, your fingers pushed his sleeves up just enough to run along his wrist, pulse always strong ever since it flushed back to life that night. Jon pressed a gentle kiss just under your ear in response, letting his lips linger as you muttered, “I don't know why I've been like this. As if the past week I feel one extreme to another, and no reason to explain why.”

If Jon had his own answer, it seemed he kept it to himself in the notable silence. Lips gently trailing down your neck, eyes fluttering just as a shiver ran down your spine in tandem. Both of Jons hands moving to smooth up and down the fabric at your hip to your waist. Kiss increasing in need, leaving small bites as he would lick and kiss the skin to soothe it. His facial hair scratching it's way raw that called to you for more, the feeling. Barley muttering in between presses of his lips along your now slowly marking up neck, “I don't need a reason to take care of you.” Moving up to rasp in your ear, you bit your lip at the sensation across your skin. “Will you let me take care of you? Right now?”

Eyes flickering up to the clear sky and with a nod of your head, Jon exhaled in relief. Hands at your sides now sliding across, undoing the belt and clasps at your abdomen keeping your dress all together, moving your hands away from his if you tried to help. You both hadn't commented, that you seemed to have more and more dresses added to your closet. Light and ornate designs that only someone who knows you as Jon does, could tell a seamstress to make.

They were all light in tones, or just the right greys and blacks that it was as if they were made to match certain looks on Jon himself. They also, you knew both of you weren't saying, were incredibly easy to undo. Laughably simple to pull off, and not much room underneath for layers. A silky, short shift if nothing at all but covering between your legs.

As soon as the dress came loose at the front, Jon pulled all of it off from his place behind you, letting it toss to the side without much care as to where it landed. Only, Jon wasted no time pushing the thin straps of your shift down your arms. Letting it drop right to the ground and shoved the last fabric covering you down just as quick. Leaving you bare, your own breathing making your chest heave in a lit spark of nerves.

Not for a second it seemed, did Jon care at all that he was stripping you bare in front of his open window. He didn't even move you from it, just let his hands wander until they reached your breasts. Both hands rough as they grasped a handful, groping roughly before Jons fingers slipped to run over the small buds on your breasts until they were firm for him to twist and tug as each cry from you made him all the harder.

Still, Jon didn't move you into the privacy of his own room. He didn't care. If anything, he almost seemed to step ever so subtly forward. As if he wanted you to be set on display for the gods watching from above. His teeth rougher as he marked your neck up. His breathing hot and heavy in you neck and you leaned back into his touch with meek cries of need. “Jon-”

One hand slipping down to your hip, that time it was a push forward no doubt. Your front pressed against the stone of his window, slipping to sit just low enough his fingertips only just stretched across your mound. The hand on your breast sliding up, tenderly running along your neck and turning you to the side enough he could see you even if you couldn't see him.

Voice rough as he didn't move to touch you any further, but kept you bare between him and the window, the beg in your mind that no one but the gods could see you. “Someone has been spying on us.” Your breath hitched, but not in a pleasant way.

You knew this time, there was no underlying meaning or intent in his words. This time he meant it.

“Someone has been giving information about what we're doing, where we are. And whoever these people are, are why the Brotherhood found you. They had spies looking for you.” Your hands reached up more, grasping tighter against his forearm as if needing to steady yourself but Jon ran his thumb along your cheek and jaw soothingly, voice lower then before. “I didn't tell you, beacuse if it weren't true I didn't want you to worry beacuse I was paranoid. But I'm not being paranoid.”

Inhaling deeply, you tried to steady your heart. Relax into his touch. Focus on his voice and maybe it would ease the feeling in you that screamed. Voice hardly there, but Jon always heard you. “Why would anyone care what we're doing in the North?”

Lips gently found your neck, pushing your hair out of his way and his hand slid to your collarbones and lower neck, as if to keep you steady against him in your unease. Murmuring in your ear, “Letting me call you a Snow, didn't stop you from being Stannis Baratheons daughter. And being a bastard doesn't mean my father wasn't Eddard Stark..”

What else needed to be said, really? A dangerous couple to the eyes of an enemy it seemed. Snow in name, Stark and Baratheon in blood and in control of the largest portion of land in Westeros, best suited for surviving winter. That, and no doubt, whispers that the King in the North had managed to ally himself with wildlings would certainly not be unsubstantial of a threat.

But Jon was still attached to your neck, as if he couldn't decide if he wanted you to be distracted or couldn't stop himself anyways. Now having switched to soft, soothing kisses against the bites and marks he was just gifting to you. A cool sheen of air left chilling on your skin everytime he moved along, from how much he purposely soothed the wounds he felt desperate to create.

Hand low on your body, his grip seemed to grow harsher, like he was torn on what to do all over again yet he put himself into this situation. You however, had no control of informing him of it, all you could do, was try and lean into his kiss along your neck, hand reaching back to grasp the back of his neck as your own nails dug into the skin in need. Slipping without thought, Jon let his hand now properly press against your mound, teasing the want to slip down and feel you entirely.

Stuttering breaths through your words you managed to force out a question. “Is- is that what Ser Royce was writing to you about?” A hum in Jons throat almost showed he was hardly listening beyond surface level hearing. “I read the raven, I wasn't trying to pry I didn't realize he was writing to you in private-”

Surprising you, Jon moved to cover your mouth with his hand, sliding his lips up to your ear with a roughness in his voice that shook you from the chills it left. “Remember when I told you not to mention your father when I had you in my bed?” Nodding yes slowly, Jon bit at your ear and tugged you back into him, not bothering to hide that time you could feel how hard he was. “I don't think I like hearing you talk about any man when I have you like this..”

Finding your eyes as you tried to look back, a more narrow look that spoke far too many jesting volumes then Jon wanted, he pulled back a bit. Eyes darker and darker as he tilted his head at you, narrowed brows. “Don't.”

Jon knew you far too well, instead of giving you the slightest chance of gaining an upper teasing hand, Jon finally slid his hand down between your legs. A growl in his chest right away realizing how wet you were and how long he hadn't been feeling it. Narrowing his expression more, he almost looked disapproving if you couldn't have felt his covered cock twitch against the plush of your ass.

Running his fingers along, he never truly committed to a touch, just fleeting brushes until your head spun and legs shook. Core burning in desire but Jon wouldn't let your mouth free now, not risking hearing you take your chance to rile him up more, so you stood, and endured and wished you could beg him for more.

Watching over your shoulder now, Jon muttered rough as he kept his eyes trailed with greed down your body. “Gods, you're beautiful..” An embarrassed whine flushed in your chest and tried to get smothered before Jon heard it, but he felt it. A far more chaste kiss then you could handle was pressed to your cheek as he finally gave you something. Sliding two fingers inside you, slow and steady but sinking right down to the knuckle as you gasped into his palm.

Never picking any pace up, just slowly letting his fingers glide in and out of you, no doubt soaking his hand every time as you felt yourself grow wetter around him. Leaning more against you each time, Jon rumbled deep in his chest as he looked down between your legs just as you wanted to hide against him at the sight and sound.

Muttering quietly, and nowhere near as rough as you expected, “I'm going to give you three. I know you can handle that, but I want you to shake your head no if you can't handle anymore. If you can't handle four.”

Eyes sealing shut for a moment, your core twisted and burned both at the twisting desire in you but at the overwhelming thought. How Jon wanted you to give him permission to ruin you further then he already has many times over. You nodded, but he called your name gently to look at him. Nodding slowly for yes, it was his turn to let a more shaking breath out as he looked at you.

Slowly, he pulled his hand away from your mouth, sliding his two fingers out of you first. “Sit down on the bed for me.”

Sometimes, you felt as if it should be shameful the way you never questioned him, never disobeyed any gentle command or order. As if you didn't want anything he did to you, to only be a suggestion. You'd let him do anything, and you wanted him to do everything he wanted.

Peeling enough layers off as you gently sat at the edge of the bed, your eyes instantly scoured his chest finding the very scars you never could stop seeing everytime you looked at him. A reminder of how you two were even able to be here, be together. Pants the only thing he kept on, Jon gently knelt down in front of you. Palms gently running along your thighs before letting one hand reach up to cup the back of your neck, and the other at your waist. Pulling you down to his lips into a kiss, your own hands cupping his cheeks.

A single bite to your bottom lip, and you granted him access. His tongue sliding into your mouth to freely taste yours, brush against your own and overwhelm you as he leaned up more to crowd you without actually letting you lay against the furs. It wasn't greedy or even overwhelming. But slow and careful, wanting to explore you as much as he coaxed you to explore his mouth right back until a high pitched whine sat in your throat from how long he kept you against his lips. Still, Jon refused to pull away. You knew, Jon wanted you to have that dizzy feeling when he kept you like this for so long.

Your arms wrapped more around his neck and shoulders, grasping along his back as he held your waist with more firm of a grip. Keeping you steady but unable to move against his own strength, you cried into his kiss but he smoothed his hand along your hair.

As if to keep you nice and calm as he refused you the air he seemed to find only in your kiss.

Ever so slowly, Jon moved from your waist. Running down along to your stomach where he ran his thumb over your scar as much as he could and then finally down again more. Spreading your knees apart better for him, Jon first trailed your own wetness up along to your clit. Jumping into his touch, he still didn't let you leave his kiss. Your nails scratching into his back by now, but it was as if that only spurred him on more.

It was cruel, how much Jon wanted you to rely on him for even just air to breathe.

Your core twisted right away, a burning coil that begged to burn bright until it took you over and nothing was left. Tight, tough circles against you and only when Jon would rub you a tad more raw did he go back to gather more. Tensing and tensing, you begged into his lips and finally did he pull away.

His timing even more cruel, leaving your lips right as your orgasm snapped inside of you. Gasping for air just as a plead of his name left you, saliva still trailed between your lips as Jon kept his grip at the back of your neck so that you couldn't lean away from him. Not even coming down, Jon slid his two thick fingers right back inside you as if that's where they belonged.

A rasp against your lips, feeling his brush against yours as he spoke. “It's alright, let me take care of you.” Nodding as you found his eyes, the grey wide and blown out against his pupils with lips still parted slightly as he looked at you. Smoothly he slide his fingers deep inside of you, pulling close to almost leaving you empty before just as slow, gliding right back.

Building it right back up, more and more you wanted to tell him to give you something else, but not once did you take away how much you trusted his touch without any doubt. Nails digging into his shoulders, gasps finally breached your lips and the moment you felt unable to contain your needing cries did Jon slide a third inside of you.

Eyes watching you with every sharp detail, your hips moved against him as your mouth parted in a gasp in between pain and pleasure. Right at that middle point you could handle. Asking low, but his eyes somehow were bright, something soft and genuine without that greed or lust taking over. Something more of affection as Jon pressed a chaste kiss to your lips and rasped, “Can I give you a fourth?”

You paused in your need trying to clear the fog in your head long enough to form words. Trying to speak through what felt like pants for air, your forehead pressed against his. “Anything you want, I promise. Do whatever you want to me..”

Jons own eyes closed. An exhale wavering as he still slid three fingers against your slick walls, right against something so sensitive it kept your nails digging into his shoulders. Another kiss to your lips, then to your cheek Jon whispered tenderly, “Don't give me permission like this..there's a lot I want to do to you, things I shouldn't..”

Shaking your head, your cries fighting with your words, trying to almost sob out the words against wanting to beg his name. “Anything, Jon..anything you want..” What was almost worse, was that Jon knew you meant it. It's why over a week ago, you gave Jon full permission to fuck you even as you passed out. Letting him do whatever he wanted, fill you as much as he wanted.

Judging by how utterly coated the inside of your thighs were by morning, you suspected Jon had taken you many more times then he was willing to admit. It was why knew he could convince you on that night with- his own thoughts interrupted at the feeling of your gentle touch. Moving to run your hands along his facial hair, Jon finally moved. Sliding a fourth finger inside and you cried out loudly.

There was the pain, the burning at the stretch as he sunk deep but your eyes sealed shut didn't mean you pulled away. Instead arching into him, hiding in his neck with his name a mantra on your lips. Jons fingers filing you slowly and as deep as he could manage, drenching his hand and the fur below with each glide and your teeth trying to keep calm with bites into his neck as if you had nothing else.

Whispering into your hair though, Jon told you the truth. “I want a daughter.” Tied between the cry as he brushed against your sensitive walls, tightening in your core at the feeling but a lightness in your heart there wasn't an insincere shred in Jons intention. His voice, was more solid and gentle as it had been since he walked into his chambers. Running his hand down your hair once more, “Anything I want, that's what you said. I told you I'd give you a son, and I will, but I want a daughter too.”

There was nothing on earth that would make you refuse that for him. Not now. Nodding your head yes, you leaned up to meet his lips. Nothing but a gentle press before he leaned over you, your back pressed into the fur as he kissed down your body. The cry as he pulled his fingers out replaced in an instant as he pulled your hips up to meet his mouth.

A grunt left his chest as his eyes closed. Tongue flat against you, soaking everything already there before adjusting his grip, keeping you slightly above the fur better for his own taste. What of your upper back still lay against the bed, your arms stretched out above you. Grasping tightly at the fur, as you felt powerless to resist how he moved you. Soaking you as much as you soaked his mouth, Jon drank and drank this time no shame in how greedy he wanted to be about it.

A cry leaving your lips, skin flushed with sweat and eyes wanting to water you were crawling towards your end once more, his tongue warm as everything else about him was and you let a choking sob leave you just as Jon groaned. You soaked his tongue even further, and tugging you more into his mouth you were sure Jon might just keep you this way all night if he could.

White hot and burning, you whimpered his name and swimming deep in your bloodstream was our orgasm as he licked deep inside, to flat along your core and up to nibble at your clit. Back arching you cried as it flashed in your body and overtook your muscles, the pleasure burning through you like a fever and Jon didn't let go.

Didn't ease up, just kept going and going. One more came, then another, Jon never leaving your cunt once for air, his mouth desperate to stay attached and drink from your oasis with fervour. Hands moving from your hips up, one pushed down on your lower stomach right against your scar as the other pushed up your torso and grasped at your breast, needing the softness while you held with weakness onto his wrist and arched again into him.

Muttering with no breathe left, “Jon, I can't, it's..please..I want you inside me..you-” Cutting yourself off first, you flew too close to the sun as your orgasm teased you on his tongue. His tough pressing down on your scar more as if prompting you.

When you hesitated, Jon barley pulled from your cunt to mutter against you. “Tell me what you want, darling.”

It felt embarrassing to ask for, but you had no control over saying it. “Please, please fill me..you promised to give me a- please..”

Only, Jon pulled you down to one more orgasm, your cry loud and back arching as Jon licked along your walls and up to your clit and everything in between he tasted, like a heaven. Jon muttered words against you, something short and by the grip on your hips, incredibly possessive, but against your cunt it was inaudible to any ears but him.

Forcing himself up, Jon captured your lips with his. Sloppy and messy he made you taste what turned him into a possessed man to taste any time he thought of it. Hands gripping your hips Jon pressed you into the bed unable to move as he hovered above you.

He still had one thing left on, that his cock was utterly throbbing behind. Pulling back, the saliva snapping as you both watched one another wide eyed and gasping. Kneeling up, Jon watched you lean against your palms to follow. Neither one blinking as he pulled everything left off of him with ease, cock thick and desperate to cum as it was between his legs.

You weren't even sure what was thicker. Four of his own fingers, or his red, leaking cock all on it's own. Too bad for Jon, you were taught to be quick by himself and sometimes you were sneakier then him.

Moving enough down the bed without giving up the leverage you sat slightly up against, before he could tell what you were doing, you leaned forward. Taking his cock into your mouth, and having the shameless audacity to moan as he deepened inside your throat.

Hand grasping the back of your hair, Jon swore as his teeth grit together in a hiss. Eyes slamming closed, but his lungs stopped working at how swift you were to let him more into your mouth. Licking what you could reach and only pulling back what you could from your angle, sucking with your own need as you did so.

Head dropping, Jon panted above you, chest heaving as he barley found the strength to watch. “Fuck..darling..fuck-” Growling deep, you felt his hand tighten. Instinctively, Jon felt you take as much as you could, and forced you there. Held you right against the coarse wild hair around his cock, not letting you up as you soaked around him. That time, Jon struggled to let you pull away, wanting to see you but he knew he'd spill down your throat the moment he did. Your mouth was too much to handle, Jon would fuck your small throat until your voice was ruined the next day if you'd let him. He'd do nearly anything to you by this point if it came up.

Were Jon not hurling closer and closer to cumming down your throat, he may have found it in him to feel ashamed at just what he was willing to do to you in this new life. How much of a perverse animal he wanted to treat you as despite knowing it was all tied deeply with how obsessed with you he felt, obsessed with loving you felt.

Jon pitied any version of his life that was once possible to not have you in.

Throbbing in your mouth, you moaned as much as your heart raced at him being so deep but before even Jon realized, he hissed dark in nothing but swears and your name slurred in as he held your hair tightly. Spilling down your throat, you swallowed everything despite how much his warm, thick seed had you muffled gags trying to take it all.

Keeping his cock in your mouth until he felt the last of his seed spill in and without wasting another moment, Jon pulled you off of him. Akin to anger on his face, Jon moved to hover over your body proper. Hands shoving your knees apart so you spread wide for him.

For a moment, Jon only eyed your soaking cunt, his chest heaving at the sight. Crawling above your body, Jon grasped your hands, pressing them flat beside either side of your head as he intertwined your fingers with his. Grey barley visible against the black in his eyes, and his hair still up meant you couldn't hide anywhere from the way he stared down at you. A whisper as if he couldn't speak much more, “Wrap your legs around me.”

Nodding, Jon waited rather patiently until he could feel your ankles hook around one another keeping you to him as he kept you pressed against the furs. One slow push, and he sunk deep without any resistance. Your name falling from his lips, and honestly, as much as your mind was a haze only feeling and seeing Jon, he was the same.

Were he not the man he was in this life, it would have been embarrassing how quickly he once more spilled inside of you. But you were so soaking wet around him, so tight but so smooth as your cunt was designed by the gods for his cock. Filling you, Jon didn't lose a bit of it, and slowly begun to slide in and out of you. Muscles shaking before his orgasm even stopped, he still begun to drag his cock along your walls.

Your hands held his tightly, head thrown back into the furs as you cried out. “Oh fuck, I love you,”

Jons head tilted, eyes pleading with you but he kissed you as gentle as his cock slid almost out of you before he gave up and fucked right back before getting two thirds of the way out. Nodding against you, you tried to keep up but Jon had you at his mercy, and you knew you needed to let him do it. His voice clear as he kissed you, then your cheek and murmured against it. “You have no idea how much I love you..no idea..” Clenching around his cock, Jon picked up his pace.

The slap of his skin against yours begun to fill your ears and you cried out one more, and Jon let it make him pound into you faster just to hear it all louder. Refusing to ease the pace as the slapping was so steady it would've been heard by anyone outside his still open window.

Everyone outside of it would hear how Jon takes you, and how long it went on for. Which was more then you imagined, or guessed. Once more, Jon knew he came shamelessly quick the second he felt your orgasm surround him. Soaking him, and almost begging to pull his cock inside of you deeper, Jon filled you as much as you came around him. Meeting ends for one another but Jon didn't stop. Just fucked and fucked, pounded roughly inside of you where no second wasn't air consisting of a crackling fire, your gasps and begs of Jons name, growling from none other then himself and the cruel, fast, slap of Jons hips against yours as he fucked you.

It didn't matter how often he spilled inside of you. But in that room, you didn't know that.

Walking through Winter Town with little guard wasn't quite the option most were happy with, but you knew the more with you the more attention it would draw in the first place. Which was why you were the one sent. Ser Davos walked beside you as the crowds in the streets were more full even in the snow then you'd ever seen it, you only wish you could enjoy it. “I mean no offence, but if he's trying to be discreet, seems odd to not send someone with a low profile instead of me and you, your grace.”

A ways off, you could see Ghost trailing about the streets. Not unusual, not now, to see the King in the Norths direwolf wandering about the castle and it's town but what wasn't normal, was Ghost following you from street to street as you made your way. Keeping an eye on you was one thing, but in a strange manner it felt as if he was purposely following you without commands to do so.

A long time it had been since you were around this part of the town. Like many buildings, nothing of it stuck out in particular but any who was aware of it's inner contents would know it by sight even in the dark. Your voice fell quiet, answering Davos's original point. “He knows it will draw attention all the same, the point wasn't to be discreet. It was to not cause a stir more then he has too. I walk in here, and there are very few who would make that assumption, all things considered. But, If Jon goes himself-”

Davos finished the thought for you, coming to an understanding light on his voice. “All anyone's going to talk about is what the King in the North does and goes in his spare time.”

You nodded once, and as the sounds increased the closer you both got, the more obvious that became to him. How much it would stand out indeed, to see Jon, their honourable King, for any reason walking into a brothel. It wasn't a large building by any means, small and limited with what was right out there as most activities likely done in rooms alone, not so much out in the open here.

Curious greetings of “Your Grace” came from the girls still out and about, but you had only one you were here to find. Whatever other eyes just might be in here, couldn't be what you cared about at that moment. That was a worry later. Up by what seemed to be a display like that of a tavern, behind the small counter was a face that went from the normal bright and sweetness most girls would give to any clientele, to something a bit more serious, if not nervous.

Light brown hair in natural curls were pulled mostly behind her and she, even in the cold, was dressed far more warm and covered up then the others. She seemed, to be the one who wander ins and new comers would speak too, in charge in some manner, but she didn't strike you as the kind to find a life on her choice to wrangle whores in their employ.

Approaching, your face changed little in the stiffness given, not much given away in expression or posture, as Ser Davos looked rather unaffected. Which wasn't much of a surprise, the kind of people and life he once used to associate with, this was likely nothing. In her, there was a roughness as if putting on such a pleasant tone wasn't her norm anymore. “My Queen, what a lovely surprise, is there something we can do for you?”

Ser Davos to your left was glancing around the room with his own watchful eyes, allowing you to turn yours to speak softly in the lack of eyes on you other then curiosity. “I've been told you have a girl in your..” Searching for a moment in your head of the appropriate word. “..employ, which has matters she would like to bring to my attention.”

That time, she was the one to look at the other girls in the room before leaning forward a bit across the wooden counter. “I do, my Queen..me...” Your lack of shifting expression seemed to put her a bit more on edge, but you knew here of all places was not where the mask should slip. Asking for her name, indeed she was the one. “Daisy.”

Turning to Ser Davos, he raised an eyebrow and your eyes narrowed in thought almost as a silent discussion. The man thinking to himself, sometimes it was amusing, how little you and Stannis realized that you conveyed the same things in the exact same silent manner. “We don't mean to interrupt your business, if there's somewhere the Queen can sit and talk that isn't preoccupied.”

You almost turned your head slowly to give him the briefest of jesting glances in your eye, but instead the unsure ones on Daisy in front of you kept your focus. She nodded quickly, “Of course, if you would follow me,” Not leaving to any of the other rooms proper, Daisy led you down the hall.

A stretch of rooms that only working girls ever would go into, kitchens, up keeps, things of the sort that men in need of a quick tangle did not care to walk passed. At the end there was a small turn in the hall to a room on the end, one clearly used for any non working girls, which was taken up by an array of things well lived in.

There wasn't much in it, no windows of course, but a small fire lit with a few candles around to keep it from being too grim. Pulling a chair out, she walked to one edge of the room to a cabinet, once more a voice of high politeness flowing from it. “Is there anything I can get you, my Queen?”

Slowly, you pulled off the white fur around you, draping it gently along the edge of the chair as you looked around the room, still not much of a change in expression. “No need to go out of your way.”

You knew she was on edge, but trying to tell her to settle wouldn't help. Taking a seat near a small table, you asked Ser Davos to give you the room. You could sense her anxiety from here. The girl was nervous and she had good reason to be.

What she was risking by doing this.

It was that morning hours earlier as some of the pieces came together. Ser Yohn Royce had been the one to reach out to Jon all of his own accord first. Trying to be diplomatic in how he expressed things, but Jon had picked up on it quickly, the feeling like there were things not being said in the raven scroll. So back and forth they had gone for a bit, trying to find the root of what Ser Royce wanted to say without risking too much and spelling it out in black and white.

There was something he thought Jon should know. Arya questioned it as the small group of you stood in Maester Wolkan's study, most around the desk looking at the records of every raven passing through these walls was kept. You were alone by the window, arm crossed over your stomach to prop your elbow up as your nails dug into your lip. Pacing back and forth in thought trying to put the same connections together Jon was.

“Why reach out to you now? Why not earlier, they didn't do anything during the war why would they want to help us now?”

Jons hands perched on the desks, tensing and retensing as he tried not to glance up at your silence in concern, keeping focus on what was right in front of him here. “Ser Royce isn't Lord of the Vale. If he's going against their wishes then he has to be careful. More obvious he makes it that he's reaching out to me, the more danger it might put him in.”

Arya's face twisting, not trusting quite yet. “But why now? The Vale refused to help Robb during the war, why does he care about us now?”

Your own expression grimaced, glancing over to the group with a quieter tone then the rest of them debated in, but Jons eyes trailed up to you instantly, catching the rest of their focuses. “It isn't their fault. They were kept in the Vale from day one, they weren't allowed to leave.” Arya asking why and you widened your eyes for only a moment as you considered how to phrase it without sounding too judgmental. “Robin was too young then to make any decisions, meaning Lysa was doing it for him. Not exactly what I could consider a..fair choice of a ruler, Lysa.” Glancing to Arya with a tilt of your head, “She was your aunt, but she was a far bit more then what some might call a touchy woman.”

None in the room, the two wolves, nor Maester Wolkan, Ser Davos knew what you were talking about. Not quite as directly, but Theon certainly did. He knew as well as you what the story was Catelyn had reunited with Robb telling of her sister. He, did not quite hold back the same way your low tones were. “Woman was out of her mind.” Head turning, Theons name scolding from you quick and short but he didn't give up his position. “What, you want me to tell them all about what Lady Catelyn told us? All that weird stuff?”

If you weren't so deep in puzzled thoughts, you might have laughed in a sheer awkwardness. No, no you did not want to hear any of that retold. You had seen some of that yourself when you both lived in Kings Landing. Horrible thought as it was, but at least she wasn't there anymore to still force Robin Arryn into all that strange nonsense. He'd be a teenager now, and the disgust was not quite hidden on your expression.

Many of you had bits of a story that came together to start forming an image that none knew what was supposed to look like. Some names Jon had, and two of which were to be watched carefully but it was a third, that he needed you to be the one to go speak to her.

“She's the only one Ser Royce said is willing to help. Knows who the others are.” There was too much at stake the rest of the North was risking, Jon did not have the time to dedicate to painstakingly root out who was watching and why. Whatever ploys were being set in his home, he wasn't tolerating. Not now.

Not with him. After what he did. Because as soon as Wolkan said who it was Lysa had been married to just before she died, you knew right away it was his eyes watching you and Jon.

You just did not have the information to understand why yet.

The air outside was crisp as it was cold as you stepped into the streets, and it felt a relief stinging across your face to feel it. Having asked him to give some privacy, both Ser Davos approached you as did the now quiet and much closer waiting Ghost. The direwolf finding your side much closer, a rumble in him when your gloved hand ran along the fur by his ears before the three of you made your leave. Speaking quietly, you didn't bother tip toeing around the subject. “I'm sending her to your Keep in Cape Wrath.”

Glancing in question, Ser Davos sounded a bit taken back. “Your grace?”

Eyes trailed firmly on the snow your feet would walk across to get back to Winterfell, your tone as flat but heavy in something disguised away from disturbed as possible. “I'm presuming her previous profession won't be an issue for Marya, considering the company her husband keeps. She can be a maid, work in the kitchens, something safe, something out of sight. But I can't have her here, and I cannot just send her anywhere. I need to send her someplace she will be safe. Somewhere Petyr Baelish has no allies.”

Walking in quiet, Ser Davos found no protest in him. “What did she tell you?”

Late into the night, it was odd, discussing it for the first time with someone who knew exactly what it was like. Jon would try and explain it as best he could, but there was nothing comprehensive about how it felt to walk within Ghosts mind as if they both existed together, both walked together. Sitting by the fire, Jon and Arya found solace in their new found strangeness not being only them.

“I thought I was dreaming of Nymeria at first, but then I kept dreaming, and it felt like I was controlling it but I didn't understand why it felt so real.” Her eyes staring off into the fire, the quiet between them needed no further explanation. “Then one day, I was walking the streets, and I found myself..I knew then I wasn't dreaming.”

Still hard for Jon to believe that Arya had been all the way in Bravvos. Even harder to believe what she was there doing, the things she learned. Then again, he knew he had seven open scars littered about his torso that also was hard to believe. “That's how you were able to see, you used a cat?” Arya nodded, and Jon almost smiled at his impress. It was incredibly clever, really.

He hadn't brought it up to her much, or anyone but it slipped out with a surprising ease. “When I died, I was in Ghosts mind.” Arya's eyes bright, yet trying to hold back the wavering in them at the image she thankfully never saw. “I was in his mind the whole time until I came back.”

Your name slipped from Arya's mouth, “How do you know she brought you back? If you were in Ghosts mind, maybe you were always going to come back.” Jon knew she didn't mean it in offence, but it was hard for any to grasp. The way you and him came back to the world of the living.

Eyes flickering to the flames head, Jon could recall it vividly. “I felt it. I know it was her. I came back and she was all that mattered, almost as if I'd be lost again if I didn't see her..and now..now more then ever I know it was her.” Arya asking quietly after a beat of silence if he was sure, but Jons jaw clenched as he nodded once knowing it wasn't that which she was asking about.

“And she doesn't know?” Again, Jon only had one response, but that time it was a shake of his head in a no. “Why not tell her?”

That however, was something he knew he couldn't properly explain, not to Arya, not to you even, it was simply something dark trapped in Jons head that he needed to figure out on his own. But right now wasn't the time, not with what had to be done, the next few weeks. Voice rasping out roughly, “It's not that simple for her. If I tell her before she's ready..”

He knows he'd feel as if he'd be pressuring you. And Jon didn't want to do that, but eventually you both were going to have to add this to the list of things needed to be dealt with. But not yet, there was no need to rush into this. The North didn't have much time, but it had enough for this.

Even after Arya left to sleep, Jon stayed there for a while. Eyes on the fire. Connecting everything else in his mind, finding the conclusion before even standing up to make his way to his chambers. It all connected, except for the why. He knew the who, what, when and how. But the why? He still hadn't the last piece.

Creeping slowly into his chambers, it almost was enough to freeze him on the spot. It always was when he'd have the chance to see it. Laid out gently on top of the furs of his bed, it seemed you tried to stay awake long enough for him but fell asleep before being able to climb into the bed proper. Now, you laid out, comfortable and more peaceful then any given hour of the waking day.

The only time anymore, you looked truly innocent and all Jon could do was feel his muscles tensing up as he tried to move around the room quietly. If he looked back on himself ten years ago, this wouldn't be an image he'd even dream of on his worst nights. Yet you lay here in his bed, as his wife, and even worse for him now, Jon knowing he had the freedom of your permission, to act on just how hard your innocent, slumbering body made him. Without having the guilt of needing to wake you up for him.

Making his way around to the front of his bed, the shame of what an animal he had become, as he was undoing the laces on his shirt. Only, he could feel the cold air of the room on his torso. It shouldn't have been any colder then normal, fire blazing, the windows firmly shut only it was cold in the room, yet it was freezing. And something rang inside Jons mind instantly, the last time such cold surrounded somewhere you were like this. That was, until his eyes turned white.

White flew everywhere. It covered the ground, the air, it flew along you hair, skin anything exposed in such bitter cold that held no escape. But that wasn't it's only form. Standing tall next to you, almost in such a place, he stood in it's full true capability of height taller then you. Fur white enough that it seemed as if the snow storming around didn't effect it.

Red eyes keener then yours and could cut through what you could not, whatever begged Ghost to stand here was not just the direwolf you knew in waking life. Eyes intense as he was quiet, but you could not discern it here, not in this place. Too well you knew what having Ghost at your side felt like, but this was not that feeling.

But you both were here anyways, and despite the sights ahead only storm, it was further you walked. Silhouette's followed like none which stood on the icy earth. Which was which there was no way to know, but a man and a woman shadowed against the cliffs around you in shapes almost like ice dancing in a dark sky reflection.

Taller then the man, hair flowing as if on fire but in a place you knew it could not survive. Moving along the two figures with a strange grace the man could not. Yet in place of walking, was an embrace, something close and almost akin to loving should it not be a freezing image swept away in the winds as your eyes squinted to look at it.

Stopping in your steps, Ghost turned to look at you. Once more eyes intense and speaking emotions as if a thousand more words were in his mind then only a direwolf knew. Urging you to follow him, stay forward, to not let yourself wander away or behind. Not in this place.

Lips and skin turning the slightest shade of blue, you did not know how it worked. Why you could walk here and survive when none else has known too. Ghost was of the north, it made sense, but you? The Sight should not give you new skin to endure the freezing cold. No normal man could, and having visions forced upon your eyes and dreams did not make you anything special. Not even death.

Did the cold lands of winter go on forever? Was the comments of exile at the end of the world so drastically wrong about the Wall? None truly knew how far it went and no one had ever gone this far and lived to return with it's details. So why did your feet walk through the snow now?

Bumping into Ghost he had turned so swiftly in the whiteness around that you hadn't seen until your hands braced against this thick fur. Still on four feet, he looked to the distance and a low growl vibrated through him all the way into your hands and veins throughout. Keeping you behind him almost but whatever caught his attention you could not see. “Ghost..” Your voice was barley a mumble in the freezing.

The direwolf did not turn to your voice, but you felt not his paws or claws, but a hand rough yet gentle dance as a phantom along you hair by the side of your head. Nothing but the wind and yet the wind formed only in such a moment into hands to comfort before shattering again. The hand of yours still braced against Ghosts fur, tightening in your grip as he growled deeper and the more he stared but it was so bright yet too dark to see what he did. The sky could have been any colour, all there was above you was more storm.

Only the sound other then wind and Ghost was a single caw of a bird. Your eyes flying to a high cliff and somehow against the snow and ice sat a crow, no bigger then any other but he was there. Staring down at you both without another sound but watching. You couldn't see any of it's details but something about the bird felt strange. As if this bird flew when it shouldn't be able to move on it's own otherwise, a raven sat beside him, feathers even from here looking as if they were drenched in blood.

Again as if only for you two down below, the wind picked up and once more the image of a man and other world like woman painted along the cliff side, stretching first from where you and Ghost stood. The crow cawed once more and that time Ghost turned as well. His red eyes seeking the image and up at the crow before it's growl simmered to something less offensive.

You and Ghost looked upon the strangeness of the way the ice in the wind danced here, until part of it flew down and around to brush against your wrist, tracing like fingertips down to wrap around your hand as if it tried to form one. Once more scattering into nothing when you tried to return the empty gesture. Ghost watching you as you stared down to the gone sight, and your grip on his fur loosened slightly. Something less tense in your shoulders as he shifted do sit somewhat but closer against your shaking side.

By the time either of you looked back, the crow was gone. But you were not alone, as Ghost sensed it the same time you felt it. This time, across your shoulder as a real hand. Ornate metal across the leather glove and Ghost turned to bite and snarl at it's owner before lunging to stand in front of you.

Shoving the figure back a step, and your heart raced in such a painful manner you could suddenly feel the wind dancing around your hand and wrist. The hold this time tight even though nothing existed to return, but your focus was barley there. It was on who Ghost stood in between to keep you from. One eye blue in a way that looked like a sinister lie while the other was gashed, blood dried as it was carved like a knife deep where the other eye should have been.

Whatever you had done to the stranger, in this world, those marks stayed and you knew his intentions would do more then scare you in just a dream. Voice smooth but skin crawling as he spoke over the windy storms and the growling of Ghost. “You Great Wolf will not always be at your side, girl. One night, you will find me once more.” Ghost stepped forward as he took one back. Eyes kept on your shaking form trying to remain impassive despite the fear in your eyes. “If the old man will not help you, then you won't be able to control it. And you won't know how to escape once this one is not here to protect you.”

Was your tongue cut out? You found no ability to speak, but the wind around your hand and wrist tightened to the point it almost hurt. Ghost in front of you, was ready to attack at any second he felt the stranger goes too far, but the stranger had a voice he enjoyed to speak.

“Perhaps we will find out if I can put a bastard in you, in here of such a place before your Great Wolf gets there first. Man of honour like him won't have much use for a whore with another mans bastard inside her.”

Not even Ghost could go for him quicker then he was no longer in your sights. There one, gone the next but you felt a breathe along the back of your neck that was not the same grabbing your hand. The strangers voice scratched in a paralyzing way only like one other had made you feel. Whispering as if to keep it a secret in his taunting. “Come find me, girl.”

But his voice shattered once more, and the winds clear only enough for the black skies with shimmering green to emerge where you once couldn't see then. Ghost's teeth pulling you into his great stature with a possessiveness just as the wind wrapped around your waist and kept you against it's non existent form just as much.

The shadows of you and Ghost did not reflect either of you again, just an image of two beings against the cliffs of a frozen land no one had known to survive before. But the wind tightened around you more and more and Ghost no longer stood at your side. Only just as your mouth opened to shakily call for the direwolf, a human voice rasped deep against you.

Above the silhouette's, you saw the crow back. Staring down at you again. But before it could caw out whatever it wanted to say, what you realized in an instant the second time, was Jons deep rasp calling your name much more close and gently, when your eyes opened.

Gasping for air, Jon kept you close. A hand running along your hair, the other steady at your waist as he murmured into your hair, pulling you into him. “Breathe for me..” Your arms came to wrap around his shoulders tightly, both refusing to let the other go.

Jon and you both, were utterly freezing beyond any cold currently flowing through Winterfell.

[strawberrysandcream]

Heart of the Great Wolf

38 - A Brewing of New Mystery

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 18.6k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, descriptions of blood and violence, execution, past familial-parental abuse, past character deaths, exploration of trauma, mild smut

Notes: If any of the discussions about the lore leave you confused, do not worry it's confusing our protagonists even more. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

“You have many enemies in Castle Black. Have you considered sending Alliser Thorne elsewhere? Give him command of Eastwatch by the Sea.”

Stannis had been conflicted in that room. He wasn't going to sit there and force Jon Snow to join his cause, nor was he going to argue about it if his made was made up. He was a grown man, he could make his own decisions but that didn't mean it felt like the right one to watch play out.

The Nights Watch was an institution Stannis believed in, he would never have come to their aid if he didn't. It was a mere coincidence, or perhaps the Lord trying to guide him to the right path when in the aftermath of overpowering Mance Rayders army, did he come face to face with his late daughters best friend from childhood. But it gave opportunities, to both of them.

He had given Stannis suggestions of where and how to move about the North instead of a straight march through Winterfell, and in return Stannis had attempted to give guidance to someone he could tell was bursting at the seams to be given the freedom of leadership, whether Jon had known that was in him or not. But he sat in that office hearing his offer being turned down, that his place was at Castle Black and Stannis wasn't about to show him the disrespect of telling him he was making a mistake.

Parting ways however, it was a thought which came into his mind as he and Ser Davos approached the door. So he turned back, asking about Ser Alliser. Jons answer though, was interesting. He was sure of himself and there was no fault in that, “I heard it was best to keep your enemies close.”

Stannis gave only one last thought on that matter, not knowing if it would be something he listened to or not. “Whoever said that didn't have many enemies.”

Whatever Ser Davos had stayed behind to discuss, Stannis did not invade the conversation, but he had much to consider in the aftermath anyways. He had paid close attention to the dynamics going on here, and it was very curious the things which were playing out. There was a divide amongst the men and it was split between two people in particular. The vote for Lord Commander had brought that rivalry into the daylight for all the men to see.

One single vote from the old Maester had swayed the course of their leader. But half and half, that was a very tough place for the new Lord Commander to be put in.

Not from those who didn't vote for him, if the finite details of every mans personal opinions mattered as heavily as the other then there would be endless chaos. No, the only thing which mattered was those in authority who could stand in his way. Thorne was one of them, the biggest problem. The men who all stood with him were another problem. He would not be able to sway other men to his side, but he would be able to strength his position by boulserting his place amongst Jons opposition.

It was a problem Stannis knew too well. He had lived in Kings Landing for a number of years, and there it was the root cause of wrongly surrounding yourself with enemies. It was why he was fine with being disliked. He didn't need to be liked, he simply needed to not allow himself to make such direct enemies.

Of course, one man made such a task increasingly difficult.

Spies were that problem. Cersei's were less of a care, many of hers towards his family were used in her strange need to spy on his daughter, only to fail in swaying you to her manipulation. Lord Varys he trusted not one bit, but he wasn't an enemy. Spiders weren't foes but pests to be on the watch for should they come creeping up on your shoulder without notice. No, Stannis only had one enemy and he had the misfortune of staring him in the face half of his days.

It was why he begun placing you in the position of doing his work dealings with Petyr Baelish. Stannis did not tell you his underlying motives or plans, and thus you had nothing to give away to the man when forced to cooperate with him. You were young, and a maiden and the Kings niece, you naturally would draw his interest to keep a close eye on which left Stannis free to distance himself and act without the man knowing. By the time he had outlawed prostitution on Dragonstone entirely, crippling his ability to spy on Stannis in his own home, Petyr Baelish had been blind sighted by its occurrence.

Stannis knew which of his men were loyal, and from that point on information was kept on a very tight knit basis between each other as he continued to use you as a distraction, which worked. You were combative with him, only causing him to watch you further and watch Stannis less.

He did not keep his enemies anywhere near close.

So, it was an interesting afternoon when he heard the commotion. Moving out to the landings in Castle Black in time to see a barrage of black come out of the meeting hall, and a group of men in particular holding another as the yelling begun. Janos Slynt sounded as egregious as he always did, only now as Stannis watched where they were dragging him did he begin to suspect that Jon was indeed, a better listener then Stannis was giving him credit for.

“Get your hands off me. Stop, all of you. If the boy thinks he can frighten me, he's mistaken. Yes, very mistaken.” Dragging the man out to the courtyard did he stop yelling for only a second as another on the platform close by, slammed down a block.

Stannis only grew more focused. His advice had been sending one of his biggest adversaries away, but it seemed the new Lord Commander's first decision was far more bold then that, and sent a much more striking message to the rest looking to pick up the mantle.

Continuing to yell, Janos Slynt assumed his position once in the world mattered here. His command of the City Watch of Kings Landing did not matter here, and here as a man of the Nights Watch he did not matter to the rest of the world. But he yelled regardless. “A disgrace, I have friends. Important friends in the capitol, you'll see.”

He grew much more quiet when the one behind, which normally could be found in the group closest to Jon, slammed him down onto the block. Emerging from the hall last, Stannis begun to pace along the landing with sharp eyes watching as Jon grabbed his sword from his steward. Making his way through the crowd and he could see the intensity even from where he stood up above.

Whatever had occurred in that room, had pushed Jon Snow one step too far.

Still he thought, there was time. He could take this all away in a second by not committing to his own authority, and it was that slip of weakness which Stannis was watching for. Leaving here with that still within his morals would be a mistake. Stannis would have to burn that out from Jon should he see that weakness show, and he knew those very enemies keeping close would take every advantage of it before Jon could fix it himself.

So he watched as Jon stepped up to the man, pulling out that sword with a pommel which seemed to match him perfectly. Wondering who had gifted that to him, knowing such a lavish thing would not have come into a bastards hands of his own making. Someone else it seemed, had seen exactly what Stannis was trying to foster in Jon right now.

He was intense as he approached, but he was as calm and even toned as the father he reminded Stannis of so much. “If you have any last words, my lord. Now's the time.”

Like so many before him, Janos Slynt begged for his life with lies. Thus far, they had not impacted Jon, who stood with both hands across the top of the hilt, sword blade tipped to the ground. Had Mace Tyrell not surrendered that day in Storms End, Stannis guessed the image of execution would have looked identical then to father and son now.

But, Jon begun to raise his sword, when the final test came. Yelling out the word mercy, a crying plead for his life came about like all cowards do who cannot face the consequences of their sins. “I'm afraid, I've always been afraid.”

No words came from Jon. He had waited until Janos Slynts crying had turned his gaze from the Lord Commander and within a mere second, the sword swung and Jon Snow took his head. Handing the blade to the man next to him, Jon took a moment looking over what he did before the unexpected occurred.

Glancing to the side, right up to where Stannis stood. Seeking out his gaze, and despite his actions that of a nod, he could say with every truth there was pride as well. Jon did not shy away from what he needed to do, and did it with his own hands to ensure the statement was made.

Stannis still, was not sure what would convince Jon Snow to leave Castle Black and enter a fight within his own home, but he did know one thing with certainty. Stannis would not make the mistake of seeing him as an adversary if he did. He would be a formidable foe.

That was until the day in the lands of Deepwood Motte did you stand across from him in his tent, telling him the truth of why the North would never support Stannis's claim. And when word had been received, Stannis stood across from Ser Davos reading the raven scroll unable to stop that same feeling of pride.

So Stannis cleared the remaining Ironborn out of the Northern lands, as Jon now ruled in Winterfell as King in the North unifying the Northern Lords as one. Not a scattering of people fighting for what side to scramble too. One army, a real army. Uniting behind one leader, with one purpose.

At least that time Stannis had been the one to learn the hard lesson that he indeed, needed an ally more then he needed Jon as a subject. The one lesson he should have learned back when it was Robb Stark offering him the same deal, but only realized after the Stark had been murdered, and you and Stannis's unborn grandson with him.

“If you were a gambling man, your grace, I'd be curious to know how long you'd guess it'll take them.” Ser Davos knew exactly what Stannis was thinking, it seemed. Handing him back the raven scroll with a dismissive tone.

“I don't gamble, Ser Davos you well know that.” Before he had exited the room however, Stannis had turned his head to the side just enough for the man to still hear him. “Six months at the most.” By the time Stannis received word on Dragonstone, none saw the smirk on Stannis's face as he read the letter.

It had indeed taken Jon Snow exactly six months to marry you.

Theon Greyjoy was not blind to the manner in which he was perceived. In fact for most of his life he could likely pinpoint exactly what that image was when and by whom. Being the youngest of his father's children, he was cared about but was never quite old enough to gain the attention he wishes he could have had. Rodrik was the eldest and the favoured. If any of Balon's children were the most of what an Ironborn was made of, it was him.

And if Theon were to be honest, he cared little for him. Then and now. Violent and loud, and always was the one to push Theon as a boy to be tougher. It didn't get much better in his memories of his brother Maron either.

But if his little love for his brothers spoke of anything, it was that which stemmed from his father. A boy striving for the acceptance of his father, wanted him to see his youngest son as worthy, but it was never close to the attention Rodrik and Maron got. Theon was only a boy, but could never do enough. He hardly even saw his father for his earliest years. Theon spent much of his youngest ages with his mother, as his brothers had grown long since to be men and Balon considered that more important until Theon too was old enough to be a man.

Then he was in Winterfell. And no matter what he'd tell himself, it still was the best years of his life.

Scared at first or not, it was home. Was he a prisoner? Yes. But did he really feel like one? No. He never truly did. Winterfell was welcome to be his home, and he found no grime nor shame in his duty acting as Ned Stark's ward. He used to feel fear that one day, the cold Northern Lord would bring Theon out to the clearing and Ice would take his head one day. But that was only at first, whatever coldness was in him, was nothing compared to what he endured from his own father. His own family.

Theon was raised and trained in Winterfell alongside both eldest of Ned Starks sons, and some days it still hurt to look back on. Theon now could stand outside looking to the training yard, and hear his fathers voice shouting at him enraged about Robb.

“No, not here. Not in my hearing, you will not name him brother. This son of the man who put your true brothers to the sword. Or have you forgotten your own blood?”

But in truth, he did in a way. His brothers were his blood, and he'd never forget them. But that didn't mean he missed them. He didn't care that his brothers died not loving him, but he did care, he did hate, that the brother who meant everything to him, died hating him. Robb died thinking Theon was a traitor, and he was, but he died thinking Theon did it all to hurt him, to scorn him and his family. Robb died thinking that Theon didn't see him as his brother and it never stopped bothering him.

Ironic it was, that the man Theon truly saw as his brother, died to the sword of what became Theon's captors. And yet the brothers Theon didn't miss, died to the sword of the man who became Theon's captor. The man whose son became a brother to him, the man who Theon saw as the only father to him that mattered. And Balon Greyjoy knew it.

Theon had rationalized to him that Lord Stark was dead, and the first he saw of his father in almost thirteen years was as he asked him, “And how do you feel about that?”

What's done is done, that's what he said. And it wasn't an answer. Not for a second did Theon belong back on Pyke, but it all was too confusing in his head. Not a single one of them respected him, it was the worst light any had ever seen of him, and Theon made it all the worse by trying to impress those who didn't care.

But he was a Greyjoy. His blood was salt and iron, yet he still burned the raven scroll that day. Stood in the room that had been his once for over a decade, and upon reading the first words he had heard from his blood family in two years, he burned the scroll and never regretted it. The only one who may have been something of family to him had reached out. Had learned of the Boltons defeat, had learned Theon served in Winterfell as his own man once more and reached out to him.

Come back. Don't die so far from the sea.

Yara was the closest thing to someone he might have considered returning for. She didn't like him, or respect him, but she still cared. In her own way she cared. Tried telling him to return to Pyke instead of staying in Winterfell, and she tried coming back for him when she realized what happened to him.

But there was a difference in how she cared. There was one thing that kept Theon as a free man, from making his way to Pyke and finding Yara. It was beacuse she wasn't the sister he loved. You were.

Yara rallied men, came to find him, tried to fight for him. But in Theon's most broken moments couldn't figure out if Ramsay was tricking him. He had done it before. Tricked him into thinking a rescue was being made only to find his circumstances even worse. He was beaten and tortured, but the last time a rescue was made for him, it walked him right back into an even worse torture that left him mutilated and his own manhood, root and stem cut from him. What would this trick lead to that was worse, he hadn't wanted to find out.

So she left. She saw what was little more then a frightened boy, and abandoned him for being too traumatized to see she was there in honest terms. But you? Theon felt you had every reason to hate him. To treat him as cruel as everyone else had under the Boltons. But you didn't. At every opportunity, you found what little scrap of a voice Ramsay would leave you with and remind him who he was, and that he didn't deserve this. Would remind him that no one from his old life, not even Robb, would have wanted this for him.

You didn't want Theon to feel abandoned as Yara had actually done, without even knowing that day occurred. Theon knew the reason you lasted as long as you did, was beacuse of him. He knew the small, pathetic moments of genuine connection you two could have was the only thing keeping you from ending your life and he knew one day that resolve would run dry. Had Theon not helped you escape that night, he wasn't even sure you would have let yourself remain alive come morning.

You didn't give up on him, so he didn't give up on you. And that never stopped. The last time Theon felt like he had a purpose was at Robbs side, but now he found his new one. Serving at yours.

The only reason the people here had slowly accepted him back, was beacuse you demanded they respect him. You refused to let anyone slander him, or question his presence and freedom. You would not abandon him, you wanted him to have life, to have purpose and people. You two hadn't always been that way, but there was no other place in Theon's life for you other then what Yara had tried and failed to be. The sister who still cared.

So he burned the raven scroll. Yara had reached out to him. Begging him to return. Their father was dead, Balon Greyjoy was dead. Rumours that a storm had thrown him from the windy bridge to his death. She wrote of the Kingsmoot. The first in centuries. Trying to implore him to come home, if not serving at her claim for the Salt Throne, then that of their Uncle Victarion. He had burned that raven scroll after a few hours of debating if he wanted to tell you about it.

He burned the second one right away. Once more she tried. Their gruesome Uncle Euron had returned, and she spoke of his terror and the things he had done that day. That he had been chosen as the Salt King and his grandiose claims and delusions of conquering the lands. All Theon could think, was that if it was a plea for help, it was for a family who never respected Theon.

And if it was to ask him to join them under their new King, then she was as delusional as Euron was.

His place was here. His place was supporting the one person who he felt was family, serving the only rulers that had any worth in this shit hole of a world which was left. But you had been through enough, and Theon didn't want you in your state to think he might leave.

So instead, he told Jon. Neither of them wanted to keep things from you, but they were both worried. And the worry of Theon finally leaving, was not one either wanted you to have. As the two of them stood there that night, high up on the walls of Winterfell in the night sky looking out to the quiet woods, he didn't quite know why Jon was in the strange mood he was, but he was glad that not once did he question Theons intentions.

The two men were still figuring out where they stood in the others life, but at least, trust was there and it no longer had any doubt or question behind any of it. Even when talking about what Theon had done in this very place. Jon stood next to him, both men finding something of company in the other the past few nights a bit easier on their own. Neither of them actually wanted their interactions to only be comfortable if you were there to act as an in between.

They weren't close the way each had been with Robb, but that didn't mean Jon meant nothing to Theon. So he was glad he found it not difficult to be honest. “All he wanted me to do was raid fishing villages. He didn't trust me. Said the Starks had made me theirs, but I was given a choice. Prove myself or prove he was right. And I chose wrong, beacuse I thought, I could never be a Stark. Maybe I shouldn't try to be anymore, felt impossible to be standing next to Robb.”

He could see Jon just barley turn his gaze somewhat in his direction, a question no doubt on the tip of his tongue but Theon half shrugged at him. “His life fit him better then his clothes, and once I was on Pyke, it was hard to remember none of that really mattered to him.”

Voice low and rough, Theon felt the weight behind Jons words. “I know. I was jealous of Robb my whole life, was always everything I wished I could be.”

And yet, as the two stood there, one thing came to Theons mind. Catching Jons attention to look over at him, face twisted in a confusion, Theon almost huffed a laugh. “Funny thing to hear, when I'm the one standing here next to you.” Glancing at Jon, Theon tilted his head almost to implore him to see. “Think about it, I was born a Greyjoy. I grew up with as much as Robb ever did, true born son of a Lord, famous name, was stupid enough to think my father would win the rebellion and I'd have everything else I ever wanted. Then I came here, raised by the Starks. Spending everyday feeling as if I was like them, but not one of them.”

Both men stood there, raised by Ned Stark, but not a true part of the family. Both a little on the outside in their own ways and yet their directions found in drastically separate paths. Continuing, Theon found the path to the worst of what he had done. “I thought, Ironborn..that's what I was born to be. So I paid the iron price for Winterfell. And now two boys are dead beacuse of me. And beacuse of what I let them do, Robb died thinking I murdered his brothers.” Head dropping a bit, Theon filled with not jealousy or envy but a bit of a defeat in the truth. “But you? You've always known what was right. Even when we were all young and stupid, you always knew. Every step you take it's always been the right one.”

The weight in his voice, a lifetime Theon would know nothing about and yet he felt in his bones what kind of guilt and shame sat within it's tone from Jon. “It's not. It may seem that way from the outside, but I promise you, that's not true. I've done plenty wrong.”

Where it came from he wasn't sure, but perhaps it was the most honest he had been about it in his life if he thought about it. “I never felt like I belonged next to Robb, but maybe if I stopped lying to myself I'd have realized it was you I was jealous of. Whatever you regret doing, you still did it a better person then me. I didn't do the right thing until it was almost too late.” Your name didn't need to be said for both to know what that right thing really was. “Always felt like there was an impossible choice I had to make. Greyjoy or Stark.”

Theon wouldn't know, but that cut a little too close to Jons heart. Far too close, and it came out rough and rasping as Jon forced the words out before it overtook him too much in his own mind. “Our father was more of a father to you than Balon ever was.” Only a nod with a heavy swallow in Theons throat as Jon spoke. “But he's still part of you like he's still part of me, beacuse you're a Greyjoy and you're a Stark. It's not my place to forgive you for all of it, but what I can forgive you for? I did that a long time ago.” Your name slipping from Jons lips, “She did too. And I know she wouldn't blame for you if you choose to go to them. Especially now.”

“No. But you would.” Becoming Theon's turn to be quiet, it almost reminded Jon of his admission to you of what he tried leaving Castle Black after his fathers death. The quiet guilt and uncertainty in himself. “Right before Ramsay's men came in, Maester Luwin tried telling me to run. Told me there were tunnels he could get me to, and when I told him I didn't want to go back to Pyke he told me to go North. Join the Nights Watch, and I'd be beyond the reach of the law.”

Looking to him from the side, there was enough calm on Jons face that it felt almost strange to say, but Theon knew anger was something else once it became over Jon. But he still said it. “I almost did it, came close to agreeing to it. But in truth? I was too scared of you.” That caught Jons attention, his eyes narrowing in confusion as he looked Theons way. “I knew what you were like, and I knew for everything I had done, you'd have slit my throat in my sleep if I showed up. If I were lucky.”

He appreciated that Jon was as honest as he was. Watching the Greyjoy close as something only slightly closer to an anger was hinted at in the roughness in his voice. “That morning, when you two rode through the gates. If you came through without her? I might have done worse then slit your throat.”

“Wouldn't have blamed you if did. Wouldn't have blamed you if you hung me alongside those two men of yours even after bringing her to you.” But Jon didn't. He didn't do anything, and only continued to trust more and more in Theon with much bigger responsibilities since then. And Theon still didn't quite know how to thank him for that without coming off as awkward. The change of subject however, was welcome for both. “You think Lord Howland's right? About what's happening to her?”

Jon shook his head slowly. “I don't know. I don't know what it is, or how to help her.” But Jon did know, was that he did not like the sort of path it was leading you down.

Theon looked just as unsettled. “First you both come back from the dead, then you and Arya can control direwolves, now this? Didn't think winter coming would mean all of this shit was coming alongside it.”

Gloved hands braced against the stone in front of him, Jon only wished whatever was coming still would keep you out of it.

Some days if you thought about it, it was never winter which House Baratheon had dreaded, not in the way many did. In each home they lived within the lives of those you knew, the worst of the hardship from the cold was never quite as prevalent. From your girlhood home of Dragonstone, and the shores of your families ancestral seat Storm's End, to the vast harbour of King's Landing the last many generations of Baratheons always lived right by the sea.

Come the cold winds, it was food that was always the biggest concern and it was food which was not at a risk of running short when living by the waters of the Narrow Sea. It was cold, and fish was served more days then anything else, but it was easy when you could have the freedom to set out to the waters and catch what you needed. And raised with the resolve like a man such as your father, winter was simply more work but nothing dire.

Yet it was what every other place of the Seven Kingdoms dreamed off, that your family found in a lack of appreciation. Spring was what the Baratheons looked forward to the least. It had been the result of an event years before you were born. Your grandfather and grandmother had been returning home after a trip taken to Essos, if you had ever been told why they were there you hardly recalled it beyond the things which your father had told you, which was of it's end.

Spring brought harsh rains and winds to Storm's End and it was in a terrible one which Stannis and Robert had stood and watched what caused a horrible end to the ship returning their parents home. Steffon Baratheon and his wife Cassana had perished in the crash. Renly was too young to remember but he grew up without a father and mother both, it had thrusted Robert into responsibility far before he thought it would be his, something which sat almost like an omen to come. And it had left your father bitter, and without any faith left in the Seven.

Each time winter came to an end, it was never a prosperous feeling in your family. Spring had taken your chance to know your grandparents, and yet perhaps in your own mind, that may have been for the better. You had the advantage of foresight of course, to look back at your family and know what was a mistake and what had led you to the feelings you held. You too, knew that you were far too much like Robert in some ways, to think you could have ever seen the good in your grandfather.

There was only one thing which you needed to know, to come to that conclusion. Who your closest friends are is all too telling, and your grandfather's closest friends were that in Tywin Lannister and Aerys Targaryean. Both became cruel men who committed horrific atrocities never to be forgiven and it was difficult in your mind to move passed that.

A a girl, you would look to the waters when visiting Storms End and wonder, would your grandfather have sided with the Mad King? And now, in the home of Winterfell, you wondered if Steffon Baratheon would look down to the world, and realize that Tywin had organized a slaughter of what was once his oldest now dead friends own granddaughter?

Your family was nothing but scattered conflicts all caring about the wrong things compared to the rest of the world. So perhaps it was why as the days grew shorter and the dark of nights grew colder, did it feel strange to watch as preparing for winter continued to make Jon and Arya's bond grow stronger. Not that it had much stronger it could be, but they would somehow manage it. Or how Jon could discuss much of the far North with any in knowing better then you would ever grasp it.

He was a man truly of the North, and you were beginning to feel more out of place then you had in a long time in Winterfell. You were not raised with the hardships of Northern winters, you were not raised to work with those of your family as such a seamless ease the way the people around Jon all did together. There was nothing you brought to the table which helped better then others, all you brought was strain and confusion now.

A mystery had presented itself before your very eyes, but you had nothing to present to Jon, Sam, Lord Howland, or anyone which was helpful. Just more questions you didn't have enough understanding to even phrase. Some watched you with weary eyes waiting for you to snap, others looked with a pity that was too similar to how they looked at you under the hold of the Boltons, nor did you know what to say to anyone.

There were a few days things seemed fine, more then fine. But as soon as that last good night was over, it was as if Jon spun himself deeply right back into something more weary then before. And it only got worse now as the days since that dream of the stranger reached well over a week passed.

Quiet you had been all day, and for once you simply did not want to walk into the room and again see that deep rooted fear in Jons eyes as he looked to you. He'd watched you like a hawk since whatever it was that night and you didn't know how to make it stop. The looks, his fear, the dreams, any of it. Your mind was as much of a mess as your priorities, and so left. Moved to go do something, anything, to occupy yourself and stay out of everyone's way and worry. They didn't have to worry about what was happening with you if you weren't there to remind them.

Telling them where you would be, you had requested your guard leave you alone. “What dangers lay in the glass gardens so much, you need follow me in there?” No doubt they'd stay somewhat nearby, but if you didn't want to see them, you didn't want to hear them either. The dark of the sky made the reflections through the glass appear in a blueish tone with the moonlight against it, and you had gone over what was there in what numbers more times then any needed to.

It was an excuse, not many would look for you here and it was close enough to the crypts that perhaps you could find the courage to retrace steps you had seen. Your mind though, was too much still of a mess. More then usual. The pull to a self loathing tempted you at your uselessness and many times over it left you frustrated that new life had forgotten to grace you with what once made you a leader.

Now you hid from your own ineptitude at your Kings side, hoping you'd find an answer to something, anything, before more questions hurled themselves before your eyes. If you weren't helping run his kingdom, you were only adding to the mystery of the North before true answers were found.

Winter now was important, but you dreaded handling any of it the way your family dreaded the memories of Spring.

Eyes flickered up curiously to the main entrance as a smaller figure made their way inside. Looking in the dark until their shadowing form found your direction did you realize who had sought you out this time, though you said nothing. Let him come to you, you weren't one to push the subject onto others when it was their issues to work through.

Olly stopped a good few feet from where you sat, watching in as much trepidation as his stiff posture spoke of before pulling something small from his pocket. Wrapped up he glanced around once more before finally crossing the few feet to where you sat, he held it out instead of making eye contact. It was a slow exchange as you opened it to see he had brought you something to eat. The small grin was formed along your mouth before you could smother it. Flickering your eyes back up to him, you raised an eyebrow.

“Dare I ask how you knew I was all the way out here?” He shrugged still without making eye contact, and the uncertainty in his shoulders grew. The dark cold between you was quiet for a moment until you spoke between bites before you found it in you to grant a shred of mercy. “You don't have to stay if you don't want to.”

Surprisingly, his head shot up to see yours. “No, your grace that isn't-” The unchanging expression on your own face likely caught the boy somewhat off guard. It seems you weren't the only one whose mind inside their head was a bit of a mess. Glancing to the side, Olly tried finding the right words and failed to a degree. “I only- you shouldn't keep skipping meals. It isn't good for you.”

A lightness came over your heart enough to raise an eyebrow, tone softer then his as to not startle him more. “And you're going to tell me you're eating properly, yourself?” He didn't return the his gaze just yet, it had been a number of days since he had said more then a few words to you at a time. Reaching your arm out, the motion was enough to have him flicker his eyes only to what you held out to him, part of what he had brought you. That had him turn confused, as you stayed soft spoken. “You don't have to sit with me and eat, but if you're going to pester me about it then I assure you I can pester right back.”

He was quiet right until a more dramatic sigh left him, and you bit your tongue to hide the chuckle within your throat. Grabbing it he stood for only a second before sitting next to you, slowly and with an awkward hesitation but he sat next to you on a stones edge all the same. Luckily, he was used to you enough to know that no conversation at all was not an indication of uncomfortable in your eyes. He when in a good mood could talk away, but he didn't take your silence as the same the way you did his.

Only, for Olly, it was the few times he wished you would talk. The air around him stiff only after you had stopped filling the chilly air with a light degree of jest towards him. You could feel him peeking at your side profile before scurrying back before you could notice, but you felt it all the same. A mutter even quieter then the last as you gave him the privacy to not be forced to make eye contact, the gardens growing in the darkness was view enough. “Did you know it's a rare talent for a steward to know when and when not to pester those they serve constantly?”

Making no sound of reaction, you did feel him shift ever so slightly beside you, the only indication the boy was listening as you continued. “Truly it is. Now, most of my time in Kings Landing I had hand maidens but the roles function mostly the same. Attending to a lord or ladies need, only I had around five at any given time and there is only one of you. But trust me, those girls could find any and every reason to never stop talking.” Speaking between bites, you allowed Olly the grace of not feeling obligated to respond, you simply took it as a step that he was even still here. “About this, that, boys they fancied, girls they were jealous of, whatever gossip found them, they spoke of it. Eventually I got to the point I would start telling them to simply leave me alone beacuse I couldn't stand the hen chatter. Had to make it a rule that they weren't allowed to be near my chambers first thing in the morning or after dark beacuse the first and last parts of my day I did not want them to fuss over everything.”

Muffled through a bite of his own, Olly managed to summon the willingness to speak anything. “Did you have handmaidens during the war?”

Huffing a small laugh, you leaned back a little bit with a shake of your head. “Heavens no, an army camp is no place for them. Five pretty young girls, twenty thousand soldiers? Nothing but trouble. I did have a squire though, between myself and Robb. Came to us as part of a deal with Walder Frey to cross the Twins.” You said it so casually, but Olly looked over properly wide eyed.

Everyone knew The Twins and House Frey was where part of your story ended.

But you pressed on, the start of the war was painful in many ways, but none that dared not thinking about like three years onward approaching the bridge from the other side. Your voice was still light, and if not mistaken, hinting a bit of amusement. “He was to be Robb's squire. This young boy Olyvar, a few years older then yourself. Was to expect a knighthood in some time.” You chuckled to yourself, and you knew without any glance that Olly now was looking attentively at you. A sound these days almost no one heard, was anything like laughter from you.

“He was loyal, worked very hard, a bit on the airy side and it took almost two years for him to get the hang of knowing when to leave without being ordered too, but he was a hard worker. Robb had no bloody idea what to do with him, never wanted a squire, preferred either doing a lot of things himself or he knew he had me. But, I was used to giving handmaidens orders, so I started being the one Olyvar would go to. He'd listen to Robb, but he knew Robb wanted him to answer to me and to just leave him to his work.”

Surely this was the most you had spoken in one go, in close to months by now. You think, it too, was the most easy and casual tone you had heard on Olly since Barrowton. “The King didn't like being around servants?”

Shaking your head, there was a small smile on your lips. Not dark enough it was hidden, but it sat there soft and only for Robb, only for you. Not lost on Olly, that you never spoke of the late King in the North in such a personal manner in front of, to him, seemed like everyone. “Not that, he was the heir to Winterfell all his life, remember. He was used to being around servants, but the Starks weren't raised to be spoiled. Not the first born son that is for certain.”

A narrowed look in your eye only you could catch was a teasing mocking, “Lord Stark's first born daughter, now that is a different story. Sansa was a spoiled in her first few years, she was used to maids and servants. But Robb? He was fine delegating some things off, but he knew the pressure was always on him. To one day take over Winterfell, to be Warden of the North and he didn't want to do so having other men doing his work for him. Olyvar was eager to do more then Robb wanted him around for, and so he became more like my own squire just so he didn't lose his patience at the boy.”

You were quiet for only a moment before finding an honesty. “He'd like you, though. Robb. He would have enjoyed a steward around like yourself. Quiet, smart, quick, not afraid to show you care about who you serve without seeming pandering. Probably too, why Jon chose you.”

The easy quiet turned to a guilty quiet, but you knew the guilt for some things went both directions. It only was better to set it up as an even balance to put you on the same grounds as the boy. His voice hardly a murmur, “I wasn't a good steward to him. He explained why he was bringing the wildlings south of the Wall. I knew why, he and King Stannis would talk about those things in front of me beacuse he wanted me to always attend his meetings. But he came back from Hardhome, and he let the wildlings through and I let it get in the way. Barley said anything to him I didn't need to after that.”

Your voice held no accusation, “Can't imagine what that feels like.” You sensed him jumping to speak up, but you painted his own defence for him. “That wasn't a judgment, Olly. Just pointing out that if you have any plans on stabbing me anytime soon, I'd at the least prefer a warning beforehand.”

Sneaking a glance, Olly's face has twisted into a defensive frown before he caught the barley held back smirk at the side of your face looking more to him. Rolling his eyes, it made that smirk come out much more naturally. “If that was supposed to be a joke, your grace-”

“The sad thing, is that it was.” Olly laughed for the briefest of seconds before he shot a hand up to stop himself, but it only let you laugh much more easily. “I have many strengths, but humour is so far from the top of that list it's already sailed and landed across the Narrow Sea.” You felt his tensity, relax slightly as he let himself lean back against the flat stone beneath you both more comfortably, as your voice softened to match. “My point though Olly, is that you're good at this. You're a good steward, and that isn't easy to come by. Anyone here would be glad to have you at their service if you want to.”

Finally, his young eyes met yours properly. Something confused washed over with a doubt, “Your grace-”

“I know why you're upset with me. Truly, I do. But I'm not one to make you sit here and forgive me just beacuse it's easier that way. If you would be more comfortable serving someone other then myself, I'd rather you do that then force yourself to stay here beacuse you think you are obligated too.” He didn't blink, or even shift his expression but there was something bordering bright and upset there. Yours however, was only soft. “I like having you by my side, but not if it's only going to upset you day in and day out.”

His eyes flickered to there and nothing before he sighed and let them fly down to the ground. His hands now clasped tight together in his lap, likely to keep them from fidgeting too much. What he said though, quiet with something wishing to crack behind the tone, was not quite what you thought he would approach it with. “My mother told me to run and hide the same way you did. So I did, and she was killed right behind me. You told me to run and hide, and it got you kidnapped.”

You still recalled the way he recounted that day, how painful it was to get through and you knowing what it looked like was no doubt worse then what you could imagine, especially for a child. Looking gently at Olly, your voice was quiet. “You could have had sword and shield in hand, and she still would have told you to hide. Wanting to protect her is normal, but so is it for a mother to refuse that if it puts her child in danger. You living without her meant more then you dying to protect her.”

His silence hung in the air, struggling between looking your way and looking off to the distance of a memory. If he was about to speak though, you interrupted him.

“And I did what I did to protect you, I don't regret it and I'd do it all the same if we were to go back. I'm not asking you to like it, but that's how it is. I took you with me beacuse I know you didn't want to be left behind again, not so you could step in between myself and danger.” He was quiet for a good while, and you didn't blame him.

For his sake, you said nothing and looked away as he wiped what tears were wishing to fall. He inhaled deeply, nodding before finally moving to stand up. In the stillness of the night, you only watched him take more then a few steps towards the door before turning back halfway to face you. “I-” He exhaled deeply before coming back with a more stable confidence. “I don't want to serve anyone else. I'm only here beacuse you gave me a second chance and I don't want to throw that away.”

A small, soft sort of smile was given Olly's direction, he was a complicated boy and perhaps it made sense he was attached to someone as complicated in their own rights like yourself. You gave a single nod, softly muttering, “I'll see you bright and early then.”

“Your grace.” A small little bow before Olly left you be in the quiet and dark.

It took you a good while to return to the inside of the castle walls. At the very least, on a long list of things very wrong in your life you could say one of them was handled rather smoothly. The rest, not as simple to know where to start, and you weren't the only one.

Jon was worried about one thing, but you were busy looking out to where the crypts led down towards. If you checked, you'd have to find out one way or another if that dream itself was real, and if it was, you had a whole new question on your mind to add to Jons list of concerns. An unknown man who came here seeking something, and the question of how was the long since missing Benjen Stark involved with it?

Later into then night then he should still have been working, Jon was busy wracking his brain trying to figure out how his visions, your dreams and what now was happening to you all connected. It had to somehow, it had to mean something, but he kept coming up short on reasonable explanations. Much of that evening he had been with Sam, going through what he had translated looking for a single thing that might explain it all.

But the old powers ran deep and ancient, and some spoke of riddles Jon couldn't possible figure out the answers too even if he wanted to try. His visions of you years before were one thing, but this was something else entirely, and Jon didn't understand what about you meant you had to be dragged into it. Stark blood ran deep in ties to the North, so why was it bringing you into it by force?

Eventually, talk turned to what it always did. The storms coming for them.

“Maybe someone put it there a long time ago.”

Shaking his head, Jon looked over the shard of dragonglass in his hand. Most were close to a black, but this one sat a little closer to purple if he had held it up in the sunlight hours ago. “I don't think so, the way it's sitting down there looks like it was made naturally.” Your name slipping from his lips in thought, “She says it was from when the volcano flowed underground and when it cooled, it formed this.”

Sam had managed to come as far as learning the Children of the Forest used to hunt with obsidian, but how that connected to the rest of it, they couldn't figure out. “But if it's formed naturally, why call it dragonglass?”

“Because it's found in areas the world associates with dragons.” Both heads turned to the door of the study to find you, gently closing the door behind. Pacing ever so slowly as your eyes looked over the work scattered about the desk. “The dragons preferred to live in very hot places, and most of the time it lined up with where volcanic activity sat.” Grabbing a separate piece sat on the desk, you slowly sat down with eyes squinting at it, on one side of the table separate from both of them, Ser Davos not far near the other side of the room. “The Targaryeans didn't build the castle of Dragonstone, ancient Valyrians did. Could have chosen anywhere more mainland, even Driftmark but they built it by Dragonmont. I think, beacuse they thought their dragons would need the heat. The Valyrian Freehold was built all around volcanoes.”

The flames sat plainly across your eyes, the screams so faded from the world outside it and the molten fire spitting and flying as it boiled like a cauldron. Quiet for his own moment, Jon found a path of thought in his words. “That's why they chose there when they fled, they thought they needed it to hatch dragon eggs.”

Ser Davos spoke up in the same wonder you were following, “So why is only one out of the three things that can kill the dead, man made when the others aren't?” Now that was the true question, wracking your mind. It felt as if something connected a multitude of missing pieces, but the image was not yet even clear what or how much you were not aware you were still missing.

Sam proposing that possibly Dragonglass has something to do with Valyrian Steel but you shook your head. “You can reforge Valyrian Steel if you know what you're doing, but you can't reforge dragonglass. It's brittle and cracks easily under enough pressure. Even heating it up, you smash it with a hammer and it'll shatter.” Your eyes drifting to nothing trying to connect the image of molten lava and the thing in your hand. “They used spells and blood magic to make Valyrian Steel. Dragonglass has nothing to do with that.”

Both Sam and Jon glanced to the other, shatter was the precise word they would use to describe what happened when they killed one of the Others respectably.

The night was long and as many suggestions of truth came up in as many droves as questions which followed. For all of what you collectively knew, it seemed as if it was nothing in comparison to the storms they were all surrounded by. Come morning you hadn't let any of it go.

Looking through the books in Wolkan's study, your palms braced either side of the wooden surface outside the edge of a rather old book. This was the third you had gone through, and still none matched the image you had tried to recreate when searching for answers. Perhaps if you knew what the symbol meant, you'd know why Benjen Stark was hiding something where ever it was.

It was not easy, and you had on multiple occasions looked to him in doubt that perhaps you had recollected it wrong or drawn it incorrectly but Wolkan did not seem deterred. “It may not be as simple as a word.” Your eyes glanced up from how long you were squinting them down at the texts, “If it is a combination of words or phrases, a rune combines it into one symbol when condensed on space. We only have so much of what they left behind, it could be a combination of what we already know.”

“Or don't know.” Sighing deeply, you looked back at the page before flickering them up to the image once more. “I could be searching for something that doesn't even have an answer.” It had been a while, and your eyes felt strained looking at rudimentary drawings over and over again for as long as you had been in here and still no answers came. And you had too, come to closer to revealing the question flooding your mind either.

Sitting down, a huff released as your shoulders relaxed not in relief, but exhaustion. Wolkan took a quiet seat on the other side, eyes still just as sharp as yours no longer felt. Silly it had felt coming to ask him, but in truth, you supposed there was enough from the first day you met to tell you the man was more then willing to extend what was once more limited understandings of the world anymore. Much of that was going around now.

Wolkan was calm as he was reassuring, “Far more unusual occurrences have happened then this, your grace. Everything has an answer, but sometimes we ask the wrong questions first.” Your brows narrowed with a glaze over your eyes of curiosity mixed in confusion. Leaning a bit forward, you once more found yourself grateful that the Maesters you have known in your life never treated your knack for the bizarre with dismissal.

Drawing your focus for a moment back to the symbol you tried to recreate, you wondered if you could go back to it. See it properly once more, but without the understanding of if it came with the same risk you doubted how much any of it was even real. It was real enough Jon shared the same dream, but did that make the stranger real, you didn't know either.

Interrupting your stoic silence, Wolkan asked with a genuine prompting. “Do you know what the last task one must do before he can vow himself as a Maester of the Citadel?” Shaking your head, Wolkan pulled a candle perched not far off to sit between you both. “We spend the night all in darkness, with only one task. We must light three black glass candles. We are given no tools nor hints but what we have learned and we will sit in the dark until the sun rises trying to figure out the answer. Do you know how many I have known to do this?”

Once more you shook your head, nails somewhat digging into the wood as you glanced at the flickering flames as he continued. “None.” That got your eyes to whip up to his, your expression must have twisted more then you assumed as he chuckled at the sight. “None I have ever known has lit one of those candles, beacuse lighting it is not the purpose. It is not a test, rather one last lesson all men of learning such as myself must acquire. That no matter how much knowledge one gathers, no matter what reading and practising and work you do, there will be some things that are impossible. That you cannot force yourself to accomplish the impossible beacuse you want too, sometimes we must accept that we have our own limitations. Even if some do light them, it doesn't matter, beacuse it will not change that I do not have that ability myself.”

The silence was not uncomfortable, but it was heavy as your eyes drifted away into the distance against the flames once more. Still nothing. Only when you found the words to speak, did it flow so softly between you two that he wouldn't have heard any further away. “Presuming the lesson you are trying to tell me is not in fact, I should know when to give up,” Finding his once more, Wolkan was always quiet and in as much thought as you it seemed. “But rather I should stop trying to solve every riddle all on my own before going to others about it.”

He nodded once, but let you sit for the quiet between you, nails tapping at the drawing and your eyes drifting away again. Only once something of tension fell from your shoulder did he speak up to more then your muttering level. “I will bring this,” Reaching for the drawing only to pause as you realized in a moment he wanted you to let go of it. “To Samwell, see if it is something the boy has seen in any of his readings.”

Right as you were to leave his study, you turned back with a more lightness in your tone. “You really believe me? What I saw, what I've seen?”

“Eventually, the Starks are always right. Winter always will come. No reason to doubt what you say, more absurd things have come with the winter storms then visions and dreams, your grace. In comparison to what is said is coming for us, this is nothing.” It wasn't quite a smile he got from you, but a brightness in your eyes along with a nod before parting ways.

Telling yourself to focus one at a time, look first at what was right in front of you.

Only, you routinely were very talented at finding yourself focusing on things that made your head scream at you more and more the longer it went on. Though, you were all too well aware that such a side effect, was indeed the result Maege Mormont intended. It had to be how her daughters grew to all be a thick skinned as she was, a lifetime of growing up with this relentlessness would toughen anyone's resolve.

“This is why you never belonged in Kings Landing, you still cannot lie for shit.”

Face burying itself in your palms, elbows propping you up on the table in front of you. Every answer you had given her was dripping in a held back diplomacy as if she would take that at face value, which she didn't. And it only made her poking and prodding worse. Eyes peeking up to glare at her, you only muttered, “What possible reason would I have to lie about this?”

The look she gave you, were you not flustered, would have been priceless. Eyebrow raised as she tilted her head, a smirk forming slow to boot with too much knowing and far more teasing. Her voice matched all the same. “Because you're uptight.” That got your head to shoot up almost in protest as she pointed at you. “Oh, do you have a defence against that, beacuse gods be good I'd love to hear you talk your way out of that accusation.” The staring lasted all but five seconds before you turned your attention away from her as she continued without prompt. “I've known you good many years now, your grace. You genuinely care about the people of the North, and I know that means you're worried an honest answer would turn our opinions against you.”

Mumbling mostly to yourself, you still didn't look her way, embarrassment still fresh in your system from how much she was trying to call it up to the surface, the truth. “You made him King, you all still called me Queen, it was a logical decision.”

If a tease was on Maege's tongue, the tactic switched at the last moment. “I don't know what Ramsay Bolton did to you, nor is it any of my business. But I know what he said that day the King took his head, we all heard it.” Your jaw clenched, muscles in your hands tensing as they felt a fleeting need to expel such energy somewhere. “You are worried if we think anything other then it was only politics, that it means we will think that bastard was right. That you're some whore who jumped from one King to the next just to stay Queen.”

The air had gone from teasing to heavy to painful between you both. You valued Maege's company much but you also despised how quickly she would find the root of what you were not saying. Hardly a breath uttered between your whispered words, held back in any real emotion. “That's what everyone in the South would presume.” Maege quick to comment that this wasn't the South yet you found little comfort in it. “Why does it even matter? I married him, there isn't anything else to say about it.”

The quiet remained for a moment before she stood, moving towards a cabinet by the edge of the kitchens which remained thankfully quiet in the early afternoon. Two mugs she pulled out as you watched her speak while having one of the servers fetch her wine, her voice as serous as yours just had been. “I've had a lot of bad days, your grace. Being given leadership of Bear Island, all beacuse my nephew disgraced himself and ran away, knowing the rest of the North all looked at us as if we helped him escape. Learning my brother was murdered by a bunch of cowards beyond the wall. Worst of them was learning I was thousands of miles away from where my Dacey died. Not knowing if I could've done anything.”

Pouring the wine into the first, you looked away the last of your memories of her as clear as all of them you never saw again. Maege continued, not expecting you to speak quite yet. “Then all I could think of was, could I have even saved her? Or would I have been killed that night too. You never love your children quite the same way you do your first born. And all I could think, was that maybe she wouldn't have to die alone if I fell with her.”

Whenever she had walked back over, you barley heard it. There was so little about that night you still knew, and didn't want too. Your eyes unfocused as she put yours in front of you, voice thick and heavy as you could still see those mornings, almost something akin to a glint in your eye she could barley see as you watched nothing but a memory.

Breathless almost in tone, your chest tightened. “When we were still in Riverrun, I was ill almost every other morning. Like a ritual, I'd wake up far too early, make it down to the edge of the river and let it all up.”

If your memory searched back hard enough, you might have recalled an even earlier one. Ill for the first time, Maege and Catelyn both had been as comforting as they were amused. Drenched with sweat from how much energy it took from you, you looked back to both of them asking. “You did this five times? I'm ready to surrender before I've even had one.”

But you were in a different memory that time. “Dacey was always there. Always knew when to find me, knowing I didn't want Robb too fuss about it, so she ended up fussing about it with me.” Hands barley grasping the mug, you felt that almost smile come creeping a bit closer. “She was one of the last people who felt like a friend. Not a solider, not a subject. But she'd sit with me, make fun of me. Tell stories to distract me on the worse mornings. We felt like little girls sneaking about getting into trouble.”

Missing entirely, the brightness in Maege's own eyes. Her face, did not feel the need to hide nor smother down a hint of a smile on one side. Her tone as quiet, leaning forward. “Like I said, had a lot of bad days. But do you know what my first good day in a long while was after that? Seeing you standing there in my own damn home after more then a year knowing you were gone too.” Still more your chest tightened as you struggled to look at her. “I saw you alive and well and the first thing I noticed was how much Jon Snow was looking at you as if he didn't know what to do with himself the moment you walked away. Not once has he ever tried to hide what he feels for you. And not for a second did I want you to reject that beacuse you were worried how it would look.”

Things were different after that first night on Bear Island, between you and Jon. Not really for your insecurity. That has hardly changed a fraction. Taking a long sip before finding her eyes, yours hesitant and unsure. “I know you heard what she said, that night in Moat Cailin. That's what everyone else thinks of it, and why shouldn't they? Robb had been gone but a year and a half when Jon and I..”Putting it down roughly you shook your head. “Me being ready to find myself with another doesn't mean others think I should have. And I don't expect them too. I have their respect, I should be grateful with that alone.”

You weren't ashamed to be with Jon, or to be married too him. But perhaps you still had too much on your plate, still trying to take too much on at once, beacuse the longer the silence sat the more you felt lost as to what your point was in the first place. Maege however, sensed at least a little bit of that.

Standing up finally, a comforting hand ran over one shoulder as your gaze tilted up to look at her. Voice quiet for none but the two of you in the room to hear. “To keep the record straight, your grace, I wanted to know when things had happened between you two, beacuse if you were going to tell me it was when you were in my home, I would've been damn proud.”

A smack in a playfulness to your shoulder as she passed you by, you felt torn between laughing and feeling that unsure dread fill you once more. Why did your head feel such a mess lately?

Quiet in the moments alone until you sensed that feeling all too easily. Turning your head barley to the side as you called into what looked like nothing, “If you're going to spy I'd rather you do it to my face.”

Slinking around the corner, an indignant look sat upon Arya's face, twisted in annoyance as her voice raised in pitch, “How did you know I was there?” Your head only tilted with a flat look and an eyebrow up, pulling a sigh from her. Approaching the table, she sat in the seat beside you easily. “I went through all this work to be quiet as a shadow and you still can always tell when someone's watching you.”

A light chuckle ran through you, sipping at the water still before you. “I've known you since you were a babe, Arya. I know when you're watching me by now.” Watching in quiet for only a second before coming right to your point. “So would you like to tell me why you're listening in on my conversations, or am I going to have to guess until I find the right answer?”

Jaw ticking, she clearly debated in her mind what she would approach her answer with until settling on a path not quite direct as you asked. “I caught you and Jon in the stables once.” Your brows furrowing in confusion, she looked a mixture between bashful and somewhat amused at the memory. “It was years ago, you two thought you were alone but I was still there and I saw Jon kiss you.”

Perhaps once the nerves would have set it, instead an unusual stiffness in your muscles left you tense but your eyes narrowed at her in a hesitant look unsure where she was going with it. You weren't at all sure you even knew what she was talking about, despite how easily she recalled it.

A shrug in her shoulders, Arya toyed with the handle of the mug sat by her. “He never actually told me anything when I asked him about it. We both knew I knew, we agreed to never talk about it. But I knew.”

Once you would have felt the dread, you had felt it even just in the conversation prior but yet sitting next to Arya of all people, you felt something of a lack of nerves. Voice rather steady for what you had only just been feeling. “Which means you understand why we didn't tell people, or why things still aren't quite as simple now.”

Arya however, was somehow ever more blunt then she had been years ago. “It can be, if you stop being stupid.” Your head tilted, as your face fell more flat looking at her. A lecturing gaze that only she could so easily get away without feeling the effects of as she continued. “You two don't always have to make everything so complicated.”

Your initial quiet was not was she was expecting but was what she got for a moment regardless. That feeling deep in your blood that switched between freezing over in stillness and burning in too much at once a constant since that night. You came back and there was nothing and nothing until him and unravelling the why wasn't as easy as it was being told to you.

What you lost to get here wasn't simple, and so being here would never be either.

“You don't understand the luck you had, Arya.” Her brows furrowing, but you only glanced at her with a lightness in your eyes as they were far away. “Growing up with your mother and father, to you it's all easy. Love is easy, you always knew no matter what people said, what they had was real. No matter what was said about your father, none ever questioned it's strength. My family isn't so lucky.”

Your hands found one another on the wooden surface, trying to wring together as faces you long hadn't thought of properly passed you by in your mind. Arya watching with a curiosity as you continued. “Robert and Cersei hated each other. Slept with other people, just to spite one another. Renly was bedding another before he even shared one night with his own wife. My father was never unfaithful, but he and my mother have never loved each other.” Tilting your head your eyes widened just a bit in an exasperation. “Add living in Kings Landing on top of all that, and you begin to conclude that I've never quite been around many married couples at all that love one another, or are even faithful.”

Renly may have had somewhat of a reason, but it still was unfaithful. Attracted to her or not, Margaery Tyrell was still his wife and any and all rumours which reached your ears in the war told you that there was not a hint that Ser Loras had ceased his part in Renly's private affairs. Everyone of course, knew about Robert.

Your own father and mother may not love one another at all, but at least it did not complete a trio of infidelity that acted as if it plagued many Baratheon men in your lifetime. Your voice quiet as it muttered out, “The last thing I'd want anyone to do, is to think what I had with Robb was anywhere near as unfaithful or untrue as the rest of my family. And I know it looks like I've moved on as if keeping my title was what mattered.”

It was odd to Arya, not that you would have known. She knew of you and Jon, but not once did she ever look at you and Robb, or what she heard of you and Robb and think it wasn't real. The way the men here still talk about his late memory, it always involves you. You and him were always at each others side by the sounds of it and it seemed preposterous that any would question that.

But then again, Southerners it seemed, did not look at love and marriage in the same dedicated manner. She could recall her short time with the Brotherhood, hearing Edric Dayne tell her that her father fell in love with his aunt, before trying to speak of some woman he claimed was Jons mother. She remembered telling him angrily that her father only ever loved her mother. And it was true.

If she were younger, maybe she would have believed what he said about Jons mother in those days, but she was thirteen by then and far smarter then to believe this outlaw knew more of her family then she did. Her father didn't love some other woman, then marry Catelyn, then sleep with some wet nurse too, that wasn't what her family was like. They didn't see love and marriage as something so fleeting like these people did.

She knew that now better then any. That on top of everything her father was, she could strike out ever being unfaithful to his wife as part of him. The truth only made him even better in her eyes.

But she could tell, you worried that everyone else would think you saw your love and marriages in such a fleeting manner. Something about you now was different, but Arya didn't have the words to figure out why.

Some days were easier then others, and in that moment, it seemed you had found a happy medium between stress and amusement. Truly you told yourself there was nothing to laugh at. When you were a novice at something there were bound to be times frustrations rose especially in comparison to others around with more experience. A smirk was bitten back against your tongue trying to remain neutral but not for a moment did your eyes hide quite as well.

If he weren't up against a thirteen year old, it wouldn't be as difficult. Gendry had argued it wouldn't be as hard as it looked to learn the basics of archery, and yet you, Theon, and other spectators had given a multitude of advice and many times repeated it. Beside him, for every shot Gendry missed, Olly had gotten quite close to perfect.

Everytime they gave one another a glance, Gendry wondering if he was too old to get snarky with a child, and Olly sparing glances at you already knowing what mockings were on both your minds.

“Your spending too much time getting into position.” Gendry had turned back at that, looking at Theon like he was ready to just throw the bow at him. Despite Theon not at all finding any threat. “Most cases when you're out there, you're not going to have time to focus on your form you just have to expect by the time you get your aim locked you'll already be there.”

Gesturing beside him, arguing, “He's spending all his time on his form before he aims.” Theon however, just pointed out Olly hadn't been the one missing his shots and once more you glanced away save you get caught trying not to laugh at the expression on his face at such an observation.

The air around was cold, but it was an uncommon feeling for you there to feel any sort of genuine enjoyment in the middle of the day. The three of them bantering back and forth and taking easy jests towards one another, the dynamic of boys remained no different when or where or who they were. You get enough in one spot and eventually it seems they all begin to torment the rest.

Some moments you could trick yourself enough into thinking you were enjoying it, other times all eyes seemed to be off you and trickling in were the piercing eyes and bone chilling voice which made you shiver more then the outside cold. One thing at a time you were to focus on, but every few hours the stranger would crawl back to you and demand you shrink in at the fear.

Still, only Jon knew about that. How else would you say it to another soul, you'd be seen as out of your mind more then you already were. Lord Howland telling you what this was called did not make it that much more comforting.

What would you tell people? You have the sight, but there is no true explanation as to what it is, and what it means? You may as well tell your people you were but a fair maiden, weak minded and broken down into hysteria by the world around you. Talking of someone you saw in a dream you do not know as if they were real, wasn't the ramblings of someone with a firm grip on their sanity.

“Some days you remind me far too much of your father.” Your heart startling in your chest, you turned to the side where you had been perched to see your mother standing close. Voice a more quiet mutter just for you, but her eyes watching narrowed and curious at the same scene before you. “When you're troubled you both have this look, staring into the distance as if you're anywhere but here.” Glancing at your stilled gaze she added, “It would be intimidating if it came from anyone other then you.”

A deep hum in your chest came out in some sound as you looked away to the three of them once more teasing the other more then teaching and learning. “Once many years ago I might have considered being called unintimidating, an insult.”

Smooth and low her voice always was, a contrast to your weaker cracked tone the louder you'd speak sometimes. “Unlike Stannis, being intimidating doesn't suit you. I'm not sure I could ever imagine thinking he would look so natural being over here laughing and joking with these boys.”

Your that time slowly turned to her as your eyes squinted. Lips parting slightly as you let a bit of a smirk fall over your face. A smirk which caught on and found it's way too onto your mothers. “I'm not sure I've ever heard you make fun of father, before.”

Selyse however, only shrugged one shoulder. “You weren't around for those years. Your sister saw plenty of that.” Once the air would have been heavy between you at her mention, but it was less of that and more something simple charged between you both going unsaid. But did not threaten to suffocate either anymore.

A sigh left you, gazing back to the yard only to drop as you looked more to the ground. Voice low only for her, ignoring around you. “It's bizarre isn't it?” She could see your eyes flicker over to Gendry before returning back to her alone. “Whenever I used to try and imagine what Petyr would look like, it always ended up something like that. Only, he looks even more like one of us then I once thought.”

Her own silence thought for a moment, with Maester Cressen gone, she now was the only one remaining who knew the names you gave your brothers. Like you however, her gaze to Gendry didn't last long but it was narrow eyed as it was critical before coming to yours. “The only cousins you thought you had looked nothing like Robert, you had no way of knowing any proper children would take after the two of them so strongly.”

Lightness came over you as you could recall it, it had been a long time. “The last thing Jon Arryn had said before he died was the seed is strong. I couldn't for the life of me figure out what that could have meant until I saw him.” As soon as your mind put it together it was so obvious that day. “We spoke perhaps a few minutes before Lord Stark and myself realized who he was. How couldn't we, he stood there looking just like me.”

“No one knows?” Answering that besides Jon, no one else knew but the three of you and Ser Davos. A quiet moment she spent watching as if normal when what she said was not the direction you expected at all. “Part of me wished I could have hated Jon once we had arrived at Castle Black.” Quite good you both were at staying right where you were looking as if no conversation of meaning was taking place whatsoever. “The way your father looked at him, it was like watching for the first time him interacting with the son he never had. And I wanted to hate him for it, beacuse my husband could only find that in someone who wasn't even his by blood. In a boy I didn't give him.”

Silent you remained, not quite sure what she was getting at.

“Imagine how strange it is, looking at a boy who in every way is what you imagined in your own sons appearance, but the only one you actually have, is one by marriage that your father admired in such a way.” Your brows narrowed a small bit, eyes not truly looking at anything anymore as the cool breeze passed between you both. “Everytime I think our family couldn't get any stranger, you show up with a way to only add to it further.”

A small shrug on your shoulder, with little voice to follow. “I have a knack for it. How is that going by the way?” The smirk it seemed, returned just the slightest. “Having a son in law.”

Oh the flat expression of your mothers face only had you smother a smirk even further as you both looked away from the other in amusement. “Slowly. It takes time, getting used to seeing you married to someone so different then the sort of match I used to have in mind.”

It was your turn to twist in expression, “Dare I ask what kind of match you used to envision for me?”

Her face seemed to feel a doubt, as if trying to find words other then what she was thinking by the time she opened her mouth. “Simply put, someone a little more..” Eyes sharp towards her, you watched those same cogs turn once more.

Head tilting to the side a little bit, you let some audacity sit in your tone. “If you are about to respectful mother, I swear-” Claiming instantly that wasn't what she about about to say you jumped right back into it. “Then what word were you going to say?”

The pause lasted a few good moments before settling on, “Someone a little less rambunctious.”

She gazed at you from the side as you eyed her with a judging jest. “That is not what you were trying to say and we both know it. Besides, if you think Jon is too wild, I dare not imagine what you would've thought about the man my father married me off to in the first place.”

That time Selyse looked at you in a stern wonder but you merely looked away to the group once more ahead of you. No doubt whatever suitor she once had in mind, was incredibly boring in contrast to the two wolves which held equal sides of your heart.

Nights had a pattern these days, where you would end up and with whom. Any looking to find you or Jon only need search the study being used by Sam. The quiet of the night made it easier to focus on what was needed, and yet it also was more unnerving. At least now it was, the closer to night it got the more you couldn't avoid having to sleep. Ever since that night on the ship, you tossed back and forth between dreamlessness and horror before you and there was no control of it. But this was the first night you had properly delved into the Northern part of what you had seen in that dream.

“It's been a long time, but I'm sure of it. Those were the same ones.” Sam insisting that the symbol you had dreamt of was carved into a rock at the Fist of the First Men, where underneath it sat the cloak hiding the dragonglass. Pulling a scroll he had been in the middle of writing out, you moved to stand beside him. Hand braced on the desk as you leaned over with squinting eyes.

Jon however, hovered more by the window. Arms crossed over his chest you could tell that somewhere he was lost in thought but you didn't know what. You didn't blame him. It had been a very long time since someone other then himself had mentioned Benjen Stark, and it clearly was an untreated wound inside him that still hurt.

Leaning down to look at the writing closer to the flames you started to eye the translations Sam had worked on since Wolkan came to him. Muttering under your breath, “How do we go thousands of years and still not understand these?” Your other palm moving to join braced against the desk in thought as on the other adjacent side Sam watched closely.

His answer was easy, and with a confidence that you were thankful for. “Most Archmaesters at the Citadel question all of it.” Your head rising up to find his in question. “The oldest histories we have were written after the Andals came to Westeros. Once they came in, they established their own writing system and most things we know about the Dawn Age or the Age of Heroes were written by septons thousands of years later. By the time anyone thought to look at the runes used by the First Men,”

You finished his sentence as your eyes trained back on the paper. “No one was left who knew how to translate them.” It seemed like the markings you saw were a collection of words or phrases. As if what appeared as one rune, was really a collective of words which painted an image that meant what written language could say in a paragraph. Many looked like the other and it was clear Sam had spent much time trying to narrow it down. Muttering mostly to yourself as you looked it over, “I am not normally one in favour of shaming other cultures, but it sure is bloody inconvenient trying to figure it all out now.”

Jon, still further away faced your direction as his voice rasped out, “Maybe it wasn't meant to be read in Common.” Both you and Sam looked up at him, but there was already an answer to the question posed on both your tongues. “They spoke seven different languages north of the Wall. These symbols might be an combination of Old Common and something else.”

Narrowing your gaze back at them, you couldn't help the image in your head from coming up. One made in the snow in blood and bodies. Whatever connections your mind was trying to make, still felt as if you had a long way to go. Glancing back up, Jon once more looked away distracted.

Something other then your dream of his Uncle was bothering him.

It was agreed it couldn't have been a coincidence that Benjen would leave the dragonglass under a rune rock at the Fist of the First Men. It couldn't mean nothing, that didn't even make sense. He planned on going much further to the Frost Fangs, but made a stop by the Fist to bury dragonglass?

Why not leave it all at the wall, or take it with him? With every new answer, it felt as it it swirling in your mind until it stretched thin and split off into multiple new questions you didn't know even once connected. Planning a war felt like a tray of cakes next to this.

In truth you think he barley noticed by the time you came up behind him. Palms gently sliding up his back and digging somewhat into the tense muscles, until you felt Jon relax with a shaking exhale to follow. Your voice low as you stood more on your toes to try and lean over his shoulder, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Silent for a moment, instead Jon chose to reach behind him, beckoning you to stand in front of him to the night sky. Back now up against his chest, one hand holding firmly at your waist as the other wrapped around your stomach to pull you firmly into him. One of your hands grasping at his fingers by your stomach and the other pushing the material on his forearm up to run over the skin there.

Jon pressed his head against the side of yours, rasping in a low mumble in the now empty room of only the two of you. “Do you know what one of the first things Mance Rayder said to me was?” Shaking your head no, he sighed deeply. “Right away he knew I was Ned Stark's bastard.” Your mouth parting ever so slightly, an unsettled chill in your blood as their was his. “Being a Snow doesn't mean anything north of the Wall. Knowing my name shouldn't have..the second I walked into his tent he already knew who I was.”

Very little Jon liked to talk about his time beyond the Wall, a lot you suspected he didn't want to hear, didn't want to say. It was hard to get an actual answer but you grasped at what straws you could. “Benjen was First Ranger, if he knew him he might have heard-” You could feel him shake his head against you though.

Hand on your waist smoothing up and down the warm material covering you, you could feel him looking a bit more down at you from where he stood. “He knew who I was because he'd seen me before.” Asking where, Jon gave only one word that made your body freeze. “Here.” If anything, Jon pulled you closer, his forehead resting against the side of yours as he leaned more down into your leaning back touch. “The man in the crypts, in your dream, the night of the feast. It was Mance.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

You felt him look somewhat behind for a moment, as if struggling to decide moving you both or staying right here but he ultimately found the fair strength. Turning you slightly so the arm around your stomach slunk to your lower back guiding you to one of the chests near the corner. Keeping you there, Jon knelt down as he moved to unlock and rummage through it. “Qhorin Halfhand said Mance was having groups of Free Folk dig around the Skirling Pass. Looking for something. When I met them he they claimed he had what he was looking for but I doubted it.”

Arms crossing so your hands could smooth over the other as the chill of the night felt just a bit worse when not pressed close to Jons warmth. “And what was he looking for?”

Standing up, still wrapped in a Nights Watch cloak, you both moved so he could rest it against the table. “When Sam found the dragonglass, it was wrapped in this. But that wasn't the only thing with it. If my Uncle hid this, I don't think it was the daggers he was hiding. I think it was this.” Unravelling it, some kind of horn sat inside.

Ivory in some places, but most of it was made out of bronze, dark runes carved into it with a delicate care. Not much bigger then the size of any normal dagger. To most it wouldn't have stood out but for where it was found, it certainty was. Trying to ask what this had to do with Mance, Jon turned it in his hand gently as he rasped deeply. “I think he was looking for this. I think he came south of the Wall to find this, but the night of the feast, my Uncle got to it first. So he lied, and said he had it to convince his people to listen to him.”

His eyes looked over the runes, but yours drew up to look at him with a wide gaze. “That's why he knew who you were. Why he knew where to look in the crypts.”

Grey eyes shining bright found yours, and only an unsure silence sat between for a moment as Jon attempted to find a muttering voice. “The Free Folk called it the Horn of Winter. Something that could bring down the Wall.”

If only a small mumble, your eyebrows raised a bit as you looked back down at the bronzed artifact laying limp once more. “Seems a little dramatic if you ask me.” Not expecting the chuckle coming deep from Jon next to you, you found yourself leaning a bit more into his side, as if drawing closer to the rare sound. His arm wrapped around, pulling you close as if sensing the second you moved.

His face twisted trying to think it through as you were, “I don't know if I believe it can bring the Wall down, but it's important enough that everyone was looking for it.” He didn't need to elaborate, and you didn't ask him too. “Sam had this on him when they were attacked out there, and they left him alive. Killed two hundred of my brothers but they walked passed Sam and let him live.”

Despite all the war you had seen, it was hard to envision the kind of battles Jon had seen. Two such drastically different fights that you both found yourself in for so many years and yet his was inconceivable in what it must have looked like. “You think they knew he had it?”

Inhaling, he didn't pick it up, but turned it slightly over with his free hand. “Or they could sense something. Old Nan used to tell stories about how the Wall is protected with magic. If her stories about The Long Night are true..”

Hesitating, you came to as blunt a conclusion as one could. “I'm beginning to feel rather sick of this, everywhere we turn now something else has to do with magic. Who knew fighting a war in enemy territory was going to be the most simple part of my life.”

Wrapped back up and locked away, your palms were braced against the wood behind you as you leaned against it. Looking up at Jon as he stood somewhat before you, head just as loud as yours. “If what Lord Howland says about your visions is right, something was trying to lead you to the answers. Whatever is giving this to you, wanted us to know my Uncle hid those before he disappeared. Just not why.”

It was a risk of a suggestion, but you gave it anyways. “If I learn how to control it..” Jons gaze shot up narrow and a blatant disapproval on it as you continued. “I might be able to go back to that vision and learn something..” Saying your name in warning, you shook your head barrelling past him. “It can't be a coincidence, too much of what I'm seeing feels like it is supposed to connect maybe the gods are trying to help guide me to give you the right answers..”

Jon repeating your name, the second time a hand tilting your jaw and cheek up to meet his eyes, a brightness in them that begged to be listened to with a sorrow. “It's not safe, letting you do that.” If he expected a protest, which he didn't, Jon let the opportunity come and go before continuing. “What if he shows up and I can't protect you? What if this gets worse, Lord Howland said these things took a toll on his son..I'm not going to let anything happen to you for any of this.”

Your eyes didn't meet his for a moment as they drifted. Hands tensing and relaxing against the wood before slipping your eyes shut. Exhaling deeply almost as sigh before finding Jons grey eyes once more. Unfair it was, how easily your shoulders dropped in strain at such a close sight. Lightly, you let your hand run along his wrist, pulse strong as it always was. “You don't want me to fight, but you don't want me to even help you here. If I didn't know any better, a girl may start feeling like she's not trusted.”

A step closer to you, Jon tilted his head with an almost jesting sharp look as if to challenge you on that one. “I can't trust you. You're too selfless sometimes for your own good, and now I can't trust you to not throw yourself on your sword for me.” There wasn't malice or judgment, but almost a deep affection. His other hand reached up to pull you into his chest as he stepped up close to you, your own hands sliding up his chest to his shoulders as he helped you stand against him straighter. Voice low and rasping but close that you could feel his warm breathe dance across your own skin. “You might be the only girl I know that makes taking care of you difficult. Aren't Queens supposed to be waited on hand and foot?”

Raising an eyebrow you took Jon off guard, pressing a kiss to his cheek before he could get much more snarky. Whispering gently, “Says the King who refuses to let his wife do any of the hard work no matter how much she tries.” Running your hands down the leather across his chest, you wished it sounded more sultry from you voice but really it only dipped back into a rough sincere tone. “You're good at this, Jon. Being King? You're great at it.” Finding his eyes, he trusted your intentions, to not interupt with what normally is a dismissal in insecurity. “But I don't want you doing everything on your own. Not when this time I know where's things I can do to help.”

Still, it felt as if Jon was holding something back but you didn't want to press it. He had more then what he deserved weighing on him and pushing him didn't make that better. Instead, you simply followed his lead as he leaned in to close the gap between you both.

His lips pressed gently against yours in a mere chaste kiss, both of your hands wrapping around the back of his neck. His hair all pulled back it let you scratch gently along the skin there, pulling a deep rumbling from within Jons chest. His hands cupping your cheeks, he pulled you up to tilt to his mercy but didn't deepen it in any way.

Light tracings against your lips was all he gave, both of you savouring how soft and warm you felt wrapped up with one another as such. Pulling away, Jon gave into weakness, pressing one more small kiss to your lips, then your forehead before resting yours against his. Thumbs running along the skin of your cheeks. “We'll talk to Sam about it, see if he's found anything. Tormund's back in a few days, he knew Mance a long time. I'll see if he knows anything about the horn either.”

Nodding absentmindedly only for a moment before you stopped. Nails stopped scratching and your eyes opened with an amused jest in them. Glancing up as you pulled back slightly, still in his hold you opened your mouth but Jon knew your attitude far better then that. Cutting you off before your first breathe with a rough, “Don't.”

Your laugh had him smirk in an instant. But your only comment in return, had Jon almost haul you out of the room with a brute strength as if about to pick you up and throw you onto the bed the moment he got you to his chambers for that one. “What? Afraid distance has made my heart grow stronger?”

Only, his hands on your hips as he leaned into you, did the door open and a loud voice shouted out with as much amusement as it had disgust. “Seven hells, you do know you both have a bedroom to do this in, right?”

Glancing over, both you and Jon with a matching narrow eyes glare towards Arya as she leaned in the door frame looking as if the parent and you both the caught children. Jon spoke flatly at her with as much jesting attitude, “Or you could turn around and close the door.”

A roll of your eyes found it's way fondly onto you as just as quickly, Arya playfully snapped right back with not a care in the world. “Other people live here, why can't you go be disgusting somewhere private?”

Both Starks now trapped in their own game of see who will give each other more snark first, it was likely neither of you were making it to the bed as quick as Jon previously intended. Once he and Arya got started bantering back and forth, there was little which could stop it, and having you in the room only made it worse. Not quite the picture of stern, formal members of the ruling North you three were.

There were many things Jon didn't yet know how to tell you, but the one he was thinking of now, was undoubtedly the dream he had.

One that felt real and yet strange as if he walked in lands he should know. The cold wind blew around Jon as steady as it was far too cold. Air flying through his hair and feet touching the snow and ice below. Yet he felt none of the pain which should come with such a sensation. Around him was ruins, but it was more then that.

They sat beneath a great cliff which sat just below dark cave mouths. Around it so high was charred trees, half living most merely statues of black wood which remained in what used to be. The scattered wilderness which could survive this far north was overgrown in such beyond. Expanding far and wide with no sign of life around such high peaks. Yet down below where he stood spoke a story vastly different.

Buildings once stood here, he could see their remains as well as the bones which were littered about from one end to the other. The stench of death was long gone and yet he felt felt it all around even in the empty dark. Some places looked new yet abandoned still. Cabins of fresh wood and yet it sat as if none would touch such a haunted place. Leading down to the freezing waters, a small spot like a dock sat where ships and boats once may have existed.

But they too, sat empty. This used to be a settlement, one Jon could envision with such activity and yet there was something about the cold and dark that drew people away. Or was that really it? Did it chase its villagers off, or did they get up, and walk away?

Beacuse if it wasn't a striking cold that set him off, it was the kind of dark that oozed around him.

Walking forward, the signs of life continued to hide. What was once here echoed as a ghost that no longer could be seen with easy eyes. Spots in the snow and ice sat black and he knew were a light to be shined upon it, it would sit a deep reddish brown in that of once blood. There was much of that. Weapons sat scattered around all in the same states and yet not enough to explain what seemed to once be carnage. But there were no bodies. At least, not anymore. What was once here, had stood up and left.

Hardhome had not looked like this when Jon left it, but in this strange otherworldly version of it, this was all which remained.

A darkness drew his grey eyes up to the night as he approached the docks. As if the skies shined with a greenish tint. Not overtaking, but wavering like they were painted into the night and moved along with the winds they blew. If one flew close to it, the green felt not bright like the sights of wildfire. This green was dark and memorizing, as if any could reach out and touch it, it would overtake him and simply draw him into their depths.

The black of night sat around the moon and stars but they, themselves, were hardly visible against the green. Shining like it was the reflection of the waters the sky sat above, green was like it poured into it and begged to draw one in. It was not a green to fear, but one to marvel. Only the kind of green he had ever seen before, sat within the colours of your eyes. But it was shimmering in the sky like milk poured into it.

Not bright and striking, not wild and terrifying, but a subtle green which only sat to exist and nothing more, but it was what drew Jons eyes wide none the less. Never before did such a shade colour draw his attention, when not you. The red comet had flown over the lands of Westeros many years ago and not once did it captivate him like the green over this far Northern land now. It appeared to shimmer in some places, but it looked as if the sky had been this way for thousands of years.

But the sea did not freeze over, some waters did but it sat open to the world as if begging him to jump in and see. Yet Jon guessed the water while not frozen over, would indeed freeze a mans blood as good as it would any. Something had taken over this place in this dream. Hardhome was empty in the real world, but in this dream, someone else occupied it.

Jon looked up to the green in the sky against such unusual cold and it wasn't until his eyes grew heavy and on edge, did he turn half way to look. Up right at the top of the cliff, not many, not even some. Just one stood on a horse so high he could barley see but a shadow. But it was tall, and glowed against the cold night and a weapon sheathed against the horse was like a crystal of ice.

The creature looked down to Jon, and it felt shivering. He had seen this one the last time he was at Hardhome. This one had looked him in the eye, and with the raise of his arms, all of the dead rose with him. He watched Jon from a high edge now, in a dream, as if they shared it together. As if this creature could share Jons dreams, the way he was learning he shared yours.

Did he bring this dark and cold, Jon did not know. But he did know, it's kind was why none lived here anymore. Half of the people once here, lived in settlements in the North he ruled, the other half walked with blue eyes and no mind of their own in a never ending army.

One more thing Jon didn't know, was why in the far distance, could he hear the cawing of a crow.

[strawberrysandcream]

murphy congrats on 5k!!!! ahhh you deserve it all<3333

for the celebration, if possible could i request a lil blurb with the prompt “it’s always been you.” with dbf!santi?

once again congrats🥳🥳

Cards On The Table.

dads bestfriend!santiago garcia x female reader

warnings - cursing. unspecified age gap.

note - thank you babe!! you’re too sweet <3

written for my 5k celebration - post here, masterlist here, inbox here.

“Why are you being a brat?”

You scoff, shaking your head incredulously.

“Me? I’m being a brat?”

“Yeah. You are. Cut that shit out.”

You’re stood outside your front door, Santi’s fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist. Your family and friends are in the backyard, enjoying the barbecue that your dad is perfecting.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do, Santiago.”

He sighs deeply, hunching over and putting his hands on his knees. He looks as done as you feel.

“I didn’t drag you here to argue.”

“Then why did you?”

He’d snapped at you in the kitchen, one of your many comments of the day finally adding up. Snatching at your wrist, he’d pulled you forcefully out the front and onto the porch, shutting the door behind him quietly.

“I- I want to know what’s the matter with you. Why you’ve been so upset with me today.”

Your breath catches in your throat. You weren’t quite prepared for his honesty, or the fact that he’d noticed how unhappy you’ve been. You could tell him the truth, but that’ll open a whole new can of worms. So, you bow your head and sit down, silence engulfing you both.

“Hermosa-”

“Don’t call me that.”

“I’ve always called you that.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

He’s quiet again, clearly unwilling to let the issue go. He moves to sit next to you, thigh pressing into yours.

“Please,” he begs. “What have I done, hmm? I don’t like feeling like you’re mad at me.”

You’re tired. Tired of fighting the way you feel, tired of protesting your mind all the time. So, you give up. You tear down your walls and let him in.

“Why did you bring her?” you whisper.

“Emma?”

“Yeah.”

“I- I don’t know. Your dad told me I should bring a date, and I just… I thought it would be alright. I didn’t really think it through.”

You process for a moment, unmoving.

“Is… is that why you’re upset with me, carinõ?”

You blink back tears. You feel stupid, having thought that there was something between the two of you. You know it’d be wrong, you know it’d be forbidden… but the heart wants what it wants. You figured that maybe your little crush would go away, but then… it didn’t. And all of a sudden, it felt like Santiago was looking at you differently. Speaking to you differently. Treating you differently.

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do.”

“Then yeah. Maybe. Doesn’t matter now anyway.”

“It matters to me.”

You shake your head, biting at your bottom lip nervously. You can hear your parents jokingly shouting at each other in the back, competitive as ever as they play a game by the pool.

“Just leave it, Santi. Look, I’m sorry I was a bitch today. I didn’t mean to take it out on you, and I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”

He grabs your hand, rough skin against your soft palm.

“Look at me. Please.”

You tilt your chin up to meet his big brown eyes, warm and pleading.

“Cards on the table.”

“Cards on the table?”

“Cards on the table… I only invited Emma to try and get over you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as you look at him, mouth slightly agape. You’re trying to work out what this means, processing his words, but your brain keeps coming up empty.

“What?”

“I shouldn’t feel what I feel… but I do. And I knew it just wasn’t realistic, so, finally, I decided I needed to move on. Your dad suggested dating, and I thought fuck it, why not? Can’t hurt, right?”

He squeezes your hand, and continues.

“Wrong. It hurt so bad, sitting there with her and watching you watch me with that look in your eyes. Like I’d betrayed you or something. Which I guess, I kinda did.”

“I don’t- Santi, I… what are you saying?”

“I’m saying…”

He cradles your face in his hands, gazing at you pointedly.

“It’s always been you, hermosa.”

“It- it has?”

“Yeah,” he laughs, resting his forehead against yours. “And I know this is complicated, and confusing, and all sorts of wrong, but… I’m sick of denying what I want.”

“We can figure it out,” you whisper. “It’ll take time, but, we can.”

“I know we can. I know.”

He leans in and presses his lips to yours, gently and tenderly.

“We’ll take it one day at a time,” he reassures against your mouth.

You nod, pulling back to rest your head on his chest.

“You can start by taking Emma home,” you mumble into his t shirt.

He laughs, pulling you in closer.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

“So I’ve been told,” you chuckle, wrapping your arms around his back.

“One day at a time,” he reassures quietly, rubbing patterns into your bare shoulders.

“One day at a time.”

[strawberrysandcream]

Safe with me (15)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Extremely graphic descriptions of violence. Character death.

A/N: Well, here we go.

Tags for this story are CLOSED Link here for posting schedule

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously…

“Alright then, if that’s what you want,” he steps even closer to the barrier, so close you can see the gleaming whites of his eyes. “I gave you a chance, so – just know that this is your fault Barnes, it’s all on you. I hope you remember that. In the end.”

Jack reaches behind him, grasping for something in his pocket, and Bucky crouches slightly, a snarl on his face as he settles into battle stance.

When his hand reappears, Jack’s holding a thick paperback book.

He smiles.

*****

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[strawberrysandcream]

Safe with me (14)

Summary: When an unknown threat enters your life, protection is offered at the highest level. As Bucky Barnes comes into your life, the game changes, and you realise falling for the man tasked with keeping you safe is the last thing you expected.

Characters: Bodyguard!Bucky Barnes x Reader Warnings: Bad language. Graphic descriptions of violence. Minor character death.

A/N: Bucky has methods to his madness and you are just done with these people. Stuck in the middle of a battlezone is a terrible place to be.

Tags for this story are CLOSED Link here for posting schedule

SAFE WITH ME MASTERLIST PREVIOUS CHAPTER

Previously…

The room is silent.

All eyes are on Bucky, who stands at the screen with his hand still raised. Steve releases him slowly, when he feels the panicked movements go suddenly rigid. From behind, a peculiar shapeshifting appears to take place. His posture changes, his neck flexes, his shoulders roll back.

Bucky stands up straight.

When he spins around, even Steve takes a step back at the sight.

Deadly rage burns like blue fire in the Soldier’s eyes.

*****

Keep reading