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siravalondulac · 4 months ago

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pour it in a cup | j. snow x reader

summary: after the devastating wars against the white walkers and house lannister, jon is once again king in the north, and as such, is in need of a wife. how lucky, then, that tyrion lannister has a niece.

contents: arranged marriage, unrealistically quick relationship progression, she/her pronouns for reader, one use of y/n, slight non-graphic smut at the end

words: 5814

author's note: based on this request. i've also written a version with my oc here (in case you saw both and were confused, it's the same story)

masterlist

Perhaps avoiding any talk about the topic of his missing queen had not been the correct idea. He should have listened to his advisors when they spoke of marriage, of the betrothal offers from the Northern lords, of the suggestion to take a Free Folk woman as wife to unite their people. But he had been too focused on trying to deal with becoming king - again - he had brushed them all off. And this was the punishment.

He stood in the courtyard, his remaining siblings beside him, waiting anxiously for the procession to arrive. The entire castle had gathered to greet the visitors from Casterly Rock, and to catch a glimpse of their new queen.

Horns blasted, and then the first soldiers arrived.

Their red and golden armour had not changed, and neither had the lion on their banners. Fewer men than expected accompanied the party, but all of that was forgotten when you rode in.

Cersei Lannister's oldest child, who had hidden in Casterly Rock for the entire war, staying far removed from the horror the rest of them had to suffer.

You were clad in rich fabrics, a dark red dress with golden embellishments, decorated with soft furs to keep yourself warm in the cold. Yet more peculiarly, you did not travel in a wheelhouse as your mother or any of the southern ladies would have done, but sat aside on a horse, its hide as white as the snow around them.

You would become his wife. You would become his queen

Your uncle, Tyrion Lannister, jumped off his own horse and approached him. They shook hands with a smile, and Jon was glad over the lack of proper manners.

“Your Grace.” Tyrion's voice sounded amused saying the title. “I am grateful for the invitation. And that you have accepted the proposal.”

“The North needs this alliance to heal,” he repeated the words of his council. “Just as the Westerlands.”

“That we do.” He beckoned someone forward. “May I introduce your betrothed? My niece, the Princess Y/N.”

You raised your hand, and he quickly took it to lay a kiss upon your knuckles.

“My princess, I am honoured.”

“As am I, your grace.”

Your words were polite yet cold, and he realised for the first time you might want this marriage even less than him.

He tried to grasp at something to say. “May I lead you to your chambers?”

You nodded, and closed your hand around his arm.

Perhaps he should have stayed, should have greeted the other lords and ladies as well, should have held a speech - whatever was expected of a king. But he wanted time alone with his bride, wanted to spend your first moments together without dozens of eyes watching them. And so he did not feel bad as he led you into the halls of his castle.

“Uh-” He cleared his throat. “You will receive your own chambers until the wedding, in order to get used to everything. Afterwards you will move into the Lord's chambers with me.”

You nodded, and said nothing.

You passed the main hall, where a wooden throne now eternally stood high above the rest.

“It must be strange,” he said, “being back here after all these years.”

You chuckled. “Strange indeed. The last time I was here, my family was still alive. Now there is only my uncle and me, the dwarven king and the forgotten princess.”

Your voice had become biting, accusatory. And he supposed you had a point.

“I apologise.” He did not dare look at you. “These last years must have been difficult.”

“They sent me away and never came for me,” you answered far too quickly. As if you had prepared it. “I am loyal to the Stark crown and will do my duty by it.”

He did not try to initiate another conversation until you had reached your chambers. And even then, the few words he spoke were only to inform you that a servant would be with you shortly. You seemed as if you wanted to tell him something - a thank, a question, a demand to leave you alone until the wedding the coming week - yet closed the door before any such thing could happen.

You tried to forget him. Tried to ignore the reality of the situation whenever the thought passed your mind. Which was nonsense, you knew. But it was easier than facing the fact you would be marrying a total stranger in just a few, short days.

That first night, Winterfell held a feast to welcome you, and to introduce the castle and the entire North to their new queen.

Despite what would be expected of you, and despite knowing you would have to adhere to your betrothed's customs soon, you had decided on a blood red gown for the evening, while a golden tiara decorated your intricately braided hair.

One last desperate attempt to cling to your heritage. To not lose what remained of your family.

King Jon Stark already awaited you at the doors to the feast hall, clad in yet another set of black and brown leathers and a fur-lined cloak, this time, however, with a spiked iron crown on top of his dark curls.

He smiled at you, you smiled back, then you took his extended arm, and entered.

The few spots of red and gold were drowned out in a sea of Northmen, all staring at you. Judging you. None of them wanted a tyrant's daughter as their queen, a foreigner, an enemy. Neither did you, but what else was left for you in this world? You were your uncle's heir, yet only until he sired his own children. And afterwards, you would have nothing.

Best accept this marriage. It was certainly the best you could get.

King Jon held a short speech once they stood in front of their seats, thanking first his lords for joining him for this most wonderful occasion, then your uncle for brokering this much needed alliance between their kingdoms, and lastly you. For agreeing.

You smiled and curtsied, and hastily removed your hand from his arm once you were seated.

The food was agreeable, the ale not too bitter, and the constant chattering and even shouting from the wildlings bearable. You had to get used to all this, you reminded yourself, especially to the presence of the man beside you.

Jon, to his credit, had not tried to strike up a conversation yet, though the glances he threw in your direction burned on your skin. You would have to look at him eventually, you knew as much. Touch him, even. Lay with him. Perhaps speaking to him now might soften that experience later on.

But he was drawn into a conversation with your uncle before you could decide.

Sansa sat on your other side, beside her brother and two others you did not recognise. You grasped at something to say - something easy, and far removed from the terrors your families had inflicted on each other.

“I like your dress,” you said carefully, not daring to fully look into Sansa's face.

It was true, you did like her gown - dark blue and simple, with an intricately embroidered wolf just above her heart.

“Thank you. I made it myself a few years ago. I had too much on my hands to sew a completely new gown simply for this feast.”

“You enjoy making them yourself, I take it?” you asked, trying to keep the conversation going. “The last time I was here, you were so proud of what you made, it was all you could talk about for an entire course.”

“And all you could talk about was King's Landing, and how much I would like it there.”

Perhaps Sansa tried to start an argument, to find any excuse to convince her brother to break off the betrothal. Perhaps she wanted to guilt you into admitting fault for your family's actions. Or perhaps that was simply the only thing she remembered from that evening.

“I am sorry.” You stared at the rings on your fingers. “I should have warned you about Joffrey.”

You had been sent to Casterly Rock not long after the outbreak of the war - for safekeeping, so that the Baratheon crown could live on through you should disaster strike the rest of your family - but you had still witnessed the beginnings of your brother's cruelty towards Sansa.

“You couldn’t have known what he would do.”

“I grew up beside him. I knew him longer and better than most. What he did to you… I could have prevented it.”

“He would have punished you as well, had you tried.”

Jon had joined some of wildings further into the hall, and you could almost understand their words and cheers from your place at the main table, such was the volume they were speaking at. He looked comfortable with them.

“Your brother…” You hesitated. “What is he like?”

Your eyes stayed on him, even when Sansa eventually answered.

“He will not mistreat you, if that is what you fear.”

“No. I mean-” You chuckled half-heartedly. “That is all anyone tells me about him. He is good, he is kind, he is brave. It all sounds rather dull.”

“He was a bastard, then a brother of the Night's Watch. He still thinks he is undeserving of the crown, even though the Northerners have pronounced him their king twice now. He has already fought in more battles than most will in their entire lifetime. Such a thing is known to leave one scarred and withdrawn. Give him time, he will warm up to you eventually.”

Jon joined your side again after a while, with red cheeks and a small grin on his lips. Yet when he noticed your stare, he swallowed, shook his head slightly, and it had disappeared.

You almost wanted to tell him how cute it had looked.

“I am rather tired from the long ride,” you said instead. “Would it be terribly impolite by Northern customs to leave already?”

“No, not at all.” He stood up and offered you his arm. “Let me accompany you to your chambers.”

Conversations died when you passed.

The cold air hit you the moment you stepped out into the quiet of the night, and you could not stop the noticeable shiver running down your back, nor the slight shaking of your arms. You clenched your jaw and prepared yourself for an uncomfortable walk, when a cloak was suddenly laid around your shoulders.

Confused, you looked towards Jon.

“I apologise about the cold. I suppose it will take a while to fully get used to it.”

Then he realised he still had his hands laid on your arms, and he hastily dropped them, taking a step back for good measure.

You pulled the fabric tighter around yourself.

“Thank you, your grace.”

You did not touch each other again on the walk to your rooms, and you did not mind at all. Welcomed it, in fact. You would be forced to endure his hands soon enough, there was no reason to invite them sooner.

You thought about saying something once you reached your door - a thank, a question, an invitation to spend the following day with you. Yet all you did was hand him back his cloak, whisper a quick “Good Night”, and quickly close the door behind you.

Be gentle with her. She has gone through a lot.

Tyrion's words echoed in his mind as he made his way to your chambers.

Your distance at the feast last night had surely been noted, he knew it had. Certain Northern lords - Manderly, Umber - were already looking for any excuse to oppose this marriage, he could not provide them with more reasons. You two would be seen conversing happily, spending time together, kissing if necessary. They would not punish you for his misgivings.

He knocked on your door, waited, and assumed for a moment you would ignore him, when he suddenly heard steps. Slow, careful, yet still. His back straightened on its own, and then you stood before him.

A soft green dress draped your body. Simple, without much embroidery, jewels, frills, or lace. Just a lone necklace hung around your neck.

You looked… beautiful.

“Your Grace.” You quickly pushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “Is something the matter?”

“No, I-” The light caught in your hair. He cleared his throat. “I was planning to check on the castle, make sure everything is working as intended. Would you like to accompany me?”

Best make you believe you would not put unnecessary burdens on his shoulders by agreeing to this walk, but simply to join what he was already doing.

Still… Even despite his efforts, you seemed ready to decline. Your fingers tightening in your dress, the trembling of your lips, the terror in your eyes-

“Yes.”

You quickly had a cloak slung around your shoulders and your hand around his arm, and so you set off.

Jon knew, of course, that you had only agreed because you were aware of your situation, much like him, and that you needed to play the game in order to survive. Your mother had taught you much.

Your walk through the castle led you past the kitchens, the feast halls, the smithery, the stables, the sept, the glass gardens. He explained everything as well as he could - what lead where, who worked where, whom you should talk to when faced with a problem. All while staring ahead, seldom sending a gaze your way.

You listened, nodded, smiled. You curtsied when encountering ladies and servants alike, picked up a stray flower you found in one of the hallways. And yet you also rarely spoke a word. Just a question here and there, a greeting, a polite agreement. A pretty thing on his arm.

Perhaps you were hiding. Perhaps this was simply who you were.

You walked through a door and outside, ending up on the pathways surrounding the training yard.

Northmen and wildlings sparred side-by-side, laughing and joking despite their thousands of years of animosity. Some had said their blossoming friendship was due to him - the man who had died to bring innocents south of the Wall - but he knew they attributed far too much to him. Facing death itself was enough to unite even the greatest of foes.

“Are they all living at Winterfell?”

He shook his head, then remembered you likely weren't looking at him. “No, they are not. Most of them are lords and their entourages, who will leave after the wedding. The wildlings are visiting as well, they are merely here to strengthen our alliance.”

His eyes wandered towards you for a short moment, to glance at you, see if you might express anything but polite interest. And… yes, perhaps that was indeed a small smile on your lips, and a sparkle in your eyes as you watched the children chase each other with sticks and wooden swords.

“I remember the last time I was here,” you said, lost in thought. “My brothers sparred with yours. Tommen was still far too young, so his fighting was more mindless stumbling in a set of armour that didn't quite fit him.”

“Do you miss your siblings?”

You nodded.

You continued your walk around the castle until you ended up in front of your chamber again.

“Thank you for accompanying me,” he said.

“Thank you for letting me.”

Then the door was shut before him once again.

After an eternity of walking circles in your room, you had grabbed a blanket, a book, and hidden in a secluded spot in the glass gardens. Surrounded by flowers and vines that, if you squinted, reminded you at least a little of your home, you had finally felt at ease.

Walking around the castle the previous day had been gruelling. Everyone had stared, knowingly, judgingly, as if they blamed you for your family's crimes, for the dire state the North had been beaten into. And the worst thing was…

You didn't blame them.

Time passed in the safe space you had crafted for yourself, amidst the moondusts and dragon’s breaths and coldsnaps, lost in the words of your book.

Then steps drew near.

In your haste to jump off the cushioned bench, you threw over a flower pot, sending it tumbling to the ground. The bench almost tipped backwards, and you only narrowly kept it from crashing into the glass behind it.

No one could see you here. This was not your place, not your home, not yours to enjoy. You should have stayed locked away, deep inside the halls of Winterfell, with a dozen guards to line the way. Here there was no one. Just you. Alone.

If one of the lords found you here… You had seen their eyes the previous days, the glances and stares sent your way. Full of hatred. Lust. You knew them all - their meaning, their consequences. They would mean to punish you for what your family had done to them, and perhaps even find a way to stop this alliance and keep the king from wanting you. You needed to get away from here, back to your rooms, far away-

“Princess? Is everything alright?”

Jon stood amongst the plantlife, dressed in another set of black leathers. He looked down at you, concern etched across his face as he watched your hunched over form, kneeling in the dirt.

“Yes. Yes, everything is alright.” You stumbled over your words. “I- I apologise for this mess. I will clean it up right away and then-”

“Let me help you.”

His hands were calm, strong, cold as they brushed yours. He quickly had the flower pot - not broken, thank the gods - back on its pedestal, and helped you brush the dirt together.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“You would not believe the amount of things I have almost destroyed in this castle.” His chuckle reverberated in your chest, the sound low yet warm and inviting, and something shifted inside you.

“I doubt anyone would have noticed. Winterfell is even more contorted than Casterly Rock.”

And then he laughed, and you wanted to bottle up the sound and keep it locked away close to your heart.

“Maybe you could show it to me one day. After you have gotten used to your new life.”

You knew you should agree with him, tell him he need not be worried, and that you would be the nice and pleasing wife he desired. Yet something about your current position - sitting on the ground so close next to each other, your fingers mere breaths apart, staring into his dark eyes - made you whisper, “I don’t know if I ever will.”

He cocked his head. “Why would you say that?”

“Just look at me. I don’t belong here - I don’t belong anywhere. Your lords know that, and you would be much more suited marrying one of their daughters. Not the child of a foreign tyrant.”

Jon looked at you, eyes fluttering across your face, your body, your dress, seemingly trying to find an answer to the questions mounting in his head. You turned your head away, yet he quickly caught your chin with his fingers, and forced you to meet his gaze again.

“I don’t want anyone else.”

His breath brushed across your cheek, his lips so close to yours you felt the heat radiating off them.

“After our wedding,” you whispered, “I want you to stop lying to me. I get enough of that pity from my uncle.”

And so you quickly stood up, and ran away.

You had stayed hidden in your room since your interaction the previous day. Or perhaps, simply stayed hidden from him.

He was slowly running short on ideas to make you warm up to him. Nothing, it seemed, that he said or did made you more comfortable around him, nothing caused you to open up to him, nothing led to you seeking him out.

Perhaps he should give up. Commit himself to a sad, lonely life, with an emotionless shell of a person beside him, until the cold finally returned to claim him once more. Perhaps it was what he deserved.

He sat up in his bed; slowly, breathing laboured, skin covered in sweat. The chamber was still wrapped in darkness, with only a sliver of the moon’s silver light falling past the drapes. He buried his face in his hands, then quickly stood up, slipped into a tunica and some boots, and disappeared into Winterfell’s deserted hallways.

No one was awake during this time of the night. The most he would ever encounter during his semi-regular walks around his castle was a stray rat, or a cat running after it.

Ghost had joined him at some point, trotting by his side like a white shadow, the fur cold and soft underneath his scarred hand. He was glad for his direwolf, glad for the quiet company, glad to not be alone in the darkness. Then he stepped on one of the walkways overlooking the main courtyard, and almost had his breath knocked out of him.

A soft breeze wafted through your hair, open for the very first time in his presence, the moonlight illuminating the strands and making them appear almost silver. Despite the freezing cold you wore no cloak, just a simple, dark blue dress that hugged your frame.

You looked… ethereal.

Your blue eyes settled onto him, and he nearly stumbled backwards.

“I- I apologise. I will leave-”

“No.” Your gaze settled on the yard beneath you once again. “It’s alright.”

He slowly, carefully walked towards you, yet made sure to stop a good distance away from you, and then followed your gaze into the abandoned courtyard. Usually brimming with life, now dark and empty.

“I apologise about my behaviour yesterday,” you almost said in a whisper. “You were merely trying to be nice towards your betrothed, and I should not have run away.”

“I understand why you did, and do not hold it over your head.” He buried his fingers into the frost-covered banister.

You stood there, in uncomfortable silence afterwards, neither knowing what to say, if to say anything.

“I suppose…” you said, then hesitated. “My mother sent me away and never came for me. Even as my siblings started dying, even after your brother had been killed, even after my uncles had been defeated, she left me at Casterly Rock, never sending a letter, never visiting. Then she crowned herself queen, and the only way I found out was because my uncle turned up after the war to tell me. And to tell me she had died, and that the Seven Kingdoms were no more.” She took a shaky breath. “I fear that if I trust someone again, they will do the same.”

He had had no idea- He had always thought you had hid in Casterly Rock, looking down upon them as they were slaughtered on battlefields. That you had been essentially held captive had never once crossed his mind as a possibility.

Be gentle with her. She has gone through a lot.

“I am not your mother. You will never experience anything like it again, I swear it.”

Ghost eventually left his side and took a few careful steps towards you, sniffing at your hand, bumping his nose into your arm. And even though Jon had seen you ride in on a horse, had seen your eyes, hard as ice, staring at anyone daring to get too close to you, it still took him by surprise when you did not move back in fear, instead slowly starting to let your fingers glide through his white fur. All while failing at hiding the smile gracing your lips.

He wished you would smile like this at him. Some day, perhaps.

“I remember them from my last visit,” you said. “Though this one has grown quite a lot during this time.”

“His name is Ghost.”

“Ghost.” You chuckled. “An apt name. And I think you agree as well.” You ruffled the direwolf’s fur.

“You changed as well. You grew taller, and your hair has gotten longer as well. Back then you looked just like your mother, but I can’t say you share much resemblance with her now.”

The words had tumbled out of him, and he regretted them as soon as he closed his mouth. What had gotten him to say all this?

Then, into the silence, you whispered, “I don’t remember you at all.”

Your smile had faded, replaced by the constant state of terrified impassiveness he had gotten so used to seeing on you.

“I do not blame you. I was a lowly bastard, and you part of the royal family. Our paths could have never crossed, even had we wanted to.”

“And yet you remember me.” You looked down into the courtyard. “Likely remember me walking out of that wheelhouse beside my mother, and smiling at your brother, and talking to your sister, and decorating myself with all that useless frivolity, still so deep in the belief that my life would have some meaning.”

“Then perhaps it is time you create those memories of me.”

Something that was far more beautiful than you trying to hide your smile was you trying to hide your grin. And perhaps, if the sun had been out during your conversation, he would have seen pink bloom on your cheeks.

All week, the castle had been busy preparing for the wedding. Your wedding. The one that would make you queen of a strange and alien kingdom.

You had stayed away, as well as you could - while you still could. After tomorrow, you would be expected to act as their queen, no matter how little you knew your people.

Pacing up and down your chambers had become something of a favourite pastime of yours. Not that you liked it, of course, but you did not dare step foot out of the door on your own, without one of the Starks to accompany you. Defend you against the disapproving stares.

A knock on your door.

You had expected everything, except for King Jon to stand on its other side, a wooden box and a book in his hands.

“May I come in?”

You could not quite forbid your betrothed from walking around his castle, so you stepped aside without a word and closed the thick wooden door behind him.

“I wanted to talk with you about tomorrow,” he said quickly. Either because he did not want to stay in your presence any longer than necessary, or because he was nervous.

You nodded, indicating to him to continue.

“There will not be a bedding ceremony. I have been to Northern weddings before, and approximately know when they happen. We will leave before then.”

You could barely comprehend his words. He could not truly mean-

“Why?”

“I- You will be my wife and queen, and I want my lords to respect you. I don't want their first real interaction with you to be… touching you inappropriately.”

He was seemingly embarrassed by his own words, and if you were not currently talking about the prospect of your wedding night, you might even say it was cute.

“I… thank you.” You tugged at the sleeves of your gown. “But I doubt it would change anything. I am an outsider, whether or not they undress me tomorrow will not change how they see me.”

He then, quite strangely, handed you the book he had been carrying. “But this might.”

Justice and Injustice in the North. You had been reading the tome in the glass gardens two days past, and had forgotten it there in your desperate attempt to escape Jon.

You looked up, and met his dark, endless eyes.

“You are learning about the North,” he said. “Not simply its people, but its laws and customs as well.”

“It's the least I can do.”

“See? Not even married to me and you are already taking your role as future queen of these lands seriously.”

Then he offered you the wooden box, opened the latch, and revealed a simple iron crown. Much like his own, yet this one had a small ruby etched into the front.

“You do not have to wear this tomorrow,” he said. “But you can, if you wish. I will force you to nothing.”

You nodded slightly, took the box, and carried it and the book towards one of the cupboards.

“I assume that will be all?”

You could not remain in the same room with him for any longer, could not stand to remain in vicinity to this man who had been treating you so kindly at no benefit to himself.

“Actually… There is one more thing.”

Jon gently turned you towards him, laying his fingers underneath your chin to urge you to meet his eyes. The moonlight fell through the window beside you, bathing him into a soft, silver light that illuminated his black curls.

“We will be watched for the rest of our lives. Nothing will remain secret, each of our actions needing to ensure prosperity for the North and all who live here. I am certain that tomorrow, even if we manage to escape the ceremony, someone will ensure we have consummated our union. So, if you are willing, I want this one, simple thing to be just ours.”

His lips had gotten so close to yours, a mere hair's breadth apart, and you could once again feel the immense heat radiating off it.

You could refuse, you knew. If you told him no, he would accept your answer, and leave. Yet his words echoed inside you, and you knew them to be true.

And so, instead of whispering that dreaded word, you simply closed the space between you, and sealed your lips in a kiss.

A week ago, Jon would have never thought he would feel so at ease standing before the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, you before him in a blinding white gown and with the iron crown of winter upon your hair, speaking the vows that would bind you. But he was glad the day had come. And he was glad you were the woman he would share eternity with.

The ceremony, the brief kiss, and the feast passed by him in a breeze, his wife's hand in his the only thing grounding him.

His wife.

He would need some time to get used to that word.

You looked even more radiant than you had the previous night, cloaked in the silver light filling your room, with red lips swollen from your kiss. He was barely able to keep his eyes off you.

(A part of him desperately hoped his lords noticed.)

And then the moment came. The guests in the feast hall either too distracted or too drunk to pay the pair of you any real mind, so his fingers tightened around yours, and he pulled you upward, through the servant's entrance behind the high table, and down Winterfell's corridors.

His quick steps had turned into a run at some point, and your giggles echoed off the stone walls.

Then you entered his chambers, and you went quiet.

“I-” He swallowed. “I know what I said yesterday, but we do not have to do this today if you do not want to. There is no pressure on us to-”

“No. Let us get through this.”

You took off your crown and cloak, laid both of them on a chair, and then started unlacing your dress. Eyes lowered, half-turned away from him.

Carefully, he stepped up towards you, and laid his hands on yours. And then, when you looked up and met his gaze, eyes sparkling in the fire of the candles around you, he laid his lips on yours without hesitation.

Your previous two kisses - one in your chambers, one at the ceremony earlier in the evening - had been chaste. Short and sweet, yes, but over far too quickly, and without ever providing him with the opportunity to feel you. Now he allowed himself to move deeper, to touch your body, explore your mouth with his, trace the lines of your dress, hear your pretty gasps. And you accepted. Melted into him, almost.

Until he touched the laces at your back.

He pulled back, heart beating in his chest so loudly he feared you might hear.

“If you wish to stop at any point…”

You nodded. “I know.”

To alleviate at least some of your fears, he started undressing, willing to bare himself and that what he feared most to stop your trembling hands. And they did, yet only once he had gotten rid of his blouse.

You stared at the scars on his chest. Carefully, you lifted a hand and let it hover above them. He made no move to stop you, only watching your confused eyes as your fingers traced his skin.

(He did not look down. Would not dare.)

“What-” Your voice broke. “What happened?”

“I was betrayed. They’re all dead now.”

He left it at that, and you did not inquire any further.

Eventually, even your last clothes fell to the ground, your lips once again locked into a kiss as he picked you up and carried you to the bed.

His hands explored your body slowly, gliding across your breasts, your stomach, your legs. And once you stopped twitching away, he let his mouth follow that same path. First kissing your breasts, then your stomach, then your legs, and then your core.

He listened to your gasps and your moans to find out what you liked, and what you loved. Your body reacted, as if on its own, to every single one of his touches, to the movements of his tongue, the crooking of his fingers, and when you finally peaked, he took everything you offered him.

Then he wandered upwards again, sealing your lips in a kiss. Your fingers got tangled up in his hair, pulls and tugs eliciting groans from his mouth that you swallowed as soon as they spilled across his lips.

He entered you as gently as he could, stopping shortly when you buried your nails into his shoulder. Once your hips sat flush against each other, and he had looked into your eyes, he started moving. Your back arched at his thrusts, and you swung your leg around his waist to encourage him to speed up. He followed your commands without hesitation.

You peaked again, and he followed shortly afterwards, spilling inside of you and sealing your union.

You laid in his bed afterwards, tangled up, pressed against each other, your heartbeats echoing the other, yearning to beat in tandem.

He would be alright. Perhaps you would never love each other, but you would be friends, and he decided that ruling side by side with someone he trusted was everything he needed.

author's note: if you liked this story, may i recommend the fic it was inspired by, meet me in the dark

#jon snow #jon snow x reader #jon snow x you #jon snow x y/n #asoiaf #game of thrones #asoiaf fanfic #game of thrones fanfic #fic: stars above songs below

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hardlyinteresting · 1 year ago

Text

Love, Guilt and Other Wounds

Aaron Hotchner x female reader

When Aaron and his partner are taken hostage, he has to break her heart to save her life.

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, a little bit of domestic fluff, mention of blood, injury (non-graphic), hostage situation, knives, cannon-compliant themes of violence, non-detailed discussion about religion (Christianity), themes of childhood abuse, please let me know if you want me to add anything else.

Word count: (less than I expected, sorry) 3.7k Request here! | Masterlist

"Of course, I’ll hurt you. Of course, you’ll hurt me. Of course, we will hurt each other. But this is the very condition of existence. To become spring means accepting the risk of winter. To become presence, means accepting the risk of absence". - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

Aaron isn't sure if he believes in a God or a higher power. He was taught to read scripture; and spent Sunday mornings perfecting his posture in church pews-- starched shirts and neckties pulled too tight. The preacher's sermons left him wanting-- wondering how this man of God could stand over his congregation preaching every week, and not see all the lies they were holding back. How could he not see the secrets Aaron seemed to read so clearly? At just fourteen Aaron knew who was having an affair and with whom. He could see which children feared their fathers. Every pew had another story, another family growing together, or falling apart. The hypocrisy of it all drove him mad, and he imagined standing from his seat to shout it, overwhelmed as he realized he had unintentionally become the keeper of everyone's secrets. He learned that everyone in that church was a liar in their own right, and he hated it. But, when he left for college, his mother called to ask if he was still going to church on Sundays, and he lied and said yes.

He should have paid more attention. Maybe then he'd understand how he ended up here. Perhaps it's some sick retribution. A cosmic evening of the scales; his penance for his sins. He just wishes you weren't here with him. How dare he think he could love someone when all he's ever done is punish those who love him? His hands are stained with blood; he taints everything he touches.

Very early on in his career, Aaron learned he couldn’t take cases personally. As devastating as it was to have another victim show up while hunting a killer, it wasn’t a personal failure. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He repeated the process again and again. Logically he knows that he is not responsible for the actions of the aggressive sociopath who is now holding the two of you hostage; but, he blames himself for not keeping you safer, for bringing you with him, and for putting you in harm's way. He knows he will not recover if you don’t make it out of here. He won’t forgive himself.

The profile said this man would be anti-social. Physically, he’d be small in stature. It was clear he’d been sneaking up on his victims. He had been taking couples, knocking out the men with a blow to the back of the head, and then the women. It’s a method that the team had seen before, common for UNSUBs without the social ability to lure their victims, or the physical strength or confidence to attack head-on. But they had not profiled that he would escalate to taking out his targets with a taser.

After six days in San Diego, the team finally had a lead on two rental properties in the UNSUB’s comfort zone. One was an old tyre factory, listed as a multipurpose warehouse and storage space; the other was a large storage facility in an industrial neighbourhood. Both units had been paid for in cash, both offered the privacy and space required to hold and torture two people for days at a time. The team split up, Hotch and you arranged to meet the owner of the factory space to find out more about who the renter was and gain access to the property. With no response from the owner of the second property, Morgan, Prentiss, and Rossi headed over to check it out.

The two of you had only been on the property for five minutes before Aaron had been incapacitated and taken out. He had foolishly made his way into the building while you ran back to the SUV to grab your jacket. Out cold, there was nothing Aaron could do to stop you from meeting the same fate.

It’s not his fault. But he feels like it is as he watches you shiver from across the room. He can’t be certain how much time has passed, but it feels like hours. He can only hope that you’re being kept in the building you were attacked in, that the team will connect the dots and come and get you, but until then you’re stuck. He watches, nauseated as your eyes flutter open, and then shut again. You’re concussed, he doesn’t need to be a doctor to know that. His ears are ringing, and he’s sure the blow he took to the head has at the very least temporarily worsened his hearing.

“Doesn’t the FBI have rules against fraternization?” The UNSUB wonders out loud, waving a knife around as he walks towards you.

“What makes you think we’re a couple?” Hotch asks, as he tries to work his hands free from the rope that binds them behind his back, “She’s just a colleague”.

It’s a lie. But it needs to be said. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. Buy time, shift the UNSUB’s interest away from the two of you. Ruin the fantasy.

“I think I’ve been doing this long enough to know a couple when I see a couple, Aaron,” the man taunts, obviously proud of himself. He’s feeling emboldened having taken two FBI agents, but that works in your favour. He’s getting cocky, too full of himself. It’s a level of confidence he isn’t used to having, it just gives him a higher height to fall from. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. “I think it’s time we wake your girlfriend up,” the man says, his hand gripping tightly at your hair, your head tugged back without remorse.

Aaron resists the urge to cringe as he hears you groan, your face twisted with obvious pain as you’re rudely awakened. “She’s pretty. What’s she doing with you?”

“I told you. She’s a colleague”.

Your eyes are unfocused, scanning the room trying to make sense of what is going on.

The man raises the knife, holding it to your throat. This time Aaron blinks, desperate to control his expressions and micro-expressions. In this scenario, the less he cares about you, the safer you are.

It’s the burden of being tied to him. Time after time his love destroys people.

The blade presses closer to your throat. Aaron controls his breathing.

“Impressive agent Hotchner. But I’m still not convinced,” the UNSUB moves the blade but pulls your head back further. Your eyes meet Aaron’s, “Do what you’re going to do, he doesn’t care,” you say. You’re speaking to the man with the knife in his hand as much as you’re speaking to Aaron. He weighs his options, his heart pounding as he watches you hold your breath, willing the tears to leave your eyes. It’s the permission he needs but doesn’t want. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He knows you’re doing the same, telling him to break your heart to save your life.

“Please, Hotc--”.

He doesn’t let you finish, “Just shut up for once. Please,” he thinks the words cut through him more than they cut through you. Knowing his cruelty is a lie does little to soften the blow, and it breaks his heart to be the one throwing it.

But this is all he’s good for, isn’t it? Letting people down. Surely it’s not just coincidence that so many of those who have dared to love him end up damaged. One way or another he destroys people. Who is he to say that he’s the one who is suffering when it’s he who does all the damage?

Even as a child, he couldn’t help it. He thinks perhaps he inherited his sharpened tongue and lack of patience from his mother. She loved him in her own way but could never show it without first tearing him apart. Her biting words, and regular beatings. Prentiss had been right when she once said he was distrustful of women-- unfairly so. Not all women carry the hateful, spiteful heart his mother had. Very few had ever turned their rage at the world and their shortcomings into a personal and violent rage against him. He grew weary nonetheless. Better safe than sorry.

At a young age, it became clear to him that there were few things, if anything, as important to his mother than appearances. On Sundays, she fussed over his clothes and his posture. She lectured him on table manners from the moment he could hold a fork. His room had to be spotless. His grades had to surpass average. Long before his brother was ever born, he learned how to live up to her expectations. But still, there was always something she could find him lacking in, an excuse to take her open fist or wooden spoon to his skin, a reason to send him to bed without dinner. He remembers crashing into the china cabinet trying to escape her one night. She was mortified on Monday when he had to walk into school on Monday with a cast around his arm. “Make sure they know this was your fault,” she told him. Perhaps I was built to fail, he had thought. She loves me and I embarrass her. I will only ever let her down. God, how disappointed she would be to see him now.

Seconds feel like hours as the UNSUB leers expectantly. The man's mouth twists into a smile when he sees the tears forming in your waterline again. Aaron watches your fist clench presumably to distract yourself from the migraine that matches the pounding in his head, just as much as it is to pull your attention away from the hurtful lies he's about to weave.

“You were supposed to have my back,” Arron spits with faux vitriol. “You had one job and couldn't even manage to do that”. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward.

“From the moment you showed up I knew you'd be a problem”.

He continues to try to work his hands out from the binds. He can feel the knot loosening as he continues to buy the two of you time. “Aaron,” you beg, tears slipping down your cheeks now.

“Following me around with some school girl crush. Look where we are now,” Aaron breathes.

He can feel his father’s rage resting on his shoulders, as heavy as his hands were when he used to pat him on the back. It’s a quiet burning, far more silent than his mother’s anger, but it’s there and threatening him all the same. A silent shame; a fear induced by the knowledge that he’s failing but not being able to stop it. His father lived like a ghost in their home, just as Aaron has learned to haunt his life. He only ever raised his voice when he drank, but even then his hatred was self-directed. A sorrowful self-pity. A cry for help. The affairs, the gambling, the drinking; the man punished himself, stumbling home to a house with a vengeful wife, a silent boy, and a crying baby. It was a heart attack that finally killed him, but Aaron never doubted his father had stopped living long before that.

Aaron breaks his own heart as he delivers each verbal blow. He hopes you understand. He prays that just maybe your concussion might leave the memories of this moment blurry. Selfishly, he begs you to forgive him, because he won’t forgive himself.

He can see the way your wrists strain against your restraints. The UNSUB adjusts his grip on your hair as you struggle to distance yourself from him. Your eyelids flutter and he knows your vision must be swimming but you don’t give up. With a sadistic grin, the UNSUB wipes at the tear stain on your cheek with fake sympathy, grasping your jaw roughly he forces you to look straight at Aaron, “Poor girl… guess boss man doesn’t care about you after all. What a waste,” he sighs his breath heavy against your cheek, as he moves to hold the knife to your throat again, “She’s so pretty,” he directs his commentary at Aaron this time.

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ve slept with her. How couldn’t I when she was practically throwing herself at me?” The words taste bitter on his tongue as he speaks them. His stomach churns as he continues, “But what we have certainly isn’t love”.

It couldn’t be further from the truth. Aaron grounds himself choosing to remember the quiet morning you two had shared only a few days earlier. Waking up without an alarm but with Jack sneaking in to jump up on the bed. As he watches you cry now he recalls how you had smiled so brightly at the little boy, ruffling his hair and cuddling Jack into your side. He had watched with a smile of his own as you bargained with his son, promising pancakes in exchange for ten more minutes of sleep on your shared day off.

You crept into his heart so slowly he had hardly noticed. Until one day, he looked up from the bright pink sticky note you'd left on your recent report, reminding him not to work too hard; he knew, without a doubt, he was in love with you.

For so much of his life, Aaron conditioned himself to expect a fight around every corner. He learned to make sacrifices from his happiness in fruitless attempts to keep peace. For the first time in forever he's been feeling like maybe, just maybe, he's enough. You’ve been more than patient with him; understanding his hesitance to open up to people again. You don't get upset with him for working late, but you scold him for not getting enough sleep and skipping meals.

He smiles more. He cracks jokes the way he used to. You've helped him see the forest from the trees-- healed parts of him he didn’t know needed mending. He's tried to do the same for you. He's watched you open up and trust the team more. He's seen the way your confidence has grown and he can't take credit for your growth, but he's enamoured by the transformation just the same.

You deserve better. You deserve better. You deserve better. The thought echoes in his head the same as it does most days. But now, it’s louder. The voice in his head matches the volume of the ringing in his ears, and the rushing sound of his pounding heart. Compartmentalize. Use logic. Move forward. He fights to remind himself, but the UNSUB is laughing now. Taunting you and your emotions, and there’s nothing Aaron can do but sit there and watch. He struggles to feign indifference, watching as you continue to make yourself smaller. It’s only then that he notices that you too are working your hands out of the rope that restrains you. The UNSUB was stupid enough to tie your wrist in front of you.

Aaron’s eyes focus on the bandaid wrapped around your index finger. You cut yourself making dinner last week. He could have sworn his heart melted when you turned to him holding your hand out, blood beading already. “Aaron, where do you keep your first aid kit?” you’d asked. Your brows furrowed, and your lips pouted. “In the bathroom, the cabinet under the sink,” he’d answered with no intention of letting you go off and tend to your wound alone. Instead, he guided you down the hall, his left hand looped in a gentle hold around your wrist, his other hand on your waist.

Once you were sat on the countertop he took great care, making sure the wound was cleaned before he bandaged it. “My hero,” you teased, leaning in for a kiss.

A simple cut he could manage to fix. Jack promised you could use as many of his Star Wars bandaids as you wanted while you healed as well. A little love and patience could make it better, a philosophy he adopted to heal Jack’s scraped knees, and schoolyard bruises. But the sight before him now is far worse than any kitchen mishap could be.

Your nose is still bleeding. Bruises have already begun to form, red marks turning deep purple with every passing minute. He knows that your concussion is something you'll recover from. The contact burns from where the taser touched your skin will become new skin someday soon. The cuts and scrapes will scab over and then disappear.

Aaron worries the damage he's done can never truly be ameliorated. Your compassion is unmatched. It’s what makes you a good agent, a good partner, and someone Jack can turn to. You are forgiving. God knows you've excused enough of his behaviour. But, he doesn't deserve to be absolved of this guilt. He will carry this day around in the darkest corner of his heart; the same place he holds the memory of Haley and how he failed her. The words “what we have certainly isn't love,” will linger uneffaced by time or kind words.

The squeak of an old door opening piques Aaron's interest. The UNSUB doesn't react. Seemingly only interested in tracing the tear tracks on your cheeks. Your eyes are closing again. It's over now, he wants to tell you. He wants to hold you; comfort you; to apologise because you deserve to hear it anyway.

“Paul Simpson. FBI,” Morgan’s voice booms, “drop the knife and put your hands where I can see them”. Prentiss and Dave come to stand next to Morgan, their guns trained on the newly identified perpetrator. Aaron bites his tongue so hard he can taste blood-- it's all he can do to stop himself from bursting into a fit of bitter laughter. We win, he wants to say.

Disarmed and handcuffed, Paul is escorted outside by Morgan and two members of the local police. Prentiss and Rossi make quick work of untying you and Aaron.

“Aaron?” he can hear you mutter, breathy and quiet.

“Yeah, I’m right here,” he promises kneeling at your side. Your eyes are glazed and unfocused as you nod and tip forward. Unconscious, your entire body falls forward into Prentiss’ arms. Aaron’s voice joins Rossi in calling for a paramedic.

The doctors assure him that you’ll wake up soon. They dealt with his injuries quickly. Bruised ribs are the worst of his injuries. A cut at the back of his head and the taser burns were patched in only a few minutes, though he’ll readily admit he was far from a good patient. Too anxious to keep still much to the nurse’s dismay.

You’re still asleep. A major concussion will have you out of the field for much longer than he knows you’ll be happy with. He makes a mental note to start setting aside some extra paperwork for when you inevitably start hounding him for something to do. With the lights in the room dimmed, and a comfortable silence settling he allows himself to indulge in the illusion that everything might be alright between you.

With your hand in his, he breathes deeply trying to focus. He prays to a God he’s not sure he believes in. And when the quiet starts to get to him, he speaks out loud, as silly as he thinks he may look. He tells you about the phone call he had with Jack earlier and lets you know that Jack has a new painting he can’t wait to show you when you get home. Your hand squeezes his, encouraging him to keep talking.

“Aaron?” your eyelids flutter as you adjust to the light. The nurse had them turned to the dimmest setting but it’s still far more than you feel immediately capable of coping with.

“Yeah, honey,” he affirms. You release the breath you’re holding your brow relaxing.

“I love you,” you tell him. Your voice is steady and steadfast. Your resolve is impressive, unwavering and determined as you focus on making eye contact with him. “It’s not your fault,” you promise. He’s sure you don’t expect the weight on his shoulders to lighten instantaneously. You’ll tell him every day that he’s not to blame; intent on chiselling away at his guilt, shrinking it down before it manages to consume him.

“I love you,” he swears. He knows it won’t squash any of the doubt he’s planted. Aaron knows there will soon be days that the niggling insecurity threatens to break what you’ve managed to build together; when the worry that you aren’t enough seems louder than it ever has before. He won’t blame you if you decide it isn’t worth the pain of staying with him. But, he’s hell-bent on loving you through it. He can only hope that it’s enough.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #criminal minds fic #hotch x reader

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