I’m not saying anything else about AI and the use of it on tumblr. But perhaps learn to engage with everything you read. Reblogging is so helpful for us. Comments. Asks. ENGAGEMENT lets us know that you like what you’re reading. Because right now it all feels futile after so much work.
Popular authors that I’ve seen get thousands of notes are now barely getting anything that feels like it’s worth it. It’s not entitlement either, you don’t see our side where people message us, excited about fics or ideas, but then there’s barely engagement.
Stop expecting authors to pull out 100k words in a week. There are fast writers— I am one— but there are amazing writers that have a different timeline. AND THAT’S OKAY TOO.
AGAIN. PLEASE JUST ENGAGE WITH EVERYTHING. The like button only does so much.
i can't express how happy it makes me when i get a comment or a reblog with tags, like it genuinely makes my day (and then i get flustered and have no fucking clue how to reply - but please know I'm always so happy at the engagement)
tw: foggy's death, alussion dex's stalker tendencies, written on my phone
It's a very particular spot of his body, and it's unlike any other scar he has. It's smaller than the one on his spine, but no less significant.
He got it, he's told you before, during a fight with Daredevil. That was a very significant night in Dex's life, you've learnt over time. He was out to kill Foggy Nelson and almost got himself killed in the process.
He fell from a rooftop with two big stab wounds. Dex was supposed to die, but he didn't. He got out with a scar on his cheek.
In your time dating Dex, you've begun noticing things about him. He keeps everything neat, cleaning every mug after he's used it and wiping the counter twice if he considers you hadn't cleaned it properly.
He always stands closer to doors and windows and insists you should stay next to him, near tables or couches for coverage.
He doesn't sleep much, and always tries his hardest not to wake you. He's remembered everything you've ever told him and even knows things you haven't said.
Dex is different from the men you've known before. He has a way of making you feel thrilled and on edge while comforting you like no other.
He's also better looking than your exes.
He's taller than you, and he's insanely muscular. He spends his days and nights throwing objects around, so his arms and back are more than exercised.
He has thin blond hair that just begs you to run your hands through it as you watch him melt.
And, goddamn, the scar on his cheek.
It lifts up together with the corner of his lip when he smirks—that's how you know he's plotting something.
He chews on the inside of it when he's nervous or bored, despite how many times you tell him to stop.
It makes him look dangerous, and it's soft to the touch. It's a sensitive part of his skin that makes him shiver when you place your fingers over it.
Dex sometimes rests his head on your chest at night, always with the scarred side facing upwards. You choose to take it a sign that he trusts you fully, like a pup showing its stomach.
And when you kiss it, everything fades. Every girl kisses her boyfriend's cheek, that's normal. However, you specifically choose to press your lips against the scar every time.
To him, it shows you love him. Benjamin Poindexter, Bullseye. The man he is when he's not trying to act in a socially acceptable way, the man he is when he lets himself be while watching you and trying to learn how to be good.
public enemy number one | girl dad bucky x fem reader
authors notes: this came entirely from a tiktok that i saw and thought yeah that's kinda bucky coded! i'm always so unoriginal when it comes to naming his kids, so oops. i swear this is so silly, i was just waffling for half of it.
warnings: sam's a menance, bucky threatens to kill him (lovingly), a whole load of fluff! and i think that's it?
word count: 1.2k
summary:
being a dad is all fun and games until she learns how to slap bucky— or so he thinks until you change his point of view on it all.
masterlist!
if you had to pick which was harder, between saving the world (twice) and being a mom for the first time, you'd have to pick being a mom. at least saving the world came with a little more sleep and some vague resemblance of a schedule. being a first time mom felt like you were free falling without a parachute.
and bucky?
bucky had been so good through all of it that sometimes he made you want to cry without even trying—the weeks of sleepless nights had been for nothing, he'd taken to it like a duck to water. and in all of that, he let you sleep in as often as he could, holding the fort down. today had been one of those days where you'd woken up to the light filtering through the crack in the curtains instead of tiny little cries from the nursery.
you yawned softly as you padded into the kitchen, completely unfazed by the fact sam was already in your house. if it wasn't him, it was steve, if it wasn't steve then it was nat—and if it was none of them? something was probably wrong somewhere. but this felt different, like everything was charged in some way that you didn't get yet.
"now why does it feel like i'm walking into something?"
"you're not."
"you so are." sam snorted from behind his coffee mug, which earned him a death glare from bucky. "you have no idea what you're walking into. "you're raising one hell of a baby, you know that? at this rate, we're gonna have to get her a little avengers onesie and some wings."
"you're not getting my girl wings, birdbrain." bucky grumbled, holding becca at arms length like she was ticking time bomb instead of his little girl. you raised an eyebrow as you watched him, held tilting slightly as you tried to figure it out as her arms waved wildly. "she slaps him." sam said with way too much enthusiasm for this time of the morning, or ever, really. "every time he speaks, she slaps him on the cheek. first time is a coincidence, right? but we're sat here, talkin' about the mission report, and boom! she keeps at it."
bucky looked like he wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. he loved her with everything he had, and she was more interested in smacking him—and she didn't even have that much dexterity yet. it didn't even mark, but it made a dent in his ego, a big one. "she doesn't slap me. i don't even think—hey!" she managed to wiggle herself forward enough to reach him, her palm slapping against his cheek. the worst part—at least for him—was the fact she looked over the moon with herself each time, giggling and babbling like it was the best thing she'd ever discovered. you just blinked at him as you held back a laugh, trying your hardest to keep a straight face. because it wasn't funny.
except it was, it really really was.
"oh." you breathed softly, lips twitching as you failed to keep it under control any longer. "that's—yeah. okay, that's a thing. uh huh. a new development" you nodded as you sat down on the couch next to him as you reached over, scooping becca out of his arms. "hey, pretty girlie. yeah, hi." you cooed as she settled in your arms, head resting against your shoulder. "i dunno, she seems fine to me." bucky rolled his eyes, grumbling something under his breath that you couldn't make out. "yeah, because she's not trying to assault you. i did everything right, all of it. changed her, fed her on time. and she's still acting like i'm public enemy number one." he was pouting now—bottom lip fully sticking out like a petulant schoolkid instead of a fully grown super soldier turned dad.
"first of all, she isn't assaulting you. she's less than ten pounds, her brain isn't even developed enough to know what the word means." you murmured as you dipped your head enough to press a kiss to the top of her head. "i think you're looking at it all wrong. thanks." you smiled as sam set you a cup of coffee down on the table in front of you.
"i think she's just excited to listen to you, and she's just redirecting it all wrong. because unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on how you look at it—she inherited the gene from me that means she'd listen to you read the back of the cereal box from me. didn't you, baby? yeah, you did." you cooed, bouncing her slightly as she started to babble again. "she's only got little arms, your cheek is the closest thing she can reach. here, try again." you passed her back over before you picked your mug up and took that first sweet, sweet, sip of caffeinated goodness. "she's just gonna do it again." he huffed as she watched her eyes light up as he lifted her up in the air, arms getting ready to flail around in his direction.
"you're a traitor, baby girl. i thought we had something going, y'know?a bond, but this is how you repay me, huh?" you curled your legs underneath yourself as you tried to get comfy, holding your breath for a second as you watched her wave her arm around. bucky lifted her up, blowing a raspberry as she giggled away. instead of hitting his cheek, this time she opted for his forehead—similar to the way the two of you petted alpine, who was probably hiding in your office somewhere from all the noise—as the pieces started to fall into place.
"oh, so now she's pettin' you." sam grinned, folding his arms across his chest as he watched on. this was probably the most fun he'd had in a very long time, there was something hilarious about a six foot wall of muscle being petted like a house cat. "at least it's an improvement."
bucky glared at him before he lowered her into his lap and covered her ears so he could continue. "i'm gonna kill you one day. real slow, and i'm gonna enjoy it." he uncovered her ears once the threat was out of the way—because he was determined that she'd never know violence, even in the form of an empty threat. "she's showing you that she loves you. think about it—she watches us do this with alps all the time. i think she's been watching." you couldn't prove it officially, but you were starting to think that she was smarter than most babies her age, she seemed to grasp things well beyond her. "she's trying to love you."
that cracked something wide open in his chest, letting that warm fuzzy feeling back in. the same one he got every time she yawned, or moved, or just blinked. despite the gruff exterior, she was slowly melting him from the inside out. "she loves me." he murmured like it was some kind of groundbreaking fact and not something he'd known subconsciously since the first time he'd held her in his arms. sam was absolutely recording the whole thing to pull back up later down the line when bucky tried to protest the fact that he wasn't soft, but right now, all bucky could focus on was the babbling baby in his lap who'd just petted him. "yeah, you love me."
there was a hundred times in his life where he thought he'd never get this—stability, a family, love, and now it consumed every minute of his life, and it wasn't something he'd swap for anything in the world.
݈݇— pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!reader
݈݇— themes: Regency Era, Pining, Stupid Misunderstanding, Jealousy, ChildhoodFriends-To-Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Confession. No use of y/n.
݈݇— summary: He never looks at you. . .but you wished he did. Reaching adulthood has changed both of you. Too much expectations, too much matchmaking. And tonight he seems to be enjoying being in the company of another, and you have no right to feel this way when you're the first one who distanced yourself.
Author's Note: IT'S BRIDGERTON SEASON OKAY?? Don't worry though, Bucky doesn't ask you to be his mistress lmao. Part of the Valentine's Day Specials.
You could still clearly recall that exact moment: how Bucky had leaned in closer, his mischievous eyes dancing, and waved his teacup at you and the poor, sincere young man hovering nearby. Two summers ago, it had happened at Lady Beckett's garden party, under a striped marquee filled with roses, laughter, and the sound of teacups clinking.
In front of your mutual friends, he had teasingly said, "I believe she and Mr. Storm will make a splendid couple."
It had been done with good intentions. It had been intended as harmless fun, as a sign of his goodwill and approval for you, as brotherly entertainment.
However, it felt as though something inside of you broke in that moment, as you stood there in the filtered sunlight, his laughter still echoing in your ears.
Because you suddenly understood, with terrible, blinding clarity.
You were not a woman in his eyes.
He saw you as he always had. As his childhood companion. His co-conspirator. His little stormcloud. Someone to be safely matched away to another man while he watched with unwavering approval and a clear conscience.
To spare Mr. Storm the humiliation of your silence, you had laughed then and concurred that Mr. Storm was quite agreeable and would one day make a woman very happy. You had even made fun of Bucky in return, saying something witty about his own admirers and how he should live up to his own advice.
He had never noticed the way your hands trembled around your teacup. He had never noticed the way your smile faltered when he turned away.
And so, quietly, without drama or accusation, you had begun to retreat.
You let others fill your dance card first. When he talked about how happy you would be with someone else, you learned to control your expression. You painstakingly taught yourself to look at him the way he looked at you: with love, with familiarity, and with nothing that would give away how much it hurt.
You told yourself it was sensible. You told yourself it was necessary. You told yourself that loving a man who so clearly did not love you in return was undignified, unwise, and bound to end in humiliation.
Better to step back while you still could.
Better to pretend you were merely growing up, growing distant and independent.
Better to break your own heart quietly than risk having him do it aloud.
Now, you stand at the edge of the ballroom, the heat of a hundred candles pressing against your skin, the air thick with beeswax and orange-flower water. The chandeliers glitter like frost above the swirling silks and satins, but your eyes find only one figure among the crowd.
James moves through the dancers as though the floor were made for him alone. His coat is midnight blue tonight, the colour of deep water cut so perfectly. He has grown into the promise of his boyhood: tall, dark-haired, with that same crooked smile that once belonged only to you. Now it belongs to everyone. To anyone who asks.
He is dancing with Lady Romanoff again.
You watch the way her gloved hand rests lightly on his sleeve, the way her red hair catches the light when she laughs at something he has whispered closely in her ear. They are beautiful together—striking, effortless, the sort of pair that makes mothers lean close and whisper about settlements and titles and future heirs.
Your stomach twists, a slow, familiar ache.
He never looks at you.
Not once. Not even when you entered the room in the new gown your mother insisted upon—pale primrose silk that cost more than sense should allow. Not when you passed within three feet of him earlier, close enough to catch the faint scent of bergamot and cedar that always clings to his coats. He had been speaking to Lord Pierce about hounds or politics or some such manly thing, and his eyes had slid over you as though you were part of the wallpaper.
You have known him all your life. Your mothers decided you should be friends when you were still in leading strings, and so you were. You shared lessons, pony rides, scraped knees, secrets whispered under the old oak. He taught you to climb trees; you taught him which berries would not make him sick.
When you were fifteen he sat beside you at the pianoforte in the music room at his father’s estate, his fingers guiding yours over the keys, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice low and teasing: “No—feel the music, don’t attack it.” You had felt it, all right—felt it straight through to your bones. You have never played the same since without remembering the warmth of his hand over yours.
You hate that memory now. You hate all of them.
You hate the way he still calls you “stormcloud” when he bothers to speak to you at all, as if you are forever the sullen twelve-year-old who once threw her embroidery hoop at his nose. You hate the way he talks of marriage so lightly—how any man would be fortunate to have you, how you will make some fellow excessively happy one day, how he will dance at your wedding and drink to your health and then go home to his own empty bed without a backward glance. He says it kindly, fondly, the way one praises a sister.
You are not his sister.
Your dance card hangs heavy from your wrist, half-filled with names you accepted only to have something to do with your hands. Lord Walker, Mr. Wilson, young Lord Reynolds—polite, eligible, perfectly unobjectionable. You will refuse them all later with headaches or twisted ankles or whatever excuse preserves their pride.
Across the floor, the music ends. Lady Romanoff curtsies; James bows. She says something that makes him laugh again—that low, warm laugh you used to collect like pressed flowers. He offers his arm; she takes it. They move toward the refreshment table, her head tilted toward his in easy confidence.
Your chest feels suddenly too small for your heart.
You turn away, pressing your fan against your mouth as though it might hold in the sharp, stupid tears that threaten.
That is when you hear them.
Two ladies stand just behind you, their voices lowered in what they clearly believe is discretion, their silk sleeves brushing, their heads inclined together like conspirators.
“It must be settled soon,” one murmurs.
“They are always together, are they not? Every assembly, every ball—Mr. Barnes never misses a dance with her.”
“Indeed,” the other replies softly. “My mother says it is only a matter of time. One does not parade a lady so openly unless one intends something serious.”
A pause. Then, with quiet satisfaction: “She will make a magnificent duchess.”
The ladies drift away, satisfied with their little exchange, unaware they have just undone someone.
Foolish, hopeless girl.
You have spent years waiting for him to see you and he never does. You tell yourself not to look at him, but you do anyway; you feel like a moth to a flame.
And there he is—still smiling at Lady Romanoff, still leaning slightly toward her, still offering her that soft, attentive expression he never seems to have for you anymore.
You cannot bear another moment of it.
You turn sharply, skirts whispering against your ankles, and slip through the nearest door that leads to the terrace. The night air strikes your cheeks like cold water; you drag it in, grateful for the shock of it. The ballroom’s golden glow spills out behind you in a long rectangle of light before the door closes and leaves you in shadow.
You are halfway across the flagstones, aiming for the stone balustrade and the dark gardens beyond, when you collide with a solid, unyielding form.
A startled gasp escapes you. Strong hands steady your elbows to keep you from stumbling.
“Forgive me—” you begin, the apology automatic, then falter as you look up.
Mr. Storm.
He is dressed plainly by the standards of the ton; dark coat, modest cravat, nothing to draw undue attention—yet he has always carried himself with confidence, a man accustomed to being overlooked and content with it. Tonight, however, his brow furrows the moment he sees your face.
“My lady, are you all right?” he asks gently.
His hands release you at once, but his concern does not. His gaze lingers in unmistakable worry, as though he cannot help noticing the glassy brightness in your eyes, the way your breath stutters as you try to master it.
You swallow.
You straighten.
You summon what remains of your composure and arrange it carefully upon your features like a mask.
“I am perfectly well,” you say, too quickly. “I merely required some air.”
He does not look convinced.
“You look—” He hesitates, then chooses his words with care. “You look as though something has troubled you.”
The kindness in his voice nearly unravels you.
You are tempted to confess, to admit that your heart feels as though it has been crushed between polite smiles and whispered speculations, that you are unbearably tired of pretending you do not love a man who so clearly does not love you back.
But you do not.
You cannot.
“I assure you, it is nothing,” you reply softly. “I only wished to be alone for a moment.”
He studies you, clearly torn between pressing further and respecting your wish. At last, he inclines his head.
“Of course,” he says quietly. “Forgive my intrusion.”
You offer him a small, grateful smile—one that does not quite reach your eyes. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Storm.”
You step around him, silk brushing past his sleeve as you pass, and move toward the balustrade before he can say anything more.
Behind you, Mr. Storm remains where he is, watching with gentle unease as you retreat into the shadows, painfully aware that whatever troubles you is far beyond his power to mend.
You stand at the balustrade with both hands braced against the cold stone, staring out at the shadowed hedges and winding paths as though they might offer answers, or absolution, or at the very least some small distraction from the turmoil inside your chest.
Your shoulders are held too straight, your breathing too measured, every muscle locked into place by sheer force of will, as though composure itself might fracture if you allow it even the smallest crack.
The night air stirs.
A soft breeze moves through the gardens, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and roses and something else—something painfully familiar.
Bergamot.
Cedar.
Warm wool and leather.
Your heart beats violently in your chest.
You know that scent. You have known it since childhood, since borrowed coats on cold mornings and shared rides and stolen moments in quiet corridors. You have known it in every season of your life, woven so thoroughly into your memory that you recognise it before you recognise anything else.
Before you hear footsteps.
Before you feel his presence.
Before he speaks.
You remain where you are, fingers pressing the stone more tightly, as though the balustrade might anchor you against the sudden, treacherous surge of emotion that threatens to undo you entirely.
He stops close.
Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back, close enough that the hem of your gown brushes the toe of his boot, close enough that every nerve in your body lights up in helpless recognition.
“Stormcloud,” he says at last, and his voice is rougher than usual, stripped of its easy teasing.
You stiffen despite yourself.
For a moment, you pretend you have not heard him, that if you remain perfectly still he might vanish again into the shadows, that this is nothing more than your heart playing cruel tricks on you.
But you have never been very good at lying to yourself.
Slowly, reluctantly, you turn.
The moonlight spills over you like silver poured from the sky, catching in the loose strands at your temples, glinting along the silk at your throat, outlining every fragile line of your face. You see his breath catch as he looks at you, see the way his expression shifts from guarded to stunned to something dangerously close to awe, and for a fleeting, treacherous instant, you wonder if you imagined all of it.
Then sense returns.
“Bucky,” you say quietly, because anything louder might shatter you, “what are you doing here?”
He hesitates.
You see it—the familiar pause, the instinctive search for something safe and untrue, the reflexive attempt to hide behind politeness and humour and half-truths. You have watched him do it for years.
“I was—” he begins, then falters.
The lie dissolves.
“To see you,” he admits softly. “Of course.”
Your eyes flicker, betraying nothing of the storm beneath. You nod once, small and careful, the way you have learned to do when you do not trust yourself to speak honestly.
“Is my father looking for me already?” you ask, already retreating behind courtesy. “Then I must return.”
You step around him, intending to pass, intending to escape before your composure collapses entirely, but your shoulder brushes his chest as you do so, and the contact is like fire through silk and wool and bone.
You barely make it two steps when his fingers close around your wrist. You halt and turn back, your gaze dropping first to where he holds you, then lifting slowly to his face, wary and questioning.
“Your father is not looking for you,” he admits quietly, forcing his grip to loosen even as every instinct urges him to hold fast. “Might I—would you walk with me in the gardens? Just for a little while. If it pleases you.”
You study him in silence.
The familiar lines of his face are drawn tight with uncertainty, his eyes oddly stripped of their usual confidence.
At last, you nod once.
You free your wrist with a neat, controlled motion, and he releases you immediately, watching with visible remorse as you absently smooth the faint marks his fingers left behind.
“Ladies first,” he murmurs, gesturing toward the steps.
You descend into the gardens, skirts whispering over stone, acutely aware of him following at a distance that feels both suffocatingly close and unbearably far.
The gravel crunches beneath your slippers and his boots as you walk in silence, the moon casting pale ribbons of light across the paths. You keep your gaze fixed forward, chin lifted, every instinct screaming at you not to look at him, not to weaken, not to remember how easily he once made you laugh.
Beside you, he is painfully aware of his own clumsiness, of how effortlessly he can charm rooms full of strangers and how utterly helpless he becomes when it is only you.
He glances sideways. And you, sensing his gaze like a physical touch, feel your pulse betray you.
He clears his throat.
“You look radiant tonight,” he says at last, clumsy and earnest.
“Thank you,” you reply softly, politely, because politeness is safer than truth.
Silence falls again.
Your hands brush as you walk, once, then again, then again, the backs of his knuckles grazing yours with every step, each accidental touch sending shocks through your system that you pretend not to feel.
He struggles desperately for something harmless to say, something that will not expose how tightly wound he is, how close he is to unraveling in your presence.
“I noticed your dance card was filling quickly,” he says, attempting a careless lightness that does not quite reach his eyes. Then, with a crooked half-smile meant to soften the remark, he adds, “Did you—ah—did you happen to leave a space for me?”
The words land far harder than he intends.
You turn your head slowly, one brow arching in that familiar, cool manner that has unnerved him since you were sixteen, the expression that plainly asks whether he has quite lost his senses.
“A space for you?” you repeat quietly, incredulity threading through your voice. “And pray tell me, Bucky, why precisely should I reserve a place on my card for a gentleman who never troubles himself to ask?”
There is no sharpness in your tone, and yet every syllable carries years of restraint and disappointment beneath it, years of standing politely aside while he danced with other women and spoke of your future as though it belonged to anyone but himself.
“If you wished to claim a dance,” you continue, composed and unflinching, “you might have considered requesting one. That is, after all, the customary method.”
He winces inwardly, the rebuke striking exactly where it was meant to.
He stops walking.
You take one more step before realising and turning back, the moonlight falling fully upon your face, illuminating the restrained hurt in your eyes that he has been too blind to acknowledge for far too long.
James draws a breath that feels like the first in years.
“Then, will you dance with me now?” he asks quietly.
Dance with him?
The words hang in the moonlit air between you, impossible and absurd. A quiet, incredulous laugh escapes you sharply and a little broken.
“Dance with you?” you echo, glancing around at the empty gardens, the silent hedges, the distant glow of the ballroom windows. “Here? We shall look like two perfect buffoons waltzing about with no music.”
Bucky gives a slight shrug of one broad shoulder. His expression holds firm; if anything, it deepens in gravity, those striking blue eyes boring into yours and twisting your chest.
“Yes,” he says simply. “No one’s watching.”
You should refuse. You should walk away. You should preserve what remains of your dignity and leave him standing alone beneath the moonlight.
Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “Very well.”
He steps closer.
One hand settles at your waist, warm even through layers of silk and stays; the other lifts to take your free hand, fingers threading through yours with reverent care. He draws you in until you are close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to remember every foolish, dangerous dream you have ever had about being held like this.
He begins to lead.
A slow, unhurried sway at first, then the familiar steps of a waltz, guiding you across the gravel to music only he seems to hear. His gaze never leaves your face; you feel it like a touch, intense and unwavering. You fix your eyes on his cravat, on the midnight-blue edge of his coat, anywhere but him.
But then he twirls you—smooth, effortless—and when you come back to him, your body fitting against his as though it remembers every childhood dance in empty corridors, he exhales softly against your hair and murmurs, almost plaintively,
“You look at everyone else so easily. I cannot remember the last time you looked at me like that.”
There is no accusation in his tone. Only bewilderment but that is not how it sounds to you.
To you, it sounds like vanity; entitlement. Like the complaint of a man accustomed to being admired and offended when he is not. You hear only arrogance. The careless confidence of a man who believes every woman in the room owes him her attention.
You push away from him, palms flat against his chest.
“Look at you?” The words burst out, hot and trembling. “Do you truly need every woman in society to look at you, Bucky? Are you that vain?”
He blinks, startled, colour rising along his cheekbones. “I meant no offence,” he says quickly. “I did not mean it like that—”
But the hurt has been dammed up too long; it spills over now, reckless and cruel.
“Then pray continue whatever it is you have with Lady Romanoff, or whichever beautiful, accomplished woman has caught your fancy this week,” you snap in a flurry of words. “I am certain they hang on your every word and gaze adoringly enough to satisfy even your considerable pride. I have not the time for these games.”
You step around him, skirts swishing, pulse roaring in your ears.
His hand shoots out again—fingers closing firmly around your wrist just as you pass.
“What’s got you so agitated?” His voice is quieter now. “And do not make up an excuse. You have been avoiding me for months.”
You stop.
You laugh again, short and bitter, without humour.
“You’ve been quite clear about your enthusiasm in finding me a match, now that you’ve found yours,” you reply coolly. “I am merely getting out of the way.”
You tug sharply at your wrist; his grip locks harder, solid without causing pain.
“And what, precisely, are my interests, if not you?” he demands, irritation threading through the words. “Do be so kind as to lay them out for me, since you seem to know them better than I do myself. Because I assure you, you are ridiculously mistaken—”
You snort, utterly unladylike. You roll your eyes toward the darkened sky as though appealing to the heavens for patience.
“Me? Oh, for God’s sake,” you mutter. Then you look back at him, chin lifting, eyes blazing.
“If you are so very confused,” you say tightly, “then perhaps you ought to return to Lady Romanoff at once and spare us both this absurdity. You already dance with her at every assembly, escort her everywhere, and allow half the ton to plan your wedding for you. Pray, do not let me delay you.”
You gesture sharply in the direction of the ballroom, bitterness threading every word.
“Go on,” you continue, voice trembling despite yourself. “Marry her. Make her exceedingly happy. Make her your duchess and let society applaud you for your excellent judgment.”
Your voice drops, edged with exhausted contempt.
“Why are you here with me at all?” you demand. “Why interrupt my evening to interrogate me as though I owe you explanations, when you have already made your preferences so abundantly clear? So I’ll say it again, I have neither the time nor the inclination to entertain this performance, James. If you wish to play at courtship, at least have the decency to commit to your chosen partner.”
His expression tightens.
For a moment he looks genuinely taken aback, as though he had not expected the depth of your resentment.
Then his spine straightens. His shoulders square and his jaw sets.
You see it instantly—the reflexive armour sliding into place, pride rising like a shield, the familiar defences of a man who has never learned how to admit he is frightened.
“If that is truly what you think,” he says coolly, wounded dignity sharpening every word, “then perhaps you ought to consider that I have done nothing more than behave as a rational man in an irrational situation.”
You blink.
He continues, voice firm and controlled
“You withdrew from me without explanation. You avoided me. You filled your card with other men. You made it perfectly clear that you wished for distance. And now you accuse me of impropriety for respecting it?”
He gestures helplessly between you.
“I am not a mind reader,” he adds, more harshly than he intends. “If you wanted something different from me, you might have said so. You cannot expect me to stand idle forever, waiting for signs you never gave—”
Your free hand moves before thought, palm cracking across his cheek with a sound sharp as a pistol shot in the quiet garden.
His head snaps to the side. For a long moment he stays turned away, profile silvered by moonlight. He turns his face back a touch, just enough to look at you sideways, eyes narrowed and dangerous. The corner of his mouth curves in a slow, dark smirk that sends heat and ice chasing down your spine. He pokes the tip of his tongue to the inside of his reddened cheek, as though tasting the sting.
Your stomach flips traitorously.
You yank again; this time he lets you go.
He lifts a hand to his cheek, thumb brushing the mark. “Well,” he drawls in his deep voice, amused, “she can slap.”
A rush of heat fills your chest, hot and angry and long suppressed, and before wiser thoughts can intervene, you shove both palms against his chest, meaning to put space between you, meaning to reclaim the distance you have spent years forcing upon yourself.
“Do not,” you snap, voice shaking with restrained emotion, “do not stand there and make sport of this as though it were some amusing anecdote to recount later.”
He does not move an inch.
Your hands meet solid resistance, muscle and bone unyielding beneath his coat, his boots rooted to the gravel as though he has grown there. He absorbs the push without flinching, without retreating, without allowing you even the smallest victory of distance.
If anything, he leans into it.
Refusing to be moved.
Refusing to let you go.
Your breath catches at the defiance of it, at the way his nearness seems to multiply rather than diminish.
“You speak of signs,” you continue fiercely, hands still pressed to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric as though anchoring yourself, “as though I have done nothing but hide from you, as though I have never once given you reason to think—”
You laugh bitterly, the sound tearing itself from your throat.
“Do you remember that garden party?” you demand. “Do you remember standing beside me, smiling so easily, and telling me how splendid I would look with Mr. Storm? Do you remember how readily you matched me with other men, how comfortably you spoke of my future as though it had nothing to do with you at all?”
Your voice fractures, but you force it steady.
“You told me, again and again, that I was safe to give away. Convenient to admire. Suitable for someone else.”
You push at him again, harder this time, as though you might drive the truth into him through sheer force.
“So why,” you whisper fiercely, eyes blazing, “why would I make my regard plain to a man who was already arranging my happiness with someone else?”
He stares down at you, stunned.
The fight drains from his posture in visible increments, pride giving way to dawning horror as each word finds its mark.
“You stood there and praised every other man who dared to look at me,” you go on, voice trembling now despite yourself. “You jest about it. You encouraged it. You made it clear—so painfully clear—that I was never meant to be yours.”
Your hands slide up from his chest to clutch at his lapels, not in affection but in desperate emphasis.
“And now you dare to tell me I gave you no signs?” you murmur brokenly. “That I asked nothing of you?”
You release him abruptly, stepping back at last, chest heaving in uneven breaths.
“I learned from you,” you finish quietly. “I learned from you that loving you was something I was meant to do in silence.”
And silence falls between you.
Not the gentle, companionable sort, but the heavy, suffocating kind that presses in from all sides, thick with everything that has just been said and everything that has been left unsaid for years.
You stand there for a moment longer, chest rising and falling unevenly. Then, you slowly straighten yourself.
Whatever fire has driven your words drains away, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.
You have said it. You have finally said it. And you are done.
Without looking at him again, you turn away, gathering your skirts with trembling fingers, intent only on putting distance between yourself and the man who has loved you badly and too late and in all the wrong ways.
“Wait.”
You do not stop.
He moves after you at once, long strides eating up the space between you, and his hand closes around your arm again in a desperate appeal.
“Do not walk away from me,” he pleads quietly. “Not after that. You cannot—God, you cannot say all of that and then leave me here without allowing me to answer you.”
You try to pull free.
“There is nothing left to say.” you say tightly.
“There is everything left to say,” he insists, tightening his grip just enough to keep you there, his thumb pressing lightly into your sleeve. “You think I have been silent all these years because I did not care. You think I stood beside you and matched you with other men because you were nothing to me. And I swear to you, if you walk away believing that, it will be the greatest cruelty you have ever inflicted upon me.”
You turn back then, anger flaring weakly through your exhaustion.
“Cruelty?” you scoff. “You—”
“I was a coward,” he interrupts fiercely.
The words burst from him without polish, without caution, without any of the careful restraint he has always wrapped himself in.
“I was terrified, I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” he admits hoarsely. “I have been terrified of you since I was fifteen years old and realised that the girl who climbed trees with me and laughed at my stupid jokes could one day look at me and decide I was not enough.”
He breathes unevenly, eyes bright with emotion he has never learned to manage.
“Every time you smiled at another man, every time someone asked you to dance and you accepted, every time I imagined you belonging to someone else, it felt like being skinned alive,” he confesses. “And still I smiled. Still I jest. Still I pretended it was nothing, because the thought of you knowing how much power you have over me was unbearable.”
Before you can retreat into distance and pride and self-preservation, his hands close around both of your wrists with unmistakable strength and intention, anchoring you in place, holding you there as though he has decided—here and now—that he will sooner tear himself apart than allow you to walk away without hearing what he has to say.
You stiffen in startled protest, breath catching.
“Bucky—”
“I am in love with you!” he says suddenly.
The words are unpolished, unguarded, torn from somewhere deep in his chest before he can soften them or dress them up in propriety.
“I am in love with you,” he repeats, more hoarsely now, as though saying it once has only made the need stronger. “I have been in love with you for so long that I no longer remember what it is like to exist without you in every corner of my thoughts.”
His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, not to hurt you, never that, but to make certain you remain here, present, listening, unable to hide from what he is laying bare.
“You have ruined every other woman who has ever crossed my path,” he admits quietly, almost fiercely. “No matter whom I stood beside, no matter how lovely or accomplished she was, she will never be enough.”
His breath is uneven, his composure unraveling visibly, the careful restraint he has worn for years slipping through his fingers like sand.
“There is no peace for me in loving anyone else,” he murmurs. “You are the standard by which my heart judges everything, and nothing has ever come close.”
“But if you still wish to walk away,” he continues quietly, “if after all of this you decide that you cannot forgive me, that you no longer wish to choose me… then I will let you go.”
His thumb loosens almost imperceptibly at your wrist, his grip easing just enough to prove he means it.
“Right now,” he adds softly. “Without protest. Without pursuit. Without another word.”
The garden is silent around you but for your heartbeat thundering in your ears. You stare at him, mouth parted, the world tilting beneath your feet.
He waits, motionless, every line of him taut with dread, the proud, untouchable duke’s son reduced to a man awaiting judgment.
Tears rise hot and sudden, spilling over before you can dash them away. You press your hands to your lips to stifle the sound that wants to escape—a sob, or a laugh.
But you’re overwhelmed, and so you gather your skirts and turn, fleeing down the gravel path as though the hounds of hell are at your heels. You do not look back. You cannot. If you see his face again tonight you will either slap him once more or fall apart entirely, and you refuse to give him either.
× × × ×
A week later.
You sit at the upstairs window of the morning room, a piece of untouched embroidery in your lap, fingers idly twisting the pale blue ribbons that trim your simple muslin gown. The estate spreads green and serene below, but you see none of it.
Your mother occupies the chair by the fireplace, sorting letters; your three younger sisters are bent over their embroidery frames, though their needles have been still for some minutes. They keep exchanging glances over your head, meaningful and exasperated.
At last Clara, ever the boldest, sets her frame aside with a dramatic sigh.
“I confess I do not understand why you are sulking,” she says. “Lord Barnes has confessed his heart to you. The handsomest man in three counties, and a future duke besides, and you sit there pulling ribbons to pieces as though he had insulted you.”
Victoria snickers behind her hand. Sophie only looks curious.
You do not raise your eyes from the ribbons. “You do not understand,” you say quietly.
“Evidently not,” Clara retorts. “Pray enlighten us.”
You lift your gaze at last, throat tight. “If he is so afraid to show his feelings that it takes years and a slapped face to wring them from him, can you imagine what marriage to such a man would be? Should I have to beg for every kindness? Coax every declaration from him as though it were a favour?”
Your mother sets down her letters with a soft rustle. “My dear,” she says gently, “you are perhaps too harsh. He has recognised his error, has he not? At considerable cost to his pride. A man who can do that may yet learn to speak more plainly. Why not give him the chance to prove it?”
Before you can answer, Clara grins wickedly. “Well, if you are determined not to have him, I am most happy to volunteer as tribute. I should not mind coaxing declarations from Mr. Barnes in the least.”
Victoria dissolves into giggles; even Sophie smirks.
You open your mouth to retort—something sharp about Clara’s forwardness—when the sound of hoofbeats reaches the open window. A single rider, coming fast down the drive.
Your breath catches.
He sits astride the great black hunter he has ridden since he was seventeen—coat flying, dark hair wind-tossed, every inch the impatient, determined duke’s son.
You rise without thinking, pressing closer to the window, hands flat against the glass. Your sisters crowd beside you in an instant, Clara actually elbowing you for space.
Bucky looks up.
Even across the distance his eyes find yours unerringly. A slow, crooked smile curves his mouth and he lifts one gloved hand in a brief, deliberate wave meant solely for you.
Your heart skips.
Below, the front doors open; footmen spill out. Muffled voices drift upward—his, low and courteous; the butler’s deferential reply. You catch only fragments: “…if His Lordship is at home…wish to speak with him…matter of some importance…”
Clara and Victoria squeal in unison like girls at their first assembly. Sophie claps her hands over her mouth to stifle her own excitement.
The butler bows and gestures toward the house. James dismounts with fluid grace, tossing the reins to a groom. As he strides up the steps, he glances up once more—directly at you—and the look in his eyes is resolute.
Then he disappears beneath the portico.
Clara and Victoria bolt for the door without a word, skirts flying, clearly determined to eavesdrop from the gallery above the hall. Sophie hesitates, looking at you.
You remain frozen at the window, ribbons twisted hopelessly around your fingers, watching the empty drive as though it might offer some explanation for the sudden thunder of your pulse.
From the corridor below comes the measured tread of boots, the butler’s murmured directions, and then the firm click of your father’s study door closing behind James Barnes.
× × × ×
Your mother’s voice had been firm when Clara and Victoria returned, flushed and giggling, from their attempted dash to the gallery.
“You will not eavesdrop,” she had declared, her tone brooking no argument. “A gentleman’s business with your father is private, and young ladies do not skulk about corridors like housemaids.” So you had all been marched back to the morning room, the door firmly shut, and there you remained—trapped in a polite prison of embroidery frames and uneasy silence.
The clock on the mantel ticks with agonising slowness. Sunlight has shifted across the carpet; the tea tray has gone cold. Little Sophie keeps stealing glances at you, Clara fidgets with her needle, and Victoria has abandoned all pretence of stitching, staring instead at the closed door as though willpower alone might open it.
At last Clara throws her frame onto the sofa with a huff. “It has been a full hour,” she complains. “What on earth can they be talking about? Papa’s hunts? The price of corn? Or is Mr. Barnes cataloguing every fox he has ever chased from here to Scotland?”
Victoria snickers. Sophie bites her lip to hide a smile.
Your mother sets aside her letters and regards you all with that calm, knowing look that has quieted you since childhood. She folds her hands in her lap.
“When a gentleman rides across the county to speak to a young lady’s father, it is seldom about hounds or harvests.”
Clara’s eyes widened. Victoria leans forward eagerly.
Your mother continues, voice gentle but pointed, her gaze resting on you a fraction longer than on your sisters. “Pride is a cold companion. It keeps us warm in the moment, but it leaves us alone in the end. I have seen many a woman cling to it too fiercely—refusing to bend, refusing to believe she might be mistaken—and spend years regretting the silence she mistook for strength. A good man, when he recognises his errors and seeks to mend them, deserves at least the grace of a hearing. Otherwise we risk losing what might have been the greatest happiness of our lives to the stubborn conviction that we were right to suffer.”
The words land softly, but they strike true.
You feel heat rise in your cheeks. You do not argue—you cannot, not when every syllable feels aimed straight at the raw wound you have carried since the garden. Instead you look down at the mangled ribbons in your lap and side-eye your mother, a silent acknowledgement that she has scored her point.
Clara opens her mouth, doubtless to tease, but the door opens before she can speak.
The butler stands there, impeccable as ever. “Lord James Barnes,” he announces, and steps aside.
Bucky fills the doorway, the riding coat and boots still dusted from the road, his dark hair slightly dishevelled from the wind. His eyes find yours instantly, the crooked half-smile nowhere in evidence today.
He bows politely to your mother. “My Lady.” Then, to you alone: “Might I speak with you for a moment? If it is convenient.”
Your mouth opens, but no sound emerges. Your heart is suddenly too large for your chest.
Your mother rises with remarkable swiftness.
“Of course,” she says smoothly, as though she has been waiting for precisely this. “Girls, come along. We shall see if Cook has those lemon biscuits you like.”
Clara protests with a small, wounded sound; Victoria looks positively betrayed. Sophie merely looks delighted. Your mother herds them out with the efficiency of long practice, her hand firm on Clara’s elbow.
You stand there, the morning room suddenly too small, the air too thick, as James closes the door with a soft click.
He does not advance immediately; he lingers by the threshold, hat in hand, those blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes the fluttering of your stomach misbehave. The silence stretches, heavy with the memory of the garden—of tears and accusations and the raw confession that has haunted your every waking moment since.
At last you find your voice, though it emerges sharper than you intend.
“Why have you come, Bucky? Have I not made myself clear enough? I thought— I believed—if I turned away from you that night, you would leave me in peace. Are you not a man of your word?”
He inclines his head, a faint, rueful curve touching his mouth. He steps forward then, slowly, and you hate how your heart leaps at the nearness of him.
“I am a man of my word,” he says quietly, laced with that unshakeable conviction. “I promised that if you turned away from me in the garden, I would go—I would not follow you back to the ballroom, nor importune you with letters, nor impose my presence upon you these past seven days. I left you undisturbed, as you wished.”
He takes another step closer, close enough now that you catch the faint scent of fresh air clinging to his coat, the warmth radiating from him. His eyes never leave yours.
“But I made no vow,” he continues, softer still, “to exile myself from your life forever. Not when the matter between us remains so grievously unsettled.” A glint of mischief flickers in his gaze then, teasing, almost boyish—the Bucky of your childhood peeking through the man. “Tell me, little stormcloud—are you still angry with me?”
Angry? The word is laughable. You lift your chin, meeting his challenge. “Angry does not begin to describe it.”
His brows arch, inviting more, but you press on, voice trembling despite your efforts. “Then pray tell me…why did you speak with my father? What business could possibly require an hour of his time?”
Bucky’s expression shifts; serious now. He closes the remaining distance, guiding you gently back until you perch on the wide window seat where you had been sitting moments before. He does not take the opposite chair; instead, he sits sideways beside you, one booted leg bent, facing you fully. The proximity is dizzying—his knee nearly brushing yours, his broad frame angled toward you as though you are the only thing in his world.
He reaches for your hand then, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your knuckles, and the touch sends sparks racing up your arm.
“I spoke to your father,” he says, voice roughened with emotion, “because I asked for your hand. Without reservation or caveat.”
He pauses, as though steadying himself, his gaze never leaving yours.
“I told him that I have loved you for years,” he continues quietly, “that I was a fool and a coward to hide it, and that I wish to spend the rest of my days proving myself worthy of you, if you will have me.”
A faint, wry curve touches his mouth.
“I also told him,” he adds, more softly, “that I am well aware of what the ton will say. That they will whisper about Lady Romanoff. That they will speculate, and sneer, and assume I have led you on after parading another woman through half the season.”
His thumb stills briefly against your hand.
“And that I do not care.”
The words are simple yet the conviction is obvious.
“I told him that if choosing you means enduring gossip, suspicion, and every unkind rumour London can devise, then I will bear it gladly,” he says steadily. “Because none of it compares to the regret of letting you believe, for another moment, that you were anything less than my first and only choice.”
He leans closer, voice dropping.
“I asked his permission to court you properly. Openly. Honourably. With no ambiguity and no rivals. And if you will allow it, to marry you when you are ready.”
Your breath catches.
The words hang between you, the sort that would make any woman’s knees weaken. He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your fingers—lingering, apologetic.
“I am sorry,” he murmurs against your skin, eyes searching yours. “Sorrier than I can say—for the pain I caused, for the years I wasted in silence. Forgive me.”
You stare at him, this proud, beautiful man humbled before you, holding your hand as though it is the most precious thing he has ever touched. The thought of him leaving for good is suddenly unbearable, a void you cannot contemplate.
You hesitate deliberately.
You tilt your head slightly, studying him beneath your lashes, lips curving just enough to suggest mischief rather than dismissal.
“That,” you say softly, “was very thorough.”
Hope flickers in his eyes.
“And?” he prompts quietly.
You glance toward the window, pretending sudden fascination with the landscape, even as warmth floods your cheeks.
“I am… inclined,” you admit carefully, “to consider accepting it.”
His mouth twitches.
“Consider,” he repeats.
You nod solemnly. “It is, after all, a grave decision.”
A low chuckle rumbles from his chest—warm, relieved, utterly undone by you.
“As it should be,” he agrees. Then his grip tightens just a little, his voice dropping into something softer, more intimate. “Might I inquire what would persuade you?”
You risk a glance at him then, and immediately regret it, because he is looking at you as though you are every answer he has ever sought.
“I may,” you say lightly, “require… evidence of sincerity.”
His brows lift.
“Evidence,” he echoes.
“Mm,” you confirm. “I have been misled before.”
He laughs under his breath, shaking his head.
“You are cruel,” he murmurs fondly. Then his gaze grows intent, earnest beneath the teasing. “Very well. What form might this… evidence take?”
You pretend to think, tapping one finger thoughtfully against his hand.
“Well,” you begin, still not quite meeting his eyes, “I have heard it said that a gentleman who truly regrets his errors is willing to make certain… amends.”
His lips part slightly.
“Amends,” he repeats, voice rough.
You finally look at him then, eyes bright, daring.
“For instance,” you add softly, “he might demonstrate his remorse by requesting permission to do something he has evidently wanted to do for an unreasonable number of years.”
Understanding dawns slowly.
Then completely, causing a smile to break over his face
“Are you telling me,” he asks quietly, “that after pining for you since I was a teen and too terrified to act upon it, I am now being made to formally apply for the privilege?”
You lift one brow. “I should hate for you to abandon tradition now.”
He laughs softly, forehead resting briefly against yours.
“Very well,” he murmurs. Then he straightens, eyes serious despite the humour. “May I kiss you?”
You pretend composure.
“I suppose,” you say with elaborate nonchalance, “that would suffice.”
His breath hitches.
As the laugh fades, his grip tightens, and his voice drops to a husky whisper that sends shivers down your spine.
“God help me,” he whispers, smiling helplessly, “I am never going to recover from you.”
The words are barely out before something in you snaps. You cannot wait, not another heartbeat. You lean in first, pressing your lips to his, strong and firm, quick and utterly unplanned. All the blood in your body rushes to the point of contact; it is heady, intoxicating, the fulfilment of every secret dream you have harboured since you were fifteen.
You pull back a fraction, breathless, but he does not allow it. His free hand cups your cheek, drawing you back in, fusing his mouth to yours with a fervour that feels like lightning striking—blinding, brilliant and burning. It consumes you, filling every sense until nothing exists beyond him: the heat of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the way his breath mingles with yours.
You are going to burn the room down around you.
He pauses for a breathless second, forehead resting against yours, voice low and strangled. “Do you feel that?”
“Yes,” you manage, the word barely coherent. Speech is unnecessary; you yank him back to you instead.
He groans—a deep, rumbling thunder in his chest—and surrenders to it. His kisses shift like a storm: hot and insistent one moment, soft and tender the next, as though he cannot decide which he craves more or perhaps he is savouring every variation, testing them all on you and you are more than willing to be his experiment.
Why, oh why, have you denied yourself this for so long? What a foolish woman you have been.
You move closer, needing more—needing everything. Your arms wind around his neck, fingers drifting up to tangle in the dark silk of his hair. He responds in kind, mouth slanting against yours, demanding your full attention. You abandon his hair to curl your fingers at the nape of his neck, pulling him impossibly nearer, as though closer is even possible.
His kiss is devastatingly thorough, primitive yet refined, fiery and shivery all at once. He draws back again—just enough to breathe—and you both pant, foreheads touching. “I need you to know that this is true,” he rasps. “I’m real.”
You rest your hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the tremor in him. “Yes, I can feel how real you are.”
“That’s not what I—” he starts, but you silence him with another kiss, moving your mouth against his until he shakes against you. Every response is yours to command: the murmured words lost against your lips, the growl in his throat, the thunder of his heart beneath your palm. The power of affecting him is dizzying.
His kisses grow exquisitely intense, overheating you, making the world spin. You are dizzy, floating, tethered only by his hands in your hair, his lips on yours. Oxygen seems utterly overrated.
Sensing your need—or perhaps his own—he trails his mouth to your cheek, feathering soft kisses along your cheekbone. You keep your eyes closed, lost in the spirals of sensation radiating through you, down to your quivering stomach, into your limbs.
“You are exquisite,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough with wonder. “So soft, so perfectly lovely. I fear I shall never have enough of you—not in all the years granted to me.”
“The feeling,” you manage to whisper, the words scarcely more than a breath, for he has quite robbed you of coherent thought, “is mutual.”
He cradles your face, and your lips ache for his return. When you open your eyes at last, hazy and drugged, his gaze meets yours. There is something new in it—deeper than affection, fiercer than tenderness.
It is devotion. Utter, unwavering devotion. And it is yours.
He leans in again, slowly this time, as though savouring the permission in your eyes. His lips brush yours once, then again, deeper, and you melt into him, fingers tightening at his nape when a pointed, deliberate cough echoes from the doorway.
You both startle apart as though scorched—Bucky springing to his feet with undignified haste, you pressing a hand to your racing heart, cheeks aflame.
Your father stands upon the threshold, one brow arched in mild enquiry, the picture of paternal innocence. He has clearly been there long enough to assess the situation, yet he affects perfect oblivion.
“I beg your pardon,” he says gravely, though a suspicious twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I merely wished to enquire whether the young people have reached an understanding.” His gaze moves from your shy countenance to James’s rather dishevelled cravat and back again. “It appears the matter is well in hand—literally, perhaps.”
James clears his throat, colour high along his cheekbones, and executes a creditable bow despite the circumstances. “Sir—”
Your father waves a hand, magnanimous.
“No need for explanations, my boy. I am not quite in my dotage yet. The question remains: shall we observe the usual proprieties with a courtship, or—” his eyes twinkle with shameless mischief—“might we dispense with such formalities and proceed directly to reading the marriage banns? I confess I should not object to skipping the interminable calls and posies if the pair of you are so… eager.”
You make a small, mortified sound and hide your burning face in your hands.
James lets out a low, rueful laugh, raking a hand through his hair.
“I believe, sir,” he says, voice still husky, eyes slanting toward you with lingering heat, “that the lady’s wishes must take precedence. Though I confess I am not averse to expediency.”
Your father chuckles. “Wise answer. Very wise.” He steps fully into the room, closing the door once more—with deliberate care this time. “Then perhaps we had best summon your mother and father and settle the details before the entire household descends upon us in a frenzy of speculation.”
You peek through your fingers, heart still thundering, and find Bucky watching you with that same devoted gaze—now softened with helpless amusement.
The future, it seems, has arrived rather sooner than expected.
TW/tags Bucky Barnes x reader, established relationship, drowning mention, mentioned death of a family member and best friend, blood and bruising, nosebleed, reader has an inherited curse
You woke up tasting ash and dust in your mouth.
Sometimes, you tasted metal when sleeping with your mouth open, the faint aftertaste of the New Avengers’ tower recycled air. This was different. This coated your tongue, bitter and scorched, gathering between your teeth as if you had spent the night breathing through smoke.
You swallowed and felt grit scrape down your throat.
Behind you, Bucky shifted beneath the sheets.
He was still half asleep when he pressed his mouth to your back, kissing the bare skin between your shoulder blades. His stubble dragged pleasantly over you, his lips unhurried as they travelled along your spine. His metal hand rested heavily on your hip, thumb moving in an absent circle.
Usually, you would have smiled. You would have pushed backwards into him until he tightened his arm around your waist and complained that you were trying to crush him, despite both of you knowing perfectly well that you couldn’t, even if you tried.
This morning, you couldn’t move.
The curse of premonition had been in your family for centuries, bestowed by a witch who had wanted your ancestors to suffer long after their own deaths. You would feel every tragedy creeping towards you and still remain powerless to name the hour, the place, or whose blood would be spilled.
Your grandmother had tasted saltwater for three days before her brother drowned. Your mother had heard bells ringing inside her skull before the hospital called about her father.
Before your childhood best friend died a brutal death, bruises appeared on your skin and you woke up with blood running from your nose.
Bucky kissed the back of your neck, then stopped when you flinched.
His hand became still on your hip. “You’re awake.”
You nodded, although he couldn’t see it.
Bucky pushed himself up behind you. The mattress dipped as he leaned over, brushing your hair away from your face. You could feel him watching you before he gently rolled you towards him.
His hair was tangled from the pillows, and there was a crease across one cheek from your pillow and warmth lingering in his eyes that disappeared when he saw your face.
“What is it?”
You opened your mouth, but the taste of smoke became stronger. You tried to speak and had to swallow dust first, drowned in a coughing fit. When Bucky offered water, you refused and forced the taste down.
Oh.
Bucky caught your face between both hands, because he knew that look too well by now.
“What did you feel?”
“Ash.” Your voice came out raw. “I… I can smell smoke.”
Bucky inhaled through his nose, as though he might be able to smell it too.
There was nothing for him, just the warmth of your shared bedroom in the tower and lemony clean sheets.
You reached for him, twisting your fingers into his shirt and pulling yourself against his chest.
Bucky wrapped himself around you immediately, metal arm across your back while his flesh hand cradled the base of your head.
“I think something bad is going to happen,” you managed.
Bucky pressed his mouth to your temple. “How bad?”
“I don’t know.”
You never knew.
Bucky pulled back just enough to look at you. “I’m not letting anything happen to you.”
Bucky had survived so many things, from himself, to armies, alien invasions and the end of the world. He had spent his entire life teetering too close to the edge, but had never let you do the same.
You held him tighter and whispered, “I’m not worried about me.”
Bucky went still. His breathing stumbled, and the arm around your back tightened until you could feel every plate in his hand. “Oh,” he looked down. “Is it…”
“I—” You cut him off, before biting the inside of your cheeks so hard it almost bled. “I don’t know that it’s you.”
“But you think it is.”
You couldn’t answer.
Ash gathered beneath your tongue again, and you squeezed your eyes shut and buried your face against his bare chest before he could see what you were still feeling.
Bucky kissed your hair. “Whatever it is, you know we’ll handle it,” His hand moved along your back, trying to soothe you while his heartbeat raced beneath your ear. “I promise everything’s gonna be okay.”
Outside the bedroom, the New Avengers Tower began to wake up, an elevator door chiming below. Alexei laughed in the corridor, followed by the muffled slam of a door.
These were all ordinary morning sounds you had grown fond of over the last six months.
And to think it could be taken away, just like that….
Bucky pulled the blankets higher around both of you and held you, pretending nothing in the world could reach you there.
You knew better.
You knew promises had never stopped the curse before.
But Bucky sounded so certain, and he loved you so much, and there was no harm in letting him believe it for a little longer.
Prompt: "Anniversary" Day 1 of @flufftober
Pairing: New Avengers!Bucky Barnes x New Avengers!Reader
Word Count: 3.2k
Synopsis: Every October, Bucky Barnes finds comfort in the simple tradition of apple pie and cheesy rom-coms. Thanks to the person who taught him what home can feel like.
Tags/Warnings: Domestic!Bucky (my love), Fluff, Baking Disasters, Emotional Vulnerability, VERY BRIEF mentions of canon-typical violence, light PTSD themes (If I missed anything let me know!)
Flufftober 2025 | Main Masterlist | AO3
Year 1
The mission had gone to hell in a handbasket quickly. Faster than Bucky had ever seen something unravel. The intel Valentia had given them was outdated, causing an ambush and a fire fight.
But it was successful in the end, the drive they needed to recover was safely in Ava’s pocket. John had destroyed the rest of the evidence. Bucky had made sure to provide cover while they fled the scene. Still, this was the kind of mission that drained every ounce of strength on the quiet flight back to the Watchtower. His mind betrayed him, only showing him the angles of things that went wrong and what could’ve happened.
He could still see the initial blast before it went sideways, nearly feeling the heat of it on his face all over again. If Ava hadn’t phased, she would’ve been gone. Vaporized, just like that. And he couldn’t stop thinking about what would’ve happened if it had been someone who couldn’t pass through reality like she could. That thought followed him all through the Tower, pressing like a bruise beneath his ribs. He didn’t trust himself to be alone just yet, not with the way his thoughts were spiraling.
So Bucky trudged into the communal kitchen, hoping to find you. The soft golden light was filtering in through the windows casting long shadows on the floor. The air was thick with the scent of cinnamon, butter and caramelizing sugar. Warm, rich, and enough to make his mouth water.
For a split second, he was just a kid in Brooklyn again. He could almost clearly see his Ma and sister humming in the kitchen while they baked. But the next second he blinked, the vision was gone. The smell stayed though, wrapped in comfort and sugar.
He almost didn’t want to disturb you, catching sight of your back, a towel slung across your shoulder. He didn't want to ruin the endorphin spike you got when you baked something.
The apple pie you had made from scratch was just popped into the oven when you heard the scuff of boots behind you. “Oh good, you’re back, how was the –”
The question died on your lips as you turned and saw Bucky. Knuckles bloody, shoulders tight with tension, and the weight of what had happened behind his stormy expression. You knew that look, and had worn it many times yourself when things didn’t go as planned.
“Sit.” It wasn’t a barking command, but a gentle request.
He shook his head, holding up his gear bag, “I should put this back.”
“Nope, sit.” You said, pushing a chair closer and taking the bag from him before he could protest.
Bucky folded his body down, too tired to argue. You kicked the bag off to the side, hands already opening a spare medkit you kept under the sink. You didn’t ask if the mission was successful. In the grand scheme of things, you knew it was or he wouldn’t be back here. Bucky Barnes was many things out in the field, and a failure was not one of them. He never left something unfinished. But something had to have gone wrong for him not to come scoop you up into his arms and ask how your day was like he normally did when he returned.
You cleaned the scrapes on his knuckles from the dried blood, applied small drops of ointment and bandages to the cuts on his face. All the while saying nothing. His arm had hooked around your waist, holding you steady like you were an anchor in a stormy sea. “Anywhere else hurt?”
“No.” His voice was tired, frayed around the edges. You knew that likely wasn’t the case, but you didn’t push it further.
“Okay, go get changed and cleaned up.” You pressed your lips against his forehead, his arm reluctantly dropping its hold around your waist.
Around an hour later, you pushed your way into Bucky’s room in the Tower. Finding him hunched on the edge of his bed, hair still damp from a shower. Staring off into space. You knew then that this was a man reeling, watching the highlight reel of failures in the field.
There were two things that you did after a rough mission to help you come back to the present. Eat sweets and watch ridiculous romantic comedies. And you had a feeling that that was just what Bucky needed right now.
“Just finished. Still warm from the oven.” You pushed the plate with a large slice of apple pie and a dollop of vanilla ice cream into his hands.
“Thanks.” His fingers didn’t reach for the spoon right away, even as the ice cream melted and threatened to drip off the edge of the plate and onto his bedspread.
You casually sat next to him, grabbing the TV remote. “Movie?” You asked, though you were already flipping through the options.
Bucky shrugged, finally taking a bite. The crust flaked apart on his tongue, buttery and warm. The cool contrast of the ice cream and the subtle spices were like a bandaid for the soul in the way they almost soothed through the guilt and shame.
You selected Two Weeks Notice, a quintessential rom com in your humble opinion, and one you knew Bucky hadn’t watched yet.
And as the opening credits faded onto the screen and some soft pop song played over the speakers, you let him fall into the safety of your arms. His head rested against your chest, letting the steady sound of your heartbeat become the only thing tying him to reality and safety. Your hand moved in gentle patterns along his shoulders and back absentmindedly.
Bucky felt it the second your breathing slowed, drifting off to sleep with your arms still around his shoulders. The realization hit him then like a bolt of lightning. After a rough mission, he likely would’ve just stewed in his anger and spite for days. Maybe taking it out on a punching bag or locking himself in his room until he could get ahold of the feeling of worthlessness eating him alive.
But not tonight. Tonight, you had conjured peace and stability in a space where he would normally have none.
Instead, you helped him come down from the adrenaline spike of a mission gone wrong and fall into a soft cloud of apples, cinnamon, and your warm embrace. He glanced at the calendar by his bedside table before he felt his eyes grow heavy, October 1st. The day that Bucky Barnes realized just how deeply in love he was with you.
Year 2
The plan was simple. Get you to bake an apple pie and watch one of those awful romantic comedies you loved. The execution? Not so much.
Bucky had watched you bake before, that wasn’t the issue. He’d perched on a barstool while you bustled around the kitchen, measuring things with expert certainty, sometimes just saying ‘eh’ and dumping in some more of a certain spice. He watched a little crease form in your forehead when the batter wouldn’t come out just right. One that he’d kiss away if you brushed too close to him.
He stared at the apple display of the supermarket for fifteen minutes, arms crossed. Trying to remember if the apples were at least green or red or yellow. But he had always been too focused on the way you danced around the kitchen, laughed at his jokes, let him taste test when you were sure something was missing.
The issue was you didn’t use a recipe. That’s what made this so damn hard. You just…knew, somehow. And everything always came out perfectly. Had you ever mentioned the words Honeycrisp or Granny Smith or Fuji apples? Nope. Well, he didn’t want to mess this up.
And that is how he came to be in possession of four bursting grocery bags, dumped unceremoniously in front of you on the kitchen island.
“Is this some new…super soldier training program you got going on?” You asked, eyeing the bags as two or three apples rolled off the counter and bounced off the ground.
He hesitated. God, what was he doing? Of course you’d laugh at the fact he just showed up with armfuls of apples.
But then, you began moving. Separating them into types and making sure no more fell to the ground.
Bucky shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant about this endeavor. “Nah, just…really wanted some apples.”
“And so you, what, bought out the supermarket?”
“They still had some when I left.”
You levelled him with an impassive stare, already reaching for an apron, seeing right through him, “Ya know, if you want an apple pie all you have to do is ask, you don’t have to spend a fortune on apples.”
He held up his hands, eyes wide in innocence, “If you wanna bake, I’m not going to stop you.”
Your eyes narrowed slightly, but you got to work anyway. Even with the amount of people who lived in the Tower, these apples would go bad if you didn’t intervene.
When you found Bucky on the couch, he had his arms crossed, a stoic glare directed towards the TV playing…The Wedding Singer?
“I thought you hated these kinds of movies. You always complain there’s not enough action.” You said skeptically, placing two plates of apple pie and ice cream on the low coffee table.
“It was on. Didn’t want to get up to get the remote.”
Your gaze landed on the remote just within reach on the end table beside him. He could’ve changed it, but why hadn’t he?
“Sure.” You conceded, sitting on the floor between his legs.
The movie played on in the background, but Bucky barely noticed. All he could focus on was the weight of you between his legs, the smell of cinnamon, and that feeling of utter peace washing over him just like it did a year ago.
And he was already figuring out how to make this happen again next year.
Year 3
Not wanting to make the same mistake as last year, Bucky had hatched this plan early. Now just to get you to go along with it.
“An apple orchard.” You deadpanned over your morning coffee.
Bucky nodded while sipping from his own mug. “Thought it would be a fun way to get the fall festivities started.”
“Since when do you care about fall festivities, Barnes?”
“Since now, get your coat.”
Which is how you found yourself in the center of an orchard, a few hours from the city. Enough that the air now smelled like damp earth and the sweet perfume of thousands of ripe apples. A cool wind whispered through the golden leaves of the rows of trees.
Bucky held a wicker basket steady between the two of you, watching as you stretched for a low-hanging apple, the hem of your sweater rising a bit. He should’ve just offered to reach it. He could’ve, very easily. But then he’d be missing watching the frown of concentration turn into a grin of triumph the second you got it.
Sometimes he wondered if this was what peace could really look like. No missions gone haywire, no world to save. Just you, in the soft glow of autumn, laughing over something as mundane as apples.
“I feel like this is deja vu. You can just ask me to make a pie when you get the craving, I don’t mind.”
He slung an arm around your shoulder, pressing a kiss to your temple. “More fun this way, sweetheart.”
Back at the Tower with gentle music filtering through a speaker, you peeled apples with Bucky hovering nearby. He’d occasionally sneak a slice when he thought you weren’t looking.
“You know, you could help.” You said, swatting his hand away with a spatula when he reached for another piece.
“I am helping.” He insisted, popping the slice in his mouth. “Quality control.”
You shook your head, turning to grab more cinnamon and vanilla extract. Bucky watched you work with practiced ease, safe in the quiet thrum of domesticity. He just wanted…this. All of this, on repeat. Every day.
It was dark by the time you finished baking. The dishes were piled in the sink, but you decided to leave them until morning.
Bucky was in your shared room of the Tower, lounging in bed with one hand tucked behind his head and the other on the TV remote. “You ever watch When Harry Met Sally?” He asked casually.
“Of course I have, it’s a classic.”
He hummed, while you easily slipped into bed beside him, plates of pie and ice cream carefully balanced on a tray. Soon after, you heard the opening scene of the movie. You side-eyed him as he ate, feeling like you’d lived a similar day before. Just like before, he didn’t say a word about why.
Maybe next year he’d finally tell you why apple pie and rom coms meant so much to him.
Year 4
This year’s plan was doomed the second Bucky preheated the oven.
He should’ve known better. Sure, the recipe looked simple enough. He had even found one with instructions for a homemade crust, remembering the time you passed the premade stuff with your nose scrunched. It was just fresh apple slices, a little cinnamon, butter, sugar, flour. Easy right? But watching you bake over the years had given him a dangerously overinflated sense of confidence.
Now, everything in the kitchen was covered in flour. Globs of cinnamon and butter were splattered along the backsplash. And he felt a strange guilt gnawing at him as he poured the filling into the lopsided dough. He hadn’t realized what a momentous task this was, and just how much love and care it took to do what you made look effortless.
Yet, you never complained when anyone asked you to bake for them. Birthday cakes, cookies, brownies. They all floated around the Tower in your wake and you always made them with a smile. Even when Alexei asked you to make some obscure Soviet dessert, you somehow managed to find a recipe and produced it with a flourish.
Bucky had just wanted to return the favor. To do it himself for once. And instead? You found him like this.
“What…are you doing?” You asked, trying to conceal a laugh as you took in the scene. Every single bowl and utensil the kitchen had to offer was either covered in batter or stacked in the sink. Apple peels littered the floor around the island. The soldier in front of you looked like he had lost the great war of sugar and flour; the white powder clung to his cheeks and hair, and he held the rolling pin like it was a weapon.
“Tried to make a pie…” he mumbled, flour floating off his shoulders as he moved.
“I see. Did you succeed?”
“I guess we’ll see when the timer goes off.”
You pressed a kiss to his cheek, already reaching for a towel to start cleaning. The two of you stood shoulder to shoulder at the sink, scrubbing dishes in comfortable silence.
“Again, you could’ve just asked,” you said, rinsing off a particularly sticky measuring cup. “ I would’ve helped. Or taught you so we wouldn’t have to spend hours getting flour out of every crevice of this place.”
“I know…just wanted to make it special. You bake all the time, I thought maybe I’d return the appreciation.”
Your heart fluttered as you handed off a plate to dry.. “That’s sweet, but the dishes are the part I hate the most. So, maybe next time let me handle the baking and you handle the clean-up.”
The ding of the timer signaled, and you watched as Bucky set the pan on the table. It looked…fine. Technically, it was pie shaped. It was probably edible. “It looks good!” You tried to say, but it didn’t sound the least bit convincing.
He rubbed the back of his neck looking down at his creation, “You don’t have to lie, sweetheart. I’m a man, I can take some criticism.”
“It’s not a lie. You know how long it took me to figure out how to make the things I bake look pretty? I’m sure it still tastes good.” You continued, poking at the crust and then wincing when it bounced back like a rubber band. “Okay, maybe not.”
Bucky let out a deep sigh, hands on his hips. “It’s ruined.”
“It’s okay, it was a valiant effort,” you reassured, patting his chest. “I”ll make one tomorrow.”
“That’s not going to work.”
You frowned, “Why not?”
He exhaled again, though this time it sounded like he was bracing himself for something. “I was going to hide something in it.”
“Like what?”
Bucky produced a small velvet box from his pocket, turning it over in his hands.
“I should probably explain something first,” he said. “You remember that day, years ago when the mission went sideways when we first started dating? You patched me up. Gave me pie. You didn’t ask questions, didn’t make me talk. Just sat down with me and gave me a soft place to land.”
You nodded, already feeling your chest tighten. Eyes, locked on the box in his hands.
“That day…mattered. More than I ever let on. I made it into a kind of…tradition.”
“And you tried to make me think I was crazy.”
He let out a shaky laugh, still twirling the box in his hands. “It was the day I realized I was in love with you. Which was wild, because we had only been seriously dating for like a month.”
“You fell in love with me because I made you pie?”
“No. I fell in love with you because you made me feel safe. The pie was just a bonus.”
Bucky stopped fiddling with the box to finally open it, holding it in your direction. Inside was a ring, the band shaped like tiny branches with leaves wrapping around a single stone.
“I was going to hide this in the pie,” his voice was hushed, barely echoing off the tile of the kitchen. “Because that’s how it started. You feeding me, and taking care of me, and somehow making me feel like maybe I deserve that.”
You blinked, stunned as your gaze went from the ring to the vulnerability in his face in a way that caught you completely off guard.
“So…will you marry me?” he asked, meeting your gaze. “Even if I can’t bake worth a damn?”
Tears welled in your eyes, jaw trembling as you let out a laugh. “Only if you agree to stay on dish duty for the rest of your life.”
“Deal.”
You leaned in to kiss him, still tasting a little flour on his mouth. The tension in his shoulders finally dropping as he wrapped his arms around you like he never wanted to let go.
“Maybe don’t eat the pie though.” You murmured against his lips.
He chuckled in return, “Yeah, that thing’s gotta go.”
And even though the pie was a disaster and flour was still dusted around the kitchen, the ring fit perfectly and the smell of cinnamon still hung in the air.
And October 1st would always be the day that Bucky Barnes realized that he wanted to spend forever with you.
Please drop a like or comment if you enjoyed! This author thrives off of words of affirmation. :3
Banners & Dividers made by me 💙
summary: cregan leads his wife to a tunnel...and provides an exit? amid a war? thoughts spiral and feelings are hurt (wc: 3.9k). (inspired by a scene from Troy (2004)!)
notes: f!reader, no house, swearing, reader has hair, slight canon divergence?, heavy discussions of death/grief (incl. jace, rip king), discussions of childbirth/rearing etc, mentions of arra & reader loves/treats rickon like her own son
author's note: i apologise for the wait lmao; this could be better but i'm sick of looking at it in my drafts
“Something troubles you.”
You blinked at him from where he was sitting on the bed, his back pressed into the pillows, baby Mariah cradled against his chest, her fists clenched and brows furrowed in sleep. Practically melting into his warmth.
You’d felt him get up minutes before, that cold rush of air unwelcome against your legs as the furs heaved up and flopped, giving way to an increasingly familiar empty spot. This was the fourth night in a row that he’d tossed and turned, sighing and groaning in frustration, before ultimately sneaking his way into the nursery and stealing Mariah back to your chambers.
She was so tiny - even when she wasn’t pressed against the wide expanse of his chest or held gently in his hands. Almost an entire moon early. Loved so fiercely, so dearly.
Cregan didn’t move at first, but you knew he’d heard you. His face remained still, silver eyes fixated and entranced by the sleeping babe. But you knew your husband well enough to search for subtle tells. Like the fractional tightening of his fist as he rearranged the furs around Mariah. A nervous habit - newly developed.
The loss of Jace weighed heavily on his conscience, you could read that much through the grave, pensive glances he’d routinely cast about, whether looking at you, Rickon, or the walls of Winterfell. Like he was memorising things.
His hand stilled, and he breathed a soft, broken admission of, “Yes.” It was whispered in the way matters of the mind were whispered in darkness, bruised knees pressed to stone at the mercy of the Seven.
The whisper of a man weary and ragged and exhausted by war and loss.
You said nothing, merely watched him through half-closed eyes, sleep still tugging at the edges of your mind, weighing you down. He looked beautiful like this, though you supposed he always does. Dark hair in waves, sharp jaw, defined nose, clear eyes. He might be intimidating to strangers, but he was far from it, really.
He was rather soft.
You reached a tired hand out, fingers finding his warm skin, feeling his stomach jump at your sudden touch, before you rested your hand on Mariah’s back. Cregan made a noise at the back of his throat, and you turned your attention back to him.
He was looking at you this time. Shadowy bags decorated his under eyes, making him look older in the night-time. Nothing on his face betrayed the gnawing concern eating at him, though. He wouldn’t be the Lord of the North if he wore his emotions bare for everyone to see.
Ever stoic and hardy in nature. At least, when he needed to be.
You felt your brows tug together, mouth open, about to speak, before the hand on Mariah’s back, under your own, tightened against her slightly. He pushed himself down the bed, head now resting on the pillows, back pressed into the mattress, and twisted himself so he was angled towards you.
You felt your lips twitch upwards, a fond smile begging to make an appearance, and took the hint, shifting until you were close enough to rest your head on his shoulder, battling against the exhaustion to remain awake.
“Do you wish to discuss the matter now?” You prodded gently, hand resting on the meat of his arm as you watched Mariah slowly rise and fall with his breaths. Her dark hair was a mess from the cradle, and you could see where Cregan had attempted to tame it down.
He inhaled again, deeper this time, “It can wait til morning.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes, my love.”
Despite the certainty of his word, you held countless doubts. Doubts stemming from a place that intersects with experience, with knowing someone and loving them. But you also knew that Cregan was the type of person who only spoke - where his emotions were concerned - when he absolutely wanted to. There was no wrestling that kind of thing out of him when he was unwilling.
Instead, you succumbed to the heaviness of your eyes, forehead resting gently against arm, and let yourself drift once more.
It was a deep sleep, that much you remembered: you were snug, warm, and hadn’t moved an inch since the midnight discussion. Only, when you were rather violently shaken awake at the crack of dawn by a familiar pair of hands, you had no recollection of the slumber you’d succumbed to.
There was only the racing of your heart, an unpleasant spike of adrenaline, and a shroud of mental confusion as you blinked awake one second and sat up the other.
“What happened?”
The children. That could have been the only reason for such a rude awakening, by Cregan nonetheless. The man with a tender touch, kisses, and nothing but love.
You blinked, hand resting over your chest, “What?”
Cregan was standing by the side of your bed, his furs already on, a grave yet dedicated look etched into the lines of his face. He swallowed, brows furrowing, “I couldn’t wake you.”
You heaved a breath, moving your hand from your chest to your cheek, “That’s because I was asleep, Cregan.”
He lowered his head, hands knitting together, before looking at you once more, “I’m sorry.”
You considered him for a moment, “The children, are they alright?”
“Yes. They’re asleep.”
Your eyes drifted from his tense figure to the dim light peeking through behind the curtains. There was no doubt about it now, you were awake. Firmly, solidly, definitely. The adrenaline had seen to that.
However, your concern for your husband - like it did so frequently - still bled through any traces of annoyance at the rude disruption. You hadn’t known his promise to speak in the morning would have occurred as lively as this, nor as specific as this, but when you turned back to look at him, there was something undeniably heavy weighing on his mind.
“My love–”
“Get dressed quickly. Please.”
You blinked, inhaling steadily, something uneasy and dreadful climbing up your throat. His tone left no room for negotiation, so you threw the covers back, feet finding their way into woollen socks and boots, and before you could even utter a word, Cregan was before you, laying your overcoat and furs on the bed and crouching at your feet, nimble fingers making quick work of the laces.
Something warm tugged in your chest.
“I’m sorry.” He muttered, somewhat under his breath.
Your hands gravitated towards his hair, tucking fallen locks behind his ear. He spoke almost prophetically. As though he was apologising in anticipation of something. That same spike of dread clutched once more at your insides, restricting your airways.
But only briefly.
He finished tying your laces, tilting his head up to look at you, eyes damp and shimmering in what little light there was. You felt, more than registered, your eyes narrow at the sight.
“Sometimes I think you were made to exist with the purpose of frightening me.” Your hand dropped, but his stare never wavered.
“I frighten you?” His voice was soft, gravelly, raw like the early morning chill.
You shook your head, “What you make me feel frightens me.”
In response: the barest hint of a smile.
The thundering of two pairs of footsteps could be heard echoing for hundreds of yards, you were certain of it. How the entire castle didn’t wake at the noise, you weren’t entirely sure.
Cregan’s hand held yours tightly as he led you through winding corridors. You lost any sense of familiarity around twelve turns ago, these walls strange and foreign, and the speed of travel sent chills up your skirts, your skin prickling in uncertainty.
Cregan hadn’t said a single word. No hint of where he was taking you, but the further you got into the depths of Winterfell, the less certain you were about it being something even remotely positive.
He slowed down quickly.
Stopped in front of an old wooden door, the hinges rusted and panels splintered. Ancient, worn.
And then he dropped your hand, and buried his hands under the neckline of his tunic, producing a chain of sorts.
“A key.”
“A key.” He repeated, lifting it up off his neck, and handing it to you.
Your eyes drifted from the door to the rusted thing in your hand, knowing what he was implying, but not quite sure what he was trying to get at.
“Elaboration is necessary.” Your jaw clenched fractionally, and his eyes caught the slight tell easily.
He inhaled steadily, not because he was nervous particularly, but because admitting this would mean admitting his worries - those ones he kept close to his chest, locked away behind the place he kept you, the place he kept Rickon and Mariah, and all things he held sacred. Worries he hadn’t yet had the courage to speak aloud to you.
Timing was key, he told himself.
Yet, time was dwindling.
You looked up at him, his expression unreadable. His grey eyes pierced yours for a beat longer, the faint sound of scraping distantly echoing through the corridors. And then his mouth moved. It was small, the barest twitch of his bottom lip, but it was enough to support your suspicions.
The dust remained heavily in the air, clinging to the walls. The damp smell infiltrated your nostrils and the sourness of it burned your throat.
“Do you remember the path we just took?” Was what he settled for, after some deliberation.
A stone of dread bounced in your stomach before settling, the ripples of it chilling the tips of your fingers. You nodded once, unable to form words.
He watched you, not moving nor speaking, until his fingers plied the rusted key out of your own hand and he stepped forward to place it into the keyhole. The hole itself looked newer, the bronze not yet tarnished, and you swallowed the bile slowly rising in your throat.
You’d hurried through the walls of Winterfell for fifteen minutes, and never had you felt so cold before.
With a firm push, the door creaked open slowly, catching on the stone floor on the other side, the wood splintering slightly.
Cregan, in his furs with his hair tied up and free hand gripping the lantern he'd just taken out of its holding, stepped through, and you moved to stand in the doorway, not attempting to venture further.
There was a short corridor immediately upon passing through the entrance, before the dark abyss dropped into a staircase that spiralled downwards.
He took five steps, cloak brushing the ground, before turning around to face you.
“Down here, then follow the corridor for roughly two miles-”
“Cregan-”
“And then another staircase will appear, upwards. The trapdoor opens into a cabin located far away enough to evade immediate searching, but close enough that the lands will be familiar to you. It remains untouched, privy only to myself and you-”
“Stop talking.” You whispered, the hiss of the words stinging in the silence. Something was trying to claw up your throat, and with every second your mind reeled, the burn of your eyes intensified, chin fighting against a tremble.
All you could manage was a defeated glare steeped in fury.
“You will be safe, I swear it.” He muttered, eyes straying to the ground beneath you both. Cold, grey, jagged stone.
You shook your head, eyes teary but refusing to cry at his implication.
Mariah was barely three moons old. You were still exhausted from the effort of her birth. Your mind was on the children, your husband, and this ever-present war that tinged the edges of every moment a harsh, ashen black. Dragons, swords, blood, death.
War was imminent, and you’d known that for years, now. Except, now it was here. And it was real.
“I will march South to meet my men,” his voice did not betray the part of his soul that shattered when you turned your face away from him, lip caught between your teeth, chin wobbling, “and I will not make any oaths to you that I have a chance of breaking against my own will-”
“Cregan.” A breath, a shake of your head.
“If I fall-”
“Fuck you.”
“And those who have slain me possess the power to travel north, I do not know how long Winterfell will continue to stand in my name-”
“You will not fall.”
“Showing you this will provide me with peace of mind that both you and the children are safe, should anything become of me.” He paused, and you shut your eyes, face still turned towards where you’d just come from.
Two children without their fathers, a throne without a Lord, Winterfell without a Stark.
A lady, widowed.
He blinked, and when his eyes opened you were nowhere to be seen.
You sighed through your nose, more weary now than you had been for a few weeks. Your mind was no place to find solace, and yet, you had nothing to occupy it with. The children were asleep, Mariah due to wake in a few hours for a feed, and you dismissed your maids early for the sake of a few hours of extra sleep. Yet, as your fingers threaded and wove your hair into a braid, you could not deny the desires of your heart.
You hadn’t seen Cregan since the journey into the uncharted corridors of Winterfell that morning. Whether it had been you who had avoided him, or he who had avoided you, it was not entirely too clear, yet you knew each other well enough to suspect the both of you needed the space to breathe and contemplate, even if it drove you half mad with it.
You blinked, eyes flickering to the reflection of your chamber door when the sound of a familiar pair of heavy footsteps could be heard pounding down the corridor.
The door creaked open softly, and you watched as he poked his head through the gap, eyes first landing on the untouched bed, before traversing to you. You were wearing your nightgown, sitting at the vanity by the window, and your eyes met in the mirror.
He stepped through the door, expression largely unreadable, yet with a hint of relief that he’d found you in your shared chambers and not elsewhere.
You could never quite get used to that; he had a habit of expecting you to remove yourself from his presence during spats, yet you’d never given him reason to think you’d leave. Not once since your wedding night had you ever chosen to sleep away from him and take up a guest room.
You let out a breath, your shoulders dropping slightly, before offering him a smile. It was sad, small, and a little shaky.
He straightened, nodding once, the corners of his mouth relaxing into a flicker of a smile. Also sad, small and a little shaky.
You watched him in the reflection, as he shrugged off his furs and stripped to his skin, unknotting the leather tie from his hair, tucking the now greasy strands behind his ears. He met your eyes once more, never shying away from your gaze. Even a few yards away you could observe how the tips of his ears flushed pink at your attention.
You kept your smile private as he wandered into the washroom, and, knowing he would be a while, turned to your ink and papers.
You were moving the pillows from your bed to the chaise longue when he re-entered, hair damp and wavy, skin warm to the touch, wearing his small clothes. Your hand faltered on one pillow as you took him in.
Freshly shaven, cheeks rosy. You liked him like this: off-guard and soft. He looked younger in the dark candlelight, less like a young Lord and more like the twenty-one year old he was.
His throat worked as he swallowed, before grabbing one of his own pillows and throwing it across the room without caring much where it landed.
Your hand still hadn’t moved from where it was clutching the silken cushion.
He paused, sensing your conflict, a crease forming between his brows as he took in the deliberation written across your face.
He barely had three seconds to raise his hands before you flung it at his face, his hands outstretched to receive it - barely.
Your hair stirred from the swift air, lips barely concealing a smile. He was mirroring your small grin when he moved the pillow away from his face, shoulders less tense than they had been when he’d tried sneaking in earlier.
His eyes were soft, bags telling of his exhaustion, and you felt a stab of guilt at perhaps contributing towards it.
“Does this mean I am forgiven?” His brow twitched, a subtle tell he wasn’t as confident as he let on, yet his voice was soft in a way that warmed something inside you.
You sighed, “There is nothing to forgive.”
He nodded, but said nothing, merely continuing to tidy away the pillows until the bed was cushioned enough for the both of you.
You didn’t immediately get under the covers, but he did. His back was pressed straight against the headboard, and you were sitting on the mattress, far enough away from him to look at his face without straining your neck, but close enough for reassurance. Mutual reassurance.
His face was unreadable, but he was holding himself like he was preparing to discuss matters of the court with the noblemen. Not like you were man and wife with two young children.
You swallowed, “I am not sorry for walking away this morning.”
He nodded once, expression remaining unreadable yet significantly less troubled, “I do not need you to be.”
You inhaled, fingers tracing the embroidery on your bedding, heart pounding. The subject matter of the morning had been upsetting, but only because you refused to consider a future without him. The loss and the grief people would have to endure was astronomical if he did not return alive.
Him admitting it was possible he would be slain was…heartbreaking to even consider.
“I am merely scared, is all.” You muttered under your breath.
You didn’t have to be looking at him to know the soft expel of breath loosened his shoulders and made something so devastatingly human cross his face.
“That is understandable, my love.”
The gentility in his tone only worked to waver your will to continue. You wanted to crawl under the covers and be within his warmth, his life.
“Because we are married, and we have children, and we love each other,” you continued, lifting your eyes to meet his piercing grey gaze, “and you are not allowed to die.” The next breath shook in your ribs, and you teased the inside of your cheek with your teeth, fighting to maintain composure.
He said nothing, but gave you space and time. His hand twitched, though.
“Selfishly, I do not think I could recover from that.” You admitted, eyes watering, “I have spent all day trying not to picture you slain on foreign lands, never to return home, and even though I knew you were doors away, I missed you. So, no, Cregan, you are forbidden to die.”
He nodded gravely, something flickering in his eyes. Recognition?
“Mariah is weeks old. If you do not return, she will not remember you. Rickon is older, that is true, but I did not know Arra. She lives through your memories, he can only truly know her if you are alive. Then there is the matter of the North itself...”
You did not expand on the latter point, yet he knew you’d finished your point anyway.
“Of course, my love.”
His eyes were watery when you looked at him, jaw clenched. The candle by the side of his bed shone almost angelically on the side of his face, illuminating the silver scars he bore. One through his eyebrow, another on his jaw. A childhood accident that involved a horse and daggers and three children too confident in their own skills.
You wanted to touch him, drag your fingers down his face and lift the corners of his mouth even if he frowned and grumbled in protest.
“And what of you?”
You froze halfway into getting under the covers.
“My wife.”
A delicious shiver shot down your spine at the reverence woven into those two words.
You swallowed nervously, countering his question with your own, “What if it were me, and you did not know whether I would return alive, if at all? What if when I left you and the children, it could be for the last time, and neither one of us would know it?”
The look he wore on his face pierced through your chest. The air stilled in your lungs, and breathing became a manual effort.
You’d seen Cregan wear a great deal many expressions, yet this one was not one you could count yourself familiar with. Glassy eyes committing you to memory right on the spot, eyebrows slightly raised yet drawn together, lips parted but barely. He was both breathtaking and heartbreaking.
“I have said my piece and it will do me no good to dwell on a future in which I will have to…run through that corridor, without you. Particularly not at this moment.”
You quickly dove under the covers after that, wanting to rid yourself of the dread and nausea and utter misery of the conversation. When your head hit the pillow, however, Cregan was still sitting up, his fingers twisting his wedding ring.
“I confess I am not skilled at make speeches, least of all speeches of this sort.” He whispered, devotion behind intention.
You frowned at his words, before slowly pushing yourself back up, cheek resting on his knee from where he’d drawn them up and planted his feet on the mattress. He looked at you then, wholly, and in that moment - as in many - you knew he was speaking straight into your soul. That he’d heard the words you’d spoken and considered them carefully.
He may be the Lord of Winterfell, but he was also a man hopelessly in love.
“It is challenging for me to put into words, and I am sorry that I can only offer you this.” His hand brushed some of your hair behind your ear with such reverence you weren’t sure if it was him or the cold air from the open window that made you tremble, “I love you. Dearly. So much so that I have difficulty talking about it. War is bloody, but it is the nature of things, and I cannot make vows to you that I know I may not hold. It is not my people’s way, it is not my way.” He inhaled, “However, I do vow to you and to our babes that I will fight, most ardently, to return to these walls. To them. To you, whom my thoughts can scarce depart from when you are not in my presence.”
You felt more than you thought in that moment, acting sheerly on instinct as you pushed yourself up, hand cradling his face as you pressed your lips to his, sealing his promise. His hand snaked its way across your back, wrapping around your waist and tugging you closer.
It was you who pulled back, if only to read the lines on his face and the shine in his eyes.
You found what you were looking for, ultimately and inevitably, “That is enough for me.”
he takes sleeping next to you very seriously. not necessarily in a sexual way, but rather in the knowledge that you are there with him, completely unguarded.
for most of his life, people have threaded carefully around him. he's observant, he knows when people have thought the sentences out in their heads three times before saying them.
it was the same when he was a kid after his parents died and he was sent to the orphanage, and it was the same after he killed his coach, the same when the fbi started to investigate him, and the same when he was being held prisioner by guards who shivered at the sight of bullseye.
you never hesitated, though. not when you met him, and not right now.
the window is open, much to dex's dismay. the soft summer night air slips through the window and makes the white curtain sway.
your breath comes out in short and relaxed puffs. dex watches you for hours. he's not much of a sleeper himself, but you are. and you love sleeping on him.
your head is rested over his bare chest, with a few strands of your hair falling over his skin. they tickle him in a way that reminds him that you're real.
it flatters him to a point that makes him feel almost cocky. sleeping on him means letting your guard down. it means you trust him with your life. it means that you won't go anywhere and that, at least for the night, dex has earned himself another day by your side.
hi people!!! its been a little while. I've been having my best time traveling around with my best friend, and I finally caught some time to write little bits. this was written on my phone, so I apologize for any mistakes.
