Description: After the world leaves him and Y/N bruised in different ways, Kol discovers that the quiet life he never thought he wanted begins to feel like home—with Y/N.
A/N: Based on the song 'Call It What You Want' by Taylor Swift.
You never imagined peace could be so loud, not after all you've been through. The violence that marked your hands, the night you saw flames crawl up the rooftops, the silent faces you couldn't help. And especially not after all you've lost: the echo of your brother's laughter, the heavy feeling of promises broken when things were desperate.
The old estate sits miles from the nearest town, surrounded by dense forests that make time feel like it stands still. It's the sort of place people forget, which is exactly why Kol chose it. He says it's strategic. You think it's hiding.
He rolls his eyes every time. "You make it sound so tragic," Kol says one evening as he watches you stir tea in the kitchen. "I'm simply avoiding unnecessary family drama."
"You've been avoiding them for three months."
"They're exhausting."
You can't argue with that, so you hand him a mug. His fingers touch yours, lingering just long enough to make your heart skip. He smiles, not with the old arrogant smirk of someone who used to collect enemies, but with something gentler. Something only you ever see. "You know," he says quietly, "I've grown rather fond of this domestic arrangement." "You mean stealing my blankets?”
"I was thinking more along the lines of your charming company."
"You absolutely meant the blankets."
He grins. "Guilty."
People think loving someone like Kol Mikaelson must be dramatic—full of danger, big declarations, and revenge. Sometimes it is. But more often, it's simple things. Finding him asleep on the sofa because he stayed up to keep your nightmares away. Hearing him hum while he fixes an old record player. Watching him try not to smile when you beat him at chess again. Even in these quiet moments, a shadow hangs over you both. Some nights, he tells stories in a low voice about villages lost to fire or the sound of a friend's last breath. He still carries darkness inside. You know it. He knows it too. Some nights he disappears into the woods and comes back with haunted eyes and blood on his cuffs. He never tries to hide it.
"I wasn't the hero," he admits quietly.
"You don't have to be."
"I've done terrible things."
"I know."
"You still stay."
You take his hand. There is a darkness in him you may never fully understand, but beneath it, you find honesty and a stubborn kind of hope. With him, you feel truly seen, your rough edges mirrored and accepted. For all his flaws, Kol is steady in his affection and fiercely loyal when he lets you close. "I choose to." He says nothing. Then he presses your knuckles to his lips with a tenderness that almost hurts. "I don't deserve you."
"No," you reply with a teasing smile. "But you're lucky." A surprised laugh escapes him. Real. Unrestrained. You decide it's your favourite sound in the world.
Rumours still follow him, and they always will. Some people call Kol Mikaelson a monster. Others see him as a legend, a disaster waiting to happen. You stop trying to change their minds. They only know the stories. They don't see the man who tries to make breakfast, even if he always burns the toast. The one who puts wildflowers in every room because he says the house is too gloomy. The man who learns your favourite songs and plays them softly on the piano when he thinks you're asleep. They don't know the version of him that only exists when no one else is watching. Neither of you tries to explain. Let people call it what they want.
One rainy afternoon, the power goes out. The fireplace crackles while storms batter the windows. Kol finds an old deck of cards somewhere in the library.
"You know," he says, dealing them dramatically, "I was considered devastatingly charming in the nineteenth century."
"Were you?"
"Oh, unquestionably."
"I think history might disagree."
"It was tragically underreported." You laugh. He pauses, actually pauses, like he's committing the sound to memory.
"What?" you ask.
"Nothing."
"Kol."
"I simply enjoy seeing you happy." His voice is quieter than usual, almost uncertain. "And I'd very much like to continue being the reason." You reach across the table. He meets you halfway. His thumb brushes over your hand. Outside, thunder shakes the windows. Inside, nothing feels frightening anymore.
Eventually, his family finds you. Of course they do. They ask questions and make assumptions. Elijah is the first to speak, his voice smooth and careful. "So this is the mysterious retreat," he says, glancing between you and Kol, barely hiding his amusement. Rebekah folds her arms and looks at Kol with fake suspicion. "Honestly, Kol, I thought you'd joined a monastery," she jokes. "He has gone soft," Klaus mutters, though there's relief in his voice. Kol just smirks as Rebekah nudges him. "Or maybe," she adds, grinning at you, "you've tamed him." The room fills with the usual sibling teasing, a mix of warmth and sharpness. For a moment, you see Kol as his family does: flawed, frustrating, but theirs.
Kol only smiles. "I'm not tamed."
"No?"
"No." He slips an arm around your shoulders. "I simply found someone worth coming home to." The room falls silent, not because they don't believe him, but because they do.
Late that night, after everyone has left, you sit together on the porch. The sky is clear again. Stars scatter themselves across the darkness. Kol rests his head against yours. "You know," he says softly, "for centuries I searched for excitement."
"And?"
"I think excitement is overrated."
You smile. "What do you prefer?"
He looks at you like the answer has always been obvious. "This." His fingers intertwine with yours. No performance. No audience. No impossible expectations. Just the steady certainty of choosing each other over and over again.
The world can gossip, question, misunderstand, and give your story a hundred different names. None of that matters. When Kol Mikaelson looks at you, there is no chaos in his eyes, only a sense of home. If anyone asks what you are, you just smile. Let them call it whatever they want.
Description: Y/N has spent years at odds with Kol, exchanging harsh words and even harsher blows. When an ancient enemy starts hunting her, Kol is the last person she expects to protect her. Over time, their hatred turns into trust, and that trust grows into something even riskier.
The first time you met Kol Mikaelson, you tried to stake him. Years with hunters had taught you how to track things that shouldn’t exist, leaving you with as many scars as secrets. Your footsteps echoed in the huge cathedral, each sound swallowed by the cold shadows. Dust and melted candle wax filled the air. Candlelight danced along cracked stone pillars, casting crooked shapes on the floor where broken pews sat quietly. He laughed as he took the artifact you’d spent months searching for.
His laughter echoed through the abandoned cathedral as he caught your wrist with infuriating ease. "You'll have to do better than that, darling."
"I'd rather not be called darling by a psychopath."
He grinned wider. "And I'd rather not be threatened before introductions. Yet here we are."
You hated him instantly.
Years passed, and you kept running into Kol Mikaelson. Every cursed object, magical relic, or supernatural mess seemed to put him in your way, always with that smug smile that made you want to punch him. Each time, you felt a mix of frustration and something else you didn’t want to admit—a restless thrill that made your heart race. Sometimes you won. More often, he cheated. Every time, you told yourself you hated the chase, but deep down, you knew that wasn’t true.
"You rigged the spell."
"I prefer creative improvisation."
"You set the room on fire."
"I solved the problem, didn't I?"
"You created the problem!"
He just laughed. You swore you’d wipe that grin off his face one day. He said he looked forward to seeing you try.
No one understood why you and Kol never just killed each other. You both had chances. Instead, every fight ended with sarcastic comments, ruined buildings, and both of you walking away, pretending you hadn’t secretly enjoyed the challenge.
"You missed." Kol smiled, clearly aggravating you.
"I was aiming next to your head."
"So you admit you weren't trying."
"Don't flatter yourself."
Then the Hollow Court arrived in New Orleans, and everything changed. This secret group of ancient witches and their monstrous enforcers was rumoured to have once ruled bloody kingdoms, using forbidden magic to control power and souls. Unlike Kol, they didn’t play games. They wanted something only you had. Years ago, you had stolen - or accidentally inherited - a piece of ancient magic during a midnight ritual gone wrong. You never learned exactly what it was, only that it burned inside you, wild and impossible to get rid of. Now, that same power hidden in your soul drew every witch, vampire, and mercenary in the city after you. You could handle one enemy. Not fifty.
You were bleeding when you stumbled into an abandoned mansion. A mistake. Three vampires emerged from the shadows. "You've nowhere left to run."
Your grip tightened around your dagger despite your shaking hands. "I've heard that before."
The first vampire lunged. You barely blocked him before another slammed into your side. Pain exploded through your ribs. You hit the floor. Someone grabbed your throat. "You've caused quite a bit of trouble."
Then, the vampire holding you froze. A hand had punched clean through his chest. Blood dripped onto the floor. His body collapsed. Standing behind him was Kol. His expression wasn't amused. It wasn't smug. It was terrifyingly calm. "You've made a dreadful mistake," he said softly.
The remaining vampires laughed. "There are three of us."
Kol looked at them with complete indifference. "There were."
You’d seen Kol fight before, but this was different. It wasn’t a fight—it was destruction. Bones broke. Walls cracked. In seconds, every vampire was down across the ruined room. Silence filled the space. Kol straightened his jacket like he’d just finished a casual chat. "You look awful."
You stared. "You...saved me."
He shrugged. "Don't make a habit of it."
The next morning, you tried to leave. Kol blocked the doorway. "No."
"I wasn't asking permission."
"No, you were making a poor decision."
"I can protect myself."
"I've just counted at least twelve injuries suggesting otherwise."
"I don't need a babysitter."
He sighed dramatically. "I know. Unfortunately, I appear to need a headache."
Traveling together was almost impossible. He stole your food. You criticized his plans. He made fun of how stubborn you were. You rolled your eyes at his dramatic behavior.
"You smile in your sleep."
"I absolutely do not."
"You do."
"You watched me sleep?"
"...I was making sure you weren't dying." Your heart skipped. He noticed. Neither of you mentioned it.
Days became weeks, and somewhere between all the arguments and tough situations, things changed. Kol stopped joking when he saw you were tired. You started saving him the last cup of coffee. He remembered your favorite foods. You learned to recognize the look he got when he was worried, even if he never said it. Trust grew slowly and quietly, almost without you noticing.
At night, you lay awake, struggling with doubts you couldn’t quite name. You wondered what it would cost to trust someone like him and felt afraid to need anything from someone who once seemed like your worst enemy. It left you uneasy, looking for reasons to pull away and trying to remember every grudge. But you kept thinking about how he stood by you in a fight that almost killed you, how he watched over you when you couldn’t stand, and how his small kindnesses slipped past every wall you built. It felt strange to find comfort with someone who used to be your rival, sharing quiet moments and small gestures that left you feeling more exposed than any wound.
Sometimes, when you saw him watching you from across the fire, you felt both confused and afraid. What if you let yourself hope and it all fell apart? What if letting him in meant losing yourself, or worse, finding out he never cared? You kept telling yourself not to let your guard down, that caring for Kol was reckless, but each day it got harder to believe that. Every gentle moment chipped away at the certainty you used to have, replacing it with something fragile and precious. You didn’t know when you started wanting him to stay.
One evening, while camping outside the city, rain poured endlessly around you. You reached toward the fire. Your fingers brushed his. You immediately pulled away. "So dramatic," Kol teased.
"You started it."
"I don't believe touching your hand counts as an international incident."
"It does when it's you."
He chuckled. "You've become rather fond of me."
"I tolerate you."
"Mm."
"You are insufferable."
"And yet here you remain." You couldn't think of a response because he wasn't wrong.
The Hollow Court found you again, and this time there were dozens. Magic surrounded the forest. Escape wasn't possible. Kol stepped in front of you. "You should run."
"You know I won't."
"I know."
He smiled sadly. "That's what worries me."
The battle was chaotic. Spells exploded around the trees. Vampires charged from every direction. You fought beside Kol, back to back. Someone broke through. A witch raised a blade enchanted specifically to kill, straight at you. Everything happened too quickly, and Kol threw himself into the attack. The blade buried itself in his shoulder instead.
Your vision narrowed. "No."
The witch smiled. "You should've moved."
Something inside you snapped. Moments later, the witch lay unconscious beneath shattered stone. You rushed to Kol. "You idiot."
"I've been called worse."
"You could've died."
He looked at you for a long moment. "I know."
"Why would you do that?"
His usual smile disappeared. "Because losing you..." His voice softened. "...would've been far worse."
After the battle, you sat together beneath the stars, and neither of you spoke for a while. Finally, Kol broke the silence. "You know, when we first met, I thought you were unbearably stubborn."
"I am."
"You are."
"And I thought you were arrogant."
"I still am."
"You definitely are."
He laughed. "I never expected to care what happened to you." Your chest tightened. "I didn't either."
He looked at you with none of his usual mischief, only honesty. "I spent centuries believing everyone eventually leaves."
You reached for his hand. This time, neither of you pulled away. "I'm not planning on leaving."
His fingers intertwined with yours. "No?"
"No." A slow smile spread across his face. "Good." You leaned your shoulder against his.
For once, there were no arguments, no enemies, and no walls. Just two stubborn people who had spent years pretending it was easier to hate than to admit they had already become each other’s safest place. Neither of you wanted to let go.
Kol’s heartbeat was steady and warm under your fingers. Rain tapped softly on the tent above, making the world feel distant. His shoulder touched yours, warmth passing through the fabric, and for the first time, you let yourself lean closer, breathing him in and finding strength in the quiet closeness. In the darkness, your fears faded, and your heart settled into a new, steady rhythm that felt safe.
Still, as the warmth of the moment settled around you, you felt a faint tingling of magic deep inside - uneasy and restless. The fragment you carried pulsed quietly, reminding you that peace with Kol might not last. Outside the tent, in a world full of secrets and shadows, trouble waited, patient and certain.
Summary: You arrive in Westeros, being the last of your Great Valyrian Houses bloodline, with your Dragon.
Word Count: 4.7K
Warnings: no use of y/n, swearing, some descriptions of violence and death, dead parents, misogyny, canon divergence (made up my own thing and baelor lives ofc), Aerion (lol he's kinda ooc I tried to keep him as mean as possible), typical GOT Universe things, Reader is described with Silver hair and purple eyes but nothing else specific, there's sprinkles of angst and fluff in here, there will be smut in future parts!
Author's Note: MINORS DNI!!! Hello my lovelies! this blog is very new but I wanted to start writing for Aerion! bro has sucked me back into writing fanfics... it's been a while. any comments, reblogs and feedback are appreciated! lmk what you guys think, this is gonna be a series <3
PART 1
Nothing spreads faster than wildfire in Westeros, all except whispers. And as soon those whispers reached the Red Keep in King’s Landing, utter chaos ensued.
“What the fuck do you mean?” Maekar demanded, exasperated, as soon as the Master of Whisperers announced his findings at the handcrafted table of the Small Council Chambers.
He didn’t want to be here right now. However, he received an urgent call to the Red Keep from his Hand Of The King, older brother, whilst residing at Summerhall. ‘A family matter of great importance to the future of the Kingdom and House Targaryen.’ He thought that their sick Father, The King, had finally joined the new Gods and that his brother was being ever so dramatic about it. Their King Father had been on his death bed for many moon turns now. The Great Spring sickness had been taking its toll on King Daeron The Good, second of His Name. So for a while, Maekar had been expecting his Father’s time to pass over.
He rolled his eyes at the delivered scroll, prepared for and made the journey to the Red Keep regardless of his own wishes to remain within the walls of Summerhall.
“A winged shadow has been spotted across the realm, My Prince.” The Master of whisperers breathed deeply, addressing Maeker. His eyes drifted between both of the starkly different brothers and the rest of the small council seated at the table within the chambers. The Master of Whisperers continued, eyes filled with worry and locking with Baelor’s own heterochromic mix of light blue and dark brown. “First in Dorne, then The Reach, Riverrun, The Eyrie and even The North. Reports from farming establishments have been coming through frequently in recent weeks. Flocks of cattle left in ashes and embers without explanation. One Fisherman in The Arbor has even stated that he has seen this winged beast swoop down to the waters whilst expelling flames from its mouth. It is said to be a great winged beast of pale, shimmering colouring.”
The room was silent, save for sharp intakes of breath and the thrumming of heartbeats against the council’s ribcages. Baelor’s expression remained steady, ever the most poised and diplomatic but his eyebrows pinched together as he was processing this information.
These whispers carried a vast weight and could change the Kingdoms and House Targaryen as he currently knew it. As everyone knew it. A heaviness began to sit deep within his chest. Never did he think that such times would be possible during his reign of being his, actively dying, King Father’s Hand and Heir to the Iron Throne. Everything was about to change drastically. And for once, Baelor felt slighty at a loss. He was unsure of how to proceed, especially if this creature possesses a rider.
“Brother,” Baelor spared a wary glance towards Maekar. His mixed irises were focused on the shining embroidery of their House’s sigil which was wrapped around his brother’s tunic in a display of fiery colours against black. “If many a people have witnessed such, then it may bear truth.”
The council members tensed at this, knowing what it mayhaps mean for the future of the realm and their own Houses but most importantly… House Targaryen. Maekar remained rigid in his seat, eyes falling shut, as if a burst of aches had quickly begun to pound against his skull.
“I will send a ship to the Arbor to gather more information from this fisherman, Your Grace.” The Master of Ships piped in, face visibly panic-stricken and words swallowing through the air with stress attached.
Baelor leaned forward, shaking his head at the man, elbows resting on the surface of the table whilst his aged hands reached for his face, his fingers rubbing on the sides of his temples. “This information is not to leave these chambers… we will continue to speak and operate on this matter within these four walls alone.” Baelor hesitated for a moment before continuing, “Have there been sightings of a Rider?”
The Master of Whisperers gingerly took his seat at the table again and struggled to express the correct words next. “W-well, Your Grace, i-it seems t-that…”
Maeker grunted, eyes flicking open again, interjecting with no patience for the stammering man.. “So spit it out then. Yes, or, no.”
“A-a woman of silver hair has been seen riding this beast, My Prince. Your Grace.” The Master of Whisperers addressed both of the brothers.
The rest of the Small Council’s expressions perked up at this description. Eyes drifting to each other’s sides, monitoring their peers' reactions. One Lord shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Another struggled to tame a biting smirk. And one other Lord even laughed. The thought of a random Valyrian woman bringing back a Dragon after decades of extinction, was entirely laughable to most of the Small Council.
The Grand Maester shook his head and inhaled deeply. “A bastard girl, perhaps?”
Balor hummed at the Grand Maester, it could be true. Targaryen King’s and Prince’s were not exactly known for their virtuous behavior. Seven Hells, The Dance of The Dragons revolved around Targaryen bastards with those bastards claiming their own Dragons. But then, where would a lowborn bastard even acquire a Dragon when there were no more living beings known?
Maekar scoffed in disbelief. “After fifty-six years of extinction? All this time passed and suddenly a Dragon is seen flying over the Realm. With a woman for its rider?” His rough hands slammed onto the table as a laugh escaped him. “It’s not fucking possible!”
However, it was very much possible.
---
Your long silver hair whipped behind you as the harsh, fast winds blew around you. After years of dying your silver hair to blacks and browns, it was liberating to finally be released of that constriction. The blood of Old Valyria still ran strong through your veins.
The heat beneath you was warming against the cool air. A loud laugh blessed your lips as you took in the freeing relief of riding your great creature. Shimmering, pearlescent, white horns and pale pink scales were fluttering with you through the skies. She was magnificent.
“Rȳzys (fast), naejot (foward) my Rhaefyre!”
The She-Dragon roared beneath you, the sound reverberating, making your body vibrate, radiating up from your legs where they laid either side across her back. Your skirts flipped and flapped against the wind along with the satchels homing your goods, which were strapped securely around your body.
Large grey clouds began to filter through your vision. Your hands clutched tighter around her white spikes as she made haste and you suddenly felt raindrops scatter around you, rolling off your skin, dampening your hair and clothing. A storm.
For centuries since the Doom of Old Valyria, your family, House Alaerys, had been in hiding. For centuries, your family has masked their distinct dragonlord traits with hair-dyes and blood magic. The Histories had known House Alaerys to die with the rest of the mighty dragonlord houses in the Doom of Old Valyria. But those histories were mere assumptions.
Initially your family’s House had fled west of Westeros and beyond, a great ancestor of yours had prophesied the Doom of Valyria and the extinction of your beloved dragons. The ancient dreamer of your family also happened to see a great resurrection of your bonded beasts, centuries in the future. And therefore, when House Alaerys had fled as the Doom began, six Dragon’s clutches were taken. Nineteen Dragon Eggs, totalled, were taken with your family as they escaped.
House Alaerys was one of the largest and most powerful in Old Valyria, with 43 members of your family fleeing before the Doom. Some members of your House chose to disregard what was prophesied however and perished in the molten rock, lava, flames, smoke and ashes that consumed Valyria. Since seeking refuge from the destruction, siblings, cousins and relatives alike consistently married each other, in tradition, over the centuries to ensure the bloodlines remained pure for the prophecy told.
Eventually, House Alaerys slowly relocated over the years, moving back to the East of Westeros until only 2 members of House Alaerys remained. When you were born with your parents in The Shadow Lands of Asshai only 4 of those, now stone-turned, eggs remained. Over the many years, your ancestors became desperate to bring back your beloved Dragons, having lost your living creatures in the Doom. The eggs were taken with blood magic practiced to revive the stone-turned eggs eventually and ensure hatchlings, although nothing ever succeeded. Until you.
You and your parents were the only remaining members of the great House Alaerys when you came into this world. Your mother died very quickly after childbirth and your grieving father did everything he could with the dark magic sorcerers in Asshai to assure your success in this world. Your birth was one of Fire and Blood. Your mother bleeding out, an egg placed on a burning hearth in the centre of a dark room surrounded by flames, healers and sorcerers.
Your father cried out as he held your newborn form in his arms and heard the egg cracking between the flames, with your mother’s body laying lifeless amongst the chanting sorcery.
For the next fifteen years, you and your Father, both remained hidden with your dragon hatchling. Now a large She-Dragon, beginning to rival half the size of the Dragons of Ancient Valyria, it was increasingly difficult. Fifteen years of safety finally came at a price, it was not easy to hide such a grand creature in privy. The sorcerer’s demanded more blood to secure the secrecy of your Dragon and your Father sacrificed himself despite your screaming pleas and endless begging. The memory of your Father being split open and bleeding out on a large engraved, stone table surrounded by dark sorcerers to ensure your and Rhaefyre’s protection still haunts you and makes your heart ache deeply.
Five years later, without your Father to guide you any longer, and here you were. After two decades of living in secret with Rhaefyre in The Shadow Lands. Coursing through the sky’s above The Golden Empire of Yi Ti, The Red Waste, flying over the Summer Sea and eventually, it led you to the land of Westeros. It has been a few weeks now since you decided to stand your ground in Westeros, seeking shelter in the wide landscapes with Rhaefyre.
“Quba (Low)! Tegon (Ground)!” Your voice commanded your gorgeous She-Dragon to land over an expanse of fields surrounded by forests, after your gaze reassured there were no households within a short distance.
As far as you knew, you were now alone in this new world. Despite the knowledge of a Dragonlord House claiming this realm, you had been informed that they no longer possessed any dragons within their grasp.
You were well aware of the histories of Valyria and the other Dragonlord houses of that time. House Targaryen was said to be the only surviving house of the Doom but, of course, you knew that wasn’t true. Although, now you were the only member left from House Alaerys. In the fifteen years you lived with your father, up until five years ago, he had taught you everything you needed to know about this world. He had well-paid spies across each region feeding information back to him in order to remain updated about current times, which he always shared with you.
The bond you shared with Rhaefyre as her rider was protected with Fire and Blood in Asshai, and it was a reassuring protection if the Targaryen’s dared to approach you with violence whilst you ventured in their Kingdoms. Rhaefyre was extremely protective of you. Your bond with her was unbreakable.
Coming here was not a whimsical decision to you. You wanted to ensure that your family name lived on, and what better way to do that than to incite the power of your Dragon onto a lesser Dragonlord House of Old Valyria with no current living Dragons for themselves.
The Alaerys prophecy was ringing around in your mind like sparks flicking from a fireplace.
A small chuckle left your throat as you wiped at some of the rain coating your soft cheeks. Rhaefyre landed swiftly and perched onto the damp fields. How shameful it must feel to have your own Dragonlord House be the very reason which you no longer process a single Dragon.
---
Daeron was deep in his cups trying to decipher and mostly ignore last night’s dream. Fire, Blood, Dragon Eggs, a silver haired woman with striking expanses of purple in her eyes. And so much more which he wishes to long forget. The images flashed through his mind no matter how much he wished, drank and attempted to ignore them.
“What is it today, brother?” Aerion stalked into the room, as if a Dragon roaming the wild, with a glare present as he eyed his older brother.
Daeron took a large gulp of the bittersweet red wine before slamming the now empty cup onto the small table beside him. The fire next to him crackled as he sprawled out on the cushioned chaise lounge. He didn’t want to tell anybody what he saw, let alone Aerion. It would complicate matters much more.
“Nothing that concerns you.” Daeron huffed, letting his eyes close softly as he settled into the plush lounge chair. Hoping that his demeanor would ward his troublesome younger brother off, he exhaled and leaned further into the plush velvets of the pillows beneath him.
But Aerion’s heavy steps only echoed through the tiled flooring in the room, amongst the crackling flames until he loomed over Daeron with a peculiar glint in his harsh lavender eyes. He wanted to know what Daeron saw. He had always dismissed his older brother’s dreams. Disregarding them for nothing but a drunken fool’s fancy. But that didn’t stop him from always wanting to find out. It was intriguing after all.
One of the older brother’s eyes peaked open as the air grew heavy with the looming presence and he scrunched his nose up, hand motioning to his now-empty chalice. “Pour me another would you, Brother?”
Aerion scoffed, arms folding over in agitation, a slight snarl leaving him as he retorted. “I’m not your wench. I am the Blood of The Dragon. It would do you well to remember that, Daeron. Now, fetch that red-haired serving girl instead.”
Daeron sighed tiredly, “I told her to leave me be this evening.” He wasndesperately wanted to be alone. To be able to find his own distractions to ward off the festering visions that bloomed whilst he vulnerably slept. Closing his eyes he attempted to relax yet again, the alcohol making his head spin as he lay still, only to be met with the sight of the silver haired woman in his dreams standing with his cruel brother at her side.
But, this time it was closer. Last night, Daeron saw this silver-haired woman in what appeared to be an argument with Aerion. And now, well, Aerion’s hands were wrapped possessively around her waist with a burning predatorial look seeping through his lavender eyes. Aerion’s sharp jawline slots into the crook of her neck, lavished by her warmth and scent. He inhales hungrily, muscles flexing beneath the expensive fabrics which adorned his body, and holds her tighter as if she will disappear at any given moment.
Daeron choked out a sudden gasp, eyes snapping wide open. Quickly sitting upright and reaching for the crystal flagon of wine next to his chalice, he swipes the flagon up to his lips and drinks straight from it in large gulps.
Aerion rolled his eyes, crouching to level his brother and meet his wine-hazed gaze. “You’re a mad, pathetic, drunkard.” The words spit at Daeron as Aerion mocked him.
“And you brother,” Daeron began, wiping some spilled red wine on the corner of his mouth with his dark velvet sleeve, “will be far more pathetic than you ever intended to be in the next weeks to come.”
Daeron was struggling to decipher his visions. Does this mean Aerion will find love? It never seemed likely to him. He had always seen his brother as more of a possessive, deceitful, demanding and cruel type. The type to fuck his way through life with blood, riches and entitlement. Certainly not gentle, understanding and loyal, as love should be. Daeron thinks that Aerion would run from love or feverishly grapple in obsession, if it approached him.
Aerion scoffed at these words, shaking his head and standing from his crouched position. Making way towards the large oak doors of the room, he turned to face his brother before taking his leave. “Forever speaking the most profound shit within our family, Dear Brother.”
—
Loud, rumbling chirps awoke you. Your light lilac eyes were adjusting to the brightness of the clear sky as Rhaefyre stretched her sheltering wing above you. She always released sweet, heavy chirps when she was content or trying to communicate with you. You suppose she was hungry now. By the positioning of the sun, it appeared to be midday. You slept in. The grass beneath you was slightly dampened from the rain but Rahefyre’s wing provided shelter for you over the night. The grey stormclouds have fled the sky now and passed over to the sun shining like you had witnessed often as of late. Weather in Westeros was always unpredictable it seemed. Unless you’re in The North, then there was only cold and snow. Rhaefyre didn’t like it there.
“Alright, my friend. Apologies for keeping you waiting,” a small smile appeared on you as Rhaefyre hummed back. You rose from the ground, stretching your stiff limbs before shifting the wool blanket from your warm body and into the large leather satchel beside where you were resting. You peered into the bag, wrapping the blanket around the three shining dragon eggs, safely.
Warmth flushed your cheeks. Would your dragon ever have the opportunity to ever have her own clutch? Would you ever know what it is like to ride with a lover? All these silly thoughts were just that at the moment. You were here to bring House Alaerys back to its former honour and glory. You were here to revive your ancestor’s beloved Dragon’s with Rhaefyre by your side. ‘Come now,’ you thought to yourself, ‘I am here to keep my House alive. Not to indulge in childish fantasies.’
Rhaefyre chirped again, then let a loose low growl escape her giant jaws.
“Lykirī umbās (wait calmly), Rhaefyre.” You were also hungry, stomach now aching and rumbling.
Striding into the nearby wood, with wet leaves and twigs crunching under your boots, you approached a blackberry bush and plucked a handful of the bittersweet berries. Along with the berries, you also plucked some edible mushrooms by some of the tree roots, which you placed in a small pouch attached to your waist by a piece of thick twisted silk. It was then that you spotted a nest upon a low branch and you decided to pinch two bird eggs from that nearby tree.
Unfortunately, on your way from descending the tree, your skirts got caught and a large scrape broke the soft skin of your knee. A loud yelp bounced around the bark in the woods as you quickly cursed yourself for being too loud, wincing from the pain. “Shit!” You stumbled slightly from the damage to your knee after rising but tried your best to shrug it off and continue persisting on. Hoping there were no living souls around to hear, you promptly set off back to the direction you came from.
Once you reached Rhaefyre with your forest foods, she shifted loudly, the ground shaking slightly, as she smelt the blood from your leg.
“It is okay. I am okay.” You tried to reassure her, reaching up and gently rubbing your hand on her large pale, scaly snout before placing the small white eggs on the ground in front of where her head rested on the grass.
Rhaefyre raised, perching off the ground as you rushed to the side to shield yourself behind one of her wings. A deep guttural noise ripped through the air as small flames flew from her mouth and onto the patch of grass where the eggs lay. The green shards of grass now presented crisp, black and smoking. But at least, you could have two freshly cooked, soft eggs along with your blackberries and mushrooms.
This had been routine for you now, since remaining in Westeros. Every day on the morrow, but midday today, you would forage to break your fast and then ride Rhaefyre until deeming a low populated area for her to feast on the cattle in farming fields.
You had remained in this stagnant routine for a moon’s turn now and you had begun to ponder on why no royal soldiers were sent to deter or even capture, question and potentially torture you. After everything your Father had warned you about this land, maybe there was far more cowardice than expected. Mayhaps they simply did not know what to do or even feared approaching you with your dragon. It has been decades since The Last Dragon was alive and seen here.
---
Aerion was growing increasingly bored within the stone walls and stained glass windows of Summerhall. His Father had left Daeron in charge of his leave and yet, that drunken fool did nothing but steep further into his cups and attempt to isolate himself. Aemon was long gone in the Citadel and Aerion was happy to be rid of him. Why would a Dragon stoop to such a lower level? Egg was far off at some lower-Lord’s Tourney with that bumbling giant of a Hedge Knight, so he couldn't even torment them for his own amusement.
And then there was Daella and little Rhae. Ever so floundering and wrapped up with their expensive jewels, playing pretend tea parties, potion-making and wreaking havoc in the kitchens by stealing an endless amount of sweet cakes instead of attending their embroidery lessons. Aerion couldn’t fault his sisters for the latter, he supposes.
Most of the time, Aerion felt as if he was the only worthy and honourable Dragon in his family. He was born for greatness in Fire and Blood. Destined to be a mighty Dragonlord but instead, he was riding off far into the woodlands on his Destrier with a set of sharp pointed arrows and a large bow slung over his back.
He gave a hard kick to his horses behind, commanding, “Faster!” The light brown horse rose on its hind legs before galloping off with a loud ‘neigh’ ripping through the humid air.
As he was riding further into the woodlands, Aerion suddenly halted the reins, forcing his Destrier to stop. A loud, higher pitched shriek bounced through the trees and moments later the trees shifted with a rumble. Water droplets fell from the leaves, birds quickly vacated into the skies desperate to exit the woods and his Destrier spooked, began to take off in the opposite direction of the commotion. Aerion huffed angrily, jaw clenching and attempting to control the animal beneath him, was knocked off in a rush. Luckily, he was quick, shifting his black lathered boots from the stirrups and pushing his legs off to one side of his horse. He hit the wet, jagged ground and groaned in pain as the solid quiver containing his arrows broke beneath his back from the fall.
He laid there for a few moments, twisting and grunting in pain. “Fuck!” he screamed out, pushing himself up from the woodland floor. “Stupid horse,” he murmured, “I deserve better. I deserve a bloody Dragon.”
With his eyes squinting, his head felt slightly dizzy as his gaze drifted upward and spotted smoke rising in the distance. It would maybe be a short walk before he could pinpoint the source, he was too far from Summerhall now and would not return ‘til darkness fell.
Who would deny a Prince of the realm a steed? He set out, limping slightly, in aims of seeking people to give him means of return to Summerhall whether they liked it or not.
As he drew closer to the source, the smoke simmered out and guttural noises began to fill the air with a soft spoken voice. Aerion’s brows furrowed as he treaded lightly behind the large bark of the trees, his legs still limping slightly. A sense of fear from the unknowing filtered through his veins. He could see a giant pale, scaled creature shifting between the treeline gaps. Was he imagining things now? Perhaps his head hit the ground harder than he remembered.
---
Uneven footsteps crunched through the treeline, making your ears perk up. You quickly dropped the second egg that you were picking the shell off, the cooked egg white bouncing on the ground as if it were rubber, and Rhaefyre’s neck snapped around facing the woodlands. She was huffing heavily out of her nostrils and took a protective stance before you. Smoke was filtering out of her nostrils as she began to groan, as if readying herself for an oncoming onslaught.
Heartbeat pounding in your ribcage, you whispered lightly to your dragon. “Lykirī (be steady/calm down), My Rhaefyre.”
Despite your nerves, you did not want to instantly meet whatever was awaiting and watching with instant death by dragonfire. If you wanted a place to call home with Rhaefyre and to resurrect House Alaerys along with your three dragon eggs, then you could not damn well start by conquering Westeros with Fire and Blood, not knowing the full extent of other motives.
“It can not be.” A deep, well enunciated voice rang out as the damp crunch of footsteps drew closer. A slender man with Valyrian features and a sharply attractive bone structure stepped out into view. Mouth slightly agape and lavender eyes wide, as he took in the sight before him. His gaze simmered over Rhaefyre before drifting towards your figure, floating up your body until he reached your own lilac eyes. He appeared to be around the same age as you, around two decades into life. His skin glowed against the skylight, beyond the small blood and mud splatters scattered around his face and body.
He appeared to have been rolling in the mud and mayhaps injured in some way. But his Valyrian features and the expensive silks, leathers and velvets adorning him were a clear indicator that he was no ordinary man. Then you noticed it, the embroidered red dragons on the black arms of his doublet.
An awestruck look passed over his slightly dishevelled features before he abruptly raised a strong hand to settle his spikey silver hair and narrowed his gaze. “What type of witchcraft is this, wench?”
Holding back a small laugh at his words, you raised your chin to him and kept your gaze steady.
You expected hostility. “You must be a Targaryen.”
The slender, silver haired man clenched his jaw. “You will address me as ‘My Prince’, Witch.”
“I will address you as such when you earn it.” You responded, stepping forward with a smirk gracing your lips. Rhaefyre glowered at him and he stumbled back in shock which spurred on the upwards curl of your lips. “She will burn you alive, if I command it, you know?”
The Targaryen man’s eyes opened in slight and he swallowed thickly.
“But of course, my Prince, you would not know. Where is your Dragon?” Smugness was starting to overcome you as you mocked him.
He was still in a dishevelled and startled state, like he was having a mental battle with himself as if contemplating whether this was real or not. He was dumbfounded by the sight before him. A Dragon. It looked as if his blood was beginning to boil within.
“How dare you meet The Blood of The Dragon with such tricks and mockery. You must be a filthy Witch. Who are you?” He commanded your response, anger flowing through his vocals. He took a step forward, intending to close the distance between you both, but abruptly recoiled back again upon the movement and glare of Rhaefyre.
You responded with a smile, still sickeningly sweet and calm. “I am no witch, boy. You can call me, Lady Alaerys.”
summary: dex finally gives you all of him. every. single. inch.
pairing: benjamin poindexter x f!reader
content/warnings: 18+ (mdni), SMUT!! with feelings, unprotected p in v sex, cunnilingus, loss of virginity, finishing inside, multiple orgasms, mentions of daredevil, suicidal ideation (brief but multiple mentions), technically reproductive coercion, manipulation, stalking, delusional dex as usual, some fluff <3
word count: 8.6k (...guys...i'm tired lol)
A/N: well...it's finally here. hope y'all enjoy because i certainly enjoyed writing it. also, housekeeping note-- you may notice that the next chapter won't be published until 7/10. mr. roxxmo and i are taking a nice long vacation! hoping i can get something to you before then, but we'll be back to regularly scheduled programming once home and i'll try and get around to asks while i'm out. thank you as always for the love on this whole series, i've had such a good time writing it and seeing that you guys love this absolute pathetic freak of a man as much as i do makes me all warm inside :)
divider by: @uzmacchiato
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Dex was doing well.
“Well”, by his standards, at least.
Being your boyfriend gave him purpose. “Boyfriend” was a loose term, admittedly– you hadn’t called him that specifically, and you had only been seeing each other for a month. To Dex, the word felt too small for what you were, anyways. “Soulmate” was probably closer. Still, “boyfriend” seemed like the most socially acceptable term and Dex was trying very hard to be socially acceptable for you.
There was structure in it. Just like the FBI, or the Army before that. A role to fill, a routine to follow.
His life finally, finally had purpose. And because of that, everything felt better. Dex was sleeping more. He was eating better. At the field office, he was sharper, less prone to that constricting feeling in his ribcage when too many things were happening at once. He could talk to other agents and remember what his face was supposed to be doing. The old Mercer cassette tapes and headphones that used to anchor him were collecting dust in the drawer of his coffee table. He didn’t need them anymore, because he had something better.
You.
After your first date, Dex committed himself to becoming the perfect partner. Like all things he excelled at, he approached it with an alarming amount of discipline and research. Advice columns, psychology blogs, old nineties rom-coms, classic romantic novels– he consumed every piece of information he could get his hands on to learn how he could make you stay.
The morning after your first date, he had caught you (as usual) in the elevator. You had shyly given him your number, like you didn’t give him the most transcendental moment of his life the night before by kissing him outside apartment 416. Like Dex hadn’t been on his way to the jewelry store on 12th Street to buy you a diamond ring and claim you forever.
“Maybe we can go out again?” you had asked quietly, batting your eyelashes as you finished typing your number into his embarrassingly empty contacts and handed his phone back. Maybe? Dex would’ve thrown himself off the roof if you didn’t go out with him again.
“Yeah,” he stuttered. “Of course. I mean– definitely."
He already had your number memorized, of course. Alongside a plethora of other information, including your social security number. But you giving it to him willingly? Dex still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. Then again, he couldn’t comprehend most things about you. How kind you were, how perfect you were, how beautiful you were, how real you were. What remained most incomprehensible, however, was the fact that you seemed to want him, too.
Dex did whatever he could to keep you wanting him. He read online that women liked good morning texts, so he texted you good morning. He learned that they liked compliments, but didn't want to be overwhelmed by them or for them to be insincere, so he chose carefully. He complimented your hair if you wore it differently, or told you he liked your earrings, or the color of a dress or skirt you wore. Specific compliments were better, he had learned, because they show attentiveness. Dex was nothing but attentive.
He knew that women liked it when men took initiative, too, so he planned your next dates and told you what time he would pick you up from across the hall. You liked that. You especially seemed to like when he paid for the dates, even though you would pretend to argue with him about it.
“Dex, seriously,” you had attempted to complain on your third date. Dex had seen you post on your Instagram about wanting to see a new sci-fi movie that had just come out, so he suggested it as nonchalantly as he could possibly manage two days later.
You both stood at the box office, and Dex was pulling out his wallet while you frowned at him. “You paid for dinner the first time, then coffee on our last date. I seriously can’t let you pay for this. My friends are going to start saying you’re my sugar daddy.”
Dex didn’t know what a “sugar daddy” was. He looked it up afterwards; shouldn’t a man want to pay for everything a woman needed if he loved her? Wasn’t that the point? To make sure she never had to ask anyone else for anything? To make sure she never needed anyone else?
He only shrugged and swiped his card. “It’s no problem. I like taking you out.”
Your only response was to roll your eyes and thread your fingers through his as you walked towards the theater.
There were things about being a good partner that were harder for him, though. The first was trying to appear less eager than he actually was. On the same relationship forum where Dex had read about the good morning texts, he also learned that he shouldn’t respond too quickly. That was easier said than done. Sometimes, after hearing his phone ping with a message from you, he would have to literally set a timer to keep himself from answering. Fifteen minutes, usually. Enough time to seem attentive. Enough time to seem like he was doing something other than waiting pathetically by his phone, pacing until the timer went off.
The worst was the ring. Dex had bought it the morning after your first date. A perfectly symmetrical two-carat diamond perched delicately atop a thin gold band. Beautiful. Permanent. The black velvet ring box sat in the coffee table drawer next to the old Mercer tapes, both of them untouched. He would’ve proposed that very morning. He wanted to, desperately. And if God had any mercy on his mottled soul and you said yes, he would’ve marched you straight to city hall and made it official right then and there.
Apparently, though, it was not considered “socially acceptable” to propose after the first date. That was “too soon”. Dex disagreed. Because what was “too soon”, really? Your relationship? To Dex, whatever the two of you had did not start when you asked him to dinner in the lobby that fateful morning. It began when he opened the door to you holding that frog-colored plate of chocolate chip cookies. Or maybe, it began before that. Maybe it began when you moved into apartment 416 and rearranged his mundane, miserable, structured world. Maybe it was before then, too. Maybe you both had always been connected, somehow, someway.
So, Dex told himself he would wait. But as much discipline as he had, Dex knew that when it came to you, he wouldn’t be able to wait forever.
Physical intimacy between the two of you was a whole different matter. The two of you had kissed since that first night. Several times, in fact. Sometimes outside your apartment door after a night out, inside the elevator in the morning, on street corners after dinner when you looked at him with your lips stained from whatever bottle of wine you two had shared. Sometimes the kisses were quick and sweet. Sometimes, they were not.
Sometimes you would lean into Dex until your breasts were pressed against his chest, your fingers curling into the edge of his shirt collar while his hands spanned the small of your back and dipped lower and lower until they met soft flesh, and Dex would have to remind himself of every single discussion thread he had read about patience. About not pressuring a woman, even though every single fiber of his being was made from pulverizing pressure.
He tried his best to wait for you.
But tonight, Dex knew it would be different.
Dinner had gone well, as it usually did these days. You laughed whenever he attempted a joke, complained about lesson plans, asked about the field office even though Dex would have much preferred to talk about you, and, after your second glass of wine, you spent the entirety of the meal staring at his mouth like you thought he wouldn’t notice. Dex noticed everything.
By the time you both stood outside your apartment door, he could feel the shift. You had been quieter on the walk home, holding his hand tighter than usual, your hand squeezing him again and again like you were trying to work up the nerve to say something.
His pulse had steadied into something strong and restless as he watched you fish your keys out of your purse. You unlocked the door, and then paused with your hand on the knob.
You looked at him. “Do you…want to come in?”
Dex had been in your apartment before. Many times, though you didn’t know it, of course. As a matter of fact, he had been inside it only nineteen hours ago, sitting in his favorite chair in the corner of your room as he watched you softly snore.
But beyond your request for him to water the fern in your living room, never had he been invited in.
Dex felt his mouth go dry. “Yeah. I’d love to.”
You stepped to the side and let him in.
When the door closed behind Dex, he realized how different it felt to be inside your apartment as a wanted guest. Everything felt warmer, softer this way. From the lamps by your couch to the scent of the vanilla candle you kept by the stove, it was like Dex had all the pieces to the puzzle of your life spread before him, arranged perfectly, but only on your invitation had he been able to connect them and see the whole picture. And the whole picture was even better than he imagined, because he was in it.
You brushed by him, toeing off your heels as you stepped into the kitchen. “Do you want anything to drink? Water? Wine?”
Dex suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands as he followed you into the kitchen he had paced so many times before. He shoved them in his pockets. “Uh, wine is fine.”
“Would you get the glasses?” you asked, opening your fridge and peering inside. “They’re in the–”
Before you could finish speaking, Dex was already opening the cabinet above your sink. The one with the wine glasses. You blinked at him, bottle of Pinot Grigio in hand.
“Oh. You found them.”
Dex froze with his hand around the stem of a glass. Fuck. “I…I keep mine there, too.”
You raised an eyebrow.
Fucking fuck. He tried for an easy side smile and hoped it landed. “FBI intuition, I guess.”
For one horrible second, you only stared at him. Then you giggled. It worked.
“I guess I should be careful dating an agent,” you teased as you took the glass from him and poured wine into it. “I’m never going to be able to hide anything from you.”
Dex laughed. You were right.
Wine poured, you nodded towards the soft velvet couch in the living room. “Shall we?”
“We shall.”
Dex walked behind you and tried not to stare at the bare line of your calves under your dress as you settled onto the couch and tucked a leg under yourself. Stiffly, he sat beside you at what he believed was an appropriate amount of space between your bodies. You looked at the space with what seemed like annoyance, then at him, and shifted closer until your knee brushed his thigh. Dex took a long sip of wine and hoped his face was arranged normally.
You fidgeted with the stem of your glass, eyes moving from his face to the dark television screen across the room. Dex realized you were nervous.
“Do you, um–” you gestured towards the screen. “Should we put something on?”
“Sure,” Dex said, though he had no idea how he was supposed to watch anything when you were sitting close enough for him to feel the heat radiating off your body. Close enough to smell that intoxicating citrus shampoo. The same kind he had bought for his own shower.
You grabbed the remote from the coffee table and clicked the TV on.
“...and in Hell’s Kitchen tonight, locals are reporting new sightings of a masked vigilante some are claiming may be Daredevil–”
You frowned as the grainy news broadcast footage showed a blurry, dark shape on a rooftop. “I thought that guy was dead.”
Dex’s eye twitched as he watched the screen. “Even if he is, there’s always going to be some idiot trying to copy him. Half of the shit he does is illegal but because he’s wearing a mask, everyone thinks he’s a hero.”
You raised an eyebrow and flipped the channel. “I didn’t know you had such strong feelings about him.”
“It’s just…” Dex paused. For some reason, the conversation made his skin feel tight. He didn’t know why. “Guys at the field office complain about it a lot. People like him make our jobs a lot harder.”
“Hmm.” You changed the channel again until you landed on some mindless standup comedy special. “Hopefully the FBI doesn’t have strong feelings about comedians, too.”
Dex huffed out something close to a laugh because that felt like the right response, and felt you ease yourself into his side. The laugh track filled the room but he didn’t register a single joke. All he could hear was your breathing. Dex watched as you took a sip from your wine glass, the tip of your tongue darting out to catch a stray droplet on your lip. He couldn’t stop staring.
Surely, the heat of his gaze had bored into the side of your face, and finally you tipped your head up to look at him. The blue light from the screen moved softly over your face, catching on the little crease between your brows.
“I can feel you staring, you know.”
Dex felt like a hand was around his throat. “I am.”
Your voice had gone hushed when you spoke again. “Why?”
There were hundreds of answers Dex could’ve given you. Because I love you. Because I’ve been watching you sleep every night for the last two months. Because I never stop thinking about you. Because there’s a ring waiting for you just across the hall. Because I wish I could crawl into your skin and live with you forever. Because you belong to me.
All were the truth, but each answer felt too big. Instead, he gave you a small amount of honesty, though it was the most genuine Dex had ever been with you.
“I just…I can’t believe you’re real.”
The crease between your brows smoothed as your expression changed. Your eyes darted away, and then came back to meet his. “Well, last time I checked… I’m real.”
“I know you are.”
You looked at him for another moment, like you were trying to decide whether he was joking. He wasn’t. Slowly, like you were trying not to startle a skittish animal, you leaned forward and set your wine glass on the coffee table. Then you settled back on the couch, but this time your body was twisted to face him. Your hand came to rest against his chest, right over his thumping heart.
“I’m…not always good at this stuff, but– I really like you, Dex,” you whispered.
Something inside him shattered. All at once, the discipline in him– the articles, the forums, all the research into how to be a man you stayed with– left him. Every breath scraped like sandpaper through his ribs. Every organ was twisting in on itself until the only thing that would make the ache stop was touching you.
This time, though, he didn’t want to wait. He couldn’t wait.
So, Dex touched you.
His mouth crashed onto yours, all urgency and need and no hesitation. You moaned against him, lips parting so his tongue could slip inside to meet yours. Dex could taste the white wine clearly, like he was drinking it straight from you, licking it off the enamel of your teeth. Your hand had migrated from over his rapidly swelling heart to the side of his neck, fingers sliding into the coarse blond hair on the nape of his neck. He wanted you to pull it, to yank it out of his scalp. But in order to ask you to do that you would have to stop kissing him, and Dex couldn’t risk that.
Grabbing the soft flesh at your waist, he pulled you until both of your legs framed his hips and you straddled him on the couch. As you settled over his crotch and let your weight sink onto him, Dex suddenly understood with terrifying clarity that tonight would be different from the sweet little kisses you two had shared before. He would finally, finally have you. He would have something no one else had ever taken from him and give it to the only person he had ever wanted to receive it: you.
And in return, you would give yourself to him. No matter what happened after tonight, you would never be able to rid yourself of the proof that he had been here.
Dex would give his virginity to you.
“Dex,” your breathless whine brought him out of his stupor. In his haze, he had moved his mouth from your lips to your collarbone, sucking and biting hard enough he knew with all prideful certainty it would leave marks the next morning. “Can you…please…”
He felt you grind your clothed cunt helplessly against the tent that had formed against his jeans. Dex was already so hard, so aching, he felt like any movement from you would send him over the edge. He stilled your moving hips with his grip.
“What?” His lips ghosted over where your shoulder met your neck. “What do you need?”
Dex would do anything for you. You should’ve known that.
Your face was flushed. You dipped your head down so your lips skimmed the shell of his ear. “My room. Take me there.”
Dex stood immediately. One arm around your back and the other under your ass, he lifted you like you weighed nothing. Your mouth was already on him again, pressing desperate, open-mouthed kisses to his jaw, his cheek, the crinkle of his eye, any patch of skin you could find.
You didn’t tell him where to go, because he didn’t need you to. Still holding your writhing form against him, Dex moved down the short hallway, past the framed photos of your life before him, past the bathroom door, straight to your bedroom– the same path he had taken silently in the dark more times than he could count.
You were too busy acting like a bitch in heat to notice.
Dex nudged the bedroom door open with his shoulder and stepped inside. Your room was the same as it had been nineteen hours before. But never had he allowed himself to fully, truly imagine it in the light of all that was to happen. With a single invitation, the room had mutated. No longer was it a sanctuary; it was an altar.
Reverently, Dex lowered you onto your mattress, holding himself up above you on his hands. You stared up under him, hair spread wildly against the pillow, mouth swollen and red from him. You were more beautiful than anything he had ever thought possible.
Both of your hands came to frame his face and he nuzzled into your touch like a neglected animal.
“Maybe this is embarrassing to admit, but– I’ve thought about this before,” you murmured, tracing your fingers across his brow bone. “I’ve thought about it so much.”
Dex could feel his breathing go ragged. He wanted to die. He buried his face into the crook of your neck.
“W-what…what did you think about?” he asked shakily, voice muffled against you. Dex knew what you were going to say and still didn’t know if he could survive hearing it aloud.
Your fingers carded back into his hair. “... What you would feel like. On me. In me.”
He could only groan in response. You tugged on him, ever so slightly but enough it stung so fucking good, guiding his face back to yours. Dex followed helplessly, mouth finding you again, sloppy and uncoordinated before he forced himself to slow down.
Your hands slipped from his hair to your dress, fingers searching blindly for the zipper at your side. Instinctively, Dex caught your wrist before you could find it.
You pulled back from his mouth, confusion flickering through your wild eyes.
Dex stared at your smaller hand in his, then at your dress clinging to your body like a second skin. His voice was thin when he finally managed to speak.
“...can I?”
Your expression softened for just a second before a flash of something he hadn’t seen before passed. “Can you…what?”
He wanted to light himself on fire. “T-take it off. Of you.”
You waited patiently. He wanted to light himself on fire and then stab himself.
His fingers scrambled for the zipper, fumbling with it because he couldn’t stop shaking. Finally, he caught it, and moved it down the track, each tooth giving way, inch by inch by tortuous inch.
Dex watched the fabric loosen around you, watched as the dress began to fall open beneath his hands. Finally, it was loose enough he could pull the straps down off your shoulder, then down, down, down until it bunched at your hips. You lifted them, and Dex slid the dress the rest of the way off and tossed it somewhere behind him, forgotten before it hit the floor. Only then did he allow himself to sit back on his heels and look at you fully.
Like a figure from a painting, you lay back on the pillow, arms twitching at your sides like you couldn’t decide if you wanted to cover yourself or let him see you. Your bare breasts rose and fell with each breath, full and soft with peaked nipples beginning to stiffen in the cool air. Dex forced his eyes down, over the dip of your sternum, the softness of your stomach, and lower still. There was still one barrier between you– a pair of lace panties the color of the morning sky. He knew them. He had seen them folded neatly in your drawers before, had skimmed his hand over the fabric. He always wondered what it would be like to feel them warm and damp from your arousal, or to smell your scent on them, or to taste you through them. To be honest, he had thought about taking them with him many times. But now, Dex was glad he didn’t. Because no stolen relic would be able to come anywhere close to the honor of doing what he was about to do.
A sound more animal than human left him, and instinct forced him to lean down, hands opening your thighs. Before you could even register what was happening, he placed a kiss on your clothed cunt.
“Ooh, shit–” you gasped, hips bucking against him.
Dex did it again, sloppier this time, needier. Like he was thanking you. Each kiss wetting the fabric, each kiss a gesture. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
You were close to trembling as you put your hands on each side of his face, practically having to pull him back.
“Dex, please…” your eyes met his, nearly black with want. “No more teasing. Take them off, now.”
A command. He was familiar with them. Words barked across a firing range, across a battlefield, across a rooftop with his scope trained on a life he was about to end with one clean pull of the trigger. But never had Dex wanted to obey an order as badly as this one.
His hands moved from holding your thighs open to slipping under the band of lace. Once he slid that final piece of fabric off you, there was no more script. Technically, he knew what happened next. Dex was a man and had seen what men like to see; he wasn’t a prude and he certainly wasn’t stupid. He had been in the Army, for fuck’s sake. He had been there when men opened their phones in the barracks and played videos of women pretending to find pleasure beneath men with comedically long penises. He had watched them pass around half-naked pictures of girls back home and brag about what they could do with their mouths.
Dex knew where to put his hands, his fingers, his tongue, his cock. But knowing how to do something isn’t the same as wanting to do it. Dex had never had the desire. What was the point of doing any of that to someone he didn’t care about? What was the point of pushing himself inside a body that meant nothing to him? A body that wasn’t yours? A body that didn’t belong to his North Star? Maybe that’s why he waited all this time– because in his whole thirty-three years on this planet, you were the only person who had ever made desire feel like it was worth obeying.
Dex hooked his fingers beneath the lace and pulled. He tried to be slow, but the starving, caged animal in him was screaming at him to just rip them off, bury his face in your cunt, and finally learn if you tasted the way you smelled: sweet and oh-so human. But his hands shook too badly for that, so he watched in agony as the lace made its slow descent down the curve of your hips. Dex eased the panties down your thighs, over your knees, past your calves, until they slipped free around your ankles and landed in his hand.
You whispered his name.
He looked up, and you were bare. Completely. Your flushed thighs had fallen back open, exposing your wet, swollen pussy to him, the soft curls between your legs damp and glistening with arousal.
Dex wanted to cry. Instead, he dipped his head back to you and brushed his nose against the soft crease where your thigh met your pelvis. He inhaled deeply, letting the heady musk of you infiltrate his senses, and groaned aloud.
Maybe he should’ve felt humiliated, scenting you like a dog. But this was the holiest experience he had ever had. His lips pressed a gentle kiss to your inner thigh. Then again, higher. Then another. Until finally, his lips hovered over the swollen nub at the top of your cunt.
The tip of his tongue darted out, placing a careful lick directly to your clit.
“Fuck!” you cried out, hand flying over to cover your eyes like you couldn’t bear it.
Dex did it again, and then again. And then again, and again, and again, until your hand had moved from over your eyes to clutch at his hair. Dex lifted his gaze to see your eyes rolling into the back of your head, the whites of them showing like you had become possessed.
He didn’t know if he was doing it right. Dex knew how to study, though, and how to become accurate. He had built his life around noticing and correcting until he found that exact target. He could execute. Dex could, would do the same for you.
He moved from those small, careful licks to longer ones, slowly dragging his tongue from your dripping entrance to the sensitive bundle of nerves above it. Softer, then faster. Slower, then with more pressure. Adjusting, correcting, narrowing in. He learned what you liked. Your moans became louder when he circled your clit with the edge of his tongue, so he did that. Your thighs trembled when he sealed his mouth over you and hummed, so he did that. Your body spoke, and Dex listened.
“Oh my– Jesus fucking Christ, Dex,” you gasped. Your moans had become garbled and near incoherent at this point.
He lifted his gaze again and met your eyes as he continued drawing tight, slow circles over your swollen clit. Your face was twisted in what could only be described as pleasure and agony, mouth open, brows pinched, tits heaving with every labored breath. Dex couldn’t look away.
“Mmm… I’m gonna–” your thighs tightened around his face, trembling against his ears. “Fuck, how are you doing that?”
He only hummed in response, and your back arched off the mattress.
“Dex,” you cried, hand fisting at his hair, pulling so hard it sent a shock through him. “Please, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna– oooh, fuck–”
Dex felt your cunt pulse underneath his tongue, your whole body spasming as you came with a broken sob. He held you still through it, mouth never stopping as much as you seized. He tried to watch you as much as he could to memorize this very moment, the trembling in your muscles, your eyes fluttering, the shape your mouth made as his name left it over and over.
Dex, Dex, Dex.
He could have stayed, face buried into your pussy, for days. Weeks. Months, even. Hell, Dex would have happily died of suffocation if it meant never having to take his mouth off of your still-convulsing cunt.
You, though, did not seem ready to kill him yet. Oversensitive and still twitching with aftershocks, you pried his pussy-drunk face away from you with trembling hands until he reluctantly released your cunt from the suction of his mouth. He kissed a trail back up your body, stopping to press his mouth in a grateful kiss to each peak of your breasts before finally reaching your mouth again. The second your lips met, you let out a quiet gasp at the taste of yourself on his tongue.
“Dex,” you mewled against his lips. Your breath was still shallow, though the fact that he kept sucking softly at your lower lip probably did very little to help you recover. “I think that was…shit. That was definitely the best orgasm I’ve had. Like, in my entire life. Where the fuck did you learn that?”
Dex paused only briefly, his hand stopping on its way from your waist to paw at the soft flesh of your tit. “I, uh– practice. And I pay attention. I guess.”
Apparently, you found that answer sufficient, because you gave only a girlish giggle and pulled him back down into another kiss. Your hand moved from his jaw to the cords of his neck, then lower still, over his chest, his stomach, until your fingers paused at his belt.
“Hmm,” you looped one finger through the leather. “I think we’re a little unbalanced here.”
You were right. You were bare, as naked as the day you entered this world and were bound to him. Dex, hovering above you, was still fully clothed from head to toe.
You tugged once at the belt. “Off.”
Another command he was more than happy to oblige. He sat back on his heels, first wiping the mess of your arousal off his chin before grabbing the bottom of his shirt and pulling it over his head before tossing it to join your dress on the floor. You sucked in a quiet intake of breath at that, though Dex wasn’t sure exactly why.
His hands moved to his buckle, and Dex could feel your eyes on him as he worked the leather free. They were everywhere, the dusting of dirty blond hair on his pectorals, the trail of darker hair that extended from his stomach to disappear beneath the waistband of his jeans. It felt like you were cataloging every single piece of him.
Dex shoved his jeans down his hips, kicking them off once they pooled around his ankles.
It should have made him nervous. Dex had spent his whole life finding ways to hide, behind roles, structures, masks, anything to avoid truly being seen. But this didn’t feel like exposure. It felt like…recognition. Like his body was already yours. A part of you. You two were equal, but opposite. The same soul in different skins.
His North Star.
The thought alone made his cock throb.
As if you sensed it, your eyes dropped to the bulge beneath his black briefs, and your lips parted into a small “o”. He was so hard it hurt, the fabric stretched tight. Dex had been hard because of you before. Alone in his apartment, the blue light of his laptop illuminating the screen that showed a smiling picture of you stolen from one of your social media accounts. In the shower, sniffing the exact citrus shampoo he had bought after finding the bottle in your bathroom. Sitting in this very bedroom, watching you toss and turn under the covers.
But never had he touched himself to you.
Dex wasn’t a saint, obviously. He would lay there, every fiber of his being aching for some sort, any sort of relief to the coil building low in his gut. He could never do it, though. Every time his hand would hover lower, even graze his pulsing member, a wave of disgust would come over him so strongly it forced his hand back. It would have been…false. Blasphemous. Like kicking dirt over an act of salvation.
He saved himself for this exact moment. Once he took off his briefs there was absolutely no going back. There would be before, and then there would be after. Nothing in between.
You pushed yourself up, folding your knees underneath you, rising until you were level with him again. You put your hand on his chest, delicate fingers trailing across his chest, brushing his nipples, and then lower. His abdomen braced as you skimmed your fingertips past the hard ridges, until finally, you placed your palm over his cock.
He gasped your name, head dropping to your shoulder. He hadn’t touched himself in months. No one, no one had touched him like that. Ever.
Your hand moved again, fingers closing around him through the fabric, and his hips jerked forward before he could stop them. Dex was so far gone from the taste of you and the sight of you and the knowledge that you wanted him like he wanted you that the light pressure shot through him like a bullet.
Your face turned into his, lips slotting into each other again before Dex could collapse against you. It was slower than before, your tongue exploring his mouth like you had all the time in the world. Like he wasn’t seconds away from spurting ropes of cum into his briefs when you hadn’t even actually touched him yet.
Dex kissed you back desperately, one hand fisting your hair to hold you close, the other grabbing at your waist. He could feel your hardened nipples brushing against his chest, your hand stroking him softly. He was going to cum. Just from that.
“Wait.”
With what seemed like great effort, you pulled back from Dex’s mouth. A thin, translucent string of your mingled saliva followed you until it snapped, landing against your chin. Dex resisted the urge to lick it up. Your palm still cupped the twitching length of him through the fabric of his briefs.
“Do you…” Your eyes flicked briefly away from his. “Do you have…protection?”
Dex stared at you in silence. You huffed, though your cheeks were already beginning to burn. Were you…embarrassed? Even after all he just did to you? For you?
“What?” Dex asked. He knew what you meant.
“A condom. Do you…have one?”
Technically speaking, no. Not on him, at least. There was, however, a small box of unopened condoms under his bathroom sink. He bought it exactly four weeks ago, on the afternoon before your first date. Not the thought something was going to happen that night, obviously. But Dex was always, always prepared. He had thought maybe, eventually, something like this could happen. But now…it was happening. And the idea of something stopping this, something coming in between the two of you, it was unbearable. Disgusting, even.
After everything that had already kept him from you, after all the doors and walls and locks and rules that had made him stand on the other side, waiting and waiting and fucking waiting, did he really want another barrier?
Absolutely not.
Dex leaned in and placed a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Uh, n-no. No, I don’t.”
You chewed on your lip, eyes darting down to where you still held him. You were considering something.
“I…I don’t think we have to use one, if you don’t want to,” you began slowly. “I’m on birth control.”
He knew that. Dex had found the little foil packet of pink pills in your bedside drawer weeks ago. He stared at it, and it stared back at him like it had a personal vendetta. That would be dealt with another time.
“And…I’m not seeing anyone else.”
Of course you weren’t. If you had been, Dex would’ve taken care of that, too. You wouldn’t need to worry yourself with the details.
You looked back up at him, eyes wide and cautious. “Unless…you’re seeing someone else?”
Dex felt genuinely offended. He would have rather disemboweled himself and let vultures pick at his organs than even think of someone other than you. He genuinely didn’t think he was physically capable of wanting anyone else.
“What? I– no, no, of course not,” he sputtered, his grip on your waist tightening before he could stop it. Did you think so low of him? “Do you think I am?”
You shook your head quickly. “Dex, no. I didn’t think you were. I just meant…obviously, it would be okay if you were, I just–”
“I’m not seeing anyone else. I won’t be seeing anyone else.” Just like you won’t be seeing anyone else, he wanted to add.
Something in his tone made you go quiet. After a few seconds, you blushed and nodded your head. “Okay. I believe you.”
You placed one tender kiss on his lips, as if that was the final confirmation you needed, and then slipped your hand into the band of his briefs.
This was it. The final wall between the two of you.
Your fingers paused, brushing the coarse hair on his pubic bone. “...can I?”
Dex didn’t trust his voice, so he nodded.
You pulled the briefs down slowly, and Dex had to steady himself with against you. His cock sprang free, veined and girthy, and slapped against his stomach, head red and drooling with precum just below his navel.
Your eyes bulged. “I don’t…I don’t think that’s going to fit.”
His whole body pulsed at your words. He knew he was…big. Solders had made jokes of it in locker rooms. He felt it. But he had never cared before. Now, he did. And he was going to make himself fit, one way or another.
Dex kicked the briefs the rest of the way down, and your hand wrapped back around him before he had a chance to prepare himself. Your fist moved up, thumb tracing the vein underneath the head, before it moved back down the silky shaft, all the way to the base, and then back up–
Quickly, he put his hand over yours. “I–you should probably stop.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t…I don’t think I’ll last,” he admitted sheepishly. “If you keep doing that.”
Your expression softened, which only made the humiliation worse.
“Oh,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his jaw. “That’s okay. We can go slow.”
Dex nodded weakly, and guided you back down onto the mattress with blood rushing in his ears. Your thighs opened once more, this time wrapping around his hips, heels pressing into the dimples of his back.
Slowly, shakily, he lowered himself down. The heat from your cunt was radiating. Only a few centimeters of air lay between your sexes. Only a few centimeters of air before he would be forever changed. A part of him would be inside you, and even after he left, even after you washed him from your skin, Dex would know the truth.
It had to be perfect.
Dex wrapped a trembling hand around himself and guided the sensitive head of his cock slowly to your entrance. The first touch made his whole body seize. You were so hot, so wet. He wasn’t going to last. He had to control himself.
Dex's eyes squeezed shut, face twisting. He needed to breathe. In…and out.
“...Dex?” you asked, breath hitching. You looked genuinely concerned. “Are you–”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine, I just–” What was he supposed to say? I’m about to lose my virginity? My life is going to be forever changed? For the first time in my life, I’m scared?
Dex roughly exhaled through his nose, then regrouped himself. It would be perfect. He brought his leaking head back to your pussy lips, dragging himself through your slick. The tip bumped your clit, and you moaned.
“I know, baby, I know,” he mumbled, though he didn’t know anything anymore.
Finally, Dex lined himself up with your entrance, jaw clenched so hard he thought it might shatter. The head of his cock pressed against you, and stars swam in his vision.
Dex could have researched, read, and studied all he wanted, but absolutely nothing could have prepared him for this.
He pushed forward, and the world ceased around him.
“Oh my God,” you whined as the head of his cock slipped inside you.
He barely had an inch of his cock in you, and already it was too much. Your cunt was tighter than he could have ever imagined, so much so that he started to think maybe you hadn’t been lying when you said he wasn’t going to fit.
Dex’s forehead, beaded with sweat, dropped to yours. He couldn’t think. Nothing existed anymore.
“You’re so…tight,” he panted. “I… I don’t think I can–”
“Please, Dex,” Your voice was shaking, your hips bucking like you could draw him deeper by sheer force. “Want you to fuck me. Want it so bad, Dex. Keep…keep going. Please.”
He obeyed. Dex pushed forward a little further, easing another inch of his cock into you. Your mouth fell open, brows pinching together as your nails dug into the muscles of his back.
It took every ounce of self-control he had to not give in to every primal instinct ingrained within him slam himself forward. He didn’t want to hurt you. Every inch, every shift, you would whimper, head tossing against the pillow while you adjusted. And Dex wanted to last. Patience, he reminded himself, teeth gritted. He would be patient with you.
Finally, after minutes of feeding you one inch after another while you whined and whimpered and begged for more, while Dex nearly bit his tongue off to keep from losing control, it was done.
One small thrust forward, and Dex bottomed out with a groan. He was buried deep inside you, the pulsing head of his cock brushing your cervix.
It didn’t feel real.
“I’m…I’m inside you.”
“OhmyfuckingGod,” you slurred, raising your head off the pillow to peer down at the obscene sight of him fully sheathed inside you, slick smeared across both your thighs, your bodies joined completely. With one trembling hand, you pressed below your navel. “I can feel you.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
In disbelief, Dex raised his hand and placed it over yours. There it was-- the long shape of him evident even under your skin. Him. Where he would live forever.
“P-please, Dex,” you dug your nails again into his back, dragging him back to reality. “Fuck me.”
He obeyed.
Dex drew his hips back an inch, terrified of leaving you completely, then pushed back in. Your head fell back onto the pillow, eyes closing in total ecstasy.
He eased himself out, a little further this time, then slowly back in. Again, then again. Again. Again. Again.
On one of his thrusts, Dex felt something spongy drag against the sensitive ridge near the head of his cock, and your eyes rolled back.
“Oooh, shit, Dex,” you whimpered, hands moving to claw at his shoulders. “Dex, right there, again, again, please…”
Dex braced his forearm beside your head and angled his hips slightly until he felt that spongy muscle once more. Your moans were getting louder, more high-pitched, with every perfect thrust. Even like this, even with his body threatening to come apart too soon, Dex could still learn you.
You were close, he could tell. Dex slipped a hand between your bodies, the pad of his thumb finding the swollen pearl he already knew was key to your pleasure. At the same time, he dipped his head and captured one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking it between his lips and rolling his tongue over the tight bud. He rubbed tight circles over your clit, trying to match the rhythm of his hips, the rhythm of how you liked his tongue only minutes earlier.
“That’s– oh, God. It's so good. You’re gonna make me come again,” you gasped. “You’re gonna make me come–”
“Yeah? You’re gonna come on my cock?” He raised his eyes, releasing your breast from his mouth with a soft pop. His voice was strangled, panicked and relieved at the same time. For the first time in his life, it was Dex’s turn to command. “Come for me.”
Your body began to convulse, back arching off the mattress, muscles of your perfect cunt clamping down around him so tightly his vision went white at the edges. It was like all language had left you, and the only thing you still knew was his name.
“Fuck,” he groaned, thrusts becoming uneven as the erratic spasms of your pussy pulled him deeper, dragging him closer to the edge. His body was winding up, the coil in his gut bracing for what he now knew was inevitable. Dex wasn’t going to last. It was too perfect. You were too perfect. “I’m close, I’m–”
Your hand shot from his shoulder to the back of his neck, dragging his face down closer to yours. Even with tears brimming at your lower lids, your eyes were clear. Focused.
“Come in me, Dex,” you whispered, world narrowing to only the slap of flesh against flesh and your hushed voice. “Do it.”
Your final wish, your final command. It was over. Every practiced act of self-restraint, of control, of trying to restrain himself, had vanished.
His hips stuttered as he tried to bury himself deeper into your organs, deep enough to leave an imprint. His mind had gone blank, feral. Dex grabbed at your chin, squishing your face between his fingers because he needed you. Needed to see you. Needed you to know.
“I love you.”
With his final utterance, the only truth he could ever fully tell you, Dex came.
His hips pushed forward, shuddering as he spilled his seed into you. He couldn’t stop the words.
“I love you,” Dex gasped again, grip tightening on your face. He couldn’t stop coming, couldn’t stop saying it, couldn’t stop the truth from pouring out of him and into you. “I love you, I love you, I– fuck–”
He collapsed onto you.
In…and out.
Dex smelled your shampoo, your sweat.
In…and out.
He felt the cool cotton of your twisted sheets, your sweat-slick breasts against his chest. His cock still twitching inside you, the warmth of his release beginning to leak out around him in a pearly track.
In…and out.
In…and…
With sudden clarity, he remembered all that he said.
Fuck.
Dex’s eyes shot open. He scrambled backwards on the bed, his softening cock slipping out of you as panic tore through him.
“I’m– I don’t know why I said that, I–” His heart rate was beginning to climb frantically, splotches of red blooming on his chest. He dragged a shaking hand down his face. “Fuck, I’m…I’m so sorry, I just–”
You followed after him, pushing yourself up on the bed from where you lay, limbs heavy and still shivering.
“Hey, hey. Dex,” You took his face in your hands, thumbs smoothing across his cheekbones. Soothing him. “Dex, it’s okay. Look at me.”
Eyes bleary with tears, he met your gaze. He fucked it up. He hadn’t done what he practiced. He was too eager. Too quick. Too honest. Too himself. It would be over now. You would send him out of your room, laugh at him, do what everyone else had done to him his whole life and abandon him.
There was no point in continuing if you did that. No purpose for Dex. No point in living if you weren’t his North Star.
He would end it all.
“Dex,” you said his name again. Dex managed to blink the hot tears from his eyes, and he saw you clearly. You were…smiling.
“It’s okay,” you whispered, voice soft and sweet. “I feel the same.”
He stilled.
Did you– no. No, surely he hadn’t heard you correctly. Surely the blood was still rushing throughout his body so loudly that he misunderstood.
“I…I don’t…” He stumbled over his words, throat tight. “What?”
Your smile grew wider. The same smile you gave him when he first opened his apartment door and found you standing there. The same smile that made him feel like his eyes had finally opened for the first time in his life.
“I love you, too, Dex.”
His breath, which he hadn’t realized he had been holding, left him in a shaky exhale. You loved him. You wanted him. You needed him. You felt what he had been feeling this entire time.
Your thumbs moved on his cheeks again, this time wiping away tears Dex hadn’t realized had fallen.
“I know it’s early,” You paused, and then laughed softly, like you couldn’t believe what you were saying. “It’s probably insane. And maybe it’s partially the life-changing orgasm still talking, but…”
You bit your lip bashfully, but looked deep into his eyes. “I mean it. Seriously. I care about you, and I just… I like what we have.”
Dex opened his mouth, but no sound came out. You seemed to understand anyway.
You pressed one tired, affectionate kiss to his cheek, then two to his lips, before patting his chest. “So…stop freaking out and get back into the bed so we can sleep, okay? And hopefully I can still walk in the morning.”
Dex tried to laugh. The two of you moved clumsily back beneath the sheets, bodies sticky with sex. You turned onto your side, snuggling into him and guiding his arm around your waist. You placed one last kiss to his chest, just above his heart, and closed your eyes with a sigh.
The room fell into silence.
You loved him.
Dex had been in this room so many times before, had seen the moonlight move slowly over your sleeping face with every hour that he watched over you. He had often wondered what it would feel like to finally cross the distance between you, to climb under the covers. To hold you.
Now, he was finally here.
Dex’s hand crawled from your waist to splay over your ribcage, feeling your breath begin to even out.
In…and out.
The rhythm that had once belonged to him had transferred to you.
He didn’t know what he had done to deserve this. Dex had lied, he had murdered, he had felt nothing but emptiness in spaces he should feel empathy. He had spent years convincing himself there was nothing in him but flesh and bones. No soul. Nothing worthy of mercy.
And yet, here you were. Holding onto him, sleeping like you trusted him…because you did. More than that, even. You loved him.
Dex would do whatever he could to keep you. Nothing would take you from him. Even if the world separated you, he would remain in your life. You would never be rid of him. Ever.
He closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to your shoulder. His hand drifted from your chest to rest over your belly.
Brat tamer!reader x brat!dex hcs YAYYYY!!!! FBI Dex edition!
Never thought I would talk about this after I almost got skinned alive but 🤷🏾♀️ the people yearn for accuracy 😝
Mature content below
Brat!dex can and will find every way possible to inconvenience your day when you don't give him what he wants. Like hiding things he knows you're looking for or will eventually need, for example
Keys? Gone. Phone? He put it on silent so it wouldn't matter if you called it from his. Underwear after your morning shower? You know, the fresh batch you literally JUST washed? Hidden
FBI brat!Dex whines and follows you around way too closely. He will do the same in public. Might even go the extra mile to try and embarrass you but it'll backfire when you completely ignore him and he ends up embarrassing himself
FBI brat!dex will send you nudes while you're at work. If and when you choose to ignore it, he'll spam your inbox with MORE. Just to do the same when he calls. It'll be over and over again, him just filling your voicemails of him beating off when you told him not to
He'll be muttering nonsense the whole two minutes. "Wanna ignore me? Hm? Sucks you can't do anything about this. I bet you wish you could- fuck-... stop ignoring me. I know you see my messages. Respond. Now...please."
But on the way home after leaving your phone off all day you listen to all 14 missed voicemails... Start to finish...this goes one of two ways. You get home and still ignore him. Watching his smugness drop the millisecond you walk past him to go on about your night until you decide how you'll punish him further or coming home and immediately punishing him for disobeying
With brat!dex in general, you're gonna have to slap him around a little bit. Not too hard--at least at first, otherwise he either bursts into tears or tries to keep getting you to do it. There's literally no in between
Brat!dex will refuse to tell you what he wants when he's horny. Instead, on the rare day you both have off work, he'll lay his head on your shoulder and rub himself against you or like I said before hover around you until you break. But you're a brat tamer! You don't break.
And when you don't break, he physically pulls you away from what you're doing to give you those wet cat eyes. Begging and pleading while putting your hands on his crotch. He'll fuck around and drop to his knees, bringing you down with him
Brat!Dex unfortunately couldn't care less if you had a shitty day. You should want him and want to be around him all the time! Touch him! Please! Hold his hand and tell him he did good today or he WILL make your day worse. If you go off on him for being annoying, expect to only get more pissed off when you see him biting back a smile and trying to cover up the bulge growing behind his jeans
Tags ✢ post-Dance, war time angst, grief/mourning, political marriage, marriage of convenience, eventual falling in love, eventual happy ending
Wordcount ✢ 5,000
Summary ✢ As Cregan Stark takes over King's Landing during the Hour of the Wolf, you see in him the opportunity to protect your niece Jaehaera and escape the men who turned against your family.
Series Masterlist ✢ Cregan Masterlist
CHAPTER ONE ✢ The Hour of the Wolf
Cregan was weary, even more so under the looming presence of the Iron Throne. On the morrow they would bury a king that had been slain by his own men, and it did not matter that he had been his enemy, the ordeal left a bitter taste in Cregan’s mouth.
The honorable way would have been to meet him on the battlefield, and instead the first and only time he had set eyes on Aegon II, he had been in his bed, cold and grey, a pitiful sight.
There was no honor to it, only decimation and betrayal.
With a great sigh, Cregan sat at the bottom of the steps to the cursed throne, looking down at the large hall. Some of his men had suggested that he could take it for himself, and he supposed he would have been able to gather some support easily. The Targaryens were nearly devastated, but there remained a lawful king, and he would not take a boy’s birthright from him.
In truth he did not wish to remain as Hand—he longed for the comfort of his home.
His son would have grown and perhaps would not recognize him. Months were years to children that age, and their memories were fickle. He felt older than his years, a weariness in his bones, sitting heavily on his shoulders, dragging his spine down until he felt he might collapse to the floor.
Such were the duties of men, to shoulder the burden of bloodshed so that women and children could be safe, and older men could take a rest. Still, it burned deep in his chest, this aching loneliness. It was in those moments that he thought of Arra the most. While the pain of her passing would likely never fade, he had to admit he felt the call to marry again, and find comfort in the companionship of a woman.
Cregan was pulled from his low musings by the sounds of footsteps coming from behind him—his closest friend, Cley Cerwyn, came to sit at his side with a groan. He leaned into his shoulder for a second, which Cregan responded to and the two men waited in silence until Cley found it appropriate to speak.
He cleared his throat, looking up at the high ceiling. “How long do you think we shall stay?”
“Are you in such a hurry to ride home?” Cregan answered, knowing of the harsh winter that awaited them, and that several of the wounded would need to remain in the capital for a while longer.
“Are you not?” Cley asked.
It was Cregan’s turn to clear his throat, slightly irritated at his friend’s attitude, fully knowing he had an argument to make. “Say your piece,” he ordered, meaning it to be biting, but instead it came as a sigh.
Cley rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, looking at him with a tired expression on his youthful face—he had started to grow a beard, much like Cregan, and it was rather an odd sight.
“You have done your duty. You have done right by your friend, and that is more than most men can say in their life,” Cley said gently, perhaps gentler than he had ever addressed him.
“I made a vow,” Cregan replied, looking away at the large doors of the throne room, almost expecting Queen Rhaenyra or Prince Jacaerys to cross them.
“Now you may leave the throne to those it belongs to,” Cley continued.
“The king is a child,” Cregan said regretfully—it seemed a tragedy to leave such a fractured realm in the hands of a fractured person such as Prince Aegon, but the laws of Gods and of men agreed that he was the rightful ruler, for better or worse, and there would be dire consequences to go against it.
“And he shall have regents,” Cley replied.
Cregan sighed out loud, leaning back on his elbows and looking up at the same ceiling Cley had been gazing at. “A hundred and thirty years of reign and now…” he murmured, unsure of what he really meant to say.
The size of the hall and of the throne at their back was almost dizzying, and yet its emptiness and coldness had robbed it of all its glory. It seemed a ruin now, even if it had not been destroyed during the battle.
“If you wished to take it, I would bend the knee,” Cley said with humor, but there was a dark edge to it.
The fate of the whole world could topple so easily, it seemed to Cregan. It should all have felt like victory, and instead it all felt like ruin. He shook his head. “I have no wish for it.”
“What do you wish for, then?” his friend asked, almost too quiet.
“Respite.”
The moon was high in the sky that night, and you could almost swear the howling of wolves could be heard from the kingswoods. From the window of your chambers, turned holding cell, you watched the dark mass of the forest far on the horizon. The black of the bay did not bring you any more comfort, nor did the numerous lights from the city below.
Restlessness and grief were your only companions these days, since the passing of your sister and your mother, you were utterly alone at court, and in the world. The war had decimated your family, and you were now the last of your siblings.
Once, you would have thought you would have been furious, vengeful, but instead you found yourself utterly devastated, longing for quiet and reprieve from your grief. You found herself entertaining the thought of taking Jaehaera away, far from the capital and the court, far from the throne which had caused your family’s downfall, far from the young king who sat where your brother once had.
Lord Cregan Stark was holding court from the bottom step of the Iron Throne. You were surprised he had not seized the throne for himself, as he very well could have. His army held the city with an iron fist and all seemed to fear him, even the Rivermen—it could have been the start of a Stark dynasty, and some seemed to think it was, in all but name.
You had been confined to your chambers on his orders, and you felt as though you were standing in ruins, waiting for your own end. You could hardly stand the sight of the red bricks anymore; this place was forever soiled. So you clung to your niece, the poor girl in dire need of motherly love, and in loving her you endeavored to keep your sister alive in memory. Keeping the girl safe was your utmost priority, and you feared she would not be until she was freed of this red-walled prison.
Morning came and brought no relief from your nightly torments. Instead a maid came to bring you tea and collect your linens, but you stopped her before she could leave you alone again. “I was wondering if I would be allowed to pay my farewells to my brother,” you inquired.
The maid hesitated, looking at you with obvious pity. “You are to remain confined to your rooms.”
“A sister cannot say goodbye to her own brother? My niece, who now finds herself an orphan, could not say goodbye to her father? Surely the lord that now rules this place isn’t so cruel,” you pleaded.
“I shall ask,” was all the maid replied before she left, still giving you a quick curtsy.
In the end, and to your great surprise, your wish was granted. In the later hours of the afternoon, a pair of guards came to fetch you and Jaehaera, and the two of you were escorted to see your brother in the crypts, where the Silent Sisters were keeping watch over him.
In the privacy of your own mind, and for only the Gods to hear, you vowed to his still and cold form that you would take his daughter away from this dreadful place which had eventually been his downfall.
Cregan had been surprised to hear your request to see your brother, but had seen no reason to refuse you. No matter the fact that he had been his enemy, he resented that the man had been murdered with such cowardice. He could give him back some honor in death, and in allowing you and the young princess a farewell, restore some dignity to the whole tragedy.
As was your right, you had refused to see him upon his arrival in King’s Landing, remaining confined to your rooms in prayer. Cregan had honored your wish until now, and it was by chance that he came upon you in the Red Keep—if he had not known you resided here, he would have thought he’d come across a wraith, or any creature of the shadows.
You were dressed in a black gown void of any embroidery, with a veil upon your face, which made it impossible to see your eyes or the lines of your face in the darkness of the corridor. The only thing he could notice was that your grip on Princess Jaehaera’s shoulder tightened as he approached. As he came upon you, you bent to pick her up, carrying her on your hip, clutching the girl like a lifeline.
“Princess,” he greeted with a small dip of his head. “Princess,” he said with a tilt of his head and the ghost of a smile for Jaehaera. The girl buried her face in your neck without a word.
“Lord Stark,” you said, sounding wary behind your veil.
“Might we have a word?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think so,” you refused in a quiet tone, and when he frowned, explained. “I need to tend to my niece.”
“She will be safe with her nurse the time of a conversation,” Cregan assured you, but you refused him yet again.
“There is nothing for me to say, and nothing for you to say that would appease my torments,” you said, your arms tightening around the little girl.
“It does not please me to have you a prisoner in your own home,” Cregan tried.
Tears welled in your eyes at his statement, and you watched him for a moment before you answered. “At night, when she sleeps, then. I would not part from her.”
As agreed he came at the hour of the bat, finding the girl was curled up in your bed, under the covers, her white hair splayed on the pillow. It made Cregan long for his own son, wondered if he still refused to have his hair cut, intent on growing it long. He would write to his sister later, and promise a quick return.
You were the perfect picture of a Targaryen princess, and for a moment Cregan wondered how such a feat could have been accomplished when your mother was a Hightower. The blood of the dragon ran thick, he supposed, in most of its heirs.
Without your veil to hide your face, the way you were looking at him unsettled him—it wasn’t quite fear, and certainly not reverence. You seemed exhausted and he felt sorry for the state this whole war had put you in. You were a royal princess and it desolated him to see you so diminished. He regretted the downfall of this dynasty—now a child would rule and the women and children would suffer.
“She wakes in the night, crying,” you said, glancing at your niece.
“I am sorry.”
“You bring war to my doorstep, do not offer me apologies.”
“I only ever upheld the vows my father made. He bent the knee to his king and swore allegiance to the heir he had named. Words might be wind to you, but to me they mean life,” he explained.
At that you turned away, crossing your arms over your chest, and he thought he heard a shaky intake of breath that betrayed the presence of tears. “I shall see that you are settled, before I return to Winterfell,” he told you carefully, gently as he could, but it seemed you did not care for his consideration.
“Why do you care, my lord?” you asked over your shoulder, your eyes wide and glossy with unshed sadness.
There was a softness to you, even in anger, and his heart throbbed to witness such a sight. “Because you are my responsibility until I leave,” he replied as honestly as he could. “When I am gone, rest assured that the king will take care of you.”
Turning to face him again, you looked at him with a broken expression, anger hiding the deepest, most primal heartbreak he had ever seen. “The king is no king at all. There will be no caring for us here,” you hissed, and deep inside he feared you might be correct.
With one last bow he took his leave, afraid this conversation had not served any purpose but to upset you and unsettle him.
When Cregan visited Aegon in his chambers the following day, it was only to contemplate the same ruin he had found when conversing with you. You had been right in a way—the king was no king at all, but a child with a crown and the weight of an entire dynasty on the verge of collapse.
“I wish them no harm but I do not wish to see them, either of them. I should have them sent away,” the child-king told Cregan when asked about the fate of those who were now his wards.
“It would be unwise to send them to the Hightowers. It would cultivate ill will and it might awaken the spirit of revenge,” Cregan offered.
“Dragonstone, then, away from my sight!” came the broken cry, and Cregan realized that you had been correct in your fear that you would not find any care in the capital. War had ended but you were still prisoners.
“The council shall soon discuss the matter of your succession,” Cregan said, disgusted at the prospect of such talks when children barely older than his own son were concerned. “It might be well to consider the option closest to home.”
Aegon’s face fell, contorted in what wanted to be fury but could only ever be devastation, and Cregan left without another word, once again faced with the fact that this conversation had only served to upset all parties involved. Words would not resolve any of this, he feared.
In the hallway, a knight carrying a message was waiting for him. You had behaved in a barely disguised hostile manner when he had come to your chambers the night prior, so it was with the greatest surprise that he received your request for an audience, and after thinking on it for the better part of the afternoon, he relented to seeing you again in the evening.
This time it was you who came to him, upon your suggestion, and he wondered why. As you stepped into his temporary quarters, which he had set in the Hand’s tower, he was struck with the image you made.
While he had only ever seen you dressed in black, you had changed into a dark blue gown and forgone your mourning veil. Instead, your hair was falling in heavy weight about your shoulders, some of it tied at the back of your head. Your eyes stood out, darker than they ought to be for such a fair face, and rimmed with red.
“Lord Stark,” you said, curtsying to the northern lord respectfully, and his nerves only grew at your sudden change of demeanor.
“You wanted to speak to me, princess,” he replied while pouring two cups of wine. The dark liquid looked almost black, but it was much sweeter than what he was used to in the North.
“I realize I am in no position to negotiate. However, I have seen you carry yourself with honor, I have come to the conclusion that you are just and fair and therefore I would respectfully make a request,” you said, taking a tentative step towards him, keeping her eyes low.
Cregan frowned, slightly displeased at your bold approach and obviously rehearsed words, when you had been so hostile towards him, all the way to the day prior. “I have heard that there are plans to betroth Jaehaera to Aegon. I have come to beg for her to be spared from that fate,” you said, her voice breaking. “She is but a child, a girl who has seen so much horror already. This will crush her.”
Cregan turned fully to face you, putting down the cup he was holding for you, sudden understanding dawning on him. “She has had to endure the massacre of her brother, then the loss of her younger sibling, then saw her mother succumb to grief,” you continued.
“The match is a logical and advantageous one. It would bridge the gap between Greens and Blacks once and for all,” Cregan replied.
“I am sure there are others that would do,” you retorted with a quiet strength that picked Cregan’s curiosity. “Please do not subject this girl to such an ordeal. I beseech you. You have a good heart.”
“You do not know me, princess,” he replied, solemn, and yet you did not falter.
Your eyes rose to him and held his gaze, and he was struck with the strength of your resolve, and how much you were sacrificing by coming to him, begging for your niece’s sake. “No I don’t, but I have seen how you treat your enemies,” you replied. “You gave my brother a proper burial. You told me my niece and I were your responsibility.”
Cregan sighed, appreciating the way you were ready to set some of your pride and resentment aside for the love of a child. “What do you have to offer me, in return?” he still asked. “In negotiations, one cannot make a request without a reward. What do you have to offer that I do not already possess?”
It seemed you had come here with determination, and had already prepared an offer, as your reply came without any hesitation. “While I am not exactly innocent, as some men aren’t as considerate, I remain a maid.”
Cregan was disturbed that your mind would take such a path, and his heart seized with sudden cold. “You would offer me your maidenhead, in exchange for your niece’s safety,” he clarified.
“Yes, my lord.”
Cregan could admit feeling unsettled, faced with the desperation of a woman who had nothing to negotiate with but herself, and her own dignity. “What if I turned out to be cruel and decided to give you to my men? To be passed among them,” he challenged your proposal, his wariness making him crueler than he needed to be.
“Then I would happily submit myself as a spoil of war, my lord. I would please you now, if you wished," you offered, taking a few careful steps forward. “You could claim your spoils right this instant.”
Before he could add or ask anything else, you had gone to her knees in front of him, your trembling hands reaching for him. To his absolute horror, his loins stirred at the prospect of a woman tending to him—the nearly two years of war had been long and lonely, and he had hardly tended to his needs since the passing of his wife, upon the birth of his son. Little Rickon would soon be six of age.
However, to see royal blood so diminished made his own blood boil. “No,” he replied, harsher than he needed to be, which made you flinch. “This is beneath you, princess.”
“I thought—” you hesitated.
“It was but a moment of weakness.”
He reached for you, bringing you to your feet by the arm. The woman he was faced with in this instant, as you rose again with nothing gained for your niece and nothing else to offer, softened his resolve. He was tired of the schemings of war, of the plots and alliances that led only to ruin. He could not see a path where such choices ended peacefully and there you were, with an honest request and a brave offer, and he had to admit, he respected you all the more for it.
“I will think on the matter,” he promised.
“Thank you, my lord,” you replied.
Cregan’s foul mood was still with him when he rose the next morning and presided over the day’s council meeting. He watched the proceedings with much on his mind, as each question was brought up and resolved, and he could not make himself take part in it.
It was only when the Maester brought up your name that he finally decided to end his neutrality. “There is the matter of the princess. She might share blood with the traitorous king, but she is of royal descent, the last living child of King Viserys, and she is of marrying age,” the Maester said.
“She could perhaps be a good way to appease Dalton Greyjoy?” Tyland suggested. “Or to bring House Velaryon back into the fold. Lord Alyn is still unmarried as well.”
Without thinking on it further, his instinct taking the reins, Cregan stood up. “I shall take her.”
Lord Peake laughed as though the statement was ludicrous. “Surely if you’re in need of a woman to warm your bed, Lord Stark, any other would do,” he replied with humor. “A choice closer to home might be appropriate. Alysanne Blackwood is still unwed.”
Cregan closed his fists on the tabletop, looming over the Council, and did not back down. There was an instinct in him that he could not quiet, much like the one that led him through battle, that he could not in good conscience leave you.
You might have been too bold for what you could afford, but once the shock had passed he had admired your determination, and your lack of fear. If he called himself honorable, then he could not watch idly as you were being sold to the highest bidder, and your niece used as an instrument for peace.
Perhaps it was arrogance, to think himself the lesser evil, but he knew himself enough to know.
“I have sacrificed enough for this realm. Prince Jacaerys was a trusted friend of mine. We made a blood pact that his first-born daughter would be joined in marriage to my house. His death doesn’t annul such a vow. House Targaryen owes me a daughter, and I shall take the princess.”
Unwin Peake looked unconvinced, but Thaddeus Rowan nodded his acknowledgement, and Cregan continued his argument. “If you are so worried about the Velaryons and their loyalty, there is an easy way to remedy this,” he explained. “I have looked at the prospects. Daeron Velaryon has already proposed the hand of his own daughter as wife to young King Aegon. Surely allying the two bloodlines on the throne would strengthen the realm.”
Peake scoffed, crossing his hands on the tabletop. “Lord Stark, I wonder about the justifications of this sudden campaign of yours—”
Cregan did not let him speak, uncaring that his change of mind was so sudden, and that such a demand he was making was perhaps not the most logical one. “It would do this Council well to remember that without my men, victory was impossible. The Crown owes a debt to the North, and I shall take that debt in flesh.”
His statement quieted them for a minute, and even the insufferable Peake looked uncomfortable. After a while, Tyland, ever the diplomat, cleared his throat.
“How about we ask the king? Surely he will be glad to have the last child of Alicent Hightower out of his sight,” he remarked, and while it served his cause, Cregan loathed how easily he was swayed, and how he never stood his ground, only taking the side of the argument he perceived as favorable.
“He is a child,” Lord Peake protested.
“Nearly the same age I was when mine own father passed. My uncle was appointed regent, but I was still well capable of having a mind of my own,” Cregan countered.
“Let us not bother the young king with such matters,” the Maester reasoned.
Thaddeus Rowan cleared his throat to silence the protest Peake was about to voice. “Your proposal is a sound one, Lord Stark. Perhaps it would be beneficial to take the remaining Hightower princesses away from the capital.”
“Princesses, plural?” Peake scoffed, and Cregan closed his hands into fists in annoyance at the man’s obvious self-interest. It was known to all that he had hopes for himself and his house that extended beyond the reach of a man of his position, and Cregan found a wicked sort of pride in taking the prize he coveted.
“Yes. I assume your marriage to the princess would include taking her niece as your ward?” Thaddeus asked, and Cregan was relieved that he would not need to elaborate on the matter.
“Indeed,” Cregan confirmed.
“Very well,” he said, rising in turn and putting an end to the negotiations. “It is decided then.”
All that remained to be done was to inform you, and Cregan knew that despite his insistence at council, he would not impose his will upon you. It was his intention to free you from the prison you were currently captive in, and he would not be able to live with himself if he was to imprison you in another, one of his own making.
It was true, his motive was partially selfish as Unwin Peake had suggested—he longed for the presence of a woman at his side again, the softness of married life, and he thought he could find it in you, just as you could find solace in him.
The way you had surrendered all for the sake of your niece had shown a quiet strength he admired, one that would surely benefit you as his lady wife in Winterfell, if you were to accept. Perhaps such was the path to the respite he longed for.
He came in the early afternoon, when he knew the young princess Jaehaera was asleep, and as predicted, found you in the nursery, watching over her as a mother would. “Princess,” he greeted from the threshold, suddenly hesitant.
Setting your embroidery aside, you rose, glancing nervously between him and the sleeping child. “You swore you would think on it,” you said, mistaking his hesitance for an omen of bad news.
“Fear not, your niece is safe,” he said, approaching carefully. “Daeron Velaryon’s daughter is currently on her way to the capital to wed the king. I would ensure your niece is kept away from the scheming of the court, until she is of age at least.”
Your shoulders dropped in relief, a heavy breath pushing past your lips, but your weariness had not abated. “Would?” you asked with a slight frown.
Cregan swallowed his sudden nerve and planted his feet firmly into the floor—while he was skilled and fearless on bloody battlefields, the quiet of a nursery and the expectations of a woman were somewhat more complex to face. “My offer is a proposal of marriage,” he said rather bluntly. “I would take you to wife, and Princess Jaehaera would come with us, as a ward in Winterfell.”
Cregan could not decipher the next exhale that came from you—it could have been relief, or horror, he did not know, as there was only surprise on your face.
“I will not take you to wife against your wishes. If another prospect is more agreeable to you, then you may let it be known and I shall ensure it,” he promised.
For a moment too long you could not find your words, nor your breath. Your heart was beating wildly in your chest at the most unexpected offer, but you felt the Gods had answered your prayers. It was true, you knew little of the North, but you knew that this man, your enemy, had done more for you and your niece in mere days than your allies in months of war.
“Surely your offer comes with conditions,” you said hesitantly, searching his stormy eyes.
Cregan shook his head, his frown softening. “I already have a son and heir so it will not be required of you, but Rickon needs a mother,” he explained, his voice softer than it had ever been while addressing you, and it seemed for the first time that you were faced with the man rather than the warrior.
At that you nodded, looking at the crib once more, your heart aching. “Just as Jaehaera needs a brother, or a companion, at the least,” you admitted, wondering if you would ever see her smile again, hear her laugh, or if she was doomed to an existence of sadness and grieving without end. “I would still be expected to be a true wife, to perform my duties, wouldn’t I?”
Cregan took a step closer to you, but somehow you did not feel threatened—his shoulders were hunched forward, and he looked younger in the soft light of the nursery than he had ever. It was only now that you realized he was not wearing his usual attire. While his furs and leathers were still strapped across his chest, his sword was nowhere to be seen, and his hands were bare, the gloves tied to his belt.
“You would be the Lady of Winterfell, but as I said, I would not take you against your wishes,” he replied.
Grateful tears came to your eyes, and you wanted to fall to your knees again. The Gods were cruel in a way, making it so that you would owe such a debt to your enemy, but he had shown in these last few days that perhaps, the warrior had been your foe, and the man would be your salvation.
In three words, you sealed your fate, and that of Jaehaera.
“Then I accept.”
Author's Note ✢ Dividers by @/arcielee. Please ask in the comments if you want to be tagged in this series! Next chapter will be posted in two weeks, on July 8th.
Summary : Your first date with Dex turns out to be an unforgettable one.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Vigilante! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : Freak4freak, pen pal (?) meet cute, Romcom/dark comedy, Dex and reader being equally insane, task force murdered, stalking, break-ins, stolen clothing, surveillance photos, kidnapping, guns/knives/blood, food, sexual tension (no actual smut), you have a roommate called Mia and she's mentioned to be an arms dealer. (let me know if I missed anything!) Set in DDBA S2!
Word Count : 9.7k
Requested by : Ko-fi request <3
Notes : Y’all I have lots of work this week, so I won't be posting as much. I do have a John Walker kofi request for this Friday, and Bucky and Dex Blurbs scattered throughout the week. The title is inspired by a Royal Blood song of the same name. Enjoy!
You had never actually met Bullseye.
This, unfortunately, had never stopped him from ruining your day.
You picked up the paper, saw BULLSEYE STRIKES AGAIN printed above a body you had stabbed seven times, and nearly spat coffee all over the kitchen counter.
“Oh, fuck off.”
Your roommate, Mia, looked up from the table, where she was eating cereal beside an open ammo case. “Good morning?”
The guns she was disassembling meant there was less room for your food, but hey, you’ve gotten used to living with an arms dealer. Could you really complain? She gives you a friend-exclusive discount, after all.
You slapped the paper down in front of her. “They gave him credit for another one.”
Mia leaned over the headline. “Another another one?”
“Yes, another another one.”
She glanced past you at the fridge.
You didn’t need to look. You knew what was there.
Pinned under a strawberry magnet and a concerning number of takeout menus was the magnetic whiteboard you had made two weeks ago.
At the top, in red marker:
KILLS BULLSEYE STOLE FROM ME: 4
Underneath, in blue:
KILLS I STOLE FROM BULLSEYE: 4
Beneath that, taking up most of the fridge, were the newspaper clippings. Task force murders that were yours but had been attributed to him. Task force murders that were his but had somehow been attributed to you, because apparently every cop in the city had been dropped on the head as a baby.
Mia slowly chewed her cereal. “You’re losing.”
Your head snapped toward her. “We were tied.”
“Were.”
You scowled, tore the article out of the paper with unnecessary violence, grabbed a marker from the junk drawer, and stormed over to the board. You begrudgingly added one angry little tally mark that went under Bullseye’s side.
5.
Mia made a soft, faux-sympathetic noise. “Oof.”
“This is not oof,” you rolled your eyes. “This is fucking police incompetence! What was all that budget increase for, huh?”
“It is kind of oof.” She took another bite of cereal. “But you can catch up. He’s only up by one.”
You stared at the board. Your eye twitched.
Mia lifted her bowl toward you like a toast. “Very exciting season.”
“These stupid cops can’t tell the difference between a stab and a long-distance throw.” You turned back around, waving the paper like evidence in a trial you were fully prepared to win. “Look at the wound. Look at it. That’s clearly close quarters.”
Mia squinted at the grainy crime scene photo, her spoon hovering halfway to her mouth. The image was bad, blurred edges and cheap newspaper ink, but even from across the kitchen she could tell what it was: yours.
“Maybe they thought Bullseye walked up to him,” Mia said.
You stared at her.
“Bullseye doesn’t walk up to people. He has a ricochet fetish.”
Mia choked on a laugh, nearly spilling cereal milk onto the table. “Oh, so now you know him.”
You corrected her. “I know his work.”
“You know his work,” she repeated, deadpan. “You mean you’ve been staring at the leaked photos you saved again?”
You ignored her, because Mia had this very annoying habit of being right in ways that didn’t make you feel good about yourself.
The worst part was that you were angry.
That had been your kill. It was clearly your style. You were a melee specialist, for fuck’s sake!!! You liked the intimacy, the nearness. You like watching the life drain out of your victims’ eyes, being close enough to watch their face change when they finally understood why you were there.
Bullseye was different.
Bullseye liked a little distance. Bullseye was impossible accuracy. He could turn a room into a murder weapon without crossing it, and no, you definitely didn’t admire that.
You just understood skill when you saw it.
That was all.
But under the anger, in the small, horrible place where your dignity went to die, there was a humiliating feeling that curled in your stomach every time you thought about him opening the paper.
Because Bullseye was going to see this.
He was going to read the same headline, look at the same shitty photo, and know it was wrong.
He would know.
Maybe he would be offended. Maybe he would laugh. Maybe he would tilt his head at the paper and think, No. That wasn’t me.
Maybe he would wonder about you, and at this point, you were certain he knew of you. Because some of his knife-related rampages had been attributed to you too. Not often, but enough that sometimes your name got dragged into his mess, enough that you had stared at a clipping once for ten full minutes, heart crawling up your throat, because the paper had called one of his kills yours and you had hated how badly you wanted to know whether he had noticed.
Mia was staring at you again.
You folded the paper too carefully. “What?”
“You’re doing the thing again”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you pretend to be mad,” she said, pointing her spoon at you, “but really you’re hoping your murder crush noticed you.”
You frowned “He’s not my murder crush.”
Mia smiled into her cereal and ignored the denial altogether. “Want me to get you more knives for today?”
You looked down at the headline.
“Yes,” you finally said. “The nice ones.”
Mia’s grin got wider. “You dressing up, too? Just in case you run into him?”
“I’m hunting,” you corrected.
“Sure.”
“I am.”
“Wear something slutty and stab-proof!”
You threw the newspaper at her.
—
Later that night, you went out in the jacket Mia called your “bad decision jacket” (it had extra knife sheaths) which was rich coming from a woman who kept grenades in a biscuit tin.
You were definitely not hoping to run into Bullseye. You were working.
There was a difference, even if Mia would have said hahhaha, sure.
The AVTF agents were exactly where your source said they would be, inside a half-empty municipal building wearing the kind of confidence that came from believing the badge still meant something. They had files they should not have had, names they should not have known, and enough blood on their hands to make your little visit feel almost civic-minded.
You made it quick.
Messy, but quick.
You handled most of it the way you liked best: Close, direct, personal enough that nobody could pretend it was an accident. But halfway through, because you were still one point behind on the stupid fridge-board and your pride had apparently become an emergency, you tried to make it look like Bullseye.
Just a little. Just enough to even the score.
You threw a knife. It hit a filing cabinet and dropped to the floor with the saddest little clatter you had ever heard.
One of the AVTF men stared at it like what the fuck was that?
“Shut up,” you said, before he could say anything.
Then you threw a smaller knife, in the hopes that it was easier to control.
It bounced off a desk lamp, went nowhere useful, and spun under a chair.
Fine.
Whatever.
Throwing stuff was harder than it looked, which was annoying because he made it look like flirting with physics. You were not built for distance. So you gave up and did it properly.
By the time you left, the crime scene was mostly yours, with two deeply humiliating attempts at his signature scattered around like evidence of a mental breakdown. You lingered on the fire escape for a few seconds longer than necessary, checking the neighbouring rooftops.
Nothing.
No figure in black. No little glint of movement across the street.
Which was fine.
Obviously.
You were not disappointed.
—
When you got home, Mia was out. Work, she had said, which meant she was probably meeting Turk in the back of some terrible bar and calling an arms deal “networking”.
The apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.
Not unusual.
You stepped in, a takeout bag hanging from one hand, the other already sliding toward the knife under your jacket. The kitchen was empty. Mia’s cereal bowl was still in the sink. Mia’s boots were next to your sneakers.
Everything seemed normal until you saw the fridge.
Huh.
Your magnetic board had been straightened.
Not cleaned or erased. It was fixed.
The crooked newspaper clippings had been lined up into neat rows. The takeout menus had been stacked by alphabetic order, it seemed. The strawberry magnet sat dead centre at the top, no longer holding up three different things at once. Even the tallies had been corrected into clearer, cleaner marks.
And below your personal Bullseye vs Me board, in new black marker, someone had written:
I’ve been looking for you too.
Your gaze snapped to the wide-open window, and realised, oh my god.
He had been here.
—
Dex came back to his studio apartment with a smile on his face.
He locked the door behind him, slid the chain into place, and reached into his jacket for the shirt he had taken from your apartment.
Your shirt. It was a plain white shirt he’d seen you wear before, and you looked pretty in it. I mean, Dex thought you looked pretty all the time, but still.
The fabric was soft in his hands. In his head, it still felt warm, even though it had just been hanging over the back of a chair when he found it. You had been careless and made it easy for him, really. You basically left it out like you had no idea someone could come in through your window and take a piece of you home with him.
Dex knew better now.
He knew how your apartment sounded in the dark. He knew which floorboard creaked near the kitchen. He knew your roommate left dishes in the sink. He knew your takeout menus were a mess, your knives were hidden well but not well enough, and your window lock was insultingly easy to pick.
He knew how you smelled now.
Dex sat on the edge of his bed and brought the shirt to his face, breathing in like he was trying to memorise your scent: Detergent, metal, and city smoke.
He closed his eyes.
He had stalked people before. Julie. Matt. Vanessa. Targets. Problems. People he wanted. People he needed to understand. But this was different.
This was not surveillance, or a job, or a petty attempt to become a good person, whatever that meant anymore.
This was you.
Dex had been infatuated with you since the first time he saw one of your kills credited to him.
From there, he found a photo of you in the database: grainy, badly angled, and almost useless for the cops. You had silver reflective paint smeared around your eyes to ruin facial recognition, strange under the flash, but Dex knew enough to know what he was looking at.
Before long, he figured out who you were.
And now, he had been watching your window for almost a month.
Tonight was just the first time you and Mia were both gone long enough for him to finally climb inside.
And then, he found that you had made a board.
The thought should have made him happy, and it had, at first. For one perfect second in your dark kitchen, Dex had stood in front of that fridge and realised, you had noticed him, too.
You had clipped the articles. You had tracked the kills. You had written his name in red marker and stood there thinking about him long enough to make tallies.
Then he read the rest.
KILLS BULLSEYE STOLE FROM ME.
His smile had died so fast it almost broke his heart.
Stole.
You thought this was a competition.
Dex stared down at your shirt in his lap, fingers tightening in the fabric.
That was wrong.
That was so wrong it made his skin feel too tight for his body. He had not stolen anything from you. He had never thought of it that way. Every time the papers confused you for him or him for you, every time your names bled into each other in some stupid journalist’s mouth, Dex had felt it like a sign that you belonged together.
The mistaken murders were just evidence that you were close to him without even trying. Your work was intertwined, cosmically, with his. Your violence answered his. His name kept finding yours in the paper, in police files, like the whole city already understood a fact you were denying.
You and Dex were linked.
Obviously.
So why had you made sides?
Why had you put a line down the middle and placed him across from you like he was just another person to beat?
Dex swallowed, still holding your shirt to his mouth and frowned.
He thought you liked him.
He thought you understood. He thought, maybe, when you saw his kills printed under your name, you felt the same obsessive pull he did. The same recognition.
Instead, you were mad. You were keeping score. You had written him down like a rival.
His jaw tightened.
That was okay.
It really was.
You were confused, that’s all. You had misunderstood. People did that all the time.
You would understand eventually.
He had fixed the board for you, so maybe you’d realise there was no ill intent. He had straightened the clippings. Alphabetised the menus. Corrected the tallies. Left the message underneath because you needed help getting to the obvious conclusion that you belonged together:
I’ve been looking for you too.
In his head, it didn’t look threatening. It was merely a correction. Perhaps a little nudge in the right direction.
Dex lay back on the bed, dragging your shirt with him until it was pressed beneath his cheek. He breathed you in again, slower this time, and the hurt in his chest eased.
You thought it was a game.
Fine.
He could play.
He could let you have your angry little board and your angry little tally marks. He could let you pretend you were chasing him, fighting him, competing with him.
But eventually, Dex would fix that, too.
Eventually, you’d want him as much as he wanted you.
—
You wiped the note off before Mia got home, even though you didn’t really want to.
You stood there for an embarrassingly long time first, staring at the neat black marker beneath your board while your stomach did a stupid flip.
Then you remembered Mia was weird about outside people being in the apartment.
Fair. You were also weird about outside people being in the apartment, usually. Usually, if someone broke in, you handled it with a knife and made Mia bleach the floor while you tied a brick to the body and sunk it in the Hudson.
But this was Bullseye.
So you erased it, like an idiot getting rid of DNA evidence.
You wiped the board twice, fixed the strawberry magnet, and tried to look normal when Mia came home carrying a bag that clinked against her hip.
She stopped in the kitchen doorway and squinted. “Did you redo the murder board?”
You didn’t look up from your hot chocolate. “No.”
Mia stared at the fridge.
The whole thing looked less like a breakdown and more like a very well-done administrative system. “Why is it nicer?”
You took a sip. “I got bored.”
Mia looked at you. You looked at her.
Then she shrugged. “Whatever. It was ugly before.”
Totally clueless, Thank fuck.
By the next morning, you had bought reinforced locks, and not because you were scared of him getting into your apartment again. If anything, the memory of the open window had been sitting in your mind all night. You kept thinking about him standing in your kitchen. Touching your board. Straightening your things. Writing to you like he already knew you would read it and think about it all night.
So no, the new locks were not there out of fear. They were a message.
You installed them yourself, one after another, until all the windows looked almost impossible to open from the outside.
Then you stood back, smiled despite yourself, and imagined him finding it.
He’d know the message then:
If you want to get in again, earn it.
—
Three nights later, the paper was waiting on the kitchen table.
Mia had left it there under her empty coffee cup, either as a warning or because she had run out of coasters. You found it while the kettle boiled, still barefoot, still half-asleep, and then very suddenly awake.
AVTF INFORMANT FOUND DEAD.
You stared at the headline.
Then the photograph.
Then the headline again, and then the subtitle, crediting the kill to you,
But that kill wasn’t yours.
You knew it before you read the article. You knew it from the angle of the body, the precision of the knife in a fatal artery. He had not been stabbed. He had been aimed at by distance, by calculation.
Bullseye.
And the papers had given it to you.
For a second, all you could do was stand there while the kettle clicked off behind you.
Then you smiled a small, helpless twitch of your mouth before you walked across the kitchen, uncapped the blue marker, and added one clean tally to your side of the board.
5-5.
Yay! Level again!
You leaned back on your heels and looked at it.
Perfect.
Almost.
You picked up the paper again, meaning to cut out the article, when something in the crime scene photo caught your eye. It was half-hidden behind the dead man’s shoulder, smeared on the wall, small enough that most readers would miss it.
Not a threat or a boast, but a question, written in blood.
why the locks?
Your hand tightened around the paper.
Oh.
He’d left you a message.
You could almost feel him in your kitchen again, standing in the dark in front of your board, touching the magnets, straightening the clippings, noticing what had changed. Of course he had noticed the locks.
You stood there for too long, long enough that the tea went bitter in the mug you forgot to drink.
When Mia came in later, tying her hair back and looking for her keys, you had already finished cutting the article out with careful hands.
She glanced at the board.
“Even again?”
“Mhm.”
“Congrats.”
She took her keys off the hook and left without noticing the way your fingers hovered over the little blood-written question in the photograph.
Good.
You did not need an audience for whatever this was becoming.
—
You answered him three nights later, when you eventually found Benjamin Poindexter’s apartment building.
It took patience, two evenings of watching, a borrowed set of binoculars. One very stupid moment where you almost slipped on a drainpipe and decided not to think about how humiliating it would be to die before the flirting even got interesting.
But eventually, you found his window. Child’s play, really. As if going under a stupid fake name like “Tony” would ever hide him from you.
That night, you waited until the light in his apartment went off.
Then you left a brand new lock on his fire escape.
The same brand as the ones you had put on your windows. Heavy, reinforced, and annoyingly expensive. It was still sealed in its packaging, with the little paper instructions tucked under the shackle.
You added a note:
Jealous?
Then you left.
—
Dex found it before sunrise.
He hadn’t slept much. He had your shirt twisted between his fingers, the fabric pressed into his palm until his knuckles ached. He had been sitting across the window for hours the night before, looking across at your apartment, at the little row of reinforced locks catching the streetlight like tiny silver insults.
You were keeping him out.
On purpose.
He kept telling himself not to be hurt by it, which was useless, because he was hurt. He was so fucking hurt it made his chest feel crushed, like an anvil had been dropped on his ribs and left there. You had changed the windows because of him. You had looked at the place where he got in, thought about him standing in your kitchen, touching your things, breathing your air, and your first instinct had been to shut him out.
Dex hated that.
Dex hated that so much he almost hated you for half a second.
Then, that morning, he opened his window and saw the lock waiting on his fire escape.
He went still.
It sat there perfectly placed, right where his hand would find it. Same brand as yours, same little shine in the dark.
For a moment, he didn’t touch it.
Then he picked up the note.
Dex read it once.
And then, he smiled.
Because now he knew you hadn’t locked him out because you wanted him gone.
You had wanted him to notice.
You had wanted him to see the effort. You had wanted him to look at your windows and understand that you had been thinking about him too. You had not made a wall. You had made a challenge. You had left him the same lock like a matching star, like a little joke only the two of you were deranged enough to understand.
Dex sat on the fire escape with the lock in his hand until the sky began to lighten.
The note went into his wallet.
The lock went on his window.
—
The next mistake came no less than a week later.
You had gone out the night before. You had driven the knives into the agents and controlled the room, kept the distance intimate enough that any half-competent investigator should have known better.
Unfortunately, half-competent was not what New York had.
By morning, the headline said it was Bullseye.
You stared at the paper in silence. Ugh. You were losing again.
That was irritating, up until you realised he would see it.
He would know the city had handed him something that belonged to you again, and you hated how badly you wanted to know whether that would make him smile.
It did.
Dex smiled so hard it almost hurt.
He read the article at the counter of a diner, coffee untouched, thumb pressed lightly over the blurred photograph like he could feel the shape of your work through the cheap ink.
Obviously yours.
They had called it his, but it was yours. Anyone who understood you would know that.
I understand you.
The thought sat inside him like a lit match.
He folded the article with almost painful care and took it home.
That night, when you came back to your apartment, nothing was out of place.
The windows were shut. The door was bolted. Every lock you had installed still sat exactly where it was supposed to, heavy and unpicked.
For one stupid second, you were disappointed.
Then you saw the kitchen window. Outside the glass, taped neatly to the pane where you could not miss it, was the newest clipping.
Oh. So he had climbed all the way up to your window, pressed flat against the glass like an offering.
At the bottom of the clipping, in small black marker, Dex had written:
they got it wrong again.
Your heart climbed into your throat.
You stepped closer until your reflection overlapped the words. It looked strange like that, his handwriting across your chest in the dark glass.
It was as if it was the two of you against everyone else’s incompetence.
You didn’t leave it there. Mia would see it in the morning. Mia would ask why Bullseye was leaving notes on your window like some homicidal pen pal, and you had no answer that didn’t sound insane. That, and Mia just ordered in a bunch of assault rifles. The last thing you needed was your roommate pointing it at Dex when he visited.
So you opened the window just enough to reach out, peeled the clipping carefully off the glass, and tore away the strip with Dex’s writing.
You didn’t throw it out. Instead, you folded that little scrap of paper twice and tucked it into your jacket pocket, right over your heart like an idiot.
Then you pinned the clipping to the fridge yourself, neat and straight beneath the strawberry magnet, just the way Dex would like it.
You updated the score, still a bit annoyed.
6-5
And somewhere outside, across the dark gap between buildings, you hoped he had seen you keep it.
—
The next one made it even again.
You knew it the second you saw the headline, before you even got to the photograph. There was a kind of cleanliness to Dex’s violence that the papers never understood. They called it brutality because they didn’t have better words, but you did.
TASK FORCE OFFICER FOUND DEAD IN ALLEY.
Attributed to you.
You stood in front of the bodega newspaper rack for so long the man behind the counter asked if you were buying it or grieving it.
By the time you got home, the board was waiting for you.
You added the blue tally slowly, smiling despite yourself.
6-6.
They had given you his kill, and you should have been pleased because that was the game. That was the whole stupid point. But instead, your eyes kept drifting back to the photograph, to the blurred dark shape on the floor beside the victim’s hand.
It was a knife.
His, you thought.
Maybe the police had missed it in the chaos of the shot, or maybe the photographer had caught it before evidence got bagged. Either way, once you noticed it, you couldn’t stop looking.
He had left something behind, but he wasn’t careless
Which meant he had either wanted it found, or he had been interrupted.
So you went to the scene of the crime.
You waited until the scene thinned out, until the uniforms got bored and the detectives started making the kind of mistakes tired people made. You kept to the edges: fire escapes, alleys, rooflines, with the courtesy of a little patience.
To your surprise, the knife was still there, half-hidden beneath a radiator, dark with day-old blood, beautiful even like that.
You took it.
At home, you cleaned it carefully, until it gleamed again under the kitchen light. You sharpened the edge until it caught against your thumb, cutting a little bit of your skin to check.
A little blood trickled off. Yep. Sharp enough.
Then, you wrapped it in a strip of clean white cloth and waited until night.
You climbed the rooftop up until you got to Dex’s apartment building. His window was closed when you reached his fire escape.
The lock you had given him sat there now, installed properly, bright on the frame. For one second, the sight of it made your heart warm.
He had actually used it.
You crouched outside the glass and placed the knife carefully on the sill where he would find it.
Then you tucked the note beneath it.
they keep getting us wrong :(
You stared at the little sad face for a second. Then you almost snatched the note back because, Jesus Christ, that was humiliating.
But the light in his apartment flicked on.Through the thin curtain, you saw his shadow move.
So you left it and climbed away before he reached the window, heart kicking hard against your ribs like you had done something worse than trespassing on a known assassin’s fire escape.
Behind you, Dex opened the window.
His hand appeared, picking up the knife first.
Then he found the note.
Dex read it and chuckled.
He sat down on the edge of the fire escape with your note in one hand and his knife in the other. You had cleaned it. Sharpened it. Brought it home to him like it mattered.
Like his things were worth taking care of.
Like he was.
As this all happened in the background, the score climbed.
7-6.
Your kill, his credit.
Then finally, after one long, ugly night that left half an AVTF unit dead and every paper in the city contradicting itself, the board settled again.
Then 7-7.
His kill, your credit.
Perfectly even.
After that, the messages got cuter, which somehow made them worse.
The first note Dex left was taped to the outside of your kitchen window with a polished bullet casing tied beneath it in red thread.
there’s an us now?
You stared at it for so long your tea went cold.
Your answer came two nights later, left on his windowsill beside an AVTF badge you put there like an offering
don’t get sentimental. but yes.
After that, it became ridiculous. A loose knife sheath returned with a note that said you left this behind. be careful. A newspaper clipping from you with wrong again :( scribbled in the margin. A black marker from him, because he could tell from your last note that yours was running out. A little evidence tag folded into a paper heart, which you immediately flattened, put under your pillow, and thought about all day like an idiot.
That night, somewhere across the street, a shadow moved on the opposite rooftop.
You didn’t wave or smile, but you left the window unlocked when you went to bed.
—
The next morning, there was black fabric at the foot of your bed.
For one confused, half-asleep second, you stared at it like your brain hadn’t finished loading. Then you sat up, hair a mess, blanket sliding down your shoulder, and realised it was a black shirt.
It was folded very neatly, sleeves tucked in, collar smoothed flat, like whoever had left it there had taken his time.
Underneath it was a note:
I took one of yours. It’s only fair.
Your mouth parted. Then, you smiled.
“Oh,” you whispered.
That was where your white shirt had gone.
Of fucking course he had taken it, likely on the first night he broke in. And last night, he had climbed through your unlocked window like a nightmare with good manners, walked into your room while you were sleeping, stood close enough to see the rise and fall of your chest, and decided the polite thing to do was leave you one of his in return.
You picked up the shirt and brought it to your face before dignity could stop you. So this was he smelled like: gun oil, soap, cold air, and a metallic tang underneath that made your eyelids flutter for one horrible second.
Fuck.
You were actually smelling his shirt. Worse, you were smiling about it.
You pressed the fabric harder against your mouth, grinning into it like an idiot, because the thought of Dex standing at the foot of your bed while you slept should have made you afraid. It should have made you check the locks, grab a knife, call Mia, do literally anything normal.
Instead, all you could think was: he was here.
He saw you asleep and he didn’t hurt you. He saw you vulnerable and all he did was give something back.
Then, from the hallway, Mia’s voice floated through the apartment. “What the fuck?”
You froze, lowering the shirt from your face. “What?” you called out.
“WHAT THE FUCK?”
You scrambled out of bed, still clutching Dex’s shirt in one hand, and padded into the hall.
Mia stood at the entrance to the living room in yesterday’s shorts and a tank top, hair sticking up in six different directions, one hand wrapped around a pistol and the other holding a mug that said WORLD’S OKAYEST CRIMINAL.
You followed her stare. Then you saw what Dex had done.
There was a man tied to one of your dining chairs in the middle of the living room.
Alive. Barely conscious, but alive.
His ankles were zip-tied to the chair legs. His wrists were bound behind him. His mouth was taped shut. A neat little bow made of red ribbon had been tied around his chest like Dex had either found gift-wrapping funny or had no idea how gifts worked.
For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then Mia turned her head very slowly and looked at you with the exhausted expression of a woman who had been through a lot with you and was still somehow finding new reasons to be disappointed.
“I didn’t do that,” you said immediately, which was technically true and therefore the best kind of lie. You lowered the shirt slightly behind your thigh and hoped she was too busy processing the tied-up man to notice you were holding another assassin’s laundry.
Mia blinked at you. “There is a task force rat in our living room with a bow on him.”
“I can see that,” you said, stepping closer like you were being practical about it and not fighting the urge to smile. The man, when he finally opened his eyes, made a muffled sound through the tape, eyes wide and wet with panic, and you ignored him because the coffee table was more interesting.
Dex had laid out everything the man had been carrying in neat rows: A burner phone, a badge, a small recorder, a folded surveillance schedule, and four photographs of your building sat arranged with almost romantic precision.
One was of you, from your bedroom window, wrapped in your towel after a shower. Two photographs were of your living room window: one of you enjoying the sunset from the fire escape, and the other was of you and Mia drinking beers and sitting on the counters by the kitchen last week. One was of your window last night, zoomed in close enough to show the lock you had left undone.
Your stomach dropped and warmed at the same time, which was deeply inconvenient. You reached for the note pinned to the red thread across the man’s chest before Mia could get there first.
Underneath, in smaller writing:
I didn’t like that. You should be more careful.
You stared at the note for too long, long enough for Mia to notice exactly how not-horrified you were. That was the problem with Mia; she was nosy, armed, and unfortunately not stupid.
“What is that?” she asked, taking half a step toward you. You folded the note before she could read it properly and tucked it into your waistband like it was nothing.
“Evidence,” you said, because again, technically true.
Mia’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you holding a shirt?”
You looked down as if you had only just noticed the black fabric in your hand. “Laundry.”
“That’s not your shirt,” Mia said, huffing. “That is very obviously not your shirt.”
You forced yourself to shrug and moved past her into the living room, putting your body between her and the note on the hostage’s chest like that would somehow fix everything. “Maybe he brought it,” you said, nodding at the informant, which was such a stupid lie that even the tied-up man looked offended.
Mia stared at you. Then she stared at the man. Then she stared at the shirt again, and you could practically see her connecting dots you were trying to kick under the sofa.
“You’re being weird,” she said.
“I woke up to a federal informant in our living room, Mia. I think weird is allowed,” you said, and crouched in front of the man before she could keep interrogating you. His eyes fixed on you with desperate relief, like you were the reasonable person in the room, which was honestly insulting.
He had not killed the man. He had found him, hurt him, wrapped him up, and left him breathing in your living room because he knew you would want the choice.
That wasn’t sane. That wasn’t normal. That was not something you could explain to Mia without her opening the biscuit tin full of grenades and declaring a turf war in your apartment.
So you just tilted your head, and Mia watched the movement with open suspicion, her pistol still raised but her attention now split between the hostage and whatever the hell was happening to your face.
Instead of giving her a second of your time, you crouched in front of the informant and smiled like this was business as usual. Behind you, Mia muttered something about needing stronger coffee, and you tried not to think about Dex standing in your bedroom while you slept, leaving you something comforting before placing something violent in the next room.
“Morning,” you said.
The informant whimpered again. You softened your voice, and smiled just enough to make him regret being awake.
“Where shall we start?”
The man made a desperate noise behind the tape, eyes blown wide his whole body jerking against the zip ties like panic had gotten under his skin. You watched him for a second longer than necessary, Dex’s black shirt still clutched in one hand and hidden half-uselessly against your thigh.
You reached forward and pinched the edge of the duct tape.
The man started shaking his head before you even pulled it free, frantic little sounds building in his throat, but you only smiled at him and said, “Relax. I’m helping.”
Then you tore it off.
The second his mouth was free, he gasped so hard it sounded painful. “Bullseye sent me!”
You froze.
Mia’s confusion manifested in a little huh? behind you, but you barely registered it. The man was already blabbing, words falling out of him too fast to be clean. “Please, please, I swear, I swear to God, that’s all this is. He told me to deliver a message. That’s it. I’m just the messenger. I didn’t ask to come here. He grabbed me, he tied me up, he said if I didn’t tell you exactly what he said, he’d come back and cut my hands off, and I believe him, I really, really believe him.”
You crouched a little closer. Your heartbeat had gone quick under your skin. “What message?”
The informant swallowed. His eyes flicked to Mia’s gun, then back to you, and whatever he saw on your face made him more terrified. “He said it’s a date. He said that specifically. A date. He told me to say date, not meeting, not job, not negotiation. Date. He said if the city keeps putting your names together, maybe you should stop letting everyone else have all the fun. He said you should meet him tonight at eleven-thirty at The Black Rabbit on 46th. The back booth. He said you’d know which one because. He said you’d know it because you cut through the alley behind it last Thursday after the task force thing, and he said you ordered fries there once and didn’t finish them because the oil tasted old, and— and I don’t know what that means, I swear I don’t know what that means.”
Oh.
Oh, that absolute freak.
Your mouth parted before you could stop it. You knew The Black Rabbit. It was small, low-lit, always half-empty after ten. You had used the alley behind it twice. Of course he had picked somewhere cute in the most deranged possible way.
The man saw your expression and started crying harder. “Please. That’s all. That’s all he told me. back booth, I told you. I delivered it. Please let me go. I won’t say anything. I won’t tell the task force. I won’t tell anybody. I’ll leave the city. I swear, I swear, I swear—”
You were not listening anymore.
A date.
Dex had called it a date.
The thought landed low in your stomach, warm enough to be embarrassing. You looked down at his shirt in your hand, at the black fabric bunched between your fingers, and your thumb dragged over the seam before you could stop yourself.
You would’ve gotten lost in your own head if Mia did not shoot the informant in the head, and the man slumped on the floor so suddenly the ribbon went crooked across his chest.
You flinched, blinking yourself back into the room. “Mia.”
“What?” she said, lowering the gun with the exhausted irritation of someone who had just turned off a very loud alarm. “He’s a messenger. He delivered the message.”
You looked at the body, then back at her.
Mia stared at you for a long second. Her eyes dropped to the shirt in your hand, then to the dead man, then to your face, which was doing a terrible job of pretending it had not just been lit from the inside. Her mouth flattened when she connected the dots.
“Oh,” she said. “So you’ve been in contact with Bullseye and didn’t tell me.”
You opened your mouth.
Mia lifted a hand before you could say anything. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. It’s not like I’m your best friend or anything.”
“It’s not like that,” you said, which was stupid, because there was a corpse in your living room wearing a bow and you were holding another man’s shirt like a keepsake.
Mia looked at the body again. Then at you. Then at the note still pinned under the ribbon. “Right. Not like that. Obviously. Men are always sending women hostage invitations to bars for completely normal reasons.”
You tucked Dex’s shirt closer to your side, as if that helped. “It’s complicated.”
“I bet.”
“Mia—”
“No, you know what?” she said, rubbing at her forehead with the heel of her free hand. “Fine. Go on your date.”
You had no answer for that, which was irritating, because you usually had an answer for everything.
Mia sighed so deeply, because this concern had come from years of friendship, unpaid rent, and every bad decision she had ever watched you make. She stepped around the dead informant, pistol still loose in her hand, then paused in the hallway and looked back at you with total, bone-deep exhaustion.
“Couldn’t he just send a singing telegram like a normal psychopath?” she muttered. Then, before you could smile too hard, she pointed the gun vaguely at your face. “Whatever. I’ll get you a gun. Just in case.”
You looked after her, trying and failing not to grin.
“And you’re telling me everything afterwards,” Mia called back.
—
You walked into The Black Rabbit at eleven twenty-seven wearing a skirt, a jacket, and Dex’s oversized black shirt tucked messily into your waistband.
It was a mistake.
You knew it the second he saw you.
Dex was in the back booth under the cracked mirror, one hand around a beer he hadn’t touched. He looked up when the door opened, and whatever expression he had prepared for you died instantly.
His eyes dropped to the shirt. Then to your skirt. Then back to your face.
For a second, Bullseye looked like he had forgotten how breathing worked.
You stopped at the edge of the booth. “Hi.”
Dex stood up too fast, almost hitting his knee on the table. “Hi.”
It was so stupidly endearing, you almost forgot your combined body count.
You looked him over, trying to be smug and failing because he was staring at you like you had walked in wearing his heart instead of his laundry.
“You picked a bar,” you said.
“I wanted it to be normal.”
“You sent a dying man to ask me out.”
Dex swallowed. “I wanted you to know I was serious.”
Your stomach flipped.
God. He was insane. Why did you think he was being cute about it?
His gaze dropped again, helplessly, to the shirt hanging loose off your shoulders. “You… wore what I gave to you.”
“You broke into my bedroom.”
“I gave it to you,” he repeated, like that was the important part. Like he had not stood at the foot of your bed in the dark and watched you sleep. Like that wasn’t the most frighteningly intimate thing anyone had ever done to you.
You should have been angry. Instead, you smiled.
Dex saw it and looked like he was about to explode.
Oh.
Your heartbeat kicked hard.
The bar noise blurred for a second: the jukebox skipping in the corner, the bartender moving glasses around, someone laughing too loudly near the door. Dex didn’t seem to hear any of it. He was looking at you with frightening, naked concentration, his hands flexing once at his sides like he wanted to touch you and was using every violent part of himself not to.
You slid into the booth across from him.
Dex sat after you did, still watching, hungry in a way that had nothing to do with food.
“If you want to talk,” you leaned back, trying to play it cool, “then talk.”
“I… I know you hate being miscredited,” he said. “I know you check rooftops when you leave a scene. I know you keep your knives cleaner than your kitchen. I know you pretend you’re angry when you’re interested. I know you left the window unlocked for me.”
Your mouth went dry.
Dex’s voice dropped. “And I know you wore my shirt because you wanted me to see it.”
You stared at him.
For one long second, neither of you moved.
Then you reached across the table, picked up his untouched beer, and took a sip.
It was awful. Bitter and poured badly and exactly the kind of thing he would order because he had no idea what people were supposed to enjoy.
You set it down and smiled. “You’re very confident for a man who had to kidnap someone to ask me out.”
Dex’s mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed ruined. “I didn’t know if you’d come.”
“You look surprised that I did,” you tilted your head with a genuine smile.
“I’m not surprised.” His gaze dragged over you again, softer this time, worse. “I’m trying not to do something stupid.”
Your heart climbed into your throat. “Like what?”
Dex looked at your mouth.
There it was.
The whole ridiculous game of notes and locks and knives suddenly collapsed into one fact sitting between you in the booth.
Dex wanted you.
Not abstractly or poetically. Not as some distant counterpart in a newspaper headline.
He wanted you right here, in his shirt, across the table, smiling like you knew exactly what you were doing to him.
You should have made a joke. You should have leaned away. You should have reminded him that this was public, that he was dangerous, that you were dangerous, that Mia had told you to report back and would absolutely ask invasive questions.
Instead, you leaned in.
“Careful,” you murmured. “It’s only the first date.”
His eyes darkened. Very slowly, he smiled. “Then I’ll be good.”
Fuck.
You were in trouble.
—
Talking was easy after that.
Annoyingly easy, actually. Once the first charged silence broke, once Dex stopped looking at you like the sight of you, awake and talking, had rewired everything essential in him, the conversation settled into normal. Well, almost. If normal could mean two killers sharing beer in the back booth of a shitty Hell’s Kitchen bar, talking about murder like it was music theory.
It started with the board, obviously. You accused him of taking your credit. He genuinely seemed upset, not because of the murders themselves, but because you put each other on opposite sides.
You should have laughed at him.
Instead, you understood it.
See, under all the insanity, he made a horrible kind of sense. His violence was clean where yours was intimate. Yours got close. His made distance feel personal. You said as much, lightly at first, and watched the words hit him harder than any knife could have.
Dex went quiet after that, as if he was moved by your observation. You’re starting to get it, he said.
He talked like nobody had ever looked at the ugliest part of him and called it skill without feeling afraid. Like nobody had ever understood the difference between chaos and control before you. He sat across from you with his beer untouched for too long, staring like he wanted to crawl inside into your lap and live there.
The two of you kept talking for hours. Murder one-to-one. Technique, preferences, mistakes other people made when they tried to imitate either of you. Bad police work. Worse journalism. The insult of being misunderstood by people too stupid to deserve the blatant fucking evidence left in front of them. It should have been ridiculous, and it was. But Dex listened like every petty complaint mattered, like your irritation was holy because it matched in the one in him.
He had never felt so understood before.
You could see it on his face, which was embarrassing for both of you. Every time you leaned forward, every time the collar of his shirt shifted against your shoulder, his focus narrowed so intensely it made the air feel thin.
You could’ve continued talking there for hours if your phone didn't buzz.
You glanced down, expecting Mia to be demanding details or threatening you if you died before telling her everything. Instead, your informant had sent you an address. Then another, along with a list of names. AVTF agents moving together, not far from the bar, practically gift-wrapped by circumstance.
You looked at the message for a second.
Then you smiled.
You slid the phone across the table, and Dex read the text.
You leaned forward, his shirt slipping loose at your shoulder, and smiled sweetly. “Wanna go hunting?”
—
By the time you reached the rooftop across from the location, you were only starting to realize how intimate this was, even though it should feel like mostly work.
From your crouch near the ledge, you could see the building your informant had sent. It had everything a vigilante could ever dream of: rooftop access, bad perimeter awareness, two lit windows on the upper floor, a side entrance that might as well have had an invitation nailed to it.
Dex, meanwhile, looked exactly as he had in the bar, which was to say unfairly good. He had that same wound-too-tight stillness, only now it had somewhere to go. Neither of you really needed to change because this was who you were. The bar hadn’t been the disguise. If anything, the bar had just been two vigilantes forced briefly into civilian setting, and now the city had handed you both an excuse to slip back into yourselves.
His hand disappeared into his jacket pocket, and when it came back out, there was the mask. He looked down at it for only a second before starting to pull it on like it was muscle memory, like it belonged to the shape of his body as naturally as breath.
Your fingers closed around his wrist, before you thought too hard about it.
Dex stopped, startled, his mask half-unfolded in his hand.
Then you took it from him.
For one long second, he just stared. Not suspicious or annoyed. He just looked completely thrown off, all his composure knocked sideways by the fact that you had interrupted him so casually, like this was your right.
You should have said something then. Instead, you just pulled the mask over your own face.
Oh.
The fabric settled over your features, and you felt Dex go catastrophically still.
His shirt was still hanging off your frame beneath your jacket, the hem tucked into your skirt carelessly in a way that had already ruined him once tonight. The skirt itself was too short to qualify as practical, which had been part of the fun. And now, on top of all that, you were wearing his mask?
It was not subtle, what it did to him.
Dex looked at you like something inside his brain had simply stopped functioning, overloaded so completely there was nothing left for him to do but stand there and take it.
You could practically see the short circuit happen.
His mouth parted uselessly. His eyes dragged over you, and you could've sworn you had never seen anyone look so gone while still technically upright.
You smiled under the mask.
“Hold still,” you murmured, reaching into your little bag, the one you never left home without, fingers finding the small tin by touch alone. It was silver reflective paint.
You flipped open the tin and stepped closer.
The silver caught the rooftop light as you dipped your fingers into it. You reached up and touched him beneath the eye first, dragging one clean line of paint over the sharp plane of his cheekbone, right above his scar. Then another, across the bridge of his nose, your hand steady, his breathing not.
Dex didn’t move. He was holding himself together just to let you do this. The city noise carried below you, distant traffic and sirens and the hum of night, but up there on the rooftop it felt strangely intimate in a way that had nothing to do with proximity.
You painted the silver around his eyes the way you did your own, ruining cameras, distorting the face, making him look stranger and somehow even more himself. When you were done, you leaned back just enough to look at him properly.
“Pretty,” you said.
Dex’s throat worked. His gaze pierced your eyes. If he had looked overwhelmed before, now he looked outright haunted. Like being handed pieces of you had already been bad enough, but having your paint on his skin, his disguise on your face, the two of you standing there in each other’s signatures… it was something else entirely.
And for one absurd, breathless second, on a rooftop above a building full of men you were both about to kill, it felt less like getting ready for a job and more like the strangest, sweetest kind of undressing.
For a second, neither of you moved. Below you, through dirty windows and bad blinds, Task Force agents moved around inside the building like they had no idea the night had already chosen death for them.
Then someone inside laughed too loudly, and the moment snapped.
Right, work.
Or something like a work-date.
You laughed sweetly and dropped first, down the fire escape and through the service entrance, Dex behind you without needing a word. There was no need to gesture twice or whisper instructions. He moved like he already understood where you would go, which side you preferred, you wanted distance cleared and when you wanted a body left close enough for your knife.
It should have unnerved you. Instead, it made you giddy.
You had known he was good. You had studied the clippings, the photos, the evidence left behind. But watching Dex work beside you was something else entirely.
Every throw made space for you. Every little movement answered one of yours. He never crowded you, never interrupted, never treated the room like it belonged to him alone.
He made room for your violence like he had been waiting to see it up close.
And you gave him a show.
You moved through the agents with your style, close and quick and pulsing with adrenaline. Dex stayed in the shadows until he didn’t, a small knife flashing from his hand, then an agent behind you dropped before you even turned.
You couldn’t help but laugh.
It bubbled out of you, delighted though completely inappropriate, and Dex heard it through everything. His eyes found you across the room, stunned.
Like he had never heard anything lovelier.
Fuck, it was wonderful how well you worked together.
You ducked when he needed you to duck. He shifted when you needed space. You slid under his arm once, close enough that your shoulder brushed his chest. It was like dancing, if dancing was a criminal offence and everyone else in the room had arrived mortally underprepared.
Where the hell have you been all my life?
You thought it so clearly it almost became speech.
You only chuckled again, and Dex looked at you like he might never recover.
By the end of the bloodbath, twenty dead agents later, the building had gone quiet.
The euphoric, ringing kind of quiet. Broken glass glittered under the lights. A chair had been knocked onto its side and papers had been scattered across the floor. The agents were ruined, and the two of you stood in the middle of it like the last two people left after the world ended.
You were breathing hard, and so was he.
Dex had silver paint smudged beneath one eye now, a little messier than when you had put it there. His jacket was open. His hands were flexing at his sides, not because he needed a weapon, but because he didn’t know what to do with all the wanting still left in him.
You knew the feeling.
So you walked across the room before either of you could make a joke and ruin it.
Dex did not move away.
He watched you come closer with that open hunger on his face.
You grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down.
The kiss landed through the mask, a frustrating thin piece of fabric between your mouth and his.
Dex froze for half a second, and then the restraint in him cracked just enough for you to feel it. His hands lifted, stopped, hovered near your waist like touching you might be another line he needed permission to cross. You smiled against the mask, and that was somehow worse, because he made a low, wrecked sound into the almost-kiss like you had done an unforgivable sin.
You pulled back, and he followed.
Only an inch, maybe less. But enough.
Enough to tell you exactly how badly he wanted the real thing.
His eyes were dark now, fixed on the place where your lips hid beneath his mask. He looked almost hurt, almost betrayed by the fabric, almost desperate enough to forget every wall he had built for your benefit.
“Take it off,” he said, rough, almost a plea. “Do that again.”
Your heart picked up a beat.
You stepped back just far enough to make him feel the loss.
You smiled beneath his mask.
“Earn it.”
And as Dex stared at your mouth through his mask, silver still wet beneath his eyes and twenty bodies cooling around you, you wondered, almost fondly, who the cops would blame for this one.
—end.
NOTE : I genuinely love seeing all your requests in my asks, but I do get a lot and I physically can’t write every single one. I usually write the ones that catch my eye, and it’s probably every 1 in 5.
That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation. If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.
Please remember I run this blog for free, so any support means a lot, only if you’re able to give it! Love y’all and thank you for reading!!! <3
I was going to do some sort of smut for one of these but thought I wanted physical touch to be intimate without being completely sexual so I turned quality time into a bit of an off screen occurrence and got a little bit of an implied smut with this on.
hiii i love your work so much you're amazing and dunk is so pookie i lob himm 😭😭😭
what if his gf is a highborn and absolutely head over heels for him like always complimenting him and making him flustered never caring what the people say about them and stuff then one day she says fuck it and decides to propose to him?? hehe that's it feel free to ignore this if it's not your cup of tea hope you're doing great byeee 👋😚
Head Over Heels
synopsis; you love dunk without restraint, and he fears what will become of you both.
genre; fluff/minimal angst
pairing; ser duncan the tall/highborn!reader
warnings; vomiting.
a/n; dunk is pookie-butt i agree i agree. i hope this scratches ur brain anon! thank yooooou please enjoy <3
work count; 1.3k(? to be determined)
“Leaving so soon?”
Dunk reeled around, your voice a silk touch against his ears even if you stood a distance away. He was saddling Thunder, his mind unable to quiet itself for even a moment. A ride outside the city walls would surely calm him and his racing heart, but with you standing so near, he knew there was no remedy for his restless body.
“I’m—I’m taking Thunder out for a ride,” he stammered, eyes darting between you and the ground. He felt the heat on his chest, and it crept fast up. “He gets restless being stowed away in the stables, m’lady.”
“He,” you took a step forward with your hands behind your back, watching Dunk stiffen before he realized it himself. “Is restless?”
“Aye.”
“And he said this himself?” Another step.
Dunk caught himself before he repeated the same response. Now the heat had taken his ears, and he settled his sweaty palm on the hilt of his sword.
You were more than halfway to him.
“Thunder…Thunder cannot speak, m’lady—"
“Oh?”
He lifted his head, his gaze settling onto you once you stood close enough to touch. Dunk wouldn’t even have to straighten his elbow to feel the skin on your cheek against his rough fingertips or take your delicate palm into his massive paw of his hand.
“Certainly he told you to run from me,” your voice grew softer. “Otherwise, you would’ve stayed where I asked you to.”
“M’lady,” he began, his grip tightening on his weapon. “The guards were switching around for the evening. If…if any of them saw…”
“What does it matter?” You questioned, brows creasing as if he had spoken harshly. As if he wanted nothing to do with you. And that was a nasty thought, a wicked thing to assume, for all he wanted was to be by your side.
“You are my love. I don’t care for what the court says. I don’t care for what anyone says—“
“You should,” he said before he could catch himself. Dunk bowed his head, the shame of speaking over you overtaking. “I…I only wish to protect you.”
“Well, I’d rather not worry so much over appearances. It gets tiring.”
“It’s necessary. If anyone saw us—if anyone had a passing thought,” the words soon died at the tip of his tongue the moment your hands caressed his skin. His cheeks were burning to the touch, and the sweat that shone upon his brow made him look as polished as a ruby.
You smiled at him, finding his flustered and concerned state very endearing. “I find it to be a necessary risk.”
Dunk swallowed, his tongue feeling too heavy. “I refuse to jeopardize you."
"I refuse to let you hide," you were bold and twice as quick. "That is your solution, isn't it? Hide in the hedges until you become one yourself."
You're mocking me, he wanted to say. Yet it was true, and he didn't have the heart to admit to it. He would rather keep himself at a distance just to preserve your honor.
"Now you're staring." You sighed, making him finally blink out of his head. "Would it ease your mind if we went to the hayloft? I would cover your head with my hands, if that meant shielding you from the ceiling."
But before he could sputter half a sentence, you pulled him down. He submitted far too easily to your kiss, his hands catching your hips before he toppled over you. Dunk was solid like stone, yet under your grasp, he was as clumsy as a foal.
Briefly, the world crumbled to just the two of you. Dunk hummed against you, his arms slipping around you to pull you closer. Your body pressed into his and for a moment, he was without worry.
Then the sound of hooves ripped him from your warmth, and he reeled back. He moved to Thunder, leaving you in his absence.
"Duncan," you pleaded as another came into the stables. The man never looked your way, more focused on getting the palfrey in an empty pen.
"I'll be back before sundown." Dunk vowed, yet he refused to look your way. Thunder had the bravery to spare a glance before he was steered. Dunk's cloak brushed past you as the pair left, and although you kept your head down, he only then turned to look back.
A day had gone by without word from you.
Dunk knew he’d done wrong when he left you behind. In the moment, it felt like the right thing to do, or else he would’ve gotten reckless. He acted the fool in the attempt to save his dignity, and he was now finding himself restless again.
“M’lady?” He spoke into the dark oak of your door. It was late, and he worried you had already retreated to bed. His gut wouldn't allow him to leave, not unless he spoke to you.
Hesitant, he lifted his knuckles to knock. "Do I disturb you, m'lady? I don't wish to, I know it's far too late to ask for your presence...but I cannot leave here without seeing you. It was ill-mannered to leave you in the stables. You were right, as you are, about me running. I'm—“
Dunk found himself with a jaw made of steel. He fought with himself to utter the word, to confess his fright. It was one thing to act upon it and another to say aloud.
Declaration has never been his strong suit.
"I'm afraid," he breathed, "I'm afraid of what will happen if others discover us. I'm...I'm afraid of you, because you love without fear for your status and mine. An accusation would tarnish your name, but you don’t care for it, do you? You…you’d rather present yourself at my side than leave me to the shadows.”
Dunk waited. He waited for the rustle of fabric, for footsteps that drew closer from the other side.
Your bedchambers were a void.
"I'd rather we both hide in the shadows." Your voice made him jump; his heart nearly gave out as he spun to see you standing there with your head servant at your side. She held a plate of honeyed treats, most likely taken from the lower kitchens.
She, too, looked embarrassed.
"Go on and set this at the window, please?" You asked of her, and she nodded in firm obedience. Dunk stepped to the side to let her through, his eyes wide as the servant shuffled into your bedchambers and closed the door quickly.
Dunk was at a loss. He'd poured his heart rather foolishly to your door, unknowing how long you'd stood some feet away at his back. And the servant girl—good Gods, he'd be lucky if any staff looked at him and didn't laugh.
"I, ah...I know it's late, m'lady—"
"I heard you," you rushed over, hands coming to take his before he tried to string together every proclamation he spewed at your door. The thought was sweet, though, and it made you smile. "I heard you, Duncan."
"All of it?"
"I believe so."
Dunk swallowed, "that's...that's good."
"Yes," you laughed, uncaring for how clammy his palms became in yours. "It is good."
You reached higher, your trembling fingers tucking the loose hair back behind his ears. Least make him presentable for this, or else you'd lose all composure and drag him to your bed. If you didn't touch him or fix something, it would take the entire realm to pull him from your grasp.
"Let's," you shuddered, a pulsating nerve threatening to silence you. Your voice lowered to a whisper, "let's go together."
Dunk blinked, the notion not yet forming fully in his head. "What...what, m'lady?"
"I wish to be husband and wife."
A sudden wave of nausea washed over Dunk.
"You are right," you continued as he paled. "I don't care what happens to my name. It means nothing if I cannot have you."
Your fingertips grazed over his cheek, and you finally saw the sweat upon his brow. But that was normal, just as the heat of his reddened skin and the dampness of his hands.
The look on his face is what made your head tilt.
"Duncan?"
Dunk flew from your hold, rushing into the door opposite of yours. You followed him as he frantically stumbled to an empty bucket in the bathing chambers and retched. It was an unkindly sight, an even more unkindly smell, but you fell to your knees and kept yourself rooted to his side. He felt your hand upon his back, rubbing between his shoulders while his gut cramped.
"Oh, Duncan," you sighed, "does the thought truly repulse you?"
No! He wanted to shout, yet he couldn't get a hold of himself. Only a groan passed from his lips, and by the grace of the Seven, he was able to find control again. He pulled away from the bucket, the back of his hand dragging across his lips to poorly clean the mess. You reached out to the stone tub, taking a folded towel to aid him in his time of need.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, guiding his head to face you. "I won't bring it up again."
"No," he rasped. " No, m'lady, I—I didn't know...I'm not one to respond properly, I suppose..."
Dunk took the towel from your grasp, finishing off under your gaze.
"...I'm sorry," he managed, still in discomfort of his stomach's twists and turns.
"I've been too bold."
"No," Dunk swore. He dropped the towel to take your hands, and despite the risk that a servant might enter or a guard could check the room for your safety, he held on tight.
"You are just as you ought to be. It's me, m'lady...what sort of man vomits after a proposal—?"
"A sort of man I want."
"That is—not the point," he sputtered.
"It's mine." You shifted closer. "I want you to be mine. If I must reside in the hedges for the rest of my life, I will gladly do so. Don't you see?"
Dunk's eyes couldn't be any wider. He felt lightheaded, and he had half a mind to quiet you.
“It’s a lot to take in,” he admitted. “How would we…? What you ask is not easy to answer…”
Against the odds, you simply smiled.
“It’s the first thing we’ll figure out, my love. Together.”
“Together.” Dunk vowed, testing it for himself. As you stood, he followed. No matter the dangers; wherever you might go, he would always be right at your side.
Pairing: Lyonel Baratheon x fem! Reader/ The Laughing Storm x fem! Reader
Word count: 12.2k
Summary: Moments with your children, and Lyonel being the best dad in the realm.
Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific physical description of the reader except for clothing, established relationship, Arryn! Reader, based on my 'where's my husband series,' mentions of childbirth, dad! Lyonel, parent AU, CW animal death, CW suggestive, CW alcohol mention, fluff!
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Lyonel Baratheon Masterlist
My requests are open!
Storm’s End has truly become your home after the birth of your first born, Juniper. She’s a glad child, a welcome laughter amidst the thundering storms just outside the keep. Her father thinks so too when she has him wrapped around her little finger.
Juniper, barely a year old, is Storm’s End little princess, Lords and Ladies from across the realm have granted her favours in an attempt to forge a friendship or even an alliance with you and your Lord Husband. From silver rattles, to intricate weaved blankets from the North, Juniper is swimming in gifts. And just like her father, she loves the attention, giggling and kicking in your arms whenever Lyonel would bring another present to her from a merchant you two met back in Essos.
But despite all the lavish gifts and attention she has garnered, it doesn’t compare to her father’s presence. She’s a delight whenever she’s with him, dark eyes shining the moment she sets her eyes on Lyonel. And he’s the same, mirrored expressions gazing at each other as he takes the two of you in his arms whilst Juniper shrieks happily.
“She was born with laughter in her throat.” He told you one day, voice soft and tender, eyes glimmering with love for his girls while the rare sunshine danced across his handsome face. You were nursing Juniper, whilst he accompanied you and even brought his work on the bed just to be in your presence.
Lyonel has been awfully clingy, always seeking out your warmth, a hand always on your skin. You’re not one to complain when you are the same, always asking for him, always calling his name whenever you please, and it’s quite frequent. If Juniper smiles at something, laughs or even points at something so mundane as a flower or at a horse, then you’re asking the nearest servant to call for your husband so he could witness the miracle that is your daughter.
One day though, you’re the one who is away on business, doing your duties as Lady Baratheon and hosting guests from the Riverlands. Lyonel was by your side, but the moment the conversation turned dull, talking about harvests and Riverland history that may or may not have been a segue into asking for an alliance through marriage with your daughter and the Tully’s youngest— Lyonel has vanished from your side.
You would be irked by his sudden disappearance, how he left you to fend for yourself in front of the Riverlords, but the moment you heard his voice through Juniper’s nursery, all your anger faded away.
Lyonel’s sitting on your rocking chair with Juniper in one arm, slowly falling asleep, long lashes fluttering against the apples of her chubby cheeks. There’s a tome in his other hand, whilst he softly reads the passages to her. He’s reading Florian the fool, a story that he has told you was childish drivel, that he has more interesting stories to tell you as he traced your face with his lips.
“‘You are a fool.’” He reads, tone lowered, thumb kneading at the pudge of Juniper’s leg as he takes a quick peek at her. “Why aren’t you asleep? Your mother told me that you always fall asleep whenever she reads to you.”
Juniper just flashes him her batting lashes, eyes sleep heavy as she sucks on her thumb.
Sighing, Lyonel chuckles, pecking the top of her head, curls tickling his nose. “You are as stubborn as your mother.” The second he finishes his sentence, his eyes flick over to you at the doorway. “I’m afraid we’ve got a spy in our midst, flower. What do we do with spies?”
Juniper makes a sound from the back of her throat, a half giggle, half babble in reply.
“Yes, we show them Stormlander hospitality.” He kisses her curls once again before craning his head to face you with that mischievous smirk on his lips that never fails to make your stomach tumble. “Halt, who goes there?” He jests, and you chortle, crossing the distance over to your family.
“Just the Lady Baratheon, my lord Lyonel.” Smiling, you cup his cheek lovingly, watching as he immediately rests against you with a soft look whilst gazing at you with reverence. “You disappeared on me, my love.”
“‘My lord Lyonel,’” He repeats with a low rumble in his throat, amused. “I haven’t heard that in a while…” his palm cups your behind, squeezing faintly as he rests his hand atop it casually. “It’s always, ‘Lyonel, please take the hounds out,’ or ‘Lyonel, I need you in bed now.’” Mocking your voice, complete with a pout, you can’t help but laugh, a sound that warms his insides. “I heard her cry, so I had to leave, my apologies.”
“No, you did not. She has her nursemaid and she was on the other side of the castle. You…” poking his chest, he tosses the hefty tome on the ground with a solid thump as he pulls you onto his lap. “Did not hear our daughter cry all the way from the great hall.”
“Never underestimate a stag’s hearing.” Pushing you against him by your hip, the chair rocks gently under the weight, and you find your hand is occupied with patting Juniper’s side for her to fall into slumber. “I could not bear hearing another one of Lord Tully’s veiled attempts at brokering an alliance through our Juniper and his fish son.”
“His fish son.” You giggle against his corded neck. “Oh, my love.” Kissing him right on his pulse, right where you know he prefers to be kissed, he lets out a shuddered breath. “You’ll be glad to know that he did not succeed. Juniper has her whole life ahead of her.” Your index tucks away a strand of her hair away from her sleeping face. “And she may choose her husband if she pleases. But not yet.” You melt in his hold, and he embraces you tighter. “Not today.”
“Or any day.” Lyonel kisses the length of your temple until he reaches your cheek. “If it were up to me she wouldn’t be married until we are both sixty.”
“You at sixty or me at sixty? Because those are vastly different years, my love. Yours sooner rather than later.”
“You wench.” Laughing against your cheek, he muffles his guffaw lest Juniper wakes up. The thought of growing old with you warms him from the inside and out, it’s heavenly bliss.
—
Juniper’s giggles echo around the stables as you waddle inside. Your belly is bigger than when you were carrying your daughter. The new maester from the citadel said that it is a good sign that you are carrying a son this time around. Lyonel would be glad of the news, should be glad about having a son and heir, but he’s too busy playing with little Juniper to be ecstatic about the news when he said that the little Baratheon could still turn out to be a girl. To then you have said that he just wanted another little girl that is an exact copy of him. Someone to spoil and hoist upon his shoulders as he walks around the keep to show her off. It’s a bit unfair that you were the one doing all the labours if all your children would end up looking exactly like their father. But you do adore Juniper’s little curls, and her nose that is an exact copy of her father’s.
But he has said that whenever Juniper would smile or pout or even cry, she always reminded him of you. “She might favour my looks more, my sweet, but she is you through and through.” He once uttered against your temple whilst the two of you watched Juniper play with her cousins.
Juniper has the Lord of Storm’s End wrapped around her little finger. She just turned two years old, walking on her own now to yours and her father’s delight. Her second nameday was a sight to behold in the whole realm. In true Baratheon fashion, her father organized a tourney in her honour, and for his unborn child that is currently kicking right at your bladder. It was an even bigger affair than the Ashford tourney, Lords from houses all over the realm visited and came to pay their respects to house Baratheon. Juniper loved the attention and the favours she received, while Lyonel loved unhorsing the Lords and upstart knights at his own tourney. You thank the gods that nothing horrible like a trial of seven happened during the seven day tourney. Just a few drunken fights and a lot of out of tune singing.
You cannot believe that you were once worried that Lyonel might not take to being a father as well as being a good husband. But he has once again proven you wrong. He’s a great father to Juniper, and you are sure that he will continue to do so for the babe that is squirming in your belly.
You enter the stables, smiling from the memory of the recent festivities, especially from the memory of your reunion with your older brothers and a certain hedge knight and his squire. The smell of horse and grass hits you the moment you see Juniper giggling atop a horse whilst her father holds onto the scruff of her dress from the ground, as she grins from ear to ear as she reins in the horse in her tiny fists.
Lyonel felt your presence before you could announce yourself. He turns his head at you as the rare sunlight beams right at your back, basking you in heavenly light.
“Careful, my love, she might fall.”
“She is in the best hands.” He gestures for you to come closer, fingers opening and closing in a come hither motion until you sidle beside him. “Aren’t you, flower?”
Juniper answers with a happy shriek, kicking her tiny legs about. Then she sees you, big dark eyes widening happily as she tries to reach for you. You never expected to be with child so soon after Juniper, but you can’t exactly blame Lyonel when you’re as insatiable as your husband.
“Did you miss me, my gentle heart?” Opening your arms, Juniper jumps off the horse without a care, whilst Lyonel bears all the kicking and flailing to get her to your arms safely. He’s letting you carry her with his hand protectively holding her by the armpits so as to not put stress onto your back and already heavy stomach.
Juniper nods enthusiastically, pressing a wet kiss to your cheek as she embraces your neck. She babbles incoherently against your skin, perhaps retelling her time with her Lord father.
“I thought I’d find you here, Lyonel.” Pecking her temple, you then turn to kiss his cheek, never leaving him out of your affection. “Already trying to teach our girl how to ride when she could barely talk?”
“Never underestimate our daughter, my love.” Lyonel’s free hand lifts your belly from underneath, easing the heaviness as you let out a sigh. “She’s learning quickly.”
Eyes closed, you smile with satisfaction as you feel lighter. “Keep your hand there, please. This one is much heavier than when I carried Juniper.”
“The maester has told me of the possibility of you carrying twins.”
“Twins?” Your eyes fling wide open. “Gods, no, we could barely contain Juniper. And with another on the way….” You imagine feeding two babes at once, shuddering at the thought. “Perhaps I’m just carrying a giant? Your father was incredibly tall.”
“Could be.” He shrugs, clearly amused.
“You want twins.” You exclaim matter-of-factly and he makes a face, nose scrunching at your narrowed eyes teasingly. “Lyonel, you are not the one birthing them.”
“Wanting twins doesn’t make it come true, my love.” Chuckling, a deep rumble in his throat, Lyonel gives you a reassuring kiss whilst Juniper plays with the pearl necklace around your neck. “Having two in one go means that we could stop having children, no more labours for you. I am incredibly happy with the children you have already given me.”
As much as he loves his children, he could not help but worry for you whenever you’re screaming and pushing on the birthing bed. He utterly worries for you, the love of his life as your belly swells with life he helped create. It’s the only time he feels powerless, he can’t wield a sword to defend you from this nor hold a shield or use his charms to help, and he hates it, feeling absolutely helpless to ease your suffering when he is also the one to blame.
“Stop the making of said children too?” You playfully jab his chest with your finger, earning a feigned roll of his eyes.
There’s a sudden jolt of pain in your belly, but it’s normal in this state, so you ignore it. You’d tell him of the prophecy once told to you during the Ashford tourney, but it seems ridiculous for you to say it out loud even though a part of you believes it.
“Gods, no, I’d rather die.” Lyonel looks devastated at the thought. “I’m sure that the maester has a potion to remedy the… side effect.”
“Well—” Your clever retort gets caught on your tongue as your belly twists. Something wet splashes on your feet, a familiar feeling that has the two of you looking down and back up to face the other.
Lyonel laughs loudly, albeit nervously. And Juniper, having no clue, laughs along with him. “We’ll know for sure if we’re having twins today it seems.”
—
It was an easier birth this time around, it only took you six hours of labour for your son to be born. Despite his sheer size, the mother smiled down upon you for a safe and easy birth. When your first child was born during a storm, the new lordling of Storm’s End was born during a rare warm and sunny day. The maester called him a summer prince for it, to which Lyonel grinned at as he wiped the blood off the wailing babe’s face gently.
He was more hands on for the birth of his son when no midwives or ancient maesters were there to bar the door for him. From the start of your labours to the first cry of your son, he was there through it all. He was never fainthearted about blood anyway.
Ormund, you and Lyonel have decided to call him, cries in your arms so loudly that it wakes you up from your exhausted state.
“You are in the presence of the Lord and Lady of Storm’s End, comport yourself.” Lyonel jests, gazing down at the two of you as his cheek presses against your clammy temple. His finger is wrapped around his son’s tiny fist as he continues to wail inside your chambers. “Our son has no manners, my love.”
“Are all of our children so loud?” You ask, still panting but free from all the gunk that came after the birth. And yet utterly blissed out as your hand lovingly caresses Ormund’s chubby leg.
“Perhaps it is proof that they are truly my children.”
You’re too tired to roll your eyes at your husband’s teasing. “As if there is any doubt that they aren’t yours when they look exactly like you. It is unfair to say the least.”
“They got your ferocity and tenacity, my love.” Smiling, Lyonel presses a kiss on your skin, leaning closer to the crying babe to nuzzle his cheek gently. Little Ormund quietens down when he recognizes his father, lips smacking together as he chases his warmth. “I knew that would work.”
“He recognized you.” Chuckling, you find yourself instinctively brushing your fingers into Lyonel’s curls.
“All that speaking into your stomach is not for naught.” Side by side, you can really tell the similarities in their features. Ormund has Lyonel’s wild curls, the same nose, the same eyes and lips. He’s a little Lyonel, his late lord father was not jesting when he said that the Baratheon seed is strong. You both wish that he met his grandchildren.
“Shall we call for Juniper? I want to introduce them to each other.”
Lyonel smiles, giving you a much earned kiss. He rests his forehead against your own, breathing you in as he says your name lovingly. “I’ll come and get her. But first,” taking out a velvet box from his pocket, he opens it for you, revealing a golden brooch of two fawns meeting. “I had it made just for the occasion.”
Your fingers trace along the intricate carving, tears brimming in your eyes as you look up at him. “I don’t know what to say…”
“‘Thank you, I love you, you’re the kindest lord husband in the whole realm and the most handsome.’” He makes a face and tries to copy your voice awfully, that has you chortling through the dull ache. “I have more examples if you need it.”
Moving close, you nuzzle his jaw with your nose, letting his beard tickle you. Lyonel lets out a satisfied hum, clasping the jewelry gingerly on your chemise lovingly. “Thank you, I love and adore you, my stag.” It’s enough to make a lord tear up.
—
You wake up on your own, no babes crying, no storm bashing against the walls of the keep, or even the soft pawing from your husband beside you. For a moment it’s utter bliss, you haven’t slept this peacefully in quite some time, the last one was perhaps before you got married.
Sleep is a rare gift when you’re a mother of two loud children that took after their father. You need all that rest when you have a newborn and a babe, who refuses to sleep by your will. Juniper and Ormund are the light of your life together with your husband, but you love sleep, and your silk sheets beckons you back into slumber. That is until you realize what hour it is and that you haven’t heard a single cry, nor felt Lyonel’s warmth beside you when you reached out to his side of the bed.
Sitting up abruptly, heart racing as your eyes rake around the bed, only to find no one else beside you. You then turn to Ormund’s cradle, finding it empty, save for his blue Arryn blankets embroidered by your mother and sisters by law.
“Fuck.” Panic sets in your stomach despite the sunshine draped across your form, a rare sight to behold in the Stormlands when it’s been raining nonstop for more than a week.
You flip the blankets open, feeling the cold floor on the soles of your feet, movements erratic and panicked.
You hear humming, a strange softened humming, a tune you’re not so familiar with as you follow the source. You enter the solar, the blinds billowing around the wind in wisps of silken fabric.
Heart thrumming in your throat, you see a sight that makes you want to call upon an artist to paint it to preserve the scene forever.
Standing in the balcony is Lyonel, torso bare to the sun, basking in the light, scars and freckles dotted along his back as he holds two sleeping bundles in his arms. The light shines at his curls, salt and pepper dripping in golden light.
Ormund’s cheek is squished atop his father’s freckled shoulder, milk drool in the corner of his lips, and curls dancing in the wind. He’s left in only his swaddling cloth, skin to skin with his father as Lyonel pats his back rhythmically.
Where Ormund is sleeping soundly, Juniper fusses in her sleep, foot twitching, one missing a sock, as her arm falls limp in between Lyonel’s armpit, fully laying on him with her long curls falling over her face. Perhaps dreaming of running around in the gardens.
You don’t call for him as you approach. With a gentle hand in between his shoulder blades, you slowly go around him to gaze into his eyes with the same lovestruck expression you had during the tourney where you met him.
“My love.” You say softly, quietly, saying his name in the most saccharine way possible as the pads of your fingers glide along the length of his arm over to his bicep then to his jaw. “What a sight to wake up to.”
Lyonel unabashedly looks at you up and down, left only in your thin chemise that flutters in the wind, and the sunshine illuminating through the fabric. Leaving nothing to the imagination, as if he has to imagine when he has seen you bare countless of times. And yet it never fails to make him as giddy as today, as needy for your touch like all the days.
“I could say the same thing, my doe.” He leans down for a kiss.
The backdrop of Ship Breaker’s bay below and the horizon just behind you makes waking up more worthwhile.
“You’re awake quite early.” You mumble against his pouted lips.
“Ormund was stirring after Juniper waddled inside our chambers. And I heard from the midwives that the early morning sun is good for the babe.”
Your brows furrow in worry. “She has never done that.” He would knead at the space between your brows if has another hand to spare. “But thank you for bringing them out here.”
“I’m afraid that she feels jealous of her brother.” Lyonel’s curl falls over his eye, and out of instinct, you gently tuck it away and he lets you, watching you fondly. “She wiggled her way into our bed. I’m quite glad I wore my breeches before falling asleep in your arms.”
You stifle a giggle, biting your lip as you gaze at the babes cradled gently in his arms. “She told you that?”
“That she is quite glad that I wore my breeches?”
“No, the part before that.” Rolling your eyes, you flick his earring lovingly and teasingly. “That she’s jealous of Ormund.”
“She did.” Sighing, he looks at his eldest. “His arrival took all the attention away from her.”
“Gods, I didn’t realize.” Your expression falls, a hand lovingly rubbing along the length of Juniper’s arm.
“We’ll do better.” He simply says with a smile. “We’re still learning, my doe.”
“I know.” Taking a deep breath of the sea air, you lay your head against his clavicle. “We’ll do better.”
Lyonel hums again, that same unfamiliar tune. You’ll ask him about it later, for now, you’ll melt against your husband while listening to your children’s little breaths.
—
It’s your nameday and in true Baratheon fashion, Lyonel has organized a grand feast to celebrate. He made sure that everything was set up well beforehand, ravens were sent to different Lords and Ladies that you both wish to see, and Lyonel did not skimp out on his coins, using it wisely, or so he said when he asked for a dozen cakes to be made in your honour.
The two of you made a great pair in organizing it. He wanted you to sit back and let him handle things, but you have said that this feast is to celebrate your marriage to him too, five years together, five years of married bliss. You made the great hall your war room, telling each staff where to put which table, or which flower arrangement is correct and up to your husband’s taste, even though he could not care less about sunflowers or daffodils, but Lyonel loves to see that look on your face. The determined commanding ferocity he loves so much. He has seen it during his cursed cousin’s rebellion, where you commanded Vale troops instead of chefs about which pie to make. He has to confess that your stern tone and sheer dominant presence does something to him, making it hard to walk around with you looking like you’re ready for war.
The feast was delayed for a few hours because he kept tugging you away from your duties. Which you barely protested, you loved those long lengthy moments with the Laughing Storm grunting in your ears, while you two hid in a niche, or behind a tapestry.
The night has gone on and on, the guests are properly drunk off of wine, but the flow of the drinks seems to never stop. Food is overflowing on the tables, meat pies, sweetened pastries and all sorts of food from the north to across the narrow seas. He did not spare expenses for the feast. You were alright with just celebrating with your kin and your children by your side with maybe a cake or two, but it couldn’t be helped when your husband is the epitome of Garth Greenhand.
Lyonel lives for revelry, and nothing makes him feel more like himself with a full goblet of wine in hand and with you sitting right on his lap.
You’re laughing at something Ser Duncan said beside him, the kind of giggle that reverberates through you and onto Lyonel’s chest that warms him throughout his whole body. It could be the wine, but it could also be because you’re wiggling far too much on his lap.
His hand is on your hip, squeezing at every clap from the dancing crowd. He watches Juniper dance around with Egg, both barefoot and laughing along to the jaunty tune. Juniper reminds him of you with every passing year as she grows. She may look every bit like a Baratheon, but she has your soul, she has your smile, and she even dances like you. Whilst little Ormund tries to keep up with their steps, waddling and tugging at the prince’s robes. He tried to get them abed, but they’re your children, as stubborn as you, and as defiant as him.
It’s the kind of night that has fond memories flooding his head, you in your threadbare cloak, hiding behind a giant of a man and looking like a falcon missing its wings. You ignored him at first, and that had him intrigued at your audacity to ignore the Laughing Storm in his own pavilion whilst you sip on his wine and sit there looking beautiful under the warm candle light. The thought has him squeezing you even more, nose nudging your jaw until you tilted your head to grant him space to give your throat a kiss.
Lyonel didn’t want to get married at first, he wanted to be free, free to galavant around the realm, to drink and be merry without worrying about anything or anyone. But duty was thrust upon him when his older brother died during the Blackfyre rebellion, and he was left as the sole heir apparent. Suddenly, he needed to marry, he needed heirs, but just like you, he wanted someone that he would love, or at least care for, and have a partnership with. But as the years went on with him unmarried and his father’s health dwindling, he needed to act fast when vultures were circling around Storm’s End.
His father recommended you, all he knew of you were from him, letters written by your own father that were addressed to his late father. They were flowery words, words that he could not tell if it was true or a lie. But the late Lord Baratheon approved of you, said that if you were anything like your father, Lyonel would find kinship with you. If not love, companionship is the next best thing. Little did he know that he would find both with you. He fell for you hard. One that he never thought was possible. And like everything else in his life, he did not back down and continued to pursue you even when you hid behind your cloak with a beaming smile that could part the grey clouds.
Gods, he loves you, he loves the little lives you have given him, and he would organize a thousand more feasts just for you if it meant eternal life for the both of you. Forever laughing together, forever dancing and holding the other. When he never gave marriage a second thought before, now he would step in front of a blade for you. He made a vow, and he intends to keep it. You are his, and he is yours.
‘This is the life,’ he thinks. Utter bliss, belly full of good food and wine, his great love laughing on his lap, and his children as happy as him, while surrounded by loyal allies.
Lyonel always thought that Storm’s End was dull and dreary, its stone walls are too high, consuming all the light that breaks through the grey clouds. But as he sits at the head of the table, stag crown on his brow, he’s proud of what he made of his dull keep that has more laughter than silence. That has more light breaking through from the inside, it’s warm and comfortable, and most of all, safe, he made it safe for his family. And hopefully for generations to come. Only time will tell.
“My love…” you whisper upon his ear, nibbling and tugging at the earring dangling in his lobe. You wear a crown of antlers just like him, but with feathers around the circlet that are laden with sapphires and yellow diamonds, a gift he made just for you. “Shall I put the children to bed so we could commence the real feast?”
Lyonel loves his children, and loves to hear their laughter and how their eyes crinkle in happiness. But he says yes in the blink of an eye.
—
The sun rarely shines in Storm’s End, but when it does grant the Stormlands some reprieve from the window shattering rains, its people come out to bask in the sun’s presence.
Your husband has grown bored of the council chambers as you see him clamber up the steps towards the gardens, right where you have placed a blanket on the mossy stones to rest upon it with your children. His eyes convey that one of his vassal lords have irked him up to the point that he has forgone the need to drink something strong in favour of seeking out his family’s warmth. Especially yours.
Ormund babbles incoherently on your lap, in his tight fist is a crushed lemon cake, while the other has a small wooden toy carved into a battleaxe, a special gift from his lord father. He seems to never grow tired of it even when you feed him small bites of fresh fruit. While he’s busy bashing the head of a wooden toy dragon, his older sister is humming a tune right behind you as she mindlessly braids your hair whilst drawing a flower in between bites of lemon cake.
Lyonel takes note of the peaceful scenery, birds chirp alongside the garden beds filled with sweet scented flowers. And his great love sits in the middle of his little fawns, crowded around her with love in their eyes as the sun blankets you all in warmth.
“Father!” Juniper is the first to notice him, she vaults from her place to run to Lyonel. Her bare feet thumps against the cobbled stone, not minding the roughness as she jumps for an embrace.
“Oh, my flower.” He groans, back aching as he catches her mid jump. “Stop growing too quickly for me would you?” She giggles in reply, hugging his neck and kicks her feet.
“She can’t help it, she got your stature.” You utter with amusement as you watch baby Ormund waddle towards the pair determinedly.
Your husband opens his free arm to receive the babe. Despite the crick in his neck from staring at reports all day long and the dull ache in the small of his back, he takes both children in his arms gladly, before sauntering over to you.
The sun is overshadowed by the looming Laughing Storm as he beams down upon you with equal warmth.
“Let us hope that she gets your ferocity.” He plops himself down on the blanket, wincing at the heaviness of his own body, head immediately falling down your lap as he settles comfortably with both his children on each arm.
“She already has it, my love. She called the septa a horrid word today.”
“Ah, just like your mother, hm?” Juniper just hides her head in the crook of his neck bashfully.
You have no idea if his intention was to lie down on you, but no matter, you wanted him on your lap anyway. Raking your fingers through his wild curls on instinct, you watch as the sunshine drapes upon his face, immediately easing his stiff expression into a softened one. His eyes crinkled in the corners as he lets out a sigh of content, lips curling into a tender smile.
“We missed you in the council chamber this morning, still having headaches?” His brows knit in worry.
“Yes, unfortunately. Please give the Lords and Ladies my sincerest apologies.”
“You didn’t miss anything profound,” he scoffs, akin to a laugh. “It would’ve been less of a bore if you were there with me though.”
Your cheeks warm from his words, many moons later and after two children, he still finds the right words to fluster you. “I am sure that it would’ve been less of a dull affair.”
“No more talk of duty. What did the three of you do today?” Lyonel’s eyes shimmer with light, gazing up at you with such reverence that it would be considered heresy to the seven.
“Nothing much, sat, played, ate cake.” Smiling down upon him, you feed him a pinch of lemon cake that he immediately chews on, lips chasing your fingers. “It was such a hard and busy day, husband. What about you?” You tease, earning a soft chuckle from him.
From this angle and from the light, you notice more white hairs growing from his curls. He’s aging gracefully, and you smile at the thought. Like your husband’s wish for Juniper, you wish for time to slow down.
“Lord Swann has reported that the harvest won’t be enough for this season, so we mayhaps have to ask another loan from the Tyrells for a hundred or so bushels to not starve.” He answers, hands caressing Juniper’s back as she draws a rose, whilst the other traces Ormund’s chubby arms when he has taken his attention towards his toys. “I hate asking them for anything.”
“I know.” You coo lovingly, bending down to press a chaste kiss on his forehead that he chases your lips as you rise up with a chuckle. “Thank you for asking the Tyrells for help, my love, I know how hard that was for you.”
“Those rose scented lordlings might ask for the hand of our flower next time when Lord Tyrell has managed to give his Lady wife a son after five daughters.” He scoffs at the thought, if you asked him, he would’ve been happy enough with just one child. “That poor woman.”
“Mayhaps the Lady wanted it too.”
His eyes flick at you from Juniper’s drawing. “Mayhaps.” He utters, mind somewhere else, still utterly worried after hearing too many women succumbing to the stranger’s arms on their birthing bed. “I am quite content with having two perfect babes.”
“Three.”
“What?” Lyonel laughs as if you just told him an awful jest.
“I went to the maester this morning, the fatigue and the headaches aren’t from Lord Swann’s ramblings.” There’s a growing smile on his face, albeit wobbly. Just as you say it, your stomach makes a gurgling sound that is awfully familiar to him whenever he presses his ear against your swollen stomach. “I am with child again, which does not come as a surprise after all the nights we spent during my nameday tourney.”
“Gods, another Baratheon.” Sitting up, Lyonel places his hand gently upon your stomach. “I remember those nights.” He leans close, taking your face in his hand as he presses a saccharine kiss upon your waiting lips. “And so does Ser Duncan—”
“Hush!” Your eyes widen, grinning nervously as you look around only to find the gardens the same as before, no wandering ears to be found. While your children are too busy devouring the rest of the lemon cakes. “Lyonel!”
“What? We’ll soon find out if you birth a giant hay haired babe.”
“That is not funny!” And yet you laugh nonetheless.
“I’ll love him anyway.” He jests once again, he knows that the growing child inside of you is his when he remembers that exact night like it was yesterday.
“You are evil.” You laugh against his lips, whilst he pecks warmth into your skin.
—
You meet another son during the hour of the wolf. Your screaming kept the whole castle awake, and Lyonel thanks you for it since it has also kept him awake to witness Orys’ birth. The labours were normal according to the maester, but your heart plummeted in your stomach when your son wouldn’t cry the moment he was born. It took a good smack on his behind from the maester for him to cry, and to yours and Lyonel’s relief, you’ve given birth to another healthy babe.
Orys was a large baby, larger than his older brother. Whenever you would carry him in your arms to feed him, you look smaller in comparison. Lyonel was proud about that fact since it seems that his son got his Lord father’s size. Despite the dark hair and eyes, and the unmistakable Bartatheon look, there were cruel whispers going around the keep, no, the whole realm, that your son who looks strikingly like his Baratheon grandsire is actually the rising kingsguard, Ser Duncan’s bastard. Lyonel tried to put a stop to the rumours by showing Orys around the Storm’s End, and even around his vassal’s lands, but there were still some whispers about your son’s true father when the fact in the matter is glaring right at their faces.
No one saw it amusing when it had gotten to the point that it reached the small folk. Lyonel jests when it first started, even laughed at the prospect of it, but as the time went on, everyone from the north to Dorne knew about the rumour of Lord Baratheon’s unusually tall and quiet son, that they have dubbed him the, ‘Tall Storm’ to those that think the rumours are true, and the, ‘Quiet Storm,’ to those who know the truth.
Whenever Lyonel hears of the said whispers in his own walls, it garners his stormy wrath, so no one in their right mind, not even the jesters, would say it out loud. The last one who bravely did at his court had his tongue removed and sent to his mother in a box. You would disapprove, but you were starting to fear the consequences it would get once Orys and his siblings are older. The last thing you want is to sow strife between them, especially when the rumour is the farthest from the truth.
It doesn’t help when Orys is the opposite of his brother Ormund, whereas the elder is a mirror of his father when it comes to his attitude and disposition, Orys is quieter, bookish, and would rather stay inside than learn how to wield a sword and shield. He is still quite young, and his father hopes that he’ll grow out of it.
Out of all your children, Orys is the one who clings to you more. Whenever he’s not playing by himself or begging his septa or older siblings to read to him, he would always be found beside you. Clinging and hiding behind your skirts or being held in your arms. Lyonel sighs whenever he sees little Orys cling to you endlessly even during supper, but you always tell him that he is the same.
“Like father like son.” You have said, and all the words die on his tongue.
—
Lyonel hates waking up in the dead of night, he needs his rest, and he loves to huddle beside you, hogging your warmth, as if he wants to crawl inside your ribcage and lay asleep inside. But when he had babes of his own, he quickly got used to being woken up by a shrill cry in the night. Whether by Juniper or Ormund, he would immediately flip open the covers and sluggishly go over to their cots that you insisted they rest inside the shared chambers out of your own fear of losing them in the night or from a sudden chill.
With Juniper having her own chambers now, and with Ormund moved out of the nursery in favour of little Orys, who is as quiet as a mouse and would sleep throughout the night, Lyonel hasn’t woken up in the middle of the night in months. Until that is when he hears the softness of your voice stirring him awake, the same voice you would always use for your children, motherly and tender, even when you scold them.
“You shall be as brave and as bold as your father, Orys.”
Lyonel cracks an eye open, heavy with sleep as the rain pours down outside, turning the keep colder and damp. He then finds himself near the edge of his own bed, the privacy curtains grazing along his back from how far he is from your side.
Ormund sleeps beside him, or at least his feet is, when he is sleeping upside down with his head near the other end of the bed. He’s twitching in his sleep, drooling on the sheets that were just cleaned. Lyonel’s brow raises at the sight of his son, eyes going over him in search of you, only to see Juniper sleeping soundly beside her brother, cuddling her doll as she curls around herself.
Lyonel lifts himself by his elbow, looking over Juniper to see baby Orys wiggling around on the bed, fully awake, dark eyes fully open as he huffs whilst you run your index on the length of his nose gently. A loving act that you love doing with your children when they were still babes that seems to always calm them down.
“My sweet.” His voice crackles with sleep, deep and gruffed more than usual. “Why is half of the castle in our bed?”
You chuckle softly, tired yet happy eyes gazing at him. “The storm woke them up. Ormund couldn’t bear sleeping in his own chamber, while Juniper couldn’t fall back to sleep on her own.”
“I understand Orys’ reasoning.” His hand goes over his oldest and over to Orys who looks at him with those curious eyes of his. As Lyonel gently takes his small fist. “But I never expected it from these two.”
“I couldn’t find it within myself to say no.” You give him an apologetic look, but once he reaches for your cheek, the pads of his fingers dancing along your cheekbones, you then smile, knowing that your husband would not be able to say no either. “They won’t make it into a habit.”
Orys gurgles happily, milk bubbles dripping down his pudgy chin. You smile down at your son and wipe his face with such care that Lyonel wants to have another with you.
Lyonel chuckles, rests his head upon his fist as he gazes at his children and over to you fondly. “They better not, or else I’ll put a lock on our chamber door.”
Stifling a laugh, you reach over to him to caress his cheek. “I am sure they’ll grow out of it. Just like you had when you were little.”
“How’d you know that?” His brows furrow, and he has an intense urge to go over to your side of the bed and hold you even if that means that he would fall off the bed if he so moves a muscle.
“The old midwife told me.”
Lyonel hums, nodding as his dark eyes glimmer under the low light of the moon. “Teasing me this early in the day will have you staying abed until the afternoon.”
“Hollow threats, my love, when our children are in between us.”
“When they leave then.” Groaning, he sits up fully, eyeing baby Orys, who looks back at him with a gummy smile. “For now, I shall take away your happiness.”
You gasp, watching as he takes Orys from your side, holding onto him gently and supporting his neck before laying back down and placing him atop his chest. “Lyonel.” You whisper yell. “Give me back my son.”
“No,” he draws the word to add to the teasing. Orys wiggles atop his chest, warm and smelling like milk. From this angle, all swaddled in his Arryn blue blanket, Orys looks like a little worm. “My son and I need to bond. And you need to sleep, can you tell your mother that I am right, Orys?” Carefully grasping his chubby cheek, he makes the babe speak. “‘You are right, father.’” He mimes, talking in a high pitched tone.
You couldn’t help but laugh at his antics as your head plops onto the pillow, muffling your laughter.
—
You have the twins on a fine yet bloody day in the realm. It was during the rebellion, whilst their father and brother were out fighting, you were keeping the stranger away from your birthing bed. They come within two minutes from each other, and you were beyond exhausted, almost giving Lyonel a fright, more terrified than when he faced the Blackfyre army when you fainted from the bloodloss. Thankfully the maester brought you back from the brink, and now you’re chasing your sons down the hallway, dripping wet as they have escaped their baths.
The twins have proven to be a handful. When you thought that Ormund was the more problem child out of the bunch, always out looking for a fight, easily taunted and quick to anger, the twins are rebellious. They never listen to anyone, always running away hand in hand, like a pair of hopping fawns bolting away from the sound of footsteps. In this case, the footsteps are from their maester calling them for their lessons, or their poor septa telling them to stop climbing the walls or setting fire to the gardens.
They’d always go out of their way to play tricks on people, whether the target is their siblings, the servants or even you and Lyonel. The moment you hear their giggles echoing around the halls, you just knew they were up to some mischief.
The only person they would listen to is their father. One stern call of their names has them freezing mid run. You thought that when you named them after your older brother, Robert, and your uncle, Robin, it would be perfect for them. That they would embody their chivalry and kindness, but alas, the seven gave you two rambunctious children that refuse to bathe and attend their lessons.
They would still listen to you of course, only when they see that you are close to calling their father on them, or gods forbid, their aunt Juniper, whom you have called for help to discipline them. You truly needed the extra help when it came to them.
There are times that they would settle down though, and it’s with their older brother, Orys. He’d call for them in the library, and to yours and Lyonel’s surprise, they answered gladly. Orys would calmly read to them as the pair listened intently by his side. They always preferred the wild stories from Essos, and the histories of house Targaryen, to their father’s dismay.
Robert grew to love fishing, Lyonel would take you all on fishing trips when the waters at Ship Breaker’s bay are calmer, and when the summer sun shines upon the glittering tides. Robin grew to love hunting, him and his pet hound that he aptly named Aerion, after his platinum coat, would run around the forests of the Stormlands with either his father or the master at arms. You suspect that he got the name for the hound after Lyonel told him about the story of the Ashford tourney where he met you and participated in the once in a lifetime trial. Whenever Robin calls for Aerion, you bite your tongue lest you let out a guffaw unbefitting your station.
The twins look so alike that even you have trouble distinguishing them from the other. It takes you a few seconds to know which is which twin. Robin has dimples whenever he smiles, and a small mole in the corner of his eye. Whilst Robert’s curls curl the opposite way from his twin’s, and he has a birth mark in the shape of the narrow sea on the back of his hand. But that doesn’t stop them from switching places if they deem it so. To the ire of their maester and septa, they keep finding ways to disguise themselves as the other. Only when Lyonel is called or their aunt Juniper, is when they come running over to you to hide behind your skirt, flashing their big eyes they got from their father as they try to charm their way out of their punishment.
Once the twins are old enough to hold a sword without accidentally stabbing each other in the eye, they took to the sword and shield like you and Lyonel. The lessons were such a delight to them that they would either beg you and Lyonel to be taught, if neither of you weren’t able to, they would grab the master at arms and take him hostage in the training yard until they are satisfied with what they have learned. Ser Andros has many complaints about the pair. Mostly that they would work him to the bone. Not even Ormund was that determined to learn how to fight, and he is considered as the best fighter next to his father.
During the rare days where they would rather be under the covers and in their mother’s arms, you would always take the opportunity to have them settle beside you as they snore the day away. Under the light, the twins look a lot like you, only with Lyonel’s hair, eyes, and lips.
Rob and Rob, you’ve lovingly called them whenever they become petulant, have grown to be remarkable warriors in the making. Even their older brothers weren’t this quick with a sword, a fact that their father is proud of. Day and night, rain or shine, the boys would train together, honing their skills, trying to surpass your brothers, their brothers, and of course their father.
“One day,” you’ve heard Lyonel say to them as he spoke to them in the training yard whilst you pretended not to hear them as you helped Juniper and Orys with their bows. “You will surpass me in skill, for now, do not let your pride drive you, let it be your motivation. Strive to be of great renown through your own. You are a Baratheon and an Arryn, both the noblest of houses in the realm that has borne great warriors. Be good, be better than any of them.”
Their first tourney during Egg’s coronation had the two becoming champions. And they were only two and ten, both taller than children their age, which you did not allow at first just like their brothers had been, but they entered as the mystery knights, wearing both blue and golden colours upon their armour. With a sigil of two antlered falcons soaring above the sea. You knew it was them the moment they stepped foot on the muddy field. And yet you and your husband did not say anything to stop them when they are forging their own paths.
Robert and Robin Baratheon, the king’s champions. Your twin falcons who soared high to great renown before they were three and ten.
—
Lyonel walks through the hunting camp with heavy steps and a frown on his face. He holds onto three hares by their ears, smelling like death and iron as he walks past the many tents that were pitched on the edge of the forest. The hunting trip was a celebration, organized by the Tyrells to bid the betrothal between the houses a good fortune. Unfortunately though, it’s his own child’s betrothal, his Juniper, his flower that is to be wed to a Tyrell boy that she has seemingly, utterly, and unabashedly adores.
He’s happy for his child to have found a love match, but he doesn’t want his little girl, his princess to marry, not yet, it’s too soon for him. Lyonel has said his piece, he has told Juniper that she has to wait a few more years to marry since she is still far too young. To which you have agreed to, and to which both children have reluctantly agreed to, but the one thing you did not agree upon is his clear protest on the union.
You’ve seen how Juniper looks at the Tyrell lordling, the same look you have whenever you turn to Lyonel. And the boy, gods be good, he’s as lovestrucked as her. So much so that you and your future kin had them separate occasionally, lest they ride out of the hunting camp and elope in the middle of nowhere. But you can see the love between them, the innocent kind of love, the purest kind that when Juniper begged for the union, you did not think twice to grant her happiness.
Perhaps that is why Lyonel hasn’t spoken to you in a day and a half. He’s irked, annoyed by the turn of events. And when he was seeking your counsel, you went on and agreed for his little girl to be shipped off in the Reach, so far away, too far away from him.
When he enters the Baratheon pavilion, hares in hand with a scowl so deep that it turned the inside of the tent cold, his children paused from what they were doing.
Ormund stops cleaning his sword, Juniper clamps her mouth shut and stops her conversation with her betrothed on the settee, whilst the Tyrell boy shrinks under his gaze. The twins hastily takes off yours and his helm, hiding it behind their back. All the while Orys stops his reading, and Orys rarely stops his reading for anyone.
“Where’s your mother?” He asks them, and the servants drop what they are doing to curtsy and escape from the tension filling the tent.
Ormund would jest and say, “do you miss her that much, father?” But he doesn’t have a death wish.
“She went on a hunt, father.” Juniper is the only brave soul to answer him.
The hares almost falls from his grip. “Alone?”
“I think so.”
“She’s been away for hours, father.” Orys, the usually quiet one, the one that doesn’t fan the flames, actually fans the flames under his father. “Said that she won’t come back until she hunts a boar for the feast.”
“On her own?” Stepping forward, his heart grows heavy in his chest. “Why didn’t any of you join her?” His dark eyes turn to his oldest son, then over to Juniper. “Hm?” They haven’t seen him this furious ever since prince Aerion came back from his banishment.
Lyonel rarely gets mad, especially at his children. When it comes to his family, he is awfully patient with them, he doesn’t raise his voice, nor use his hand to strike. He promised to be a good father, and he tries to be one. But when it comes to your safety and theirs, they get a glimpse of the storm underneath his fatherly nature.
“She told us to stay.” Juniper replies calmly, ever the voice of reason for her siblings.
“I insisted, father. I tried to accompany her.” Ormund adds, swallowing thickly as Lyonel’s eyes turn to him once again. “I did try.”
Lyonel sighs, and places the hares on the table. He lets out another breath, and another, and another, until he feels himself calm down.
“Which direction did she go?” He utters softer this time around, and he could feel the tension ebb away.
“North.” Orys simply says, before going back to read his hefty book.
“I’m off,” his hands leave the corner of the table. “If she comes back here without me, send a man for me. I have words with your mother.”
“Yes, father.”
He opens the tent, and the sunshine outside nearly blinds him. Lyonel is about to go on his horse when he hears the commotion coming from the northern edge of the forest.
There, basking under the sun, neck and arms coated in fresh blood, hair matted with crimson, is you. Riding on your horse, as a dead stag drags from behind.
People come out of their tents to watch the Lady Baratheon, who has just announced that she is with another child once again, ride into the hunting grounds with her husband’s sigil dead and dragged behind her.
“Gods…” A Tyrell squire, the same age as his Ormund mutters behind him. “I want a wife like that.”
You stop your horse right in front of your husband, looking down at him over your nose. “Husband.”
The crowd and the Lords around the two of you expected a fiery dispute between the two of you. Words hurled, all equally angry, instead of what happens next.
Lyonel lets out a booming guffaw that shakes his whole body. He laughs, the Laughing Storm lives for his name as he almost keels over from laughter. Whilst you, covered in the blood of his house’s sigil, laughs along with him.
“Seven hells, my love.” The laugh lingers in his throat, smiling up at you with reverence as he holds his arms up to you. “Message received.”
You let him get you off your horse, holding onto his steady shoulders as you grin at him. Leaning close, you whisper to him. “Truth be told, this wasn’t my intention. I thought I shot a boar.”
He guffaws again, reaching to grasp at your bloodied cheeks. “We need your eyes looked at by the maester.”
“Perhaps.” You snort out a chuckle. “I am deeply sorry, for the argument we had, and the stag I shot.”
Peeking to your side, looking at the deer, he shrugs. “He’s not my kin, it’s not as if you killed an uncle of mine. Besides, I found it fucking hilarious. You put out a good show for them.”
“I learned from the best,” he pecks your forehead for all to see. “even though it is not my intention.”
“How is the babe?” With a hand upon your armoured stomach, he lets his warmth seep through the leather. “Were you hurt?”
“No, I’m fine, the blood sprayed on me when I took out the arrow.” You can see his worry fade away, hands still holding onto you as he rests his forehead on yours.
“I’m deeply sorry too.” He mumbles, not caring for the eyes on him. He’s holding his wife, they should be the one looking away. “I should’ve heard Juniper’s reasoning.”
“You’re her father,” you take him by his cheek, gazing at him with love. “It is only expected that you wish for her to never leave home. Most fathers are the same. I would wish for her to stay with us forever but it can’t be, not when she has found her love, just like we have.”
“The others fucking geld me.” He inhales deeply, “Why do you always have to be right, hm?” Taking your cheek once again, he peppers your skin with kisses whilst you laugh, also not caring for the stares. Mayhaps a bard would write a song about this encounter. “Come inside, we shall have a bloody feast.”
Lyonel takes you by the hand, not minding the blood on yours when his hand is also bloody. When he turns around, he sees his children look at the two of you with the same expression— disgust.
The older Juniper, your handmaiden is beside them, clearly stifling a laugh. “Now you all know why there are five of you, with the sixth on the way.”
“Did you two have to kiss in front of the whole hunting party?!” Juniper groans, hiding her face in her hands out of embarrassment.
—
Ella was born with a striking resemblance to you. The only child who looks more like you than Lyonel, except for her dark curls and dark eyes, she is you, only a younger, more sweeter version of you. Even your older brothers could see it, especially your father and mother, who cried when she first held Ella during her first nameday.
“Our last babe,” Lyonel has said after Ella’s birth as he carries her in his arms, looking so small, so delicate. “No more, my love.” His words were tender, worried, terrified. He knows about the prophecy you were once told nearly two decades ago, and he has reassured you that no harm will come to them. But who could possibly know what the future holds as you lay sore and still bleeding with the afterbirth? Lyonel loves every single one of his children, but you’re his great love, the one he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He’d rather put the whole realm to the torch than lose you on the birthing bed or any cruel fate that befalls you.
His children are your greatest gift to him, and he’d rather see you watch them grow old with him than fulfill some prophecy. He doesn’t want to be the reason why his children never got to know their mother who loves them dearly.
Ella is the sweetest out of the siblings, but she has the same hidden ferocity as you. When push comes to shove, she will shove back.
She’s tenacious, a fighter who could use her wit as good as a dagger in her hand. She’d either have a scowl on her pretty face or a grin that parts the grey clouds of Storm’s End. To no one’s surprise, she has her father wrapped around her finger. She was as spoiled rotten as her older siblings, you and Lyonel may have grown old but the two of you did not lack in parenting Ella. She was rarely somber, a cry from her happens once in a blue moon, but when it does appear, a sob threatening to spill from her eyes because a toy broke, or her brothers were teasing her too much, or a simple frustration, the whole keep comes to her side. Whether that’s you, her father or her handmaidens, she was truly never alone.
When King Egg announced the betrothal that the three of you have conversed intensely about for nearly a year, Ella was sorrowful at first. Until she met the heir apparent. Prince Duncan was the prince she always had in mind, handsome and chivalrous. The kind of man who would treat your daughter right.
So she begged you to teach her how to be a Lady, how to be a perfect queen once she ascended the iron throne even when the thought alone terrifies you and Lyonel.
She’s your little girl, and Lyonel’s princess. If it were up to you she would not have to marry a prince, that she would marry someone she loves. But it’s for the alliance, an age-old alliance between the Baratheons and the Targaryens that spans beyond you and Lyonel, even King Aegon himself.
So Ella toiled away, read all the books, practiced her etiquette, in preparation to be the queen of the seven kingdoms. You could only hope that you and your husband will be there to protect her, knowing all the dangers the red keep has slithering in the dark corners of their castle.
But you both know that you can’t protect your children forever, but you can teach them how to fight, how to defend themselves. And Ella learned it too, just like her older sister did, just like all her brothers did. So when the time comes that she needs to wield a sword, she would know how.
But alas, no matter how much love, how much care you put all into your youngest, the realm will never know how great of a queen she would’ve been.
—
Lyonel eases his horse in front of a known tavern in his land, whilst you halt yours beside him. You’re both accompanied by guards, all wielding weapons, all sworn to protect your house.
The noise coming from the inside of the tavern echoes outside, and as Lyonel helps you off the horse, and the mud cakes around your boots, you quickly stomp over to the door.
What greets you has you grabbing onto the nearest thing to you— a vase. You hurl it towards all the fighting, shattering it into a million pieces as the patrons and the fighters stop in shock. All staring perplexed at their liege Lord and Lady. Even Lyonel was taken aback.
“Ormund Baratheon.” Your words carry around the tavern, felt by all the unruly sons inside. “Home. Now.”
Lyonel stifles his grin at the sight of Ormund looking far better than his opponent. His nose is bleeding, and there is a blooming bruise on his cheek. But it does not compare to the man in his fist, who is fighting to stay awake.
“Mother, I—” Your son frowns, a mirrored image of your husband whenever you tell him that he has had enough wine. “I did not mean to—”
“Now, Ormund.” You will hear him later, for now, you let your anger out to let him know that you are not in the mood to be charmed. You did not raise a son so he could go out and brawl in a tavern.
His eyes then turns to his father, asking for help.
Lyonel shakes his head, giving him a look that says, “you’re on your own, son, not even I could calm her.”
Sighing, Ormund gathers his belongings, plops a few silver on the table and leaves with his head down.
“As for everyone in this tavern,” they see a stormy side of you, a side that Lyonel adores as much as your softer side whilst you glare at every patron inside. “if I ever see any of your faces in my keep I will shoot an arrow right into your hearts myself.”
Lyonel feels the familiar warmth bloom in the pit of his stomach. “Gods, my doe, that was…”
“Not today, Lyonel.” You say with a pointed gaze. Before sighing, eyes softening as you turn to him once again. “Maybe later if you agree with me when we talk to your son.”
“Now he’s just my son, and not yours—” his mouth clamps shut, he’s not ruining his chances. “yes, of course, my love.”
—
You take a trip in the narrow sea, just a few ways away from Ship Breaker’s bay, accompanied by two more ships filled with guards in case pirates decide that it’s their day to perish from Lord Baratheon’s sword. The waters are calm and warm, as the sun shines all around you. It’s a perfect day for a swim, which Lyonel has decided on a whim that it is time for a quick excursion out at sea.
“It’s the perfect day,” he said, hair greying at the edges, eyes crinkling in the corners and yet looking as handsome as the day you met him. With a kiss from him, you agreed.
The children loved the idea, and so you found yourself on a ship floating in the middle of the narrow sea whilst your children swim and jump into the water.
Juniper shrieks as she gets pushed by Ella into the water, before she hops out of the boat and yelps once the water hits her. Ormund takes laps around the ship, using the time to exercise and increase his endurance, all the while the twins are plotting against their older brother. You could hear the muffled, “pull him under,” and “pull his breeches off,” from them. You decide to let them be, unless someone is drowning then you have no cause for concern as you bathe under the sunshine in a simple cotton dress.
The sun suddenly gets blocked by a Lyonel shaped shadow.
Taking a peek at the intrusion, you smile immediately once you see how red his bare chest has become. His curls are damp from the salty sea, and he has an easy twinkle in his eye, the same one that always appears when he spends time with his family away from duties.
“Didn’t I tell you that the concoction the maester made would prevent exactly that.” You gesture around his chest, ogling it, almost getting lost by staring at the ridges and muscles. “I could help put it on you, my stag.”
“Tempting, but that is not why I am here.” Sitting down beside you on the floor, you just now noticed the two wooden sparring swords in his hands.
“Why do you have that with you?”
“The twins brought it, I had them spar to see how much they’ve improved.” His corded neck tilts back, groaning as he lets the sun shine on him. Gods, you want to sit on his lap and trace his neck with your lips. “They did well.”
“And? What’s the problem with that?”
“I tried to coax Orys out of his corner, using the excuse of sparring with me. Not even Ormund could get him to stand up and fight. The boy annoys him to no end, he would’ve managed to get him to fight him.” He runs a hand through his salt drenched hair. “He’s just so…quiet.”
The mention of your second son has the two of you turning your heads towards him. Orys is tucked in a corner, hiding from the sun in what little shadow he has as best as he could. His long legs are folded, with a tome sitting atop his knees, reading like always.
“I’m afraid that he wants to become a maester. That means he will have to forsake our name one day.” Lyonel says solemnly, words weaved with worry.
“If that’s the path he has chosen then so be it.” Facing your husband with a tight-lipped smile, you hold his hand, weaving your fingers around his own before leaving a peck to each of his knuckles. “What’s so bad at becoming a maester if that’s what would make him happy?”
“He will have to shed the Baratheon name, my love, our name, his legacy, in favour of dusty old books.” Shaking his head, he watches his children play in the water instead. “I worry for him. And I hate that I do not understand our son.”
“Then talk to him.” You say with utmost love for both. “Try to understand him.”
“I don’t understand him, my doe. Sometimes I do think that he’s Duncan’s—” he stops himself, wincing at the words he let out. “I did not mean that.”
“I know.” You touch his face, and leans into your gentle caress. “But he is yours, you and I both know that. He is the splitting image of your Lord father, there is no denying that. He is your son, our son. And I understand him, just like how I understand you and our children. Give him time, spend that time with him. Mayhaps you will learn something about him that you didn’t know.”
Lyonel kisses your palm, eyes closed as his kiss lingers atop your skin before reluctantly pulling away. “I will try.”
“You promised that we will do better, trying is already half of it, my love.” With a kiss to his lips that has him melting in your hands like candle wax, Lyonel chases your lips when you lean away. He would whisk you below deck to the chambers if not for his fatherly duties.
“Wish me luck?”
“If he doesn’t throw the tome on your head then you’re already doing well.” You give him another peck for luck. “Good luck, my stag.”
Groaning, knees creaking as he stands up, he walks over to Orys like how one approaches an animal, slowly, carefully, lest Orys runs and dives away from him.
“What are you reading?” That’s a good start, and you give him a reassuring nod that encourages him even more. The moment Orys gazes up at him, you see your boy subtly smile at his father. The kind that is easily missed by anyone. Perhaps Lyonel could see it now that he is sitting beside him, conversing with Orys in a hushed tone.
“Mother!” Ormund yells from the water, spluttering out gasps of air as his arms flail in the air.
You vault from your seat, screaming at the edge of the ship. “Robert! Robin! Stop trying to drown your brother!”
Ormund takes a deep gasp as the twins surface from under the water and appears beside him. “Sorry, mother…”
“Gods be good.” And yet, you wouldn’t trade this for the world. You thank your lucky stars that you snuck out of the Arryn tent that night, you would never have thought that the single act would give you six children, and a husband who loves and cherishes you and your rumbactious fawns.
A/N: thank you for reading please reblog if you liked it!! ❤️
Tags: wartime angst, mention of battle wounds, cleaning each other's bruised skin as foreplay, oral sex (male receiving), vaginal fingering
Wordcount: 2,535
After months side by side with you on the road and the battlefield, Cregan has come to count you as his most trusted swords. On the eve of his march towards King's Landing to reclaim it, the two of you spend a moment alone to nurse each other's wounds.
Cregan Masterlist
The Great Hall of Winterfell was busy with voices, all trying to be heard over the noise of discussions and debates. It had been years since the assembly was this passionate about a topic, and all sorts of arguments were being heard, even though most voices spoke as one on the matter—the North could not join the war against Aegon the usurper.
All were discussing what Prince Jacaerys had just demanded from them as though he was not present. At Cregan’s side, the prince was looking rather dismayed, not quite losing his composure, but less and less confident by the minute.
“You bring war to our doorstep while winter is upon us,” Lord Karstark interjected, addressing Jacaerys directly—he was a severe looking man, with a beard longer than the hair on the prince’s head. “Our survival is our priority.”
Men around him acquiesced loudly, with nods of their heads. “We northerners keep away from the matters of the south,” Lord Glover added before picking up his mug of ale, as though the question was closed.
At that, the young lord Manderly nodded, barely a child at the head of a great house, and still influenced by his peers. “This is a Targaryen conflict, perhaps we’d do well to keep out of it,” he suggested, still looking upon the prince with pity.
Cregan was about to intervene, when suddenly, you stood up. “Lady Cerwyn,” he said, mostly for the sake of Jacaerys, who did not know your name.
Recently at the head of your house since the passing of your uncle without any issue, you were among the few women at this table, but no less respected or feared. While Cregan had met you on several occasions throughout your youth, he knew little more than your name and your reputation for being skilled with the sword and the ax.
“War will soon be at our doorstep, Lord Karstark, whether or not the young prince flies to us,” you admonished. “Do you think the North would be spared from the fire of dragons if the usurper flew to us, or Gods forbid, won this war?”
“It is a Targaryen matter—” the old man tried to defend once more.
“It may be a Targaryen matter, but House Stark swore an oath,” you reminded them, and all fell silent at the mention of Rickon Stark bending the knee. “Would you have us betray it?”
“Would you have our men fighting south while our women and children suffer the winter alone?” Lord Glover inquired, setting his empty cup down sharply.
“Well, our women can fight as well, can’t they?” the young Manderly suggested, which seemed to please you, and you gave him a friendly pat to the shoulder.
“It is a matter of honor, lads,” Lord Umber finally joined the debate. “We northerners never forget an oath, and as Lady Cerwyn said, will we allow a usurper to take the throne and govern us?”
At that Cregan finally rose as well, followed a second later by Prince Jacaerys, whose gaze was fleeting from him to you. The Warden gave you a slow, grateful nod, which you answered with pride. “In the end, if Lord Cregan judges it necessary that we march south, then we shall,” you said decidedly, as though you were speaking for all. “We will follow you, my Lord.”
“We shall march south, then,” Cregan addressed his men. “Gather your warriors and your banners, and we shall meet at the Crossing in two moons time.”
Hayford castle was small and devastated, not nearly large enough to host their wounded nor offer a resting place for their dead, but it would have to do. It had been over a year now since the North had marched and joined forces with the Riverlands, and now their goal was within reach, but not before war had extracted a heavy toll. Mere days prior they had faced the Baratheon army and won at great cost to their numbers.
Some of the men had dug rows of trenches on the estate, turning the field behind the castle into the largest resting place Cregan had ever seen. Cregan had noticed young Kermit holding a journal with notes with as precise an account of each man as possible even though it was an impossible endeavor. All trenches were set ablaze one by one, not after a word of solemn respect and a minute of quiet contemplation.
Cregan thought these men deserved better than to be laid to rest so far from their homes, but such was the way of war, and he suspected many would fall again when they would take King’s Landing, which was where they marched towards, now.
He had been given the rooms reserved for the king when he travelled to the crownlands on procession or for hunting, and it was more comfort than he had seen in months. A large basin of steaming water had been brought, and while it was not quite a bath, it would serve, however he struggled to take his armor off without a squire or a fellow knight to assist him.
Instead it was you who entered the borrowed chambers without so much as a knock—he suspected that in so close quarters with men on camps and battlefields, you had learned to set aside any bashfulness.
“The maester gave me a salve for bruises. I thought it would serve,” you said, setting the vial on a nearby table. “Shall I assist you?”
It was not the first time you had served as a squire should have, helping him in or off his armor, but it was the first time it was in such close quarters. The battlefield often resulted in bonds of brotherhood, closeness that could only be born out of sheer desperation to remain alive and save the man fighting back to one’s back, and you had been no exception to it.
From the first day, you had followed him almost blindly, shielding him as he shielded you, and fighting as fiercely as any man.
“Are you wounded?” he asked.
“Let us tend to you first. You led us to victory, allow me to ensure you live long enough to see us home,” you replied quietly, and while it made him smile privately, he knew you meant every word.
Setting the steel aside, you did not avert your eyes when he shed his stained gambeson and shirt, which you took from him and dropped into a bucket that would be collected by the maids in the morning. He was broad and big, with bulky muscle under thick, bruised skin.
His chest was black and purple, with a shallow gash across his stomach, following the front curve of his ribs—you could see the marks of close fighting, where maces had been swung into his back or chest, or swords had attempted to pierce his armor.
“It is not victory yet,” he reminded you, reaching for the large basin the maid had left on the dinner table along with a pitcher and linen cloths. However before he could pick it up, you had reached for one and dipped it into the fresh water.
“We’re only a day’s ride from King’s Landing now,” you reasoned as you ran the wet cloth across his chest and shoulders, and the quiet intimacy of the gesture settled in his bones.
He was usually the one to care for his men, to watch over them as they caught an hour of rest on the side of the road, hold them down as the Maester treated them, or wipe their brows when the healers were stretched thin and could not tend to them all.
“The city might be ours within the week,” he said quietly, to which you hummed your agreement.
He groaned when you ran the cloth at the back of his neck, leaning into you instinctively. Water rivulets were running down his abdomen and into the waistband of his trousers, but he did not dare reach for them. While you were one of his soldiers, you were still a woman, and he doubted you would appreciate the sigh of a bare man outside of a bed you had invited him to.
“Think not of it for tonight,” you murmured, reaching for his face gently. “You’ll need all your strength and a clear head.”
Cregan paused then, but did not pull away. It wasn’t until you were wiping at the grime on his temple that he realized how sore and weary he truly was, and for a moment, he allowed you to hold him upright, and bear his burden.
“Assist me, will you?” you asked, as normal as could be, reaching for your own belt and shedding your doublet—your armor no doubt laid somewhere in the castle, perhaps even with the blacksmith.
Before he could inquire about modesty, you had turned your back to him and reached for the nape of your neck, pulling your undershirt over your head. That was when he noticed the thick linens wrapped around your chest. You looked at him over your shoulder as he cut the fabric that bound your breasts, and the trust you had in him made his throat tight.
As you had done for him, Cregan wet a cloth and ran it across your back, mindful of the bruises that had bloomed under your skin. Fighting his instincts and the rising warmth in his stomach, he resisted the urge to press a kiss to your shoulders, to follow the trickle of water that fell into the divot of your spine, then down past the waistband of your trousers.
“Cregan,” you called softly, one eye still observing him from over your shoulder, holding his gaze as you turned to face him, baring your chest to him.
He swallowed heavily but did not say a word, instead mirrored the care you had shown him, washing the grime gathering at your collarbone, focusing his attention away from the two mounds of your breasts that peaked in the cold—or perhaps from his touch. Without a word you unlaced your trousers, and it made him want to curse aloud, even more so when you stepped out of them, not before kicking your boots aside, and stood entirely bare in front of him.
He indulged in the sight of your skin, as bruised as his own was, and the curves of your body, and followed the rivulets of water down your navel, then lower. The way you sighed as he touched you, the damp cloth the only barrier between your folds and his fingers, was more soothing than any salve on his sore heart.
“Allow me?” you asked, reaching for his own trousers, and he could only manage a quiet grunt in answer.
His stomach quivered as you unlaced the leathers and he kicked the remainder of his clothes much as you had. His cock had started to stir, heavy between his legs, and your mere gaze upon it was enough to make him widen his stance, shifting to accommodate his growing desire.
The wet cloth was passed back and forth then, wiping skin clear and stoking the embers of desire until it could not be ignored anymore. Despite the exhaustion and the thrumming pain, you fell into each other, your mouth finding his, and he groaned into your kiss.
He pulled you into him by the small of your back and you felt his cock fill and harden against your belly, igniting a fire within your core. Rolling his hips into yours, he hissed, a groan tearing out of his chest as a burst of pain erupted behind his ribs.
“I don’t think I can—” he said regretfully, which you silenced with a short press of your lips to his.
“Trust me,” you said, and he wanted to reply that were you to hold his very life in your hands, he would trust you with it, but instead he let you guide him to the large bed and press him to the sheets, climbing after him with the same focus he’d seen whenever you drew your bow and aimed.
The first lick to his cock nearly made him shout, throwing his head back against the cover, and he hardly managed to swallow his desperate moan when you closed your mouth around the head and sucked, gentle, easing him into it. He could not remember the last time he had tended to his own needs, even less when he’d had a woman’s mouth between his thighs.
Slowly, stroke after stroke, he melted into the sheets, tension bleeding out of his very bones. The heat of your mouth around his cock was a touch of heaven, and it took all his strength to mind his wounds and not thrust into the tight pressure.
Within a minute he was panting out loud, his hips quivering under your hands with the force of his restraint. To have such a warrior splayed as he was beneath you was heady. You enjoyed the weight of him on your tongue, the sharp focus it required, and how it forced you to calm your breath and slow your mind.
Listening to his groans and occasional frustrated hisses, you followed the sounds of his pleasure to guide the rhythm of your head and the swirls of your tongue, your hand reaching between your thighs to soothe your own throbbing desire.
“Gods be good—” he cursed, bitterness spreading on your tongue, and you knew he was not far from his breaking point.
Hand on his hip, you held him down firmly, the rhythm of your mouth unrelenting, and he tensed to the point where you feared he would hurt himself. Suddenly the rope snapped and he groaned aloud, spilling inside your mouth in hot bursts—the sound of his ecstasy only made you grind your hips down, chasing your own pleasure.
Cregan caught his breath while you pulled away and wiped your mouth on a corner of the sheets, but then he was eager to tend to you. “Come,” he said, his voice rough, guiding you to straddle his stomach, still mindful of his ribs.
He was quick to join his fingers to yours—he pushed inside at your silent request, two of his thick fingers pressing against the spot inside of you that made you clench and shiver.
With a hand on your hip to rock you against him, he let you take your pleasure as you wished. He crooked his fingers in time with the tight circles you were drawing on your core, keeping the same rhythm until your mouth dropped open and you stilled, clenching around his digits as your body shuddered.
Once the waves had passed and you grew languid again, Cregan cradled you against his chest, uncaring for the sting in his ribs and you settled into him with a contented sigh, slumber crawling at the edges of both your minds.
On the morrow the two of you would ride side by side towards King’s Landing and face your last enemy—if victory indeed awaited you as you seemed to believe, Cregan knew what he would ask then, for you to return north not only as one of his loyal bannermen, but as his lady wife.
A/N: Dividers by @/saradika. Based on a request by @zaldritzosrose.
you disappear into the sudden onslaught of a winter storm. cregan refuses to lose you.
word count: 5.7k
notes/warnings: karstark!reader, fem!reader (no physical description but reader is referred to as lady stark/wife), hurt/comfort, violence, descriptions of hypothermia, death of a man and an animal but i did my best to not be too descriptive, force feeding (drinking?) depicted as necessary, implied sexual content, cregan has a direwolf bc I SAY SO idgaf if it’s not canon, my depiction of hypothermia is based on reliable sources such as the mayo clinic and reddit asks, mentions of pregnancy
a/n: heavily inspired by this lovely lovely piece by @dreamfyr-e !!!
❅ ❅ ❅
Every Northerner knew: to get caught in a snowstorm was the same as walking into your own grave.
The party had set out from Karhold over a week ago. The visit to your childhood home to see your sister and her new child had lasted three weeks, and while you were excited to meet your nephew and see your family, the ancient castle no longer felt like your home.
A few ravens came to and from Winterfell throughout your time at Karhold. You were never truly that far from your husband if his letters came within four days of him sending it, but that changed little. By the end of your visit, even your sister could see–you were eager to return to what you now called home, to the arms of your Cregan.
“I still don’t believe you when you tell me what he’s like with you,” She mumbled when she was helping you pack the remaining of your belongings, “Times I’ve met him, he’s hardly spoken other than giving his men orders. Always looks like he’s swallowed a lemon.”
“He’s a man of few words, yes,” You conceded, “But he’s always been so gentle with me, Asha. Never raised his voice or his hand.”
She scoffed. “I doubt you would let any man raise a hand against you, even if he is Warden of the North. Remember what the boys used to call you when we were little?”
“That’s true,” You responded, somewhat smugly, “But Cregan’s never given me reason to bring out the ‘Cunt of Karhold.’”
Your route there had been kind to you. This winter had already stretched long and proven brutal, but the months leading up to your visit had been tame. You left Winterfell with the utmost confidence in your safety.
The party rode to the northeast, stopping for one night at Dreadfort, the halfway point between your new home and ancestral one, the weather had calmed and the conditions of the roads had been so favorable that your party arrived at Karhold one day early.
The same could not be said for the return.
The temperature dropped two weeks before you left. A harsh storm came and went during that time, lasting three days and causing you to consider postponing your departure by another week, even if you didn’t want to.
Your safety is paramount, Cregan had written after receiving your letter posing the question, I would not fault you for your caution. I would rather you return to me later than not at all, my love.
But the storm had already gone by then. The Karstark scouts said that roads had been cleared rather quickly. The snowstorm was a fluke, they explained, the weather should return to how it had been of late.
And you listened. The bannermen accompanying you listened. And now you were all about to die.
Visibility was high, the cold bearable, the roads truly in good condition, and you made it to Dreadfort with few issues. Leaving Dreadfort was where things had taken a turn for the worse. Now, two days later, you weren’t sure you’d even see the walls of Winterfell before freezing to death.
The storm had truly come from out of nowhere. That morning, you’d risen from your camp with the reassuring knowledge that you were less than a day’s ride from the northern capital. By that evening, you would be in the comfort of your own bedroom, with a hot bath, a belly full of food, and the wall of warmth that was your lord husband to welcome you home.
Now, the party was falling apart around you. It had become darker as the short winter day drew to a close. The wind had picked up, visibility had dropped with the same dreadfulness of a falling cup you knew would shatter upon impact. It was snowing sideways.
“How far are we, ser?” You yelled to one of your guards, voice muffled against the yowling of the storm. You were squinting to keep your eyes as free from falling snow as possible, but it also meant seeing even less than what you could currently see. Your horses were quickly becoming panicked.
“I’d wager less than two hours, Lady Stark,” He answered, “But we must make haste.”
The group of you—consisting of you and about twenty bannermen—tried your damnedest to rally, to push forward. Home was so close, you could make it if you hurried. Everyone was rattled and on edge, men snapping at each other at the slightest provocation. The horses were jittering, put off by the cold.
You, attempting to use your authority over them all to force them to just go faster. The cold made Winterfell feel even further than it currently was, turning the earth elastic. Pulling it far and taut.
Cregan, we’re coming, you wanted to call, please, let us come home.
And then the tree fell.
The wind, already blowing so hard, gave an even stronger gust. With a terrible crack, and a long, loud groan, a dead tree came down on you all. You gripped the reins of your horse with all your remaining strength, barely managing to pull it away as the trunk came crashing down.
BOOM
The sound echoed across the forest, causing your heart to drop. Even more snow kicked up off of the ground as a result of the impact. You watched at least one man get crushed under the massive tree, his cries silenced by the roar of the wind and the angry crash.
Startled horses scattered, unable to be calmed by their riders. Yours bucked, once, twice, and for the longest second you’ve ever experienced, you thought she would flip, and crush you beneath her.
Instead, she squealed in terror, and turned to run. You watched as the party disappeared into the storm, wind biting at your cheeks and pulling the hood of your cloak back.
“No,” You demanded, yanking on the reins to no avail, “Go back, go back, go back—!”
❅ ❅ ❅
The papers on his desk had been abandoned about half an hour ago. Cregan Stark was pacing the length of the room. He hadn’t spoken since someone had answered his questions, and the advisors were growing anxious at the unreadable look on his face.
“Is the storm expected to stop?” Cregan asked from the desk.
“The clouds are dense, my lord,” The maester said, “I would expect this storm to last till the morrow, at least.”
His scowl deepened. “And no one has heard from my wife’s party. My wife’s party, who should have been spotted by now, per the raven they sent this morning.”
The maester looked down, unable to meet those intense gray eyes. “...No, my lord. There has been no word from the scouts.”
No one could hear it, but everyone in the room could see the heaving of his chest, the flaring of his nostrils, the occasional twitching of his fingers. His energy pushed outwards, pressing against everyone like a weight on their chests.
Cregan Stark did not get nervous. No, Cregan Stark inspired nervousness in others. And yet, now, at the concept of his wife disappearing into the snow, he seemed to be doing both. Even Bear, the Warden of the North’s large, frightening direwolf paused from licking at his black and brown coat to track his master’s movements.
He stopped, before turning to face the men in his study. The entire room held its breath.
“We—”
“Lord Stark, my lord—!”
The door slammed open, and a guard entered the room, panting. He had clearly run from the courtyard, cheeks red, cloak dusted with snow. He was panting heavily, leaning against the doorframe for support. At the interruption, Cregan reared on the young man, angry gaze more wolf than man.
“Erik,” He grunted, “What is the meaning–”
“The party is not f-far,” Erik said quickly, breathless, “But something has gone wrong. One man is presumed dead, two men are missing, and L-Lady Stark—”
All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room as the man bent over, coughing with overexertion. Suddenly, with a stalking gait, Cregan was crossing the room, almost lunging for him. Some men stood at the sudden movement, but made no attempt to hold him back. Cregan’s arms shot out, gripping him by the shoulders and shaking. Gray eyes flashed with madness, and he paid no mind to the smaller man’s heaving in his face as he got in close.
“What about Lady Stark, boy? Where the fuck is my wife—”
“Her horse–her horse was startled. It ran further into the woods. They—” More coughing, “—they cannot find her.”
The guard fell to the floor as Cregan dropped him. His eyes were wide, his emotions now tangible: heavy, angered panting, matching with the rhythmic rising and falling of his hulking shoulders.
He looked back at his advisors. “Ready my horse and my wolf at once.”
“My lord, you will freeze–”
His tone left no room for discussion. “Prepare a search party at once. And bring me something from her chambers. Bear will need it to track her scent.”
❅ ❅ ❅
The truest darkness lives in the forests of the North. You were living it now, barely able to see anything except for the rough outlines of tree trunks, which went on for miles. Not that you could see them that far.
You couldn’t tell how long had passed. The snow had never let up.
The panic didn’t set in immediately. First, you called for your bannermen. Shouted their names over and over until their names began to sound foreign. Don’t panic, you tried to tell yourself, conserve your energy.
It had gotten you nowhere, body beginning to shiver as you realized you were alone and couldn’t make out the path your horse had dragged you down.
Winterfell is north. Just go north. Which way is north?
The shivering turned painful. Shoulder blades locked stiffly as you hunched into yourself. You could hardly feel your fingers gripping the reins of the horse, even under thick lined leather gloves. You tried to orient yourself, but it proved difficult. Dusk had passed. It was now night. You had no torch or means of making a flame to light your way, the falling snow blocking what little you could see.
Surrounded by trees, with no discernible landmarks or visible light in the distance to guide you further, you wandered the woods with your horse, trying to follow your horse’s tracks back to your party. Even if they were gone, if you could find the fallen trunk, you would know which way to go. If any of them had followed your path, you would run into them, and you could return together.
The minutes stretched into hours, a seemingly endless night suffocating you. The feeling in your nose disappeared first. Where once your cheeks burned from the cold, now the sensation bloomed into nothingness. Blowing hot air into your gloves—a constant shaky hah-hah-hah that might have helped this morning—now did next to nothing to relieve your trembling fingers.
You don’t know when your eyelashes froze, but you only noticed when you took note of the foggy white ring encroaching on your peripheral vision. When you blinked, you heard the softest crunch in the way you could hear yourself swallowing or breathing. You could only assume the same was happening with your eyebrows.
And when you realized your horse was taking you in circles, the poor creature also suffering from the cold, you realized you no longer knew what to do.
The shouts turned to screams. You hadn’t screamed out of fear in years, perhaps not since you were a child. No reason to. This was primal, brewing at your sternum and building up, up, up with every desperate rise and fall of your breath. When the pressure could be held no longer, it escaped you.
Screaming for Cregan, which you knew made no sense. He was even further than your party, but it changed nothing. You screamed and screamed and screamed, until it turned to wailing.
Wailing for your mother, who had died years ago. Who would certainly be of less help than your bannermen or Cregan now, barring divine intervention.
Mind slowly growing foggy and voice going hoarse, you finally admitted it to yourself. You were lost. Well and truly lost.
❅ ❅ ❅
The search party assembled and departed with a quickness that would have made Cregan proud of his men under any other circumstances. Now, however, he could only feel anger, concern, determination.
I’m coming, love, he thought, I’ll not let you get away from me.
His men, armed with torches, extra pelts and blankets tucked in their packs, and flasks of hot mulled wine, set off in the direction your bannermen had said they’d last seen you. Your horse, spooked by a fallen tree, had run southwest in the commotion. Before they’d left, a servant had brought him one of your hairbrushes. He’d let Bear sniff some at the hair caught in the bristles, and knew that as long as they found the fallen tree, the shaggy black and brown direwolf would pick up on your scent.
They rode south. The second they broke into the treeline, Bear sped up. The large creature, at top speed, was faster than the horses, but only in bursts of energy. He seemed to sense Cregan’s desperation.
He ran so fast he disappeared from Cregan’s line of view. The men around him followed the direwolf, trusting the beast’s instinct.
Moments later, a howl pierced the air. When they caught up to Bear, there it was: a long, dead tree trunk, pinning a horse and its rider to the now red forest floor.
“Check to see if he’s alive.” He commanded two men. He began to separate his men into small groups. “You lot are to search for the missing Manderly boy. All of you over here, call for Willas Snow. The rest of you, follow Bear! All of you pair up, spread out, call their names. We will find them. I refuse to leave without my wife.”
He felt as though he were watching someone else take command of his being. Someone who knew his men, commanded his men like he did. But Cregan was hardly inside of his own body. Though he cared for his men—present and missing alike—and knew he would grieve the man crushed by the tree, right now he could not bring himself to care about them. His only thoughts were of you, out in the cold, dark wood.
Somewhere near him, but increasingly far away. There was a pressure growing in his chest, pushing back against the whipping wind, threatening to rise up past his throat and out of his mouth.
You could be hurt. You could be dead. But he would not rest until he saw you with his own two eyes.
Around him, the shouting began. Calling for Petyr Manderly. For Willas Snow. For Lady Stark. But Cregan did not call for either of the men, or for the Lady Stark.
“Y/N! Y/N!”
In the middle of the wood, throat straining as his voice was carried away with the wind, Cregan called for you.
❅ ❅ ❅
When the whispers began, the cold had taken control of your body. The forest seemed to be spinning, the trees duplicating. Even in your delirium, you knew you should not have gotten off of the horse, but at the time you’d thought it was a good idea. You could no longer see her anymore, and you scatteredly wondered if she had gone towards the whispers or succumbed.
Now, you were stumbling through ankle-deep snow, hiking up your stupid gown to trudge through the forest. The cold had passed.
It almost felt pleasant now. The sensation was similar to the night Queen Rhaenyra had sent a crate of Dornish red wine to Winterfell as a gift for your husband’s 24th name day. The great hall had been filled with more dancing than stumbling, and you spent the entire next day vowing to never drink again. That had been at the end of summer. Summer is kind. Autumn is forgiving. Spring with Cregan is so nice. Winter…
And yet, it was still snowing. Still black. But the whispers were getting louder. You couldn’t make sense of them at first, layered and urgent and pleading.
Lady Willas Petys Stark Snow Manderly… Snow Lady Manderly Petyr Willas Stark…
That was not your name. Names. The names of your bannermen who were no longer around you. Petyr, Willas, Jon, Ethan, Brandon… Names names names names names think of names—think of lovely names.
In the distance, an orange beacon appeared. How pretty, you thought, pretty. Pret-ty. My husband is pretty.
You felt drunk, body swaying back and forth as you began to move towards the light—lights? There were two now. Then three. Then a few more.
The whispers grew louder, more urgent. Who were they calling for? He had such a long name, but none of them seemed to know it exactly. Your neck began to sag downwards as you listened to them call for the man with the long name. Petyr Lady Petyr Snow Willas Stark Lady Manderly Snow Lady Lady Stark Lady Lady Lady—
Y/N.
Your neck snapped up, head turning frantically to search for who had whispered your name.
Y/N.
You froze. You knew that voice. The inflection of your name.
It wasn’t a whisper.
“Y/N!”
“C—”
He was here he was here he was here he was here. And if he was here, then—
You watched, almost entranced, as a large black mass bolted out of the dark, barreling into you, tipping you over. You landed on your back in the snow. The snow, which was warm. Hot, even.
Forcing yourself onto your elbows, your gaze landed on Bear. You tried your hardest to keep yourself focused on your husband’s direwolf, but the forest was running circles around you, and your body felt like it was on fire.
When he tilted his snout up, letting loose a howl long and urgent, you barely heard it. This was a dream. This had to be a dream. Any moment now, you would wake, and be in your bed in Winterfell.
As you moved onto your knees, you pulled your gloves off. Your fingers were ablaze and you wanted to pet the beast. Stumbling onto your feet, you held up a hand, mouth gaping as you tried to ensure you weren’t melting from the heat. When you saw you weren’t, you reached for Bear.
“Here! My lord, she’s over here!”
Time slowed to a glacial pace. Your movements dragged as if you were underwater, all sounds muffled and scrambled. If you were underwater, they were above the surface.
You didn’t touch Bear. He moved to the side. A horse skidded to a stop in front of you, the movement lasting years. It took so long that it didn’t even frighten you. All you could do was look up at the angel mounted on the stallion, face lit by an army of torches suddenly surrounding you.
Him.
He unmounted the horse, barking unintelligible orders to the men around him. Something about a missing horse.
Then his eyes landed on you, and you damn near fell over again. When he spoke, you understood what he said. How could you not? It was one of your favorite words, one of your favorite things he called you.
Always with the gentlest tone, no matter the time or place. Against your hair early in the morning, in your ear at your side at supper, against your throat in the middle of the night. The first word to break through the noise, bring you back. To pull you out of the water and allow you to gasp for air.
“Wife.”
You would answer. Yes, of course you would answer. You would always answer when he called. Cregan. Husband. My love.
“C—“
The harsh sound punched out of you, a shaky, croaky kuhhh of a dead woman newly reawakened. His eyes, already alert at the state of you, grew even wider. Immediately, he engulfed you, having to bite back the shock at just how cold your body was. He smoothed a hand over your hair, chest deflating at the reassurance of having him in your arms.
“Y/N,” He rasped, “What happened?”
You couldn’t say. You were just happy he was here. Again, you tried to say his name. “Cuhhh—C-Cre—“
“Yes, yes, sweet girl, I’m here,” He insisted, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging, “We need to get you home now.”
He had never seen you like this. And by the grace of the Old Gods, he would never see you like this again. Slurring your speech, lips and fingers—where were your gloves?—a blueish gray, frost clinging to your brow, your hair, your lashes.
You were manhandled onto the stallion. Quickly, you were growing agitated. A pelt was draped over your shoulders, much to your dismay. He mounted it behind you, before trying to hand you a flask.
“Drink,” He commanded, “‘S warm.”
Deliriously, you shook your head, weakly pushing it away. “S…”
His stern tone dropped lower, now a pleading undertone to it. “Please, love. You must drink this now.”
“Summer.”
He immediately knew what you meant. “No. No, it’s not summer. Byron! Sylas! Sean! On me! We’re returning to the castle. Now.”
His poor wife, delirium turning into distress. You shook your head, brow furrowing. As long as you were upset, you were awake. He swallowed the lump in his throat and uncapped the flask.
“Forgive me.”
A large hand gripped your jaw. The wine was forced down your throat in a manner that had you spluttering with tears running down your face. Cregan grimaced the entire time, mumbling soft apologies and stroking your jaw with his thumb. He tried his hardest to ignore the clench in his chest as your hand weakly trying to tug his own away from your mouth.
You needed warmth. You were already feeling so hot you had removed your gloves. He knew this was one of the final symptoms, had seen naked corpses emerge from melting snow that had gone through similar. That if Bear had found you minutes later, this conversation would not be happening. The hot wine would help. It had to, because he didn’t know what he would do if it didn’t.
In a way, it did help. Upon contact with actual heat, the false blaze in your body evaporated. The pain returned, more intense than ever. When you finished coughing, you felt again the aching in your jaw from your chattering teeth. Your shoulders and upper arms were cramping from how tightly you had drawn in on yourself.
“C-Cregan,” You finally managed, “Hurts.”
He breathed a small sigh of relief. “Good,” He bit out, “As long as it hurts, you’re alive. We’ll deal with the rest later.”
The breakaway party departed. You sagged against Cregan, who did his damnedest to hold you up. You weren’t speaking, but he could feel you shivering through the pelt. Shivering didn’t even feel the proper term. Your body was thrumming, vibrating in a manner he could only call disturbing.
As he watched his direwolf speed up, he wondered briefly if he should have allowed you to ride Bear instead of the horse. Bear would have likely been able to get you to Winterfell faster.
Cregan had ridden Bear. You had ridden Bear. But never for very long. Direwolves were hardly pets, and Bear would let you both ride only for as long as he allowed it, which he wasn’t sure would be long enough to get you back home. And he wasn’t sure how well you’d be able to hold on.
No, the horse was better, he realized as you broke through the treeline. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. Your small group carried on, and he began to allow himself to feel calmer. You were here. You were alive. You would recover.
Until a few minutes later, when your head started to tilt back against him, lolling back and forth in sync with the horse’s gallop.
“Y/N,” He shouted over the wind, “Y/N!”
Your eyes, unfocused, searched for him. You could vaguely make him out, features dimly lit by the torches of two of the men riding at his side.
Your hand gripped his forearm weakly. “You...”
“Me, what about me,” He said, “You need to stay awake.”
Your face twisted, before sluggishly shaking your head. “Tired, Cregan.”
His heart sank. Any moment now, Winterfell would appear on the horizon. His voice dripped with a rough desperation that pierced through the howl of the wind. “You—Gods, woman, you need to fucking stay awake.”
“I can’t… Want…”
“What do you need? Tell me,” He pleaded, “Think about what you need. Tell me. I’ll get it. Think, Y/N, think! Do not fall asleep.”
He looked up from your face to check the path. In the distance, he could see lights. A sound fell from his mouth, an unintelligible groan of relief, of fear, of rare powerlessness.
“My lord!” One of the men called, “I’ll ride ahead and notify the maester. We must do everything in our power to warm her back up.”
Cregan nodded furiously, nodding his head. “Go!”
The man sped up, and Cregan found himself tugging on the reins to beckon his horse to go faster as well. Full speed in this weather would not do the horses good, especially when they’d been riding in the cold for so long already. But he needed to push. Every second out here was a second too long.
“Almost there, pet,” He cooed, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, “Home soon.”
“Home,” You murmured in agreement. Your voice sounded so quiet.
He could see the gates. They were opened, a small mass of people huddled together. Anxiously waiting for their lord and lady to come home.
You looked up at Cregan again, and your vision blurred, black spots dancing around you. You needed to tell him. Your eyes fluttered open and fluttered shut.
“Need to tell you—“
His stomach twisted, half expecting he’d need to reject a weak goodbye. When your eyes rolled up in your head, his heart splintered, gray eyes wide as he watched your every fading movement. “Tell me! Tell me anything, everything, Y/N, please.”
As you crossed through the gate, your head lolled to the side, and Cregan’s screaming faded into nothing.
❅ ❅ ❅
How soft everything was.
How cold.
“…Now a matter of when, not if.”
“So she’ll live?”
“Yes, my lord. I consider it nothing short of a miracle that she survived and kept all of her limbs.”
“Gods be good.”
The disembodied voices sounded muffled and far away. Your body remained still as you woke. Your eyes remained closed, your limbs still curled into a ball. You were wearing one of your wool nightgowns. The fabric was lighter than what you’d been wearing earlier, yet your body felt so heavy. Like you were anchored to the bed.
Your muscles ached. Like you had been wound up so tight it would take centuries to unwind you.
The maester’s voice, somewhere in the room, turned worried, then quiet. “There is another matter I came upon during my examination, my lord…”
You couldn’t make out what was said after. You did, however, hear Cregan’s steady exhale. A sharp sound of unexpectedness, a reveal he had not seen coming.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, my lord. I did not realize until after I was sure she was warm enough, but I am positive.”
Your eyes cracked open. The pair was faced away from you, but you could make out Cregan running a hand down his face. The maester had a hand on your husband’s shoulder, squeezing in reassurance.
When Cregan finally spoke, he had hardened his tone again. “Thank you again, Maester Cromwell. You may go.”
“I suspect Lady Stark will be awake before the end of the day. Come find me when she stirs.”
“Aye,” Cregan agreed, “I will do everything in my power to ensure my wife’s recovery.”
He closed the door behind the old man, and turned back to the room. When he saw your eyes, cracked open, tracking his movements, he froze.
You said nothing—there was hardly any energy in you to do otherwise.
“Y/N,” He sighed. He crossed the room, removing his gloves and kneeling at your bedside. A large hand swept atop the crest of your head, before running down to your cheek. You whispered his name at his warmth, trying to press into his rough fingertips.
Here, close to you, you could make out his features. The circles under his eyes were dark, and put quite plainly, he looked as close to death as you were. His long hair was messy, and you could make out a gentle shadow across his jaw and chin. He always preferred to be clean shaven—he had skipped his morning shave.
“I thought you were going to die,” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “What the fuck happened?”
You opened your mouth, trying to find your voice. After inhaling deeply and trying to clear your throat, it came to you. When you spoke, it hurt.
“Storm caught us off guard…” You winced. “Truly.”
He shook his head, before pressing his forehead to yours. He grabbed one of your hands and clasped it with both of his, grasped as if in prayer, utter devotion. “I have half a mind to lock you in this room and never let you outside again. We thought you were dead, Y/N. We brought you in and nothing we did was warming you up. It took hours.”
“I’m still cold,” You agreed weakly.
Cregan frowned, noting the temperature of your fingers. “Maester Cromwell said that would happen. Your nerves are shot. You’ll feel cold for the next day or so. We’ll run you a hot bath, the servants will stoke the fire, and I’ll have some broth brought up.”
“Thank you,” You mumbled, “You saved me.”
For the first time in hours, maybe even days, he smiled. It was small, but it was for you, and it was all you needed. “I promised to keep you safe, did I not?”
“You did.” You managed to lift your head, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was gentle, reverent, and one of his hands cradled the back of your neck, the other moving down to your stomach.
“Why didn’t you write and tell me,” He urged when you broke apart.
“Tell you…?”
His grip on your stomach tightened. Not enough to hurt—never to hurt. But his fingers splayed enough to reclaim, to show possession. “You’re pregnant.”
Your eyes snapped open, finally moving to place your hand over his. You sighed, the moment stolen away.
“I realized when I was at Karhold. My sister’s maester confirmed it as well. I wanted to tell you myself,” You explained, “See your face when I told you.”
He lowered his head, pressing a kiss to your stomach where his hand had just been, knowing that soon it would swell, that soon everyone would know he’d done his duty as your husband.
He pursed his lips. “I’m trying very hard not to be mad at you right now,” He confessed softly, “All of you should have known better. Should have turned around the second the wind picked up.”
“Turn around to where?” You asked gently, not angry at his sudden outburst. “We were closer to Winterfell than we were anywhere else. We had no choice, Cregan.”
He shook his head again, brow furrowed as he kissed you again. He moved his kisses from your lips, to your cheeks, nose, forehead, and ears. Finally, he buried his face in your neck. You shivered at his hot breath against your jugular.
When he spoke, his voice sounded harder than usual. He only got like this when he was holding back the full weight of his emotions. “Never scare me like that again.”
“I won’t,” You promised, “It’s over now. I’m here, with you.”
Now it was your turn to stroke his hair. “There were others that went missing,” You remembered, “What of them? My horse?”
He pulled away to look at you. His face had returned to the sternness you always expected of him. “She’s resting. Petyr Manderly and Willas Snow are safe. Ser Petyr has lost two fingers from the cold. Ser Willas is still asleep, as far as I’ve heard.”
You nodded. “Thank the Gods,” You whispered, “One death was too many.”
“He’ll be given a proper funeral tomorrow,” Cregan said.
You looked down, moving to rise. “I want to go—“
Cregan grabbed your shoulders gently, trying to press you back into the mattress. “Absolutely not. You are on strict orders to remain abed.”
You raised an eyebrow. “From the maester?”
“From me,” He insisted, “Your lord husband.”
Finally, you smiled. “Ah,” You managed, “ A good thing I never listen to him anyway.”
He was almost relieved at your defiance. You were the most stubborn woman he’d ever met, the spitting image of every southerner’s mental preconception of a bull-headed northern woman.
“You want to pay your respects, wife, I understand. But you are both recovering from near freezing to death and now in delicate condition, carrying our babe. I cannot have you overexerting yourself like this.”
You sat up. He let you, though it looked almost painful to not push you back.
“I will go, but not for long,” You told him. Not requesting, nor commanding. Informing. “The man died escorting me, in our service. I will not miss his funeral. He gave his life—the least I can do is spare a few moments of mine to give his widow my condolences.”
“Fucking hells, woman.” Cregan closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. You did not look away, hardening your gaze.
At last, he relented. “Very well. But you are to stay less than an hour. I will accompany you and carry you back to this room myself if I have to.”
You grabbed his face, cradling his jaw in your cold hands. “Thank you for understanding, Cregan.”
He hummed, kissing the pad of your thumb. “I’ll send for the maester.”
You smiled, glad to finally be home. “Send for some food, too, please. Your son is starving.”
“Or daughter,” Cregan suggested.
Your smile grew wide. “As stubborn as I?”
He gave you another kiss, hands cradling slowly warming fingers. “I would have it no other way.”
hope u enjoyed <3 pls comment/reblog if you did!!!
From the moment you stepped into Winterfell, you whined.
He couldn't exactly blame you. The North isn't the most welcoming environment— especially for a more Southern grown flower like you. In fact, he starts to find it amusing.
His little southern rose is too delicate for his homeland.
"Why must the castle be made of such cold stone?" You whine.
He pulls you in closer, spooning you in the bed with the furs atop the both of you. His hand is hot to the touch and large and firm against your stomach to keep you there. You have a tendency to squirm.
"'S just an evening chill. It will pass," he murmurs low in your ear.
"Every night?" You huff, emphasizing your point with a shift of your hips.
He groans lowly when your ass presses against his length. His arm wraps around you tighter until you're utterly stuck in his hold. "If you'd hold still, I could share my warmth with you. As I do every night you whine."
Truth be told, he sweats under the heavy furs every night. You had insisted on them, and he wanted to sleep with you. Small price to pay, he tells himself.
Especially when you'd finally fall asleep and unconsciously curl into his side.
"I do not whine," you proceed to whine.
You go to say more, but you hear and feel his low chuckling.
You huff, pulling his hand off of you. You make a dramatic show of scooting to the other side of the bed. It's cold. You ignore it at first. You can't show weakness.
But his laughing doesn't stop. "My stubborn girl. C'mere."
But you don't move. You throw one glare his way then turn your back and pull the cold covers tight around you.
It's silence as his laughter settles. "C'mon," he finally settles on. "Don't want my southern flower wilting in the cold tonight. Come back now."
"I'm sleeping here."
He sighs, though it's full of love. "You're angry with me?"
"Yes."
"Mm. Cold?"
"Yes."
"Ah. Quite the predicament." He runs a hand over his growing stubble. "If I apologize, is that enough to make you come back over here?"
You pause. Turn to look over your shoulder at him. "Maybe."
"Forgive me then," he coos.
Even in the dark, you can see the glimmer of amusement in his hazy colored eyes. But you have no fight left in you and you're cold.
So you let him scoop you back up and drag you across the bed until you're right back where you started.
And now that you think about it, it is a lot warmer against him like this.
What were you complaining about again?
You sigh in content and close your eyes.
"'S what I thought," he says to himself.
Your eyes open. "What?"
He doesn't pretend. "Good night, my love." He kisses the side of your head. "Sleep well."
…
"Father wrote me," you chirp, inviting yourself into your husband's solar. A neat letter laid in your hand with a familiar Lannister seal broken atop it. "He told me that his lioness is expecting cubs. Isn't that wonderful?"
Cregan looked up at him you from his paperwork. He blinked once. Then twice. "'S alright," he settled on. In truth, he didn't care of the news at all.
Your face fell a bit. "Did you not hear me? Cubs."
"My love," he says carefully. "I care not for matters of those against the crown. I have permitted your brother's writings but I do not have to pretend I am overjoyed to hear of more lions that will be slaughtered should a battle commence."
You take a long time to think. You look back over the letter with a more tainted viewpoint than before. "They must be killed?"
"If he brings them into battle as Lannisters have done in the past, yes."
"Well." Your eyes water. "What if he does not? What if he keeps them hidden? Safe? As pets?"
"My darling love." He reached out his hand and drawls you to sit on his desk before him. He sighs and rubs at your hips. "A lion is no pet. They are unpredictable and dangerous. It is a strong house sigil. But to own them—"
"What of your direwolf?" You cry. "It is large and intimidating."
"Dark Night is uncaged. He proves no threat to me and my house. He can read me well. A lion cannot do that."
Big tears pool in your eyes and his heart immediately thumps harder. "My girl." He wipes them as they fall. "Ease your broken heart."
"They are only cubs." You hiccup and lean into his touch. "They have done no wrong."
"It is a curse, I know," he comforts. "Lots of things happen that way. Just the wrong place and the wrong time."
"Can I write? To Father. Can I tell him not to use them?"
Cregan knows exactly how this will go: You will beg Jason. He will lie and agree to ease your poor aching heart and to make Cregan no longer suspicious of the Lannister's war efforts. Then, in battle, lions will be slain.
It would happen regardless of what you wrote to your father.
He watched another tear fall down the tracks on your face from the previous ones. And he nods.
You run off quickly to try to correct this and save the lives of innocent animals.
He knows it's truly in vain. And when he or his men must kill them, he'll make sure you never hear of it.
But he knows it's the only way your little bleeding heart can sleep tonight.
….
Dark Night lays at your feet, nuzzling against your leg every now and then to get your attention.
Cregan sits across from you. He's still looking over letters and pages, just in comfort outside of his solar.
You still don't look up by the third time the dire wolf has nuzzled you. So he nips.
You whimper. It didn't break skin or cause you tremendous pain. But it was a surprising prick.
Cregan barely looks at the thing and lets out a low growl from his throat to reprimand him.
Dark Night whines and lays down once more.
"Needy thing," he sighs with the shake of his head. "Scare you?"
You nod. "I do not like it when he does that."
"He's only playing. Is that right, boy?"
"Your Northern ideas of play are much harsher," you scoff. "I hate it."
He looks back to his letters. "You do not hate it."
"I do," you insist.
A small flicker of his eyes— swarming with mischief. "You do not hate Northern play."
You catch his meaning and flush. And he was right. This morning, you didn't seem to mind 'northern play' at all.
"You are all savages." You set your embroidery aside and stand. "Heartless and cold and… and…"
"Yes?" He grins.
"And… and I don't like it!"
You watch him do everything he can to hold back just how funny he thinks you are. He only gives a quirk of his brow. "You don't like it?"
"No," you snap. "And I don't like you! Or… your dog… or…" You look around. "Or this rug!"
"Oh?" He looks down at it— the bear skin rug from the animal he caught himself a few weeks after your wedding. "You told me you loved it."
"Well… I lied!"
He watches you storm out, knowing you didn't mean a word you were saying. That was the Southerner in you talking.
It made him want to coddle you more. Just to see what lengths you go to.
…
He let you sit and pout in your room for a while before coming to collect you.
He stood outside your closed door, sighing to himself. The things he did for love.
Opening the door, he saw you sitting on the floor in front of the hearth. You didn't look up at him. "And like that, the room is colder."
He scoffed. "Stubborn girl. C'mere and look at me."
"Why? So you can gloat?"
He stopped behind you. "You think I want to gloat?"
"No," you answer honestly. He'd never been one to think better of himself. That was one northern trait you did appreciate of him.
There's a tap of something hitting the table behind you and you turn.
There's a tray he'd just sat down. Lemon cakes and a nice glass of wine. Over the back of the settee he'd walked by was richly colored fabrics.
"What is this?"
He shrugs. "If you don't want it, I can take it back—"
"Stop!" You sit up more now. "It can… it can stay."
His brow tilts. "Can I?"
You nod.
He sits on the settee and waves his hand at you. You obey without a second thought, coming into his lap.
"Thought about you," he admits, brushing your hair from your face. "I miss you during the day. Wish you'd visit me more often."
"They told me it was unbecoming of the Lady Stark to bother you while you work."
"Who told you that?"
You sigh. "Northerners. You know, my father let me speak to him at any time of the day in Casterly Rock."
"I know it," he agrees. "'S how you became so fucking spoiled." You grow defensive, but he quickly soothes it with a brush of his hand. "So are you going to visit me more or not, little garden rose?"
You hum in thought. "I will, but I have some requirements."
"Aye, I figured. Go on then. Name your terms." He pulls you closer, having a hand on your back to keep you from pulling away. "Tell me what you want."
"Well, I want a new dress to start. A brighter one of those fabrics. The colors here are too drab."
He hums, nuzzling his nose against your neck now.
"And I want… I want a horse of my own. I want to ride like I did at Casterly Rock."
"Too cold for you to ride," he murmurs. It makes a shiver go down your spine.
"I want a northern horse and I want a heavy cloak so that I can, then."
He lays a sloppy kiss against your throat. You squirm. "You're not listening to me," you whine.
"I am." He kisses. "Dresses and a horse." Another kiss. "A heavy cloak. What else?"
Your head grows dizzy when his scruff brushes against your skin. "I want…"
"Tell me what you want, wife," he whispers then kisses again. He nips lightly then soothes it with his tongue.
"I want… I want… new perfumes."
He groans at the thought and moves a meaty paw of his up into your hair to force your face up. "You'll have it."
He works across your neck and down to the place where it meets your shoulder. When you feel teeth there, you squirm and whimper. He groans out a 'good girl' when you let him finish the hickey you know will be there for at least a week.
He pulls his face away to look up at you now. His lips are swollen but there's a victory in his eyes. "Anything else?"
When you try to reach up touch the cooling spot at your shoulder, he intercepts and keeps your wrists in his hold. He looks the spot over. And at seeing the color beginning to pull, he grins. "Looks pretty," he tells you.
"And I want you to take me seriously."
The grin pulls into a knowing smile— bright and rare. "I take you very seriously, love."
"You don't! You… You're a brute."
"Mhm." He says as he looks you over.
"You're horrid. Just horrid."
"I know." He draws you in and slips his hands under you.
You shriek when he picks you up suddenly. "And a barbarian!"
"The worst," he agrees as he carries you to the bed. "The worst I've ever seen."
"I hate the North!"
He plops you down on the furs, making you let out a small 'hmph.' Then, he knocks your knees apart with his own and leans over the bed until you feel his breath upon your face. "You don't hate the North," he purrs.
"No," you whisper back.
"You like the North very much, as barbaric as it is."
"I do."
He lays a kiss to your lips. "I know."
The horse, the dresses, all of it— yours.
He made sure you, his little sensitive southern flower, were the most spoiled thing in the Realm.
Summary : Dex finds your ex-boyfriend bleeding and crawling through your bedroom window.
Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Supersoldier! reader (she/her)
Warnings/tags : fluff!!! Angst!!! established relationship, jealous!Dex, possessive!Dex, blood/injury, gunshot wound, knives/guns, violence, handcuffs used non-sexually, Bucky Barnes is mentioned to be your ex but you do not have feelings for him anymore (Let me know if I miss anything!) set after DDBA Season 2.
Word Count : 15.9k
Notes : Took me so long to write this but oh well. The title is taken from AM song. Enjoy!
Could be read as a one-shot, but is technically a sequel to No Absolution. All you need to know is that Bucky rescued reader from Siberia during the events of Civil War and they broke up before the events of Thunderbolts*. Dex and reader got together after Mr. Charles assigns them on the same mission post-DDBA season 2.
Boyfriend was a stupid word.
Dex hated and loved it at the same time.
It had once been a word that made a chasm of hunger open up inside his chest. Back before he had you. He wanted that word so badly, back when wanting you had been a private habit he fed in pieces, in glances, in the sound of your voice through comms, in the days you woke up after “casual sex” that didn’t feel casual at all. Back when you were just his work partner, his fuck buddy, his fixation in the safehouse hallway, and he had wanted the word boyfriend so much it had started to feel pathetic.
Your boyfriend.
It sounded normal.
He had imagined you saying it casually to someone else during a mission. He had imagined you introducing him as My boyfriend. Like he was not Benjamin Poindexter, like he was not a weapon Mr. Charles kept pointing at problems, like he was just a man who came home to you, who knew how you liked your tea, who had a side of the bed and a toothbrush beside yours and permission to touch your waist when passing behind you in the kitchen.
And then he got it. He got you.
He was your boyfriend now.
And somehow, it was not enough.
Girlfriend was what people called the woman they brought to weddings. Girlfriend was dinner reservations and spare hoodies and lazy Sunday mornings. Girlfriend was small enough to fit into people’s mouths without scaring them.
You were not small. You were not mild.
You were the hand around the back of his neck when he was one bad second from a bad decision. You were not his girlfriend like a cute title. You were his alibi, his home, his open wound, his last nerve.
You were his collar, though you only called yourself that when you wanted to watch him lose focus for you.
And Dex wasn’t your boyfriend in any ordinary way either.
He wasn’t all about flowers and movie dates, though he had brought you flowers once and then spent thirty-seven minutes rearranging them in a vase because he decided the florist had done a lazy job and nothing could ever possibly be good enough for his girl. He wasn’t normal morning kisses, though he kissed you every morning like he had to prove you were still his. He wasn’t good at easy affection, except when he was, and then it was almost worse, because his gentleness always had teeth around it.
So yeah, boyfriend and girlfriend sounded a bit too tame for what you were to each other, but you’ve been together for six months.
Six months was not a long time.
Six months was nothing.
Six months was barely a “serious” relationship to normal people. Six months in a relationship was still pretending you didn’t notice each other’s flaws. Six months was still acting like you had boundaries, hobbies, independent lives, and a reasonable amount of emotional distance in case of a breakup.
You and Dex had skipped all of that.
Dex moved in officially by month three, which was funny, because unofficially he had moved in after month two. First it was a spare shirt, then a toothbrush, then a drawer, then three drawers. Then, he started hiding his knives under your bed, his gun taped beneath your kitchen table, his boots by your door, his shampoo in your shower, his body in your bed every single night like he would rather peel off his own skin than sleep somewhere you were not.
By the time he actually started paying bills (two weeks of staying around), it felt less like a milestone and more like paperwork catching up to the fact that he obviously lived there.
He belonged there. He belonged to you.
And fuck, you liked it.
You liked that he was insane about you. You liked that he wanted to know where you were, who you were with, how long you would be gone, whether you had eaten, whether anyone had looked at you wrong, whether anyone had said your name in a way he needed to correct. You liked the way his devotion took all the space out the room. You liked that loving Dex felt less like dating and more like being worshipped.
It was important to understand that you weren’t just the poor, helpless, naive girl who knew nothing better of his obsession. Please. You were a supersoldier with a body count. You could have snapped his wrist the first time he got too possessive. You could have kicked him out the first time he started acting like your apartment was his if you didn’t want it.
Instead, you bought his favourite coffee and cleared space in your wardrobe. Instead, you let him fold himself into every corner of your life. Instead, when you found the tracker he inserted in your bracelet, you didn’t throw it at his head.
You just held it up between two fingers and said, “Dex.”
He had gone completely still. He didn’t look guilty. Instead like a dog caught with blood on its mouth, waiting to see if you were going to send him away.
You should have been furious. Maybe part of you was. But another part of you, the part that had been made in laboratories and freezers, made to go on missions by Hydra where nobody came back for you, looked at that tiny little tracker and thought: Aw. He wants to find me.
Because you know Dex didn’t want to use you. You weren’t an asset.
He just wanted to find you. To know where you were.
So you sighed, handed the bracelet back, and said, “can you at least make sure it’s waterproof?”
Dex looked at you like you had just handed him your heart and a loaded gun and told him to be careful with both.
After that, after confirming that the tracking chip was indeed waterproof (and shatterproof), the bracelet stayed on at all times.
Of course, you had a tracker on him, too. You put it in one of his knife holsters that he never left home without.
It was probably, by any normal metric to any normal couple, unhealthy. But to you, it was sweet.
And it worked because neither of you had to translate the ugly parts. Dex didn’t have to pretend he was less intense. You didn’t have to pretend you wanted gentle, normal, polite love. He wanted to crawl under your skin and live there. You would let him if you could.
You had gotten together on a mission, because Mr. Charles paired you and Dex together. You were a close combat specialist with terrible aim, so naturally, he became your partner. You had your similarities, of course. You both were weapons who had learned to talk back. You were both very, very good at making people disappear.
You were supposed to work together.
Instead, Dex watched you rip a door off its hinges with one hand and fell a little bit in love. You watched him put a bullet through three moving targets with one ricochet and thought, Oh, he’s dreamy.
By the end of the mission, he was bending you over every flat surface he could find.
When you returned from that months-long mission, he was in your apartment.
Now it was his apartment, too, legally.
And today, you were late in coming home.
Not late-late. Not missing. Not in danger, according to the little dot on his phone that he had refreshed seven times in the last ten minutes.
You had texted him and said “the line in the DMV was way longer than I expected. Going to be 15 minutes late :(“
Which was fine. It was fine. You had let him know. You were doing exactly what you’d promised: communicating every tiny thing before his mind could turn it into a crime scene. Now, though, according to the app, you were four blocks away.
Then three and a half.
Then the dot stopped.
Dex stared at the screen anxiously.
He zoomed in and realised it was your favourite Chinese place.
You were probably picking up takeout. You had texted him earlier asking if he wanted the usual, and he had stared at the message for nearly a full minute because the usual made this warm and needy feeling curl warmly in his chest.
The usual meant you knew him. The usual meant he had routines with you. The usual meant he wasn’t temporary.
Still, you had stopped moving there for five minutes. Then ten minutes.
Dex refreshed the app.
You still haven’t moved.
He refreshed again.
You still haven’t moved.
His thumb hovered over your name in the contacts.
He could call. He wanted to call. He wanted to hear your voice, wanted to ask who was near you, wanted to tell you to come home now, wanted to go to you himself and remove every variable between your body and his.
He didn’t. Because you had told him, very gently, very lovingly, that if he interrupted one more meeting by appearing silently behind you with a gun, someone was going to report the incident. And if that report escalates into legal matters, Charles was probably going to assign you both into different missions next time.
So Dex stayed on the couch.
He had a gun within reach, a knife in his thigh holster, phone in his hand. His eyes were still locked on the glowing little proof that you were still there, still coming back to him.
Because knowing you were safe was not enough. Knowing where you were was not enough. Dex wouldn’t relax until he heard your key in the door, until he heard your voice saying his name.
He had become addicted to the proof of you. He became obsessed with your shoes next to his by the entrance. Your jacket over his, your mug in the dishwasher. Your blood on his sleeves. Your laugh in his lips. Your body under his at night, comfortable and alive and his, his, his in the only way that mattered.
He refreshed the tracker again.
You were moving now.
Good. Good.
He exhaled through his nose and looked toward the door like he could summon you by way of wanting hard enough.
Then, from the corner of his eyes in the living room, he could see through the doorframe that the bedroom window was now half open.
Dex froze.
Huh.
The window slid higher, and this time, he could hear hard breathing in the dark.
And not in the familiar, tired little sigh you made when you came home after a long day. This was someone else.
Besides, you had keys. Why would you go through the window?
Dex looked down at his phone. Your location blinked back at him. You were still two blocks away.
You were enough that his chest had already started relaxing. Not close enough to be the person forcing their way into your bedroom.
He put the phone down without locking it and went into the bedroom.
The gun was in his hand before the intruder’s first boot hit the floor.
A body dragged itself through the window, broad shoulders catching on the sill, one hand gripping the frame, hard enough to make the wood creak. Whoever it was landed on one knee with a rough sound of pain.
Blood painted the floor before Dex ever saw his face.
And there was a lot of blood.
The man stayed hunched for a second, one hand pressed hard to his side, breathing like the air had teeth. He had dark tactical gear, long hair half-fallen into his face. Then he saw a metal hand catching the city light.
Oh, fuck off.
Bucky Barnes looked up from the floor of the bedroom, pale and bleeding and still somehow arrogant enough to look annoyed by the gun pointed at his head.
Of course, of all the people in the world who could crawl bleeding through your window, it had to be the ex, who you broke up on decent terms with, who you were still friends with. Of course it was the ex who rescued you from your cryo chamber in Siberia. Of course it was your ex who you called for work emergencies, because those emergencies were usually Hydra-related ones. Of course it was your ex who was a supersoldier, like you.
There were a lot of things Dex had imagined saying to him. Most of them involved you not finding the body.
Instead, Dex forced himself to smile and clicked the safety off. “Rough night?”
Bucky blinked once, unimpressed.
“Oh,” he rasped, as if he was surprised he was here. “You.”
Dex forced himself to smile. “Me.”
Bucky’s eyes moved past him, taking in the room in detail for someone who was supposedly bleeding. He could see a second cologne on the dresser, an extra cabinet that wasn’t there before, two pairs of pyjamas folded nearly on top of the duvet.
Then Bucky looked back at him. “You’re the new boyfriend, right?”
Dex tilted his head. “You’re the trespassing ex-boyfriend.”
As if he had never trespassed before.
“Sorry.” Bucky made a sound that might have been a laugh if his ribs were not actively leaking. “I was aiming for charming entrance.”
“You missed.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Dex stepped closer, gun steady. “You want to tell me why you’re bleeding in my bedroom?”
Bucky’s eyes lifted at that.
Huh.
Dex could immediately see it in his eyes. Bucky clearly felt petty, exhausted, and jealous in a way he clearly hated himself for being.
“Yours?’” He echoed.
Dex’s finger shifted lightly against the trigger. “Our bedroom.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched as he scoffed. “That was quick.”
Dex almost shot him for the tone alone.
But even when injured, Bucky was fast. His metal hand knocked the gun aside. Dex was already too close for it to matter. He drove his fist into Bucky’s side, exactly where the blood was coming from.
Bucky’s breath snapped out of him. “Cheap,” Bucky grunted.
Dex leaned in, eyes bright. “Expect me to fight fair, old man?”
Bucky caught him by the shoulder and turned, driving him into the wardrobe hard enough to crack the door. Dex hit wood, bounced off it, and came back smiling with blood on his lip.
Dex lunged, driving Bucky back to the table. The mirror rattled.
A bottle of your perfume tipped over and shattered against the floorboards, spilling glass and rose scent into the blood-stale air.
Bucky caught his next hit badly. He was too slow on one side, too stiff on the other, blood slick under his fingers where he was still trying to keep pressure on his ribs. Dex slammed into him anyway, agitating the liquid on the floor until the scent rose.
And Bucky hated, genuinely hated, how fast that smell got under his skin.
For half a second, he was not in your bedroom with a gunshot wound and your new boyfriend trying to rearrange his face.
He was in a safehouse, a bathroom mirror fogged after a shower. Your towel abandoned over the sink. Your shoulder brushing his in a safehouse hallway because neither of you had ever been good at giving each other space. Your perfume on the collar of his shirt after you stole it and gave it back. Your neck against his mouth before everything went sour. Your laugh in the dark. Your hand on his wrist. Your voice saying his name when you still said it like it belonged to you.
Bucky missed you. The realization hit him, and it was almost worse than the bullet.
Bucky didn't miss the idea of you. He missed you. Your smile, your face, the smell of you in the room like a ghost that had not asked permission to haunt him.
Dex saw that tiny, stupid pause. The way Bucky’s eyes dropped for one second too long to the broken glass. The way his jaw tightened like he had just swallowed something sharp.
Dex’s face went cold.
“Oh,” he said softly. “That hurt.”
Bucky’s eyes snapped back to him. “Shut up.”
Dex smiled. “No.”
Bucky shoved him back, harder this time, using more strength than he should have. Dex hit the wardrobe, the wood splitting behind his shoulder, but he came off it laughing under his breath, blood bright on his lip and jealousy alive in every line of his body.
“You miss her.”
Bucky’s expression shut down.
Dex stepped closer. “You do. That’s funny.”
“Nothing about you is funny.”
“No?” Dex tilted his head, eyes flicking over him. “You crawled through her window bleeding, looked around my bedroom, smelled her perfume, and forgot how to breathe. Seems pretty hilarious to me.”
Bucky swung.
Dex ducked under it and drove his fist into Bucky’s side.
Bucky’s knees dipped.
The pain tore a raw sound out of him before he could stop it.
Dex moved in close, almost gentle in the way a knife could be gentle if it liked where it landed.
“You should’ve gone to a hospital.”
Bucky grabbed him by the shirt. “Her place was closer.”
Dex’s smile vanished.
“Our place,” Dex scowled under his breath. The correction was quiet enough that it shouldn't have hit as hard as it did, but Bucky’s eyes lifted to him anyway. Blood was leaking between his fingers now, dark and slick against the black of his tactical gear, dripping steadily onto the floorboards Dex had polished two weekends ago. You smiled at him and helped, because you said you liked spending normal, domestic afternoons with him between missions. Dex remembered the way you had smiled at him from your knees with a rag in your hand, wearing one of his shirts, and the memory made the blood on the floor feel wrong.
Bucky’s mouth curled. “Didn’t realize she was taking in strays now.”
Dex stared at him for one flat second. Then he smiled, and it wasn’t a smile you would have liked. “Funny, coming from you.”
It shouldn’t have pleased him, seeing Bucky like this. But really?
This was the man Dex had been threatened by in his own head for months? This was the ex-boyfriend with the history, the metal arm, the kind of name that came attached to wars and redacted files and the unreadable look you got whenever Siberia came up?
He was weak, bleeding, breaking into your room because he had nowhere better to be.
Still, Dex knew that wasn't a fair assessment. Bucky was only manageable because he was injured. If he were whole, if his ribs were not torn open and one side of his body was not stiff with blood loss, this fight would go in favour of Dex’s side. Not here, at least.
Close quarters were made for men like Barnes, men built like battering rams, men who could crush bone with one hand and keep walking. Dex was better from a distance. Give him a bullet, a blade, a coin, a shard of mirror glass, anything he could send across a room, and he would put Bucky down before the man could say your name.
But Bucky was here, bleeding in your bedroom, and Dex had never needed fair to feel righteous.
He moved again, driving his fist into Bucky’s wounded side with deliberate cruelty. Bucky’s breath broke out of him in a brutal, unwilling sound, his body folding toward the impact before his pride could catch up. Dex grabbed the front of his vest and shoved him back into the dresser now that he was getting weaker and weaker. The wood cracked against the wall, your little tray of rings and hair ties skittering over the surface. Bucky’s metal hand shot out and slammed into the dresser edge for balance, and the wood splintered under his palm.
There. There he was. Even hurt, even half-dead and leaking blood all over your nice floor, Bucky was still strong enough to split furniture by accident. Dex felt the danger, but jealousy made him step closer instead of away. Bucky swung with his human hand, and caught Dex across the mouth hard enough to snap his head sideways. Blood bloomed over Dex’s tongue. The room went bright for a second, white at the edges, and then he laughed under his breath because Bucky had finally hit him like he meant it.
Bucky hated that laugh. Bucky’s eyes narrowed, though his face flattened like he could turn himself into a wall if he just refused to feel enough things. It didn’t work.
Dex had seen Bucky look at the broken glass. He had seen that humiliating pause, the grief flickering across his face before he wiped it. He missed you, and Dex hated him for it.
So Bucky smiled back, faint and mean through the pain. “She still get fussy about the sock placement in her wardrobe?”
It wasn’t an innocent question. Nothing in Bucky’s face was innocent. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew that mentioning an intimate detail would get under Dex’s skin faster than any punch. He was ragebaiting him and bitter enough to make himself cruel just to stop feeling pathetic. Dex knew that too, and it didn’t help.
He approached him in two steps. Bucky tried to brace, but Dex dipped under the metal arm and slammed his elbow into the wound again, not hard enough to end the fight, just hard enough to make Bucky’s knees soften.
Bucky grunted and caught Dex by the shoulder, throwing him sideways with enough force to send him into the ground. The door cracked behind his back. Hangers clattered down around his head, your dress slipping off one of them and brushing his arm as it fell. Dex saw Bucky’s eyes flick to it for one second too long.
Dex came off the floor with his knife halfway out before he had fully decided to draw it. Bucky’s metal hand caught his wrist mid-motion, fingers closing like a vice. Pain flashed bright up Dex’s arm, sharp enough that his fingers twitched around the hilt, but he refused to flinch. He pushed into it instead, smiling with blood on his teeth, watching Bucky watch him. For one long second, Bucky looked at the knife, then at Dex’s face, and thought…
Oh.
For that second, Bucky genuinely thought Dex was going to kill him.
Not threaten him or play jealous boyfriend in the bedroom of a woman they had both loved in violently different ways. He thought Dex was going to kill him. Put the knife and leave him bleeding out beside your dresser before you got home with takeout in a plastic bag.
Bucky’s fingers tightened around Dex’s wrist, not out of confidence this time but calculation. He was deciding whether he had enough strength left to stop him. He was deciding whether you would forgive either of them for what happened next.
Dex saw the thought cross his face and smiled wider.
Bucky, because apparently pain had made him stupid, leaned into it. “Careful,” he rasped. “She might not like finding me dead in her bedroom.”
That was enough to make him falter.
Dex saw the scenario too clearly: you walking in, your face changing when you saw Bucky on the floor and Dex standing over him with the knife. You rarely cried, and it was part of what made it unbearable when you did. But if he killed Bucky, you would, and Dex would rather stab himself a dozen times than be the reason you cried.
You cared about Bucky. Dex didn’t understand it, not really, but you had reassured him it was platonic now, you had said it with your hands on his face with soothing shushes, as if jealousy was a wound you could press your palms over until it stopped bleeding. Platonic. As if that word meant anything when Bucky still came to your window when the world went wrong. Dex hated him for it. Dex hated that some part of you would hurt if Barnes died here. More than that, he hated that it mattered enough to stop his hand.
His grip tightened until the knife trembled once.
“Our bedroom,” Dex said, and drove his forehead into Bucky’s face instead.
The impact cracked through both of them. Bucky staggered back, blood bright at one nostril now, and Dex used the opening to twist free. He went low, sweeping into Bucky’s bad side, viciously accurate. Bucky went down hard on one knee. The floorboards shook under him. Blood splattered out from beneath his hand when he caught himself, and the smell of iron rose thick enough to choke on.
Dex was on him immediately, one hand fisted in Bucky’s hair, yanking his head back just enough to make it insulting. Bucky’s metal hand came up, but Dex angled away from it, staying too close and too awkward, forcing Bucky to spend strength he didn’t have.
The fight became ugly in the cramped space beside the bed. Bucky was stronger, but he was slow on the wounded side. Dex was weaker, but he was precise.
Bucky, breathing hard now, bared his teeth. “She tell you about the scar under her ribs yet?”
Dex’s grip in his hair tightened so hard it had to hurt.
Bucky knew it was cheap. He knew he was saying it because he wanted Dex to lose control, because rage made people sloppy and Bucky needed Dex sloppy if he was going to survive. But the cruelty had teeth because it was true: Of course Dex knew about your scar, but there were parts of you Dex hadn't been there for. There were wounds on your body and in your history that had Bucky’s fingerprints around them, not because he caused them, but because he had been there when Dex had not.
He slammed Bucky sideways into the vanity. The mirror cracked behind him in a thin, branching line, splitting Bucky’s reflection into several broken versions of the same infuriating face. Dex grabbed the front of his vest and hauled him close, mouth near his ear now, voice poisonous. “You’re making a mess.”
Bucky gave a breathless, humorless laugh. “You started it.”
It was a juvenile insult, but it got to him anyway.
Dex hit him again, with pure and ugly anger. Bucky went with it, one hand clamped over his wound, teeth gritted so hard he looked like he might bite through the pain. For one second, he didn't get back up. Dex stood over him, chest heaving, knife fully drawn now, the blade angled down and catching the dim city light from the open window.
Don’t.
The thought cut through Dex’s thoughts so abruptly it almost felt divine intervention. Don’t, don’t, don’t. You’re going to disappoint her.
Dex’s hand tightened around the knife until his knuckles ached. He could still do it. He could still put Bucky down before the bastard got another word out. But then what? You’d walk in, see the blood, see him, see exactly what he had chosen to do in your home, and Dex knew with horrible clarity that you wouldn’t look at him like he was protecting you.
You would look at him like he had hurt you.
His teeth clenched.
You think she’s going to forgive you if you do this?
Bucky looked up at him from the floor, and the smile finally thinned into something quieter.
Dex could see him thinking it again. He could see the exact moment Bucky wondered whether he had pushed too far, whether needling the new boyfriend had been funny right up until the new boyfriend turned out to be a psychopath with perfect aim and no audience to behave for. Bucky’s metal hand flexed against the floor. His human hand pressed harder to the wound. He was too hurt to spring properly, too proud to crawl, too stubborn to ask for help.
Dex, somehow finding mercy, crouched slowly, knife in hand, eyes never leaving his face.
“Were you followed?” he asked.
For a second, all the jealousy and violence had nowhere to go. Dex leaned in, the knife close enough now that Bucky could feel the idea of it against his throat. This was not just possessive anymore. This was practical.
Bucky swallowed, throat shifting near the blade. “No.”
Dex’s stare didn’t move. “Try again.”
“I said no.” Bucky’s voice was rough, irritated. Pain had made him pale, and the mention of being followed had dragged the soldier back through the jealous ex. “What do you think I am, an amateur?”
“Tonight?” Dex said. “You sure as hell look like one”
“I was shot,” Bucky sneered.
“Everyone’s got problems.”
Bucky huffed a laugh despite himself, then immediately regretted it when the movement tugged at his side. His face tightened, and he looked away toward the window, toward the city beyond it. “Hydra cell uptown. I lost them before I came here.”
Dex tilted his chin. The jealousy didn’t vanish; it compressed, hardened, became the point of a needle.
Hydra was near you. Hydra was close enough that Bucky Barnes, bleeding and stupid and still half in love, had decided your apartment was the nearest safehouse. Dex wanted to gut him for that. Dex wanted to check the hallway, the roofline, the stairwell, the little black dot on his phone that proved you were almost home. Dex wanted to drag Bucky into the bathroom, stitch him badly, and throw him out the window he came through. Mostly, Dex wanted you behind him where he could see every door between you and the world.
He pressed the knife a fraction closer, enough for Bucky to understand that he was being allowed to keep breathing as a courtesy.
“If you brought them to our door,” Dex said, voice tender with threat, “I’ll kill you before they get the chance to disappoint me.”
Bucky looked at him, breathing through his teeth. The old bitterness came back, but weaker now, frayed by blood loss and the dawning awareness that Dex wasn’t bluffing for the romance. “She know you talk like that?”
Dex smiled. “She actually likes it.”
Bucky’s muscles twitched again, and Dex took such vicious pleasure in it that it almost made up for the blood on the floor.
He could see Bucky trying not to look around, trying not to notice the proof of Dex everywhere: the shirt over the chair, the spare boots by the wardrobe, the second cologne on the dresser, the life he had moved into.
Then they both heard it.
The lock turned.
The entire room held its breath. Dex’s hand tightened once in Bucky’s vest before he let go just enough to stand, knife still hidden against his thigh. Bucky stayed on the floor, breathing hard, blood spreading beneath him, eyes flicking toward the bedroom door like even he hadn’t expected the timing to be this catastrophic. From the hallway came the rustle of plastic bags, the kick of the front door closing, the familiar little clink of your keys landing in the bowl.
“Baby?” you called, tired and completely unaware. “I’m home.”
Oh, shit.
Dex moved first, but only because Bucky couldn’t.
Dex straightened, his mouth split, his collar torn, one shoulder pressed strangely forward like he was trying to block your view of the wreckage with the sheer force of boyfriend entitlement. Bucky was still half on the floor, one hand clamped to his side, breathing hard through his nose, looking less like the Winter Soldier and more like a man who had picked the worst possible window in New York to bleed through.
“Stand up,” Dex hissed.
Bucky turned his head toward him. His face was damp with pain, and absolutely furious at being asked to perform under these conditions. “How?”
Dex’s eye twitched. He glanced at the door, then at Bucky, then at the dark red spreading beneath his knee like this was inconvenient. “I don’t care. Just don’t look like I did this.”
Bucky stared at him.
Dex scowled. “Fine. Don’t look like I did all of this.”
That, unfortunately, made Bucky almost laugh. It came out more like a wounded exhale, but it was enough to make Dex bare his teeth. They both knew what this looked like. It looked exactly like what it was: your psychopathic boyfriend and your assassin ex-boyfriend caught in the middle of a territorial bloodbath in your bedroom. There was no version of this where either of them came out looking reasonable. Even Bucky couldn’t look you in the eyes and say: I definitely did not start trying to piss your boyfriend off the second I saw him.
So they tried.
Dex grabbed Bucky under the arm and hauled him up with the stiff, resentful care of a man moving a bomb. Bucky bit down on whatever sound nearly escaped him, metal hand catching the dresser hard enough to make the wood creak. For a second, they were stuck like that: Dex bracing Bucky upright, Bucky leaning too much weight on Dex because he had no choice, both of them breathing through pain and rage and the horrible dawning knowledge that you were going to open that door and see everything.
“Stop bleeding,” Dex whispered.
Bucky’s eyes cut to him. “I’ll get right on that.”
Dex’s grip tightened enough that Bucky’s mouth flattened. “Do you want her mad?”
That shut him up.
Bucky wasn’t afraid of many things.He had been tortured, frozen, shot. But you were different. You had a way of going quiet when you were truly angry, a way of looking at a person like you were deciding whether to forgive them or break them in half. Bucky remembered that look. Dex knew that look. Both of them, stupidly in love with you in their own awful ways, understood at the same time that getting punched, stabbed, or shot would be easier than disappointing you.
So Bucky forced himself higher. Dex shoved the knife behind his own thigh like that helped, as if you didn’t know him well enough to clock a hidden weapon from the angle of his wrist alone. Bucky wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and only succeeded in smearing blood across his jaw. Dex looked at him with disgust, then glanced down at his own torn shirt and bleeding lip, and seemed to realize he had no moral advantage whatsoever.
From outside the bedroom, your footsteps slowed.
“Dex?” you called, closer now.
Dex’s entire body changed at your voice. His face gentled by force, badly, like a wolf trying to remember how poodles behaved. Bucky saw it happen and, despite the blood loss, looked vaguely surprised by how quickly Dex rearranged himself to be somewhat sweet for you. Then Bucky did the exact same thing, standing straighter, pushing his pain down, pretending he was not half a second from sliding down the dresser.
You paused outside the cracked bedroom door.
There was a thin line of light between the frame and the wall. Through it, Dex could see your shadow shift as you looked at the damage visible from the hallway.
You didn’t come in immediately. That was worse, because it gave them both of time to become acutely aware of every sound in the room: Bucky’s uneven breathing, Dex’s blood dripping from his mouth, and the plastic rustle of takeout bags settling somewhere in the living room.
“Uh,” you said slowly. “Dex, who are you talking to?”
Dex opened his mouth.
Bucky gave him a warning look, which was insane, considering he was the one actively trespassing.
“Work,” Dex managed to croak.
Bucky closed his eyes. That was really the best he could do?
You opened the door.
For one long second, you just stood there with your coat still on, one hand on the doorknob, taking in the scene with a calm that made both men instantly wish you had screamed instead.
Your eyes moved from the open window to the blood on the floor, from the cracked mirror to the broken wardrobe, from the shattered perfume bottle to your ex. Then your eyes moved to Dex, and suddenly the room became very small.
Bucky, who had faced firing squads with more composure, gave you a faint nod. “Hey.”
Dex looked at him like he was going to kill him after all.
You blinked once.
“What,” you said carefully, “am I looking at?”
Dex immediately pointed at Bucky. “He came through the window.”
Bucky’s head snapped toward him. “He hit me in the gunshot wound.”
“You bled on her floor.”
“I was bleeding before I got here.”
You lifted one hand, and both of them stopped.
It was almost embarrassing, the speed of it. Dex shut his mouth so fast his teeth clicked. Bucky went silent too, looking annoyed that he had obeyed at the same time as Dex.
“My perfume,” you said.
Dex’s face shifted with instant, tragic guilt.
Bucky looked down.
That was the first real victory of the night, apparently. Your perfume bottle, shattered on the floor, managed to frighten them both into shame.
“It was an accident,” Bucky said carefully.
Dex’s head turned toward him very slowly.
Bucky seemed to remember, at the last second, that angering your boyfriend in front of you while bleeding in your bedroom was not a survival strategy. His mouth closed.
You stared at them for another second. Dex stood perfectly still, and. Bucky looked like he wanted to sit down, pass out, and win the argument. Both of them were waiting for your verdict.
Finally, you sighed.
It wasn’t a forgiving sigh. It wasn’t even a tired sigh. It was the sigh of a woman who had left for forty minutes and returned to find her past and present trying to murder each other in her bedroom like unsupervised coyotes.
“Were you followed?” you asked.
Bucky hated that he had to answer that twice.
“No,” Bucky said, straighter now. “‘Was dealing with a hydra cell uptown and you were closer."
You sighed, as if to say, good. Then, you saw your boyfriend's hand move behind him, and you could only shake your head. “Dex,” you said.
He froze.
“Don’t.”
His hand revealed the weapon, as if making it visible made it any better.
Bucky, apparently determined to survive only by accident, muttered, “Good call.”
Dex smiled without looking at him. “Talk again.”
“Boys!” you snapped.
You stepped into the room at last, carefully avoiding the glass, and looked around with increasing disbelief. The closer you got, the worse it became. There was blood on the dresser, blood on the floor, a dent in the wall, a crack through the mirror, one of your shirts knocked from its hanger and lying in the wreckage like a surrender flag.
You stopped in front of them, and neither man moved.
You looked at Dex. “Knife.”
He handed it over immediately, handle first.
You looked at Bucky. “Gun.”
Bucky hesitated for half a second.
“I know you have one,” you tilted your head.
It was then that he pulled it from his hidden holster and gave it to you. Dex’s mouth twitched like he was pleased Bucky had also folded. Bucky saw it and looked like he wanted to bite him.
You took both weapons, set them on the dresser and pressed two fingers to the bridge of your nose.
“I was gone,” you said, very evenly, “for three hours.”
Dex glanced at Bucky. Bucky glanced at Dex.
Both of them seemed to understand, at the exact same time, that blaming each other would technically be honest but also spiritual suicide.
So they said nothing.
That, finally, was smart.
You stared at the two of them for a few seconds longer, then exhaled through your nose like you had to physically, actively choose to protect your peace or whatever.
“I’m going to get water and plate up dinner,” you said, voice calm in a way that made both stand straighter. “Dex. Put Bucky on the bed and stitch him up.”
Dex’s face went blank. Bucky’s did too, but for completely different reasons.
“No,” Dex said before he could stop himself.
You looked at him.
He swallowed, eyes flicking once to Bucky, then to the bed, then back to you with the betrayed eyes of a man being asked to personally tuck a grenade under his pillow. You stepped closer before he could make it worse, cupped his face with one hand, and kissed his cheek.
“Dex,” you frowned, quieter. “Please?”
Oh, you ruined him.
Bucky saw it happen and immediately wished he hadn’t. Dex’s shoulders lowered by a fraction, his mouth tightening around whatever insane argument he had been building, and the affection in him clicked into place so visibly it made Bucky want to look at the floor.
“Fine,” Dex said, like it cost him blood.
Bucky made the mistake of looking amused.
Dex turned to him with murder in his eyes. “Move.”
Bucky looked at the bed, then at the blood on his hand, then back at Dex. “She said put me on the bed. Not throw me.”
Dex grabbed him by the collar before he could say anything else. It was not gentle, but it was careful in the resentful way only he could be. Bucky bit down hard as Dex hauled him upright, metal hand catching the dresser for balance, the strain pulling fresh blood through his fingers. Dex leaned close enough that you couldn’t hear him from the doorway.
“Smile,” Dex murmured, “and I’ll make the stitches uneven.”
Bucky’s expression went carefully blank.
You gave them both one last warning look before leaving for the kitchen. The second your back was turned, the bedroom became awful again. Dex half-carried, half-dragged Bucky to the bed, looking offended by every inch of contact. Bucky tried to help and hated that he couldn’t. When he finally sank onto the edge of the mattress, breathing hard, Dex spread an old towel underneath him with sharp, angry efficiency.
“Don’t get comfortable,” Dex muttered.
Bucky sank onto the edge of the bed, breathing hard. “Believe me, this isn’t my fantasy either.”
Dex, remembering that with the serum, you were still within hearing distance, shut up.
The stitching was silent after that. Dex took his shirt off and worked with clean hands, cutting away ruined fabric, wiping blood from Bucky’s side, pressing gauze down harder than necessary but never hard enough for you to come back in. Bucky could tell every sting was measured. Dex was not losing control; he was choosing exactly how much it hurt.
The first stitch went in neat and mean.
Bucky’s metal hand flexed.
Dex didn’t smile, even though Bucky could tell he wanted to. He kept his head down, eyes focused, fingers steady as he pulled the thread through. Every movement said he knew what he was doing. Every tug said he hated doing it.
“If you tell her you came here because you missed her,” Dex said under his breath, “and I’ll reopen it.”
Bucky stared at the ceiling, breathing through his nose, all the old bitterness dragged out across his face. For once, he didn’t rise to it. Maybe because he was tired. Maybe because you were in the kitchen.
And when you came back with water and plates, Dex was wiping blood from his thumb with gauze. Bucky was stitched, furious, and silent on your bed.
You looked at the wound, then at Dex.
“Did you make it hurt?” you asked.
Dex paused, and Bucky stared at the ceiling.
Dex wiped blood with a square of gauze and said, very carefully, “A little.”
—
Bucky stayed for dinner because throwing him out with a fresh row of stitches would have made you feel guilty, and because Dex didn't want you to sulk all night.
So the three of you ended up in the living room like the world’s worst domestic painting. You sat cross-legged on the couch with your plate balanced on your knee, trying very hard to pretend there was not a bleeding supersoldier in the armchair and your boyfriend sitting beside you with the posture of a guard dog told not to bite. Bucky had one hand resting carefully near his ribs, still stubbornly upright. Dex sat close enough to your side that his thigh touched yours, his hand loose on your knee, thumb moving once every few minutes like he was reminding himself you were still there and not a hallucination caused by rage.
Dinner lasted seven minutes before it became a crime scene again, just with food.
You had tried. Fuck, you had actually tried.
For a while, nobody said anything. Dex kept eating in small bites, fist tight enough to crack porcelain. Bucky kept staring at his plate like the noodles had disappointed him. You looked between them, took one bite of rice, and felt your patience leave your body.
“So,” you said, too brightly, because apparently you were determined to suffer. “Are we going to talk about the Hydra cell uptown, or are we all just going to chew angrily until somebody has an aneurysm?”
Bucky grunted.
Dex made a similar sound
You put your fork down. “Thank you both,” you said sarcastically, “Very productive.”
Bucky shifted in the chair and winced before he could hide it. “It’s handled.” which really meant, I wanted to catch up with you but your psychopath boyfriend is in the fucking way.
Dex looked up immediately. “You got shot.”
“And still lost them.”
“You ran here.”
“I came here because it was close.”
“No,” Dex said, his voice going small in the way that meant he had picked a vein and was about to press his thumb into it. “You came here because you knew she’d let you in.”
Bucky’s face hardened.
“I was bleeding.”
“You keep saying that like it makes this less pathetic.”
“Dex,” you warned.
He looked at you at once, and for half a second you saw him try. He really did try. His hand found your knee under the coffee table, not possessive this time but grounding, almost apologetic. Almost, sorry, I can’t help myself. Then Bucky laughed under his breath, one bitter little sound, and Dex’s eyes snapped back to him like a moth finding light.
“What?” Dex asked.
Bucky leaned back, mean with pain. “Nothing. Just funny watching you heel.”
The room went still.
You said, “Bucky.”
But Dex had already smiled.
It wasn’t his good smile. It wasn’t the sweet one he gave you in the kitchen when you kissed the corner of his mouth, not the private little pleased one he did when you called him baby in public. This was unkind and ugly and delighted to have been given permission to be cruel. “That bother you?”
Bucky’s hand tightened around his fork. “No.”
Liar.
“It does.” Dex’s thumb went still on your knee. “You hate that she can tell me to stop and I do.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. “I hate that you think that makes you good for her.”
You felt yourself sit straighter. “Okay. No. We are not doing this.”
They didn’t hear you, or worse, they heard you and kept going anyway.
Dex leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, all that careful obedience peeling away under jealousy. “Better than disappearing and calling it noble.”
Bucky’s face changed so quickly it almost hurt to watch. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know you left.”
“You know what she told you.”
“I know she doesn’t wake up looking for you anymore.”
That one landed too close too home.
You stood up. “Dex.”
Bucky stood too, or tried to. It was a bad idea. His side pulled, his face went grey, and he had to catch himself on the arm of the chair, but pride dragged him upright anyway. “Say that again.”
Dex rose with him,, one hand already half-reaching for a weapon you had taken from him. “She doesn’t wake up looking for you anymore.”
Your voice came out louder this time. “Enough!”
Bucky laughed, but there was nothing amused in it. “You think you won because you sleep in her bed?”
Dex stepped around the coffee table. “I know I won.”
As if it was ever about winning and not just a pissing contest between two men who cared about you so much, they didn’t know what to do with it half the time.
You moved between them before either of them could take another step,heart hammering with not fear exactly, but it close enough to make you furious. “Both of you shut up. Right now. I mean it.”
For one second, they looked at you. Dex’s eyebrows furrowed when he recognised in panic at your tone. Bucky’s mouth parted like he might actually apologise. Then Dex saw Bucky looking at you, saw the old familiarity there, saw the guilt and grief and care that had no business surviving all these years, and whatever fragile ceasefire you had forced together snapped cleanly in half.
“She’s not your safehouse,” Dex said.
Bucky’s head turned slowly. “Don’t talk about her like she’s a place you own.”
“She is my home.”
“She was mine before she was yours.”
You, by now, had long gone silent.
And not because you had nothing to say. You had too much. It filled your throat all at once, impossible to sort through. You stared at Bucky, then at Dex, and neither of them noticed immediately because they were too far gone. Two trained killers, standing in your living room and turning your life into a battlefield because neither of them knew what to do with the fact that you had existed before and after them.
Dex’s voice rose again first. “She’s not a territory you lost.”
“I was there when it mattered.”
“And where were you after?”
Bucky’s face twisted, souring. “Trying not to ruin her life.”
Dex laughed, loud and cruel now. “How’s that working out?”
They were shouting. Actually shouting now, voices overlapping, old wounds dragged out and thrown at each other like knives. Bucky’s voice was rough from pain and rage. Dex’s was colder, nastier, even when he was losing control. You stood between them for another few seconds, watching their mouths move, watching them say things that were not really about each other at all. They were talking about guilt. About who had failed you better. About who deserved to stand closer.
Then something inside you simply turned… off.
Bucky was saying something about Siberia now, about extraction, about choices made in difficult situations. Dex was throwing back something about staying, about not making abandonment sound like sacrifice. Their voices filled the living room, bouncing off the walls, ugly and masculine and wounded all the same, and you felt suddenly, violently tired.
Not sad. Not even angry anymore. You were just tired in a way that settled behind your ribs.
You stepped back.
Still, they argued.
You looked at the cold food on the coffee table, at the stain of Bucky’s blood on your rug, at Dex’s split lip, at the two men who would kill for you but apparently could not stop talking over you. Your teeth pressed together until your bones hurt. Then you turned your head slightly toward the hallway, toward the bedroom that still had broken glass on the floor and your perfume drying into the wood.
Dex was the first to notice.
Not because he was calmer, but because some part of him always tracked you, even in the middle of his own worst impulses. His voice cut off mid-sentence. His whole body turned toward you by instinct, anger draining out of his face so quickly it left a hollowness behind.
Bucky kept going for half a second longer. “You don’t know what she—”
Then he stopped too.
At this point, you were not looking at either of them. You were standing very still, arms loose at your sides, face quiet in a way that made Dex look like he had been stabbed. Bucky’s eyes shifted more slowly, anger collapsing into guilt as he realised you had gone somewhere neither of them could follow with volume.
Dex said your name.
You didn't answer.
He took half a step toward you, careful now, all the violence gone from his hands. “Baby.”
“No.”
He froze.
You finally looked at him, and whatever he saw on your face made his mouth close.
“No, babe,” you said, trying to hold it together. “Pretend I’m not here. Go fight.”
Neither of them moved.
You gave a small, humourless nod, like that proved the point. “Right.”
Then you turned and walked toward the second bedroom that had been turned into an office.
Dex followed immediately.
He didn’t even look at Bucky. Dex, who had spent the entire night bristling at him, needling him, measuring him, hating him by default and by choice, didn’t even glance back. The second you walked away, Bucky stopped existing to him. Dex followed you down the hall with panic in his shoulders, saying “baby” once more, quieter this time, like he knew he had broken a thread and didn’t know whether he was allowed to touch it.
Bucky stayed in the living room alone.
For a long while, he stood there with one hand pressed to his side, listening to the muffled sound of Dex behind the office door and the absence of your voice answering him. Then his legs gave out enough that he had to sit back down in the armchair.
For once, he had nothing left to say.
—
Dex followed you into the office like he had been pulled by the throat.
Bucky could have stood up, stolen a weapon, climbed back out the window, or died dramatically on your rug, and Dex wouldn’t have noticed unless you did. You had gone quiet, and that was worse than shouting.
You went straight to the office, pushed the door open, and stood in the middle of the room with your arms crossed like you had no idea what to do with your own hands. Dex came in behind you and stopped just inside, careful not to crowd you, which made it worse because he was trying so hard. There was dried blood at his lip, and he looked wrecked, keyed-up, guilty, furious, and terrified all at once.
“Baby,” he said.
You laughed once, but there was no humour in it. “Don’t baby me right now.”
He flinched like you had put your hand through his ribs. It made you angry all over again because of course that got to you. Of course the sight of him looking hurt made your own chest tighten, even when you were the one trying not to cry. That was the horrible thing about Dex. He could be violent and possessive and completely out of his mind, but the second you were upset, he went pliant in the most devastating way. Not calm or healthy, and not flinching like panic. He became pliant like worship. Pliant like he would rather tear his own heart out than survive you going cold on him.
You turned away from him, pressing your fingers hard against your eyes. “I am so tired.”
“I know,” he said immediately. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
You weren’t convinced, because you knew him, and you knew he would say anything to win you back, no matter the cost.
“Are you?” you snapped, whirling back on him. “Because you were in there acting like he came here to steal me. He’s bleeding, Dex. He was shot. He came here because he trusted me.”
Dex’s nervous flexed at that, but he swallowed whatever first answer rose in him. You could see it. The jealous monster in him wanted to bite. The boyfriend in him wanted to crawl. The boyfriend won because you were crying now, your breath catching in your throat like you hated yourself for doing it.
Dex walked up to you slowly, like approaching a wounded animal, and lowered himself to his knees in front of you as if it was second nature.
“Don’t,” you said, but your voice cracked.
He looked up at you, hands hovering near your thighs without touching until you let him. “I can’t see you like this,” he said, voice low and ruined. “I can’t. Be mad, yell at me, hit me if you need to, but don’t go quiet. Please don’t go quiet.”
You were never going to hit him, of course, and that broke your heart.
See, when you two fought, you fought so differently then when you did with Bucky.
Because with Bucky, when it had been bad, it had always been explosive. The two of you had fought like weather systems, and then one of you would go silent. Sometimes him. Sometimes you. Whole rooms would be left full of things unsaid. You’d spend whole nights spent with your backs to each other.
Dex was not like that.
Sure, before you started dating, when you were just friends with benefits, you’d fight. But now that he had a title he could lose? Dex couldn’t bear distance. He could not sit in another room and wait you out. He didn’t know how to leave anger alone to cool. The idea of you lying awake furious at him while he gave you space would destroy him faster than a bullet. He would beg too early, apologise too fast, kneel before his pride even understood it had lost. He didn’t always understand how to be good, but fuck, he wanted to be good for you so badly it hurt to look at.
You covered your mouth, breath hiccuping.
Dex’s hands settled carefully at your hips. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I’m sorry I made it worse.”
“He’s my friend,” you said, and the words came out small despite how hard you tried to make them loud. “I care about him. He saved my life, Dex. He pulled me out of that chamber. He was there when I didn’t even know if I was still a person.”
Dex’s face soured, but not with malice. With jealousy he hated and couldn’t smother fast enough.
“I know,” he whispered.
“No, you don’t. You don’t get to make me feel guilty because I care about someone who mattered before you.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“You are.” You shoved at his shoulder, not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to make his hands fall away. “You are, and I can’t do this. I can’t have you two tearing each other apart every time you’re in the same room. Just get along. Be civil. Be normal for five minutes. Do it for me, you jealous prick.”
Dex blinked up at you. Then, very carefully, he said, “You’re jealous too.”
“Of what, Dex?” You spat. “You’ve never had a girlfriend before me.”
He didn’t say it like a weapon. He said it gently, almost sadly, like he was placing fragile blade between you because pretending not to see it would insult you both.
“Julie,” he said.
You looked away immediately, and that was answer enough.
Dex’s hands moved back to you, palms warm through the fabric of your trousers. “Baby.”
“Don’t.”
“You found out about her and stayed up until three in the morning asking me questions.”
You remembered that night with a humiliating clarity.
It had started so quietly, with you in bed beside Dex, both of you half-dressed and exhausted, his hand warm on your thigh under the blanket while the room sat blue and still around you. You had asked one question about Julie because you thought you could handle one question. Then one became five, then ten, then suddenly it was three in the morning and you were sitting upright with your knees pulled to your chest, crying like a stupid little girl over a dead woman who had never even been your rival.
Dex had looked devastated by it. Not irritated or defensive. Devastated, like your jealousy had hurt you first and him second. He kept trying to pull you back into him, careful and frantic at the same time, one hand cupping the side of your face while the other rubbed slow circles into your hip. “Baby,” he had said, over and over, voice wrecked. “It wasn’t romantic. It was never romantic. I don’t love her like that. I don’t think about her like that. I don’t think about her at all unless you ask me to.”
“But if she was alive,” you had whispered, hating yourself as soon as the words came out. “If she was still here, would you still be with me?”
Dex’s face had gone still in the dark, stunned that you could even ask him something so clear to him. Then he moved closer, both hands on you now, holding you like he could physically keep the thought from hurting you any more than it already had. “Of course,” he said, immediate and absolute. “Of course I would. That’s not even a question. You’re not competing with her. You’re not competing with anyone. I want you. I love you.”
You had cried harder then, because the answer should have fixed it and somehow it didn’t. It only made you feel pathetic, mean, ridiculous. Jealous of a ghost. Jealous of some old, lonely part of Dex that had latched onto the idea of a woman because he hadn’t known what else to do with his moral compass. And Dex, because he loved you, hadn’t made you feel small for it. He had just pulled you into his lap, pressed his mouth to your temple, and held you through every ugly question until you ran out of shame and fell asleep against his chest.
Truly, the two of you were a match made in heaven. Or hell. Definitely somewhere dramatic and poorly supervised.
Your throat tightened. “That was different.”
“I know,” Dex said quickly. Too quickly. “I know it’s different.”
You looked at him, breathing unevenly.
He swallowed, still on his knees in front of you like he was afraid you might pull away if he stopped touching you for even a second. “Julie was a fixation,” he said, voice low, urgent, trying so hard to make it better that he didn’t hear himself making it worse.
You went still.
Dex kept going for half a second too long, because Dex, when scared, could be frighteningly honest. “Bucky was your boyfriend. He’s alive. He was with you. He knew you. He—”
Your breath hitched.
Dex stopped.
His face changed immediately. The argument drained out of him, all that desperate need to be understood collapsing into horror as he realized what he had just put in your hands. Bucky was alive. Bucky had been real. Bucky had loved you in a way Julie never had with him. Bucky could still walk into your apartment bleeding and make him sit down for dinner.
And Dex had said it like that was a wound he was allowed to press.
“Baby,” he said, softer now. “No. I didn’t mean—”
“You don’t have to remind me,” you whispered, and the shame in your voice made you sound younger than you were. “I know that makes me worse.”
You hated yourself for it sometimes, how Julie’s name had lodged under your skin. She was not an ex. She was not some woman Dex had kissed, loved, lost, and secretly measured you against. Julie was a dead girl Dex had fixated on in a way that did not fit neatly into romance or grief. You could resent a living woman. But Julie was a ghost.
“I can’t help it,” you admitted, tears spilling over before you could stop them. “I know it’s not fair. I know you don’t love her. I know you never loved her like this. But I still—”
Dex rose enough to gather you into him, careful and frantic all at once.
“I’m sorry,” he said into your stomach, arms tight around your waist. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be mean.”
You pressed your hands over your face, crying harder because he was right and because you were right and neither of those things fixed anything.
Dex held on like letting go would kill him. “What I meant to say is—,” he said, voice wrecked. “I know what it feels like. I know.”
Your fingers slid into his hair despite yourself.
He turned his face into your touch at once.
“I can’t help it, either,” he whispered.
You looked down at him.
“…But he saved my life.”
That, Dex didn’t have an answer to.
You made a broken little sound, and Dex rose just enough to wrap his arms around your waist. He held you carefully at first, then tighter when you folded into him, his face pressed against your stomach, his breath warm through your shirt. You cried harder then, angry and exhausted and humiliated by how much all of it hurt. Dex shushed you like it hurt him too, one hand rubbing slow circles at your back, the other gripping like.
“And it’s not like he still loves me,” you said into his hair.
Dex was silent for a beat too long.
You pulled back, wet-eyed and furious, knowing he didn’t buy it. “He doesn’t.”
Dex looked up at you with those eyes. “Baby.”
“He doesn’t,” you insisted, even as your voice broke. “And even if he did, I don’t care. I don’t love him that way. Isn’t that enough for you?”
“It is.”
“Then act like it.”
His eyes closed.
You touched his face, thumb brushing just under the blood at his lip, and the anger in you crested and fell despite yourself. “I want you to get along with him.”
Dex opened his eyes again, devastated.
“I know,” you said, before he could argue. “I know you hate it. I know it feels awful. But he’s my friend. He saved my life. He matters to me, and you matter to me, and I am not spending the rest of my life refereeing two guys who both think suffering quietly counts as emotional maturity.”
He almost smiled, but then your eyes filled again and it died instantly.
“I’ll try,” he said.
You looked at him for a long moment, searching his face. Dex let you.
Dex meant everything when it came to you. Every promise, every apology, every awful possessive impulse, every desperate attempt to be better.
But I’ll try is not I will, now is it?
You bent down and kissed his forehead. Then, you stepped away.
Dex’s hands fell slowly from your waist.
You wiped your face with both hands and took a long breath. “I need air.”
His face changed immediately. “I’ll come with you.”
“No.”
Oh.
You walked past him to the office cabinet and pulled open the bottom drawer. Dex watched, confused and wary, as you took out the adamantium handcuffs Charles had given you for your next mission, along with the reinforced rope packed beside them. His eyes narrowed.
“I…,” he said carefully. “What are you doing?”
“Solving my problem.”
You walked back into the living room with Dex following close behind. Bucky was still in the armchair, plate abandoned on the coffee table, one hand pressed to his freshly stitched side. He looked up when you came in, saw your tear-streaked face first, then his gaze dropped to the adamantium cuffs.
His expression went flat. “No.”
“Yes.”
Bucky knew that look. He knew your stupid little get-along strategy because you had done it before, years ago, during the Flag Smashers ordeal, when he and Sam had been pretending not to hate each other so much it became everybody else’s problem. You had locked them in one of Sarah’s spare room, taken the weapons, and told them you didn’t care if they talked, fought, cried, or started a podcast, but they weren’t coming out until they stopped acting like divorced dogs.
Sam had called you messed up, which wasn’t false. Bucky had called you evil, even though he loved you then. Still, it worked.
So yes. He knew exactly what you were about to do.
Dex was a little slower, but not by much. He looked to the cuffs, to Bucky, to the dining chair, then back to your face.
“Wait,” Dex said.
“Nope.”
Bucky tried to stand. He made it about three inches before pain and blood loss turned the attempt into something embarrassing, his metal hand catching the arm of the chair as his stitched side pulled meanly. Dex, still not fully accepting the plan but loyal to your orbit by instinct, caught him by the shoulder before he could tip sideways. The second he realized he was helping, his face went sour.
You dragged two dining chairs back to back, and pointed “Sit.”
Bucky and Dex stared at you.
You stared back, tear tracks still drying on your cheeks, cuffs hanging from one hand, absolutely done with both of them.
They sat.
It wasn’t elegant. Bucky was injured and annoyed. Dex was baffled and visibly trying to decide whether his obedience extended to being trapped with your ex. Unfortunately for both of them, you were a supersoldier and in absolutely no mood. They both knew you overpowered Dex, and Bucky in this state. So within a minute, Dex and Bucky were back-to-back on the chairs, wrists locked in adamantium cuffs, rope looped around their torsos for good measure.
Bucky looked over his shoulder as much as he could. “Are you serious?”
Dex tested the cuffs once, then stopped when you looked at him. He said your name, but you didn’t respond.
You put your coat back on.
Both of them went very still.
“I need some air,” you said, voice raw but steady now. “You better figure out your differences by the time I come back”
Dex’s face went pale with panic. “Baby, please—”
“No.” You grabbed your keys from the bowl. “You two want to fight so badly? Great. Use your words.”
Bucky shifted against the rope and winced. “This feels unnecessary.”
You opened the door. “You two are assassins. Bond.”
That shut him up.
Dex leaned forward as much as the cuffs allowed, eyes fixed on you like the leash had gone too long. “Don’t go far.”
You paused at the doorway, you looked like you were going to say something, but instead, you just closed the door and left.
Dex stared at the door like he could will it open again, simply because he cannot remember the last time you left the house without a goodbye kiss. Bucky stared at the opposite wall, side aching, wrist cuffed to a man who clearly wanted him dead and loved you too much to move.
Finally, Bucky exhaled.
Dex said, very quietly, “I hate you.”
Bucky closed his eyes. “Yeah. I got that.”
—
For a long time, neither of them spoke.
The silence was not a peaceful one either. It had weight, heavy as blood drying into the rug.
It felt like some humiliating group therapy exercise designed by a woman who had finally had enough. Neither of them tested the restraints for long. They both knew you. They both knew Charles, Val, and the likes of them. They both knew you hadn’t used anything either of them could break without tearing the chair, their shoulders, or each other apart in the process.
Eventually, Bucky shifted, just enough to take pressure off the stitches in his side.
Dex’s voice cut through the room immediately. “Stop moving.”
Bucky shut his eyes. His shoulders were stiff against Dex’s back, and every shallow breath dragged at the wound, feeling like punishment. “I’m bleeding through stitches because you put them in like you were sewing up a punching bag.”
“You’re alive.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I’m managing.”
Bucky breathed out through his nose, almost a laugh, but the movement pulled at his side and killed the sound before it became anything. The room went silent again, only meaner this time, because the adjustment had brought their backs closer together. Dex could feel the hard line of Bucky’s body against his, even tied down. Bucky could feel the cogmium steel in Dex’s spine, the tension locked through him like he was barely pretending to be human.
“You always treat her like she’s gonna disappear if you blink?” Bucky asked.
It was meant to be an insult. Bucky meant it as a jab at the anxious attachment, the codependency Dex seemed to have with you that Bucky never had. The problem was Dex didn’t see it as a flaw. Loving you meant watching. Loving you meant knowing where the exits were, where your coat was, how long you had been gone, what your voice sounded like when you were about to shut down.
Dex’s mouth hardened. “You would know something about disappearing.”
Bucky’s voice dropped. “You don’t know anything about what happened.”
“I know enough.”
Neither of them could move properly, but for a second, it felt like the fight might restart anyway, like they would throw their weight against the chair until something broke.
“Why?” Dex asked eventually, forcing the words through.
Bucky said nothing.
Dex’s voice roughened. “Why did you leave her?”
The question didn’t come out of jealousy this time. It came out confused, almost offended, like Dex had found a hole in Bucky’s logic so stupid he couldn’t stop looking at it. He could understand fear. He could understand obsession. He could understand damage, violence, love so consuming it made a person distasteful to everyone except the one person who mattered. What he could not understand was having you in his arms, feeling you settle against his chest, hearing your breathing even out because you trusted him enough to sleep there, and then choosing to leave.
It made no sense to him! When Dex held you, there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. No mission, no freedom, no version of himself without you waiting for him. The thought of breaking up with you felt less like a choice and more like suicide. So what the fuck was Bucky’s excuse? How did a man get loved by you and still manage to walk away? Was he stupid? Was he blind? Was he just a fucking dumbass?
Bucky didn’t answer for a long time. When he finally spoke, the words came out flat, like he had scraped all the pride off them first.
“I started my campaign for Congress,” he said. “Sam talked me into it. She tried to talk me out of it. I thought it was the right thing. I thought if I chose office and a stable paycheck, I could take care of her.”
Dex listened unwillingly.
“When I got elected, I told her to stop the vigilante work,” Bucky continued. “Told her it was going to get her killed. She said the job wasn’t me. She said every speech made me look like I was burying myself alive and asking people to clap for it.”
“Was she right?” Dex asked.
Bucky didn’t answer straight away.
He could still remember a particularly bad fight like the back of his hand.
You were in the kitchen of the old Brooklyn apartment, one sleeve shoved up because there was blood on your wrist and you had sworn it wasn’t yours. He was still in his campaign shirt, collar open, tie pulled loose, standing between you and a stack of donor notes like any of it had ever belonged to him. You and Bucky had always been fire against fire. There was no Dex-like affection that turned into apology the second your voice cracked. Bucky loved you, but he fought you like someone who expected you to talk back. And you always did.
“You don’t care that it’s dangerous,” you had snapped. “Don’t lie to me, it’s insulting.”
Bucky sighed. “You think I don’t care if you die out there?”
“I think you care that it’s not good for your job,” you shot back, voice rising. “I think you care that future Congressman Barnes can’t have a girlfriend coming home with blood in her pretty little dress because it isn’t good enough for the cameras. It doesn’t fit the nice little “reformation” story they’re trying to sell about you.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Is it?” you demanded. “Because you didn’t have a problem with what I did when we were both in the mud. Now you’re wearing a suit and smiling for donors, and suddenly I’m the problem?”
“I’m trying to build something,” Bucky shouted back. “For us.”
“No,” you said, and your voice broke because you wanted so badly for him to understand. “You’re trying to make us presentable.”
You gripped the marble, then you shoved his speech draft off the counter and the papers scattered across the floor like the whole campaign had finally become as ridiculous as it felt.
“You hate this,” you said, furious and crying now, which only made you angrier. “You hate the speeches. You hate the cameras. And you want me to stop fighting because if I stop, maybe you can pretend you stopped too.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“That is exactly what this is.”
“You’re going to get yourself killed.”
“And you’re going to stand behind a podium and call that living?” you threw back, stepping closer, close enough that he could see the tears caught on your lashes. “I can’t stand there pretend this is your passion. Watching you do this is breaking my fucking heart.”
Really, maybe that had been the cruelest truth. You were different people by then, or maybe you had finally stopped pretending you weren’t. Bucky wanted peace so badly he was willing to sacrifice his life’s calling. You wanted him alive, but not hollowed out.
It was never going to work out after that.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “She was right.”
Bucky’s jaw flexed. “Yeah.”
Dex had expected a speech, maybe some self-righteous old-soldier bullshit about duty and sacrifice. Instead, Bucky just said it plainly, but Dex should’ve expected it. Of course you had been right.
“She just had to scratch the itch,” Bucky said. “That’s what I thought then. I hated that I was trying to build something for her and she still didn’t want me in office. I hate the she didn’t want the life I thought I was making safe.”
Dex swallowed once, staring at the floor.
“I left,” Bucky said. His voice had gone lower now, stripped of rage and charm and anything that might make him sound better than he was. “Because I thought if I stayed, I’d start hating her for not becoming the person I needed her to be. And I thought she’d start hating me for asking her to change.”
Bucky’s shame sat heavily in the room.
“So you were a coward,” Dex said, like it was the only possible conclusion.
“Yeah.”
Dex pictured you angry and exhausted, standing in front of a man in a suit who wanted peace so badly he tried to make you stop being who you were. “You had her,” Dex said. “And you left.”
Bucky tipped his head back against the chair. “Yeah.”
“She’s perfect.”
“She’s not,” Bucky said.
Dex went rigid. If he could throw something at him, he would’ve.
Bucky felt it immediately and exhaled, tired and pained. “I don’t mean it like that.”
“Then say it right.”
“She’s reckless,” Bucky said. “She’s brutal and she’s never been good at pulling her punches. She gets a goal in her head and won’t let it go even if it ruins her. She’s not perfect.”
Dex knew every word was true, and hated that Bucky knew it too.
Bucky’s voice lowered, “But she is. Somehow.”
Dex looked down at the cuffs around his wrists.
“By the time I figured out she was right about congress, it was too late,” Bucky said. “She didn’t want me back.”
Dex frowned. “What?”
“You didn’t know?”
Dex said nothing.
Bucky made a quiet, bitter sound. “She didn’t tell you.”
Dex hated the words before he even understood why. “Tell me what?”
“After I joined the New Avengers, I went back to her place,” Bucky said. “I brought flowers, gave her a speech about how I never should’ve run for office.”
Dex’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Flowers?”
“Shut up.”
“She hates being surprised with flowers after a fight. She says it feels like a cop-out.”
“I know that now.”
Dex went quiet again.
“I told her I loved her,” Bucky said. His voice was rougher now. “Told her I was wrong. Told her I should have listened. Told her I wanted to try again. I thought if I admitted it, maybe there was still something to save.”
Dex’s breathing slowed.
“She let me talk,” Bucky said. “Then she said she loved me—”
Dex tensed before he could stop himself.
Bucky felt it and didn’t comment. He forced himself to come out the rest of the sentence instead. “She said she loved me, but not in the same way anymore. Said she couldn’t go through the same heartbreak twice. She said if she let me back in, she’d spend every day waiting for me to decide I knew better than her again.”
Dex stared at the door.
“Then she told me to go home,” Bucky said.
Oh.
Dex didn’t know what he had expected. Maybe some part of him had always imagined Bucky as a door you had left open, a threat waiting to happen, a man who could come back and claim you by knowing the right scars. But that was not what this was.
“You still love her,” he said.
Bucky didn’t answer quickly enough.
Dex’s teth tightened. “Don’t lie.”
Bucky looked at the wall. “Yeah.”
Dex’s voice went cold. “Then why are you sitting here pretending this visit was anything but wanting to see her again?”
Dex knew the Avengers Tower was not that far. If Bucky had wanted medical care, if he had wanted backup, he could have gone there. But he had come here, because the wound gave him an excuse to reach for the one person he was not supposed to want anymore.
“I’m not pretending anything,” Bucky said.
“You want her.”
“I don’t get to want her.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
Dex turned his face away, nostrils flaring once. He hated him. He still hated him. Maybe more now, because Bucky’s love was not clear enough to dismiss and not active enough to fight.
“She’s happier with you anyway,” Bucky said.
Dex froze.
It sounded like it hurt Bucky to say that. He wasn’t being generous. He sounded almost angry, like your happiness had betrayed him by proving him unnecessary.
“She’s more relaxed,” Bucky said. “Even tonight. When you looked at her, yeah, she looked tired. Pissed off. Ready to kill both of us. But she looked… here. Like this is her life now. She doesn’t want to run away from this the way she wanted to run away from me.”
Dex didn’t move.
Bucky swallowed. “I think I loved her for the person she could be.”
Dex’s throat tightened.
“You love her as she is,” Bucky said, voice low with the humiliation of telling the truth to a man he still disliked. “You love the part of her I kept trying to talk down. You love her because she is who she is.”
Dex stared at nothing.
“Fuck,” Bucky managed a scraping laugh. “You’re perfect for each other.”
For once, Dex had no insult ready. He just sat there, back pressed to the man who had once loved you badly and still loved you enough to tell the truth.
You love her as she is.
Oh.
Of course he had known he loved you. His love for you was the central fact of his life now. But he had never heard it put like that. He had never understood that the thing Bucky had failed to survive was the exact thing Dex held onto with both hands.
He loved you now. As you were. Bloody, stubborn, brilliant. Too much, and yet never enough to scare him away.
Bucky shifted behind him and winced. “Don’t make that face.”
Dex blinked. “You can’t see my face.”
“I can feel it. It’s probably disturbing.”
Dex’s mouth tightened, but the bite was weaker now. “I still hate you.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want you near her.”
“I know that too.”
“But she wants you alive,” Dex said, the words dragging out of him like a confession he resented. “And she wants you in her life.”
Bucky was quiet.
Dex shook his head. “So don’t make me regret not killing you.”
Bucky looked down at his bound hands, then toward the door you had walked out of. “I’m not trying to take her from you.”
Dex listened for the lie.
There was love, grief, want, regret. But not a plan. Not a claim.
“I know,” Dex said finally.
The silence after that was still uncomfortable. They were still tied together, still angry, still would probably never like each other, but the hatred had less room to move now. In its place was a human recognition that they had both loved you, and one of them had loved what you might become, while the other was waiting for you to come home exactly as you were.
Bucky tipped his head back, exhausted. “She’s going to be mad I said all that.”
Dex looked at the door. “I won’t tell her.”
Bucky turned his head slightly. “Why?”
“Because it would hurt her.”
Bucky sighed and said, “Good.”
Dex’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t approve of me.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were.”
Bucky almost smiled, then thought better of it because his side hurt and because Dex would probably take it personally. “Fine.”
They sat there in silence again, still waiting for your key in the door.
It was not peaceful, but it was kinder than before. The fight had burned down, leaving only the uncomfortable knowledge that you had been right to leave them there.
Eventually, Bucky shifted, careful of his stitches. “We’re supposed to get along, right?”
Dex stared at the front door. “I don’t want to.”
“Neither do I.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose. “Find one thing, then. One thing we don’t hate about each other. That’s probably what she wanted.”
Dex’s mouth tightened. “That’s a stupid strategy.”
“It worked on me and Sam.”
“I’m not Sam.”
“No,” Bucky said dryly. “You’re much worse.”
Dex almost answered. He almost gave him a mean enough comment to make the room normal again. Instead, he stayed quiet for so long Bucky thought he was refusing the whole thing on principle.
Then, Dex looked down and said, like the words had to be dragged out of him, “I admired you.”
Bucky went still.
“In the military,” Dex continued. “They taught us about the original hotshot World War Two sniper.” He sighed, recounting what he learned. “You were a benchmark.”
Bucky looked down at his metal hand.
For a second, the living room felt very far away. He was back France, younger, with a rifle settled against his shoulder and Steve’s voice behind him. He remembered having hands that felt like his. He remembered trusting the weapon without thinking about it. He remembered the awful focus of a target through glass.
“Not anymore,” Bucky said.
Dex turned his head slightly, as much as the rope allowed.
Bucky flexed his metal fingers once. “My hands got too heavy.”
Dex didn’t offer pity, which was maybe the first decent thing he had done all night. He just sat with it, understanding the mechanics before the grief: hands were tools. Bodies were weapons. And sometimes the weapon changed and everyone still expected you to aim the same.
“You compensate,” Dex said eventually, “You’re still good.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched upwards. “That your version of comfort?”
“It’s an observation.”
“Right.” Bucky breathed out something close to a laugh, then stopped when his side pulled.
After a moment, Bucky said, “You’re good too.”
Dex’s eyes narrowed. “I know.”
Bucky rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “Jesus.”
And just like that, there was recognition, only because lying would be disrespectful. They sat there with it, no longer pretending there was nothing in the other worth understanding.
Dex looked toward the door again.
“She’ll be cold,” he said.
Bucky’s eyes before he could stop it. “Yeah. She always says she won’t be.”
“She’d be lying.”
Bucky didn’t argue. For once, there was nothing to argue with. They both knew that about you: the stubborn little tilt of your chin, the way you would rather freeze than admit you wanted anyone to notice, the way you made needing care look like a personal failure.
Dex stared at the floor, hating that Bucky knew things like that. But under the hatred, there was one truth Dex couldn’t make himself resent: you were alive because of him.
So, very quietly, he said, “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you pulled her out of that cryo chamber.”
The words landed harder, maybe because Dex meant them. Maybe because Bucky knew what it cost him to say it. Maybe because for a moment, all the hatred in the room had to make space for the fact that they both loved you enough to be grateful you had survived.
Bucky breathed in once, and did not trust himself to answer.
Neither of them spoke after that.
There was nothing left to say that would not make both of them feel worse.
—
When you came back, they were free.
For a second, you just stood there with your key still in the lock, cold air slipping in around your legs, staring into your own living room like it had rearranged itself while you were gone. The chair was empty. The rope had been loosened and coiled beside it. The adamantium cuffs sat neatly on the coffee table, gleaming under the lamp like evidence at a trial.
Bucky was standing near the armchair, pale but upright, one hand resting carefully over his stitched side. Dex was by the window with his arms crossed, his split mouth set in a hard little line, watching you with an expression so forcibly neutral it immediately made you suspicious.
You blinked.
“Uh.”
Neither of them moved.
You pointed slowly at the chair. “Did I not leave you two tied up?”
Bucky looked faintly embarrassed. Dex looked like he had been waiting for this question and still hated having to answer it.
“We worked together,” Bucky said.
Dex glanced to him. “He needed to piss. I wasn’t letting him do it on our floor.”
That was apparently the whole explanation.
Huh.
The apartment was kind of clean now.
Even the bedroom, somehow, was as clean as it could be. The mirror was still cracked, the door still needed dealing with, and the ghost of your perfume still clung to the floorboards, but the blood had been wiped up, the glass swept away, the sheets changed, the ruined towel folded in the dirty laundry. Apparently, at some point between being handcuffed to the same chair and deciding not to murder each other, Dex had made Bucky help him clean.
Still, nobody was shouting. Nobody was bleeding more than they already had been. Nobody was dead.
The bar, unfortunately, was on the floor.
At one point, Bucky said he should go.
You nodded, but when he moved toward the door, you caught his sleeve before he passed you and drew him into a hug. He went still at first, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have that anymore. Then his arm came around you, gentle and familiar, his hand flatwarm between your shoulders.
“We’ll catch up,” you said quietly.
Bucky’s eyes closed for half a second. “Yeah,” he murmured. “We will.”
Across the room, Dex froze in a way that was technically progress because it was not murder.
His eyes fixed on Bucky’s hand on your back. Then on your cheek pressed briefly to Bucky’s shoulder. Then on the relaxed expression in Bucky’s face when he looked down at you. Dex’s jaw clicked once, twice, and you could practically feel the jealousy being dragged through his body by a leash made of your name.
He lasted exactly three seconds.
“Yeah, okay,” Dex said, voice tight. “That’s too long. Get off her.”
You looked at him over Bucky’s shoulder.
Dex’s mouth shut, but his eyes stayed huge and miserable, like a dog ordered not to bite while the mailman danced in front of him.
Bucky, because he valued his life a little more now than he had earlier, released you first. He looked at Dex once. Dex looked back, less murderous than before, but still with the promise that Bucky was alive on a technicality.
Bucky was alive because you didn’t want him dead.
Bucky left after that, limping only a little, dignity held together by stitches. The door closed behind him, and the apartment went quiet.
You stood there for a second, coat still on, shoulders finally sinking now that there was no one left to manage. Dex stayed where he was then crossed walked towards you slowly.
He looked at you with those wide, wounded eyes, and swallowed.
“I didn’t kill him,” he said.
Your anger thinned at the edges despite yourself.
He looked at you like that mattered. Like not killing Bucky had cost him real effort, real restraint. Like he wanted you to see that he had done it for you. Only for you.
You sighed, then reached up and touched his cheek.
“I’m proud of you, baby.”
Dex’s eyes gentled immediately.
“So proud,” you murmured, thumb brushing carefully near the blood at his lip. “My good boy didn’t murder my friend.”
His breath hitched, just a little.
“You’re making fun of me,” he said, but his voice had gone warm.
You sighed with a slightly amused smile. “A little.”
Dex leaned into your palm anyway.
You stepped closer, and that was all it took. His restraint broke as he wrapped his arms around you like he had been starving for permission all night, pulling you carefully into his chest, careful of his bruises, and even more careful of yours that you gained from your last mission. He tucked his face into your hair, his hands spread firm over your back, and for the first time since you had opened the door and found blood on your floor, he let himself breathe properly.
For the first time all night, he felt good about himself.
He wasn’t normal of course, whatever that meant. He was never going to be suddenly reasonable about Bucky Barnes existing within a five-mile radius of you. But good, because you were in his arms and you had called him baby and Bucky was alive and somehow Dex had managed to give you that. He had behaved. Barely, maybe, but barely still counted.
He kissed you then, carefully, like he was asking whether he was still allowed. When you kissed him back, his arms tightened around you, warm and helpless. The apartment still smelled faintly like antiseptic and takeout and broken glass. But you were kissing him, and your hands were on his face, and behind his skull, Bucky’s voice echoed again:
Perfect for each other.
Dex smiled into your mouth.
Yeah.
He could live with that.
—end.
Extra Note: Lowkey should I make this into a miniseries??? I love writing their dynamic so much.
summary: a sudden realisation sends you to church and an honest conversation with Matt makes you think about what your future might look like.
who: Benjamin "Dex" Poindexter/Bullseye x Female!Murdock Reader
word count: 2.4K
warnings: soulmate au, religion (i think), mentions of nudity, and obsessive themes. If I have missed any please let me know!
divider by: @uzmacchiato
a/n: Part 7 of the Glitch Series! Taglist is now closed! Like before feedback is welcome!
Glitch Series Masterlist
Next Chapter: Lover
Previous Chapter: Untouchable
“I don’t need you, but I do, I do, I do…“ — The Other Side Of The Door by Taylor Swift
Your eyes slowly opened to the morning light spilling through the curtains that hadn’t been closed the night before, and the first thing you became aware of was warmth.
Warmth that wrapped around your waist, beneath your cheek, tangled between your legs under the soft sheets, and then came the slow, steady sound of Dex breathing.
The apartment was quiet except for the distant sounds of traffic far below the open window and the soft hum of the heater somewhere in the apartment.
For a long moment, you didn’t move. Dex was still asleep beside you, one arm loosely draped around your waist as you lay half curled against his side with your head resting on his chest.
His face was softer when he was asleep, less sharp, less dangerous, and looking like the Dex he only showed you when he was awake.
Your fingers moved absently across the warm skin of his chest, tracing lazy patterns there as you stared out the window feeling nothing but peace for the first time in a while.
A feeling that settled nicely on your chest as your fingertips drifted over your name etched into his skin and sat unmarked on his ribs like he had done everything possible to guard it, a mark that looked like it belonged there as naturally as it did for you to breathe.
Dex shifted slightly beneath your touch, tightening his arm around your waist instinctively before settling again, and your lips twitched softly, happy that he trusted you enough to sleep this deeply beside you.
Because Dex was someone who always noticed everything around him, from every sound to every movement to every threat, and yet here he was sleeping deeply enough that you could trace shapes against his chest without him immediately reaching for one of his many sharp knives.
An action and the feelings of trust made your heart skip a beat.
Your gaze and finger drifted over the scars littering his skin from fights and violence and the one down his spine from his surgery. You knew nearly all of them by heart now as your fingers slowed to a stop, hand resting on his stomach.
I could get used to this. The thought hit you hard enough to steal your breath for a second.
Because it wasn’t just him. It was the days spent together, the nights with his arm around your waist, the quiet mornings in his embrace, but mostly it was the soft warmth of him choosing you over and over again despite everything.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly.
Because this wasn’t supposed to feel like this. This relationship was supposed to feel dangerous, complicated, and wrong, but instead it felt safe.
It felt like home.
Dex stirred beneath you then, his breathing changing slightly before his eyes slowly opened and immediately settled on you despite the small, faraway look in them. A habit of his you had noticed on the first day he escaped prison.
“How long have you been awake?” His voice was rough with sleep.
“Not long.” You whispered.
Your stomach flipped stupidly as his hand slid slowly up your spine beneath his shirt that he’d pulled onto you after he carried you from the sofa to his bed.
“You’re staring,” he murmured.
“You’re very observable.” You whispered, moving to run a hand through his sleep-ruffled hair.
A faint smile touched his mouth. “You trace patterns when you’re thinking too much.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly. “Is there anything you don’t notice?”
“Not when it comes to you, baby.”
Your cheeks warmed embarrassingly fast at the lack of hesitation and confidence in his answer.
Dex’s fingers brushed lightly against your jaw before he leaned forward to press a soft, lingering kiss against your forehead, the tenderness of it filling you with warmth.
“You’re quiet,” he murmured.
You looked down at his chest for a moment before admitting softly, “I’m thinking.”
“About?”
Everything. You thought to yourself. About him, Matt, Karen, and Foggy, this relationship, the future.
But instead of saying any of that, you just shook your head and softly smiled. “Nothing important.”
Dex looked unconvinced but didn’t push as he pulled you closer until your ear rested over his heartbeat again.
You listened to it for a while before finally forcing yourself upright.
“I should go.”
His hand immediately tightened on your waist as his eyebrows furrowed.
“You worked late yesterday,” he said quietly. “You should rest today.”
“I open the apothecary later.”
“You need sleep.”
You smiled softly. “You sound worried.”
“I am worried.” He said with one hand cradling your jaw.
Again with the no hesitation, no games, just his pure honesty. Something inside your chest ached with affection.
God, you love this man.
“Fine,” you tease him, lying back down on his chest. “Five more minutes.”
“Ten.” He bargained with both hands tightening around you.
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The church was quiet when you stepped inside.
Warm air brushing against your skin as the heavy wooden doors closed behind you, muffling the sounds of the city outside almost instantly.
The familiar scent of candle wax and old wood settled around you as you moved slowly down the aisle.
You hadn’t been here in a while.
Unlike Matt, who never stopped believing, you often found your thoughts and beliefs in the faith you were raised in shaken every time life became too loud, too busy, too complicated, and too painful.
But standing beneath the stained glass and flickering candlelight, the quiet almost overwhelmed you as much as it did bring you some peace before you slipped into the confessional booth, and for a moment neither you nor the priest spoke.
“Father, some will say that I have sinned.” You spoke softly.
Silence greeted your words for a moment before the priest answered gently. “Do you believe that you have?”
Your fingers twisted together in your lap. “I don’t know.”
And that was the truth because it wasn’t guilt that had brought you here today, although it would almost be easier if it were.
“I like someone,” you admitted quietly. “Someone who people are afraid of.”
The priest remained silent as he listened to your confession.
“He’s done horrific things,” you continued softly. “Things I can’t defend. Things that hurt people I love.”
Your throat tightened slightly.
“But when he’s with me…” You swallowed. “He’s different.”
The words echoed quietly in the small space between you as you closed your eyes briefly.
Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? Dex wasn’t secretly good, and you weren’t blind or ignorant to what he’d done and to the things he does do.
It was that with you… he was just Dex.
The priest’s voice remained calm. “And how does he make you feel?”
You let out a quiet breath. “Seen… loved.”
The answer came too quickly, too honestly, and your eyes burned suddenly.
“Like I matter,” you whispered. “Like I’m not just… useful to people.”
The words hurt more than expected once spoken aloud.
Because you spent so much of your life healing people, taking care of people, and giving pieces of yourself away by using your healing powers until you collapsed from exhaustion.
But Dex noticed when your hands shook, when you skipped meals, when you were tired, when you were hurting.
Dex noticed everything about you.
“Is he your soulmate?” The priest softly asked.
“Yes,” you answer, confused by his question. “Does that matter?”
“The Lord above doesn’t always give us the soulmate we want,” the priest said gently after a moment. “Sometimes He gives us the soulmate we need.”
Your breath caught softly as the words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. Because all your life you’d imagined your soulmate would feel easy, would be someone your family would instantly love, someone uncomplicated.
You never imagined Benjamin Poindexter, a man who feels at ease when committing violence and covered in blood. Never imagined someone who would challenge every belief you had about fate and morality and love.
Yet somehow you couldn’t imagine wanting anyone else but him. Whether he was Dex or Bullseye, he was the one you wanted.
The realisation sat heavily inside you.
The priest spoke again after a moment. “Do you love him?”
Silence filled the confessional.
You opened your mouth once and then closed it again.
Because suddenly the answer felt too much like betrayal to your brother and friends to say aloud, but your silence still answered enough.
The priest did not push further. Instead he said softly, “Sometimes people come here hoping someone else will tell them how to feel.”
Your eyes lowered because you knew the truth.
“And sometimes,” he continued gently, “they already know.”
You love Dex.
⠈⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄
Matt: Lunch at our spot?
The text from Matt appeared barely a minute after you left the church, and your chest tightened instantly.
Your spot that is a little diner tucked between two old buildings downtown where your dad used to take you both after school before he died.
You and Matt still went there whenever one of you needed the other, when things got too hard and all one of you needed was their twin.
You stared at the message for a long moment before typing back
You: Okay.
Matt was already waiting in your claimed booth when you arrived, a booth tucked away in the back corner that the owner’s wife affectionately calls the ‘Murdock Booth.’
His head lifted immediately at the sound of your footsteps, his cane resting beside him.
“You’re late,” he said.
“You say that every time.” You sighed.
“And every time it’s true.”
You smiled faintly despite the lingering feeling of hurt from your fight as you slid into the booth across from him. But the familiarity of him quickly settled something anxious inside your chest almost immediately.
Because no matter how complicated things became, Matt was still Matt. Your twin brother. Your person.
The waitress dropped off your drinks without asking what either of you wanted. A hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and no cream for you and a chocolate milkshake with extra cream and extra sauce for Matt.
Another familiar thing and proof of how long you two had been coming here.
Matt waited until she walked away before speaking again. “You sound better.”
You blinked slightly. “Better?”
“Happier.”
The word hit you harder than expected as your eyes dropped briefly toward your hot chocolate.
Matt tilted his head slightly. “You were so upset last time.”
Your chest tightened painfully because, of course, he noticed. Because, like Dex, Matt always noticed things about you.
“You and Karen still mad at me?” you asked quietly.
“No.” Matt sighed softly. “She’s worried.”
“I know.”
“Bug, I’m worried.”
You hummed slightly. “I know that too.”
Silence settled briefly between you as you drank from your drinks before Matt spoke again. “Karen told Foggy.”
Your stomach dropped immediately. “Oh.”
“He said he’s not judging you until he talks to you himself.”
Your eyebrows lifted slightly as Matt’s mouth twitched faintly.
“He also said you’ve earned more trust than almost anyone he knows.”
Emotion clogged in your throat because Foggy had every reason to hate Dex. Every reason to hate this entire situation. Yet somehow he was still trying to understand you first.
Your eyes burned slightly.
“He’s getting better,” Matt added quietly. “Every day.”
Relief filled inside your chest. “I know, and I’m proud of him.”
Matt nodded once before his expression shifted slightly. “He really cares about you.”
“Foggy?” You asked, confused.
“No, idiot,” Matt laughed. “Dex.”
The way he said the name carefully made your chest tighten as you braced yourself for another argument.
“He’s intense about you.” Matt said, swirling his straw.
You looked down at your hot chocolate silently.
“I ran into him,” Matt continued softly. “During that week you asked him to leave you alone.”
Your heartbeat stumbled at the reminder.
Matt exhaled slowly. “He looked at me like I was standing between him and his reason for living.”
The words should’ve frightened you, but instead flattery spread warmly and quickly through your body, and judging by the slight shift in Matt’s expression, he noticed the change in your heartbeat.
Your face heated immediately, and you rushed to defend yourself. “I know how that sounds.”
Matt stayed quiet.
Your fingers tightened around your mug slightly before you admitted softly, “But when it’s him… it doesn’t feel frightening.”
There. You’d finally said a secret aloud.
Matt’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.
“He notices everything about me,” you whispered, scooping up some melted marshmallows on a spoon and into your mouth.
“Sometimes I think…” You hesitated. “I like how much he cares.”
The admission felt vulnerable, especially with Matt.
Because Matt had spent your entire life protecting you, knowing you, understanding you better than anyone else in the world, and now you were admitting another man was starting to occupy the space beside him.
You could see Matt realising it. With a little sadness, a bit of jealousy, acceptance, and love only a twin brother could give.
“I still don’t trust him,” Matt admitted quietly.
You snorted. “I know.”
“But I trust you.”
Emotion hit you so hard your eyes immediately burned, and Matt reached across the table for his hands to find yours.
“You sound happy,” he said softly. “And that’s all I have ever wanted for you.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
Because you were.
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Dex opened the apartment door almost immediately after your knock, and you instantly saw it.
The tension in his shoulders, the sharp focus in his eyes, the anticipation. Like he’d spent the entire day preparing for rejection. For you to come back telling you regretted last night and everything before that.
His gaze scanned your face quickly as you stepped inside without speaking, and Dex shut the door quietly behind you.
“What happened?” he asked carefully.
You looked at him for a long moment before slowly walking forward until you stood directly in front of him. Dex went perfectly still as your hands lifted gently to his jaw before you rose onto your toes and pressed a soft kiss against his cheek.
The tension in his body dissolved instantly beneath your touch as his eyes shut briefly. And softly, so softly, you whispered, “I’m still here.”
Dex inhaled sharply, and when his eyes opened again, something vulnerable flickered there so openly it nearly shattered your heart.
His hands slid carefully around your waist, pulling your body tightly against his.
“Always, baby?” he murmured.
You nodded once. “Always.”
And for the first time since this all began, loving him didn’t feel impossible anymore.
i need what makes a good man!reader and dex to have a pregnancy scare!!! well it would be a scare for reader because reader would be like no! nows not the time and ben would be like 😍😏
but dex secretly just wants to experience you pregnant and holding his teeny tiny baby 🥲
You and Dex Have a Pregnancy Scare
TW false positives, birth control mention, Dex is in a perpetual state of baby fever with you, domestic fluff, a bit of hurt/comfort. You and Dex have a son called Leo, Husband! Dex x Wife! Reader (lmk if you I missed anything)
WC 1.2k
Part of What Makes a Good Man? (I think it could still be read as a one shot, but a couple of references would be missed)
The pregnancy test was positive.
It was faintly positive, barely positive. And you didn’t trust it because the line looked like it had been drawn by a ghost with an emptying dry-erase marker. But it was there.
It was there, and it was the last test in the house, and the pharmacies were closed because it was late the universe had chosen today, a specifically long day, to become theatrical.
So for one full day, you had to live with the possibility that you might have a baby in you. Again.
It was one full day of walking around your own house like your body had become a sealed envelope. One full day of trying not to touch your stomach. One full day of mentally rearranging your entire life around the possibility.
Leo was still little. You were still tired. Dex had literally just come back six months ago. You had only just started feeling like a whole person.
You loved your life, as complicated as it may be. You loved your husband and son more than oxygen.
But another baby?
Now?
Your brain kept tripping over the word.
Baby. Baby. Baby.
Tiny socks. Sleepless nights. Appointments.
Your body changing again.
Leo’s cute little face looking at a newborn in your arms. Dex’s hands on your stomach. Dex, being handed the knowledge that you were carrying his baby again, and this time. He would be here to witness the process.
Oh, fuck.
Dex was the actual problem.
He was trying to be normal about it, and failing. Because when was he ever good at concealing his emotions, huh?
You told him twenty minutes ago, and told him it was nothing until you could take another test, but he kept looking at you like you were glowing. His eyes kept finding your stomach. His hand kept hovering by your back.
He kept doing tiny things, maddening things. He was bringing you water before you asked, taking the laundry basket out of your hands, watching you walk up the stairs of the building like you were already wobbly.
“Dex,” you said once, flatly.
He looked up too fast. “What?”
“Stop looking so happy.”
His mouth curled up into a smile.
You nearly threw a cushion at his head.
You were properly spiralling. You even stood in the kitchen staring at a mug for two full minutes because you couldn’t remember whether you wanted tea or whether caffeine was suddenly a horrible idea. You opened your calendar to put down one of Leo’s school events and immediately closed it again because you were reminded that your period was late. You looked at Leo eating cereal for dinner with his little spoon and almost cried because he was your baby, your baby, and how were you supposed to have another one when you still sometimes looked at him and felt like he was born yesterday.
And then, of course, Leo overheard Dex comforting you. Dex tried, but he didn’t really help. He clearly wanted another one.
“Mommy has baby?”
Apparently, he couldn’t hear you when you asked them to put their shoes on, but they could apparently detect a private conversation through the wall.
You turned so fast your neck hurt. Dex froze beside you, one hand still on the counter, his face stupid and hopeful that made you want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure.
Leo stood in the doorway with a toy car in one hand, looking between you and Dex. He didn’t even know where babies came from! How did he even get the gist of the conversation?
You crouched immediately. “We don’t know yet, baby.”
Leo frowned, unconvinced by his father’s unearned excitement.
Because Dex, behind you, looked like he was fucking vibrating.
You could feel the horrible little smile he was trying to swallow. The emotional equivalent of hehehehehehehe.
He wasn’t laughing at you. He would never. But he was delighted and already picturing Leo as a big brother, already picturing a tiny baby in the crook of his arm, already picturing you pregnant and tired and letting him fuss over you like a full-time occupation.
Leo frowned. “But maybe?”
“Maybe,” Dex said immediately.
You turned your head slowly. “Dex.”
He straightened, clearly still wanting to please you. “… or maybe not?”
Still, your husband wasn’t pressuring you. He knew you were scared, and because he loved you, your fear mattered more than his wants or needs. But you could see the want anyway. You could see how badly he wanted to be allowed to be happy.
And for one full day, he was.
For one day, Dex lived like there might be another little life coming.
When the pharmacies finally opened, you bought three tests. Dex came with you, hovering at your side like a bodyguard to your uterus, carrying Leo on his hip while pretending he was not staring at the boxes like they contained his future.
Then you got home.
Then you took them.
Negative.
Negative.
Negative.
Oh.
Your knees nearly went soft with relief. You laughed once, then covered your mouth, then laughed again because the sound had nowhere else to go.
You were not pregnant. Your life was not changing today.
And then you looked at Dex.
Oh, fuck.
Outwardly, he was smiling because you were relieved, because that was the correct thing to do, because Dex would set himself on fire before making you feel bad for feeling happy. But underneath it, you saw his heart drop. The future he had let himself hold for one day just slipped through his fingers, and he tried to pretend it didn’t hurt when it hit the floor.
Oh, Benjamin.
“Dex.”
“I’m good.”
“Don’t do that.”
He looked away, and that was worse. “It’s good. You’re relieved.”
“I am.”
“Then it’s good.”
“Dex.”
His teeth tightened. Dex was clearly trying to make himself smaller than his disappointment. Dex was trying to be good for you by wanting less.
So you pulled him in.
He came apart so quietly it almost killed you. He pressed his forehead to your stomach, and his arms wrapped around knowing your womb was empty after spending the entire night fantasising about watching you grow.
“It’s not never,” you whispered. “It’s just not now.”
He breathed out, and it came out long and shaky.
Then Leo appeared, because apparently this family had no concept of emotional privacy.
He looked at you. Then Dex.
“No baby?” He asked, as if he knew it was the answer all along.
You swallowed a laugh and a sob at the same time. “No baby, sweetheart.”
Leo’s little face twisted, confused and offended, like everyone had missed something extremely obvious.
“It’s okay, daddy,” Leo insisted, “I’m baby.”
Dex let out a sound so pathetic and wounded that you had to press your lips together to keep from falling apart. Leo toddled over with great seriousness patting his face because he knew Dex was the one who needed comforting.
Dex wrapped one arm around him and kept the other around you. “Yeah buddy,” he murmured, “You are.”
And you stood there with your terrifying man clinging to you and your son defending his title.
That was how you knew, that when the time came, Dex would knock you up again in a heartbeat.
All you had to do was ask.
—
Note : I’m going through all your kind comments and asks!! I feel so loved, thank you for all the support for this series 🫶
Tags: post-Dance, angst with a happy ending, minor character death, cregan puts a wounded soldier out of his misery, grief/mourning, guilt, falling in love, soft smut, p. in v. sex
Wordcount: 3,710
Stopping at the Twins on his way back at the end of the war, Cregan initially intends to ask the youngest daughter to wife. Instead, he finds a kindred spirit in you, the eldest, who are nursing your dying husband, one of Cregan's own soldiers.
Cregan Masterlist
The Twins at the cusp of winter were a formidable sight, and Cregan could only be grateful at being granted crossing now that a light snow was starting to fall and descend upon the southern regions. War had exhausted him, but he still had to make the journey north to return to his seat now that the realm was at peace once more.
Along with a party of his closest advisors and friends, he had agreed to remain for at least a fortnight to gather provisions for the last stretch of the journey. Sabitha Frey, now Lady of the Crossing, was a welcoming woman, and he was grateful for her hospitality.
“Many ladies from the Riverlands have lost a husband in this war,” she told him on the first night of his arrival, while they shared supper in her hall. “If some of your northmen were looking for wives, I’m sure we could arrange advantageous matches.”
Cregan nodded, setting his cup of ale down and reclining in his chair. “Many of them marched south without expecting to return,” he admitted. “Perhaps they would be glad to remain in the riverlands and help rebuild as winter passes.”
“I shall arrange a fair, so we might present them to each other,” Sabitha decided. “Perhaps you might want to find a match for yourself?” she then suggested. “My youngest daughter is unmarried, and an alliance between the North and the Crossing would be beneficial for both the North and the Riverlands.”
This proposal gave him pause, but he could not see any flaw in it. It was long time for him to take a second wife, he knew, at the least to secure his line, but for his own benefit as well. He longed for companionship and the warmth of a woman, and he thought a maternal presence would help in his son’s welfare.
“I shall think on it,” he replied, and Sabitha seemed satisfied. Those were not empty words, and he truly meant to think on the matter.
“One of the men you led to King’s Landing is upstairs,” she then said, catching him off-guard—while she had ladylike manners, she was blunt and direct, which he appreciated. “His wife, my oldest daughter, is sitting with him.”
“How is he faring?” he asked with a frown.
“Dying a slow death, the one any soldier fears,” Sabitha replied, a frown of sorrow on her face.
At that, Cregan pushed from the table and rose. “Might I visit him?” he inquired, and she rose with him, gesturing for him to step into the hallway. She guided him up a few flights of stairs, higher in the tower, and he followed. At the end of a wide corridor, she knocked on a painted wooden door, then stepped aside, allowing him to enter.
The chamber was kept comfortably warm, a blazing fire in the hearth. At the foot of the bed, sitting in a large armchair, a young woman was falling asleep on her knitting—it looked like a shawl of some sort, in a deep forest green. You startled as you saw him in the threshold, and were quick to rise, putting your knitting aside.
Cregan gestured for you to sit, but you remained standing. “I do not wish to intrude,” he said. “I simply wanted to pay my respects to my man.”
“Forgive me, my lord, for not coming down to supper,” you replied with a sad smile. “I was told you had arrived, but I was needed here.”
Cregan glanced at the sleeping man, his chest heavy—no matter how many deaths he had seen in this war, the weight of his responsibility never eased. “No need for apologies, my lady,” he offered, and at that you finally sat again, gathering your knitting on your lap.
He recognized the shield and sword propped against the foot of the bed, although the man’s face was so gray and gaunt, he could not recognize him. “He’s one of my bannermen, sworn to White Harbor,” he said solemnly, as though the recollection would help him heal.
“He was wounded during the battle on the Kingsroad. For a while we thought he would recover, as he seemed better, but then his wound would not heal, and the fever spread,” you explained with a wavering voice. “It comes and goes, but the Maester is not certain that he’ll ever regain his strength.”
Approaching the bed, he watched the man’s face with attention. “May I be of any service?” he asked.
“There is nothing to be done but pray,” you replied. “The master says he has many wounds on the inside that only the Gods can heal.”
“Then I shall pray,” he promised.
To your greatest surprise, it was not the only night Lord Cregan came to visit. Night after night he sat with you, watching as life faded from your husband’s face. Whether it was out of guilt or a strong sense of duty, you could not tell, but you were grateful nonetheless.
“Surely you have better things to do, Lord Stark,” you said after a week of his nightly visits.
An armchair had been brought near the fire, at the other side of the bed from you, and the two of you spoke in whispers all through the darkness. You spoke of the ways this war had changed the realm, of your hopes for the winter and beyond, and you found a true, honest friend in him. He was younger than he appeared, and than you would have expected from the Warden of the North, but his calm presence grounded you and gave you courage.
The two of you spoke until slumber claimed you where you sat, and every morning, you woke up with a shawl draped over you, and the other chair empty.
“Your husband gave his life for this realm under my orders, I can give him my time,” he replied. “Perhaps you would like to sleep in your own bed tonight. I shall sit with him.”
Grateful for the offer, you still shook your head. “I would not leave him when he needs me most,” you argued. “The Maester says he knows I am here, even when he is not conscious.”
It was a foolish hope, perhaps, to think that he knew of your presence. In truth you prayed that he did not feel a thing, nor understand the slow decay of his own body. It was the only way you could keep your sanity, and it seemed your nightly companion understood.
During the day Cregan saw to his men resting and gathering provisions for the journey to Winterfell and to their own keeps—it was taking longer than anticipated and Sabitha had requested that he remained longer, to oversee the matches between some of his soldiers and Riverland widows.
He could tell that the prospective marriage between him and her youngest daughter was still very much on her mind, and he knew it would do his people well if he were to return from war with a wife and a new, beneficial alliance.
Therefore one gray afternoon he lingered in the hall after luncheon, the Freys’ youngest girl having no doubt been instructed to entertain him. She was comely but barely of age, and he regretted that he had so little patience and judged her so harshly. War had not soothed his temper, if anything it had made him more severe than he used to be.
“I don't understand why she sits with him for days on end,” the young woman said in the course of conversation, taking him aback. “They were barely husband and wife before he was summoned to war.”
“She is his wife. She is living by her vows,” he replied, confused and dismayed.
“She does not love him,” the young woman continued, and while he could not blame her for her directness, he disliked her lack of care for the fundamentals of duty. “She does not know him enough to love him, and yet she is wasting away, watching him die.”
“Love is not needed to sustain a marriage,” Cregan tried to explain. “Duty is enough.”
She did not seem convinced by his explanation, and he found himself rather disappointed by her words. Instead he rose when a servant walked past with a basket of fresh linens, and he offered to take what she was carrying to the wounded man upstairs. The young lady Frey seemed sorry that he would take his leave from her, but let him go without protest.
Cregan entered the room as he had done every day for nearly a fortnight now, and kept his silence as he wiped the sweat from his man’s brow and pulled the covers tighter around him. “You seem upset,” he finally said, noticing how unusually crestfallen your face was.
“My sister means no harm, but she still causes it sometimes,” you replied, and he understood then what had prompted her words, and the reason why the matter had been on the young lady’s mind. “She has childish fancies. I don't hold them against her, after all she is young and she will still learn. I simply pray she does not learn through grief as I have.”
“Grief comes for all of us, at one time in our life or another,” he replied, rather clumsily, but you did not contradict him.
“No one here knows what it is like, to stand watch over a spouse at the Stranger’s door, waiting for death to take them,” you said, tears strangling your voice.
At that Cregan set the wet cloth aside and took his seat in the armchair, pondering his words before he said them. “As a matter of fact, I do know,” he replied solemnly. “I watched my own wife die of childbed fever.”
It was a terrible admission, his voice still full of pain, and yet you were soothed by it, knowing you were not alone in your sorrow. “I am sorry,” you whispered, to which he answered with only silence. “I suppose I can only be grateful I did not know him well.”
“Your sister spoke of it,” he said, prompting her to continue.
With the shadow of a smile upon your lips, you did. “We were betrothed quickly, once war was declared,” you told him. “We barely had time to say our vows that he had gone. Mere days. He served the realm, and now I serve him.”
“Duty means a lot to you,” Cregan remarked, letting his admiration show in the tone of his voice.
“Duty is everything. Sacrifice comes with it,” you replied.
Then, as you had rarely done when he was present, you allowed your tears to flow down your cheeks, sorrow shaking your shoulders. “I have thought, at times, when he writhes in pain in his sleep, to take a pillow and deliver him of his misery,” you sobbed, and Cregan was speared by your admission, his admiration only burning brighter. “Do you think me a monster?” you asked.
“No, on the contrary,” he answered honestly. “I have had to do it only too often on the battlefield.”
He wished to reach out and lay a hand on your shoulder, but he did not know whether his gesture would be welcome. “All any soldier wishes is to die in battle. It is unfair that he should lay in this bed and wait for death to claim him,” he mused out loud. “I pray that she comes for him quickly.”
“She?” you inquired.
“I believe in the old gods of the North. To me, death is an old woman,” he explained. “She comes and takes you by the hand into a gentle river.”
The way you looked at him then, your eyes wide and earnest, displaced something in his chest he did not know had stuck. “It sounds peaceful,” you said with a small smile.
For the next few days, Cregan braced himself for the inevitable—he could see the resolve in your eyes, the certainty of what you had to do, and were preparing yourself to. He knew it to be mercy, having watched as your husband writhed in agony, his skin gone pale and wet with fever, the wounds on his body infected beyond what the Maester could heal, or even soothe.
On the third night of this agony, near dawn, Cregan slipped into the room only to find it empty. You were not standing vigil as you usually were, and he saw it as confirmation of what he had to do. He had already seen many deaths and caused too many himself—perhaps this one would be the only meaningful one, if he could spare you the act of taking a life.
In solemn silence, he approached the bed and kissed the man’s brow. “Rest now, lad. The realm is safe, you may go in peace,” he murmured for only the Gods to hear, and did his duty.
It was only a few hours later, once dawn had risen over the two towers, that you found him outside, near the Weirwood tree, sitting in silent prayer. He raised his gaze to you, finding your eyes rimmed with red but a sense of relief in the line of your shoulders. “Thank you,” you said.
“Whatever for?” he asked, rising to meet you.
“For guiding him into the river,” you replied, your face falling in grateful sobs.
This time he did not restrain himself, taking a step forward until you were sobbing in his arms, his hand into your hair, holding the back of your head. “I took him to the battlefield. I could not let him cross the river alone,” he simply said, and somehow, it was enough.
Soon after that, the day of departure came, following the funeral ceremony of your husband, but Cregan knew he could not leave the Twins without making his intentions known. He found Lady Sabitha in her private sitting room, at her desk with a quill and ink. She looked up at him expectantly when he entered, as though she knew why he was requesting an audience.
“I have come to ask for your daughter’s hand,” he said, and Sabitha’s eyes crinkled in satisfaction. “But not the youngest,” he added after a beat of silence.
At that, she seemed taken aback, setting down her parchment. “Oh?” she asked, and for a moment he worried she was displeased with the proposal.
These few weeks sitting at your side had only convinced him that this was the right choice to make—as the battlefield bonded men that fought together, watching over your husband had shown him enough of your character for him to know he could not ask for your sister’s hand. He did not need a young woman with fancies about love, but someone who would stand on equal ground with him, and not shy away from grievous matters.
“I have seen too much of war and grief,” he explained as gracefully as he could. “Your oldest daughter knows much of the harshness of the world already, and I need someone by my side who can bear the burden of duty.”
“I pray you do not feel an obligation towards her, as her husband was your bannerman,” she said, and he appreciated her concern.
“I do not,” he refuted calmly. “She would do well in the North as Lady of Winterfell, whereas I feel your youngest too delicate for the duties that await.”
“Very well,” Sabitha said. “However she still mourns her husband, and will for quite some time.”
“I shall return when spring comes, and make my proposal then,” he offered, and Sabitha agreed.
Time passed and he thought of you often, through the darkest and coldest months of winter. He told little Rickon of the woman whose companionship he hoped for, and that with spring a new Lady of Winterfell would surely arrive. After nearly sixteen moons, a shorter winter than he had expected, spring started to thaw the lakes, and green returned to the large fields around the castle.
Delegating his duties to the young lord Cerwyn who assisted him, he was readying to depart and ride south again in a few days to renew his proposal when he was interrupted by one of the men that guarded the ramparts.
“There is a small party coming,” the guard told him. “A few horses carrying the Frey banners.”
Cregan was surprised by this, but suddenly hopeful that his proposal would take place sooner than he had expected. He came outside into the courtyard, and was proved right with who awaited him.
“I hope my presence is not an imposition,” you said as you dismounted your mare with ease, running a hand along the great gray horse’s side.
Winter had changed you, he thought at first, but then realized it was the first time he was seeing you without the veil of grief. It suited your face, turning your eyes brighter. “Not at all, I believe it to be quite expected,” Cerwyn said with a pointed look before taking his leave.
“He is right. I was readying to ride to the Twins within the week,” Cregan confirmed. “I take it your mother has told you of my proposal.”
“Indeed she has,” you replied. “I have come here to accept it.”
Cregan breathed a sigh of relief at this, gesturing for you to follow him inside. “Then I welcome you to Winterfell, my lady,” he said. “If you are certain this is what you wish.”
“I have had enough time to sit with my grief,” you said as he welcomed you into the main hall where a large hearth was blazing, warmth seeping into the stones. “You carried me through my darkest time, and now I can only hope you will carry me through happier years.”
“I will,” he replied.
The rest of the day was used to show you the castle, as well as to settle you into your chambers, which were smaller than the ones you’d enjoyed at the Twins, but kept warmth far more easily. You had brought with you tapestries and your deceased husband’s shield, which you had kept as a precious token.
Once your possessions had been put away as you liked, you sought Cregan out and found him in his own room, divested of his heavy leathers and furs—it was the first time you were seeing him as a simple man, and not the Lord of Winterfell.
The way he was looking at you, with infinite gentleness in his dark eyes, banished any lingering doubts you may have had. “I was told it was tradition for the Warden to share a chamber with his wife,” you said with a small smile.
“Indeed,” he confirmed.
Without a word you came to him, and without any question needing to be asked aloud, walked into his arms. The tenderness he had felt for you at the Twins roared back to life, and he pulled you tighter against him, waving his fingers through your hair. Your own hands tightened into the fabric of his shirt, cradling his broad back. Never had he thought he would find the first embers of love in such a dark place as the one he had met you, but he was grateful the Gods had brought him to you.
“When I told my sister of my departure, she said you had told her you do not believe love to be necessary to sustain a marriage,” you said after a minute of blissful silence, your voice muffled into his chest.
“That is true,” he confirmed.
“I hope you might find it in your heart to love me one day, as I know I will surely come to love you,” you admitted, and at that he reached for your chin, bringing it up until you were facing him, and dipped his head to press a kiss to your lips.
“I know I will, and I would show you, if you allowed it?” he asked, to which you nodded.
Solemnly, almost reverently if such was possible from a man of his stature, he undid the laces at your back, but you did not feel the cold as your skin was bared from its layers. Pulling his own shirt above his head, he took you into his arms once more, and you were grateful to bury your face into his skin, enjoying the soft, dark hair that grew over his chest and stomach.
The two of you shared a joyful breath as he pulled you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist, and guided you to the bed, where he set you down upon the warm furs. Looming over you, he kissed you harder, his tongue curling with yours as one of his hands explored the curve that ran from your side to your knee, hooking it over his hip.
In the cradle of your thighs, his hardness was pressing a line of heat at your core. He allowed you the time to rock back against him as you wished, content to kiss your neck and your breasts while you found your pleasure underneath him. He had missed the touch of a woman, the heady feeling of a woman’s desire against his own, and even though he knew what he felt was not quite yet love, he was certain that it would not take long.
“Slow,” he murmured when he finally pressed his length inside of you—you arched your back and sighed as though he was soothing an ache in your body, and it made him groan aloud. Whether his instruction was for your sake or his, he could not tell.
The extent of your mutual longing only made itself clear when pleasure took hold of the both of you. Tears came to the corner of your eyes and he kissed them, cradling you against him, your own hands digging half-moons into his broad back. “Cregan,” you sighed, and uttering his name felt like a deliverance, an oath.
Pleasure crested slow and steady, strong, anchoring you into your flesh. The weight of war and grief poured out of you and him alike, the two of you finally finding solace in each other’s touch, and in the promise that whatever fate would befall you, neither of you would face it alone.
A/N: Dividers by @/saradika. Based on a request by @multyfangirl.
