Aegon had always had a pathetic obsession with is sister, he had always followed after her like a lost puppy no matter how much she expressed her disgust over him and his habits. He was just more tolerable when his head was between your thighs.
For as long as he could remember, Aegon Targaryen had pinned after one person. You.
You, someone who wouldn’t even look his way, would scowl at the mention of his name and would only ever talk of him in the from insults and sighs of disappointment.
You seemed ashamed to know him, and the pure look of disappointment on your face every time he looked your way and sent you that pathetic smile. He seemed to trip whenever you were near, stumbling over all his words and blushing brighter than the red of house Lannister. A funny look for someone known for his drinking and whoering. Though he would stop in an instant for you.
He had never achieved the expectations of anyone, never even bothered to try unless it was you asking, and then he would try everything to fulfil your every expectation, need or want. And in return, he didn’t get so much as a smile.
You had hated his very existence since the day he was born.
For the first few years of his life, he served the purpose of being the one thing you were not. A boy. At your birth everyone had expected a boy. There were tourneys held for the would-be heir. Your mother, the queen sacrificed for something that would never prove true. And then when he was born the whole realm expected him to fulfil the purpose you failed to give. And then he was passed over. And suddenly you had to find a new reason to hate him.
So it became the way he followed you a round, so eager to impress you. Copying your every move and interest. Then when you both entered your teen years and the following around decreased, your new reason to hate him became his behaviour and attitude. In his youth he at least made an effort, to look nice, to learn to please. But the day he turned three and ten all effort seemed to disappear. And a new reason to hate him appeared.
People praised him for the fact he was a man. That they all held the secret hope he would be king. They all kept their mouth shut at his behaviour and praised him for the bare minimum.
Rhaenrya too got the praise for doing nothing and everything at the same time. But you had never hated her. A fact he hated and envied. She could do no wrong to anyone, even you. You who is the harshest of critics and could find someone to hate when it came to anyone or anything.
He tried to stop you from hating him, he tried everything and yet nothing he ever did so much as got a smile from you. You had never thought much of him. And he doubted you ever would.
That was until he had the chance for the throne and all of a sudden, your interest peaked.
You had never been much for politics or the constant arguing that took place in the family. Though you loved the chaos of it all, and the constant prying for attention from both sides, you had never gotten involved in any of it. Choosing to sit back and hate everyone and everything as you so loved to do.
Sure, for the first 15 years of your life Rhaenrya had been your only rock, until she upped and left you, leaving you with a stepmother who you were sure only wanted your love to prove something to Rhaenrya. And though you had ruled your own part of the court, enjoying the frivolities of court life over the politics. The envy you felt for your sister’s life caused a part of you to pull towards the idea of Aegon as king. Though you found him utterly pathetic, he was perhaps the only person who had ever saw you for you and loved you unbidden.
With your father growing more and more sick by the day, Rhaenrya’s appearance at court lessening, the light began to shift to Aegon. And though you had never much considered giving him any attention, not that he deserved it. Suddenly you began to acknowledge him. And that only turned Aegon’s affections into infatuation.
And though ignoring him had been so easy before. Now it was getting more and more difficult.
Perhaps it was the way he had cleaned himself up. Stopped drinking and whoering, or at least began to do It less. Suddenly you began to see Aegon Targaryen as a person almost worthy of your attention.
The way you spoke to him didn’t change, you still sighed at his very being, scowled at his jokes and laughed at his words. But he loved it. you were at least acknowledging him, spoke to him. Looked at him.
He was utterly pathetic. The way he worshiped every word out of your lips. Fell to the floor at every glance you sent his way. He ate up every scrap of attention. And you soaked up his undying devotion.
It began to get noticed by everyone at court. How your refusal to even admit he existed suddenly turned into hesitant acceptance at his unending and unrelenting presence.
It even was noticed by Alicent who was willing to do anything in the favour of her sons’ succession.
“Aegon!” You screamed his name across the courtyard as he duelled with Aemond. His sword clattering out of his hand at the sound of your voice “Come with me” you insisted as you turned to walk, Aegon quick to race after you.
“Your mothers plotting something,” you spoke though your voice holding no surprise at Alicents newest scheme.
“What?” Aegon questioned as he continued to chase after you until you reached your chambers doors.
You moved into your chambers making sure door were closed behind you before speaking. Your gripped Aegon by his hair, pulling his face to yours “did you beg her to do it?”
“What?”
“Is that all you can say? She wants to see us married” you gave his hair one more tug before letting him go.
“Married?”
“Are you capable of saying more than one word at a time?” you hissed, moving towards your bed.
“i- yes” he swallowed, you squinted your eyes at him, witing for the response to widen to more than one word “she betrothed us” the glee In his voice was hard to mask, the victory he felt shining in his eyes.
“yes” you scowled, “and am I to believe you truly had nothing to do with this?”
“of course… I’ve been begging for years but she always said no”
“well it looks like your begging finally paid” you scoffed, your eyes drifting to look out of your bedroom window, as if you were unable to bear looking at him.
“do you not want us to marry?” he spoke, moving forward slowly, hesitantly towards you. He took in the sight of you, lounging on your bed, the sun seemed to hit you just right, making your already ethereal beauty even more stunning. Your dress sleeve had slipped ever so slight of your shoulder, revealing more of your neckline that you intended, he could feel himself growing hard just looking at you.
“I could have anyone, I have men begging for my hand and you think that I, would wish to marry you?” you scoffed.
Your eyes moved down his body, your eyes focusing on the growing tent in his pants.
You laughed “you do don’t you? Oh you sweet pathetic thing” you said, moving to him and caress his cheek.
“why would I marry you? hmm? what could I possibly gain?”
His face grew flushed as he spoke, “my mother wishes me to be king…you could be my queen”
“Queen? Hmm I do like the sound of that” you hummed, your mouth grazing his jaw, “but still there’s you, I would have to marry you to achieve that, and what makes you think your worthy of me?” you began to move towards him, your dress slipping further down, whether intended or not Aegon did not know. You stood before him, your eyes level with his neck, the perfect height for you to place soft teasing kisses to his jaw.
Your gripped his chin in your hand and moved his face to look you in the eyes, “beg me” you whispered, your mouth so close to his, your breathes mingled.
“please, please” he breathed, as your hand moved up his stomach, tracing the lines of his chest through his loose fitting shirt. “all my life I have fought to be worthy of you…I have admired you and loved you, please…please I need you” he begged.
“good,” you whispered, your hand moving to grip his shirt, and your other realising his jaw as you pulled him towards you more, “I’ll marry you on one condition”
“anything” he swallowed roughly, his yes glued to your lips.
“You don’t embarrass me” you hissed, “you stop your pathetic actions and loose the ego, promise me”
“of course, please, I need you” he licked his lips, eyes still glued to your lips.
You hummed as you looked him up and down, realising his shirt and moving back towards to bed. “now, kiss me”
Aegon wasted no time, and he near pounced on you, he kissed was skilled and heated, egar to taste as much of you as your allow, he didn’t know if you’d ever let him kiss you again, and he was taking advantage of every second.
You grabbed his hair and pulled him back, “glad to see your whoering left you with some talent” you muttered, placing a gentle kiss on his lips, pulling back before he could deepened the kiss.
“please, please, please” he begged, his hands playing with the arms of your dress.
You laughed at his eagerness, at the prospect of being his wife and queen. Laughed at the idea of betraying Rhaenrya. Though she had betrayed you first. She was the only person to have ever loved you and she just upped and left, never wrote or replied to your letters and acted as if she hadn’t been your sole family for the first few years of your life and that you were just like the rest of them, that you and Aegon were one and the same. You supposed it was only fitting for you to marry him, he was the only person who had ever loved you unconditionally, had only ever seen you for you. And you had hated him based on some silly sense of loyalty to a sister you never saw.
“do you love me?” you asked, desperate for him to say yes, to know at least one person did.
“yes, gods yes please…please I have only ever wanted you”
You hummed in response, your fingers tracing along his jaw, “promise me you will make me queen”
“if that’s what you want” he agreed, kissing your thumb as it traced over his mouth.
“I want to be seen, not overlooked”
“As do I” he nodded, swallowing roughly as you both looked at each other, and saw what was underneath your courts personas.
“I still hate you” you whispered, “you stole everything that was meant to be fine”
“I’m sorry” he hummed, his face pulling closer to yours.
“It was never your fault, you were just who I choose to hate” his lips hovered over yours, egar to taste you once more.
“Will you try to love me, as I love you” he begged.
You didn’t reply, at least not with words, but your lips capturing his in a heated kiss, your tongue teasing at his lips as you begged for entry. His hands moving down your dress, pulling it down until you were left only in your small clothes. Your sheer smallclothes that left little to the imagination.
You broke the kiss as he kicked your dress off the bed.
“take of your clothes” you hummed, playing with the ties of your small clothes, teasing to take them off an reveal what was underneath.
He moved off of you slowly, his eyes never leaving your as he took of his clothes until he was entirely bare before you.
You practically drawled as you took in the sight before you.
“please” he begged, as you slowly removed your small clothes. He crawled towards your now naked form. Your legs falling to the side to reveal your wet heat to him.
“please” he begged again, as he placed desperate kisses from your ankles up to your thighs. A soft nod was all that was needed as he moved his kisses from your inner thigh and moved to feast at your heat. His licks were slow at first, testing and tasting you and to see your reaction.
Moans began to spew out your lips as he moved to towards your clit. Your hands moving to grip his hair as feasted on your heat, his fingers teased at your entrance, his mouth focused on your clit as he began to finger you.
A loud moan escaped you as he entered, you grip tightening on his hair, as Your legs wrapped around his head and pushing him impossibly closer to you.
his fingers fucked you as you began to ride his face, his mouth sucking on your clit as you felt your high begin to wash over you. a loud moan escaping your mouth once again as you came.
You used your legs to push him away from your heat.
“lay back” you commanded, catching your breath as you took in his naked form, and his eyes gleaming with lust.
Crawling over him, you took his mouth into a slow deep kiss, your legs falling on either side of his frame, your hand reaching for his cock, as you slid it between your impossible wet folds, before slowly easing down onto him.
His cock, covered in your heat
Spreading your juices along his length before you slowly eased your way down onto him.
Your moans bounced of the walls as you sat on his cock, feeling your walls stretched around him. “gods” you moaned, as you began to move your hips. Your hands moved to his chest, using him for support as you took you pleasure. His hands moved to grip your hips, helping you move and set the pace. Your head fell forward, moving to him as you begged for him to kiss you. your kiss was sloppy, as you fell onto his chest, letting him fuck up into you as you focused on kissing him. Your peak was fast approaching, your moans increasing in volume and pitch as your peak washed over you.
Your head leant against his, your breaths fast as you took in the waves of your orgasm.
Aegon placed as soft kiss to your lips before flipping you over. Your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he began to fuck you and chase his own high.
His hips moved in practiced and skilled movements as he fucked you, the high you had just felt approaching once more as he too began to reach his own orgasm.
His movements became stuttered, his mouth moving to search for yours as you both came together.
His leant his head against yours as you had before, your breaths moving in sync as you regain your strength. His cock still inside you as you both recovered.
“I guess I have to marry you know” you hummed, as your hand ran through Aegon’s hair.
He huffed, “please, don’t act like you don’t want to anymore” his words weren’t the usual want and begging tone, but teasing and filled with a sense of pride, as if he had finally won a battle. And in truth he had won and you had lost.
You would marry the man you hated, though hate was now rather a loose term you would use to describe Aegon.
❝we had our downs but we had way more ups,let's make love❞
pairing — firelord zuko! x fem!earthbender!reader
synopsis — who was surprised when you and zuko were the first in the gaang to get pregnant?
content — fem!reader, mature content (17+), suggestive themes, mention of sex, no actual plot really, indulgent fic, takes place seven years before the legend of aang (which takes placed 12 years after ATLA) so Zuko is 22 and Reader is 21, no use of yn, not proofread
author's note — I didn't watch the leaks yet just clips and if I do I'll still be watching the movie to support the animators
The Princess of the Fire Nation, though she often felt that, as the wife of the Fire Lord, she deserved a far grander title, sat before her vanity, studying her reflection. One by one, she had dismissed her maids, choosing instead to prepare for bed on her own. In truth, the new trending fragrance they all insisted on wearing had begun to make her nauseous.
Though, lately, everything seemed to make her sick.
“Aang sent a letter.”
She hadn’t even heard him enter.
Slowly, she turned to face her husband, a faint crease forming between her brows. “My love, you spend all day in council, and the first thing you do after not seeing me for hours is talk more about the council?” she teased lightly, though there was a hint of tiredness beneath it. She turned back to the mirror, picking up her hairbrush and dragging it gently through her hair.
“Well, love, this isn’t about the council. Technically,” he replied, stepping further into the room. “It’s about Aang. He needs our help.”
“Our help?” She turned again, confusion softening her features as she rose from the vanity. Her green satin nightgown draped elegantly over her figure, the gold stitching catching the candlelight with every movement. The most prominent change, however, was the gentle, undeniable curve of her stomach.
“You knocked me up, dummy,” she teased, a small smile tugging at her lips as she approached him. Her hands slid to his shoulders, then to the ties of his robes, beginning to loosen them with practiced ease. “Or did you forget already?”
He laughed softly, the sound low and fond, allowing her to help him out of his robes as the fabric slipped from his shoulders.
“How could I forget?” he murmured, turning toward her.
His gaze drifted over her slowly, appreciatively, before settling on the curve of her stomach. His hands followed, almost instinctively, coming to rest there, warm, steady, protective. His thumbs brushed gentle circles over the satin, as if he could feel something deeper beneath it.
“When you carry the future of the Fire Nation inside you?” he said quietly, his voice softening. “A little piece of me…”
His eyes lifted to meet hers, something tender and unguarded flickering there.
“And all of you.”
She hummed softly, rising onto her tiptoes as her arms slipped around his neck, drawing him down to her. Her lips met his in a gentle, fleeting kiss, soft, familiar, almost teasing.
But when she tried to pull away, he didn’t let her.
His hand tightened at her waist, the other still resting protectively against her stomach as he followed her retreat, capturing her lips again before the distance could grow. Even as her heels lowered back to the floor, he bent with her, closing the space she had tried to create.
This time the kiss deepened, slower, warmer, lingering in a way that stole the breath from her lungs. It wasn’t hurried, but it wasn’t soft either; it carried weight, intention, something unspoken between them.
His thumb brushed lightly against her side as he tilted his head, pressing closer, as if memorizing her. The world beyond them seemed to fade, the council, the letter, everything, leaving only the quiet crackle of candlelight and the steady rhythm of shared breath.
When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far, just enough for their foreheads to rest together, his lips still ghosting over hers, reluctant to let her go.
“I can’t get you pregnant again, can I? Double pregnant,” he teased, a grin tugging at his lips.
She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head at him. “Oh, you’ve certainly tried,” she replied, her voice laced with amusement. Her hand lingered briefly against his chest before she stepped back, just enough to create space between them. “But don’t try again, I need this thing out of me first.” "I don't know if I love you referring to our child as a thing."
She separated from him fully then, turning slightly as if to busy herself, though she didn’t miss the way his shoulders subtly slumped at the loss of contact. The warmth between them lingered in the space she left behind, unspoken but felt.
Her fingers adjusted the sleeve of her gown absentmindedly, her expression softening for just a moment before she glanced back at him over her shoulder. There was still a hint of her earlier smile there, though now tempered with curiosity.
“Now,” she said, more gently this time, “tell me what Aang wants.”
"That can wait for the morning." He mumbled, his eyes never leaving her lips as he pulled her back into another kiss.
“A village?”
Zuko sighed, steadying Appa’s harness as he helped his wife climb aboard. “Why would he possibly want us to go to a random village?” And why would he say pack a coat? We're going to a mountain aren't we?" she huffed, gripping the edge before finally pulling herself over with a bit more effort than she liked. "I hate mountains."
He lingered below for a moment, looking up at her, concern etched into his features. “Are you sure it’s a good idea for you to go? You can stay—I’ll be back in a couple days.”
She leaned over the edge slightly, brows knitting. “Aang needs the second-best earthbender with him, Zuko. I’m not disabled—”
She winced mid-sentence, her hand instinctively going to her stomach before she turned toward Toph. “Sorry.”
Toph shrugged easily. “Hey, I’m just glad you finally admitted I’m the better earthbender.”
“I give you your flowers when they’re due,” she shot back with a small smile.
Toph grinned, but it slowly faltered, her head tilting slightly as if listening to something no one else could hear. "Your heart must be beating really fast." "Is it?" The princess quirked her head confused. "Why else am I hearing two heartbeats coming from you?”
Katara gasped, her hands flying together in delight. “Oh my gosh, you’re pregnant! I thought your coat was just oddly bulky but you're pregnant! Oh my Gosh!" she exclaimed, immediately rushing forward to wrap the Fire Princess in a tight hug. “I thought they were just rumors, because surely you and Zuko would’ve told us!”
The princess blinked, caught off guard, before her gaze slid over to her husband, who was just now hauling himself rather ungracefully into Appa’s saddle.
“Zuko,” she said slowly, one brow arching, “I thought you told them.”
Zuko froze mid-step, staring back at her blankly. “I thought you did.”
There was a beat.
“Oh my gosh.”
“I mean, it was only a matter of time,” Katara chimed in, smiling knowingly. “You two have never exactly been subtle. And Zuko practically insisted on marrying you the moment he could.”
Toph snorted, crossing her arms. “Yeah, honestly? I’m surprised it took this long. Thought for sure you’d have a whole lineup of heirs by now if Zuko could keep his hands to himself for more than, what? two minutes?”
Zuko nearly choked, his face flushing a deep, unmistakable red. “That’s— I—” He cleared his throat, straightening awkwardly as he avoided everyone’s eyes. “That’s not— we’re not—”
The princess, however, looked entirely unbothered.
In fact, she looked amused.
“Well,” she said lightly, smoothing a hand over her stomach as she glanced at him, “he does have a bit of a… lack of restraint.”
Zuko snapped his head toward her. “You’re not helping.”
Katara laughed, covering her mouth. “I mean, you can’t blame them. You’ve both been—” she hesitated, searching for a polite word before giving up, “—like that since the beginning.”
Toph grinned wider. “Please. ‘Like that’ is putting it nicely.”
“Toph,” Katara warned, though she was still smiling.
“What?” Toph shrugged. “I’m just saying—half the time, I didn’t even need my feet to know when they were in the same room. The tension alone was loud enough.”
The princess let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You’re all incredibly annoying.”
Zuko groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Can we please focus on the actual reason we’re here?”
“Oh, no, no,” Toph continued, clearly enjoying herself. “You deserve this. All those nights you two kept everyone awake—”
“Okay, that’s enough,” the princess cut in quickly, though a smile tugged at her lips. She glanced at Zuko, amused. “He can’t get any redder. He’s about to turn into a tomato.”
Zuko let out a quiet, embarrassed huff, but didn’t argue, instead shifting closer and settling against her side, seeking some sense of refuge.
She softened slightly at that, her expression gentler as she let him.
“Let’s just go get Sokka,” he muttered, still avoiding everyone’s gaze.
The princess had shrugged off her coat minutes into the trip. They weren’t even close to Aang yet, and the extra weight had her uncomfortably warm, a light sheen of sweat clinging to her skin. The shifting air currents around Appa did little to help.
Katara, however, had not left her alone once.
The questions came one after another, gentle but relentless, curiosity shining in her eyes.
“How far along are you?”
“Five months,” she answered, offering a tired but polite smile.
“What’s the gender?”
“No clue.”
“Any baby names lined up?”
“We’re trying for something that blends earth and fire,” she said, glancing briefly at Zuko, “but nothing’s stuck yet.”
Katara brightened. “That’s so sweet—”
“Are you going to have more?”
The princess didn’t even hesitate. “Have you met my husband?”
Katara blinked, then laughed, covering her mouth.
Zuko, meanwhile, coughed into his fist, his ears burning all over again.
Through it all, his hand never left her, resting protectively over her stomach, thumb brushing slow, absent circles as if grounding himself in her presence. Every so often, his grip would tighten slightly whenever Appa shifted, like he could somehow steady both her and the child at once.
“Careful,” he murmured under his breath at one point, guiding her subtly as the saddle dipped.
“I’m fine,” she replied, though she didn’t pull away from him.
By the time the icy waters and familiar structures of the Southern Water Tribe came into view, the air had grown colder, sharper against their skin. Snow dusted the ground below, and the distant figures of Water Tribe members began to gather, pointing up at Appa’s descending form.
They didn’t have to search long.
Sokka was already striding across the snow toward them, boots crunching loudly with each step, his grin widening the second he took them in.
“Well, well,” he called, arms spreading like he was welcoming honored guests. “Look who finally decided to show up. Took you two long enough.”
His gaze flicked between them, lingering, calculating, before it dropped.
Then paused.
“…Whoa.”
Zuko stiffened immediately. “Don’t.”
But Sokka was already circling them, slow and deliberate, like he was inspecting something fascinating. “No way. No way. You’re serious?”
The princess raised a brow, unimpressed. “Very.”
Sokka let out a low whistle, dragging a hand down his face before pointing straight at Zuko. “I mean, I knew you two had issues with personal space, but I didn’t think you’d go and make it this… I don't even know the word for it. You two are freaks."
Zuko groaned, already regretting coming. “Sokka.”
“What?” Sokka shrugged, smirk growing. “You expect me to ignore this? This isn't even groundbreaking it's just expected from you both knowing you. This is, this is what happens when you two get even five minutes alone, isn’t it?”
Toph let out a quiet snort.
Sokka leaned in slightly, lowering his voice just enough to make it worse. “Actually, scratch that. Five minutes is probably generous.”
Zuko made a strangled noise. “Okay.”
Katara slapped a hand over her face. “Sokka—”
“No, no, I’m just connecting the dots,” he continued, clearly enjoying himself. “All those times you disappeared during meetings, all those ‘private discussions’ yeah, makes a lot more sense now.”
The princess tilted her head, completely unbothered. “You’re being very bold for someone standing this close to me.”
Sokka grinned. “I’m just impressed, honestly. You two had so much tension it was practically a natural disaster, and now—” he gestured vaguely toward her stomach, “—this is the aftermath. Surprised it took you this long."
Toph laughed outright at that.
Zuko looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.
Sokka wasn’t done.
“I mean seriously,” he added, folding his arms, “if this is what happens when the Fire Lord gets a little too… distracted, I’m shocked there’s not a second one already on the way.”
Zuko choked. “That’s enough.”
“Hey, I’m congratulating you!” Sokka shot back. “Just saying, next time, maybe let people know before you two go off and—”
“Sokka.”
“—expand the royal family.”
Katara shoved him lightly. “You’re unbelievable.”
“But not wrong,” he corrected smoothly.
The princess let out a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “Unfortunately, he’s not entirely wrong.”
Zuko turned to her, betrayed. “You’re encouraging him.”
“We've been married for eleven months and I've been pregnant for five of them, you lack restraint Zuko” she stated bluntly, though her smile gave her away. He shook his head leaning close so only he could hear her. "Who suggested riding me in the throne ro-" "Okay hush now."
Sokka clapped his hands together once, satisfied. “Great. Now that we’ve established the Fire Lord has absolutely no self-control—”
“Sokka.”
“—can someone please tell me why Aang is dragging us to some random village?"
The teasing was warranted, deserved, even.
The Fire Nation had taken your father, your brother. Zuko’s redemption didn’t erase that. Not to you. He had hunted you, cornered you, forced you into survival more times than you could count. While the others learned to trust him, to laugh with him, to move on… you hadn’t. Not so easily.
So yeah, there had been tension.
A lot of it.
It just… hadn’t been resolved in a way anyone else approved of.
His lips brushed slowly along the inside of her thigh, unhurried, deliberate, testing, teasing. The touch alone was enough to pull a quiet, unwilling sound from her, her breath catching despite herself.
“Just do it already,” she muttered, more breath than voice, her fingers tightening against the sheets.
Zuko clicked his tongue softly, unfazed. Another kiss followed, closer this time, but still not quite where she wanted, where she needed.
“Not until you say please.”
Her head tipped back in frustration. “Why would I have to say please?” she shot back weakly. “You said you were atoning for everything your nation did. Consider this part of your apology.”
A quiet huff of amusement left him, warm against her skin. “I’ve been atoning for two months now,” he murmured, his voice low, almost thoughtful.
Another slow press of his lips, lingering.
“And yet,” he added, “every morning I wake up and you’ve already taken my portion of breakfast because, apparently, ‘murderers don’t deserve to eat.’”
She exhaled sharply, somewhere between a scoff and something softer. “Well, when the Fire Nation killed my family, I couldn’t afford breakfast—”
“I know.” His tone shifted immediately, the teasing giving way to something heavier, sincere. His hand stilled, grounding. “I know. And I’m sorry.”
There was a pause, the air between them tightening, thick with everything unsaid.
“I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for it,” he continued quietly. “For what I did… for what I stood for.”
His placed a long kiss to her core, a soft moan (against her will) escaped her lips.
“Let me try,” he said, voice gentler now. “Even if it’s not enough.”
“I’m glad you all could make it, this village needs our help with—” Aang began, pulling back from Katara mid-sentence.
His eyes flicked across the group.
Paused.
Then widened.
“…Are—did—?”
He leaned toward Katara, lowering his voice into what he clearly thought was a whisper. “Am I allowed to ask people if they’ve gained weight?”
Katara’s eyes widened. “No, Aang. We’ve been over this.”
Aang nodded quickly. “Right, right. No asking.”
“…They’re pregnant,” she added quietly.
Aang blinked.
Then looked back at them.
Then back at Katara.
“…Zuko’s pregnant too?”
Toph snorted.
Sokka immediately burst out laughing. “Yeah, yeah, Fire Lord had a lot to do with it actually.”
Zuko’s face flushed instantly. “That’s not—”
“I’m pregnant, Aang,” the princess cut in, voice flat.
“Oh!” Aang straightened immediately, relief flooding his face. “Oh, that makes way more sense.”
There was a beat.
“…Congratulations!” he added, a little too late but entirely sincere.
Then his expression shifted, concern creeping in.
“Wait, are you sure you should be here?” he asked, glancing between her and Zuko. “I mean, with everything going on… I don’t want you getting hurt.”
Zuko immediately nodded. “Exactly.”
She sighed.
“I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” she said, crossing her arms lightly. “I can still help.”
Toph smirked. “Told you.”
Katara smiled gently. “We’ll keep an eye on you. Just in case.”
Sokka grinned. “Yeah, someone has to make sure Zuko doesn’t give himself an aneurysm trying to watch after the princess.”
Zuko shot him a glare.
Aang hesitated, then nodded. “Okay. I trust you. Just… be careful, alright?”
She gave a small, confident nod.
“Always.”
Aang clapped his hands together once, refocusing. “Right, so. The village has been dealing with a spirit. It’s been acting aggressively, and I think it’s tied to something in the mountain.”
The princess exhaled slowly. “…So you did drag us out here for a mountain.”
Aang winced. “Technically… yes.”
Zuko sighed. “Of course.”
Toph cracked her knuckles. “Good. I was getting bored.”
Sokka looked between them, grin already returning. “Alright, angry spirit, pregnant Fire-Earth Princess, and Zuko on edge. This should go great.”
She leaned slightly into Zuko’s side, her hand brushing his.
“Next time,” she murmured, “we ignore the letter and go to Ember Island."
He huffed softly. “…Agreed.”
love speaks! rushed and indulgent sorry i wish this was better but if i draft it it'll never get done. divider by @/cafekitsune
Ghost would definitely follow you around if Jon has a crush on you. Like he literally won't leave your side. While your mending capes and clothing for the brothers, Ghost is right next to you, watching.
this is everything to me btw. because jon and ghost are more of a partnership than master and pet, and ghost regularly has his own way about things
he picks up on jon’s feelings about you, and while ghost has liked you from the get-go, he starts to become obnoxious about it. he knows jon will notice, and means to act as a rope that sort of tugs jon towards you.
he pins his ears whenever anyone but you or jon reach to pet him. he likes to lay on one of the tables in the mess hall while you’re cleaning up, and stands anytime the door opens, making him look freakishly tall. when you aren’t up the same time he and jon are, or ghost just hasn’t seen you around castle black yet, he’ll pad over and sniff & paw the door to your room until jon knocks to check. he even bumps into jon purposely when he’s standing near you.
of course, jon notices his behavior, and he’s not so foolish to think its just the wolf being quirky. he knows what ghost is doing, and he knows ghost knows what he’s doing. it’s just a test of who’s more stubborn, really. but it all clicks in a way it hasn’t before when one day ser alliser puts a (mocking) hand on your shoulder and the direwolf growls. actually growls.
and before anything else can, the reason for ghosts name flashes in jon’s mind in that moment. he never makes a sound.
Summary: You and Aegon have been married for several years and while you are happy with him and your children, you long to feel the cold winds of the north again- your home. When a letter from an old friend reaches you, you convince your husband to see the snow covered lands for himself. Unfortunately, Aegon was a jealous man and Cregan Stark was far too happy to see you again.
Pairing: Aegon II Targaryen x Wife!Reader, (unrequited) Cregan Stark x Reader
Word count: 7427 words
Warnings: Reader is female and is from House Karstark, arranged marriage, brief talks of smut, suggestive themes, jealousy, angst, a bit of fluff here and there, it’s briefly mentioned that the Reader had an abusive childhood, aegon being a good dad, no mention of Y/N
Notes: This didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to, but I hope you’ll like it still! Likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. Enjoy 💛.
The soft moon light fell through the high windows of your marital chambers in the Red Keep, casting gentle shadows into the room that served as the nursery. Aegon Targayen, second of his name, sat at the edge of one of the beds, watching his sleeping children with tender eyes. The twins Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were wrapped in warm blankets, their silver curls falling over their faces, and little Maelor, the youngest, had his tiny fingers wrapped around a stuffed dragon, clutching it tightly to his chest as if he would never let it go.
It was quiet. A peaceful moment — something Aegon would never have imagined possible a few years ago.
His wife sat by the window, her needle gliding through the fabric of her embroidery. But you were not really looking at the thread; your gaze was distant. Your brow was furrowed, your thoughts elsewhere, far from the warmth of your shared bed.
"Darling?" Aegon asked quietly, but there was no answer.
He rose from the bed and walked toward you with silent steps, his boots gently treading on the cold stone floor that was so typical of this castle. He stopped right behind you and brushed a stray strand of hair from your face. His fingers lingered on your soft cheek, as if gently bringing you back to the present.
"What are you thinking about, my love?" he murmured in a low voice, filled with a tenderness that only you could evoke.
Your eyes flickered and blinked, as if you needed to ground yourself and reassure yourself that you were still in your chamber and not in an entirely different world. But you did not answer at first. Instead, you sighed softly, and Aegon knew the answer before you even spoke it. He saw it in the way your gaze wandered over the castle walls, lost in a place only you could truly understand. Someone who grew up there.
"The North again?" His voice was gentle, yet it carried the weight of a question you had danced around for years.
You nodded your head slightly, barely a movement, but enough to feel the truth in its weight and depth, even if you did not use words.
Before he could continue, a soft, sleepy voice interrupted him.
"Father?" Jaehaerys stirred, his eyes half-open. Aegon smiled and returned to his firstborn's small bed, where he lovingly stroked his son's hair. The tension vanished like morning mist. "Sleep, my little dragon," he whispered, the warmth slowly returning to him where your answer had dispelled it.
"The sky never looks the same here. It is always blue, gold, or red—never white," you whispered to yourself, but Aegon heard you.
He always heard you.
His fingers continued to gently stroke the silver curls his son had inherited from him, while his gaze slowly slid over his twin sister and his youngest son, who could barely speak yet but was already so loved.
"I always thought I would be a terrible father, but they make it easy," he said into the room. His voice was loud enough for you to hear him sitting by the window, but quiet enough not to wake the little ones.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a smile creep onto your rosy lips, causing his heart to leap a little in his chest. You had this effect on him for quite some time now. Ever since he started seeing you, really seeing you, and you let him in.
"You are doing better than you think," you replied in the gentle tone that was so typical of you.
For a moment, the chamber was plunged into silence, but it was not heavy; it was pleasant. Whenever he did not know what to say, and you could not find the words either, you remained silent. Your children usually filled the silence with their games, jokes, or Maelor alone with his tears or shrieks when he had still been a baby.
"I still miss it, though. The snow. The silence. The way the world felt clean."
For a brief moment, the prince's gaze hardened, and his fingers stopped combing through the boy's hair, who had fallen asleep once more. Your story and your longings were familiar to him, and there was one topic that often hung in the air, but one that neither of you ever spoke about.
"Do you miss home, or is it him you miss?" he asked without looking over his shoulder at you.
"Aegon…" you sighed, shaking your head before finally putting down your needle and thread and standing up. The fabric of your white nightgown rustled as you approached him, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, your face buried in his shoulder.
His hand found yours and he squeezed it — protectively, possessively.
"I am sorry, my love. I... I know he was your friend," he whispered to you, and you heard in the gentleness of his tone that he was truly apologizing.
"No, you are right," you finally replied. "We were promised to each other once. The Starks and Kastarks are very close as houses, and we have been friends since childhood."
He did not notice it, but you could feel his hand immediately tighten around yours, as if he wanted to keep you with him. Forever.
"Do you love me?" His voice was vulnerable, honest. He had asked you that question hundreds of times over the course of your marriage, and you had the same answer for him every time.
"You are my husband, Aegon. It is my duty and my pride to love you and to call you mine. I love you, I love our children, and I would not trade that for anything in the world. I regret nothing."
Your prince leaned into you and turned his head so he could press a kiss to your temple. Then to your cheek, and finally to the edge of your lips.
"I love you too, my darling. More than I could ever show you," he replied, causing a slight giggle to escape your lips.
"I did not know my husband could be so romantic."
"I have many other sides to me, darling,“ he replied and you knew immediately, as you saw that twinkle in his amethyst-colored eyes, that you would not get much sleep that night.
"I know. We have three children, and it seems to me you are trying for a fourth."
A wide grin crept onto his lips, and he turned fully toward you, wrapping his arms around your waist to pull you close to him.
"A fourth, a fifth... how about ten?" he asked you mischievously.
You could not help but roll your eyes and flung your arms around his neck, tangling your slender fingers in his always messy silver hair, for which the Targaryens were so known for.
"Do you mean to overshadow King Jaehaerys, my dearest Aegon?"
"If the decision were mine, we would fill every spare room in this Keep with our children," he answered before pressing his lips against yours.
The kiss was, like him, demanding, fierce, possessive, but also so full of love and affection that your heart melted within your chest.
It had not always been this way, but thank the gods, it was now and it would always continue to be this way.
The letter arrived in the early hours of the morning, while you were both still in bed.
Only a thin sheet covered the bare skin of you and your husband, and he was still sleeping soundly. Aegon's face was buried in your shoulder and his arms were wrapped around your waist, while your legs were still entwined with his, and your fingers traced small circles on the pale skin of his back.
He always looked so beautiful when the golden light of morning fell on his face.
A few years ago, things had been very different. You had rarely slept in the same bed, and when you had, it had only been to fulfill your duty as husband and wife. He had drank and slept with whores, and you had been as unhappy as a lone wolf abandoned by his pack.
But then your twins had been born, and he has changed. Not overnight, but with every single day he had spent with you and the children instead of in the city among whores and drunkards.
And finally, your third child, little Maelor, had not been conceived out of duty, but out of love. A lord had cornered you during a feast and would not let you go, but before you could call for the guards, Aegon had punched him square in the face.
The lord had a broken nose afterward, the Queen had been furious, but your husband had told you for the first time that night that he loved you. He had whispered it against your lips over and over as he took you that night as if it were his last moments on this earth.
And you had finally felt whole again. You were no longer a lone wolf, but a mother and a wife. A wolf with a new family.
But your longing for your former home, the North, had never fully disappeared, and now it returned, like the first wave washed back onto the shore after the tide went out.
A servant had quietly entered your chambers and placed only the sealed letter on the bedside table before quickly and quietly disappearing through the doors like a little mouse would.
You did not want to read it at first, assuming it was from your mother or one of your brothers, but then you saw the seal. Gray wax with the face of a wolf in it. Stark.
And while your lord husband was still asleep, his arms and legs still wrapped around you like a snake, you broke the seal with your sewing needle and let your tired eyes glide over the inked words:
To my old friend of House Kastark,
The North misses you. It has been more than half a decade since I last saw you, and my heart aches at the thought that we have not seen each other for so long. I hope you and your children are doing well in the capital, as is your husband. My own wife — may the old gods watch over her — recently passed away, and my son mourns her every day. Winterfell is without its lady. These are dark days, and I must confess that it is difficult for me. I cannot do this alone. So, I would like to ask you, my old friend, if you would visit me at Winterfell for a sennight? Your children and your husband, as well as his dragon, are of course welcome here as well. The North misses you, and I would be glad to see you again after all this time. I await your raven until the end of this moon.
Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell
"No," was the first thing Aegon said as he finished reading the letter.
You sat at the foot of the bed, slipping into your shoes after wrapping yourself in a dress and a robe. He, on the other hand, wore only plain linen trousers that hung low on his hips as he paced back and forth in front of the open window, clutching the letter from the North tightly in one hand.
"It has been so long since I have seen my home, Aegon. I miss—"
"But this is your home!" he interrupted immediately. "The Red Keep, our children, me. Or do you not consider us your home, your family?"
A deep sigh escaped you and you ran a hand through your long, dark hair, which was still uncombed. You were in the habit of always doing your hair and jewelry last.
"My love, you and our children are my only family. The only one that matters. But do I not deserve to at least feel the snow on my skin again? To hear the howling of wolves and feel the cold winds brush through my hair after all this time?"
The silver-haired prince shook his head firmly and threw the letter back onto the bed where you had just given it to him. You had woken him with a kiss and snuggled so close to him that he had thought this morning would be a truly beautiful one, but then you had started talking about a letter.
A letter from the North. From him.
"But what about him? About the Stark? He mentioned his recently deceased wife. Why do you think he did that?" he asked you, his eyes hard and brooking no argument.
"I don't know, my love! Maybe he is looking for sympathy or—"
"Or what?" he snapped back, taking a quick step toward you.
Your shoulders tensed, and you instinctively took a step back, holding your breath. You knew your husband would never be violent toward you, but you had your instincts. Your father had been less reserved when he was alive and before you were placed in the care of the Stark family.
"Forgive me," he whispered, wiping his face with a hand before walking back to the window, where he leaned against the wall. "My heart, I know how much you want to return to the North, but are you sure we can trust him?"
You walked over to the bed and picked up his tunic, which you had placed there earlier for him to wear. The fabric was soft and pale blue, like the sky outside. You loved that color on him.
"Here, my darling. Come here," you said in a soft, conciliatory voice, and he obeyed immediately.
With a sigh, he came to you and slowly raised his hand before placing it on your cheek. He was always so gentle with you, for he himself knew what it was like to be treated roughly. He loved you more than anything in the world, and your children even more, and if anything were to ever happen to you or them, the world would not be ready for his wrath.
You leaned into his touch and pressed a quick kiss to the side of his hand before finally standing on tiptoe to pull the tunic over his head. He helped you by tucking his arms into the sleeves and finally tucking the ends of the fabric into his trousers before he noticed he was still wearing the pants he always wore to bed, which, even though they were rather comfortable, were not suitable for the outdoors.
"Do you trust me?" you finally asked him, wrapping your arms around his neck.
For a moment, he simply looked into your eyes before leaning toward you and kissing your forehead. "Do you really have to ask me?"
You raised your eyebrows, and he wrapped his arms around your waist.
"I love you. If I ever don't trust you, I want you to take a dagger and stab me through the heart, because then I would not be myself anymore."
A soft laugh escaped your lips. "How soon can we pack?"
"You will see your snow again by the end of this week."
"Higher, Sunfyre! Higher, I want to show my wife the sun!" Prince Aegon shouted over the wind so his dragon could hear him. He did not speak High Valyrian to him — he never did — but the golden beast always seemed to understand him anyway. It was almost as if dragon and rider were one and the same.
His arms were wrapped around your stomach, and his chin rested on your shoulder most of the way as you flew north. You had already been traveling for ten hours without a break and had five more to go. Your back was already aching, and all you wanted was to rest in a bed or stretch your legs, but no. Your husband insisted on traveling the entire way without resting.
It was too risky for you to take your children with you, especially Maelor, because he was still so young and you did not want him to get sick under any circumstances. He had already caught a fever shortly after his birth, and it was only thanks to the gods that your little boy was still alive.
Your children were the most sacred to you, which is why you did not want to risk losing one. Never.
"There, Aegon! I can see it!" you suddenly called out, causing him to briefly lift his head from the crook of your shoulder to look in the direction you were pointing.
"What? What do you see?" he asked, confused, because nothing unusual caught his eye. In the far distance, he saw a lot of white, but that could also be fog or clouds obscuring your view.
"The snow," you whispered in a tone that sounded almost reverent.
Aegon narrowed his eyes, and sure enough, the white thing he saw was not fog. It was snow as far as the naked eye could see.
It was beautiful.
As Sunfyre descended through the clouds, Winterfell came into view — an ancient stone heart nestled in a sea of northern forest. From the sky, the castle looked like a gray fortress carved directly from the land itself, its high walls squat and strong, weathered by countless winters. The massive, circular curtain walls enclosed a maze of rooftops, smoke curling gently from chimneys into the crisp air.
The great Keep rose at the center, solid and square, flanked by the first Keep, even older and more worn. Between them lay open courtyards and twisting paths, dotted with figures like ants — soldiers, stablehands, and the dark-cloaked shapes of people belonging to the Nightswatch moving with quiet purpose.
To the east, the Godswood sprawled like a shadow, a dense stand of ancient trees clustered around a single, pale Weirwood Tree, its red leaves vivid even from high above. Nearby, the steaming mist of the hot springs rose from the ground, giving the castle an ethereal quality, like it breathed warmth into the cold northern air.
Beyond the walls stretched snow-dusted fields, training yards, and the stables, with the rugged terrain of the North unfolding to every horizon —harsh, beautiful, and endlessly vast.
"Oh, Aegon," you whispered, leaning forward instinctively, as if that would help you see more of your homeland, which you had not seen in seven long years. "Is it not wonderful?"
The prince shivered all over. He had never been to the North before, and even when you had told him to wrap himself in thick fur, he had not listened, thinking it was summer and that it would surely not be so cold in the North. He was wrong. Even under his leather gloves, which he always wore for flying, his fingers felt like they were frozen to ice.
"It’s cold," he finally managed, his teeth chattering.
"I told you so, you imbecile," you replied with a loud laugh. One that sounded so free and melodious that he wondered why he had only brought you to the North now. You sounded so free, your smile was so broad, and with your cheeks flushed from the cold, you looked so beautiful that his heart melted in his chest. Perhaps your warmth would still save him from dying of the cold.
While your gaze rested solely on Winterfell, Aegon's amethyst-colored eyes swept over the streets surrounding the ancient fortress. Everywhere were people dressed in dark clothing and carrying at least one cloak over their shoulders, all looking up as Sunfyre flew overhead.
Pride rose in his chest, knowing that these people had probably never seen a dragon of such beauty and splendor before. He hoped they were also afraid, for his faithful companion was not only beautiful but also just as deadly.
He landed Sunfyre in the snow outside the stone fortress, and immediately a crowd gathered, curious and wide-eyed, to see the dragon as if it were a deity descended from the heavens. The children and young people, in particular, seemed thrilled, while their mothers had to restrain them.
His dragon let out a loud roar, and the prince climbed out of the leather saddle and slid down the beast's flank until his feet touched the ground. You followed his example and carefully slid down the dragon's side, where your husband was waiting for you below and immediately wrapped his arm around you. You knew why he did that.
He wanted to show everyone that you belonged to him.
"Come with me," you whispered to him and began to lead him inside the walls of Winterfell, where you immediately smiled at the sight of the courtyard you had not seen in so long. But it felt like only yesterday that you left the snow-covered lands.
Aegon was still shivering beside you, unaccustomed to the cold, when you saw him.
He stood in the middle of the courtyard, tall, with pale skin and brown hair that fell to his shoulders, wrapped in black furs and leather. At his side stood a small boy who looked no older than five.
The Northman smiled invitingly when he saw you, and you could not help but walk a little faster, oblivious to the way Aegon's expression had hardened and he was staring at the two of them as if they were about to declare war on you at any second.
"Hello, old friend," you greeted Lord Cregan Stark with a friendly smile on your lips. "You have grown."
"And you are just as small and delicate as you were then," he replied with a shake of his head.
"Come here, you old wolf," you said, slipping out of Aegon's grasp to embrace Cregan. The Northman let go of the child's hand and wrapped his arms around your waist, holding you tightly. He was tall, and your head barely reached his shoulder, but somehow you had known that.
As you savored the embrace, lost for a moment in memories of the two of you running through this courtyard as children, throwing snow at each other until you were tired and exhausted, Aegon clenched his fists so tightly it almost hurt.
He did not want to see this. He wanted to leave again, he wanted to take you home to your children and hold you so tightly in your arms that he was sure you would not leave him. All of them, but not you. Please, not you.
After a few seconds, you broke the embrace and knelt on the ground to be at the same level as the boy standing next to Cregan.
"And you must be the little Rickon, right?" you asked him in a gentle voice. You were a mother through and through.
The little boy, who had dark hair and looked almost identical to Lord Stark, though with softer eyes, nodded cautiously. His eyes were slightly reddened and his lips curled into a slight pout — still mourning his mother, no doubt.
"He does not talk much since his mother died," Cregan sighed, and you stood back up, feeling Aegon's hand on your lower back. Almost protective.
"My sincere condolences, Lord Stark," you said, and you meant it, even though you had not known his lady wife. He was your oldest friend, and you wanted him to be happy. Just as happy as you were with your children and your husband.
"From me too," Aegon said, but you heard the politeness in his voice, not the sincerity. You could not blame him, though. He did not know him, and neither did he trust him.
"Thank you, my prince. I did not expect you to come so soon, but it was a very pleasant surprise when I heard that a dragon had been seen in the sky," Cregan told you, as his son snuggled close to his side.
"My wife expressed to me her wish to see the snow again. I cannot refuse her anything," Aegon replied, instinctively moving even closer to you, as if to prove to the man that he should not even attempt to touch you.
Cregan Stark nodded his head. "That was very kind of you, my prince. Your wife is a wolf through and through, a beautiful northern flower."
You looked away and shivered as you saw Aegon grinding his jaw. His eyes were darkened, and you knew that he hated him. These two men would probably never be friends in this lifetime.
"She is beautiful, yes. My wife is the best thing that ever happened to me, and I love her very much. Our three children too," the silver-haired Targaryen said, pressing a kiss to your flushed cheek.
For a moment, the courtyard was enveloped in silence. The only thing that could be heard was the howling of the winds, the roar of Sunfyre in the distance, the conversations of a few men and women, and the loud, metallic clang of a sword being forged on an anvil.
"My dear friend," you began, breaking the uncomfortable silence. "My husband is too proud to admit it, but he has been cold ever since we encountered the first snow, and all I want is a warm bed to put my feet up in."
The Lord of Winterfell laughed and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, squeezing once before answering again. "Yes, forgive me. Your chambers have already been prepared for you, and the servants will prepare you a hot bath as well."
"Thank you, Cregan. It feels so good—"
"Yes, thank you. And Sunfyre needs a load of sheep. My poor dragon has not eaten in hours, and you do not want him feasting on the village children," Aegon interrupted, causing your eyes to widen in shock.
"Aegon!" you hissed quietly, but Cregan just chuckled in polite amusement.
"No, tis all right. We have ten sheep to give your dragon. Two each day until you leave," Lord Stark explained, to which your lord husband agreed. Two sheep might not be much, and back in King's Landing, Sunfyre would get an extra portion, but he did not want to overstay his welcome and have these people become angry that they do not habe enough sheep anymore.
The Northman whistled, and a young servant came immediately: "One of our handmaidens. She will escort you to your chambers and attend to your every need. Your belongings will also be brought to your chambers," he explained.
You were about to say something else, but Aegon had already wrapped his arm around your shoulders and subtly pushed you toward where the servant girl was waiting.
These five days would likely be the hardest and most strenuous of your life.
"He desires you," the Targaryen prince grumbled while he was scrubbing at his skin in the bathtub.
A deep sigh escaped you and you could not help but shake your head while you sorted his and your clothes in one of the drawers. You have already washed yourself and was now wearing a simple white nightgown, whose fabric was firmer and warmer than that in the south so that you would not get cold at night.
"My dearest love, he just lost his wife. He is only happy to see a friend again after all these years."
Now the prince is the one to sigh and he leaned his head against the head end of the wooden tub. Wood — not marble like in King’s Landing — because it was probably easier to carry it from one room to the other.
"The way he looked at you! As if he was already seeing you underneath him," he said, scrubbing the sponge even more over the skin of his arm, so that it was already completely red and partially scratched up.
You closed the drawer and moved to kneel down next to the tub, while you did not care that the ends of your gown probably got a little dirty.
"Give me the sponge," your voice was firm, but at the same time gently. He did not want to argue with you anyway.
After giving you the sponge, you began washing him as gently as ever, since you did not want him to smell too much like his dragon in bed. You did not want him to accidentally hurt himself, as he often did with his fingernails or the skin around it. A habit that he apparently inherited from his mother the Queen.
"Do you think I would let him do that? That I want him?" You asked him quietly, a test of his trust.
Aegon turned his head to you, his eyes wide, his soft lips opened slightly and you could see how much he thought about his answer. He did not want you to be angry on him, which you were not.
"I don't hope so," he murmured softly.
"Aegon."
"What?"
You put your hand on his cheek so that he would not look away, because you wanted him to become aware of these words: "I love you, Aegon. You. Not him. Yes, we were betrothed to each other once, but I never had romantic feelings for him. Cregan was always just my friend."
As best as he could, he turned his upper body, so that he could look better into your eyes while leaning his face in your loving touch.
"I love you too. Say, my darling wife, would you like to join your husband in the tub? There would be room on my lap."
You roll playfully with your eyes and let the sponge fall back into the now dirty bathing water. "You can count yourself lucky if I let you into bed at all."
"Do you want me to sleep like a dog in front of the fireplace? A wolf?" He asked you with a grin while he started moving the sponge over his chest again, washing the lingering scent of dragon away.
"I am sure you would enjoy it, when I kept you on a leash," you grinned and sat down on the bed while you looked at him with a mischievous glimmer in your eyes. Maybe you should not sleep with each other in a place that was not yours and possibly overkeep the hospitality, but this had been your home. You wanted this.
You observed your husband, how he bit down on his bottom lip in thought and how his violet eyes moved your body up and down. A pleasant warmth spread in your stomach and, following his gaze, he felt the same thing.
"Do you still remember when you told me that I would try to make an effort to have a fourth child?" He asked you, emerging from the tub and grabbing a towel to dry his wet body largely before he would climb into bed with you.
"Of course."
"How would you like it if it was conceived here in the north? In the snow?"
A smile spread on your lips and Aegon replied by letting his towel fell to the ground and quickly climbing on top of you, like he has done so many times before and like he would do it over and over again until you would grow tired of him.
Not Cregan saw you underneath him tonight.
He did.
The next morning, as the sun was just casting its first rays over the white long northern landscape, you were invited to breakfast with Lord Cregan and his son.
The prince wore a black doublet with gold embroidery on the arms and chest over a warm tunic, and over it a warm fur that was almost the same color as his hair. You, on the other hand, wore a dark green dress and a fur cloak over your shoulders, although it was brown rather than white, so that you too would stay warm.
You sat next to each other, with Cregan sitting across from Aegon and little Rickon across from you. The boy was sweet and innocent, and he somehow reminded you of your beloved son Jaehaerys, who was probably playing with his twin sister or studying with a Septa at that very moment.
"I hope you are pleased with your chambers," Cregan said, trying to start a conversation so you did not just have to listen to the sound of chewing or the fire burning calmly in the fireplace.
"Very," your husband answered before you could. "The bed is extremely comfortable and does not creak, even when you exert yourself."
A blush rose in your cheeks and you looked down at your plate to avoid Stark's gaze. Gods, why did he always have to make those lewd comments? You love it when we gets lascivious, but more so within your chambers and not when anyone was listening.
"I am glad to hear that," Lord Cregan finally replied, his tone neutral, taking a long sip from his cup, which was filled with strong northern wine.
His gaze turned back to you, and for a moment you could feel him looking — really looking. This time he did not just see a friend, who had to leave him back then after being betrothed to the prince. He saw the woman you had become over the years. The noble lady who would have been more than worthy of the title of a Lady Stark.
"My lady, how are your children?" he finally asked himself, trying to steer the conversation in a different direction. "You have three, right?"
You nodded, and immediately your features softened again, because you loved thinking and talking about your little ones. You were so proud of them, even though they were still so young. Jaehaerys and Jaehaera were both four summers old, and Maelor had had his second name day a month ago.
"Yes, exactly. Two boys and a girl," you told him proudly, looking at Aegon, whose gaze never wavered for a second from the man across from him, as if trying to skin him with his gaze.
"Little dragons, I presume?" His question was playful, but Aegon still placed a hand on your thigh under the table. Actually, he had to promise you last night not to be jealous anymore, because otherwise you would not have allowed him to spread your legs and dive into your softest flesh, but he could not help it. Aegon was indeed still jealous.
"Silver hair, violet eyes, and strong lungs," you chuckled, which also brought the briefest hint of a smile to Rickon's face.
"I would have liked to meet them," the Lord said, and his voice sounded as if he actually wanted to. Part of you felt bad that you could only tell him about them, but at least at home, the risk of them catching a cold was smaller.
"I would have liked to bring them, but I do not want them to get sick, and Sunfyre can only carry a maximum of three people. Not five, even if they are small," you answered honestly, to which he nodded his head in understanding.
"Then I suppose I will have to visit King's Landing one day to meet them."
Aegon opened his mouth to reply, but you quickly intervened, knowing your husband would not have been polite: "Of course. You are always welcome at the Red Keep."
“I will take you at your word.”
"I hope you realize he meant it," Aegon grumbled as you led him outside to show him around. You wanted him to see the beauty of the North with his own eyes, not just the bad.
"I know, dear, but enough of that. Look around!" you laughed, spinning around in a circle, the skirt of your dress touching the snow and dirt on the ground as small snowflakes landed in your hair.
"I do," he said, but he did not see the snow, the stone houses, or the trees in the distance. He only looked at you. Always at you.
"Lady Stark!" a woman suddenly called out, her skin wrinkled and her hair graying.
You instinctively turned to the woman, as if answering by that name. Lady Stark. Aegon swallowed the lump in his throat. He did not mean to get angry, but unfortunately he had always been quick to anger.
"Her name is Kastark, and she is no longer a lady, but a princess," Aegon snapped, whereupon the old woman stopped and bowed deeply, which certainly could not do her old knees any good.
"Forgive me, Your Grace. I knew her when she was a child," said the woman, still bowing deeply.
"You are the baker," you realized, holding out a helping hand so she would not have to bow any longer. Your husband remained suspicious at your side.
"You have grown so much. And beautiful you have become, too," the old woman gushed, gently squeezing your hand, at which point you could not suppress your smile any longer.
"We were all so sad when your betrothal to our Lord Stark was broken off, because of your father‘s death. You would have made a wonderful Lady Stark."
It was not the words themselves that made Aegon turn around and head back toward the fortress, but the way she said them. It had been so full of hope and regret, as if that old woman were hoping it could still happen. That you would still become the Lady Stark of Winterfell.
"Aegon! Aegon, wait!" you called after him, but he did not want to listen to this conversation any longer. He did not want to be reminded that this Cregan was a good and respectable man who would have made a wonderful husband to you. Probably a much better one than he was. Perhaps you would have been much happier here in the North than with him in the South.
You had always been too good for him, too kind, too polite, too—
"Mm—My prince?" a small voice stammered as he had just climbed the stairs to the entrance lost deep in his tumultuous thoughts.
Little Rickon Stark stood below, looking up at him with wide eyes, as if he did not know what to say, or as if he were afraid of something.
"Yes, boy?" he asked with a sigh. The child was innocent, and he did not want to frighten him.
"I—I wish to see the dragon."
His eyebrows furrowed and he tilted his head. "He is just up ahead. You have legs, have you not?"
The boy looked down to the ground. "Father forbade me from going to him alone. He said he did not want me to end up like a roasted pig."
Something about the way the boy looked at him reminded him of Jaehaerys. It was probably his eyes, so wide and full of childlike innocence. This boy was the child of his self-proclaimed enemy, but he could not just send him away all sad and disappointed.
Besides, he was talking now, which he did not do before.
"Fine. Come with me," he said, placing a hand on his shoulder and pushing him toward the gate, where Sunfyre lay curled up together in the snow like a giant cat. Peaceful as ever.
"His name is Sunfyre. The maesters call him the most beautiful dragon that ever roamed this earth," Aegon told him proudly, reaching out to gently stroke his golden scales.
"Is—Is he dangerous?"
A grin formed on his lips, and he could feel his earlier anger slowly fading. "Every dragon is dangerous unless you are its rider."
"Do your children have dragons, too?"
The silver-haired prince shrugged. "They have eggs that will hatch one day, so the gods will, and then, yes, they will have dragons."
"I want a dragon too!" Stark's son exclaimed enthusiastically, and for the first time, he saw him truly smiling broadly, his eyes shining. "I want to fly through the sky and see him breathe fire!"
"Do you Starks not have wolves, or at least big dogs to keep you company?"
"Yes, but father says I am too young to have one," the boy replied, still staring at the dragon with wide eyes.
"And he is right about that," your voice suddenly sounded from the side. You had overheard the conversation from the side, and it warmed your heart. Even though he was grumpy, this was the man you loved. Your lustful, angry, stormy dragon named Aegon Targaryen.
You were happy with him.
You could not help but wrap your arms around your husband and rest your head on his shoulder, which immediately calmed him down, because now you were with him again.
"Go back to your father, little one. Show him your smile," you said, and the boy immediately obeyed, running back toward the fortress where he was going to tell his father about the dragon.
Sunfyre raised his large head and simply looked at the two of you. Somehow, he looked happy, even though he was probably mostly cold. Well, if a dragon could even get cold.
"You are a good man," you whispered in a gentle voice.
For a moment, he said nothing, simply unsure what to say. He was not a good man. He was a drunkard, who had been whoring all the time, before he fell in love with you, and a jealous man who was afraid of losing you. So very afraid.
"I am not, and you know it, my heart," he sighed softly, raising his hand and stroking Sunfyre's chin soothingly.
"And yet I love you," you said, and the honesty in your voice nearly broke his heart in half. Suddenly, he was feeling terrible that he had ever been angry with you, ever thought you were not happy with him, because you were. Your smile told him that every morning.
"Did you hear me? I love you, Aegon," you repeated.
The gold-scaled dragon leaned into his hand, and Aegon blinked rapidly several times to hold back the tears. He did not want to cry, not now. Not out here, where everyone would see his weakness.
"I am so sorry. All you wanted was to see your cursed snow again, and I am ruining all that by being a jealous husband."
You shook your head and stood in front of him so he would look into your eyes and not be distracted by Sunfyre's beauty. The dragon laid his head back on the snowy ground and closed his eyes again. Out here in the north, he seemed to prefer lying around to flying. Perhaps he sensed the Wall, which was a few miles away from this place.
"You have not ruined anything. I understand that you do not like Cregan and that you want me to be safe, but I am. I never had and never will have any romantic interest in him," you told him, and you meant it.
"But I-"
"Stop it," you interrupted, repeating the same words to him you had said to him before: "You are my husband, Aegon. It is my duty and my pride to love you and to call you mine. I love you, I love our children, and I would not trade that for anything in the world. I regret nothing. Nothing."
A lone tear rolled down his cheek, and you moved to stand on your tiptoe and kiss it from his cheek before placing your hands on his chest.
"We have only been here a day, and I already want to go home," he chuckled, his pale cheeks flushing pink.
"You will survive these few days," you smiled, and he leaned toward you to press a tender kiss to your lips.
"As long as you are with me and I can call you mine," he murmured against your lips.
"Always."
And as the snow rained down on both of your heads and you held each other in your arms, he too realized that you would never leave him. You loved him, and he loved you. You and your family, which would hopefully continue to grow some day.
And if all he had to do for that was taking you to see the snow and not murder Cregan Stark, then he would do it.
saw that you're in your got era so perhaps jealousy headcanons for the got or hotd characters? 👀 literally anyone from these characters - robb, jaime, margaery, oberyn, theon, cersei or ramsay, I'd love to see your interpretation on any of them ! ( or aemond, alicent, aegon, gwayne, OTTO !!, larys, daemon or mysaria for hotd, again whichever era you feel like it !!) and just for future reference, do you write for asoiaf characters or mainly the shows?
⋆ 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ; jealousy, and how some characters deal with it ;)
⋆ tags/warnings. GOT and HOTD!characters x female reader. SFW! But naturally, some of these characters get a bit suggestive! Possessive behavior, canon typical violence, etc. Please send in more GOT/HOTD requests! Apologies this took so long, this is more characters in a post than I've ever done lol. Unfortunately I'm not super familiar with Otto, Larys, Theon, or Mysaria, so I decided to pick some characters I'm more familiar with! (Joffrey is my #1 favorite of all time, my sincerest apologies.) Whew, 14 characters ! For right now I'm only writing for the TV shows! (i've only read book 1, lol)
𝑅𝛰𝐵𝐵 𝑆𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐾
♫ “I wasn't thinking when I told you to stay.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
With Robb, it's all about the body language. And boy, he's horrible at hiding it.
He can have a hard time placing the feeling as jealousy. He was raised to be honorable. But feelings of...neglect run deep with him. Oldest child syndrome, if you will.
Which is why his jealousy most likely manifests in subdued, quiet behavior. Part of him will recognize he's being ridiculous, while another part of him is silently fuming. Fists clenched, he'll send you an intense stare as he watches you converse with another lord.
His emotions leak through his expressions. When he catches you staring back, his gaze will flit down, and he'll wait patiently for you're time. Or...in most cases...he'll march right up, placing himself between you and the man. Maybe a small, "I'll take it from here." If the lord is offering to help you with something.
A subtle touch on the small of your back. It's a small claim, a subtle "back-off."
A lot of his jealousy also transforms into protectiveness more than anything. He'll offer to accompany reader to places he wouldn't normally be concerned about. He's close by, and he's reminding her wordlessly, he's watching over her and any threat.
Finally, when you two are alone, will he drop down that guard of his. Covering up that burning pit inside him with casual humor, you can sense the underlaying seriousness of his voice in his light teases.
"You’re quite popular these days. Should I be worried that I’m not your only admirer?"
He certainly beds you, having something to prove. And only afterwards when you are in his arms, sweaty and warm from the candlelight, wrapped in furs...will he calm down.
"It’s not that I don’t trust you… It’s them I don’t trust. Some men don’t know how to keep their place." He'll whisper, holding onto you firmly.
𝐽𝐴𝐼𝑀𝐸 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅
♫ “You don't know that you're in over your head.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Jaime's jealousy is burning. It's simply the way he was raised. And gods, you are his.
Numerous sarcastic remarks flow between the two of you and the man who he believes has essentially stolen your affections. His taunts are offhand, dry remarks, often directed towards his "opponent" or even you, if he's feeling bitter enough.
"I didn’t realize he was such a comedian. Maybe I should ask him for pointers." He'll say, with that sarcastic drawl. "If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to make me jealous. Not that it would work, of course." He chuckles, but his gaze is sharp.
Depending on the offense, Jaime's reactions differ. If you simply have an admirer, a few...well chosen words are directed towards them. His confidence allows him to not be too bothered. Maybe standing closer, clearly showing off to whatever poor soul thought they had a shot with you.
It's a different story if you are friends with the person involved, or entertain their advances even mildly or jokingly.
That's when the uncharacteristic tension comes out, full of small twitches in his jaw and curt, smug responses. His visible annoyance is uncontrolled.
We saw how he was with Loras when it came to Cersei. If he feels truly threatened, whether it's by another pretty boy, or just someone he feels could...hypothetically...have the upper hand...He'll corner them when you're off somewhere else. And give a small warning, from the Kingslayer himself.
"You seem to have forgotten who you're dealing with, so let me remind you." He leans in just close enough for his words to sink in. "Whatever you think you might be to her… you’re not. Let’s keep it that way, hm? I'd hate to see you make any...lasting mistakes."
𝑀𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝐸𝑅𝑌 𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐸𝐿𝐿
♫ “It was just too hard to push you away.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Margaery is smart with her feelings. She knows how to play the game, and play it well. Instead of showing her jealousy openly, she's a touch more composed than most characters on this list.
She recognizes just how precious you are, and admires that. She doesn't necessarily blame others when they become...attached to you.
When jealousy arises, she views it more as a small problem in need of being handled. And she knows how to handle things.
She embraces the graceful competition, subtly outshining anyone who seems to get in the way of her goals. Her goal being you're affection, of course. You're already hers, and she sees no problem in working to keep it that way.
This appears in gestures of strategic sweetness to keep you close, perhaps wearing your favorite gowns on her, and offering that charming smirk. She doesn't shy away from manipulating you, just a teeny bit.
"They’re certainly captivated by you. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to keep your attention." She teases, "Besides, who could ever compare to us?"
Her words carry a playful undertone, but she makes her point clear. Laughing charmingly, threading her arm through yours.
Very rarely does she think she's in any serious danger. She prides herself on being yours and knowing how to keep you on a tight leash. Though...if she feels genuinely worried, she expresses her feelings quite clearly but still gently. She reminds her lover of their shared goals, and all that they've built together.
"My, you do attract admirers easily, don’t you? I’ll have to start guarding you more closely." She gives you a playful look, though her touch on your arm will linger just a bit longer than usual.
𝛰𝐵𝐸𝑅𝑌𝑁 𝑀𝐴𝑅𝑇𝐸𝐿𝐿
♫ “Let me go, but you won't let me go.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Oberyn doesn't feel insecure. How could he? He knows, deep down, that you're his. Jealousy isn't something he confines himself too, he views it as an ugly emotion, capable of getting rid of the true wonders love has to offer.
That being said...he is only a man. And he is fiercely protective. If anyone were to flirt with you and you were clearly uninterested, it would be a swift death, or at the very least, he'd make his point clear with a blow or two and a cutting edge remark. Especially if they are a Lannister. He enjoys you being admired, but only to a certain extent.
"Your efforts are wasted, they’re far too captivating for someone like you. I’d suggest you find someone more... suited to your charms." He begins, hand itching for his spear, "Consider this your first and last warning."
Yeah, he means business.
Most of the time, he spins the situation to show-off. Showcase his own passion and devotion to you. If it's simply a friend of yours, he may even offer them to join in. If not, he'll spend the entire night practically worshipping you, promising that he's the only one who could ever make you feel like this.
Similarly to Margaery, he teases you lightly.
"You have a lovely laugh. But I must admit, it’s much better when it’s for me alone."
Oberyn doesn't shy away from PDA either. It's that assertive reclaiming he seems to favor, pulling you close, whispering something that affirms your affections for each other. He'll revel when he watches the other mans face fall in dismay.
He might get cocky, and push it a bit far. By the time he's done, the 'competition' will be utterly humiliated and embarrassed. He'll be smirking at his own quips.
"I assure you, my friend, my lover favors...more substantial things." He motions to the poor mans crotch.
You're gonna have to give him a slap on the arm.
𝐶𝐸𝑅𝑆𝐸𝐼 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅
♫ “Consequence of loving me can be cruel.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Cersei's jealousy is intense and multifaceted, to say the least. It manifests in a mix of cold fury and harsh threats, channeling that anger into much more controlling behavior.
Deep down, she is terribly insecure. Once another man or woman as your attention, and she catches on, she's coolly lashing out. And she catches on quickly.
At first she may appear indifferent, but if you look close enough, you can see the subtly giveaways. The way her lip curls, her nostrils flare, and her knuckles go white gripping her wine chalice.
If you're the first one to confront her, and attempt to reassure her, you'll save yourself some trouble down the line. Guaranteed, she'll deny it, but still make a passive-aggressive remark here and there. But eventually she'll calm down, edges softening.
That rare moment of vulnerability that you're not sure is manipulation or not. She'll look towards the ground, running her thumb over you're hand on her cheek. She'll sit on the edge of her bed, jaw clenched.
Now, it's a whole different story if you don't catch on to the early signs. If you don't manage to reassure or call her out in time, that jealousy implodes.
She may confront you first, anger bleeding through her. She runs on it. She may even threaten you, oblivious to the potential consequences her words might have.
“You think you can charm your way into my affections by paying attention to that little fool?" She's standing up, loathing distorting her features. Her voice raises. "Perhaps I should throw a feast in her honor. Let’s see how charming she is when surrounded by my people."
It's threats and threats and more and more threats...which can be especially worrying if the person she's jealous of is a friend of yours.
Almost every scenario ends with you having to comfort her, treading carefully with the words you say.
Now, when it comes to confronting the competition, she makes it very clear. Though, these threats are often much more impulsive. A swig of wine, and she gracefully moves towards them when you're out of sight.
A faux compliment or two, before she whispers, close.
“You’ll find that my guards are quite loyal to me. A simple command, and they’ll ensure you never breathe the same air as her again.”
It only makes her feel a bit better. But, regardless, she's smiling smugly, feeling proud of herself when the offenders face turns white.
𝐽𝛰𝐹𝐹𝑅𝐸𝑌 𝐵𝐴𝑅𝐴𝑇𝐻𝐸𝛰𝑁
♫ “Too much love can kill.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Oh, Joffrey. I'm obsessed with him.
Yeah. He has the worst jealousy issues out of everyone on this list. It's baaaaad. It's a cocktail of insecurity, possessiveness, and entitlement. As someone who has been raised to believe he is above others, and has been coddled his entire life...it infuriates him.
It's the same feeling you get as a child, when someone steals one of your toys. You belong to him. He never grew out of that mentality, or that feeling.
Be prepared for plentiful outbursts of anger. He's a tantrum personified, especially if he feels disrespected. Insecurity grips him tight and refuses to let up until he's either been heavily reassured...or the other person is... taken care of.
And even then, after reassuring him for hours, it may not be enough. You know how he hired a knight to take out Tyrion in the Battle of Blackwater? Yeah. That person will be paid a little 'visit.'
When reassuring him, similar to Cersei, you really have to be careful what you say, or it might make the situation even worse. At that point, he's seeing red.
"I’m the king! You should be grateful for my attention, not chasing after scraps!" He's huffing, pointing to himself as his breathing increases. He'll look at you with an ice cold glare, nose wrinkled in distaste.
He might even force his hand around your face, harshly grabbing you. He looks dead into your eyes, voice clear and low. "You're mine. You belong to me." He's seething.
If he notices you simply looking at anyone else too long, he'll feel beyond threatened in both his masculinity and position as king. Especially if you laugh at another mans jokes, or simply attempt to be friendly with a commoner or lord.
"What’s so amusing? You’d think you’d find better entertainment than that fool." He mutters under his breath harshly, bad habit of picking at his fingers. He'll shuffle uncomfortably. He'll look to you expecting agreeance. It's 100% that mentality of 'Friends? You don't need friends. You have me.'
Yeah, he keeps the very blunt insults coming. Petulant name calling is not above him. Includes, but is not limited too, "Degenerates, Idiots, Commoners, Peasants, or Cretins" which he may describe as being "Stupid, Disgusting, Repellent, Sickening, or Revolting." He's got a LOT of those angry remarks in the bank.
While he may not directly confront the offender, (he doesn't have time for idle threats.) He has his own ways of dealing with them. And that is a public humiliation ritual, making a mockery of any rival. And if they disobey ANY whim of his, they're gone. That one scene with Tyrion at his wedding? That "Kneel!"? He's commanding the same of any man unlucky enough to have threatened his claim on you. Oh, and they're going to be his cupbearer.
Even if they do as he asks, by now his anger will have transformed into that renewed sense of cruelty. "You're fingers or your tongue?...Or I could just cut your throat."
𝑅𝐴𝑀𝑆𝐴𝑌 𝐵𝛰𝐿𝑇𝛰𝑁
♫ “You're gonna suffer now, whatever you do.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
His jealousy may not be as overtly intense as Joffrey's, but it certainly is the scariest.
In his own words, he prefers being an only child. That same kind of mentality certainly carries over to his relationship with you. He prefers to be the only one you see that way.
He loves a good game, and that's what this is. If anything, it's quite exhilarating for him. Though, he is a huge hypocrite. For a man who thinks jealousy is boring coming from you, he feels it quite freely.
Sees it as a means of asserting dominance, whether that be through intimidation or overt manipulation. He doesn't deny it like most characters on this list. When he's feeling jealous, he says it. It's a small warning for you not to go any farther, lest worse things occur for you or the perceived threat.
He'll go up to whoever you are talking too, saccharine and honorable smile on his face. He'll casually interrupt, introducing himself as Lord Bolton's successor. Despite his calm demeanor, there is a tightness in his face, and a wicked look in his eyes, that only you can recognize. It will make you shiver.
If the rival persists, he'll find it all too amusing.
"You're bold, I'll give you that." He says with a boisterous laugh, and you already know the mans fate is sealed.
Looks like his hounds will be having another meal tonight. He'll have his men go out looking for the man, and he'll question him more...privately, when you aren't there to witness his tortuous taunts.
But for now, his focus is on you, and your loyalty to him. When he excuses the both of you, his hand is gripping yours painfully tight.
By the time you're in his chamber, he's on you, ripping your clothes off with a harsh intensity and pushing you to the wall. His nose is twitching in barely kept anger, forcing you to look at him.
We all saw that scene between him and Myranda when she threatens to marry someone else, and it was not pretty. His eyes are borderline bloodshot, and he can't keep his hands off you or your throat.
"You're mine." He leans forward, through gritted teeth. It's better you don't put up a fight, because he'll be having you and your attention one way or another.
Que the numerous kisses and bite marks soon to follow. And he is not gentle when he's inside you.
You'll never hear from the flirtatious lord again...and if you do, it's only in the prayers of his grieving family.
𝑇𝑌𝑅𝐼𝛰𝑁 𝐿𝐴𝑁𝑁𝐼𝑆𝑇𝐸𝑅
♫ “My love, you are not safe with me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Now, Tyrion's jealousy is more subdued and introspective versus some characters on this list. He has a good sense of self-awareness, and he's intelligent to figure out what he's feeling quite quickly.
At first he'll dismiss it as nothing more than an annoying feeling of insecurity he attempts to cover up. But...it doesn't last long. Especially when someone else makes you laugh. Or when Bronn makes a taunt with a half smirk, that some other fancy lord has taken a keen interest in his lady. (Bronn, you instigator!)
As such, Tyrion resorts to his usual humor to deflect any unpleasant feelings he may have when he's jealous. Similar to his brother, these witty remarks are are subtle intimidation technique, meant to dryly convey his displeasure.
"Ah, the sound of laughter. How quaint. I suppose I’ll have to work harder to earn your amusement." He forces a smile, masking his discomfort. "I didn’t realize I was competing for the title of Court Jester."
These feelings of inadequacy manifest in more self-deprecating ways for Tyrion, given his anger is more controlled. He might opt to drown his sorrows, so don't be surprised if you catch him drunkenly waving his chalice around, doing poor impressions of the so-called-lord that had your attention.
This doesn't mean he won't confront the rival, though. Quite the opposite. While he won't seek the man out, (For his sake, he isn't privy to seeing the tall handsome lord in person. He's not a masochist.) If he happens to come across him flirting with you first hand, or sees him during a feast, he'll make sure to throw one or two gibes out there.
"Desperation looks unflattering on you, my friend. Perhaps you should tone it down a notch." He speaks carefully, nodding to Bronn as a subtle warning. "Or at least the best you can manage..?"
If the rival flirts with you blatantly and in front of him, I can 100% imagine him putting them down. After a flirtatious remark directed towards you, he'll make a dry comment, "Flattery is wasted on me, but do go on; I’m always entertained by those who think they can win my affection." As if it was directed towards him. Probably shuts the man up for a moment.
When the two of you are alone, he'd be very grateful if you could just hold him. Give him that reassurance he craves when his carefree facade breaks. That moment of vulnerability means the world to him.
𝑆𝐴𝑁𝐷𝛰𝑅 "𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝐻𝛰𝑈𝑁𝐷" 𝐶𝐿𝐸𝐺𝐴𝑁𝐸
♫ “I need you to go, don't fight me.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Listen up, Sandor doesn't take shit.
Jealousy isn't an emotion Sandor is particularly used too. In fact, he didn't think he'd find anyone to love in his lifetime, so the feeling is foreign and unpleasant. And, like a mean dog, Sandor's first reaction is to growl.
He doesn't like it. Says it's constricting, and it pisses him off. Not just the pretty boy lord flirting with you, but the whole situation in general. Makes him feel vulnerable, and weak.
Naturally, his first reaction is to distance himself. He may avoid you, grumbling, spitting out vile and vulgar comments to get you to run with your tail between your legs. It's better for the both of you that way.
"You think they’re worth your time? Just a pretty smile to distract you?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "You could do better. But then again, you always choose to suffer." He motions at himself, and it's a glimpse of that self-depreciation he buries.
But you love him for a reason, and you know that won't end well. Best way to handle him when he's jealous is to be gentle, and to listen.
He doesn't want empty reassurances. He's complicated that way, even if they are genuine. He isn't one for flowery words or overt displays of emotion, so the best way to comfort him would be to give him some space, but continue to take care of him.
It will still frustrate him, but eventually he'll cave. He'll rejoin you, silently, eventually. Won't offer any apologies, but maybe a gruff nod, and you two will commence whatever it is you two have.
In future instances, he becomes much more brutally honest with how he feels. Doesn't sugarcoat it. If he doesn't like someone, even if they are a friend, he expects them gone- or he'll take care of them regardless. That kind of possessive behavior is just something you'll have to work through.
I can imagine him silently brooding if he witnesses someone flirting with you first hand. Typically his size and reputation is enough to scare whoever away. He's looming over them, eyes dark, and ready to defend what's his.
When you take your leave, he'll confront the person with a very explicit threat or two.
"If you don’t back off, I’ll find a nice dark corner to stuff you in- preferably with a pile of shit." Or, "Get any closer, and I’ll rip your tongue out and shove it down your throat."
𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁𝐷 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁
♫ “Get swallowed by the weight.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Aemond has the most...complex jealousy out of everyone on this list. It's layered, and the outcome may be unpredictable. It's an emotional and volatile nature that's been building up for years since he was a child.
He often had feelings of jealousy for his brother, his nephews, etc. That trauma is deeply rooted in him, and it's hard to let go of old habits, given it's been present all his life.
You'll watch his head bow in distaste when you make small conversation with other lords. How his eye will gaze at you, almost warningly. His jaw will be clenched tight, and he'll avoid eye contact, looking off to the side in anger. He doesn't want to watch.
If it's a friend of yours, he can be a bit mean, questioning your loyalty a bit harshly.
"Friendship? Is that what you call it?" He speaks, angrily. A thinly veiled threat is directed to you, "It seems more like a prelude to betrayal."
He'll brood in the corner, silently waiting. That is, unless, he deems the man goes too far.
In the scene where he gets his eye put out by Lucerys, the conversation that starts before it happens pretty much sums his jealousy up. He's firm with his claim to Vaghar, and the same goes for you.
When Rhaena states that Vaghar was hers to claim, Aemond responds in kind, "Then you should've claimed her." And puts up a hell of a fight to prove his point. That same possessiveness carries over to his relationship with you. He doesn't back down. You're his.
He has no problems getting in between you and the man he feels threatened of. He offers a blunt threat.
"I could have you torn apart, limb by limb, and I’d sleep soundly at night. Be certain of that."
Guaranteed, mixed feelings of insecurity will rise to the surface. When you two are alone, he'll continue to brood silently, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and body language tight.
Please do reassure him. He needs it. His eye will soften, and he'll place his hand over yours, leaning into your touch. With a soft huff of an air, a final warning slips past his lips.
"Don’t make me remind you why I’m the only one worthy of you."
𝐴𝐸𝐺𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁
♫ “I wanna hold on tightly.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Aegon handles jealousy poorly, much like he seems to handle everything else.
It's like throwing gasoline on a fire. Once that feeling in his chest flares up, it's shown through erratic behavior, sarcasm, and attempts to assert his claim in juvenile, insecure ways. Unlike his brother, he lacks the restraint to simply brood.
No, be prepared for plenty of mocking comments directed towards the man he's threatened of, and showy displays to prove he's the better choice.
Everyone knows he is unpredictable and reckless, and possessiveness drives him to act out. He certainly overindulges to cope with his insecurity, (getting shitfaced) and will gladly push your boundaries to get your attention back on him.
Not to mention the belittling comments he'll make.
"Oh, is that who you’ve chosen to entertain now? I didn’t realize your taste had grown so dull."
Prone to acting overtly clingy, almost like a restless cat. He will attempt to slide over into the conversation, resting an arm around you, or even pulling you away. He doesn't care if it's 'improper.' He probably brings up his status, his bloodline, acting over-the-top.
He's also no stranger to outbursts. His temper may make him lash out impulsively, whether that be towards you or the man whose got your attention. If he's in a particular mood, be ready to deal with a screaming Aegon, threatening to slaughter and burn said rival. His fist will come down hard on the council table.
He also doesn't care if he's making a show of it in front of the council members. Que Alicent or Otto attempting to placate him. He needs to have a cooler head if he's going to be ruling the Seven Kingdoms, and this type of behavior isn't very becoming.
He definitely thinks he's owed some make-up sex, if only to quell the insecure storm raging inside him.
"You think they could satisfy you? Truly?" He says, firmly, as he steps closer. Anger is burning in his words, volume raising. "They wouldn’t even know where to begin."
And he plans to show you that he's right.
𝐴𝐿𝐼𝐶𝐸𝑁𝑇 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅
♫ “I'm afraid I'll pull you over the edge.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Alicent experiences jealousy complexly, just like Aemond. It gnaws on her until she's at her breaking point. Rather than overt displays or confrontations, she attempts to employ more strategic distance...but it always ends up resorting in icy politeness.
She's making her displeasure known through restrained, pointed remarks. Out of duty and pride, she'll attempt to avoid direct confrontation, but she wears her jealousy on her sleeve.
I imagine her withdrawing from the situation at first, if not for anything but her own sake. Her gut reaction, out of insecurity, is to escape the situation. It honestly makes her feel sick.
Unless she's forced to stay...then she'll begrudgingly offer a tight smile. Her responses are carefully measured, and she slips into that role of "queen" rather than a lover.
A part of it stems from passive aggressiveness, and another part of it is purely subconscious.
Speaking of passive aggressiveness, she'll make some pretty cutting remarks, either questioning your loyalty or purposely feigning ignorance to the situation.
"Perhaps I’m mistaken. But I know loyalty when I see it. Or when I don’t."
It's an all bark, no bite threat towards you. But it serves as an aggressive reminder of your connection with her, and that you are now apart of her duties.
If she does interfere beforehand, she'll make indirect remarks about the person causing her jealousy, but will most likely frame it as merely her own curiosity.
Maybe just a touch of self-depreciation, unintentional manipulation. Years of Otto's techniques have rubbed off on her.
"It’s of little consequence, truly. I simply thought I was the one you preferred to spend your time with. I may have misjudged."
𝐺𝑊𝐴𝑌𝑁𝐸 𝐻𝐼𝐺𝐻𝑇𝛰𝑊𝐸𝑅
♫ “Hurts to say it over, over again.” Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
In contrast to Alicent, Gwayne has no problem when he feels threatened to step in. He's a member of a powerful house, and a knight no less. Those two things have taught him to be prideful and honorable.
He will defend your honor whenever he deems in necessary, and there are no exceptions. He certainly has a flash of a temper, but he believes he's much more restrained than others, given his training.
If he thinks someone is crossing a line, he'll interfere. He'll position himself quite closely to you, making his presence known.
He offers the man a silent warning, offering a cool, assessing look. It would be enough to communicate his disapproval.
And if the man persists...well...they'll end up with the end of a sword pointed at them.
Similar to Robb, Gwayne's jealousy appears more in his heightened protectiveness. He insists on staying close for your safety.
"Do they need to be reminded that you’re already spoken for?"
Obviously, his noble pride carries on. If he gets pushed, his jealousy will show more openly, taking the man aside, and telling them that he is more worthy of her time and attention. Might throw in a comment about his noble standing.
He'll take you aside when everything is said and done, reminding her his intentions are honorable. Everyone else is just...unworthy.
"You may not see it, but I know men like him. If he truly respected you, he wouldn’t need to linger around someone else’s beloved."
𝐷𝐴𝐸𝑀𝛰𝑁 𝑇𝐴𝑅𝐺𝐴𝑅𝑌𝐸𝑁
♫ "No matter how you feel." Love Can Kill by Lennon Stella
Oh boy, you'll have to keep this man on a tight leash when his jealousy flares up. It's as intense as he is, and he shows it openly.
He'll deny it, or embrace it, depending on the severity of the perceived offense. It's closely tied to that desire for power within him he can't seem to shake. Any affront to your loyalty is an affront to his own standing.
He switches from possessive protectiveness to outright hostility. There's really no in between. It's a raw and unfiltered fury that makes his hand shake and his eye twitch.
He doesn't tolerate rivals, and he's very upfront that he's the only one fit to be by your side. This comes through when he has you all to himself on his bed...
He'll confront the person whether you want him to or not.
"If they value their limbs, they’d remember you’re mine." He mutters casually, pacing around the room.
He carries that hard glint in his eyes. He may even mildly appreciate the sheer balls of the man stupid enough to attempt to flirt with you, but he'll shut it down quicker than anyone on this list.
"You’ve got a bold tongue. I wonder if I should cut it out..?" He'll look to you for permission. It's up to you if you wanna let the dragon loose!
divider by: @cafekitsune & @finnegancosmos & @anitalerina
word count: 15.5k
synopsis: In the cold of Winterfell, a southern princess learns that duty is not always a cage—and that sometimes, the heart’s desires align with the good of the realm.
a/n: I definitely went a little overboard with this one—this might be the longest one-shot I’ve written to date. Also, yes, I refer to reader as a lioness and imply her to be more Lannister than Baratheon, even though she is technically a Baratheon by name. We’re just rolling with it because thematically it fit much better for this story.
warnings: Arranged Marriage, Joffrey being Joffrey, Cersei.
The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.
Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.
Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.
At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.
You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror.
But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.
You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.
As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.
He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.
You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.
The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.
You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.
It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.
You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.
“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.
Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.
Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side.
One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.
Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.
But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.
Robb Stark.
Named after your father’s namesake.
He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.
He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.
His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.
And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.
Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different.
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.
It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him.
For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.
You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.
The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.
You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.
Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.
You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.
It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.
“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”
A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”
Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.
You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.
Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.
Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.
“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.
You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.
Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.
The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.
Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”
Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.
Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish.
“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.
When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.
Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold.
You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants. And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.
As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.
Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.
No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.
The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.
Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.
Steel striking wood.
You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.
There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.
The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.
“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”
He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.
“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”
Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”
Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.
“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”
He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”
Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten.
“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.
He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.
“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”
You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”
That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.
“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”
“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”
Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”
You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”
Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.
You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”
When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”
You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”
Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.
“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness.
You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”
Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”
Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.
“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.
At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”
Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.
“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”
Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."
You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”
Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.
“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.
You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”
He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”
“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”
Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him.
When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”
Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.
Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”
You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”
The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”
Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”
You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.
“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”
The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.
Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”
That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”
Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”
When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”
He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”
You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”
Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.
“Jon.”
Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.
“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”
You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”
Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”
He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”
With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.
Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.
He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.
Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”
Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”
Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”
Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”
Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.
Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”
Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”
Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.
“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”
Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”
Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”
“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”
Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.
Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”
That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”
“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”
Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes.
By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.
Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.
Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?
Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?
No one knew which way the coin would fall.
As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.
“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”
“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”
You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.
You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.
At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.
It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.
Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.
You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.
“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”
His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.
“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”
He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”
Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”
Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”
Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.
Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”
Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”
A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.
Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”
Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.
You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.
At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.
Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.
Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.
You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.
You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.
It was harsh—but it was honest.
And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.
When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.
You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.
“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.
“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.
You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”
“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”
You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”
The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.
A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.
“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”
“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”
You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”
The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.
“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”
“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.
Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”
You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”
“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.
Your expression softened, your gaze thoughtful as it lingered on him. “Then I suppose they’re also the kind that make sure your names are passed down through the history books,” you murmured.
He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in your voice. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something gentler, fragile and new. Robb was still watching you when you finally rose, brushing the frost from your skirts. Greywind gave a soft whine in protest as your hand left his fur, his small tail sweeping the snow.
“Well, Greywind,” you said, your tone light and warm as your gaze flicked between wolf and man. “It was lovely to meet you both.”
You turned to go, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Robb’s eyes followed the sweep of your cloak, deep crimson against the white—like fire cutting through frost. Something in him stirred before he could stop it.
“You don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice careful as if not to startle you away. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I often come to the Godswood to think.” He paused, his mouth twitching faintly. “I didn’t expect that you—or your family—might visit this place.”
You gave a soft huff of laughter, your breath curling white in the cold air. “I doubt my mother would step foot in this place unless the gods themselves demanded it.”
Robb’s lips twitched, amusement flickering there for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I imagine the Old Gods wouldn’t care much for southern prayers.”
You glanced over your shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips. “Or southern pride,” you added, voice light but tinged with truth.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t waver from you. “There’s much being said about us,” he finally brought up after a pause. “More than either of us asked for.”
“I noticed,” you murmured, your gaze lowering to the snow-dusted ground. “Apparently I’m the North’s next great insult—or its salvation, depending on who’s gossiping.”
He hesitated, as though weighing whether to press further. “And what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now.
You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s no matter what I think,” you said evenly. “If my father and yours decide on our betrothal, then I will do my duty.”
He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once—slowly, as if he understood more than he cared to admit. “My father would say duty is the only thing that keeps us honourable.”
You straightened. “And my mother would say it’s the only thing that keeps us useful,” you replied, your tone steady but tinged with quiet bitterness. “Either way, there’s little choice in what we would want.”
Robb tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And what is it you want, Princess?”
The question caught you off guard. Such a simple thing—and yet, no one had ever asked it before. Not your father, who spoke of alliances and bloodlines as though you were part of his crown’s ledger. Not your mother, who viewed choice as an illusion beneath the weight of duty. Never anyone who cared for you beyond what you represented.
Your breath misted in the cold as you turned your gaze toward the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly in the wind. “I’m not sure I’d know how to answer that,” you admitted after a moment. “I’ve spent my life doing what’s expected of me. Perhaps what I want…”—you hesitated, voice softening—“…is a chance to know what freedom might be like. To make a choice for myself—not because it’s required, but because it’s mine.”
Robb was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “You’d fit the North better than you think.”
You glanced back at him, one brow arching, uncertain if he was teasing. “Would I?”
“Aye,” he said, and there was no jest in it. “You value freedom, and you speak plainly. You’d find honesty here, even if it’s cold and rough-edged. And I think you’d hold your own against it.”
Something unguarded flickered in your eyes as you looked at him. You hadn’t expected kindness from him—not the sort that saw beyond your name. “You and your family are kinder than I expected, Lord Stark.”
A small smile touched his lips. “And you,” he said quietly, “are not what I expected at all, Princess.”
You looked back toward the pool of still water, its glassy surface reflecting the red of the Weirwood leaves. Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “Do you think your father will agree to it?”
Robb was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your question settling in the still air between you. His gaze drifted toward the heart tree, its carved face solemn and knowing. “I think he’ll do what he believes is right for the realm,” he said at last. “As will the King. The rest of us will learn to live with their choices.”
You met his eyes again, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the crown, the politics, the heavy chains of your parents’ expectations. In that stillness, you could almost imagine another life. One where you weren’t a Baratheon princess bartered like gold, but a woman who chose her own path. A woman who could stay here, in this quiet northern stronghold, where the air was pure and the people were honest.
You could almost see it—a future with Robb Stark. You’d be lucky, you thought, to be his wife. He wasn’t much older than you, and unlike the courtiers you’d grown up around, there was nothing false in him. He was kind, and honest, and strong in the quiet way that made others listen. If the betrothal fell through, you knew your next match would likely be some aging lord looking to get his hands on a young Highborn wife, grasping for status through your name.
“I should return before someone notices I’ve vanished,” you said at last, drawing your cloak around your shoulders. “If my mother realizes I’ve been out here, she’ll lecture me about the impropriety of frolicking out in the wild.”
Robb’s expression softened. “I won’t keep you, then.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But you’re welcome here, whenever you need quiet. The Godswood belongs to no one.”
You paused at that, turning back to him. The smallest smile curved your lips, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”
“Robb,” he corrected. “I’m not Lord Stark yet—and I think we’re past the point of formalities.”
You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you, before nodding. “I’ll see you later, Robb.”
It was the first time you’d said his name without title. The sound of it on your sweet lips, felt like a spark in his heart, a warmth that lingered long after you turned and walked away.
Days passed, and with each one, Robb found it harder to ignore what Jon had said that night in the training yard.
You weren’t like the rest of your family. There was no sharp vanity in your tone, no hunger for control in your gaze. You carried yourself with quiet poise, yes—but it wasn’t born from arrogance. It was the kind taught through years of lesson. The kind a person learned when they’d been watched all their life, weighed and measured against what they could offer.
He saw it in the way you walked through Winterfell’s courtyards, shoulders straight but eyes watchful, politely enduring the stares and whispers that trailed after you. He saw it when you stopped to help and speak with the servants, asking—not out of idle curiosity, but genuine interest—about life in the North, about the work and the weather and the long winters to come. And when you bent to greet a stablehand’s hound, unbothered by the mud on its fur, Robb found himself watching longer than he should have.
There was kindness in you—a gentleness he hadn’t expected from a lioness raised among vipers. But there was something else, too. A restlessness. A spirit that longed to stretch its wings, to break free of gilded walls and southern expectations you’d grown up with. You looked at the North not with disdain, but with wonder. This was a world you had been raised to look down upon, yet you seemed intent on understanding it.
The decision of your marriage still lingered in the air like the heavy promise of a storm. The King and his father had yet to speak it aloud, though everyone knew it was coming.
Sansa, for her part, had taken to her chambers most evenings, whispering fervently to her mother about her destiny to be beside Prince Joffrey. Robb had passed their door more than once, catching the sound of her pleading voice—soft, desperate—begging Catelyn to convince their father to agree to the match.
Robb tried not to listen. Tried harder not to imagine the kind of life his sister would have beneath that boy’s thumb. He’d seen Joffrey’s nature, clearer than most. Beneath the polished manners and perfect smile lay something rotten. He was spoiled, vain, cruel in ways that made Robb’s skin crawl. He treated the servants as though they were less than human, mocking them when they stumbled, taking pleasure in their punishments when he thought no one else was watching.
The thought of Sansa bound to him—chained to that kind of arrogance and cruelty—made Robb’s stomach twist. No. He would rather sacrifice his own happiness, his own future, than see her endure that fate.
And though he would never say it aloud, the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: if someone had to be bound to the lions, he would rather it be him than his sister.
The truth was… the more time he spent near you, the less that sacrifice felt like one.
He had begun to seek your company without meaning to. Somehow, you always seemed to find your way to the Godswood or the courtyard, and more often than not, Greywind was padding loyally at your side. You had taken to feeding the wolf treats when you thought no one was watching—though Robb had noticed, more than once.
He pretended not to notice the first few times, content just to watch from a distance. You would look around before crouching down in the snow, your crimson silks brushed pale white at the hems, your voice gentle and cooing as you murmured to the growing pup as if he were a child. Greywind, though already larger than most hounds, behaved with startling gentleness around you—ears low, tail wagging, his enormous head nudging against your arm in quiet affection.
You smuggled bits of bread or dried meat from the kitchens, unbothered by the dirt or the snow that clung to your gloves. Each time, Greywind would take the food delicately from your palm, his golden eyes softening before he devoured it, tail thumping against the frozen ground.
Robb decided to approach you finally and the way you startled at being seen nearly made him laugh.
“Does my lord intend to scold me?” you’d asked, voice carefully measured, though your cheeks were pink with embarrassment.
He’d shaken his head, a small smile curving his lips. “Hardly. Greywind seems to like you more than he does most of my kin. I’d be a fool to interfere.”
You’d relaxed then, your shoulders easing as you looked down at the wolf nuzzling your hand, his great head pressing insistently into your palm.
Robb leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you toss a small scrap of meat into the air for Greywind to catch. The wolf snapped it up easily, rumbling in satisfaction. Robb wasn’t entirely sure when it had begun—these moments, these quiet meetings—but he realized he had come to anticipate them.
He told himself it was curiosity. That he only wished to understand the woman who might one day be his wife. But the truth was simpler—and far more dangerous.
You had begun to occupy the corners of his mind in ways he couldn’t quite name.
You laughed softly as Greywind pawed at your cloak, demanding another treat, and Robb found himself smiling despite the strange tightness that bloomed in his chest. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined when the King had first spoken your name that night at the feast. There was no hauteur in you, no cold detachment born of noble breeding. You were earnest, curious—so very alive.
He’d heard the whispers, of course. That you were a lioness raised in gold, your mother’s beauty and your father’s temper wound into one. But he had seen no cruelty in you, no vanity. Only a quiet grace—and a loneliness that, to his surprise, mirrored his own.
“You know,” you began, brushing snow from your gloves, a hint of playfulness threading through your voice, “you seem to be making a habit of finding me in the cold.”
“Or perhaps,” Robb countered easily, “you’re making a habit of keeping company with my wolf.”
You smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose we’re both guilty.”
Greywind trotted between you then, tail wagging, as though satisfied with the truce. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured toward the path that lead to the Godswood. “Walk with me?” he asked, a trace of warmth softening his tone. “Before he decides to eat your hand next.”
You laughed—soft and breathy—before straightening and accepting his arm. Your personal guard fell into step a few paces behind, close enough to preserve propriety but far enough to grant you both the illusion of privacy.
“Does it ever stop snowing here?” you asked after a moment, genuine curiosity lacing your tone.
He grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting boyishly. “Not long enough for us to forget what it feels like.”
You smiled in return—small, unguarded—and for a fleeting heartbeat, it made Robb forget himself.
You brushed a light dusting of snow from your sleeve, still smiling faintly. “I enjoy it here,” you admitted. “The cold is… refreshing.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Robb said, amusement colouring his voice. “Most southerners start complaining before they’ve been here a day.”
“I’ve done enough complaining for a lifetime,” you replied softly. “It doesn’t change much.”
Robb turned his head slightly, studying you. Though your voice remained light, there was something in your eyes—a quiet, familiar sorrow you rarely let show. “You don’t seem the sort who sits idle,” he said carefully. “If you wanted something changed, I think you’d find a way.”
You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth curving in faint amusement. “You think too highly of me, my lord. My father can move armies with a word. I, however, can’t even choose my own husband.”
The words hung between you, sharper than you meant them to be. Robb’s smile faltered slightly. “If our fathers do decide it,” he said after a pause, his voice low and measured, “I’d hope you’d never feel caged here.”
You tilted your head toward him, curiosity softening your features. “You’d let me speak freely? Do as I wish? Hunt, ride, even argue?”
He grinned, the boyish spark returning to his eyes. “Only if you promise not to best me at any of those.”
That earned him another laugh—brighter this time—and the sound carried through the Godswood, breaking the quiet like sunlight through clouds. Even Greywind perked up, trotting ahead before circling back to brush against your skirts, his tail sweeping the snow.
“You’ve a charming wolf,” you teased, reaching down to scratch his head as he leaned eagerly into your touch. “I think he’s taken a liking to me.”
Robb’s smile deepened before he could stop himself. “I’m beginning to think,” he said quietly, “he has a good choice.”
You looked up at him, surprised, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The words hung between you, fragile and too honest.
Robb cleared his throat and turned away toward the heart tree, his cheeks colouring deeper beneath the cold. “He doesn’t warm to strangers easily, I mean.”
“Of course,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed your amusement. “I’ll take it as a compliment nonetheless.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. You walked side by side beneath the red canopy of the Godswood, your cloaks brushing with each step, the snow falling in soft, lazy flakes around you.
Finally, you broke the quiet. “Do you ever grow tired of this place?” you asked. “Of duty? Of… being what’s expected?”
He thought for a long while before he answered, his voice low. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But the North doesn’t change for us. It’s not meant to be easy.”
You smiled faintly at that, your gaze sweeping over the snow-dusted branches before landing on the faces carved in the tree. “I think that’s what I like most about this place. In King’s Landing, everything is handed to us with a single word. Here, everyone needs to help to earn their keep, otherwise they answer to the unforgiving winter.”
Robb nodded, thoughtful. “That’s true enough. Up here, a man’s worth is in his work, not his name.”
“And in the South,” you murmured, “it’s the opposite. A man’s name can make him a saint or a monster before he ever opens his mouth.”
Robb’s gaze lingered on you, studying the way your expression shifted as you spoke — not bitter, only weary. “You don’t sound proud of the place you come from.”
You hesitated. “Pride’s a dangerous thing in the capital,” you said at last. “It makes fools of even the clever ones.”
Robb’s steps slowed, his eyes tracing the curve of the heart tree’s pale trunk. “And yet,” he said, voice quieter now, “you don’t strike me as a fool.”
You gave a small laugh. “Then perhaps I’ve fooled you into believing that.” you said lightly.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I don’t think so. You see too clearly for it. You… question things that most highborn don’t.”
You turned to look at him then—truly look—and found that he was already watching you. The torchlight from the path flickered across his face, catching in his eyes and making them seem even lighter, like a storm breaking at sea.
Something in your chest tightened. You’d spent your life surrounded by men who wanted to possess or impress you, to see only what they wished to believe. But this—this was different. Robb Stark looked at you as though he were trying to understand you.
“Most people see what they want to see,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “You, however, seem to see past that.”
Robb swallowed, the movement subtle, his eyes steady on yours. “Perhaps, I just take the time to look,” he said quietly.
The air between you shifted, the silence thickening like the hush before snowfall. There was something disarming in the way he said it—earnest and unguarded. It slipped past your defences before you could stop it.
“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s dangerous to look too closely at people. You might not like what you find.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think I’d rather see the truth than live blind to it.”
You looked away then, your gaze drifting to the Weirwood’s bleeding face. The red sap glistened like tears frozen mid-fall. “Truth is rarely kind,” you said softly.
“No,” he replied, his voice low and even. “But neither is the North. We endure both just the same.”
For a time, neither of you spoke. Your steps slowed until you stood before the great heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the cold wind. The face carved into its bark watched over you. You stared at it in silence. It was strange, haunting, but somehow… comforting.
“The Old Gods are different from the Seven,” you murmured, studying the weathered lines of the carving. “They don’t promise mercy.”
Robb nodded once. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But they don’t lie either.”
You turned to him, catching the flicker of reverence in his expression as he looked up at the tree. In that moment, he seemed bound to this place in a way you could only envy. “You have faith in them,” you said, your voice softer now.
“I have faith in what endures,” he replied. “The Old Gods don’t demand our prayers. They aren’t cruel or kind. They just watch. Judge us by what we do. We live and die beneath their eyes.”
You considered that, your breath clouding in the air. “Perhaps that’s why your people are so honest,” you said quietly. “You live with eyes always watching.”
He looked at you then, and for the briefest moment, his gaze felt like one of those eyes— seeing far more than you wanted to reveal. You felt warmth bloom under your skin despite the chill.
You dropped your gaze first, brushing a stray snowflake from your glove. “Perhaps I should start praying to them,” you murmured. “The gods in the south have never listened.”
Robb’s voice softened, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “If you do, be careful what you ask for. The Old Gods don’t always give what we want—but they give what we need.”
For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the wind threading through the red leaves above you. Then, in a voice barely louder than the whisper of snow, you asked, “If the gods do will it—this betrothal—would you… resent it?”
Robb was quiet, his breath misting in the cold air as he turned toward you. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, honest. “No,” he said, almost gently. “I don’t think I would.” He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Would you?”
You swallowed, your heart beating far too fast. “I think…” Your voice faltered, softer now, meant only for him. “Perhaps our union wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.”
You took a step closer—closer than propriety would ever allow—but your guard stood a few paces off, mercifully distracted. The world around, you and Robb seemed to vanish.
You looked up at him, meeting his eyes—grey and steady as winter skies. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, only that suddenly you could feel his breath on your lips, the warmth of it sharp against the chill. Your heart pounded, the space between you shrinking until there was almost nothing left.
And then—
Something struck the side of your head with a sharp thud.
You gasped, stumbling back as snow splattered across your cloak. Robb’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, you were too stunned to speak.
Then a young girl’s voice rang out, “Got you, Robb!”
“My lady!” your guard exclaimed, rushing to your side. “Are you hurt?”
You stood frozen for a heartbeat, snow sliding down your cheek and into the collar of your cloak. The chill hit you, sharp enough to draw a startled laugh from your lips—a breathless, unguarded sound that startled even your guard. You lifted a gloved hand to wipe the melting snow away, still half laughing.
“I’m quite alright, ser,” you said, waving him back. “No need to defend me from such a fearsome assault.”
Robb, meanwhile, had already spun toward the voice, a mix of horror and exasperation crossing his features. His cheeks were red—whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.
“Bloody hells, Arya!” he shouted. “You got the princess!”
From behind a snow-covered tree, a small head of tangled brown hair appeared, her wide eyes flicking between you and her brother as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her grin. “I was aiming for you!” Arya protested, brushing snow off her gloves.
Robb shot her a look caught somewhere between disbelief and scolding. “And missed by half a godsdamned courtyard!”
Arya only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Then her attention turned toward you, and her grin faltered. “Are you—are you all right, princess? I didn’t mean—”
You interrupted her with a laugh, brushing melting flakes from your cloak. “It’s quite all right,” you said, still breathless with amusement. “I’ve survived far worse than snow, I promise you.”
Arya blinked, startled by your good humour. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirmed with a smile, crouching just enough to scoop up a small handful of snow. You shaped it deftly between your gloves, your tone turning playfully curious. “Though I am curious, what exactly is this game?”
Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“
But before he could finish, you let the snowball fly. It struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into a spray of white powder that clung to his cloak and furs.
You lowered your hands delicately, schooling your face into mock innocence. “Did I do it right?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.
Arya’s mouth dropped open—and then she burst into delighted laughter.
“Did you see that!” she crowed, spinning to where Jon was standing a few paces behind his sister, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She got him!” Arya grinned, looking back to Robb. “You should’ve seen your face!”
Robb wiped the snow from his chest, a mock glare darkening his features as he turned toward you. “You—” he sputtered, disbelief warring with amusement, “you threw that at me?”
You lifted your chin, maintaining your imitation of innocence. “Well,” you said easily, “it was meant for you originally, wasn’t it?”
Jon chuckled. “Seems fair to me, brother.”
“Fair?” Robb scoffed, though he was already crouching, his gloved hands gathering snow with a practiced ease that should have warned you. A mischievous grin—far too much like Arya’s—curved his lips. “I call that an act of war.”
You gasped, taking a hasty step back, your eyes widening. “You wouldn’t dare—”
But he did.
The snowball left his hand in a perfect arc and struck your shoulder with a soft, satisfying thwack. Cold flakes burst across your cloak, sliding down your arm as you let out a shocked laugh.
“You—!” you began, your voice caught between outrage and laughter, brushing snow from your shoulder as he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Arya whooped from somewhere behind him, already ducking for cover. “Get her, Robb!”
That was all the encouragement you needed. You bent swiftly, scooping up a handful of snow of your own, the grin breaking across your face nothing short of wicked. “You’ve declared war, my lord,” you said, shaping the snow between your palms. “Don’t think I’ll yield easily.”
In a matter of seconds, the solemn Godswood had transformed into a battleground—snowballs flying, laughter echoing through the air. Arya and Jon took sides without hesitation—Arya with Robb, Jon with you—each barking orders like rival commanders on the field.
Your poor guard stood frozen at the edge of the clearing torn between his duty and self-preservation. He looked utterly bewildered, his hand halfway to his sword as if expecting real danger. He ducked as another snowball hurtled his way—Arya’s, if you had to guess—and let out a startled yelp when it exploded across his chest.
You were laughing so hard you could hardly breathe, snow tangled in your hair, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. The world felt lighter—freer—than it ever had before. And through the laughter, the flying snow, and the chaos, Robb’s eyes found yours again—bright, warm, and utterly alive.
For that fleeting moment, it didn’t matter who you were or what fate awaited you.
Greywind barked, bounding between you, snapping playfully at the flying snow as though torn between sides. The four of you spilled from the Godswood into the courtyard, boots crunching over the frost. The few onlookers who happened to pass froze where they stood, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the royal princess and the heirs of Winterfell engaged in a full snow-fight.
At one point, Arya came darting after you, laughter bubbling from her lips as she took aim. You turned to flee—just in time to duck. The snowball soared past you in a perfect arc—right toward the open archway of the courtyard steps, where Sansa and Joffrey had just stepped outside.
Sansa shrieked as the snow splattered across her auburn curls, while Joffrey froze mid-step, flakes clinging to his ornate collar. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Sansa was already brushing the snow from her hair, her cheeks burning red with fury and embarrassment.
“Arya!” she cried, her voice shrill and scandalized. “What’s wrong with you?!”
Joffrey rounded on Arya, his face twisted in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he spat, stepping forward. “You dare to attack the prince?”
The playfulness drained from the air as quickly as the colour from Arya’s face.
She stumbled back, torn between defiance and panic. “It—it was an accident!” she stammered. “I didn’t even see you there! I was aiming for Y/N!”
Joffrey’s eyes cut toward you, his expression souring further. “Aiming for her?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You dared to throw snow at a princess?”
Arya blinked, realizing too late what she’d just said. “I—”
But Joffrey was already advancing, his hand twitching at his side, his words venomous. “You filthy little savage,” he spat. “Do you have no respect for your betters? I should make you beg for forgiveness—on your knees.”
Before Robb or Jon could react, you were already moving—swift and steady, the remnants of laughter still dying in your throat as you stepped between them.
“That’s enough,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from you.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing across his face. “Enough?” he repeated, the word spat like venom. “You mean to defend her? She hit me!”
“She’s a child,” you interrupted coolly, your tone calm but edged in steel. You stood tall, unflinching despite the prince’s fury. “And we were playing. You’ve been struck by snow, not steel. I think you’ll live.”
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Sansa’s eyes went wide with horror. “Y/N—it was her fault!” she blurted, desperate to smooth the tension.
“Princess,” You corrected, “Do not think you can speak to me so familiarly,” you said, your voice dropping, cold as the northern winter. The sharpness of it startled even you. A little of your mother’s ice—your father’s command—cut through the air as you turned your glare on both of them. “She is your sister. And she has done nothing to warrant your insults or your temper.”
Sansa flinched, her face colouring as she bowed her head. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“She attacked us!” Joffrey snapped, indignant fury twisting his features. “It’s an insult!”
You arched a brow, every inch the queen you were born to be. “If you cannot tell the difference between an insult and a game, then perhaps you are the one who should be sent to the nursery.”
His face turned crimson. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, stepping closer. “I am your prince!”
You didn’t move. “And yet you act like a spoiled child,” you stated calmly. “Titles don’t make men, Joffrey. Actions do.”
He froze, his pride striking like a wounded animal. The sneer crept back onto his lips, his voice thick with spite. “You forget your place, sister. I’ll not be shamed before these northern savages—”
“Enough!” The single word cut through his rant like a blade. “You will hold your tongue,” you said, your composure trembling on the edge of fury. “Or I swear by every god—old and new—you’ll prove yourself as much a fool as people already whisper you are.”
Joffrey’s face went red, then pale, the edges of his mouth curling in silent outrage. “You—”
And that was when his hand moved.
He didn’t think—he simply reacted, his pride goading him further. The sound of his glove cutting through the air was sharp as a whip as he raised his hand to strike you.
But Robb was faster.
He caught Joffrey’s wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around it with unyielding strength. The motion was so swift, so instinctive, that even the prince seemed stunned by it. Robb’s grip tightened—not enough to harm, but enough to make Joffrey wince.
“You’ll lower your hand,” Robb said, his voice low and edged with danger. “Before you do something very, very stupid.”
Joffrey glared up at him, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Unhand me,” he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. “You’ve no right—”
Robb’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening as his voice cut through the cold air. “You’re standing in my home,” he said evenly, each word heavy with command. “And in my home, you will not lay a hand on a woman—” His voice dropped an octave, a warning growl. “My woman.”
The words had your heart stuttering in your chest. You’d danced around the prospect of marriage, nearly kissed beneath the red leaves of the Godswood, but you’d never let yourself believe he wanted you, not truly. Not beyond duty.
Yet now there was no denying it.
Joffrey froze, his outrage faltering beneath the weight of something colder—fear, maybe, or the realization that Robb Stark was not a man he could cow with titles or threats. Robb was everything Joffrey wasn’t: grounded, unyielding, and very much in control. A man defending what was his.
The courtyard had gone utterly still. The only sound was Greywind’s low, guttural growl rumbling through the air from where he stood protectively by your side. The Direwolf’s hackles stood high, his teeth flashing white as he took a single step forward, golden eyes locked on the prince.
“Call off your beast,” Joffrey spat, his voice cracking, his earlier confidence bleeding into panic.
You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing Robb’s as you met the prince’s glare head-on. “Then perhaps you should return inside, Joffrey,” you said, your tone calm but laced with quiet authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”
Joffrey’s mouth twisted, fury flashing in his eyes. For a heartbeat, you thought he might try again—but then his pride faltered beneath the combined weight of Robb’s unflinching stare and Greywind’s low, rumbling growl.
He yanked his arm free, his movements jerky, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, each word dripping venom.
He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him as he stormed toward the keep, boots crunching furiously in the snow. Sansa scrambled after him, her face pale and stricken. “Joffrey, wait—please, he didn’t mean—” Her voice faded into the cold as the great doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the courtyard in breathless silence.
The courtyard seemed to exhale all at once. You stood there, heart still pounding, the wind tugging at your cloak.
Robb hadn’t moved either. His hand was still half-raised from where he’d stopped Joffrey, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath his furs. His gaze shifted from the closed doors to you, softening the instant your eyes met.
The world around you was cold, but his voice, when it came, was not.
“Are you all right?” Robb asked quietly. The edge of command that had cut through his tone moments ago was gone, replaced by something gentler—concern, threaded with the faint tremor of leftover anger.
You swallowed, willing your pulse to steady, and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you. But I’ve grown up dealing with Joffrey’s tantrums.”
The words came out lighter than you felt, but Robb’s expression didn’t ease. His brow furrowed, his gaze searching your face as if to make certain you spoke the truth.
“No one should have to,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t have to grow used to that kind of behaviour.”
You gave a faint, humourless smile. “You’ll find that my brother believes the world bends to his will. He’s never been told otherwise. My mother turns a blind eye, my father laughs it off. He was born thinking he could do no wrong.”
Robb’s jaw tightened. “Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle slipped past your lips—a soft, incredulous sound. “Careful, my lord. If the king hears you’ve manhandled his heir, there might be a war before dinner.”
Robb huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The corner of his mouth curved, but before either of you could say more, a small voice broke through the quiet.
“I… I didn’t mean to.”
You turned to find Arya standing a few paces away, Jon protectively beside her. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, her brown eyes wide with guilt. The defiance that had burned so brightly during the snowball fight was gone—what stood before you now was a child afraid she’d started something terrible.
“Hush now, Arya,” you said softly, your tone gentling as you crossed the snow toward her. “There’s no need to fret.”
You knelt so that your eyes met hers, your cloak pooling around you in the snow. “My brother has always been quick to anger,” you murmured, offering her a reassuring smile. The girl’s lip trembled, her gloved hands still clutching a half-formed snowball she’d long forgotten to throw. “It wasn’t your fault. You were only playing, and he—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He doesn’t yet understand the difference between pride and respect.”
Arya frowned, her brows knitting together. “But he almost struck you,” she said in a small voice, glancing between you and Robb. “Because you wouldn’t let him punish me.”
You met her gaze steadily, your tone quiet but firm. “Because you did nothing wrong,” you said.
The simplicity of your words made Arya blink, her wide eyes searching your face. “You’re not like the other southerners,” she said at last, almost accusingly.
A small laugh escaped you. “Is that a compliment?”
Arya’s mouth curved into a tentative grin. “Maybe.”
You reached out and tapped the tip of her nose lightly, dislodging a flake of snow. “Then I’ll take it as one.”
Robb watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as he saw Arya’s tension dissolve beneath your words. When you rose to your feet, brushing the snow from your skirts, he found himself smiling without meaning to. His gaze drifted to his brother, who was sending him a knowing look. Jon was right. You didn’t belong to the same world as Joffrey.
As you turned to look at him, a faint smile still lingering on your lips, Robb felt something settle deep in his chest—steady and certain. He didn’t know what the King would decide, nor what his father would say when the time came. But for the first time since the betrothal had been spoken of, he knew what he wanted.
He wanted you to stay.
Not out of duty. Not out of command. But because he’d begun to believe the gods themselves had sent you north—not to bind two houses, but to give him something he hadn’t known he was looking for.
And perhaps, if the gods were listening, they would give him that chance.
The day had come grey and cold, a thin veil of snow drifting lazily through the air. Winterfell’s great hall, usually alive with the hum of conversation and clatter of dishes, was subdued—its vast stone walls echoing only with the low murmur of men awaiting the will of kings and lords.
Robb stood a few paces behind his father, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, every muscle in his body drawn taut. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat composed and still, though the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her calm. Beside her, Sansa’s expression was bright but anxious, her fingers twisting the silken folds of her gown in her lap.
Across the hall, the King’s court stood in stark contrast—southern finery gleaming beneath the gray light. Your father slouched in his chair, broad and imposing even in his half-sober state. His laughter, usually loud enough to fill any room, had quieted into a gruff patience he seldom possessed.
Beside him, your mother sat like a statue carved from cold marble. Her green eyes gleamed with restrained disdain. She looked every inch the queen, every inch the lioness who would rather be anywhere else than here in the wolf’s den.
And behind her, you stood.
Your head was bowed in perfect decorum, but Robb noticed the subtle tremor in your hands where they clutched your cloak. You looked small beneath the vaulted ceiling, framed by the grey stone and the banners of House Stark.
Robert’s booming voice filled the hall, breaking the quiet. “Well, Ned,” He said, leaning forward with a weary grin, “we’ve danced around it long enough. You know why I came—to bind our houses once and for all. Lions and wolves, standing together. I’ll not have it wait another day.”
Lord Stark’s expression was calm, thoughtful. “Aye, Your Grace. But the choice must serve both houses—and the children themselves. This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”
Cersei’s lips curved in a thin, cutting smile. “The realm has little patience for northern hesitation, Lord Stark,” she said coolly. “The match must be worthy of the crown.”
Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Gods, woman, enough of your prattle.” His attention swung back to Ned, his heavy voice echoing off the stone. “We’ve two fine children from each house. My son Joffrey, and daughter Y/N. Your son Robb, and daughter Sansa. Either match would serve well enough—but which one, that’s the question.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch.
Robb felt Sansa’s gaze flick toward their father—wide, pleading, hopeful. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her gown. She had dreamed of this match since the day the royal party had arrived, and though Robb wanted to look away, he couldn’t.
His father’s voice broke the stillness. “My daughter Sansa is of age to wed the prince, should it please the crown,” he said, the words falling with measured restraint. “It would be a great honour.”
Robb’s stomach twisted. He could feel every word land like a blow. The image rose unbidden in his mind—Sansa’s soft smile turned toward Joffrey, the way her cheeks flushed when he looked her way. She saw a golden prince; Robb saw the cruelty that gleamed behind those same golden eyes. The thought of his sister bound to that… boy made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.
But worse still was the image that followed—one he hadn’t meant to summon, one that struck deeper.
He imagined a life without you.
You, standing beside some nameless lord in King’s Landing, your fire dimmed beneath the weight of courtly duty. You, smiling that polite, practiced smile that never reached your eyes. You, turning from him in the Godswood for the last time.
The thought clawed at him, sharp and cold as the northern wind. He had told himself it was folly to think of you—to imagine a future that might never be—but now, as the King’s words echoed through the hall, the possibility of losing you settled in his chest like a stone.
You were duty, yes. But you were also more.
And for the first time, Robb Stark found himself praying—not to the Old Gods for strength or guidance, He prayed that fate would be kind.
He drew a slow breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression composed even as his heart hammered in his chest.
Across the hall, Robert leaned back in his chair, his heavy crown tilting slightly as he studied the two families before him. “Aye,” he said after a long pause, nodding once. “A fine match indeed.”
But then his gaze shifted—first to you, then to Robb.
He lingered on the sight of you, head bowed in quiet poise, the faint tremor of unease in the way your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. And then his eyes flicked to Robb—rigid, jaw clenched, blue-grey eyes stayed fixed on you.
Robert recognized that look. He’d worn it once himself—long ago, for Lyanna Stark.
His brows drew together, voice lowering into something more thoughtful. “And yet…” he murmured. “There’s sense in matching the North with my daughter, too.”
Your head snapped up, hope flickering across your face as your gaze darted between your father and Robb.
Meanwhile, your mother’s head turned sharply toward your father, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Your Grace—” she began, her voice tight with warning.
But Robert ignored her. His eyes were on Ned, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Tell me, old friend,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “What does your boy think of the matter?”
The hall went still.
Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward his son. “He will obey his duty,” he said at last, his voice even. “Whatever is decided.”
Robert barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “A true Stark answer!” he said, raising his cup in mock salute. “But I didn’t ask for duty, Ned. I asked for thought.”
All eyes turned to Robb.
The hall seemed to narrow around him, every sound fading until all he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, he looked toward his father, seeking steadiness in the familiar lines of his face—but his gaze didn’t linger there.
It found you.
Your gaze met his, uncertain but searching. The flicker of hope shifting something in his chest shifted.
And before he could stop himself, he spoke. “I would marry her.”
The words rang out clear and steady, but his heart hammered behind them. He barely saw the flicker of shock that crossed Ned’s face or the sharp intake of breath from his mother. His eyes were only on you—your parted lips, the way your breath caught, the hesitant, hopeful smile that followed.
A low murmur rippled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Cersei’s expression hardened, the colour draining from her cheeks, while Sansa made a small, strangled sound beside her mother — disbelief and hurt mingling in her wide blue eyes.
Robert’s brows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “You would, would you?” he rumbled, leaning back in his chair, half in jest and half in curiosity.
Robb nodded once, never taking his eyes off you as he addressed your father. His voice was calm but resolute. “Aye, I would,” he said. “We remember those who stand with honour, and she has done that since the day she rode through our gates. She’s shown nothing but grace and courage since she arrived. The North could ask for no finer lady—” he hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment before he finished, softer, “—I could ask for no finer lady. If it please Your Grace, and with my father’s blessing, I would be proud to call her my wife.”
Your eyes widened slightly, a faint breath slipping from your lips. You could feel every gaze on you, but all you could see was him as he stood tall and unflinching in the centre of the hall, the firelight catching the auburn in his hair and tracing the proud lines of his face. His voice had stilled a room full of royalty and lords, yet his eyes were fixed only on you—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.
“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said at last, a booming laugh rolling from his chest, breaking the tension like thunder. “You’ve raised yourself a proper lord.” He turned his grin toward Robb, still chuckling. “You sound more like your father than you know.”
Then his gaze shifted to you. “Well, girl? You’ve heard the lad. Would you have the wolf for a husband?”
Your lips parted, your breath trembling in your throat. You had been promised, paraded, spoken of your entire life but never once had anyone spoken for you like this. Never once had you felt as though the choice might truly be your own.
And now, for the first time in your life, you knew exactly what you wanted.
You drew a slow breath, steadying the frantic beat of your heart. “If it please Your Grace,” you said softly, your voice clear despite the thundering in your chest, “then I would.”
The hall erupted — some gasping, some murmuring, a few already clapping — but all of it faded into a distant hum. Robb’s eyes found yours again, and this time, you smiled — small, genuine, and full of something neither of you dared name.
Robert leaned forward, grin wide beneath his beard. “Ned?” he prompted.
For a long moment, Lord Stark said nothing. His gaze rested on his son, studying him—not as a father scrutinizing a boy, but as a man weighing the measure of another and his gaze seemed to soften with pride at what he saw.
Finally, he inclined his head toward the King. “I think the matter is decided, Your Grace.”
Robert roared with laughter, the sound booming off the stone walls. “Good! It’s settled then! The lioness of the South and the wolf of the North!” He lifted his cup high, wine sloshing over the rim. “May the gods damn well bless this union—and grant them strength enough not to tear each other apart!”
The crowd broke into applause, the tension snapping like a bowstring. But amid the noise and the celebration, not all faces shared in the joy.
Cersei rose sharply, her chair scraping against the floor, fury flashing in her green eyes. “You cannot be serious,” she hissed, her words cutting through the laughter. Her gaze burned into Robert’s, venom barely restrained.
“Silence, woman!” Robert bellowed, turning on her with a thunderous glare. “You’ll not sour this moment with your scheming tongue. The matter’s settled.”
Cersei’s lips pressed into a bloodless line as she sat, the gold of her crown catching the firelight like a warning.
And you—your breath trembled, your pulse a storm beneath your skin—but when Robb’s gaze met yours again, something steady flickered there.
A strange, unexpected calm.
Because in that moment, for the first time since the betrothal had been mentioned, you didn’t feel like a pawn in your father’s game.
You felt seen. Not as a daughter of the throne, not as a prize to be bartered, but as yourself.
And across the hall, Robb Stark’s hand curled at his side. For him, too, the weight of duty—the burden of blood, of family, of expectation—suddenly didn’t feel quite so heavy.
You’ve been dating your boyfriend for a while now. And you can say for a fact that Bucky Barnes takes princess treatment to another level.
Aside from him calling you “doll” or “babydoll” all the time, you’ve noticed that he treats you like one as well. You really never even have to lift a finger around him.
You don’t open doors. Not ever. This guy will make you wait in the car, seatbelt on, until he runs to your side and opens your door, freeing you from your seatbelt himself like the gentleman he is.
During the ride, he keeps his calm even if he gets mad at the other cars around him. You later found out from his friends that when Bucky gets mad, its a problem. Turns out, he was only keeping calm because his best girl was sitting next to him.
While walking together, he will hold your hand gently, making sure you are standing on the opposite side of the road. He will give you his coat if he feels one little shiver coming from you, and he will give the scariest looks to anyone that dared to even lay eyes on you. But that doesn’t happen often because of people being intimidated by him anyways.
He buys you everything. Anything you want, you don’t even have to say it. He just knows. You look at something, he asks you if you like it, you say “i don’t need it” He nods.
You find it wrapped nicely with a loving note sticked on it on your bedside table in the morning.
Of course, he buys you whatever you want but he has his own picks for you as well. He usually likes to see you in cute sundresses on day, long, silk luxury dresses on date nights, and cute lingeries for sleep (or whatever else you two do at night, i promised myself this was gonna be fluff). So you like to dress yourself up all for him. The man is head over heels for you, and is willing to do anything just to keep you. He just wants you to live like the princess you are. And you are gonna give that to him.
a/n: i hope you read this little blurb with mob!bucky on your mind as well. Because i know for a fact that i wrote this one for him. Im sad i didn’t got to mention his mafia stuff but here it is. Also i would like to add, THANK YOU SOOO MUCH FOR 400 FOLLOWERS I LOVE YOU GUYS🥺🥺💗💗<3333
“it’s actually a bit cloudy outside.” kuroo quips.
the book that’s been holding your attention for the better half of the hour closes with a soft thud. you glance over the couch at your husband, the one attempting to hide behind a heart shaped pillow.
“tetsu.”
“you didn’t answer.” his gaze lifts lazily over the pink plush fabric, the faintest ghost of a smirk tugs at the corners of his dark amber eyes, betraying the sparkle of mischief he can’t ever seem to conceal.
“yes, tetsu.” you sigh. “i still love you.”
“could you at least sound a bit happier about it?” the pillow arcs into the air with the grace of a volleyball serve and you catch it without missing a beat. kuroo’s eyebrow raises in a silent challenge.
“you’re such a brat sometimes.” you laugh, lunging over the couch and crashing into his strong arms, peppering kisses all over his smiling face as his cackle echoes through the room. “yes, i love you tetsu.” a kiss. “always.”
“now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” the smug bastard.
“you’re impossible.” you pout, gently brushing his dark bangs out of his bright, teasing eyes. he bumps his nose against yours, daring you not to smile back.
“and yet, you love me.” he gloats with that infuriatingly handsome grin, kissing you before you can fire out a retort.
★ SYNOPSIS: After days of being too busy to be intimate with you, Damian's finally got you propped up on the kitchen island, sweet and like putty in his hands, when a sudden knock sounds at the door... and he absolutely refuses to let you go and answer it.
★ TAGS: damian is 18+, suggestive content, nothing too much—just making out, and a bit more, damian is physically incapable of keeping his hands off you, srsly babe wtf did you do to him, dick and jason cameo at the end
★ A/N: just some dami hating everyone but you action 🤭 enjoy trying to get him off you lmao
line divider by @cafekitsune, left art: @/se_5eeeee (twitter), middle art: @/cr0wkid (instagram)
Damian's gaze is heavy as it runs all over you, soaking you in with an intensity that makes you squirm on the counter, the marble cool against your bare thighs.
His hands are firm on your waist, sitting there like that's where they're meant to be—like they know no place else—as his chest moves to press up against your own, and his body stands situated right between your thighs, hot and present.
"I've missed you, Habibti," he whispers after a beat of just staring, and it comes out breathless, framed a little by disbelief, like he just can't fathom you're actually there.
You can only squirm in response, eyes ready to move to the side in all their bashful glory—when he ushers them back to him, fingers gentle against your chin.
"I've barely seen you these past few days—and now that I can, you choose to hide from me?"
You blink back at him, eyes wide and head shaking from side-to-side to convey what you can't with words, what you can't under the intensity of his gaze.
He hums, and he's so close now, so within kissing distance, that his breath fans over your face, minty and fresh, begging and pleading.
You don't even realise the way your lids grow heavy until it takes only half the time it usually does to shut them, until you're leaning forward and eager to meet him halfway as it registers to you just how much you've missed his touch.
Damian receives you with open arms, lips pressing against your own as he further pushes himself against you, hands now curling around your waist instead of situated at its sides.
All you can breathe is the scent of nature and cologne, drowning in all that is him until your head grows dizzy and your body begins to shake, until you're suffocating in heat and pounding need.
He kisses you like he's running out of time to, like at any minute, he'll be forced to pull away, hungry and desperate and left with an ache near impossible to fill.
He also kisses you like he has all the time in the world to, like he's taking in a piece of art, studying every inch until he has it etched into his mind forever.
It's too much—it's not enough—and you're left a panting mess when he pulls away, the air hot and heavy and seeping so much steam it practically fogs up your vision.
"Dami..."
He hums, lips now on your neck, having moved there as soon as he pulled away as though incapable of truly ever leaving you.
Your fingers move to card through his hair, and he groans right into your skin, just above a vein, sending a vibration straight through your body.
God, the moment is just so perfect, and you've just been so starved for attention, and everything in the world seems to just be going so right, that it feels wrong, like something will happen to ruin it all.
Something like a knock at your door.
At first, you think you're imagining it, because Damian continues to litter your skin with kisses like nothing's happened, his hands even beginning to roam beneath the hem of your shirt, touch light against your skin.
But then you hear it again, louder this time, and you're sure that it's real.
But Damian acts like it isn't.
His hands continue tracing patterns into your skin, lips painting your neck like it's one of his canvases as he worships you with all the devotion of a man begging for his life.
It's only when a third knock, even harder and louder than the former two, sounds from the door that he shows even a hint of acknowledgement, fingers digging into your sides, but not enough to hurt, your Damian would never hurt you.
"Damian!" a voice calls from the other side of the door, deep and insistent, "I know you're in there! Open up!"
"Would you be quiet?" another hisses right after, "People are looking."
You blink, pulling back a little, only for your boyfriend to chase after you.
Another knock at the door.
Damian growls into your skin just as you call softly, "Dami."
"Ignore those two idiots," he scoffs out with all the vitriol of a man wronged, one starved of something he's needed for far too long. "They'll leave eventually."
You nod, readily and easily because you don't particularly care for answering the door either. Not when he's holding you so sweet, and kissing you so right, and loving you like you're the only thing in his sight.
And you practically are with how he devours you, biting and sucking as he tastes you enough to shoot tingles down your spine and flood your veins with heat.
"Maybe he's not home," one of the two voices says, and you're just lucid enough to recognise it as Jason's.
"Oh he's home alright," the other responds, and you're quick to find that it's Dick.
But then all your lucidity washes out your veins because Damian's fingers start to crawl up your skin, and you're parting your lips to warn him with another call of his name.
"Dami—"
"Shh," he hushes you gently, and you know he doesn't mean it, soft and reverent as his hand reaches up to play with the band of your bra, lifting and snapping it back in place to send a jolt down your spine.
Your eyes dart to his, a heat pooling low in your stomach, and he simply meets your gaze with his own hooded one.
Then he moves to capture your lips again, and you're moaning low against his mouth, lips parting just a brief amount to let him in, when another huge bang slams against your door.
You pull back with a frantic, "Coming!"
Damian is already moving to try and capture your lips again, but you shut him down immediately, hands pressed firmly against his chest.
"Damian."
He growls, cursing beneath his breath in Arabic as he lingers a second longer, fingers curling against your skin. But he does ultimately let go, backing away enough to leave you room to hop off the counter, but not enough so that you can't feel the heat of him against you once you do.
And as you make your way towards the door, Damian follows right after, a shadow to his light, a knight to his princess.
A boyfriend to his girlfriend.
You swing open the door to two figures stood on the other side, both who you suspected them to be, wide-eyed and blinking as though they never thought you'd answer.
"Finally," Dick whines, lips jutted in a pout before they tug back up, flashing you one of his signature charming smiles. "Hey [Name]! Think Jason and I could crash—?"
"No."
A rush of wind flies over your face, the door to your apartment slamming shut before your very eyes to leave you dazed and a tad confused for a second.
Then a pair of arms wrap right around your waist, and that same voice that rejected the two brothers at your door is whispering right against your ear, hot and heavy, "Now... where were we?"
SUMMARY: Johnny Storm flirted like it was a reflex, so when he starts showing up at work with that grin and some line about taking you out, you didn’t flinch. You want to believe him, want to think there’s something real under all that fire and flair, but it’s hard when every time you look, some starry-eyed fan is hanging on his arm.
WARNINGS: Fantastic Four: First Steps minor Spoilers! Typical Marvel themes, angst, fluff, steamy kiss (no pun intended), cursing, Sue being Johnny’s defender yet still humbles him, self-deprecating thoughts, Ben and Johnny banter, lots of pet names, lovesick!Johnny
A/N: As soon as I saw the first trailer for this movie, and saw Joe Quinn as Johnny I knew he would do the role justice! I’m just sad now we have to wait until next year for the next set of Marvel movies! 😩 Divider by @saradika-graphics <3
➩ main masterlist
➩ johnny storm masterlist
Weekends at Maisie’s Delicatessen were a whirlwind of clinking dishes, muffled jazz from the radio behind the counter, and the sweet, yeasty warmth of the oven creeping into every corner of the narrow shop. Nestled on a street corner in Manhattan, its red neon sign buzzed softly beneath the fire escape, a beacon for locals and regulars alike. Inside, mismatched chairs and linoleum floors bore the scuffs of a hundred hurried mornings.
Your hair had been shoved into a bun since dawn, already loosened by the heat radiating off the pastry case. You moved nonstop, dodging customers and slinging paper bags filled with brownies, marble loaves, and chocolate croissants to neighborhood regulars. The cookies, especially the chocolate chip, were gone before noon, and you'd slipped a few warm ones to the kids who lived across the street, ignoring their mother's frazzled protests. Kids needed sweetness in a city like this.
You leaned against the counter for the first time in hours, arms dusted with flour and sugar, the faint hum of a delivery truck idling outside. You took a quick sip of water, your lips still tasting faintly of cinnamon. Then came the bell, ding-a-ling, that delicate sound above the door. You glanced up and froze in amused recognition. Ben Grimm stood in the doorway, trying (and failing) to disguise his massive, craggy frame beneath a trench coat that strained at the seams.
His fedora sat low, shadowing his unmistakable orange brow, but you’d recognize that stance anywhere. A few folks glanced up, but New Yorkers were practiced in the art of pretending not to notice things that didn’t concern them. “There’s my favorite customer!” You grinned, the weariness melting from your voice as you waved him in. Ben chuckled low in his throat, the sound gravelly and warm. “The usual, a dozen black and white cookies, fresh outta the oven.”
You beamed, already holding out the brown paper bag before he could part his lips. Ben’s rocky features relaxed into a rare, boyish grin. The warmth in his eyes was unmistakable, even beneath the shadow of his hat. “You spoil us way too much, Y/N.” He murmured, reaching into the inner pocket of his coat with those thick, stone-like fingers. Before he could fish out his wallet, you gently laid your hand against his arm. “Nah,” You whispered, your eyes crinkling. “It’s the least I can do. You keep our city from crumbling, literally.”
He hesitated, then chuckled softly, the corners of his mouth pulling into something half-sheepish, half-grateful. The coat shifted slightly as he straightened up, careful not to knock over the tiny table near the window. Outside, the city kept humming, taxis honking, a dog barking somewhere down the block, steam curling from a grate on the corner like clockwork. Ever since that mission to space, the one that turned the four of them into something the world had never seen, they'd been more than just heroes.
Earth-828 called them protectors. Some folks whispered “miracles,” others muttered “monsters,” but to you, they were still people. People who liked black and white cookies warm and still a little gooey in the middle. Ben tucked the bag under one arm with reverence, like he was holding something precious instead of simply just cookies. “Reed says carbs’ll slow me down,” He grunted, already lifting one to his mouth. “But he doesn’t know what he’s missin’.”
You laughed, the sound light above the soft vinyl music playing from the back. The overhead light flickered briefly, a flaw in the old wiring you never bothered fixing, casting a golden glow across the glass counter and catching the powdered sugar still clinging to your forearms. “Anything else I can get for you?” You asked, tilting your head as Ben scanned the pastry display. “Will you let me pay for it this time?” You shrugged with a playful glint in your eye watching as he shook his head in disapproval.
“Just the cookies today. I’ll take the offer next time, though.” Ben grunted, approval or defeat, it was hard to tell, and adjusted his coat. “Fair enough,” You smiled, raising your hands in mock surrender. “Tell everyone their favorite baker said hello.” You added, wiping your hands on your apron. As if summoned, the front door jingled again, and in blew a gust of hot air and unmistakable cologne. “Ben! What a coincidence!” Johnny Storm strolled in like he owned the block, hair windswept, a grin already loaded and ready to fire.
He clapped a hand on Ben’s shoulder, more for show than anything, before swiveling toward you like a sunflower toward the sun. “Why hello, gorgeous.” He purred, leaning casually against the counter, elbows propped like it was a bar and not a bakery. His blue eyes flicked over you, every detail catalogued in a glance that burned hotter than anything the ovens could crank out. You didn’t flinch. You’d seen this act before. “Johnny.” You replied, arms crossed more for protection than posture.
It didn’t stop your heart from racing, not with him standing there, all charm and endearing smile. He’d been flirting ever since the first time Ben sent him to pick up cookies, weeks ago now, throwing one-liners your way. It had become routine, really. Every day around noon, Johnny would stroll through the doors of Maisie’s Delicatessen, sometimes in uniform, sometimes in civilian charm, like clockwork.
He’d order the same cherry danish or lemon tart he never finished, pick at a croissant he claimed was “too flaky,” or simply ask for something sweet and then spend twenty minutes leaning on the counter and making small talk. You’d never seen him eat more than a bite. The truth? He didn’t like pastries. You knew. You noticed the way he’d discreetly leave half of them on the plate, or slide one into a napkin and “forget” it on the windowsill. But he came back anyway.
Every. Single. Day.
Only unlike all the women in New York City, you’d brushed him off. You always did. The whole city knew Johnny Storm’s reputation. He was the Human Torch, flashy, unpredictable, and impossible not to look at. Blonde hair like sunlight, eyes blue enough to drown in. You weren’t naive. You just weren’t stupid enough to fall for him and get your heart broken. At first, you assumed it was just Johnny being Johnny, chasing a pretty face with his signature swagger and a smirk that could melt through steel.
His flirtation had seemed harmless. But lately… something about him felt different. He asked questions that had nothing to do with your looks. Asked about your favorite books, your childhood dog, whether you liked jazz or doo-wop better. He once brought you a bouquet of tiger lillies because “you looked like someone who deserved a Wednesday pick-me up.” He listened. Really listened. And yet, you still didn’t let yourself believe it. Because he was Johnny Storm.
Famous. Reckless. Traveled to space. And you? You baked cookies on 3rd and Grand and slipped extras to neighborhood kids. So when he leaned in across the counter today, eyes locked on yours like you were the only person in Manhattan, it made your stomach twist. Because you couldn’t tell if it was all just part of the game, or if maybe, just maybe, he meant it. Still, you reminded yourself to breathe, burying the stupid crush on the blonde-haired, blue-eyed heartbreaker as far down as it would go.
You’d dug that hole weeks ago, right around the time he started showing up for pastries he didn’t eat, and you’d kept digging ever since. “Surprised you’re not at the Baxter Building,” You teased, grabbing a nearby rag to wipe a nonexistent smudge on the counter. “Don’t you have a world to save?” He grinned, eyes glinting. “Figured I’d start with yours.” You almost choked on your own breath. Ben rolled his eyes so hard you could almost hear them click.
“Flamebrain, pick up your danish and let the woman work.” But Johnny didn’t move. He leaned in further, elbow resting against the counter like he had all the time in the world. “Aw, come on, Y/N.” He drawled with a smirk so effortless it should’ve been criminal. That wink, practiced, perfect, probably had women lining up around the block. You huffed a laugh despite yourself, because dammit, he was impossible not to smile at. Shaking your head, you turned your back to him, pretending to be very, very busy with the new tray of croissants still warm from the oven.
You didn’t need to see his face to know he was still watching you, you could feel it. You grabbed the pineapple danish, the one he always claimed was his favorite, though you were 99% sure he hated pineapple, and placed it gently on the counter between you. “Have a nice day, Johnny.” It was meant to be the end of it. A line drawn in powdered sugar. But the way he lit up when you said his name made your chest tighten in a way that was wildly inconvenient.
His whole face softened, the cocky veneer still there, but something genuine flickering behind it. The corners of his mouth curved, his blue eyes twinkling like he'd just won something. He pulled out his wallet, soft leather, edges worn, and slid a crisp $10 bill across the counter without breaking eye contact. “See you next time, beautiful.” That should’ve been it. Any normal person would’ve taken their pastry and left. But Johnny Storm wasn’t normal. Before you could even blink, he leaned in again, this time reaching for you.
Reflex made you freeze, lips parting on instinct as his hand came up to your face. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, slow and deliberate. Your breath hitched. Your skin went electric beneath his touch. “Gotcha.” He whispered with a smug grin, dusting flour off your cheek like it was the most natural thing in the world. And then, like some cinematic fever dream, he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, slow, gentle, and let his fingers linger just a second too long.
You couldn’t even look at him. Not directly. Not with that smile. Not with the way his cologne curled through the air, something warm, woodsy, and undeniably him. Not with his broad shoulders in your peripheral, framed by the soft golden light of the storefront window. Your heart was pounding like the city outside, and you hated how easily he could turn you to absolute mush. With one last cheeky wink, he straightened up and strolled past Ben toward the exit like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain.
You stood frozen, still gripping the edge of the counter as the bell above the door chimed again. Ben lingered for just a second longer, eyeing you with something between amusement and pity. “He’s trouble, kid.” You managed a breathless laugh, cheeks still burning. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He gave you one last tip of his hat before he was out the door. Through the foggy window, you watched Ben shove Johnny as they walked down the street, his expression deadpan as Johnny laughed, head tilted back, beaming.
You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the stupid smile tugging at your lips. The rest of the evening passed like a worn-out record, quiet, predictable, and just a little too slow. No more superhero drop-ins, no flirtatious banter, just the comforting rhythm of clinking coffee cups, parents herding sugar-hyped kids, and the usual faces grabbing day-old rye for half price. You moved on autopilot, smiling when necessary, nodding when expected, but your thoughts weren’t behind the counter anymore.
They were still caught somewhere between Johnny Storm’s hand brushing your cheek and the lingering scent of him that had somehow stuck to the sleeves of your apron. At four o’clock sharp, you finally peeled off the fabric, folding it with practiced hands. You greeted your coworker with a tired wave, slung your bag over one shoulder, and grabbed the small box of pastries you’d stashed for yourself, your ritual comfort after long shifts. With a practiced motion, you nudged open the back door and stepped into the fading amber of early evening.
It was cooler now, a soft breeze threading through your sleeves, but it didn’t soothe the heat still smoldering beneath your skin. You leaned against the brick wall beside the shop, juggling the box and your bag awkwardly as you searched for your keys. Of course, they’d sunken to the bottom. Because today was that kind of day. “Geez, Y/N! Don’t you know it’s not safe out here?” You jumped slightly, box nearly tipping. But then the voice registered, cocky and warm like always, laced with amusement.
You glanced up, and there he was. Johnny Storm, leaning casually against the wall beside you, hands in the pockets of his jeans, wearing a fitted maroon tee that left nothing to the imagination. His eyes sparkled under the streetlamp like he knew exactly the effect he was having on you. You didn’t even bother hiding your eye-roll this time. “Don’t you know it’s rude to sneak up on a woman when it’s nearly dark?” He laughed, that rich, golden sound that always felt like it was meant just for you.
“Walking a beautiful girl to her car after a long shift? That’s not rude, sweetheart. That’s practically chivalry.” You hated the way your heart fluttered. “I might even ask her out to dinner, if she doesn’t already have plans.” He added, stepping a little closer. “You never quit, do you?” Your voice was breathier than you intended, your composure already fraying. The city seemed to fall away, no cars, no lights, no sound, just the heavy press of his presence and the impossible closeness of him.
He took one more step, caging you. His arms bracketed the space like a promise. His eyes were softer now, but blazing all the same. “When it comes to you? I don’t.” You looked up at him, and you felt it, that dangerous pull. Like you were standing on the edge of something steep, and he was gravity. For one brief, selfish second, you wanted to fall. His gaze searched yours, blue eyes impossibly sincere, and you felt your whole body lock up. You didn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or lean in.
It was too much, all at once, the heat, the closeness, the way his words curled inside your chest and ignited everything you’d been trying to bury. “Johnny—” You started, just as quick reality struck. “Johnny! Johnny! Can we get a picture?” A chorus of high-pitched voices broke through the quiet. You both turned. Across the street, three girls, all wide smiles, glossy hair, and miniskirts, were waving excitedly. “Please! We love you!” His shoulders stiffened. For once, he was speechless, gaze flickering between you and them.
And that’s when it hit you.
Of course girls like that followed him. Of course they screamed his name and got his smile and maybe more. Girls who were everything you weren’t, glamorous, shiny, effortless. You felt plain in comparison, dusty from work, apron-wrinkled, flour on your jeans, your lipstick smudged from hours behind the counter and sneaking coffee during your breaks. You felt your throat tighten, breath catching behind clenched teeth.
He looked at you, torn, visibly. You saw the guilt, the hesitation. But you couldn’t handle it. Not the look. Not the choice. You beat him to it. “Go,” You whispered, voice thick. “Take pictures. Sign autographs. Don't let me stop you.” His head whipped back to you. “Y/N—” But you were already slipping. Already falling back into the walls you had spent so long building. Don’t get attached. Don’t believe him. Don’t be a fool. “I’ll see you around, Johnny.” Your smile was brittle.
A cracked-glass version of the one you used to give him. You turned before he could speak, before he could reach for you, because you knew, if he said the right thing, if he looked at you that way again, you’d stay. And you couldn’t. You clutched the pastry box like it was armor and speed-walked to your car, fumbling with the keys as your eyes blurred. You slammed the door shut behind you, hands gripping the steering wheel hard enough to make your knuckles pale.
You let out one shaky breath, but it didn’t help, your chest still felt like it was caving in. The first tear slipped down your cheek, and you swiped at it with the back of your hand. You blinked hard, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep from sobbing, swallowing the thick lump that refused to go away. Through the windshield, you could still see him, standing there, not moving. Not chasing after you. Of course not. He was Johnny Storm. And you? You were just the girl who made the cookies.
It had been two days. Two painfully long, quiet days. Ben had still come in like clockwork, trench coat tight around his frame, tipping his hat with a low grunt and walking out with his usual dozen black and white cookies. Business carried on, regulars filtered in and out, the register chimed, the espresso hissed, and the world, somehow, didn’t stop turning just because Johnny Storm hadn’t walked through your door. But you noticed.
You hated how your heart leapt every time the bell over the door jingled, hated how your eyes darted up from the pastry case expecting him, golden hair tousled like he’d just stepped off a beach, sunglasses halfway down his nose, wearing that crooked grin that always seemed a little too proud to be real. But it was never him. An old man wanting lemon bars. A tired mother with her toddler. A delivery guy. Anyone but Johnny.
By the second afternoon, you were scolding yourself. You’re fine. You don’t care. It didn’t mean anything. It never meant anything. But even that was starting to ring hollow. So when the bell chimed again near closing and your head shot up on instinct, eyes connecting with familiar blue ones. Only it wasn’t Johnny. “Sue?” You breathed out, heart stumbling in your chest at the familiar face, equal parts relief and renewed confusion bubbling up behind your smile. “Hi.”
Her face lit up, warm and elegant as always, framed by a neat headband and soft waves, dressed in a powder blue coat that fell just past her knees. You rounded the counter before she could say a word, pulling her into a gentle hug. “Congratulations, you and Reed, you’re both going to be such amazing parents.” Susan laughed softly, pulling back, her hand instinctively resting over the small swell at her abdomen.
“Thank you, darling.” She whispered, her smile tender, eyes softening at your touch as you caressed the curve just barely beginning to show. Susan glanced around the shop, the quiet obvious now that the last customers had filtered out. She must have seen something flicker across your face, something you didn’t mean to let show, because her gaze settled on you a little too knowingly. "Johnny and Ben didn't tell me you were stopping by."
You hoped it sounded casual, but your voice betrayed you, just a little. She tilted her head, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “No, Ben's been busy helping Reed with all the baby stuff,” She replied gently. “And, I don’t think Johnny's mentioned anything the last day or two, actually. He’s... been a little off.” Off? Your chest tightened. You didn’t ask why. You didn’t have the right to. You weren’t his girlfriend. You weren’t even sure you were a friend.
You were just the girl who made the pastries he didn’t eat, the one he flirted with until fans screamed his name and you reminded yourself to be practical. Still, it gnawed at you. The absence. The silence. The ache that felt like a bruise just beneath the surface of your ribs. You forced a smile. “I’ve got some brioche cooling in the back. Want to take some home?” Susan smiled and nodded, but her eyes lingered on you for a beat longer than necessary.
And you wondered, how much did she know? Because if anyone could see through the armor, it was the Invisible Woman. You wrapped the warm loaf in parchment, the buttery scent of brioche rising with the steam as you folded the edges with careful precision, anything to keep your hands busy while your mind threatened to spiral. Susan lingered just past the counter, fingertips brushing along the glass display case, watching you with an unreadable expression.
Her silence wasn’t uncomfortable, just... weighty. Like she was debating whether or not to cross a line. The silence stretched a few beats longer before she finally broke it. “You know,” She began, almost too casually. “Johnny’s a lot of things. Loud. Reckless. Infuriating.” A wry smile tugged at her lips. “A complete pain in the ass, honestly.” You snorted quietly, folding the twine over the loaf and tying it into a neat bow. “You don’t have to tell me.”
Her gaze sharpened at that, the playful warmth in her voice dipping into something more sincere. “But he’s also been completely, hopelessly hung up on you.” You froze, not dramatically, but just enough that your fingers faltered mid-knot. Susan leaned in slightly, voice softening. “I mean it. Ever since he met you, it’s been nonstop. You’d think Reed and I were hosting a teenage girl in love. Every dinner, it’s always ‘Y/N made me try this pastry’ or ‘You should’ve seen the way her eyes lit up when I told her a dumb joke.’”
You swallowed, throat suddenly dry as your heart pounded loud enough to rival the ticking bakery clock. “I thought it was just another Johnny phase,” Susan continued, her eyes kind now, but serious. “He’s... well. He’s had his share of admirers. Most of them louder. But none of them stuck. None of them made him show up every morning like he forgot how to sleep or act like a lovesick teenager.” Your lips parted, but no words made it out.
Susan gave you a long look, stepping closer until her voice dropped again, almost conspiratorial. “You know what really got me? He started asking me about baking.” You blinked. “He what?” She nodded, confirming that you in fact had heard her correctly. “Wanted to know how long croissants proof. What makes a good butter ratio. If semi-sweet chocolate was the same as milk chocolate, I nearly dropped a plate.”
She gave a quiet laugh, brushing her coat sleeve with her thumb. “He burns toast, Y/N. He once tried to boil eggs in the microwave.” That startled a weak laugh out of you, but the ache behind it remained. “I’m not trying to play matchmaker,” Susan added, gentler now. “And I know he’s a mess, God, he really is, but... this isn’t a game to him. Not this time.” You stared down at the loaf in your hands, chest tightening under the weight of everything she wasn’t saying outright.
You could still feel the ghost of Johnny’s hand on your cheek from two days ago. The way his voice had softened when it was just the two of you. How his grin faltered when he thought you weren’t looking. The worst part? You wanted to believe her. You really did. Yet, that quiet voice in the back of your head, the one that always whispered your insecurities when the lights dimmed and the bakery closed, wasn’t so easily silenced, no matter how hard you tried to ignore it.
Why would someone like him want someone like you, when he could have models, actresses, girls with legs for days and zero baggage?
You pushed the thought down, deep, wrapping the last piece of tape around the box like it could hold you together too. Susan’s hand landed lightly on your arm, anchoring you for a moment. “Whatever you decide, just don’t let the noise drown out what’s real.” You met her eyes. And in them, you saw none of the pity you were bracing for, just quiet encouragement. Understanding. You gave a faint nod and offered the brioche across the counter.
She took it gently, her smile warm as she tucked it into her bag. “Take care of yourself, Y/N.” And then she was gone, the bell jingling softly behind her as she disappeared into the golden spill of the afternoon light. You exhaled slowly, and for the first time in two days, you didn’t flinch at the thought of Johnny Storm. You just ached. The door had barely swung closed behind Susan when you stood there, motionless, loaf of brioche crumbs still scattered across the counter like the remains of a decision just made.
Your heart pounded so loudly you swore the walls could hear it. The hum of the bakery lights, the tick of the clock over the register, the faint laughter of kids down the block, it all faded beneath the sudden, sharp thrum of possibility. What if she was right? What if he wasn’t just another cocky grin in a fireproof suit? What if, under all the swagger and fanfare, Johnny Storm had been waiting, hoping, for you to see him the way he saw you?
Your hands moved before your fear could stop them. You ripped off your apron, tossing it onto the hook so fast it spun, grabbed your purse and keys, and locked the till with barely a glance. You rushed around the counter, fumbled with the light switches, not bothering to sweep the back or double-check the signage. The “Closed” sign swung crooked in the door’s window as you burst out into the late afternoon sun, scanning the sidewalk like a woman on a mission.
There she was. Susan, a block away, was sliding her sunglasses on as she reached the driver's side of a navy blue Fantasticar. You called out her name, your voice cracked with urgency and nerves. She turned, brows lifted in surprise, then slowly tilted her sunglasses down as you approached, breathless and wide-eyed. “I need a ride,” You exhaled, planting your feet like you might change your mind if you moved again. “To the Baxter Building.”
A slow, knowing smirk curled on her lips, like she’d known this would happen all along. Like she had simply laid out the breadcrumbs and waited for you to follow them. Without a word, she unlocked the car with a flick of her wrist and gestured to the passenger side. You slid in, heart hammering, palms damp, and stared out the window as the city blurred by. Your mind ran faster than the wheels on the pavement. What would you say when you saw him? What if he laughed? What if you were wrong?
But then you remembered the way he looked at you. Not like you were an option. Like you were it. The crack in his cocky demeanor when he thought nobody was looking. Susan glanced at you from the corner of her eye, her voice casual as she merged into traffic. “Took you long enough.” You glanced down, flushed and nervous, but a small smile crept across your lips. “Yeah, I guess it really did.” And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel afraid of what came next.
The drive to the Baxter Building felt endless, not because of traffic, but because of what waited at the end of it. Every red light was another second for doubt to crawl back in. Every street corner flashed with reminders: his face on magazines in bodega windows, girls with teased hair giggling over autographed photos, memories of your own reflection feeling small in comparison. Still, you didn’t ask Susan to turn around.
The building rose ahead like a monument, sleek steel and glass stretching toward a stormy Manhattan sky. As you stepped through the lobby, nerves clamped around your lungs, but Susan’s hand on your arm kept you grounded. “Just breathe,” Her eyes told you without a word. The elevator ride was silent, the kind that buzzes with everything unspoken. When the doors opened, both Reed and Ben turned like they’d sensed a bomb ticking.
Ben looked you up and down like you’d grown an extra head, half a cookie still in his massive hand. Reed’s brows lifted, already calculating variables. But before either of them could utter a syllable, Susan threw them a look sharp enough to slice concrete, one perfectly arched brow raised, hand on her hip. You chuckled inwardly, thinking she had definitely mastered the 'mom look'. Ben grunted, glanced between the two of you, then quietly retreated toward the kitchen, muttering something about minding his own damn business.
Reed blinked a few times and gave a tiny, approving nod before following suit. You turned to Susan, your pulse thudding like it might give up entirely. She only smiled, placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Third door on the left. Go.” You didn't need to be told twice. Your heels clicked softly against the polished floor as you approached the door, H.E.R.B.I.E chirped a happy greeting in your direction. You waved, resting a hand on the smooth top of the robot’s head with an affectionate pat.
As you eyes locked on the door just past him, you could have sworn your heart lurched. You didn’t bother knocking. Your hand turned the knob, and the door flung open with all the force of your barely-contained storm. There he was. Johnny Storm, sprawled across his navy couch in a gray NASA tee and sweatpants, wearing a full space suit helmet. His posture screamed boredom, limbs flung over the cushions, one leg lazily propped up on the coffee table, until he saw you.
His eyes widened, nearly cartoonish behind the visor, and he jolted upright with such force the helmet slipped sideways on his head. “Y/N!” The name flew from him like he’d been holding it in for days. His voice cracked with disbelief as he scrambled to yank the helmet off, his hair sticking up wildly from the static. “Uh, hi! I mean—hey, you’re here. You’re… in my room.” You stood just inside the doorway, hands curled into your coat pockets to keep from fidgeting.
He blinked at you, breath shallow, eyes flicking from your coat to your flushed cheeks to the tense set of your jaw. “You okay? Did something happen? Are you—?” You didn’t even let him finish. Five steps, that’s all it took. You crossed the room with a force you didn’t know you had, your palms gripping the soft cotton of his white t-shirt, knuckles white with all the tension and longing that had been brewing for weeks, and tugged him down to your level.
Then you crashed your lips into his like it was the only way to keep from falling apart. Johnny’s breath stuttered, caught completely off guard, but only for a second. One of them slid up your spine, fingers splayed wide, pulling you impossibly closer until there was no space left between your bodies. He groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he tilted his head, deepening the kiss like he’d been starving for it.
Your tongue brushed his, tentative at first, but then his low, guttural moan vibrated through your chest and your grip tightened in his shirt, knuckles aching. You kissed him deeper, mouths moving in perfect sync, hot and messy, with the urgency of two people who had waited too long and couldn’t wait a second more. Johnny broke the kiss just long enough to gasp your name against your jaw, voice rough and reverent.
He ducked his head, lips dragging down your neck in soft, open-mouthed kisses that made your breath catch. When his teeth grazed just beneath your ear, a sharp whimper escaped you, unfiltered and raw. “God, do you have any idea what you do to me?” His voice was hoarse, like the words had clawed their way out of him. You didn’t answer, you couldn’t. Not with your pulse pounding in your ears.
Not with the way he was looking at you like you were something sacred. Instead, you kissed him again, harder this time. The scent of him, smoke and whatever cologne he wore that made your knees weak, clouded your senses as his tongue swept across your bottom lip. Your teeth knocked, breath mingled, and his hand slipped down to the back of your thigh. Without breaking contact, Johnny bent slightly, hooking his arms under your legs and lifting you as if you weighed nothing.
You gasped into his mouth as your back met the cool plaster of his bedroom wall, the contrast making you shiver, but Johnny’s body was all heat, all fire pressed flush against you. Your legs wrapped instinctively around his hips, and the sound he made in response, part growl, part groan, was nearly enough to undo you right then and there. He kissed you like a man possessed, like he’d held back every second since the first time you handed him a croissant and smiled in his direction.
His fingers flexed at your hips, anchoring you, grounding you, while his mouth explored yours with a tenderness that burned hotter than anything reckless. You broke apart only when your lungs screamed for air, panting, foreheads pressed together. His hands trembled slightly where they gripped you, and your own were buried in his hair, fingers tangled and unwilling to let go. Your gaze met his, blue eyes wide, wild, soft, and for once, all the noise in your head quieted.
You could feel it in the space between heartbeats, in the way his thumb brushed over the back of your knee, in the breath he stole and gave back with each kiss. This wasn’t just a crush. It wasn’t a game. “Now, can I take you to dinner?” He murmured, lips brushing yours. You let out a breathy laugh, stealing one more chaste kiss that left both of you grinning like fools. “I think we might've missed a couple steps.” You teased, hands absentmindedly playing with the soft hairs at the nape of his neck.
The same ones you’d always dreamed of running your fingers through but never dared to. His eyes softened, that usual cocky glint melting into something heartbreakingly earnest. “I don’t care in what order it happened,” He whispered, blue eyes tracing every line of your face like he was trying to burn it into memory. “As long as it’s you.” Your chest tightened, the words wrapping around something fragile and long-buried in you. He leaned in, nudging his nose gently against yours, and the breath that left him was barely a whisper.
“I should’ve stayed with you that night. I should’ve kissed you the second I saw you leaning against that wall. I should’ve never let you walk away. God, I’ve been such an idiot.” You drew in a shaky breath, heart swelling in your chest. Lifting your hands from his neck, you cupped his face in your palms, thumbs brushing across the faint hint of stubble along his jaw. “Hey,” You coaxed, voice soft but firm, grounding him before his thoughts could wonder. “I’m not going anywhere anymore.”
He closed his eyes like he didn’t trust himself to believe it until you said it again, so you kissed the tip of his nose. Then the corner of his mouth. Then fully on his lips, almost as if sealing the promise between you. A knock sounded faintly, followed by Reed’s voice muffled through the door. “Johnny! Is your friend staying for dinner?” You paused, eyes meeting his. There it was again, that flicker of vulnerability, like the part of him that still feared you’d run if given the chance.
But you didn’t even need to speak. Your smile answered for you. Johnny turned toward the door, cocky grin returning with full force. “Yes she is!” He called out, eyes never leaving yours. “Tell Herbert to set another plate at the table because—” He leaned closer, pressing a final lingering kiss to your flushed cheek. “My gorgeous girlfriend is staying over for dinner.” You couldn’t help it. You beamed. That word, girlfriend, made your skin tingle.
It felt impossibly good. Honest. Earned. You tugged him back down for one more kiss, slow and sure and full of everything you’d both kept buried for far too long. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t second-guessing it. You were exactly where you wanted to be. Where he wanted you to be. Wrapped in the arms of a man who once flirted like it was a reflex, and now held you like you were the only thing in the world that ever made him feel real.
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pairing: thunderbolts!bucky barnes x reader (no spoilers though!)
warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, unprotected sex, one bed trope, dom!bucky, lots of sexual tension, teasing, dirty talk, self-pleasure, rough sex, slight degradation, bucky manhandles you, rough sex (please read the warnings)
summary: you and bucky were trapped in a storm during mission, with one bed and so much tension. (really just lots of filthy sex guys)
word count: 2.8k
author's note: hi! i am obsessed with the one bed trope and i've been trying to write something for thunderbolts!bucky! i am glad i finally finished this up! thank you for reading! again, please read the warnings, I received some comments on my previous work, i understand my fics may not be for everyone, so please take care to read the warnings! love ya guys and stay safe!
It should have been easy, a covert extraction in the Romanian wilderness, just as you and Bucky had planned, weeks ago. Intel in, asset out, and given how you and the brunette had run riskier ops with much less and fewer exits, this was supposed to feel like a walk in the park. But the weather had turned fast, almost as if it had a vendetta, ominous dark clouds had spilled over the carpathian ridge just as the both of you had left the drop point, and within twenty minutes, the sky had cracked open in a violent deluge.
The mountains were drowning as you sprinted through sleet and biting wind which soaked through your gear in seconds, thunder splitting the sky like a scream. “Which way is it?” You managed to ask as the wind howled, “right, we should be nearby” Bucky replies as lightning flashes close, lighting up Bucky’s face in ghost-white bursts as he moves beside you, shoulder-to-shoulder, jaw clenched, steps unrelenting. You followed the fallback coordinates, grateful that Yelena had embedded it in your comms, breath ragged, legs burning with adrenaline. A safehouse, government-owned, forgotten, and you and Bucky’s only shot at shelter.
By the time you stumbled through the warped wooden door, your boots were squelching with every step, water dripping from your clothes in heavy droplets, you shivered, your skin cold to the bone.
Then Bucky turned, and your breath stuttered in your chest, the firelight from the stone hearth barely reached the corners of the single-room cabin, but it was enough for you to see the way his soaked, black, tactical shirt clung to him, transparent in all the right places. You noticed how his hair, now longer since the last time you saw him, wild from the rain, plastered to his forehead in thick waves. His jaw was tight, the stubble sharp and biting, water slid down his throat, over his collarbone, disappearing beneath the cling of drenched fabric.
You hated how your gaze had caught there for too long because when your eyes snapped up again, you found Bucky already watching you. For a moment, something passed between you in that moment, heat, recognition, restraint stretched, razor thin. His stare didn’t falter, it raked over you in silence, dark and heavy, almost as if it had a weight of its own.
You looked away first, he was always like this after missions, all silence and sharp edges, carved from restraint. But it seemed lately, ever since he asked for your expertise in retrieving files and other classified information hidden across Europe, you realised that restraint had been reserved only for you.
You peeled off your soaked jacket and gear piece by piece, trying to focus on the hearth, “well, this is cozy” you muttered, eyeing the single bed tucked in the corner, “hope you like cuddling”.
Bucky didn’t even blink, he crouched low by the fire, striking a match, the flames crackled to life on the third try, his jaw flexed as he stared into the fire almost as if it owned him something.
“Better than freezing out there dollface”. He said finally, voice like gravel dipped in whiskey, you tried to ignore the way the nickname he had for you made you feel, the way your cheeks heated up as you crossed your arms, teeth still chattering, “don’t suppose there’s a hot tub?”.
“No power, its barely insulated, you’ll want to dry off,” Bucky replies, voice clipped, almost controlled, but you could hear it, the tremor in his voice, not from the cold, from something else, something neither of you dared to name.
You stepped behind the divider wall, pretending you didn’t feel his gaze burn a hole in your back, your hands trembling as you peeled off your soaked clothes, bra, panties, socks, everything clinging to you like a second skin. You found an old thermal shirt in the worn down cabinet, grateful to whoever who had decided to chuck it in there because it was probably the most useful thing in the cabin right now. You slipped it on, and it fell mid-thigh when you did.
You stepped out, seeing Bucky sitting by the fire, shirtless now, his tactical shirt placed over a chair, his hair had started to dry in soft waves, and you could see the scars that marred his shoulder, chest and back catching the flicker of flame. The scars he endured over the years, his vibranium arm, gold and black in the low light, sleek, deadly and almost beautiful.
His eyes found you, dark, slow and unblinking, the kind of look only years could shape, Bucky didn’t just see you, he saw everything, every late night conversation, every one of those missions that just caused the tension between you and him to build, so thick you could probably slice through it with a knife, every almost that had ever happened between the both of you, not that you would ever bring it up.
He looked like he wanted to devour you and god knows how much restraint he must have had in him at that moment.
You swallowed, sitting at the edge of the bed, trying to pretend your thighs weren’t already pressing together. “You taking the bed too?” You asked in a bid to break the silence, the thin ice you were treading on starting to crack beneath the weight of your own voice, brittle and breathless. You didn’t dare look at him, not when the heat of his gaze felt like it could burn straight through your spine.
“I’ll take the floor,” Bucky said after a beat, “you need rest”.
“Does it look like I’m sleeping?” you reply.
The silence was thick, smoke-like, you didn’t want to see those cerulean blues, because if you did, you’d remember what happened in Prague just weeks ago. That kiss—a fake out, a cover that had happened when you both were at some stupid alleyway, a whisper of heat at the edge of danger. You had pressed your lips to his jaw like a lie, in a bid to escape the eyes of agents hunting you both down after escaping with a hard drive.
But the look in his eyes afterward? That hadn’t been fake. Neither of you spoke about it, not after, not ever. Not even when Alexei joked about how the both of you seemed awkward, and he joked about everything, despite Yelena’s eyerolls and groans. He always had a quip ready, but after Prague? He and the rest of the team had watched the two of you with careful eyes and said nothing. The silence had been louder than any tease.
Because something had changed.
You had felt it in the heat of Bucky’s breath against your lips, in the way his hand lingered too long on your waist after that kiss. In the way he didn’t look at you for days after, or when he looked at too much or too long, almost as if the man was trying to remember how to keep his distance.
You had spent nights wondering if he felt it too, the shift, sure the tension had always been there, since the day Steve introduced you to him, since the days you spent with him in Wakanda, but this spark was different, it felt electric—like the gravity of something neither of you could name. Or if he was just pretending it hadn’t happened.
But now? It pulsed in the air between you like it has never gone away, just buried, waiting.
You lay back, letting the warmth of the fire lick at your skin, the coarse wool blanket that you had draped over yourself scratching lightly at your thighs, but it wasn’t what made you squirm.
It was him.
Bucky. Stretched out near the fire like a wolf at rest, deceptively relaxed, every inch of him radiating coiled strength. Every line of him was cut from shadow and heat, his muscles taut, almost as if he were sculpted by Adonis himself, glistening faintly from with the remnants of rainwater and sweat. His dog tags glinted faintly in the fire light, rising and falling with slow, even breaths that belied the tension buried just beneath the surface.
He wasn’t looking at you, not really, but you could feel the weight of his presence like a hand around your throat, firm and deliberate. The tension in his body hadn’t left, in the rigid set of his jaw, the way his metal fingers tapped against the floorboard with rhythmic precision.
Like he was trying to keep himself in check.
His eyes flickered toward the fire as if he was trying not to look at you, as if he didn’t want to give himself away. But you catch the way they flick back now and then, the slight twitch in his brow, the shift in his throat when you move. Like he couldn’t help it, like you were a habit he hadn’t meant to form.
He hadn’t touched you, but god, he didn’t need to.
Your thighs pressed tighter together beneath the blanket, you kept replaying the way he had looked at you, how his gaze had dropped to your thigh, your ass, then back up.
You imagined his voice, low, rough, almost dangerous.
A soft, involuntary shiver rolled down your spine. Fuck.
You squeezed your eyes shut, let the image of him bloom, imagined his fingers dancing along your skin, his breath warm against your neck, that vibranium arm spreading your thighs like he owned the right, one hand around your throat, the other slick with your arousal.
You swallowed hard, and your hand was already moving. You slid it beneath the blanket, then under the hem of your shirt, lower, lower, until your fingers brushed our soaked, needy skin. You gasped softly, hips twitching at the contact as your fingertips circled your clit, slow, desperate, and in your mind, it was his hand, his voice.
“So fucking wet for me”.
You bit your lip hard, trying to keep the sounds quiet.
But not quiet enough.
You didn’t hear him move, didn’t hear his boots on old wood, your mind cloudy with the things you wanted him to do to you, until his voice rasped through the dark, like a gun shot.
“You touching what’s mine princess?”
You froze, eyes wide. You didn’t even have time to stammer out an excuse, any excuse. The blanket was ripped away in one swift, brutal motion, and there he was, looming, dominant, those cerulean blues now blown wide with lust. Bucky’s jaw was clenched, fists tight at his sides, chest rising and falling like he had run a fucking marathon.
“You gonna lie to me, sweetheart?” he gritted out, his voice wasn’t angry, it was worse—controlled. “Or are you gonna be a good girl and tell me what the fuck you were doing”. Your breath caught as your thighs instinctively snapped shut, but Bucky was already kneeling between them, spreading you wide with both hands, one rough and warm, the other smooth and unrelenting, vibranium pressing against your skin like a brand.
“I-” you gasped, but he was already dragging the hem of your shirt up, exposing your slick cunt to the cold air and his greedy eyes. “I couldn’t help it” you whispered, “you couldn’t help it” Bucky echoed, mocking. “Poor little thing, soaked and needy while I’m just over there, keeping myself in check like a fucking saint” he cupped your jaw, forcing you to look at him. “I see you princess. Walking out in that shirt like it’s not a god damn invitation, shifting under that blanket like you wanted me to notice”. His hand slid down, over your collarbone, between your breasts, down your stomach, slow and firm, until his fingers brushed the slick heat between your thighs.
“And now look at you,” you whimpered when he dragged a single finger through your folds, slow and devastating, watching the way your hips jerked.
“So fucking wet for me”.
“Bucky-” He cuts you off, “you don’t get to say my name like that, not when you’ve been touching yourself like that. This,” he swiped through your folds again, this time bringing his thumb to your clit and pressing just enough to make you cry out, “belongs to me. Say it”. You whine, pleasure sparking up your spine like lightning.
“It’s yours, Bucky, fuck, it’s yours”. “That’s right” his voice dropped, dangerous and delicious.
“Now, beg”.
“Please” you whispered arching into his hand.
“Please touch me, I need, need more” you whimper.
“You gotta be real specific princess” Bucky’s voice was velvet over knives. “Beg me to wreck you” your face burned, but your body screamed for it louder. “Please, Bucky, wreck me” you breathed. “I want it, want you, need your cock, need you to fuck me until I can’t breathe, p-please” he stood, the sight of him towering over you, muscles taut, eyes ravenous, made your breath catch. He tore his belt off in one swift pull, tactical pants shoved down just enough to free his cock, hard, thick, flushed and leaking.
Your mouth watered, he gripped your chin, forcing your eyes to stay on him. “Keep your eyes open for me dollface, don’t make me repeat myself” you obeyed instantly. He wrapped your thighs around his hips and slammed into you in one smooth, brutal thrust. The sound you made was half-scream, half-moan, shock and pleasure colliding as he filled you completely. The stretch was overwhelming, perfect. Bucky didn’t give you time to adjust—just gripped your hips and started to fuck you, raw and deep, snagging into you with bruising force.
“God, Bucky!”
“You begged for this,” he snarled into your neck, hair falling over your cheek. “You asked me to ruin you,” You could barely think, the way he filled you, relentless, punishing, perfect, had your brain short circuiting. His cock dragged against every sweet spot inside you, ruthless and filthy. You clawed at his back, legs trembling as he slammed into you over and over.
“You wanted my cock that bad?” he hissed, fucking you harder. “Needed to get yourself off thinking about me? Is that what you do sweetheart? Lay in your bed, fingers buried in that needy little cunt, whispering my name like a fucking prayer?”
“Yes, fuck, always think about you-”
“That’s what I thought” Bucky grabbed a fistful of your hair, yanked your head back and bit your throat, sucking a dark bruise into the skin as you writhed beneath him. “You’re mine” he demanded. “Say it”. “I’m yours, I’m yours” you choked out, pleasure running through your veins as you felt that coil in your stomach tighten as Bucky inches you over the edge. “You gonna come for me now princess? You gonna soak my cock like that desperate little thing you are?” your body was already there, strung so tight, you could hardly breathe.
When Bucky’s thumb found your clit, rubbing circles in time with his thrusts, you shattered. It ripped out of you like a storm, your orgasm crashing through your body so hard it stole air from your lungs. You screamed his name, back arching, thighs shaking as you pulsed around his cock, soaking him just like he promised. But Bucky didn’t stop, god no, he fucked you through it, groaning as your walls milked him, thrusts growing sloppy, brutal.
“Gonna fill you up baby” he panted, burying his face in your neck, “gonna give you every fucking drop” you whimpered begging for it, pleading like you didn’t care how filthy it sounded. “Please, Bucky, want it—need your cum inside me” his hips snapped once, twice—Then he came with a snarl, cock buried deep, ropes of hot seed spilling inside you as he trembled against your body, moaning your name like a curse and a prayer.
You stayed like that for a long, long moment, breathing hard, clutching each other like the world outside didn’t exist. And then slowly, Bucky eased out of you gently, catching the whimper that left your lips with a kiss, his mouth was so soft now. Reverent. He dragged it across your cheeks, jaw, your temple, grounding you as his hands cradled your body like you were breakable.
“You did so good for me, princess” he murmured, voice low and warm. “So perfect.” you blinked up at him, dazed and blissed out. Bucky grabbed the blanket, wrapped you up in it before tugging you into him. His hands smothered over your thighs, your stomach, brushing your hair off your face.
“You okay?” he asked, voice softer than you’d ever heard it, you nod, smiling sleepily. “I’m better than okay”. His smile, small, crooked and real was almost enough to undo you. He leaned down, kissed your temple, then your lips.
“Good. You’re mine now, you know that?” you tangled your fingers in his hair. “Always was” he chuckled. “Cock drunk little doll face”.
And then he tucked you in against his chest, wrapped you in his arms like you were the only thing that mattered.
Because to Bucky, you were.
thank you love for taking the time to read this fic!
Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> Due to an open wound, Bucky seems to hate you. And no matter what Sam does, nothing seems to change. Until you and Bucky have a heated exchange that ends in a way neither of you had been expecting.
Disclaimer: Bucky is a little bit of an asshole, (lovers to) enemies to lovers, slightly established relationship, angst, platonic!sam, platonic!joaquin, a little steam, swearing, reader cleans Bucky's physical wounds, arguments, heated exchanges, happy ending. Not Proof Read.
Bucky had a scowl on his face like usual. And Sam only had one guess as to who it was aimed at.
Opening the door to the meeting room, he guessed right.
“Sam,” you smiled, standing at the front of the room.
“Joaquin said you were looking for me.”
You nodded. “Take a seat.”
You’d been working with Shield for a little over a year; specifically Sam and his team. Of what Sam knew, you’d been off grid for over a decade. You’d made a new identity for yourself at the age of sixteen and stayed quiet until the day Maria Hill turned up with a job proposition.
She was the only one who knew you were still alive, let alone off grid.
And from your first day, Bucky had been scowling.
Sitting in that meeting for over an hour, Bucky’s gaze remained fixed on you until you looked back and he looked away. Sam had been trying from day one to help you both get along, but to no avail. Joaquin had even tried, but his failure had been worse.
With Sam, it was silence. If not, a sentence and then one of you would walk away. With Joaquin, it turned into a full blown argument.
“I’ll be working from the base with Torres.”
“Is that everything?”
You looked at Bucky and clenched your jaw as you picked up the remaining files. “Yes. That is everything, Sergeant Barnes.”
Bucky’s eyes still fixed on yours, he pushed himself out from his seat. Within seconds he was by the door and Sam was following behind him.
“Thank you, Y/n.” Sam closed the door for you before he hurried down the hallway behind his friend. “Dude, what the hell is your problem?”
“She is.”
“You know, when you wanna pull that stick out your ass, it would be handy to have a date. She’s part of our team and you treat her like she’s the enemy,” Sam pointed out.
“Maybe she is.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Okay, I can take you two not speaking to each other but, how long were you in that office with her? You were talking before I came in.”
“Nothing.”
“Had to be something.”
“It was nothing. Do you want me to pick you up some lunch?” Bucky turned the corner.
Sam sighed, but he was hungry. “Yes. But no pickles this time, I’ve got a date later.”
Bucky stopped and turned around. “With who?”
“A woman.”
“You don’t know a woman.”
Sam seemed offended. “I know plenty of women.”
“Who want to date you?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “It’s a friend of Y/n’s. It’s a blind date.”
Bucky just grumbled. “Maybe she’s better than Y/n.”
Sam would have argued but Bucky was too far down the hall for him to shout and it be normal.
Bucky was sitting in the Compound living room when you walked inside. You rolled your eyes. “What are you doing here? Thought you’d be stalking Sam on his date.”
“Should I? Why? Is she a liar like you?”
You shook your head as you shut the fridge door and unscrewed the water bottle. “I never lied. And she’s nice. Sam’s type. She’s beautiful, kind and her brother was in the Air Force – so they’ve got something in common.”
“Other than a liar for a friend.”
You looked at Bucky. “I’m not doing this today. Did you read the mission file?”
Bucky looked away from you. “Yeah, I read it.”
“And?”
“You need to make sure we can tag the boats. We know where the boats are going, we’ll find the arms dealers.”
“Boats?”
Bucky nodded. “There’s a loading dock nearby. CCTV footage tracks one of the vans there.”
You shook your head. “They were just lobsters.”
“Lobsters can’t be caught in freshwater. They need salt water to survive.”
“How do you know so much about lobsters?”
Bucky didn’t know what to say. “I don’t. It was on…a nature thing Sam was watching.”
“Huh.”
“Look, my point is, the weapons are being smuggled on fishing boats. Probably how they ended up on the other side of the world. Passed from country to country.”
“Via lobster.”
Bucky rolled his eyes but nodded. “Yes, by lobster.”
Four days later, Sam had tagged the boats and you and Joaquin were tracking their movements.
“So, what’s with the tension between you and Bucky?”
“What do you mean?” You asked, absentmindedly as you turned towards a different monitor.
Joaquin laughed. “Oh, come on. You know what I mean.”
You did. You sighed, “It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing. You two look like you’re either about to fuck or fight.”
You turned in your chair. “You know, I could report you to HR.”
Joaquin gave you a dead-panned look. Considering you’d been his neighbour for the last year and spent every Friday night with him and Sam, he knew you wouldn’t.
“Come on, you can tell me. Promise I won’t tell anyone.” Joaquin made a cross over his heart.
You giggled as you shook your head. “Sorry, buddy. No-can-do.”
“Why not?” Joaquin whined.
“Because that is between me and Sergeant Asshole.”
Joaquin sat back in his chair. “You know I’m gonna find out eventually, right? I will.”
You just shook your head and got on with your work. By the time Sam and Bucky returned a week later, it was with three arrests made and over a hundred and thirty weapons seized.
“God, you look like hell.” The sentence slipped from you as you watched Bucky walk inside.
“Look great yourself, Sweetheart.” Bucky grumbled, avoiding you at all costs. Sam followed behind him.
“What happened?” Joaquin asked him.
“We won, that’s the bottom line.”
Bucky shook his head as he sat down. “Oh, no. Tell them about your master plan. Go on.”
“You’re just mad you didn’t think of it yourself.” Sam said as he sat beside him.
“That missile could have blown you to pieces!”
“What?!” You and Joaquin shouted, for two completely different reasons.
“That’s so cool,” Joaquin whispered. You hit him as you heard him.
“Sam, what the fuck?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t like that.”
“It was exactly like that.”
“You nearly got blown up?!”
Sam shook his head, again. “No. Look, the point is, we’re all okay and the bad guys are gonna be dealt with. In the meantime, can someone please order, like, four pizzas. I’m starving.”
Joaquin nodded, pulling out his phone. “Lucky’s?”
Sam nodded as he stood, starting to remove his suit. “Yeah.”
You folded your arms and looked at the man who hated you most in the world. “And you? Are you okay?”
Bucky just nodded. “Oh, I’m just fine.”
“No, he’s not.” Sam pointed at him as he peeked out from the changing divider. “There’s a med kit under the desk.”
That was when you spotted the tear to his jacket, red blood mixing with blue leather.
“For god's sake.”
Bucky watched as you turned on your heel and went directly for the med kit. “I don’t need your help.”
You didn’t answer him. Just walked back over to him on the sofa and sat beside him.
“I don’t need your help.”
“Fuck you, you’re getting it. Now move.”
Bucky didn’t see much in the way of another choice. So, reluctantly, he turned so his back was towards you.
“You’re gonna need to take your jacket off.”
He looked down, peeling away at the zipper before pulling the jacket away from him.
You took a breath.
It was the first time in over a year, you’d be touching him. Even if it was to clean his cut.
Bucky felt his breath hitch in his chest as your fingers touched his back through the cut in his black t-shirt. The last time you’d touched him had been under a completely different circumstance.
“This might hurt,” your voice was softer than usual. Just loud enough for him to hear. Bucky hissed. “Sorry.”
“It’s…it’s okay.” Bucky’s voice, for the first time in over a year, was soft when he spoke to you. You watched his side profile for a moment before pressing a full cleaning pad against his cut.
His eyes closed for a moment, letting your touch soak into his skin.
Dabbing at the cut before taping it shut, you tidied the rest of the kit away. “That should do it.”
“Thanks,” Bucky shifted in his seat and for a moment, his soft gaze remained on you.
After a year of scowls, it felt too much. Within seconds you gave him a brief smile before standing and walking away.
“Pizza’s on the way.” Joaquin said as he walked back inside.
Sam appeared, fixing his shirt. “Great.”
For two hours, the scowl disappeared into a neutral zone. But somewhere between the end credits of the film and Sam mentioning the date you set him up on, the scowl reappeared.
And that soft moment between you and Bucky was like dust in the wind.
“You’re a goddamn asshole, did you know that?”
“You know what, so are you.” Bucky was sick and tired. “We wouldn’t even be in this position if it wasn’t for you-”
“For me?! Oh, puh-lease. If you’d just listened to me in the first place-”
“I had a plan!”
You paused and looked at Bucky. He was waiting for a response. “Oh, I’m sorry. You had a plan. Oh, well, that just makes everything so much better, doesn’t it?!”
“It was better than yours.”
“Really? And what part of your plan has an escape route from this hell hole?!”
“If you just give me a minute-”
You scoffed. “Give yourself a little more credit, Sergeant.”
Bucky glared at you. Before he could respond, Sam’s voice cracked over your comms. “If you two are done arguing like children, I’ve found you an escape plan.”
“Where? There’s no-”
“Take cover.”
Bucky watched as the shade from the small window grew bigger. Immediately reaching for you, he pulled a table behind you both as you crouched together on the ground.
As the dust settled, you both pushed the table and rubble from you, coughing as it swirled to get into your lungs. Bucky tried to help you up but you just swatted his hand away and stood up yourself.
“Don’t.” Was your only warning to him before you left him in the dust, quite literally.
Upon getting back, you avoided him at all costs and made a beeline for your room and bathroom. It took three rounds of shampoo to get all the dirt and grime out of your hair. But you let the hot water wash away the tension in your shoulders.
Which all came flooding back the minute you turned around in the quiet kitchen and found Bucky entering. He was freshly showered himself, fresh henley with the sleeves pulled to his elbow.
Any other time, you would have left.
But you were hungry and there wasn’t a chance in hell you’d be letting him rush you out of making something to eat.
Despite the silence, it was the loudest atmosphere between you both since you’d met. The harsher sounding slam of the kitchen draws and cupboards, the aggressive click of the kettle, the quick wash of plates and cutlery.
You were the first to lose patience. “Okay, what the fuck is your problem?”
“What’s my problem?”
“Yeah!”
“Asks the girl who can’t close a cutlery drawer in peace.”
“Don’t turn this back on me. I asked first.”
Bucky shook his head. “I don’t have a fucking problem.”
“Really? Because after the stunt you pulled today, I’d say you do.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “The stunt I pulled?”
You groaned. “Do you really have to keep repeating everything I say?”
“The stunt I pulled saved our lives!”
“It got us trapped!”
“We got out!”
You tilted your head. “Oh, ‘we got out’, he says. What if Sam hadn’t shown up? What then, huh? Because I don’t seem to remember you having a plan for that.”
“I would have worked one out!”
You scoffed. “And what was so wrong with my plan?”
“We would have gotten caught. You hadn’t looked at the footage properly, again.”
“What the fuck do you mean again?”
“The lobsters-”
You held your hands up. “Oh, do forgive me for not knowing much about sea animals.”
“It’s a crustacean,” Bucky corrected before catching himself. “That’s not important. Look, it’s happened before.”
You groaned. “Once? You’re going off a one time thing? Seriously? Why don’t you trust me?!”
“I made that mistake the first time.”
You stood back, your fire settling but burning brighter than ever. “That is not fair.”
“No. No, what is not fair is having your emotions toyed with!”
“Jesus,” you walked away. But turned back. “How many times do I have to repeat myself until you believe me? I didn’t know who you were, Bucky!”
“And you just expect me to believe you?”
“No,” you shook your head. “But I do expect you to trust me. No matter what happened before, we’re still on the same team.”
“Maybe you are, but I’m not.”
You forced yourself to take a deep breath. “I swear, I didn’t know. Bucky,” you sighed and threw your arm out. “I’d been off grid for over a fucking decade! It wasn’t like I was kept up-to-date on Shield and their filing system!”
“So you just happened to miss one of the biggest man-hunts Shield ever saw, when you were working for them?”
“Yes!” you shouted. “I’m aware it sounds stupid but when you’ve got my history, it was easier for me to not watch the news 24/7! Jesus-” You stepped away, again. “No, you know what, believe whatever the fuck you want. You’re not gonna change your mind anyway.”
The next time you and Bucky spoke to each other was eleven weeks later.
“I don’t like him.”
That was all Bucky had said to you in the silence of the kitchen.
“What?” You turned from the food you were mixing together in the tupperware bowl.
“Rick. I don’t like him.”
You looked away from Bucky with a roll of your eyes. “His name is Nick, and what makes you think I value your opinion?”
“You asked Sam.”
You nodded, sucking the splattered sauce off your thumb. “Because Sam is my friend.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Great.”
“Wonderful.”
Putting the meal back into the fridge, you closed the doors and paused for a moment.
“What don’t you like about him?”
Bucky looked up as you asked him your question. He seemed surprised you’d even asked.
“Forget it.” You said quickly as you turned away. But he answered anyway.
“He’s not good for you.”
You turned and looked back at him. “How do you know what’s good for me?”
There was a knowing look behind Bucky’s eyes. One you weren’t willing to acknowledge.
“You have to press him to show you affection in public.” Bucky told you. “You’re always the first to initiate contact. He doesn’t ask you follow up questions, or real questions. He calls you when he feels lonely-”
“Excuse-”
“And you don’t smile.”
That one hit you harder than you’d been expecting.
“You smile. But it’s not genuine. It’s forced, all the time. Even when you don’t notice…” I do. Bucky added to himself, silently.
“And how do you know what my real smile looks like?”
Bucky looked down at his own food. “I did see it…a long time ago.”
“A long time ago,” you laughed a little. “And whose fault is that?”
Bucky had hurt you. He knew that much. But the image of you standing in that office that day, just as he’d been telling Sam about the woman he’d met two nights before, wouldn’t leave him.
The betrayal. The hurt. The ignorance.
With you, he felt like himself for the first time in a long time. And all of a sudden, you were standing like a completely different person, introducing yourself as an Agent of Shield. He’d had agents sent to follow and watch his every move before, but someone to go as far as to sleep with him?
That was a new low.
“It wasn’t easy for me, either, you know. To see you walk in that day.” You were so tired of the fighting and yelling and secret-keeping. You were yet to explain your side of the story further than you ‘never lied’.
You laughed a little. “You know, I thought you were some kind maths teacher before you told me you worked for the Army. It explained the arm, and I didn’t think much else of it. Never even heard of The Winter Soldier until the day Sam said it.”
You shook your head. “I really thought we could have had something special before I realised you hated me. But it wasn’t my fault, Bucky. I didn’t know you were Shield, let alone that I’d be working with you.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Why didn’t you?” You counter, walking towards him a little. “You told me you were in the army. Which, yeah, I guess was kinda true. But why not just tell me who you were? Why keep secrets? Shit, I really saw myself falling for you after that night but when you saw me…you didn’t even give me a chance, Bucky. Do you know how much that hurt? Too fucking much. And now, out of fucking nowhere, you suddenly tell me that a guy I’m dating- the first guy I’ve dated since…and you tell me he’s no good for me.”
You knew your emotions were taking over, but you couldn’t help it. They’d been bottled up for so long, the extra tension in your bones seemed to have cracked each jar wide open.
“Why the fuck-”
Your emotional running-thoughts speech was cut short by Bucky’s lips suddenly being on yours.
“What was that for?” Was the first thing you asked as the kiss broke away.
“You were rambling. I couldn’t…” Bucky swallowed. “Think of…”
Your gaze was locked onto his. And in a whirlwind of emotions, you decided to kiss him. His hands tangled in your hair before he picked you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist.
Similar to one of your first kisses, this one was emotionally charged. Not only was there a wanting behind it, but also a need. A need to make up for lost time. A need for taste, touch and memories.
You made a small noise as he kissed you and you tried to pull him closer to you. Eventually, he sat you on the counter-top where you trapped him against you in case he tried to move away.
Kissing down the column of your neck, you sighed, “James.”
Sucking at your pulsepoint, ultimately leaving a reminder of him for later, your nails ran down the back of his neck. Admiring his handy work for a moment, his heated gaze locked back onto yours. You watched as his tongue swiped across his lower lip.
Finally kissing you again, you kissed back, wanting more.
Which he was more than happy to provide.
By the time you woke up the next morning, all the tension was gone from your bones. The pillows beneath your head were soft, and so was the bedding.
Except, where there should have been someone lay next to you, there was nothing but an empty space.
You were still in his room. After a rather heated make-out session in the kitchen, Bucky had asked you whose room to go to. You had said his, considering it was closer. That much, and a little more, you could remember.
Holding the covers against your body, you turned over to finally find him.
Sitting on the edge of the bed by your legs, Bucky was sitting at a hunched ninety degree angle. And from the expression on his face, he looked…remorseful.
“Hey,” you said in the quiet of the room, already worried. Did he hate you again? After everything the night before…did it mean nothing?
Bucky looked at you for a second, the guilt on his face even more prominent despite the fact he tried to hide it with a smile. You hated the forced smile almost as much as the fake one.
“Is everything-”
“I’m so sorry.”
It felt like someone had dropped a boulder in your stomach. You should have prepared yourself for the worst before you spoke; found a way to mask the hurt and bury it deep down. Agree with him that it meant nothing and move on, even if your mind screamed the opposite.
“I’ve been such an asshole.”
You stopped. Where was he going? He was right. But where was he going with it?
“I should have let you explain. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions so quickly. I shouldn’t have been such an asshole to you.” Bucky rubbed a hand across his jaw. “I was hurt and rather than be an adult about it, I lashed out on you.” He looked directly at you. “I’m so sorry.”
There was something in your heart that grew. Gratefulness at the fact he wasn’t about to tell you he regretted the night before, gratefulness that he was apologising for being such an asshole, care for…him; the way he was looking at you, the way he was holding himself.
Not knowing what to say, you did the next best thing. Shuffling down the bed, which confused Bucky for a moment – you could have left or punched him. But you didn’t. Instead, you hugged him. It took him a moment, but he hugged you back before he melted into you when he realised you’d settled against him.
“We all forget ourselves sometimes. But thank you for apologising.” You pressed a kiss to his shoulder before resting your chin in the same spot to look at him.
His eyes were always so much more blue in the mornings.
“And I’m sorry, too.”
Bucky felt more guilt and confusion. “Why are you sorry?”
“I could have forced you to sit down and listen to me. I could have asked about who I was working with beforehand and given you a heads-up. And I could have followed you out of the office directly after. Maybe then we wouldn’t have been at odds for the last year and a bit.”
Bucky ran his hand up and down your arm that rested on his chest and nodded a little, agreeing with your final statement. “Sixteen months, three weeks and four days.”
“You kept count?”
Bucky nodded a little before meeting your gaze. “You were the best thing to happen to me in years. I didn’t see anything else for me to do other than count the days since.”
You tilted your head. “That…is very sweet. But now you know why I thought you were a maths teacher when we first met.”
Bucky chuckled. “I guess so.”
A quiet atmosphere settled over you both for a moment. “I mean it when I say I’m sorry. And I don’t know what I can do to make up for it but I want to start.”
You smiled and kissed him softly. “Staying in bed with me is a start.”
Bucky smiled and lowered his head for a moment, kissing your wrist before pressing his lips to yours.
Long after you forgave him, Bucky was still finding ways to make up for not only being an ass but also lost time.
breaking the ice
“You don’t have to treat me gently, Bucky”
when bucky doesn’t know what sex is like in the 2000s, you volunteer to try his fantasies.
warning: 18+ content
Bucky’s shoulders are tense.
Not the ready-for-a-fight kind. Not even the post-mission-comedown kind. It’s something else. He’s been quiet since they got back, barely picking at his food. Just drinking his beer, eyes flicking to you every so often.
“You ever think you’re broken in ways that people don’t even have names for?” Bucky asks, voice low, not looking at you.
Y/N blinks slowly, registering the shift in the air. That wasn’t small talk. That was him — the real him — poking through the layers he usually hides behind sarcasm, behind folded arms and gritted teeth.
“Yeah,” you say. “All the time.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like a laugh but isn't. “It’s not the violence. That I can handle. That makes sense to me. But... the other stuff?” His jaw tightens. “The intimacy stuff? I don’t know how to do it anymore. I feel like I’m standing outside something I used to understand.” His voice is low. Rough.
Then you ask, evenly: “Do you want to do something about it?”
His gaze snaps to yours — startled. “What?”
“Just… make it about you. What you want.”
He stares at your like you just said something dangerous. “I don’t even know what I want.”
“You could find out,” you simply say. “With me.”
There’s a pause. Tension, thick and electric.
He studies your face — you mouth, you eyes, like he's scanning for a trap. But all he finds is calm.
“You don’t have to treat me gently, Bucky,” you add, softer.
His fingers twitch against his thigh. “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
Silence. Thick. Charged.
He doesn’t kiss you at first. He just looks at you — eyes dark, jaw clenched, like he’s fighting something in himself.
Then, without a word, he grabs your face with one hand and crashes your mouths together. It’s not gentle. It’s messy, unpracticed, needy.
His hands grip your jaw, then your throat — not tight, but enough that you feel the intent. Your fingers slide into his hair, tugging, and that’s when he growls — low and deep in his chest.
“On the couch,” he mutters. “Turn around.”
You obeys without hesitation, crawling forward until you’re on your knees, braced against the backrest. He’s behind you in seconds, breath hot at your neck, hands moving over your body like he can’t decide where to start — your hips, your thighs, your pussy.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice tight. “Now. Or I’m not going to.”
“I won’t.”
Your shirt is yanked over your head. Bra undone. He leans forward, teeth grazing your shoulder as he unbuttons your jeans, dragging them down slowly — not to tease you, but because he’s still trying to hold on to the edge of his control.
“You want me to use you?” he mutters against your skin. “To figure out what I like?”
“Yes,” you mumble. “Do whatever you want.”
He exhales like a man starved — one hand fisting in your hair, the other slipping between your thighs. His fingers explore first — rough, deliberate — making you gasp and arch against him. When he finds the right spot, he circles—once, twice—then presses harder.
Y/N bites down on a whimper, pushing back into him, and Bucky groans at the feel of you, at the way you move for him without hesitation. He leans in close, lips at your ear now, voice ragged.
“Like that?”
You nod. “Fuck,” you mumble, barely breathing. “Yes. Don’t stop.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” he mutters.
He keeps going, fingers working you over with a rough rhythm that borders on desperate. His other hand stays tangled in your hair, keeping you exactly where he wants—on your knees, bent forward, completely exposed. The tension rolling off him is thick, dangerous, like he’s right on the edge of losing the careful grip he’s been holding for far too long.
A harsh exhale leaves him, followed by the sharp sound of his belt coming undone.
You hear the zipper. Feel the shift behind you as he pushes down his jeans. His hand disappears from between your legs for just a second—long enough to line himself up—then he’s gripping your hip and pushing in, slow but unforgiving.
Y/N gasps, both hands clawing at the backrest for leverage.
He pauses only when he’s buried to the hilt, jaw clenched like he’s in pain.
“Fuck,” he mutters. “You feel—God. I could lose my mind in you.”
“Do it,” you say, breathless. “It’s just me.”
That’s all he needs.
He pulls back and thrusts again, harder, more certain. There’s no rhythm at first—just raw, unchecked need, his body slamming into yours with bruising force. The couch shifts under the both of your, soft grunts and gasps filling the space.
He’s not talking anymore. He’s focused—consumed. Every time you moan, he answers with another thrust, another growl, another pull of your hips against him like he can’t get deep enough.
When he pulls your leg wider, changing the angle, you sees stars. His dick, long and thick, hitting that one spot in your walls. Your head falls forward, and his lips starts bleeding from the strength he is using to bite his own lip. He’s unraveling, and you’re letting him.
The sound of skin slapping skin is loud in the quiet room. Your knuckles turn white where you grips the cushions.
One of his hands slips under you again—between your thighs—and he finds that spot like he’s searching for it with purpose now. His fingers rub in tight, relentless circles while he keeps moving inside you, and the combination is almost too much.
“Bucky—” you gasp, voice cracking.
“Close?” His voice is sharp, demanding.
You nod wildly. “Yes, yes—don’t stop—”
He doesn’t. He keeps his pace brutal and focused, metal fingers now wrapped around your throat from behind, keeping you steady while his other hand pushes you over the edge.
You shatter with a cry—hips jerking, muscles clenching around him so hard it nearly undoes him right there. You barely have time to come down before he groans sharply, slamming into you one final time and staying there, buried deep as he follows you into the abyss.
The both of you stay like that for a long moment—sweaty, shaking, breath caught in the thick air.
Eventually, he pulls back, hands trembling as he helps you turn and collapse onto the cushions, yourchest rising and falling fast.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just stares at you like he can’t believe what just happened. Like he doesn’t know what the hell to do with the quiet afterward.
“I didn’t hurt you?” he asks, voice small now.
You smile — wrecked, satisfied, warm. “Only in the best way.”
Author’s note: I'm a little behind with the fics but I'm trying my best! Hope you enjoy :)
Angstober Masterlist
This is ironic, really.
Downright absurd. Laughable.
You’re just not in the position to laugh, or even crack the semblance of a smile. Your face feels stiff, evidently held together by a fragile patchwork of cuts and bruises that might split open at the slightest twitch. Not that you’d want to smile, even if you could.
You had assured Sam that you’d be fine to drive yourself back home after landing back on base about 25 minutes before. There actually had been a genuine belief that you’d be able to make it, so you told him all you needed was a hot shower to wash away all the blood and some rest, ignoring the wary looks of Sam as he watched you drive off.
Well, turns out it was a bad idea.
A terrible idea, considering the door you find yourself standing in front of right now. You don’t even know if he’s home. For all you know, he could be drowning whatever’s left of his sanity in some bar, down some street.
And even if he is here, he has every right to slam this door right back in your face. Perhaps after giving you the I told you so speech.
But in your defense, you really thought this mission would be simple. Sam and you both had thought so. It was supposed to be one of those in-and-out deals. But of course, it’s always those easy missions that turn ugly in a matter of seconds, spiraling into a slaughter that neither of you was ready for.
But hell, you even guessed Bucky saw that coming. Maybe that’s why he was so determined to join you two, but Sam and you declined immediately, insisting on sparing him the confrontation. After all, it was supposed to be a quick cleanup. Hydra remnants scattered like dust, nothing worth dragging Bucky back into that mess for.
So, Sam and you both figured he’d be better off staying behind, working with Torres on whatever else needed doing.
You’re glad you held back the comment about him hindering you on this mission by perhaps a disturbing memory or some shit. That wouldn’t have helped your current situation at all. And you did think it would have been a little harsh. Even for the bickering kind of relationship the two of you have.
Bucky wasn’t having any of that. He was ready to suit up and follow you into the fray, whether you wanted him there or not. Though, Sam and you took off before he could even strap on his gear. Simple, clean.
Predictably, that would definitely leave him in a foul mood. But to be real, grumpy isn’t new for Bucky. Actually, you only ever saw his expression soften when he was lost in thought, so lost he didn’t even notice you watching him. Or perhaps in that moment he really didn’t care.
Still, that irritable look seems to be his default setting. And, to be honest, perhaps he doesn’t even care enough to even be mad. You aren’t friends. Hell, you wouldn’t even call him an acquaintance.
You two are more like tolerated inconveniences for each other, sparse conversations always laced with sarcasm and banter. You doubt he sees you as anything other than a nuisance - someone always getting under his skin with your remarks.
So, you are well aware you really don’t have any business standing in front of his door, blood drying on your skin, looking like death warmed over.
But that’s the problem. You don’t have a choice. Because there is no way you’re making the 20 minutes to your apartment. You also won’t make it back to the base. Not to mention that driving in this state will not only endanger you, but rather the traffic around you. You're already feeling the blackness that tries to seep into your irises, pulling at your consciousness, threatening to drag you under, making you pass out before you’d even hit the halfway mark. And you don’t have anyone to blame but your stubborn self.
Bucky is your only option and you also start running out of time, the longer you linger outside his apartment, scared to knock. Terrified to do anything. You begin to sway on your feet. The longer you hesitate, the harder it gets to stay upright, and passing out on his doorstep for him to find you is perhaps even more embarrassing than this already is.
With trembling muscles, you try to lift your hand. Knocking on a door shouldn’t take this much effort, but it feels like it’s costing you everything. You’re burning energy you don’t have, and it’s starting to show.
Your hesitation seems to have been for nothing since there’s no answer after your knock. The only thing you hear is the blood rushing through your ears and your heartbeat loudly pounding against your ribcage, almost like a warning.
Another knock. It saps what little strength you have left. Your breathing grows heavier, more ragged, each inhale feeling like a sharp stab. There is a tightness in your chest that could be an indication something inside you might have torn, making it impossible to get in enough air.
The apartment behind the door is still silent.
You lean your forehead against the rough wood, the coolness grounding you for a moment. It’s as close to a third knock as you can manage. Your eyes slip closed for just a second too long.
“Barnes?” He surely wouldn’t be able to pick that up without his enhanced hearing. “It’s me.”
You’re not even sure what to say; not sure what you can say that will get him to open the door. But your thoughts are starting to slow, each one taking longer to form than the last. The blood loss is getting to you, causing every joint to feel like it’s rusting over.
“Are you home?” you murmur, a faint laugh caught in your throat at how stupid it sounds.
For a moment you think you hear something, perhaps a faint shuffle from the other side of the door. But your brain is swimming in exhaustion and pain, and it could easily be your mind playing tricks on you, teasing you with false hope. Maybe you didn’t even give him enough time to get to the door. You have no idea how long you’ve been standing here - standing might be too strong of a term by now.
Time is slippery in moments like these, hard to grasp, impossible to track.
A heavy and burning sigh falls from your lips, dragging your chest down with it. You push yourself off the door with a struggle that tears at your skin, shaking your head at your own stupidity. You’re not sure if your head even followed through with the movement.
You shouldn’t have believed for a second that he’d be around, or that he’d care if he was.
You attempt to step away, aiming for the staircase, but it seems your body isn’t in the mood to listen to any signal from your brain at all. Your foot catches on itself, and before you know it, you stumble, crashing into the wall beside his door with a loud thud. A pained groan forces its way out of you, the impact shooting excruciating vibrations through your body, curling into every nerve like they’re planning to stay. You press a hand to your side, movements not entirely your own, but it does nothing to soothe the ache.
You curse under your breath, or at least you think you do, eyes fluttering dangerously. You’re not sure how much longer your feet will carry you. Are you even still standing at all?
Muffled curses break through the rushing sound in your ears, blending into the tumultuous pulse of your own blood pounding in your head. They don’t seem to come from you though.
“Fucking hell, Y/n.”
All you can manage in response is another weak groan.
Before you can fully process what’s happening and where that frustrated voice came from, you feel strong arms wrap around you, lifting you effortlessly into the air. Insanely enough, a surge of exhilaration bubbles in your belly and you feel weightless for a moment, like you’re floating in some strange void that’s just barely tethering you to reality but still keeping a strong grasp on you.
The sensation is short-lived and you almost let out a whine. Not at all from the pain. You’re lowered onto something softer than you guessed the floor would feel like, cushions beneath your back. You try to wrap your head around how that could have happened.
That weight returns. The hands around you, however, don’t leave you. Your thoughts are sluggish and trying to focus on anything is an effort you’re not able to keep up with. Your vision is a spinning blur, dizzy head trying to make sense of your situation, but you can feel the tender press of the back of a hand on your forehead, checking for something you can’t quite grasp.
Blue. That’s the first thing your mind manages to hang on to. A vivid, piercing shade of blue. But it’s not just color. It’s wrapped up in something deeper. Emotions, swirling and twirling, so heavy it almost hurts to look at. The sight alone drags another groan out of you, low and pained.
“I know, sweetheart, I know. Just hold tight, you hear me? I got you.”
Wait.
You know that voice. Rough around the edges, always carrying a certain weight, but now laced with something you don’t recognize. Those eyes on you - the blue ones - you know those, too. Of course, you do. But there is something new, something like panic flooding them, you never thought you’d see in Bucky Barnes.
“Barnes?” The word barely falls from your lips, more of a croak than anything, but it’s enough. He was home. He heard you. He carried you inside.
There is something stirring inside of you, a warmth threading through the pain. Relief, maybe, or something close to it. You know Bucky and you have your problems sometimes but hell you never doubted him being the good man he is.
“Yes, it’s me,” he murmurs, so soft, you want to lay in it. Bathing in the gentleness of his voice, getting rid of the blood and pain your body holds. “Try not to talk, alright? There are some nasty bruises around your neck. You gotta go easy on your voice.”
You hum in response, the sound barely more than a soft but uncomfortable vibration in your throat. His words slide through your mind like shadows, half-formed and hard to grasp, but you understand enough.
There’s the sound of clattering around you, hurried shuffling of hands working beside you, perhaps on you, somewhere nearby. But instead of jarring you, it’s comforting, like white noise. It lulls you deeper into the fog.
Suddenly, his voice cuts through it all, sharp and urgent.
“Hey!”
It startles you. Your eyes snap open - you didn’t know they closed in the first place - body jerking from the force of his tone.
His face looms closer, those blue eyes boring into yours, pinning you down with an intensity you can’t ignore.
“I’m sorry, Y/n, but you have to keep your eyes open. You hear me?” His voice trembles in a way you never heard, and that - more than anything - forces your mind back to the surface, your eyes clearing just enough to make him out.
It’s disorienting, seeing Bucky like this. Surprising. He moves in a way that almost associates incoordination, a frantic energy surrounding him. There is something off about the way he handles himself, the way his hands fumble with supplies, clattering objects that should have stayed silent. It’s startling, unsettling even. Bucky Barnes is a man in control. Just not right now.
His hands return to your body, his touch firm and still tender, but there is a shakiness in them as his fingers skim over your torn-up skin.
He’s pressing gently where he can, wincing as if it’s him in pain every time you flinch. The fabric of your slightly torn suit sticks to your body, and he curses softly under his breath, grabbing a pair of scissors from somewhere beside him. With a few quick, jagged snips, he cuts away parts of the fabric of your suit to get a better view of your torso, revealing the bruises that litter your skin, darkening it in a sickening way.
He apologizes for every hiss, groan, and whimper you can’t suppress at the sharp sting that slices through the dull ache due to the antiseptic he uses on your skin.
His brow is furrowed deeply as he wipes the blood away with almost erratic strokes, trying to clean the area but moving a little too fast for his usual precision. The cloth is stained dark in no time, and he tosses it aside, reaching for gauze, fumbling with the tape as if he’s forgotten how to use it for a moment.
Every breath feels heavier as he continues to work on your wounds, pain pulsing with every fresh inhale.
Bucky’s eyes keep darting between your face and the wounds as if he’s checking not only for your injuries but for something else - for a sign that you’re still with him, still conscious, still breathing.
His hand moves back to your forehead, brushing some strands of hair aside with so much gentleness as he checks your temperature again. His face is tight, his jaw clenched.
It is odd, almost comforting in a way you haven’t expected. Bucky Barnes, always so composed, now seems to have trouble holding it together. And somehow, seeing him this unfiltered, this human, makes your earlier doubts vanish. Those persistent thoughts, that he wouldn’t care if you showed up on his doorstep battered and bleeding, that he’d turn away, turn you away, or doesn’t even open the door in the first place - they all but disappear.
He does care. More than you ever thought possible, more than you imagined he even knew how to. You can feel it in the way his hands linger on your skin, urgent yet careful, and in the way his curses are filled with so much apprehension and frustration.
The same Bucky you thought might not give a damn is now fighting some battle with himself as if his sheer will could hold you here.
And for some reason, that knowledge eases something inside you, delightfully loosening that knot of tension in your chest. Again, your body starts to feel like it’s floating, somewhere in the air but instead it’s sinking deeper into the cushions beneath you, slowly letting go. It’s not your body that’s floating this time, it’s your mind. As if it decided to detach itself from the pain, from the reality of your wounds and your situation, and simply drifted away. It’s weightless, flying through a space just beyond your reach. It’s almost surreal, like you’re suspended in air but you know, somehow, that you’re still lying on that couch.
And Bucky’s here.
His hands are on you. His voice is in your ears but none of it feels quite real anymore.
You don’t have it in you to fight it anymore. Your body is letting go, surrendering, and you can’t muster the strength to resist.
Bucky’s voice sounds closer, much more than you thought it had been, but it seems distant too. It’s rough, desperate; words coming out with a crack. He’s pleading with you, urging you to stay with him, to keep your eyes open.
But you can’t. You’re slipping. Still, you feel like smiling if your face would have allowed it.
Bucky is here. And although you stopped listening to his words, losing the sense of his presence you know he will stay.
Summary: Bucky tries to pull away, convinced he’s too broken to deserve love.
The rain had stopped, but Bucky hadn’t.
You found him on the rooftop, just after midnight.
His coat was too thin. His fists were clenched. His silence was louder than any thunder.
“You missed dinner,” you said gently.
He didn’t look at you.
You approached him slowly, the cold making you shiver.
You knew better than to touch him without warning, but gods, you wanted to. He looked like a man holding the world together by the edge of his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “Didn’t mean to make you wait.”
“You didn’t.” You paused. “But you’re scaring me, Bucky.”
That made him flinch.
Not at the fear but rather at the thought that he caused it.
“I shouldn’t be near you,” he said after a long moment, voice raw. “I thought I could. I thought maybe I was something new now. But I’m not. I still have… all of this inside me.”
He gestured to himself like he were something dirty. Something broken.
You stepped beside him, arms crossed tightly.
“Do you think I don’t know that?” you asked. “Do you think I don’t see it? The way you wake up sweating, the way your jaw clenches when someone walks too fast behind you. The way you keep apologising for being in the room?”
He turned toward you, pain carved into every line of his face.
“You deserve someone whole,” he said. “Someone who doesn’t look in the mirror and see a murderer. Someone who doesn’t count every good day like it’s borrowed time.”
You didn’t speak right away. Then you stepped in front of him and reached for his hand, his metal one.
He froze.
Then, slowly, his fingers curled around yours.
“You think I love you despite your scars?” you whispered. “No, Bucky. I love you because you still stayed kind. Because even with blood on your hands, you use them to hold me like I’m made of light.”
His throat worked like he wanted to speak but couldn’t.
“You think you’re hard to love,” you added, voice shaking. “But you make it the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
He looked at you then, and god, you saw all of it. The fear. The need. The way he wanted to believe you but didn’t know how.
And still, he leaned in.
His forehead touched yours. Cold skin to warm.
“I don’t know how to be this,” he whispered. “To be soft. To be loved.”
“You don’t have to know how.” Your lips brushed his. “Just don’t run from it.”
He kissed you then, hesitant at first, like it might burn him. Then deeper, like it was saving him. And maybe it was.
Because when he pulled back, something had shifted in his eyes.
Less pain. More wonder.
And when he pulled you into his chest, your head tucked beneath his chin, you felt it:
The rhythm of a heavy heart trying to beat softer.
Just for you.
~Masterlist~
ˇAO3ˇ
Wattpad
/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/
summary: as an ex-avenger and the ex-girlfriend of james bucky barnes, you’re shocked when you see the new avengers announcement on tv. so, you decide to pay avengers towers a visit to reminisce, until you run into bucky. then you both realize you’ve been holding some grudges.
word count: 2k
warnings: ⚠️thunderbolts* spoilers⚠️ angst between you and bucky
You were having a peaceful start to your day. Or as peaceful as it could be. The past couple years had really messed you up. You’d basically lost everything. The Avengers. Your friends. Your boyfriend. Your home.
Nothing had felt the same since then.
You tried to start over. You weren’t exactly built for the real world. You had telekinetic abilities. Your father was a successful scientist, but after you were born, he became captivated by the idea of superheroes. Then, he started to experiment on you, accidentally giving you abilities.
When you became an Avenger, you learned to harness your powers. You also blossomed into a great fighter, training with both Steve and Natasha.
Your skill set was very specific. And it didn’t exactly suit a corporate life, or any kind of regular life.
A couple of months ago, you got a call from Sam, whom you hadn’t spoken to since Tony’s funeral. He said it was about Ross going out of control. You were happy to help, and for the first time in years, you felt like you were doing the right thing with your life.
But nothing had happened since then. You started hanging out with Sam more often, craving any tie back to your previous life.
That’s where you were right now, out for lunch with Sam.
“So, is our new President showing any possibility of turning into a raging Hulk of a new color?” You joked, earning a chuckle from Sam. He quickly shook his head.
“Nope. All clear, but if it happens again, trust me, you’ll be the first one I call.” He told you. The thought of another president turning into a Hulk shouldn’t have comforted you, but it did. Because it meant having a purpose again.
“How have you been? You’ve seemed a little distracted since the whole Ross thing.” Sam asked, switching into counselor mode.
You laughed to yourself, thinking about the best response that would make Sam worry the least. “I don’t know, Sam. I feel like I’ve forgotten what being okay feels like.” You said, honestly.
“Just a professional opinion, maybe it’s cause I’m the only person you talk to. You can’t isolate yourself.” He mentioned. You switched your gaze to the ground. Of course you knew he was right. It wasn’t the first time you’d thought about it.
But all your friends, your family, were scattered around the globe or dead. You were alone.
Before you could respond, you both heard commotion around you the patio of the restaurant. You could hear the sound of phones dinging all the way down the street. Hushed whispers grew louder.
You felt heads turn towards you and Sam.
“Sam, what’s happening?” You asked, quietly. He glanced down at his phone. “Oh, shit,” he mumbled under his breath, before flipping around the screen for you.
You immediately recognized Val, and then you noticed Bucky. He was bruised and bleeding and standing behind her. The headline scrolled across the bottom: “Welcome the New Avengers after NY Attack.”
People started to rush towards you both. As two ex-Avengers, everyone wanted to know why you both weren’t on this new Avengers group.
“C’mon,” Sam said, quickly standing up and rushing towards you. He tapped a button on his watch and his flight pack appeared on his back. He grabbed you, and you wrapped your arms around him.
Your feet lifted off the ground as Sam flew you both to a nearby rooftop. You stepped away from him as soon as your feet hit the concrete.
“You alright?” He asked, watching you begin to pace. The words “New Avengers” repeated over and over in your head. And the image of Bucky bruised.
Sam repeated your name, pulling you out of your thoughts. “I don’t understand. There was an attack? Why didn’t he call me? Or you? He could’ve been hurt. He’s like family to me, and he’s just moving on? Why do we all act like the Avengers didn’t happen? I mean, everyone is moving on, and I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know who I am if I’m not an Avenger. And I just— I need to go home, Sam. I really need to think.” You rambled.
Sam nodded, understanding where you were coming from. “Come on, I’ll bring you home.” He said.
You spent the next two weeks sitting in your apartment, basically wasting away. You’d always struggled to cope with change, but you felt yourself being tugged back to the good old days.
Then, one day it was different. You woke up and felt yourself being pulled out the front door. You didn’t know where you were going until you got there.
You stood on the cold street, looking up at the tall building: Avenger’s Tower. It had been your home for years, and now it was a building you hardly recognized.
You walked up towards the front gate. The security guard immediately recognized you and brought you inside. He gave you a security pass, so you could freely roam the building.
You took the elevator up to the top floors where most of the rooms were. It was a path you’d taken so many times before.
You stepped out of the elevator and were met by a million memories. Memories you hadn’t thought of in years came rushing back to you.
A loud metal door slammed shut, bringing you back to reality. You jumped and turned towards the noise.
Then, you saw him.
Bucky Barnes.
“Hi,” you stuttered. His eyes met yours. You saw his eyes soften and the weight lift off his shoulders. “What’re you doing here?” he asked, breathlessly.
“I don’t know. I think I just wanted to see you.” You admitted.
He walked towards you, closing the distance. “It’s nice to see you, really. I’ve been thinking about you recently.” He said, sincerely.
“It’s definitely not because you moved back into the place we used to live. Don’t think that would make you think of me at all.” You quipped, sarcastically. A soft smile spread across his face.
“It’s been too long.” He said, his voice only coming out at a whisper. He felt every memory of you come rushing back to him at once. He remembered movie nights with the rest of the team. And the first time he kissed you, after a mission. And sneaking out of training to be with you.
“Yeah, it’s been a couple years. Y’know, since the world almost ended and you dumped me a few months later.” You said, your tone coming out harsh.
You had really missed Bucky. But you were also mad at him because it was his fault that you’d had to miss him. He’d gone radio silent for years, and you lost your best friend.
Bucky wore a pained expression. “I’m sorry about the way I handled everything. I was in a really bad place with Steve leaving and everything.” He apologized.
“C’mon, Bucky. Of course I understood that, but what you didn’t understand was that my world was also turned upside down. So many of our friends died or left, but I thought I’d always be able to rely on you. I loved you so much, and you left me like it was nothing.” You argued.
Each word felt like a cut to Bucky’s heart. He’d never wanted to hurt you.
“It wasn’t nothing. Do you really think that wasn’t the hardest thing I ever had to do?” He shot back.
“Then why did you do it? Nobody forced you into that, Bucky. And if you regretted it, why haven’t you reached out to me since then?” You asked. Bucky was growing visibly frustrated. He ran his fingers through his hair. You noticed the way the light bounced off his metal arm.
“I can’t do this. I can’t have this conversation right now.” He huffed, turning away from you and starting to walk in the opposite direction.
Before your brain could even process it, you were yelling “Yeah, go run back to your new friends and leave me behind with all the problems of your past” at him.
He stood still before slowly turning back towards you. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He asked through gritted teeth.
“You’re talking about being sorry that you abandoned me before and now you’re doing it again.” You accused.
Bucky scoffed and shook his head. “Well, you should know a thing or two about abandoning people. I heard about you and Sam taking on the Red Hulk.” He snapped.
“What does that have to do with anything? I helped out a friend.” You said, defending yourself.
“Neither of you thought to call me to help, and you know I would have been there in a minute. And you didn’t exactly show up to help me when the Sentry almost destroyed all of New York.” He said, finally letting it out even though he promised himself he wouldn’t. He knew it was petty, but he couldn’t help that he’d been so affected by you helping out Sam and not him.
“I didn’t show up because I didn’t know it was happening. And you know how I found out? I found out while also learning that apparently there was a New Avengers team.” You argued.
“That wasn’t my idea, I swear. That was all Valentina. I was just as surprised as you were. But why do you care so much if I’m on a new team?” He asked you, and you realized how close you both were standing.
He was close enough that you could smell hints of cedar wood from his cologne. You focused your gaze on the floor to avoid looking him in the eyes. “Cause it means you’re moving on and leaving the Avengers in the past. And what about me? What if you decide to leave me in the past too?” You asked, softly.
His metal fingertips grazed your hip. His touch was soft and unsure, like he was waiting for you to pull away. When you stayed still, he used his other hand to pull your chin up, so you were looking at him.
“I actually asked the team if you could join because it wasn’t the same without you. I promise, I am not leaving you in the past.” He whispered.
He leaned in, pressing his lips against yours. You leaned into his touch, and it was like he never left. His arm snaked around your waist, while your fingers found their natural place weaving through his hair.
The kiss was soft but also hungry. Bucky had missed having you in his arms, and he wasn’t going to let you go anytime soon. A warmth started in your chest and spread throughout your body.
Bucky's grip on your waist tightened, pulling you closer to him until there wasn’t any space between the two of you.
His lips explored yours, taking the time to refamiliarize himself with everything about you: the taste of your strawberry lip gloss, the way you smiled as he kissed you, and the way that your fingers tugged on his hair.
Bucky nipped at your bottom lip, smirking cockily when you lightly gasped. “I’ve missed you, sweets.” He mumbled against your lips.
You both jumped when you heard someone clear their throat down the hall.
“I see you’ve got a friend, Barnes.” The man scoffed, smirking at Bucky.
“Walker, this is my old friend—” Bucky started to introduce you to the man.
“I know exactly who that is and all about your friendship.” Walker responded, smirking and using air quotes around the word “friendship.”
“Now, who do we have here?” Another voice came from behind you. You and Bucky spun around, his arm wrapping around your waist until your back was pressed up against his chest.
A blonde woman with light blue eyeliner under her eyes stared back at you. She smirked at you and Bucky. “Well, we’d love to stay and chat, except we wouldn’t. So, we’ll see you guys later.” Bucky said, steering you towards the stairs.
“You’ll have to introduce me at some point.” You whispered in Bucky's ear.
“That’s a later problem, darling. We have some catching up to do.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple.
