#If a writer is out there... PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE

[12cd]

Addendum for those who aren’t aware: after you read, there’s a focaccia recipe in there, really!

Anyway, always look for source links and give them a read to form your own opinion on how a sub stack article title relates to its body text.

I think the past 15 years of thinkpieces have shown that you can write pretty much anything with an air of weight to it and a large group of smart passing people will believe in it

[im-sidney]

God bless the K-pop Demon Hunters fanfic writers who are PROVIDING for me right now.

Movie deadass came out yesterday and they’re already pushing these fics out. I love this community, please never stop.

[pregnantshadowmilkcookie]

jax writers get to work

new ep is out

i want some new fanfics

come on guys wakey wakey

pretty please 🥺

[pinkpurplesunrises]

Mice in the Dark (Waiting for the Light)

+/-7500 words - the long story - Alexia Putellasx Reader - one of my more prouder works - Angst and Fluff - Happy ending - Pregnancy - Mentions of school shooting (no injured) - Please read with care.

Writer's note: I know I said I was on a break and I promise you... I am, but I finished this today after a full month of writing it and I just wanted to share it because I'm very proud of this one. Makes me excited to share it with you all. I can't promise you that it has no grammar mistakes x

There was something about the way sunlight slipped through the linen curtains in spring. Soft. Golden. Unapologetically honest. It kissed the edge of your cheek, just enough to pull you out of a dream. The first thing you felt was warmth. Not the sunlight. Not even the blanket tangled around your legs. No… it was her.

Alexia.

Her arm was wrapped around your waist with the same quiet protectiveness she carried on the pitch when someone fouled a teammate. Her breathing was slow, steady, a rhythm you’d memorized before marriage. Before IVF. Before last night changed everything.

You didn’t move. Not yet.

Your hand settled over your belly. A gesture so subtle. So new. It still felt like a secret whispered in a chapel.

You were pregnant.

You blinked against the tears stinging the corners of your eyes. One day ago, you and Alexia were standing barefoot in the kitchen. Your thumb trembling on the test. One line. Then two. Then disbelief. Then the sobs. Then that night. The joy. The nervous laughter. The way she kissed your stomach like it was already her favorite thing in the world.

Now here you were. In bed. Her legs tangled with yours. Her skin still flushed from sleep and love.

She stirred.

"Mm," came her voice, husky and low. She didn’t open her eyes yet but her fingers curled against your stomach, instinctively, protectively. "Still here?"

You smiled, a soft sound leaving your throat. "Where else would I go?"

Her eyes cracked open. Lashes still heavy with sleep. "Just checking," she whispered. Then her hand moved. Barely a few inches. And she cupped the side of your belly. She hadn't stopped doing that since last night. Like maybe touching you made it real.

"Still feels unreal," you admitted.

Alexia leaned in, brushing her lips over your shoulder. "It’s real. I keep waking up to make sure you're still beside me. You always are. Now there’s... someone else, too."

A small silence fell over the room. Not the kind that suffocates. One that breathes. That expands.

You turned to face her, brushing a strand of sunlit hair from her face. "You’re going to be such a good mamá."

A smile cracked across her lips, but it was wobbly. Eyes glistening. She didn’t speak for a moment. Just reached to press her forehead to yours.

"I'm terrified," she whispered.

"Me too."

"But I want this more than anything."

You nodded. "Me too."

The alarm buzzed faintly from her nightstand. A soft, vibrating hum. Alexia groaned and reached over to kill it. "Training. Shit."

You let your head fall back onto the pillow. "Do you have to be a football icon every day?"

She grinned, pulling herself up with a stretch. "Yes. Otherwise the world might collapse."

You reached out and slapped her thigh playfully. "Go save the world, Capitana."

Alexia stood in the doorway a minute later. Pulling her jacket on. Her hair was still damp from the quick shower. Her gym bag slung over one shoulder.

She looked back at you.

And it was the kind of look that meant something. Like maybe she’d already sensed the world was tilting. That time was about to split into before and after.

"I love you," she said. Not in a rushed way. In a way that planted its roots.

"I love you more," you replied, smiling.

She gave you that heart-splitting smirk before closing the door behind her.

And you were alone. For the last time, you’d realize later, in the before.

You moved through the morning in that strange, glowing fog that comes with good news and not enough sleep. Your hand kept brushing over your stomach. Absentmindedly. Protectively. Like your body already knew there was something precious inside.

Shower. Clothes. Hair pulled back. A slice of toast half-eaten on the way out of the kitchen.

You were halfway through pouring your travel mug of coffee when your phone buzzed, screen lighting up with Alexia 💜. Right on time. She always called when she pulled into the training ground. Like clockwork.

You could picture her perfectly. One hand on the wheel. A water bottle tucked between her thighs. That ridiculously big sunglasses collection rotating daily. Today, you guessed the tortoiseshell ones.

You slid your thumb across the screen. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hola, profesora,” came her voice, warm and playful with that familiar Catalan curl. “Did you eat?”

“Part of a toast,” you said, grabbing your bag and swinging it over your shoulder. “Half the peanut butter is on my shirt now, so... yes?”

She laughed. It was soft and breathy and made your chest hurt in that nice stupid way.

“You really need a personal chef. Or a wife who’s home in the mornings.”

You locked the front door behind you. “I’ve heard rumors I have one. But she’s too busy winning Ballon d’Ors to make me eggs.”

Alexia sighed dramatically through the phone. “Such a hard life for you.”

You grinned, walking down the street toward your car. “You’re not wrong. Anyway… how’s your knee?”

“Good. Sore in the right way. I think they’ll let me push a little harder today.”

“Pobrecita,” you said, mock sympathy in your tone. “All that running around for Spain and Barça... and still no gold star sticker from me.”

“You’re lucky you’re pregnant,” she warned, teasing. “Otherwise I’d come over there and…”

“Miss Putellas,” you cut in, unlocking your car with a beep, “there are children present.”

Alexia laughed again, and God, you’d bottle that sound if you could. You slid into the driver’s seat, adjusting your mirror like you hadn’t done it the same way a hundred times before.

“Okay,” she said, and you could hear her engine click off. “I’m parked.”

“Which means you’re about to be ten minutes late, like always.”

“I’m worth the fine,” she replied. “I just wanted to hear your voice. That’s all.”

You paused. Just for a second. Because it was such a her thing to say. Effortless. Sentimental. Quietly intense.

“Well,” you whispered, holding the phone a little closer to your ear. “You’ve got it. Every day.”

Neither of you spoke for a beat.

Then she cleared her throat. “Alright. Go teach small humans. Don’t let them bully you.”

“They’re five, Ale.”

“Even worse. They bite.”

You laughed. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

The call ended with a soft click, and the silence after felt just a little too still. Like the calm before the swell of something coming.

You placed a hand over your belly and closed your eyes.

Just for a second.

Then you turned the key in the ignition and started your drive to school. Completely unaware that those would be the last moments you’d ever know as ordinary.

The locker room was already humming when Alexia walked in. Earbuds still in. Her hoodie sleeves pushd halfway up her forearms. She dropped her bag at her usual spot. Tucked between the rows where the sun hit the floor just right in the late mornings.

Mapi was stretched out on the bench like she owned the place, boot halfway on, phone in hand.

“You’re glowing,” she said without looking up.

Alexia paused, one eyebrow raised. “Excuse me?”

Mapi smirked. “You’ve got that look. Like you just committed a murder and got away with it. Or like you’re very in love.”

Alexia rolled her eyes and pulled her hoodie off. “Maybe I just slept for eight hours, por fin.”

“Nope,” Kika said from across the room, tying her hair up. “It’s a suspicious glow. Suspicious and maternal.”

Alexia froze for half a second. Just a flicker. She was careful. Always had been. She recovered quickly, tossing her hoodie into her locker. “What does that even mean?”

Mapi leaned in, eyes narrowing like she was trying to read her captain’s mind. “You tell us, mamá.”

Alexia blinked. “I swear to God…’’

“Okay, okay!” Mapi held her hands up, laughing. “I’m just saying, you’ve had this little... vibe lately. All soft and dreamy. It's giving... lullabies.”

“I will kick your shin,” Alexia warned, but her mouth twitched at the corners.

Kika, now grinning wide, joined the interrogation. “So what are you naming the baby?”

“What baby?!”

“See?” Mapi said, turning to Kika with mock awe. “That’s exactly what someone who’s hiding a baby would say.”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Alexia lied, which was technically true. She wasn’t hiding. Just… holding. Holding something delicate and new and way too sacred to throw into the locker room chaos just yet. It was still their secret. Hers and yours. Your tiny miracle.

“I think it should be something regal,” Kika said, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Something like… Victoria. Or Reina.”

“You’re out of your minds,” Alexia muttered, tugging on her training shirt.

Mapi tilted her head. “You and the missus doing okay?”

That stopped her, just for a breath. She nodded, a soft smile tugging at her lips without permission. “Yeah. She’s good. Teaching today.”

“Bet she’s got those kids doing Shakespeare and yoga by now,” Mapi joked.

Alexia snorted. “She teaches pre-K, not a spiritual arts retreat.”

“Same thing,” Kika chimed in. “Tiny humans with big feelings.”

Alexia hesitated, her fingers brushing the edge of the locker door. “Yeah. She said one of them gave her a sticker yesterday for ‘being kind.’ Made her cry.”

“Wait… she cried?” Mapi said. “I thought you were the emotional one.”

Alexia laughed under her breath. “We take turns.”

There was a lull then… just for a moment… where someone cranked up the music and the energy shifted to cleats, water bottles, stretching routines.

But Alexia lingered in that space. That little pause in the noise. Thinking about the sticker. Your laugh through the phone. The way you whispered “we’re really doing this” last night like you were afraid someone would hear and take it back.

She exhaled slowly.

Training waited. Life was rolling on. But beneath her skin, just below the surface, something was shifting.

And she was starting to feel like the world was holding its breath.

The teachers' lounge always smelled faintly like burnt espresso and dry-erase markers. No matter how many air fresheners they plugged into the wall.

You sat at the small round table by the window. A half-full mug warming your hands. Surrounded by the soft murmur of your colleagues’ chatter.

“Another cookie?” Marta asked, holding the plate out with a smile.

You shook your head gently, fingers tightening around your cup. “Thanks, but I’m really not hungry this morning.”

Your voice was soft but firm.

There was a pause.

Then one of them, Lucia, looked at you a little too closely. A flicker of something unspoken passing in her eyes. Maybe she thought you were stressed. Or maybe she was just being a mom and sensing when something was off.

“Are you okay?” she asked quietly.

You smiled carefully. “Just a bit of off this morning, I think. Nothing serious.”

No one asked more. The room went back to light chatter about the school play, PTA meetings, and a funny story about a kid who accidentally glued his shoes to the floor.

You took a small sip of your coffee. Trying to ignore the flutter in your stomach.

After a few minutes, you stood, stretching out your legs. Time to set up for the day.

The classroom was a riot of color: tiny chairs, alphabet posters, and half-finished crayon drawings pinned to the walls. You arranged the cubbies, lined up the picture books and taped the day’s schedule on the board. Circle time. Story. Snack. Nap. And art.

Everything felt calm. Normal.

Almost too calm.

You glanced out the window near the door.

That’s when you saw him.

A small teenage boy, maybe sixteen or seventeen. Standing just outside the school gate. He wasn’t moving. Just watching. His hoodie was pulled low. Face shadowed. But his eyes caught the light for just a second. Watching.

You blinked.

He disappeared behind a parked car almost instantly, like he’d never been there.

Your heart ticked a little faster.

But you told yourself it was nothing. Just some kid waiting for a friend or maybe lost on his way home.

You shook your head and turned back to the classroom.

Focus.

Today was supposed to be normal.

The ball skipped off her boot awkwardly. Rolling too far left. Not a complete miss, but enough to break the rhythm of the drill.

She cursed under her breath.

Another pass. Too heavy.

A third… late.

A few glances were cast her way, but no one said anything. This was Alexia Putellas. Off days weren’t her brand.

But she felt it. The dissonance. The way her thoughts wouldn’t stay where they belonged. They kept drifting. To your voice on the phone. To your morning sickness. To the way your voice hesitated before you said you were okay.

She didn’t like that hesitation.

"Hola," Irene said, jogging up beside her after the last sequence. Her tone was light but her eyes were shar. Watching. Knowing. "You’re off today. Want to talk about it?"

Alexia wiped her forehead with her sleeve, exhaling hard. “Just tired.”

Irene tilted her head. “Tired… or thinking?”

Alexia gave a faint smile. “When am I not thinking?”

They started walking toward the sidelines. Irene didn’t push. She never did. That’s what made her good at reading between the lines.

"Mapi and Kika being Mapi and Kika again?" Irene asked casually, a grin playing on her lips.

Alexia huffed a laugh. “They were throwing baby names at me.”

Irene’s brow lifted slightly. “Oh?”

“Total coincidence,” Alexia said quickly, but her voice gave too much away. “They don’t know. I didn’t tell them.”

Irene nodded slowly. “Got it.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then… gently… “You’re thinking about the last time, aren’t you?”

Alexia’s breath caught.

The last time. The other times. The quiet, negative tests. The hopes that turned into whispered apologies and late-night tears in her hoodie. You saying, “Next time,” even when your voice trembled. Her nodding, even when it felt like a lie.

“A little,” she admitted.

“It’s okay to still feel it,” Irene said. “That was a lot. For both of you.”

Alexia nodded. “I just… I thought it would go away, you know? The fear. But now that it’s real… this time it’s real… and I still feel like if I breathe too loud, it’ll vanish.”

Irene reached out, gently bumping her arm. “It won’t vanish. You two have fought too hard for this one.”

Alexia looked down at the grass. Then back toward the field. Where the rest of the team was still running through drills.

She swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

Irene watched her for a second. “You want to go again or sit one out?”

Alexia clenched her jaw, nodded toward the field. “I’m good.”

She jogged back out, but her steps felt slower, heavier.

In the back of her mind, something was tugging at her. A vague, gnawing unease she couldn’t place.

The drill restarted. Cones. Short passes. One-two touch.

She forced herself into focus. Eyes up, body moving. Trust the muscle memory.

Then… buzz.

Her wrist buzzed faintly beneath the band of her GPS tracker.

Phone in her locker.

A message had come in.

She didn’t think much of it, but when they rotated stations, she cut across the pitch and jogged toward the sideline. Coach was shouting something. Correcting a pass. Waving an arm. But her eyes were already on the edge of her locker.

She unlocked it fast, thumb swiping, screen lighting up.

It was from you.

A photo.

Bathroom mirror. Fluorescent lighting. That soft, faded sweater she always told you looked like a blanket. Your hair was pulled back, face clean, tired in a beautiful way that knocked the air out of her lungs.

Your hand was resting gently over your stomach.

Nothing to show. No change. Just skin and cotton and a look in your eyes that made her whole body ache.

The caption read:

"Still invisible, but ours. First day being her mami at school.❤️"

Alexia didn’t even realize she was smiling until her cheeks hurt.

Her thumb hovered for a second, then tapped back.

She didn’t say anything.

Just sent a heart. Then another. Then the third one turned gold. The only emoji she ever saved for you. One for each of you now.

She stared at the photo a little longer, zoning out. Around her, the locker room sounds filtered in: a dropped cleat, laughter from someone near the showers, the rattle of a water bottle hitting the ground.

The unease was still there, faint. But quieter now.

For a second, she let herself believe that maybe that was all it was.

Maybe her heart was just stretching to make room.

By the time the first little sneakers came padding down the hallway, your classroom was ready. Soft music playing from the corner speaker. Crayons laid out. Books stacked neatly. Sunlight warming the animal rug near the board.

You had exactly four minutes of peace before the chaos began.

“Señorita!” Mateo barreled in first. Backpack half open. Coat trailing behind him like a cape.

“Buenos días, Mateo,” you said, catching the runaway coat mid-air.

More voices echoed behind him. Luna with her braids bouncing, Diego still half-asleep and clutching a juice box. Sofia dragging a stuffed dolphin and a shoebox labeled ‘volcano project’.

It always started like this. Small. Loud bodies. Shoelaces untied. Mismatched socks. Someone already tattling.

But it grounded you. Gave you something solid to hold onto.

You clapped gently. “Circle time, everyone. Come sit. Show me your best criss-cross applesauce!”

There was a bit of squirming. Shuffling. A shoe being removed for no reason at all. But eventually, your class formed its uneven, rainbow-colored circle of small humans. All looking at you with sticky hands and wide eyes.

You smiled, folding your legs beneath you.

“So,” you began, “Who wants to share something from their weekend?”

Sofia’s hand shot up. “I got to feed a goat and it licked my elbow!”

“Ew,” muttered Diego, clearly impressed.

Luna raised her hand politely. “We went to visit my abuela and I made soup. Real soup. With vegetables.”

You nodded. “That sounds amazing. You’re a chef now.”

Then Amelia, your tiniest, most serious child, lifted her hand and waited until you called her name with mock formality.

“Yes, Miss Amelia?”

Her face lit up. “I got surprised! I’m going to have a baby brother! He’s in my mommy’s tummy right now. I don’t know how he got there.”

A few giggles broke out, and you laughed with them. Right before your throat closed up.

Just like that.

You blinked, hard.

It wasn’t even the sentence. It was the way she said it. So proud. So sure. Like the world was good and magic was real and babies just arrived because you hoped hard enough.

And suddenly your chest was aching. Your vision blurred.

You tried to swallow it down, but a single, hot tear slipped out anyway. Then another.

“Oh no!” Mateo gasped. “She’s broken!”

“I think she’s sad about the soup,” Diego whispered to Luna.

“I’m okay,” you said quickly, pressing the heel of your palm to your cheek and forcing a smile. “I’m okay, chicos. Just a little sleepy.”

“Do you miss your mommy?” Amelia asked with wide eyes.

You nodded seriously. “All the time.”

The children leaned in, worried but still entranced. Small hands hovering like they wanted to fix it.

“Don’t cry,” said Sofia, crawling over and gently patting your knee. “We can share our snack with you.”

That almost broke you again.

You sniffed, laughed through it. “Thank you. I think I’ll be alright now.”

And just like that, they moved on. Distracted by a loose crayon or someone’s sparkly shoelaces.

You stood slowly, brushing your hands on your skirt, letting the moment pass.

They couldn’t know yet. It was too soon. Too fragile.

But a part of you wished they could.

Because somehow, their little hearts knew exactly how to hold yours.

The training session ended with sweat on her skin and that familiar burn in her legs.

She showered quickly. Towel slung around her shoulders. Hair damp and curling at the edges. There was a team meeting scheduled in the video room. Something light today. Old match footage. Some laughs. Maybe some lessons buried in the rewind.

The room was already half full when she walked in. The lights dimmed low. Screen paused mid-action on a frame from last season. Mapi and Kika were curled into one chair like teenagers at a sleepover. Whispering something and snorting laughter before looking up and right at her.

Alexia narrowed her eyes instantly. “What.”

Mapi grinned too wide. “Nadaaa.”

Kika held up her phone like it was proof. “Did you see? Sam and Kristie posted… baby incoming.”

Alexia’s heart did a tiny skip.

“Oh,” she said, carefully neutral.

“They look so happy,” Mapi chimed in. “Honestly, goals.”

“They’ve been quiet for a while,” Kika added. “Probably waiting for the first trimester to pass.”

Mapi gave Alexia a not-so-subtle side eye. “Sound familiar?”

Alexia gave her a look, one brow raised. “You two are bored, aren’t you?”

“Painfully,” Kika said, flopping back in her chair. “And you give off such mystery energy. We just want to crack the code.”

Irene slid into the seat beside Alexia with her water bottle and muttered under her breath, “They're relentless today. Should’ve brought holy water.”

Alexia huffed a laugh. “You’re not helping.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

The coaches entered, and the screen resumed with match footage. Barcelona vs Atlético. Midfield control clips, ball recoveries, positioning, angles. Alexia leaned forward, chin in her hand, trying to settle her focus.

She was watching herself, months ago. Moving like she always moved. Fluid. Calculating. Dominant. But now, in this moment, something inside her felt distant from that version. Off-center.

“Alexia,” said one of the assistants, pausing the frame. “See this hold you made here? Can you talk through what you were reading?”

She nodded slowly. “The winger was too wide, their pivot was delayed. I waited for her to commit so I could cut both lanes at once. But I knew if I stepped too early, I’d leave Claudia exposed.”

The coach nodded, pleased. “Exactly.”

Another voice: “God, it’s like your brain is GPS,” someone muttered in admiration.

Kika leaned over and whispered, “Imagine that baby gets your vision. And her eyes.”

Alexia stared at the screen a moment too long before blinking out of it. “You’re worse than the media,” she said, not unkindly.

But inside, something shifted.

That strange tug again.

A thread of unease, like the day was just slightly tilted.

Not wrong.

Not yet.

Just… waiting.

Her phone buzzed quietly in her pocket.

She pulled it out quickly, careful not to interrupt the meeting.

A message from you.

“The small humans arrived safe and sound. Putting my phone away now… no bites yet. ❤️”

She smiled softly, the warmth spreading in her chest like a quiet sunbeam.

Her thumb hovered, then tapped a quick reply: “Good. Hold it down, mami.”

She slipped the phone back into her pocket.

Around her, the discussion continued, but that little message was a momentary anchor.

That strange tug inside her faded… just a little… replaced by the thought of you, in your classroom, steady and brave.

The classroom was buzzing with tiny voices and laughter. Crayons scraping paper. Shoes tapping the floor. When the first sound broke through the hum.

Pop.

At first, you froze.

Pop.

Then…

Pop. Pop.

Shots.

Your heart stopped.

For a second, the world was just a loud, cracking echo, too close, too real.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to breathe.

You looked at the kids. Their faces, innocent and wide, didn’t understand.

“Okay, everyone,” you said, voice calm but low. “We’re going to play a game. It’s called ‘The Quietest Animals.’ Who can be the quietest animal?”

Diego’s eyebrows furrowed. “Like a mouse?”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Mice don’t make any noise at all. We’re mice.”

Little hands pressed to their mouths.

You moved quickly, herding them behind the tables, dimming the lights with a flick of the switch.

You crouched low, pulling Sofia close. “We’re going to hide under the tables now, okay?”

The kids obeyed, some giggling nervously, others wide-eyed but silent.

Your fingers trembled as you pulled out your phone.

Hands shaking, you dialed.

No answer.

You tried again.

Your breath caught when you heard the faint crackle of a voice, static, but real.

You whispered, “There’s an emergency at the school. Shots have been fired. We need help immediately.”

You clicked the phone off, heart pounding so hard you feared they’d hear it.

You looked around.

Mateo was clutching his jacket, eyes squeezed shut.

Amelia was frozen, the smallest body shaking.

You swallowed the scream in your throat and smiled at them.

“We’re brave mice,” you said, voice steady. “The bravest.”

But inside, every part of you was terrified.

The room was quiet again after the match footage paused. A pause neither tactical nor deliberate. Just the sort of lull that settled in when the team was waiting for something to shift.

Alexia’s thoughts were miles away, swimming between the soft warmth of your message and the nagging, persistent tug of unease that wouldn’t quite fade.

Suddenly, a sharp tap on her shoulder broke through the fog.

“Alexia? Coach wants to see you outside.”

She blinked, then nodded, following the assistant out of the dim room and into the bright, sterile hallway.

Her phone buzzed again as she walked, but she ignored it.

By the time she reached the exit, her heart was a drum in her chest.

And then…

She froze.

There, standing just beyond the doorway, was her mother.

Her face was pale, eyes wide and glassy.

“Mamá?” Alexia’s voice caught on the question.

Her mother swallowed hard, taking a small step forward.

“Something’s happened at the school.”

Alexia’s breath hitched.

“Is it…?”

Her mother nodded, voice trembling, “There’s been a shooting. They’re saying lockdown. Police are there. We don’t know much, but I thought you should know. I’m so sorry, Alexia.”

Her knees threatened to buckle.

“Where’s… where’s y/n?” Her voice cracked, the fear raw and wild.

“She’s inside. They say the kids are hiding. The teachers too.”

Alexia’s hands curled into fists.

“Can I go? I have to…”

“Wait,” her mother said firmly. “I’ll come with you.”

The urgency in her mother’s voice was a lifeline and a weight.

Alexia grabbed her jacket, heart pounding louder than her footsteps.

Together, they raced through the corridors, her mind spinning faster than her feet.

Every second stretched impossibly long.

Her phone buzzed again… she dared a glance.

Messages, unanswered calls.

She tried calling you.

Her breath hitched.

“Please be okay,” she whispered to herself. Panic squeezing her throat.

Outside, the sky was the soft blue of a peaceful day. Mocking her turmoil.

But the streets were alive with flashing lights, sirens wailing like cries tearing through the calm.

They crossed the last block, and there it was. The school.

The chaos was immediate. Police cars. Paramedics. Frantic parents huddled in small groups. Teachers consoling children. The distant murmur of officials giving instructions.

Alexia’s mother squeezed her arm.

“Stay close,” she said.

Alexia forced herself to steady her breathing.

She pulled her phone out again and sent a quick message.

“I’m coming. Hold on.”

Then she looked up, eyes searching the crowd, searching for you.

Her world was crashing down, but she had to be strong.

For you.

For the children.

For the life you were just beginning to build.

The crowd outside the school was thick with anxiety and murmurs, but Alexia’s sharp eyes caught something that made her heart lurch.

A small group of parents were gathered near the entrance, clustered close around a handful of children. The names on their lips were painfully familiar.

“Mateo?” she heard one parent ask gently.

The boy, cheeks flushed from nerves, nodded eagerly.

“We played mice,” Mateo said, voice small but proud. “We were so quiet. Like real mice.”

Alexia’s breath caught.

She pushed through the crowd. her heart pounding harder with each step.

“Where’s the teacher? Where’s the señorita?”

Mateo looked up, blinking at her like she was a sudden sunbeam.

“Miss y/n?” he answered, voice trembling. “She’s still inside. We were hiding. Luna didn’t want to stop playing the mice game even when they said we could go with help.”

Alexia’s throat tightened.

A sharp sob broke free before she could stop it.

She wrapped her arms tightly around her mother, who held her just as fiercely.

“I have to tell you something,” Alexia whispered through the tears. “… she’s pregnant. We found out yesterday.”

Her mother’s eyes widened, a mixture of awe and heartbreak flooding her expression.

“This can’t be happening.”

Alexia shook her head, burying her face in her mother’s shoulder.

“It’s so fragile, mamá. So new. We were just… starting.”

Her sobs shook her body.

The world was breaking apart around her. And all she could do was hold on.

The room was still dim, shadows stretching long across the floor as the small bodies huddled beneath tables.

Luna’s hand found yours, trembling slightly.

Her eyes were wide and glassy, lost in a sea of fear you couldn’t reach with words. Only with the softest touch.

You leaned down, voice barely more than a whisper.

“Luna, remember our game?”

She nodded slowly, squeezing your hand back.

“Mice don’t just stay in one place forever,” you said carefully. “Sometimes, when the place isn’t safe anymore… they move. They find new homes where they can be quiet and safe.”

Luna’s breath hitched.

“Do you think we can be like the mice?”

You smiled gently, brushing a stray strand of hair from her forehead.

“Yes. And right now, the mice need to be brave and move somewhere safe.”

Her small hand squeezed yours again, steadier this time.

"It's time to move, little mouse."

Alexia’s eyes were fixed on the scene unfolding just a few feet away.

A teenage boy, hands cuffed behind his back, was being led past the barricade by a calm but firm emergency responder.

The boy’s face was pale. Eyes downcast. The weight of everything pressing down on him.

Alexia’s breath hitched.

The responder caught her gaze and offered a tired but steady nod.

“No one was hurt,” he said quietly, as if the words needed repeating. “Just holes in the ceiling and scared kids. They’re waiting on two more to come out.”

Alexia swallowed hard, feeling like the air had been knocked from her lungs.

She squeezed her mother’s hand, eyes scanning the doorway, desperate for any sign.

Minutes stretched. Agonizing and endless.

Then, the school doors opened.

You appeared first.

Your face was pale, makeup smudged from tears you didn’t want to show, shoulders tense but trying to hold steady.

Behind you... the last child. Breathless and clutching a small backpack. Ran full tilt toward waiting parents, who swept her up into a trembling embrace.

Alexia’s heart broke at the sight.

You started to move forward but when your eyes met hers across the crowd. Verything crumbled.

The brave facade shattered.

You broke down, sobbing openly now, the weight of the day crashing through every line of your body.

Alexia was there instantly. Closing the distance between you.

Her arms wrapped around you. Fierce and protective.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, voice rough with emotion. “You’re safe now. You’re here.”

You clung to her, letting yourself fall apart in the only place that felt like home.

Around you, the noise of sirens, murmurs, and relief swirled. But all that mattered was the warmth of her hold, the steady beat of her heart against yours.

Together, you let the tears fall.

Because sometimes, even the strongest need to be broken. To be held. And to heal.

Weeks had passed since that day. The day that shattered the fragile bubble you and Alexia had been building together.

Some mornings, the world felt calm, the light spilling through the curtains like a promise.

Other mornings, you woke gasping. Heart pounding like it was still trapped in that classroom. The echo of gunshots ringing sharp behind your closed eyelids.

Tonight was one of those nights.

You woke in a cold sweat. Breath shallow and rapid.

Before panic could fully claim you, you felt it. Warm arms sliding around your waist, pulling you close.

Alexia’s voice was low and steady. A soft anchor in the storm.

“Hey, hey… it’s okay. I’m here.”

You curled into her. The steady beat of her heart a balm to your racing mind.

She shifted, settling beside you on the bed. Careful and sure. Fingers tracing slow circles on your back.

“I’m not gone,” she murmured.

You squeezed your eyes shut. Trying to let the fear slip away.

“I’m right here.”

Her hands moved to your belly. Gentle but certain.

You lifted your shirt a little. Showing her the soft small curve that was just beginning to show. The secret growing life inside you.

“Look,” you whispered, voice still shaky. “Our baby’s okay.”

Alexia’s smile was radiant. Her fingers tracing the line of your bump like it was the most precious thing in the world.

“All good so far,” she said softly. “You’ve been amazing.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“We’re going to tell the team tomorrow,” you said.

Alexia’s eyes lit up. “Finally.”

You nodded, a small smile breaking through the lingering shadows.

“They deserve to know.”

Alexia chuckled softly. Brushing a stray hair from your forehead.

“We’ll make it a proper celebration. Maybe Mapi and Kika will start the baby-name guessing games again… only this time, we can join in.”

You smiled, feeling a flicker of lightness.

The fear wasn’t gone. Some nights it still whispered in the dark corners of your mind.

But here, wrapped in Alexia’s arms, you felt something else too.

Hope.

Love.

The quiet certainty that you weren’t alone.

Alexia leaned in. Pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.

“We’ll get through this. Together.”

And in that moment… it was enough.

The morning sun spilled gently through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room.

Alexia was already awake, her hands busy but gentl. Brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, tracing lazy circles on your arm.

You smiled, eyes half-closed. Feeling the warmth of her touch like the safest place on earth.

“Trying to spoil me, huh?” you teased, voice still thick with sleep.

She grinned, a playful sparkle lighting her eyes.

“Maybe,” she said, leaning in to press a soft kiss just below your jaw. “You deserve it.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugged at your lips.

“Just don’t expect me to return the favor,” you warned.

Alexia laughed. A deep, warm sound that filled the room.

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

She helped you sit up slowly, fingers steady as you stretched, the little bump already beginning to show.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, concern threading through her usual lightness.

“Better,” you said. “Thanks to you.”

Alexia’s hand found yours, squeezing it gently.

“We’ve got this. Today’s just another step.”

You squeezed back, teasing now more confident.

“Yeah, but don’t get too cocky... remember who’s carrying the tiny human in there.”

She mock-gasps, placing a hand dramatically over her heart.

“I’m just the supportive one.”

You laughed, feeling the tension of the past weeks loosen just a little.

Breakfast was slow, filled with quiet chatter and soft touches.

Alexia made you your favorite tea, while you caught her stealing bites of your toast when she thought you weren’t looking.

The morning felt like a return to something familiar... a gentle reminder of who you were together, before everything changed.

When it was time to get ready, Alexia kissed your forehead.

“Ready to tell them?”

You nodded, heart fluttering with nerves and hope.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

And as she helped you slip into a comfortable sweater that hugged your belly just right. You knew you wouldn’t face the day alone.

Not ever.

The car hummed softly as Alexia drove toward the training ground, the morning light streaming through the windows in gentle streaks.

You settled into the passenger seat, fingers tracing lazy circles on your belly.

“So,” you began, a teasing edge to your voice, “how long do you think it’ll take before Mapi and Kika start pestering us about baby names?”

Alexia chuckled, glancing over with a grin. “Five minutes, tops. Maybe even less.”

You laughed softly. “They’re going to turn the whole locker room into a baby shower planning committee."

“Probably. And you know Kika will have a whole spreadsheet ready.”

You shook your head, amused. “I swear, these footballers plan everything.”

Alexia’s smile softened. “Well, it’s nice to have something fun to look forward to, right?”

You nodded, warmth spreading through your chest. “Yeah. It feels… hopeful.”

She reached over, squeezing your hand gently. “That’s what we need.”

You let your fingers intertwine with hers. Comforted by the familiar touch.

The radio played softly, a song you both loved. Something light. Something simple.

You hummed along quietly.

Alexia smiled, her eyes on the road but her heart clearly with you.

After a pause, you asked, “Are you nervous? About telling them?”

She shrugged, her grin mischievous. “I’m more nervous about whether they’ll start calling me ‘baby mama’ right away.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Knowing them? That’ll be immediate.”

Alexia’s eyes sparkled. “Great. Just what I need.”

You smiled. Leaning back. Feeling the steady rhythm of the car and the promise of the day ahead.

Whatever came next, you’d face it together.

As the car came to a gentle stop outside the training ground, you turned toward Alexia, heart pounding a little faster.

The world outside felt heavy with expectation, but in the quiet space between you two, everything slowed.

You reached up. Pressing your forehead gently against hers. Eyes fluttering closed.

Her breath mingled with yours.

Softly. Tenderly, you kissed her.

No words needed. Just the warmth of lips meeting, a promise, a comfort, a shared strength.

When you pulled back, Alexia’s smile was soft and full of love.

“We’ve got this,” she whispered.

You nodded, feeling braver already.

Hand in hand, you stepped out of the car. Together.

The hallway leading into the training center buzzed with soft chatter, the shuffle of cleats, laughter echoing off the walls.

As soon as you and Alexia stepped in, you felt it. That shift in energy, subtle but unmistakable.

A few heads turned.

“Eh! Finally decided to show up!” Mapi called from down the corridor. Leaning lazily against the locker room door. Arms crossed. Grinning like she knew something already.

You smiled, half-hidden behind Alexia.

“She made me toast,” Alexia called back, completely deadpan. “I had no choice.”

Kika popped her head out next, face bright. “You always have a choice. Toast is not an excuse... unless it’s avocado toast with extra drama.”

“I am the drama,” you said dryly.

They laughed, pulling you both into the orbit of their usual teasing whirlwind.

Inside the locker room, Irene greeted you with a soft hug. She had been more quiet lately. Still a little haunted by the day she saw Alexia’s world crack. And now maybe she saw the small pieces being placed gently back together.

You sat carefully on the small bench against the far wall. Letting Alexia take off her jacket for you. The gesture was simple but enough to make Mapi’s eyebrows shoot up.

“What is this?” she said slowly, theatrically. “She undresses her now? Are we in royal court?”

Alexia smirked. “Always have, actually. She just usually yells at me to do it faster.”

The room burst into laughter, but your cheeks flushed with heat. Alexia shot you a wink and leaned down, whispering, “I got you.”

You exhaled softly, heart still a little nervous despite the warmth.

It was Alexia who stood tall, clearing her throat.

“Okay. So... we wanted to tell you something.”

Everyone went still in that split second. Wide-eyed, half-expecting a joke, or maybe not quite believing the shift in tone.

You stood up slowly beside her. Placing one hand instinctively on your growing belly. Now noticeable in the fitted stretch of your sweater.

Kika gasped. “No.”

Mapi’s eyes widened. “NO.”

Alexia beamed. “Yes.”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then chaos.

Squeals. Screams. Foot stomps. Someone threw a training bib in the air.

Kika was already crying.

Mapi looked between the two of you like she’d been personally betrayed by not knowing sooner. “Are you kidding me?! I knew something was weird the last few weeks. And when you snapped at me for stealing your fries? I knew it.”

You were laughing and crying now. Wrapped in a blur of hugs and soft hands touching your stomach like it was already sacred.

Irene stepped forward last. Quieter than the rest. She touched Alexia’s shoulder. Then yours.

“I’m really happy for you,” she said sincerely, eyes lingering a moment longer on the way your hand rested over your belly.

The laughter died down into warm chatter. Plans already forming. Baby clothes, names, future birthdays on the pitch.

You sat back down, overwhelmed but glowing, as Alexia slid onto the bench beside you.

She reached for your hand under the fold of your sweater, her thumb brushing gently over your skin.

“You did good,” she whispered.

You smiled, eyes still a little glassy. “We did.”

And for the first time in a long time, the future didn’t feel so far away. It felt right here... growing... steady and surrounded by love.

The room was quiet in that special kind of way hospitals hold.

Not silent, not still... just hushed. Reverent. Alive with the smallest sounds. The slow rhythm of the monitors. The soft rustle of blankets. The quiet breath of a newborn cradled against your chest.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until you felt Alexia’s fingers brush a tear from your cheek.

“You’re doing it again,” she whispered with a small, tired smile. Her voice was raw from joy and worry and no sleep, but softer than anything you’d ever known.

You looked down at the little girl sleeping in your arms. Skin like velvet. A head full of dark wisps. The smallest sigh slipping from her lips.

“I just… can’t believe she’s real,” you murmured, voice trembling. “After everything.”

Alexia leaned in and kissed the top of your head, one hand resting gently on your shoulder. “She’s here. And you were so strong.”

“She has your eyes,” you said.

Alexia looked down and grinned. “She already judges like me too.”

You laughed, exhausted and glowing.

Then came a soft knock at the door.

You sat up a little straighter. Brushing your thumb over your daughter’s cheek as Alexia moved to open it.

The moment the door cracked open, a cluster of tiny voices and footsteps spilled into the room like sunshine.

“Ms.!” one of them squealed.

Your heart swelled.

It was your class. Yur sweet, brave 4- and 5-year-olds—now being carefully herded in by two of your colleagues. Their little faces were a mix of awe and excitement, like they were stepping into a fairy tale.

“Only quiet voices,” one teacher reminded gently, finger to her lips.

Luna was the first to break ranks. Holding something behind her back with a shy smile.

“We brought you something,” she said, inching closer to the bed.

You adjusted the baby slightly and smiled down at her. Heart aching in the best way.

Luna pulled her gift out and held it up proudly.

A small, grey plush mouse.

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “just in case she wants to play mice too.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Alexia turned away for a second. Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

You took the mouse and cradled it next to your daughter, who made a tiny sound and blinked once, slowly.

“She’s going to love it,” you whispered.

The kids gathered around the bed, staying back just enough but brimming with curiosity. A few waved shyly. One asked if the baby had a name yet.

“She does,” you said, glancing at Alexia, whose hand found yours again.

“Her name is Elena.”

They all said it like it was magic. Elena.

The room felt so full.

Not just of people, but of something larger. Something that spanned months of fear and pain and healing. Something soft and whole.

Love.

Alexia kissed your temple again and leaned in close.

“See?” she whispered. “Little mice and all.”

You smiled, tears in your eyes. Your daughter pressed against your heartbeat. The tiny mouse plush tucked gently beside her.

It wasn’t the world you imagined before everything changed.

It was better.

Because it was yours.

Together.

Always.

---------------------------------------------------------

Writer's note: I really hope that you liked this one 🥺 please let me know what you think! put a lot of work in it. Right now I won't be able to write for a week because I really need to break and I should hold on to it. But after that I will of course upload again.

[thecosyblue]

Yes please. Be weird as fuck. Someone out there desperately wants to find a writer to match their reader freak

if you're writing and find yourself thinking 'this is too weird/gross/offputting/esoteric/ambitious/catered to my specific interests + sure to push away a broader audience' that is the devil speaking and it is a lie. you are already firmly on the right path and you need to double down

[littledes1re]

Hi! You’re one of my favorite writers on here :3 I was wondering if you could do a fic about Joel giving birthday sex? (Totally not filling my birthday fantasies)

Birthday Sex

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Warnings: 18+, unprotected sex, pinv, praise kink, pet names, oral f!receiving, fluff

„Look at you. Like a present from god, and it‘s not even my birthday, baby.“

It was your birthday. And, as if scripted by the universe itself, Joel went all out—again. It wasn’t unusual for him to give you everything he had but somehow, he always made this day feel a little more magical. You woke up to a mountain of gifts, the kind you could practically swim in, each one wrapped with care and tucked with little notes that made you smile before you even opened them.

The house smelled like comfort and joy—vanilla, cinnamon, and a hint of fresh coffee. Joel had been up early, dancing around the kitchen like it was his stage. You had a choice that morning: waffles or pancakes. Without hesitation, you picked pancakes. Because Joel made them exactly the way you loved—golden, buttery, and extra fluffy, as if each bite could float you a little higher above your worries.

You didn’t even have to glance at your phone. Joel had already taken care of it. He called in for you, told them you were „terribly sick,” with that charming blend of sincerity and mischief. All before your eyes had fully opened. You had nothing to do, nowhere to be—just you, him and the morning sun creeping through the curtains, making everything feel like it existed only for you.

The day stretched on like a soft melody—unhurried, comforting, and full of little delights that feel stitched together just for the two of you.

After the pancakes, you two lingered at the kitchen table, sunlight dancing through the windows as Joel refilled your coffee mug without a word. He played that one record you both love, the one that instantly makes everything feel slower, dreamier. There’s no rush, no pressure—just warmth and presence.

As evening slides in, Joel lights a few candles and pulls together something simple and lovely for dinner. You two toast with wine and laugh about inside jokes no one else would ever understand.

And when you think that beautiful day got already to an end, Joel has still a surprise for you.

„Lay down, sweetheart.“ a smirk forming in his face. He peeks your curiosity and you do as he says.

He presses wet kisses along your thighs, his beard scratching your skin, his breath giving you a slight breeze. And as he kisses his way up to your cunt, he stops—pulling down your pants and panties.

„Joel—please.“ you sweetly whimper.

He chuckles, hushing you and spreading your lips with his fingers—blowing cold air into your cunt, making you clench around nothing, your clit already beginning to throb.

„So wet f‘me, my sweet girl.“ he whispers and dives right in. He takes a big lap from your hole to your clit, then latches around your nub. Your head fall to your bed, you reach for Joels curly hair, as he starts to suck and lick you. The pleasure spreading trough your whole body, feeling his fingers suddenly in you—curling upwards so he can rub your spot.

Your eyes roll back.

„Cum for me, baby. C‘mon.“ he says against your cunt, the buzzing going trough your folds as you spasm, your legs locking and you gush around his two fingers.

„You don‘t even know how fuckin‘ happy I am, that you were born.“

And as you try to catch your breath, Joel is already filling you with his cock.

His arms go around your legs, pulling you to the edge of the bed—so he is closer to you. He starts thrusting slow, locking eyes with you, searching for any discomfort in your face. But that doesn‘t come, instead, your moans get louder and louder.

„My pretty angel. Always good for me, every single day.“ he coos, his hand cupping your cheek, gently caressing it as his thrusts go harder.

„You’re makin‘ me so happy, Joel.“ you cry out.

A smile spreads across his face, followed by a groan as you clench on his cock. His thumb falls on top of your clit, a whimper leaving your lips.

„C‘mon birthday girl. Show me how good y‘are. Cum for me one more time.“

Joel gives you one final thrust, his body fully laying on top of you, locking your lips with him. His thumb never stops, as you bite into his lip, coming with a soft whine, making him grunt into your mouth. He thrusts a few more times into you, all while kissing you, devouring you and releases into you, filling you to the brim.

„Happy birthday, baby.“

I hope you like this @bluekat707 <33 And thank you!!

[saturns-smut]

Spotted In The Crowd (Miyeon, i-dle)

Pairing: Miyeon x Male reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: The princess of K-pop spots you in the concert crowd and immediately knows she has to have you.  

Tags: Idol x Fan, Lingerie, Boob Play, Penetration, Oral Sex, Deep Throating, Daddy Kink, Fingering, Hair Pulling, Begging & Squirting.

Word Count: 1.2k

Notes: I don’t really like this if I’m being honest. So please tell me any feedback or advice you may have, I’d really appreciate it. This was a request by anon, so I hope you like it! If you liked reading this, please like, comment, reblog or follow to help a small writer!

———

Miyeon and her group performed their latest songs with energy and dedication. The corners of her mouth moved into a flirty smirk and her hips persuaded all fans in the audience to stare at her shamelessly.

Miyeon has been your bias ever since (G)I-DLE debuted. You loved her. Her eyes. Her nose. Her lips. Her reactions. Her waist. Her tits. Her ass. 

At the end of the concert, you stayed back a bit to soak it all in. But a short woman approached you. 

“Excuse me? You need to come with me.” She said, showing you her staff wristband.

“What? Did I do something?” You asked worriedly. “No, you didn’t. Miss Cho Miyeon wants to see you.” 

This could not be real. The Miyeon? Your ultimate Miyeon? It has to a joke.

“I’m not joking. We should hurry, she doesn't like waiting.” She said, grabbing your arm and taking you to the staff reserved area. Scanning her wristband and walking in, receiving some weird looks from her coworkers, to which she just responded by mouthing ‘For Miyeon’ to them. That seemed to make it. 

She guided you to a room, unlocking the door and handing you the keys. “Miss Miyeon is waiting for you inside. Lock the door once you get in so nobody walks in. Oh and a piece of advice, Miss doesn’t get tired easily.” She informed you and you nodded. This was really happening. Like those stories you read.

You opened the door carefully, locking the door behind you without even looking at the room properly. When you turned around, there was Miyeon. Laying in the small bed wearing only a baby pink lingerie set that barely covered anything.

Its form was made by tiny, thin straps and only had lace to cover her nipples and her pussy. The lace gave an innocent illusion, though nothing there was innocent at all. 

“Are you gonna say anything or just stare?” Her voice, giggling, broke your train of thoughts and you didn’t know what to say. “Um… hi?” You tried.

More of her cute giggles echoed through the room. “Hi, baby boy. You like what you see?” 

“Uh… Fuck— Um, yes.” You said, taking a moment to scan the room. The small bed Miyeon was laying at, a table which you thought was for make-up, considering the beauty items and the led mirror. Also a clothing rack that included her stage outfits, a black lingerie set, and casual clothes. Next to the bed, a small nightstand with its drawer opened, which let you see the variety of sex toys in it. You widened your eyes. 

Miyeon smiled at your reaction. “Come on, come sit with me.” She pat the space beside her and you walked over sitting down.

The woman climbed quickly into your lap, her tits right in front of you while she hadn’t settled yet. Your hand instantly went to her waist, squeezing out of instinct. She wrapped her arms around your neck.

“So… You caught my eye at the crowd… And I saw you couldn’t stop staring at me. So I figured you should be the lucky one I invited backstage tonight.”

“You do this every concert?” You asked curious.

“Not exactly. It depends. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is right now.” She said, leaning in so her chest was closer to you. One wrong move and the fabric could slip off and show you everything. “Take it off me, please.”

And you did. Unclasped the bra teasingly slow. “Play with my tits, please, daddy.” 

And you did. Sucked her left nipple while fondling her right breast. Then switched while taking off her panties.

Miyeon had met a few guys that were this confident with her. And when she saw you enter the one? She thought you would be one of the shy, sweet innocent ones. She regrets thinking that.

Your free hand slipped between her legs, feeling the wetness and spreading all over her pussy and inner thighs. She loved it.

“You’re gross.” You whispered while pinching her clit. “Bringing random guys here just to let them fuck you. Gross.” 

“Yes! Yes I am, daddy! Your nasty girl!” She cried out.

Miyeon’s breaths were uneven, even if you hadn’t even gotten yourself inside her yet. She was sensitive. For some reason, especially with you.

You entered her welcoming hole with two fingers, speedily moving them, making the woman moan out loud. 

“Your cock! Need your cock inside me!” She begged. I mean, you’re just a man. Miyeon begged and she had what she asked for.

Hurriedly, you took off your pants and boxers, fondling with the zipper and having her help you.

You flipped her in the bed, laying her down. You held yourself up with one hand on the bed next to her hair, while the other hand lined up your member with her entrance, bottoming out her inside her clenching pussy.

“Oh gosh! Oh my God! Daddy! You’re so big!”

“Yeah? Daddy’s deep inside you?” You groaned into her ear, never slowing down your thrusts into her cunt.

“Fuck! I’m gonna cum, daddy! Daddy! Gonna cum!” Miyeon screamed, her back arching off the mattress. 

“Daddy’s gonna cum too, baby. You’re so tight. Been fucked so much and you’re still tight. Cum for me, Miyeon. Come on.” 

The idol in front of you followed your directions and reached her peak with a loud, very porn-like moan. You quickly pulled out, also cumming but in her stomach, painting her beautiful body with your own release.

“Come on, pretty girl. How ‘bout you get on your knees and make me feel even better? Get me deep in that throat?” You suggested.

Miyeon was quick to get into her knees on the floor, looking at you with those eyes. A need to obey and satisfy her daddy.

The woman wet her lips before leaning in to lick your whole length, pressing a small kiss to the tip. She wasted no time to completely dive in, taking all of your cock in her mouth and throat. 

You pulled her hair, controlling her head. Miyeon bobbed her head up and down, taking you deep in her throat just as requested. 

She pulled out briefly, just to have her sweet, faux-innocent voice ask you if you were close. You nodded, letting out a groan and pushing her head to continue sucking you off. 

After a few more thrusts, you came once again, this time in her mouth. Miyeon swallowed all of it, opening her mouth at the end to show you. “Was I good, daddy?” She asked, words so sweet and innocent considering the not-so-sweet-and-innocent act she had just finished. 

“So good, baby. Deserve a reward, okay? Lay back on your back for daddy.” You instructed.

Miyeon followed obediently and you made yourself comfortable between her spread open legs. 

You leaned in, placing a kiss to her inner thigh, which was wet from your combined juices. She breathed harder at the sensation of your warm breath against her.

Your flattened tongue licking her cunt from her used hole to her clit made her moan out. Oh, such pretty moans. You could get used to them. Waking up to them. Living with them.

“Daddy!! Don’t stop!! Just like that!! Cumming!!! Ah, ah, ah! Gonna cum!” She screamed out.

Then she came, juices wetting your chest and her whole body. “You squirt, baby?” 

“I— I didn’t know I could do that.” She said.

“Well, now you do.” You said, kissing her lips and laying down with Miyeon.

[luna-azzurra]

Writing Advice #1

...for figuring out who your protagonist actually is (like really is, not just what trauma you gave them in chapter two)

⭒ Write their dating app bio⭒ No, I don't mean the cringe-perfect one with the sunset hiking pic. I mean the one they write at 2:14am, fully spiraling but trying so hard to sound like they have their shit together.

Like, what do they say they’re “working on”? Do they admit they have control issues or do they phrase it like “I’m just really passionate about organizing things”? What’s their weird hill to die on? (Because everyone has one... Mine is that people who say “I’m brutally honest” are just mean and proud of it. What’s theirs?)

Would someone fall in love with them immediately or read that bio and swipe left so hard they sprain a finger? Both answers are useful, btw. The more specific and mildly unhinged it gets, the closer you are to understanding how they see themselves, which is honestly way more interesting than how you, the god-writer, view them from on high.

Make them messy (Please) And for the love of stories, give them a hobby besides “being the main character.”

[dandydilfdiddler]

Notes while I read in chronological order because I am a yapper and I love to scream about fics and I ain't got friends I can scream to in DM's so the world is gonna see the filth

THEY ARE A FAMILY YOUR HONOR. The fact the boys saw the chance to move close and they did has me crying in the corner. I need my Dagger Family, not squad, family. I came to Bob Floyd from Bob Reynolds okay, that means Thunderbolts Found Family is my saved tag. The fact I get this now for the Daggers. Yes.

I love Natasha. I just do. The idea of living with her has my heart swooning. She is already a goddess but I am now imagining being besties and having movie nights on our apartment. Thank you ❤️

*clutching my chest* It’s always open.

*sobbing* they steal netflix, this is so brother coded it hurts

Oop, yeah the snapping is valid but even I’m ducking from the fire

He IS a gentleman!!!!!!

Kicking my feet and giggling at Bob all huffy. Something about a jealous sweet boy has me melty every time

“But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists.” GIVE ME DIRTY, FOUL MOUTHED BOBBY OR GIVE ME DEATH. The only time I want to be disrespected is by fictional men.

Oh wait. Oh wait did you answer my prayers? Natasha you are a girl’s girl. Please. I am praying on my knees.

My prayers are answered. God is good. Make him snap

This is a team effort and nothing says bonding like trying to torture the cutie patootie

HAHAHAHA PLEASE I AM PICTURING THEM IN A HUDDLE CHEESY HIGH SCHOOL FOOTBALL STYLE TO PLOT

“… but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign.” This is correct. This. This is the realism I need in my fics.

MICKEY! He wouldn’t be wrong tho

Baby grey sweats is universal for sex appeal in men. I am delulu and believe that Bob knows that to be seductive on purpose (even if it is cuter that he has no idea)

THEY ARE SO GOOD!!!! THEY KEEP THE PANTY SHOT PRIVATE!!!!!! I AM SCREAMING I LOVE THIS I NEED THIS!!!!! A MILLION VERSIONS OF THIS KIND OF FRIENDSHIP FOR ME PLEASE!!!!!!!!!

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. This man, this poor man has no chance hearing about the thong. As a chronically forgetful girlie tho the fact it was all that was left is so relatable that this is believable.

“he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him.” When I grow up I want to be able to drop the funniest fucking lines known to man in a fic too.

Crying, his foggy glasses will always get me. I wear glasses. You fog those bitches only in the most extreme sense. Adorable.

I love Reuben. Thank you. A king.

They are all conspiring and I love them. This dynamic keeps getting better and better and I am so happy.

TENSION NOOOOO NAT WOULD NEVER. SHE IS A BESTIE

Bobby! You do have a lil devious side. (eating it with a spoon)

“You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. ” YES BEOTCH!!!!!!!!!!!!! When the reader insert is me I totally lose my shit

The added tension with the Nat stuff has my stomach twisting too and I can respect the game for the fic but goddamnit noooooooooooo

SHOT SHOT SHOT EVERYBODY

NO WAIT GO BACK STOP HEY THAT WASN’T NICE I THOUGHT I WAS GETTING A BODY SHOT

Okay but I do love Bob being a little shit

I do admit I have read a Bob x Hangman fic as a one off because I liked the tags and this just flashed me back and I gotta do a reread now - you are serving all top gun writers

“sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis “ baby this is an existential crisis. Bob has a way of being everyone’s type

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. ” JAIL DIABOLICAL

“A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. Stop staring, she mouths.” A GIRL’S GIRL. But like… how could you not if it’s that big… like… that’s dinner

The food set up. Yes. You are a god of literature.

Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww he is so polite changing in his room my heart I am swooooooning

Pillows. I see that. I know Bob is a real man with pillows plural.

I love them. Reuben I love you.

LMFAOOOOOO YOU LITTLE SHITS I LOVE YOU NOT THE BEER - at least he apologized first

Oh yes. Oh yes. Wearing his clothes. Oh god I love this trope. Did you make this fic for me beacuase it feels like you did.

When a nerd is more interested in you than their nerd thing. I am in love. Swooning. Screaming. Running around my house because I need a walk to get this tension off.

JAVY NO WHAT THE FUCK YOU COCK BLOCK

Oh this is better. Yes. Oh. Oh he is going for it. Please.

Yummy. Oh when they say they shouldn’t I froth.

NOOOOOOO GONE NOOOOOOOOOOOO NO NO NONONONOONONONO

This fic is edging me worse than a regular session

Ouch. You are an amazing writer because my chest hurts too irl

OH JEALOUS?? OH OH OH OH You wrote this for me. I know it. Cosmically the stars aligned and put you on my discover page on tumblr so I could get this fic

REUDEN YOU ARE SUCH A GOOD FRIEND

Nat you goddess. I love you being a little puppeteer

Yes. No dress is too short when you have an objective

LMFAO JAKE SAID “YOU LIARS”

Awwww okay I want to smack his cocky ass a little less ❤️

I woke my dog up cackling at “Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

REUBEN YOU LIL GOSSIP BITCH I LOVE YOU

LMFAOOOOOO THE ABS GOT THE GROUP DROOL ON

Jake is evil - gimme 10

SCREAMINGING YESSSSSSS YES SNAP YESSSSSSS

My heart fell outta my pussy at the “you’re in trouble now”

FINALLLLLLYYYYY A KISS A KISS THST GETS THE WHOLE BEACH PREGNANT

END? END? WHERE’S THE REST O YA?! MORE?!!! I CANT LIVE WITHOUT MORE?!

1000000000/10 - amazing. Perfect. I love this.

the plan ; robert 'bob' floyd

fandom: top gun

pairing: bob x reader

summary: the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps

notes: i fear i may never again experience as much joy as i did while writing this... guys, it was so much fun! i know it's long, but it's full of tension and pining and heat, please give it a read! i actually love this so much, and i hope you do too, so please let me know what you think!!! i literally fell in love with bob while writing this, the lewis pullman spiral is spiralling

warnings: swearing, big dick energy, movie references (the princess bride, the ugly truth, star wars), bob's big dick, tension, lots of horniness (18+ ONLY MDNI), italics, huge dick energy, jealousy, bob is secretly cut, emotional warfare but it's fun, and did i mention bob's massive dick? (let me know if i missed anything)

word count: 21143

your callsign is sunny

It wasn’t long after the uranium mission that Dagger Squad was asked to stay on North Island and train as an elite, mission-focused unit under Maverick’s command. Not that anyone had to be asked—most of the squad was more than happy to be reassigned and stick together. 

Once everything was finalised and the official special operations squadron was born, the first thing most of you did was move out of the barracks. You needed more space—both physically, and from each other—and, frankly, something that didn’t reek of stale socks and floor polish. 

You and Natasha thought you’d hit the jackpot when you found a two-bedroom apartment right by the beach, with a spacious open-plan living area and not one, but two balconies. It was perfect. You could hardly believe it. Full of natural light, and just far enough from the boys you already spent too much time with—training, flying, doing push-ups every time someone pissed off Maverick. 

It was meant to be. 

Until the apartment across the hall went up for lease. 

And that’s how you failed to escape the boys entirely. Reuben and Mickey spotted the sign while helping you move in, and before you knew it, they were neighbours—closer than ever and almost impossible to get off your couch. 

A knock at the door draws your attention from the TV, and Natasha pauses mid-step on her way from the kitchen—bowl of popcorn in hand. 

“Ten bucks says it’s Fanboy,” she says, a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

You know that Mickey is stuck on overtime tonight—punishment from Maverick for mouthing off during a fly drill this morning. Natasha, however, hadn’t been in the air with you and clearly wasn’t listening on comms. 

Your eyes flick to the door and back to her. “Deal.” 

She drops the bowl on the coffee table and doubles back, swinging the door open. 

“Ugh,” she sighs. “It’s you.” 

Reuben blinks, his smile faltering as his brow creases. “Nice to see you too, Phoenix.” 

She heads back to the couch, Reuben trailing behind. 

“Why’d you knock?” she asks. “It’s always open.” 

“Wasn’t the other day.” 

You sit up straighter, rolling your eyes. “That’s because it was two a.m. and I was home alone—sleeping.” 

Natasha drops onto the couch, a little closer to you than before to make room for Reuben. “Do we seriously not have boundaries anymore?” she asks him. “What could you possibly need at two in the morning?” 

He plucks the popcorn bowl off the table and settles it in his lap. “Fanboy really wanted to watch The Princess Bride, but Netflix logged us out and we couldn’t remember the password.” 

You lean across Natasha for a handful of popcorn. “Then get your own Netflix account, you fucking freeloaders.” 

Reuben gives you a wounded look. “Okay, rude.” 

You roll your eyes again and flop back against the couch, shoving a handful of popcorn into your mouth. 

“What’s got your panties in a twist?” he asks, peering at you from Natasha’s other side. 

Natasha snorts but keeps her eyes on the TV. 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “My panties are perfectly untwisted.” 

Reuben chuckles and shifts his gaze to the screen. “Then maybe someone should twist them up—get some of that tension out.” 

You flip him off without even glancing his way, your scowl still locked on the TV. He just laughs again, and Natasha shoots you a sidelong, knowing smirk. 

Twenty minutes later—and after Reuben has all but annihilated the popcorn—the front door swings open and Mickey breezes in, making a beeline for the fridge. 

“Have you guys eaten?” he calls out. “Because I’m starving. I skipped lunch and Mav still kept me back.” He grabs a beer and spins to face the living room. “Isn’t that, like, illegal? Something about duty of care? I’m about to pass out, and it wasn’t even my fault I got held back. Hangman was the one mouthing off—I just told him where to stick it. But no, now Mav’s all professional, like he’s a real CO with a stick up his ass. Honestly? I liked him better before.” 

He yanks open a drawer, fishes out the bottle opener, and cracks the beer. “Anyway,” he says, glancing up at the three of you, “pizza?” 

A long beat of silence stretches through the apartment as you all stare at him. 

“Jesus Christ, Mick,” Reuben mutters. “Take a fucking breath.” 

Mickey just shrugs, heading into the living room. “What?” 

He drops onto the floor—figuring the couch is already squishy enough—and sets his beer on the coffee table before reaching for the remote. 

“No one’s watching this, right?” he asks—not that it matters. 

He doesn’t wait for a response—just clicks a few buttons and starts scrolling through Netflix. Frustration simmers under your skin, because yes, you were watching that, but you bite your tongue. You know you’re in a bad mood, and it’s not worth taking it out on your friends. No matter how irritating they can be. 

He finally lands on The Princess Bride and makes a satisfied little hum as he hits play. Then he tosses the remote back onto the table, picks up his beer, and leans back against the couch—his elbow jabbing your knee in the process. Your glass, balanced loosely on your leg, sloshes and spills cold liquid onto your lap. 

“Whoops,” Mickey says, glancing back at you. “My bad.” 

“Uh oh,” Natasha mutters, scooting slightly away from you. 

“Seriously, Mickey?” you snap, eyes narrowing. “Could you not act like a clumsy lapdog for five fucking seconds?” 

His eyes go wide at your tone. 

“How the hell did you even get into the navy?” you bite, rising from the couch. “You’ve got the spatial awareness of a drunk oaf and the grace of a newborn deer on ice.” 

You storm into the kitchen, slam your half-empty glass on the counter, and tear off a wad of paper towels. 

“Very descriptive insults,” Reuben mutters. 

Natasha lets out a dry laugh. “Yeah, that’s how you know she’s in a mood.” 

“Why?” Mickey asks, cautiously glancing toward you. 

You shoot him a glare over the kitchen island, dabbing paper towel at the top of your thigh. 

“Bob didn’t talk to her today,” Natasha says. “Like, at all.” 

“Ohhh,” Reuben and Mickey sigh in unison, the sound laced with realisation. 

You toss the damp towel into the sink before turning toward the fridge and yanking it open, bottles rattling. 

“To be fair,” Reuben offers, “you two were on different drills today. He probably just didn’t get the chance.” 

You whirl around, beer in hand, glare sharp. “He asked Phoenix if she wanted to go for a run tomorrow morning—while I was standing right there.” 

You shut the fridge with more force than necessary, then yank open the cutlery drawer and grab the bottle opener. 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey adds. “He asked me too. Wants to do the Coronado Island Loop.” 

You pop the cap off your beer and let it clatter to the floor. “Great. That’s great. Thanks, Mick. Love knowing I was the only one not invited.” 

Natasha sighs, her eyes following you as you trudge back toward the lounge. “I told you—he probably just didn’t think you were interested. When have you ever wanted to go running?” 

Reuben nods. “Yeah, you hate when Mav makes us run laps. You’re always the first to complain.” 

You flop down into your spot and take a long pull from your beer, eyes on the screen. “Yeah, well,” you mutter, “he could’ve asked.” 

“You could’ve spoken up,” Natasha points out. 

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, and invite myself to something I deliberately wasn’t invited to? No thanks.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Bob wouldn’t leave you out on purpose. He’s too nice.” 

“Exactly,” Reuben says. “It’s Bob. He probably just got awkward about it.” 

You scowl and gesture to Natasha. “He asked Phoenix.” 

“Yeah, but that’s Phoenix,” Mickey says. “They’re crammed together in the cockpit almost all day, every day. She doesn’t make him nervous.” 

You scoff and sink further into the couch. “I do not make him nervous.” 

Natasha sighs again. “Yes. You do. I’ve told you before.” 

“And I don’t believe you,” you say, despite the warmth creeping into your cheeks. “You’re always saying Bob has a thing for me, but I don’t see it. Wouldn’t he actually talk to me if he liked me?” 

“It’s Bob,” Reuben repeats. “He’s not like the rest of us.” 

“Exactly,” Natasha says. “He’s polite and respectful. Way better than the rest.” 

Mickey turns from the TV, shooting her a wounded look. “Ouch.” 

Reuben shrugs. “She’s right. That’s why we can’t tease him about it. We can’t even ask him if he likes you—though we’re pretty sure.” 

You roll your eyes. “How can you be sure when he’s never admitted it?” 

“Oh, it’s so obvious,” Mickey says with a giggle. “He gets all googly-eyed whenever you’re around.” 

You shoot him a sceptical look, brows furrowed. “I don’t see it.” 

“Well, of course he’s not going to let you catch him staring,” Reuben says, a smirk tugging at his lips. “He’s a gentleman.” 

“Yeah, and he’s not stupid,” Natasha adds. 

“But whenever you’re not paying attention,” Mickey continues, “his eyes are glued to you, like a magnet.” 

You roll your eyes, determined to seem unconvinced, even though you can feel the warmth rising in your cheeks. 

“Oh, and every time you’re brought up in conversation,” Reuben says, “he’s locked in.” 

“Unless we’re talking about you and another guy,” Natasha adds with a knowing look “Then he gets all huffy and weird.” 

You snort a laugh before taking another sip of your beer. 

“Why don’t you just ask him out?” Mickey suggests. “Put us all out of our misery. Bob will stop being so awkward, and you’ll stop being so—” He stops when you shoot him a glare. 

“So what, Mick?” 

He turns his gaze back to the TV, muttering, “Moody.” 

You scoff. “Yeah, okay. So, I’m just supposed to believe you guys when I haven’t actually seen any of these so-called signs myself?” 

Reuben and Mickey nod, but Natasha just watches. 

“I’m not doing that,” you say flatly. “I’m not asking him out just to be humiliated.” 

The conversation dies as you turn your attention back to the movie, taking another generous sip of beer. Mickey pulls out his phone to order pizza, and Reuben heads to the fridge for another round of beers. 

You keep your eyes locked on the TV, even though you’re barely watching. Instead, your mind is replaying the day, wondering if you missed the part where it was ‘so obvious’ that Bob has a crush on you. 

It’s hard not to agree with Reuben when he says, ‘It’s Bob,’ because it just is. He’s nice, considerate, raised to respect women and the navy. He’s the perfect officer and the perfect gentleman, and that’s half the reason you’re so damn attracted to him. A gorgeous guy with manners and respect to spare? Yes, please. 

But, God, sometimes you wish he was just a little more basic. A little more in touch with his primal side, instead of always using the higher-functioning part of his brain that most guys don’t even know exists. You’ve never even heard Bob say a woman is attractive, let alone spew some of the caveman shit that comes out of Jake’s mouth. 

And yeah, sure, you could ask him out. He might even say yes, just to be polite. But you don’t want to put that kind of pressure on him or the squad. Him dating you out of pity would be worse than flat-out rejection. 

An hour later, full of pizza and halfway through your fourth beer, you’re curled up with your head on Natasha's shoulder while The Ugly Truth plays on the TV—Mickey’s latest pick. 

“Man, what’s with you and romantic comedies?” Reuben asks, nose wrinkling as he watches Katherine Heigl flail on-screen. 

Mickey shrugs. “Don’t judge. Maybe I’m feeling a little lonely lately.” 

“Aww, Mick,” you coo, voice dripping mock-sympathy. “Better get used to it. You’re going to be alone forever.” 

His head snaps toward you, a scowl forming. “Okay, Miss-I-Refuse-To-Ask-Out-A-Guy-Who’s-Clearly-Into-Me-Because-I’m-Terrified-of-Rejection.” 

A smirk tugs at your mouth. “That was way too long to sting.” 

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes. “You’re mean when you’re not getting laid.” 

“Hey!” you gasp. “How do you know I’m not?” 

There’s a beat—a static moment where you realise you’ve just fucked up—before they all burst out laughing. And even you can’t help joining in, despite the embarrassed flush crawling across your chest. 

Then suddenly, Natasha jerks upright, knocking your head off her shoulder. Her laughter halts as she stares wide-eyed at the screen, lips parted in a gasp. “Holy shit. I have an idea.” 

“An idea?” Reuben echoes, brows lifting. 

“Yes!” She turns to you, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I know how we’re going to get Bob to admit it.” 

Mickey swivels on the floor to face her. “Admit what?” 

Reuben rolls his eyes. “That he likes Sunny. Duh.” 

“Oh.” Mickey glances your way, then back at Natasha. “How?” 

“He’s only human, right?” she says, and both boys nod. “It’s obvious he likes her—he’s just too damn respectful. He probably thinks she’s out of her league. Or he’s worried about dating someone in the squad. But deep down? He’s still a guy. He has the same thoughts, the same... tendencies. He’s just better at hiding them.��� 

Mickey snorts. “Oh yeah. If the way he looks at Sunny in a bikini is anything to go by, he’s definitely got those thoughts.” 

You shoot him a glare. “Don’t be gross.” 

“No, he’s right,” Natasha says quickly. “I hate it, but he’s right. Every time we’re at the beach and you’re half-naked, he looks like he’s barely holding it together.” 

You try to keep your face neutral, but your heart is thudding too fast against your ribs. 

“Wait,” Reuben says, leaning forward. “I think you’re onto something. Like when she squeezes into the booth at the bar and hovers over his lap for a second—he looks like he’s about to combust.” 

“Exactly!” Natasha exclaims. “That’s it. That’s what we need to do—we need to make him snap.” 

You narrow your eyes, ignoring the spark of adrenaline beginning to curl in your gut. “Okay... but how?” 

Natasha turns toward you, her eyes wide and full of focus. The same look she wears just before take-off. “You need to... tease him. Really make him suffer.” 

Mickey’s grin turns wicked. “Oh, this could work.” 

Your brow lifts. “Tease him how?” 

“Tempt him,” Reuben says, matching Mickey’s grin. “Push every button. Get close. Make him want you so badly he can’t hide it anymore.” 

You snort. “So, seduce him?” 

“Worse,” Natasha says. “You’re going to give this man the worst case of blue balls in naval history.” 

Both Mickey and Reuben flinch. 

“He’s going to end up in the hospital with a permanent boner,” Natasha adds, mischief blazing in her eyes. “Crying. On. His. Knees.” 

“Bob’s a good man,” Reuben says solemnly. “He’s respectful. Polite. Sensible. And we’re gonna have to break him.” 

“We?” you repeat, pulse racing. 

“Exactly,” Natasha nods. “If this were any other guy, you could get it done in a day. But Bob? Bob’s built different. If we want to unleash his inner caveman? It’s going to take a team.” 

Your stomach flips, anticipation stirring beneath your skin. 

“It won’t be easy,” Mickey says, his smirk returning. “But it will be fun.” 

“Sunny,” Reuben says, locking eyes with you. “Are you in or are you out?” 

That spark of adrenaline snaps through you like a live wire. 

You nod. “Okay. I’m in.” 

- 

The plan is simple. Straightforward. One objective. Everyone's clear on it. It’s been mapped out and set into motion—now all you have to do is play your part. Which is probably why your heart is hammering against your sternum like a damn war drum. 

“I don’t know, Nat,” you mutter as the two of you walk across the crunchy morning grass. “This feels wrong.” 

“What does?” she asks. “The thong or the plan?” 

You roll your eyes. “Both.” 

“Well, suck it up. There’s no backing down now.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and take a deep breath. Then you release it and reel yourself in. She’s right. You can’t be a chicken forever—and it’s not like you’re doing anything overtly humiliating. Besides, you’ve got a team at your back, and they’re not going to let you crash and burn. 

Last night, Natasha had texted Bob to let him know she was inviting you on the morning run. He’d replied with a simple thumbs up—something you found a little rude, but the boys insisted he only sends that when he doesn’t know what else to say. Which, apparently, is a good sign. 

This morning, you’d dug deep into your underwear drawer for a lacy black thong you bought a few years ago—back when you were more optimistic about your sex life. You pulled it on, despite the discomfort, and borrowed a pair of light blue workout tights from Natasha. Yep, that’s a black thong under pale blue, skin-tight leggings. 

“Without being creepy,” Mickey says from a few paces behind, “the plan is looking really good from back here.” 

You shoot him a scowl over your shoulder as Reuben smacks his arm, even though he’s wearing the same mischievous grin. 

The four of you wait at a picnic table in the park where you’d agreed to meet, and it doesn’t take long before you spot Bob walking across the grass—dark grey sweats and an oversized U.S. Navy hoodie, his hands tucked firmly into the front pocket. Quite possibly the most innocent, basic outfit he could’ve worn—a ridiculous contrast to yours—and yet you still find yourself thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts. 

About what’s under those sweats. About how good they’d look on your bedroom floor. 

Even the soft smile on his lips as he approaches makes you want to scream. How is one man such pure, soft boyfriend material... yet still manages to awaken your most primal instincts? It doesn’t make any sense. 

“Hey,” he says, eyes skimming over each of you before settling on Natasha. “We ready?” 

Natasha nods, and the five of you start walking off the grass toward the footpath before breaking into a jog. She and Bob take the lead while you hang back, with Reuben and Mickey flanking you like a private escort. Exactly as planned. You might be trying to fluster Bob, but you don’t need half of Coronado getting a look at your underwear—hence the two-man protection detail. 

Two kilometres later, you all stop for a quick stretch. Bob wanders off toward a water fountain, and you seize the opportunity to move up beside Natasha, placing yourself at the front of the group. Again—exactly according to plan. 

When Bob returns and joins in on Reuben and Mickey’s conversation, you and Natasha shuffle a little closer. She props one foot up on the bench, leaning into the stretch as she gives a subtle nod—the signal to begin. 

You let out a shaky breath, then slip on your best cool-and-confident facade. 

“I’m never doing this again,” you say to Nat—loud enough for the boys to hear. 

“I’m just gonna get a quick drink,” Reuben announces, conveniently cutting off their conversation. Right on cue. 

Mickey busies himself with stretching, leaving Bob to ‘accidentally’ overhear what comes next. 

“What?” Natasha asks. “Running? I told you you’d hate it.” 

“No,” you reply, pretending to lower your voice—even though you don’t. “Wearing a fucking thong.” 

She snorts, the laugh surprisingly genuine. Either she’s a fantastic actress, or she’s thoroughly enjoying herself. 

“Why are you wearing a thong?” 

You roll your eyes, falling deeper into the role. “Because I forgot to do my laundry and it was all I had left.” 

She snickers. “Well, have fun on the next eight kilometres.” 

“Oh yeah,” you sigh, “can’t wait.” 

You glance casually over your shoulder—and bingo. Bob’s face is bright red. His lips are slightly parted. And he’s blatantly staring at your ass like it’s the final clue to finding the national treasure—and Nicholas Cage is depending on him. 

Beside him, Mickey looks like he’s about to lose it. 

“Ready to keep going?” Reuben asks, walking back up—perfect timing. 

Everyone nods, and Bob clears his throat, licking his lips quickly. “Yep. Let’s go.” 

You and Natasha take off first, keeping yourselves in the lead. 

Every few minutes, you glance back—and without fail, Bob is staring. Each time, it sends your heart skittering, your cheeks heating, and your thoughts wandering into very unholy territory. 

Maybe your friends have been right all along. Maybe he does like you. Maybe this will actually work. 

By the seventh kilometre—with only three more to go—Bob looks like he’s hanging by a thread. He ditched his hoodie about two k’s ago, tying it around his waist. His hair his clinging to his forehead, damp with sweat, and his glasses are fogging up slightly near the bridge of his nose. 

You glance over your shoulder and give him a small smile. His lips pop open and he immediately averts his eyes, focusing instead on the pavement beneath his feet. You turn back, grinning to yourself, and that’s when he picks up his pace and jogs past both you and Natasha. 

Natasha nearly bursts out laughing, but she smacks a hand to her face, pretending to wipe the sweat from her upper lip. She shoots you a sideways look and a smirk—and the two of you push forward to flank Bob, jogging on either side of him. 

“Hey,” Natasha says, more than a little breathless. “You trying to make this a competition?” 

Bob shakes his head, eyes locked on the path ahead. “Nope. Just staying focused.” 

“What’s so distracting back there?” she asks, fighting a smirk. 

“Is Fanboy being a pest?” you add, giving yourself a layer of plausible deniability—just in case he starts to suspect anything. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to you, then drops briefly to your chest before snapping forward again. “Yeah,” he says, voice uneven. “He’s breathing like Darth Vader.” 

“Hey!” Mickey calls from behind. “I’m not deaf!” 

The five of you share a short, breathless laugh before settling into a comfortable silence. You’re thoroughly exhausted now and decide to give Bob a break for the last few kilometres—merciful, maybe, but also strategic. 

Soon enough, the group slows to a walk as the café marking the end of your run comes into view. 

“Thank God,” Mickey gasps. “I’m starving.” 

“You’re always hungry,” you mutter, shooting him a flat look. 

The café is busier than expected, and you’re about to start crafting a subtle excuse to avoid going in when Reuben steps up behind you and unzips his jacket. 

“Cover your ass up, Sunny,” he says, smirking. “For fuck’s sake.” 

You try—and fail—to suppress your grin as he hands you the jacket. You roll your eyes and tie it around your waist, grateful for the cover. 

Once you’re feeling a little more decent, the group heads inside to order breakfast and find a table out back on the patio. The food and coffee arrive quickly, and soon everyone is digging in, quiet with post-run hunger. Though judging by how often Bob’s eyes keep darting toward you, his appetite might not be entirely food-related. 

“So,” Mickey says through a mouthful of bacon, “are we finishing the Star Wars marathon this weekend, or what?” 

Bob perks up instantly, eyes going bright, the usual stormy blue softening into something more sky-coloured. “Yes. Tomorrow night?” 

Reuben frowns. “But that’s Sunday.” 

“Mav gave us Monday off,” Natasha chimes in. “Weekend rotation, remember?” 

“Oh, right.” Reuben nods. “Yeah, I’m in.” 

“How many are left?” Natasha asks. 

“Six,” Mickey replies. “Not including spin-offs.” 

“We’re not getting through six in one night,” you point out. “We’ll be lucky to finish the prequels.” 

“Unless…” he says, his eyes gleaming with mischief as they flick between everyone at the table, “we had a sleepover.” 

You snort into your coffee before taking a sip, expecting someone—probably Natasha or Reuben—to shut the idea down. But instead, their faces light up with the same devious smirk that Mickey is wearing. 

“We could,” Natasha says casually. “I think it’d be fun.” 

Bob blinks at her. “You do?” 

She nods. “Yeah. Why not? We could play some drinking games and not worry about getting home.” 

“Drinking games!” Reuben echoes with excitement. “You’re a genius, Phoenix.” 

With the way their eyes keep bouncing between you and Bob, it’s clear now: they’re scheming again. Plotting the next phase of Operation Bob's Blue Balls—and your pulse is already quickening with anticipation. 

“We could do it at my place,” Bob offers, earnest as ever. “I’ve got a spare room. Plenty of space.” 

Reuben grins. “What a great idea, Bob.” 

Bob glances around at his grinning friends, the smile on his face tinged with uncertainty. He has no clue what he’s just agreed to. 

- 

“Did you pack sexy PJs?” Natasha asks, her fingers drumming against the steering wheel. 

You roll your eyes. “I don’t own any sexy PJs.” 

She shoots you a sly smirk before her gaze flicks back to the road, her silence thick with something unspoken—as if she already has a plan to remedy your lack of Victoria’s Secret-worthy sleepwear. 

Bob’s apartment isn’t far from yours. In fact, none of you live all that far from each other, but tonight, the distance doesn’t seem to matter. No—the real reason for tonight’s sleepover is something far more sinister. 

You know you’re the last to arrive, not just from the cars parked along the street, but from the group chat where Mickey has been demanding you hurry up so he can order dinner. Your heart beats in your throat as you ride the elevator up, and the ding when it reaches Bob’s level startles you more than it should. 

Natasha’s smirk stays plastered on her face until she knocks on the door, and the second it swings open, with Bob standing there, she’s all business. 

“Hey,” she says casually, walking past him like she’s been here a thousand times. 

A stab of jealousy twists in your stomach—completely unwarranted but sharp nonetheless. Has Natasha been here a lot? 

“Hi,” you mutter, offering Bob a small smile as you follow Nat inside. 

There’s a chorus of hellos from the squad scattered around the living room. Bradley lounges across the two-seater couch furthest from the door, and Mickey is sprawled in a bean bag beside him, grinning like a kid in a candy store. Jake and Javy are tangled together on one end of the three-seater couch, probably having just finished fighting over the remote. And then there’s Reuben, sitting in the middle, with Natasha plopping down beside him. 

“Guess I’ll take the floor,” you mutter, dropping your bag beside the pile of everyone else’s stuff. 

“That’s alright,” Jake says with his usual cocky grin, “You can sit on Bobby’s lap for a bit of comfort.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, but you refuse to let him see the effect of his words. Instead, you roll your eyes and flip him off, then plop down onto the makeshift nest of cushions and blankets on the floor. 

Bob reappears from the kitchen with another round of beers, while Mickey takes orders for dinner. Then Bob settles down beside you, his arm brushing yours just enough to send a sparks crackling across your skin. A moment later, Jake hits play on The Phantom Menace, and the room settles into a comfortable, albeit charged, quiet. 

It doesn’t take long before Jake groans that he’s bored, and Reuben’s eyes immediately flick toward Natasha—like they’d both seen this coming from a mile away. 

“We could play a game,” Mickey offers, all too innocently. 

“Yes,” Jake grins, already invested. “Let’s play a game.” 

“What game?” Javy asks. 

Reuben opens his mouth, but Jake beats him to it. “Truth or Dare, obviously.” 

Natasha snorts and slaps a hand over her mouth, but not before you catch it. That was exactly what Reuben had been about to suggest—and Jake is walking right into whatever scheme they’ve cooked up. 

“How old are you?” Bradley asks Jake, brows furrowing. 

“Not as old as you, Grandpa,” Jake fires back. “But you could at least pretend to enjoy fun.” 

Bradley rolls his eyes but shrugs. “Fine.” 

Everyone else falls in line, shifting around until you’ve all formed a lopsided circle on the floor, your back half-angled toward the movie. Jake claps his hands together like the ringmaster of a circus—which might not be far off from what this night is about to become. 

“Alright. If you’re a chicken and won’t answer the truth or do the dare, you drink. Simple. I’ll go first.” He zeroes in on Bob—poor, unsuspecting Bob, who clearly just wanted to enjoy some Star Wars in peace. “Bob. Truth or Dare?” 

“Truth,” Bob says, almost too quickly. 

Jake leans forward with a shit-eating grin. “Who would you rather go on a date with—Phoenix or Sunny?” 

You choke on nothing, smothering the sound behind your hand and pretending it’s just a casual cough. 

Heat blooms across Bob’s cheeks and starts creeping up to the tips of his ears. He glances your way—just for a beat—then over at Natasha, and your stomach knots. Is he seriously having to think about this? Have your friends been totally misreading Bob this whole time? 

Then, after a moment of hesitation, Bob simply lifts his beer and takes a long sip. 

Jake groans. “Ugh, lame.” 

“Don’t worry, Bob,” Javy says with a laugh. “That was a trap. There was no right answer.” 

Bob chuckles—a low, rough sound right next to you that sends goosebumps up your arms. “I know,” he says, voice deceptively casual. Then he shifts his gaze toward Mickey. “Fanboy. Truth or Dare?” 

Mickey’s face lights up. “Dare.” 

Bob smiles—and for the first time tonight, it’s almost a smirk. There’s something sharp beneath the usual softness, and it makes your stomach flip. 

“Text the last person you hooked up with ‘thinking about you’—no context. And you can't reply until tomorrow.” 

Mickey’s grin drops. “What the fuck, man?” 

Bob just shrugs, raising his beer like it’s a toast. “You picked dare.” Then he brings the bottle to his lips and takes a generous swig. 

And holy shit—you might actually combust from the sight alone. Bob being just a little cocky. Bob utterly destroying Mickey with zero remorse. You know there’s a darker edge beneath that quiet, boy-next-door act. You know he’s got a mean streak. And God, you want to find it. Pull it out of him and ask—beg—for him to do things you can’t even say out loud. 

The group erupts into cackles as Mickey reluctantly pulls out his phone, Reuben peering over his shoulder to make sure he follows through. 

“There,” Mickey mutters, tossing the phone face-down on the floor. “You better watch your back.” 

But Bob doesn’t flinch. He just sits there, calm and collected, with that damn smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

When you finally tear your gaze away from him, you find Mickey’s eyes locked on you—an evil grin stretched across his face. “Sunny,” he says, voice smooth as silk. “Truth or Dare?” 

You steel your nerves, unsure of what’s coming but already sensing the trap. “Dare,” you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. 

Mickey’s grin widens, tipping his head forward like some sinister villain—and you just walked straight into his web. “Google a dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey... and whisper it slowly in Bob’s ear.” 

Jake snorts, his face twisted with amusement, and the rest of the group follows—dissolving into fits of laughter. All but Bob, who’s already choking on his beer, turning an even deeper shade of red before you’ve even touched your phone. 

You blink, eyes going wide. “Are you serious?” 

“Oh, I’m very serious,” Mickey replies, practically vibrating with excitement. “And no laughing. You have to sell it.” 

You lock eyes with Mickey, your death-glare sharp as your hands shake slightly while you pick up your phone. Then, you reluctantly tap the search bar and type in ‘dirty line from Fifty Shades of Grey.’ Before you realize what’s happening, Natasha leans over your shoulder. 

“Ooh,” she giggles, pointing at the screen. “That one.” 

You glance up at Bob, your expression a mix of apology and warning. He looks much less confident than before, his lips parted, cheeks flushed, blue eyes wide behind his glasses. His throat bobs as he swallows, and a small part of you—one that feels dangerous—stirs with excitement. 

The room falls into eerie silence, and you realize that Jake has paused the movie. All eyes are on you as you shuffle closer to Bob, getting onto your knees beside him. You plant one hand on his thigh to steady yourself, and you feel the muscles in his leg twitch at your touch. 

His breath hitches, his whole body going rigid. 

You lean in close, your lips barely brushing the shell of his ear as you murmur, “I want your hands on me. Your mouth. I want to feel you everywhere until I forget my own name.” 

A beat of silence stretches, and then Bob exhales sharply, his hand tightening around his beer bottle as if it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to Earth. 

“Jesus Christ,” Jake mutters under his breath. 

“Holy shit,” Reuben says, breaking into laughter. 

Mickey is howling, pounding his fist against the beanbag. “Worth it! So worth it!” 

You slowly pull back, biting back a grin as you settle back into your spot like nothing happened. Bob, however, is still stuck in the mental tailspin you just launched him into, blinking hard and adjusting his glasses like he needs a whole system reset. 

You meet his eyes, and for the briefest second, you see it—buried beneath the shock and heat—that glint of hunger. 

God help you, you're not making it out of tonight alive. 

The game moves on, but you can’t quiet your mind. You’re stuck on the way Bob’s thigh had felt beneath your palm, the way the muscles shifted under your touch. You can’t stop replaying the brush of your lips near his ear, the hitch in his breath, or the way he’d smelled—clean, warm, intoxicating. You don’t just want to fuck this man—you want to ruin him. You want him panting and wrecked, bruised and breathless, oversensitive and spent. There are things you want to ask of him that would guarantee you a one-way ticket to hell. But if he said yes—if he gave you those things—it’d be worth it. 

You’ve never wanted a man the way you want him, and it’s starting to feel like a genuine threat to your well-being. 

“Bob,” Natasha says, her voice snapping you back to reality, “Truth or Dare?” 

You’re not sure how many turns you’ve missed, but Bradley and Reuben seem to have swapped shirts, and there’s a bottle of tequila on the table that definitely wasn’t there earlier. 

“Dare,” Bob replies, seemingly recovered from your whispered indecency. 

Natasha grins. “I dare you to pick someone in this room to do a body shot off of—excluding me.” 

Your heart stutters at the last part. Did she say that because she thought he’d pick her? Would he have? Out of comfort, knowing it wouldn’t mean anything—or for some other reason? 

You shake the thought off quickly and join the group’s laughter, mentally scolding yourself for the jealous spiral. 

“Seriously, Phoenix?” Bob sighs, his brows knit. 

She just shrugs, laughing. “You picked dare.” 

He tips his head back and groans, giving you a perfect view of the long line of his throat, the sharp bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. 

“Come on, man,” Jake chuckles, “There’s only one clear choice.” 

Your cheeks flush as Jake nods toward you, green eyes sparkling like he’s the one about to do the dare. 

“As if you’re not going to pick Sunny,” Javy adds, watching as Bob’s eyes slowly scan the room. 

Then his gaze lands on you—soft, but laced with something heavier. Something simmering. 

He licks his lips, and you can’t stop yourself from imagining them on your skin. Imagining his tongue dragging over your body, slow and deliberate. The salt from your collarbone, your abdomen… or maybe lower—right above the waistband of your pants. Would he use the glass? Or would he press his mouth to your stomach, lips sealing around your navel, tongue lapping up the tequila while you tremble beneath him? 

Then the lime—between your lips, waiting for him. His mouth brushing yours as he leans in, breath mingling, tasting more than just the fruit. You imagine the sharp burst of citrus, the tease of contact, tequila heat still slick on his tongue. He’d bite down, lips grazing yours, and it would wreck you more than any kiss ever could. 

“Hangman,” Bob says suddenly, his gaze locked on the man across the circle—who now looks a lot less smug and a lot more stunned. 

Jake’s brows shoot up. “Me?” 

The room erupts into laughter. Bradley throws his head back, already fumbling for his phone to record whatever chaos is about to unfold. Mickey nearly falls over, gripping the bean bag for dear life, and Javy is doubled over, laughing so hard he can’t catch a breath. 

“Why would you do this to me?” Jake gasps, eyes wide. 

“You said there was only one clear option,” Bob replies evenly, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I agree.” 

“You bitch,” Jake mutters. 

“Oh, this is so much better than what I thought was going to happen,” Natasha says. “Shirt off, Bagman. Let’s go.” 

“This could be considered assault,” Jake mutters as he sits forward on the couch. 

“Then press charges,” Bradley says, half-choking on a laugh. “But let him finish first.” 

Natasha bolts to the kitchen for lime and salt, and the rest of the group scrambles to clear space on the lounge like they’re prepping for surgery. Jake peels off his shirt with the theatrics of a martyr, glaring at each of his cackling friends. 

Bob, meanwhile, looks cool as ever—far more composed than Jake. And maybe that’s the point. Picking you would’ve set the room on fire. Picking someone else would’ve gotten laughs. But picking Hangman? That’s just cruel and perfect—and from the slow curl of a smirk on Bob’s lips, he knows it. 

“Let’s go, Seresin,” Natasha says, reappearing with lime in one hand, salt in the other. 

Jake lies back with exaggerated misery, like a man about to be sacrificed at the altar. “I swear to God, Floyd, if you do anything weird with your mouth-” 

“I won’t,” Bob says, calm and unbothered. “Unless you want me to.” 

Your stomach somersaults. He didn’t even look at you—but somehow, it still feels like the line was meant for you. Like he knows exactly what he does to you, without even trying. 

Bob Floyd is fucking smooth when he wants to be. 

The room falls eerily quiet as Bob kneels beside the couch, one hand braced on the cushion beneath Jake’s body, the other holding the tequila bottle. He looks serene—like he’s preparing for a sacred ritual rather than licking salt off another man’s chest. 

“This is happening,” Mickey whispers, wide-eyed. “This is actually happening.” 

“Focus, Bob,” Natasha says solemnly, holding the shot glass as he pours the tequila. “We believe in you.” 

Bob sets the bottle down and leans toward Jake slowly, both hands now braced on the couch as he lowers his head to the other man’s chest. The room is absolutely silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric and the charged hush of everyone holding their breath. 

Jake stares straight up, completely stiff. “Don’t look at me while you do it.” 

“I’m not,” Bob says, deadpan. 

He dips his head and licks the salt clean off Jake’s skin. Jake jerks like he’s been hit with a defibrillator. 

“Oh my God,” Javy whispers, clutching his chest. “This is the best thing I’ve ever witnessed.” 

Natasha hands Bob the shot, and he tosses it back like he’s sampling a fine whiskey. Then he turns to the lime Natasha has jammed between Jake’s clenched teeth. 

“Don’t you dare,” Jake warns. 

“I’m just following instructions,” Bob replies calmly, and leans in. 

There’s a ridiculous half-second where it looks like they’re about to kiss—and everyone knows it. You bite your fist to keep from bursting out laughing… or something else entirely. Because Bob? Cool as ice. Smooth as ever. He doesn’t even flinch as his mouth brushes Jake’s, teeth clamping down on the lime and tugging it free. 

Jake makes a choked sound halfway between outrage and existential crisis. 

Then the room explodes. 

Bradley nearly falls off the lounge, still recording, laughter shaking his whole body. Natasha collapses into Javy’s lap, practically wheezing. Mickey is making noises like he’s being exorcised, and you’re on the brink of tears, shoulders shaking with laughter as Bob calmly returns to his seat, lime in hand, mouth twisted slightly at the tartness. 

Jake bolts upright, wiping his mouth. “I need therapy.” 

Bob frowns. “You needed therapy before that.” 

“Yeah,” Jake spits, yanking his shirt back on. “Well, now I need more.” 

You’re not sure you’ve ever felt it before—and you definitely don’t plan on voicing it—but right now, you are incredibly fucking jealous of Jake Seresin. 

It takes a while, but eventually the group settles down and the game fizzles out—mostly thanks to Jake’s relentless sulking. Not long after, Mickey gets a notification that the food is nearly delivered, and everyone jumps into action to clear the table and grab what’s needed for dinner. 

Less than ten minutes later, you’re all crowded around the coffee table, shovelling Chinese food into your mouths and stealing bites off each other’s plates. Jake’s sour mood has mostly vanished, and everyone is focused on the final battle of the movie playing out on-screen. 

By the time the credits start rolling, most of the food is gone. You and Natasha start carting plates, bowls, and empty containers into the kitchen while the guys finish polishing off their meals, scraping the last of the food off their plates and into their mouths.  

“Did I mention I brought dessert?” Reuben pipes up, eyeing you as you stack a few plates in one hand. 

You raise a brow. “Are you about to make a gross joke?” 

“No,” he laughs, shaking his head. “You know Barb, down the hall?” 

“Neighbour Barb with the yappy chihuahua?” 

He nods. “Yeah. She bakes, like… the most amazing stuff.” 

You narrow your eyes, plates now balanced in both hands. “Do I even want to know how you know this?” 

Mickey answers for him, talking around a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “Because we’re nice to our neighbours.” 

You give him a disgusted look before turning back to Reuben. “Okay. Get to the point.” 

He grins, a smug twist playing at the corner of his mouth. “She made a huge batch of cream pies—I mean, puffs. So she brought some over, and I brought them here. They’re to die for.” 

Your eyes widen almost imperceptibly—but Reuben catches it, and you can see the spark of amusement flash across his face. 

“Have you ever had a cream pie, Sunny?” Mickey asks, beaming up at you with sauce smeared on his face. 

Jake and Javy snort, and behind you—you swear you hear Bob snicker. 

“Yes, Mick,” you bite out. “I’ve had a cream puff.” 

You turn sharply back toward the kitchen, but not before catching the small smirk on Bob’s lips, his cheeks pink as he spoons another mouthful of kung pao chicken into his mouth. 

“That’s not what I asked!” Mickey calls after you, giggling like a grade-schooler. 

You roll your eyes and drop the plates by the sink, where Natasha and Bradley are already washing up. 

“Lookin’ a little red there, Floyd,” Reuben teases, his voice carrying from the living room to the kitchen. 

It’s the chicken,” Bob replies quickly—but there’s something in his voice that makes a stupid, lovesick grin spread across your face. 

Once everything is washed up and everyone has returned to the living room, Jake hits play on the next film. You’re back on the floor, this time with your back pressed to the couch beneath Natasha, who’s curled up with her legs tucked beneath her, leaving you space to lean. Bob is further away now, sprawled on his back across a fluffy blanket, a cluster of pillows beneath his head, hands folded neatly over his stomach. 

You try to keep your eyes on the screen—it really shouldn’t be that hard with both Hayden Christensen and Ewan McGregor to enjoy—but your gaze keeps drifting to Bob. He looks so content, so cute, his lips tipped into a soft half-smile and his blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses. There’s something about him that turns your brain to absolute mush, and you still can’t figure out what. 

Maybe it’s the dichotomy of him. How sweet and quiet he is—some might even say shy, but you know better. He’s just overwhelmingly nice, with a pretty face to match. And yet, you have to remind yourself that this man is in the navy. He’s not spineless—in fact, he’s the total opposite. He’s sharp and quick-witted, strong both mentally and physically. There’s not a single thing about him that’s weak, yet he lets people assume otherwise. 

Maybe it’s confidence. The kind that doesn’t need to be loud. He doesn’t care what people think or say. Not that he isn’t awkward sometimes—he definitely can be—but that’s more about being introverted. He doesn’t need to show off or run his mouth like Jake. He doesn’t need to fly like an idiot to prove himself. He’s just Bob. He knows who he is, and he’s not apologetic about it. 

What is it they call that? 

Oh yeah… big dick energy. 

Your eyes drift down his torso, lingering briefly on his hands—the way his long fingers are laced together—before continuing down to the waistband of his dark blue joggers. There’s a bulge in his lap. A notable one. And a slight outline continuing down the left leg of his pants… 

Wait. That’s like… kind of huge. 

A hard nudge to your shoulder startles you, and you whip around to see Natasha staring at you. Her eyes are wide, her lips pulled into a smirk—half disbelieving, half smug. 

Stop staring, she mouths. 

You press your lips together to hold back a laugh, a little giddy from your fourth—or maybe fifth—beer. Your face feels warm, and you know if you keep looking at Nat, you’ll start laughing, so you quickly turn back to the movie. 

“Okay,” Mickey pipes up, scrambling out of the beanbag and to his feet, “who wants cream puffs?” 

“Only if you serve them warm and full,” Jake shoots back. 

The room erupts—half groans, half childish laughter. Mickey just snorts and disappears into the kitchen, Reuben trailing behind him. A few minutes later, they return, each holding a heaping plate stacked with warm, golden cream puffs. 

“Fair warning,” Reuben says, setting one down on the table, “these things are insane. Like... dangerously good.” 

You grab one without hesitation—soft, golden, still warm to the touch. It’s dusted in powdered sugar and practically bursting with cream. You bite into it and—holy hell—the taste explodes in your mouth. Sweet. Rich. Ridiculously creamy. You moan without meaning to, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Oh, wow,” you say around a mouthful. “That’s... actually insane.” 

The group hums and laughs in agreement, but you barely notice. You take another bite—bigger this time—and it squishes a little too easily in your hand. Cream oozes out the side, trailing down your chin and, with an audible plop, lands squarely between your breasts. 

“Oh, shit,” you mutter, trying to swipe the cream away—but all you manage to do is smear it further. 

There’s a beat of silence, and even the movie playing in the background seems to go quiet. 

“Jesus Christ,” Reuben says, somewhere between impressed and scandalised. “You sure you don’t need a minute alone with that thing?” 

Laughter rumbles around you, and only when you look up do you realise how provocative that just was—the heat in your cheeks deepening. But then your eyes catch on Bob. 

He’s not laughing. He’s not even blinking. 

The lazy smile he wore earlier? Gone. He’s sitting upright now, shoulders tense, jaw clenched. His gaze is locked on you like he forgot what movie is playing, what day it is—hell, maybe even his own name. 

“Floyd?” Mickey nudges his leg with a foot. “You good?” 

Bob jolts slightly, as if waking from a trance. He coughs, shifts, and yanks the blanket from the floor to cover his lap—too quickly to be casual. 

“They, uh...” he clears his throat, voice rough. “They look really good.” 

Your stomach swoops as he leans forward, still holding the blanket tight in place, and reaches for a cream puff from the plate right in front of you—still avoiding your eyes entirely. 

Natasha leans in from behind, her voice low. “You are killing him.” 

You press your lips together to hide your grin, eyes flicking back to Bob—who’s now doing everything in his power not to look in your direction. 

The cream puffs disappear in what has to be a record amount of time. You’re pretty sure you watched Javy inhale at least four, and there was an unnecessarily loud argument between Mickey and Bradley over the last one, which ended in a begrudging decision to split it. 

The rest of the movie plays out without incident, and afterward, everyone decides to change into their PJs for the final film of the night. You’re honestly surprised everyone has made it to movie number three, but you’re not complaining. 

The boys start rummaging through their bags, swapping out jeans for boxers or stretchy pajama pants while Natasha grabs her bag and disappears into the bathroom. You keep your eyes glued to your phone screen to avoid catching a glimpse of something you definitely don’t want to see—because these boys? They have no shame. 

“You can change in my room if you want,” Bob offers. 

You glance up, making sure to keep your eyes fixed on him, because just a little to the left is where Jake is still mid-change. 

“Yeah?” 

Bob nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he gestures down the short hallway past the kitchen. “It’s the door just after the bathroom.” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, pushing to your feet and grabbing your bag as you slip past the others—now teasing Mickey about his choice of boxers. 

The door is open just a crack, and your heart thuds a little harder than it should as you ease it the rest of the way. The smell hits first—clean and warm, with a twist of vanilla that makes you want to wrap yourself in it and never leave. 

You flick on the light and shut the door behind you, dropping your bag to the floor. You know you should just get changed, but… you can’t help it. You’ve only been to Bob’s apartment a couple times before—once to help him move in (because of course the whole squad helped), and once with Natasha to pick him up before a night out. But never in here. Never in his room. 

It’s almost unusually tidy, but that’s navy life for you. His bed is made neatly, topped with a soft baby blue duvet, coordinated beige and cream pillows, and a throw blanket folded at the foot. It’s a little faded and looks handmade, like something passed down through generations. 

On one side of the room, a bookshelf houses a quiet little collection of well-loved paperbacks, a few aviation manuals, and a line of model planes—some pristine and precise, others clearly glued together by a much younger version of him. A framed photo of a beaming, pint-sized Bob in oversized glasses sits on the dresser, nestled between a small baseball trophy and a display of navy challenge coins. 

A pair of worn sneakers sits neatly by the door, and his uniform jacket hangs off the closet handle, the door slightly ajar. The name tag catches just enough light to pull your eyes toward it. Everything about the room feels like him—modest, thoughtful, quietly proud. It’s the kind of unintentional intimacy that makes you feel like you’ve slipped behind the curtain and gotten a glimpse of the real Bob. 

And somehow… that makes your chest ache. It’s just a room. But it feels so much like him—like you could curl up in here with him for hours, doing nothing but talking and dreaming. Getting lost in each other. Letting the rest of the world wait. And then, later, getting tangled together. Soft kisses, whispered pleas, gentle moans—slow and unhurried, learning one another’s bodies until you know each other better than you know yourselves. 

You shake your head hard and take a breath. You’ve already been in here too long. Pull it together. 

You crouch beside your bag and pull out your pajamas—soft lounge shorts and a matching long-sleeved shirt. It’s nothing special, but a step up from your usual: an old, food-stained navy tee and nothing but underwear. 

You change quickly and shove your clothes into your bag before leaving the room. The lounge room has quieted down, everyone now back in their seats—except for Mickey and Bob, who are in the kitchen grabbing another round of drinks. 

Jake hits play as soon as they return, and everyone settles in again. There’s less chatter now, probably because of how late it’s gotten. Bradley is almost definitely asleep, eyes half-shut on the two-seater, while Mickey is having the time of his life seeing how many of Bradley’s fingers he can get stuck in the top of his beer bottle. 

Natasha is curled up behind you, her head resting on Reuben’s shoulder, and his blinks are getting longer and slower by the second. Jake is surprisingly alert and invested in the film, but Javy looks like his head might lull back at any moment. And Bob—Bob is still wide awake, his eyes sparkling with interest as he watches the screen. 

Halfway through the film, Mickey pushes to his feet and offers another round of drinks, prompting a few sleepy murmurs of ‘yes’ from the others. 

“I’ll help,” you offer, stretching as you rise from the floor and follow him into the kitchen. 

You open the fridge and start pulling out beers while Mickey pops the tops off. But when you close the fridge and turn back around, you spot Reuben—now suddenly very awake—watching Mickey with intent. He’s wearing that little smirk that always means trouble, clearly trying to telepathically communicate something to his WSO. 

Your brow furrows as you glance between them, trying to decode the silent exchange. Mickey looks equally confused for a second... but then realisation dawns and a wicked grin curls onto his face. 

He turns to you and mutters, “Sorry about this.” But he doesn’t sound even remotely apologetic. 

Your frown deepens. “What are you-” 

But you don’t get to finish the question before he starts shaking the beer bottle in his hand. 

“Mick—!” you cry, just as he pops the top off and sprays you with beer. 

You shriek, throwing your hands in front of your face like that’ll somehow stop the onslaught. But it doesn’t. You’re soaked. 

“What the hell, Fanboy?” Reuben calls from the living room, as if this wasn’t entirely his doing. 

“Mickey!” you shout, dropping your arms and glaring at him. 

“Whoops,” he says with a grin. “My bad.” 

Natasha snorts and smacks a hand over her mouth. “Sorry. It’s not funny.” 

“Wow, Fanboy,” Jake pipes up, the smirk in his voice unmistakable. “Is that the first time you’ve made a girl wet?” 

Mickey glares—or tries to. He’s way too pleased with himself for it to land properly. 

“Hey, Floyd,” Reuben calls, “you got any spare clothes for Sunny?” 

Bob is already looking at you, lips parted and cheeks flushed. He swallows hard before turning to Reuben and nodding. “Yeah, of course.” Then he stands, eyes flicking back to you. “Do you want to shower?” 

Mickey gasps, scandalised. “Robert Floyd, are you propositioning her?” 

Bob’s blush deepens, colouring his neck and the tips of his ears, but he doesn’t look particularly ashamed. He looks… flushed. Hot. Close to unravelling. His glare cuts back to Mickey, sharper than usual, a little too dark to be playful. And then his gaze shifts back to you—specifically, your chest. 

You follow his line of sight and immediately wrap an arm around yourself. Your nipples are pebbled beneath your shirt, the damp fabric clinging in all the worst ways. Or the best—if you ask Bob Floyd. 

“Yes,” you say tightly. “A shower would be good.” 

The room dissolves into quiet laughter as you follow Bob down the hall. He slips into his room for a moment, then returns with a folded towel and some clothes stacked neatly on top. 

“Here,” he says, offering them to you. “Take as long as you want. You can use whatever’s in there. Not that there’s much.” 

He dips his head—blush still firmly in place—and heads back to the living room. 

You stare after him for a second, dumbfounded. He got embarrassed about his lack of shower products? That’s what embarrassed him? Not the full-body, post-beer-shower eye-fucking he just gave you? 

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it, exhaling hard. You’re buzzing. Overstimulated. Untouched and on fire. You feel like you’re being edged and then abandoned, left to squirm. You’re so sensitive it hurts. Bob is teasing you just as much as you’re teasing him—those glances, the heat behind his eyes, the way his mouth hangs open like he wants to say something but never does. 

You might’ve thought you were playing a game, but Bob Floyd is about to kill you without even realising it. 

You strip quickly, trying not to dwell on the fact that you’re naked in Bob’s apartment. You keep the water on the cooler side—a half-hearted attempt to wash away the heat still simmering under your skin. But it doesn’t help. You shower fast and step out even faster, wrapping yourself in the towel Bob gave you. It’s fluffy, soft, and smells just like him—which makes that spot deep behind your hipbones ache. 

You dry off in record time, then turn to the small pile of clothes on the vanity—Bob’s clothes. Your hands tremble slightly as you lift the satin boxers, dark blue with little white stars, and slide them up your legs. Then the shirt: a worn white tee with a faded Star Wars logo across the chest. 

His scent wraps around you the second you slide it over your head—oversized and impossibly soft against your warm skin. You try not to focus on the rasp of cotton against your nipples. God, if he ever actually touches you, you might just combust. 

You take a deep breath, trying to calm the fire burning low in your belly, then scoop up your beer-soaked clothes and open the bathroom door—steam spilling into the hallway as you step out. 

"Finally," Mickey says, popping up in front of you like he’s been waiting, holding out a plastic bag. 

You blink. “What?” 

“For your clothes,” he says simply. 

“Oh.” You take it and shove the damp material inside. 

His gaze dips—just for a beat—before sliding back up. Then he grins, gives you a cheeky wink, and turns back toward the lounge room. You follow, every eye lifting to you the second you reappear. Warmth floods your cheeks. You’re in Bob’s clothes. Bob's boxers. Bob's shirt. 

“Can we play the movie now?” Jake whines, oblivious to the tension humming through the room. “It was just getting good.” 

You nod, unable to speak, your gaze already locked with Bob’s. 

His eyes rake down your body, slow and deliberate. He takes in the curve of your neck, the slope of your shoulder, the hang of his shirt against your chest. His gaze catches there, as if he can see straight through the fabric, then continues its journey down to the hem. The shorts are barely visible beneath the shirt, and judging by the heat in his eyes, he might be wondering why you're wearing pants at all. 

You shift under the weight of his stare, hyper-aware of every inch of fabric against your skin—of how suddenly hot the room feels. Jake presses play, but no one is watching the screen. Every pair of eyes bounces between you and Bob, waiting—expecting—something to happen. 

Bob looks wrecked. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, jaw tight. Like he has to physically hold himself back. 

Natasha clears her throat, startling you more than it should. You tear your gaze away and flash her a sheepish smile before finally forcing yourself to move, padding back to your spot on the floor. 

Even then, you can feel Bob’s eyes tracking every step. 

The rest of the movie plays out in near silence, broken only by the soft snoring that eventually starts up from Bradley and Javy. It takes a while for you to settle, but you finally curl up on the floor with a pillow hugged to your chest, watching Anakin fall apart on-screen and become Darth Vader. 

Jake is the only one still fully invested in the film. Even Bob seems distracted now, his eyes flicking toward you more often than the TV. He shifts in place, uncomfortable, dragging the blanket higher across his lap and holding it like a lifeline. You try not to smirk. 

You think you know what might be going on under there… but you’re not about to assume. It couldn't possibly be just because you’re wearing his clothes. 

…Right? 

Eventually, the credits start rolling and everyone begins to stir. 

“Where am I sleeping?” Mickey asks, already eyeing Bob like he’s got plans. 

Bob shrugs. “Wherever. There’s the couches and a couple beds in the spare room, but someone’ll have to sleep with me.” 

“I think Rooster’s good here,” Jake says, glancing at the man awkwardly passed out on the two-seater couch. “I’ll take this one.” 

“I’ll sleep with you, Bobby,” Javy says through a yawn, stretching so wide his joints pop. 

“Damn it,” Mickey mutters as he walks past, bumping your shoulder with his. “Missed opportunity.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. You know damn well you wouldn’t get any sleep next to Bob—not when he smells like that, looks like that, and keeps looking at you the way he does. So it’s probably for the best, but still, the thought lingers. 

Everyone takes turns brushing their teeth and shuffling off to bed. You end up in the fold-out bed with Natasha in the spare room, while Reuben and Mickey claim the air mattress on the floor. Apparently, there’s no escaping these boys—not even for one night. 

Mumbled goodnights fade into rustling fabric and shifting limbs, then finally, silence. 

Too much silence. 

You lie on your back, eyes on the ceiling, thoughts screaming through your head like they’re in a race. You should be tired—your body aches—but your brain refuses to shut up. You toss the blanket off, overheated, but even with the cooler air, your skin feels flushed. You roll to your side, careful not to jostle Natasha on the creaky mattress, but nothing helps. 

You glance down at the boys, both snoring with their mouths open, and finally sigh. Swinging your legs off the bed, you wriggle out of Bob’s shorts, thinking maybe it’ll help. You don’t usually sleep in pants anyway. 

It doesn’t. 

Ten minutes later, you quietly slip off the bed and tiptoe toward the door, easing it open with practiced care to avoid the squeaky hinges. Then you turn down the hallway, barefoot and warm-skinned, and pad into the kitchen. 

The hem of Bob’s shirt brushes against your bare thighs, stoking the fire already simmering between them as you stop in front of the fridge and pull the door open. A cool flood of light spills across the kitchen tiles. You grab a bottle of water and twist off the cap, stepping back and tipping it to your lips. But the cold rush does nothing to cool the heat thrumming beneath your skin. 

“You always walk around other people’s places half naked?” 

You choke, almost spilling water down your chin as you turn toward the voice—that low, raspy sound that makes your skin prickle and your spine snap straight. 

Bob stands at the edge of the kitchen, leaning casually against the far counter—but there’s nothing relaxed about the way he holds himself. In the dim glow of the fridge light, he looks almost ethereal. His eyes are sharp, lit with something that borders on pain—hunger, maybe, or full-blown starvation—and his arms are crossed over his bare chest. 

Yeah. Bob Floyd is shirtless. 

You register a flicker of jealousy for Javy—the man who gets to sleep next to this—but you don’t let yourself linger on it. Not when Bob is standing right there in nothing but a pair of loose boxers, the fabric doing nothing to hide the impressive shape beneath. 

You don’t know if it’s because he’s a little turned on or just blessed, but damn. 

“You okay?” he asks, though it doesn’t sound like a real question—because he already knows the answer. 

No. No, you’re not. 

You clear your throat, dragging your eyes back up to his. “Yeah, I—uh-” 

Your words falter when his gaze drops to your legs. There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you—like he’s trying to memorise every inch. His eyes drag slowly up your bare thighs, pausing at the hem of his shirt before gliding over your waist and stopping at your chest, where your nipples are clearly outlined beneath the thin cotton. 

The heat of his stare burns hotter than any touch. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice quiet, like he’s just making conversation. Like he has no idea what he’s doing to you. 

He pushes off the counter and walks straight toward you—slow, but sure. He stops right in front of the fridge, close enough that if you moved even a breath closer, you’d feel your nipples graze his skin. 

You take a step back—barely. Just enough to let him slip past you. 

He nods slightly—a silent thanks—and ducks into the fridge for his own water. When he shuts the door, the kitchen is plunged into darkness, save for dim moonlight filtering in from the far windows—but you can still see him. His outline, the dips and curves of his lean torso, the tilt of his head as he tips the bottle back and drinks. 

You watch his throat move with every swallow, your lips parting slightly, craving his skin on your tongue. You don’t move. You don’t breathe. You just stand there, watching. 

When he finishes, he turns to the sink and drops the empty bottle in before bracing both hands against the bench. His chin dips toward his chest, and you see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he exhales—hard. 

Before you can stop yourself, your feet carry you forward until you’re beside him, your bare arm brushing against his. You place your own bottle in the sink, then turn toward him and lean your hip against the counter. 

“Bob,” you whisper. 

Every sound in the apartment feels louder now—the faint snores, the creak of the floorboards, your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. 

He looks at you, only turning his head, not his body. “Don’t—” he says softly. “Don’t say my name like that.” 

You frown, sliding your hand over his. His grip tightens on the bench like he’s anchoring himself. 

“Like what?” you ask softly. 

“Like you want me,” he murmurs. His voice is thick—rough around the edges like it’s been scraped raw. Like he's holding something back with every laboured breath. 

You press closer, your chest against his arm. The contact is electric. Your skin separated only by a whisper of cotton—his cotton. 

“Bob,” you breathe, a little desperate now. 

He exhales sharply and drops his gaze to the sink again, like something there might help him. “This isn’t…” His jaw flexes. “We can’t do this.” 

“Do what?” you ask, playing innocent, even as your fingers trail lightly up his arm. 

You can feel your chest rising and falling faster than it should, your breasts pressing against his arm like some wanton, starry-eyed girl. But you can’t bring yourself to step away. Every inch of you is on fire, every nerve ending singed and tingling. You want him to turn around and take you—bend you over the counter and make you scream his name. Who gives a fuck who’s listening... or watching. You just want Bob. You want him to know how much you want him, how deeply you need him. How desperate he makes you without even trying. 

“Do you have any idea,” he whispers, finally turning to face you fully, “what you do to me?” 

You feel it—hard and thick—pressing against your lower belly. There’s no mistaking it now. 

“Bob…” Your voice is a sigh, wrecked and begging. 

He catches your wrist, his grip firm, nearly bruising. His eyes are wild as they search your face—from your eyes to your lips, down to your chest, and back again—like he’s torn between reason and ruin. 

You hold still. Waiting. Daring. Wanting him to snap. 

But then... he’s gone—his warmth, his scent, the burning look in his eyes. All of it, gone in a breath. 

“Goodnight,” he mutters, so low you barely hear it before the soft click of his bedroom door… and then the snap of the lock. 

You’re left standing there, chest heaving, skin burning. Your eyes sting with unshed tears, and your mind is a mess. What the fuck just happened? Your panties are damp, and your chest aches like you've been torn in two. You want to cry, but you also want to break down his door. How dare he build you up like that? Look at you like that, talk to you like that—and then just walk away. 

It takes several minutes before you can move, your legs shaky, your mind racing. You stumble back to the spare room, collapse into bed, and stare at the ceiling, flat on your back—Bob’s shirt clinging to your skin. 

You don’t sleep. Not at all. 

- 

“He what?” Natasha’s eyes go impossibly wide. “And then he just—he left?” 

You nod slowly, keeping your eyes fixed on your lunch. The mess hall is loud enough to muffle your conversation—one you should’ve had yesterday but couldn’t summon the strength for. So here you are, in the middle of the hall, with the boys a couple tables over, surrounded by lieutenants you don’t know—blissfully unaware of your current crisis. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, stabbing at another piece of pasta you don’t plan to eat. 

You haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours—not since the run-in with Bob. Everything feels bland now, drained of colour and taste, too dull to bother with. Anything that isn’t Bob just feels lacking, and you're starting to worry that one moment—one heated, breathless moment—has completely ruined you. 

“That’s insane,” Natasha mutters. “That’s so... not Bob. How could he be so—I don’t know... rude? I just—I have no words.” 

You shrug one shoulder. “It wasn’t rude. He just seemed... confused, I guess. And I don’t blame him. If I’m not what he wants, then-” 

“Stop right there,” Mickey interrupts, sliding into the chair beside you. 

Reuben drops into the seat next to Natasha, eyeing your tray of food. 

“Sorry,” he says, reaching across the table to steal your apple. “We couldn’t get away any faster.” 

You glance past Mickey, down the row of tables, and catch Bob’s eyes on you—just for a second—before he quickly looks away. Bradley, Jake, and Javy are still deep in conversation with the other guys, oblivious. Bob seems to be the only one noticing Reuben and Mickey’s absence. 

“Start again,” Mickey says. “From the beginning. We knew something happened.” 

Natasha snorts around a mouthful of pasta, and you sigh, knowing there’s no point arguing. They’d get it out of you one way or another. 

Twenty minutes later, when you finally finish recapping the story for the second time, Natasha taps her watch and nods toward the exit. “We better get back before Mav, or he’ll keep us late tonight.” 

Mickey’s brows are nearly touching as he processes everything you’ve said. “What does he mean, ‘you can’t do this’? He clearly wanted to—so why didn’t he?” 

You pick up your tray and follow Natasha toward the return station. “Your guess is as good as mine.” 

“I mean,” Reuben says, brows furrowed, “you said he was... at attention, right?” 

You blow a half-hearted laugh through your nose. “Yeah.” 

“So he definitely wanted to,” he says as the four of you exit the mess hall. “I just can’t think of why he wouldn’t go for it.” 

“I think it’s because you’re in the same squad,” Natasha offers. “He’s probably worried it’ll get weird—or worse, if it doesn’t work out.” 

You roll your eyes as you cross the hot concrete, heading back to the hangar. “But we’re both adults. Why can’t he just sack up and fuck me, and we’ll worry about the consequences later?” 

Your voice comes out louder than you meant, and you don’t miss the odd looks a few passing officers send your way. 

Reuben chuckles. “Maybe you should just say that to him.” 

“No,” Natasha says, turning toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ve got a better idea. Call it Plan B or whatever, but now... we’re bringing out the big guns.” 

“So Sunny pressing her tits against him wasn’t the big guns?” Mickey quips with a grin. 

You smack him lightly across the chest before looking back to Natasha. “I doubt anything will work at this point, but... I’m curious. What’s the idea?” 

“How’s your gag reflex?” she asks, tilting her head thoughtfully. 

You rear back, eyebrows raised—and both Reuben and Mickey choke on laughter. 

Natasha sighs, rolling her eyes. “Not like that. I mean you’re going to need a strong stomach and a Juilliard degree to pull this off.” 

You frown, slowing just slightly as the hangar looms into view. “Okay...” 

She straightens up and faces forward, a proud smirk tugging at her mouth and her chin tilted high. “We’re going to make Bob jealous.” 

- 

Out of Mickey and Reuben, you all collectively decided that Reuben was the more convincing option. Not that you don’t think Mickey’s gorgeous—you do, and so does he—but his acting skills are questionable at best. You at least have a little more faith in Reuben’s ability to fake flirt without making it weird. 

The plan is simple. Convince Bob that he’s lost his shot—or that he’s just about to. Make it clear you’re happy to move on. If he wants you... well, now he’s going to have to fight for it. Because tempting him wasn’t enough—apparently—you need to dig deeper. Tap into something primal and pull it to the surface. Exploit what lingers under the skin of every man: jealousy and competition. 

You’re going to make this a game he can’t afford to lose. 

“You ready for Phase Two?” Natasha asks as you cross the base, the sun still barely above the horizon. 

You take a deep breath of fresh morning air. “Let’s do it.” 

She and Mickey take off ahead of you and Reuben to arrive in the training room first. It’s a known fact that Bob is always ridiculously early—so you know he’ll already be there. You hang back with Reuben, rehashing the plan and trying to get used to flirting with him without cracking up. 

At exactly ten past six, Natasha texts you to give the green light—no doubt having casually pointed out to Bob that you’re not with her, which you always are. 

“What if he doesn’t care?” you ask Reuben softly as you climb the stairs. 

He rolls his eyes like you’ve said something utterly insane. “He’ll care, trust me. He might be Bob, but he’s still a guy. And he’s obviously down bad for you—just needs a little push.” 

You snort. “Little?” 

Reuben chuckles. “Okay, more than a little. It’s Bob.” 

You laugh too, quietly, and then steel yourself as you reach the door—slipping on your game face. You glance at Reuben, catching the smirk tugging at his mouth. 

Then you both nod. It’s show time. 

“So, you’re saying eye contact makes it better?” he asks as you step through the door, voice pitched perfectly. 

You nod, casual but with a hint of something else. “Yep. A thousand times better. And bonus points if you know where to put your hands.” 

He raises a brow, lips twitching. “Where do I put my hands?” 

You giggle, soft and flirty, pausing a few steps into the room. “How about I show you later?” 

His grin breaks loose. “Promise?” 

“Promise.” 

You head toward the rows of seats, sliding into your usual behind Natasha—not missing the way Bob’s gaze locks onto you like he’s been caught mid-thought. His head swivels as Reuben sits beside you instead of next to Mickey. 

“See,” Reuben says, leaning in a little, “all these years I thought speed was the key. But you’re saying it’s finesse?” 

“Oh, definitely finesse,” you say, holding his eyes. “Go too hard and too fast, and it’s just... messy. Sloppy. Unimpressive.” 

Reuben licks his lips, his eyes flicking sideways to Bob—just for a second. “So, you’re offering me private lessons?” 

You lower your voice slightly, knowing it’s still perfectly audible to the rest of the room. “Depends. Can you follow instruction without getting too flustered?” 

Reuben’s grin sharpens. “I don’t fluster, sweetheart. I excel under pressure.” 

You pause, your pulse a little too quick—partly from Bob’s stare, which he’s not even trying to hide now, and partly from the fact that yeah, it’s been a while. And if this whole plan does blow up in your face... well, Reuben doesn’t seem like the worst option for a little stress relief. 

You fight down a laugh at the idea and finally drag your gaze toward the front of the room. Bob—just one row ahead—snaps his eyes forward like he’s been caught eavesdropping, but the bright red of his cheeks, the tight set of his shoulders, and the way his jaw flexes say it all. He’s tense. He’s listening. And he’s absolutely not okay. 

A moment later, Maverick strolls in, completely oblivious to the emotional warfare brewing right beneath his nose. 

The rest of the week passes in much the same way. Each evening, you regroup with your friends to scheme and strategize, brainstorming new antics to pull off the next day. Nothing over-the-top—just enough to catch Bob’s eye. 

On Wednesday, you get Reuben to help you into your flight suit. You both time it perfectly: he exits the locker room just ahead of Bob, and you appear a second later, flashing a flirty grin before asking sweetly for his help. You giggle and call him a sweetheart while Bob nearly trips over his own feet, glancing back with a clenched jaw and a look that could burn a hole through steel. 

Thursday morning, Reuben brings you a coffee—exactly how you like it—straight to the briefing room. You proclaim, not so quietly, that he’s giving total boyfriend material before he drops into the seat beside you and you both giggle over a (completely fabricated) inside joke. 

That afternoon, during a short break between drills and the next briefing, he offers you a bite of his protein bar. You take it right from his hand, licking your lips and throwing him an innocent little wink before sauntering off like it’s nothing. 

By Friday, Natasha warns you that the others are starting to notice. But you’re in too deep to pull back now—not when Bob looks like he’s about to unravel. He’s been tighter than ever, watching you like a hawk, eyes dark and stormy instead of their usual calm denim blue. You’re close. So close. And honestly? You’re kind of having a little too much fun. 

That afternoon, during post-flight checks, Reuben sidles up behind you under the guise of pointing out something ‘mechanical’ on your jet. You’re not actually doing anything with it, but that doesn’t stop him from standing unnecessarily close, guiding your hand with his as he gestures toward something supposedly critical. The two of you are seconds from cracking up, but Bob doesn’t know that. Bob, from all the way across the hangar, looks frozen—eyes locked, breath held, jaw tight—as Reuben presses flush against your back. 

Natasha really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as she is, but honestly? She can’t help it. It’s too damn entertaining. 

“Hey,” she says, nodding at Bob as she approaches. “You good?” 

He blinks, then turns his sharp gaze on her, jaw tight. “Yeah.” 

She snorts. “That was very convincing.” 

He rolls his eyes and turns robotically back to the maintenance logs he’d been filling out. 

Natasha glances at the paperwork, noting the hard press of his pen and the uneven ticks and crosses—some scribbled over multiple times—down the checkbox column. 

“Wow,” she mutters, raising a brow. “You sure you earned your pen licence? Or should you still be on pencils?” 

Bob’s blue eyes flick up, darker than usual beneath his furrowed brow. “Ha. Ha.” 

“Okay,” she says, biting back the laugh rising in her throat. “So, bad day?” 

“Bad week,” Bob grumbles. 

Natasha nods slowly. “Well, hey, why don’t we fix that by hitting up The Hard Deck tonight?” 

He snaps the logbook shut and tucks the pen into his pocket. “Pass.” 

“Oh, come on,” she sighs. “It might make you feel better.” 

His eyes flick toward you again, watching as you and Reuben dissolve into giggles beside your jet. 

“I doubt it.” 

“Sunny’ll be there,” Natasha says, her voice light and teasing. 

Bob doesn’t respond. Just keeps packing up his things—every motion a little too sharp, a little too fast. 

Natasha exhales. “Come on, dude. Just come for one drink—it doesn’t have to be beer. Blow off some steam. If you hate it, you can bail early. But it won’t be the same without you.” 

He takes a breath and closes his eyes for a beat before letting it out slow. “Fine. One drink.” 

Natasha grins, her eyes sparkling even in the dimming light of the hangar. “Perfect.” 

Later that night, Natasha drives the four of you—Reuben and Mickey included—to the bar. Everyone else agreed to meet there, and she insisted on driving so you could have a few drinks. Not just to loosen up for another round of torturing poor Bob, but to actually let loose a little. She can tell this whole thing is winding you up, and she figures a few beers and a night with friends might help ease the tension—and the guilt—and maybe even the gnawing fear that this whole plan could blow up in your face. 

“Nat, are you sure this dress isn’t too short?” you ask, holding the hem down against the curve of your ass as you follow her toward the main entry door. “I haven’t worn it in years.” 

“There’s no such thing as too short,” Mickey says, deadpan. 

You roll your eyes and step inside, into the warm glow of golden lighting and the low hum of half-drunk conversation. You let go of your dress now that there’s no breeze threatening to lift it, and try to relax, even with the strange sensation of bare legs in public. You’re used to flight suits, not feeling this on display. 

“Ready to put on your best performance yet?” Reuben murmurs, slinging an arm over your shoulder. 

You take a deep breath, feeling it rattle faintly in your chest. “Let’s do this thing.” 

Natasha shoots you a wink over her shoulder, already striding confidently across the bar, her gaze locked on the usual booth where the rest of your friends are waiting. 

There’s a chorus of greetings as the four of you approach, and you all grin and wave, waiting as Bradley, Jake, Javy, and Bob shuffle around to make room. Natasha pointedly takes the spot beside Bob, with Mickey sliding in next to her. You claim the seat beside Jake—which puts Reuben on your other side. Just as planned. 

It’s a little squishy, but after so many nights like this, none of you really notice. Except Bob. He’s noticed tonight. His eyes are locked on the way your side is pressed to Reuben’s, his arm is slung casually over the back of the booth, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder. 

“He looks like he wants to kill me,” Reuben whispers in your ear, low enough that you can barely hear him over the chatter of the bar. “Pretend I said something funny. Laugh like you’ve got a secret.” 

You blink slowly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, and let out a soft giggle as you lean toward him just a little. 

“You’re a pretty good actress,” he mutters before pulling back slightly. 

You glance up at him through your lashes, feeling more at ease with the close proximity after the past week. Then you straighten your spine and lean in, your lips grazing his jaw as you whisper in his ear. 

“You’re annoying.” 

He chuckles quietly, though you know he really wants to snort and smack you on the shoulder. You’re both enjoying this just a little too much, getting a kick out of your undercover roles. 

When you turn back to the rest of the group, Natasha is very deliberately not looking at you—and you know it’s because she’ll laugh if she does. Mickey, on the other hand, is watching with wide eyes, as is Javy. Jake and Bradley are still arguing about something on your other side, and Bob… Bob still looks like he’s ready to commit first-degree murder. 

“Drink?” Reuben asks after a beat, his smile smooth. 

You nod. “Absolutely. I’ll help you.” 

You both stand and offer a round to the rest of the table, most of whom accept—which makes it less suspicious that you’re going together. At the bar, you make sure to stand just a little closer than necessary as he orders a round of the usual from Penny. 

“Are you sure we’re not pushing it?” you ask, your voice laced with quiet worry. 

Reuben shakes his head. “Nah, not yet.” 

You frown. “Yet?” 

“He’ll snap one way or another,” he says, leaning casually against the bar. “He’ll either lose it and blow up over something totally unrelated—and that’s when we’ll know we’ve gone too far. Or he’ll wake the fuck up and fight for what he wants.” 

You open your mouth to voice another concern, but Penny is already sliding the tray of drinks across the bar. Reuben thanks her with an easy smile as you grab the two beers that didn’t fit, flashing her your own grateful grin before following him back to the table. 

When you set the beers down, you feel the neckline of your dress slip just a little lower. Your eyes flick up to see if anyone’s noticed—and of course… Bob. His gaze is dark and locked on your chest, clearly able to see right down your dress. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even try to look away. He just stares. 

But then he blinks and glances aside, not flustered or ashamed—just determined not to meet your eyes. 

You straighten up and clear your throat. “I’m just going to duck to the bathroom.” 

Then you turn and begin weaving your way through the bar, desperate for a moment to yourself—even though you haven’t been here that long—and to check that you don’t look completely ridiculous in the dress Natasha convinced you to wear. 

You take your time in the stall, then rinse your hands under the cool water for a little longer than necessary. When you glance at your reflection in the full-length mirror, you’re surprised—and a little impressed. Because damn… you do look good. Maybe this dress deserves to see the light of day more often. And if Bob’s stare is anything to go by, it’s definitely not a bad idea. 

You take a deep breath before pushing open the bathroom door, ready to continue your little charade—but you barely make it a few steps before someone blocks your path. You blink and stumble, stopping short before you run right into him. 

You sigh when you realise who it is, that cocky smirk etched across his face. “What do you want, Hangman?” 

“I want to know what’s going on.” 

Your pulse spikes, but you do your best to keep your expression calm. “What do you mean?” 

“Between you and Payback,” he says, narrowing his green eyes. “Because I know that’s not real.” 

Your breath catches—too quickly—giving you away as your gaze flicks to the side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

He rolls his eyes and leans in slightly, keeping the conversation low and private in the hum of the bar. “Don’t try to gaslight me, Sunny. I’m not an idiot. I know Phoenix is in on it—because of course she is—and Fanboy too, judging by the way he giggles every time you and Payback so much as look at each other.” He quirks a brow, daring you to challenge him. “The only reason Coyote hasn’t said anything is because he’s too polite, and Rooster hasn’t noticed because he’s too wrapped up in his own shit.” 

You cross your arms and narrow your eyes, matching his bravado. “You missed one.” 

He frowns. “What?” 

“You listed all the members of the squad… except one.” 

“Right,” he chuckles dryly. “Bob. That’s the funny thing, because ever since we got to this island, you’ve been starry-eyed over Floyd, and he’s either too clueless to notice or too stupid to ask you out.” He pauses, letting it sink in, then leans just a bit closer. “Which is exactly why I’m not buying whatever you and Payback have been trying to sell this past week.” 

You stare at each other for a beat, both stubborn and scowling, waiting for the other to fold first. 

Then you sigh. “Okay, fine. But you have to swear yourself to secrecy.” 

His smirk stretches into a full grin. “I knew it.” 

“Swear it.” 

“Okay, okay,” he says, holding up a hand. “I swear. I won’t even tell Coyote, and my pillow won’t hear a thing about it.” 

You nod. “Good. Now come over and pretend to pick a song so this doesn’t look suspicious.” 

You grab his wrist and tug him toward the jukebox, leaning over it and pretending to scroll through options while you give him a quick summary of Operation Bob’s Blue Balls—leaving out a few of the more... intimate details. 

“So there,” you finish. “It’s underhanded and immature, but that’s what’s going on.” 

His expression barely shifts the entire time, just the usual entertained glint in his eye and that ever-present smirk. 

“Underhanded and immature?” he says. “I’m surprised I wasn’t in on this sooner.” 

You roll your eyes. 

“I want in.” 

You blink, brow furrowed. “What?” 

“I want to help,” he says, plainly. 

You narrow your eyes, sceptical. “Why?” 

He sighs and braces one hand on the jukebox, leaning in like he’s about to reveal some classified information. “Believe it or not, I’m not the worst guy in the world. I have a few ideas, and I think you two would be cute together.” He pauses, then adds in a quieter voice, “Besides, I’ve been going through a bit of a dry spell, and I figure helping other people get laid might buy me some good karma.” 

You snort softly as he pulls back, his cheeks faintly pink. 

“Alright,” you say. “You can help. But nothing obvious and nothing stupid. The last thing I need is Bob figuring this out and hating me for it.” 

He rolls his eyes, that signature smirk firmly back in place. “Bob could never hate you. But I’ll be subtle.” 

“Good.” You glance past his shoulder toward the booth across the bar. “We better get back before they get suspicious.” 

“Wait,” he stops you with a hand on your shoulder. “One more question.” 

You raise your brows, prompting him to go on. 

“When you fantasise about Bob, is he the top or the bottom? Because I just think you should manage your expectations—ow!” 

He winces, rubbing the spot on his chest where you smacked him, watching you with a wounded look as you shove past with an exasperated sigh. 

Great. Now Hangman is involved... 

You spend the rest of the night practically glued to Reuben’s side, as planned. But now you’re a little on edge. You keep half an ear tuned to Jake’s voice, waiting to see when he might strike—and what he might say when he does. You trust him not to blow the whole thing, but you’re more than a little nervous about what his version of ‘helping’ might actually look like. 

“Another drink?” Reuben asks, just as you finish the last of your third beer. 

You nod, a bit too eagerly. “Yes, please. Maybe something stronger this time.” 

He chuckles and slides out of the booth, offering his hand. You take it, letting him guide you up toward the bar. You’re so wrapped up in your thoughts that you barely register the feel of his hand slipping from yours and settling at the small of your back, his thumb rubbing slow, comforting circles there. 

But Bob notices. 

And Jake notices Bob noticing—taking special joy in the way Bob’s hand tightens around his bottle of Coke, knuckles going white. 

Jake clears his throat and casts a glance toward the bar, leaning forward slightly. “They’re cute, don’t you think?” 

There’s a beat of silence as Bob swallows—hard—and Natasha just blinks, clearly trying to catch up. Then the lightbulb goes off, and a wicked grin stretches across her lips. 

“Yeah,” she says, her eyes following Jake’s. “I think they’d make a good couple.” 

Bob snorts. Actually snorts. But he keeps his gaze fixed on the label he’s been picking at on his bottle. 

Natasha arches a brow. “Something funny?” 

Bob shakes his head. “No.” 

“Really?” Jake presses, grinning. “Could’ve sworn you just laughed, Floyd.” 

“It wasn’t a laugh,” Bob mutters. “More of a… breath.” 

“Oh, a breath,” Natasha echoes, clearly amused. “Because it sounded suspiciously like judgment.” 

“Or jealousy,” Jake adds, leaning back with a smug grin. 

Bob’s gaze flicks to the bar—and to you—then just as quickly snaps away. “I don’t care who she dates.” 

Natasha hums, fighting a smirk as she lifts her beer to her lips, “Didn’t say you did.” 

Shortly after you and Reuben return to the table, giggling like idiots, Bob leaves. He mutters something about not feeling well and ducks out before even saying a proper goodbye. Part of you feels wrecked with guilt—but another part… is quietly hopeful. Because Bob isn’t like this. He’s good at regulating his emotions, even better at staying calm under pressure—he’s a fighter pilot, for God’s sake. But this? This is different. He’s never stormed out on the brink of losing control. Sure, he can get a little frustrated sometimes, maybe throw a snarky comment—usually at Jake when he pushes too far—but that’s as far as it goes. 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s starting to unravel… 

You spend most of the next day on the couch with the aircon blasting, while Natasha works through some paperwork at the kitchen table. It’s too hot to go outside, and you’re too distracted to do anything that requires even an ounce of brainpower. So instead, you let your mind rot with cartoons, obsessively checking your phone for signs of life in the group chat. 

“I can’t believe Hangman is in on this now,” Natasha mutters, not even glancing up from her papers. 

You sigh and roll from your side onto your back, staring up at the ceiling. “I can’t believe he hasn’t cracked yet. If the roles were reversed, I’d be like a feral cat in heat by now.” 

She snorts and lifts her head, flashing you an amused smirk. “You were already like a feral cat in heat for that man. Hence this whole situation.” 

You laugh softly. “Yeah, not wrong.” 

Your head drops to the side as you half-watch the TV screen, until the apartment door swings open with a dramatic gust of air. 

“I hate to say it,” Mickey says as he breezes in, eyes wide, “but the man is a genius.” 

Reuben follows close behind, and then Jake—grinning like he just solved world peace. 

“Oh, God,” Natasha mutters. “They’re multiplying.” 

“I don’t know why you didn’t come to me sooner,” Jake says, strolling toward the couch. “I’m the king of seduction.” 

You sit up, curling into the corner to make room for Reuben and Jake as Mickey heads straight for the fridge. 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes at him. 

“Just wait until you hear the plan,” Reuben says, practically buzzing. “It’s perfect.” 

Intrigued now, Natasha gathers her papers into one neat pile and joins you on the lounge. “Alright, Bagman. Let’s hear it.” 

Jake’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he settles in beside Reuben. “Tomorrow, we’re going to the beach.” 

“You’re already way off,” you cut in. “Bob won’t agree to hang out again. Not after last night.” 

Natasha nods. “She’s right. He needs to cool off before we wind him up again.” 

“Absolutely not,” Jake snaps, brow furrowed. “You need to strike while the iron’s hot. You need to push his fucking limits.” 

Mickey appears from the kitchen, a bag of pretzels already open in his hand. 

Natasha frowns. “Okay, but how? He won’t agree to go if he thinks Sunny and Payback will be there.” 

Jake grins. “Which is exactly why he’s going to think they won’t be there.” 

“You want us to lie?” you ask. 

He gives you a flat look. “After all this emotional warfare, now you’re drawing the line at lying?” 

You shrink back slightly. “I guess not.” 

“Exactly.” He leans forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands clasped. “So—I’ll pitch the idea in the group chat. Sunny, you reply immediately that you’re busy—before Bob gets a chance to decline. Then Payback says something vague, like he might come or might not. That way, it looks like low numbers. And if Bob says no, the rest of us can guilt-trip him into coming. Which he will, as long as he thinks you’re not going to be there.” 

Natasha tilts her head. “So... she will be there though?” 

“Yes,” Jake says. “Just not right away. Give him time to relax, have some fun. We’ll play games—I’ll rile everyone up and get that competitive energy going.” 

Everyone nods along, faces weirdly serious, like this is some highly classified mission briefing. 

“Then, you two show up together,” Jake continues, gesturing to you and Reuben. “It’ll throw Bob off, but we won’t give him a chance to leave. We’ll keep the games going. Something with contact. You need to get right up in his space. Go all in. Because then... you’re going to knock him off his feet.” 

“Literally,” Mickey mumbles, chewing a mouthful of pretzels. 

You frown. “What?” 

“Bump into him,” Jake says. “Literally knock him over. Skin-to-skin contact. I’ve seen the way he looks at you in a swimsuit—it’s borderline pornographic. Touching him? It’ll fry what’s left of his self-control. And then, when there’s a moment—just a second where you could apologise for being too competitive or whatever... you’re going to say something that makes him snap.” 

You lean in, heart pounding now. “What am I going to say?” 

- 

The sun is high and brutal in the sky, and you’re already sweating—even though you’re still sitting in Reuben’s car with the aircon blasting. 

“Do you really think this is going to work?” you ask, nervously bouncing your knee. 

Reuben snorts. “If it doesn’t, the man isn’t human.” 

“I feel bad,” you mutter, eyes scanning the stretch of gold sand through the windshield. 

“You won’t feel bad when you finally see what’s in his pants,” Reuben says, barely paying attention as he scrolls through his phone. 

Your eyes go wide and your head whips toward him. “So it is huge? I wasn’t just imagining that?” 

He chuckles and looks up. “Oh yeah, he’s big. Like... big big. I remember the first time in the locker room—no one’s trying to look, obviously, that’s just not the vibe—but... damn. We couldn’t not look. Then everyone lost it. I think Hangman nearly cried.” 

You press your lips together, trying to hold back a grin, but it’s no use—your cheeks are on fire, and your whole face feels like it's bright red. 

“Damn,” you murmur, turning your gaze back to the front as your heart slams against your ribs. 

Reuben laughs again, then cuts the engine, killing the aircon. “Alright. Pull yourself together. It’s go time.” 

You climb out of the car and immediately wince at the lick of heat curling across your skin. It’s blistering—almost hostile—but at least you’re at the beach. Worst-case scenario? You’ll drown yourself in the ocean. Just walk into the surf and keep going. No one would blame you. 

“Relax,” Reuben says, sliding a hand into yours like this is nothing. “This is going to work. Hangman might be insane, but I’m pretty sure it’s because he’s an evil genius.” 

You roll your eyes, exhale hard, then square your shoulders and lift your chin. 

You let Reuben lead you onto the sand, legs already working overtime to stay steady in the heat-softened grains. You can hear the chaos before you see it. Shouts and thuds echo over the sand as your friends tumble and crash around in a messy game of what looks like overgrown keepy-uppies. 

“No hands!” Javy yells, just as Mickey swats the ball to avoid a direct hit to the face. 

“Damn it, Fanboy!” Jake shouts. “You’re giving away points.” 

Mickey drops his hands to his knees, panting. “Can we play literally any other game? I hate this.” 

“You only hate it ‘cause you suck at it,” Natasha says, catching the ball like it’s second nature and bringing the game to a halt. 

You swear you can see Mickey roll his eyes from here. You and Reuben are still on approach, trudging through the soft sand, unnoticed—so far. 

“What about football?” Jake offers, tossing the round ball aside and already pulling a proper football from their pile of gear. “Dog-fight football?” 

“Three versus three?” Javy asks, sceptical. 

“What about four v. four?” Reuben calls, hand cupped to amplify his voice. 

Everyone turns, and there’s a beat of stillness as they clock you. Then Natasha flashes a wide grin beneath her sunglasses, and Jake’s face lights up like a very satisfied evil villain—his plan falling perfectly into place. 

“Well, if it ain’t Sunny and Payback!” he calls, spinning the football lazily in one hand. “You two done playing your own games already?” 

You ignore the jab and focus on not rolling your ankle in the damn sand. At the pile of bags, you stop to drop your stuff and hesitate at the button of your shorts. 

Jake’s eyes are practically gleaming. “How about a swim to cool off first?” 

Reuben strips his shirt with a single tug. “You read my mind, Seresin.” 

The guys—already in their swim trunks—bolt for the water, crashing into the surf in a chaotic stampede. Natasha peels off her shirt and shorts, shoots you a wink, and strolls in after them like she owns the ocean. 

Reuben doesn’t say anything before he leaves you, but he gives a barely-there nod—directed past your shoulder. 

You don’t need to turn around to know who it’s aimed at. 

Bob’s still standing where he was when the game fizzled out, statuesque. His hair is tousled and his lips parted just enough to make your stomach flip. You’re at least ten feet away, but you can see the rise and fall of his chest—too fast, too hard. But he’s not out of breath. He’s not flustered. 

He’s furious. 

And those blue eyes? Laser-locked on you. His entire focus narrowed like a sniper sight. Not a blink. Not a breath wasted on anyone but you. 

You swallow and force your body into motion, unbuttoning your shorts and shimmying out of them before pulling your loose shirt over your head. You drop your clothes on Natasha’s pile and turn toward the water, steady on the lumpy sand. 

And then you hit the firm part—wet, packed, perfect footing—and you dig in. Hips swaying, deliberate and lethal. 

You don’t need to look back. You can feel the heat of his stare on every inch of exposed skin. It’s scorching. Possessive. Almost punishing. Like if he could touch you right now, he’d brand you. 

Hangman might be a genius after all. 

You hit the water with a sigh, not even hesitating before diving beneath a wave before it can knock you off your feet. It’s the perfect temperature—delicious against your too-hot skin. 

You dive under the next wave, cool saltwater rushing over your body, and come up laughing as you slick your hair back. Natasha is standing beside you, arms outstretched as the water laps at her waist, her eyes fixed on the shore. 

You wade closer, smirking. “Did you see his face?” you ask breathlessly, heart still pounding from the walk down the beach—or maybe from the way Bob had looked at you like he was plotting your murder. “I thought he was going to spontaneously combust.” 

She doesn’t answer. Just keeps staring past you. 

You frown as her jaw goes slack and her brows creep up, sunglasses slipping down her nose as she stares at something on the shore—expression caught somewhere between shock and awe. 

You freeze. “What?” 

She still doesn’t speak—just tips her chin the slightest bit, silently gesturing toward whatever has her stunned. 

You twist around. 

And promptly forget how to breathe. 

Bob Floyd is pulling his shirt over his head. 

Bob Floyd, the man who never takes his shirt off. The man who wears it in the ocean and somehow isn’t bothered by the soaking wet material clinging to his body like a second skin. 

And holy shit. 

It’s glorious. 

Sure, you’ve seen him shirtless before. Once. That night. But that was in the dark—his body tense, your mind scrambled, neither of you thinking clearly enough to appreciate what was right in front of you. 

But in the light of day? 

Alabaster skin. Broad shoulders. Deep-cut abs like he walked straight off the set of a Marvel movie. Lean muscle rippling across his chest and arms in a way that feels criminal on someone so quiet and careful. Droplets of sweat cling to his torso like even the heat doesn’t want to let him go. 

The sudden silence behind you confirms it—everyone else is staring too. 

You blink, dumbfounded, mouth dry. “That’s illegal.” 

Natasha huffs out a laugh like she’s short-circuiting. “I mean, I knew he was strong but—wow.” 

You swallow. Hard. “I think I’m going to pass out.” 

Your eyes follow him as he drops his shirt and turns toward the water, cutting through the waves like they’re nothing. He doesn’t glance at any of you. Just keeps his gaze locked on the horizon, jaw set tight, his body moving with single-minded purpose. 

Before you can say something—or even blink—a surge of water smacks you in the face. 

But it’s not a wave. 

You cough and splutter, wiping the salt from your eyes and checking to make sure your sunglasses are still intact. When your vision clears, Jake is standing right in front of you. 

“Wipe the drool off your chin,” he says, deadpan. “You’re supposed to be teasing him.” 

You narrow your eyes, resisting the urge to shove him aside and keep watching Bob. “How did all of you know how cut that man is and not tell me?” 

Jake blinks, thrown for a beat, then grins like the devil. “Wait—you’re mad because we didn’t tell you how ripped Bob is?” 

You nod, arms crossing tight over your chest. “Correct.” 

He lets out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. “Well if that’s got you steamed, you’re gonna be beside yourself when you find out he’s got a massive-” 

“I know,” you cut in smoothly, a wicked smirk curling at your lips. “Payback told me.” 

Jake gapes at you, brows knitting—but before he can get another word out, you shove his shoulder and send him sprawling into the water. 

When he resurfaces, sputtering and grinning, he points at you like a man on a mission—then lunges. 

You squeal, laughing as he barrels toward you, sending up waves in every direction. The two of you splash around like kids, Jake playing it up—grabbing you, poking at your sides, both of you pretending to wrestle. All for show. Because you both know Bob is watching. 

Eventually, the others join in, playful chaos erupting around you. And before long, you’re panting and breathless, dragging yourself back to shore, your cheeks and chest aching from laughter. 

Everyone settles for a few minutes, drinking from their water bottles and trying to knock water from their ears. But then Jake stands up, football in hand and a wicked smirk on his lips, ready to commence Operation Bob’s Blue Balls – Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer. 

“All right, I’ll pick teams,” he announces. 

Normally, this would cause an uproar. But since most of you are in on the plan, everyone just nods in agreement. 

“Phoenix, Payback, Bob,” he says. “You’re with me. The rest of you are on Rooster’s team.” 

You narrow your eyes and cock your hip—it would seem strange if you didn’t challenge Jake just a little. “Why are you two always team captains?” 

He winks. “Because we’re the best.” 

You roll your eyes and turn away, joining the huddle with your teammates as Bradley and Javy argue over what your game plan should be. 

After a few minutes of strategizing, the game kicks off. You’ve never loved dog-fight football—not like some of the others—mostly because it can get a little rough. But today… it’s more than just a game. It’s a full-blown performance. 

You hang back for a bit, letting Jake and Bradley rile each other up and fire up their teams. Bob is still shirtless, which is a tactical advantage he isn’t even aware of—because every time he has the ball, every time he runs or blocks or is just generally in your line of sight, your knees wobble. 

You’ve nearly forgotten what you’re supposed to be doing when Reuben jumps in front of you and snags the ball before you can—thrown by a very disappointed-looking Javy. 

“Getting tired, Sunny?” Reuben teases, his grin smug. “I’m just getting started.” 

Right. The plan. Flirting. Banter. Teasing Bob. 

You step closer, slowing the game down a touch as you stretch onto your toes and drop your voice—but not too low. “Tired? Please. I’m still waiting for you to make me sweat.” 

There’s a beat where you worry Reuben might break, might laugh—high on adrenaline and endorphins. 

But then Jake hollers, “Cut it out, you two! Save the dirty talk for the bedroom!” 

And the game is back on. 

The sun beats down mercilessly, making every flexed muscle shine, every drop of sweat slide in slow, glistening trails. The sand is hot beneath your feet, but it’s nothing compared to the heat building as you and Reuben turn the game into one of Bob’s personal nightmares. 

You dart to the left, brushing past Reuben with a smug grin, your fingertips dragging across his chest like you’re checking his heart rate. 

“C’mon, hotshot,” you tease. “You could try a little harder.” 

He laughs—low and amused—but gives chase, throwing a hand around your waist as you pivot. It’s all too easy to make it look a little too intimate, a little too tight. He lifts you off the ground to ‘block’ your goal and your head falls back in a laugh that’s just shy of indecent. 

And Bob sees everything. 

You feel it—his stare like hot coals dragged across your skin. When you glance up between plays, he’s standing at the edge of the group, jaw tight, shoulders tense, hands flexing like they’re ready to throw a punch. His eyes follow your every move like he’s marking a target, and if looks could kill, Reuben would already be six feet under. 

You catch a toss, and Reuben crashes into you to intercept, spinning you both until you fall together into the sand. You land side by side, giggling like idiots—some might even say lovesick idiots. 

He pushes up first and grins down at you, tipping his head suggestively. “Need a hand?” 

“Oh, I don’t mind being on my back,” you say sweetly, just loud enough for everyone to hear. 

You take Reuben’s hand and let him haul you off the ground, pulling you into his body just a little more than necessary. 

“Damn, Sunny,” Jake calls from the other side of the makeshift field. “Takin’ a few hits today. Hope it doesn’t affect your game.” 

You scoff, rolling your eyes dramatically as you dust sand off your body like everyone else paid to watch. “You know I like it rough, Hangman.” 

There’s a chorus of oohs and a whistle from Mickey, laughter rippling through the group. 

Except Bob, of course. He’s suddenly very interested in the sand, eyes locked on the ground—even though his rigid posture is telling you everything you need to know. 

The game revs up again, and after a few scuffles, you snag the ball off a fumbled toss and break into a sprint, cutting across the sand with laser focus. Reuben’s behind you, winded, and the others are tangled up with the second ball—leaving only one person standing in your way. 

Bob. 

“Stop her!” Jake shouts, too far behind to intercept. 

Bob plants his feet like he’s ready to block—muscles tensing, arms coiled. It’s almost enough to distract you. But you’re feeling competitive. A little reckless. And you’re seconds from a goal. 

He hesitates when your eyes lock, just long enough for your wicked grin to register as you blow past him and skid to a halt—well over the line. 

Your team erupts into cheers behind you, and you throw your hands up, chest heaving as you catch your breath. When you turn back around, he’s still watching you—eyes wide. 

You flash him a slow smile as you walk past, brushing close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Don’t worry, Lieutenant,” you murmur. “I’ll go easy on you next time.” 

After a breather and a drink of water, everyone lines up for another play. Jake and Bradley drop the footballs into the sand, crouched and ready. Jake turns his head your way and gives you a subtle nod. 

This is it. 

Your heart thunders behind your ribs as you sprint and block and laugh along with the others. The competition hasn’t cooled—everyone is still hungry. Even Bob has snapped into focus, finally playing like it matters instead of just standing there watching. 

And for a moment, it is just fun. No schemes, no strategy. Just friends, shouting and stumbling and laughing too hard to score. 

But then the ball is in your hands again—and it’s time. 

Bob is on defence—Jake made sure of that. You just have to get past him again. Or at least… make it look like you’re trying. 

You tear forward. Jake is already behind you, Natasha lunges and misses by a breath, and Reuben very dramatically wipes out in the sand. 

It’s just Bob now. 

He sets his stance, head tipped down in focus. He’s going to stop you this time. Poor thing. He has no idea that’s exactly the plan. 

You charge, feet kicking up sand, heart in your throat. His eyes widen just a second before you collide—your body slamming into his with just enough force to topple you both. 

The ball flies from your hand as you hit the sand hard, clutching at whatever you can—his shoulders, his arms, solid and warm beneath your grip. You spit sand from your mouth and sit up fast—only to freeze, breath caught in your throat. 

You’re straddling him. Hips locked against his. Chest heaving. His hands on your waist. 

You don’t move. 

You’re both panting. The air between you buzzes like static, and everywhere your skin touches his feels sunburnt and alive. His blue eyes are locked on yours—wild and stunned. Bright enough to drown in. 

Your chest rises and falls with ragged breath, but you stay put. 

“Does this count?” you ask, voice low and rough with adrenaline. 

His lips are parted, soft and pink, breath coming in short bursts. His curls are wild, tangled with sand, and his glasses—crooked from the fall—are still somehow on. He looks wrecked. Shattered. Like you’ve stolen every coherent thought out of his head. His gaze flickers—searching your face, desperate not to meet your eyes. 

You lean in just a little. 

“If anyone else looked at me like that, I’d probably kiss them,” you murmur, squeezing your thighs around his waist. Then you bring your mouth dangerously close to his ear. “But we can’t do that... right?” 

His breath catches—and his eyes finally snap to yours. 

They’re wide and stormy now, brows drawn tight. He doesn’t breathe. He just looks. His mouth parts a little further, and you can see it all happening behind his eyes—every thought, every realisation. 

Everything falls into place—the flirting, the giggling, the deliberate touches, the stolen glances. All of it. You’ve been baiting him. This whole time. 

Before you can say anything else—before you can blink or breathe— 

He snaps. 

He flips you, smooth and fast, moving your body like you weigh nothing. Suddenly, you’re on your back, pressed into the sand, and he’s the one on top—straddling you, his weight holding you down. 

And the look in his eyes could burn the sky. 

He leans in, gaze sweeping over your face—your lips, your eyes, the pulse at your throat. He watches it thrum, just for a second. 

You’re frozen beneath him. Every nerve on fire. Every inch of your body sparking. Your lungs are screaming for air, but you don’t know how to breathe. You can’t think. You can barely feel anything except him. 

His breath ghosts your lips as he whispers, “Oh, you’re in trouble now.” 

And then he kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s not careful. It’s not sweet. It’s months of tension and stolen glances and aching want—every second of restraint finally unravelling in a dizzy, reckless crash. His mouth claims yours like he’s starving, like he’s waited too long and can’t wait another second. 

His chest presses into yours, slick with sweat and dusted with sand, and you arch into it with a gasp. He groans against your mouth, a low, broken sound that feels like fire in your veins. You can feel every inch of him—solid and hot and so hard against your hip, unmistakable and unignorable. 

You shift beneath him, dragging your leg up around his waist, just enough to tease. His breath hitches, and then he’s kissing you deeper, hungrier, like the noise you just pulled from him unspooled something he can’t reel back in. 

You claw at his back—muscles tense and trembling under your fingers—trying to pull him closer when there’s no space left between you. The kiss turns feverish, tongues sliding, lips parting in desperate sync. You’re panting into each other’s mouths, completely lost. 

There’s sand in your hair, in your mouth, sticking to your sweat-slick skin, but none of it matters. All that matters is the way he moves against you, the way he feels—like every bit of control he’d been clinging to has shattered. 

When he finally tears his mouth from yours, he doesn’t go far. His forehead drops to yours, both of you gasping. He’s pink-cheeked and wide-eyed, lips swollen, pupils blown. 

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice wrecked, “you’re gonna kill me.” 

And the way he says it—like a confession, like a prayer—makes you want to do it all over again. 

“YES!" Mickey shouts, loud enough for all of North Island to hear. 

Your friends erupt into cheers and screams, laughter lacing their gleeful proclamations as they jump and dance just a few feet away. 

“Well, fuck me,” Jake drawls. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.” 

You both slowly—reluctantly—turn your heads toward the noise. 

“I can’t believe it worked,” Reuben mutters, grinning wide, eyes sparkling. “Phase Three actually worked.” 

You’re still pinned beneath Bob as they all close in, every face lit up with smug satisfaction. 

“You named it?” Bob asks, closing his eyes as his cheeks somehow grow even hotter.��

“Oh yeah,” Mickey says, beaming with pride. “Operation Bob’s Blue Balls. Phase One was the run and the sleepover. Phase Two, Reuben. And this—” he gestures wildly at the two of you tangled in the sand, “this is Phase Three: Straddle and Conquer.” 

Bob makes a noise. Somewhere between a strangled groan and a whispered prayer for death. 

“You planned this?” he rasps, forehead dropping against yours again like he might just burrow into the sand and disappear. 

Reuben shrugs, all innocence. “Worked like a charm.” 

“Honestly,” Natasha adds, “we were starting to think you’d never get there. So… you’re welcome.” 

You bury your face in Bob’s shoulder, mortified. He’s burning up beneath your hands—still—and breathing like he just ran a mile with you on his back. 

Jake snickers. “Glad we could help you two get laid.” 

“We haven’t—!” Bob blurts, redder than a stop sign. 

You slap a hand over his mouth, grinning wickedly now despite the embarrassment. “Yet.” 

There’s a beat—a millisecond of silence—before they all burst out laughing again. 

Mickey curls over, clutching his stomach. Reuben walks away, cackling with his head tipped back. Natasha mutters, “Jesus Christ,” but she’s definitely smirking, and Jake claps his hands once as he says, “God bless the U.S. Navy.” 

Bob drops his face into the crook of your neck and groans again, muffled, “I hate all of you.” 

“Even me?” you ask, voice soft and teasing. 

He lifts his head, chuckling softly. “No. But for all that? You’re definitely still in trouble.” 

You lick your lips. “There’s no place I’d rather be.” 

He sighs like you’re actively trying to kill him, then sits up and pushes to his feet—only to glance down at the massive bulge in his shorts, which looks borderline painful. 

“Shit.” 

You scramble up after him, stepping in close and pressing your body to his, barely able to contain your giggles as you shield him from the rest of the beach. 

“Need a minute?” you tease, laughter lacing every word. 

His eyes flash—dark, hungry. “You and I are gonna need more than a minute to deal with this.” 

Heat floods your face and pools between your legs, thick and insistent. 

“But,” he says, glancing toward the water, “I’m just gonna go for a quick swim.” 

You nod, eyes wide and dreamy, watching him from beneath your lashes like an absolute idiot in love. 

And he looks at you like you hung the sun. Like you’re everything. It’s enough to make your heart stutter and your pulse race. He has no business being this beautiful—this sinful—a perfect contradiction of sweetness and respect, with just enough hunger in him, just enough darkness, that you know you’ll be walking funny tomorrow. 

And probably for the next few weeks while you learn how to handle his massive dick. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters, a shy smile curling his lips. “You’re making it worse.” 

Your jaw drops. “It gets bigger?” 

He laughs, then leans in to press a kiss to your open mouth—chaste, but lingering. Like it physically pains him to pull away. But he does. And when he flashes you that boyish smile—equal parts sexy and shy—it knocks the breath out of you. 

Then he turns and jogs toward the water. 

It takes you more than a minute to remember how to move—how to function—but eventually, you manage to drag yourself back to the others, who are still laughing and chatting like the beach hasn’t just tilted sideways. 

Natasha passes you your water bottle. “What’s Bob doing?” 

You glance over your shoulder, catching sight of him ducking under a wave. A smile tugs at your lips. 

“Cooling off.” 

END.

[whisperofaflame]

♡ Collision Course ♡

Chapter 16: I don't know who I am, when I am with you

WandaNat x [innocent, femme] reader

Collision Course – Masterlist Link to full fic (so far) on AO3

Chapter Summary: The three of you sit down together, to discuss your wellbeing and needs. After the intensity of talking about your feelings, Wanda and Natasha make sure to take extra care of you.

Word count: 8.9k (y'all deserve a long one after waiting for over a month 🙈)

Featuring: slow burn, emerging D/S dynamics, mommy kink, praise kink, copious pet names, non-sexual intimacy (but also with hints of sexual feelings at times), suggestion of sub-drop, elements of aftercare, hints of age-regression maybe? (You decide.)

Heads Up: This chapter contains passing reference (literally blink and you'll miss it) to self injury and disordered eating thoughts.

A/N: I am so, so sorry for the ridiculously long wait for this chapter. The last month has been insane. I've been super busy in my personal life, so it was a challenge finding time to think about the story, let alone write. Plus, I was struck by ADHD burnout (a long time coming, I suppose) and the worst bout of writer's block I've had in a long, long time. Anyway, writing has been hard, but it's finally here. Thank you to everyone who has waited for this, and to those of you who have left lovely comments and asks about Collision Course. Even if I don't reply straight away, please know that every one warms my heart and gives me a little boost, pushing me a bit closer to the next chapter. I really hope you enjoy this one ♡

As you wait, you feel the cold begin to creep through your skin. It draws you into hiding on the patio beneath the balcony, where you curl up on a wide cushioned seat, draping a blanket awkwardly over your body and tucking your bare feet underneath. 

Worries swell and crash like waves in your head, and you’re consumed by thoughts of being thrown out, driven back to your arid apartment and left to languish alone.

There is no distraction, no reprieve from this. There is only waiting. Only enduring. 

———

You hear the door opening a little wider to your side, and you simultaneously turn and shrink into yourself, body balling up beneath the blanket as if this will somehow hide you from her.

Wanda.

There’s fear, but also something else. A swooping feeling at seeing her, which doesn’t entirely surprise you. You missed her today. And it’s silly; it’s only been hours and you’ve only known her for a few days — but this was the longest you’ve been apart since the accident, aside from sleep. You’ve missed her kindness, her warmth, her touch — but you’re also scared that they’ll be withheld from you now, after everything that has happened today. Although, paradoxically, a small part of you feels like you’d deserve that. That you deserve some kind of punishment for what you’ve done, for how you’ve been. 

But now she is there, sending you a soothing smile as she slips past the door. It doesn’t quite break through the icy shell that has crystallised around you, but it’s warm against your edges. Maybe it will melt you, over time. 

“Hi sweetheart,” she greets you quietly, stepping towards you with care. Your whole body begins to shake, and you’re not sure if it’s a shiver from the cold or a tremble of fear. Wanda sits down on your left side, her face full of concern as she draws her legs up to sit cross-legged, facing into you. She studies you for a moment, resting her elbow on the back cushion and tilting her head to lean into her elevated right hand. Then, very slowly, she reaches out with her other hand. You watch it approach, trying desperately to slow your breathing and still your limbs. She places it on the rise of your knee, easily located despite the blanket that covers you, and she presses down, gentle but firm. Wanda doesn’t seem hesitant or unsure. It’s like she knows you now, knows her touch will ground you though you’re nervous.

She’s right. The small but assured link between her body seems to pull you to safety, like she’s thrown a life-ring out to you and is plucking you out from the waves. They still crash somewhere deep inside you, but your head is above the water now, and you can breathe.

“Nat said you’ve had a difficult day,” Wanda tells you softly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help, myšička.”

The water level rises then, pooling in your eyes. A gentle stroke to your knee with her thumb coaxes out the tears, which begin to trickle silently down your cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and it comes out in a choked whisper. “I-I didn’t… I wasn’t…”

“Shh…” Wanda soothes, and she reaches out with her right hand to carefully wipe the tears from your cheeks, and tuck a loose lock of hair behind your ear.. “It’s okay, honey. I know. You’re not in trouble.”

“But I lied,” you stammer out. “I sort of knew I might do it… I planned it. And I almost left.”

“Almost,” Wanda repeats, emphasising the word as her fingers find your cheek again, cupping it and very slightly brushing her thumb over the tear tracks. “But you didn’t, did you sweetheart? Instead, you found Nat, just like I asked you to.”

The words seem to seep through your skin; they trickle through your veins, finding the guilt and settling in the same space. Not fighting to overrule. Just there, a silent alternative. Maybe the day wasn’t all bad. Maybe you aren’t all bad.

“Nat only let me use the bike because I pressured her so much,” you tell her, feeling obliged to explain fully, to shoulder the blame. “I just… I couldn’t bear it any more.”

“Myšička, no one is in trouble. Not Nat; not you. Nat explained to me, and I know you needed it.”

There’s a hollow, sick feeling in your stomach, and you can’t understand why. Wanda has told you twice now that you’re not in trouble, but you still feel like there are invisible strings pulling at all your limbs from within, the tension aching and shameful. Your head keeps revolving back to her words this morning, and the way they hooked some unknown chain inside you, like you were always meant to be attached like this. God, you just want to be good. And it’s silly, but you need her to know that. To know that you intended it, and that you still intend it to be true.

You turn your head away from her, forcing her hand to slide off your cheek and instead rest upon your shoulder. You can’t say this while looking at her. 

“I wanted to be good for you,” you whisper, and you count the red bricks on the wall beneath the staircase, mentally tracing the lines like beads of a rosary. The action taps into that ancient habit; it scratches the scab and unearths the urge to repent. 

“And you were,” Wanda assures you, finding your chin and gently redirecting your gaze back to her. It hurts a little, to look at her. You want her reassurance so badly, but it feels sinful, somehow, to accept it. It feels like you are bypassing the confession, skipping past the penance. “I asked you to find Natasha if you needed anything, and you did. You went to her, and you told her what you needed. That was all I asked you to do, hm?”

It’s hard to respond to that, because technically she is right — that is all she asked you to do this morning. But it misses everything else: every implicit expectation that compels you in their house, in their presence. And how can you express those in words? Those urges, those obligations that don’t even seem to originate from a clear source… Maybe it’s just you. Maybe you’ve created this all in your head, a bizarre alternate reality in which your decorum would matter so much to them. Fuck, it’s so confusing. So you just blink dumbly at her, unable to answer at all. And Wanda simply smiles at your stupor, renewing the gentle stroking of your knee and making you feel a little fuzzy in the soft glow of her full attention. 

“I’m proud of you for opening up to Nat, myšička,” Wanda murmurs, her hand brushing some stray hair behind your ear again, then moving behind your head to gently stroke the baby hairs at the bottom of your neck. A shiver runs through your body, triggered by the electric touch of her fingers and the cool sensation of her rings as they brush against your skin; the fluttering feeling finishes in your half-frozen feet, leaving little prickles in its wake. 

Proud. It feels undeserved, but you bat away the doubt and cling to it like another blanket, desperate for the security it can offer you when the rest of you feels so evil, so unworthy. Wanda’s arm feels warm where it rest against your shoulder and her fingers brush against your neck. Would it be so bad to lean in? 

You give in, and the slow descent feels so sweet. Like with every small yielding movement you are rejecting the bad feelings, and replacing them with Wanda’s gentle alternatives. It feels like the longer you stay here, the more you lose yourself. Every part of you is being rewritten. And you can’t always find it inside you to care. Her fingers respond to your movement, moving down to hold your right waist as you lean down to rest your head on her shoulder. Your body tips, bent knees rocking over to rest every so slightly against Wanda’s crossed legs. A part of you wishes you could curl up there, with both of your limbs tangling together. Wanda’s left hand has moved to cup the back of your right knee, and you imagine her using the hold to lift you into into her lap.

You close your eyes, breathing out and letting go of the last little bits of reserve. One more admission. Not from guilt, but from hope.

“I missed you,” you whisper, the statement barely audible as it slips from your lips and catches on the gentle breeze. But she hears it; you know she does, because she hums a little, the sound happy and soft, and she pairs it with a gentle squeeze of your waist. 

“I missed you too, sweetheart,” she whispers back. “I thought about you a lot while I was at work, wondering how you were doing.”

“Really?” you ask, the question slipping out desperately, your need for reassurance no longer contained by shame or reason.

“Really, myšička. I even texted Nat at lunchtime to check how you were doing. And when she said you were having a hard time, I wanted to come right back. But I had two more lectures to give, so I had to stay.”

You sigh a little in her hold.

“That’s okay,” you murmur, “I understand.” You’re not sure why you feel the need to say it. To reassure her? That seems strange. She shouldn’t need to come back to you. She shouldn’t need to explain herself.

“You’ll have me all day tomorrow,” Wanda tells you quietly, giving you an extra little squeeze, tightening the embrace just slightly, so she doesn’t hurt your shoulder. “And then we can figure out the rest of the week, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper.

You stay like that for a few minutes, your breathing slow as you gaze out to the garden and feel her thumb rubbing gently at the skin between the waistband of your shorts and the hem of your vest top, which rides up slightly because of your sideways lean. 

“In a moment, we’ll head in and sit on the sofa, okay?” Wanda tells you, and you relax a little more when you hear her gentle direction said in such a soft tone. You love it when she tells you what to expect, what to do. It makes you feel safe. “Natty will join us, and we’ll have a little chat together. Just about how you’ve been feeling, and what you need from us. Nothing bad, little one, I promise.”

The prospect of talking — or that nickname, you’re not sure — pulls out a small sound from your throat. A tiny whine, luckily muffled by the way your face is pressed against Wanda’s shirt. You can tell that she hears it though, because her left hand strokes the back of your leg gently, reassuring you with her touch. 

“After we talk, I think a bath would be good for you, darling. You can get into comfy clothes for dinner, and then we can just relax after eating. Maybe we could watch some more She-Ra, hm?”

You make a small sound of consideration, of approval, and Wanda gives you a little kiss on the forehead in response.

“Let’s get you inside, myšička. Your feet are frozen.”

You make no move at first, your fuzzy brain still catching up, still figuring out the fact that you have to move yourself, that Wanda can’t carry you. Then she gives you a soft pat on the back of your thigh. A reminder, a signal. 

You sit up, wiping your eyes with your freed left hand, then using it to unravel the blanket from your body and place it on the side. Wanda keeps her hand around your waist for a moment, then she lets go and moves to stand. She doesn’t say any more, she just holds out her hand, and you take it without hesitation, letting her lead you back inside. 

When Wanda reaches the sofa she lets go of your hand and gestures for you to sidle between the sofa and the coffee table to take a seat in the middle. Once you’re seated, she sits down next to you, on your right, and places her hand on your leg, just above your knee.

“I’m just going to message Nat,” she tells you, pulling her phone out her pocket with her right hand, “to let her know we’re down here.”

In reply, you give a small nod. You like that she explains, that she keeps you informed even when you don’t ask. 

It doesn’t take long for Natasha to arrive. She moves around the left side of the sofa and then side-steps round to sit on the coffee table right in front of you, holding up some fluffy socks.

“Wanda said you might need these. What do you think?”

You look to Wanda, who smiles reassuringly at you. Then you look back at Natasha, her smile gentle, hopeful. Slowly, you nod.

“Yes please.”

Natasha’s smile deepens, and she places one sock on the table next to her, so she can use both hands to open the other up, bundling the fabric so it can be pulled on it one motion. Shyly, you raise one leg, and let her slide the fluffy fabric over one frozen foot. Then you both repeat the process for the other side. The gesture makes you feel a little warmer inside, more from her kindness than the extra clothing. 

“Thank you.” It comes out small but Natasha looks pleased as she stands up, turns, and sits down on your left side, shuffling herself back until she’s situated in the corner of the L-shape and she can see you and Wanda without twisting. Then she lifts her legs up onto the sofa, tucking her feet in close and hugging her raised knees.

“I know you’re a bit worried about this, lapushka, but we just want to have a chat with you, now that you’re feeling a bit more like yourself,” Natasha says, but despite her reassuring words and Wanda’s gentle stroking of your thigh, you shrink back into the cushion behind you. 

Do you? Feel more like yourself? You’re not so sure.

“Wanda and I like having you here, Y/N,” Natasha continues. “And we want you to stay with us for a while. At least until your arm is better, and you can manage things more independently. How do you feel about that?” 

“I’d like that,” you say quietly. “As long as it’s truly okay with you.”

“It is,” Wanda reiterates, moving her left hand to the back of your neck, fingertips playing with your baby hairs again. “We mean it, myšička.”

“Can I give you anything in return?” you ask. “I mean, I feel bad that you’re feeding me, and I’m using your spare room… I could give you some money for food, maybe?”

“No,” Natasha replies, her tone blunt and unequivocal. “This isn’t transactional, Y/N. We don’t need anything in return — not now, not ever, okay?”

You gnaw at your lip. You’ve paid for yourself for years; even when times have been tough and your parents have offered to send you money, you have refused, and found a way. It’s partly a point of pride, but mainly it’s an obligation you have placed upon yourself. Your childhood problems and ailments have cost the world, cost your family enough. In a way, your financial independence is a form of penance. It feels strange, foreign — wrong — to accept help for free. 

“In case you haven’t noticed, darling — we have more than enough space and food to share,” Wanda tells you lightly, leaning forward a little so you can see her playful grin. “We don’t want you to worry about that, okay?”

“Y/N, all we need from you is honesty, alright?” Natasha says, and you turn to look at her again, feeling Wanda place her other hand above your knee, as she continues to stroke your hair in a slow rhythm. “Just let us know how you’re feeling, and tell us if you ever feel uncomfortable. Can you do that?” 

Tears prickle in your eyes. Honesty. It sounds so simple when she puts it like that, but they don’t know what’s going on with you, not really. They don’t know how you’re fighting the feelings and fearing the fall.

You’ve spent so much time, so much energy over the years trying to paste up your cracks and build yourself into something stable, something independent and unbreakable. The scaffolding they have erected to support you is chipping through the cladding, and you fear it will expose the structural damage within, the ugly joins and uneven stitching where you’ve made hasty, inexpert attempts to pull yourself back together. You’re afraid to let them see. And you’re scared that you’ll learn to rely on their help, and then lose them.

“Sweetheart, what’s upsetting you?” Wanda asks, her voice no longer playful. She sounds concerned, sympathetic. Her hand squeezes the flesh above your knee, and the action encourages the tears to flow.

“I don’t wanna be a burden,” you choke out, squeezing your eyes tight shut in an attempt to both stem the tears and avoid their gaze. “And I… I like being here, I like you both so much, but also I… I…” Your words trail off as your thoughts spiral and fail to align in your head. What do you want to say? What do you need to say? It feels like you’re spinning, flung about in space, and you need to still yourself, you need to ground yourself. The fingers of your left hand, which already lays on your lap, tense into claws. When you can’t run, this is what you are reduced to. Small doses of acute pain, to locate your limbs, to reassert your position in space. Even this tiny pinch helps. It helps you centre yourself on the immediate moment, helps you prioritise calming your breathing first, reminds you to wait for the raging winds to pass, before attempting to speak.

They wait for you, their presence heavy at either side, but also equal. Stabilising. 

You find yourself speaking, the words arranging themselves on your tongue.

“I feel like… like I don’t really know who I am, when I am with you.”

The statement surprises you, but you know it’s true. You hardly recognise yourself, at times. So many parts of your personality are gone, with some pieces were left behind in your homeland, and others ripped away in the accident. The only parts of you left are needy, clinging. Not new, just unfamiliar, forgotten. And though it feels nice to lean into it, at times — especially with them — this isn’t all of you. It can’t be. 

You release your grip from your thigh, and wipe your eyes. Then you turn to Wanda. She looks worried: her head is tilted, and her hands are still, frozen against the back of your head and you right leg. When you look into her eyes, you notice that they look a little more shiny than usual. Have you made her upset?

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly, voice panicked and trembling. “I don’t mean to… I’m sorry.”

“You’re not a burden,” Natasha’s voice assures you. “And it’s okay to share how you’re feeling with us. It’s important.”

Reluctantly — because you really want to see her, and make sure she’s okay — you turn away from Wanda, and look to Natasha. She looks serious, and her arms move to cross over her chest, then loosen, and fall to her lap again. 

“Is there anything we can do to help?” She asks, then she pauses, her jaw tightening ever so slightly. One of her eyebrows lifts quizzically as she adds another question. "Or anything you want us to stop doing?”

You look down to your lap again. You don’t want them to stop being that special kind of soft with you, even if it would probably resolve all the confusing feelings it brings. You just maybe need an outlet. A way to balance it out with other pieces of yourself. A way to remind you — and perhaps remind them — that you’re still yourself; still smart and strong and capable.

“You don’t need to stop anything,” you whisper, feeling your cheeks blush at your answer, and all it entails. The admission that you like them at their most gentle, that you like the hugs and the nicknames and even the slight hint of condescension which imbues their affection with an additional dizzying aura. At your words, Wanda resumes her gentle stroking of your hair, and she deepens the pressure above your knee. Like she was waiting for your confirmation. Like she wanted it. 

“Okay,” Natasha acknowledges quietly. “We won’t stop anything. But we want to help, lapushka. Can you think of anything we can do? Or anything you want to do?”

You try to think, fidgeting with the hem of your shorts as you attempt to reorder your thoughts. But nothing comes. You frown at your lap, frustration building. You want to answer her, you want to supply an idea, and please her. But you can’t.

Natasha’s hand finds yours, interlocking your fingers together. You look up at her, and she smiles gently.

“It’s okay,” she reassures you. “I can help with ideas. What about if we think about exercise first? Is that something you need?”

“Yes,” you whisper, grateful for the prompt. 

“Tell us,” Natasha encourages, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. You nod, and take a deep breath.

“I need to get outside,” you say quietly, your words slow at first, but gradually gaining rhythm and confidence as you continue. “At least once a day, for a bit. I need the fresh air, and the movement.”

“Okay,” Natasha agrees, smiling and nodding in a way which bolsters you even more. “What else?”

“Sometimes I might need a bit more,” you admit, biting your lip briefly, but continuing when Natasha continues to nod. “I know I should be resting, but sometimes I just get so overwhelmed, and when I do, exercise is kind of the only thing that helps.” You turn to look at Wanda. She doesn’t seem upset, like you feared she would. In fact, she gives you a little smile. She seems proud. It makes your cheeks feel warm again. 

“Would using the gym help?” she asks you, and you nod shyly, grateful for her understanding.

“Yes please. If that’s okay. I won’t use it without your permission, I promise.”

Wanda nods at that.

“As long as Natasha or I can supervise, then it’s okay with me, myšička. But if you feel like you’re getting to that point, can you talk to one of us, please? I don’t want you struggling on your own, and reaching that point of overwhelm. We need to have other strategies, too.”

You nod, both embarrassed and touched by her request.

“I… talking is hard, sometimes,” you admit quietly. “But I’ll try. I promise.”

“That’s all we ask for,” Natasha tells you, squeezing your hand again. “Even if you can’t find the words, just find one of us, and we can be with you. We can go for a walk, or do something together to distract, if that helps.”

Your eyes fill with tears again, but happy, relieved ones this time. You’ve never felt so seen, so understood. So held.

“Thank you,” you whisper. Natasha smiles at you, her gaze so soft, so far from the stern demeanour you first associated her with. 

“You said being busy helps,” she reminds you. “Do you want to go into college? Do you feel ready?”

You squirm slightly in your seat, a little overwhelmed by the direct question, and the reminder of your meltdown earlier today.

“I think so,” you breathe, biting your lip and looking down at your lap, trying to focus on what you want, rather than what you think they want to hear. “I think it would help, to have something to do. But I maybe need to start with just a little bit, and see how it goes.”

“That sounds sensible,” Wanda agrees, and her accepting tone reassures you enough to look up at her. “Darling, I don’t want to hold you hostage here, or force you to rest. I just don’t want you to overdo it, and hurt yourself.”

“I know,” you whisper, feeling small. Wanda watches you, breathing in deeply through her nose, then releasing it in a slow, silent exhale.

“How about you email your supervisor and see about rearranging that meeting?” she suggests, giving you a smile.

“Are you sure?” you check, and she nods. Her permission means the world to you, and you want her to know that. You wish you could hug her, touch her — but you have no free hand, and you can’t even lean against her in this position, as it would hurt your shoulder. So all you have to offer are your words, your smile, and your grateful tears. “Thank you, Wanda.”

She beams at you, and moves her hand from your neck to wipe your tears away with her thumb. 

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. When you have a time, let me know, and I can make sure to get you there.”

You nod, and your smile has to suffice as thanks this time, because you feel far too choked up with gratitude and relief to speak.

“Is there anything else you want to talk about?” Natasha asks then, and you shake your head. “Okay. We can leave it there for now, then. Thank you for talking to us, lapushka. We appreciate it.”

You feel your body relax a little, making you realise how much tension you were still holding. This conversation has been built up in your head over the last few hours, as some terrifying, earth-shattering thing — but it’s over now, and you feel better, not worse for it. 

“Do you want to take a bath now?” Wanda asks you, and you nod. Words have escaped you. You feel so tired, so spent from all the emotions. 

“Okay,” she whispers, cupping your cheek and squeezing above your knee before standing up and holding her hand out to you. You’ll accept it in a moment, but for now you turn to Natasha. Checking her face, checking for something. She smiles, and gives your hand a squeeze. 

“It’s okay, lapushka,” she reassures you softly. “You go with Wanda, and I’ll finish getting dinner ready. When you’re ready, we can eat at the table, and then come down here to watch some TV before bed. Does that sound okay?”

You nod silently, your lips quirking up into a small smile of relief. You didn’t know what you needed, when you looked to her. But whatever it was, she gave it to you.

Natasha lifts your hand to her lips, and gives it a little kiss.

“Go on, kroshka moya. I’ll see you soon.”

She moves your hand to Wanda’s, facilitating an easy transfer. Wanda helps you stand, guiding you out the narrow channel between the sofa and the table, then out the living room and up the stairs. 

Together, you all the way to your room, where she says something to you. But her words sound muffled, like you’re underwater. You blink at her, lost in a daze. Wanda just smiles adoringly at you, then guides you to sit on the end of your bed. And you watch her find clothes for you, taking them out the drawers. She builds a little bundle, then returns to you and guides you back out, back down the stairs, through her bedroom and into the bathroom. 

It takes a while for your brain to catch up to the movement, to the changes. You watch the water flowing out the taps, mesmerised and missing Wanda’s words. She captures your attention with a hand cupped under your chin, gently turning your head to look at her.

“Myšička?”

You watch her lips move, unable to find meaning in the muffled sound. But you feel her. Taking your hand and squeezing it. Brushing her thumb over your cheek. Her touch, pulling you back to her. 

“Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asks you, her expression wavering between worry and something else, something almost… pleased. 

“Wanda…?” you whisper, wanting her closer, but unsure how to say it. Your lips wobble with the effort, but you can’t produce the words.

“I’m here,” she tells you, looking deep into your eyes, like she’s searching to find out what it is that you want to say.

Everything feels so heavy, and you just want her to take the weight from you, to hold you in her arms and make everything feel better. Your head droops and leans into her, falling to rest on her shoulder, face turning into her neck. Wanda’s arms waste no time in moving to embrace you. Even without words, she knows what you need. 

“It’s okay, little one,” she soothes you, as you whimper in her skin. “You’re safe here. Safe with Mo… with me.”

Her words blur in your head, the sounds melting together, coalescing into something new. You’re too dazed to register it properly, but it settles there, the idea embedding itself in your brain. Stored in your subconscious. Saved for later.

Wanda rocks you slightly in her arms, as she whispers sweet nothings into your ear. You melt into her, your left hand finding her shirt and taking tight hold near the hem. Clinging to this piece of her, scared she’ll let go and set you adrift.

“I’m so tired,” you tell her, and it comes out in a sad little whine.

“I know, honey. Just let me take care of you now, okay? Let me do the thinking.”

“Okay,” you whisper, and the word feels like an exhale, like letting go. 

It feels good to let her. It feels good to give in.

Wanda hugs you for a few moments longer, then unravels you from her arms, placing one hand under your chin, and the other on your vice-like grip of her shirt, stroking it and coaxing you to release her. 

“Let’s get these clothes off,” she murmurs, smiling reassuringly at you, then moving both hands behind your neck, to release the sling. It’s no more sore than usual, but you feel so sensitive right now, and you wince and whimper as she removes it from your arm. “I know it hurts, baby; I’m sorry,” Wanda coos sympathetically, and it makes you feel a bit better, hearing her words. Just a little. 

Wanda carefully takes your tank top off, sliding your good arm out, taking it up over your head and then sliding it bit by bit down your bad arm, which she holds carefully at the same right-angle. She has become your sling, your protector. 

She sighs sadly, and you look up at her in worry, afraid that you’ve done something wrong.

“Oh sweetheart — I shouldn’t have let you choose this bra this morning. Your poor shoulder must be so sore from the tension…” 

Your lip wobbles, and you open your mouth to apologise again, because you feel so awful, and it’s all your fault, not hers…

But Wanda’s free hand takes your chin quickly, and she presses her forefinger against your lips in a shushing gesture.

“You don’t need to apologise,” she tells you, her voice back to calm, rather than regretful. “I know for next time — I won’t let you wear it for the whole day. Just if you need to exercise, okay?” Her finger brushes down over your lips, and your breath catches a little as you stare up at her avid gaze, your eyes flickering down to her own lips, which press against each other in a very small rolling motion, then curl into a smile. You look away, afraid that she’s noticed your wandering gaze and the heat in your cheeks. “Hold your arm steady for me, please,” she directs you gently, and you obey, staring down and trying to avoid glancing at her chest as she comes a little closer to reach the bra clasp on your back. When she unlatches it, the relief is immediate. Your skin prickles in the place it has left, and you realise, too late, that you’ve been overstimulated all day, the tension of your sports bra a constant drain on your energy and resilience since Wanda helped you put it on this morning. All these things about yourself, that you never notice. The reminder of your uselessness pokes at you, the jabs of self-loathing so prominent in your mind that you barely register your half-naked state. 

Wanda takes hold of your bad arm again, then reaches to turn the taps off. You glance over and see there is a thick layer of bubbles on the surface, enough to cover you completely once you’re in.

“Let’s give your shoulder a proper rest, tonight,” Wanda says, cupping your cheek with her right hand and tilting her head slightly as she speaks to you. “We'll leave the swimming costume, and the shower. Just a bath, and then I can get you straight into some pyjamas, hm?”

You blink at her, the words sinking in slowly, and meeting no resistance inside your mind. So you nod, and are rewarded with her smile. 

“Good girl,” Wanda praises, making you smile back happily. “Can you take your shorts off for me, sweetheart? Then I can get you in.”

You blush when your brain catches up, but still you don’t feel scared or uncomfortable at the prospect. It makes sense, to save time and pain and pressure on your shoulder. Wanda’s already seen so much of you, and she’s never stared or acted weird around your body. So what does a little more skin matter, really? You trust her. 

You move your left hand to the top of your shorts and tug them down, pushing the elasticated waistband down your thighs until it meets no more resistance and the shorts fall down to your ankles. You step out carefully, then push the fabric with your foot to meet the crumpled bundle of your vest top and bra on the floor, followed by the socks which you pry off with your toes. Your shorts have built-in briefs, so you’re entirely bare now, no fabric nor willpower left to hide any part of yourself from her.

“My beautiful, brave girl,” Wanda whispers, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to your forehead. She keeps her gaze on your face, never straying to your naked body. It calms you. It makes it feel natural to be like this, with her. “Let’s get you in now.”

You let her take hold of your left hand and guide you to step into the bath. The water is pleasantly warm, not too hot that you’re hesitant to sink in. You crouch down and then sit, feeling the water lap against you and the bubbles press and burst at your edges. It’s a relief to be engulfed like this. Although the exposure was brief and Wanda entirely discreet, you still have enough grip of your faculties to know you ought to be embarrassed, even if you don’t exactly feel it branded on your skin right now. 

Wanda moves to the shelf and finds a hairbrush, then returns to your side, crouching down so she’s not looming over you. 

“I’m going to brush your hair out first, myšička,” she explains, her voice soft and soothing. You nod pliantly, unconcerned. She could probably say anything right now, and you’d agree. 

Wanda brushes your ponytail first, holding the bunch near the top to prevent pulling. She works out the tangles, then takes the hair bobble out and continues to tease out the remaining tangles, starting with small strokes at the bottom, then working up until she’s brushed it all the way through. You feel your eyes drooping, the repetitive strokes against your scalp lulling your deeper into the haze. 

“I’m turning the shower on now, sweetheart,” Wanda tells you, and you just hum in recognition. You hear it turn on, feel the water splash behind you as she tests the temperature. “Okay. Lean back for me, honey.”

Wanda rinses your hair, then massages in the shampoo, making your eyes flutter shut in contentment. 

“Keep your eyes shut for me, sweetheart, while I wash out the shampoo,” Wanda advises, before turning the shower on again and rinsing out the suds. You keep your eyes tight shut until you hear her turn the shower off, and feel her hand squeeze your left shoulder gently. “All done.”

You open your eyes and turn to see her. She smiles at you with such sweetness in her eyes. So kind, you could almost call it loving. 

“Let me get your loofah, and I’ll help you with your arms and back,” she says quietly, standing up and walking away. You frown, your brain seeing her leave before you’re able to process her words, the panic overriding your comprehension. Don’t go, you think desperately. Don’t leave me. Wanda walks to the shower cubicle and slides open the door, reaching in. Her arms returns holding the pale-green loofah she bought you. Her other hand slide the door shut again, and then she turns back to walk towards you. Your body relaxes in relief, and she tilts her head as she approaches, her lips curling up as she considers you. 

“Did you think I was leaving?” she asks you, her nose scrunching up with amusement as she crouches down at the side of the tub and gives your nose a gentle boop with her finger.

“Nuh-uh…” you protest, looking away and blushing at your stupidity. Wanda chuckles quietly, and you poke at the bubbles on the water with your left hand, embarrassment washing over you and spilling out in petulance. Wanda stops laughing then, and brushes her thumb against your cheek.

“I’m not leaving you, miláčik,” Wanda assures you, the mirth gone from her voice, leaving only her heartfelt words. “I promise.”

You breath out, the action halfway between a huff and a sigh of relief. Your hand settles on the surface of the water, your movements slowing and shifting from destructive to explorative on the foam.

“Will you let me wash your back and arms?” Wanda asks, the first real question in a while. She waits patiently for your response, clearly wanting an honest answer this time.

“Okay,” you whisper, after considering. You glance up at her, see her soft smile, then turn back to the bubbles. You’re caught between the realistic need for consent, and the desire for her to just take control — because it’s easier, then. You prefer it when you don’t have to think, don’t have to perform the charade of handing over your control every time. In truth, you’d let her control just about any part of your life without question. If she gave you a direction, you would follow it. Happily. When she asks your permission, it just draws attention to your yielding nature, and makes you doubt if she wants it. 

Wanda moves to the end of the bath again, soaks the loofah in the water behind you, then starts to wash the back of your shoulders. It feels a little scratchy against your skin, but she’s gentle, and the warm water is doing a little to soften the rough texture. Still, the coarse sensation seems to awaken you, and unearths a niggling doubt inside you.

“W-Wanda?” you ask quietly, nibbling at your lower lip as you wait for her response. She stops what she is doing at once, moving back round to the side of the bathtub and crouching down so she can see your face. 

“Yes, darling?”

“Is — is it weird for you?” you ask, voice wobbling. “Having to help me like this?” You try to look at her, but have to alternate between her eyes and the water, because her gaze is too intense, too attentive for you to meet.

“Not at all,” she tells you, and when you look back at her you see the worry has melted from her eyebrows, and her lips have curled into a smile. She reaches out with her free hand, cupping your cheek and stroking her thumb over your cheekbone. “Honestly, little one… I really like it. I like looking after you. I like when you let me.”

“Really?”

“Really really.”

You consider her words, watching her for a while, like you might see a crack in the act. But she holds your gaze, maintains her smile. She means it. You can see that she’s telling the truth. But that doesn’t mean that you understand. 

“But… why?” you ask, struggling to accept it, struggling to believe that she’d want to do all this for you. 

“Because I care about you,” she says simply, never stopping the soothing motions of her thumb against your cheek, “and I like to look after the people I care about, myšička, and make them feel safe, and happy.” She studies you as you take this in. “Do you like it when I look after you?”

You blush, because the answer is obvious, and yet she wants you to say it.

“Yes,” you whisper shyly, holding her gaze even though you want to hide. Wanda smiles.

“Then that’s all that matters,” she says quietly. “Okay?”

You nod in her hold, and she leans forward and presses a kiss against your forehead.

“Good girl.”

And with that, she moves to the end of the tub again, and continues to wash your back. You slide your feet towards your body, raising your knees and pressing them together. Beneath the water, you ache.

Wanda washes your arms and carefully wipes your underarms, then hands the loofah to you and directs you to wash yourself while she readies the towel. You do, blushing and staring resolutely down at the water, feeling thankful for the staying power of the bubbles tonight. Once you’ve cleaned yourself all over — as much as you can, with one arm available for use and one pinned painfully beneath your chest — you squeeze out the loofah, and place it on the rim of the tub. 

“Finished?” Wanda asks, and you nod shyly. She smiles, and raises the towel with both hands, ready to cover you. “Can you stand by yourself?” 

You nod again, glad she’s allowing you to do so, and preparing to preserve your dignity as swiftly as possible when you rise. With your left hand pressing against the rim, you push yourself up to stand, and let Wanda wrap the towel around your body, placing it over your right shoulder and under your left armpit, to keep your bad arm safely compressed and your good arm free. 

“Not too tight?” she checks, and you shake your head. “Alright, let’s get you out safely.” She keeps hold of the towel with one hand, and takes your free hand in her other, helping you step out onto the bathmat. The change in temperature makes you shiver, and Wanda, noticing, doesn’t waste any time in trying to get you dry. She’s careful of your arm and she makes sure not to linger too long or too close in certain areas, but overall she’s clinical and efficient. When she’s done, she rearranges the towel in the same way, so she can clasp it together at your front with one hand. She leans down to pick up the socks from the floor, then gives you a gentle tug with the towel, moving you two steps towards the shelf to add the bundle of clean clothes she picked out to the pair of socks in her hand. The she leads you towards the door, out into her bedroom, where she gently guides you to sit on the edge of her bed, and moves your left hand to replace her grip of the towel. You stare at her expectantly, brain completely blank and waiting for instructions. Your hair drips onto the towel, and your shoulder feels sore from the strain of holding it up without the sling, but you can’t find it within you to care or complain. All you can think of is Wanda, because she crouches in front of you, sliding your dangling feet through the holes of your underwear, and gently sliding the fabric up over your knees. Then she does the same with a pair of pyjama shorts, and finally she replaces the fluffy socks from before. 

“Pull these up, baby,” she tells you, giving you a little pat on your knee. Every time she uses that nickname, it makes you feel so flustered and needy. But it’s a nice feeling, somehow. You wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

You stand up slowly, and fumble awkwardly to shuffle the underwear and shorts up beneath the towel. When you finish,�� she smiles praisingly and takes over holding the towel again. She readies the sling behind you on the bed, then holds up one of your oversized t-shirts and gives you a moment to process, before unwrapping the towel from around you and placing it down on the floor. She’s quick to cover you, sliding your bad arm through the sleeve then letting you wriggle your other in before slipping it over your head. The feeling of the soft, loose t-shirt calms you. You’re covered, but not compressed. After a day of emotional upheaval and physical tension, this is what you need.

Wanda carefully pulls your hair out where it’s been tucked beneath the t-shirt, then she starts putting your sling back on. It’s a relief when it’s over, and you can relax your arm muscles again. 

“Now, my darling — I’m going to get changed out of my work clothes and into something comfy too. Would you like to go downstairs and see if dinner is ready?”

You stare at her. She’s worded it as a question, and it confuses you. If she’d given it as an instruction, you would have obeyed, albeit reluctantly. But she’s asked you, and your honest answer would be no. 

Is that even okay? For your answer to be no? 

“C-can I stay?” you ask meekly. Then, realising that this sounds weird and intrusive, you amend your request with haste. “Or — can I wait outside for you? Please?”

Wanda smiles, that nose-scrunching smile that tells you she’s happy, amused. She takes your hand and gives it a little squeeze.

“Of course you can stay, my love. Take a seat and I’ll be quick.” With her hold of your hand, she pushes you back a little until your thighs touch the edge of the bed. You sit, staring at her and mourning the loss of her touch as she lets go of your hand, picks the towel up from the floor and moves to her walk-in closet. When you look down at your lap, you feel that same ache inside. Along with a dampness between your legs, that you can’t entirely blame on the bathwater.

Wanda emerges a minute later in a plain blue t-shirt and light grey joggers, holding a small, thin towel in her hand. 

“For your hair,” she tells you quietly, as she sits down on the bed beside you. “So you don’t get cold, during dinner.” She wraps your hair in it, then gently dries it off. At one point, you feel her chest press against your shoulder as she leans to reach the other side of your head. You bite the inside of your cheek, willing your body not to betray you, but feeling the warmth and the ache blooming anyway.

“Good enough, I think,” Wanda decides, standing up again and walking to the bathroom you watch her walk in and hang the bathmat over the side of the tub, before picking up your running clothes. She brings them and the towel back to her closet, where you assume she must have a laundry basket. “Okay,” she says then, offering her hand as she approaches, “let’s go down and see Natty. Dinner must be ready by now.”

———

When you reach the kitchen, the table is already set, and Natasha is already standing up from her stool at the counter, smiling in greeting.

“Ready when you are,” she says warmly.

Wanda guides you to sit in your usual seat, but then she sits down on the chair at the end, not her usual place opposite you. Natasha doesn’t seem to bat an eye at this, she just rearranges the place settings, moving the plate, glass and cutlery from where she normally sits, to the space in front of Wanda. Then she sits down in Wanda’s usual seat, and smiles reassuringly at you. She doesn’t seem bothered by Wanda’s closeness to you. In fact, she seems happy. It undoes the knot of worry before it can tug itself tight.

You don’t feel hungry at first, and you expect to struggle through even the small plate Natasha serves you, but find yourself pleasantly surprised by your appetite, once you start eating. The food is good, really good, and it’s perhaps also going down better tonight, because you actually did a bit of exercise today. Whenever you look up, Natasha seems to be pleased. And though Wanda doesn’t draw attention to your improved appetite with her words, she grants you an affectionate touch every so often, conveying her approval with a stroke of your hair, or a light squeeze above your knee. 

When you finish your plate, you nibble your lip and look up. Natasha watches you for a moment, still chewing. 

“Would you like some more?” she asks once she’s swallowed. Her voice is neutral; her smile is soft and unassuming. You do want more, but there’s that familiar tug in your brain, holding you back. Natasha tilts her head, but her expression doesn’t change. You know she’s figuring you out, though. She’s good at reading you. Maybe even better than Wanda, at times. “You know, I gave you a small portion to begin with,” she says casually. “Just to see if you liked it. It’s okay to have more, if you want.”

You look down at your plate, thinking. Fighting. 

“Yes please,” you say quietly, looking back up at her and feeling the tension ease in your chest as you breathe out. She nods, her face unchanged apart from the smallest little twitch at the left corner of her lips. A tiny, hidden smile. A smile she’s containing, so she doesn’t put pressure on you. Knowing that makes it seep in through your skin, warm like a hug.

After dinner, the three of you move downstairs to the sofa, and Wanda presses play on the next episode of She-Ra without pre-amble or discussion. You tuck your feet up beneath you for a bit, your left hand lifting to your mouth and the fingernail of your forefinger pressing against your lips until you notice the habit and move your hand back to your lap. You feel so tired but also there’s still that familiar, constant buzzing in your body that won’t still. The longer you spend around them, and the more comfortable you feel in their presence, the harder it is to hide. You cross your legs and shuffle back against the cushions. But that stance only lasts for a minute, before you have to try another, sliding forward to dangle your legs over the edge again. 

“Y/N, would you like me to braid your hair again?” Natasha asks. You turn to face her, sitting cross legged in the corner and waiting patiently for your response. You nod.

“Yes please.”

“Alright,” Natasha says, with a smile. She reaches forward, and pulls a hairbrush out from the shelf beneath the coffee table. Then she opens her legs into a V, placing her feet flat on the cushions at either side so her knees can lift up and form a clear space for you to sit. She pats the empty spot expectantly, and you stand up, left arm curling around your stomach as you approach. You sit down, and she gives you a gentle squeeze on your good shoulder.

“Same braid?” she asks you, and you nod. “Alright. Just focus on the screen to keep your head straight. If it hurts, let me know, okay?”

“Okay,” you agree.

There’s a pause, in which you curl your fingers a little deeper into your waist, trying to contain the buzz, and the urge to move. Natasha seems to be considering something, considering you.

“Can you hold this for me?” she asks, holding something out in her left hand, and forcing you to unravel your anxious hold of your torso to accept the hair tie she holds out to you.

Natasha starts brushing your hair then, and you look back to the screen. You roll the hair tie between your fingertips, twisting and stretching it subconsciously as you tune back in to the episode. The combination of watching the show, fidgeting with the hair tie, and feeling Natasha’s fingers pull your hair into a tight braid — it settles you, muffling the buzz like a weighted blanket, until finally it fades away completely.

A/N: Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed this, and I wish you well ♡

Taglist: (comment below if you'd like to be added to this) @nessheartnat ; @valerie-lexi ; @bishovapls ; @redheadsinmybed ; @electric-guillotines ; @naominanuq ; @alpalpym ; @dreaming-potato ; @snowazul ; @deathbylesbianwitches ; @queen-of-chaotic-surprises ; @loverluzer ; @methealt ; @theslutoflasignora ; @godhatesgoodgirls ; @absolutelyregal

[sharieb]

Can I request headcanons where Lads men reacting to being alone with Non MC Reader, because MC tricked both of them to hanging with the three of them, to ditch them on the day itself so both of them can go on a date please? But Reader reassured him that he doesn't need to be considerate and stay!

Left on Read, Right into His Arms

pairings: LADs x Non-Mc reader (you)

Genre: Fluff, slight Humour

Writer's note: I literally just received this request earlier in the morning, and I kid you not, I had way too much fun making this. (sit in front of my laptop, crackling like a gremlin in front of my very weirded out, yet equally concerned brother) . Hope you all enjoy. (for bro's sake and sanity)

🍎Caleb

The moment you spot only one cup of tea at the table, your heart drops. No MC. No third seat filled. Just Caleb, serene as ever. Wait... she said she’d be here. She swore she’d drag Caleb along so we could hang out... together.

I check my comm. No response. Then a half-baked reply flashes across the screen: "Smth came up. You’ll be fine ;)"

“She ditched us,” Caleb murmurs, after glancing at his own message thread.

You knew it. She ditched you both. She left you alone with him.

What you don’t realise is that Caleb, though perfectly composed on the outside, is internally recalculating every breath, every sentence, every second. He’s never been good at surprise emotional proximity. 'She left us alone. Just us. And she knew. She knew I wouldn’t be able to keep my cool.'

“You don’t have to stay, Caleb.”

You flinched at how you blurted that, too quickly. “I mean, she tricked both of us. You probably have better things to do. I won’t be offended—”

He sets his tea down with deliberate calm, eyes locking on yours. “You think I’m here because she asked?”

Your breath catches. “Aren’t you?”

His tone softens, but it cuts straight through you: “She invited me, yes. But I stayed because you said you’d be here.”

Oh. Oh no. Oh gods, he knows.

“...You don’t mind?” you manage.

A hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t mind. Unless you do. But if you don’t... I’d like to finish this tea with you.”

🐦‍⬛ Sylus

The warehouse is empty. Silent. Only Sylus and you, standing awkwardly in the echo of MC’s absence. She said she needed backup. She said we’d all be together. She knew I wouldn’t say no if Sylus was coming...'

You flick open your comm. Still no reply. One message marked "Read." Nothing more. 'She did this on purpose. She set me up with him. Alone.'

What you don’t know is that Sylus had already figured it out hours ago, and he's been pacing mentally ever since. He won’t admit it, but his heart jumped the second he realised it’d just be the two of you. 'Don’t act too eager. Don’t say something soft. You’re Sylus, not some idiot with heart-eyes. But damn it, she’s looking at you like that again—and now I can't stop thinking about how cute she is when she panics. Careful, or you'll end up saying something stupidly sweet by accident.' “That damn brat,”

Sylus huffs, reading something on his end. “She planned this.”

Your chest tightens. “Y-Yeah. You don’t have to stay, y’know. If she ditched us, you don’t have to suffer through awkward silence with me.”

He turns sharply, lips twitching into a crooked smirk. “You think I’m suffering? That’s adorable. Maybe I’m just here to see how red your face gets when you realise it’s just us.”

You freeze. “I mean-...not suffering suffering. Just. You didn’t ask for this. You probably had something better to do, and she just—”

He steps closer, close enough that you catch the faint scent of metal and spice. “You really think I need her to manipulate me into being near you?”

Your brain bluescreens. “I thought... she was the only reason you...”

Your words trail off.

He chuckles low, almost fondly. “You’ve got no idea how long I’ve waited to be this close to you, without her between us, little Dove.”

You are not breathing. Someone call Dr. Zayne.

❄️ Zayne

It was supposed to be a calm lunch. MC said she needed both of you to “decompress.” She even picked the café.

Zayne and you wait. Five minutes. Ten. Fifteen. You try calling her. No answer. You send a quick text: "Hey? You coming?"

No reply. Then, finally, a notification buzzes. A too-cheerful, clearly pre-written message: "Sorry! Something came up. You two have fun ;)" Wait. Wait, no. She set this up. Oh god. Oh, stars above.

Your heart starts thudding like it’s trying to kick through your ribs. You force a smile and glance at Zayne, who’s just started sipping his tea with unnerving composure.

Realising what was going on, Zayne’s calm face remains as a mask, while on the inside, he’s panicking. Okay, this is not good. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I make a fool of myself? But mostly... what if she thinks I don’t like her? “Hey, um... You don’t have to stay anymore.”

You say a bit too fast, trying not to visibly panic. “She clearly bailed. And this probably wasn’t... what you signed up for.”

Zayne blinks, caught mid-sip, then carefully places the cup down like it’s suddenly fragile. “Do I seem uncomfortable to you?” “No! I mean-...not at all. I just... I didn’t want you to think you had to be here just because-” “Because of her?”

Zayne asks, and it’s so gentle, so awkwardly sincere, you nearly combust.

You nod weakly, fiddling with the edge of your napkin. “Yeah. I mean... I thought maybe you were being polite.”

Zayne opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks to the side. Then finally mutters, “I don’t do things out of politeness. Not when it comes to you.”

Your heart stumbles. He clears his throat like it physically hurt to say that much. “You really thought I needed her here to want to see you?”

Zaynee adds, quieter now as he gazed at you. “I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t for you. Honestly, I almost cancelled when I thought it was just a group thing.”

Your jaw drops. “Wait-...you did?”

He gives the tiniest nod, ears turn the softest shade of pink. “I’m... not great with crowds. Or surprises. But I’m glad it turned out like this.”

“You are?” you breathe. “Only if you are,”

He replies quickly, eyes wide like he just realised he might’ve said too much, and his ears are now tinged a bright red.

The tension shifts... still awkward, still tender, but it’s sweet. And it’s yours.

🎨 Rafayel

The gallery is loud with art but silent between you. Just you and Rafayel. No MC. She told me it’d be a trio visit. Said she wanted me to see what he’s working on. But she’s not here. She’s not even answering my calls.

You check again. Finally, a single text: "This was for you two anyway. Enjoy <3" MC… you didn’t.

What you miss is Rafayel’s subtle shift; he’s been mentally rehearsing lines he never thought he’d need to say. All while acting unfazed. She left me with her. Alone. Don’t panic. You’ve had weeks to practise for this. “Ahh, abandoned again,”

Rafayel sings boredly, spinning lazily on his heel. “She’s clever, I’ll give her that.”

Your throat started to dry out from nervousness. “You don’t have to hang around, y’know. You probably had your own plans-”

“Plans?” Rafayel echoes, mock-offended. “Cutie, I cleared my whole afternoon the moment I heard you’d be here.”

You blink once, then two more times at what you just heard. “But... she was the one who invited-” “To see what I was painting?”

He steps closer, a rare seriousness in his gaze. “I wanted you to see it. Her being here... was just noise.” Okay. Okay. Heart, slow down. “You’re not... upset?” “That she ditched us?”

Rafayel grins as he took you hand in his. “Only because it ruined her chance to watch me fall for you in real time.”

✨ Xavier

You were supposed to stargaze. MC said she had a new telescope attachment. Said it’d be relaxing. Said you could all use the quiet.

But only one blanket’s here. One figure is seated on the hill with you. Xavier.

You check your comm. One reply: "He needs this. You do too. Trust me."

Then radio silence. She did this on purpose.

Xavier sits calm and still, but beneath the surface, his mind is already spiralling. What if I say the wrong thing? What if she leaves? I can't lose this moment. Not when it's finally just us. “You don’t have to stay.”

You murmur, fumbling with the hem of your baggy, oversized sweater. “It’s fine. You didn’t sign up for this.”

Xavier doesn’t look away from the sky as he replies. “Why would I leave?” “Because it’s just me now. And you don’t owe me-”

He finally turns to look at you. “I don’t stay out of obligation. I stayed because you were going to be here.”

The silence between you stretches. Soft. Fragile. “I thought... You only ever wanted peace. Quiet.” “And I find that in you. She knew it. That’s why she didn't come along.”

You’re not sure what’s brighter, the stars or the feeling blooming in your chest.

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

✨writing rant because i’m UNWELL and someone said enemies to lovers is “overdone”✨

okay listen.

i don’t care how “overdone” the trope is. let her fall in love with the enemy prince. let him smile like a knife and lie like a prayer. let her fall anyway. and then let her stab him with a hairpin. a hairpin!! we deserve this.

this isn't about originality. this is about execution and emotional violence and aesthetically pleasing betrayal.

tropes aren’t dead. they’re haunting us in new outfits.

every trope is a reusable little narrative skeleton and you get to dress it in whatever cursed, beautiful, petty, yearning flesh your heart desires. you can take enemies to lovers and make it toxic, or tender, or tragic. you can give them shared trauma. you can make them childhood friends turned enemies turned lovers turned enemies again. you can make the stabbing literal or metaphorical. you can make it an almost-stabbing, where she presses the blade to his throat and doesn’t do it. you can make her do it and then sob in his arms while he bleeds out whispering her name like a prayer he never meant to say out loud.

you can make it GAY.

that’s the power of tropes. they’re not restrictive. they’re launchpads. they give readers expectations so you can BREAK them. or better--fulfill them in devastating, soul-twisting ways.

also. like. if you think a trope is “overdone” maybe it’s not the trope that’s the problem. maybe it’s just being written without any real teeth. no emotional bite. no stakes. no tension. no pain. and that’s not the trope’s fault. that’s just boring writing.

give me the obsessive yearning. give me the knife-to-throat confessions. give me the battlefield truce that turns into a five-second pause before they go right back to trying to kill each other. give me quiet moments in enemy territory where they realize they’re not so different. give me the one bed. give me the i hate you but i’d burn down a kingdom for you and hate myself for it.

let the prince kneel at her feet, kiss her knuckles like he’d never crush them, and then go home and report to his war council like nothing happened. let her wear the hairpin he gave her while plotting his assassination. let them both suffer about it. let them choose each other anyway. or don’t. let them fail. let them fall apart in the final act and still reach for each other across the ashes.

i literally do not care how many times we’ve seen it. i want it again. i want it done well. i want it done with spite and softness and aching inevitability. i want to feel like the betrayal was worth it. i want to scream into my hands and text my writer friends like “why would you do this to me” while secretly living for it.

write your trope. write it the way it’s been done before or write it sideways and backwards and messy. just write it with emotion. and a little hairpin. and blood under their fingernails.

okay bye

Rin T.

[peculiarities-starryeyed-oddity]

What the actual fuck is wrong with people that they feel the need to go out of their way to make spam bots to discourage people from writing? Fanfic writers, please be wary and know that if anyone doesn't like your writing they can go fuck right off.

hey uh new type of ao3 spam comment just dropped. (I know it's spam because the fic they left this comment on . doesn't have chapters. lmfao). Report this kinda comment as spam and don't take it personally it is literally recycled bullshit

[idksmtms]

The Other Wife (Cregan Stark x reader)

Request 

A/N: 1. I am so sorry it has taken me almost a year to get to this… 

2. Thank you so much for the request anon! I know I’m the slowest writer on the planet but thank you for sending it in and giving me this wonderful idea! I really enjoyed writing it (and by that I mean it put me through seven levels of emotional torture which is exactly the conditions I thrive in…) 

Edit: I have spent a week writing this and I have never been so drained both emotionally and physically while writing fanfic omfg 

Summary: When Cregan Stark begins looking for a second wife, you are put forth as a viable candidate. But once you are chosen, all your fantasies of having a loving husband and the chance for a family are poured away when you find out that everything is not quite as it seems.  

Word count: ~24.3k (what the actual fuck) 

Trigger Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, ANGST, unrequited love, depictions of a panic attack, thoughts of suicide/suicidal ideation, depictions of depression, canon-typical views on women/sex/gender/marriage/etc, smut (but it’s both sad and sexy), kidnapping (technically), (please let me know if I missed any) 

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not claim to own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so. 

Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)

You smiled as you patiently waited for Dyanna to finish threading the last of your hair into a braid. You smoothed your hands over the silvery grey fabric of your skirts and tried your hardest not to twist it in your hands. Though you were trying to be patient, you were also excited. 

When the call was first sent out into Winterfell and the surrounding areas that Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, was looking for a wife, a flurry of activity began in every house with an eligible daughter. It had, of course, only been two moons prior that each of these houses had come to pay respect to the lord for the death of his infant son and the precarious condition of the Lady Arra. It appeared that the pressure of producing an heir, and the never-ending suggestions of his advisors for him to take a second wife had proved fruitful. The call was sent out, and all eligible ladies of some relevant rank were invited to Winterfell to take part in a week of festivities, during which Lord Stark would choose a new bride.

You were not low-born by any means, but you were also most certainly not going to be the lady of the highest rank in attendance. Furthermore, your presence at these festivities (starting with a welcome feast in the great hall of Winterfell) was purely for the joy of it. You had two older brothers, married already and with enough heirs to ensure the continuation of the line. You even had an older sister who was happily married to a more southern lord and had taken up residence in his manor. You were the last of the children in your home, and though your parents wished for an advantageous match for you as well, it was not so essential anymore. You were given rather more freedom than your siblings in this regard, and though your family hoped you may somehow come out of this week of festivities as the new Lady of Winterfell, they also knew Lord Stark would not be the only eligible male in attendance. There were options abound and even endless entertainment for the young ladies. It suited everyone. 

Your attitude had settled itself somewhere in the middle of all of this scheming. You wished to be married now. Even in childhood you had always wanted to play mother, to walk about with your ragged dolls made of cloth and pretend you were happily married and raising your baby. You longed for the chance to make the games reality, to find a man whom you loved, to have a horde of children and run a home the way you wished to. You had heard time and again from other ladies of matches made with no consideration for love and homes that turned into prisons, but you were just sheltered enough to believe you may be the exception. 

However, you also knew you had the luxury of time still, that you need not rush to find a match. So you made it your mission to enjoy the festivities as well. You would eat the delicacies they offered, explore every nook and cranny of Winterfell, and enjoy having time to frolic with friends you may never see again after the festivities were over. You were determined to enjoy yourself, and to simply hope to find a match rather than chase it. 

Your family was lucky enough to be one of those housed at the castle and not a nearby inn, and so you could observe the preparations for the feasts and festivities. Upon the arrival of your carriages, there had been a distinct lack of the Lord. One of his advisors had greeted your family, apologised on his behalf (some excuse on being called away on urgent business or other spilling from his lips hurriedly), before leading you to your chambers. And there you had stayed, lounging and slowly readying yourself for the magnificent opening feast to be laid before everyone that evening. You could occasionally hear servants bustling by your door, speaking about their duties, and it had filled you with a buzzing sort of excitement, simmering deep in your limbs as you walked back and forth in your room. 

Though time passed slower than you would have wished it to, eventually you were led to the main hall just behind your mother and father. It had been beautifully decorated, with tapestries and sashes of fabric gracing the walls and each chandelier fully lighted (the occasional stray drip of wax falling somewhere near the edges of the hall). As many long tables as could be fitted crowded the main floor and were already brimming with ladies and their families. 

The table of honour was set on the dais facing the rest of the great hall. Advisors lined each side and in the middle sat Lord Cregan. As you walked further into the hall, you barely even offered him a glance, watching everyone and everything else with wide dazzled eyes. He was draped in dark grey furs and sat low in his seat, gazing off into the distance. He seemed to be frowning, but you couldn’t tell if he was actually annoyed or if it was simply a naturally set furrow on his brow. Then you looked away once more as you were led to your place at one of the more middle tables but near the edge closest to the dais. 

You gathered your skirts and sat down, instantly twisting this way and that to marvel at the festivities, like you had become a curious and squirrely little girl once more. Another maiden sat to your right and both of you smiled brightly and fell into giggles upon noticing the matching looks of awe you wore. She commented on the plates, you on the tapestries, and you were quick to fall into conversation 

Once everyone had entered the great hall and the chatter became so deafening you had to yell to hear one another, Lord Cregan stood from his seat and raised his goblet high in the air. A hush was quick to fall over the entire room as they followed suit, standing at their seats and picking up their goblets in return, and you finally took a moment to properly study your lord. 

Though he was smiling now, it seemed practiced, bordering on disinterest. His furs were beautiful, cleanly cut and balanced on his shoulders with a certain regality one must be born with. You could not deny that he was handsome, perhaps more handsome than many of the other men you had ever seen. He was stocky in build in a way that belied muscle, with a broad torso and shoulders, arms as thick as tree trunks. Though he was not the most tall man you had ever seen, he would still tower over you, and his long hair was clean and well-kept, tied back to keep out of his face. You were sure that the Lady Arra must have been quite ecstatic upon their betrothal, and at the thought you turned your face away for a moment and as a hot blush rushed your cheeks. It would be safe to say that whichever woman was selected in the coming week would be blessed in many ways. 

“Welcome everyone,” he began, slowly moving his eyes over the crowd. “We are glad to host you at Winterfell for what is sure to be a joyous time. Eat, drink, and be merry,” then he raised his goblet once more and took a deep swig from it. 

“Aye, aye!” A chorus, loud and deafening, as everyone raised their cups in return. Hands were slammed against tables and raucous chatter was already beginning anew as large platters of food were quickly brought out and set down all over. 

You smiled at those around you and took a sip from your own cup, grimacing slightly at the tartness of whatever you had been served before sitting back down once more. Your mother was already pulling pieces of chicken from the platter and placing them on your plate but you took a moment to look back at the Lord of Winterfell. He was sitting again, but his eyes were unfocused as they gazed off into the distance. He took another sip from his goblet but did not engage in any conversation with those around him. He didn’t even bother reaching his hand out to eat something. He seemed so solitary, a bare tree in a wasteland, and your heart clenched in your chest. 

You turned away and back to your food, taking a large gulp from your drink before beginning to eat. Of course he would not be at his most merry, you reasoned. His son had died, his wife only just saved from the same fate, and here he was being forced to take another and act as if he was merry. You too would not be so enthusiastic if you had suffered the same fate. You shook your head free of the thoughts and put forth your best smile as the girl next to you began speaking between bites. You could be upset for your lord later. For now, your own merriment awaited. 

After much of the food had been consumed, the tables on the main floor were pushed to the sides to create a large space for dancing. A small troupe of musicians appeared in the corner and began playing a variety of jigs and servants walked around offering jugs of wine and ale. 

At first you stuck to the sidelines, bouncing on the spot and enjoying the songs, laughing as the different men and women swung each other around. You spotted many of your acquaintances dancing vivaciously and clapped along to the music. Then a boy from House Glover had asked you to join him for a dance and soon you were being passed from hand to hand, laughing jovially and getting lost to the music. A sea of faces passed you for the next hour, hands slipping through your own, feet tripping over yours, gowns and doublets and all sorts of fabric brushing against your dress. You were lost in the array. 

But before long, your feet began to ache and the heat from the dance floor became suffocating. The jostling from one dance to another created a pulse just behind your temple and you knew it was time to get away from the hall. You extricated yourself from the grip of your latest partner and stumbled out of the circle. You took a deep breath, but the air was still stale inside the great hall and you could feel your back drenched in sweat under the fabric of your dress. You snatched a cup of something from one of the tables and gulped down the sweet drink before slipping between the many people and stumbling through the doors that led out of the hall. 

You stood still for a moment and took a deep breath, allowing your heart to finally slow down and the cool air in the long hallway to gently touch your cheeks. You smiled, letting out a small, almost dazed, giggle before finishing off the contents of the cup and placing it on the floor by the door. 

Though you knew you shouldn’t be wandering around without a chaperone, especially at night, the wine and ale had made you a bit more loose and carefree. Everyone would be busy in the hall anyway except for the few servants who would be preoccupied in the kitchens. You were free to run about and explore. And you were not stupid, you would ensure your presence back in the hall before the festivities truly began to wind down and allow your mother and father to You walked out of the rear doors and perused the courtyard, milling about this way and that, poking at the bales of straw that must be used for training on a normal day. Though it was not snowing, there was the everpresent chill in the air that never left the North, especially in the evening. You shivered, shaking out your arms. Though you did not regret the choice of your dress - it had served you well in the stifling heat of the great hall - you did wish that the material was a little thicker in preparation for your spontaneous outing. You simply hoped if you walked a little more you could evade the chill. 

You meandered your way out of the gate and toward the thick line of trees you could see just behind the castle. When your eyes set upon the wood, you began walking with a little more purpose. You had a mission now, to find the heart tree in the weirwood. You had always wanted to see it, to perhaps pray and feel closer to the old gods, but your usual home did not have a weirwood to speak of and you rarely ever ventured north enough to find one. 

After you crossed the empty plane and met the tree line, you could see a clearing not far off. It was a bright night with not a cloud in sight, bathing the entire world in moonlight. You could see it shining off the white bark of the heart tree in the clearing, even the sheen of the blood red leaves. You smiled and hopped toward it, keeping a light jog despite how precariously thin your slippers were and the uneven ground. 

When you entered the clearing, you sighed long and deep. Your shoulders dropped and you closed your eyes for a moment. You could almost feel the silence press over you. It was quieter in this little spot, like not even the birds or the breeze touched it. The air was thick and still, and the leaves didn’t move. It was exactly what you needed after the buzz of the great hall. 

You moved to sit on one of the old logs placed under the cover of the heart tree’s branches. You looked up into the leaves and realised you couldn’t see far. It was a dense mesh of leaves and branches and you were lucky if you glimpsed even a touch of the sky. You thought you saw a crow or raven somewhere near the top, a flash of black in the moonlight, but no other sign of life appeared.  

You marvelled at how large the tree was. The trunk was so thick it would need four of you to be able to link arms around it, and the sudden realisation hit you that someone could be on the other side and you would be none the wiser. You stiffened for a moment but then shook your head. No, no, you were being so unnecessarily silly. There would be no one else here, not at this time of night when a perfectly jolly feast was being held not far off. No one would be as stupid or reckless as you. You huffed out a laugh and pressed your hands to your face, shaking your head before standing up and doing a little spin. 

“Do not let your own imagination poison your reality,” you mumbled to yourself. But once the seed of doubt has been planted, it takes root and you knew you would not be able to settle until you had taken one complete stroll around the tree to ensure you were alone. 

At first you saw nothing on your charge around the tree, just more empty logs and creeping roots. But at the exact spot you would not have been able to see from your own place on the other side of the tree, a shape took hold. You were stopped short, stumbling back and almost falling on your behind onto the forest floor as your slipper moved precariously over a root. You pressed a hand to your heart where it hammered in your chest. Your lips dropped open, a choking sound disturbing the quiet. You pressed your other hand to your hair, closing your eyes for a moment before opening them again. 

The shape was clearer now, a man who had moved to stand, one hand still outstretched as if he could catch you before your fall despite the distance. You smiled, bashful and embarrassed as you sucked air in quickly and began to laugh. You patted your hair, chest, the skirts of your dress before shaking your head. 

“My apologies, Ser,” you giggled out, before finally opening your eyes again and looking at the man. When you looked a little closer, the smile dropped from your face. “Uh-” Your eyes widened and you fumbled as you looked around, unsure what to do. You were about to bow into a curtsy but the man across from you held up his hand with a small smile and shook his head. 

“It is I who should apologise to you, my lady,” he began in his deep voice, all rough and gravel. Your cheeks felt hot all of a sudden but you didn’t lift your head to look him in the eye. You couldn’t, you may simply cease to exist from the amount of shame and embarrassment filling you up. “I should have announced myself when I heard you approach. I suppose I was hoping I may continue to go unnoticed,” he shrugged and you glanced up. He looked almost… forlorn. His smile had fallen away and his brows had pulled a little tight. He was gazing at the heart tree once more and you felt a little better about lifting your head. You brought your hands to clasp in front of you and held them tightly as you tried to smile once more. It came out as a grimace but he still wasn’t looking at you. 

“Then my apologies again, my Lord,” you said, clearing your throat as all the earlier laughter fled you. “I will leave you to your solitude,” you bowed your head once more, “I am sure you require it more than most at this moment,” you added softly. When you glanced back up he was looking at you again, the frown softened just slightly. He shook his head and gestured to the log behind you. 

“Please, do not leave, my lady. The heart tree is not mine to covet, and I would be loath to deny someone else access to it,” and he moved to sit on one end of the log. You hesitated, watching him in the moonlight. He was still dressed as he had been at the start of the feast, but his hair was slightly more unkempt, a few strands falling in front of his face. His eyes were so grey, almost luminescent in the dark, and you scolded yourself for staring so unabashedly. 

You nodded at his invitation, smiled softly, and sat on the other end, tucking your hands into your lap. Silence fell over the two of you once more, broken only by the rhythms of your breaths and the forest. You glanced awkwardly between the tree and Cregan, trying not to look at him too long lest you be caught. A few more moments passed and the quiet became difficult to bear, your mouth itching to speak. 

“It is a grand feast you have hosted,” you began softly, fidgeting with your hands in your lap. He hummed in acknowledgement and lifted his head to look at you. You smiled awkwardly and pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, before clearing your throat. “I…” you weren’t sure if you should keep speaking, say what you actually wanted to say, but Cregan leaned back and watched you curiously and you huffed out a breath before continuing. “I wished to express my condolences for your son,” you gulped, “and to pray for a speedy recovery for Lady Arra. It seems… unfair of your advisors to not allow you a little more time to mourn before speeding along… business.” You dropped your gaze to the ground and rubbed the fabric of your dress between your fingers. When you glanced back up, Cregan’s eyes had widened, his lips parted just slightly. 

“Thank you, my lady,” he whispered in return, pressing his palms to the log under him and shifting a little so he faced you more fully. “Though I must admit… I am surprised you would express such a sentiment. I believed all the ladies attending would be ecstatic at this… opportunity,” he finished with a grimace but you simply smiled conspiratorially, laughing a little before shrugging. 

“I think you may have misconstrued the emotions of their families as their own, my lord,” you teased, smirking a little. “While it’s true that many may be excited at the thought of becoming the Lady of Winterfell, I do believe others - like me - are simply excited at the opportunity to dance and mingle and be merry. And I believe all would offer their sympathies for the tragedy you have suffered. The loss of a child is a different kind of pain, I think,” you blinked softly at him as he nodded in agreement. 

Your body felt looser now and you allowed your hands to fall to the log you sat on, swaying back a little and stretching your legs out in front of you. You gazed at the heart tree once more, avoiding Cregan’s eyes as he looked at you once more. 

“So you are simply here to dance and be merry then?” He asked, a little smirk of his own pulling at his lips. Your head lolled to the side to look at him and you squeezed your eyes shut and laughed. His smile felt… precious. 

“I came with no expectations of being selected from the large array of ladies at your disposal, my lord,” you smiled sarcastically, and when he chuckled softly a sharp giggle fell from your lips and you leaned forward, almost completely bent in half before picking up your head a little. “My parents are hopeful that if I am not picked by you then I shall discover some other match among the brothers and fathers in attendance. Though I do wish to marry, I would like to spend this time in the company of friends and simply… enjoying myself,” you sighed. “Young ladies have few opportunities for this,” you added quickly, giggling again, but Cregan just watched you thoughtfully. He wasn’t smiling anymore but he wasn’t frowning either. 

You shook your head back and forth, humming a little before a cool breeze blew by and your entire spine shivered. You wrapped your arms around yourself and made a funny little ‘brr’ noise, chuckling to yourself as you exaggerated how cold you truly were. When you glanced back at him, Cregan was shuffling closer, pulling the fur from his shoulders and leaning forward to wrap it over yours. Your lips parted as you tilted your head up. He gently placed the fur over both your shoulders and you gazed up into his eyes. They were even more beautiful up close, a mix of blue and grey like rocks on a clear riverbed. His hair was more brown than black and gently brushed your shoulders when he leaned close to adjust the way it fell over you. He smelled softly of earth and cotton, a hint of sweat but not in an unpleasant way. He seemed to radiate warmth like he was the sun itself. You could feel it when you clasped the edges of the fur to your chest and your fingers brushed against the tunic over his chest. His warmth had transferred to the fur and you snuggled deeper into it. Your fingers dug into the fuzzy fur and the entire thing seemed to bathe your torso. 

When Cregan leaned back, he was sitting only a hand’s breadth away from you and you continued to watch him from your place deep in the fur. He seemed to run his eyes all over you, from the top of your head to where your pretty silver slippers sat daintily on the dirt. You looked down at yourself for a moment, trying to see what he was gazing at. You saw the edges of the grey fur, surely a large fox or even a wolf, and the beautiful shiny silver fabric of your dress that made you look bathed in moonlight. 

“Thank you, my lord,” you whispered, glancing back up at his face. A hush had fallen over the weirwood. He shuffled a little closer and your breath caught in your chest. You trembled a little even under the fur. Cregan reached up and gently tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear, his breaths brushing over your lips and chin, his thumb brushing the place between your ear and cheek. You gulped, lips parting and then meeting again. Then he leaned back and stood from the log, clearing his throat and smiling gently down at you before looking back in the direction of Winterfell. The hush was broken. 

“Come, my lady, I shall accompany you back to the castle,” Cregan held his hand out for you and you smiled awkwardly, nodding and placing your hand in his. He gripped you gently but still engulfed your palm and fingers before letting you go and allowing you to walk just ahead of him. After the first few steps, you turned back to look at him. 

“You needn’t leave your solitude to return me to the castle, I am capable of finding my way back,” you spoke softly, smiling in encouragement, but he shook his head and smiled in return. 

“No need to worry, my lady, I think I have had enough solitude for now,” and he gestured to the path ahead of you, waiting until you turned away from him and began walking again. 

The rest of your journey back to the castle was spent in silence. He guided you inside and through the doors, but when you turned back to thank him, he had disappeared. You frowned as you reentered the great hall but quickly shook it off. The merriment had neither ceased nor decreased. The musicians played a lively jig and people filled the dance floor, a little more wobbly with drink than they had been before you left. 

You picked a place near the side of the hall, sitting at one of the tables that had been shoved to the side and sipping from a cup of ale. You smiled and swayed to the music but did not dance. You pulled the fur from around your shoulders and folded it up before putting it on the bench beside you, stroking it distractedly. When you glanced up at the head table, Cregan was back in his seat of honour and his eyes were on you. 

Your breath caught in your throat, and you offered him a shaky smile, but he simply turned his head away, bringing a hand up and lightly scratching at his chin as he gazed down at his plate. You dropped your head and frowned at your lap but then shook off whatever odd feeling had taken over you for a moment and forced yourself up onto your feet. You would allow yourself one final dance before dragging yourself back to your rooms. 

You stayed true to your word, turning in circles for only one song before pulling away from the grabbing hands of the men and maidens and making your way back to your little spot at the table. You picked up the fur that had been entrusted to you and found your way to your mother and father, yelling that you would be returning to your room before heading back out of the great hall. 

You hummed as you strolled down the corridor in the direction of your chambers, swaying slightly with the music you could still distantly hear. As you rounded the corner to the final hallway, you spotted a servant walking in your direction. 

“Oh! Hello!” You flagged them down, waving toward them as they got closer. You smiled as the older woman curtsied to you before proffering the fur in her direction. “This is Lord Stark’s property, would you be able to return it to him?” The older woman looked shocked for a moment, her eyes widening just so before she schooled her expression and nodded, gently taking the fur from you. 

“Of course, my lady. Would you like a message to be passed on as well?” The woman asked, but her tone seemed heavy with something you didn’t quite understand. 

“Uh, no, no, I do not think so?” Your face contorted and you tilted your head in confusion, clasping your hands in front of you. “Perhaps a simple thank you will suffice,” you shrugged, smiling at the woman and bidding her farewell. She curtsied once more and just before she turned away you saw her eyebrows raise. Your own furrowed in confusion once more but you simply finished the journey to your rooms. 

The next day was made for the fathers and brothers who had accompanied the young ladies; a casual tourney to simply enjoy the sporting prowess of all the men who had gathered. The weather was perfect for it, clear blue skies and bright sunshine, the best of the summer without being unbearably hot. Everything had been set up on the grounds just outside the palace, a myriad of tents for different purposes dotted the wide open space. There were the large tents for the women to lounge and meet, split up into many rooms with swathes of fabric. There were the smaller, more open tents for the men to rest and ready in just beside the grounds dedicated for archery and riding and hand-to-hand combat. Even the tables from the great hall had been dragged out into the open so the evening’s feast could be held out of doors. 

A hustle and bustle filled the fresh open air. There were clinking goblets and cups, the tittering of the older ladies as they discussed their children with varying tones of love and disregard, the loud unabashed giggles of the younger children and the hushed little laughs of the maidens. There was the clank and clatter of weapons, the rush of bowstrings pulled and arrow fletching brushed, the boisterous talk of the men and the neighing of horses. Everything held an overwhelming degree of sound. 

Though the young ladies had spent a few of the morning hours in the tents, attached to your mothers and sisters, upon the arrival of noon you had ventured out to watch some of the sport being carried out. The archery had been put next on the agenda and you all gathered on the benches that had been brought out for any spectators. 

You had settled yourself down between two of the ladies you had become most familiar with over the course of the morning and began looking around for Lord Stark. When you found him nowhere, your face fell into a puzzled frown for a moment before you shook it off. Though he was known to be an accomplished warrior, perhaps archery was not his strong suit. Or perhaps he had been called away on business once more, the demands on a lord were never-ending. You didn’t have any business worrying about his whereabouts anyhow, you reminded yourself, laughing softly and pinching yourself on the wrist. 

Though the short time with him at the heart tree the previous evening had softened his image in your mind, it did not change much else. Yes, he may have endeared himself to you with his valiant offering of his fur, just like the knights and lords of the old stories told to little girls, but it meant naught. He simply was valiant, and it had nothing to do with you whatsoever. You nodded at yourself in confirmation before turning to the girl on your left and striking up a conversation about one of the men in the tent on the other side of the archery course. 

You had enjoyed yourself thoroughly bouncing between watching the tourney, sitting in the cool shade of the tent and simply strolling about with the other girls. Lord Stark had been curiously absent the entire day but when questions were finally probed, everyone was told that he had been called on urgent business but would return in time for the evening feast. And true to his word, he had returned just as the final event of the tourney had finished and the sun was setting. 

The tables had been set up as they would have been in the hall, but canopies had been set up over them dangling with candles and lanterns to light the merriment well into the night. Even bonfires had been set up around the perimeter of the tables and everyone was bathed in warmth and soft golden light. 

The feast was just as lively as it had been the night before, perhaps moreso. There was a certain sense of freedom that came with being out of doors, the land dark and endless, and it seemed infectious. The laughter was more boisterous, the yelling more raucous, and the drink more free-flowing. Everyone seemed ruddy-cheeked and silly. 

You had been as merry as you could since the sun set. You had sipped on wine (though much less than those around you) and eaten your fill. You had laughed and made others laugh, and even sung along when music broke through the chatter. But just like the night before, your limit was soon reached and you craved a few moments away from the stifling crowd. The air had begun to fill with smoke from the bonfires and though it would be warmer to stay near everyone, you desired peace more than anything else. 

You slipped away as people began mingling to talk and perhaps even start an impromptu dance in the field. Your destination was clear in your mind, and you followed the wall all the way around until you found the woods once more. You took the same path you had done before, though this time you were better equipped for it in a pair of pretty but hardy boots and a thin shawl around your shoulders. You hummed as you walked, hoping to keep whatever had unsettled you the night before at bay, and gently rubbed the material of the shawl between your fingers. 

You felt a little giddy in your stomach and tried to force the smile from your lips every time it tugged at your face. It was not anticipation, per say, that seemed to writhe in your spine. Perhaps a little innocent hope? No, you wouldn’t say that. You were simply confirming to yourself that you would be happy if Lord Stark happened to be present at the heart tree, but you would not be disappointed if he was not. You clamped your lips together, which then made your face look a little odd, before releasing a breath that made them flutter and create a funny little ‘brbrbr’ sound. 

You schooled your face as you reached the edge of the clearing. You could not see him when you first entered the circle of moonlight, and a little twinge plucked in your heart. You simply shook your head and moved further toward the tree when you heard someone clear their throat. You froze in your spot, not yelping or jumping but startled all the same. You looked in the direction it came from and walked a little further around the tree to find your lord sitting on the log you both had occupied the night before. 

He was already looking at you, a softness in his eyes you had not seen previously. He did not smile, but his face was at ease and he stood as you approached. Though custom would have dictated he reach out for your hand and press a kiss to the back of it, you stayed too far to be within reach of him. You smiled gently, twisting your fingers as you clasped your hands in front of you, hoping to disguise the way your heart seemed to soar in your chest. 

“I have disturbed your solitude twice now,” you sighed, but your smile did not match your wistful words. 

“It is not unwelcome,” he responded, and it only served to widen your smile. He gestured to the log and waited until you sat on your end before retaking his seat. He was turned toward you this time, and his eyes did not stray to the tree the way they had done the night before. Though your body pointed to the tree, you twisted at the waist to ensure you faced him as well. 

“I hope it is known that I do not intend to disturb,” you told him, brushing some hair out of your face. His chuckle was just the huff of a breath as he glanced down at his lap, but you wanted to grab it in your hands and keep it close to your chest. 

“You need not worry,” he assured as he glanced back up to lock eyes with you, “I believe your presence could not disturb me even if you attempted it.” Your face was instantly furiously hot and a shiver tingled from the back of your head down your spine as you turned to face the tree. You gulped, suddenly a little parched, and you clenched your hands tightly together in your lap. Then you huffed out a little laugh as well, airy and slightly awkward as you glanced at your lap, then the tree, then your lap again before returning your gaze to him. 

“I fear my family would not agree,” you quipped, but he only offered you a boyish smile. “It is true!” You argued, as if you must prove to him that you could be a pest if you tried. “On more than one occasion I have chattered so much that my mother has looked at me incredulously, then threatened to shove a stocking between my lips just to hush me for a moment.” 

He laughed then, deep and long, his eyes squeezed shut and his body rolling up and down. You joined at first, slightly awkward then awed and jovial as you took pride in being able to make him laugh. He rubbed at his cheek for a moment, as if his face was unused to laughter and smiling and his cheeks were beginning to ache. You uncurled slightly, stretching your legs out in front of you so their weight rested on your heels and you could swing your feet side to side. You pressed the heels of your hands against the log and leaned your weight back into them. You turned your head to look at him as his laughter calmed and his small became a little smaller. 

“I fear my suspicions have been confirmed,” he finally spoke, taking a deep breath to replenish after his bout of laughter. “Even upon telling a story of how you can be an annoyance, I still find you to be altogether too pleasant.” 

After you shot him a bright, rather mischievous, smile, the two of you fell into a comfortable silence. You turned your head up to gaze through the branches again, watching the leaves twitch and sway in a phantom breeze. You slowly brought your gaze down to the tree and the face carved into it. You watched the trail of dark red sap that had already dripped through the eyes and mouth before glancing away. When you turned your head back to face him, he was already looking at you again. 

“Does something trouble you that you seek this refuge once more?” He asked in his deep gravelly voice, more hushed now. You smiled a little, a barely there stretch of your lips and shook your head. 

“No, nothing in particular,” you sighed. “I love to dance and be merry, and enjoy everything that comes with a feast,” you began slowly, hesitantly, “I do. I enjoy it very much. But sometimes… everything is suddenly too… much. Everything irks me. The lights are too bright, the people too loud, and it is intensely overwhelming.” You shrugged, looking down at your lap. “I just want to be quiet, and just… at peace for a few moments, I suppose.” You shrugged again and kept your head dipped low but flitted your eyes to look at him. His face had settled into a neutral sort of expression and you could not tell if he understood what you were babbling about. “I can return to the merriment again afterward,” you added hastily, “I do not need to escape it completely, that would be no fun either.” Cregan nodded sagely, gazing at the ground in front of him. 

He was leaning his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped in front of him in the space above his knees. He fiddled with his fingers a little and hummed in agreement. 

“I wish to do away with all these feasts altogether,” he grumbled, and your limbs suddenly went a little rigid. 

You felt that you had said something wrong, done something wrong, destroyed the peace between you somehow. Your mouth was dry but your back was suddenly a little damp with sweat. You turned your head to face your lap once more but glanced in his direction over and over. 

The two of you were silent for a few moments, your teeth worrying at your lip as you continued your quick little eye movements between your lap and the man sat to your left. You were completely still otherwise, not even swinging your feet. Then Cregan let out a long breath and shook his head where he had dropped it between his shoulders. He leaned back and straightened up, looking at you with a sad little smile that made you feel more upset than comforted. 

“That was unfair of me,” he breathed out. “If not for the feasts then I would not have had the pleasure of your company.” 

You smiled, though it twitched and your eyes felt stuck to his face. You let out an awkward little ‘heh’ of a laugh, and nodded, but Cregan was already standing and brushing down his clothes before offering you his hand. 

“Come, let us return to the merriment. Perhaps you can enjoy one more round of dancing before you truly cannot stand it anymore,” and he was smiling like he had done before, so who were you to argue? 

You daintily placed your fingers on his palm and allowed him to haul you up, but you were quick to bring your hand back to your side as soon as he released it. You clutched your shawl tightly in your hands and allowed him to lead you back on the familiar path. 

Though two nights of feasting had already passed, many more awaited. Three nights of feasting were to be followed by another for the announcement of the betrothal. The guests would stay on, for the wedding would be slightly rushed and held the week after, giving enough time for any other family members to make the travel and preparations to be made for a simple ceremony. On the third day, the men gathered themselves for a hunt. The women saw them off at the gates of Winterfell, waving handkerchiefs and wishing luck to all before simply returning to their chambers. It proved a rather boring day filled with embroidery or reading, perhaps a shared luncheon, but ultimately mostly solitary for everyone. 

You supposed it was good, it made you crave the music and dancing that awaited you in the evening. A messenger had returned just ahead of the hunting party in the late afternoon announcing that the hunt had been extremely fruitful and that Winterfell would be blessed this evening. It had enticed everyone to put on their best clothing and surely to be even more joyful at the feast. 

You kept with your theme of greys, whites, and silvers, though this dress was finer than the other two you had worn thus far. You had Dyanna thread pearls through your hair, and when you were fully dressed, twirled around in front of her with a happy little squeal. The fabric of your dress was shiny in the light and you were sure to catch many an eye in it. You felt beautiful, and it made you smile broad and unabashedly. You pressed your hands to your cheeks for a moment and closed your eyes, just allowing yourself to feel the joy before straightening up and clearing your throat. You nodded at Dyanna as if you were a soldier and schooled your expression to be slightly dimmer. Dyanna simply giggled and ushered you out to join your parents and enter the great hall once more. 

When you entered, you felt a little shy for a moment. Though it was not a sea of heads turning to stare at you, some definitely watched your approach. You simply clenched your hands together and forced yourself to look ahead, breathing slowly as you followed after your parents. As you lowered yourself into your seat, you glanced in the direction of the head table and found Cregan already gazing in your direction. You went a little wide-eyed, turning your head away sharply before feeling foolish and girlish and tilting your head to the left a little so you could see him out of the side of your eye. He was still looking at you but his eyes had softened and he was almost smiling. The same burning under your skin began and you looked ahead once more, hoping someone would sit down next to you quickly so you could be distracted with conversation. 

Your prayers were eventually answered and you became distracted for the rest of the meal, laughing and joking with those around you until your plates were emptied twice and your cups thrice. When everyone stood to move the tables and open the floor for dancing, you were loose with joy. Though you were still proper of course, all the young ladies were, you were also Northerners, and Northerners loved to dance. 

You danced the first with a blond boy who had yelled his name at you but you had not heard, and the second with a slightly older but more enjoyable partner who you were sure was the eldest brother of one of your friends. You sat out the third to catch your breath, linking arms with another of your acquaintances and sipping ale slowly. You were so jovial that you did not notice the presence of Lord Stark until he was right at your shoulder. 

A shadow fell slightly in front of you and you turned to glance in the direction of it, thinking nothing at first, before your eyes landed on the familiar locks of dark hair that settled about his shoulders. Mouth parting a little, your eyes trailed up from his neck to his face where his lips were pulled up on just one side, an innocent smile. He stood so close that his chest was practically pressed into your shoulder and you could feel the warmth he radiated on your arm. You gulped, finally gaining enough control to close your mouth, and returned a rather shocked smile. He held his hand out lightly and leaned down so close his lips brushed your ear as he spoke. 

“Would you dance the next with me?” 

You shivered. His breath was still brushing your ear and your entire body seemed to tingle from it. He was so close that you could smell him again, that soft clean cotton and earth smell that made you want to press your face to his neck and simply breathe over and over. You nodded, a jerky and slightly hurried motion, but it seemed to widen his smile and you would do it again and again just to see that happen once more. 

The previous song was already at its end and you gently placed your hand in Cregan’s grip, allowing him to lead you to the other dancers as the next began. You could feel eyes on you, could just hear faint whispers of your name and Lord Stark’s without catching anything else. You ignored it all to focus on the man in front of you. 

Though you expected him to know the dance, you did not expect him to be very graceful. He defied even that expectation, his movements lithe and clean. Perhaps he was not the most graceful, but he still moved with ease and timed it well to the music, a warrior through and through. You smiled brightly the entire time you danced, laughing with each hop or swish of your skirt, memorising the feeling of his palm against your own or the press of his hand at your waist. Your eyes glimmered in the candlelight and the pearls in your hair made you a beacon on the dancefloor. And Cregan was not the most expressive person, communicating through subtle shifts in a naturally stony expression, but he seemed relaxed and light as you danced, even smiling at your laughs and giggles. 

When the song ended, you were out of breath and clapping with everyone else. You swayed a little on your feet and Cregan reached out quickly to steady you but you politely patted his hand and stepped out of his reach. You curtsied as the other partners did and beamed at him. If you could only save this moment in the palm of your hand, weave it in a tapestry exactly as it was, you would live in it forever. 

You and Cregan parted ways and you rejoined your earlier acquaintance, gulping deeply from your cup as Cregan disappeared into the crowd. She turned to you and emphatically demanded to know everything about your dance. You did not have much to tell other than that you had enjoyed it, neither you nor Cregan had spoken during the entirety of it, and though she seemed dissatisfied with the lack of detail, she simply scoffed and shook her head before smiling and squealing a little with joy. 

You remained on the sidelines for the next two dances before rejoining for the third. There were more eyes on you than ever, but you were lost in your own joy. Though Cregan had disappeared again, he had danced with you, and only you. Another three dances later and you knew you would fall right in the middle if you did not take a step back and have a rest for a few moments. You wiggled your way through the crowd right to the edge of the hall and found a seat against one of the walls. You pressed your back to the cool stone and sighed happily, drinking from your cup and watching the dancing through the gaps between the bodies standing in front of you. Someone lightly tapped your shoulder and you turned to find a woman gesturing to the seat next to you. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” you nodded enthusiastically, moving your skirts to ensure she had enough room to sit next to you. 

The woman’s gown looked almost black in the dim light but upon closer inspection it was a very dark grey. It was of a simple fashion but the fabric was very fine, surely something expensive. Her hair was left mostly loose, a few strands pulled back to keep her face clear, and it was a beautiful brown just a few shades darker than mahogany. Her eyes were like pure honey in the candlelight but she seemed a little sickly, her pale skin reflecting the yellow light a little too well. She could not have been much older than you, perhaps closer in age to Cregan than yourself, but she seemed tired and aged around her eyes. She may have drank too much or danced too emphatically, you supposed, and you smiled genially at her. She returned it, but as you turned to face forward again, she kept her eyes on you. Perhaps she wished for a friend, you reasoned, and leaned back so you were against the wall once more and turned your head to face her. 

“Are you enjoying the festivities?” You asked, and it seemed to make her pause. She smiled, though it was small and a little false, but not in a rude way, moreso in a way that belied sadness and insecurity on her part. 

“They are very grand,” she responded. Her voice was quiet and you thanked the gods that the music and chatter was not as loud where the two of you were seeking refuge. 

“Indeed,” you responded, nodding emphatically. You felt a little awkward, laughing shakily and glancing about the room as you tried to keep the conversation alive. “I do not know if I have ever had this much fun.” She smiled at that, a little more sincere, and nodded along with your words. 

“Yes, young ladies perhaps do not get to experience such merriment often,” she added, and you smiled brightly, nodding emphatically. 

“Yes! You are absolutely right! I expressed just such a sentiment in conversation only two days prior,” and then you smiled a little dazedly as you remembered sitting beside Cregan, your heart warming like a pot slowly heating on the fire. 

“So, you are happy with Winterfell, then?” The woman asked. She seemed so serious, like the question held more weight than you could recognise, but you simply laughed and nodded, your brows a little furrowed but the confusion smoothing out quickly. 

“It has come to hold a special place in my heart, I think,” you answered with a shrug, “I will surely be sad to part with it when the time comes, but so will many others I believe.” You turned to face her a little more fully, hands clasped in your lap, “are you happy with Winterfell?” 

She seemed a little surprised when you asked, and her mouth moved as if forming words but none of them came out. She gazed off into the distance, as if seeing things you could not, but you patiently waited for her response. 

“Yes,” she answered, but said nothing more. 

You stared at her, trying not to be too overbearing with your eyes. A light sheen of sweat had appeared at the edges of her neck and her hands seemed to tremble where they rested on her lap. You gently reached out and clasped one of them, holding it gently like an injured bird in your own palm. She turned to look at you again, and you could almost see tears brimming in her eyes. You reached back and grasped your cup of ale from the bench before offering it to her. 

“Would you like some? You seem a bit out of sorts,” your voice was as quiet as hers as you spoke, and she accepted the cup from you, unfurling her hand from yours and holding the cup with all her fingers wrapped around it. You felt almost motherly in that moment, smiling to yourself as she drank from the cup before returning it to you. She thanked you quietly and allowed herself to slump back a little against the wall. Whatever odd tension had settled over the two of you quickly dissipated like fog burning away in daylight. You joined her in slumping your back against the wall and laughed at how truly unladylike the two of you seemed. 

You fell into an easy rhythm with her then, simply speaking as she listened. You made jokes that had her laughing uproariously, little observations that made her smile, or just comments that had her humming in agreement or thought. When the conversation came to a natural lull, she bid you a gentle goodbye. 

“I wish you well, dear,” she said, a small yet comforting smile on her lips. “That was perhaps the first time I have enjoyed myself since the feasts have started,” and with that she bowed a little then turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd. You watched after her for a moment before shaking yourself a little to rid the odd feeling that seemed to creep on your bones after her departure. 

Then you stood and ventured into the crowd for more dancing, because you were determined to enjoy this night. Tomorrow Lord Stark would meet with the family of whichever maiden he had chosen, and at sunset, at the beginning of the feast, he would announce the name of his bride-to-be. And though you had arrived with no hopes nor expectations, you knew that they had grown regardless upon meeting him, and you knew that it would hurt like a spike to the chest if he chose someone else. 

The day ends up being both tense and rather… boring. You spend much of it in your own room, taking both breakfast and lunch there at your small table. You flit between activities but nothing can keep you focused for very long so you spend long moments pacing back and forth and nattering to Dyanna as she sits there looking rather fearful and helpless. You interrogate her for information every time she ventures out of your rooms to fill your jugs or bring you food or water to wash with, but she always returns looking hapless and apologetic. 

“I’m sorry, miss,” she sighed when you almost jumped on her as she returned through the door, already shaking her head as she walked further into the room and deposited the jug on the table. You sighed overdramatically, throwing yourself back onto the bed and staring at the canopy over your bed. 

“Nothing at all, Dyanna? You did not bump into anyone? Did not happen upon someone whispering about the lucky maiden?” You stared at her with wide eyes, urging her to say something, but she smiled painfully and shook her head. 

“Again, I’m sorry, miss, but nothing at all. No one has heard anything. No news, no whispers, not even an inkling of who it might be.” 

“Ugh!” You groaned and shook your head, pressing your hands to your face before pulling yourself up from your bed and settling into the chair in front of your vanity table with a huff. At this point you did not even want to be chosen, you simply wanted to know who had been. You stared at the surface of the table and went quiet for a few minutes as Dyanna tidied and readied things for the evening. You were hit with a pang in your chest, like someone had hammered a gong deep inside you. 

Surely, if it was taking this long for you to hear something, that meant it would not be you. If it had been you, there would have been some sign. Though it had been agreed that the lucky maiden would not find out until the feast along with everyone else, it was also customary for the groom to discuss the engagement and arrangements with the bride’s family. And surely if that was to be upheld, then whoever was the lucky maiden would have some sort of sense of what was going to happen. Surely… surely… surely… 

But then you grumbled again and frowned at the vanity table as you became frustrated with yourself. Your thoughts had been going in circles all day, vicious spirals of wishing he would choose you, hoping he would choose you, despairing that he had not chosen you, that he would not choose you, that you were never in contention in the first place. You had cycled through so many emotions already that you felt wrung out, too tired to even bother attending the stupid feast anymore. You did not want to sit there and clap and be happy while some other maiden tittered and cried as she got to walk up to the dais and sit beside Cregan. All the while you were seething and upset and hating yourself for becoming so invested in something you could not have cared less about three days prior. 

“Come now, miss,” Dyanna soothed from behind you, walking over and gently toying with your hair. “Let’s begin readying you for this evening, and perhaps we can get your mind off this. Hm?” And she smiled so warmly and sweetly that you could not help but nod and try to smile in return. 

You were deviating from your usual theme of greys this evening, instead opting for a dress of beautiful blues. The fabrics differed slightly in shades and overlapped with each other in a way that reminded you of a river. Your hair was left mostly natural, flowing down your back with the front strands pulled back in a clip decorated with sapphires. 

You felt rejuvenated as you stood in front of Dyanna, twirling in your dress and running your hands over the fabric. She had distracted you with random stories and stupid jokes as she did your hair and laced up your dress and you slowly began to feel at peace once more. Dyanna smiled at you like an older sister, gently touching your hair and your cheeks as tears pooled in her eyes. 

“You look beautiful, miss,” she whispered and you hugged her tight to your chest. If you had Dyanna, you would be alright regardless of the outcome of the evening. 

You walked to the great hall just behind your parents. They seemed happy, smiling at each other and chatting. You tried to decipher if this was anything new, if they seemed particularly jovial this evening, but you couldn’t tell. They had been smiling since you all arrived in Winterfell and it seemed no different this evening. 

Just as you had done the previous night, you all made your way through the hall and to your seats. Upon your cursory glance of the head table, you found an extra chair had been added beside Cregan’s, waiting for whoever would take their place as his wife-to-be. You glanced in his direction as well, running your eyes over him as if it would be the last time you saw him. In a way it might be, the last time you would allow yourself to look at him with such softness and familiarity anyway. His head began to turn in your direction but you looked away before he could look at you, fixing your eyes on the wall in the distance. 

Instead of Cregan himself making the announcement, an old man you had recognised as one of his chief advisors stood with his cup held aloft. Everyone turned to look at him as he smiled brightly and ran his eyes over the crowd. 

“We have all gathered here for a special occasion,” he began sagely, “to offer the chance for our Lord to find an unmatched happiness many of us have already experienced.” You watched Cregan instead of the man, the way he almost seemed to grimace at the words. “To this end, our Lord has chosen on this fine day! The match has been agreed with the maiden’s family, and I am beyond pleased to announce the betrothal of Lord Cregan Stark and Lady Y/n L/n!” 

Applause broke out in the great hall. Thunderous applause that echoed against the very ceiling. People were standing, holding their cups and goblets aloft, jostling with each other as they cheered and jeered. Your parents were standing beside you now, your friends clapping and squealing with joy. You were ushered up from your seat, hands gripping your arms and lifting you to standing before gently touching your back to urge you forward in the direction of the dais. 

And through it all, the movement and the deafening echo, you still could not quite believe it was your name that had been called. You could see the man gesturing the goblet in your direction from his place on the dais, could see his lips moving around your name, could even hear it in your ears, but you could not quite believe it. 

Your breath was light in your chest, as if you couldn’t pull enough in and it slipped from your nose before you could truly appreciate that you had taken a breath in the first place. Your entire body felt too light for that matter, as if your limbs weren’t quite your own, only borrowed. You gulped, though your lips did not stay quite closed as you moved. Your eyes were slightly dazed and unfocused but you managed to find your way to the dais, ushered gently to the chair and sat down before you could complete two blinks. 

You turned and found Cregan smiling down at you, a small and gentle thing, but a smile nonetheless. He gently patted your hand where it had landed on the armrest and you gulped again. That simple touch seemed to settle you into your body a little, and you adjusted yourself so your posture was a little better. You nodded at him with a fluttery little smile, something that twitched at your lips and moved between too wide and too small. 

“To our future bride and groom!” The same man held his cup aloft as everyone in the great hall followed suit, yelling ‘to our future bride and groom!’ Cregan handed you your cup and you both toasted as well, though your hands were a little shaky. 

As you looked out over the great hall, elation seemed to slowly descend on you. You turned in your seat just slightly so you could see the side of Cregan’s face from the edge of your vision. Your heart seemed to sigh in your chest, as if it had been yelling for so long and it had finally been acknowledged. You felt peaceful, a little bashful, and a little chaotic with joy too. You had been hoping, quietly and only in the depths of your heart, that perhaps whatever warmth and budding something that had appeared in your chest after meeting him by the heart tree had not been solely in your own imagination. It felt so wonderful to believe that perhaps he had felt something grow between you as well. 

The rest of the evening had passed in a blissful blur. There had been many speeches of congratulations and wishes of good health from the heads of the different houses; your father had given one on joy and love that had made your eyes tear up. Food and drink had flowed freely and though Cregan did not speak to you much other than to offer you more meat or wine, he had smiled at you like you had given him a gift he could never repay and it made your heart clench happily. He had even danced with you on three separate songs, swinging you around as you laughed and smiling even brighter as you did. 

The feast had gone on long into the night and the two of you had only been released from your seats when the first of the drunkards were beginning to be led back to their rooms by their family members. Cregan had taken your hand and pressed a fleeting kiss to the back of it before you were led to your rooms. You had laughed and screamed giddily with Dyanna, yelling about how you could not believe that you had been chosen. You had allowed her to unlace your dress and help you wash but then you had taken her hands into yours and spun around the room until you were sick with dizziness. 

Dyanna was ecstatic for you, amplifying your own joy. She squealed with you, giggled with you, tickled you until you were breathless. She brushed your hair and told you of the amazing life you would live at Winterfell. Then she tucked you into your bed and left with one final congratulations on your engagement. 

You spent much of the night tossing and turning, laughing to yourself in ecstasy and imagining all sorts of scenarios of the wedding. The ravens would have already been sent out after your father had agreed to the betrothal and your brothers and sister would be on the way to Winterfell in the coming days. You could see the flowers, the dress, and Cregan. You could see Lord Stark standing in front of you at the heart tree, smiling down at you as he had done that evening. You could almost feel him kiss you, and you turned over to press your face into the pillow as you burned with a blush. 

The next day dawned a little colder and with a cloud cover over Winterfell, but you did not let it deter your joy. You woke with an airiness to your limbs that had you floating through getting dressed and breakfast. In the hours before luncheon, a messenger came knocking on your door, requesting your presence in the afternoon for a stroll with your betrothed if you pleased. You beamed at the messenger, responding with an emphatic yes before closing the door on him and calling Dyanna to attention to ready you well for the afternoon. 

You did not contain the patience required to sit in your rooms and wait for him to call on you, so you made your way outside to the courtyard early. Though Dyanna stayed close to you now as you strolled back and forth (you were not allowed to be without chaperone just yet), she had promised to keep at a distance when your Lord finally arrived. Cregan was prudent, if not a little early, and greeted both you and Dyanna before offering you his arm and beginning to lead you out of the courtyard.

“Your dress is very pretty,” he complimented as you walked under the arch, and you felt the burn of a blush under your cheeks. 

“Thank you,” you responded politely, though the smile on your face was bright and clear. You glanced back and saw Dyanna already trailing out of earshot. She sent a smile your way and you beamed in return, nodding in thanks. 

“I hope I have not disrupted your day by requesting this walk,” he began politely, but you simply shook your head in response, a chorus of ‘oh no, not at all,’ following. “Good,” he sighed, smiling a little, “for there are some things I wish to tell you.” You raised your eyebrows, eyes widening just slightly before smiling a little again. 

“Do tell,” you responded simply. Your spine felt a little stiffer all of a sudden but you tried to ignore the odd sense of foreboding. 

“Well, first and foremost, I wished to express to you how happy I am in choosing you,” and the odd feeling dissipated so quickly you could not remember having felt it in the first place. You huffed out a surprised little laugh, holding onto his arm a little tighter as you walked. Your shoulders loosened and your cheeks seemed to be permanently stuck in a smile. You were about to open your mouth to respond, but he continued. “And I wished to tell you something else.” He pressed his lips together for a moment and stared at the land ahead of you as you. 

He had begun leading you around the perimeter of the castle, following the wall at a slight distance. You watched him instead of the path, trusting him to guide you and hold you steady. He seemed lost in thought, not exactly frowning but not completely without a furrow to his brow. 

“Yes?” You prompted quietly, hushed, trying not to disturb whatever fragile thing now hung in the air between you. 

“When Arra became pregnant with Rickon, we were… blindingly happy. She had struggled to get with child, and it had begun upsetting her. All she ever wanted was to be a mother. And when it finally happened, it was everything we could have wished for. The pregnancy was not without difficulties, sickness and tiredness, but the maesters said it was not unusual. Then… when Rickon arrived…” he paused, closing his eyes in a long blink before taking a deep breath in and continuing on. “When Rickon arrived, the cord keeping him to his mother was wrapped around his neck. In the chaos she began to bleed and the maesters rushed to tend to her as well. They could not revive Rickon, and he died almost as soon as he had been born.” 

You held tighter to Cregan now as a lump began forming in your throat. Your eyes felt heavy with the sadness of his tale and you bowed your head to stare at your feet as you continued your slow pace. 

“They were able to save Arra, staunch the bleeding and keep her from death’s door, but… the maesters declared her barren. Whatever had caused the bleeding had also left her unable to bear another child… it was devastating.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth as he blinked rapidly, eyes flitting this way and that. He breathed deeply but his voice still came out low when he continued. “I would not hear of anything until Arra awoke, and I stayed at her bedside until she was able to lift herself to sit up. Then my advisors descended upon me like vultures.” He huffed a sardonic laugh, glancing at you as if expecting you to respond with your own rye smile but you were staring off into the distance, spine perhaps a little more rigid than before but not noticeably so. “They all said something must be done, the line of succession needed to be secured. The first idea posed was an annulment. They said I could dissolve my marriage to Arra as she could not fulfil what was essential to our union but I would not hear of it. I would not even hear the idea entertained.” 

Here he paused and turned to look at you earnestly. You met his eyes, but your hands trembled. A knot began forming in your stomach like the slow turning of a spindle. Your chest was heavy and each step took more effort than the last. 

“I love Arra,” he breathed out, “I love her more than any other soul, and I could not even imagine being parted from her, let alone considering an annulment.” 

Dread was slowly settling over you like thick molasses being poured from a jug. It did not drip or run, simply poured over your shoulders and head and began sinking into your skin and bones. Your eyes became unfocused, your breath shallow, and your hands trembled so much that you had to clench them to hide it. 

“And so it was suggested that I take a second wife. I could keep my marriage to Arra undisturbed, but I would still be able to produce a legitimate heir. It felt wrong, like a betrayal of Arra. All she had ever wanted had already been taken from her, and to rip up our marriage in such a way so soon after… I consulted her, as I do with everything, and she accepted that the only way forward was for me to marry another. She said it would be alright, that she believed in my love for her, that this would not change that,” and the way he smiled made you feel sick to your stomach. 

It was unlike anything he had ever shown you. It was soft and sweet and pulled at the corners of his lips. It was as if he could see the object of his happiness in his mind’s eye. You could feel the lump in your throat thicken, almost press against the back of your tongue. Your hands felt swollen and tingly, as if your pain now coursed through their very tendons. 

“I agreed and the preparations were made, the people arrived, but I felt… hopeless. I could not imagine choosing any woman other than Arra. I looked out at this sea of maidens and saw no one I wished to marry. And perhaps I am weak but, I could not imagine condemning any young woman to something they would not understand. Condemning either of us to the company of the other when we would not be wholly in it. I could feel myself falling deeper into a pit of despair.” Then he paused and turned to you again, this time smiling with a light boyishness, almost teasing as if the continuation of the story was obvious. 

“But then I met you, the answer to all my woes in your pretty dresses and carefree attitude. Though I worried about perhaps condemning you as well, you began speaking about how you only wished for merriment. How young ladies do not get to experience it much and how you came not to vie for me but to simply enjoy yourself. And I realised that I could offer you something in return.” He was so happy as he said it, an almost juvenile excitement. “If we were to marry, you would not be confined at all.” He paused, glancing away before leaning a little closer and lowering his voice. “Laying with one another, cannot be avoided,” he said, awkward and a little halting on the word ‘laying’, “but once a son was safely born then we would both be free. You would be free. You could travel or roam or take lovers if you wished, though perhaps that would be kept quieter for your own sake,” he lowered his voice again, smirking and laughing a little. “You would never have to see me again if you so wished, but,” he laughed a little again, his smile all innocent happiness once more, “I do hope that will not be the case. I have come to enjoy your company as a friend.” He took a deep breath in and sighed, long and slow, as if the weight of the world had finally been lifted from his shoulders. “You would not need to care for the babe either. Arra will raise him as a mother, and you will be truly, truly free.” 

You could barely keep your eyes open. You could feel the hot press of tears just behind them but you could not allow yourself to cry, not yet. You gulped over and over but the lump in your throat did not dissipate. Your chest clenched so painfully that you could almost scream with it. You wanted to press your hands to your face and scream until your throat was ripped to shreds. How could a misunderstanding of words, a simple conversation in which you had not expressed yourself quite as you had wished, lead to the destruction of all your hopes and dreams? How could everything you had once imagined, love and a family, children of your own to care for, slip away so quickly because of some noble intention and misplaced words? 

“I was wary for Arra when the festivities arrived,” he began again, face a little somber. “I did not want to cause her any more pain than what she had experienced, but when I told her of you, she seemed glad with the choice. She recommended it wholeheartedly,” and he smiled brightly, as if that was the highest compliment he could pay you but your brows furrowed quickly. 

“What?” You breathed out, clinging to this little piece of confusion to pull you out of the black spiral in your head. You still could not look at him, could not bear to turn and face him, so you kept your eyes on the air ahead of you unseeing. 

“She told me of meeting you at the feast the evening before last. You had given her the seat by your side, offered her ale from your cup and conversed with her for a while,” his face was so open, so joyful, that when you glanced at it you felt your chest clench all over again. “She said you made her laugh uproariously, that you had a good heart.” 

You were stuck in a horrible wasteland. You were frozen, incapable of doing anything but listening, yet your body wished to rip itself from his side and be sick in the dirt. Your feet were blocks attached to the rigid wood of your legs, and if he had not kept moving, kept you in motion, then you likely would have collapsed right where you stood. 

You had arrived back at the gates without realising, but you could not see anything around you. Your body was not your own but you were connected to it so fiercely. Your hands trembled, your stomach tensed, your spine was a piece of string pulled taught. You were not your own. 

Cregan gently untangled his arm from your own and stood in front of you with a beaming smile. 

“Thank you, my lady. Thank you for being the answer to all my woes,” he breathed out. Your head nodded for you, listening to him bid you goodbye but not returning it. He walked back into the courtyard, head held high, where one of his advisors waited patiently to guide him back to whatever business awaited him. 

You were frozen to your spot, like winter had arrived in one gust of wind and left you stuck there. It felt as though there were a pair of hands deep in your chest, fingernails digging into your heart and slowly scratching at it, tearing cuts into it then digging their fingers into the cuts and ripping whole pieces of it away. Your eyes began to burn with the tears you had held back for so long and you swayed dangerously. 

You could hear his words over and over, could hear him telling you he loved Arra, could hear him saying how you had been the answer he was looking for. All because you had not been clear when you said you wanted to enjoy the festivities. You could see the future you had always so craved, a husband who loved and cherished you, a house of your own to organise and run, a troupe of little children to call your own and raise, slipping away like ice into a river. All because he had misconstrued your words upon meeting you, because you had been kind and carefree, because you had not realised the identity of the woman you had met. A series of events created on pure chance and carelessness had led to you losing… everything. 

You began looking around for Dyanna, your breath short and shallow as it punched out of your chest. She was quick to return to your side, grabbing your arm as you leaned all your weight onto her. 

“Take me back to my rooms,” you whispered, eyes dazed and haunted. 

When you had returned to your rooms, you had sent Dyanna away. She had tried to inquire why, had tried to suggest that she would simply help you with your laces, but you had shut the door in her face and secured the beam to lock it. You were dazed, walking into the room and standing by your mirror. 

As the silence settled over you, only the sound of your own breath echoing back to you, you became a flurry of movement. You ripped at the laces on your back until they were undone and you could push the offending dress off your arms. You were heaving your breaths now, loud and painful like that of a plague victim. They bordered on sobs, crushing as they filled and left your chest. You were haphazard in your motions, stepping out of the dress and clambering onto your bed in your thin cotton shift, the sleeves bunching a little at your elbows. 

You pressed your face to your pillow and began to cry like you had never cried before. Your sobs bordered on screams, your tears were like little rivers down your face, pouring without restraint. You had never felt pain like this, the kind that clawed at your throat and made you feel both limp and rigid. You curled around one of your pillows, another soaking up the tears that wet your cheeks. Your mind was too loud, yelling yet incoherent, and you could do nothing but feel it all. 

You did not know how long you cried, only that eventually your sobs turned to blubbers and then huffed breaths. You teetered on the edge still, one reckless thought and you would dissolve into tears once more, but your eyes were finally blinking open. You moved your mouth from where it had pulled back as you cried and gently massaged your cheeks. You wiped your eyes on your pillow cover and sat up until you were pressed against the headboard, your knees pulled up to your chest. You pressed your face to your knees and allowed your hair to fall around you like a curtain, hands clenching tightly to your shins. 

You could only think of the dread you had been destined to now, wrung out by the force of your crying. You could not break the engagement. It had already been announced to everyone, your father had already agreed. It would bring shame and ruin on the family to refuse it now, and you would not have any suitors in the future. Though you would be the one breaking it, everyone would wonder what had been wrong with you, what you had done to end a dream of an opportunity. 

And even if you did tell your mother and father what Cregan had told you, what you had been doomed to, you knew they would tell you to stop being so childish. To marry for love was foolish, and to refuse the best of matches for such a notion was beyond stupidity. They would tell you to open your eyes and look at what a gift you had received. The Lord of the North had chosen you to be his bride. If nothing else, that counted for something. Though you may be only a broodmare, you would still carry the title of Lady of Winterfell. You would live a lavish life, one the other maidens who had attended could only dream of now. You were focusing too much on your pathetic heart and not on the blessings right in front of you. 

You considered ending your own life. You could see a length of rope and a tree branch, or perhaps a dagger and slit wrists in the bath. But you could not do that to Dyanna, could not bring that shame on your family in your wake. 

When Dyanna returned to ready you for the evening, you were slow to unfurl from the bed and allow her in. For a long moment you considered simply pulling the covers back over your head and pretending the world outside your chambers did not exist. Though you could not have been able to hide for long, you would not have had to face the world quite at that moment. Despite the war in your head, you had shuffled your way to the door and allowed her in. 

Dyanna gasped at the state of you, touching your face gently as she guided you to sit at your vanity. She pressed soft fingertips to your cheeks and your puffy eyes, and when she cupped your face in her hands you began to cry once more. 

“Oh darling,” she breathed out, pulling you close and caressing the top of your head. 

You began blubbering out the story, telling her everything Cregan had told you. You could not keep it in, could not wallow in the sadness on your own any longer. She listened closely to what you told her then cradled your head to her chest. When your cries subsided once more she hushed you gently, wiping your tears with her sleeve and pulling away. She did not say anything in response to the tale you told her, simply wiped your face with a wet cloth and held a cold metal pitcher first to one eye then the other. She told you to hold it and keep it against your eyes and began readying your dress. She helped you step into it and laced it up before sitting you down and doing your hair. 

You looked up at her in the mirror like a lost child, all wide eyes and trembling lower lip, but she simply smiled in sympathy and told you to keep straight or your braids would be crooked. You took deep breaths as she worked, closing your eyes and trying to steady yourself. You would need to face everyone now, would need to face Cregan. He was not aware of the turmoil within you, of the way he had cursed you without meaning to. You almost began to cry once more but shook your head to rid yourself of the thoughts (to a flurry of tuts from Dyanna). No, you could face this. And that was what you told yourself for the next week. 

The week leading up to the wedding became a blur that you could not remember when you looked back on it. You seemed to float through it like a cloud in an otherwise clear sky. You smiled when necessary, and spoke as you had been taught to since childhood, but you couldn’t quite remember why you smiled or what you said. You gripped Cregan’s hand when necessary and laughed when needed, but you were not quite present. 

During the day you stayed confined to your bed, curled around a pillow with the covers pulled up to your nose so only your eyes gazed out blankly to the wall. Dyanna tried to coax you out, to engage you with any little thing she could, but to her every inquiry you simply hummed and stayed in bed. You told her to handle everything, to make whatever choices needed to be made, and to leave you in your bed until the last possible moment. 

When the servants and vendors arrived for the wedding, Dyanna met them at the door and told them you were not feeling your best and had taken to your bed for the day to try and curb any illness before the wedding. She tried to bring the choices to you, but you did not even bother raising your head to look at her. In the end she did make all the decisions, from the fabric and style of your wedding dress to the dessert that you wished to be served during the feast.  

And every evening in the time leading up to the wedding you would rise like a ghost from the grave, allowing Dyanna to move you this way and that to prepare you for the feast before sending you out to the great hall. There your performance began and ended. It was good enough to convince, but fragile. If one looked too close, they would realise that your cups stayed full to the brim bar a few sips, your plates remained as full at the end of dinner as they had been at the start, one or two small bites gone, and your gaze, once bright and soulful, was now vacant. 

Cregan seemed happy enough to leave you to your devices during the day, not a visit or a whisper to be heard of, though he seemed happy to see you upon your arrival to dinner each evening. Your parents worried over your withdrawn state but you forced Dyanna to ease their worries and ensure all dogs were put off the scent of your new demeanour. It was only when your brothers and sister arrived did you seem to gain some life back. 

Dyanna forced you to leave your bed during the day to welcome their arrival, pulling you from its clutches despite your protests and dressing you in a pale pink gown, leaving your face clean-washed and natural. Every step you took to leave your room felt weighed down by tar but upon stepping out in the fresh air you felt slightly rejuvenated. A cold breeze blew through Winterfell and brought the earthy scent from the woods to its doorstep. You took deep slow breaths and filled your lungs desperately as you watched the carriages come to a stop. Even the whinnying of the horses felt new and soothing, and the sight of the sky made your eyes feel slightly more alive than they had done before. 

You could feel Dyanna watching you carefully from your side, and you turned to offer her the barest hint of a smile, nothing more than a twitch of your lips, but it seemed to put her at ease, a little sigh of relief puffing from her lips. Her shoulders seemed to relax as she slumped a little where she stood and a pang of shame hit you in the chest for all the turmoil you had put her through. 

Your brothers and sister piled out of their carriages and huddled around you in a tight hug, yelling their congratulations and well wishes. You allowed them to jostle you in their arms, press kisses to your hair and gaze at you with teary smiles like you were their first child and had grown rather fast. You could not bear to ruin their fun but their happiness seemed to dig into the wound in your heart and rip it open afresh, the painful blood pouring out into your veins once more. You smiled and allowed them to heap their joy onto you, but tears burned at your eyes and you were forced to pass them off as overwhelming joy. 

You had not realised Cregan’s presence until your siblings were unwinding their arms from around you. You could see him watching you all with a soft, wistful, smile and it made your chest pulse with pain. Your siblings moved to greet him, clearing their throats and dimming their expressions a little to appear more dignified. He was sincere, proud in a polite manner as he shook hands and smiled warmly. You kept your distance, waiting with your back to the carriages and watching them all interact. A sudden wave of cool tiredness washed over you and without another word you disappeared into the castle, back into your bed and slipping under the covers. 

You were a little more returned to life as the wedding drew nearer. Your sister was quick to invade your space, pulling you off to explore Winterfell or aid in the preparations. Though she had noted your now-muted personality, she did not pry and simply set to dragging you about with her. 

The day of the wedding you were woken a little earlier than usual. Dyanna helped to feed you little bits of fruit until you felt sick on your new shrunken appetite before leading you to a steaming bath. She allowed you to soak for a long while, until the water was just shy of tepid, then began scrubbing you and rubbing different oils and lotions on you until you smelt like a fresh flower garden. As you began drying after your bath, she tried to feed you once more but you turned your head away at every attempt. 

Though you had become quiet since your betrothal, you were particularly silent this morning, not even bothering to open your mouth for yeses and no’s. Your gaze was vacant as you stared at the wall and your breaths were so soft you almost seemed like a corpse walking. Dyanna worried over you, gently patting your cheeks and stroking your hair and trying to urge you to say something, anything, but you would simply blink up at her for a few moments before returning to your pondering. She prayed silently to all the gods, old and new, that you would reappear for the wedding ceremony. 

Dyanna laced you into a beautiful gown of white and silver, making you look like a princess bathed in snow. It was long enough to touch the floor in front of you and had a short train. Your slippers matched and she adorned you with pearls where she could, dripping through your hair and hanging from your neck and ears. You looked ethereal, a creature of the snow that had appeared from the weirwood, a true spirit of the North. 

“You will be a vision he cannot resist,” Dyanna whispered in your ear as you both gazed into the mirror. But all you did was nod and allow her to continue brushing a soft rouge on your lips and cheeks. 

Though the sky was overcast, the clouds were not thick with rain and simply cast a grey light over the world. The procession was beautiful, a bouquet of snowdrops in your hands as you walked toward the heart tree. Your breaths were shallow in your chest little puffs that barely moved your body. You cast your eyes on the heart tree, where it all began, and you felt something twinge deep inside you. 

You wanted to scream, to throw the bouquet from your hand and dig your nails into the tree bark and rip at the face that had been carved there. Why had the gods cursed you in such a way? Why had they instilled the desire for love and companionship in you, pointed your heart at Cregan Stark and dangled a future of perfection before your eyes before ripping everything away with his confession? 

You looked at him, standing just under the cover of the tree and watching you walk to him with a small smile on his face. Hot tears slipped from your eyes and you could almost see every face in the crowd beginning to frown. You tried to school your expression, even to smile, but it was watery and unconvincing and almost made your sadness more apparent than the neutral face you had kept before. You heard murmurs of how you were most likely crying from happiness, or the sadness of leaving your home and family behind, and you hoped others would listen and excuse you. 

You stopped in front of Cregan and took a long look at his face. He seemed at peace, and he was smiling at you as if he was truly happy to be attending this wedding. You stared at the easy set of his cheeks and lips, at the piercing quality of his blue eyes and the neat gathering of his hair off his face. You wanted to hit him. You wanted to pummel his chest and slap his face and scream and cry, ask why he would do this to you? Why you? But you also saw the warmth, the youth in his face and the innocent joy and it made you want him to wrap his arms around you, to press gentle kisses to your cheeks and lips and tell you that it was all a misunderstanding, that he loved you and only you. 

But then the ceremony began and you could do nothing but repeat the words and bind yourself to him. You could do nothing but close your eyes and let the tears cascade freely as he gently pressed his lips to yours, a fleeting barely-there kiss that made your face heat up and your heart clench in your chest, all to the backing of loud cheers and whistles. 

The wedding was particularly difficult to get through for you. It would have been easy if it was like all the other feasts, but this one required you to be aware, refused to allow you to unfocus your eyes and wander distant lands in your own mind. 

Throughout dinner a parade of people came to the table to congratulate you and Cregan. It seemed the head of every family had lined up, and you had to treat each one with respect and felicity, smiling and nodding in thanks, asking after their wives and children and enduring each long-winding story they pulled out just to have said they spent a little longer in the company of the newly weds than others. You supposed this parade was good in a sense, you were not keen to eat much and it was a good excuse to have barely touched the food. 

Then came the dancing, particular songs requested of the musicians and cheering and urging from the crowd for you two to join them. Cregan smiled and huffed out a bashful laugh before standing and offering you his hand. And you could not refuse lest everyone begin to question the sanity of the bride, so you let him guide you from the chair and onto the dance floor for a slow and gentle son that required he pull you close into his body. 

His arms wrapped around you as you two swayed to the music but you kept your eyes clenched shut. You thought if you kept them closed you could ignore everything around you, transport yourself somewhere else, but all it did was highlight how close he was, how his breath felt brushing over your cheek and neck and the fresh clean smell of him, the warmth he emanated. 

“You are quiet tonight,” he whispered by your ear, pulling back a little to run his gaze over your face. He looked almost concerned and it made your innards pang with pain. You didn’t reply at first, continuing to dance and cast your eyes over his shoulder rather than on him. 

“Just… in thought, I suppose,” you whispered in return, shrugging your shoulders and relaxing a little into the motion of the dance. He nodded and his face opened as if something was dawning on him. He leaned closer again as he spoke. 

“If you are worried about… later this evening, you need not be. I will be gentle, and perhaps… you may feel some pleasure,” the way the words caressed your ear made you shiver. If you closed your eyes you could almost pretend that he was an eager husband, one who loved you deeply and cared for you beyond belief, one who wished to make the bedding pleasurable for you. But your eyes were open and staring at a lit sconce on the wall, and dread poured over you like ice cold water. 

Though bedding ceremonies were not much cared for in the North, you knew your purpose, and you knew he wished to fulfill it soon. Upon the completion of the dance you were both permitted to return to your seats for a little while longer. You were called away first by your maids, slipping out of the great hall to a chorus of cheers and jeering. 

Dyanna led the charge, welcoming you to your new bedchambers before dismissing the others. She could see the heartbreak in your eyes, the apprehension and pain mingling like a dose of poison. She helped you change into a pretty white nightgown, rubbed scented oils on your wrists and behind your ears, then sat you down at your new vanity to brush your hair. Her hands were soft and soothing and you let yourself relax in the seat, closing your eyes and taking slow deep breaths. 

“You will be alright darling,” she whispered, gathering your hair before fanning it over your back. “It will be done in a flash, nothing to remember or dwell on. You’ll close your eyes a moment, then it will all be gone. It will all be alright,” she muttered continuously, stroking and brushing your hair as tears dripped from her eyes. 

You were still at the table with Dyanna when Cregan entered. You opened your eyes and she began hastily wiping at her cheeks as the door revealed him. He had abandoned his fur and jacket, dressed in a plain tunic as he strolled in. He smiled at you and Dyanna, gentle and kind. 

“Do not rush on my account,” he told Dyanna, pressing a hand to his chest, and he settled himself on the edge of the bed, palms at his sides. 

“We had just finished,” she responded, smiling at him before turning back to you. She bent to grab the brush from the table, and pressed a firm kiss to the back of your head. Your eyes met in the mirror and she smiled in encouragement before straightening and leaving. 

You stayed in your seat for a moment, closing your eyes and stealing yourself before blinking them open and standing, turning to face him. He was watching you closely, eyes darting all over you as you came closer and closer. You stopped in front of him, an arm’s reach away. 

“Are you alright?” He asked quietly, his eyes soft and concerned. You nodded, instinct, and waited for his next move. He reached out and gently grasped both your arms, bringing you closer until you were tucked neatly between his legs, your hands brushing the tops of his thighs and his face level with your neck, only a hair’s breadth away. You gulped, hands shaking, and his breaths brushed warmly over your neck, shivers trembling down your spine. 

“It…” he whispered, voice calm and confident, lips almost brushing your neckline, “can still be pleasurable,” he breathed, “and I would not dare to put you through unnecessary pain.” 

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed and throat moving as you swallowed the saliva pooling in your mouth. Your insides were wrought in chaos, desperate yet pained. It seemed regardless of anything your pleasure would always go hand in hand with your pain. 

He ran his hands up your arms to your shoulders then down to your elbows before gripping your waist on either side and pulling you even closer until you were pressed right to his chest. His chin rested between your breasts, pulling your neckline down a little, and he began pressing soft kisses to the skin just above it. They were soft, a little damp as his lips opened a little, and he trailed them slowly up to your neck. You bent your head a little so he could kiss up to the spot just behind your ear, pure instinct in your veins. Your hands came up to rest on his shoulders, grasping tight to his shirt. 

He wrapped his arms a little tighter around you, pulled you down a little so he could trail his kisses over your cheek. He paused by the corner of your mouth, watching your face for a moment before continuing on the other side, avoiding your lips entirely. You seemed to tremble in his hands like a leaf in a storm. 

Cregan pulled back a little, allowing you to only stumble back a step. He watched you, eyes ablaze, as he gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, exposing his bare chest and stomach. You marveled at him, gulping at the sight. He was broad and thick with muscle, gentle ridges defining each one. You could see his chest move up and down with each breath and a little trail of hair led over his stomach and disappeared beneath the line of his trousers. 

You reached out and gently placed your palm flat against his chest, feeling the warm skin and firm muscle, the rise and dip of his breath. Your own was shaky in comparison to his steady (though slightly hurried) pace, and you stepped a little closer once more. 

Cregan reached down and began gathering the skirt of your nightgown in his hands, collecting it in his palms and slowly lifting. He kept his eyes on your face, waiting for any fear, any refusal, but you only gazed at him in return, pupils blown wide and lips parted. He stood with it, now looking down at you as you raised your arms and allowed him to lift it over your head. Your hair became a little ruffled, strands bent and sticking up in places, but he ran a gentle hand over your head, and smoothed it all down. You shook as the cold air touched your bare skin, bumps raising along your arms and your nipples pinching into tight peaks. 

He finally trailed his gaze downward, raking over your breasts and stomach, your thighs and the shadowed place between them. You felt the intense desire to cover up, to step away and pull the nightgown back over you, but you were also frozen, in thrall. His gaze seemed to touch you with heat, raking fire along every inch of skin. You wanted him to devour you, to cover every inch of you with his own body until you became a part of him. 

He reached up and cupped a breast in his hand, stroking the flesh reverently with his thumb. You shivered, putting all your effort into staying standing. His thumb grazed over your nipple, the natural roughness pulling it down a little. He did it again, then once more as you tingled deep in your core and your breaths came out a little shorter, a little punchier. 

He pulled back and undid the laces on his trousers, not even bothering to gaze down at himself. His fingers pressed under the hems and he shoved them off his hips, dropping them and pushing them to the side with his foot. You let your gaze drop, trailing down from his stomach. 

He had strong thighs and calves to match the rest of him, corded with muscle. His cock stood between his legs, red and thick, touching at his stomach. You swallowed the saliva coating your tongue and cheeks, swallowed the urge to reach out and touch him and learn what it felt like. 

He moved to wrap his arms around you, one curling around your back and pressing you close to his bare torso while the other gripped you at the waist. His hair fell on your shoulders, tickling your chest. You gasped, the feeling of his warm skin against your own made you hot inside out. He turned and lay you out on the bed, pulling away just enough so you could shuffle back further until your head met the pillows and your feet no longer dangled over the edge. He loomed over you now, gaze hungry and a touch frantic. 

You licked over your lips, chest heaving and head dizzy, and your hands curled into fists in the bedsheets. He dropped to press kisses over the tops of your breasts, his hand running down the side of your body and over your thighs. He separated them as he enveloped a nipple with his mouth, listening to your sharp gasp and soft whimper. 

His fingers were gentle as they ran up your slit, collecting the little bit of slick that was already beginning to coat you. He pressed in at the top, rubbing a little portion of you that made you twitch and clench all over. He rolled it a little then carried down, gently probing until he managed to twist a single finger into you all the way to the hilt. 

You were clinging to his shoulders now, running your hands over the smooth skin as you clenched your eyes shut and allowed yourself to simply feel everything. His hair, still tied back, fell over his shoulders and touched your chest. He pushed and pulled the finger inside of you, beginning a rhythm that made your legs tighten where they lay. He continued to lavish kisses over your breasts and neck, his breaths becoming heavier against your ears. 

Then he brought two fingers together, hushing you gently as you moaned at the sting and stretch. Your hands clung a little harder to his shoulders but he simply mouthed at your cheeks, a little ‘sh, sh,’ against your skin. He returned to the same rhythm, the in that pressed as deep as he could go, the out that left the very edges of you brushing the tips of his fingers. 

It was such an odd yet addicting feeling, the rub of him inside you, the texture of yourself finally being discovered. Something within you seemed to be lifting with each movement, cresting like the journey up a flight of stairs. Just when you felt it, the edge, a light airiness beginning to touch your limbs and your mouth trembling with noise, he pulled his hand away from your core. 

“Sh, sh,” he mumbled again, soothing you after the surprised little ‘mph’ left your lips. 

He braced the hand that had just been between your legs beside you, his face pressed to your cheek as he shifted his weight so he was almost laying over you. He reached down first with one hand to lift your thigh and sling it over his hip before doing the same with the other. You could feel him against you, the weight of him on your stomach, hot and firm. The warm skin over his ribs and hips was pleasant to your inner thighs and you wished he would lower himself a little more, rest his chest against your own, suffocate you with himself. 

He pressed his elbow onto the bed as he manoeuvred a hand between your bodies, notching himself at your entrance. You grimaced a little at the feeling, at the way your core began to stretch around him as he pushed in. Your hand came up and clung to his bicep, your nails digging in a little. You huffed out a breath, eyes clenched shut. 

You could feel his nose digging into your cheek, his lips moving softly on your jaw. You breathed out with a little sound, something between a whimper and an airy sigh, as he pushed fully inside you. His hand returned to the other side of your head and he grunted, pulling his face away as his shoulders curled in slightly. He was panting as you were, eyes fluttering as he clenched them shut, hips trembling and twitching. 

He waited until your breath evened out a little before moving again, a slow pace of back and forth that made you clench and tremble, keen a little against his ear. He was grunting, thick sounds leaving his throat and muffling against your neck where he had dropped his head. Each thrust was a deep, rolling, thing that pressed his stomach to yours. Your skin, slick with sweat, rubbed against his, your nipples pressed to his chest. 

He gripped your waist, moving a little faster now, a little harder, his mouth pressing to your neck, open and boiling hot. You twitched against him, around him, clenched your thighs tighter over his hips. Your moan lifted into the air like a cloud, settling above the two of you. His head drooped further until his lips pressed to your shoulder. 

Everything was rushing now. His hands were on your thighs and he pressed them tight to his sides, digging his fingertips into their soft flesh. His grunts were sharper, occasionally melting into moans when you clenched around him. His skin was burning hot and it set yours on fire everywhere he touched you. 

The feeling was back, the pressure deep in your core that made your mouth open a little wider, made the hot tingling become a frenzy. Your face contorted into a tight expression, your entire body seemed to tense up with it, to chase that crescendo that was fast approaching. You moaned a little louder, a little higher, and Cregan seemed to grunt in response, moving his hips even faster and harder. 

And it hit you like a flower blooming with the speed of a horse, a little ball of hot pleasure in your core unfurling until its edges touched the very edges of you. You could see waves of light in the black oblivion behind your shut eyes, could feel your limbs tremble and shake without restraint. 

And Cregan was groaning loudly, his hips stuttering. He pressed his teeth into your shoulder, not quite a bit but with enough pressure to leave little indents in your skin. His hair, long dark strands of mahogany brown, draped over your neck and chest, touching the bed under you. He heaved loudly, shaking and pressing himself harshly to you. His arms dropped and he rested the entire weight of his body on you. You could feel the warm gush inside you, the twitching of his cock and the new hot slide coating it. 

You closed your eyes and let your limbs relax against the bed, arms spread out and legs tilting slightly away from his body. You felt wrung out, every muscle used like it had never been before. A warm glow seemed to surround you, a soft throb that touched your skin and mind and heart. 

Everything felt… real. The bed under you was real and your own. The pleasure ebbing had been real and your own. The fatigue now dragging your limbs was real and your own. The man on top of you was real and… your own. You kept your eyes closed, let your hands rest flat on the planes of his back. 

“My husband,” a whisper of a voice in the deepest recesses of your mind, soft and alluring, and you let it be. 

The two of you stayed like that until the sweat was cooling on your skin and the stickiness between you became uncomfortable. He shifted, putting all his weight on one of his arms as he pulled himself from you. You made a little sound of discomfort, but it was short-lived and soon he was rolling onto his back beside you. He shuffled higher so he was half sitting up, and wrapped his arm around your shoulder as you turned onto your side and curled a little on yourself. 

You kept your eyes closed, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to ruin the moment or rip yourself from your fantasy. He let out a breathy huff of a laugh, his body moving with it, but you didn’t let yourself be tempted to open your eyes. 

“I cannot say that I did not enjoy this,” he breathed out, dipping his head down to look at your face, at the tousled mop of hair that lay on your cheek and pillow. You simply hummed. 

You basked in it, in the tiredness and his presence. He moved to pull the covers over you, tucking them under your arm and up to your chin before settling once more. He was a warm and sturdy presence in front of you, and you felt lulled into peace. Though sleep did not touch you, something akin to it seemed to settle over you, stilling your arms and slowing your breath. 

After many minutes had passed, you felt him begin to slip out from under the covers to the side of the bed. You did not move, keeping your eyes shut and feigning sleep. When you could hear his feet on the floor, you cracked your eyelids open just enough that your lashes still draped dark edges over your vision. You watched him pull his trousers on, lacing them up softly. His head began to turn in your direction and you shut your eyes once more, hoping your sudden stiffness was not obvious. When you heard the rustle of fabric once more, you cracked open your eyes and watched him pull his shirt over his head. He pulled his hair out from the collar, then he turned and headed for the door, opening it slowly and softly, then shutting it with just as much care behind him. 

You stared at the door for a long time with your barely open eyes, at the patterns in the wood and how it did not open again. You felt the heaviness settle over you once more like a familiar blanket. You felt the cold seep into your bones.  And you felt the despair and heartache curl around you like lovers. 

As time passed, Dyanna watched you become a ghost. For the first fortnight you wandered awkwardly around the castle, now silent without all the guests, hoping you could find something to do. But at every turn it was announced that Lady Arra ran the household, that Lady Arra had everything under control. Each time you asked, everyone from the cook to the sweeper smiled brightly and told you that everything was being taken care of and you had no need to worry, that you could do whatever you wished. You simply did not know what you wished to do. 

After so many buffeted attempts you took to your bed again, long hours spent sleeping or staring off into the distance like you could see lands far away. Dyanna despaired for you all over again, having half a mind to go yelling at everyone in the godforsaken castle to treat you better, to find something to make you feel useful, but she could only sit in your room with you, trying to convince you to leave your bed. 

You did eventually get out of bed again at Dyanna’s urging, allowing her to dress you and take you for a walk in the fresh air. It did wonders as it had done before, though perhaps did not make you as enthusiastic as the first time, and became a habit thereafter. Long walks around the castle, in the courtyard, past the walls and into the weirwood, deep in the thicket past the heart tree became your norm, soon without Dyanna to accompany you. 

Dyanna tried her best to busy your other free hours, handing you embroidery projects or stitching until your room was full of tapestries and new dresses and more socks and stockings than any woman could have need for. Dyanna even convinced as many people in the household staff to give her clothes for mending so she could keep you busy and within the castle, under her careful watch. 

You did not seem to gain your life back, even after a month had passed. In fact, you seemed to sink further and further and further into your desire for solitude and rest despite Dyanna’s efforts. She could see the dark circles develop under your eyes despite the constant sleep, could see the how vacant your once glimmering eyes had become when you did deign to open them. 

In all this time, Cregan continued to bed you once a week. The maesters had urged him to bed you as often as possible to ensure you would become pregnant as soon as possible, but he never came to your chambers more than once a week. 

He continued to be gentle the first few times, asking if you were alright before he began pulling your clothes off and laying you on the bed. But eventually the way he bedded you depended on his mood. Sometimes he was a little more frenzied, throwing his clothes off and rushing you through it, pushing your legs higher, thrusting faster. If it had been a difficult day, or something had angered him, he sometimes set you on all fours in the middle of the bed and rutted into you from behind like a beast, pulling your hips against his own, almost ripping your nightgown as he hauled it off you. Other times he did not bother even removing your clothes, simpling unlacing his trousers, pulling your nightgown up to your waist, and bending you over the edge of the bed as he mouthed along your spine. 

He sometimes lay with you afterward, caressing your arm and back, but as time wore on he left quicker and quicker after the act. Not once in all the nights did he kiss you on the mouth. 

And you allowed yourself to enjoy it, to enjoy the pleasure and pretend for a moment that he was your husband, that he loved you or was desperate for you. It was your one return to life each week, your one salvation. But each time the moment ended and the black veil of despair that seemed to hang over your eyes slipped back down and returned you to its clutches. 

Outside the bedroom, you rarely stumbled upon him. An occasional meeting in the halls occurred and he would smile and ask after you, but you would converse no longer than a minute or two and then he would be on his way again.

In the first month, him and Arra had invited you to dine with them one night, and Dyanna had urged you to attend. You had put on one of your prettier gowns, hoping to somehow enjoy yourself despite the cloying sadness in the air about you, but the moment you entered the room you knew it was not to be. 

They had been seated already at your arrival, chairs pulled close together as they waited for you. You were sat down across from them, and the divide was clear. They were husband and wife, so deeply in love that they kept close even at the dinner table, and you were… an intruder. 

It was obvious that all three of you were immensely awkward, smiling and greeting each other, but where you would have tried to make conversation in the past, now you simply stared down at the table with a rather vacant expression. Arra attempted to converse with you, bringing up topics that she thought might interest you, but you could barely nod let alone form a string of words to let slip from your mouth. 

It sickened your heart to watch them interact, to watch them smile warmly at each other, touch each other’s hands, occasionally whisper in each other’s ears like you weren’t even there. You sat silently for a few moments and watched them, wondered what their motive had been in inviting you to supper. Was it guilt? Did they possess the awareness that you had been shunned from life itself? You could not begin to imagine their intentions. You were barely able to take a few sips of your broth, and within the hour you had stood abruptly from your chair claiming illness. You had not let them get in a word of concern, simply curtseying by the table then turning on your heel and rushing out. You had denied any and all attempts of friendship from then on. 

And Cregan seemed content to allow you to withdraw. He posed naught a single question to you on your long disappearances, on your lack of a presence. He simply continued bedding you and leaving you to your own devices, and you had nothing to say to change that. 

One afternoon, three months into your new life, you left your room for your daily walk. You had slept longer than you had wished to, and so were delayed on venturing out for your escape from the imposing walls of the castle. On your way through the winding halls you had stumbled upon a scene you wished to purge from your memory. 

At the other end of the hallway, lit perfectly by the windows, Cregan and Arra stood embracing. He towered over her, arms curled around her waist as she gently pet his chest and smiled up at him like she contained a beam from the sun. He was returning it, a more bright and loving expression on his face than you had ever seen before, and he bent his neck to press a soft kiss to her mouth. 

You turned on your heel and found another path out of the castle. You could only tell yourself to walk, urge yourself to take another step, put one foot in front of the other. You could not let your mind wander to anything else, not to the scene nor to the direction of emptiness that your life had taken. Your eyes seemed almost glazed over, a dazed expression making your face slightly slack as you continued on your path. 

It was all familiar to you now, the path through the courtyard and out of the gates, around the castle wall and into the woods, now covered with a late summer snow. You did not see what was ahead of you, but your muscles knew, a higher lifted foot here, a step to the side there. You passed the clearing of the heart tree, the first mile of woods, and continued on. You simply put one foot in front of the other, simply kept walking, it was all you could do. 

You did not know how long you walked, how far. You did not perceive that the sun was beginning its descent and the world was becoming colder around you. You did not understand that the darkness had set in and that blinking reflective eyes watched your path through the woods. You only stopped when you saw a fallen tree and felt the soft brush of snowflakes against your hair and eyelashes. You would sit on the tree for but a moment, just rest for a moment, only a moment… 

You looked up and saw Cregan, astride his horse and holding a lit torch aloft. The woods were black in the dark around you. You blinked the snowflakes from your eyes and watched him jump hurriedly from the horse and rush to you. He held the torch aloft, turned and yelled something, but you couldn’t quite hear anything. He was kneeling in front of you now, face contorted in concern. His mouth moved, but you couldn’t quite hear anything. His brows furrowed further, his lips a little more frantic, but you couldn’t quite hear anything. 

“Huh?” You breathed out, trying to decipher his words, “I was just resting…” Your lips didn’t seem to form properly around the words but you were sure you said them, if a little mumbled. 

He continued staring at you, eyes wide and brows pulled close together. His lips turned severely down and his jaw was slack, but you simply continued staring. 

He rushed back to his horse and pulled a large fur off its back, storming back over and draping it entirely on you. It engulfed you, black and soft as it covered from your head to your knees. He shoved the torch into the ground and used both hands to pull the fur around you, but you felt a little distant from it all. You could feel the jostling of it, the tight cocoon as it wrapped you up before he hefted you into his arms and set you on the front of the horse. He pulled himself up behind you and leant over you to grip the reigns and begin the journey back to Winterfell. 

You couldn’t remember much else, not being taken off the horse nor being carried up to your bedroom where you were set directly in front of the fire and a cup of tea was pressed into your hands and brought to your lips by Dyanna as she sobbed. 

All you knew was that two days later the maesters declared that you were with child. 

The news that you carried the Stark heir spread like wildfire and caused celebrations anew. Everyone seemed so joyous, celebrating with wine and fine cuts of beef, but you were almost confined to your room. 

After the chaos of your walk into the woods, Cregan had a guard assigned to you. The man stayed outside your room, followed you around the castle if you dared to venture out, and deterred you from ever leaving the grounds, even for a prayer at the heart tree. You were too precious to be lost now. 

You truly became a ghost then. With the pregnancy, Cregan ceased to bed you, and the one minor pleasure you once received disappeared. You became a forlorn thing, rarely ever leaving your bed or your room. You allowed Dyanna to read to you, to feed you, but you did not engage in anything, not even in embroidery. You had nothing left. 

As the nine months passed, you did not improve, but you did not worsen. As your belly grew, as the feeling of a baby growing inside you became real, you began speaking to it. Only late at night, when the moon was high in the sky and you could not sleep, did you open your mouth and began whispering to it. You told it about your life before, about your home and your childhood. You told it about your brothers and sisters, about their spouses and their houses and their children. You sang it hushed and cracked little lullabies that came out squeaky from your unused voice, and you told it you loved it more than anything in the world and beyond. 

When you went into labour, a sudden gush of water down your dress as you sat by the fire listening to Dyanna read, she almost fainted from her panic. She ran to fetch the maesters and you stood in the middle of the room, eyes wide and… alive. The pain contorting through you was horrible and amazing. It was perhaps the first time you felt faced with the reality that you were with child. You were pregnant with your child. 

The labour was long and full of pain. The babe did not want to leave you despite the struggle and you were leaning toward fainting from the exhaustion when he was finally pulled from you trembling and wailing. He. Your child was a son. 

“I want to see him,” you whispered, shaky and hoarse, drenched in sweat and smeared with blood. Your limbs were shaky and tingling but they felt like your own for the first time since you became pregnant. Your hair was plastered to your face and forehead but you could not care less. You were blinking and panting, but you reached out hoping someone would show him to you, hand him over. “Please.” 

The first maester cut the cord and wiped off his head and face before wrapping him in a blanket and placing him on your chest, while the other left to tell Cregan the news. You cradled the baby to your chest and looked down on him. The tears welled so quickly in your eyes that you could do nothing but let them stream down your face and begin hiccupping with sobs as his cries became little huffing noises. 

He was small and impossibly soft, with tufts of dark hair that were the exact same shade as Cregan’s. His hands formed little fists that he tried to flail and his face was all scrunched lines and pink blotches. You lifted him higher and pressed your lips to the top of his head, clutching him tight to yourself. 

You lay like that for a long time hugging your son and whispering sweet nothings against his skin. Each time the maesters came to try and pry the boy away you refused, holding him a little tighter. But eventually you were overcome with exhaustion and sleep slackened your arms. With silent movements they slipped him from your grip and left the room, instructing Dyanna to stay with you. 

You slept for a long time. Each time you began to stir, a mix of warm milk and milk of the poppy was poured down your lips and you were sent straight back into the darkness. Dyanna gently washed your face and neck with a wet cloth and tied your hair into a braid to keep out of your away. She stayed vigilant at your bedside, even as Cregan came on the next day and kissed you gently on the forehead, whispering something by your ear before leaving once more. 

On the third day you woke up with a start as the last of the milk of the poppy left you and the throbbing pains from the birth returned. You were frantic, ruffling your hands around the bedsheets before trying to get up and finding Dyanna’s wide eyes. 

“Where is he? Where is my son?” You asked hurriedly, eyes running all over the room but not seeing anything. You were almost fully up and beginning to slide off the bed when she came over, grabbing you by the shoulders and stopping you from moving any farther. 

“Sh, sh, hush now, darling,” she began softly, “he’s alright, he’s perfectly alright, you just need to rest.” You allowed her to help you sit up in bed and tuck the sheets around your waist but you still tried to look over her shoulder as if he was hiding just behind her. 

“Where is he?” You asked again, running your hands over the sheets. Dyanna paused for a second before continuing to pour you water from a pitcher and bringing the cup up to your lips. She stayed silent as you gulped down the entire thing before filling it again.  

“They’ve named him Edrick,” she told you with a small smile, a nervous thing that tried so hard to be comforting but looked so fearful. “After the king of old.” 

“They?” You heaved out as you pulled the cup from your mouth, water dripping from your lips down to your chin. 

“Lord Cregan and Lady Arra,” she told you quietly, gazing at you from under her lashes. She busied herself refilling the cup as you sunk into the bed, your mind whirling. You stared at the door across the room, frozen as if dipped in ice. “He has been brought to his new nursery and…” she paused again, gulping as a sheen of sweat appeared upon her brow, “they have said you need not worry about him now.” 

You were filled with an anguish that would never end. Suddenly you wished for the days back before you became pregnant, the days when you were lost in your own mind, feeling nothing and knowing nothing of how your situation could become so much worse. You were empty on the inside out, as if the line connecting you to your child had been forcibly severed and you were left to bleed without end. 

You cried endlessly, sobbing and wailing in your bed until Dyanna was forced to pour milk of the poppy down your throat to subdue you. You begged and pleaded with Dyanna, clasping your hands together and bending in half on the bed as you called for your baby, wanting but a moment with him. But each time your only response was that he was alright, he was exactly where he was meant to be. How could you believe that when you knew it was not true? When you knew that his rightful place was with you? 

You were confined to bedrest for a handful of weeks to ensure you healed properly from the birth. The maesters came to check on you often and each time they watched you with wide and worried eyes. You transitioned from loud wailing sobs to silent rivers of tears to eventually becoming a stony rock once more, your jaw and eyes set more harshly than even the jagged peaks of the mountainous Vale. Dyanna tried to tempt you with reading and embroidery once more but you simply shook your head, crossing your arms and contenting yourself with staring at the door as if you could make it open with the will of your mind. 

You replayed the moments of Edrick’s birth in your mind over and over, never letting the sight of his little face stray from your mind’s eye. You wondered how he looked now, how much he had changed in the long time he had been stolen from you. And as you healed, slowly beginning to walk the length of your room, first with Dyanna’s assistance and then on your own, you settled on that thought. He had been stolen from you. They had stolen your son from you. 

Eventually you were allowed out of your chambers and you took to roaming the castle on your own. The guards became familiar with your figure at all hours of the day and night, watching you stroll through the halls in your nightgown or robes like a spectre. You explored every corner of the place, every nook and cranny, every store room and bedroom, every window and ledge. You did it without fail every single day, and eventually the household staff had a running story about the spectre of Winterfell. 

Sometimes you would stumble on Arra or Cregan, arms lifted to cradle a little bundle. You could never see into the blankets from afar, could not see his face or his eyes, but you felt such an immense pang of pain that it took everything within you not to run to them. If you were lucky, you might glimpse his arm sticking out of the fabric, or a stray foot wiggling in the air, but most of the time you watched from a distance as his father smiled down at him, as some woman posing as his mother rocked and sung to him before kissing his forehead. 

Despite how it looked, the roaming was not aimless. You took carefully crafted routes, never the same one twice, to always end up at the nursery in the late evenings when even the wet nurses had gone to their beds. Sometimes you sat outside the door, back pressed to the stone wall, knees pulled up to your chest as you rocked back and forth, overcome with grief and something tinged with madness. Other times you carefully opened the door and tiptoed in, standing by his cot and hurriedly wiping your tears before they could drip onto his cheeks.

He was the perfect child. He was yours. He had soft round cheeks and his hair was like silk. Sometimes, when he would blink his eyes open and stare up at you, they were bright and blue and you were overcome. He rarely cried in your presence, and if he began to fuss, you would quickly lift him from the cot and hold him close to your chest, whispering the stories you had once told him as he rested in your womb and kissing his downy little head. 

And each night when you set him back down and returned to your own bed, you clenched your jaw and mumbled to yourself that you would not let them take him. They had taken your happiness, your joy, your very soul, over and over until your insides were carved out and there was nothing left. But you would not let them take him. 

Slowly the plan came into action. All your walks yielded everything important for it. Your presence was never noted, you became familiar with the changes of the guard and the guards themselves. You knew which ones were rather lax in their attention, which ones were drowsy and half-asleep against the wall, and which ones left their watch at the door to play a quick game with their compatriots in darkest hours of the night. 

You began gathering provisions, saving bread and cheeses from your sparse dinners in little cloth bundles in a sack under your bed. You found a length of rope and wrapped it all in a fur before securing the rope around it. And then you waited. 

You waited for the night when the moon was gone under a heavy cloud cover. You tied the pack onto your back and made your way through the empty halls and into the nursery. You gathered Edrick to your chest and held him close as you took servant’s ways and hidden passages to a back door that led you straight to the edge of the courtyard. You watched the guard leave his post and kept pressed close to the wall as you edged out and began following the wall until you were at the back of the fortress. 

You took a moment to breathe, to try and ease the stiffness in all your limbs and calm the loud panting breaths that were leaving you. You looked down at your baby, at the peaceful close of his eyes, his long lashes fanning his cheeks and his little mouth pouting. He already looked so much like his father. You pressed a kiss to his face and began jogging for the woods, not slowing until you hit the cover of the trees. 

You had planned everything. You had listened carefully to the stories Dyanna had read to you, of the towns even more northerly than Winterfell and the places where one could slip beyond the wall and find wildlings. You had decided to go north through the woods in search of a village before getting to the wall and beyond. You prayed at your hearth that whatever people you may find beyond it would take pity on you and your son, that the wildlings, though savage they may be, would find some kindness in their hearts for you, a naive hope or not. 

You stopped again just past the first line of trees and looked back at Winterfell. The clouds shifted for a moment and the fortress was a black silhouette in the moonlight. You remembered your last dinner with Dyanna, how happy she had been that you spoke to her like your old self, how tightly she had hugged you and smiled with teary eyes, how gravely yet gently she had said goodbye. You knew that by the time the first rays of the sun broke the horizon the disappearance of Edrick would be discovered. You knew that they would find you gone as well, and riders would be sent out in every direction, told not to return until they found you. And you knew that it was most likely that you would not succeed, that if they did not find you first then you would succumb to some type of death. But you turned your back on Winterfell and prepared to walk endlessly through the night. Because here was the point of no return, and you would die trying.

[fawniswriting]

J, my darling, what the actual hell?? Are you looking to make me die of happiness??? 😭😭😭 this is literally insaneee. The fact that you took the time out of your day to not only read this fic, but gave me a whole essay about your thoughts and impressions of it??? Oh my God, I didn't think I could love you more but here we are 🥹🫶🏼

It was such a joy getting to read your thoughts about each scene, my love. Not only that, but the fact that your inner commentaries sounded sooo similar to mine as I was writing this fic lol. This whole story was very self-indulgent from the start, so I was a little concerned about the fic being too cheesy bcs of it. But to hear how much you enjoyed each scene was like discovering gold for me!! I truly have no words to express how blessed I am for these nice comments 💖

Please know that I appreciate this, and I appreciate you a whole lot ❤️✨️ Not only as a mutual, or as a fellow fic writer, but also as a friend. You've always been so kind and gracious, and I hope you know that you inspire me constantly with your works as well as your big heart. It's very validating to hear these nice things about my writings from someone whose works I'm constantly in awe of.

I hope you know that you've just made my entire week with this. You're one of my favorite writers on this platform and to receive this encouragement from you means the world!! Sending you every drop of my love, sweetheart 💞💞💞💫💫🌼🌼💐💐

𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗱𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Synopsis: When a visit to his office leaves you shaken, Bucky is determined to take care of you.

Word Count: 4.4k

Warning(s): CEO!husband!bucky x wife!reader. protective!bucky. no use of y/n. use of nicknames sweetheart and angel. established (secret) relationship. reader is a damsel in distress. "GET YOUR HANDS OFF MY WIFE" 🗣🗣🗣 trope. public humiliation. physical violence (reader is manhandled - not by bucky). hurt/comfort. angst, fluff, smut (holy trifecta) (18+ mdni!!!). vaginal fingering. lots of praising. bucky is Scary™ and only soft for reader.

Author's Note: GUYS HI I'M ALIVE 👋🏼 so sorry for being MIA. work has been kicking my ass. I've literally been skipping lunch and working through weekends bcs of how crazy it is (yeah I know it's bad). but other than that, I've also been having the worst case of writer's block ever. I have three fics in my draft that I kept deleting and rewriting because none of them turned out good enough. this is the only half decent thing I managed to produce. not fully happy with this bcs I wanted to spend more time on it, but I've also been itching to put out something for you guys, so pls bear with me 😔 hopefully you'll still like it 🧡 don't forget to comment/like/reblog 💕

Bucky Barnes Masterlist

As soon as you step through the rotating doors, a relieved breath escapes your chest. 

The rain continues to patter outside, merciless in their mission to soak everyone who dares to leave the comfort of their home. Your wet hoodie clings to you like second skin; your cotton skirt dripping on the marble floors below. The back of your neck scorches as you notice a few sharp glances sliding your way. 

This is so not how you thought this day was going to go.

A quick coffee run with the girls had been the plan. The only plan. A chance to catch up with Wanda and Natasha amidst the unpredictability of everyone’s hectic schedules. Everything was going well. Up until the point you left the coffee shop, started the trek back towards the subway station, and realized something.

Your wallet was missing.

Not misplaced.

Not forgotten.

But actually missing.

You spent the next couple of hours retracing your steps—going back to the coffee shop, peering under evey chair and table, even asking the clueless barista if anyone had turned it in—but nothing. You even emptied your tote bag in the middle of the sidewalk at one point. Confirming that the wallet was, in fact, gone. To make matters worse, your phone had also died somewhere between Wanda showing you her latest painting project and Natasha's crude remarks about your sex life. In that raging desperation, you made a decision to resort to one last dramatic measure.

Bucky's office.

Inside your drenched sneakers, your toes curl. It’s silly for someone to feel this nervous about visiting their husband's place of work. But when the husband in question is none other than James Buchanan Barnes—CEO and founder of Barnes & Co.—you suppose the churning in your gut is somewhat justified. Especially when the prospect of visiting his office, impromptuly and without the dark cover of night, feels like crossing a threshold you've been avoiding for far too long.

You and Bucky have been together for over two years, married for one short, whirlwind month. The news of your wedding broke across the country like a hailstorm. Stirring a media frenzy and a nationwide intrigue revolving one question in particular.

Who is the woman that managed to conquer the heart of one of America's most eligible bachelors?

You've always dreaded the attention that comes with being Bucky's partner, hence why you asked to keep your identity a secret at the start of your relationship. And Bucky—despite having his reservations about not being able to love you loudly in front of the whole world—had agreed, but not before promising you that his world was yours to enter whenever you pleased.

You just never thought that the entrance would happen today.

The dribbles of rain have gathered into a puddle under your feet. You squirm as more eyes begin scrutinizing you as if you're a ketchup stain in their otherwise polished world of Rolexes and Armani-clad egos. Taking a deep breath, you will the thumping in your chest to abate, forcing your chin up as you stalk towards the front desk across the lobby.

The two receptionists are conversing among themselves when you approach, huddled over a phone on the desk. You’re about to open your mouth when the mention of a familiar name stops you dead in tracks.

“Bet she's just a ditzy arm candy,” one of them remarks. “I won’t be surprised if he found her at a yacht party.”

The other gasps scandalously, pausing mid-way of applying her dark red lipstick. “You think she's an escort?”

“I don’t think. I know.” The first one smirks. “But then again, a guy who looks like that? With that kind of money? Hell, he could probably get with any woman in the world.”

“Yeah, you're right. I'd gladly get on my knees and be the sidepiece if Bucky Barnes asked me.”

The two receptionists snicker.

A few paces away, you're standing with hands curled into fists, commanding the red hot emotion in your chest to dissipate before you do something you might regret.

Instead, you clear your throat.

Two pairs of eyes look up, and the moment they catch sight of you—teeth chattering and skirt trickling with mud—their expressions twist into something unpleasant. Dismissive. Judgemental in a way that causes your skin to crawl and your ears to ring.

“Can I help you?” asks the one with the red lipstick.

“Hi. Yes, please. I, uh—” you shift on your feet, “—I'm here to see Mr. Barnes.”

“He's in a meeting,” she replies, already tapping something on her keyboard. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but—”

“You need an appointment to see Mr. Barnes.” She smiles, so sickly sweet as she drags her eyes from your head to your toe. “I can't let you in. Sorry.”

“Okay. But I'm actually—”

“She said you can't go up, Ma’am,” the other receptionist interjects.

“If you could just call his office and tell them—”

“Mr. Barnes doesn't receive walk-ins,” says Red Lipstick, her gaze acrid when it lands on you. “Especially not from… strangers.”

You grit your teeth. “I'm his wife.”

The other receptionist snorts.

It takes everything in your power not to snap right then and there.

“Look,” you sigh, tugging at the hem of your drenched hoodie, “can I at least borrow a phone, then? Just to call his secretary?”

Red Lipstick sneers. “We're not a public phone booth.”

Next to her, the other receptionist doesn't even attempt to hide her smug smile. There is an ache prickling in the back of your eyes. You're soaked, freezing, and exhausted, and the last thing you need is to defend your identity in front of two people who seem to have resolved their judgement upon seeing your appearance. All you want to do right now is to get home, curl up in bed, and forget that this whole day ever happened in the first place.

“Fine,” you mutter, exhaling a stuttering breath, “I'll just wait then.”

You head towards the seating area several feet away, the leather squeaking the moment you sink down. Red Lipstick whispers something to her friend before picking up the desk phone.

Two minutes later, security shows up.

Chill licks up your spine as you watch the man in the uniform talking to the receptionist from earlier, the latter throwing daggers in your direction without bothering subtlety. You move your tote bag to your lap—as though the material can shield you from the impending confrontation—and clutch the canvas in a death grip when the security starts marching towards you.

“Ma'am.” The large man, all muscles and ear-piece, towers over you. “I need to ask you to leave the premises.”

You close your eyes.

This can't be happening.

“I'm not doing anything wrong.”

“You're causing a disruption.”

“Disruption?” you seethe, your voice shakier than you would like it to be. “I'm only sitting.”

“Please, Ma'am—”

“I'm just waiting for my husband, alright?” Your voice cracks. “Just—just please… give me five minutes. I'll just wait for his meeting to be over and—”

You don't get to finish your sentence.

Before you can fully process what is happening, the security guard has stomped forward, plunging his claws around your forearm, and jerks you up to your feet. You yelp as he begins to try and drag you away, scrambling to peel his vicious grip.

“Hey! What are you—? Let me go!”

“You need to stop resisting, Ma'am.”

“I'm not! Please, just… just let me go, you're hurting me!”

All around you, people have paused and begun watching. Businessmen halt mid-call. Women with perfect sleek buns turn their heads to lour at the sudden commotion. You're half certain that someone in the crowd has even pulled out a phone to record the whole thing. 

And yet, none of them steps forward to help.

Shame creeps up your neck, burning in tandem with the ache that now travels through your arm. Your sneakers screech against the marble floors as the security heaves you across the lobby, unperturbed by your whines of pain and your desperate pleas. 

No one seems to care.

That is until a voice breaks through your choked cries.

“What the hell is going on here?”

The crowd falls into a sudden hush, panting like the Red Sea to reveal the figure standing in front of the closing elevator doors.

Bucky Barnes.

His suit jacket is unbuttoned, tie slightly loosened from the tumult of the day. You can almost picture him tugging repeatedly at that piece of fabric as he sits in one of his tediously long meetings—the same tie that you bought for him several months prior. His steel-blue eyes scan the surroundings, flicking from the mass of foreign faces standing in his lobby to the scene that has seemingly rendered everyone frozen on their spot. His gaze lands on you—dripping, scared, and on the verge of crying—and immediately zeroes in on the security guard's iron grip around your forearm.

Bucky steps forward.

And something inside of him snaps.

"Get. Your fucking hands. Off my wife."

The meeting is running long.

Too long.

Bucky keeps glancing at the clock above the screen monitor, counting down the minutes until the longer hand strikes twelve. He barely hears the pitch being presented. Not when his mind isn't even present in the room. His phone sits face-down on the table, buzzing occasionally with email notifications, meeting reminders, missed phone calls, but not from the one person who matters the most.

You.

He sighs quietly.

When the final slide clicks off and the lights turn on again, Bucky doesn't waste time standing to his feet. “Good work,”  he says, already halfway out of the door. “We'll review the proposal and follow up. That's all.”

He doesn’t even give his team a chance to respond.

The hallway is deserted as he walks past. Bucky enters his office and shuts the door behind him, checking his phone to see the last four messages he has sent to you.

[08.28 AM] Have fun with Wanda and Nat. I'll see you tonight, angel ❤️

[11.47 AM] Still with the girls, sweetheart?

[12.04 PM] Let me know once you're home

[01.58 PM] Angel?

His jaw clenches.

Bucky presses the call button and brings the device to his ear, cursing when the line goes straight to voicemail. You never do this—leave his messages hanging for hours like this. You always answer—with a text or a phone call, sometimes with a single emoji response when you're too busy or too tired to form a proper one. A total silence is unheard of, and Bucky knows that this can mean one of two things.

Either your phone is dead… or something is wrong.

Bucky’s gut plummets.

He hits another number on his phone, his driver instantly answering on the second ring.

“Bring the car to the front,” Bucky orders. “I'm heading home.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bucky moves in quick lightning. Gathering his things and shoving important documents into his briefcase. He leaves the office and stops by his secretary's desk, who shoots out of her seat immediately upon seeing him.

“Cancel everything else for today. I'm going home.”

“Wait, what? But, Mr. Barnes, you still have—”

“I don’t care,” he says, already turning towards the elevator. “I need to check on my wife.”

Inside the elevator, Bucky fiddles with his cuffs, trying not to imagine the worst. There is a good chance you probably just forgot to charge your phone and got way too caught up reuniting with your friends to notice the time. Maybe you're already back home, asleep, snoring softly into his pillow. Maybe there really is no reason for Bucky to worry.

But he does worry.

Bucky has been worried for sometime. Particularly since the story of your wedding broke a month ago. 

He didn't say anything to keep you from stressing, but on the second week of your honeymoon in the Caribbean, Bucky received word from his security team that a stalker had tried to break into his house in Westchester. The perpetrator was caught and handed to the police before things could escalate, but it still wasn't enough to ease Bucky's mind. He had to relocate your residence temporarily to his penthouse in Manhattan—telling you a little white lie about doing some renovations at the house. Thankfully, you're none the wiser. You've always loved living at the heart of the bustling city, anyway.

The elevator doors open with a ding.

Bucky steps out, pausing in his tracks when he realizes there is a horde gathering in the lobby. People are murmuring among themselves, their necks craning as they attempt to sneak a peek at the center of the ruckus. Bucky's brows furrow.

“What the hell is going on here?” he bellows.

The crowd parts.

Bucky examines his surroundings. Seeing at least two people with their phones out, receptionists standing behind their desks, and heads turning towards a scene unfolding near the sofas.

There is a man there.

A man in uniform—a security guy—who has his hand around a woman's arm, trying to drag her away across the lobby.

The woman is drenched and shaking, voice hoarse from pleas that have fallen on deaf ears. When he finally catches her eyes—your eyes—blown wide with panic, the rest of the world seems to evaporate.

Bucky sees red.

“Get. Your fucking hands. Off my wife.”

The security guard falters, just for the briefest of milliseconds, but it's all Bucky needs to yank his hands off you. He shoves the guard so hard the man stumbles nearly five feet back. Bucky doesn't stop there—he grabs the guard by his collars, the man now trembling with fear in front of him. It doesn’t matter. Not to Bucky. Not after what he just saw this man was doing to you.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” Bucky froths, face twisting into stone. “Touching my wife like that? Dragging her out? Do you want me to fucking kill you?!”

“S-Sir, I—”

“Bucky.”

His head snaps.

Your voice is meek beneath the tense air of the lobby, but it reaches him nonetheless. It always does. One short utterance of his name from you is all it takes for Bucky to loosen his grip on the security guard, his breath catching in his throat as he finally takes you in—soaked to the skin, shivering, shoes drenched under your feet.

Everything else melts away.

In two long strides, Bucky is now standing before you, his large palms cradling your face with a softness that startlingly opposes the man that has threatened death upon another human being five seconds ago. There is a pinch in his forehead as he studies your face. His face contorting as if the sight of you alone has plunged a blade so deeply into his soul.

“Sweetheart.” His voice breaks. “What happened?”

Your lips quiver. “I-I'm sorry, Bucky. I didn't mean to… I lost my wallet, and my phone’s dead. Then it just—it started raining, and I—I didn’t know what else to do—”

“Shh, angel. It's okay.” He tugs you close, arms wrapping around you without hesitation, not caring the fact that your rain-soaked clothes are probably ruining his expensive suit. You press into him, an involuntary shudder running through your limbs. “Shit, angel, you're freezing.”

Bucky shrugs out of his jacket and wraps it around your shoulders, firm hands rubbing your back to transfer some of his warmth to you. His voice is so unbearably tender as it falls on your ears.

 “I’ve got you now,” he whispers. “You’re safe, angel. I’ve got you.”

Then, Bucky turns. 

Slowly.

“You,” he barks at the security guard, blue eyes burning with hellfire. “Explain. Now.”

The guard swallows. “Sir, I-I didn’t know. The receptionist said she was causing a disturbance. Said she was crazy. Claimed she was your wife. I was just following—”

“She is my wife.” Bucky’s voice is deathly quiet. Venomous. “And you fucking manhandled her.”

“I-I didn’t mean to—”

Bucky turns his gaze towards the front desk.

The girl with the red lipstick is now as white as a sheet. Beside her, the other receptionist doesn't seem to be doing much better.

“Mr. Barnes,” Red Lipstick begins. “I didn’t—I didn’t know. She didn’t look like… She just sat on the furniture like she owned the place, and she—”

“She does own the damn place,” Bucky snaps. “And she told you who she was. And instead of doing the one job you have—calling my office—you humiliated her. Called security. Let this entire lobby watch while you treat her like dirt.”

“I—I was just trying to—”

Bucky raises his hand.

The girl's jaw snaps shut.

“I want all of you gone. Now. Security. Receptionists. Both of you. Fired. I don’t want to see any of you here again.”

The other receptionist tries to speak, “But sir—”

“Do you want me to fucking repeat myself?”

The three of them stay quiet.

Bucky turns back to you then, still enveloped in his jacket, looking smaller and more vulnerable than the person he knows you to be. Something inside him splinters at the sight.

“Let’s get you home, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

He guides you through the lobby, tucking you against his side as if he's afraid to let even an inch of space separate the two of you from now on. Before he reaches the rotating doors, Bucky halts his steps. He sweeps his gaze across the crowd, a raging flame in his sternum when he sees some people with their phones still out.

Bucky takes out his own mobile, typing in something without ever retracting his other arm away from your frame. Seconds later, his driver appears through the rotating doors, taking a subtle double take at your state, before nodding dutifully at the two of you.

“I want you to get all the names of the people in this lobby,” Bucky commands. “Give them to me by tomorrow. Check their phones. Confiscate them if you find anything of my wife. Prepare a fund to reimburse them for the device, we will not be returning them.”

The driver nods.

“Oh, by the way—” Bucky adds, gesturing at the security guard and the two receptionists, “—those three? I want them gone by the end of the day. Make sure to blacklist their names. Notify our partners as well.”

With that, Bucky leads you away again. Out of the office, out of the rumpus, and straight into the safety of his arms.

By the time you reach the apartment, New York City is in mourning.

The rain has exploded into a full-blown storm. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you can see the darkness that has befallen the entire city. The roar of thunder echoes through the floor, still rough, still formidable, but a little quieter now that you're swaddled in the safety of your home.

Next to you, another thunder is subsiding.

Bucky doesn't let go of your hand as you step further into the apartment. He holds you like you're procelain, tucking you a little closer into his side every time he feels a tremble running through you. His lips are pressed onto your temple as he leads you towards the hallway.

“You're shivering, sweetheart,” he points out. “Let me run you a bath, okay?”

You don't have the energy to respond.

In the bathroom, Bucky guides you to sit on the toilet. He moves through the space like a domesticated cyclone—filling in the tub, lighting up your favorite candles, adding in that lavender and eucalyptus oil that he knows you love. Steam is rising within minutes. Bucky turns back to you with the gaze of a man who is trying to spell out love with his eyes alone.

“I'm gonna take off your clothes now, alright?” 

He sheds each layer with reverence. As if he was revealing your secrets rather than taking off rain-soaked worn cotton. Bucky pauses every now and then to squeeze your hand, peppering tiny kisses along the knuckles, shifting closer every time he detects gooesbumps on your skin.

The whole thing is so sweet.

He is so sweet.

And it makes the whole dam you've been straining to uphold finally collapses.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, surprising him.

“Sorry?” Bucky is perplexed. “Angel, why are you sorry?”

“S-Sorry for… for showing up like that. For making a scene. I shouldn't—I must’ve embarrassed you—”

“Hey,” he says firmly, cupping your face in his hands. “No. Don’t do that.”

Tears cling to your lashes.

“You can never embarrass me, sweetheart. You’re my wife. The most important thing in my life. If anything, I should’ve been there sooner. None of this is on you.” Bucky brushes his nose to yours, massaging the nape of your neck. “I'm so sorry, angel. You didn’t deserve to go through any of that.”

Your breath stammers. 

Bucky leans back and presses his lips to your forehead.

“Come on.” He smiles. So tender and loving you think you might unravel completely. “Let me take care of you.”

He helps you into the tub, guiding you down into the warmth with a steady hand on your back. The water laps against your skin, chasing the chill from your aching bones as well as your bruised heart. The next thing that comes out of your mouth is a relieved sigh.

Bucky moves to stand.

Your hand shoots out and curls around his wrist before he can rise.

“Join me,” is all you say.

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Bucky never takes his eyes off you even when he starts stripping down his clothes. He steps behind you in the tub, tugging you to his chest the moment he has settled into the bath. Your whole body liquefies on instinct the second his arms engulf your middle.

“I’ve got you now,” he murmurs, pledging the words to your temple. “You’re safe.”

Bucky reaches for your soap, lathering his plams with the scent of lavender and peppermint. You sigh and sink deeper into his chest as you feel his touch working over your skin—shoulders, arms, the curve of your back. He kisses each spot every time he finishes rinsing it off, running his tongue down your neck, whispering praises with each breath.

“So strong. So brave.” He nips at your ear. “So proud of you, sweetheart. I love you so much.”

Bucky continues peppering your skin with kisses. Experimenting with the graze of his teeth and the scrape of his tongue. You squirm in his hold when his fingers begin swiping at your chest. Subtle, at first, but then he takes a nipple between his fingers and twist it just enough to make you mewl in delight.

It's the best goddamn sound he has ever heard on this planet.

He begins massaging your breast with his left hand, the other one sliding lower and lower with every bruise he is sucking into your neck. Bucky parts your nether lips, feeling you soft and compliant under his touch. You jolt in his arms the moment he skims over your sensitive nub.

“B-Bucky—”

“Shh, I got you, angel. Don't worry,” he soothes, burying his face in your throat. “Just feel me. Gonna make you feel so good, okay? Just lean back and relax for me.”

You follow his instruction, letting yourself fall back onto his chest. Bucky starts rubbing you slowly, earnestly, circling his fingers around the one place that is yearning for him, never quite touching it just to tease those breathless sounds out of you even further. In front of him, you're panting. Your hips grinding against his hand as you attempt to chase more of those heavenly feelings.

“Look at you,” Bucky muses, relishing the way you're chasing more of his touch. “Always so beautiful for me. You know that, don't you, sweetheart?”

“Bucky,” you whine.

“Shh, I know, angel. I know. Doing so good for me.”

Bucky rubs his fingers over your clit, groaning when the motion tears a wrecked sound out of your throat. He carries on with his ministrations, playing your body like a musician would their favorite instrument. Alternating between lazy strokes and desperate flicks that have you gasping and writhing against him. 

“Oh God.” You close your eyes, brows creasing when Bucky eventually plunges two fingers into your heat.

He moves them in and out of you languidly. Curling his digits, feeling your walls contract and suck him deeper each time he stimulates that one spot that always paints your vision with stars. You're gripping his forearm now. Your head falling back onto his shoulder as his other hand slides downward towards your bundle of nerves.

Everything feels heightened.

Everything feels good.

You angle your head to the side and kiss his jaw as you feel a familiar knot forming in your abdomen.

“Bucky,” you whimper, locking your eyes with his. “I-I'm gonna—oh God, don't stop—I wanna—”

“Wanna cum, angel?” Bucky purrs, running his nose down your cheekbone. “Can feel you squeezing my fingers—shit. Go ahead, sweetheart. Let go for me. Let me see you.”

You come apart within seconds. The murmurs of Bucky's encouragement as your music and the kisses he leaves on your shoulder as your anchor. His fingers continue to drag in and out of you with reverence, prolonging your pleasure, never once relenting until he is sure you've given him everything that you could.

“That's it, sweetheart. You did so well.” He tilts your chin up, leaving a chaste kiss in the corner of your lips. “Such a good girl for me. I love you.”

He holds you until your breathing slows, until the thrum under your skin quietens and your nerve endings stop lighting up in flames. Bucky helps you out of the bath with a towel already warm in his hands, drying you carefully, each brush a well-concocted plan because he knows you deserve nothing less than the utmost form of care.

Once you're dressed, Bucky leads you to your shared bed. You're already half asleep by the time he tucks the covers around your frame, brushing his thumb across your cheek.

“I love you,” he confesses into the quiet. “You’re my whole world, angel.”

You blink at him, eyes drowsy but warm. “Love you, too.”

Bucky slides in beside you, pulling you close until your head is rested on his chest and your hand finds the steady beating of his heart.

Outside, the storm continues to rage. Anguish in its name and its promise, chasing thunders with the stable clatter of the rain.

Inside, though, it's quiet. A stretch of silence merely rustled by the intakes of breath and the soft snores of Bucky's whole life—his wife. His world. Kept securely inside the certainty of his embrace where nothing and no one else would be able to lay their hands on you.

And with that reassurance, Bucky closes his eyes, drifting off with his heart stitched solidly to yours.

[nqueso-lies]

Hi, so this is VERY RANDOM but I'd like to hear your opinion because I'm on the fence about it and I love you and your opinions.

So I like dark themed romance and I like bucktommy so I was thinking and I'm in the middle of writing a dark themed romance for bucktommy.

My issue is if that's too much? Is it okay to write something that is not fluffy, romantic or hurt/comfort? Because most of the works I've read are like that and they great and the fandom is amazing and that what inspired me to write again after 10 years.

I'm scared whoever going to read it won't take it well and I'm scared I'll start discourse and people making posts about my fic and pointing fingers at me. I'd just disintegrate.

I'm sorry but I'm having a meltdown since a month ago and still do. I write like one sentence and then ask myself "what's the point?" And close the writing app, and this is killing my brain because I'm already a slow writer and I'm struggling with English.

And to give you an idea about it, it has stalking, kidnapping and manipulation.

Should I tuned it down, should I drop it, should I go with what everyone else is writing, what 😭.

I'm sorry, but I really didn't know who should I ask but you.

You can choose not to post this and just give me an answer or just ignore me. I'd hate to disturb your peace if this ask attract unwanted attention, I'd absolutely hate that to happen to you.

I was going to answer this with an @ anon but I think it's important that everyone see your ask because it makes me sad.

It doesn't make me sad because you want to write dark romance for bucktommy, it makes me sad that you feel like you can’t because you'll be ridiculed for it. I can't speak for all bucktommy fans but I can say that there are currently dark romance themed bucktommy fics out there and they seem to be well received and I know I read them.

Imo, if the fic is tagged accordingly, then go for it. I'm currently reading a few mob boss fics that I would describe (as well as the writers) as dark romance.

There's nothing wrong with safely exploring things through art. How many people love to watch the show 'You'? Gallavich fic is heavy on dark romance. Bucktommy are legal adults.

I feel like the CSA fics really fucked up this fandom. That was completely different. Those fics were deliberately mistagged and sent to people to trigger them. That's not what you or other writers who properly tag their fics, are doing.

If someone reads your fic and it has a trigger in it that is tagged and they get angry that's on them.

For instance, and please forgive me, I'm not calling this writer out, but there is a bucktommy series about a very specific fetish that is no where near my interest levels... and you know what I do?? I scroll past it.

Just because I don't enjoy that doesn't mean others don't.

I would recommend turning on comment monitoring (?) to get a feel on the reactions, but I don't see why you'd have a problem.

Annie, please write it. Tag appropriately and have fun! It's what we're all here for at the end of the day anyway.