#and learn that there is always something in the world there to help you and make sure you are okay

[girlgenius1111]

homesick

barcelona femeni x reader r is having a difficult time settling in with her new team in Barcelona. making friends with her teammates and being so far away from home is proving to be much more difficult than she expected. luckily, there are a lot of people around to help her. if she just lets them. angst to fluff <3 —

—

There was something you learned long ago, having moved across the world at such a young age for your career. Being alone sucked. But what was worse? Being surrounded by people and still feeling completely alone. 

There was a level of disconnect between you and your teammates, something you didn’t blame them for. You were younger than the majority, only just 19. Spanish wasn’t your first language, though you had a good handle on it, you missed some of the nuances that came with being completely fluent in a language. Being introverted didn’t really help your case, because even the teammates closer in age to you were loud and outgoing, for the most part. 

You were living your dream, thousands of miles away from home and from everyone you knew. You weren’t stupid or ungrateful enough to regret moving to Barcelona, but that didn’t make the day to day easier. It felt like your teammates didn’t like you, it was taking so long for you to adapt to the playing style of the team, and as every day passed, you felt worse and worse. 

Why couldn’t you just figure it out? Why couldn’t you talk more, contribute to conversations? And when you did talk, why did you have to overthink every word you said? Why hadn’t you adjusted yet? Why did you long for a home across the world when you were living out the opportunity of a lifetime? 

It didn’t matter that the coaching staff had been nothing but kind and encouraging, promising that it took time to get into the flow of the game, that everyone had to adjust. It didn’t matter that your teammates really seemed to be trying with you, it still felt like they were just being polite.

When it came down to it, you were doing your best, yet you were still struggling. You were all alone, with no clue how to pull yourself out of the slump you’d fallen into. 

—

The first time Ingrid and Frido realized something might be going on with you was after a solid win away. Both of them made a point to get to know the new players, especially the non-spanish ones. They remembered what it was like arriving in Barcelona, not speaking a word of Spanish and trying to integrate into the team. And they hadn’t been nearly as young as you were now. They looked out for you, the quiet anxious girl that no one seemed to know very well. They made sure you were eating enough, made sure you called your mother and told the physios if you had any soreness anywhere. 

Despite the win by several goals, you didn’t seem content. The team was lighthearted and carefree, and while you normally joined in with a small smile on your face, the only time you really let yourself be pulled into the team atmosphere being when the team was celebrating, this time you didn’t. You took a seat towards the front of the bus, curling up against the window and putting your headphones on. 

It had been obvious to pretty much everyone that you were having a tough time adjusting, really feeling like the team was your team. It wasn’t for lack of trying on their part. The younger girls would try to pull you into conversations, but you always pulled back after a few minutes, your face going red after you’d spoken like you thought you’d say something wrong. You were playing well, considering you’d only been with the team for a few months, but you didn’t seem happy with your performance. Whenever anyone gave you a compliment, you politely thanked them, but it was clear you didn’t believe what they were telling you. When Ingrid and Frido, or any of the older girls for that matter, tried to check in on you, you were quick to assure them you were fine. 

It had seemed pretty routine, though, up until this point. Everyone struggled when they joined Barça. They assumed you were just adjusting, but that you were having an entire crisis of confidence in yourself on top of terrible aching homesickness that lived in the back of your mind every minute of every day. 

But something seemed wrong today. You weren’t just quiet, you were morose. Staring out the window with no music playing through your headphones, looking dangerously close to tears. It didn’t make sense to Ingrid or Frido, or any of the captains that also had their eye on you, because you’d had a good game. 

Sure, you’d missed a few chances, but you’d also scored. Just looking at you, though, it seemed like you’d had the worst game of your life. 

The chances you’d missed were playing on a loop in your brain. You’d been good at trying to keep yourself from dwelling on how much you were struggling until this point. Perhaps it was just too much today, or perhaps it was because you knew you were missing a family dinner that evening for your cousin’s birthday. Whatever it was, everything suddenly felt irreparably terrible. 

You’d never make friends. You’d never integrate into the team. You’d never be the player you knew you could be. You’d be sent back home a failure, disappointing anyone who had ever believed in you. Your thoughts were a downward spiral as the bus started moving, so much so that you didn’t even realize you’d stopped moving until Ingrid was tapping you on the shoulder and telling you that you’d arrived back in the parking lot.

“Hey, you okay?” She asked gently. The Norwegian didn’t miss the way you whipped your head around, as if scared for anyone to think you weren’t okay. Luckily the rest of the bus was mostly empty, aside from Patri trying to drag a half asleep Claudia out of her seat. 

“I’m fine!” You replied quickly, rising to your feet and slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I’m fine. Sorry, I just spaced out.”

Ingrid didn’t move for a moment, blocking your exit entirely. She studied you, green eyes piercing right through your very soul. 

“You don’t seem–”

“I’m okay, really.” You interrupted, inching closer until Ingrid got the message and moved out of your way with a sigh. “I’m tired, I want to get home.” 

And with that, you made your escape, slipping past your teammate and rushing off the bus. To be fair, you were tired. Exhausted, actually. But you needed to be home within the next hour because your mother was going to call, and if you talked to her around anyone else, they’d see you cry after you hung up. The tears were inevitable, but you didn't have to let anyone see them. 

—

Though you were unaware, you were somewhat of a topic of conversation among the older girls on the team in the days following that away match. Ingrid had filled in the captains, and there were more eyes on you at training. They saw things they’d missed before, mostly just the way you seemed tense all the time, the absurdly high standard you held yourself to. No one thought you were just adjusting, anymore. No, something deeper was going on, something that had you falling apart at the seams. The issue they found themselves facing was one that plagued you as well. Because you weren’t particularly close with anyone on the team, no one had any idea how to figure out what was wrong. 

Ingrid had tried, to no avail. Alexia, with her stern captain voice and then the next day, with a softer approach. Esmee had tapped in then with Frido, but still. Nothing. 

You insisted you were fine. Seemed guilty that anyone was even taking the time to ask you if you were okay, and then more guilty because they were making an effort and you had no idea how to respond. Your instinct was to shy away from anything your teammates offered but you weren’t sure why when you so deeply craved friendship. 

Something you couldn’t escape, though, was team bonding. It was unspoken that events like this were mandatory, and normally you wouldn’t necessarily mind going. They were fun evenings, even if you felt like you basically watched them from the sidelines. Now, though, when it felt like everyone on the team was watching you, waiting for something, though you weren’t sure what… you’d never wanted to attend less. 

In fact, you found yourself quite nervous as the evening approached. Training had been normal, or what passed for normal now with everyone seemingly watching your every move. At least 6 people had reminded you about dinner that evening; you couldn’t even pretend you forgot. 

So, there you were. Squished in between Jana and Ona at the table of everyone’s favorite sushi place. It was a social overload, with everyone talking all at once. But you were doing fine, mostly. Jana and Ona both seemed to be making conscious efforts to bring you into conversations, which you pretended you didn’t notice. As the evening went on, it only got better. You relaxed more, letting yourself fall into conversation with Caro across the table. You felt you were being more.. you than you’d ever been in front of the team. 

The admittedly long list of people Ingrid and Frido had recruited to keep an eye on you were all very thrilled to see you getting on so well. You laughed at Pina’s jokes, started speaking not just when you were spoken to. There was light in your eyes, joy on your face. And now that your teammates had seen you like this, how you should be most of the time, they couldn’t help but feel guilty for not noticing how unwell you were before. 

But still. Progress was progress. And the evening could definitely be considered progress. 

Until you glanced down at your phone, and saw a missed call from your Mom. It was well past the time you normally spoke to her, and you hadn’t realized. You were supposed to call her an hour ago, like you did every day, but you’d forgotten. 

A million thoughts ran through your head in just a few short seconds, the most prominent of which being that you hadn’t forgotten or missed a call from your Mom since being here. Maybe it was pathetic, but talking to her was one of the only things that made you feel completely at ease in this new city. For a reason you couldn’t wholly justify, tears burned your eyes. 

You’d forgotten to call. You’d missed her call.

A level of guilt you’d never before experienced overwhelmed you, because you’d basically ignored your Mom, and you’d never been more aware of how terrified you were to forget where you came from, forget your family and your friends, than you were in that moment. 

Perhaps that was why you were terrified to let your guard down around your teammates; because settling in felt like forgetting, and forgetting didn’t seem fair. You barely registered mumbling something about needing to leave before your chair was scraping on the floor and you were out of there as fast as you could be. 

You wanted to go home. Not the home in Barcelona, the apartment that didn’t quite feel like yours. But the home you’d grown up in. It was funny, because you’d spent so many years wanting to get out of there, and here you were. Living your dream, but you couldn’t stop thinking about home. It didn’t matter that you used to fight with your parents all the time, or that your siblings never left you alone. You’d take any amount of yelling, any amount of annoyance if you could just go home. 

Much to your dismay, the door to the restaurant had barely shut behind you before you heard it swinging open again. There were fast footsteps, even as you sped up and tried to hurry to your car. Then, a hand wrapping around your wrist and softly tugging. 

“Chica, wait a minute,” Jana called. You stopped, not turning around until Jana practically did it for you. Her face was full of concern and sympathy and it made your stomach twist. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah.” You tried to sound casual, calm, but your voice cracked. “Everything’s fine.”

Jana looked doubtfully at you, her fingers raking through her dark hair as she considered your words that were a complete contradiction to your appearance. You didn’t look fine at all. You looked like you were barely holding it together, and Jana wasn’t sure what had happened. Just moments ago, everything had been fine. 

“If everything is fine, why are you rushing out like there’s a fire or something?” 

You opened your mouth, trying to come up with an excuse. There were a million possibilities; your head hurt, you’d forgotten to blow out a candle, you’d forgotten a meeting with your agent. Anything. Anything would have been better than the truth, but for some reason, the truth seemed to be forcing its way out. 

 “I… I was supposed to call my Mom but I forgot.” You choked out. 

Jana’s confusion didn’t fade, but she took a step closer, placing a comforting hand on your arm. “Can’t you call her later?”

You shook your head rapidly, a few tears springing free and trailing down your cheeks. A gust of wind blew, a chill running down your spine, and for some reason, you thought about the big oak tree in your front yard at home. How the leaves would rustle in the wind when you used to climb up the trunk, and you’d feel so at peace, even 15 feet off the ground. Your chest ached, deeply. Painfully. 

“No. I call her every day at the same time, so I have to call. I have to call.” You mumbled, waiting for Jana to laugh or tease you or something, though she’d never do that and you knew it. She didn’t even push, didn’t suggest you text your Mom to explain you were busy and say you’d call her later. Instead, Jana stepped even closer, her hands finding both of your shoulders.

“You miss her?” Jana asked gently. Her voice held an empathy and concern that shouldn't have surprised you. Everyone knew Jana was kind, but you were always surprised by how purely good someone so young was. 

Biting your lip, you nodded, more tears escaping. 

Jana gave you a somewhat sad smile before pulling you into a hug, squeezing tight and pressing a kiss to the side of your head. 

“I bet it’s so hard being so far away.” 

“Yeah. It is.” You paused, hesitating. Something about standing there with Jana felt like you could say anything, could be honest and it would be okay. “It’s really lonely sometimes.” 

Jana’s heart broke at the fractured sound of your voice, the way you clung onto her like you weren’t sure you’d stay standing if she let go. She hugged you tighter for a moment, before pulling back and giving you a reassuring smile. 

“I bet it is. I’m sorry we haven’t tried harder to help you settle in.” 

At this you shrugged, pretending her words didn’t hold any weight. 

“ Okay, chica. Go home, call your Mama. You’ll feel better tomorrow, and if you need anything, you call me, okay? Anything.”

You appreciated the offer more than you could articulate. Jana wasn’t judging you for being homesick, didn’t feel like you were taking your spot with the team for granted. She hadn’t questioned the validity of the reason you were so upset. She was being a friend. 

“Thank you, Jana. Really.” 

“Of course!” Jana replied easily, giving your hand one last squeeze. “I’ll tell Ale you had a headache, and I’ll see you tomorrow at training.” 

You nodded, smiling gratefully at the defender. 

As you got into the car and started your journey home, you were more sure than ever that you’d been the problem the whole time. Resisting and pulling away from something you weren’t sure you could have, yet your teammates kept reaching out anyway. So afraid of rejection and being disliked that you didn’t let anyone get to know you in the first place. 

—

Jana did not tell Ale you had a headache. No, she went back inside, mind racing with ways she could possibly help you, and was promptly ambushed by Ingrid, Frido, and Alexia. All three women were taller than her, suddenly staring down at her with half concerned, half frantic looks on their faces. 

“Did you catch her?” Ingrid questioned. 

Jana sighed, nodding her head. “Yeah. She had to go, she… forgot about something.” 

“What? What did she forget?” Alexia wondered. 

Jana hesitated. She wasn’t sure what the right thing to do here was. She did know, though, that Alexia always seemed to be able to help solve her problems. And Frido and Ingrid were so concerned. Jana didn’t want to break your trust, but she didn’t know how else to help you. 

And more than anything, she really just wanted to help you. 

—

Something was different the next day at training. 

It began as soon as you walked into the locker room. Loud voices had echoed down the hall, all of them falling silent as you walked through the door. Countless pairs of eyes were on you, the room falling quieter than you’d ever heard it. A very heavy moment passed, before Alexia cleared her throat, and everyone fell back into their conversations. You couldn’t help but feel, though, that they’d been talking about you.  

That feeling only intensified as you slipped into your training kit, pulling your top over your head to find Kika and Ona standing on either side of you. Though you often found it hard to break into conversations, there was no time that this rang truer than morning training sessions. You weren’t a morning person, and your brain simply refused to keep up with the fast paced spanish like it normally could. As a result, the time you spoke the least to your teammates was when you arrived in the morning. 

“Hi?” 

“Do you have plans after training?” Kika asked, a soft smile on her face. One that was almost too kind. Too… searching. 

“I-”

“Wait! No! Ingrid and I were going to ask her to get coffee with us!” Frido cut in, appearing behind Kika and throwing an arm around the younger girl’s shoulders. 

“Well you should have asked first,” Kika smirked, shoving the blonde away from her. 

Ona nodded her head. “We’re going to lunch, you can see her tomorrow.” 

You looked between the three of them, confusion evident on your face. None of them had ever made this much of an effort with you before, and it was suspicious to say the least. Also suspicious was the way half the team seemed to be stealing glances at you, waiting for you to agree to lunch or coffee or whatever you were about to be roped into.

You thought about earlier, how they’d all stopped talking when you walked in. You felt like there was some joke you weren’t in on, and it occurred to you that maybe… maybe the joke was you. The pieces didn’t exactly match up, yet you could feel the paranoia creeping in, the anxiety making your chest tighten. 

“I… I have plans this afternoon, but another time.” You stuttered, giving your teammates a half smile as you turned back to your cubby and worked on pulling your hair up. It wasn’t exactly a lie; you’d planned to go to a cafe and read that afternoon. You’d had a rather long and tearful call with your Mom the night before, and she’s suggested you try to get out of the house today, to get your mind off things. 

You didn’t think about the fact that she would absolutely tell you to go spend time with your teammates if the opportunity presented itself. While you normally would have been excited about the opportunity to spend time with some of them, something felt so off about this. Artificial. 

“Okay! Tomorrow then.” Kika declared, squeezing your shoulder and walking off. 

You sat on the bench to put your boots on, pretending you didn’t notice Frido and Ona still lingering by you. Pretended you didn’t notice that Patri was speaking quietly to Pina and Vicky, their eyes all trained on you. Pretended you couldn’t tell that something was going on, and it most definitely had something to do with you. 

—

Everyone was watching you. Everyone was talking to each other and looking at you, checking in with you, asking about your morning, what you’d had for breakfast, what your plans were for the afternoon. It was too much, too suddenly.

Your mind kept flitting to the moment you’d walked into the locker room earlier, the almost guilty looks on everyone’s faces as they all stopped talking. They’d been talking about you, you were sure of it now. And whatever they’d been saying, they didn’t want you to hear. 

As training dragged on, and the attention on you didn’t waver for a second, you began to spiral. 

Were they… making fun of you? Logically, you knew the chances of that were very low, but your anxiety was drowning out the logic quickly. 

Maybe they really didn’t like you, had all been discussing it when you’d walked in. Maybe the guilt had kicked in, then, and they were trying to overcompensate. 

It felt suffocating, the weight of everyone’s attention, the pressure to perform perfectly in training and answer everyone's constant questions. It was odd, that for so many weeks now you’d just been wishing for your teammates to notice you, to make an effort but now that it was happening, you were terrified. It couldn’t be genuine, couldn’t be real. They just felt bad for not liking you, probably. Or maybe one of the captains was making them be nice to you. 

It was as if your body was rejecting the attention, your panic building and building until it was all you could do to run through the drills and not collapse onto the ground. 

There was only an hour or so left of training, but you weren’t sure you could make it. Every one of your senses felt heightened. Every voice and glance in your direction felt like an attack on your nervous system and you wanted more than anything for everyone to just stop. 

Stop whatever they were doing, whether that be a joke or pity or something else. Stop looking at you, stop talking to you with an undertone of pity and concern. You just needed it all to stop. 

“Are you alright?” 

You nearly jumped out of your skin, the water bottle you were clutching tight in your hands falling to the ground. Ingrid had wandered over during a water break, and you’d been too caught up in the spiral of your own thoughts to notice. The brunette was gazing at you, her cheeks flushed from the heat but her green eyes clear and full of worry. 

“Ye-yeah, I’m fine.” You replied, willing Ingrid to go away before anyone looked over and noticed what she was clearly seeing; you were very far from okay. It was too late for that, though, Irene appearing on your other side, her hand pressing to your forehead as she studied your face. It felt so similar to when your Mom would check you for a fever, you choked on your own breath, pain ripping through you. 

“You look unwell, are you having a bit of heat stroke? Sit down, let me–” Irene was talking, but you barely heard any of it.

“–I’m fine, I just need… need to go. I have to go, I’m sorry.” 

You wrenched yourself away from Ingrid and Irene’s hands, nearly tripping over your own feet in your haste to get away. The shared locker room was probably the least logical place to go to escape your teammates, yet that was where you found yourself, mind in overdrive as you began to pace back and forth. 

You didn’t want to be the butt of the joke or the group charity project. You didn’t want people to pity you, you didn’t want to be coddled or watched over. You just wanted to be normal, like the rest of your teammates. 

You couldn’t do this any longer. It was too hard, being here was too hard. You wanted to go home, more than anything in the world. You wanted your Mom, your dog, your bedroom, and the safety of being with the people you loved. 

Hands found your shoulders, interrupting your pacing. You looked up, tears streaming down your face, finding Alexia looking at you with so much concern, it made your stomach twist. 

“What’s going on, chica?” Alexia asked gently. 

You broke, a small whimper falling from your lips as you exhaled, everything you were feeling and thinking coming pouring out of you like a tidal wave you couldn’t control. 

“I-everyone is being so weird and you were all talking about me this morning and no one will leave me alone and you’re all staring at me and I don’t know what I did wrong, I don’t know what to do, I just want to go home. I just want to go home, I can’t do this anymore,” 

Strong arms were wrapping around your trembling form a half a second later, and as much you’d deny it happened to anyone who asked afterwards, you found yourself sobbing into your captain’s training kit. Alexia shushed you gently, steady even as you fell apart. 

“It’s okay, chica. You’re okay. Just let it out.” Alexia murmured, carefully steering you over to the bench and guiding you to sit down on it. Her arms didn’t release you, not as you sat down and not for the next few minutes as you cried yourself out. Eventually, you pulled it together enough to lean away from your captain and wipe at your face with your shirt. 

Wordlessly, Alexia handed you a water bottle, one hand still resting on your back. The touch felt remarkably comforting, and you already felt better, already realized you’d let your anxiety get the better of you and overreacted. But then, Alexia broke the silence. 

“We were.” She admitted, reaching out to help you unscrew the cap of the water bottle when your hands proved to be shaking too hard to do so yourself. You looked at her questioningly, and she sighed, a guilty look flashing across her face. “We were talking about you when you walked in.”

Your stomach dropped, the color draining out of your face. You’d hoped that you were just being crazy and anxious and paranoid, but no, they did hate you, they all hated you and–

“Nothing bad, though. We were just worried. Jana… Jana told me what happened yesterday, and I just wanted to make sure you were okay, that you had the support you needed. I didn’t want you to feel alone.” 

The words were everything you should have wanted to hear, yet you couldn’t move past the first thing she’d said. Jana had told her what you’d said. 

“I realize we haven’t made enough of an effort to incorporate you into the team, and that is our fault. It’s always hard when someone first gets here, and we thought you were just adjusting, we didn’t realize you were having such a hard time.” 

If you’d known Alexia better, you’d have realized she was rambling, scrambling to try to justify everyone’s actions. As it was, you didn’t even really process what she was saying, feeling humiliation wash over you instead. 

It had been pity that fueled them, yet still, they’d made an effort. You couldn’t decide if that made it better or not. You couldn’t decide how you felt about any of this. 

“It’s normal to feel homesick, chica. Very normal. You are so far from everything you have ever known, of course that is going to be hard. We should have noticed, and we should have done more to help you adjust.” 

She was speaking so earnestly, you couldn’t help but thaw a little. 

“I’m not… I’m not some pathetic person everyone needs to feel bad for and–”

“No. No one sees you like that.” Alexia insisted. “You are our teammate, and we take care of our own. We should have been doing more for you.” 

At this, you averted your eyes, shrugging and inhaling deeply. She wasn’t… wrong. And she spoke with such conviction that you kind of believed her, that your teammates really cared about you, and didn't just feel bad for you. 

“You are so mature, I forget how young you are sometimes. But us especially, the captains, we should have been looking out for you. I’m sorry about that, chica. Can you forgive me?” 

And, well, what were you supposed to say to that? 

“Yeah.” You agreed, clearing your throat when the word came out raspy and broken. “Yeah, I can.” 

Alexia studied you for a moment, a contemplative expression on her face. “You forgive too easily.” She said finally. “But I am glad, because Jana has been having a nervous breakdown about telling us what you said, even though she was just worried. I can’t take another Jana breakdown, chica, I really cannot.” 

You laughed at this, a genuine laugh that made your captain grin and ruffle your hair. 

Alexia stood, extending her hand out to you. “Back to training? Or do you need the afternoon?” 

Her voice was free of any judgment, and you could tell that whichever option you chose would genuinely be okay. But you also knew yourself, and if you left now, you’d just be more nervous tomorrow to come in. Putting off the anxiety inducing situation would only make it worse. So though you’d run off in tears like a child, you nodded, grabbing Alexia’s hand and standing up. 

“As long as everyone stops staring at me.” 

“Done.” 

— 

It wasn’t a quick fix, by any means. But it was the little things that changed, and those seemed to make the biggest difference. It began that very day, when you walked back out to the pitch with Alexia. Everyone was staring, but trying to pretend they weren’t, until Alexia whistled and raised her voice. 

“Oye! Be normal. Now.” She shouted. It was as if a switch flipped, and the general energy within the team relaxed instantly. You hadn’t been the only one tense, you realized. 

Later, Jana caught you as you were heading back into the locker room, looking genuinely distressed. 

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything to anyone about what you told me, I just–”

“It’s okay.” You interrupted. You figured there wasn’t a better place to start with fitting in better than forgiving. “You were just worried, Ale told me.” 

Relief broke out across Jana’s face and she exhaled sharply, yanking you into a tight hug. 

“Thank you, chica.” 

With Jana forgiven, with the team acting more normally, you could actually enjoy watching your teammates fall over themselves to do something with you. Whether it was driving you to training, or getting lunch or coffee with you. Making christmas cookies or going on a hike. 

The offers didn’t feel empty anymore. They hadn’t been, the whole time, but only now could you see that. Your teammates wanted to get to know you, you just had to let them. And as you let them, as your teammates became friends, your homesickness faded. Not entirely, of course not. There were still moments you wanted nothing more than to get on a plane and fly home and never look back. There were still moments you cried, still days that felt heavy and terrifying. But you weren’t alone in these moments anymore; or really, you’d never been. 

It was a funny thing, how two problems you’d kept separate in your head were really so intertwined. There wasn’t as much room to be homesick when you were having fun with your friends. And even when you were still homesick, there was always someone there ready to listen and give you a hug. Always. And you found that made all the difference in the world. 

—

hope you enjoyed :)

also i feel like im missing something from this but i can't put my finger on what it is? so... making the very rare statement that i would not be opposed to one shot requests in this universe :)

[aahsokaatano]

"I'll be honest, I wasn't ever expecting anything to come of it," I admitted - and maybe that wasn't the smartest thing to say to a god, but cut me some slack. Ten minutes before this, I had been just minding my own business on the sidewalk.

"Well, your - what is it they call it now?" Hades looked expectedly at Charon.

"Commitment to the bit," he supplied in a bored tone that I recognized from years of working retail.

"Yes, your commitment to the bit was so ardent that it went full circle to just... commitment." He gestured vaguely at me. "The rules have changed quite a bit over the millennia. But loyalty - even ironic loyalty - is still honored."

"So I... Pavolv'd myself into being, what, your high priest?"

"Mm, more like you constructed your own Schrodinger's box, where your daily dedications both were and were not serious, but it was enough to catch my attention regardless."

I thought over that for a long moment, feeling a rising headache. "So... what now? We shake hands and then you send me on my way?"

"Actually, I wanted to offer you a job." I immediately wanted to say no, based purely on the look of complete and total hell-is-a-job-here on Charon's face, but I held my tongue as Hades continued. "I try to take a new advisor every few hundred years to keep up with the happenings in the mortal world. Keeps things interesting."

"So, you... want me to like, explain TikTok dances to you?"

"Yes!" Hades smiled, a little too widely, but it seemed genuine enough for an otherworldly being of unfathomable power. "And other trends of the time. I like learning about the mortal world. You're all so innovative, there's always something new to learn."

"Huh." Well, in all honesty, it didn't sound like a bad way to spend some time. "Uh, sure. Okay. I'm in."

"Excellent!" Hades reached out a hand. He was icy cold to the touch, but I was more surprised when the shake turned into him helping me into the boat. "Now, first, could you explain what social media is? My last advisor tried his best, but he was from 1853, and just as baffled as me."

Charon pushed the boat off the shore with a loud sigh, getting us underway as I began trying to explain Instagram to the Lord of the Dead.

As a joke you had always said "I dedicate this to Hades" as you threw away food scraps from your cooking and cleaning your plates. When you die you find yourself in front of Charon's boat with Hades sitting in it, seemingly very excited to see his most devoted follower in recent times.

[f1fantasys]

Thought you were mine all along, guess I was wrong - Part 5

Summary - Lando's pov on everything that's going on.

Warnings - angst, dickhead Lando.

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.

Lando's pov.

Lando knew from the very beginning that the two of you could never be just friends with benefits. His feelings towards you were too strong, and it was only a matter of time until he asked you out officially, knowing that you felt the same way.

Well, that was the plan. Unit Magui came back into the picture.

Your relationship wasn't exclusive - there was never a conversation about getting with other people, not that Lando had done so since you'd started, but all it took was a moment of weakness to unleash the terror of the next few months.

It was Singapore, like 3 months ago. You weren't at that race and Lando had just won. High on adrenaline from a much needed win, a familiar presence stood by his hotel door as he got in from the circuit.

He wasn't sure how he felt about seeing her there. They'd fooled about in the past, but nothing came of whatever they had going on. He won't lie though, at that time, when they broke off, it hurt him more than he let on. Whether it was just the fact that once again there was no one to come home to, or something else, he couldn't say. And it wasn't soon after that you jumped into the picture, so all his woes about Magui were quickly forgotten.

Anyways, he'd invited her into his room, and one thing led to another, and the two of them fucked. He internally kicked himself the second he slid a condom on and buried himself in her. And the high - well it wasn't a high. It was anything but. All he could think about was you, and how much more incredible you were. Lando had kicked Magui out straight away, the guilt eating at him for betraying you, though he didn't have the guts to come clean.

Fast forward another 3 months, and this time she showed up at Lando's apartment in Monaco. He thanked the gods that you weren't there when she did, because his world came crashing down when she broke the news about being pregnant.

He wasn't ready to be a father, hell he wasn't ready for her to fall into his life so easily, but the more he thought of it, he really didn't have a choice.

And when it came to you? He thought it better to have you cut out completely because he couldn't bare the thought of being around you when you couldn't be together.

Seeing you in Monaco one evening had all of Lando's feeling towards you rush up to the surface. It was a no brainer, no matter how wrong, that he dragged you to his car and fucked all of those said feeling into you, knowing he would never get another chance.

He'd so wanted to come clean, tell you the truth, but again, he didn't want to see the look in your eyes when you learned of his betrayal. So he made up a lie. That he and Magui were giving it another shot. That he wanted to give it another shot with her.

He could tell you were hurt, trying to hold it together in front of him, and as much as he tried to say the words pregnant, or baby, he got stuck in his throat, and once again, he'd rather usher you out as if he didn't want you. He thought it would be easier if you hated him.

Then came the McLaren event in London a few weeks later.

Lando was caught off guard when as the elevator doors opened to reveal you standing there, looking beautiful as ever. He couldn't help but let his eyes roam over your body, feeling his cheeks heat up when he caught a glimpse of your cleavage.

It wasn't until Magui snapped him out of his trance, and when she kissed him, he went with it, not sure how he'd survive the few minutes with the girl he used to 'see' (?) and the girl he's seeing. He knew he was being a dick, doing this in front of you. But he was afraid, as always.

Lando had hoped to catch you before the interview on stage. He wanted to clear the air in the hopes of things not being so awkward, but of course there was no time. So he held his breath as he walked on, and somehow your presence calmed him, and the interview went on without a hitch. Ironic, he thought. But he wasn't complaining.

At some point later that night his eyes caught you and Magui. The sight didn't look pretty. It looked as if you both you ready to knock the other out, he intervened. And of course, being the asshole he was, he acted like a bitch towards you. He had no idea where the adrenaline came from, but before he knew it he was throwing words and questions to you.

''I'm in love'' the words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them, and honestly? The look in your eyes could have killed him. This time, he knew he message up. There was no taking back his words, no going back.

He wasn't sure why he followed you outside, but again, his brain and body were on autopilot even though his heart was on another dimension. He made you choose, the bastard. And his heart broke a little more when you revealed how you'd already lost him.

Lando so wished he could pull you in his arms, beg for your forgiveness even though he didn't deserve it one bit. But he chose the easier route, his plan was he make you hate him, wasn't it? And he actively had no choice and needed to move on from you, so he stuck with it, and watched you walk away.

It was no surprise the night was spent wallowing, an annoyed Magui at his side, but he made the conscious decision to come clean to you. Only then would he be able to fully let you go, and concentrate on his new relationship and baby on the way.

He woke up the next morning and the first thing he did after showering was make a beeline for your room. Don't ask how he knew your room number.

Was it a mistake to just barge in? Maybe. Because the sight of you when you opened the door was one he wished he'd never see; you, in another mans' tshirt, legs barely covered. When when he saw who it was that shuffled in the bed, Lando felt a rush of anger flow through he body. Out of all the men in this world, you chose another racing driver, and that did unimaginable things to him.

He knew he had no right to react the way he did. You didn't deserve a disgusted look thrown your way when you whispered his name. He could see the hurt in your eyes, but Lando knew, before he said something he regretted, he needed to get away from you. But his feet were planted on the ground, stuck. He opened his mouth a few times to say something, but each time the words got stuck in his throat. It wasn't long until you slammed the door on his face, and he didn't blame you. So he walked away, shoulder sagging, a mix of emotions roaming his body.

The weeks following that were the hardest for Lando. He'd hated how he tret you, how he talked to you, reacted as seeing you move on from him. Did he really think you'd stay single forever after he dumped you? No. You were too switched on for that. And you deserved someone a thousand times better than him. Didn't sting any less though.

One night, as Lando had flown back to Monaco from Spain and was driving back to his apartment, he somehow managed to end up driving to your place. He didn't plan on coming here, hell he didn't even know what he'd say to you. But his legs dragged his ass up to your floor and taking a breath, he knocked.

He heard shuffling instead, praying you were alone, praying Mitch or any other guy wasn't here.

For whatever reason you let him in, and he found himself sat on your couch, his nervousness turning him into a dick again.

Finally, he broke the silence with a chuckle, quoting you, and catching you off guard.

''There really isn't anything to say..yeah..easy for you to say, what with fucking Mitch so quickly''

''Lando seriously, grow the fuck up. How is it okay for you to move on, and not okay for me to?''

''Move on from what? We were nothing, it was just sex''

Lies. He knew every word leaving his lips were lies. But he wouldn't, couldn't correct himself.

He knew his words crushed your heart

''Yeah, exactly, it was just sex, so why is me fucking Mitch at the minute a problem? you said, voice like stone.

''You're over reacting'' he sighed, leaning forward and running a hand through his hair.

''Am I? You're the one who wanted to talk. So talk''

He stayed silent.

I'm sorry

''Like i said, i have nothing to say. You're the one who decided to stop...the sex, whatever..so why are you here?''

Lando's eyes found yours with a look you couldn't place, anger? hurt? pleading? you weren't sure.

''Lando'' you pressed, standing up, hoping he'd get the hint and leave because you were this close to breaking down.

''Magui's pregnant''

The words came out like word vomit. This was not how the conversation was meant to go, but he couldn't help but feel a weight off his shoulders lifted. At the same time, he needed to leave. He refused to see you break down because of him, in front of him, the selfish coward.

So, like always, he walked away, closing the door for your apartment behind him as he leaned against it, tears prickling the corners of his eyes.

It was the baby he was mad at. Hell, he didn't know know if he was mad. He was just overwhelmed. Too much was happening too quickly, and in the process he'd lost the person he cared about the most.

Exhausted, Lando made his way back home, sighing when he opened the door to see Magui, fuming.

''What?'' he asked, sounding defeated.

He chuckled sarcastically.

''As if I wouldn't find out about your....detour, to her house'' she spat.

''It's not what you think'' he threw back, not having the energy to continue with ridiculous conversation, so he walked past her.

But the night didn't end there.

It was the beginning of the end for Lando and Magui...

A/N - quick little pov on Lando's side. Didn't really come out as great as I'd hope but hope y'all still enjoyed it? Let me know in the comments!

Taglist - @somanyfandomsbruh @lanf1an @annimausi @ernegren @plotpal @hurtblossom @rbv3rstappen @tylerstacobell @wanderingreigns @bowielovesyou @alexanderachillesisgay @sarx164 @xoxomansee @hurtblossom @ihtscuddlesbeeetchx3 @msimpala-67 @jxnellat @chlmtfilms @abq654 @ernegren @stav2004 @myformula1addiction @ayap4paya @l0nelyhe4rts-club @callsignwidow widow-cevans meglouise00 @hoeforsirius @hahdb8 @cmleitora @oscahpastry @maxv33rstappen @saythename-sm @htpssgavi @xoxomansee @anayaverse @rendezvoushn

[goldfades]

my boredom's bone deep / this cage was once just fine / am i allowed to cry? / crashing into him tonight, he's a paradox / i'm seeing visions, am i bad? / or mad? or wise? | joe burrow⁹ (part 1/4)

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⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 12.1k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | trapped in a relationship that feels more like a losing game, you find yourself drawn to the one person you shouldn’t want—the one who sees you, the one who listens, the one who makes you feel alive. but temptation is a dangerous thing, and once you’ve had a taste of something real, there’s no going back.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | lots and LOTS of angst, switching between second and third person (it'll make sense and it's only for a couple of scenes where it's needed) slow-burn tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, toxic relationships, manipulation, emotional turmoil, guilt and desire intertwining in the worst ways, heavy themes of self-discovery and repression, morally gray decisions

⟢ ┈ 𝐞𝐯'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 | okay guys, i couldn't resist... here is another long ass joe burrow mini-series because taylor swift has struck me with creativity... AGAIN. this will be a 4 parter and it will have a happy ending, but for now... just enjoy the slow burning of it and hate my made-up bengals player -- miles !

You used to think love was supposed to feel like this—steady, predictable, something you could fold into like freshly washed sheets. You and Miles had been together so long that your names practically rhymed in people’s mouths, like you were one of those inseparable, inevitable couples that just made sense.

And for a while, it did make sense. You were the girl on his arm at every event, the perfectly curated extension of his success. The engagement ring—a little too big, a little too heavy—sat on your finger like a trophy of its own. A prize.

But lately, it felt like Miles had stopped seeing you as anything more than that. A fixture in his life, expected and unremarkable. Like the luxury watch he only wore on game days or the expensive car he barely drove. You were always there, always waiting, always his. And he loved that, in the way someone loves knowing their favorite shirt will still be in the closet when they reach for it.

You just weren’t sure you loved it anymore.

The thought made your stomach twist. Because if you weren’t his, then who were you?

And then—Joe Burrow happened.

But, Joe Burrow was not supposed to happen.

Not to you, not to the carefully constructed life you had built around Miles, not to the girl who had spent years perfecting the role of the unwavering, effortlessly beautiful fiancée of an NFL star. But Joe moved through your world like a dropped match in a dry field—quiet, unassuming at first, and then suddenly, everything was on fire.

It wasn’t instant, not in the way stories like this usually go. There was no slow-motion moment, no breath-stealing epiphany. It started subtly, like the shift in seasons, like the way you don’t notice the days getting shorter until you’re standing outside at five o’clock and it’s already dark.

At first, he was just there—new to the team, new to the city, new in a way that made him sharp against the dullness you had started to sink into. You watched as he learned his place in the locker room, the way veterans sized him up, the way he answered with quiet confidence instead of arrogance. He was young but didn’t feel young. Polished, but not in the way Miles was. Miles was effortless charm, all grins and easy words, the kind of man who could shake a hand and win a deal in the same breath.

Joe was something else entirely. He didn’t just talk—he listened.

And that, you realized too late, was dangerous.

Because one night, at some event you barely wanted to be at, standing next to a fiancé who had long since stopped noticing the way your fingers curled anxiously around your champagne glass, Joe looked at you like he saw you. Like he had been watching, waiting, wondering.

And for the first time in years, you felt something shift.

--

Miles had always been the guy. The Bengals’ golden boy, the name fans chanted, the one reporters turned to after every game. When you first met him, he carried himself like a man who had already won. Six years older, already established, already adored—he had that presence, the kind that made people lean in when he spoke, the kind that made you, fresh-faced and wide-eyed, feel lucky just to stand beside him.

But now, there was Joe.

And whether Miles would admit it or not, it was getting to him.

It started small. A lingering glance at the TV when Joe’s highlights played instead of his. A clipped response when someone mentioned Joe’s name at dinner. But then, it became you.

"Do you still think I’m the star?"

The first time he asked, you laughed, thinking he was joking.

But he wasn’t.

You saw it in the way his fingers tightened around his glass, the way his shoulders tensed like he was bracing for impact.

"Of course you are," you had said, reaching for his arm, pressing your nails lightly against his sleeve.

And that was all he needed. A little reassurance. A little something to smooth over the edges of his pride. But then he asked again. And again.

"I mean, you don’t think people are, you know… forgetting?"

"You don’t think he’s—" a pause, a swallow, a carefully constructed smirk—"overshadowing me?"

And every time, you lied.

Because what were you supposed to say? That the shift was undeniable? That Joe walked into the locker room and the energy changed? That when people talked about the future of the team, they weren’t saying Miles’ name anymore? That you had started noticing it, too—the way Joe was young, sharp, hungry, while Miles had begun to settle into his success like a man reclining in a chair that used to be upright?

So you told him what he needed to hear.

"Don’t be ridiculous. You’re still everything."

But even as you said it, the words tasted false. Because when Miles spoke about himself, it was always in the past tense—I was the first star, I was the franchise guy, I was the one they built around.

And when people spoke about Joe, it was all about the future.

That was the difference.

And maybe—just maybe—that was what made you start looking at him, too.

You watched it happen in slow motion—the way Miles and Joe orbited each other, circling like two planets on a collision course, neither willing to acknowledge the gravity of the other.

At first, Miles played it cool. He was the veteran, after all. He had been here first. He had built his career brick by brick, through losing seasons and empty stadiums, back when the Bengals were a team people barely bothered to watch. When you met him, that was what he always talked about—the work he had put in, the years of carrying this franchise on his back.

"I made this team what it is," he would say sometimes, stretching out on the couch after a game, watching highlights on TV with a half-smirk, as if waiting for you to agree.

And back then, you did.

Because you had watched him grind, had seen the early mornings, the bruises, the exhaustion that clung to him after every brutal season. You had been his—the girl in the stands, the hand on his chest when he got home, the soft place he could land.

But now, the team didn’t belong to just Miles anymore.

Now, there was Joe. And Miles hated that.

At practice, you saw the way he measured himself against Joe, the way his jokes about the rookie’s "new car smell" had just a little too much bite. How he watched when Joe got called for post-game interviews, jaw clenched just a little too tight.

"They should be talking to me," he muttered one night after a game, dropping his phone on the table like it had personally offended him.

"Miles, they still talk to you," you had tried, voice gentle.

"Not like they used to."

And it was true.

At first, Miles had treated Joe like a little brother, ruffling his hair, giving him shit for his outfits, cracking jokes at team dinners. But then Joe started winning. Started throwing passes that made the crowd gasp, started playing with that quiet confidence that made people lean forward in their seats.

And suddenly, Miles’ jokes didn’t land the same way.

He started pushing harder in practice. If Joe made a good throw, Miles made sure his next one was better. If Joe got interviewed, Miles found a way to insert himself into the conversation. He started pointing out things—"He’s good, but let’s see how he handles the pressure. He’s young. He hasn’t been hit the way I have."

Like he was trying to convince himself of it more than anyone else.

And you—God, you noticed.

You noticed the way Miles had started looking at Joe like a threat instead of a teammate. You noticed the way his hand tightened on your hip when Joe walked into a room. You noticed the way he suddenly started talking about his legacy, about what he meant to this team.

And worst of all—you noticed the way Joe looked at you.

Because unlike Miles, Joe wasn’t trying so hard. He wasn’t overcompensating, wasn’t clawing to prove something. He just was. And when he looked at you, it wasn’t with the expectation that you would tell him he was still the star.

It was like he already knew who he was.

And maybe, for the first time in a long time, you were starting to wonder who you were, too.

--

The event was like every other one before it—too loud, too crowded, filled with people who weren’t actually listening to each other, just waiting for their turn to talk. Miles was somewhere across the room, laughing a little too hard at something an exec said, one hand wrapped around a glass of bourbon, the other resting on the shoulder of someone who mattered.

You were used to this part.

The waiting. The being-seen-but-not-heard. The polite smiles and empty small talk, the way people’s eyes would flicker over you before refocusing on Miles, because that was where the real conversation was.

You had perfected it—the art of looking engaged without actually being included. So when Joe Burrow slid into the seat beside you, you didn’t think much of it. At first.

And then he spoke.

"You always look this bored, or is it just tonight?"

You blinked, thrown off, turning your head to find him watching you. Not in the usual way—not in the quick, cursory glance men usually gave you before looking away, like you were set dressing, like you were just an extension of the man they actually wanted to talk to.

No, Joe was looking at you.

And he was smirking.

You scoffed before you could stop yourself. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." He leaned back in his chair, stretching out like he had all the time in the world. His suit fit well—not flashy, not desperate, just right. Effortless. His tie was loosened, just slightly, like he couldn’t be bothered to play by the rules all the way. "You’ve been staring at the same spot on the floor for the last ten minutes. What’s down there? Something more interesting than all this?"

"Wouldn’t take much."

"Fair." He nodded, like you’d made an excellent point, then stuck his hand out. "Joe."

"I know who you are."

"Yeah?" He tilted his head. "Funny. You don’t look like you care."

You should’ve laughed. Or brushed him off. But there was something about the way he said it—like he wasn’t trying to be charming, like he was just stating a fact.

You hesitated. Then, almost begrudgingly, shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, I guess."

"‘I guess,’" he repeated, amused. "Damn. That’s all I get?"

"You want a standing ovation?"

"Wouldn’t say no."

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you, tugging upward just slightly. He caught it—of course he did—and grinned like he had already won something.

"So, what’s the deal?" he asked, nodding toward where Miles was deep in conversation, gesturing animatedly. "You actually like these things, or just contractually obligated to show up?"

"Contractually obligated," you admitted, swirling the drink in your hand. "You?"

"Nah. I just like free food."

You let out an actual laugh at that, brief but real.

Joe’s smirk deepened like he had been waiting for that exact reaction.

"So how long have you been stuck in the NFL Wife-To-Be role?" he asked, tone light but gaze sharp.

"Long enough."

"And how long is that, exactly?"

"You really want to know?"

"Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t."

You eyed him for a second, waiting for the punchline. The usual "just making conversation" energy you were used to from these kinds of interactions. But there wasn’t one. He actually seemed interested.

"Since I was 19."

His brows lifted slightly. "Damn."

"What?"

"Just young, that’s all."

"And what, you weren’t young once?"

"Not that young," he said, shaking his head. "I was in college at 19. Drinking shitty beer and wearing the same hoodie five days in a row. You were—what? Coming to things like this?"

You shrugged, suddenly a little self-conscious. "It wasn’t that bad."

"Doesn’t sound fun, either."

"And what were you doing at 20 that was so much more fun?"

"Winning a championship," he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You stared at him, blinking.

"Oh," you said finally. "Right. LSU."

"Yeah. Ever heard of it?"

"Vaguely."

"Damn. Humbling experience."

You smirked, shaking your head slightly. "Wait, so—how old are you now?"

"Twenty-four."

Your lips parted slightly. "Shit."

Joe raised a brow. "What?"

"You’re only a year older than me."

"And you sound offended by that."

"I’m just—" You exhaled, realizing how ridiculous it sounded. "I don’t know. I feel like I should be older."

Joe gave you a look like he already knew why.

"Because of him?" he asked, flicking his gaze toward Miles.

You hesitated.

"Because of everything," you said instead.

Joe didn’t press. He just hummed slightly, tapping his fingers against his glass.

"Well," he said after a moment, smirking again, "if it makes you feel any better, you look like you’re at least twenty-five."

You narrowed your eyes. "That’s the worst compliment I’ve ever gotten."

"I was going for honesty."

"Try harder next time."

"Noted."

And then, just like that, the conversation shifted. It wasn’t flirtation, not exactly. It was something else—something easier, something lighter.

For the first time in a long time, someone wasn’t talking to you like Miles’ fiancée.

Joe was just talking to you.

--

It started as a passing thought. A curiosity Joe couldn’t quite shake after that conversation at the event. You weren’t what he expected. And maybe that was the first problem.

Miles had been around forever. The Bengals’ golden boy before Joe got there. A veteran. Respected. The kind of guy you built a franchise around—or at least, that’s what people used to say. But now, with Joe in town, the balance had shifted. Miles wasn’t the star anymore, and everyone knew it.

Even Miles knew it.

Joe could see it in the way he carried himself, the way he lingered after practices, pushing himself harder, talking about his old stats like they were some kind of proof that he still mattered. He’d joke about it, but there was always something underneath. So, Burrow, you think you’re the guy now? Said with a grin, but the weight was there. The question lingered in the air between them.

Joe didn’t care much about that. But he did care—more than he wanted to admit—about you.

It wasn’t even in a way yet. Not in any way he could name. It was just there. That curiosity, that thing in the back of his mind that wouldn’t go away.

So one day, in the middle of practice, while the guys were running drills, he decided to ask.

Casual. Offhand. Like he wasn’t actually that interested.

"Yo, what do you guys think about Miles’ girl?"

Tee was the first to react, barely hesitating before letting out a low whistle.

"Whew, man. That’s a dangerous question, 9."

"Is it?" Joe asked, tilting his head.

"I mean, you have seen her, right?"

"Obviously."

"Then you already know," Tee said, shaking his head like the answer was obvious.

"Know what?"

Ja’Marr snorted. "That he’s punching."

Joe raised a brow. "Out of his league?"

"By a long shot." Tee shook his head, gripping the football in his hands. "It’s crazy, too, ‘cause she’s just… cool. You ever actually talk to her?"

Joe hesitated for a half-second. "Yeah. Once."

That was enough for the guys to give each other looks.

"Ohhh, so that’s why you’re asking," Ja’Marr teased.

"Chill, man," Joe rolled his eyes. "I was just curious."

"Sure."

"Nah, for real, though," Tee said, tossing the ball to Ja’Marr. "She’s mad sweet. Like, actually nice. Not just in a ‘stand-there-and-smile’ way, either. She remembers shit. Like, I saw her at some event last year, and she asked me about my sister. Nobody ever asks about my sister."

"She’s solid," Tyler added, jogging past them. "Like, real solid. You don’t meet a lot of girls like that in this life."

Joe frowned slightly, rolling his shoulders. "So why’s she with him?"

That made Tee pause, gripping the football tighter.

"Man…" He let out a breath, shaking his head. "I dunno. She’s been with him forever. Since she was, like, a kid."

"How much older is he?"

"Six years."

Joe blinked. "Damn."

"Yeah. And, like—don’t get me wrong, Miles is cool and all, but…" Tee trailed off, glancing at Ja’Marr, like he was debating how much to say.

Ja’Marr finished for him. "He’s kinda—" He made a so-so motion with his hand. "You know. A little selfish. Talks about himself a lot."

"A lot," Tee agreed.

"You ever seen them together?"

Joe thought about it. Really thought about it.

Miles was always talking. And when he wasn’t, he was making himself seen. When you were with him, you were quiet. Smiling. Nodding. Like you had a script to follow. Like it was second nature.

Joe remembered the way you’d looked at that event, absentmindedly twisting your ring around your finger. The way your face had shifted, just slightly, when you realized you and Joe were almost the same age. Like you’d never really thought about it before.

"Yeah," Joe said finally. "I’ve seen them."

Tee nodded like that told him everything he needed to know.

"Miles is a lucky dude," Ja’Marr said after a moment, stretching his arms above his head. "Just don’t think he knows it."

That part stuck with Joe the longest.

--

You had always wanted a quiet life. Not small, necessarily, but yours. Intimate. A life where love wasn’t measured in carats or headlines, but in moments. In the way someone reached for you without thinking, in the way they listened—really listened. But you knew, from the moment you started dating Miles, that privacy was a luxury you would never have.

Not with someone like him.

Miles was big. A presence. A personality. A man who took up space and made sure everyone knew it. And, in the beginning, maybe that had been exciting—the way he talked about you like you were the best thing that had ever happened to him. It was flattering. Addictive, even.

Until it wasn’t.

Until it became less about you and more about the idea of you.

The engagement was when you realized that fully, undeniably. When the last piece of the illusion shattered.

You had told him—so many times—how you dreamed of it happening. Something quiet. Personal. Maybe somewhere beautiful, just the two of you. No cameras, no crowd. Something real.

And instead, he did it during a game.

A packed stadium, the roar of the crowd, the flashing lights. And you—sitting in the stands, already feeling like a spectator in your own life—watching in horror as your face appeared on the jumbotron.

Miles, down on one knee in the middle of the field. Smiling like he had just won the Super Bowl. Holding out a ring so massive it caught the stadium lights like a diamond chandelier.

You felt it like a blow to the chest.

Because this wasn’t for you. It had never been for you. It was for the spectacle. The story. The legend of Miles Johnson, star receiver, locking down the perfect woman.

He had looked so proud of himself, so smug, soaking in the cheers. He didn’t even look at you, not really. Not to see you. He just waited, arm outstretched, knowing you would say yes. Because how could you say no? Not here. Not with thousands of people watching. Not with cameras broadcasting your reaction to the world.

So you said it.

"Yes."

And the crowd erupted, and Miles pulled you into a kiss like he had just won a trophy, and your hands shook as they slipped into his.

Later, when the adrenaline had worn off and the reality of it settled in, he had taken every opportunity to brag about the ring. Thirty grand. He told his teammates, his family, reporters. You see that? Got my girl the best. He would bring it up casually, waiting for people to react, for them to nod and pat him on the back like he had done something incredible. Like he had bought you.

The truth was, you hated the ring.

Not because it was expensive, but because it felt foreign on your hand. It was heavy, suffocating, too much. Too Miles.

Like everything else in your life.

Somewhere along the way, you had stopped being a person and had become a reflection of him. His fiancée. His prize.

And maybe you could have kept pretending it was enough—maybe you could have convinced yourself this was what love looked like—if Joe Burrow hadn’t looked at you that night at the event, sat beside you, and talked to you. Like a person. Like someone worth knowing.

Like you still existed.

It hit you a month after the engagement.

The NFL Honors had been a blur of flashing lights and stiff smiles, your body on autopilot as you stood beside Miles, your arm hooked around his like a delicate accessory. You had smiled for photos, laughed at the right moments, leaned into him like you belonged there. Like you wanted to be there. Like you weren’t suffocating beneath the weight of it all.

And then it was over.

The glamor, the noise, the people. Gone.

You were back in the house—Miles’ house—miles of sleek marble and vaulted ceilings, an architectural masterpiece designed to impress. To be envied. And yet, it had never felt like home.

It was too big, too curated, too cold.

It wasn’t you.

It had never been you.

The silence was deafening, pressing in around you as you sat curled up on the couch, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, searching for something to fill the emptiness. And that was when you saw it—post after post, comments, pictures.

"Miles' girl." "Mrs. Johnson-to-be." "The most beautiful trophy wife in the NFL." "He really locked that down." "She’s perfect for him."

Not one mention of you. Not one comment about who you were, what you liked, what you thought, what you dreamed of. Just a never-ending stream of praise for Miles and how lucky he was. How you were his.

His. His.

You weren’t even Y/N anymore.

Just beautiful Y/N. Miles' perfect trophy. The girl who got the ring.

A weight settled in your chest, pressing against your ribs, thick and suffocating.

You hadn’t realized you were drowning until it was too late. Until you were so deep in it, you weren’t sure how to claw your way back to the surface.

Who even were you outside of him?

Your only friends were the other WAGs—women who smiled just like you did, laughed at all the same jokes, wore the same dresses to the same events, whose lives revolved around their husbands, their fiancés, their boyfriends. And Miles’ family—people who adored you, yes, but only as an extension of him. As the woman who would carry his last name, bear his children, sit in the stands and cheer him on.

You had spent years convincing yourself this was love. That this was what it meant to love someone—to mold yourself into what they needed, to take up less space, to fit neatly into their world without ever disrupting it.

And soon, you would be Mrs. Johnson.

And you would disappear entirely.

Miles came home late that night, the door clicking shut with the kind of ease that only came with routine. He never announced his arrival, never called out for you. He just assumed you’d be there—waiting, ready, exactly where he left you.

You were in the kitchen, sitting at the marble island, fingers curled around a half-empty glass of wine. He barely looked at you as he walked in, dropping his keys onto the counter, scrolling through his phone.

“Hey,” you said, voice softer than you meant it to be.

“Hey.”

A beat of silence. The air felt thick, heavy. You weren’t sure why, but you knew you needed to say something, anything to fill the space before it swallowed you whole.

“I was thinking of picking up a new hobby,” you tried. “Something creative. I don’t know, maybe painting or—”

��How much do you need?” Miles cut in, still looking at his phone.

You blinked. “What?”

He sighed like you were exhausting him. “How much? I’ll transfer it now.”

Your grip tightened around the stem of the wine glass. “I don’t need money, Miles. I just—”

“Then what?” He finally looked up, brow furrowed like you were the confusing one here. Like this conversation was a waste of time. “I don’t get it.”

You exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to stay calm. “I was just trying to tell you something. About me. About my life.”

“Your life?” He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “What life, Y/N? You don’t work. You don’t have to worry about anything except looking good and showing up when you need to. What else do you need?”

It hit you square in the chest. The final nail in the coffin.

What else do you need?

Not who are you? Not what makes you happy? Not tell me more baby, I want to know.

You swallowed, a sharp bitterness curling in your throat. “I need a husband who actually listens to me.”

That made him pause. His brows pulled together, his lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Then—“Don’t start this shit, Y/N.”

And just like that, something inside you snapped.

“This shit?” you repeated, voice climbing, hands shaking. “You mean talking? You mean actually having a conversation for once?”

Miles groaned, running a hand down his face. “Jesus, you’re always so fucking dramatic.”

“I’m trying to talk to you, Miles! And you can’t even pretend to care for five seconds!”

His eyes darkened. “You have everything, Y/N. A perfect life. A perfect goddamn ring. And you’re still not happy.”

“Because none of it feels like mine!” The words came out harsher than you intended, but they were true. “It’s your house. Your money. Your world. Where do I fit into any of it?”

Miles shook his head, scoffing under his breath. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to give a shit!”

“Well, maybe I don’t have time to sit around worrying about feelings all day!” He slammed his phone onto the counter. “I have a career to focus on, Y/N. A team to lead. You think I have time to deal with your little identity crisis?”

It felt like a slap.

A sharp, cold, humiliating slap.

You stared at him, heart pounding, mouth dry, but you had nothing left to say. Nothing left to fight for.

The silence stretched, long and unforgiving.

Miles exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sleeping on the couch.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Just turned and left, his heavy footsteps fading down the hall.

And you—

You stood there for a long time, staring at the empty space where he had just been, before you finally moved. You crawled into bed alone, pulled the covers up to your chin, and let yourself cry.

--

The next morning at practice, the air was thick with late summer humidity, the kind that clung to your skin and made everything feel heavier. The guys were halfway through drills when Miles started talking—loudly, for anyone who’d listen.

“She was crying when I left last night, man,” he said, shaking his head as he lined up for another rep. “Over what? Some bullshit about a hobby. A hobby, bro. Like, what even is that? She has everything.”

Joe clenched his jaw, eyes locked on the yard line ahead as he rolled out his shoulders. He wasn’t trying to listen, but Miles wasn’t exactly subtle.

Tee Higgins, standing next to Joe, let out a low whistle. “Damn. You sure you wanna be sayin’ all that out loud?”

Miles scoffed. “What, like it’s a secret? Everyone knows she’s got the perfect life. But somehow, that ain’t enough.”

Joe exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. He knew why it wasn’t enough.

And before he could stop himself, the words were out—sharp, biting. “Maybe ‘cause it’s your version of perfect, not hers.”

A pause.

Miles turned his head slowly, expression hardening. “What?”

Joe shrugged, keeping his voice even. “I’m just saying. Maybe you should listen to her instead of assuming she’s just complaining for fun.”

The guys around them shifted, suddenly very invested in stretching. Ja’Marr muttered something under his breath about not getting in the middle of shit, but Tee smirked, glancing between them like this was the most entertainment he’d had all morning.

Miles let out a short laugh, but there was no humor in it. “And what do you know about relationships, Burrow? You got a girl I don’t know about?”

Joe didn’t answer. Just stared back, unblinking.

Miles tilted his head, and his voice dropped lower. “Or are you just real interested in mine?”

The energy shifted. The air got tighter.

Joe rolled his shoulders, forcing himself to stay calm. “Nah. Just think you should be careful who you shit talk your fiancée to.”

“Fiancée, huh?” Miles’ mouth curled into something ugly. “You wanna date her instead or something?”

The words hit the ground between them like a live wire. The whole group went quiet.

Joe kept his expression blank. “That what you’re worried about?”

Miles took a step closer, lowering his voice. “Nah. I’m not worried about shit. But maybe you should be careful.”

Joe didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Didn’t give Miles the satisfaction of a reaction.

Instead, he let the silence stretch, watching as the frustration crept into Miles’ expression.

Then, finally—Joe smirked. Just a little. Just enough.

And that pissed Miles off more than anything.

Miles' jaw tensed, nostrils flaring. His hands clenched at his sides like he wanted to say more—like he wanted to do more—but there were too many eyes on them now. The tension between them was so thick, so sharp, that even the guys who usually loved a little locker room drama weren’t sure if they wanted to be part of this one.

Tee let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Man, y’all gonna throw hands before practice even starts?”

“Ain’t nobody throwing hands,” Ja’Marr cut in, stepping between them like he already knew where this was headed. “Miles just real defensive all of a sudden.”

Miles scoffed, dragging a hand down his face. “Nah, y’all are just real nosy all of a sudden.”

Joe just smiled again, the same easy, slow smirk that had already set Miles on edge. He could see it in the way the older man’s shoulders went rigid, in the way his fists flexed. And Joe wasn’t dumb—he knew he was playing with fire. But Miles had been running his mouth since the moment practice started, acting like his relationship was some kind of burden, and Joe wasn’t the type to sit back and pretend he didn’t hear it.

There was a beat of silence.

Then, the other guys—those who hadn’t already quietly backed away—started chuckling, shaking their heads.

The laughter died down, but the damage was already done. The idea had already been planted—Miles wasn’t the prize in this relationship. She was.

Joe could see it in his face. The way his jaw twitched, the way his eyes flickered with something insecure, something raw.

And it made sense now. Why Miles paraded her around like a trophy, why he made sure every room knew she was his, why he proposed in front of an entire stadium instead of in private where she might’ve actually wanted it.

It was never about her. It was always about him. About making sure everyone knew he was still the star—on the field, in the locker room, and in his own damn relationship.

Miles exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders back like he was shaking off the conversation. Then he turned his glare back on Joe, pointing a finger at him. “You? Stay the fuck out of my business.”

Joe lifted his hands in mock surrender, smirking. “Wouldn’t have to if you stopped airing it out in the middle of practice.”

Miles stared at him for another second—long enough that Joe could see the battle happening in his head, the urge to keep pushing versus the reality that they were still standing on the damn field, still surrounded by teammates, still at work.

Eventually, Miles just muttered something under his breath and stalked off toward the sideline, shoulders tight with frustration.

Joe exhaled, shaking his head as he lined up for the next drill.

Tee clapped him on the back, grinning. “Oh yeah, you definitely got under his skin.”

Joe just smirked, eyes flickering in the direction Miles had gone.

Good.

--

You woke up feeling off.

Not sick, not exactly—but weighed down, heavy, like your body had absorbed the exhaustion of the night before and decided to make a home of it. The bed was cold next to you, a reminder that Miles had never come back from the couch. That should’ve brought some kind of relief, but instead, it just settled deeper into your bones.

You stared at the ceiling, the light creeping in through the expensive sheer curtains—ones Miles had picked out because they looked good, not because they actually blocked anything. You felt like you hadn’t slept at all. Maybe you hadn’t.

Last night was the first time in a long time that the silence had cracked, that the resentment bubbling beneath the surface had finally boiled over. And now, in the daylight, you couldn’t tell if you felt better for it—or worse.

It wasn’t like it was one fight that made you feel this way. It was years of being Miles Johnson’s fiancée, before that, his girlfriend. Years of being reduced to an extension of him, even when you hadn’t noticed it happening.

But you did now. And you couldn’t stop thinking about it.

You were nineteen when you met him. Miles was twenty-five. Six years older, in the prime of his career, a star. And you? You were just a college sophomore at a school you weren’t even sure you loved, in a major you had picked because it seemed practical, not because it felt right. You had plans for your life, dreams, but they were all vague and out of focus, waiting for the right moment to take shape.

And then there was Miles.

Charming, cocky, larger than life—he had walked into the bar that night like he owned the whole damn city. You hadn’t even known who he was at first, but your friends did. They whispered about him like he was something untouchable, an idea more than a person. And then, somehow, he was standing in front of you.

“You’re the prettiest girl in here,” he had said, like it was a fact. And when you had rolled your eyes, he had laughed, delighted.

“Not gonna fall at my feet, huh?”

“Not a chance.”

That had made him try harder.

It was easy, then. Easy to get caught up in the whirlwind of being pursued by someone like him—older, successful, with the kind of confidence that made you believe he knew everything about the world. He took you to expensive restaurants, bought you things you would never have dared to pick out for yourself. He introduced you to people who lived lives you couldn’t even imagine. And when he kissed you, when he pulled you into his orbit, it felt like stepping into a life bigger than your own.

You didn’t notice the shift at first.

Didn’t notice how the little things that made you you started slipping away, how your world slowly became about his—his career, his schedule, his needs. You told yourself it was just part of the relationship, part of loving someone like Miles. That it was normal to bend, to adjust, to let go of the things that didn’t fit anymore.

You stopped talking about the things you wanted to do—because, eventually, you started forgetting what they even were.

And then, somewhere along the way, you became his.

Not just his girlfriend, but Miles Johnson’s girlfriend. A title, a role, something people recognized before they even knew you. And you had played the part well. You were the beautiful, supportive, ever-smiling woman on his arm. The one who laughed at his jokes, who cheered for him from the stands, who let him hold court in every room while you lingered in the background.

And now, you were his fiancée.

And soon, you would be Mrs. Johnson.

And you would disappear completely.

--

Joe had never been the type to dwell on things.

His whole life had been about moving forward, about the next step, the next goal, the next game. He had always known where he was going—to the NFL, to the kind of career most people could only dream about. That had been the plan since he was a kid, and he had never once let himself get distracted from it.

College had been a blur. Not in a reckless, partying-until-dawn way—he had been too focused for that—but in the sense that everything outside of football had been… secondary. Background noise.

Yeah, he always had a girl on his arm. It wasn’t hard—he was Joe Burrow, after all. But they were never the girl. They were just there. Pretty, fun, something to fill the gaps between practices and film sessions, but never something that took up space in his mind once they were gone. He never let them.

He had bigger things to worry about.

And now, he was here.

The NFL. The dream, the destination. And he had everything he had worked for—millions in the bank, a city that worshipped him, a career that was just getting started. He was playing on the biggest stage in the world, living out every goal he had ever set for himself.

And yet.

Lately, there was something he couldn’t shake.

He wasn’t unhappy, exactly. He loved football. Loved the grind, the competition, the high of a perfect game. But there were nights—when he was alone in his place, when the buzz of the locker room had faded, when he saw his friends posting about engagements, weddings, families—when he wondered if maybe he had spent so much time chasing one dream that he hadn’t realized he might want something else, too.

Not in the I need to settle down right now way. He wasn’t miles away from that thought. But he just felt… off. Like there was something missing, something just out of reach.

And that feeling had been lingering at the edges of his mind for a while now, but he hadn’t really thought about it—hadn’t really felt it—until he met her.

She wasn’t supposed to be interesting.

He had seen plenty of women like her before—NFL girlfriends and fiancées, always perfect, always polished, always a step behind the star they were attached to. He didn’t have anything against them, but he had never given them much thought. They were part of the scenery, the expected.

But she was different.

He had noticed it the second he talked to her.

That night at the event, when everyone else had ignored her, when she had been sitting alone while Miles soaked up the attention like a sponge, Joe had been curious.

So he sat down next to her.

And the second she looked at him, he saw it—the sharpness behind her eyes, the way she was there but not present, the way she seemed to be existing in a world that had been built for her but not by her.

And she had challenged him. Not in a playful, flirty way, but in a real way. He had expected her to be polite, to give the kind of empty small talk he always got at these things.

But she had given him something real.

And now? Now he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Not just because she was gorgeous—she was, maybe one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen—but because she was interesting.

She didn’t fit the mold. He could tell.

And maybe it was selfish, maybe it was just because he was bored with everything else, but for the first time in a long time, Joe had found someone who made him want to know more.

And he was going to figure out why.

--

You were curled up in bed, your phone the only thing keeping you company as you aimlessly scrolled. You barely heard him come in, barely looked up when Miles greeted you, his voice low and familiar. You felt the soft kiss he pressed to your neck, but your body tensed, just slightly. He didn’t notice, or maybe he chose not to.

His lips trailed lower, his hands finding their way to your waist, his voice dropping into that coaxing tone you knew all too well. “Been thinkin’ about you all day. Missed you.”

You exhaled, a slow, tired sound slipping from your lips. “Miles.”

He lingered there, waiting for more, but you didn’t give him anything. Your eyes remained on the ceiling, your phone discarded on the nightstand. You felt him nuzzle into your hair, his fingers brushing beneath the hem of your shirt, but you couldn’t bring yourself to respond. The energy between you felt… off. He asked if you were mad at him, but that wasn’t it. Not really.

You didn’t answer at first. You just pulled away, just enough to let him know that you weren’t in the mood. That you didn’t want this.

He blinked, confused, his voice softer when he tried again. “Y/N?”

But you didn’t want to deal with this now. You were tired. Exhausted, in a way that had nothing to do with sleep. “I’m just tired, Miles,” you murmured, your voice distant, but you couldn’t help it. You weren’t mad at him. You just didn’t feel like being pulled into whatever he was trying to fix tonight.

You felt him sit back, his gaze heavy on you as if he was seeing you for the first time in a while. The silence stretched between you, thick and uneasy. Then, his voice broke through it again, suggesting that maybe you should get a job, do something with yourself to feel better. It wasn’t the most thoughtful thing he’d said, and you knew that. You weren’t sure if he even meant it or if he was just trying to patch things up in the way he knew best.

You looked at him, your gaze searching, unsure if you were hearing him right. “You’d be okay with that?” you asked, needing to know if he meant what he was saying.

He shrugged, a little too casually. “Yeah. You don’t gotta, obviously. You got everything you need, but if you want somethin’ to do, I’ll support you. Whatever makes you happy, baby.”

You didn’t respond immediately. You just let his words hang in the air, feeling like he was offering something you didn’t know if you wanted. But there it was—the tiniest flicker of relief in your chest as you nodded. Maybe you were grasping at something, anything, to feel like yourself again.

He exhaled, like he’d solved something. But you knew better. There was still a gap between you, unspoken, unresolved. For now, though, you’d let it go.

--

The night is warm, thick with the scent of grilled barbecue and chlorine, laughter spilling into the air like music. The backyard is packed—players, coaches, WAGs, and staff all buzzing with the energy of a new season, of fresh starts and high expectations. The pool glows under string lights, the surface shimmering as people dip their feet in or wade lazily through the water, red Solo cups in hand.

You’re sitting at the edge of a lounge chair, your bare legs stretched out in front of you, the hem of your dress brushing your thighs as you sip from your drink. It’s been a while since you’ve felt this—light. The WAGs are in a good mood tonight, looser than usual, buzzing from the excitement of the upcoming season, from the warmth of the alcohol.

"I swear to God, if I have to listen to one more fantasy football draft strategy," one of them groans, rolling her eyes as she leans back against her chair.

"Girl, my man has a binder full of statistics. Like it’s a college thesis or some shit," another one laughs.

You giggle, shaking your head, the sound feeling foreign in your own ears. It’s been a while since you’ve been able to just be—to feel like you’re back in college, before your entire identity became wrapped around someone else’s.

And across the yard, Joe Burrow cannot stop staring at you.

He’s not even subtle about it.

His drink sits idle in his hand, elbow propped on the armrest of a patio chair, his gaze cutting across the party, locking onto you like a magnet. He watches the way your shoulders shake when you laugh, the way you tilt your head, the way your dress clings to the curves of your legs when you cross them.

"Bro, you gotta stop looking before Miles notices," Ja’Marr leans in, a lazy grin on his face.

Joe just shrugs, bringing his drink to his lips. "What’s he gonna do? Kill me?"

Ja’Marr snorts. "I mean, you are staring at his fiancée like you’re trying to solve a puzzle."

"She’s beautiful. He should know people are gonna look at her," Joe says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Ja’Marr shakes his head, muttering something about how Joe’s got a death wish, but Joe just keeps watching.

And across the way, the WAGs notice.

"Okay, so I need you to tell me what you did to get Joe Burrow to look at you like that," one of them teases, nudging your shoulder.

Your brows furrow. "What?"

"Oh, come on," another one smirks. "That man has not taken his eyes off you for the last twenty minutes. I’m actually starting to feel bad for Miles."

Your stomach twists—not in discomfort, not in guilt, but in something else entirely. Something you haven’t felt in a long, long time.

You feel wanted.

Not in the way Miles wants you—like a prize to show off, like a thing to possess—but in the way you used to feel when you were younger, when boys would flirt with you at college parties, when someone’s gaze made you feel interesting, not just beautiful.

And it makes you feel alive.

You shake your head, laughing it off, even as your pulse picks up just a little. "You guys are imagining things."

"Oh, we definitely aren’t," one of them hums, taking a slow sip of her drink.

You glance back across the yard.

And Joe is still looking.

But this time, when your eyes meet, he doesn’t look away.

The night hums around you, a warm breeze sweeping through the backyard, making the string lights above sway gently. The scent of charred meat still lingers in the air, mixed with chlorine and expensive cologne. Laughter spills from the pool, from the deck, from the little clusters of people standing around, but none of it touches you.

Not now.

Not with him walking towards you.

Joe Burrow is moving through the crowd like he has nowhere to be, like he’s got all the time in the world to just be here, under these lights, on this night. And he’s heading straight for you.

The WAGs had just left, off to mingle with their husbands and boyfriends, leaving you alone in your chair with your mostly empty drink. You didn’t mind—being alone was something you were used to these days.

But apparently, Joe did mind.

"Need a refill?" His voice is smooth, the faintest trace of amusement in it, like he already knows the answer but just wants to hear you say it.

You glance down at your glass, condensation dripping down the sides, ice melting, barely a sip of anything left. You nod. "Yeah, actually."

He doesn’t hesitate. Just reaches out, plucks the cup from your fingers with a little smirk, and walks off toward the bar like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You watch him go, blinking in mild disbelief.

Joe Burrow, one of the biggest names in the NFL, just walked away to get you a drink.

And God, that does something to you.

A moment later, he’s back, handing you your glass, and when your fingers brush against his, there’s a flicker of something electric, something dangerous.

You swallow and bring the drink to your lips. Cold, crisp, refreshing.

Joe drops into the chair across from you, sprawling out like he belongs there, his legs spread wide, one arm draped lazily over the back of his chair. He watches you take a sip, his gaze half-lidded, like he’s already settled in for a conversation he doesn’t plan on cutting short.

"You looked like you needed rescuing from whatever the hell they were talking about," he says, tilting his chin toward where the WAGs had been sitting earlier.

You let out a breath of laughter. "You ever heard a thirty-minute conversation about throw pillows?"

His brows raise. "Can’t say I have."

"Yeah, well, consider yourself lucky," you tease, shaking your head. "I love them, but sometimes I swear they could write dissertations on interior decorating."

Joe smirks. "And you? You an expert on throw pillows too?"

You snort. "Not even close."

"Shame," he murmurs, taking a slow sip of his own drink. "I was really hoping you’d have some strong opinions on lumbar support."

You roll your eyes. "God, shut up."

"That’s not a no," he quips, and you groan, throwing your head back.

"Fine. If you must know, I do think most decorative pillows are pointless, because you just end up throwing them off the bed or couch anyway."

Joe grins, slow and smug. "So you do have strong opinions."

You open your mouth, then close it, glaring at him. "I hate you."

His smirk deepens. "No, you don’t."

And for some reason, that makes your stomach flip.

There’s something so easy about this, about him. The way the conversation flows, the way his eyes crinkle at the edges when he’s teasing you, the way he leans in just slightly, like he’s actually interested in what you have to say, like he’s not just making conversation to fill the silence.

It’s been a long time since someone talked to you like this. Since someone made you feel interesting, not just beautiful, not just Miles’ fiancée.

And God, you must be blushing, because Joe’s eyes flick over your face, and his grin turns downright wicked.

"You’re blushing," he says, voice all silk and amusement.

You scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. "No, I’m not."

"Yeah, you are," he says, leaning forward, forearms braced on his knees. "Damn, if I knew I had this effect on you, I would’ve started teasing you way earlier."

You narrow your eyes at him, but your lips are twitching, and he knows it.

"You’re insufferable."

Joe just chuckles, sitting back again, watching you over the rim of his glass. "And yet, you’re still sitting here."

And you don’t have an answer for that.

Because the truth is, you want to be here.

You want to sit in this chair, under these lights, on this warm summer night, and feel like this—like yourself, like a person, like something more than what you’ve been reduced to.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel alone.

--

Miles spotted them the second Joe sat down.

At first, it was just an awareness, the way his eyes naturally gravitated toward her—like they always did in a room full of people. It was a habit, second nature, an unconscious thing. A glance, then another. But then he saw the way Joe was looking at her.

And suddenly, he wasn’t just watching. He was staring.

Something inside him, something dark and unfamiliar, curled up tight in his chest.

He wasn’t used to feeling like this.

Miles had never had to be jealous before. Never had to worry. She was his. And that had always been enough.

But now?

Now, he was watching another man sit in front of her, lean in, smirk at her like she was something to be won. And worse—so much worse—she was laughing.

Really laughing.

Not the polite, social laugh she gave when she was playing the role of his perfect wife. Not the strained, forced kind that meant she was bored but trying to be nice.

No, this was different.

This was easy, genuine.

This was the kind of laugh she used to give him.

His grip on his beer tightened, fingers pressing into the damp glass, jaw locking so hard it ached.

Joe fucking Burrow.

The golden boy. The franchise. The quarterback who could do no wrong.

And now, apparently, the asshole who thought he could sit across from Miles’ wife and flirt with her in plain fucking sight.

What pissed him off the most was that Joe didn’t even try to hide it. He wasn’t subtle, wasn’t cautious. It wasn’t the kind of half-assed flirting guys did when they were just testing the waters, unsure if she was off-limits. No, this was deliberate. This was the kind of thing that happened when a man already knew what he wanted.

And the way he was looking at her, the way he smirked every time she tried to argue with him, the way his gaze lingered on her mouth just a second too long—he wanted her.

And she was letting him.

Miles' stomach twisted, something sour curling in his throat.

Had she ever smiled at him like that in the last few months? Had she ever looked that light, that carefree, that… happy?

A flash of memory hit him—her voice, sharp and tired from their last fight.

"I just want to feel like more than your fucking wife, Miles."

His throat tightened.

Because fuck, he knew he hadn’t been perfect. He knew things had been off between them, knew she wanted more, needed more.

But was this it?

Was this what she needed?

Some other man’s attention? Some other man making her blush, making her tuck her hair behind her ear like she was some shy, sweet little thing who wasn’t married?

He set his beer down a little too hard on the table beside him, the sound loud in his ears.

"Man, you good?" Tee asked, glancing at him.

Miles barely heard him.

Joe was leaning forward again, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice low, saying something that made her shake her head, biting her lip like she was trying not to laugh.

And Miles saw red.

He had never—never—felt something like this before.

He wasn’t that guy. He wasn’t the jealous type.

He never had to be.

She’d always been his. And no one had ever challenged that. No one had ever looked at her and thought they had a chance because they didn’t.

But here Joe was. Sitting there, flirting with her like Miles didn’t even fucking exist.

And Miles hated him for it.

"Yo," Tee said again, nudging him. "What’s up?"

Miles’ hands curled into fists.

"Burrow," he muttered, eyes still locked on the scene in front of him.

Tee followed his line of sight, then let out a low whistle. "Damn," he said, shaking his head. "He really don’t give a fuck, huh?"

No. He didn’t.

And that was the problem.

Because Joe fucking Burrow wasn’t scared of him.

He wasn’t worried about stepping on toes, wasn’t concerned about boundaries.

Because in his mind?

Miles didn’t matter.

And that?

That was fucking unacceptable.

--

You don’t notice Miles at first.

Not really.

You’re too caught up in the moment, in the way Joe makes it so easy to talk, to laugh. It’s been so long since you’ve had a conversation like this—one that isn’t about game schedules or dinner plans or how many charity events you have lined up for the season.

But then Joe’s eyes flicker up for half a second, and you know.

You know before you even turn around.

Miles is standing there, casual as anything, beer in hand, that unreadable half-smirk on his face. He’s trying to play it cool, you can tell, but you know him. You know the sharp edge of his jaw when he’s holding something back, the way his fingers tap against his bottle when he’s annoyed.

"Looks like you two are having fun," he says, voice light, teasing.

You open your mouth, but Joe beats you to it.

"Yeah," he says easily. "She’s good company."

Miles’ smirk twitches, just a little, just enough for you to notice.

"That right?"

Joe just grins. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

Miles shifts his weight slightly, adjusting his grip on his beer, then turns to you. "We should get going."

You blink. "What? Why?"

He shrugs like it’s no big deal, like he hadn’t just interrupted your conversation. "It’s late."

You frown. "It’s not that late."

Miles looks at you for a long second, then smiles. "You wanna stay?"

"Yeah, I do."

Joe leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying every second of this. "Can’t blame her," he says with a smirk. "It’s a good party."

Miles doesn’t look at him, just keeps his eyes on you. "One of your friends was looking for you," he says, smooth and easy. "Said they needed to talk."

You hesitate. "Who?"

He just shrugs again, taking a sip of his drink. "Not sure. But they seemed like it was important."

You glance between him and Joe, feeling something heavy settle in your stomach. You know what Miles is doing. He’s giving you an out, a way to leave without making a scene.

And part of you wants to fight him on it.

But the other part?

The other part just sighs.

"Okay," you say eventually, standing up. "I’ll go find them."

Joe watches you go, and just before you’re out of earshot, you hear him chuckle.

"You really don’t like me, huh?" he says, and you don’t have to turn around to know that Miles is seething.

Miles doesn’t answer Joe right away.

He just stares.

And for the first time in his life, Joe watches a man who’s always been effortlessly self-assured hesitate. Miles Johnson, the guy who’s never questioned a damn thing in his life, the guy who walks into every room like he owns it, the guy who doesn’t lose—he’s standing there, jaw tight, grip flexing around the neck of his beer bottle, seething.

Because this isn’t just about some guy flirting with his girl.

This is about Joe Burrow flirting with his girl.

Joe, who has everything Miles does. Joe, who isn’t just some backup wide receiver on the depth chart but the quarterback, the golden boy, the face of the team. If it were some random guy, Miles wouldn’t even be thinking twice about it. But Joe? That’s different.

Joe has already been given the world, and now—now he’s looking at his girl like he has a shot at taking that, too.

Miles lets out a breath through his nose, tilting his head slightly. "You think this shit is funny?"

Joe just smiles. "Kinda, yeah."

Miles’ jaw clenches.

"You got something to say, man?"

Joe takes his time leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees, beer dangling from his fingers. "Me? Nah. I think you already know what I’m thinking."

Miles steps closer.

The tension is thick, crackling, and Joe—Joe just sits there, cool as ever, because he lives for this shit. He’s spent his whole life on a football field, has stared down 300-pound linemen trying to rip his head off, has played in stadiums so loud he couldn't even hear his own thoughts, and this?

This is just funny.

"You got a problem with me, Miles?" Joe finally asks, voice easy, relaxed.

Miles doesn’t answer. Because yeah, maybe he does have a problem with Joe.

And Joe fucking knows it.

And just when it looks like Miles might actually say something, Ja’Marr appears like he’s got some kind of internal alarm for bad ideas.

"Hey, hey, hey," Ja’Marr says, stepping between them before anything can go further. "What the hell is goin’ on over here?"

Joe leans back, grinning like nothing happened. "Nothing."

Miles scoffs. "Yeah," he mutters, rolling his shoulders like he’s shaking something off. "Nothing."

Ja’Marr looks between them, clearly not believing that for a second. "Right."

Miles exhales sharply, trying to regain some control of the situation. He looks back at Joe, his voice measured. "Look, I don’t know what kinda game you think you’re playing, but let me make one thing clear—she’s mine."

Joe just tilts his head. "No one’s arguing that."

"You sure?" Miles asks, voice low.

Joe just lifts a shoulder. "One hundred percent."

Miles stares at him, trying to read between the lines, trying to see if Joe is bullshitting him, and Joe gives him nothing. Just a calm, neutral expression.

Joe finally sighs, running a hand through his hair like this whole thing is just exhausting for him. "Look, bro, you got nothing to worry about," he says, and his voice is so assured, so calm, that for a second, Miles wants to believe him. "Focus on your season, your career. You’re a lucky man. No one’s trying to step on your toes."

He even throws in a little bro-code for good measure, because that’s what guys like Miles eat up.

And just like that—Miles relaxes. Not completely, but enough that he lets it go.

"Good," he mutters after a long moment.

Joe nods, casual as anything, and then Miles finally—finally—walks away.

Ja’Marr watches him go, then turns back to Joe.

"That was some bullshit," he says.

Joe just grins. "Yeah. But he bought it, didn’t he?"

The drive home is quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful, but the kind that makes your skin prickle, the kind that sits heavy in the air, thick with something unsaid.

You’re still in a good mood. You can feel it in the way your body is still buzzing slightly, the aftereffects of laughter and good conversation. For the first time in a long time, you’d felt light. Like the version of yourself that existed before all of this—before the responsibilities, before the expectations, before you became someone’s wife—had peeked through the cracks of who you’ve had to become.

And Miles hates it.

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel it. The weight of his stare on the road, the way his grip on the wheel is just a little too tight. He’s never been good at masking his emotions, never been the type to hide his displeasure. You learned that early on.

When you get home, you don’t even make it to your bedroom before he speaks.

"So," Miles says, leaning against the kitchen counter, watching you with an expression that isn’t outright anger, but something close to it. "You had fun tonight."

It’s not a question.

You pause, placing your purse on the counter carefully, your heartbeat just slightly picking up. "Yeah," you say slowly, hesitantly. "It was nice to be around everyone before the season starts."

He hums. There’s something unreadable in his gaze, something calculating, and you don’t like it.

"You and Joe seemed to be having fun," he continues.

And there it is.

Your stomach twists—not in guilt, but in frustration.

"Don’t do that," you say, turning fully to face him now. "Don’t make it into something it wasn’t."

Miles tilts his head, his mouth twisting like he’s the one who should be annoyed. "Make it into something?" he repeats, letting out a sharp little laugh. "Baby, I was there. I saw it."

You inhale deeply through your nose. "Saw what?"

Miles scoffs, pushing off the counter, stepping closer. "You really want me to spell it out for you?"

Your jaw clenches. "Yes, actually, I do. Because from where I was sitting, all I did was have a conversation, and now you’re acting like—"

"Like what?" he cuts in. His voice isn’t raised, but there’s a sharp edge to it, a barely restrained irritation. "Like I didn’t have to sit there and watch my wife giggle at another man’s jokes? Like I didn’t have to watch him look at you like he was thinking about shit he shouldn’t be thinking about?"

You let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "That’s what this is about? Because someone looked at me?"

Miles exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. "No, this is about you letting him."

Your stomach drops.

There it is.

The shift. The moment where he stops being annoyed at the situation and starts being annoyed at you.

Your hands clench at your sides. "I can’t control how people look at me, Miles."

He takes another step forward, closing the distance, voice lowering. "But you can control how you react to it."

You stare at him, searching his face for the man you used to know, the one who once made you feel like you were the center of his world.

"I didn’t do anything wrong," you say, and you hate the way your voice comes out softer, like you're trying to convince him.

Miles exhales, and for a second, he just looks at you.

And then—he sighs.

It’s long and dramatic, and he runs a hand down his face, shaking his head. "You’re right," he finally says, and it’s so sudden that it almost gives you whiplash. "You didn’t do anything wrong."

Your brows knit together in confusion.

"I—I didn’t?"

He steps forward again, hands landing on your waist now, pulling you closer. "No, baby," he murmurs, his voice shifting, softening. "I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you feel like you did."

Your brain is scrambling to catch up.

"You—" you swallow. "You just—"

"I know, I know," he sighs again, dropping his forehead to yours. "God, I hate fighting with you."

You exhale shakily. The tension that had built up in your chest doesn’t fully leave, but it starts to shift.

Because this is the part where he fixes it.

The part where he pulls you into his arms, presses his lips to your forehead, and makes it okay.

"You know I just—I just love you so much," he murmurs, pressing kisses along your jaw, your neck. "And I see someone else getting your attention, even for a second, and I just—I don’t know, baby, I just lose it."

You close your eyes. Your hands move to rest on his chest out of habit. "Miles—"

"Shh," he hums, lips brushing your ear now. "I forgive you, okay?"

Your breath catches.

"You forgive me?"

He kisses you before you can say anything else.

And that’s how he does it.

That’s how he wins.

Because somehow, you’ve gone from defending yourself to being the one who is forgiven.

And the worst part?

You let him.

[prettealolilol]

So, I love the headcanon of the batfam being menaces in the kitchen, and that half of them are banned from entering for the rest of their life.

However, you can't tell me that Batman, the man who has contingency plans for his contingency plans, who carries shark spray repellent, the man who travelled for a year (i think ?) on his own with only a backpack (and a lot of money but still), doesn't know how to cook. There is no way, he can't fend for himself in any type of situation (apocalypse ? ready; zombies ? ready; stranded on an island on his own ? ready). He can definitely take care of himself without Alfred, because Bruce is paranoid and there's the eventuality of the butler dying. And anyway, he probably learnt some dishes when he was younger so he could help Alfred around the house (it made him feel closer to the only caring adult in his life). He also definitely learnt traditional dishes while travelling and every time he adopts (it's his way of showing he cares).

(Cooking was one of the ways he bonded with Jason. The boy was tense and wary, not used to having so much food for free. When Bruce realised Jason cooked, he offered to teach him a few dishes he learnt around the world. It was the first time Jason called Bruce 'dad'. Every year they would cook (and make a mess) for Alfred's birthday.)

There's this whole thing with Dick only eating cereal (I don't know much about him, sorry) and being close behind Bruce as a kitchen menace. I don't really know how life in a circus works, but I'll go with the fact that they didn't always have access to a kitchen while traveling, so the food was never sophisticated. Yet, with the circus, Dick travelled a lot and met wonderful people. Some locals would sometimes bring them traditional plates, and even teach him how to cook them. The reason he doesn't really cook is because he finds the kitchen too complicated. Who needs so many utensils ? It's disorienting and feels too clinical (Dick associates cooking with sweet lessons from his mom and having fun with the people from the circus.).

(The times he actually took the time to cook at the manor was when Jason joined and they would try to bake. Dick cooks with Damian sometimes. At first it was to make him comfortable by being domestic, giving the excuse of learning to work together, but now it's just to bond. Bruce joins them sometimes.)

As said previously Jason knows how to cook. I'm not sure if it's canon, but he cooked for his mom, and is never banned from the kitchen in what I read. Similarly to Dick, he grew up cooking easy things. He didn't have access to much food, most of the time stealing from markets and fighting for bread in back alleys. He would stand in the shadows, staring at the window of a restaurant kitchen until he knew the moves by heart and would redo them at home (he'd spend days saving money and stealing the adequate ingredients). It was always simple dishes though. So when Jason first stepped in the kitchen ? He was amazed, and felt like one of those chefs he would observe for ours. The first weeks, he'd wait until everyone was in bed and sneaked in to cook (Alfred always acted like he didn't know). When he came back to Gotham after the pit, he began stress-cooking a lot. He'd steal money from Bruce and cook enough to feed a whole building in Crime Alley (he ate some once and threw up immediately. It tasted too much like home. He never ate anything he cooked again).

(Cooking with Alfred became an excuse to come to the manor and stay for dinner and sometimes even the night. (The first few times, the butler was the only one Jason could be with without activating his fight or flight instinct.) Watching his family unknowingly eat something he cooked and praising the food makes him feel like he may be allowed to be part of the family. Slowly, he starts leaving food to them (on the batmobile because he knows Bruce didn't eat before patrol, in Tim's office because he overworked and didn't go home, in Dick's kitchen because he got hurt during his day job), and nobody ever mentions it.)

I already explained my point of view for Tim in a previous post. Whether his parents were loving or not (fanon vs canon), they still travelled a lot. So Tim grew up having to learn to cook because there wasn't always someone at Drake's manor, and Drakes don't call people in the middle of the night because they're hungry or a little sick. So Tim knew the basics to care for himself, he learnt to wrap and stitch his own wounds at ten after being too close to an explosion where Batman and Riddler fought (seeing later the pictures he got, Tim thought getting some glass in his arm was completely worth it). Of course, he doesn't know any complicated dishes, he does enjoy the chemical aspect of it, the reactions between the ingredients, the way the molecules change with time and temperature variations. Tim also enjoys the historic aspect of it, so he'd learn to make dishes just because he liked the story related to its invention (it has proven useful in many social gatherings to know so much about food and culture). When he started as Robin, those skills became useful when he had to cook for Bruce in the middle of the night because he wouldn't wake Alfred up. After moving in the manor, Tim kind of dropped this little hobby. Alfred is here to cook, and he has other things to worry about (Jason coming back, then Damian being introduced, the whole time stream issue...).

(When he has some time, Tim scrolls on his social media, saving videos about recipes and learning about dishes and their history. He promises himself he'll find some time to try them. When Jason starts leaving each of them food, Tim buys a recipe book. As often as he can, he cooks something, prints a copy of the recipe and drops it off at Jason's current place. One time, when Damian is sick and no one else but Tim is at the manor, he ends up cooking an Arabic dish (a grandma recipe for sick children). Damian stops saying he's useless after this.)

Again, I don't know much about Cass, so it's really how I feel about it. Cass grew with simple dishes. When she joined the batfam, she didn't understand the importance of sharing a meal, people eating together, Alfred spending so much time in the kitchen, or why there were so many ways to cook one ingredient. Just like Dick, the kitchen feels too unnecessarily full, too many things that are just not imperative. To her, food was here to feed and strengthen the body. Cooking should be fast and easy because food was not supposed to be pleasant, just necessary. She doesn't really know how to cook. She can prepare food so it's edible, hunt or light up a fire. But growing up with her father taught her that food is only here to feed. She actually discovers its importance after walking in on Jason and Alfred cooking together. It was one of the rare times Jason would go farther than the cave and into the manor. They were not talking, and yet the atmosphere was soft, acknowledging. Reading Jason's body, she saw happiness and contemptment, the usual tension and anger nowhere in sight. She asks Tim about him (because he's the one who offered to teach her sign language, the one who she goes to when she needs a definition.) and he tells her how cooking can be many things, it can be an offer, it can be death, it can be love, it can be survival...

(Alfred once explained how it was his way of caring. He'd make different dishes depending on people's mood or state. When Cass understood that cooking was a form of language, she took it upon herself to learn. She watches Alfred cook for days, asking questions. She goes to Jason's place to ask him his opinion, teasing him when he gets flustered under her staring. She learns to cook and enjoys it.)

At the league, Damian was a prince. He didn't cook, it was beneath his status, there were servants for that. Like Cass, although he had access to higher quality food, it was only there to feed you. When he arrived at the manor ? The shock to see only one servant, and that his Father sometimes cooked for himself. His Father, who her mother had represented as a king, someone powerful enough to have his grandfather's respect, the man he was supposed to become. It took time for Damian to step into the kitchen for different reasons. First of all, the kitchen was not his place to be, it's Pennyworth's territory. He was not welcome there and knew that to make an enemy out of the man that raised his Father. Secondly, Damian was taught restraint, he would not give in to his basic urge. He could wait until morning even if he felt like his stomach was clenching on itself. The reason for walking in the kitchen was Grayson dragging him inside, promising some bonding time necessary for working together (it was fun, although Damian would not admit it).

(After realising the importance of cooking in the household, Damian decided he could not not know how to cook. Everyone seemed to have the knowledge it wouldn't do for him not to know. Maybe, he also felt like cooking would teach him to be a better part of the family and be accepted as the method he was taught all his life did not work. He learnt to cook on his own, sneaking in the kitchen and training. When he finally mastered a dish, he announced to Alfred he'll be cooking for the evening. Even if he'd never admit it, the praises he received that evening made him feel lighter, like he belonged. And no Grayson, he was not blushing.)

When Duke moves in the manor, it's kinda weird to have a butler. Duke was raised in a normal, middle class family, so cooking is a normal thing he helped his parents with. He would come home from school and help his parents cook dinner, sometimes doing it himself if they were still at work. He didn't know anything fancy or foreign dishes, but he could cook well. So having Alfred do it alone all day ? Not how Duke was raised. The first weeks, he would go into the kitchen and offer his help to Alfred, who would constantly refuse, joking about letting him do his job or he might become useless in his old age. Although it was a joke, Duke (who had just moved in and didn't really know how to act) stopped asking, not wanting to make the butler think he was taking his place.

(He still cooks sometimes, when he feels nostalgic. Cooking reminds him of his parents, his mothers' laughter and his father(s warm hand on his shoulder. When Duke discovers that Cass is learning to cook, he decides to do it with her, learning new recipes from around the world. It helped him a lot to feel at home at the Wayne manor.)

My point is, love the massacre this family can be when left unattended in a kitchen, but they definitely know how to cook.

[fairytales-and-folklore]

Invisible String

Teen Wolf » Sterek

Title: Invisible String

Author: fairytalesandfolklore

Fandom: Teen Wolf (Masterlist)

Relationship: Derek Hale x Stiles Stilinski

AO3 Rating: Teen & Up (a complete collection of author's notes, inspiration credits, content warnings and tags can be found on AO3)

Summary: In the aftermath of the nogitsune, Stiles takes up knitting at the suggestion of his therapist, and is surprised to find how much it helps him — and Derek — heal.

"Here's your hat," Stiles says with a half-hearted attempt at nonchalance, opting for playful banter in the hope that it'll ease some of the tension. "I would've finished it sooner, but some asshole snuck in through my window and scared me so bad I dropped half the stitches." He expects a smirk, a sarcastic quip, a long-suffering sigh followed by a theatrical eye-roll in response. What he doesn't expect is the vulnerable quiver in Derek's lower lip as he fixes Stiles with a stunned expression, eyebrows pulled together in a way that makes Stiles's heart physically clench inside his chest, and says, in the softest voice Stiles has ever heard, "You made this for me?" The following evening, Derek shows up wearing the hat Stiles made him, a tightly-wound ball of yarn and a set of knitting needles clutched in his hands as he tentatively holds them out to Stiles like a peace offering, and says, "Teach me?"

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In the aftermath of the whole possession by an ancient trickster demon thing, the one thing Stiles doesn't expect to hear from his in-the-know therapist is that he should consider taking up a hobby — something crafty and creative — to occupy his time. He does his best to suppress a snort of laughter but it's a near miss, insisting that he just doesn't have the patience for it. 

Just give it a try, she says, and that's how Stiles begrudgingly finds himself in front of his laptop, scrolling down a Buzzfeed list of the top ten crafts guaranteed to reduce stress and anxiety.

It goes about as well as he'd expected. 

His first (and last) attempt at baking nearly burns down the kitchen. 

Every surface of his bedroom turns into some kind of viral rainbow (no matter where he sits or what he touches, his hands, his hair, and the back of his jeans are always covered) as he proceeds to drip paint everywhere but the canvas. 

Origami ends in a mountain of the saddest looking swans the world has ever seen, crumpled up with varying octaves of frustrated sighs and volleyed into the trash bin with a fist pump and a victorious shout of score one, Stilinski! 

He can't draw for shit, even his stick figures have Scott and Lydia squinting like the worst game of Pictionary. 

He hasn't got a steady enough hand for calligraphy, and more often than not, the pen just ends up stuck between his teeth as he loses himself down a Sporcle rabbit hole. 

All of his short stories end up reading like police reports. 

He nearly impales his thumb on a needle when he tries out his mom's old sewing machine. 

His dad comes home one night with a barrage of complaints from the neighbors claiming there's a cult of angry cats terrorizing the neighborhood when Stiles attempts to learn how to play the cello.

He's about ready to give up when he turns the corner at the local craft store and ends up in an aisle filled with rows upon rows of brightly colored, plushy bundles of yarn. He glances at the display sample of a cozy looking hat, eyes darting to the bright blue wool-acrylic blend of thick, soft yarn right in front of him, and then back up toward the hat, wondering just how difficult it would be to make one of his own. Might be nice with the winter months coming up. 

He dithers for a moment before heaving a resigned sigh and grabbing a skein of the blue yarn, because blue is just pretty, and a set of knitting needles in the recommended size, and brings them up to the register, rationalizing that at least if this endeavor doesn't go well, all he'll be left with is tangled string, novelty chopsticks, and a wallet that's $11 lighter.

• • •

He picks it up surprisingly quickly. One week, a couple of YouTube tutorials, and a series of bookmarked Pinterest tabs detailing beginner projects, and he's already mastered garter, stockinette, and single rib stitch, and has about a dozen swatches scattered across his room. 

Even more surprising is how much he finds he genuinely enjoys it. Likes the fact that it keeps him calm, keeps him grounded. Gives his restless hands something to do, his racing mind something to focus on. Likes the fact that, once he gets the basic beginner stitches down, he can just zone out and get lost in the gentle clicking of the knitting needles, the rhythmic repetition of his hands working to create a new series of interlocking loops, a creative distraction to dive into whenever the guilt and panic of everything that's happened over the last couple of months threatens to overwhelm him.

His first official project is a bunny knit from a single stockinette square, seamed and stuffed with poly-fil, gifted to his therapist as a sort of thank you for pushing him to try something new.

• • •

He finds his gaze drifting toward Derek late one night at a pack meeting, mapping out and lingering over all the worrying little details of his body language — the tense line of his shoulders, eyebrows set in a semi-permanent crease, lips pulled into a pensive frown, fingertips digging into the underside of the worn wooden table hard enough to leave indents — and finds himself wondering if Derek has got any secret stress-reducing hobbies, if maybe he could benefit from having a creative outlet the same way Stiles has been.

He tries to imagine Derek taking up knitting, and has to fight to suppress the fond little flutter that stirs inside his chest at the image of Derek with a half-finished scarf splayed across his lap, yarn wrapped around his stupidly big, strong hands as he works them in an intricate pattern, the two of them sitting side by side on the couch, watching movies and working on projects together; has to bite back a bout of giddy laughter at the idea of Derek talking shop about his favorite stitch patterns, wandering down craft store aisles with a mountain of brightly colored, kitten soft skeins clutched in his arms, arguing the merits of aluminum vs. bamboo, cotton vs. wool, with those big surly eyebrows of his, as Stiles strolls along beside him. It's so absurdly soft and domestic that Stiles can't contain the longing sigh that spills out of his mouth at the thought of it.

Derek's eyes snap up in his direction, narrowing in equal parts curiosity and concern, and Stiles is so fucked because there's no way Derek hadn't heard the little stutter in his heartbeat just now, hadn't caught him staring, open-mouthed and shameless, with this stupid overly fond lovesick expression on his face, when he was supposed to be paying attention to Scott's detailed report of his recent perimeter patrols, and taking notes on the newest potential monster of the week he's apparently responsible for researching. 

And because his body is an absolute traitor, he can feel the telltale prickle of white hot heat creeping up the back of his neck and sprawling across his entire face like a goddamn sunburn, and oh god, there's no way Derek isn't piecing it all together, no way he isn't going to figure it out, no way Stiles will be able to keep his stupid little crush of his a secret if he keeps this up.

He attempts to salvage the moment with what he hopes is a friendly smile and a nonchalant nod, but judging by the way Derek's eyebrows hike high enough to get altitude sickness, it probably comes across as more of a flail and a manic grimace.

Which is just so great.

Yup. Fucking nailed it.

• • •

And yeah, it probably wouldn't help the whole pretending he's not secretly in love with a sourwolf thing if he were to randomly surprise Derek with a handmade knitted hat out of absolutely nowhere, but like — look — the color combination of that super soft merino wool featured every single fleck of Derek's eyes down to the exact shade, which is just…yeah. Super pretty. So like, he couldn't just not get it.

As is Stiles's luck, he can't even keep the hat itself a secret, because a few days after the pack meeting, Derek comes swooping in through his bedroom window while he's right in the middle of a round of decreases, causing him to shriek bloody murder and drop half a row of stitches in the process.

He makes a floundering attempt to shove the half-finished hat underneath his pillow, but of course, Derek's reflexes are faster (motherfucking werewolves) and he snags it out of Stiles's hands before he's even made it halfway across the room, staring down at it intently, running his fingers across the delicate little interlocking arrows, a flicker of a smile threatening to break across his face as he looks up and fixes Stiles with a curious expression.

"New hobby?" he asks, his tone uncharacteristically light, and Stiles prepares himself for the inevitable onslaught of derisive comments and mockery, because apparently he can't just have this one nice thing.

"Yeah, yeah," Stiles sighs with a weary roll of his eyes. "Make fun of me all you want, but we'll see who's laughing when I single-handedly defeat the next big bad with my killer dexterity and refined upper-body strength."

Derek's lips twist into a frown, brows creasing in frustration.

"I'm not making fun of you," he says solemnly, all traces of lighthearted banter vanishing as he takes a tentative step forward and places the set of circular needles into Stiles's hands with a measurable gentleness.

"Oh," Stiles says softly, all defensiveness rushing out of him on the next breath, awed by the fact that Derek looks genuinely offended by the assumption that he would tease Stiles over something like this. "Okay, well…good. Because I'm actually really liking learning how to knit so far."

He holds Derek's gaze long enough to catch a thoughtful hum in response, and then he's stumbling backward into his rolly chair with all the grace of a mountain troll, breathing out a nerve-addled huff as he refocuses his attention on the project clutched in his hands. 

There's a soft creak of leather and bedsprings as Derek perches on the edge of Stiles's bed, watching with rapt interest as Stiles sets to work fixing the dropped stitches, mesmerized by the subtle flex of his forearms, the delicate twist of his long, nimble fingers as Stiles slips the little stitch marker from one needle to the other to start a new row. 

They sink into a companionable silence, the only sound the gentle click of the knitting needles, the steady rise and fall of his focused, meditative breathing, peppered with the occasional murmured mantra of knit one, purl one as Stiles sticks his tongue between his teeth, brow furrowed in concentration as he deciphers what type of stitch he's supposed to make next.

"So, what made you decide to take up knitting?" Derek's voice rings out across the room, head tilted to the side as Stiles produces a thick blunt-tipped needle and begins threading the working yarn through the last few live stitches of the crown.

"Well," Stiles sighs, tension coiling in his shoulders as he struggles to split his concentration. Because this is the most crucial part. Mess this part up and the whole thing unravels. "It started out as a suggestion from my therapist, actually. She figured I needed something— some nice, simple, normal thing — to occupy my time, help take my mind off things…something that isn't just endless research and round-the-clock panic attacks over the supernatural nightmare my life has become ever since—"

There's a sharp intake of breath and a soft, barely audible noise like a wounded animal, and Stiles glances up to find Derek staring a hard line into the floor, looking crestfallen.

"Hey," Stiles says consolingly, offering Derek an apologetic smile, and quickly amending. "Present company excluded, of course."

Derek huffs out a laugh and rolls his eyes, but the tension in his shoulders eases considerably.

"So I tried out a bunch of stuff, which I totally sucked at, by the way," Stiles continues, pulling the working yarn taut to close the opening at the top of the hat. "Everything from baking, to painting, to sewing, to trying to learn how to play an instrument — Dad practically had to beg me to return the cello I rented out from the school — before I just kind of accidentally stumbled across knitting…which, it turns out, I'm actually pretty good at."

"I like it," Stiles adds after a moment's pause. "I like that it's both relaxing and productive. I like working with my hands, being able to make things."

"I like…" he trails off, throat suddenly tight as he fights off the familiar sting in the corners of his eyes. "I like the fact that, after everything that's happened, I still have the ability to create beautiful things."

His fingers tremble as he works to weave the yarn tail through the last column of stitches, and he has to pause to catch his breath. He chances a glance over at Derek, and is struck with a low swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach at the sight of him staring down at his open palms with an intense expression on his face, so achingly familiar that Stiles knows, without a shadow of a doubt, what he must be thinking in that moment — that the two of them share something no one else in the pack will ever truly be able to understand— that every time they look down at their own hands, they're seeing the same thing: the sharp skewer of a set of claws; the slow twist of a sword; phantom blood clinging to such delicate things made into weapons against their will.

The finished hat lands in Derek's hands a minute later, effectively snapping him out of his downward spiral. He blinks down at it a few times, looking utterly bewildered, before his gaze flickers back up toward Stiles, eyebrows arched in question.

"Here's your hat," Stiles says with a half-hearted attempt at nonchalance, opting for playful banter in the hope that it'll ease some of the tension. "I would've finished it sooner, but some asshole snuck in through my window and scared me so bad I dropped half the stitches."

He expects a smirk, a sarcastic quip, a long-suffering sigh followed by a theatrical eye-roll in response. What he doesn't expect is the vulnerable quiver in Derek's lower lip as he fixes Stiles with a stunned expression, eyebrows pulled together in a way that makes Stiles's heart physically clench inside his chest, and says, in the softest voice Stiles has ever heard, "You made this for me?"

"Well, yeah," Stiles says as he ducks his head to attack a phantom itch on the back of his neck, heat rising in the hollows of his cheekbones. "It — you know — it matches your eyes, or whatever."

Derek stares at him for a moment longer before his gaze drifts back down to the little hat woven with all the colors of the forest, cradling it in his hands like it's the most precious thing in the world.

• • •

The following evening, Derek shows up wearing the hat Stiles made him, a tightly-wound ball of yarn and a set of knitting needles clutched in his hands as he tentatively holds them out to Stiles like a peace offering, and says, "Teach me?"

And yeah, maybe Stiles's heart does that same little flutter on a much grander scale when, several months down the line, the two of them exchange Christmas gifts, only to realize they've knitted each other matching scarves.

[rise-my-angel]

SFW Alphabets

Jon Snow and Robb Stark

Pairings: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader

Length: 17.7k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, character deaths, mild mentions of blood and gore, jealousy and possessive behaviors, mentions of past sexual assault and trauma, talk of pregnancy, disturbing imagery, mention of infant death

Notes: Much like my nsfw alphabet, this is primarily based off of my series Heart of the Great Wolf. Once more Jons is split between pre and post resurrection as I consider the character development between those years apart to be drastic enough to warrant further elaboration. NSFW Alphabet Here, Series Masterlist Here

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Robb:

There is no wondering if the King in the North adores his wife. From when Robb was young and first met you, he was eager to be your friend. Having a friend that was a girl was different then what he was used too, surrounded by boys and his brother. You were softer and more quiet, timid almost. He learned quickly that he needed a softer touch when handling you and that included physical as well. His mother had joked that it well prepared him to have a little sister by the time Sansa was born. Growing up, he would be tied between treating you playfully and treating you with a gentle touch, both things which would occur at the same instances sometimes. He would knock you down in the training yard, but gently help you up with a guiding hand right after.

Now however, that you are his wife? That affection has skyrocketed. Robbs eyes are bright and full of joy when you walk in the room and he refuses to be the kind of man who hides that. Why should he pretend his world does not light up whenever you step back into his view? His father never hid away his love for his wife, so Robb did not grow up with the idea that thats how men should treat the women they love, in hiding and private. He has you sit or stand right beside him during his war councils, refuses to be satisfied falling asleep unless you are tucked away in his arms in front of him. Always a hand is on you. It rests on your thigh during discussions, on your back or hips when walking as he keeps you beside him on his path to not stray too far.

Too Robb never shies away from having his lips on you. Not over stepping what is appropriate in a public setting, but he loves pressing his lips to you in any way. In passing he would kiss the back or side of your head, press a gentle kiss to your sweet lips when he cannot overcome his adoration of you right in front of him, kiss your hand or cheek when he is feeling more playful in front of his men. He never hides away from pressing his lips to yours in some way. There is no mistakening that Robb Stark showers you in affection, and he will never care about hiding that fact in front of anyone.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Affection is something that comes naturally to Jon, but in different ways. He truly has two levels of affection. One his siblings receive, which arguably is the more bountiful one, and the second is reserved only for you. He loves his siblings, he adores them. No matter how strained or distant or difficult they can get when he is balancing five of them in his life, he will always show them affection. Robb was known for it too, but none moreso then Jon was used to showing his siblings he cares by placing a tender kiss to their forehead. None of them have gone unscathed with that. Sometimes in it’s place, he’ll ruffle their hair instead to see their reaction. Arya and Rickon respond the best with that, and it only made him do it more and more.

But with you, it’s different. His affection isn’t as open. Jon adores you, he would never come close to saying it outloud and would hesitate to even think it to himself in private, but he loves you. His eyes are drawn to you, and he always wants to give you what you deserve, especially as the years passed and you grew harsher and more closed off in so many ways. He can’t show you such affection in public, it would cross a line that Jon knew he’d struggle to reign in before getting there. He’s playful and soft with you of course, but nothing that would stand out against the ways Robb was affectionate. Instead, the rest of it was saved for in private. Soft touches, gentle kisses and holding you closely to keep you warm and reassured. It was never going to be as much as he wished he could show you, but it was the best he could do for being with a girl he was never supposed to have.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Affection comes different to Jon now. There is a passion in his heart for you, but it is expressed in a way that to outsiders, looks cold and distant. In a way, he almost fulfills more the image which Northerners are known to have, a reputation of people who are only stern and unfeeling. But, what they don’t see is how deep Jons emotions run. They are almost caged inside him to not explode every chance they get, only ever doing so when it is with you. Once, Jon used to be scared of showing you that side of himself. Thinking it would scare you away.

It was a bit of a slow burn, as you both rekindled that love for one another where you returned that hesitancy to be affectionate as much as Jon, that almost helped him. He could step back and realize that he couldn’t stand being distant with you, but breaking his heart that you had resigned yourself to never having love again. It fueled that drive and passion to show you his deep love for you now, and once a crack was made in that regard there was no going back. All of that affection is now saved for you almost exclusively. His siblings, his friends, Ghost, of course they all experience it in smaller degrees, but his true passion? Jon saves that for you and you alone.

B = Best friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Robb:

If he were to attach the most strict labels to things, no he in all technicality, was not your best friend. That was his brother. But, that did not mean you two weren’t incredibly close. He had been eager to show you around at first, young and fell of energy and excited at having someone new in his life in a more significant capacity. So, once you started coming out of your shell, it was easy for Robb to step in and fill that spot which once held nervousness and replace it with a sense of adventure. You two got into trouble all the time, and it was always Robb’s fault but you two never changed behaviours nor even attempt to stop. You could shove him and insult him and he could ruffle at your hair and mock you and it never was unwanted or unforgivable.

The older you both got, that still stayed, but it became more mature in nature. Then much of that rambunctious and mischievous behaviour now focused in the training yard where a lot of that energy could come out. He and Jon both had a hand in teaching you things, and both had their strategies. Jon was more unforgiving, whereas Robb would feel comfortable making you step back and listen to his advice instead of teaching it to you with force. In your off times, you would still spend much time together. Now more laughing and drinking and sometimes even hunting, Robbs skill was never failing to be able to make you smile. Something which felt rare at times.

Now that you’re married? It is a completely different scenario. Especially after hearing of Theons betrayal, you became all the other had. You could only rely on each other, you both only truly trusted each other and would ensure as much time was spent together then anything else. Glued to your side as you were to his, everyone could tell once Theon had invaded with the Ironborn and taken Winterfell, that you and Robb never left each others side. You weren’t just best friends, you were the others only true remaining friends. It strengthened that love and bond that marriage had brought you. Maybe as children Jon was certainly your best friend, but by the end, Robb knew that he was your best friend as you were his and neither of you had any complaint about it.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

The truth was, Jon was your best friend. He was the one who finally got your shy, timid exterior to crack. He got you to open up, he made it easier for you to talk and laugh and finally let loose in Winterfell and he always felt pride in it. He had watched over your sick self for three days and three nights obsessing over not wanting to lose you despite barley knowing you, and he never wasted a single second since then. He grew up watching over you, and always being the one you circled back around to. He taught you how to use a sword first, he was the one who would wake you up to sneak out of the castle walls trying to find time for just you both together and no one else. Being the one you were closest too by a long shot, and he never took that duty lightly.

As you both grew older and closer, by the time Jon kissed you that night in the rain, he knew being your best friend would make this a little bit easier. He knew you well, your wants and fears and when you were holding back for his sake. Jon would be a little more assertive and make advances on you, simply because as your best friend he knew you better then anyone. No random Lord you may one day marry would know how to handle you, so he always did his best. You never stopped being his best friend just because you were together now. It only made your feelings for each other even stronger.

Jon Post Resurrection:

He knew it was ironic. Once you were best friends, and yet now, Jon was aware that things had changed. If right off the bat someone asked him who his closest friend was, he knew Sam would come out easy of his mouth, or possibly Tormund. You were the most important thing in his life, and being best friends was still something you were to one another but it wasn’t quite the same. That time period of being away from one another had changed aspects of you that developed separately and reconciling that when so much is different now came easier then he thought.

Jon knew now that you needed someone to be there for you now in a way that he couldn’t. For you, he knew Theon was your best friend now. And he understood that without any malice. Despite Theons painful betrayal, the both of you experienced trauma together at the hands of the Boltons had bonded you together in a manner that no one, including Jon would have any way to truly comprehend. He helped you escape to run to Jon for safety, and he could accept that it put Theon in a spot that Jon used to be as your best friend. He accepted that. Jon was so much more to you now, and you to him then merely best friends who love each other.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Robb:

This man cannot even sleep properly if you are not in his arms. The first night you married, you fell asleep perfectly in his arms and he drifted to sleep just as easily. You were warm and soft and comforting to his soul as he was yours. You were leaving for Kings Landing the very next day, and he had to treasure that time, and treasure it he did. For months afterwards as you were away in Kings Landing, Robb found himself resenting his bedchambers. He barley wanted to sleep in there and would put it off as much as he could. He’d walk in, and see the spot which should’ve been yours and yearn for you to suprise him by riding through the gates any moment. So when you returned to him? Not even the desperation of the situation could’ve settled the relief he felt in getting you back into his arms.

Now out in war, there quite literally had never been a night of sleep where you weren’t there. Some times yes, he was guilty of feeling so overworked that he never joined you in bed, but he was still there, in sight and watching you. Most nights he did sleep, and he’d always end up in the exact same position. Turning you on your side, and pulling your back close to press against his chest, arms wrapped safe around you and waiting for you to fall asleep first, before nuzzling into your hair and joining soon afterwards. It was the only times of true peace and contentment Robb had found in years and would find for years. In those nights, you both falling asleep usually bare and cuddled in the others arms were Robbs favourites and he would not hesitate to admit it to you.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

When he was younger, Jon could get away with it. You were both young and innocent and no one would bat an eye at two children close in that manner. Jon had a vivid memory of an early night in your first stay in Winterfell. You were in a more empty stretch or corridors, and a great storm felt as if it had blown over and being in such a new place made you feel frightened. You had come to Jons room, quietly asking if you could sleep in there that night. Jon never hesitated to let you. You curled up right away as Jon tentatively inched closer before feeling confident to let a hand sit on your side so you felt him there as you drifted off.

But things got more complicated after you begun spending intimate time together. Jon would take whatever chances he could. Sneaking around with you meant that he was always on alert as to whom might walk in on you both at any moment, and he never could keep you in a position too long that you wouldn’t be able to jump away from to appear innocent. Only when alone in the wolfswood did he have that freedom, but that wasn’t a place to cuddle. He would sometimes lay down with you, careful in a position that while would get him into trouble if caught, could not be explained with a lie. He hated it, he wanted to have you close the way a man should with his girl, but Jon never had that chance. He never got to be soft with you the way he knew you deserved.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Again that cold Northern demeanour kicks in. His siblings, friends, and even the Lords and Ladies he is closer too all know differently but to many, Jon knew that he likely looked very distant from you. Hardly touching you in a public setting, and certainly never being so brazen as to kiss you in public. His reasoning being twofold, he was never a large fan of such public displays from couples but too it was to ensure his men respected you. Saw you as a capable Queen as much as they saw a capable King in him, and not babying you with physical touch in public was his way to subtly enforce that image.

In private though? He had nothing holding him back, nor at this point would he want too. Many times he could find himself coming up behind you, wrapping his hands around your front to pull you back into him or keeping his hands steady on your hips to keep you in place. Not shying away from pressing his lips to yours, and almost unsettled in bed if he did not have your frame curled into his front where he could hide you away and protect you from the world. The few nights he had to sleep without you cuddled into him were incredibly lonely, and typically, resulted in barley any sleep. He adored being so physical with you, but as much as something within him wanted to stake his claim on you for everyone to see in multiple ways, this soft tenderness when you both cuddled together was something that he was selfish enough to keep for himself.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

Robb:

It is a little different for Robb. He has many skills of course, but he was the firstborn son. The heir to Winterfell. The eventual King in the North. There are certain domestic traits which he as a highborn and a King do not engage in. He knows how to cook, and he is not a child who has no understanding of keeping things clean or organized, but it is less of a priority. He will always have people to take care of those things for him. He does what he can, you both prefer to help each other dress and undress in the mornings and nights as opposed to having any maids or squires do so. You trim his curls when they get too long and sit perched ever so carefully on his lap to help trim his facial hair. He takes care of you in the bath, treating you like a fragile little doll to clean. But, he simply does not need to worry about such things as much as say, a smallfolk couple.

Settling down too is unique for Robb. He was raised with the unwavering expectation that he is to marry and have children. All highborns are raised to know this, and few would ever look down on it. Robb wanted it. He saw his father and mother and their happy family and always wanted one of his own. He was simply thrilled with the fact that he gets to have that with you. He doesn’t need to think much about settling down when it comes to you, its a duty, an expectation, and you both were prepared to do what needed to be done, and better yet, both of you enjoy it.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

A unique position Jon was in. He was born to a high Lord, and lived in his home with his trueborn siblings. He was raised with amenities that most could never dream of, and servants were always around. He didn’t have to do the hard work to lean certain skills, but, Jon knew he did anyways. As a bastard, Jon knew it was a possibility that he’d be completely on his own one day and would need to only rely on his own skills to survive. He could do everything that people, including himself, had servants for, he just had yet to need the skills to survive.

Settling down though? It was out of the question. The only one he’d ever settle down with is you, and that was not an option. A royal Baratheon girl was far too good for the likes of a bastard. Jon spent years in secret romancing you, always knowing in the back of his head that one day he would have to give you up, and he knew he would never settle for anyone once you were gone.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Jon now was not unlike Robb in some respects. Of course there were tasks delegated to maids and servants, things that he had partially grown up accustomed too, but also now as King in the North his time was needed to be dedicated to much more pressing matters. If left a certain amount of things that he couldn’t do for you, simply because of time. But, there were still many things you and Jon saved only for each other.

The ends of the night, Jon would undress you, and you him. It was a quiet time, tender where he could watch your focused work and admire you, and then in turn get to run his hands all over you and unburden you from the days woes, even if only for now in the heavy clothes on your person. He also at that point had the maids all know, that once the tub is filled, leave the rest. Jon would always take care of you there, enjoying the hot water and having you bare and pressed against him without the requirement to make it sexual simply because you were both naked. His domestic tendencies came in the little things, small matters which to many highborns were so insignificant that it would even occur to them to not make their servants attend to it, but Jon always did. He made sure he did those small things for you, and you did them for him right back.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Robb:

There is no breaking up. It was extremely rare that annulment was granted to a highborn couple, even Kings and Queens were denied annulments. Especially under the Seven, it was seen as close to a sin as it could get to break a union apart, and were children involved? Then never would it be granted. Tearing a family apart was not what he was raised to think was acceptable. Even when he was at an age he did not know what kind of woman he’d be to marry, it did not matter if it did not serve happiness to either of them. If he wanted a marriage that could break apart, he would go find a place in Essos that did not care about that sort of thing.

Besides, Robb knows he loves you more then anything, and you him. He has no intent on ever even considering what would happen if you both were to not be together anymore. From this day until our last days, that was how it was for both of you. And to Robb, your last days together would only be one which ended in death. Only death would tear your marriage apart at this point, and Robb would not have it any other way.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

He had no choice. He wasn’t breaking up with you, nor were you breaking up with him, but this was all happening regardless. It was the Kings orders, or as you specified, your fathers orders disguised as the Kings orders. He knew he was going to have to give you up, but to his own brother? Robb? Who already got everything Jon ever wanted and now including his girl? It made him angry as much as it broke his heart, but he couldn’t show that. Showing how hurt he was, would only serve to hurt you more. He needed to be calm for you, to ensure you went into this inevitable marriage as strong and clearheaded as possible.

Jon felt a deep pain for a long time. You out of his life was one thing, you out of his life and making a new one with Robb was another. He never forgot about you at the Wall, or beyond it, or until the night he was stabbed by his own men. Nothing that happened made Jon forget you. He gave you up because he had too, but he took your gentle heart with him and kept it safe from that parting day until his last day. If Jon had a different chance in life, he knew without a doubt he would’ve never given you up.

Jon Post Resurrection:

There was no contest anymore. Jon had to give you up to his brother once, and it led to both of your horrific deaths. When he finally got you back, it was because you returned and brought him back. It was all a mess, but Jon knew he would never let you go again. And he would prove it time and time again, doing anything and killing anyone to keep you safe and alive and with him. It wasn’t forcing you with him against your will, it was very clear that you never wanted anyone but Jon the way he wanted no one but you, but Jon took that protectiveness within him and directed towards you with a burning fire blazing behind it. You two wouldn’t end until death pulled you apart, and even then, Jon might not be willing to let that stop him again either.

F = Fiance(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Robb:

Growing up watching the marriage between his mother and father gave Robb a more eager view of marriage then some other highborns. Many political marriages were cordial and civil, but few as he seemed to grow up realizing were as loving as the one in his own home. His mother and father truly spoiled Robb in the sense of what he grew up looking forward too. He wanted a bride he would love and treasure the way his father did his mother, to have children and a stable life with little issue. He was never scared of marriage, never saw it as a burden. It was a duty he looked forward too and even though all of that depended on his future bride, he still was optimistic.

When it was announced to him that he would be marrying you in only a little less then a month by the time the raven from Kings Landing arrived, yes it was a shock. He never thought it would be you he married, but he got used to the idea quick once the shock wore off. You were beautiful, sweet, intelligent, and he already had an idea of what living with you would be life, you’d served as his fathers ward on and off for half your life. He knew you’d be nervous, and apprehensive about putting Robb through this, but it just made him more eager to prove how much he wanted to do this. He wasn’t afraid of a life of marriage, and certainly not afraid of it being with you.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Even if Jon took you out of his life’s equation, he’d never get married. Jon never wanted to marry or have children. Its what he had told himself for years. Being a bastard is lonely, no matter how much his father and siblings tried to make him always involved, there was that looming narrative over his head of who he was and always will be and how that made everyone else treat him. He never wanted that life for a child, and he never would have a child that didn’t have that name. No highborn lord would marry his daughter to a bastard, and he also simply wouldn’t wish to condemn any woman to taking a bastard name and giving their children bastard names. Or having another bastard on his own. It wasn’t an option. Jon would never do it.

In a world of fantasy, he would be able to marry you. That night under the Weirwood, you both talked of a life where you both lived in the Reach, meeting in a tavern near Highgarden and having nothing standing in your way of marrying. It was the only comforting thought Jon had at the Wall, the only thing he could turn to imagining that life. Multiple times he near found himself jealous of Sam for being from the Reach, as if that fact alone put Jon so much closer to that fantasy with you. It never would come, but he could think about it. He never wanted to marry anyone that wasn’t you as a boy, he never would marry anyone not wanting to condemn his child’s life to misery, and now at the Wall, he never would marry anyways. All he had was a memory of Highgarden and the Reach that would never truly exist.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Marriage was still a tricky subject for Jon, but not in the way he once thought. Now the dynamic was not giving you up, it was putting you back together after you had been ripped apart. The one thing through his jealousy over the years that Jon truly never wanted to do, was make you feel as if he was attempting to replace Robb. Nor did he ever want Robb to be watching him and think that either. He didn’t push for it. He thought of it all the time. He wanted to drag you out to the Weirwood the moment he had reclaimed Winterfell, but restrained himself for your sake, to not bombard you with his want of commitment when he knew how fresh the wounds were from losing Robb.

Then he said it. The first time making love to you on Dragonstone since that night in the cells of Castle Black, Jon said it in the heat of the moment. That he wanted to marry you, that such a thing was all he’s ever wanted. He couldn’t take it back. It was out in the open and you both finally talked about it. Coming together slowly to understand that little by little were you healing, and perhaps marrying Jon would help heal a part of you that felt so desperately alone. It was once of his favourite memories now, that beautiful evening marrying you under the Weirwood in his home the way he dreamed of since he was a boy. Jon was not afraid of commitment now, he was only ever afraid of pushing you too fast. But now that you are his wife? Now that he has you? Well, it is almost cute that you would ever find reason to doubt Jons love and affection for you. And he would spend his entire new life with you proving that no matter how often your frustrating little brain tried to lie to you otherwise.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

Robb:

He is a man of duality. He can be both seamlessly and switch whenever he is needed to. One on hand, he was a Stark. Starks are as harsh as the winters they endure and he led an army of Northmen as their King. There was a degree of demand and respect he would get from his men and if not, establish his authority and make them respect that. He was not afraid to raise his voice, to be violent, to make the hard choices others would attempt to persuade him away from. But with you? It was different.

Rare was it Robb took anything out on you. Only once truly. Learning of Theons betrayal, his instinct was to ride North at once. Impulsive and rash but there was an anger burning inside of him for all he had just learned, and you were quick on your feet. Scurrying in front of him and pushing him back gently with your hands to implore him that you were all still at war. He had raised his voice at you, not to be mean, but a frustration and a helplessness manifested in an aggressive manner. You never held it against him through. You continued to show him support and counsel that he would understand until he felt his heart slow down from a racing speed.

Other then that, Robb was always gentle with you. Careful with your emotions, sensitive they were despite how hard you tried to show otherwise. Always sweet with you in the view of his men. He loved treating you like his Queen, treasure and spoil you like a Queen. He couldn’t do that here, not in an army camp in the middle of war, but he did so instead with how he treated you. His love for you was gentle, and while out at war, if that was the only thing he could treasure you with, he would do so with all the love he could summon.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Jon was almost scared of being rough with you in any way. Ironically you always joked that it must be the opposite considering how he was the one unafraid of roughing you up in the training yard, but that had purpose. That taught you to be stronger and quicker. But the moment you stepped out of that yard, it was different. Sure, he would playfully manhandle you but that was no different to the ways Robb or Theon would do the same. You were simply smaller then them and were easy to toss around. Arya got the same treatment, so she understood your plight.

But when with you alone, Jon was nothing but gentle. The moment you came into his life, he just fell in love. He was soft and kind to you, a watchful protector at first making sure nothing ill or hurting would befall you again. Easing you into the way things were here and comforting you when lonely. That all made you trust him more and more but it almost made him softer for you. Rasping low words he would speak to you, his touch even when innocent was always gentle. He never wanted you to feel as if he would ever go too far in any way, no matter how much you never thought it would happen. There were areas of Jons life where he was rough and unkind, but being with you was never one of them.

Jon Post Resurrection:

It is a contrasting feeling with Jon, the way he is now. He is gentle and rough both, and sometimes you never know which to expect. He was a man whom still held a temper with the sharpness of a wolves claws and you never truly know when he would let it all out. On his men, on those who disobey him, and even sometimes when he is frustrated with you, that roughness will slip. His voice raises every so slightly with a strain that tells you he is still holding back, his hand usually running down his mouth or along his face in an exasperation. Rarely does he too show gentle physical affection. He keeps his hands, comments, and for your own awareness, his eyes to himself. There is seldom an indication in the face of the public which tells them that you are at the side of a warm, and gentle husband.

Alone though? Jon can indeed be very different. He routinely can switch between that rough and gentleness. While the rough usually seems to come out as a result of what you both are doing in his bedchambers during the hour of the wolf, bat, or whatever other hour Jons needs grow strong, the rest of the time? He is gentle. His voice soft and tender, his touch slow and purposeful and almost always meaning to soothe more then anything else. The way he runs his hands through your hair as he does it all up, or untangles it from the day. Taking your clothes off gentle or running a cloth over you when he has you both in the bath. His tone always quiet and murmuring as that deep rasp is but an entrancing husk in your ear and you feel as large and intimidating as Jon can be, it is in those moments which he is truly gentle. Alone with you and no one else to be on guard around. You, Jon can be gentle around because you are the only one who does and will ever trust being vulnerable around.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

Robb:

He won’t per say, pull you into a hug the way two greeting friends may. In sensitive times or comforting you after the heat of passion in his bed he would, but otherwise, Robb showed that affection in different ways. It was always tied into his affectionate manner, his hands always on you, seeking any excuse to press his lips to any part of you. Robb didn’t hug you often out in war, but he did the best he could pushing his touch right up to that line.

When he did hug? He was loving. Pulling you close, an arm wrapped around your waist and the other smoothing down your hair, or as best he could when it was done up simply in the encampment. Help you bury your face in his neck as he kept you there until whatever calm you sought him out for was found and eased your worries. He’s used to being the eldest brother, he knows how to comfort in a hug when his younger siblings came running. And even though it was a little more intimate with you, that instinct to make you feel safe and protected was still there, if not more inflamed then usual.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Stemming right from his affectionate behaviour, Jon is happy to give hugs to anyone he cares for. So many outsiders have this idea that the Northerners are such cold and uncaring people, when in reality, they simply save that for whom is most important. His siblings, especially the younger ones, got hugs all of the time while they were growing up. He and Arya even had their own special tradition, skinny and short as she was, she would jump up into his arms as he’d catch her and hold her close. One day he joked when she got older she’d be too big to do it anymore, but she insisted that the day she grew to be tall like Sansa would never happen.

With you though? That was the same, yet not. As children it could be, Jon could hug you and not think twice. It was not until he had become older, nearing his fourteenth name day that he realized that his physical closeness could be seen as with other intentions. So he changed things, usually keeping that for only when it was the two of you. Still you never questioned it, and it wasn’t until you both kissed did you realize why he had eased off of it and followed suit. He’d love to hug you more, but Jon just knows he can’t. He can’t hug you in public for risk of someone putting it together when he’d struggle to let go or keep it polite, and he couldn’t afford this being discovered. Not yet.

Jon Post Resurrection:

It once more was split between two sides of him. For his siblings? That affection had never gone away and it was going nowhere. The moment he and Arya were alone, she ran towards him, jumping into his arms as he caught her like it was any other time, or truly, like it had been the last time. She was a little bigger, and he a little more tired, but it was all the same. The same with seeing Bran again, the two brothers didn’t hesitate to bring the other into their arms tight, followed by a kiss to the forehead as Jon always had done with his younger siblings. One sibling did not have the same reaction, but she was another story, another problem which Jon did not wish to contemplate at that very moment. So he ignored their lack of affection.

It was not unlike before, but for very similar reasons oh his past life. Now, he could be seen with you, be open with you. But he chose not to, not in front of others typically. Jon reserved that softness for few people’s eyes. Perhaps it came from the fact that he knew even though the North called him King, he was still just a bastard. He felt he had to always prove he was worth this title that they and Robb bestowed upon him, trusted him with. He couldn’t look soft or distracted when it mattered, so he could continue to lead them all undoubted as much as he could manage.

In private though? Jon was always the one pulling you into his arms, keeping you close, and running his hands innocently over you. Having you in his arms felt safe, and as if he too were keeping you safe. It was comfortable, it eased the tension, the panic, the paranoia and vigilance which came forth with the traumas both of you had endured. He would ensure you slept with you in his arms, your front usually hidden in his chest as he keeps you hidden from the rest of the world, and many times, Ghost coming to sleep at your back to keep you just as protected.

I = I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

Robb:

To an outsider? Yes it could be seen as fast. Married and together for only one night, then spent many months thousands of miles apart. By the time he said it, you had only once more been together for a few short weeks. Were that the only amount of time he knew you, that would be fast and it would be odd. He’d barley know you let alone enough to use such a passionate word.

But, that was not the case. He had known you since he was a boy of ten, and now at twenty and five, you were as part of his life as his siblings were, only more. It was after learning that his father had been murdered. He had taken you and twenty thousand some Northerners to march south and free him, and instead, Joffery had beheaded him for a treason he did not commit. It was beyond devastating. Robb was the eldest, the one leading this army. He should’ve been more composed, but he wasn’t. He disappeared from anyone sight. That pain needing to go somewhere he had slashed and hacked away at the bark of a strong tree as he let himself go more with each hit. You had come across him. Red in your eyes with tears he was sure you didn’t even know were pouring down your cheeks.

You had called to him, but there was little you both could say. You both knew. Instead, Robb dropped his sword as you both fell into each others arms. You both had promised to kill them all, and you both had told one another how much you loved them. He said it, you said it, and he never went back. It was natural to say it, because Robb did not care about the speed of which things were progressing emotionally. He needed you as you needed him now more then ever, and you both did not hide away that love was the most important aspect of all of it.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

He feels it. Don’t ever get Jon wrong. Deep down in his heart, he loves you. He’s in love with you. Every definition of the word love for him belongs to you. It always has. Since the moment he saw you across the yard on your first day that spark was there, and it was only cemented that first night he watched over your ill, unconscious, dying self that he understood this would not go away. He knew then you were his and he was yours, even if he didn’t know then what the word was.

But, he’d never say it. He never did say it. Telling you that would make it real to the point there would be no denying that your future together was always in question. What love could you both truly share in earnest when it would be taken away by your duty one day? Jon felt it and he always did, but he never said it. He was sure you felt it as well, but again, he never said it. It was putting you at a risk he wasn’t willing to have. Saying it was love to each other would make separating so much more painful, so as much as he desired to tell you the extent to which he’d always been deeply in love with you, Jon never did.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Jon had almost said it many times, had said it passively a few times after that, and then one much more obvious time to ensure it got through your thick skull. You were scared, and distant, and traumatized at first. He refused to push you more then he worried he already had, and ensured that he wasn’t continuing to push you too much. Robb was a major factor. Jon loved you, he always had and now something dark, and clawing, and burning was deep within his chest that radiated something even more possessive then love, but he knew the part of him which as ostensibly still a man, knew better. Robb was your husband, the man you died with, the father of the child murdered within your womb beside him. He refused to have you wrongly think he wanted to replace Robb. He didn’t. Part of Jon wished and always had wished he could walk in Robbs shoes and even more when he married you, but not enough to push you before you were ready to handle it.

Now though? He wonders if he doesn’t say it enough. Jon is not an overly talkative man, neither you a talkative woman but you had the intelligence and eloquence of a life of royalty to know how to articulate yourself better then he could. Jon usually preferred to act a physical being, show you rather then tell you and he wonders now sometimes if he was neglecting to make sure you knew with no doubt that he loved you. You both felt it, but he knew sometimes he was so quiet and closed off, you may just so happen to doubt how much and that was a worry Jon did not wish to ever give you.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Robb:

If there was only one truth in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, it was that Robb Stark was indeed a jealous man. It didn’t always come off so easily. He wasn’t aggressive or rude, nor did he border into possessiveness about it. Robb knew he had you, you were his wife, about to soon be the mother of his child, and the Queen at his side. No one else stood a chance, let alone against the sheer love you felt for another. But, you were more then those things. You were still highborn, before this you were still essentially a royal princess just without the title, you were beautiful and intelligent and well spoken and your hand always sought after but never able to get close. Robb knew you were popular in the realm even if you didn’t see it that way.

Which meant in a camp full of soldiers, you were something for them to think about. He had eyes, so he could see how men looked at you. And through more..unnatural manners...did he also hear what they said about you in their private laughs. You were an object of desire for them, but it only bothered Robb when it was so brazen. When someone put you in that position directly, let alone in front of Robb. He never had to be aggressive about it. Robb knew exactly how to stand his ground and assert his authority without raising his voice or using force. He would make them back down without much effort.

He wanted to show you off, but he also wanted to keep parts of you all to himself and the best way to ensure no one overstepped, Robb would simply have to keep you with him at all times to ensure no one made you uncomfortable with comments or advances. Not that he was opposed to the idea, and he was fairly sure you weren’t either despite your protests.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Jon was jealous twofold. But that came as a slow burn of jealousy. At first, he was jealous of Robb. He was their fathers firstborn son, he was the heir to Winterfell, he was the trueborn and he got everything Jon wanted. On a good day, Jon could admit that Robb was better at him then near everything. On his bad days, he would wish to argue how much better at Robb he was then things, but, those came less and less the more he moved away from his teenage years. He was jealous of Robb his whole life, and there was no getting around that. But that jealousy didn’t come with hatred. Just envy.

Only, it was a bit different now. Still, there was no resentment or hatred, but that envy and anger was strong. Because now Jon had a reason to be jealous. Robb was marrying you. It was neither of your choices, but that did not take away from the fact that it was going to happen. You’d marry him, have his children and a happy life that Jon could never give you. It stung, it stung a lot watching the brother he always saw get everything Jon wanted, now too, having his girl. And in truth, even at the Wall, Jon never stopped being jealous. It always just sat there, brewing behind the scene ready to flare up at any moment.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Jealous was the wrong word. Jealous implied that there was anything another man could want with you, from you, or offer you that he couldn’t give or have with you himself. Sometimes, what he got was insecure. What Jon felt was the weight of a bastard who married a girl raised as a princess, and what he couldn’t offer you. You deserved the kind of luxury you were raised with in the Crownlands, but he was a bastard, he hadn’t been able to give you that before and he barley could now. It made him insecure around very few, only those which could offer you such a life now. Jon had never said it outloud, nor would he, but there was a very short list of men who Jon feared may offer you the life of a Queen you deserve and he would only have the love in his heart to offer you to stay.

The only other thing he got was possessive. But that had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with the fact that Jon knew what men were, and did not appreciate the thoughts of men being directed towards you. You were Jons, there was no going back on that now and he would glare so harsh across the way at men looking at you, that they’d stop simply because the men could feel the target of danger being painted on their backs. Jon would keep his distance, but take you harder and longer those nights. Leave a claim on you so deep that any man who came anywhere near you could sense his person on you thick like incense being blown in their faces, and they would know a possessive wolf had you for himself already.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

Robb:

Robb will kiss you anywhere, any time. Literally. He needs no reason to kiss you. The second he shared your first kiss together in his bedchambers only hours before the wedding ceremony, he knew he’d find himself always wanting more. Especially now out here, at war. He would make sure he valued every single second he had with you in case of the worst. He’d barley ever let you walk away from him to attend to your duties without pulling you in for a kiss. He’d pass you by in any way and press his lips to your hair, or in front of his men to be formal yet cheeky, press a kiss to the back of your hand or a gentle peck on the cheek. All knew he wanted to kiss you more, but they were amused at their Kings attempt at self restraint.

Robb loves kissing down your neck. Not even to mark it up roughly, but how sensitive you were there the tender skin, how when you’d try to speak when he did so you’d stutter, and that high pitched gasp so sweet. Making your breath hitch each press of his lips? He loved it, it made you so pliable as you’d melt in his arms and he adored it. As for where you’d kiss him, Robb loved you’d press your lips down his chest. Usually making your way to another destination, but he loved the look of you small against his broad frame and your pretty lips pecking at what you could find as if unhappy to leave any skin untouched.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

It sounded so innocent to say, but Jon loved when you kissed his cheek. For years as a shy little girl, it was the way you showed you were grateful. A simple kiss to his cheek usually paired with that bright, sweet smile you saved only for him. He wasn’t brazen enough to do it back, too afraid it would show off his feelings, but sometimes when he was feeling cheeky, he’d dramatically kiss the back of your hand with a bow before leaving the room, always making you and sometimes his father laugh at his antics.

When he kissed you for the first real time though? Thats what he adored. Your lips were soft and perfect and followed along with his so well, it was as if you both were made to kiss the other. He couldn’t get enough of it, really. Not wanting to sound full of himself, but he kissed you so much and enjoyed it so much he considered it likely one of his secret great skills. He took pride in that, and any chance he had you properly alone for a decent period of time, he would spend hours kissing you if he could.

Jon Post Resurrection:

That had not changed in him. That Jons favourite thing to do was to kiss you. Only now, he did not need to hide it. And he was not so private that he would never kiss you where anyone could see your embrace. His usual now was a kiss to your sweet lips, before he’d cup your cheeks to tilt your head down, pressing a kiss to your forehead and many times the hair at the top of your head. Sometimes moving you back up at the right angle to kiss you once again.

He could never explain it, but there was something about kissing you that he adored. He was good at it, he could do it now whenever he liked, and he could control how long he kissed you and many times, often did. Stealing your breathe in a perfect way, your air taken away and being reliant on Jon to let you go to even be free? It was everything he wanted, and he exploited that. If Jon had one way to show his love, it was kissing you, and it was the one skill he could say he had over many men and he would hold to that one boost of real confidence.

L = Little ones (How are they around children?)

Robb:

He grew up the eldest sibling. He had 5 brothers and sisters, he was very used to it. He was eleven, near twelve by the time Sansa was born. So he got very used to what little children were like, especially when Arya and Bran followed not terribly long afterwards. Rickon was still but a baby when he left Winterfell for war. He was confused by everyone leaving, and the chaos surrounding Brans fall and his mothers absence. He’d follow Robb around all day everyday, clutching at his leg and crying. Robb did what he could, and while what he could was alright, he suspected Rickon appreciated Robb trying more then if he succeeded.

It made wanting children with you easy. Seven hells he’d been trying, but war was taking an incredibly stressful toll on your body and he suspected it was making it harder for you to conceive a child. He didn’t blame you, it would happen when the gods knew your body was ready for it to happen and he wouldn’t try to force it any sooner. But he wanted children, at least six, as many as his father had. And the moment you had come to him telling him you were with child? Well, Robb knew it was only a matter of time before that picture became a reality, and he couldn’t wait.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Was Jon good around kids? Yes. Did he like kids? Yes. Did he want kids? No, never. He half raised four of his siblings, he was always good with kids and he enjoyed them. He adored that Rickon was born so late, so that while his other siblings were getting old enough to not wanting to be so attached to their siblings sides, Rickon was young enough that he still did so. Rickon was found at Jons side if not Robbs a lot, and they both were happy for it.

But Jon wanting kids? That was a life for a Jon that did not hold the surname Snow. He refused to father a bastard, and he refused to give himself any chance that would result in it. He didn’t go through with losing your virginity’s together that afternoon because of that dark voice in his head pecking at him like a raven asking what if he got you pregnant. He couldn’t do that to a child, being a bastard was not a good life for a child and he wouldn’t be the one to do continue the cycle.

Jon Post Resurrection:

If he were attempting to keep his words in polite company, Jon would simply say that he was more then eager to become a father. He half raised all of his younger siblings, he was always good with kids and he still was. He spent time with less younger ones these days, but he spent much time with Gilly’s son, Sam. Acting almost something like an uncle to the small boy, Jon felt internally that it was quite good practice for when you and him had a child and they came of that age. Not that Jon wanted to necessarily push you for that so soon, losing your first in your womb left scars both literally and figuratively that he was sensitive not to overstep.

It didn’t stop Jon from wanting them though. He wanted to see you swell with his child, with many of his children as he also wanted to see you with many little ones running about around you. He wanted to have children with you for himself as much as he wanted to make you a mother. Show you that this thing you always wanted, and one horror after another tricked you into thinking you either did not deserve it or could not have? He wanted to prove that this was still something you both could have, but now together. And marrying you? Well, the child according to you should still be named Snow, but they wouldn’t be bastards, and they wouldn’t be raised and known as such, and that was just enough for Jon to want to start giving you children now, and it was only a matter of time.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Robb:

Mornings are routine and not of much variety out at war. You’d both wake up, dress quickly in case something pressing should come up requiring his or both your attentions. You both would eat, and then truly, that tent is empty until nightfall. Mornings are not interesting in the sense of, your days are filled with duties and war councils. There isn’t time to spend on routines. Not out here.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

They were mostly uneventful from his early days to now. He slept alone, he got mostly ready alone and the maids would come in only once he was mostly ready for the day, wanting to have some peace to himself when he first woke up. He still does that now, only at Castle Black which means Jon had even less of a reason to dilly dally in bed. He had duties to attend to, and his father didn’t raise him to laze around.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Mornings aren’t as plentiful as he’d like now that he is King. He awakes before you most days, dresses, gets some smaller work done and by the time you arise? Jon will help you dress gently, stand you in front of the small vanity to sit as he does your hair for you in the styles you both preferred on you and he was an expert in. Stopping by the dining hall to eat briefly before his day started, and Jon was King, so he had duties to attend to. And that routine scarcely ever changed.

N = Night (How are nights spent with them?)

Robb:

They would go one of two ways. Some nights, Robb felt the burden of this war bearing down on his shoulders. He’d be hunched over his desk in his tent writing and reading and planning and plotting. You’d be laying in bed trying to entice him to come sleep, but those nights it was impossible. He had too much to do and too much on his mind. Night would come and go and by the time he would consider sleeping it was so early to morning that it would be a waste. Those nights were not fun, they were the roughest on him and Robb tried to lessen how often he’d stay up so preoccupied with this war. He also simply put, didn’t like how much it kept him from enjoying you.

The rest of the nights? There also was a routine, but slower. It would start with undressing the other down to each of your softer night clothes. Having a meal together, and on a good night? A bath would be drawn which you both would take turns washing the other. Some nights you’d both stay there for a while, enjoying the others company. Other times you’d both get out and Robb would enjoy you in other ways. If you did not fall right asleep, thats when you both would find ways to preoccupy the other until you both got tired enough to sleep. Those nights were far more often then the previous kinds, and Robb was trying to work on them happening more often then not.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Nights were the same as his mornings. Routine, routine, routine. Only as a boy, Jon would drift asleep trying to come to terms with how in love with his best friend he was. That transitioned to being with you and resenting he couldn’t fall asleep beside you, to being at the Wall, and clinging to any memory of your sounds, looks, or touch to create a phantom of you in his mind to fall asleep to.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Nights were sort of the same as his mornings, but slower. Jon could take every task left and slow it right down, take his time to enjoy the quiet, the peace, and you. Undress you as he did the morning, you both taking your time with one another in a bath. He would sit at his desk and get work done while now you were there either helping for doing your own tasks which calmed him, giving him peace of mind that he always knew where you were. And many if not all nights would end with him in some way, taking you to bed. But that was another discussion entirely.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Robb:

Robb is lucky for how long he’s known you. At this point, there was very little for him to find out about you or you about him. Fifteen years of friendship before marrying you left little up to the imagination. That being said, marriage did mean there were some new things to learn about each other. More gentle and intimate details and Robb was perfectly content letting that all sit out in the open. What he liked, what he was like, what he wanted, none of which he’d leave your many times confused little head to figure out on your own.

Robb knew you had things he still didn’t know about, but you were always more reserved. More quiet about yourself, much like the way Jon could be which clearly was why you both were such good friends. But because Jon was like that, it meant Robb could handle that with you. You didn’t keep things to yourself to be malicious, sometimes he knew you would simply not know how to bring it up. Robb would put it together some times, and others not so much. But he was fine that you were slower to open up completely, because you accepted how open he was. Together it was as if you both completed the other.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Taking his time with you was important. He could always tell you were shy and timid, and needed to get used to even having friends the way Jon was offering. If he bombarded you with details about himself, there was no telling if that may simply scare you off. You were slow to open up, and Jon felt it fair to match that energy. Of course, he was keeping one big, fat secret that he was in love with you. Never telling you that he was so in love that as a boy, he would daydream about the ways he could convince his father to find a way to let him marry you. He never revealed those and never would, even now. Those were simply a little too embarrassing to admit.

It got easier when you both were older, and used to being together. Those quiet nights up far too late for your own good, talking and joking about anything you both could think of. You and Jon learned little details then which he treasured forever, and he knew you took to heart. Those moments, Jon opened up more then he had with anyone else. In truth, if he casted aside any of the physicality of him romancing you, it was those small little moments before his fire in his bedchambers that he treasured the most. Two quiet, reserved people opening up because it was just so natural with the other.

Jon Post Resurrection:

There was very little Jon had to hide from you now. There was a bond there, something deeper then love or friendship that tied him to you and you to him. Jon didn’t even need to be able to read you so well to understand what was going on inside your mind, and even more literally, your dreams. There was something tethering you both to one another and it made keeping secrets something near impossible now.

Even if he had secrets to keep that mattered, Jon did not feel compelled to keep them to himself. He wanted to tell you, he knew how you would react and why your reaction mattered. That was really all there was. That was it. Jon was open with you as could be, and implored you to feel safe and understanding that you could do the same, because that connection, that bond, that love between you both was now so strong that not being open was barley an option anymore.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

Robb:

It was not that he was an impatient man, it was that the manner which Robb displayed his discontent with things might come off as impatient to the untrained eye. His men saw most of this side. His tone and demeanour darkening, and even though he would normally use slow and clear words it was laced with a bitter poison that would burn your skin were they to be directed to you. It was how he learned to establish his authority amongst so many lords which were older and more experienced then him. They perceived it as a lack of patience rather then them being put in their place. He never had to be angry when doing it, when Robb yelled in anger, that was when the men knew they had screwed up monumentally.

But with you? Robb couldn’t be more patient if he tried. He didn’t care about rushing you. Sometimes of course he’d persuade you into things, his patience almost being used as a seduction tool against you, but that was only in the bedroom. In your lives together, Robb would always allow you to take your time. He never had any reason to rush you. After all, you’d never get short with him, so why would be get angry with you.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

That door could swing open in either direction. Usually, Jon was very patient. He wasn’t losing his temper and would keep his cool. Or at least, thats what he was like now. It took a lot of time to develop that skill. Jon knew he had a short temper, and it took years to reign that in. He never let it out on someone who didn’t deserve it, sometimes he was just angry and impatient when talking to someone but it was not personal to them. But with someone he cares about? Jon would get angry and impatient, but usually on their behalf. Once you were someone Jon cared about, it was a lot harder then anyone thought to make him mad at you.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Jon was a strange combination. He could both be a very patient man, but also a very quick tempered one. He could jump to anger and yet use all of the time in the world to stew on that anger. Death and returning to life had not changed that about himself. He seldom found patience for pomp or elongated formal routines. He wanted to get to the point to get to what mattered.

It was you he was patient with, caring for your much more soft and sensitive mind then the one he left you with. Only once had he taken his anger out on you, and Jon had and would continue to go to the ends of the world and back to prove he’d never do it again. It was an awful truth he learned, and took it out on the only person near, the one who told him that truth, you. He would never do it again, and you fully trusted in that.

Q = Quizzes (How much would they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Robb:

Raised as the heir to Winterfell, it is safe to say that if Robb was not born with a good memory, he was raised to gain one. Afterall he had places and lords and knights and servants and people and towns to oversee. Names of the families families and beyond. He had a lot of information rolling around in his head, but he was at this point well organized about keeping them in order. He could compartmentalize things and keep himself from losing his mind.

With you though? He’s known you since he was ten years old. It would have to be a failure of grand proportions for Robb to not know every little detail about you. Some he didn’t even realize he remembered years later until it came up in passing. But he’d known you for so long that you were hardly a stranger. What he learned since being married? Well, those were new details to remember which made them even less likely to be forgotten. Learning things about you after thinking he’d known all there was, was exciting. Seeing you in a new light and he eagerly treasured everything he’d learn about you.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Truly, what even is there to say? He knew everything about you, because he watched you all the time. You haunted him, he saw you in everything and everyone and it was only because he knew so much about you, that he could connect the smallest of dots and lead it back to you. Jon wanted to know everything there was to know about you, and he had the memory to ensure it would never go away. He feared using the word obsessed, but, if he were to be brutally honest with himself, yes, he knew everything about you, because his love for you always bordered an obsession, which included knowing everything there was to know about the pretty Baratheon girl in his home.

Jon Post Resurrection:

There is little to even elaborate on. Jon remembered everything and anything about you when you were just a pretty Baratheon princess he was in love with. Now you were his wife, and you both were linked by blood in a very dark and unchanging magic sort of manner. If he knew everything there was to know about you before, Jon knew even more now and he doubted that even somehow losing all of his memory in some horrid accident would truly rid him of the knowledge he learned and held about you. Because everything he knew about you was in his heart, not his mind.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Robb:

There was only one answer. Everything had fallen apart. Theon had long since betrayed them, his mother betrayed him by freeing the Kingslayer, his plan to capture and kill the Mountain had somehow been ruined and his plans to second handedly assist Stannis Baratheon sailing on Kings Landing by keeping the Lannister forces distracted had thusly fallen out too. News came that his grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully had finally passed after being ill for many years at the same time news that Winterfell had been burned down and Bran and Rickon were likely dead added on top.

Robb had gone the entire day trying to keep himself together. Finally in the room he was to use as his bedchambers for the next few nights, he sat on the edge of it and allowed the emotions to flow. He hadn’t cried the way he did when learning of his father, this was more of a defeated cry. Tears fell from his eyes without much fuss as he hid his head in his hands. Then you had walked in.

Nervous and wide eyed, you went to him to soothe his pain right away. Robb was receptive to it, as he declared that you only had each other anymore. But you had other ideas. Opening up his palm you dragged it under your clothes to rest upon your stomach and gently stated, “You have us.” Us, him, you, and a baby in your belly. It was an instant change the moment he put it together. Robb had many happy memories of you both, but nothing beat learning in the darkest of moments, that you both were to have a child together. It would always be a memory Robb would treasure until the end of his days.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

That would be the night he kissed you. A game of hunt, you, Robb, and Jon would play it for fun out in the wolfswood at children, but now older with Theon it was more of a challenge. You and Theon were quick and good at hiding, and Robb and Jon knew the wolfswood like the back of their hand. They’d hunt you both, and were one or both of you to not get caught by the middle of the night, you’d win.

It had begun pouring rain as the sky turned dark, Theon had been found. You hadn’t. Robb tried to get you to give up, but you likely thought it was a trick. Jon stayed behind to find you, perhaps, with intentions he wasn’t entirely sure he had yet. By the time he caught you, he could tell the air had shifted. He could tell you felt a charge and that something was going on. You tried to run, but he panicked. If you left now, Jon may never find the courage ever again and he couldn’t waste this single opportunity. So he made you stop, turned you to press your back against a tree and with only a few short and painfully tense seconds passing, Jon made his choice and kissed you.

Many things that happened in the years since that moment, but that one? Jon knew that memory would stay with him forever. The kiss he was terrified to give you, but opened the gates to a mutual love that he’d keep close to his heart until the day he died, and even then, not even death could pry that memory away from him.

Jon Post Resurrection:

There were a few which stood out. Guilty, Jon knew many of which were filthy. That night on Bear Island when he finally managed to get you to open up to him, feel comfortable around him the way he knew you were craving but felt guilty about. That first night when you brought him back, how chaotic his mind was while trapped with Ghosts, both their consciousnesses blending together in such a strange way both he and his direwolf feared would be forever. Then returning and knowing somehow it was by your hands? Seeing you was one thing, wide eyed and fearful not knowing it was not danger you were walking in on, but something you both thought at one point you’d lost. He dared not retread the manner which he took you multiple times, lest his mind dive far too deep in a perverse thought he could not escape.

But there was one innocent one, one he never thought he’d have because one day he saw you on the opposite end of such a sight years earlier. He watched you marry Robb under the Winterfell Weirwood in the summer air surrounded by strangers. But, then it was Jons turn. He was the one who married you under the Winterfell Weirwood in the perfect snowy winter surrounded only by people whom cared about you both, and you both to them. How quiet it was, and this time how that quiet was not filled with his mind in agony, but peace. Feeling your gloved hand under his as you both knelt before the heart tree to prey, and how he lost a little of his reserved sensibilities and kissed you. Perhaps a little too passionately. Twice. But it was a romantic daydream he thought of many times as a young lad and long since given up having with you, and yet here you both were. Choosing it of your own volition. Not even the night you shared together in his bed could top the ceremony itself, not a single thing.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

Robb:

As King in the North, there is no lacking of protection at his own back. Everywhere he went, men and guards followed especially here in the south at war. He was not particularly thoughtful of his protection, because he had what he could have and made it work as best he could for a man who’d ride into battle at his mens sides.

As for you? He was very protective. Losing you would be devastating. With no room for question, Greywind would follow you no matter what. The direwolf was fine with it, feeling both antsy at war and not in battle, and Robbs love for you extended to his wolf. Guards followed you as well when necessary, but really? Keeping you right at his side was Robbs protection. He knew where you were and what you were doing and how safe you were that way. If he could see you, feel you, hear you? His mind was at ease. He could rest well knowing you were safe at his side. Perhaps he should award you with more freedom sometimes, but as long as you didn’t truly complain, Robb would continue to let his protectiveness be overbearing.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

He’s always been protective. When he was young, Jon would stand over you almost like a guard dog. Or a guard wolf really. You were small and innocent and adorable and he felt a deep and burning need in his blood to keep you safe. He always could be found watching over you if time permitted, and he knew spending time with you was the best way to protect you.

That didn’t change the older he got, and in truth, it didn’t change at all. Jon did the same things, only now you knew why he was so protective, and you still didn’t protest. A bit of pride could fill Jons chest, that you even now, were still appreciative that he would always watch over you.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Jon? Protective? What ever could you mean? If anything were to happen to you, Jon would station every single guard in as many locations as he could and make sure Theon ensured you had two guards following you at all times at the least. He never has spoken it to you, but he and Theon have indeed had discussions about protocol in regards to your safety as both are aware that you sometimes let your own self preservation fall lax in favour of doing things for other people. He is just waiting for the day someone tries to go too far with you in any way to let it all out, and everyone including you will see how protective their new King in the North will become about his wife.

But personally? Jon watches you like a hawk. His dark eyes always seeing, his keen ears always hearing, and his senses merely knowing where you are in relation to him in the room. He has Ghost follow you often, and many times, not that he would tell you, has gone into Ghosts mind to watch over you himself during the middle of the day if he can spare the time. He is possessive and obsessive about keeping you safe, and most would and will see it as overprotective and overbearing, but Jon can genuinely do no less when it comes to you. Without you, he would he a shadow of his former shadow.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Robb:

He’s at war, he does what he can. Meals are not extravagant. There’s no where he can take you. There isn’t much of anything for special days or name days that you could give each other. At any time, you would have to pack up and leave or lose something charging into battle. What you offered each other out here was emotions, was support and love. Not tangible gifts. Were Robb able to take you back to Winterfell where you both belonged? Of course he would spoil you endlessly, but he had to keep focused. Not spend too much time in the fantasy that was nowhere close just yet.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

He couldn’t do much. He had to be careful. Anything too elaborate could get him caught, and you caught, and it would all be over. There were times Jon would plan out days to spend with you out in the wolfswood, but that wasn’t anything special. That was necessary, planning out how to spend as much close time with you in private as possible, where, and when would be too long that it would be suspicious. You both tried, gifting each other small things that would mean a lot to the other, but Jon was unable to give you what you deserved. He couldn’t afford too, not if he didn’t want to get caught.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Jon does not have much in the way of opportunity to do things for you in a traditional sense. What anniversary would you two celebrate? Thats far too complicated and too much pressure for both of you, his duties and yours leave the day to day very busy and no time for anything such as dates or courtship. Neither of you have been very good at giving each other proper gifts for celebrations or name days nor does Jon want to put pressure on you by doing more, because he knows it would wrongly pressure you into thinking he expects you to do more when he doesn’t want that.

What Jon does do, is make up for it in a slightly insecure way. You many times now lost all of your possessions. Most of what you owned had been in Kings Landing, which were lost to you the moment Ser Barristan Selmy smuggled you through the tunnels underneath the Red Keep and out of the city. Then anything you and Robb acquired when at war were lost when the Boltons and the Freys betrayed and butchered you both. Anything you owned when a prisoner of the Boltons were not yours and you would rather burn everything they made you own or wear then keep it for keeps sake. You had arrived at Castle Black in clothes they gave you, and when Jon had what little of clothes in the Nights Watch he could have made tailored to you, you wore those and left the rest behind until Maege and Alysane Mormont gifted you more proper clothes on Bear Island. Everything you owned after that? Was because of Jon.

Was it insecure? That he was trying to make up for being a bastard, by giving you everything he could? Possibly, but he did it anyways under the guise of simply giving you your belongings back. He had dresses made for you all the time, had books found or sent to Winterfell to fill the little bookshelf he had made for you in the bedchambers because he knows you miss all of the unique collections you had in Kings Landing. Jon spoiled you in those sorts of gifts, but truly, he didn’t quite know how to stop.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Robb:

His jealousy was his worst habit. You didn’t seem to mind it, but Robb knew it could be a problem in his own relationship to other men. He didn’t often let you see the effects of his jealousy, but his men did and sometimes that could only add on top of his jealousy because now you were further the centre of attention. Which only encouraged his jealousy further.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Truth be told, Jons worst habit was you. Keeping you a secret, not giving you the romance and care you so publicly deserved. Not courting you the way a lord would or should, but in the shadows were he ruined things about your purity because he couldn’t stop himself. He never went too far, but it didn’t mean Jon was not aware that he was not treating you with the proper respect. He was not treating you the way a royal girl deserved. He knew he was reckless by being with you, but he couldn’t stop. It was Jons worst habit, but he couldn’t stop.

Jon Post Resurrection:

He is possessive, obsessive, and near addicted to you. Jon knows it is a problem, you are so much of his life. Maester Wolkan put it perfectly once. Since he was brought back from death, Jon has genuinely never known a life you were not in. You brought him back and have been at his side every single day since. You did not. You came back to life alone and traumatized and tormented and tortured. So he knows he is more obsessive about you then you are him to a degree that makes him feel a bit mad. He should be more reasonable about you then he often is, but he cannot help it now and it is terrible and scares him. He was once scared it would all frighten you off, but now hes more aware of how it looks to others. The North has more or less gotten used to it, but how will he appear to any outsiders? It was hard to say and Jon was certainly not looking forward to finding out.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Robb:

Not in an extreme sense was he overly concerned with his looks. Obviously, Robb had eyes. He knew he was handsome, and he knew women thought he was handsome. Bright and bold blue eyes, brown and reddish rich curls, and years of training had sculpted him with muscle. He took a certain pride in his appearance but he was not vain about it. His life and person was not defined by how he looked, it simply encouraged a bit of confidence more then before.

The only time he truly realized how much he cared about how he looked, was when you were to arrive in Winterfell with the Kings company. You knew what he looked like, it wouldn’t come as a shock but it really felt as if there was a pressure to reassure you that you should be happy with all aspects of marrying him. He wanted you to be attracted to him, but really, it did not take much to put together that you were. How quickly your mind was getting used to the idea of being with him and by your wedding night together? Robb knew you and he were as attracted to each other as you truly should be.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Jon was not terribly concerned with how he looked. It was the perception of who he was as a bastard that mattered to him. Not what they thought of his looks. He looked how he looked and whatever care he put into it was nothing compared to how be obsessed with the way people perceived him. He knew you found him attractive, and that was the only validation he needed. He put in the effort of himself for you, and the rest of it was whatever it was. You were the only thing worth charming, and if you didn’t complain about how he looked, Jon would not spend his time fussing over it for your non existent sake.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Truly, you are attracted to him. Thats all that matters. He thinks little of how he looks, his shape, his scars, his hair, any of it. You like how he looks and there isn’t a single thing that would matter to Jon more then that. People can say what they want, as long as you’re happy looking at him, thats all the validation he needs that he’s doing enough to impress you as he believes a husband should.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

Robb:

You were always important to Robb, but now? Now you were his whole life. He dragged you from battlefield to battlefield, fighting one side of a war to another and watching the toll it took on both of you. But, you were all each other had in the end. Your love for each other and now the child growing inside of you? What Robb would do without you? He couldn’t imagine a life beyond you.

Returning home? One day being forced to remarry and have a child that wasn’t the one he created with you? Robb didn’t want to feel whole without you, there was a comfort in being so in need of each other. Being out at war, who did he have? His brother sworn to a new life, two of his brothers first hostages and now dead, one sister missing and likely dead, and another still a hostage he won’t know if he’d ever see again. His father dead, his mother betrayed his trust, his friend betrayed his family? Robb only had you, and with how split your family was, you only had him. Robbs entire life was you, and in truth, at that point, he was okay with that.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

He could, but by necessity. Jon was going to give you up one day. He was being selfish by keeping you the way he did. He felt complete when he was with you, but how complete was he truly when he knew it would not last. He had to be his own person outside of that. He had to be complete without you, because one day you wouldn’t be there. He cheated a little, taking your heart with him to the Wall meant he never really let you go. You stayed in his memory for that entire time and perhaps yes, once could say Jon didn’t feel complete without a part of you. But he had no choice but to handle it, and when you were dead, well, that completeness was clearly important to him. Because he felt more dead inside without you in the world then ever before. He only had no idea how much that would change one fateful night.

Jon Post Resurrection:

No. All Jon knows in his soul, is that he is made for you and you him. Something stronger then love is there in his veins burning for you like he’s been strapped to a pyre only you are there with him, feeling the same. Something between you both has put you on each others path to such a powerful degree that it used to scare him. He thinks it still scares you, but that is alright. He is happy to be brave enough for both of you as long as you need him to be, because he is never going anywhere. He had to give you up once, and it lead to both of your deaths. In this new life, where you are the one to bring him back of all people? Jon will never let you go again, and he couldn’t.

Death is the only way that could tear you from Jon at this point, and even then, Jon knows he would do whatever it took to be the one to bring you back to him that time. Nothing would tear you both apart anymore, he would not be himself without you. He would walk, and talk, and fight for his people but everything that brought Jon back a man, a human, it would all be for nothing without you. Without you, he would walk this world a husk of a man that used to have a heart and soul.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Robb:

He’s never told you about when he was fourteen. He doesn’t quite recall when or why it begun, but he remembered looking at you differently. At twelve you were still short and young and innocent, but there was part of you that was mature. Your nature, your mind and truthfully, were you not so short then, you looked his age at the minimum. It was easy to fall for you in a heavy crush.

You were his first real crush that meant anything, and he had once made the mistake of telling his mother and backtracking saying not to ever bring it up. It went away on it’s own, he never would’ve gone to you about it especially when you were so innocent. But it existed, and when he was told he was to marry you, in truth? It made adjusting to it so much easier. Robb knew he was never going to have a difficulty falling for you.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

When Jon was finally considering if making love to you was something you would both be interested in, Jon had a dirty little secret. He never followed through on it, but it came into his mind. He wanted to make sure it was good for you, that it was memorable. Jon was as much a virgin as yourself, but he wanted to take care of you. You’d be a scared thing in his bed, and he needed to be confident. But, he didn’t know how. So he considered it. Only finding his way to the Winter Town brothel to ask the whores there for advice. But, the bastard son of Ned Stark being seen going into the brothel? He’d never hear the end of it, and he never would want you to think he was being unfaithful. So, he never did it, but he wanted too. Just to ask them what to do, how to make you feel good. Instead, he went into that afternoon having to trust his instincts, and perhaps, for his confidence’s sake, it was a good thing that in the end, both of you changed your minds.

Jon Post Resurrection:

It is a very small thing, but he would feel embarrassed if you knew. Jon knew you loved to read, and that you must have had such a wonderful collection in Kings Landing. When on Dragonstone, one morning Jon walked the castle alone. He came across a grand library full of books and scrolls, half of which were in a language he did not know, only assuming it must have been High Valyrian. He could imagine you in here for hours and hours looking and reading through everything you could. He had gone to Selyse, asking if there were any books he should take back with him to suprise you with. Where you were he didn’t even know, but she pulled out so many. Half all in High Valyrian but she assured Jon that these were ones you read time and time again always deeply invested, and many more in common that he could understand your appeal in them.

Even now, he still asked her for more suggestions. He’d ask any in Winterfell now who knew you as a girl what to have brought in for you to read. You never said it, but you knew it was suspicious that the little bookshelf he brought into the chambers for you was full of titles and books he never would’ve heard of or known to bring in for you. But you read them happily all the same, and that made it worth it. Afterall, Jon still had trunk loads of books which he hadn’t let you know he brought over for you yet, and slowly would build your new little personal library in Winterfell a bit at a time just because he knew seeing a new title on the shelf made you happy.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

Robb:

In a partner, Robb has a few things which are important to him. Many of which tied in together. You had to be someone who respected who he was as a Northmen, respect the North itself, his family, his beliefs and causes. You should have your own opinions and feel free to say them of course, but as a partner, as a wife at his side? You needed to be on his side. Robb’s beliefs and values were of great important to him as they were for many Starks, and he needed someone who wouldn’t stand there and fight him on the basis of what he believed.

He needed to be able to make the hard choices, and not have his wife stand opposite to him and tell him he’s wrong. There are things he needs to do as a Lord and now a King, and he needs a wife who won’t disrespect the heavy burden which comes with that. He will always take care of you, but in your own way, he needs you to take care of him right back. He needs a wife who will give and take, your strengths match his weaknesses, and his strengths carry for yours. Anyone who can’t give him that, would be a wife Robb would have great difficulty in adjusting to.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

Forward, aggressive women. Truth be told, Jon never considered what kind of woman he didn’t like, until he met Ygritte. That was the harsh lesson he learned. She was everything you were not, and whatever similarities you shared were superficial. She took all of those to the extreme enough that it didn’t matter anymore. She was angry where you were sweet, she could be dense where you were incredibly smart and perceptive, she was aggressive where you were considerate, she was loud and mean where you were quiet and gentle.

He foolishly thought he could pretend to not love you anymore, just to be able to pretend to love her, but it was stupid. It got him shot full of arrows, and a deep understanding that it was pointless to ever think he would replace your love. But, it he had to pretend ever again, Jon knew it could never be a repeat of what Ygritte put him through. You never forced Jon to do anything against his will.

Jon Post Resurrection:

In truth, it had not come to pass yet. But he was waiting for the day it would and he hated that he still did not have a plan of how to handle it without issue. If Aegon Targaryen sits the Iron Throne, he would never at this point agree to his aunt, the Daenerys Targaryen to be his Queen nor did he think from what little he hear do the woman, would she want that either. But, Aegon would need someone strong at his side, stronger then most Queens in recent passed. And Jon knew who that strong Queen was.

You were married to Jon, and when you had children it would be even more difficult to make happen, but Jon had a terrible feeling that the men around Aegon were smart enough to recognize the power of combining the feuding Targaryen and Baratheon on the Iron Throne once and for all after all of the fighting and rebellion, and Aegon likely would begin to see the benefit in that union as well. He did not know what would happen when the day came that such an idea came to fruition and turned into something akin to a plan, but Jon was desperately working away in his mind at how to stop it. He was only a bastard after all, and in the eyes of many in the south, him being a bastard was an insult at your side, and someone like the true heir to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen would be a fitting suitor for you.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habits of theirs?)

Robb:

Robb’s sleeping habit is that he will always sense you moving. If you try to slip from bed, he will yank you back into his chest. Even without being awake, Robb can sense where you’re going and if he can help it, will make you stay with him for as long as he can keep you. If not, Greywind has been known to wake up in his place and follow you. Robb wouldn’t call himself a needy man, but when he has you, his pretty little wife in bed, especially out in a war? He’s keeping you with him as long as possible before he needs to get up and face the day. His men and this war can wait twenty more minutes for him to get his fill of feeling your soft self pressed up against his front.

Jon Pre Resurrection:

He struggled with sleep. He always had. He’d have strange, dark, melancholic dreams that would almost plague him with a sense of doom. He slept alone his entire life, despite knowing what it felt like to have you in his arms. Sleep always came to him with difficulty, both in falling asleep and with how often he’d wake up in the middle of the night only to struggle once more to fall back asleep. He’d get up and do things to occupy his mind, he’d wander, some nights even finding himself in the training yard alone hoping to let out that energy he couldn’t do anything with otherwise. Sometimes he thought maybe he’d sleep better were you next to him, but Jon would then glance in the general direction of the corridor your own chambers were in, and told himself with anger to give that dream up. Once the dreams started at Castle Black, that sleep got no better, and it only got worse and worse until that night came where his own brothers were prepared to put him to sleep for good.

Jon Post Resurrection:

Jon hates sleeping without you in his arms. There have been very few times you have not slept in his arms since you and he reunited, but those few times drove Jon mad. He despised them, he barley slept. He would take Ghost and sit in the Godswood the way his father used to after a kill to stew in his thoughts in the eyes of the Old Gods. Only it was simply a very grumpy man who missed his wife.

When you both did sleep in the same bed, he stayed awake longer then you. Watching over you as you slept to make sure he could protect you from even your own nightmares. He never told you about how often he had nightmares of his own. Nor that he would wake up many times and rip the sheets and furs off of you to push up the thin fabric of your shift to look at the scars on your womb, and up more to see your chest breathing in your sleep. He’d feel the scars littered about his chest, then feel his beating heart over the final one and pull everything back into place, then drawing you back closer into his arms before trying to settle long enough to sleep once more.

[rizzmura]

under your skin; what are we doing

enemy!niki x fem!reader

warnings: strong language, mild sexual tension, suggestive themes, enemies-to-lovers dynamic, light teasing/flirting, angst, heated banter, emotionally charged moments

w.c.: 2.7k

chapter four synopsis: things get complicated as you try to navigate this new dynamic. are you friends? enemies? something more? niki is all mixed signals, and you can't figure out if you’re supposed to love him or hate him. every step forward feels like two steps back, and your feelings grow more confusing by the day... but niki makes his decision by kissing... someone who wasnt you.

the kiss still lingered in your mind, but you couldn’t let it consume you—not with everything else going on. you told yourself it was just a moment, a fluke. but the tension between you and niki was like a constant hum in the background, a buzz you couldn’t shake. it was annoying, distracting—yet undeniably intriguing.

you had never been more frustrated in your life.

it was a regular day at the café, your favorite spot for a little peace and quiet. or so you thought. you were trying to focus on some work when you heard a familiar voice—loud, cocky, as always.

“working hard or hardly working?” niki’s voice broke through the air like a wrecking ball.

you rolled your eyes, not even looking up. “what do you want, niki?”

you heard the soft scrape of a chair, and before you knew it, his figure was looming over you, that damn smirk of his plastered across his face. it was maddening.

“just thought i’d join you,” he said, settling into the seat across from you without asking. “you always look so serious when you’re here. what’s the fun in that?”

you shot him a side-eye but didn’t respond. it was clear by now he liked to get under your skin, and you had learned to deal with it—barely.

“so, what are we doing here today?” he asked, leaning back in his chair, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to figure you out.

“trying to get some work done,” you muttered, but his presence alone made it nearly impossible. you tried to focus on the screen, typing out the words as if the task would somehow help you ignore him. but it was useless. niki was always there, always in the way.

“work, huh?” niki grinned. “don’t tell me you’re actually productive in here. i thought this was your little hideout to avoid the world.”

you glared at him, but he didn’t even flinch. if anything, his smirk only deepened. “maybe i just prefer peace and quiet, something you clearly don’t understand.”

he raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by your attempt to shut him down. “i get peace and quiet just fine. i can be quiet when i want to be.” his gaze lingered on you for a beat too long. “but you don’t seem to like it when i’m quiet, do you?”

the words stung more than they should have. you didn’t want to admit it, but he was right. something about his presence—his cocky, infuriating presence—was impossible to ignore. the last few weeks had only made it worse. and the kiss? that was just a blip on your radar, right? a one-time thing. a stupid mistake. you weren’t going to think about it.

“not really,” you snapped, trying to recover. “but i’ve learned to deal with it.”

he chuckled, a sound that made your stomach twist. “you’re lying. you love the way i get under your skin. it’s cute.”

your face flushed with frustration. “cute?” you shook your head, exasperated. “you’re so annoying.”

“and yet, here we are,” niki replied smoothly, his eyes sparkling with that damned arrogance. “you’ve got me here, sitting across from you, talking to you. so what does that say about you, huh?”

the words hit you harder than you expected, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to respond. it was true. he was right. you couldn’t ignore him, couldn’t push him away, no matter how much you tried. it was like he had a permanent place in your mind, whether you wanted him there or not.

“are we friends, or enemies, niki?” you asked before you could stop yourself, the question hanging in the air like a loaded gun.

niki tilted his head, his grin widening. “i think we’re something else entirely,” he said, voice teasing. “but maybe you’re too scared to admit it.”

your pulse quickened, but you kept your expression neutral, trying to hide the growing uncertainty in your chest. “what the hell does that even mean?”

“oh, i think you know exactly what i mean,” he replied, leaning forward slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “but i’m not going to make it easy for you. you’re smart—figure it out.”

before you could respond, niki stood up, pushing his chair back with a loud scrape that made you flinch. he flashed you one last look, that damn teasing smile on his face. “i’ll leave you to it,” he said, shrugging like it was no big deal.

“you’re such an asshole,” you muttered, more to yourself than to him.

“yeah, i know,” niki called over his shoulder, his voice dripping with amusement. “but you can’t seem to get enough of me, can you?”

you watched him walk away, your heart pounding in your chest. it was like he always had the last word, and you hated it. you hated the way your pulse raced whenever he was around, the way he could make your blood boil and your heart flutter at the same time.

you were getting caught in a web, and no matter how much you tried to pull away, you couldn’t escape.

what were you doing? what was this? it felt like you were spinning in circles, chasing your own tail, unable to break free.

the more you tried to distance yourself from him, the more you realized: maybe you didn’t want to.

the café felt quieter now, almost unnervingly so, after niki walked out. you tried to focus on your work again, but it was impossible. his words, his smirk, his entire presence—everything about him lingered in the space like a ghost, haunting you, and you hated it. hated that you couldn’t just brush him off like you did with everyone else.

you tapped your fingers against the desk, trying to ignore the way your mind kept wandering back to him. figure it out. that’s what he said. like it was some kind of challenge, one that you had no choice but to take on. the audacity. the nerve. and yet, here you were, stuck in your own tangled mess of feelings that made no sense at all.

it was clear by now that niki wasn’t making this easy. he wasn’t going to just disappear and let you move on. every time you thought you had it figured out, he showed up again, a damn mystery wrapped in an enigma that made your heart race and your head spin.

you sighed heavily, leaning back in your chair. maybe you were overthinking it. maybe you should just let it go—tell yourself that the kiss, the arguments, the tension, were all just... meaningless. a silly game that had gotten out of hand.

but when your phone buzzed, you glanced down and froze. a text from niki.

“you looked cute when you were mad. just thought you should know.”

your heart skipped a beat, and you bit your lip, resisting the urge to throw your phone across the room. it was so typical of him to send something so infuriatingly casual, like he didn’t just blow your entire emotional equilibrium to pieces with that simple message.

you could feel your anger bubbling up again, but also something else—something sharp, something that made your skin feel hot and your pulse quicken. you didn’t want to admit it, but you missed the banter, the push and pull, the strange game you’d been playing since the moment you met him. as much as you hated it, you missed him.

you typed out a quick reply, fingers trembling with frustration and maybe something else.

“go to hell, niki.”

it was childish, sure. but it was the only response you had in the moment. you hit send, set your phone down, and tried to focus again, praying that this time, you could actually get some work done.

but then, your phone buzzed again.

“that’s the best you’ve got? you’re slipping.”

you groaned, slumping in your seat. he was impossible. was there no end to the games he played, no line he wouldn’t cross to get under your skin?

you opened your mouth to type another scathing retort, but before you could, the door to the café opened again. your stomach dropped when you saw him walk in—niki, of course. he spotted you immediately, his eyes lighting up in that all-too-familiar way. and then, as if nothing had happened, he was walking toward your table like he owned the place.

your chest tightened, but you refused to acknowledge it. you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral, even though the last thing you wanted was to deal with him right now.

niki pulled out the chair across from you without asking, settling into it like he had every right to be there.

“you know, i thought about what you said,” he began, his voice light, teasing, as if the moment before hadn’t happened at all. “and i think you’re right. you should really stop texting me back. it’s not good for you.”

you stared at him, biting back a sarcastic laugh. “werent you just here, asshole.”

he shrugged, clearly unfazed. “yeah and i came back, plus i’m just saying. if you didn’t respond, maybe i wouldn’t have to annoy you so much.”

you couldn’t stop yourself from snorting, the laugh coming out sharper than you intended. “yeah, because you’re so easy to ignore.”

a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. “that’s the fun part, isn’t it? you pretend like you don’t want to talk to me, but we both know better.”

your heart gave a strange, uncomfortable lurch at the implication, but you pushed it down. no. not today, not ever.

“keep dreaming, niki.” you tried to keep your voice steady, but there was a hint of something in your tone that even you couldn’t ignore. a challenge, maybe. or something more dangerous. you weren’t sure which.

but niki wasn’t letting it go. he leaned in closer, lowering his voice just enough for you to hear, but not enough for anyone else to.

“you want to pretend you don’t feel it?” he said, his gaze intense now, a far cry from his usual teasing. “pretend that you don’t feel something whenever i’m around?” he paused, letting the words hang between you. “we both know it’s there.”

you swallowed hard, every instinct in you telling you to push him away, to tell him to fuck off and leave you alone. but the truth was, you did feel it. and it terrified you.

“so what, now you’re going to admit it?” you snapped, hoping to put the question back on him. to turn the tables, make him the one feeling exposed.

but niki just leaned back in his chair, that infuriating smirk returning. “no need to admit anything, sweetheart. we both know the score.”

you opened your mouth to argue, but then you stopped yourself. he was right. you both knew what was happening, even if neither of you wanted to fully acknowledge it.

for a moment, the air between you felt charged, thick with something unspoken. you could feel the pull again, that damn magnetic attraction that made your skin itch and your heart race. and yet, you both danced around it, pretending that you didn’t know what was happening.

maybe that was the game all along.

“i’m not the one with the problem,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady.

“no, you’re not,” niki replied, his grin still there, but there was something else in his eyes now—something deeper, something that made you question just how much of this was a game. “but i think we both know you’re not really mad at me.”

you didn’t answer. because the truth was, you weren’t mad. at least, not the way you should have been.

you were just... caught. and no matter how hard you tried to deny it, the lines between hate and something else were getting blurrier by the second.

《》

tag list

@ramenoil @strawberrynull @si3rren @rikidaze @yangjungwonnie @hehabi @ijustreallylike2read

[dramioneasks]

HP FESTS: The Dramione Archives (Part 2)

The Dramione Valentine’s Collab Collection 2025:

The Truth Will Set You Pink by baitswitch, Bana_Bhuidseach, didsomeonesay_dracomalfoy, iggygiraffe - E, 3 chapters - After Pansy schemes up a plan to help the post-war seventh and eighth years have a less lonely Valentine's Day, Draco is caught attempting to tamper with the results of his secret match. All Hermione wants is to teach Draco a lesson. All Draco wants is Hermione.

Fourteen Days by CeeLeeBells, kaycares, MaKayKirei, marigold_13 - E, one-shot - In a varied series of events, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger reconnect after the war. Through glimpses into their interwoven - but not always interconnected - lives one day a year, they learn to grow in ways that challenge them, individually and separately, to make the most of every day. - OR -A love story told in a single day over 14 years.

Time after Time by Dracos_library, Motherofdogs18, RavenclawViking, thistlethread - M, one-shot - Stop the clocks. Stop the clocks or turn around and leave. Don’t give me this moment if you know it can't last. Don't give me this moment if I can't have the next. And the next. And the next. --- Don't do this. Say more Or say less Or say nothing at all But don't go back on your promises. Again. And again. And again. --- Stop the clocks. This one is off the books. Tell me now or tell me never. What is it that you really feel? Or: The one where their friends force Draco and Hermione to attend a magical speed dating event on Valentines day.

Abduction Of The Heart by briarandbone, briarandtones, Erin11Ann23, garnetsyrup, KTPhoenix - E, 5 chapters - Valentine’s Day was supposed to be just another uneventful evening for Hermione Granger. Endure a dreadful blind date arranged by well-meaning friends, then retreat home to enjoy a bottle of wine and a book in solitude. But things take a fortuitous turn when Draco Malfoy, missing for nearly a decade, swoops in at the most opportune moment and abducts her. It turns out he’s an alien with ties to a mysterious plant she’s been studying for two years, AND she’s his fated mate! What began as a simple escape from routine has spiraled into something truly out of this world—something even she never saw coming.

Not so anonymous by elliemess, TeTe91, TiffyTea - T, one-shot - Every year Pansy Parkinson organises a Valentine's rose gift as an opportunity for the wizards to send a sign of appreciation to their female colleagues. This year's event comes with two changes, though: - you can add a note to your rose - the event is completely anonymous The latter change combined with watching his witch going without a rose on her desk over and over again convince Draco to take part. Too bad he and Pansy have a different understanding of 'anonymous' and he's now racing against time to prevent his witch from finding out he is the sender of her rose, and even worse the author of her note. OR Draco Malfoy doesn't read the small print.

In Your Dreams by Arang_9, augustaoctavia, orolin, TheBeepBoopBop - M, one-shot - Draco Malfoy has been irritating the hell out of Hermione Granger for the last few years. His charisma, his charm, his annoyingly attractive reading glasses—everything about him. So, there is absolutely no reason that a Valentine’s Weasley’s Wheezes product, marketed as ‘one night with your crush’, would leave her dreaming about him, is there? And, of course, there’s absolutely no way he would ever be dreaming about her too.

Through the Pink Haze by dramionelover1997, Lispodfics, Silver_Snidget, VintageCherry - T, one-shot - In order to save the potions department of the Ministry of Magic, Percy Weasley has challenged Hermione and her office nemesis, Tiamia, to both come up with a new potion to present to the Board of Directors at the Valentine’s Day Gala. With the chance to finally have her own office on the line, she takes the suggestion of her dear friend, Pansy Parkinson, and decides to make an antidote for the love potion-something the Ministry has been struggling to accomplish. What wasn’t in her plans, though, was Draco Malfoy getting dosed with the potion after a run in they had in the Department of Mysteries. Now with a love sick Draco who is whisking her away for a day full of dates, she is more than determined to make the antidote. She’ll just have to ignore the way her heart feels when she’s around him.

Objection: Overruled! by Cailynwrites, Moonluartt, Motherofdogs18, On_a_whimbrel - T, 8 chapters - Hermione is on track to becoming the most accomplished lawyer in the wizarding world—until her senior associate Percy Weasley decides to assign her a co-trainee to improve her teamwork. Now she’s stuck sharing an office with Draco Malfoy, of all people. Seven Valentine's Days. Two idiots. One unlikely partnership.

The (Im)Perfect Intervention by AutumnWeen, maple_unicorn, mistnyx, TrillbySkinner - T, one-shot - Theodore Nott was tired, and he wasn’t even a parent yet. On top of that, he had to deal with his best friend’s constant yapping about the woman he fancied. Fortunately for Theo, the Ministry sponsored “Love Fest Market” provided the perfect opportunity to intervene. Or Draco Malfoy was a pining mess over Hermione Granger, but refused to do anything about it. So, Theo did it for him.

'Till the Last Star Stops Burning by g0lden_g1rl, morgan_magic, sarahsempra, slytherin_scribe - E, one-shot - For Valentine’s Day, Draco and Hermione’s twins are beyond excited to show their parents the special surprises they planned for them. Adorable family fluff ensues, but once the little ones are picked up by their uncles for a sleepover, Draco shows his wife just how much he loves her – passionately.

The Death Eater's Heart by karma_cookie, Riria_art, SilverDragonGemini - E, one-shot - She removed the lid of the gift box with an air of hesitancy and was met with a runic-tattooed finger tucked neatly into it. A thin, black ribbon was tied around the digit with a note: Until I can put a ring on yours, this will have to do. — As the war wages on, Hermione faces a curious problem: unsavory gifts keep arriving at her office, complete with anonymous declarations of love.

Cupid's Cocktail by Dizzle00, MWard01, PaperCraneAudiobooks - E, one-shot - “Shut the fuck up, Theo.” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes, though his cheeks had a slight flush to them. “You’re worse than my mother.”“Well, I did kind of raise you,” Theo retorted, smugly. “Oh please. Which one of us had two loving parents growing up and which didn’t?” “Which one of us is in a long-term, healthy relationship,” Theo countered, pointedly eying Harry’s hand resting on his knee, “and which one lives alone except for coming over here everyday to stare longingly at my roommate’s arse in her new pajama shorts?” Hermione froze. Harry coughed Malfoy glowered. Theo, of course, smirked.

Dreams And Night Mares by LucyHyde, LunaP999, The_Taco_Writes - E, one-shot - Hermione Granger follows the trail of an extraordinary new magical creature — a hybrid of Thestrals and Abraxans — to Alaska assisted by Auror Draco Malfoy. The witch is keen to focus on her assignment but is thoroughly distracted by her partner. The one bed they are to share doesn't make it any easier. Neither does the ever present smirk on Malfoy’s face.

Veni, Vidi, Amavi by mangotart_reads, offthemap, Rchella_1401, writetimewrongmuse - M, one-shot - Once, on a Valentine’s night, they wandered the streets of a city that seemed to have conspired to bring them together. The hours slipped through their fingers, but the memory of it has long refused to let go. What happens when Hermione and Draco share a fleeting encounter in Florence on a night that was never meant to be theirs, and yet somehow was? What happens when the night ends, only to linger like the crescent moon, a sliver of light refusing to dull long into dawn? A journey takes place — a night is shared — an enemy turns more.

The Curse of Saint Valentine by Bekazimi, PearlButtons, Queen_Diana, sad_millennial - T, one-shot - Draco Malfoy cares little about Valentine’s Day, and cares even less about Hogwarts’s upcoming Valentine’s Day ball. What he does care about, however, is impressing his colleague and fellow professor: one Hermione Granger. Thus, Draco joins the faculty Party Planning Panel. All is well until his harebrained colleague, the ever-dim Liam Rutherford, brings the cursed skull of Saint Valentine into the mix. [[Featuring Professors Dramione, nosy students and portraits, and Draco’s quest to Live Attractively While Pink.]]

Fate Or Something Like It by EllieByrrdWrites (CSKasem), kitkat2kith, omniluci_estumbra, Reader_VIII - M, 3 chapters - Draco was blindsided, really, by her. And completely smitten. Which was upsetting, because it was Hermione Granger, and he was certain that they had nothing in common. It’s just that she was standing here now, in front of him, sashaying her hips to the music, smiling her gummy smile and charming him without even knowing. What made it worse is that none of it mattered because she still hated him. OR In which, Draco just wants a chance to really get to know Hermione better, so he has to take matters into his own hands when presented with a unique opportunity thanks to Theo's crazy idea to take part in a ritual with an ancient Roman jar.

Lust at Lupercalia by ANovelIdea13, Mermaidflete, shizade, teetorini - T, one-shot - Hermione Granger has never been a fan of Valentine's Day, and she certainly isn’t looking forward to Theo’s extravagant celebration, no matter what name he gives it. But when she’s unexpectedly locked in a Potioneering Lab with Draco Malfoy, she finds herself facing a more pressing dilemma: two phials of a mysterious potion with instructions to drink together.

This fest is ongoing.

[nolita-fairytale]

headcanon: reconnecting with your childhood friend, joaquin torres, after the blip

so let's establish right here and now that you were gone during the five years of thanos' snap, even though joaquin was not. all events in this headcanon take place before captain america: brave new world.

you and joaquin grew up in the same neighborhood in miami. your parents owned a small supermarket in the neighborhood which is how your parents meet joaquin's.

the two of you played together as kids and went to school together till high school.

both of your mothers swear that one day the two of you will get married--something you vehemently protest. knowing he intends on joining the military after graduation, you're insistent that: "there's no way in hell I'm becoming some army wife!"

joaquin doesn't take it to heart, instead choosing to tease you for just how much you loathe the idea. “we’ll it’s a good thing i’m joining the air force.”

he takes you to your senior prom, but it's not romantic. you've spent most of high school dating other people, if at all, and you're willing to chalk it up to the fact that you're childhood sweethearts who adore each other, who also have the rest of your lives ahead of you.

in the end, you decide to go to school out of state, and joaquin joins the military, which leads to the two of you growing apart. you're both trying on new things, exploring who you are, who you want to be, and what impact you want to make on the world separately. losing touch is just a natural thing that happens.

you haven't seen joaquin in a little over a year (christmas with your families barely count at this point because you're not exactly spending them with each other) when thanos' snap happens. joaquin helps your father grieve the loss of you and your mother, while he watches your father learn how to raise your little sister, alone. eventually, joaquin realizes he's found himself returning home less and less. it's too sad and there's too much to do to change the world his left living in.

in the years without you, the 'what ifs' are always in the back of his mind, especially because he'll never know now: what if? what if he'd kissed you at prom? what if you'd kept in touch? what if there was the potential for something more than friendship?

when everyone returns, joaquin comes home to miami to reunite with lost family members, his visit, for the first time in a long time, is no longer bittersweet.

what he's not expecting is to see you, helping your mother open up the shop one morning. it's not that he's forgotten, but he's shoved away so many painful memories of returning to a home without you--not to mention the many unknown variables of half of the population just... reappearing after five years--that seeing you again completely takes him by surprise.

"joaquin torres! holy shit is that really you?!" you shout, jumping into his arms before he even has a chance to process that he's seeing you for the first time in 5+ years. "holy shit is right. what's it been? like six-something years?" he teases you. "not funny!" "what? too soon."

though you don't spend much time together solo, your families spend plenty of time reconnecting and cherishing this second chance. and when joaquin is deployed once again to work with The Falcon, this time, you vow to keep in touch.

with his many deployments, you keep in touch as best as you can, which isn't always consistent. a text here and there. meeting up when both of you are in town. it's not much, and it's almost always brief, but it's always with love.

"when was the last time we hung out, just the two of us?" joaquin asks you, the time that your trip home for your sister's high school graduation coincides with the tail end of a longer trip home for joaquin. "i've only got a few days of leave left and i've got some pretty big news."

and how could you say no? he tells you at the diner his dad used to take the two of you when you were kids.

"so i'm sure you saw the news and uh. well, sam's the new cap." "yeah i saw that. so... who's gonna be the new falcon?" "you're looking at him, baby." "holy shit, joaquin!" "dude. can you believe it? i'm gonna be an avenger!"

to celebrate, you decide to get into all kinds of mischief, making your way through miami's nightlife: a bar you once tried to get into with fake IDs, a spontaneous perreo night with some fancy pants DJ (you practically climb on the stage, pleading with the DJ to play joaquin's song request because "he's gonna be an avenger!), and accidentally crashing the tail end of a wedding party where everyone was way to drunk to realize that neither of you were invited.

the night ends with the two of you eating pb&j sandwiches to sober up, while reminding each other that you have to be quiet as you sneak into joaquin's childhood bedroom. as the two of you drunkenly squeeze into his full-sized bed, you're all giggles and smiles, glowing from a night of celebration and reconnection.

"i'm so glad we did this." "me too." "you still gonna have time to do this kinds of stuff when you're an avenger?" "for you? i'll make the time."

and right as you're saying goodnight, joaquin leans in and kisses you. for a moment you kiss back, and you both know you're too drunk for it to go any further. with one more peck on the lips, you drift off to sleep, snuggled up to him.

in the morning, as you wake up, neither of you acknowledge the kiss. you're leaving that night anyway, so you decide not to make it awkward, especially since joaquin carries on as normal. instead of saying anything, you decide to hold onto the promise that, regardless of what that kiss may or may not have meant, you want to be in each others' lives again.

a/n: hi hello! it's been forever and ever amen since i've posted a fic on here. i've mostly been reading and enjoying and reblogging and pouring my creative energy into other things because it be like that and we only have so much!! anyway, i have an idea for a oneshot that takes place AFTER the events of CA: BNW so i'm dropping this headcanon almost as a prequel. it's very possible that i might write this as a fic in the future, but for now, i've decided i'm just gonna test the waters and see if i still have something to say on this app.

[mediocrecowboyhat]

Set in sand - Chapter 27

We mark the year 1934 and a peculiar journal falls into your hands. It's telling the tale of an outlaw and the downfall of a gang. Some pages are torn and others are downright unreadable, but nevertheless, you are still able to make out some parts of the tragic story.

With the help of a certain time traveler friend of yours, will you be able to save the author of the journal or will you be the cause for his demise?

Previous chapter - Next chapter

Word count: 3.8k

TW: end-game spoilers will be mentioned very early on in the story, 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, violence, gore, death, misogynistic themes (anything that happens in the game as well), she/her pronouns

"We'll get off the boat one by one."

Arthur is the first to step foot on solid ground again and his eyes scan the area. They have docked at a small village, which seems to be nothing more than a ghost town at this late hour. If he remembers correctly then it's too far away from Shady Belle to travel there by foot.

Just as he finishes that thought, he spots a lone stallion, hitched on the side of the street. No owner in sight. Tonight might just be his lucky night, as it seems.

He'll only feel lucky when he sees her.

Images of the woman, he has learned to love so dearly, flash before his inner eye as he mounts the horse and signals for it to move. Memories of her flood his mind and he let's them, allows himself to be completely and entirely engulfed by them.

But the last few scenes that replay in his head, send a cold shiver down his spine and have his throat dry up in a matter of heartbeats. Seeing her all bloody and limb in the middle of the street in Saint Denis, has been the single scariest experience he has ever gone through.

Arthur Morgan has stared right into death's eye more times than he dares to count, but none of these moment have shaken him up this much. The worst part is not knowing. Not knowing if Hosea and Lenny had managed to take her away in time.

And even if they did, there is still the possibility that she died in camp. Either bled out to death or had one of her vital organs damaged to an unrepairable extend. He forces those dark thoughts as far away as possible.

She's a fighter. She must have pushed through this. With his life and family slowly falling apart, she has remained a constant pillar of strength. During the long and humid nights in Guarma, his mind had wandered unintentionally and he had found himself wondering what it is they're fighting for anymore.

He recalls the words he said to her. It feels like years have passed since that conversation.

'You deserve an honest life.'

Maybe he can grant her that when all this comes to an end and he feels like it will. He could help her start that honest life he oh so wishes for her to live. God knows he has the cash for it. Perhaps even with an honest man by her side. With a lot of luck she might let him be that man, as undeserving as he is of her affection and attention.

For now he has to get to her though and then not even an army could tear him away from her. He will do right by her, goddammit.

May he stand as unshaken as she did when the world came crashing down around them.

---

It's been more than two weeks ever since that disaster in Saint Denis and there is still no sight of Arthur and the others. During that time Sadie has found your pistol and rifle and given them back to you. It was a relief seeing your weapons. You don't fancy the thought of having to buy new ones yet again.

Her and the others have managed to retrieve some of the other stuff from camp as well. Now you're sitting there, having something to fidget with for once. It's Arthur's hat. Being able to give it a closer look like this, you notice all the scratches and dents, all the marks time has left.

It surprises you that it doesn't have more holes, considering how often it gets shot off his head. An amused huff escapes your throat as you recall the face he always pulls when he picks up the hat from the ground after a struggle. He always looks almost heartbroken, seeing it bruised and battered like that.

Your mind wanders to darker thoughts, wondering what his reaction was when you got shot. Had he yelled? Screamed? Maybe cried even? No, a man of Arthur's caliber doesn't cry and if it ever comes to that then you know you all are in some deep shit.

Excited voices can be heard coming from outside, ripping you out of your thoughts. For a second you believe that you're under attack, but it doesn't sound that way. No, something good must have happened.

With a strained grunt, you hoist yourself onto your feet and find support at a nearby chair. By the unstable looks of it, it might just break if you put too much pressure on it. Sadie and the others are still keeping you locked up. Well, not really locked up. They just usher you back inside whenever you try to leave your cabin.

But you're curious and having to listen to a bit of scolding is a small price. Then the door swings open with such force that you're worried it might fly off the hinges. With widened eyes, you stare at the person standing in the frame and freeze.

It's as if you're seeing a ghost. He might as well be one with how beaten up he looks. Arthur's beard is longer, reaching the length it had before the Mayor's garden party and his clothes are so worn to the point that you can't even imagine what they might look like in a clean state.

The utter shock makes you lose all feeling in your legs and your knees buckle. The man infront of you catches you. Of course he does. If only you'd know how much he has yearned to hold you like this again.

"You're alive.", he says. You've never heard the outlaw so breathless, never seen him so shaken up either.

You want to joke to lighten the mood, answer something, anything. It seems like your voice is not yours to command right now. His strong arms are wrapped around you, securing you tightly and you know that he won't let you fall.

Your hand finds it's way up to his face, tracing the outlines of his features with your fingers as if you need to convince yourself that he's real. No one is interrupting you this time. They're all smart enough to give you the space you need after being apart from each other for so long.

Behind these closed doors, you're free to hold each other like you've always longed to, touch each other like you've always dreamed of. Staring into Arthur's eyes, you recognize something similar to fear. It's strange seeing him this scared when he always keeps his calm in dangerous situations, like when he's being accompanied by death.

You terrify him or rather the thought of you rejecting him does. He thinks himself undeserving of your time, but he's still hoping that you'd let him stay with you, pleading at the heavens and on his knees for it.

A shuddering breath escapes him as your lips meet his and you feel him practically melt under your touch. The kiss releases something in the both of you like a seal has finally been broken and you can let the contents of it flow freely.

Your hands claw at him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt as if he might slip away at any moment. Arthur's own hands roam your body, careful not to drop you. He smells of gunpowder, sweat and the sea, his cracked lips tasting of rum and salt. You lose yourself in that combination, your senses getting drunk off of him.

The outlaw's lips move hungrily against yours like a dehydrated man finally finding some water, but not even the freshest and cleanest river compares to you. You're a force of unknown nature, driving him to the edge and even if he falls off it, he'd die a happy man.

Heavy breathing fills the cabin as you somehow manage to break away from the kiss, faces hot and lips red. A chuckle escapes you and you plant another kiss on the corner of his mouth. Instinctively, he turns his head to meet you with his lips, wanting to get another taste of you.

"I've missed you.", you speak and he leans his forehead against yours.

"I've missed you too."

"You need to tell me everything that happened." At this, his eyes flutter open again and a shadow falls over his face. His mouth has formed a thin, grim line and your stomach drops.

"Let's go to the others. They probably wanna know too."

Together you walk out of the cabin and you relish in the sensation of warm sunlight hitting your face. Fresh air fills your lungs and you squeeze Arthur's hand. He supports you, helping you walk to the main cabin where the others are.

By now your wound has healed enough that you can stand by yourself no problem, but everyone still coddles you. Though for now you'll let the outlaw take care of you. Inside, he sits you down on a chair and stays by you, hand on your shoulder.

The gang gathers around Arthur, listening intently to his story. From being washed up on Guarma to his encounter with the Pinkertons back in Shady Belle, it all sounds like a fever dream. It's a goddamn miracle that they all made it out in one piece.

"That's a lot.", Hosea comments once Arthur is done explaining and everyone nods along, humming in agreement.

The older man then proceeds to tell the outlaw what you all have been up to in the meantime. How Sadie, Charles and Lenny scared off the previous residents in Lakay and that you've been hiding here ever since.

"Your weapons and horse are here, Mr. Morgan.", Miss Grimshaw informs him and he murmurs a 'thank you'.

"And your stuff is in my cabin.", you chime in. "Clothes and such."

The floor creaks as Sadie pushes herself off the wall that she was leaning against up until now. With her chin she motions at your stomach. "We need to change your bandages."

You look down on yourself, worried the wound might have opened, but there is no red stain. Ah, but you've had these bandages for a while now. Nodding, you stand up from your chair and make sure that not a single sound leaves your throat.

If you show the others that you're still struggling then they might talk Arthur into keeping you 'locked up' some longer. Speaking of the man, he slides his arm around your waist.

"I can do that.", he says directed at Sadie and the woman takes a step back.

She is the one who has been tending to your wound the past few weeks, but it doesn't seem like she minds letting the outlaw take over now. Arthur grabs a roll and you make your way back to your cabin. With his belongings already there, he might even decide to make this his sleeping spot. You like the thought of sharing this small place with him.

He helps you sit down on the bedroll and goes down on his knees as well. His fingers find their way to the hem of your blouse and he meets your gaze, a question written over his expression.

"Is it alright if I...?", he asks, tugging lightly at the material and you nod.

"Of course.", you answer in a matter of fact way, but you'd be lying if you'd say that you aren't nervous.

Slowly, he lifts your blouse until the bandages around your stomach are completely revealed. With both hands you hold it up while he gets to work. After a few seconds, your naked skin and bullet injury lay open for him to see.

His eyes dart to the spot that's slowly, but surely been healing. It's obvious that a scar will remain, but you're not bothered by that. It will serve as a reminder for you of what could have been lost that day and so it does for him.

His features are contorted in an almost pained fashion and his fingertips hover over the wound.

"I'm so sorry.", he whispers, voice strained and raspy.

Gently, you lift his chin with your hand and lock eyes with him. You pull him in for another kiss. While the first one was desperate and heated, loaded with all the tension you two have build up over the month, this one is slow, tender even.

His face softens and he begins to apply the new bandages. His fingers dance over your skin, leaving the places he touches feeling as if they're on fire. Most of his life, the outlaw has used his hands to kill and rob, but now they're tending to you, keeping you safe and well.

Once he's done you lower your blouse and let yourself fall back onto the bedroll. The day hasn't even fully started and you already feel incredibly drained. Arthur makes himself comfortable next to you, brushing some of your hair strands out of your face.

"You don't have to stay here, you know? If you want to, you can go and be with the others.", you say, breaking the silence and he looks at you as if you just insulted his entire bloodline.

"Have you lost your mind, woman?", he retorts, sounding more shocked than genuinely upset. "I ain't leavin' you."

"I'm fine, don't worry."

"You got shot."

"Ah, 'tis but a scratch."

Sighing in frustration, he pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. "What are you doin' to me?"

A wide smile spreads on your face as you watch him. You've missed the banter, missed how easily you can drive him crazy. Granted, getting shot at is nothing that one should downplay, but it's funny seeing him like this.

Another sigh escapes him, but he's smiling now too.

In the following days some of the other men begin to arrive at the camp. First Sean, who you can hear before spotting him. His entire face lights up in both delight and relief when he watches you stumbling out of the cabin to greet him.

"Look at you!", he exclaims in excitement and between barking laughter. "Standing as tall as ever!"

"I'm see happy to see you safe, Sean.", you answer with a grin matching the size of the one on his own face.

"I knew this entire time that you'll be fine! You should have listened to Arthur whining and crying about you, but I said to the old man 'listen, she's a strong one like me'."

"We might not have drowned at sea, but I sure thought he'll talk us to death.", Arthur grumbles at your side, earning a chuckle from you.

The next one to arrive was Javier, who looks to be sharing a similar fate like you. He limps into camp, bruised and battered, but still incredibly well dressed for the occasion. Now you have proof that even when held captive, he'll look good.

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth when he catches a glimpse of you and you return the gesture.

Shortly after, Micah enters Lakay and you can't help but feel your mood drop. As cruel as it sounds, you were hoping that he might have gotten lost or something along those lines. A dry laugh leaves his throat as he meets your gaze.

"Not dead yet, I see.", he comments, a sinister smirk taking form on his sun burned face.

"It takes more than a bullet to kill me.", you respond, your voice carrying a challenge. It get a scoff out of him, but much to your relief, he strolls away.

By the time Dutch arrives, the sun has gone down completely and everyone is sitting together in the main cabin. The man gets loud cheering from the gang once he steps through the door. The smile on his face grows even bigger when he lays his eyes on you.

"You're alive!", he says, spreading his arms. He reaches out to you, placing a warm hand on your shoulder and there is something in his eyes that you haven't seen in a while from the man. Sincerity. "What you did...thank you."

You all fill Dutch in on what has gone down in his absence, telling him how much Sadie has done to keep everyone safe and well. It warms your heart, listening to the praises that are being sung for your friend. God knows she deserves it.

"Here you is!", Bill shouts after barging through the front door, startling you. "I asked everyone I could find and eventually someone knew. Said you fools were hidin' out here!"

Your smile drops and you would have loved to give that thick skull of his a decent smack. What does he think, running around and asking random people about the gang? A sigh leaves your lips as you wonder how long it will take for the Pinkertons to find you again. Not long, you guess.

"Gimme a drink or somethin'!", he yells at Sadie, who's retort comes out faster than a bullet.

"Get your own damn drink!"

"In our absence, Mrs. Adler has been lookin' after things.", Dutch chimes in, voice low and irritated. He directs it at Bill while he hands him a cup. "Now sit down."

A pleased smile graces your lips as you watch Bill back off. Sadie's face is a reflection of your own satisfaction, nodding towards Dutch. Unfortunately, the moment doesn't last too long, a familiar voice booming in from outside.

"This is agent Milton from the Pinkerton Detective Agency!"

With a hissed curse under your breath, you close your eyes and lightly hit the back of your head against the wall behind you. Memories of indescribable pain flood your mind as you hear the voice of the man who shot you.

Fucking called it.

Milton yells some more, but you can't make out the words, the tightness in your chest being the only thing you can focus on at the moment. Everyone around you is up on their feet and on high alert and Arthur signals you to stay where you are.

Well, there isn't much good you can do anyways with your wound still taking a toll on you and your guns laying around in your cabin. Even if you'd had your pistol on you, you're not sure if you would have been so eager to throw yourself into the action.

Then Dutch screams. "Everyone, get down!"

Everything after that happens so fast. Shots are being fired at an incredibly rapid pace and you watch in horror how the wooden planks around you are being decimated. Someone throws themselves over you, pushing you down onto the floor.

Hot pain shoots through your stomach and you blink away the dark spots that are dancing in your vision from it. Lenny had dragged you down just in time to prevent you from ending up as Swiss cheese. If you wouldn't be in such a panic, you would have thanked him.

Desperately, you make yourself as flat as humanly possible and do the only thing you can right now. Wait for the led storm to be over. In the distance you can make out Sadie and Arthur crawling away. They're probably going to try and find a way around the Pinkertons.

"Asked everyone you could find, did ya, Bill?", Micah snarls and you can't believe that the day would come where you're agreeing with him on something.

Your eyes scan your surroundings, counting the gang members to see if anyone got hit. It's not an easy task with all the bullet and splinters flying around you and you cover your head with both arms. Quickly, you feel for your stomach, but your wound is fine. There is no blood seeping through the bandages.

After what feels like an eternity, the shooting stops. Sadie and Arthur must have succeeded and killed the man at the big gun. Now everyone else in here jumps up again and begins to drive the Pinkertons away. You and the people without any weapons on them still stay behind cover.

Some time later, the struggle stops and you can finally allow yourself to relax. Grunting and hissing, you force yourself back to your feet and Lenny jumps right to your side.

"Are you okay?", he asks, checking your form and you nod. "I'm sorry if I hurt you."

"It's alright. Thank you."

Arthur bursts through the door, his eyes darting around in a panic. All tension leaves his face when he sees you and he pulls you into a bone crushing hug. You let out a pained yelp and he releases you immediately.

"Shit. Sorry."

"I'm okay."

"Sure?", he asks, concern lacing his face and he studies your face intently. "Did you get hit?"

"No."

"Are you sure? Did-"

"Arthur.", you say in a gentle, yet stern tone. "I'm okay."

It takes a few seconds for the words to settle, but then he let's out a long sigh. You follow him outside where Sadie, Micah and Dutch are standing close to a wagon. It seems like they're having a heated discussion about something, but you can't hear about what when you get there, because Abigail shows up interrupting them.

"What are you gonna do 'bout John, Dutch?", she asks, piquing your interest in the process.

He got arrested during the bank robbery. As much as Abigail doesn't want to admit it, it has been laying heavy on her.

"John?", Dutch repeats.

"He's in jail."

"We'll get him. Abigail, just...just not yet.", he murmurs, somehow sounding lost in a strange way.

"There's talk of hangin' him!", she shouts desperately. You understand. If there was talk about Arthur being executed, you'd raise hell to get him back.

"It's not gonna come to that!", the leader exclaims, rushing away. It almost seems like he's trying to avoid her. Almost.

Now it's only her, you, Sadie and Arthur standing. It started to rain a little bit, making your hair and clothes wet, but not drenching them. Abigail gives the three of you a pleading look.

"I'm beggin' you to help him. It would break my- the boy's heart.", she starts, holding her cheek and Sadie nods.

"Of course.", your friend says and you squeeze Abigail's shoulder reassuringly. You have no idea if you will be able to help break John out, but you want her to know that you will support her in all this.

After she walks away, Sadie tells you and Arthur that she will come up with a plan and that she will be waiting at a saloon in Saint Denis. The outlaw takes your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles.

"You should lay down."

"Not without you.", you argue and it's true. After all thus action, you don't think that you could find rest all by yourself.

Much to your relief, he doesn't refuse and lets you lead him back to the cabin you two share.

Taglist: @shackspossum @abducted-cowz @heloixe

[luvfae]

BAD INVESTMENT

PART FOUR

summary: after plotting, thanos makes his first move on you and you fall for it.

parings: thanos/choi su bong x f!reader, myung gi x f!reader

warnings: swearing, mention of stalking, alcohol use, thanos drugs readers drink, steamy make out sesh, cheating, no smut tho sorry

bad investment masterlist

If anyone knew what Thanos was up to, they’d call him obsessed. But he wasn’t obsessed with you—not in the way people thought. No, he was obsessed with one thing: getting his revenge.

Stalking your and Myung-Gi’s Instagram pages was just the beginning. Every story you posted, every picture, every fleeting moment you shared with your followers—he absorbed it all. He tracked your every move, learned your routines, your habits.

He’d park outside your apartment building, waiting in the shadows, watching you come and go. He learned where you worked, which coffee shop you favored for your morning fix, where you met your friends after a long day, and, disturbingly, where your mother lived.

For an entire week, Thanos followed you around Seoul like a ghost, staying a step behind, careful to remain unseen. He studied you—your body language, the way you moved through your life, the people you surrounded yourself with. He was patient, methodical, knowing that everything he did was just part of the plan.

Nam-Gyu, who had fallen victim to Myung-Gi’s crypto scams just like Thanos had, was his eyes and ears on the ground when it came to Myung-Gi. The two of them were like wolves in the night, watching, waiting for their moment. Nam-Gyu kept tabs on Myung-Gi’s whereabouts, tracking him like prey.

Thanos didn’t need to rush. No, he had time. He’d waited long enough for this—he was prepared to wait even longer if it meant bringing Myung-Gi to his knees.

And the best part? He knew exactly how to use you to do it. You were the perfect bait, the perfect pawn. You were the weak link in Myung-Gi’s carefully constructed world, and Thanos would exploit that.

The more he followed you, the more he became convinced of something: he didn’t just want revenge. He needed it. And you… you were going to help him get it.

Tonight, you were at Club Pentagon with Myung-Gi and your circle of friends, the same group that always seemed to gravitate around you. Thanos had noticed it before—how popular you were, how you had this magnetism about you, a force that drew people in without effort. But goddamn, you were oblivious to the danger around you.

It was almost too easy.

Myung-Gi had slipped off to the bathroom, leaving you alone in the crowd. You were busy chatting with your friends, laughing at some pointless joke Nam-Gyu made to distract you—oblivious to the fact that Thanos was right there, observing.

While you were distracted, he moved swiftly, slipping a small pill into your drink, the kind of thing he knew would get you to lower your guard faster.

Thanos wasn’t going to do anything to you—not like that. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a fucking rapist. But he didn’t need to force you. No, he knew how to make you give in on your own. He just needed to push you in the right direction.

He exchanged a subtle nod with Nam-Gyu, who had been keeping you busy with some pointless rambling. Nam-Gyu’s job was done as you and your friends were still caught up in the conversation, laughing at whatever dumb shit he was saying, just in time for Myung-Gi to return.

Myung-Gi came back to the table, eyes scanning the scene briefly before grabbing your drink from the counter and handing it back to you with a smile. “Drink up, babe,” he said, too pleased with himself for whatever reason.

You didn’t hesitate, taking the glass and downing the rest of your cocktail in one swift motion, unaware of the subtle shift happening inside you.

Thanos, watching from the corner of the room, shook his head with a smirk. “He’s a fucking idiot,” he muttered under his breath, nudging Nam-Gyu. The man next to him snickered.

“Yeah, man, definitely,” Nam-Gyu agreed, watching you and Myung-Gi from a distance as the two of you resumed your dancing. “Better figure out how to get him away from her before it kicks in.”

Thanos’s gaze remained fixed on you, eyes narrowing as you pressed against Myung-Gi, your short dress riding up as his hands slid around your waist. The sight of you, so carefree, so unaware, sent a flash of irritation through him. Myung-Gi didn’t deserve you. You were too damn good for him, too damn good for someone who couldn’t even appreciate you properly.

Thanos gritted his teeth, watching as Myung-Gi pulled you closer, as if you were some kind of trophy to flaunt.

And for the first time since he’d seen you, Thanos couldn’t shake the feeling that he wanted you for himself.

This was only the beginning.

It only took ten minutes for the pill to take full effect. Your vision began to blur, the world around you spinning as your movements became sluggish. You stumbled slightly, the laughter that bubbled up from your chest sounding too loud, too giddy, as your words slurred and your hands wandered lower on Myung-Gi’s body. Without realizing it, your fingers tugged at the loops of his pants, pulling him closer, your touch becoming bolder.

Myung-Gi, however, wasn’t in the mood for that kind of attention. He liked PDA, sure—but not the kind that made people uncomfortable. Gently, he pushed you away, turning his focus toward his friends, a brief frown crossing his face.

You huffed in annoyance, tapping his shoulder to get his attention. “I’m going to pee,” you slurred, the words coming out more clipped than you intended.

Myung-Gi nodded absentmindedly, his eyes already elsewhere. “Okay,” he muttered, distracted by whatever his friends were saying.

You didn’t wait for anything more, pushing through the crowd with little care for the people you bumped into, your body swaying unsteadily as you made your way to the bathroom.

But as soon as you were alone, your tears started to well up, surprising even yourself. You weren’t a crier—not really—but the alcohol (or maybe the drugs you didn’t know were in your system) had a way of bringing things to the surface. Myung-Gi always seemed to ignore you, and maybe that was your fault for never demanding more. But, god, sometimes it felt like he didn’t appreciate you at all—didn’t care about the things you did for him, the things you gave him without hesitation.

You wiped at your eyes, brushing away the wetness with a shaky hand, but it only made the tears fall faster.

And from across the room, Thanos was watching. He’d been watching you for a while now, observing the way you moved, the way you spoke, the way you were now trying to hide your vulnerability behind a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. He couldn’t help but smirk to himself, seeing the tears that slipped down your cheeks.

It was almost too perfect. You were crying over that fucking loser—over Myung-Gi—and here was Thanos, waiting for the perfect moment to step in, to swoop in while you were vulnerable. This was his chance, the one he’d been waiting for. He could trap you in your weakness, use it to get what he wanted.

And once he had you—once he had your attention—he wasn’t going to let you go so easily.

Thanos slowly pushed his way through the crowd, his eyes locked onto you as you tried to steady yourself against the wall, still dabbing at your eyes with the back of your hand. The sight of you—broken, vulnerable—was all too tempting. He didn’t need to do much more than close the distance between the two of you, and he could see the signs that the pill was working: the way you swayed on your feet, the way your lips parted as your breath quickened, the way you didn’t even notice his approach until he was right in front of you.

“Hey,” Thanos said quietly, his voice rough with purpose, “you alright?”

You blinked up at him, the room tilting slightly as you tried to focus on his face. There was a flicker of recognition in your eyes, but the alcohol in your system drowned it out. You didn’t care to keep up the facade anymore, the walls you usually kept up crumbling in your drunken haze.

“I’m fine… Myung-Gi… he…” You trailed off, unsure of how to continue. But something about Thanos made it easier, the way his gaze held you captive, the way he just stood there waiting, like he already knew everything. Like he was the only one who truly saw you, who understood.

“Tell me,” he coaxed softly, leaning in closer.

You swallowed hard, your lips parting as you let the words spill out, one after the other. “I don’t know… I just… he doesn’t fucking get me, you know? Like, I’ve been with him for years, and it’s always the same fucking thing. Vanilla, boring, fucking… making love… when all I want is for him to fuck me. Just fuck me like he means it. He doesn’t even know how to make me feel like… like I matter.”

Your voice cracked slightly, the weight of your confession catching in your throat. Your face flushed, both from the alcohol and the rawness of your words. But Thanos wasn’t judging you. His eyes were fixed on you, a dark, almost amused smirk on his lips.

“That sounds miserable,” he said, his tone low, but laced with something darker, something predatory. “I can’t believe you’ve stuck around with him this long.”

You let out a bitter laugh, nodding. “Yeah… I guess I’m a fucking idiot for putting up with him. But… I just want to be wanted. To feel like someone actually… wants me. Not just… not just as a fucking… accessory or some shit.”

Thanos stepped closer, his presence towering over you, making your head swim as his words sank into your mind. “I get it,” he muttered, his voice a low rasp. “You deserve more than that fucking loser. You deserve someone who knows how to treat you right. Someone who knows how to make you feel alive, not like you’re just a pretty little thing for his arm.”

His words were like a balm to your wounds, but they also ignited something darker in your chest. The alcohol, the pill, it all blurred your reasoning. You weren’t thinking clearly anymore. But it felt good, having someone who wasn’t afraid to tell you what you needed to hear, who wasn’t afraid to see past your façade.

“Don’t worry about him,” Thanos continued, his voice dropping even lower, each word making you feel like you were hanging on his every breath. “You’re better than him. You deserve someone who will make you scream, not just lie there and pretend. I can show you what it’s really like, what it feels like to be taken, to be wanted the way you’ve been begging for.”

You could feel his words wrapping around you, pulling you deeper into his orbit. There was something about him—something dark, something that you couldn’t resist even if you tried.

“I’ll show you what it’s like,” he murmured, his lips just inches from yours now. “You won’t have to beg anymore.”

You swallowed thickly, your heart racing, the desperation in your chest growing as you let him pull you further into his web.

It happened so fast, the need for something, anything to distract you, to fill the emptiness that seemed to be growing with each passing day. You shoved Thanos against the opposite wall, your hands pressing against his chest, feeling the hard muscle under your fingertips, desperate for some kind of release.

His lips crashed against yours without hesitation, responding with as much urgency as you were, as if the world had melted away and it was just the two of you. His hand moved up, wrapping around your neck, his fingers squeezing just enough to make you gasp for air. You could feel the heat radiating from his body, his strength, his presence overwhelming you in the best—and worst—way.

Thanos spun you around, your back slamming against the cold wall, and you barely had time to react before he had hoisted your leg up against his waist, grinding himself into you. A sharp whimper escaped your lips, and he chuckled against your skin, the sound dark and full of satisfaction. His lips trailed down to your jaw, your neck, and for a moment, you lost yourself in the feeling, the rawness of it all.

But then reality hit, crashing down like a cold bucket of water. What the hell were you doing? Why were you kissing the man who’d made it clear he wanted to destroy your boyfriend? In a public space where Myung-Gi could find you? Worst of all, why were you so turned on right now?

Panic flashed through you as you shoved Thanos away, your chest heaving with the effort to catch your breath. “I love Myung-Gi,” you stammered, pointing an accusing finger at Thanos, trying to regain some semblance of control.

Thanos only smirked, his expression smug and knowing. “I won’t tell if you don’t,” he said, his voice dripping with challenge.

You glared at him, your heart still racing in your chest, your mind a mess of confusion and desire. Without another word, you turned and bolted from the hallway, your pulse pounding in your ears, panic and regret coursing through you. You needed to find Myung-Gi, get out of here, forget this night ever happened.

But as you walked away, Thanos’ words echoed in your mind, a reminder of how easily you’d let yourself slip, how easily he could make you forget everything.

And part of you hated that it felt so damn good.

[karatekels]

~*My Cobra Kai Rant*~

I finally watched the final episodes of Cobra Kai! And I feel… a lot.

SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT DON'T @ ME

I know that Terry was going to die (and that it was going to be an explosion) before the episodes came out, as I don’t care about spoilers as long as they aren’t leaks of pictures/videos. As you know, I had a crazy busy week, so I DM’d @holydongbird / @cobra-wives Thursday morning (I knew she was planning on watching already) and just straight up asked:

“Is it worth watching the episodes now, or am I going to be disappointed and should just wait until work dies down?”

She was (understandably) devastated by the episodes, so I decided to wait while continuing to read spoilers and getting increasingly grumpy about things. (It’s fine, I love being grumpy about something that isn’t the harsh realities of the real world.)

I waited until last night (and watched the last episode this morning).

And I think it was mostly a good call to wait.

The tl;dr of this review/rant is:

I think that they did a decent job (for them) of wrapping up most of the other character’s plotlines. Obviously there were pacing issues and a lot of speedrunning getting people their happy endings, which felt cheap, and we spent too much time with meaningless characters and/or plotlines, but for these writers, I was somewhat pleasantly surprised. EXCEPT FOR JOHN AND ESPECIALLY TERRY’S ARCS AND ENDINGS. A MESS. A COLOSSAL DISAPPOINTMENT. A JOKE.

*deep breath* Okay, let’s get into it.

This is likely going to be very all over the place, but I’ll do my best.

Contrary to what my detractors (if there are any lol) may believe, I’m not mad about Terry dying. I think it could’ve been done effectively and had a payoff not only for his character but for the plot and message of the show as a whole. But GUESS WHAT? IT WASN’T!

1. The Terry illness plotline.

On the one hand, I’m always here for peak TIG being hot – how can you not be? – But let’s be practical for a second (yes, in the hyperbolic karate soap opera).

I don’t care how exceptional Terry Silver is, how much money he has, none of that: you can’t tell me that this is a dying man. If he’s as sick as we learn he is, I’m not buying his physique, his ability to help Axel train, none of it. It doesn’t make sense. And it shows that, once again, the writers don’t think about the implications of what they’re writing. Terry being sick could’ve meant something, if that’s the direction that they want to go in. But they needed to commit to that and consider how it changes everything.

Sure, illness could’ve explained Terry’s “this is all I have left” attitude in the last few episodes, but then they needed to address how that shift in attitude developed from his initial return to the franchise, since his illness has been hinted at since his appearance in Season 4, and in the intervening years (or however long the Season 4-6 timeline is; it’s a weird jumbled mess).

I don’t think it was a necessary component to the plot that we ended up getting. Terry doesn’t need to be dying to have nothing left; everything’s been taken from him regardless.

I still think his arrest at the end of Season 5 was stupid and unrealistic, but if we’re sticking with it (and we have to, if we’re staying in the canon of it all), then we don’t really need the illness plotline at all. He’s lost his money, his students, his dojo, his reputation. Daniel won’t forgive him, John certainly won’t forgive him… he’s already in that state without needing to be sick on top of it all. Putting a hat on a hat just leaves more room for viewers to go “okay, but why?”.

So, while we did get a couple glimmers of vulnerability from Terry (and, of course, some fantastic acting from TIG) because of this plotline, it was unnecessary, unsatisfying, and unrealistic.

The moral of this part of the story is: EDIT.

The writers have always said that they went into the show wanting it to be six seasons, that they had fleshed out a lot of the plot, but if that’s true then why do we get these half-baked, dead-end plots incorporated into the story for no reason? If you knew where you were going, why was this the best you could do? HOW?

I shared a screenshot of my rant on Twitter about this last week – the Big 3 write like many of my undergrad students. There are some good ideas sprinkled throughout, but the execution is messy, illogical and unsatisfying. They don’t think about the big picture and how all the cogs in the machine fit together, or how it comes off when a piece that doesn’t fit in is jammed into the mechanism anyway. It’s not just true about Terry’s character, it’s caused a bunch of other messy, unnecessary plotlines and pacing issues that have really impacted the show.

But this particular rant is about Terry, and John too I guess, so we’re moving on.

2. WHERE THE HELL WERE NICK AND BARRETT?!

One of my favourite elements of the entire show was the development of Terry and John’s history through the flashbacks with Nick and Barrett – y’know, back when the writers actually seemed to give a damn about developing our beloved villains.

I thought they did a really good job with the flashback scenes and showing the parallels or implications in the show’s present day (for the most part), and both actors did a phenomenal job. The transition from Twig to Scary Terry in Season 6 Part 1? I STILL GET CHILLS THINKING ABOUT IT.

It was a complete missed opportunity to not incorporate them more (read: at all) into the second and third parts of the final season to help fill in the gaps and give both characters a more satisfying conclusion. They could’ve had such a phenomenal final fight (yes, even if it was aboard that stupid yacht) cutting between Thomas and Martin and Nick and Barrett (kind of like how they did with John in prison in Season 5). Show the legacy of these characters and their relationship over DECADES. They are responsible for all of this, for everything in the lore of the show. There is no Daniel and Johnny without John and Terry’s Cobra Kai. Terry didn’t get the legacy that he wanted, but there is a legacy – their legacy – that we could’ve (and should’ve) gotten to witness. They are Cobra Kai, at least the way it was.

Honestly, this might be the most disappointing part of the final episodes for me.

But no, we needed to spend a ridiculous amount of time checking in on Kyler in college. FUCKING KYLER!

3. The lack of resolution/closure for our beloved Cobra Husbands.

This isn’t even about them needing to admit their love for one another (though they 100% should’ve admitted their love for one another), but about how unresolved things remained between them.

The yacht blowing up just felt like the writers realized they were incapable of writing a meaningful ending for either John or Terry and were just like “let’s get them outta here and no one will ask questions”. WELL, I HAVE QUESTIONS.

What was the goal here? For either of them?

Terry asks Dennis to go threaten Carmen and the baby? Kidnap them? Does he want his win to feel like a win or not? If it’s going to be hollow either way, then what exactly is the point of any of this? What does Terry want, really? Is he just grasping at straws? Fine, but give us a scene – even this last one – where he actually acknowledges that so that there’s some closure for him, and for us.

John heads to the yacht after his Apology Tour ™ to confront Terry, but they don’t really get to that, do they? Instead it’s just to protect Johnny from whatever Terry has planned. It’s a couple of verbal jabs just to immediately jump to a tussle. John reconciled with KDE, with Tory, with Johnny, however unrealistic that is – what’s stopping him from doing the same for Terry?

And as soon as John mentioned Johnny, that he’s not going to let Terry get away with whatever he’s got planned for him and his new family, you can see that pain on Terry’s face, and in his eyes as, once again, John is willing to forgive Johnny but not him. Never him. Why?

We needed something here to make this  – a flashback with Nick/Barrett or with Thomas and Marty, something – feel earned, feel like a conclusion. But no, instead they go boom and that relationship, all that history, all those feelings and words that needed to be said… they never will be.

And then nobody even notices? REALLY?

Wolf being the only one to even question Terry’s disappearance in the finale is wild to me. Granted, I know that some of us are way more likely than others to immediately notice TIG’s presence or absence in a scene – our Spidey-sense, if you will – but come ON. The big bad with nothing left to lose is about to have his last chance, and he’s nowhere to be found?

Kreese has been an ominous presence in the show before he appeared at the end of season 1, and Terry is one of the most powerful, effective and terrifying villains I’ve seen in decades. Both have been the driving forces behind so much of the show, and for the writers to suggest, as Hayden so idiotically put it earlier today, that the main characters aren’t worried about either man’s sudden disappearance is, for lack of a better word, BANANAS.

Daniel, of all people, would have alarm bells going off in his head if Silver wasn’t around for the grand finale. Terry is always three steps ahead and unpredictable, and if you can’t even keep an eye on him…

In Summary:

I’m happy for people who enjoyed the finale, and there were moments I liked too (more than I thought I would, tbh), but I genuinely don’t understand how anyone can find this ending for the show’s villains satisfying in anyway whatsoever, regardless of whether you loved or hated them.

I think that’s what I find so disappointing about all of this – like a lot of other elements of the show, this is a case where they had sprinkled in some decent ideas that could’ve been something, but took it in such an ultimately unsatisfying direction while leaving those breadcrumbs of better ideas behind that it’s just left me and other Terry fans feeling frustrated. Two thirds of the Big 3 claim Terry is one of their favourite – if not their #1 – characters from the original trilogy, but it certainly doesn’t feel like it when his character is probably the least respected in these final episodes. I think blowing up Kreese was also stupid and cheapened his arc, but at least he HAD some development in these episodes (even if it felt rushed).

What a disappointing end to the FOUNDERS of Cobra Kai. The epitome of unsatisfying, missed opportunities, wasted potential.

I pray to all the gods I don’t believe in that we don’t get a spinoff from these hacks.

END RANT (for now, anyway).

P.S. Something More Positive:

This should be evident, but I’m going to say it anyway, but none of this is on the actors. I thought they all did a phenomenal job, especially considering what they were given. With respect to our boys in particular, I’ve always thought Thomas was an incredibly compelling actor to watch, but Martin, especially in these final episodes, really blew me away with his commitment to the role. As much as I hated the direction the writers chose to take things, I think their performances lessened the blow a bit.

At least they gave us this moment that we can take out of context in perpetuity for our own inappropriate daydreams:

GOODBYE, BABY COBRA HUSBANDS. YOU DESERVED BETTER.

(If you want my takes on anything else from the finale - or the show in general - feel free to send an ask!)

[heliads]

About the War (Prequel)

Everyone has a part to play during the Second Wizarding War. Your job is to maintain a network of Portkeys for safe passage of the Order of the Phoenix. Later, you get a new role: handling the new spy among the Death Eaters, Draco Malfoy.

masterlist

Kingsley Shacklebolt knows they’re all going to die.

It’s not a question if, but when. The war hasn’t officially started, but he knows it already, because unlike most of the well-meaning schoolboys in the– what was it again now, something full of too much misplaced hope– Dumbledore’s Army, yes, Kingsley has already seen war, and he knows exactly what it costs. He knows that they’ll be the ones who’ll pay the price for it, that the fighters on the front lines are the first ones to pad the coffins. He knows that none of them are remotely ready for this.

He’s already been through it once, of course. Not even twenty years have passed since the first one. He thought they’d have more time. Everyone thinks this, and then everyone learns otherwise. What is it about survivors that makes them believe they’ll be special enough to only live through one war? There are always more. Always new reasons to shed blood. Always new reasons to bury a friend, and then another, and then another.

At least they’d had Dumbledore in the first war. Merlin, Kinglsey could kill him if he wasn’t dead already. What was Albus thinking? He knew there was trouble with some sort of cursed Artefact but what is there in this world that Albus Dumbledore could not sort out? In some sick part of himself, Kingsley believes that the old headmaster had simply given up, that he’d tired of helping and decided it would be easier to die than rally up the strength for another war. It’s not like he’ll ever be back to disprove the theory, anyway, so Kingsley’s bitterness lingers on.

How selfish, anyway, to die. How exhausting, to have to keep fighting. There hasn’t been all-out war since the attack on the castle when Dumbledore died, but Kingsley is certain they’re just counting down the days until it does begin again, this time for real.

It does him no good to dwell on the past. Kingsley knows the dying will begin soon enough, it’s only a matter of time. He already has plans, dozens of them, for how to organize their troops and where to strike first, what to defend and what to abandon, who to save and who to kill. He has ideas in his head for who should go where, and, secretly, who will fill in the ranks when the first few die. Kingsley thinks he can guess who will be the first casualties of the second coming of the Order of the Phoenix. There are a few that are too young and a few that are too old. There are some whose hands still haven’t stopped shaking from the first war and some that have barely even mastered the Expelliarmus charm. It’s a ragtag army, nothing like the manicured murderers of the Death Eaters, but it’s all they’ve got. It’s all they’ve got.

Some greedy part of Kingsley wants to win the war all by himself. He half thinks he could do it anyway. He has his battle plans, he has his assignments for the fighters. He was always the type to take charge, but Kingsley must remind himself to step back every now and then, to let others into the ring. He will destroy himself if he tries to do it all alone. That’s what Albus tried to tell him in the weeks before his death, but Kingsley can’t bring himself to listen. Advice only works if it keeps you alive. Otherwise, it’s no more than useless words, another broken promise out of thousands. Kingsley has lost many friends, and soon, he will lose more. The cycle continues. The graves dig themselves.

Kingsley sighs, glancing towards the clock on the wall. It’s going to be another sleepless night, he thinks, spent sending owls back and forth to solidify alliances before all hell breaks loose. He’s got to complete a few more plans, got to figure out a few more players, and then he can rest. He knows he should be catching up on sleep now, because it’s not like he’ll have any opportunity for it later, but there’s still so much work to be done. Too much. And not remotely enough time in the meanwhile.

***

Hermione Granger doesn’t know what to say.

It’s been hard for her to speak since she Obliviated her parents. By robbing them of their memories with her, it’s as if she stole her own memory of how to be normal. She’s supposed to be spending time with Ron and Harry before Bill and Fleur’s wedding in a few days, but she can’t quite muster up the energy to act like a regular person. Every time she picks up her wand, she remembers pointing it at her parents, muttering the charm. That was her last connection to whoever she’d been before wizards and witches and war, and it’s gone now, banished to sunny Australia. If Hermione dies during Voldemort’s reign, her parents will spend the rest of their lives not knowing they ever had a daughter at all.

She can’t stay up in her room forever, it’s not good for her. Mechanically, Hermione forces herself to stand up and walk down the twisting, cramped staircase to the ground floor of the Burrow. She promises herself she’ll stay exactly one hour before fleeing upstairs again. She’s read that it’s good to be in contact with social people when you’re suffering, it’s meant to keep the right parts of the brain active so you’ll be able to move on faster. The only problem is, Hermione isn’t sure that she wants to move on at all.

Despite her intentions, the thought of joining the various Weasley siblings, all running about madly through the kitchen, makes Hermione’s stomach churn. Instead, she decides to take a seat near the only person in the harebrained homestead who looks as miserable as she does– Kingsley Shacklebolt.

As per usual, he seems to be deep in thought, but sits up slightly when she draws near. It’s a well-known secret that Kingsley is half mad with fear of what’s to come, but no one can really bring themselves to chastise him since they’re all scared he’s right about it. No one wants war, but it’s coming their way anyway.

He looks at her warily, so Hermione decides to dispense with the pleasantries and be honest. “How can anyone think about a party with everything that’s going on?”

Kingsley snorts. “You’ll be surprised, Miss Granger, with the depth of horrors we are willing to ignore in favor of something light and fun. Most of them are sick of waiting, I think. This is a good distraction from the looming inevitability coming towards us.”

She steals a glance towards him. “And when do you think that looming inevitability is going to reach us?”

Kingsley lets out a slow sigh. “Sooner than any of us think. Days, maybe. At most, a week.”

Hermione’s head snaps up. “You’re serious?”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Kingsley mutters. “But I’ve seen things at the Ministry that make me certain. Whatever’s happening, it’s going to happen now. The only thing we can do is get ready for it.”

Hermione nods slowly, thinking of her parents again, and that magical bag she’s been slowly filling with necessities. “What do you recommend?”

Kingsley appraises her, and Hermione can’t help but wonder how many times her name has come up in his mind as a fighter, or a spy, or something else entirely. “I have plans. Stick close to Potter, keep him safe. I’m developing ideas for safehouses, but the threat of a Death Eater apparating in remains an issue no matter how many spells we throw up. Enchantments work for a small camp, but get dodgy with larger houses. There’s no good way to make sure our people can Apparate inside without keeping the Death Eaters out.”

Hermione tilts her head to the side, considering this. “Is there any other way for members of the Order to get inside without Apparition? I mean, that’s how Hogwarts did it, isn’t it? They just had a blanket ban on any Apparition within the walls.”

Kingsley scoffs. “Yes, and they had students take rowboats and carriages to get there. We need something efficient. If our people are running from a battle, they can’t take the time to cross the street and ring the doorbell. Besides, they’d be seen almost immediately. Apparition allows them to bypass being spotted on the ground, but it opens us up to danger from outside sources.”

An idea is dawning in Hermione’s mind. “What about Portkeys?”

This time, Kingsley actually does laugh. “You must be mad, Granger. The fate of the wizarding world is in our hands, and you want to use Portkeys.”

Hermione folds her arms across her chest defensively. “I’m aware of their potential for error, but their reputation is precisely why they’re the right answer. No one will suspect a Portkey, and their very nature allows us to swap them out constantly to avoid detection. Just keep a few with members of the Order at all times, maybe move them around from time to time for safety, and you’ve got the perfect way to access the safehouses without being spotted, just like you said. No need to worry about Apparition at all.”

She can see by the look on Kingsley’s face that he’s actually considering it, which must be a testament to how desperate their situation truly is. “We have no better options. It’s not entirely mad. But who would keep the Portkeys? We can’t stick them with our fighters, obviously, or they’d be captured in moments. Also, if one house falls, the Portkeys in that place would give away every single location at once. No, we’d have to have in-betweens, Portkeys that lead to secondary places. No direct lines of transportation from one safehouse to another. But who in Merlin’s name could we trust to watch over a Portkey or two, far away from battle, far away from everything?”

The answer comes to Hermione in a flash, and she hates herself for saying it even as the words come to her lips:  “Students. They’re not ready for battle, but they are used to endlessly practicing charms. Stick them in the middle of nowhere and make them do it.”

Kingsley’s eyes gain a conniving gleam, and Hermione wonders if she’s moved up a level or two in his mind, from well-meaning Gryffindor schoolgirl to half-decent schemer. “Fascinating. I think you’re ready for war, Miss Granger.”

She can’t tell if that’s a good thing or not. Hermione stands, wanting to take herself away from this conversation before she comes up with any more awful ideas, but Kingsley stops her before she can leave. “One last thing. You know the most students of anyone. You wouldn’t happen to have any ideas of who would be best in this position, would you?”

Hermione should keep her mouth shut. Kingsley will adapt their plan, she’s sure of it, but making anyone guard safehouse entrances is a death sentence. Still, Hermione hasn’t been good at controlling her tongue lately, so she supposes it should come as no surprise that she blurts out the answer before she can stop herself. It’s only one name, anyway. Only one person that she’s certain would do the best job.

“Y/N L/N.”

***

Draco Malfoy wants these villains out of his house.

He’s one of them, the monsters of Malfoy Manor. He thinks he’s killed more people than anyone else within these once-honourable walls, except Lestrange, maybe, except Lestrange and Dolohov. And the Dark Lord, of course, but he is not here, thank the moon and stars for that. It is exhausting, maintaining the sturdy walls of Legilimency around the Dark Lord. Draco does not care to do it more than he must.

Even without the direct presence of the Dark Lord himself, Draco’s family home is still overrun with Death Eaters. They stay in the guest rooms, they pillage the food and furniture, they ruin the art and prise up the floorboards. They make a ruin of this place, but his mother cannot say a thing, because the Malfoys are already on thin ice as it is. His father said too much after the first war, and now they all suffer for it.

Draco’s lips twitch slightly as he remembers how his father used to terrify him when Draco was a little boy. All it took was one dark look from Lucius Malfoy, one tap of that snake-headed cane and Draco’s entire world would shut down in panic. Now, his father is a skeleton pacing the halls of a house no longer his, and Draco has become the one to inspire fear.

It was the only way any of them would survive. Draco knew they were in danger, so he stepped up, pledged himself as one of the Dark Lord’s finest members. He thought he could convince himself of it, too, that he really wanted this, that joining the Death Eaters and soaring through their ranks was how he would distinguish himself among the pure-bloods, proving his worth once and for all. He had almost made himself believe the lies, too, even when every false word seemed to coat his throat with unquenchable blood whenever he spoke.

Draco is past pretense now. He knows he hates this, despises it with every iota of himself, but he is too far gone. He feels as if dark waters have closed over his head, all-consuming and suffocating, and the sunlight is too far away for any hope of safety.

He is needed downstairs. There is somebody waiting to be tortured, and it will be up to Draco to lead the assault. The Dark Lord wants information on the safehouses– somehow, they haven’t been able to locate even one yet, which is stunning. He takes one last breath, looks in his dusty mirror, and abandons himself to his work.

He wasn’t expecting a student. Draco actually recognized the face as one that used to stare back at him across a Transfiguration hall. Draco can tell the student recognizes him too, because the mangled body starts to thrash and beg Draco for its life. Draco does keep him alive, at least initially, but at the end of their session the student probably wishes otherwise. Draco does at least give him the mercy of a Killing Curse when he’s gotten all he needed. Greyback has been particularly hungry lately, but the werewolf has been taking his time with his feedings. A quick death is all the grace Draco can give a former classmate.

Before the green flash of light ends the stifled sobbing, Draco learns quite a lot. He’s heard rumors of the Order using Portkeys before, but he’d never given much thought. It’s a stupid idea, frankly, but on second thought it does seem like something the Order of the Phoenix would do. What they lack in manpower they make up with ridiculous, unorthodox ideas that somehow fly under the radar of the Death Eaters more often than not.

Draco files this information away in the back of his head, along with the understanding that most of the people that safeguard Portkeys are other students, chosen for their unlikely appearances and lack of motivation to seek outside entertainment. When you’re used to studying for OWLs all the time, spending a few months kicking back in a campsite in the countryside sounds like paradise.

Draco tried to push a little to get some names, but, although the student was more than willing to spill their guts to make the pain stop, the Order was at least smart enough to withhold exact names and locations in case of torture. Someone on their side was paranoid to think of everything, and that’s the only reason the Death Eaters have been so lacking in their information.

Still, the student did give them a few places to look for Portkeys, and the next one they catch does the same, so on and so on until there should be none left. Yet the safehouses remain secure. There must be one more hidden camp, just one, but for the life of them, the Death Eaters cannot track it down.

It must take a marvel at defensive magic to keep themselves safe all this time. He’s certain the identity of the last Node maintainer is a student, likely someone around his year given what he’s been able to torture out of the others. One person, smart enough to keep the entirety of the Death Eaters at bay. Who could that possibly be?

And when he bites down on his tongue, hard, to stop himself from speaking, Draco tastes not the copper tang of blood but something salty, like tears. Like the dark water closing over his head again, but this time, Draco doesn’t think he’s drowning but being brought somewhere else, somewhere safe. Somewhere like a lake on a grassy hill, with the sun shining on his face, with someone next to him. A girl he used to know. A girl he used to like. A girl he hasn’t seen in months. Not at school, not captured by the Death Eaters, not even glimpsed on the front lines. It means Y/N L/N has to be somewhere else, somewhere secure. Somewhere not even Draco Malfoy could find her.

Draco retreats to that room that night and thinks. If he wants to protect his family, the best thing is to carry on in the spirit of the Death Eaters, to keep hunting down members of the Order and killing them one by one. The Dark Lord will reign forever, and through his hard work, the Malfoys will flourish. It will be a sick existence, but a solid one.

But Draco remembers how he used to live before the war started. He remembers the fierce spirits of a rivalry. He remembers a laugh carrying across the classroom, smiling before he could stop himself. He remembers how it felt when Y/N L/N always looked for his reaction to a test or essay before anyone else. He remembers how it felt to matter as more than just a murderer.

Draco cannot explain what Y/N L/N is to him anymore. He’s not even sure if he could describe what they were when they were still schoolmates. He still recalls watching her across the hall at the Yule Ball, not being able to explain to himself why he couldn’t look away. When the Vanishing Cabinet plot was on the brink of collapse, with threats to his mother sent by the daily, Draco didn’t go to Snape or any other loyal Slytherin but Y/N. She was the first name on his mind. He couldn’t fathom asking anyone for help. It was her or nobody.

The Death Eaters will find her eventually, Draco is sure of that. Y/N is good, but the combined might of the Death Eaters is something to inspire fear in the hearts of the whole wizarding community. Maybe she’ll be the next one he tortures. Maybe he’ll be the one to watch that clever smile turn into a scream of agony.

Something inside him snaps down at once, hard and cold like the jaws of a bear trap. No. Not him. Not ever. Many times over the course of the war, Draco has considered sending a message to the Order of the Phoenix. He knows exactly how he would do it. He knows exactly how to avoid being caught by his own men. He has thought about doing this at least a dozen times, but for the first time in his life, Draco actually commits to it.

I’m willing to provide information, he says to the enemy. Anonymously only. And to someone secure. I’m not looking to get caught.

He gets a response sooner than he expected. We have someone in mind. Select a password so they’ll know you.

It angers him, strangely enough, how glib the Order is with this whole affair, how willing they are to trade up their last remaining Node maintainer in favor of some cheap secrets. For all they know, he could be a double agent, and only be there to kill Y/N.

But first, the meeting, the passcode. Draco ponders the matter briefly, and the answer rises to him in a heartbeat. He smiles as he sends it.

Saltwater.

people who inquired about another part: @foreveror-never, @pklol, @unicornqueen05

harry potter tag list: @blondsauduun, @cameronsails, @neewtmas, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @eclliipsed, @frenchgirlinlondon, @23victoria, @ilovexavierthrope, @faerieroyal

all tags list: @wordsarelife, @supervoldejaygent

[deoidesign]

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[mokeonn]

The most annoying phenomena on this website is grown adults refusing to educate themselves, despite the abundant recourses at their disposal, because their heads are still stuck in highschool.