𝘈𝘶𝘥𝘦𝘯

thoughts and prayers

[mcybank]

Tender — Jack Abbot

pairing — jack abbot x college!reader

summary — the worst-cared-for girl in the county keeps washing up in jack’s er, and he can’t help but start paying attention.

warnings — 19.2k. large age gap (jack’s fifty/reader’s in twenties), doctor/patient dynamic initially, power imbalance (attending/nursing student, age, life experience), yearning!jack, protective!jack, jealous!jack, and literally every single word in the book, mutual pining, slow burn, he falls first, hurt/comfort, reader shows signs of adhd but it isn’t explicit, alcohol use (recurrent drunkenness, mention of alcohol poisoning, ER, and repeated intoxication played somewhat lightly), loneliness/self isolation, low self-worth, it’s very difficult for her to accept care, lack of family support/implied estrangement, financial stress and overworking, she’s also spending an unrealistic amt of time hanging out in the ed but it’s fanfic so it’s ok, jokes about financial stress, injuries (sprains, split lip, bruising, gravel burns), medical setting, blood, referenced patient death (patient dies, off-page, Jack grieves), making out/heavy kissing, suggestiveeee content (thumb-in-mouth beat, grinding) but nothing explicit. 

notes — oops sorry this fic is so so self-indulgent 🫶 i literally loved writing them tho i was thinking about them for days on end. tried to take a swing at this based on this idea i had + thank you @ker0senebunny for inspriring the shoe scene!!!! inspired by this post + my er visits where i was literally the worst patient ever

Friday and Saturday after midnight, the board filled up with the same predictable words; alcohol poisonings, bar-fight lacerations, the kids who’d taken things they couldn’t name and showed up convinced they were dying when they were mostly just twenty and having a large thought. Jack triaged it on autopilot, and he’d stopped finding any of it interesting somewhere around year seven. 

Sure, sometimes there were some cases that got a mild laugh out of him or turned his head. There was a kid who’d superglued his halloween mask on his own face for a dare. The guy who’d lost a bet and swallowed something he wouldn’t name in front of his mother, who was present and furious. The occasional genuinely strange thing the human body did that still, after all these years, made Jack think huh, that’s interesting, the small grim curiosity that was about the only part of the job the years hadn’t fully sanded down. He kept those and told them to new nurses over shitty coffee at four a.m. because he supposed that was a better story than what he could say about the Middle East. 

The first time you came in, he’d handed you over to Shen. You were a sprained wrist and a BAC that explained the wrist, sixteen other things were louder, and Shen was free then. 

He’d clocked you for half a second on his way to a GI bleed in bay nine: girl on the gurney, one heel too high on, and one somewhere in the greater metropolitan area, some little pink lace-trimmed thing sliding off one shoulder, telling Shen with enormous seriousness that she was so sorry, she didn’t usually do this, she’d had a singular margarita. Only.

Singular. He’d categorized it under the thousand other single margaritas he’d sworn to in this department and forgotten you before he’d reached the bleed. 

The second time, he didn’t take you either, but he noticed the wrist. 

Same wrist. Different night — a Saturday, three weeks in, the sort of shift where the waiting room sounded like a kennel — and he caught it sideways while he reviewed another chart. It was the same left wrist, taped this time, the nails on that one hand done in some soft pinky color gone chipped at the tips as though the week itself outlasted the manicure, somebody walking you through the discharge paperwork you clearly were ignoring. Something thought for him instead of him thinking much for it, some pattern-recognition thing buried under twenty-some years of reading bodies fast, the same instinct that made him glance twice at something almost normal. A wrist that kept coming back, he supposed. A thread snagging on a nail, there and gone. 

The third time, it was Shen, breezing past the station with his Dunkin, saying over his shoulder, “Frequent flyer’s back.” 

He shrugged, not yet placing that you were the frequent flyer, and went to bed four.

And that — somewhere between the third time and a number he stopped keeping an honest count of — was where it stopped being a chart and became some sort of thing. A bit, he’d say. The nights the bars let out and the board lit up, he’d find himself reading the incoming names a half-second longer than triage required, and feeling something wrong in his chest when yours wasn’t in them. 

Pittsburgh was notoriously interesting, Jack learned through you, in that it apparently contained an infinite supply of ways a girl could get herself in trouble. He was convinced he could’ve drawn a map of the city by your injuries. There was the ankle, of course, a recurring grievance, always the shoes, never your fault. There was one time you’d burned your hand on a curling iron getting ready tipsy and come in more upset about the makeup you’d had to redo (because of crying it off) than the blister. The night you’d gone over in a parking lot because you refused to look at the ground while walking — looking at the ground, while drunk, you informed him, was how you trip — and the time you sliced your finger open trying to shotgun a White Claw with a key because someone had bet you couldn’t. You were really proud of the last one, you’d won the bet. 

You were never the same disaster twice, he had to give you that. A little too keen on busting yourself up here and there, sure, but at least it was the wrist once, then a knee that met a curb, then a memorable evening involving a fence you’d been certain you could clear. You came in apologizing — always apologizing, to him, to the nurses, once, memorably, to the wall — and you came in sweet, which was the part that got under him, because drunk people in this ER were a lot of things and sweet was rarely one of them. 

“Mmm,” you hummed the fourth or fifth time, the second your eyes found him through the gap in the curtain, going boneless with relief like Jack was the cavalry and not the man who was meant to flash light into your eyes for thirty seconds. “The pretty one.” 

Jack let out a huff. “Thanks, doll.” 

“Doll,” you repeated, the word going gummy in your mouth. “He calls me doll.”

“Eyes open. Follow the light.” 

“You call everyone that, Dr. Abbot?” you said, his name coming out in a cluster like you were losing thread of it, the Abbot dissolving into something closer to a hum. 

“Sure do,” he lied. “Track the light.”

You looked at his mouth, then his hands, then back up, a slow uncoordinated sweep because your eyes had stopped reporting to anything in particular, much less what they had to. Pupils blown wide and lazy. He thumbed your eyelid up a fraction to get the light where he needed it; your lashes were clumped and starry with whatever mascara had survived the night. 

He held the penlight steady and waited you out. He had nowhere to be. That was the thing about the dead hours after bars closed; the bleed had been signed up to the floor, the chest pain turned out to be a panic attack and a large energy drink, and there was just you, and the saline ticking into your arm one slow drop at a time. 

“What’d you get up to tonight?” he murmured, thumb finding the pulse at your wrist, counting without meaning to.

“S’fast ‘cause you’re here,” you said, sounding very pleased with yourself.

“Sure it is. Where’d you hurt yourself tonight?”

“... stairs,” you said after a moment, like your brain had to run a few laps to get to the word. 

“Oh, yeah?” He hummed. You lifted your free hand a little off the mattress, lost track of it, and dropped it back down. “How many?” 

“Mm. Four?” You squinted at the ceiling. “Maybe three. I dunno. Not the Great Wall or somethin’. Promise.” 

“I believe you.” He nodded, then turned your forearm to the light, finding the scrape you’d come in with. It was gravel-burn, raw, the heel of your hand and a stripe up your wrist. Nothing that needed more than cleaning. You watched him do it with your head tipped against the pillow, gone quiet so the talking had run out for a second, which never lasted.

“Should I get a better first aid kit?” you asked, then clenched your jaw for a second like you felt something was wrong with it. “S’I don’t have to bother you all the time?” 

“Might be a good idea to invest,” he said. He pulled the swab through the gravel-burn slowly, and you hissed and tried to pull back the hand on reflex. “Easy.” He kept it, his grip light yet unmoving around your fingers. “Almost done. Don’t fight me.”

You hummed, like you wanted a different answer.

Jack wet his lips, shaking his head slightly. He worked the grit out of the scrape, a fleck of it catching raw skin, and he tilted your arm to the light, getting it on the second pass, and wiped it on the gauze. Your hands twitched in his, and he pressed your fingers flat to the mattress with his thumb, and they stayed.

“You’d have to do it yourself, though,” he said. “Bathroom sink at three in the morning with one hand.” He reached for fresh gauze. “You’d make a mess of it.”

You frowned at the ceiling, nodding. “Sounds a little bad.”

“It’s a lot bad.” He laid the gauze over the scrape, thumbed the tape down at the edge of your wrist slowly, smoothing it flat where it wanted to lift. His knuckle dragged once over the thin skin there, and he felt your pulse jump under it. “You’d scar, probably.” His thumb passed the chipped polish, the chunky gold ring you’d kept on, even for this. “You’ve got nice hands. Shame to wreck ‘em over the sink.”

It took you a second. “You think so?”

“Don’t wreck ‘em.” 

“You like when I come in,” you said, delighted. 

“What I’d like,” he said, flat, lifting his eyes to yours, “is you off the stairs and down to the one drink.” His thumb settled over the back of your hand again. “But if you’re set on flinging yourself down, then you come here. Deal?”

Your fingers had curled around two of his somewhere in there loosely, without you noticing. He felt them settle, and he held very still so as to not spook you. He chose to not acknowledge it or look at it.

“Deal,” you mumbled, somewhere far off, probably forgetting the front half of the terms. 

He let it go at that, taping down the last edge and turning over your wrist once more to be sure of it. Then he set your hand back on the mattress, yours still loosely hooked through his, going nowhere.

“Anyone out there to get you home?” he asked. 

“Dunno.” Your nose scrunched. “Was gonna Uber.”

He sighed through his nose. “Where’s that girl — the one you came in with last time? Why don’t you call her?” 

“That’s annoying, Dr. Abbot,” you said, almost in a whine. 

“Yeah?” He kept looking at the wall behind you. “What’s annoying about a ride home?” 

“Calling people. Making it a thing.” Your free hand flopped vaguely. “Then they gotta come get you, and they’re all — have to be nice about it, but you can tell.” Your nose scrunched. “It’s a whole production.”

He pressed his thumb flat back over your hand where your fingers were still caught in his. 

“Oh? Nothing annoying about it, sweetheart. You call, she comes. Simple as that.” He turned to face you. “But if you insist on it, I’m not signing you off until you’re good enough to go home alone. So you call your girl, or you sit right here and keep my department company till you’ve cleared enough that I’ll sign off on it.” 

Your eyes narrowed as you looked at him as though he’d spoken a different language. “Second one?”

“Obviously you pick that one,” he said. 

He pulled the stool over and sat. For a few minutes, he had nowhere to be, and now, apparently, neither did you.

It wasn’t that you simply didn’t let people help you, either. Jack had never seen anyone so committed to being simply fine. Jack had met the stoic kind before; construction guys who walked in with rebar through a forearm acting like it was a small inconvenience; old ladies who’d been having a heart attack since last Tuesday and didn’t want to be a bother. But Jack had always believed those people to be suppressing, and you were just convinced, somewhere down in the foundation, that needing anything was an imposition. 

That was also why the shoes confused him so much. 

“This is the same damn ankle,” Jack said, turning your foot in his hands, watching the swelling outside of it. 

“You don’t have to remind me. Most men buy me a drink before they get this familiar with my ankles,” you said, then groaned as you looked at his eyes going over the swelling. 

“No drink.” He pressed along the bone. “Not my fault you keep handing your ankle to me.” 

You tipped your head back against the pillow, groaning again. “Dr. Abbot, they look so bad. I feel like I’m pregnant.” 

“I can do a quick blood draw and we can rule it out.” His palm flattened on the mattress beside your feet, leaning over to meet your eyes again. “But I think it’s those heels of yours, doll.” 

Your eyes snapped to him. “Don’t be a dick, Dr. Abbot.”

He tilted his head, then pointed at the laminated paper stuck to the wall. “Aggressive behavior of any kind toward healthcare workers is a felony.” 

“Then arrest me, doctor. I’ll die on this hill — and they’re not heels.” Your lips pursed, and the corner of your mouth kicked up. “Cuffs may be a little forward for a date, but I won’t stop you.” 

“Aren’t you just so sweet,” he muttered. “What are they, then?”

“Bottega Lido Mules.”

The words meant absolutely nothing to him — could’ve been a pasta dish, a town in Italy, a wine — but they clearly did to you, so he remembered them. 

“That’s nice, doll. They’ll be the reason I see you again.” 

“Maybe, ‘cause I’ll never stop wearing them.” 

You said the words your whole face, hands coming off the mattress to make the point with a drunk theatrical conviction as you argued something that genuinely mattered to you. Jack thought, not for the first time since he’d met you, that you’d have been magnetic stone-sober at a dinner party, the kind of girl that made a table lean in. It was just that he only ever got the 3am version.

At least you had a hill you’d die on and didn’t apologize for, Jack supposed. 

“You married, Doctor?” you asked as he started icing your ankle. 

“No,” he said, holding your eyes for a second. “Why — you got a boyfriend I should know about, then?” 

He almost wished you did have one. He wished that there were somebody whose name you’d have said just now who’d be in the waiting room with his jaw tight because you’d gone and hurt yourself again. Somebody who’d take care of the ankle when you walked out of here in crutches, who took the keys when you had too many. He wished there was a person in the world whose job you were. 

And you weren’t his first patient who he’d understood to not have someone taking care of them. He knew that if he carried them all, he’d drown inside a month if he tried to be the person nobody else had been. He’d never once had it turn into a wish, standing here with an ice pack in his hand going slack in his hand because he was too busy resenting someone who didn’t exist for not being in the waiting room. 

He wondered when down the line you’d stopped letting the people in your life around you be the ones you could call, became a girl who said sorry for bleeding and had nobody, nobody, and looked at him like he was the warmest place she’d been in all week.

You laughed. “If I had a boyfriend, would I be laying it on so thick?” 

He let out a breath through his nose, despite himself. “Stop wearing the heels, doll. Not nice to not have a foot.”

The next time you came in, it was a Thursday. With some pileup of bad luck, you came in somewhere past one with a split lip and a story about a dance floor he only half got the shape of. Jack hadn’t even been assigned to you yet, he’d just seen your name on the board, and reassigned himself quietly enough that dared anyone on shift to comment. Nobody did. 

“Lip’s not bad,” he said, tilting your chin up under the light, thumb at your jaw. The split was already going fat and shining at the center of your lower lip, and he found his eyes stayed on your mouth a second past the part that was his job, on the soft unhurt swell of it under the hurt. He moved his thumb. “Doesn’t need anything. You bit it when you fell down. That’s all.”

“S’throbbing, Doctor,” you mumbled, the word coming around muffled around the split. 

“It’ll throb. You’ve got a swollen lip.” He let go of your jaw and reached for the penlight. “Eyes on me.” 

“I was so cute before this,” you said through a groan. 

The huff that came out of him was almost a laugh, dragged out against his own will, and he shared a fleeting look with Bennet — a fairly new nurse — who had tilted his head briefly and was too afraid to meet your eyes.

“Alright. Still the prettiest girl I’ve treated tonight,” Jack said when your brows had furrowed together.

“You treat other girls?” 

“It’s a hospital,” he said. “Few hundred a week.”

Your face looked wounded. “Few hundred.”

He leaned in slightly, faking a whisper. “You’re my top three.”

You were further gone than usual tonight. He’d noticed it the second he came around the curtain, the way your head was having a hard time holding itself up, the loose unmoored swim of your eyes that took longer than it should to find his finger. A piece of hair had come loose and stuck to the gloss at the corner of your mouth and you hadn’t the coordination to deal with it, and he had the unprofessional impulse to, and didn’t. 

Bennet kept working the blood pressure cuff up your arm, half an eye on you, half on his own work. 

“Track the light,” Jack murmured. “Slowly.”

“Too bright.”

“Tough.” The corner of his mouth moved up slightly. “You can bat your lashes at me when we’re done. Right now, I need ‘em open.” 

You batted them anyway, slowly and theatrically, just to be a problem about it. They were long, and the theater of it was so ridiculous, and Jack had to bite down the inside of his cheek to keep his face flat to wait you out, until you gave up and tracked the finger. Your pupils were reactive, equal, and lagging half-a-beat behind. He clicked the light off. 

“Too bright,” you said again. 

“It’s off,” he drawled, chuckling. 

Bennett thread a line into the back of your free hand, and you watched him sink it with a drowsy focus. 

“Why’s it go in the back of the hand?” you mumbled. “More nerves there. Hurts more. Why not the — inside. By the elbow.” You tilted your head slightly to let your eyes wander to the crook of your arm. “Bigger vein. The antec—antecubital,” you said carefully, sounding out each syllable, afraid of messing it up. You wet your lips and turned to face him, then Bennet. “Why’s nobody use the good one?” 

Jack pursed his lips and looked at you for a moment. 

“Saves the good one,” he said, catching up, eyes going back to your chart. “AC vein blows easily when somebody’s moving around, and you —” He tipped his head at you, raising a brow, the squirming drunk of you. “ — Are gonna move around. Back of the hand’ll hold. I’d rather you be sore than re-stuck twice ‘cause you couldn’t sit pretty for thirty seconds.” He paused as he saw your eyes glaze over. He sighed. “Ask me how I know that about you.” 

You’d gone busy, lips moving slightly like you were repeating it back to yourself so it’d stick, and Jack felt something in his chest shift a degree as he watched you do it. 

He sighed, dragging a palm over the lower half of his face. “Where’d you learn that, then?” 

“School,” you said to the ceiling, a small hint of pride taking over your voice. “M’gonna become a nurse. Gonna be good at it.”

Bennet snorted, finishing the tape. “Gonna be patching up drunk girls just like you then, huh,” he said. “Full circle.”

Jack watched the pride go out of your face slowly, like a house losing its power. Your chin dropped and your eyes slid from Bennet to the curtain as your hand fisted in your lap. 

“Yeah,” you said, almost curiously. “Guess so.” 

Jack’s jaw clenched involuntarily. It wasn’t the guy’s fault, not really. It was a nothing joke, the sort the whole department tossed off a hundred times a shift, the gallows shorthand that kept you sane at two in the morning. Jack had made worse about patients who’d never know, about drunks who wouldn’t remember, about exactly this, exactly girls like you. He’d just never had one of them go quiet before, watched the bright thing fold itself up and get tucked away. 

“Bennet, you done?” 

“Yeah, line’s good — ”

“Then go take vitals on six. I’ve got her.”

Bennet went, and it was just the two of you again. 

Jack pulled the stool over with his foot and sat — lower than he had to, level with you, taking himself out of the column of people standing over you tonight and telling you what you were — and waited until your eyes came up off the curtain and found him.

“There she is,” he said when your eyes found him. He turned your taped hand over under the light like there was still something to do with it. There wasn’t, he just wanted his hands on something of yours while he undid what the room had done. “Look at me. Nothing good on the curtain.” 

“How’s school treating you then, doll?” he asked, aiming for offhand and not steering you off whatever Bennet had knocked loose.

“Hard,” you said, but a small smile had crawled up your lips. “But I like it.” Your shoulders came up loosely.

“Yeah?” He kept his thumb moving over the back of your hand slowly, like he could press the bright thing back up to the surface where it belonged. “I think you’ll be good at it.” 

It was such a strange feeling, Jack distantly noticed, to feel this utter conviction. He was rarely sure of anything good anymore. Sure of plenty else; sure within ten seconds of a bad rhythm which way the night was going to break, sure of which of the kids wheeled in at 2 am he’d see again and which he wouldn’t, a grim accumulated certainty that had nothing in it he’d ever wanted to be right about.

The job had made him an expert on the downslope of things. He could read the exact moment a body wanted to quit better than he could read most of what people said to his face. And here you were, and he was so sure of the other direction, and he felt the same weight of it behind his sternum, except it had swung and pointed at something good for once. You were going to be excellent at this. 

It bothered him a little, how much he wanted to be there to see it, whoever you were going to be once you stopped washing up on his floor on the worst nights of your week. He’d known you, what, a handful of shifts as a frequent flyer, a bit, a name his eyes unconsciously caught on. He had no business feeling certain of anything about you, and he was, and he’d let himself feel it. 

Your eyes found him properly again. “Liar.”

He huffed out a short laugh. “Tell you what. You finish that program, you get through all that mess where they try to drown you.” His thumb smoothed over the tape. “Then you come find me here and we’ll see if we can get you here with me on nights. Clearly you’re at your finest then.” 

It was maybe something silly to say, and Gloria may have his head for it. He had no actual standing to say anything like it, even though you’d never remember it. He knew better; hope was a controlled substance in his field and he was stingy with it on purpose, because he’d seen the withdrawal.

But God, he’d love to see the part of you he could only catch glimpses of through the wreck like a light under the door. He’d love to be the one who taught you which arrogance to keep and which to let the job take away. He’d love, plainly and without anywhere to put it, to watch you become who you’d just told him you were going to be. 

It was a lot of loving for a girl who’d been in his department and wouldn’t recall his face or a word of this by tomorrow morning. He was getting sentimental, or old, or both; the years stacked up behind his eyes until he started mistaking everything for a second chance at something. 

Your lips moved. “So I can patch girls up like myself?” 

“Nah.” He kept looking at your hand. “You can patch up old bastards like me, too.” Then, he pointed his index finger of his free hand at you, mock-stern. “Gotta make sure you’re not at point three BAC, though. Will have to do that work to get you working with me.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flickered up to the ceiling, weighing it with the enormous gravity of the very drunk as though he’d posed a very real proposition to you. “Okay. For you, I’d stop.”

“For me?” he repeated, mostly to buy himself a second.

“Mm-hm.” You turned your face to him and said it with such ease, no glance away to leave yourself an exit. “You’re worth not drinkin’ over.”

Your words went in clean, the way the best and worst things do, under the ribs where he kept nothing armored because nobody ever aimed there. Jack felt the back of his neck go warm and was abruptly, intensely grateful for the light that wouldn’t display it. 

Jack huffed, having to look away at the floor then. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all year, and you’re not gonna remember it. Hell of a thing.” 

When he made himself look back up, you’d tipped your face into the pillow, watching him from the side with your eyes gone soft and heavy, the smile arriving unguarded across your mouth. The split tugged one corner of it, that small wince folded right into the sweetness, and you seemed to not feel it. 

He had the sudden, idiotic wish to have met you on a night you’d remember. To have perhaps caught you when you fell at the bar, to have been the stranger whose arm happened to be there, not the doctor it eventually routed you to. Perhaps he could’ve been a man in your night instead of a stop in it.

He shook his head. “You’re trouble, you know that, right? Saying all these nice things. What’s a man supposed to do with that?” 

He’d have liked to have been remembered, was the bottom of it. By you specifically. He’d spent decades being the man people were grateful to and glad to forget.

“What’s your name, Doctor Abbot?” you asked, drowsy.

He looked down at his badge, then back up at you. “Take a wild guess?” Then, he added, “You never looked at my badge?” 

“Sorry. Didn’t read.” 

“Don’t apologize to me. It’s Jack.”

Jack was doing his usual rounds this Friday, on a rush from a chest pain in two that turned out to be a panic attack and a kid in five who’d put a kitchen knife through the meat of his own palm trying to halve a frozen bagel when Ellis caught him by the elbow at the board.

“Heads up, Abbot,” she said, grinning. She nodded toward triage, toward the doors. “Bed three. Your, uh—” The grin tipped over, delighted with itself. “Girlfriend’s got a boyfriend.” 

It was a running thing now. Somewhere around the fourth or fifth time you’d washed up on his shift the staff had started on it — your frequent flyer, your stray, your girl’s back — and Jack had stopped bothering to deny it because that’d only feed it, and he’d learned not denying it had a way of starving the joke faster. 

He looked, and was immediately able to notice what you weren’t doing more than what you were; you weren’t grinning at the ceiling, weren’t doing that boneless sweet-relief thing. You were sitting up too straight on the bed, hands folded in your lap, and there was a guy fitted to the chair beside you with one arm slung along the back of yours and a hand resting on your knee like he’d put it there to mark the spot. He was saying something low to the side of your face, and you were nodding at it, and not looking at anybody.

Jack felt a muscle tick in his jaw, immediately not feeling anything nice about the situation. “I got it — you mind taking six for me? I’ll come in a couple minutes.” 

By the time he’d made it to you, he’d settled his face into something unbothered. You could read it, he’d realized at some point during your frequent visits, and that only meant he had to be on his better behavior around you. 

“Evening.” He pulled the curtain half-round behind him, glanced at the chart clipped to the foot of the bed, then at you. “What’d we do tonight?”

“She caught an elbow,” the guy answered. “Some asshole on the dance floor. It’s nothing — she’s fine. She’s just a lightweight, aren’t you — ” A little squeeze on your knee. “ — didn’t even really need to come in, but y’know. Better safe.” 

You weren’t a lightweight, he immediately wanted to correct. He’d seen you put away enough over the months to know your tolerance better than this guy apparently did; he knew the difference between the nights you were genuinely wrecked and the nights you came in clearer than you let on, and looking at you, tonight, you weren’t anywhere near the state implied. 

“You,” he said, tipping his chin in your direction. “Not him. Where’d it get you?” 

You lifted your hand up from your lap and touched your cheekbone, movement slow, and Jack stepped in and tipped your head up toward the light with two fingers under your chin, thumb resting just shy of the scrape. The skin had gone dark along the bone, tender, an elbow’s worth of it. Nothing that needed more than an ice and a night, but you were still holding still under his hand and not meeting his eyes, and that he didn’t like at all. 

“It’s okay,” you said. “Really. S’not even — ”

“Let me be the judge of that, sweetheart. Gettin’ paid for this.” His eyes flicked down to yours and caught, holding it there a second with a small question in the rise of a brow, before he went back to the bone, thumb tracing the edge of the bruise so light you barely felt it. A small frown pulled at the corners of his mouth at the sight. “Follow my finger. Eyes only.” 

You followed, pupils fine and equal. No concussion in it. 

“She’s fine, I told you,” the guy said from the chair, a little laugh under it like he was inviting Jack in on something. “Hardly. She bounces back.”

Jack clicked the penlight off and turned to the side. “Gonna need the room.”

“I’ll stay.” The hand went back to your knee. “I’m all good here.”

“Can’t clear a head strike with people in the room. You get it.” Jack tilted his head to the side, raising a shoulder. “Liability. Coffee machine’s down the hall. Give me two minutes with my patient.”

The easy smile on the guy’s lips went thin around the edges, looking for a thing to push against and not finding it. He stood up slow, making a show of it, squeezing your knee and letting you know he’ll be back in a minute, babe, a hand trailing your shoulder on the way past, all of it aimed less at you and more at Jack holding the curtain. Jack pressed his lips in a thin line as he met the guy’s eyes. 

The second the curtain closed behind him, a breath left you, tiny and involuntary, and your shoulders came down in the empty room. 

“Sorry, Dr. Abbot,” you murmured. “I keep being a mess at this place.” You took in a short, almost shaky breath. “Sorry.” 

“None of that,” he almost grumbled, penning your chart. “Your folks down here, sweetheart?” 

“No,” you said to your lap, picking the edge of the blanket. “Back home. A few states over.” You let out a laugh. “Just me out here. S’nice.” 

Jack forced a small smile, having to look at the ceiling while you looked down at your lap, shaking his head, more of an action for himself than for you. He pulled the stool over with his foot and sat, getting level with you. 

“What’s goin’ on with you, huh?” he asked quietly, making sure there was nothing sharp in his tone at all. “Honest. I like seeing you but not like this bruised up with a guy who talks for you.” His thumb found your wrist. “So talk to me. What’s going on?” 

“He’s fine,” you said. “Just likes being around.”

Jack tilted his head, dipping his head to meet your eyes that were still facing down. “Not the important part of the question, and you know it.” 

You sighed. “Sorry, Jack.”

“Quit it. The only thing I want from you tonight is some honesty, alright?” 

A corner of your lip kicked up, even though the dimness in your eyes held. “Your eyes look really pretty tonight.” 

“Heard that one before,” he drawled. “Had ‘em fifty years. Try a new one.” 

“Your neck’s going red,” you mumbled, fingers reaching up to press flat to the warm of his skin, right there below the jaw, like you just had to feel whether it was true.

Jack stilled. Your fingers were cold on his neck. He distantly registered his pulse was probably going under your fingertips, and you’d feel it if you held there a second longer. And then you caught yourself, hand snapping back to the blanket.

“Sorry. Sorry — I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have done that — ” you said, the words coming out in a taut string. 

“Easy,” he said, voice coming out rough. He swallowed. “Got me all flustered and now you’re gettin’ all shy?” 

You huffed a small laugh, your hand still fisted in the blanket where you’d snatched it back. “I’m not allowed to do that. I don’t think.” 

“Had no idea you knew how to behave,” he leaned a little back from the stool, crossing his arms. “Should I be worried about that guy out there?”

“Jealous, Doctor?” 

He rolled his eyes slightly, not responding. 

You sighed when you realized he wasn’t taking the bait. “He’s fine. He just likes being around.” 

He stood off the stool and reached for the discharge clipboard at the foot of the bed.

“Whatcha doing there?”

“My job.” He clicked the pen. “Clearing you. You’ve got no concussion. You’re not dying tonight.” He scrawled on the paper. “And I’m writing you a script for the bruise and a code for an Uber — ”

“No, no,” you said immediately. “Please don’t do that.” 

He raised his hand with the pen, palm open. “You never let me Uber you back when you’re alone. At least have this.” Your face scrunched up, and he could practically feel the guilt building in you. “Don’t need to use it now. Or ever. You can keep it for whenever.” He set the slip on your lap before you could push it back at him, the matter completely closed on his end. “Goes in your phone case. You can forget it exists until you need it.”

“You can’t keep handing me stuff — ”

“Department’s got a whole stack. You’re not special.” He capped the pen, though the corner of his mouth made it slightly visible that his words were false. “Don’t flatter yourself, doll.”

You looked down at the slip, your thumb worrying the edges of it. “I don’t like taking things.” 

“I noticed. A few hundred times now.” He tucked the pen back in his scrub pocket, and his voice came down a notch. “If it really makes you feel so bad, though, then maybe we can start taking care of ourselves so you don’t have to keep ending up here?”

Jack was in the middle of hand-off, Robby doing his thing before Robby left and did whatever the hell he did. They were at the board, Robby running down the floor. It was six-fifteen in the ugly hour, the in-between where the day shift was dragging itself toward the door and the night hadn’t started biting yet, the light through the ambulance doors gone gold and slanted and almost decent for once.

And then the doors slid, and you came through them. Jack’s attention peeled to you the second your shape entered the room, except this was wrong, he distantly registered. It was daylight and six in the evening and you were on your own two feet, upright and, assumedly, sober and walking in through the front like a person as opposed to a patient. You were wearing a jacket that swallowed you, and he assumed underneath it was shorts of some sort. He could see a stripe of navy cotton peeking from under the collar of your jacket as you adjusted a tote bag on your shoulder. 

You looked, frankly, like a completely different species from the one he scraped off bed four on weekends. The jacket was too big — his first thought was that it was a man’s, and his second thought, which he didn’t care for, was about whose — sleeves shoved up to your forearms, a stripe of soft navy cotton on the collar, and below it bare legs and shorts and sneakers that had likely never seen the inside of a club. Your hair was up and a little damp at the temple and your face was scrubbed clean.

You looked like somebody’s whole good day, he thought. You looked around around the waiting room with slightly widened eyes, a lost expression coating your features like you’d built up a lot of nerve to walk in here and had no idea what to do with it. 

“ — and the tox screen is still pending, so don’t let them,” Robby was saying. 

“Mhm,” Jack said, attention already halved. 

And Bennet, breezing past the triage desk with cheerful obliviousness, caught your figure and said, out loud, “Don’t tell me you’ve started day drinking. It’s barely past six, you gotta pace yourself — ” He let out a small laugh at his own joke, and kept walking, and didn’t see the way it landed. 

Your body stiffened, and you looked like a deer in headlights. Your mouth opened, some sort of flustered apology forming, he was sure. 

Jack let out a short groan, shaking his head. He set the tablet on the counter, already moving to cross the floor toward you. “Finish the hand-off with Shen. I gotta go deal with something.” 

Robby said something at his back — deal with what? — but Jack was already gone, crossing the floor slowly but somehow still eating the distance fast, and he watched you spot him coming and watched the relief crash over your face. Except you were sober now, in the daylight, and your whole face was going soft and grateful and just slightly wrecked at the sight of him.

He stopped a couple feet short of you, closer than a doctor, further than he stood to you at night. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands — there was no chart to hold (he should’ve brought the tablet) or wrist to take or a penlight to shine — so he clasped them behind his back, and tilted his head to get a better look at you. 

“Hi,” you breathed.

“Hey,” he said, eyes doing a quick once-over to make sure you really didn’t have any new injuries.

You shifted the tote under his gaze and clutched whatever was in the bag a little tighter.

“Jack —” you started, stopped, like the name had come out wrong. “ — Dr. Abbot.” You winced, pinching your eyes shut for a second. “Jack?” you tried to say again, smaller, your eyes flicking up to check his face to check if you’d overstepped. “Sorry, I don’t know which — ”

“Jack’s great.” His mouth tugged up, despite himself. “You’ve called me a lot worse. Jack’s a step-up.” 

You let out a startled little laugh, your mouth coming over your mouth like you could catch it, as your body eased a degree. 

“I’m sorry — I don’t — God, this is so embarrassing. I’m sorry.” 

“You know how many times you’ve apologized to me? Quit it.” He rubbed a finger over his lips. “What’s got you here today, then?”

“Um, I came to see you.” He raised a brow, and you let out a short breath, then continued, “I might not remember a lot of it, but I remember you took really good care of me. And my friends who came in with me sometimes said you took really good care of me.” The words came out softer now, flowing, more earnest. “Even though I was a mess. Especially when. So I just wanted to —” You shrugged, smiling slightly. “ — come say thanks.”

Jack felt the complete warmth of you land somewhere he kept no armor. “It’s the job,” he said quickly, before he could stop himself. “You didn’t have to come down here for that. That’s — it’s what we do. Anybody on shift would’ve done the same.” 

Your expression faltered for a moment, and your eyes dropped to the tote at your side as your shoulders came in. You shook your head, a small motion, then smiled again. 

“Right. No — yeah, of course.” You chuckled. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it a — I know it’s your job.” You shifted the bag, then shifted your weight from one foot to another. “Still, though. You did, so I wanted to.” 

Jack already wanted to take his words back, but he couldn’t, so he just shook his head. “Hey, you’re my problem, though. So thank you. For the thanks. We’re even.” 

Your shoulders eased and you nodded. “Well, I also have something for you.” You hauled a container out of your tote and held it out to him with both hands before you could chicken out. “It definitely doesn’t make up for all of the times you helped me.” You looked down at the container. “And I don’t know if you’re lactose intolerant, or have a peanut allergy or anything. I’m sorry if you do — I can — ”

“I’ve got a cast-iron everything. The cookies won’t kill me.” When you pushed the container further to him, he took it off your hands, eyes quickly scanning the round chocolate chip cookies, forcing a smile down. He swallowed whatever had lodged in his throat. 

“These are homemade?” He weighed the container in both hands, absurdly. You nodded. He swallowed whatever on earth had lodged in his throat at that.“Didn’t have to do all that for me.” 

“I wanted to,” you said quickly. “I wasn’t sure how the food here is, so thought it might be a nice change.” 

“Worse than you’re imagining,” he said, then tipped his head to the side as the memory crawled into his brain, uncalled for. “You’ve actually thrown a sandwich across the room.” 

Your palm came up to your mouth, and you let out a muffled, “I’m so sorry.” 

Jack snorted, shaking his head. Then, after a moment, he cleared his throat before it could get away from him. He looked back toward the board, then at you, knowing time was slipping and he’d have to go back to work and you’d have to go somewhere else, most likely. 

“You got finals or anything coming up soon?” he asked. 

Your lips curved down, and you nodded. “Yeah, in a couple weeks.” 

“Am I gonna be seeing you getting wheeled in wasted?” 

“I want to say no,” you said, smiling a little crooked. “I’m working on it. But I’ve said that before and ended up here. So.” You shrugged, lips jutting out like you were also unimpressed with yourself. “Ask me again in a couple weeks, I guess. I’d like it if you didn’t, though.” 

“Then quit doing the hard nights alone,” he said, leaning in just slightly. “You keep yourself off the stairs, and you can come bother us instead here with a textbook.” He raised a brow as he held your eyes. “We’ve got a family room that’s almost always empty at night.” 

“I couldn’t — ”

“Won’t be a bother. Trust me. You’d be silly not to use people’s help when they’ve clawed through the same exams to get the badge. You get stuck, somebody’ll know it cold.” He shrugged. “Half of ‘em are bored out of their minds some nights. You’d be doing us a favor.” 

You let out a breath, brows pinching together. “That’s — yeah.” You let out a short laugh, looking away for a second. “I’d like that. A lot. Thank you, really. As long as you don’t mind.”

“This is a teaching hospital, doll. I don’t mind, so long as you don’t mind the company. Might be nice for me, too.”

You smiled and for a moment, neither of you moved to end it. Then you shifted the tote back up your shoulder, and Jack felt the pull to keep you here one more second before he could stop himself. 

“Go home,” he said gruffly. “And I’ll be looking for you. So actually turn up, don’t make me look for nothing.” 

The whole sun of you came up at that, stunned, like you hadn’t expected to be looked for by anyone. Jack felt the ground go quietly out from under him, the vertigo of having reached for a person’s happiness on purpose and connected, of being, for once, the cause of a face doing that. He’d gotten so used to delivering news that took the light out that he’d forgotten it ran the other way, too.

“I’ll turn up. I promise.” 

He nodded, clearing his throat and turning for the board, bidding you a throaty goodbye. 

“She’s the girl that everyone on night talks about?” Robby asked immediately, falling into step beside him. 

Jack looked at him sideways, shaking his head. “You got something to say, too?”

“No,” Robby said, rubbing his palm at his chin like he was holding something in. “You like her or something?”

Jack halted for a second, pointing his index at Robby as he lowered his chin. “You shut up. She’s gonna be a nurse.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Robby laughed. “Looks like she’s gonna be your nurse, old man. You’ll need it soon enough.”

Thank god you did turn up. Jack had the sense that maybe he’d scared you off altogether by his offer, and the line he’d toed had two very alternate spectrums: you’d find a new hospital altogether to go to in the metropolitan area after your falls or poisonings, or you’d be here a lot more often, which he still wasn’t sure would’ve been often enough. 

The first time you came in, it was well past midnight and Jack had unfortunately not been able to catch you off the bat because he was in an emergency surgery. He’d walked out of it with his blood-stained surgical gown still on to be met with the sight of you by the nurse’s station, writing something down on the back of a discharge form for Lena, with another Tupperware laying on the table. He made the guess that you’d brought the whole floor something and were three minutes from having Lena eating out of your hand. 

You’d found a corner of his department and made yourself a small soft home in it inside of ten minutes, and you were leaning in, and Jack stood there for a moment with the bad night still ringing in his ears and felt something unclench in his chest by a fraction.

“ — no, but you gotta,” you were saying to Lena in earnest as Jack approached closer. “If you put the brown sugar in while the butter’s still hot, it’s just — it’s a different cookie.”

“You taking the recipe, Lena?” Jack asked then, fully submerging into the knot you’d made with his charge nurse. 

You turned to face him, a smile forming on your lips almost immediately, and then your eyes dropped over him, to the gown, the rust-brown stain dried dark across the front of it, the set of his shoulders. 

“I am,” Lena replied. “Gonna make these for the kids.” She punctuated her sentence by holding up one of the cookies. 

“Gonna make some for us, too, then?” Jack asked, raising a brow, and settled his elbows over the table. He turned his neck to face you properly, putting on his best smile.

Lena laughed shortly. “I don’t like you enough.” She pushed off the counter with some forms in hand. “Her, maybe. You can have whatever she leaves behind.” She shot you a look that was almost warm before she went and disappeared down the hall. 

“Could be you someday,” Jack said, tilting his head in the direction of Lena’s chair. 

You shook your head, then pushed the container in his hands. “I’ve got to graduate first. And pass pharm, which is currently — ” You patted your tote bag, textbooks heavy. “ — trying to kill me.”

Jack nodded toward the family room, placing the container on the table for a second beside him. “C’mon, then, doll. Let’s see what the pharm’s doing to you.”

“You don’t have to — ” Your eyes flicked down the gown again. “You just came out of surgery. You don’t have to help me study.”

“Actin’ like I’m the one who got the surgery,” Jack muttered, chuckling slightly. He was already peeling off the gown one-handed, balling it up to toss. He started walking, and you followed behind him. “C’mon. It’s pretty empty right now.” 

It’d been pleasant that night and the few after to have five to ten minute increments of sitting with you helping you study in between doing his actual job. He’d duck in between things — a lull after discharge, the dread stretch while he waited for a CT scan, the ten minutes a trauma took to roll in once the call came — and you’d be there in the family room with your stack of cards on the couch. He’d drop on the chair across you or the couch beside you and pick up wherever you’d left off like he hadn’t left at all. Then his pager would buzz and he’d be gone, and you’d still be there an hour later when he came back, and he’d sit back down, and both of you’d pretend this was a completely normal way to study.

It’d annoyed him the first night how badly the flashcards were failing you; he’d seen you stare at the words and your eyes would glaze and slide right off it like they were greased. You’d memorized or retained nothing. And then he’d said, half to himself, a story for the why to click, and he’d watched it lock in you. 

So he’d stopped quizzing you primarily off the cards and started telling you stories instead and you’d talk it back to him, reasoning out loud, getting there in the saying of it the way you never got there on the page. 

The nights stacked up. The first week, you’d sat at a table across from him. By the second, you’d migrated to the chair beside him. Your coffee, the one by the far end of the table, was right by his elbow. Lena started leaving a second cup at the station when she saw you come in, his and yours, and never commented.

You’d stopped apologizing for taking up his time somewhere in there. He noticed when you’d started saving him the worst looking cookie on purpose because he’d once told you he liked the ugly ones. He’d noticed when you learned the rhythm of his pages; you’d go quiet and just hand him the next card when his eyes drifted to the board through the window of the door, would have it ready when he came back, like you’d kept his place for him while he was off keeping someone alive. 

He noticed that he more than looked forward to it. Somewhere in the dead middle of a bad shift, his feet would take him toward the family room before his brain could catch up on the why of it all. An empty table on a night you didn’t come in sat wrong with him, a tiny disappointment he didn’t have anything in him to figure out why.

Sometimes, like now, you’d get distracted. Jack had learned. He’d walked into the family room to see you and Ellis folded into opposite ends of the couch, the flashcards abandoned in a fanned mess on the cushion between you, both of you mid-argument and enjoying yourselves too much.

“Poaching my study hall, Ellis?” he said, finally moving in. 

Ellis pointed one stern finger in your direction as she pulled herself off the couch. “Do the crossword, not the sudoku.” 

“She’s gonna make you a worse student,” Jack said to Ellis’s back.

“She’s making me a worse doctor,” Ellis said cheerfully, already at the door. “I’ve been here twenty minutes. I have patients.” She turned to you one final time. “Crossword. You’ll thank me later.” 

She gave Jack a knowing look on her way out, one he didn’t want to read too much into, and she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her in one slow plunge. 

You watched the door settle, and the entire wattage of your attention turned to him. He hadn’t gotten used to that, and he didn’t think he ever would. “Looks like I’ll never be a nurse.” 

“Don’t say things like that.” He came around and lowered himself onto the couch beside you. “What’re you stuck on? Hit me.”

Your palm met his upper arm, a small smack. 

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Hit me all you want. You’re not getting out of this.” 

“But Jaaaack,” you drawled, tipping your head back on the couch. “Not here to study today.”

His eyes flickered over to your form briefly as he gathered the cards and squared them. “Oh, no? What’re you here for then?”

“Dunno.” You pulled your knees up to the couch. “Didn’t wanna be at mine. And work was a lot and boring.” You turned to face him then, a small smile growing on your lips. “Thought I’d bother yours instead.” 

He set the squared deck on his knee. “Lucky me.”

He’d caught it, though, how you’d folded the sad thing in the middle of the sentence where it’d draw the least attention and moved on before it could sit. He let it move on, but he kept it. The image of you on a Tuesday, work behind you, and the choice you’d made was to drive to a hospital rather than go home to your own quiet. He was getting a picture of what that quiet looked like and learned that he didn’t like it very much.

“Work was boring, huh,” he said, though he couldn’t imagine what a fun day looked like as a waitress. “You working more?”

“Mm. Saturday girl quit, so now I’m on Saturdays, too.” You picked at your sock. “S’okay. Tips are good. I learned that old guys tip better when you call them ‘sir.’” 

He huffed. “Do they?”

“Huge. It’s a cheat code.” You tilted your head at him, smiling shyly. “You’d tip well, I think. You’d overcompensate.” 

“I’m not gonna sit here and get profiled by you in the only few minutes where I can catch my breath.” He held the card up, front to himself. “And I tip twenty-five percent like every functioning adult, thank you.”

You groaned. “Where can I get tipped more than that?” 

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

“I do. I do. I’m a broke student. Point me to the money — where should I apply?” You shifted on the couch, fully facing him now, the cards apparently abandoned for the moment. “C’mon. You’ve lived a hundred years. You’ve gotta know where I can make some quick cash.” 

“You’re sweet to me, doll,” he muttered, rolling his eyes. He set the cards down and looked at you, genuinely considering it now. He tried to ignore the fact that you likely had money troubles and tried to think about how he could actually help. “Define quick.” 

“Like — by next Thursday.” 

“Legally?”

“No.” 

“Legally, you can sell plasma. Twice a week, they pay you, you sit there with a juice box.” 

Your nose scrunched. “I don’t love needles in me sober.”

“You’re gonna be a nurse.”

“In other people. That’s totally different.” You waved it off. “Next. What else?”

“Sleep studies pay you to sleep. Egg donation pays a whole lot but it’s a whole process, not a Thursday deal.” He was ticking them off on his fingers, now fully committed. “Medical research’ll pay you to test things. Phase-one trials. You take an experimental drug and they watch you for side effects.”

“That’s the one.” You sat up. “How much?”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “Absolutely not. I bring you in here to keep you from blacking out. I’m not gonna have you volunteering to get poisoned for a quick four hundred bucks.” He pointed at you. “Maybe start laying on the ‘sir’ a little too thick from now on.” 

“Sir.” You tested on him directly, dropping your voice, leaning in an inch, lashes going slow. “Could you help me out, sir? Tips have been so slow, sir.” 

He turned his face away from you, now making himself look out the window. “I’m not entertaining this.” 

“Oh, but sir.” You’d fully abandoned the cards now, scooting closer, a hand under your chin, the picture of innocence. “I’m just a girl. A poor, hardworking girl trying to be a nurse. Don’t you want to help me out, sir?”

“I am trying.” He pulled up the flashcards. “If it’ll help, I’ll bring my SWAT buddies into your place and they can run up a tab.” He waved a card in front of your face, trying to get your attention back to it. “You do this, I’ll have eight cops eating mozzarella sticks in your section by Friday, overtipping ‘cause I saved their lives. Won’t even have to call ‘em sir.” 

“Right. No, that’s — ” You let out a little laugh too quickly, eyes widening at his words, and you took the card out of his hand mostly to have something to do with yours. “You don’t have to do that. Obviously. I was kidding — ” You batted the whole thing away with a shake of your head. “God. No. I’m okay, I promise. I was kidding.”

“I’m half-kidding,” he said, raising a brow. “I do know those guys. It’s no skin off me. But it’s okay.” 

He let the offer sit like that, and he saw you pinch your eyes shut. He watched the whole thing happen on your face, the small involuntary recoil you always had when anyone offered you real kindness. You were bad at it. For a girl who lied so charmingly about how much she drank and how her night went, you had absolutely no poker face for being cared about. You had not the first idea how to hide it.

He found it unbearably endearing.

You opened your eyes and looked a little caught, a little sheepish as your thumb worried the corner of the card.

“You’re a strange girl,” he mumbled, fond, before he could stop it. “You know that?”

“Shit — Jack,” you said through a small laugh, shaking your head. “I don’t — I’m — ” You pressed your lips together and your shoulders came up almost to your ears in a stiff shrug. “Is there anything I can do for you? I can’t just accept — all your help.” 

He snorted. “What help? I give you a study room and review flash cards.”

“Let me do something. I’m a good cleaner — ”

His head went back slightly, shaking his head. “You’re really not.”

“Okay,” you continued, rallying. “A dog? Guys like you always have dogs they don’t walk ‘cause of their hours. I can walk dogs.” 

“No dog.” He raised his hand when he saw your mouth move again, stopping you. “You pay me back by passing your boards. You can pay me back plenty if you end up working here, doing good at the job.”

You went quiet for a second. “That’s just me doing my own thing. That’s not real.”

“That’s real to me.” He shrugged, like he hadn’t just made your whole future the price of his kindness. “I get a good nurse out of it someday.” He pulled himself off the couch. “And now I gotta go. Floor’s not gonna run itself.”

“Boo,” you said, pulling the entire deck on your lap now. “You’re the worst study partner. You leave constantly.”

Tonight, Jack had come into the family room after leaving you for a longer stretch of time than usual — a multi-vehicle situation that had eaten two hours and most of his patience — and found the studying had long since lost.

You’d migrated to the couch at some point. The textbook was open face-down on the cushion beside you like a small tented roof, your flashcards fanned across the middle seat, and you were folded in the corner with your knees pulled up and cheek mashed into the worn armrest, fighting your eyes and losing completely. You’d dimmed the overhead lights, lighting the lamp in the corner, the one nobody used, throwing everything low and gold.

He paused in the doorway. “You awake?” 

“Mhm. Need a cat nap, though,” you murmured.

Jack snorted, shutting the door behind him as he walked closer to you. “How far’d you get?”

“Far enough.” Then, you added, “Cat nap.”

“Sayin’ it like I’m gonna not let you have one.” 

Your eye cracked open a sliver, tracked him, then fell shut again. “Feel like you’re gonna make me do more cards.”

He toed the leg of the coffee table aside, reached down, and started clearing your mess off the cushions. He lifted the textbook and shut it around the receipt you’d jammed as a bookmark; gathered the flashcards and squared them in his palm; capped the highlighter and pocketed it. You watched the cleanup through one half-open eye, not lifting a single finger, your cheek staying flat to the armrest. 

“There. No more cards. You’re done for tonight, doll.” 

“Hooray,” you mumbled. 

He nudged your socked foot where it had crept up across the cushion. “C’mon. Budge up a second. Don’t want you wrecking your neck sleeping like that.”

You made a small sound of protest but you went, peeling your cheek off the armrest with reluctance. There was a crease pressed into your skin where the fabric seam had been and your hair was flat on one side and mushed on the other. You blinked up at him, swaying where you sat, eyes glassy and unfocused in the gold lamplight.

He sank into the space he’d cleared, the cushion dipping, tipping the two of you a fraction into each other. That was all the invitation your body apparently needed, because you folded into him without a beat of thought — too tired to second-guess it, he supposed — your temple finding the warm of his shoulder, your whole side melting against his. You drew your knees up and tucked them against his thigh. Your hand came to rest on his chest, palm flat, fingers spreading once before they went still. You exhaled after a moment, long and slowly, and burrowed your nose into his neck. 

Jack stilled. 

“Ten minutes,” you murmured, the words barely coming out as words.

He took his arm off the back of the couch and settled it around your back, broad hand spanning between your shoulder blades and drawing you that last fraction deeper into him. You went boneless with it, a small contended hum slipping out of you. 

Because he couldn’t help himself, he tipped his head down a fraction to say into your hair, “Been doin’ really well, y’know that, sweetheart?” 

You hummed, the sound of it vibrating against his throat, your fingers curling the faintest bit in his scrubs. “Thanks, Jack.”

“Gonna be a good nurse,” he murmured, thumb moving once along your shoulder. 

“Gonna work with you,” you mumbled, three-quarters gone. “You said.”

“Mhm.”

“Holdin’ you to it.” 

“Yeah, I know you are.” The corner of his mouth flicked up where you couldn’t see it. “Go to sleep. You can hold me to it in ten minutes.” 

When you didn’t answer for a second, Jack realized you were already gone. You were warm and trusting at his side, your hand slack over his heart, your breath sinking deep and even into his neck. 

Jack let his head tip back against the couch, pinching his eyes shut at the feeling of you, at the feeling you caused. His hand spread slowly across your back, feeling the breath go through you — the proof of you — and he let his thumb find the curve of your shoulder and rest there, keeping his eyes shut. He sat with the enormous fact of you, the girl he’d not seen anyone circle back for, gone soft and so pliant in his arms like she’d always belonged there, and he stopped pretending he wasn’t already lost. 

The ten minutes came and went. He let them. He’d have given you the whole night, the whole shift, the whole of whatever this was turning into. There wasn’t one place on the earth worth standing up for, and he’d known it for weeks, and only now, with your breath slow against his throat, did he let himself sit all the way inside of the knowing.

Jack came out of the OR and signed — albeit distantly, mind running a meter a minute about nothing good — what needed signing and said the things he was meant to, feeling the familiar piece of his own damn soul rotting away in the place those things went to rot. He knew the spot by now. It’d been decades of depositing them into the same place, and the place didn’t fill, exactly, but it never emptied, either. It just sat there, getting heavier, like things usually do when you keep adding to it and never take anything out.

This one would sit a while. Jack had started to sense it around the first year in this job; the ones that stayed had a weight, and you knew on the table whether you were getting one of those or whether it’d wash off by morning. This one wouldn’t.

He stripped his gloves, and somebody said something he answered without hearing, and then his feet simply walked past the board, carrying him down the hall toward the one door on the whole floor that wouldn’t have somebody else’s catastrophe behind it. 

His hand was flat on the door. He was still wearing the gown, and he looked down and registered it too late. He should’ve changed it, left the thing in the dirty bin with the rest of what the shift had taken, the way he always did before he came to you, kept the two halves of the floor separate on purpose. 

He opened the door. You were on the couch, one leg tucked under you and the other foot on the floor and a half-empty cup of coffee on the table going cold. You’d been doing something on your phone, or nothing, when the door opened, and you looked up with the easy expectant expression on your face you always had before it dropped. He watched it melt.

“Hey,” you said, making your voice soft.

“Hey.” His voice came out rough, and he almost winced as he heard it himself. 

You set your phone face-down on the cushion and unfolded yourself from the couch and stood, crossing the room to close the gap between you. You stopped in front of him and looked up, your brow doing a small worried thing, and he let himself be looked at.

“Sit down,” you said. “You look like you’re gonna fall through the floor.”

He distantly registered you walking him to the chair — your hand finding his forearm, a light touch — and he let you. He folded into the chair like the strings of his own body had been cut, his elbows finding his knees and head dropping.

He heard you move, small domestic sounds of you filling a cup, the tap somewhere down the hall turning on then shutting off. Then your socks were back in his eyeline, toes pointed to him.

“Here.” You crouched, came into his lowered field of vision, and pressed a cup into his hands — water, cold — and folded his fingers around it when they were slow to close. “Drink it all.”

He drank because that was the path of least resistance. The water caught something he hadn’t registered was bone-dry. You took the empty cup out of his hands when he was done, setting it on the table behind you, and then he felt your hands find his shoulders.

He flinched just slightly, the smallest involuntary thing, for nobody touched him like that. Nobody put their hands on him that weren’t shaking one of his or needing something from him. You settled your thumbs into the iron base of his neck and pressed slowly, working the knots the night, the days, the weeks, and probably the year had wound there.

Your thumbs were unsure of themselves — you weren’t good at it, you weren’t trying to be, you were simply trying — and that was somehow worse because it got further to him than skill would have; there was the unpracticed earnestness to it, like you’d simply decided his shoulders had been holding too much and you wanted to put your hands there to take some of it down. 

He felt his head drop lower, coming forward on its own, the tension bleeding out of his neck by degrees under your hands. Your thumbs found a place at the top of his spine that had been clenched so long that it had stopped registering as pain, and you pressed there, and a fraction let go. He felt his shoulders drop the inch they’d been holding up all night, and an uneven breath went out of him.

You kept your hands moving, your thumbs working the meat of his shoulders through the cotton, occasionally finding a knot and leaning your weight into it until it gave. 

His head tipped a little forward after a stretch of time — chasing, or simply falling — and it found the soft of your stomach. His forehead rested against the front of you, where you stood close in the gap between his knees. He hadn’t intended for it, or maybe he had, somewhere under where the intention happened, his body had chosen to stop holding its own weight and give it to the nearest thing that felt like it’d take it. His eyes were already shut, and he stayed there, hands coming up on their own to rest at the sides of your waist. His fingers anchored into the fabric of your shirt.

“Shitty job sometimes,” he mumbled after a moment.

“Yeah,” you said softly above him. “I bet it is.” 

Your fingers had found his hair, threading through the curls. Then, you added quietly, “But you’re really good at it.” 

His fingers tightened a fraction at the fabric on your waist as he let out a short huff. 

“Didn’t help him,” he said finally, the words coming out muffled behind his own mouth. “Whatever I’m good at didn’t help him.” 

“Maybe not.” Your fingers scraped carefully at his scalp. “I think you were the best shot he had.”

He breathed you in, choosing to let the words rest in his skull for a while instead of fighting them. 

“I’m — ” He heard you take in a breath and felt it go through your whole body. “I’m really grateful I met you, Jack.”

For some reason, he waited for you to take it back. There was a primally fast thing in him that told him that you’d take the words back, and he’d have understood.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you added. “I just wanted you to know. While you’re here being all — ” Your thumb moved at the back of his neck, tender and so gentle. “ — Figured it was a decent time to tell you I’m glad you exist.” 

He took in a shaky breath against you, fingers tightening again. 

“Thank you, sweet girl,” he said, and it sounded like it’d been punched out of him. “Likewise. More than you know,” he finished, his arms wrapping around the rest of your waist now, pulling you in like he could just fold himself smaller if he held hard enough.

Your fingers kept moving slowly in his hair, your other hand coming around the back of his head to hold him there. He couldn’t think of the last time he’d let anybody do this; as far as he could remember, he’d decided in some wordless permanent way that he’d carry his own weight from then on, that it was cheaper, that needing somebody was a bill that came due eventually and he’d rather not run the tab. 

“You should sit,” he said after god knows how long without letting go. “Selfish, keepin’ you standing here.”

“It’s okay.”

He hummed, thumb moving once at your waist. “Two more minutes then.”

“Whatever you need, Jack,” you said, voice quiet. “I’m not going.”

Jack’s phone lit up on the arm of the couch at 10:52, face-down, buzzing itself a quarter-inch off the leather before he caught it. 

He’d been working his way, with grim completionist patience, through an iceberg video you’d sent him three days ago with the message ‘THIS rabbit hole i need you to fall down.’ You’d followed it up by telling him, ‘do Not skip tiers!!’ He hadn’t skipped tiers. He was, in fact, ninety minutes deep and only about two-thirds down the pyramid, somewhere in the tier where a young man with a serious voice was explaining internet folklore he couldn’t believe was real. 

He was fairly sure it’d been invented by some teenager, but Jack only shrugged, distantly wondering why on earth anyone would spend the labor — the diagrams, alone — hoaxing a thing this elaborate for an audience of complete strangers. He also wondered why on earth you were so interested in this. As quickly as the thought arrived, he realized that he was working down the iceberg himself.

Working down a thing you’d handed him felt adjacent to sitting next to you, and his apartment had become the sort of quiet that made adjacent worth ninety minutes of contemporary folklore. He’d sooner have chewed glass than admitted it out loud.

It was a good apartment and an unwitnessed one. He’d realized somewhere in the past year it was untouched by any hand but his. Every object was exactly where he’d last set it down, for there was no second person to nudge the remote three inches or leave a hair tie on the counter or ask why there was a mug in the sink and no bowl. His leg was off for the night, propped against the arm of the couch, the whole standing weight from his night shift to SWAT calls finally set down somewhere it was allowed to stay.

So, the phone going off, went off loud in the silence that had become almost-permanent. Your name lit across the screen, and the picture with it (one you’d set yourself, commandeering his phone to do it). It was already strange that it was a call. You never called; you texted in floods, six messages deep before he’d gotten to the first, but the ringing meant the thing had gotten past the point where typing it out would hold. 

He looked at your laughing face buzzing on his phone for a second too long, the cold little instinct, and thumbed it green.

“Hey,” he said. “You know it’s almost eleven on my night-off. This better be good.”

You stayed silent for a second, and he could hear your breath and the hollow of a call connected in a car, the cooling engine’s tick and automotive acoustics. 

“Hey,” you said finally, and Jack felt it wrongly. The back half of the word had gone soft and unsteady at the end.

Jack was already sitting up. “Hey, yourself,” he said. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” He heard you swallow quickly. “Sorry. God, this is so dumb. You — were you asleep?” 

“I was almost through with your iceberg, if you want the truth.” 

You made a sound that tried to be a laugh but didn’t clear the runway, breaking apart halfway. “You watched it?”

“Almost.” His fingers were drumming against his prosthetic leaning by the couch now. “Are you out?”

“I’m —” You paused, then hummed like you were debating. “I’m kind of near your place, actually?” Your voice rose toward the end, like you were embarrassed or questioning it all yourself. “I know. It’s creepy. But I think I need to — talk to you.” 

“Yeah?” He tried to keep his voice light, though he could already feel something in his body start racing, panicking. “You break something?”

“No. No. Promise. It’s nothing like that.”

For some reason, that put a deeper hook in him. If it wasn’t a wrist, an ankle, or your body doing something it shouldn’t, then it was the other kind, and he had no idea how to hold something like that. He wasn’t sure what he could do with a sprain he couldn’t ice.

“Okay — ”

“Wait,” you interrupted, voice pitching higher, and he could see you were psyching yourself out. “I could just say it now, honestly. It’d probably be easier over the phone.”

Jack’s eyes widened a fraction at that. His stomach suddenly felt cold. 

“No,” he said, voice rougher than he’d intended. “I won’t make it hard. Whatever you want to say, I promise. Just — not like this, okay? Come here.” 

He listened to you breathe as you weighed it and knew, with bone-deep certainty, that he wouldn’t like what you were going to say. “Okay,” you breathed. “I’ll be there in fifteen.” 

Jack opened the door after the first knock, unembarrassed of waiting. You’d come as you were, a coat thrown open over sleep clothes, good wool hanging loose over a thin cami with lace at the collar and soft shorts and bare legs down to the sneakers you hadn’t laced properly. The second fact that registered to Jack was that you’d been crying; there was a soft ruin around your eyes, the mascara long gone, wiped with a sleeve somewhere back in the evening. Your hair was up and losing, a claw clip hanging looser than he believed it was meant to.

“Hi,” you said, eyes raising to meet his. “Thanks for letting me come by.”

Jack felt his shoulders rise to his ears just slightly at the formality. He felt like a bucket of ice had been dropped upon him because somewhere in the past few weeks, you’d stopped apologizing to him as much, which had felt like a small victory he never told you he was counting. And here it was again, your stiff little courtesy, the door swung back shut on a thing that had been open. Jack didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all. 

“You don’t thank me for coming by,” he said gruffly, opening the door wider.

You came in, but only just. Before he could steer you to the warmth of his apartment, you were already reaching into the bag on your shoulder — hands shaking, he realized, with a fine tremor — and pulling out a folded piece of paper, creased hard down the middle and then again like you’d tried to bundle it up into a fist.

He unfolded it and smoothed out the edges, eyes looking for yours briefly, but you’d already looked away. Your bottom lip was between your teeth and you were looking at the ground. He forced himself to look down.

It was your pharmacology exam. Your cramped looping handwriting scattered the margins, a star drawn to one question because you starred everything. There was red pen all down the side and a number circled on the top. The number, Jack saw immediately, was not catastrophic, not a failure even. It was a low pass, the sort of grade that would’ve stung for Jack in his school days and evaporated by the next exam. He’d expected worse from the way you’d been shaking holding it. 

He looked back at you, confused more than anything. “Congratulations, you passed.” 

Your jaw tightened, and he could see your eyes go bright and wounded. “It’s a seventy-one.”

“That’s a pass.”

“Barely. Barely.” You took the paper out of his hands, folding it away like you couldn’t stand looking at it anymore. “And you helped me with this so much and I still couldn’t. I’m so tired of — ” You stopped, looking up at the ceiling as you pressed your lips flat. “It’s not about the test.”

“Okay.” He leaned back against the counter, giving you the whole floor of the room. “Talk, then.” 

You looked at him, and he watched you gather it all up, deciding, as it settled into your face, your mouth, whatever you’d come here to say.

“I don’t wanna waste your time anymore,” you said, tugging your bottom lip between your teeth as your eyes landed on the wall behind him. “I can’t — it’s not fair.” 

Jack felt the whole floor shift under him and felt his brows go up an inch as he tried to keep his face seem collected. 

“You’re you,” you continued. “You’ve got a whole life, a hard one, and I’ve been just — dumping mine on you. Making you sit there and hold my hand through studying and I’m — ” You shook your head, face going grim as you said the words. “It’s not fair to you. You’ve been carrying me for so long, and it’s not fair. None of this is yours to carry. I’m not yours to carry.” 

His nose scrunched just slightly, something like burning blooming at the center of his face. Something in his chest had cracked along the seam he had no idea was there, because he’d never had to look at it once straight on. It was easy to carry your own weight when there was no one asking to take some. It was easy to call solitude a principle when nobody had ever made the alternative real. And you had. You’d made it real for months, and here you were proposing — no, telling — to take it back, to hand him his loneliness again because of some measurement of fairness. 

The horror of how much Jack didn’t want it — how badly, how completely he didn’t want to go back to how it was before you — was the first honest look he’d taken at himself in longer than he could stand to count. 

“That so?” was all he could say, voice roughening as his brows narrowed at you. 

“Yes.” You mistook the roughness for agreement, or maybe you just needed to do so, because you kept going. “You don’t have to help me. The only thing I can think is you’re — you are a good person and I was there. And you help people, it’s what you do.” Your hand waved in the general direction of him as your voice cracked. “So help someone who’d actually make it worth it. Who won’t barely pass and keep getting too drunk and — ” You laughed slightly, and it was all wet and terrible, the sound. “I’m a bad use of you. You’re this — you are so much, Jack, and I’m a bad place to put it. So put it somewhere better.” 

Jack had to force a swallow when you ended your words with a sharp intake of breath, the pool behind your eyes slipping free slowly down your cheeks. You’d run out of anything that’d make you wipe it away now, and that undid him worse than the crying itself, that you were standing there and letting it fall, done hiding, wrung all the way out. 

“I’m sorry — ” he started.

“It’s okay,” you said immediately, shaking your head.

“For making you think that’s what it was,” he said, lowering his voice. “That’s on me, that you talked yourself into thinking this has been some sort of charity.” He cocked his head to the side then, wishing you’d look up at him. “But you’re gonna quit shaking your head for one minute, and hear the rest, ‘cause you got it wrong. All of it, backwards and upside down.”

He came off the counter and closed the space himself, until you had to lift your chin to keep his eyes. 

“I’m not a man who spends his nights on a stray out of the goodness of his heart. Ask anyone I work with what I’m like. I don’t have that lying around spare.” His jaw tightened. “So take the halo off. That’s not what this was.”

“Then why — ”

“You,” he said plainly, for he learned it cost him nothing to do so, and a lot if he didn’t. “I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. There’s nowhere else I want to put it.”

He watched everything in your face tighten at his words, the disbelief and reflex to argue all curdling underneath. 

“If you don’t want this.” Me. Me, he wanted to say. “Say it. I’ll leave you alone. You don’t owe me anything.”

“That’s not — ”

“But don’t act like it’s some favor for me.” He was closer now than he’d been. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving for my sake. That’s a lie.”

“It’s not — ”

“It’s a lie,” he said, voice going flat and so final, as he slowly nodded his head. He looked at you a second, lips coming between his teeth, then looked away as he felt something physical seize over his entire body.

Jack himself had to process the words as he said them, because he was only just realizing how much truth they held.

“You make it good.”

He forced himself to look back at you, and you had tilted your head now to look up at him, caught and still as stone, the arguing gone completely off your face now and replaced with something more frightened.

“Don’t — ” One of Jack’s shoulders came up in a half-hearted shrug. “You’re the one part of my day that doesn’t take anything out of me. Just — get that straight, sweetheart.” 

You were just looking up at him with your whole face undone, the tears gone still on it, as though his words had knocked your own clean out of you.

“I don’t know what to do with that,” you said quietly. “People don’t — that’s not a thing that happens to me, Jack. Being — ” Your sentence broke apart and your hand had come up and fisted loosely in front of his shirt without either of you deciding it should, holding on, holding him there. “I don’t know what to do with it.”

“Nothing.” His hand came up slowly and covered yours where it fisted in his shirt, holding it flat there against his chest. “It’s just true.”

You made a small, pained sound and dropped your forehead against his sternum, right where his hand held yours, and he felt the whole strung-tight weight of you gave at once and settled into him. He felt you breathe against his shirt at the same time he felt his own pulse going too fast on your knuckles; he wasn’t bothered enough to try and slow it, because there was no point now. You’d already found out. 

“Very grateful for you,” he murmured, his other hand pulled up to rest over the back of your skull. “Told you so earlier. Meant it more than you let yourself hear.”

You huffed against his shirt — half a sob, half a laugh, maybe the ruined cousin of both — and he felt it go through the cotton and land warm against his skin, felt your fingers uncurl a fraction from the fist they’d made then re-fist, like even now some part of you was checking he was still there to hold onto. 

Jack held still for it, same as you had in the family room for him. He was good at holding still, it was half the job, but this was a different kind — he supposed — where there was a plain animal willingness to be a wall for as long as you needed one and not move a muscle that might spook you out of it. 

He rested his chin at the top of your head, murmuring, “I don’t have to tutor you anymore, if that’ll help.” He swallowed, closing his eyes as he breathed in your faint perfume. “We can scrap the whole thing, if that’s what’s making you feel so bad.”

You stilled for a second, then made a small sound against him. 

Despite himself, despite it all, he let out a short chuckle. “S’okay. I’m the reason you got a seventy-one. You’re allowed to switch.” 

“You’re the reason it’s a seventy-one and not a thirty,” you said, and it came out muffled and immediate. You almost sounded cross, like you didn’t want the slander against him to stand even now.

After a moment against him, you added, “I don’t want to be just someone you help, I think. I don’t want to be somebody — I guess — that you’re just good to.”

When Jack hummed, you continued, “I don’t know what I wanna be instead. Just — a friend — or, I don’t know. Something that goes both ways.”

Jack’s chest swelled at the words. He felt that he’d have been anything you asked of him, simply because it had just become how it was. It was almost outrageous how, if you’d asked, he’d have handed it over, the whole rest of it, whatever you wanted the name to be, whatever box you needed him in.

A man his age was supposed to be past this. He was supposed to have calcified somewhere in the second decade of the job into something that didn’t reorganize himself around what someone he’d known properly only for the better part of the year had asked him.

“Consider it done,” he murmured, letting the word settle. Friend.

You breathed against him, and Jack felt himself want to remain exactly here and knew that he shouldn’t. He knew that the kind thing now was to give you somewhere to put your face that wasn’t his chest, some ordinary ground for you to set your feet back down on. 

“C’mon.” He got a hand on your shoulder and eased you off him gently, a slow, slow reclaiming of the eight inches of air between your body and his. He dipped his head to catch your eyes, which were pink-rimmed and swollen and doing their utter best to avoid his now that the worst was out of you. “Do you want me to order food?”

Your neck rolled back slightly as you met his eyes, caught slightly off-guard at the shift of tone. You blinked. “That was a lot, and now you’re asking about food?”

“It was a lot,” he agreed. He reached up and thumbed a smudge of leftover mascara from under your eye briskly, and you let him. “And now it’s done. So, food, and we can watch the stupid video you sent me before you head home.”

It had been six days since you showed up at his apartment, and Jack had embarrassingly counted every single one of them. You’d left his apartment somewhere past two with your eyes finally dry and a paper bag of his leftover Thai you’d protested and taken anyway, and he’d walked you down to your car and stood in the lot like some idiot in a movie until your taillights turned off his street, and then he’d gone back up to a quiet that felt, for the first time in years, like something had been in it.

Since then it had gone like it always had and nothing like it; you still turned up with flashcards and left a graveyard of half-drunk coffees on every surface. But he’d noticed how you started letting him sit closer now, let a compliment land without flinching off, and once, mid-story, had reached over and fixed his scrub top where it had folded under, casual as breathing. 

Friend was the word you’d settled on. Jack was thinking about that when Shen dropped into step beside Jack with a cup of fresh Dunkin sweating in his hand. 

“You know it’s not standard to let your girlfriend occupy the family room for three hours of your shift, right?” 

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Jack immediately clarified. It seemed more important to do now than it was earlier, when people only knew you when you came in as an emergency. Still, it felt wrong, like a key going in the wrong hole. “And you got a problem with it?” 

Shen lifted the coffee in surrender, unbothered. “You know we’ve grown to her. She and I do the Wordle every midnight.” Then, he spread one hand. “Administratively, she’s not staff. She’s not a patient. She’s not family of a patient. Which leaves the category I’d have to call —” He tilted his head, faux thoughtfulness. “ — Abbot’s girlfriend, and I don’t think that’s in the handbook.” 

“Try again,” Jack drawled, thumbing a form he wasn’t reading that didn’t need to be read. “She’s a nursing student getting hours of free tutoring off a board-certified attending. Put that in the handbook. Teaching hospital. I’m teaching.”

Shen shook his head, letting out a small laugh. “Alright. Alright. She’s not your girlfriend. Mind if I ask her out, then?” 

Jack snorted. “If you could only be so lucky.” 

“Clearly she has a type for attendings,” he pressed, grinning. “Or is it just the ones with gray hair?”

Jack looked at him sideways. “This is getting a bit weird, even for you.” 

“I’m happy for you, man. Even if you’re gonna make us all watch you not do anything about it for the next six months.”

“Mind your own damn business.”

“Sure,” he turned, lifting a hand over his shoulder as he went. “Close the blinds anyway. There’s a window on that door. Everyone can see her making you dumb.” 

Jack looked down the hall and set the form down before going there to close the blinds — telling himself it was for the window, for Shen’s real talk — and knowing, somewhere under that, that he was really just going to you. 

He could see you through the window in the door before he reached it, which was, he supposed, exactly Shen’s point. You had a textbook open in your lap and you were chewing the end of your highlighter, brow pulled in, mouthing something to yourself, working a card over your head. You’d pulled the sleeves of one of his old sweatshirts down to your hands, the one you’d swiped from his locker two weeks ago and never given back and that he’d never once asked for, because he’d found he didn’t want it back, found he liked seeing it swallow you.

You gave him a smile when he walked in. He reached up and tipped the blinds shut on the window with two fingers, the floor outside tipping away. 

“Why’d you close them?” you asked, slightly bored.

“Apparently the whole department’s been getting a show.”

You furrowed your brows then. “A show of what? Me failing?”

“Somethin’ like that.” He let it go at that, coming around and lowering himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping and tipping you toward him a degree, what it always did that neither of you ever corrected. “How’s it going? Honest.”

“Honestly?” You blew out a breath, closing the highlighter. “I’d kill for a drink.”

“Oh?” Jack settled back against the couch, his arm coming up along the top of it behind you. “Telling that to the one man who’s seen what you look like at the bottom of the bottle.”

“Jaaaack,” you said, almost in a whine. “Let’s go to a bar.”

He snorted, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I’m wondering what’s pushing you toward the edge.”

He picked the flashcard you had set on the textbook, the one you’d been studying. He read the front of it without much intention — your handwriting was cramped and looping, a star drawn next to it — and turned over and checked the back. He did the same thing he always did, the story, the image; he’d done it a hundred times by now. He could do it half-asleep, and most nights he half was. 

You thought about it for a second, your bottom lip tugged between your teeth, then walked yourself to the answer. 

“Mhm. See. Good,” he murmured. He flipped the card to the back to check you, and you’d had it. Of course you’d had it, you’d had more of this than you ever gave yourself credit for. “Tell you what. Get the next three right, and I’ll get us a drink once your exams are done.” 

Your brows narrowed. “Bribe?”

“It’s an incentive.” He held up the next card, eyes on you. “Don’t think. Just answer me.” 

You did. One, then the next, then the one after. You were quicker now that there was something on the end of it, your lip caught between your teeth as you walked yourself there each time. He noticed you worked when there was something to earn. After all three, he hummed. “See. Good girl, there you go.” 

He felt you go still beside him, and his eyes flickered up to you to see your eyes dropping to your textbook. He stayed silent a second, eyes raking over you, your thumb running the worn edge of a card back and forth. 

Jack knew better than to point out how you being flustered was almost silly when he’d said the same words many times while taping you up or shining a penlight in your eyes. He let his arm stay where it was along the couch, hand not quite touching your shoulder, and watched the side of your face.

“You wanna do some more?” he said finally, voice coming out rougher. “Or are we done for the night?”

You held up a finger, as if telling him to wait.

“Okay, then,” he mumbled, leaning back further against the couch. “Take your time.”

After a second, he turned to say something dry to break the silence. You’d turned your head, too, and were closer than he initially realized, your eyes coming up off the card and finding his, near enough that whatever he had bubbling in his throat died there immediately. 

Jack hummed involuntarily. You closed the sound by pressing your mouth to his, the feeling of the plushness so very featherlight, there and barely there, the softest press. 

He went still as stone, every system in him locking at once. His hand was still along the back of the couch and his mouth hadn’t answered yours, not because he didn’t want to — God, he did — but because the entirety of him had gone still with the disbelief of it, with the you, here, choosing this — him — and the half-second of nothing stretched into a second, too damn long. 

He’d seized on you, the fact you’d nearly walked, had stood in his kitchen finding the kindest way to disappear, and here you were, closing the last of the distance yourself.

You pulled back like you’d touched a stove, a gasp leaving your mouth, replacing where his own had been. 

“Oh god.” Your hand flew up to your mouth, your eyes going wide before pinching shut completely. “I’m sorry — I’m so sorry, Jack. I read that so, so wrong. You’ve been so nice and I — fuck, I’m sorry.”

Jack made a pained sound that was lost somewhere in your ramble, at the sight of you snatching it back. Nothing had gone wrong. Jack knew you’d read nothing wrong, and that the only thing that had happened was that he’d been too slow, too stunned, too thirty-years-rusty to catch what had been handed to him in good reflex.

His hand came off the back of the couch and he caught your jaw, thumb on your chin as he pushed slightly against your skin. He was distantly aware that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so afraid about leaning in to kiss a woman, and went in to try and give you back the second he lost, mouth finding yours the exact way every bone in his body knew he should’ve the first time. 

You made a startled sound against him before the entirety of you melted. His mouth worked against yours, thoroughly, making sure not to fumble it twice. His thumb stayed on your chin, tilting your face the half-degree he wanted it, and when your lips parted on half a breath, his entire upper body leaned in to follow it, deepening it. 

It was you who moved first. Of course, it was you, always you. You followed it, the kiss pulling you up and forward, your knee coming over his thigh, and then you were settling over him. Jack let out the throatiest of a chuckle, still intent on keeping your mouth, as your hands slid from the front of his scrubs to his jaw. 

Jack’s hands caught yours on instinct — one at your waist, one at your hip — steadying you down to him, your hips still slightly in the air like you weren’t sure you could close the last of the distance, your weight held in the suspended air in the ache of almost, thighs braced on either side of his. 

Jack pulled back just enough to look at you, letting his head fall back against the back of the couch, dragging his eyes up the length of you poised over him. He blew out a short breath, the corners of his lips kicking up as his palm glided up and down on the side of your waist, catching onto your tank top on accident to show a sliver of skin at your lip — warm, soft, the band of your shorts sitting low — and he watched his own hand do it before he dragged his eyes back to your face.

“Nothing halfway with you, huh?” he said, the words practically coming out from his chest. His thumb rested against that bared sliver of you. “Climbing me at my work.”

You lowered your head, and your nose grazed against his. “You started it.”

“I did?”

“You closed the blinds.”

He let out a surprised laugh. “I can promise you I didn’t expect this when I did that.” 

Your lips ghosted over his for a second, and his chest swelled at the sight of you trying to tamp down the sweetest smile. “Problem?” 

“No.” The words came out immediately, because apparently somewhere in him, there was still something insatiable and teenage that had lurched up at the sight of you. “No. No problem.”

His hand spread flat and warm against the small of your back, fingers slipping under the hem of the top to your warm skin there, and he drew you down, finally, that last suspended inch collapsing as he settled your weight flush over him. 

He had to pinch his eyes shut a second, then open them again to take in the whole sight of you. His hand came up to your jaw. The light caught the loose hair at your temple, the bare line of your shoulder where the strap had slipped. Your mouth was full and flushed from his, parted slightly, your breath coming. The skin under his hand at your back was hot to the touch, and he spread his fingers wider against it just to feel more of it. 

You were trying not to smile. Your lip caught between your teeth, the corners pulling anyway. 

His finger perched against your jaw moved to your lips, dragging slowly across the lower one, parting it under the pad of his thumb. He watched it give, your breath warm against his skin. 

Your eyes flicked up to his as your lip closed around the first knuckle, your tongue hesitantly pressing flat against the pad, the wet heat of it catching him so completely off guard that the air went out of him in a rough exhale. His other hand fisted at the small of your back, turning over to gather the hem of your tank in his grip. 

“Oh.” His eyes had dropped to your mouth and fixed there, his jaw slack as his head cocked to the side. “Pretty.” 

His gaze was locked on the sight of his thumb disappearing past your lips, no hesitation in it, that same no-halfway boldness turned filthy and sweet all at once. The tired man in him went down all at once. 

His thumb dragged free, catching on your bottom lip and tugging it down before it slipped loose. His chest heaved harder now under the warm weight of you. 

“Where’d that come from?” he muttered gruffly, almost to himself, thumb pressing the slick of your own lip back against you. His palm moved to cradle your face, tapping your cheek softly once. “Can’t be doing things like that here, doll. I’m on call.” 

“Then don’t make it so easy.” Your lips brushed his thumb, then you moved down to press your mouth to the line of his jaw, the stubble catching your lips, then lower to the warm of his throat.

“You callin’ me easy?” he said through a chuckle, letting his head tip back. You scraped your teeth over the cord of his neck and felt the whole of him go tight underneath you, his fingers flexing hard into the bare skin of your back. 

“Alright.” His voice had dropped to stone. “You’ve had your fun.. No more of that,” he said, though made no move to stop you.

You peppered a line of pecks down his throat down to where his collar had started, your lips dragging over the jut of his collarbone through the thin cotton. He swallowed. One of your hands slid up to the back of your neck, fingers pushing into the soft gray at his nape, scratching light, and the other flattened over his chest, over the steady-then-not rhythm, fisting slow in the fabric just to feel him breathe wrong because of you.

You sat back an inch to look at him. His head was still tipped back against the couch, his throat bared where you’d left it momentarily pink and glossy, his eyes half-lidded. His hands had gone heavy and possessive at your hips, giving up pretending he wanted them anywhere else, you anywhere else.

You dragged your thumb over his bottom lip, watched it give, the same way he did to you. 

“Can I ask you something?” you asked, quietly, your hips settling more firmly into his lap. 

“Mm.” His hands spread wide, settling you down harder against him. “My social security number is — ”

You laughed. 

“Two-two-six — ”

“Jack — ” You swatted at his chest, the seriousness dissolving into something giddier. “I’m being serious. Stop.” 

“Okay, okay.” The corners of his mouth lifted up, and his hands squeezed slightly at your hips. He pulled his head up off the couch to meet your eyes properly. “Shoot. Doubt I could stop you.” 

“Are you seeing anyone?”

He let the question sit, humming. His thumbs moved idly at your hips, head tilting against the couch like the question required any real thought. “There’s a few women,” he said, lowering his voice as he looked at you, like he was letting you in on a secret. “There’s a nice lady who brings me fruit baskets.”

Your hand, on the flat of his chest, slid up slow to his throat and he kept talking like he didn’t notice.

“ — there’s this nurse on days who keeps leaving me her number at the station — ”

You leaned in and closed your teeth slightly on his earlobe. He let out a short laugh, one that was dragged out of him, his head tipped to give more of it to you without permission. 

“Alright. Okay,” he said as your nose dragged the line of his jaw. “Stop doin’ that. I don’t wanna explain teeth marks to the whole floor.” 

Your hips set firmer into his lap. “Jack,” you warned. “I can’t do this if you’re seeing fifty other women.” 

He sobered a degree, his thumb going still at your waist, his eyes coming up to actually hold yours. The joke drained out of his face as he realised the edge of seriousness you tried to tamp down, and he momentarily short-circuited at how it was even possible for you to wonder. 

“Hey.” His hand came up off your hip, pushed the hair back from your face and stayed there, cradling. “Until five minutes ago, there were zero women. Forget fifty.” 

Your only response to that was a smile and your cheek leaning further against his palm. He let his thumb move once across his cheekbone, watching the way your cheek turned into his hand. Your eyes drifted half-shut. There was a speck of dried highlighter ink on the side of your finger where it curled against his throat. The strap of your top had slid off your shoulder again; he looked at all of you and stopped bothering to pretend, even to himself, that he was looking at anything other than the only thing in the room he wanted.

“What about you? You seein’ anyone?” His thumb stayed where it was, but his voice had gone quieter. “‘Cause I’ve seen people bring you in. And I never liked one of ‘em.”

You huffed a small laugh, your nose grazing his. “Jealous, Doctor?” 

“Yeah.” He watched the laugh stall on your face at how easy he gave it up. “If there is, he should be worried. I’d like to take you on a nice date to change that.” 

“Ohhhh,” you drawled through a laugh. “There’s no one, but I won’t say no to the date.”

“Then you’ve got yourself one, doll.” He kissed you on it — short, sure, his hand still cradling your face — sealing the thing as the corner of his mouth caught yours before he pulled back. He let his forehead rest against yours for a second and breathed you in. 

Then, with a short groan, he tipped his head back off of yours. 

“I gotta get back out there.” His thumb was still moving at your jaw, clearly working against the very thing he was saying. “My work ethic’s going wrong and my residents might actually report me.” 

Then, his hands found your waist and he lifted you off, setting you off his lap and onto the cushion beside him where the entire thing had started. You landed with a small affronted sound, your hand fisting in his collar a beat longer before he had to let it go. 

You flopped back into the cushion where he’d deposited you, one hand pressed flat to your chest, the picture of wounded. “I guess it’s true what they say about old men. They use you. Wham, bam, thank you ma’am.” 

He stood up and scrubbed his palm down his face like he could wipe the last ten minutes off it before he had to walk out and be a doctor again. He could still feel the heat sitting at the back of his neck and even though he’d tried to scrub your gloss off, he was sure there was a remnant somewhere the worst possible person would notice. 

“Yup, got exactly what I wanted. Thank you, ma’am.” His hand came down to rest at the top of your head and gave it a slow, condescending pat, ruffling the wreck of your hair worse than it already was. “I’m a terrible man. You’re welcome to stay here while I go be one somewhere else.” 

He made himself step back and snagged his pen off the table, the badge, the small armor of the job clipping back into place piece-by-piece. The whole time his eyes kept catching on you, sprawled and rumpled where he’d set you down, looking up at him like the night had gone exactly where it was supposed to. He’d seen this room a thousand nights. He’d never once not wanted to leave it. 

“Mm. Gotta go home. S’almost three,” you mumbled. “And you get off at seven.” 

“I do.”

“So.” You pushed yourself off the cushion, slow, gathering your hair back off your face and pushing up your strap, putting yourself back together piece by piece the same way he was, the night closing in on both ends. “I’ll go and let you be a doctor. You’ve been very neglectful.” 

“Don’t I know it,” he muttered. He watched you reach for your textbook, your highlighter, the flashcards, and sweep it all back into your bag, feeling the small stupid pull of not wanting the room to empty out. 

He stepped in before you finished, catching your jaw, tilting your face up to kiss you once more. You went still under it, the bag forgotten halfway zipped, your hand coming up to rest light on his chest. He pulled back an inch to look at you.

“Text me when you get home,” he said, thumb dragging along your jaw. 

You chuckled, brows pulling in. “It’s a ten minute drive.”

“Text me. Humor an old man, since I’m so terrible to you already.”

[feldiesgraphics]

picnic blanket dividers ೃ⁀➷ icons + gradients + tiny vers

no credit needed! likes, comments & reblogs appreciated! · · ────── ꒰ঌ· feldiesgraphics ·໒꒱ ────── · ·

[juniebjonesin]

some dividers i made for the collab! im still making a few more but just in case anyone wanted some summery lines <33

ps my girl @chateaubarnes has some ADORABLE summer dividers too! go check em out

[preechie]

The Guy Next Door

Benjamin Poindexter x Cannibal! Mutant! Reader

✦ Summary: You've always had to hide apart of yourself from the rest of the world. It felt like you were always going to mask this part of yourself forever. That was until you bumped into the new moved in neighbor--Tony--and there's that urge you thought you buried years ago.

✦ WC: 4.9K

✦ Tags: Slow burn (might make this into a multi-part series). Reader has a friend named Priscella. Angst. Slight Obsession. DDBA S2! Dex. Not pre-checked.

✦ Warnings: canon inaccuracies. Reader uses she/her pronouns. Mentions of violence, blood and death. Graphic depictions. Mental health issues (both sides). Childhood trauma. Stalking (at the end). Medication/Pills.

A/N: Wilson talking about how Dex needs a fucked-up girlfriend had this idea swirling in my head. It finally got me out of my writer's block LMAO. This is just a little intro to the main storyline but will eventually get to the nitty gritty between Dex and Reader. Anyways, this is my first tumblr post so be nice </3.

next part 𖦏

You were always called different since you could remember. You couldn't understand why people choose to separate themselves from you. From what you could remember, you just had different interest than the other kids on the playground.

One specifically: blood.

It was more a fascination at first. You would read science books on how blood traveled through the body. How there were different types of blood cells that did different things within the body.

It made you excited. A rush that put any rollercoaster to shame.

In school, you thought socializing with your classmates would draw you closer to them. So, you brought your book to class one day during recess. You went up to a group of kids, holding your book straight to them, you began to tell them in detail about blood. About veins.

The look that shifted from each one of them sent something irking in your soul. You couldn't understand why they were giving you disgusted looks, running away to the teacher and her shouting to put the book away.

What was so wrong about your interest?

"I told you to not bring that book to school," Your mother sighed as you both sat in the principal's office.

You looked down at your shoes, mindlessly swinging them, "I just wanted to talk to them."

"It's not okay to talk about stuff like that! It's disgusting," Your mother hissed down at you, crossing her legs and placing her bag into her lap.

"I knew it was a bad idea to give her that book. This isn't wanting to learn more about nursing...this is fixation on the idea of death," Your dad spoke with your book tight in his hands.

They thought that by getting rid of the book, it would stop your fixation on blood. You would go back to a regular routine like all the regular kids. Somehow, it seemed like that was the solution.

However, when you entered into middle school, something shifted within you once more. You began to develop a crush on someone, but it wasn't a regular crush, no.

Something else developed.

An inexplainable hunger. A hunger to sink into the teeth of someone you fell for. To limit yourself to the taste of blood and not delve deeper into his skin.

One day, your parents had allowed you to bring him over. It was rare for you to even ask to bring someone over to their house, so your parents had thought nothing of it---just leave the door unlocked and slightly opened. So, you had brought him into your room and you two seemed to be having fun together.

You two were just lying on the ground together, talking about school and how that one teacher was always on them about schoolwork. Their hands seemed to inch closer and closer together as the conversation seemed together. In that moment, it felt as if everything was falling into place for you.

Someone would finally treat you as normal.

Just as your hands linked together, your mouth started to rumble, and your stomach felt hungrier than ever. With your right hand, you slowly brought your hand to your stomach, hoping the feeling would ease away. Instead, it continued to get stronger as your eyes fell down to his hand.

You were able to see the multiple veins traveling down his hand. That sight just brought you back to when you were a young girl on the playground again. Somehow, the boy didn't notice the shift in your behavior when you began to bring his hand closer to your mouth.

You were observing the hand closer to your face and every single nerve in your body was telling you to move forward. In that, you became fixated on one specific finger that had a large vein traveling through it. Softly smiling to yourself, you couldn't hear that the boy had stopped talking to watch you.

He called out your name and nervously asked what you were doing, but you didn't answer him.

Instead...you brought the finger into your mouth and bit down as hard as you could. Immediately, he screamed out in pain as your teeth sank deeper into his layers of skin.

When that first taste of blood hit your tongue, it was nothing like anything you had before. The taste was just so enjoyable for you that you just couldn't let go. You continued to just bite down harder through muscle and bone.

His screams echoed into the whole house, causing your parents to rush into your room. When they found you biting on his finger, your mom let out a scream and your dad bolted over to you. Quickly, he tried to pull you off of his finger as the boy was balling out in pain.

Just as he was, a clean snap! was all it took before your dad, and you were on the ground again. But you had a finger still in your mouth. The boy held onto his hand in pain as blood began to gush out at where his finger was.

Your expression remained neutral at the sight as you began to indulge. Food never satisfied your hunger like this did. You couldn't stop eating it. Your mother rushed out of the room, holding her mouth while gagging. Your father yelled at her to quickly call the ambulance while fighting with you to pull the finger out of your mouth.

He kept you tight in his arms to keep your from running away. You only began to grow more impatient with him. The finger was now a lost cause for him but keeping you here and away from the boy until reinforcements came was his best option. In an attempt to get away from your father, you squeezed your fists tight, hoping to have the strength to push him off.

Something inside you listened. Something that remained dormant for the past few years finally emerged.

You could feel your muscles expand in your own body. They were growing against your arms to make you stronger. Even if it was for a split second, you managed to shove your father back with your elbows. You quickly pushed yourself away from him and began to stumble yourself up. You were trying to catch your breath from the tussle between the two of you.

Your eyes fell to the boy who was still holding onto his hand in pain. You were looking for that glint of love back towards you, but all you could see was sadness, pain and hatred.

"Wh--Why would you do this to me?!" He sobbed to you while holding out his hand out to you.

"I...I just wanted to show you I care about you," You answered back as you placed your hands on your heart.

"You're sick! A freak!" He sobbed out towards you.

To hear that, it broke something else in you. You thought this would be the moment society could be proven wrong, that you could be you without having to hide. People could love you for you.

But, like always, society had proven you wrong.

Your face shifted into something that could resemble sadness and you dropped your hands back to your side. Your mouth was smeared in his blood and the room smelled like his blood too. Your mouth was still watering. You were still so hungry.

This time, it wasn't out of love, it was out of necessity for your body. Your eyes slowly trailed down him once again. You looked at his hand and to see what he looked like inside, it made her just smile. Her bloodied teeth barred at him before she dropped to her knees and began to dive into his arm.

Your father struggled to get himself up from where he was thrown back to try and pull you off. Again, you sunk into his skin, but this time, you hummed out in pleasure. Like this was a five course meal you were having. Your dad tried grabbing onto your arms, but in that split second, your muscles got stronger. It allowed you to shove your father back once more.

Unluckily enough for you, the police bursted through the door with your frantic mother telling them where you were. In that second, one minute you were awake, the next minute you felt a bullet go through your shoulder.

You limply fall to the ground beside to the boy. You could hear your mother sob out at the sight. The police and first responders filed into the room to quickly help your father and the boy. As they were pulled onto a stretcher, you could only watch in silence.

You couldn’t move from the ground. That gave these two other men in black masks to drag you out of your home and into a black van. You were placed on this homemade stretcher in the van with two of the men beside you. They quickly tied your hands down to the stretcher, but you didn’t seem to have the energy anymore to fight.

Your adrenaline was starting to fade away and you could feel the pain and exhaustion coming back. In that moment, your eyes slowly fluttered down before you fully passed out in the back of a black van.

A few days after that incident, you were forced to run multiple tests with different doctors to learn more about you. They wanted to find out what the urges came from and still keep the public safe.

They said you should have died, but something stopped you from dying. That is why so many doctors are on this case because you managed to avoid death. The tests were looking for that one specific change in your DNA that allowed you to escape death.

Maybe they could use you to exploit the rich and famous who have too many enemies.

You were starting to build a tolerance to the sticking and stabbing they would do every thirty minutes of each day. This new “schedule” seemed to be your new lifestyle. You didn’t mind having this routine because there was nothing around you to love or hate. It was just now you living and breathing like everyone else.

One day, however, your main doctor came into your room. He was looked down at a clipboard, reviewing something before speaking to you. When he finally did look up, his face stayed expressionless and he let out a sigh.

“Looks like it’s your lucky day. You’re heading to Dr. Sterling’s office,” the doctor spoke before nudging his head to signal to you to get off the bed.

You immediately rushed off the bed in a hurry, trying to understand why this was a good thing. Just as you were leaving the room, the doctor quickly pulled you back. You looked up at him confused, but then realized he was placing your handcuffs on.

“Don’t want to forget these,” He let out a soft snicker, causing you to feel irked at his words.

Then, when you made your way to Dr. Sterling’s office, you pushed the door open to find your parents sitting there. They seemed to have been waiting for a while. They heard the door open and seemed to jolt at the sound of it.

When you made eye contact with them, there was an uneasiness between the two of them. You could feel something bubbling in yourself for the way they stared at you. You were still their daughter.

Why couldn’t they understand that! Why couldn’t anyone understand that?

Why did you have the constantly mask herself for “the betterment of society”? This wasn’t fair to you. You were just like everyone else.

You swear it.

You sat down in between your parents and looked at Dr. Sterling. He had his own clipboard with pages listing things. There was some pictures as well that were printed onto some pages too.

He looked up from his clipboard, he looked at you for a second. Your head tilted to the side, trying to understand what he was doing. You squinted your eyes, but that quickly snapped himself out of the trance.

He clasped his hands together and his eyes shifted between your parents, “You’re both here on answers on your daughter and…it’s been a rough couple of days to figure it out, but we found it.”

“Found what?” Your mother spoke while moving closer towards the doctor.

“We thought this was something like a disease or maybe something mentally, which isn’t entirely wrong, but we needed to see the full picture,” Dr. Sterling explained as your eyes fell down into your lap.

To be talked about like you were an object, it sucked. It fucking sucked.

“Your daughter,” He looked between your parents, “Your daughter is a mutant. Her genes have been mutated. One of them happened to have altered her consumption.”

You only could look down at your hands as he continued to speak. You didn’t fully understand what he was telling you.

“That mutation didn’t just affect her appetite. That appetite stems from an enhanced ability to increase muscle strength and mass rapidly.” He explained to the both of them while turning his clipboard over to them to look at the results.

He points to a picture of a before and after of your arm. It was more buff in the after result. It only seemed someone could develop that type of muscle by doing to the gym every day. But for you, you could do that in seconds.

“I can guess by her ability to take a bullet to her back. She can withstand certain injuries to a certain extent,” He explained to them.

“What do you think we should do?” Your mother asked back to him.

“In my honest opinion, you keep her away from consuming others. This world would change how they look at superheroes if she were to be public. The last thing we need is people looking at the Avengers and thinking they eat people!”

Dr. Sterling looked through his cabinets and placed multiple pill bottles on the desk. He pushed it towards you. You looked up at the noise and seeing how many pills you needed to take. Your heart sunk.

“This isn’t just genetic. This is also a mental issue. Your daughter has a bad fixation on blood and gore. We have to limit these thoughts, basically silence them from tempting her. You might want to isolate her.”

Your father sat up in his chair, coughing into his hand, “We—We are planning on getting her apartment in Hell’s Kitchen when she graduates high school.”

“That’s excellent. You might be looking at a normal daughter in a few years.”

There was that word again. That word that made no sense to you. Why did people have to shun you away? It wasn’t your choice to be like this, but yet people acted as if you were a bad person. You were like every other teenager. You promise.

However, your parents and the doctor couldn’t see that. Instead, you were released from that hospital and immediately placed within a separate room away from everyone else. You had no contact with the outside world, or society. All you had, was your mother bringing your food at certain times throughout the day.

You stared at blank walls for most of your days. Thinking to yourself and trying to assure yourself you were normal. You were forced to take those pills every single day.

They didn’t make you feel like yourself. They made you lethargic, emotionless…numb. You were like a body without a functioning brain. Your life became a routine that kept you in check. That made sure you wouldn’t become that person who wasn’t “normal”.

Eventually, when you did finish high school, your parents brought you into a new apartment building. Your own space away from your parents. They had set everything up perfectly for your routine.

They managed to secure you a job at a local coffee shop not too far from here. That way you could make your own money and practice socializing with others. Maybe you could be introduced back into society.

You sat on your couch with your head lowered and just spacing off. Your mother walked up in front of you, she bent down in front of you to make eye contact with her.

She grabbed your hands, cupping it in her own hands, “You’ll be okay here, but you can never forget to take your pills. You know...why don’t you practice in the mirror on expressing emotions like everyone else? Maybe you could learn to be like everyone else."

You could only nod in agreement.

That's how your life was for almost 20 years.

A routine. A way to act normal and hide something that was shunned and called disgusting. You were practicing emotions and phrases in order to blend in with everyone. You studied every little detail. Pushing your mouth and eyes to morph into other human habits.

One thing that never came back, though, was your desire for normal food. You knew you needed something to keep your body functioning, but nothing fully settled in your stomach like it did before. Your fridge barely had the minimum to keep you alive, but if you had anything else, it would make you sick.

Dinner often consisted of substitutes that resembled anything towards that sweet, dark food you enjoyed so much. Hibiscus tea and the reddest meat she could cook (on a coffee shop salary). It wasn't much, but you did what you had to do.

You somehow, through your control, managed to become good friends with a girl from the coffee shop.

Her name was Priscella and she was this cheery ball of light that cheered up anyone that came into the shop. You associated her with a rainbow bouncy ball that just made that perfect sound each time it bounced. You watched the way she was able to switch anyone's bad mood into a good one. You thought that, maybe, you could learn from her and be able to bring a smile to other people's face without even saying a word.

Pouring into a mug, you watched from the corner of your eye Priscella rushing towards you. You tried to ignore her but found her peering over you with the biggest smile.

"I see you, Pris. You're not fooling me," You responded back as you shook the steamed milk into the mug.

"I know you do. Just wanted to make sure you're still with us," Priscella responded back as you placed the mug down onto the 'Pick Up' section.

You turned around to look at her and held your heart, asking, "I'm always here. What?"

She only just snickered and placed a hand on your shoulder, "Relax, I'm only joking with you."

"Oh, I see," You nod back to her.

"So, what are you doing this weekend? Got a boyfriend you're seeing?" Pris asked you, which only made you raise an eyebrow at the question.

You knew to limit yourself to intimate relationships for your own reasons, but to Priscella, she only thought it was because you were insecure.

She leaned onto the counter behind her and groaned your name up to the ceiling, "You're literally so gorgeous! You gotta put yourself out there. Do you really just rot in your bed all weekend?"

Well, she wasn't rotting, she was just catching up with phrases and habits humans did. "Yessss...?"

Pris face palmed at your words. "How about this? We have a girl's night in, and we have a movie marathon together?"

You brought your hands up to surrender and only would let out a stifled laugh, "I never had anyone over, and I don't think you would want to come over. It's a mess."

"Please? I feel bad not hanging out with you as much as everyone else here. I don't even need to stay long," Pris clasped her hands together in a pleading moment.

It's one you saw on TV. The one that breaks even the toughest people into complying into giving in. You knew that the right answer would be to say yes. However, the last thing you want people to know about was the millions of CDs you had piled up about human behavior. Or the pill bottles that could make any serial killer jealous.

"Uh...fine, but we go over to your house," You pointed a warning finger at her with a sigh.

She was trying her best to keep calm in the, somewhat, busy coffee shop. Instead, she came up running to you and embraced you into a tight hug.

You could only just pat her back in comfort as she said, "You're not gonna regret this! Come over around six, okay? Don't be late!"

"Yeah, of course," You nodded back, trying your best to mimic a smile.

That's how you ended up walking back to your apartment with your head just thinking about how, in a few hours, you had some place to be. You wouldn't be able to stay over on the fact that you needed to take your pills for everyone's sake. You buzzed yourself into the apartment before quickly making your way up the long staircase.

As you climbed up more and more to reach your apartment, you thought about what movies you would watch, or what else were they planning to do for their hang out. If you would be forced to eat food, how could you keep in down without making it weird to excuse yourself to the bathroom.

You were starting to regret your decision on saying yes.

You made your way down the hall and reached into your bag to search for your keys. Your bag was too stuffed to be considered necessary. You note to yourself to clean your bag later. As you shoved your hand deep into your bag, your fingers grazed your keys, but failed to realize a stranger in front of you.

You were too late to realize when you collided into him at full speed. You immediately let out a gasp out in embarrassment and let go of your bag.

You look up to the stranger. "I'm sorry. I wasn't watching where I was going. That must have hurt."

The stranger turned to look at you. He had a scar on his right cheek and had these blue eyes that stared back with a teasing glint. He bore an amused smile down at you. He was wearing this black jacket and pants but did not hide how muscular he truly was. He was built.

Just that look, it didn't scream that he was scared or annoyed at you. He seemed just...curious on you.

"No worries. No bumps or bruises," He responded back to her, causing you to show your own amused smile.

You pointed at him. "I don't think I've seen you around."

He lowered his head, shaking it with that same smile, "You caught me. Just moved in."

"Ah, I see. Welcome," You answered back to him.

"Thanks," He responded back while holding his keys out and shaking it in his hands.

You snapped yourself from admiring the man and quickly extended you hand out.

You said your name, "It's a pleasure to meet you. What is your name?"

His hand slid over to yours, shaking it firmly, "Tony. It's nice meeting you too."

Slipping it out of his grip, you smiled brightly before pointing towards your door, "I have to go. Meeting with a friend. Hope you settle in nicely."

"Yeah, thank you," Tony answered back.

You slipped yourself away from him without a forced smile and quickly grabbed your keys from your bag. You slipped it into the keyhole and quickly unlocked your door.

You spare yourself one last glance, seeing him doing the same thing. You could only just nod your head at him before entering your apartment.

Looking inside your apartment, your mask felt like it was suddenly slipping from your face. Locking the door behind you, you rushed towards your room, throwing your bag onto your bed and sat down at your vanity. Looking at yourself in the mirror, you placed your hands on your cheeks massaging them as you were morphing to how they were just seconds ago.

All of that was so natural. Never did you feel like you were forcing yourself to act a certain way. Of course, your conversation starters were a little robotic, but it still flowed. That felt...nice.

Your eyes fell down to the multiple pill bottles scattered across the vanity. For once in your life, you can feel your own mental routine cracking.

Were you really debating on taking your medication right now? Yes.

Could your mind finally be building on itself without needing these? Maybe you just didn't have the right people in your life. Maybe it would just need to be explored a little deeper before doing this.

Your hand shot over to one of the pill bottles and quickly grabbed the recommended dose before swallowing it. You cupped your face and let out a soft sigh in your hands. You couldn't do this. Not right now. The routine is there for a reason.

Rinnnggg!

Your head shot over towards the noise.

Bzzzt! Ringggg!

The vibration and sound were coming from your bag. You made your way over towards your bag and reached inside to grab your phone. You looked at the caller ID to see that it was Pris calling.

"Hello?" You said as you pressed the accept button.

"Hey, you think popcorn is enough or you want something else?" She asked while you rubbed your forehead.

"Uh—how much are we planning to eat?" You questioned while slowly walking out your room.

"Enough for the best movie marathon of a lifetime! I have some M&M's we can throw into the popcorn. I also got some soda for us, since I know you don't drink," Pris answered back.

"How are popcorn and M&M's a good mix? That sounds..."

"You never had that combo?! Oh my god, I'm about to introduce you to heaven," She gasped from the phone.

You can hear the pure excitement in her voice. All you could do was just let out a snicker.

"Did you just laugh? Aw no! I wanted it to be in person! You keep that energy up, okay? I'm gonna make you do it again tonight!" Pris responded back.

"I'll...I'll be waiting, Pris," You answered back while you began to pace around your living room.

"Alright, I'll see you in an hour! See ya!" Pris responded back.

"See you, Pris," You said back before ending the call.

You stuffed your phone into your back pocket and stood in the silence of your apartment. You raised your thumb to your mouth, biting onto the nail, with a smile etching onto your lips. You just took in everything before slowly making your way back into your vanity to get yourself ready for your movie night.

Your mind filled to the man next door. Who looked at you instead of just ignoring you like everyone else. Something was starting to bubble again inside you, but you didn't want it to leave anytime soon.

In the other room, Dex had his ear pressed against the cabinets of his kitchen. Eavesdropping on your conversation with your friend. He couldn't hear the person on the other end, but all he needed to hear was you.

Just that same way you held yourself to a routine. Not other people would have noticed the way you spoke, but he knew that trick like the back of his hand. The way you held yourself, you looked like you were hiding apart of yourself.

And Dex wanted to tear it open and let you show off your real you. Just for him to explore and dig through.

Just to make sure you're safe, he'll decided to follow you to your friend's. He needed to know if you were worth it. Worth the trouble to know and dig into without Fisk or Daredevil in the way.

Will you be worth that heartbreak like Julie was to him?

It wasn't weird.

People get mugged here all the time. He's doing a public justice to make up for the bad he had done. Just until he can get close to Fisk. That was his justification for all this.

To now looking through the window of your friend's apartment. Just to make it even better for him to justify what he was doing, the apartment happened to be on the first floor and illuminated perfectly for him to look inside. With his hands in his pockets, he looked inside the apartment to watch you and your friend watching a movie.

He could see you intently watching the movie while your friend went on and on about each scene of the film. Somehow, you didn't seem to mind the chatter, just sitting there and enjoying it.

One habit he saw you doing was that you would only grab one popcorn to slip into your mouth. It would be every 3 minutes that you would routinely pick up a popcorn, and every 5 minutes, you would grab an M&M from the tray. Something about that, had something stirring within him.

His smile brightened at the sight of a built-in routine. A mind so similar to his own. A perfect half.

Perfect.

He continued to just watch you through the window until you stared at the time and realized it was late. When he saw you get up from the couch, he fixed his jacket to sit right on himself before walking away from the scene.

There was still so much to learn about you. Of course, from a distance for now.

[preechie]

The Guy Next Door Pt.2

Benjamin Poindexter x Cannibal! Mutant! Reader

𖦹｡⋆ Summary: Dex finds himself in your coffee shop and expects to be in and out. Instead, you awkwardly try to make convo. Your friend, Priscella, definitely sees something going on.

𖦹 WC: 2.3k

𖦹｡⋆ Tags: Fluff. Neighborly talks. Coffee shop. Awkward interactions. Priscella trying to be your wingman. DDBA S2! Dex.

𖦹 Warnings: none!

A/N: I feel like Iron Man with all that technology in front of him right now ngl. I hate writing filler plot for the life of me. This took like 20,000 rough drafts before I can get this one out straight. I want to pace this as nice as possible because I don't want to rush this. SOON, we'll get to the nitty gritty of her desires. lol

previous part 𖦏 next part

You could say routine was one of the last things Dex had that was true to himself. Everything else had been torn and taken from him until there was nothing left. All he could be grateful for was the fact he got out of that...place.

This apartment building was a new life. A beginning towards that balanced that he craved. To balance the scales. Why else would he have survived from falling four stories? Something else is keeping here for one specific reason.

Now, he was sitting in a coffee shop, in a back corner watching you serve customers with a smile just a little too wide for it to be comfortable. At first, it really was to stay for a half an hour, move on with the rest of his day, but it was like watching you put on a show for everyone. The way everything was so calculated, a steady rhythm to be seen normally.

Dex reached for the toothpicks placed in the middle of the table, shaking one out of its container. He placed the toothpick in his mouth before raising his head up towards the TV that was planted into the corner of the cafe.

"Police still are on the lookout for the vigilante, Bullseye, who had escaped prison a few months ago. Task Force claims that this individual still wreak havoc across New York, killing individuals with bizarre makeshift weapons," Dex could only smile at that. "If you see this individual, please call Task Force immediately and do not engage with him."

He dropped his head down from the TV with a smirk still present on his lips. He decided to take that as his sign to leave the cafe and start looking around for Task Force.

However, as he was about to push his chair out, a voice called out to him. Your voice. "Uh--Tony, right?"

Looking over to where your voice called out. Your face shifted into something more genuine. A genuine, amused face scattered across your face.

That was what made Dex stay.

He quickly pushed himself back into his seat, taking out the toothpick from his mouth.

He raised an eyebrow to act confused before calling out your name, "Hey, yeah that's me. What are you doing here?"

"I work here," You pointed to your clothes. "It's nice seeing you exploring what's around here."

Dex placed both of his hands onto his lap, taking in a deep breath, "Yeah, it seems quiet around here. Not much issue."

You nodded you head at him, letting out a soft chuckle. You felt that you could relate to him more as you continued to talk to him. He seemed to just fit into the middle of your puzzle piece after decades for trying to find someone who would.

"Yes. That's why I like this area. You know...quiet and peaceful, but still in the city around other people," You say as the words you've been trained to say spilled out.

Dex leaned into more towards you. His eyebrow flicking slightly at the wording of your statement. He nodded his head towards at you before asking, "Yes, well...now Task Force is on every corner. Soon this one."

You raised your hand from your sides to say, 'that's how it is'. "I don't approve of it as the next person. It's just...unnecessary."

Dex hummed at your answer, placing his hand on the bottom of his chin. Then you just sighed, shrugging your shoulders, "I just hope it all works out in the end."

"Of course..." Dex nodded his head, making a promise to you that you didn't even realize.

Taking in a deep breath, you placed your hands back at your side and then looked behind you. You could see Pris looking back at you with this all-knowing look. You quickly snapped out of your trance with him and opened your mouth to speak, stuttering as you try to form the words.

"I should...get back to work before I get a write up or fired," You pointed you thumb back towards the kitchen.

Dex immediately stood up from the table. "Oh, right. Your duty calls."

You nervously laughed, starstruck at how tall he really was in front of you. Not to mention how extremely buff he was. Jesus. "Yeah...uh. See you soon? Or, whenever we bump into each other again."

Dex placed his hands in front of him with a smirk, nodding down at you. "I'll see you soon."

"Yes, great," You answered back in a bad attempt to act normal. "Bye."

Then, as quick as you were there, you immediately walked away from him. From behind you, Dex placed the toothpick back into his mouth with an amused glint littered across his face. You were just so...abnormally normal. Just moments when your true emotions would come out, you snapped back into this routine.

That's what he was so interested in. What was wrong with your neighbor that you needed to behave a certain way in front of people? To perform for them to please society. What were you hiding under that personality?

Dex pushed open the cafe door to enter back into the street with that question filling his mind. However, he did know one thing about you. Task Force was much of a thorn at her side as it was for him. Of course, for different reasons.

In Dex's mind, it was the fact he was Bullseye. Wanted for multiple counts of murder and attempted assassinations. Not to mention his recent prison escape.

But for you...it was because they were disrupting the peace in your neighborhood. The peace that seemed to be routine for you to surround yourself with for years.

But Dex couldn't be more wrong than that.

For in your own mind, Task Force was two steps closer to finding out about you through a background check. You heard from pass of word about the conditions they were holding individuals with the status as "vigilantes". The idea being thrown into a cage, treated as something less than a human just broke you internally.

You started to make sure you were taking your medication more regularly with timers at the very second you needed to take it again. You couldn't be seen as yourself in public anymore. Not with Fisk as the mayor of New York.

"Who was that man you were talking to earlier?" Pris questioned with a teasing glint in her eyes.

You were sitting at an empty table with most of the cafe now being empty during your slow hours. You raised your head that was resting on your fist to look at her.

You blinked as you were trying to register what she was saying to you. "Hm?"

"That guy that came in during the rush in the morning. He was really tall with scruffy, blonde hair," Pris explained while placing her hand above her hair to mimic messy hair.

"Oh, you mean Tony," You responded back, your posture immediately straightened and turned to fully look at her.

Pris immediately noticed your behavior and smiled, "Oh, yes 'I mean Tony'. Who is he?"

"My neighbor. He just moved in next door," You explained.

She let out a little coo at your words. "And you find him attractive too, huh?"

"What? Pris, I just met the man yesterday," You shook your head, immediately denying it.

"And now he was here in the coffee shop! That's your literal sign it's meant to be!" Pris responded back to you with a bright smile.

Your eyes slightly dropped at her words, your shoulders dropping down and heart settling in your chest. Meant to be. It was fate he came in here. There are millions of other places that he could have chosen to enjoy coffee, and yet, he chose here.

Your eyes squinted with your mouth mimicking a smile. "Maybe it is."

Pris pointed at you. "Now that's the attitude we need! You should get to know this guy more. You know, more than his name is Tony and lives next door."

You raised an eyebrow at her in confusion. "Isn't that enough?"

"You need to get out of your shell," Pris sighed out your name. "He looks totally into you."

"Into me?" You questioned.

"Attracted to you." Pris elaborated.

You blinked at her, thinking you heard her wrong. "Attracted? From one interaction."

"Call it a blooming love," Pris giggled while wiggling her fingers for the added effect.

She started to go off more on a tangent about how you were looking at him and how he was looking at you. However, your mind was just hooked on the idea that it wasn't just all in your mind. That someone, you believed to be a close friend, was saying something was there.

An alignment of the cosmos to bring you together.

Another chance to be able to be yourself with someone you wanted to cherish.

You placed a hand on your heart. Feeling something wrapping in your mind. Something twisting reason into pure logic. Something set in stone on what you had to do.

What was destined for you.

When you did get off your shift, you were traveling up the flight of stairs, paying no mind to your surroundings. Somehow, even with the bare minimum of social skills, you were still mentally drained from having to deal with customers all day.

And yet, you still need a way to make a steady living in order to keep your apartment.

You got to do what you've got to do.

Climbing up the last steps, you walked out into the hallway leading towards your apartment. This time, you were actually paying attention to where you were walking, but he wasn't out in the hall as you expected.

You were a little disappointed at the idea of him not being there, but it was five o'clock. He must be working or something about this hour. Letting out a sigh, you grab your keys from your back pocket as you approach your door.

Just as you slotting your key in the keyhole, you heard someone turning the locks on their door. Your heart skipped a beat at the sound before seeing Tony walking out of his apartment. He looked like he was in a rush to leave, mindlessly walking out to wherever he was going, but when he caught your eyes, he stopped.

He called out your name, causing you to smile, before he said, "I'm starting to think you're stalking me with how many times we run into each other."

For a second, you were trying to stutter out how you were just coming back from work and you weren't, but he just stared back at you with a teasing smile.

Seeing that teasing looks on his face, it registered to you that he was just joking. You snapped your lips shut at the realization before a small chuckle escaped from your mouth.

You shook your head and shrugged your shoulders to play along with him, answering back with, "It might just be fate."

He stared at you for a few seconds, observing your words as they were uttered out. He squinted his eyes and nodded before saying in a scruffy voice, "Yeah...it might be."

You placed your hands in your back pocket, feeling your keys there, and crossed your legs. "Ah, so are you heading out for tonight?"

"Yeah, just on my way to work actually," Dex responded back, making you widen your eyes.

"I must be making you late. I'm sorry," You immediately placed a hand on your chest and began to walk away, so he wasn't obligated to stay.

He placed his hand out to make you stop and said, "Oh, don't worry. My boss is very lenient."

In actuality, his boss was just himself. Under his coat was his Bullseye costume as he was just about to head out to scout out Task Force agents that were close by. However, he spotted you before even making out the door. It didn't matter to him, anyways, he had all night to look for agents.

"Still, you don't have to listen to me rant for hours," You answered back.

"I don't mind your talking. Haven't had a lot of people to talk to in my last building," Dex explained, knowing the real reason was because he was in a prison cell.

You smiled at his words, feeling something fluttering in your chest. You couldn't believe that someone like him wanted to listen to you. You looked down to avoid eye contact with him, causing your hair to come in front of your face.

You looked back at him while flipping your hair back to say, "Well, I guess that makes two of us. Not many friendly faces around this building either."

"Glad we share a wall together then," Dex answered back with a smile appearing softly on his lips.

"Yes, it's very good," You answered back to him. "You make good conversation."

He dipped his own head down to avoid eye contact with a soft chuckle. He brought his hands together while you waited for him to reply.

"You do too," Dex answered back with a huff coming out as a soft chuckle. "But, as much as I hate saying it, I should probably head to work."

Your eyes widened at his words and took a step back again. "Right. Work. Important."

Dex just listened as you spoke like what you said was the most complex and fascinating thing to ever grace his ears.

He nodded, echoing you, "Important."

"I'll see you soon, then?" You pointed a finger at him with a raised eyebrow.

"Soon," Dex nodded his head before backing away from you. "Enjoy your evening."

"You too, Tony," You replied back before he turned around to head out.

For Dex, it hurt for him to hear you utter a fake name that didn't belong to him. He knew what he was doing was just for now. He still needed to make sure you couldn't be a loose end. He needed to make sure you weren't to have the same path of Julie.

You were very interesting to say the least.

[se7entyrell]

supercut of us masterlist.

The one where Jack Abbot accidentally knocks up Robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college.

warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with pregnancy, discussions of abortion and medical complications, explicit sexual content, slut-shaming (not by jack), reader is robby's step-sister, they are not related biologically, and reader's appearance is not described at all.

prologue sneak peak // meet the cast // instagram post snippet // original moodboard

prologue.

chapter one.

chapter two.

chapter three.

chapter four.

chapter five.

chapter six.

chapter seven.

chapter eight.

chapter nine.

chapter ten.

chapter eleven.

chapter twelve.

epilogue.

[se7entyrell]

supercut of us - chapter one.

The one where Jack Abbot accidentally knocks up Robby's little (step)sister in his final year of college.

warnings: this blog is 18+, mdni! this fic deals with pregnancy, discussions of abortion and medical complications, explicit sexual content, slut-shaming (not by jack), reader is robby's step-sister, they are not related biologically, and reader's appearance is not described at all. in this chap - nothing really, just the obvious pregnancy

main masterlist // supercut of us masterlist

The bed is well and truly cold by the time you come to.

It takes a second to orient yourself - for last night to come crashing back to you. Jack, his hands, that stupid cowboy hat, the way it felt when he-

You cut yourself off.

This isn’t the start of something. Absolutely not. You were looking for a quick fling to get over Seth, and you found one. Jack made it very clear he wasn’t looking for anything either, and you’re not about to beg him for more.

If your paths cross again organically, then that would be another thing entirely.

You reach for your dress, and take a second to look around his room as you try and gather your bearings. It’s a lot cleaner than some of the frat rooms you’ve spent time in.

There are textbooks stacked on the desk instead of empty beer cans. A chemistry textbook sits open beneath a notebook full of cramped handwriting and highlighted diagrams. Another book - something biology-related - has so many sticky notes poking out of the pages it looks like it's growing feathers.

You hadn’t thought Jack was lying last night when he told you he was pre-med, but you certainly hadn’t thought he was serious about it. You figured he was probably some trust-fund kid who was going to get daddy to buy his way into medical school.

Jack apparently doesn’t fit into Cornell’s usual stereotypes.

He’s not a selfish prick the way most of the hockey team is. He’s also not a moron either - not by a long-shot. You know his music taste is pretty refined - on one date, after telling a guy that The Doors were your favourite band, he’d looked at you like you’d grown a second head.

Needless to say, there hadn’t been a second date.

And he’s funny. You’d laughed more last night than the entirety of summer. You think potentially more than your entire relationship with Seth.

God, you need to get a grip. You look around the room, almost praying to find something that’ll ruin the spark for you. Maybe a list of all the girls he’s slept with, or some Playboys under the bed. Some mouldy food perhaps?

Anything to get him off your mind.

You pull your dress over your head and glance around again.

The walls are covered in hockey.

Photos pinned to a corkboard. Team pictures from what looks like every stage of his life. A tiny kid missing his front teeth. A gangly teenager holding a trophy. A more recent photo where he's standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a group of teammates, grinning like an idiot.

There's a shelf lined with medals and a couple of plaques.

Your gaze lingers on a more recent picture - a slightly younger Jack’s first year on the Cornell hockey team. It looks familiar, and suddenly you realise why, heart sinking. Your step-brother Michael stands right by his side, smiles wide as the team poses for the camera.

Fuck.

You’d thought that the hockey team would be safe from Michael’s claws given that he’s been at medical school for the past three years. The last thing you want is to have slept with one of his friends.

While technically a step-brother, your mom met his dad while she was still pregnant with you. With your biological father out of the picture, the Robinavitch family very quickly became your own. Michael’s father is the only father you’ve ever known.

In all ways but blood, he’s your brother.

He’s the entire reason you’d ended up at Cornell. You’ve always wanted to grow up to be like Michael. Even if he’s grown a stupid beard, and goes by Robby these days.

His single piece of advice to you when you’d started college was to run a mile from anybody on the college’s sports teams.

Basketball? Bad.

Football? The worst, if Robby is to be believed.

Hockey? Good guys, but not boyfriend material. Steer clear at all costs.

Maybe they were just teammates. You have lots of group photos with people you don’t even like, much less consider a friend.

Jack seems like the kind of guy who would be friendly to just about everyone. But it could have just felt that way because he was trying to get into your pants. He could have a playbook of flattery, and you’re simply the most recent sucker to fall for it.

You realise with a snort that you don’t know much about Jack at all.

Which, to be fair, was intentional.

The whole point had been not getting to know each other. He could be

No strings. No personal questions. No expectations.

For all you know, he's seeing someone back home. Or maybe he's the sort of guy who never stays single for long. Maybe there are half a dozen girls on campus who'd roll their eyes if they heard you were thinking this much about him.

You wouldn't know.

All you know is that his name is Jack.

He plays hockey.

He's pre-med.

He’s a fan of classic rock - particularly Led Zeppelin and the Eagles, but he’s also partial to some eighties punk.

You don't know if he has siblings, or if he's close with his parents.

You move toward the desk, spotting a framed picture tucked beside a lamp.

Jack stands with a woman who shares the exact same smile. Must be a mother, though she looks pretty young. Upon further inspection, his mom is in a lot of the photos. For someone who spent half of last night pretending he didn't care about anything except having a good time, Jack seems surprisingly sentimental.

Maybe because you'd spent all of last night mentally filing Jack under Fun-Mistake. Good-Lay-Who’s-Definitely-A-Bit-Of-A-Whore.

Not Son-Who-Keeps-Pictures-Of-His-Mom-On-His-Desk.

You force yourself to look away.

This is ridiculous. You have to get out of here. At the desk, a notepad sits beside a cup full of pens, and your eyes catch on it just for a second.

You could leave your number.

Not for a date. Just to say ‘hey, that was good sex and we should do it again sometime. I’m not clingy, nor am I looking for a boyfriend, but you’re hot and I have a pushy ex.’

As soon as your brain catches up with your thoughts, you realise how pathetic you sound.

You’ve spent your entire college career avoiding becoming a stereotype. You’re not a stuck-up teacher’s pet because you get good grades, you’re not a stoner because you’re in a rock band, and you’re certainly not a Puck Bunny because you want to fuck a hockey player.

You grab your boots, and try to get the hell out of there. The frat house is mostly empty this early. For that, you’re grateful. A couple of people linger in the kitchen, nursing coffees and hangovers, but thankfully, nobody pays much attention as you head for the front door.

You slip outside.

The morning air is cool against your skin. A welcome change from the heat of Jack’s bedroom.

You don’t have a class until lunchtime, but band practice starts in forty-five minutes, and you’d like the shower before braving the heat of the Cornell Music Building.

The campus is dead at this hour, just empty brick paths and ivy before the mid-morning rush. Your boots click on the concrete, locking into the tempo of the bassline you keep looping in your head. It’s a new composition, one that you’re pretty sure goes with Jesse’s latest favourite drum-fill.

You hadn’t really meant to join a band, but when Jesse Van Horn is your next-door neighbour in freshman year, it’s hard to avoid the music.

Half the floor hated him, because he had an acoustic drum-kit set up in his room, and had no qualms about practicing at seven in the morning before his classes.

You didn’t ever mind.

Alarm clocks didn’t do the trick for you, but Immigrant Song sure did. Eventually, Jesse’s roommate had packed it in, found somewhere else to live. Meanwhile, you and he were becoming closer every day. You’d pass records back and forth, and roll your eyes over student housing politics.

When your roommate started allowing her boyfriend to practically live with you both, it had been a natural decision. One box at a time, over a week, you moved into Jesse’s spare room.

Despite the rumours, it’s never been sexual - you’re both walking proof that men and women can, in fact, just be friends.

You started jamming together, before he’d finally proposed that a band could earn you some extra cash. Outside of tutoring, you didn’t have any other income, so money got tight fast.

The only issue was that you absolutely refused to sing in front of a crowd. It’s not that you couldn’t - you’ve always had quite a nice voice, especially for folk, but the idea of singing solo in front of crowds made you want to cry.

Besides, you’d argued, you needed a guitarist anyway. You’d just find someone who could sing and play.

Jesse had placed a couple of ads across campus, and you got a lot more interest than you were expecting. Your answer came in the form of Nick Bradley - a biology major who could shred like Slash.

He agreed to sing too, as long as you’d do harmonies and take lead occasionally.

Like Fleetwood Mac, except none of you were sleeping together.

Now, a year on, you’re pretty successful. Good enough to get booked for a lot of the parties around campus, and a Saturday night slot at the local bar.

You’re still living with Jesse this year, in an apartment just off-campus, while Nick lives two streets over with his girlfriend Princess.

Were it not for Seth, you’d be having the time of your life.

Your first college relationship, you’d met Seth at a party in your first month of being at Cornell. He was a freshman too, but a business major, and loved the sound of his own voice.

Of course, at the time, he was hot, and paying you considerable amounts of attention. You were hooked.

Your entire relationship was cyclical - you’d date for a few months, and then have a huge blowout fight, and break up. You’d both sleep with other people out of pettiness, before he’d come crawling back a month later.

Much to all your friends’ chagrin, you always took him back.

This is the longest you’ve ever been separated since you first met.

It had happened over summer - an incident in New York City which had resulted in you sobbing down the phone, and Robby driving three hours in the middle of the night to come to your rescue.

You’re determined the break is sticking this time.

The cold walk back to your apartment finally wakes you up. You drop your keys on the counter, shed yesterday's clothes, and step into the shower. The hot water cuts through the smell of Jack's cedarwood cologne and the leftover stuffiness of his bedroom.

Ten minutes later, you're out and dressed in fresh black jeans and a beat-up band tee. Cream. You tell yourself it’s a total coincidence, and not because it’s a Clapton band. Your hair is still wet, but with five minutes until your practice starts, Jesse is ushering you into his car without pause.

*****

You think about Jack at random intervals throughout the day over the next few weeks.

When you're walking to class.

When you see someone wearing a hockey sweatshirt.

When a cowboy hat appears in the background of a TikTok, embarrassingly.

But thinking isn't the same thing as doing. And you've managed not to do anything.

No Instagram searches. No asking around. No stalking fraternity pages. No investigating.

Which means you're doing great.

Objectively.

You haven’t seen him around campus, but you figure that’s to be expected, given he’s pre-med and on the hockey team. You wouldn’t wish either on your worst enemy, much less both. Thankfully, Seth has been a complete non-entity too.

Maybe you’ll be able to live your entire Junior year in peace.

You're walking back from class with your phone wedged between your shoulder and ear while Robby complains about med school.

Again.

Apparently today's crisis is pathology.

Yesterday's crisis was anatomy.

Tomorrow's will probably be something equally horrifying - he’s no longer allowed to tell you any stories that involve burns, toe-nails, or eye stuff, but you're sure he'll find something else that makes you feel sick just hearing about it.

"I haven't slept in two days."

You snort. "That's healthy."

"I hate you."

You hadn’t realised that Robby going to med school would somehow be your problem too. When your parents are sick of him whinging, they send his calls your way.

"Do you know how many pathways there are for clotting?" He asks.

"No. Why would I know that? I’m pre-law."

"There are too many."

"Okay."

He groans. "I'm serious."

"Congratulations? I don't know what you want me to say to that, to be honest."

There’s a pause, and you can just imagine him rubbing his neck, regretting calling you entirely. "You don't care."

"I care deeply about many things. Clotting factors? Unfortunately not one of them. Why aren’t you moaning to Noelle?"

"She’s sick of it," He replies, sounding so miserable that you almost want to laugh.

“Just think about all the money you’ll be making.”

“Yeah, in like fifteen years.” Without taking a breath, Robby launches into another story about one of his professors, and you half-listen as you weave through campus.

Then he mentions hockey. "Honestly, sometimes I miss the team."

Your stomach does an immediate, traitorous flip. It’s been approximately two hours since you last thought about Jack, and the reminder is not a welcome one. It’s a battle to keep your voice neutral. "Yeah?"

"Not the practices,” He clarifies immediately.

"Obviously."

"Or the conditioning."

"Also obviously."

"But the guys."

You bite the inside of your cheek. You don’t care about Jack. You shouldn’t ask anything else. Change the subject, and…. "Do you still talk to any of them?"

You immediately regret it, but it’s too late.

Fortunately, Robby doesn't seem to notice the odd cadence in your tone.

"Some of them."

You hum. "Who?"

He pauses. “Most of us are scattered now, but I talk to some of the guys on the current team. You know, one of them's applying to med school right now.”

"So?"

Robby laughs. "So?"

"Yeah."

You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder, wondering if you should just fake bad service and hang up.

"Lots of people apply to med school."

"Not while playing a college sport."

"Oh."

"He asked me to look over his application."

Your grip tightens on your phone. "That's nice."

"I know. I’m a nice guy." Robby sounds genuinely pleased. Which is odd. He's usually much stingier with compliments. "Actually, his application's pretty solid."

You stare straight ahead.

Heart beating a little faster. “Must be smart, then.”

“Everything okay?”

Curse Robby and his insane perception skills. “Uh, yeah - just thought I saw Seth.”

Immediately, Robby’s in dad mode. “Don’t go near him.”

“I’m not! Jesus, Mikey - what do you take me for?”

“You don’t want me to answer that.”

You want to be offended, but you’re mostly just glad the conversation isn’t on Jack anymore. “Screw you.”

“Love you too!”

*****

The bathroom tile is freezing against your forehead.You trace the grout lines with your eyes, trying to focus on anything other than the rhythmic, violent heaving in your stomach. It’s 4:00 AM, six weeks since term started, and you’re currently paying the price for the sketchy food truck tacos you ate after last night's gig.

Your throat burns, tasting like stomach acid and cheap tequila.

This cannot be the rockstar life everybody is so desperate for.

You groan, pulling yourself up onto your knees to lean over the toilet bowl again. Your body shakes, a cold sweat breaking out across your neck and back. Every muscle in your core is tightly knotted, exhausted from the last two hours of purging.

You reach up and flush, the loud roar of the water echoing painfully in the quiet apartment. Jesse’s the heaviest sleeper you’ve ever met - there’s no way he’s waking up from a couple of retches.

You wake up on Friday morning convinced you're finally over the worst of it. The constant, violent nausea has faded into a dull, low-grade ache, and you manage to keep down half a bagel and some black coffee. Robby informs you that sometimes food poisoning takes it’s sweet time clearing up.

By Sunday, you can't lie to yourself anymore.

You’re still exhausted. The smell of the deli on the corner makes your stomach violently drop, and you spent twenty minutes this morning dizzy on the bathroom floor just from standing up too fast. It’s not a stomach bug.

You decide eventually that you can manage a trip to the grocery store for some crackers and ginger ale, in the hopes of filling your stomach a little.

Standing in the chip aisle, you glance over at the bakery counter. A woman is standing there, waiting for a loaf of bread. She’s wearing a soft knit sweater, and one of her hands rests naturally over a very obvious, rounded baby bump.

Your heart stops.

You can’t be.

You’re on the pill, and Jack used a condom. Statistically, there’s got to be no chance of that happening.

Panic floods your chest, hot and sharp.

You drop the crackers and sprint two aisles over to the pharmacy section. Your eyes scan the shelves frantically until you spot the boxes. You grab a digital two-pack, not even looking at the price, and tuck it flat against your stomach beneath your denim jacket.

You keep your head down, eyes darting left and right. The campus grocery store is a minefield; the last thing you need is a classmate, or Seth, or even Jack himself seeing you.

Running the three blocks back, the plastic bag crinkles loudly against your thigh. Your hands shake so badly that you drop your keys on the concrete before finally forcing the lock.

Jesse is on the couch, a laptop open on his knees and a half-eaten slice of pizza in his hand. He blinks up at you, surprised. "Hey, did you get the-"

"Bathroom," you choke out, barging straight past the couch. You don’t look at him, keeping the plastic bag bunched tight against your side.

"Whoa, okay. All yours," he mutters, turning back to his screen.

You throw yourself into the bathroom, slam the door, and click the lock. In the sudden quiet, your breathing sounds deafening. You rip the box open, tearing the cardboard with your fingernails until the two plastic sticks tumble onto the counter.

You’re on the pill. Jack used a condom.

You repeat it in your head like a mantra, trying to block out the terror pressing down on your chest. You read the instructions on the crumpled paper, the tiny text blurring. Wash hands. Remove cap. Hold the tip in the stream for five seconds.

You go through the motions on pure autopilot, your fingers icy cold.

When it's done, you lay the stick flat on the edge of the sink, turning the digital screen face-down against the white porcelain. You step back, gripping the edges of the counter until your knuckles turn white. On the side of the plastic casing, the tiny hourglass icon starts blinking, counting down the three longest minutes of your life.

You can’t be pregnant. You still have two more years of college, and then law school. How the hell would you do that with a baby?

Especially when the father is someone you don’t even know?

When you finally build the courage to turn the test over, you think you might cry.

“Shit,” You curse. “Shit, shit, shit!”

No amount of staring makes the line disappear, and you can feel tears start to prick at your periphery when a knock sounds at the door. “Everything okay? You’ve been gone forever.”

You swallow heavily. “Fine, Jess.” Looking back at the very positive test, and the words that flash on the screen.

Six Weeks Pregnant.

taglist (supercut) CLOSED! - @proudlyvastlake @delicatepointeofview @voidsagent @katcoquette @therainbowexpress @prettyflowerlily @mayawainfleet @pedritosgfreal @wcibn @funkywonnie @ty4eve @nataliagianna01 @sick2mystmch @spectersgf @maccymoon @hannahwestt @cerberus101 @girljusttrying28 @missabsey @heartz4chucky @thehockeynerd30 @gennywennypenn @dumblani @aleemendoza2425-blog @snake-in-a-flower-crown @ilumxna @jjklesbianism @redhooduwu @kamalymaly @fanggq3 @liliana-rose1 @4ria790 @tomsleftarmhair @ducks118 @sweeethearts @cats-coffeeandbooks @gardenofolive @sophiek222 @teenwolfbitches28 @yaansu @poseidons-lovechild @solastasims @sofianotvergara @lilvampirina @leah0011 @sorenscatharsis @777bambi777 @generation-zero

[iluvvvdilfs]

I feel like if I start body checking people are gonna call me fat...

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [31] - Fire

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: There are lines that should not be crossed, even in enmity.

Word Count: 4,8k

Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes, blood, mentions of wounds. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

It was very, very clear that your house and House Stark was complete opposites.

You had been in Winterfell for just a little over two moons, and you were proven the difference over and over again almost each day. Your house was all about ambition, House Stark was all about honor. Your house had agriculture and fertile lands as its strength, House Stark had military power and loyalty as its. Your house was a vassal house that had to claw its way to power, House Stark was the most ancient and powerful House in the north, with no need or taste for court games and intrigue.

And as you found out very recently, the parenting styles of your house and House Stark was no exception to such difference.

“Listen, I get that—”

“Do you really?” you asked, leaning on your hip. “Because from where I’m standing, you do not.”

“Things are different in the south, but I told you,” Robb said, making you narrow your eyes at him. “He cannot run to you crying every single time he’s scared.”

“Because winter is coming?” You mimicked his deep voice with his northern accent. “He’s a child—”

“You’re not his mother.”

You threw your head back with an impatient—and very unladylike—groan, then glared up at him.

“I know very well I’m not his mother, Robb,” you said. “Would you like to be reminded the reason why he runs to me crying?” You pointed at the door of the solar. “Because his actual mother is by his sick brother’s bedside, waiting for him to wake up!”

“Bran will wake up,” he said. “And in the meantime, Rickon needs to understand what is expected of him as a Stark.”

“And are the Stark babes born fully in control of their emotions?” you snarked. “Is that what happens? Did you all come out holding a sword and told the midwife the north remembers?”

“Quite the criticism from the girl whose midwife had to wear silk gloves to tend to her.”

Your mouth fell open with a gasp.

“Those were my nursemaids!”

“My apologies,” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Of course. Your nursemaids.”

“And we’re not talking about me right now, we’re talking about the fact that Rickon is terrified—”

“And he’s going to stay terrified if you keep coddling him.”

“No, he’s going to stay terrified if he feels like he has to deal with this alone.” You crossed your arms. “I understand that things may be different in the north, but mayhaps it’s high time you reconsidered it when it comes to Rickon—”

“I’m doing what my father would have done,” he told you, “if he were here.”

Of course.

Of course Ned Stark could do no wrong in Robb’s eyes as a father, so Robb wanted to walk the path his father carved.

…Except, it was quite obvious that he was refusing to address a very specific situation that had been taking place since Lord Stark’s departure. While ruling in his stead, Robb was making some changes, especially now that Lady Stark was confined to Bran’s chambers and was not seeing any of it.

“You do realize I was trained in politics as well?” you asked. “Do you honestly think I don’t know the reason why Jon is in the room in almost every meeting you hold with the northern lords ever since your father left? Something he didn’t do when he was indeed here?”

A blush spread over his cheeks and reached his ears as he averted his eyes from yours like he was caught doing some mischief.

“My brother being by my side is no politics,” he mumbled way too fast as if he had already practiced the answer in his mind, and you rolled your eyes.

“Robb, come on now...”

“It is not politics.”

“It is if you’re making your vassals perceive his presence,” you taunted him, moving about in the solar. “It is indeed politics if you’re legitimizing his status by your side even if it’s not in name. Which is more than alright, you do that. But don’t pretend it’s not political, when you and I both know what it signals to your vassals about the future.”

“Jon is not who we’re talking about right now,” he insisted, eager to change the subject. “Rickon is. He’s not going to learn the ways of the world if he thinks you’ll be there every—”

He was cut off when someone knocked on the door and a servant’s voice reached inside.

“M’lord, the blacksmiths from Wintertown are in the Great Hall.”

Robb ran a hand through his hair, the familiar gesture almost making you smile before you looked over your shoulder at the door, then turned to him.

“And once you’re done with your duties of the day, you must talk to your mother,” you said. “She hasn’t been out of that room for days now.”

He nodded with a sigh and stood up from his chair. It appeared that Grey Wind decided at that moment that he had been patient enough, because he padded across the room to nudge at you, pushing you back with his snout in the process. You cooed at him and scratched at his head.

“Can we—” Robb started, but this time it was Barbrey who knocked on the door.

“My lady, the carpenters are ready for you.”

“Thank you!” you called out while Robb tilted his head in confusion.

“The carpenters?”

“Oh, I…” You cleared your throat. “When we first visited Wintertown, you said more and more people would arrive there now that the maesters announced the arrival of autumn. Farmers and villagers and mountain clans.”

“Mm hm.”

“And you said they send women and children and the men stay behind, if the winter is hard,” you added. “So I thought um—I thought if children are going to be away from their fathers not even knowing they’ll see them again, even the smallest gesture of hospitality could help them and their mothers feel some comfort. And I came up with a plan.”

“Shocking,” he said, though it seemed he was battling with a smile. “What is it?”

“I— alright, so before you say no,” you said, shifting your weight. “Promise me you’ll listen first.”

A laugh climbed his throat as he rounded the table, then leaned back to it. “What did you do?”  

“Regardless of the north or south, all children like toys,” you said. “So I will ask the carpenters to make some toys for the children who will arrive here, or any of the nearby castles. And I’m actually going to hit two birds with one stone, because when I first shared it with my ladies-in-waiting, Alys said the carpenters might need some help with that, and I found a solution to that also!” You bounced on the balls of your feet, pride distracting you from your anger just now. “The carpenters here and in Wintertown will hire the orphans without jobs, so that they can get the help they need, and those poor orphans can learn the tricks of the craft and get paid. They’ll be the ones making the toys. And once all that is done, they’ll have a job that can make it possible for them to earn money not only here, but wherever they want!”

His eyes softened, a smile pulling at his lips.

“I’m told most of the toys—if they have any—pass from sibling to sibling for many smallfolk, so mayhaps having something of their own may cheer them up a little,” you said with a shrug of your shoulders. “I doubt it’ll look perfect, but it’ll be theirs.”

He took a deep breath, then reached out to grab your hand so that he could pull you closer to him, his thumb caressing the back of your hand while he wrapped an arm around your waist.

“We can argue about it,” you informed him, making him huff out a laugh. “But we’re expected, so it’ll have to—”

“I think it’s a great idea,” he told you and your eyes shot up to his.

“You do?”

“Mm hm.”

“No arguments? Because I practiced.”

“You practiced for arguments?” he asked with a confused frown, but before you could answer, Barbrey knocked on the door again.

“My lady.”

“I’m coming!” you called out and stepped out of his arms much to his displeasure, walking backwards to the door. “And I meant what I said about Rickon.”

He shot you a look. “So did I.”

“I suppose we’ll have to argue about that instead,” you pointed out and gave Grey Wind a quick peck on his head. “Lucky for me, I practiced for that too. I’ll find you later.”

 With that, you pulled open the door and walked out of the room to make your way down the hallway with Barbrey following you in a haste.

Your conversation with the carpenters took longer than you had expected. After it was done, you and your ladies-in-waiting had spent some time with Rickon playing the games he wanted until Maester Luwin came to take him away, and it was only then you realized just how tired you were. You figured you could take a short nap but visiting Lady Stark in Bran’s room before that sounded like a good idea, so you gave your ladies-in-waiting leave until dinner time while you made your way to Bran’s room, but before you could reach his door, you heard your maid Kyra’s voice.

“M’lady!” She rushed through the hallway, holding a cup. “Your tea.”

“Oh thank you Kyra, you’re the sweetest.” You took the cup from her as the door opened and another maid stepped outside, carrying an untouched plate of food that no doubt was supposed to be Lady Stark’s breakfast. The smell of eggs turned your stomach, making you grimace and you held your breath until she walked away with the plate. You lifted the cup to inhale the sweet scent of your tea before you took a sip, then smiled at Kyra.

“I’ll take a nap after this,” you whispered, approaching the door. “So you can take the time off until dinner.”

“Thank you m’lady.”

You took another sip in an attempt to settle your stomach, knocked on the door and stepped in, Kyra helpfully closing the door behind you.

“Good afternoon, Lady Stark.”

Gods, she was a mess.

And rightfully so. You couldn’t even imagine being in her place right now, with her little boy lying there asleep for weeks and her husband gone with both of her daughters, miles away from her. She was weaving a sort of a talisman, and she only raised her head from it for a second to look at you, her blue eyes red-rimmed with tears and lack of sleep.

“Good afternoon,” she rasped out and you put your tea aside, then took a step towards her after stealing a look at little Bran who laid asleep in his bed with his wolf Summer at the foot of the bed.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, I just wanted to see if you or Bran need anything?”

She shook her head, her whole attention on the talisman again. “No, thank you.”

“I’ve been told I’m quite good at crafts,” you offered. “I imagine you must be tired. I could do that for you if you would like?”

She shook her head again.

“It’s for protection of a child,” she whispered. “Only a mother can make it.”

“Oh,” you said after a beat. “I am not familiar with it, I’m afraid.”

“And I hope you won’t have to learn it,” she said. “I hope your and Robb’s children never need it.”

There wasn’t much you could say to that, so you offered her a small smile, your gaze darting around the room.

“How is he?” she asked, making your head whip up.

“Robb?” you asked back and cleared your throat. “He’s alright. He’s doing a great job ruling in Lord Stark’s stead. But he’s also worried about you and Bran, the whole castle is.”

She nodded slowly.

“Rickon is alright as well,” you added in a haste. “My ladies-in-waiting and I just played hide-and-seek with him. I’m the least familiar with the layout of the castle so I always get caught first, and it amuses him a lot.”

You decided against mentioning Rickon’s nightmares, the poor woman didn’t have to worry about that on top of everything right now.

“And I wrote to my brother,” you said. “Arys. He’s studying to be a maester at the Citadel as you know, and he’s incredibly smart. Perhaps he’ll have some ideas as to how we can help Bran.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate that.”

“Of course.”

A silence fell upon the room, and you fidgeted with your bracelet before taking a deep breath.

“Lady Stark, if you would like to rest—”

“I cannot,” she cut you off, her voice hoarse. “Bran needs me.”

“And I will send for you immediately if—when he wakes up,” you corrected yourself. “If he wakes up in your absence. But you must think of your own health as well, not just Bran’s.”

Even you could tell she was deaf to your suggestions, as you knew she would be. You looked from her to Bran and opened your mouth to insist, then changed your mind and forced yourself to smile.

“Please send for me if you change your mind,” you said. “Have a good day, Lady Stark.”

You grabbed your cup on your way out and shut the door behind you, then leaned back to it and let out a breath, closing your eyes.

Robb really needed to talk to her.

You opened your eyes again, then pushed yourself off the door, took a huge sip of your tea, and walked down the hallway to get to stairs so that you could go to your room for a much needed nap.

You were supposed to wake up before dinner.

And this nap was supposed to help you regain some energy.

Neither had happened.

When Robb’s gentle touch on your cheek and his lips on your forehead pulled you out of the depth of sleep, it took you more than just a couple of seconds to get rid of the haze. You let out a small whine that made him chuckle as he pulled back to look down at you.

“Well hello there,” he said, his thumb caressing your cheek. “Are you alright?”

You blinked groggily, now noticing how the room was completely dark.

“What…” you rasped out, kicking the fur covers off of you. “What time is it?”

“Almost midnight.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“I wasn’t in the hall for dinner, did you eat?”

You shook your head, hunger clawing at your stomach at the mention of dinner. He pressed his palm on your forehead.

“I can’t tell if it’s fever or it’s because the room is boiling.”

“It’s not fever,” you assured him, pulling yourself to sit up in the bed. “I’m not sick, I…Gods, I wasn’t supposed to sleep the dinner away. My apologies.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said gently. “Rickon has been keeping both of us up for three nights now, you needed it.”

You yawned, rubbing at your eyes.

“Where is he anyway?”

“Rickon?” he asked. “He’s asleep in his own room.”

You dropped your hands to shoot him a look.

“Did you tell him to?”

“No, I just asked Jon and Theon to keep him busy while you were occupied, so he’s been running around the Godswood for the last couple of hours. He should be tired enough to sleep throughout the night.”

A scoff of laughter escaped you. “Robb!”

“I had to find a solution!” he defended himself as he easily got on top of you to settle between your legs, making you giggle. “I haven’t had my wife in ages—”

“Three nights,” you corrected him with a grin and he made a noise of disagreement, cradling your cheek to steal a kiss from you.

“It’s the same thing.”

“And we must—” You swallowed thickly when his lips found your throat. “Um, we— we must fight first because I practiced for it.”

“We’ll fight all you want after this,” he muttered into your neck, his touch making your breath hitch before you grabbed his wrist.

“But I’m hungry.”

That made him pause.

“…Now?”  

You nodded your head when he pulled back to see you better.

“I haven’t eaten since breakfast,” you whined. “Surely you don’t want me to perish.”

“No!” He was quick to assure you. “Of course not, but…”

“But nothing, I’m starving!”

You would’ve been lying if you said the sight of utter torment on his face at the mention of waiting to have you didn’t make you giddy. Lady Olenna had always said being married didn’t mean you couldn’t play with your husband’s patience, and it filled you with a strange sense of pride to see that even though it had been a month after your wedding and he laid with you almost each night since then, he still craved you. You pushed him a little and he got off of you to fall back on the bed with a dramatic groan while you crossed the room to grab your dressing gown to put it on.

“Just tell one of the servants,” he said from the bed and you shook your head.

“I don’t wish to disturb them,” you said. “And I don’t even know what I want to eat yet, I’ll decide it in the kitchens—by the way, did you talk to your mother?”

His hesitation was all the answer you needed, and you spun around on your heels.

“Robb.”

“I didn’t have time.”

“You have time now,” you said. “While I go get myself something to eat. Go talk to her, I’m certain she’s awake.”

“And say what?” he asked, sulking. “She doesn’t listen.”

“I talked to her today.”

He raised his brows. “And did she listen?”

“The point is not whether she listens or not,” you told him as you made your way to him, and he reached out to wrap his arms around your waist, nuzzling to your chest. “The point is that we must talk to her until she hears it. She needs to get out of that room, it won’t...” You trailed off. “It won’t do her any good if she spends her days there.”

“It won’t do anyone any good,” he muttered into your skin and raised his head to rest his chin there. You ran your nails over the nape of his neck, and he closed his eyes for a moment, relaxing under your touch.

“She asked me about you.”

That made him open his eyes again to roll them.

“What for?” he grumbled. “She knows where I have been since my father left.”

…Oh.

Oh you were an idiot for not seeing it sooner, Lady Olenna would’ve been disappointed.

Robb was trying to step into his role as Lord Stark, and this was the first time for him to be able to prove himself as the future Warden of the North, and he was doing a great job but—

But Lady Stark hadn’t even acknowledged it with so much as a word, too worried to leave Bran’s side.

You had to be very careful, because you knew very well that the moment Robb so much as sensed that you could tell he wanted approval, he would refuse to listen and insist that he didn’t need it in the most northern manner. People in the north thought even mere children had to deal with their fears alone with no help or comfort from anyone else, you could already tell the rules were even stricter when it came to grown-ups.

Which was nonsense to you.

But from Robb’s perspective, he had to be the perfect heir and the future Lord of Winterfell, and praise, comfort and reassurance was for southerners, not for the Warden of North.

“I think she was worried,” you said, still playing with his hair. “But I told her not to. Not to sound arrogant, but I was very convincing with the way I was singing your praises.”

Confusion flashed over his handsome features. “Hm?”

“Mayhaps you don’t realize it my love, but you’re doing a wonderful job ruling in your father’s stead,” you said gently. “It’s no easy task, but I think the whole north sees that they have nothing to worry about once the title eventually falls on you for good.”

The light in his eyes softened before he lowered his head so that you wouldn’t see the fire burning his cheeks, but you could see the tips of his ears growing pink, making you bite back a proud smile.

Aw, the big bad Young Wolf Robb Stark blushed at flattery.

You were going to have fun with that information.

He cleared his throat and stood up from the bed, adapting the solemn expression of the north, a frown pinching his brows.

“Aye, it’s—” he said gruffly as if he was trying to pull himself together, though the sight of pink on his cheeks betrayed him. “It’s duty.”

“I’m aware it’s duty,” you said, your voice airy. “And I would’ve loved you if you were Benjen the servant just as I love you as the future Lord of Winterfell who’s already proving himself to the north.”

A playful grin curled his lips. “Is that right?”

“Very much so. That’s why I’m not quite certain if what I say counts here,” you stated, “but I still think it’s important for you to know that you’re doing so well. Duty or not, I’m so proud of you.”

He gawked at you and blinked a couple of times, his cheeks getting even redder.

“It’s my—I—” he stammered. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

Your expression was completely innocent.

“I have no idea what you speak of,” you said, then gave him a bright smile. “Though, you do look so sweet blushing.”

“I don’t blush!” he defended himself, coaxing a laughter out of you as he spun you around to gently shove you in the direction of the door with him following you. “Go eat and come back as fast as you can.”

“But—” you were cut off when he smacked your butt, making you gasp and turn around at the door.

“Scandalous behavior!” you accused him, pointing a finger at him but he grabbed your wrist, that mischievous light glimmering in his eyes.

“You’ll see what scandalous behavior is when you come back,” he told you. “Go.”

“Talk to Lady Stark while I’m in the kitchens!” you called out as you rushed down the hallway, aware of his glances on you until you turned the corner. A giggle escaped you as you went downstairs and made your way to the kitchens, the whole castle asleep as you guessed.

However, your guess turned out to be inaccurate.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you caught the sight of Jorelle who whirled around on her heels the moment she heard you, holding a plate with a piece of cake.

“Hello,” she said after a beat. “I uh…I couldn’t sleep, and I got hungry. What are you doing here?”

“Slept too much and got hungry,” you answered, shifting your weight. “Are those lemon cakes?”

“Oh.” You took the plate from her and went to sit on the table while she leaned back to one of the counters. “Thank you.”

She nodded and turned around to grab a piece, then put it on another plate with a fork and held it out for you.

 “Don’t mention it.” She waved her fork dismissively. “We were going to wake you up, then Lyra said maybe we shouldn’t. Do you feel alright?”

You nodded your head, pushing your fork into the cake.

“I feel groggy,” you admitted and took your fork into your mouth, closing your eyes at the tart yet sweet taste of the spongey cake for a moment. “Gods, this is the best remedy.”

Sometimes you wondered what kind of friends you and Jorelle would’ve made if you met in different circumstances. You were quite certain you would have been close with her, if it weren’t for…

Well.

Everything.

Her family pushing her, the whole north being ready to rally behind her, thinking that she would’ve been better at being the future Lady of the North.

Perhaps the worst part was that you knew very well she would’ve been great at it. She was the personification of the north with her cold and distant beauty even now in the middle of the night with no embellishments; her dark hair cascading down her back in soft waves, her gray eyes gleaming in the dimly lit kitchen.

“Are you certain you feel alright?”

You snapped out of your own thoughts and offered her a small smile.

“Of course,” you said. “How about you? Why couldn’t you sleep?”  

“Ruminating, I suppose.”

You knew you were supposed to keep distant, Margaery would have advised you to keep distant, yet you couldn’t help but ask:

“About what?”

She looked like she was battling herself not to say anything, but then she exhaled through her nose.

“Are—” She stopped herself, then gritted her teeth. “Are southern men always so…full of audacity?”

A huff of laughter you couldn’t stop escaped you, and you nodded your head in a solemn manner.

“I’m afraid so.”

“I thought they were all courteous and knightly in the south.”

You made a noise of disagreement.

“They’re supposed to be,” you admitted. “But being knighted doesn’t mean a man is in fact knightly. What’s happened?”

“Your—one of the southern guests,” she corrected herself mid-sentence, “he disrespected me.”

Your heart skipped a painful beat.

“When you say disrespect…?” you asked and she frowned, then shook her head vigorously.

“Oh no, with words,” she assured you in a haste, making you let out a relieved breath. “Nothing happened. Just a very disrespectful statement.”

“Like what?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“Who?”

“I’d rather not say that also.”

You hummed while you chewed on your bite, then swallowed it.

“Well, Silas is unfortunately in Dorne,” you said. “Had you told me before, we could’ve asked him to beat up whoever it was for his disrespect.”

She raised her brows. “You would’ve done that?”

A knowing smile curled your lips and you put your plate aside with a sigh.

“I’m well aware what the north thinks of you and me,” you said. “But there’s still a line. I wouldn’t let you or any other woman be disrespected by a man, no matter how we might feel about each other.”

She stared at you in silence for a couple of seconds like she was at a loss for words, but before she could say anything, hurried footsteps approached the kitchens and Theon appeared at the door, making you frown.

“What is it?”

“There’s a fire,” he said breathlessly. “In the library tower.”

You jumped on your feet, your stomach churning in worry. “Is everyone alright?”

“Aye, but Robb asked me to take you to safety.” Theon’s eyes found Jorelle over your shoulder. “You too, my lady.”

You grabbed Jorelle’s wrist to rush out of the kitchens with her, now hearing the wolves howling outside along with people shouting. Someone started ringing the bell, the sound echoing through the yard and reaching the halls while some of the servants ran past you. You took a look outside the window, the flames shooting from the windows of the library catching your eye and making your breath hitch.

“Gods,” you murmured, “all those books…”

Jorelle tugged at your hand to get you away from the window and you all turned a corner, your head shooting up with the sudden thought hitting you out of nowhere.

“Theon wait, has anyone told Lady Stark?”

“She knows, Robb was with him just now,” he answered while you all approached Bran’s open door. “Either way, it’s—get back!”

He drew his sword and stepped in front of you at the same time Jorelle pushed you behind her with a gasp. Your hands shot up to your mouth at the sight of Lady Stark standing in the middle of the room with blood pouring from the gashes in her palms, and Bran’s wolf Summer standing over a man who laid dead in the corner of the room with his throat torn out, his knife beside him.

“Lady Stark?” Theon stepped into the room with his sword at ready, and she raised her gaze from her hands, still stunned.

“I’ll get Maester Luwin,” Jorelle said and darted, her footsteps echoing in the hallway while you rushed to Lady Stark, your heart beating in your ears.

“I’m unharmed, so is Bran,” she said and you stole a look at Bran who still laid asleep in his bed, then grabbed the handkerchief on the table beside the untouched plate of food to press it on her bleeding palms.

“I’m sorry,” you said in a haste when she hissed. “I’m sorry, we must stop the blood—what happened?”

Her eyes snapped to yours.

“Someone—” she rasped out, then took a shaky breath. “Someone tried to kill Bran.”

Author's note 2 : Thank you so much for reading my loves! This is a friendly reminder that the next chapter will include certain topics that may be triggering, so please make sure to check the warnings. Love you! 🩷

[brummiereader]

Yours, Sincerely

(Masterlist)

Summary: They say third time’s a charm. But there's nothing charming left about Tommy Shelby, only a man worn thin by loss, ambition, and life’s choices he cannot outrun. Your worlds were never meant to collide. A polite evening meant only as a favour, a brief clash of tempers, you should have remained nothing more than a passing irritation to the notorious head of the Shelby family. Instead, a blizzard on the road outside Small Heath leaves you stranded with Birmingham’s most dangerous man. By morning the storm has passed, but the whispers have already begun. And in a world that offers women little mercy, your reputation hangs by a thread.

Scandalised, Tommy Shelby offers a solution as cold and practical as the damning winter night that caused it. Marriage. A union forged not from affection, but necessity, binding you to a man who never intended to wed again. But you refuse to be a silent wife tucked away behind his empire. And he refuses to become the obedient husband society expects.

Between roaring arguments, uneasy truces, and notes left on bedside tables at dawn, the two of you begin circling each other as the world beyond Birmingham refuses to stay still. And when business calls Tommy away, the dangers waiting beyond its streets may prove far more threatening than any scandal. Especially to one man's foolish heart.

Warnings: Language, angst, violence, smut, infidelity, murder, arranged marriage.

Trailer

Sneak Peak

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

Part Eight

Part Nine

Part Ten

Part Eleven coming soon!

Gif credit: @soldiersminute

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [30] - Conflict

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: The north and the south have different approaches to nightmares.

Word Count: 4,4k

Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of pregnancy, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

Days after Bran’s fall, he still wasn’t awake.

And once again, you were seeing just how different the north was to south.

Though none had been as serious as Bran’s case, you were no stranger to falling ill when you were little. And whenever you did fall ill, every single time, the life in the castle would all but stop; your father would always assign someone else to handle his duties so that he could be by your side while the maesters treated you, just like Silas who would refuse to leave the room no matter how much your father insisted.

That hadn’t been the case in Winterfell.

Granted, Lady Stark hadn’t left Bran’s room ever since that morning. She was a mess, anyone could see that, and you couldn’t even decide whether your heart broke more for Bran or her. She didn’t sleep, she barely ate, and though you had tried your hardest to offer words of comfort, you were quite certain she was deaf to all.

However, not everyone had taken the same approach to such tragedy.

“What do you mean, your father is still leaving?”

Robb heaved a sigh, looking over his shoulder to the window to Bran’s room in the keep before he turned to you, drumming his fingertips on the table.

“He’s telling my mother now.”

“But Robb, surely he—” You paused. “He cannot leave. Bran hasn’t woken yet.”

“He gave his word to the king that he would be the Hand.”

If it were any other person in the south, you would’ve assumed it was the ambition that dragged him away from his sick son and already mourning wife, but Lord Stark was the last person to do that. Your brows furrowed while you tried to wrap your head around the idea, staring at him.

“But if Bran…”

“He won’t die,” he cut you off, his voice determined like thought he could force the reality to bend to his words if he said them with enough conviction. “He’ll wake soon, and he’ll be fine.”

You blinked a couple of times, then nodded fervently.

“Oh I know.”

No you didn’t.

Neither did Robb. Neither did anyone.

“I just think—” You licked your lips. “Will your mother not be upset that he’s leaving at such time?”

“He gave his word,” Robb repeated. “It’s a matter of honor and duty. She will understand.”

You wouldn’t.

Gods forbid, if you found yourself in such state; if someday your child was fighting for his life and Robb left to ‘do his duty’?

You were not like Lady Catelyn, honor and duty would have to wait.

Robb raised his hand to wave at Jon who lingered by the entrance of the keep for a moment, then made his way to you.

“Good morrow,” he said. “Robb, father wants to see you.”

“Now?”

“Aye.”

“Did you talk to him yet?”

“Not yet,” Jon answered as you looked between them. “Tonight, perhaps.”

Robb bit inside his cheek. “And you’re sure about this?”

“About what?” you asked and Robb ran a hand through his curls.

“Jon is thinking of joining the Night’s Watch.”

Your eyes widened.

“What?” you squealed, your stomach doing a painful flip. “Jon, you must be jesting.”

“It’s a great honor.”

Alright, you had it up there with northerners and their honor, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

“I’ll be back,” Robb said and pressed a kiss on top of your head, then crossed the yard to enter the keep. You gawked at Jon who motioned at the seat as if asking for your permission and you nodded.

“Please,” you said in a rush and he sat down. “You cannot be serious.”

“It’s—”

“A great honor, I heard you the first time,” you finished his sentence, too impatient to wait. “The Wall is far from Winterfell.”

“That’s the idea.”

You pulled back a little when it dawned on you. “Jon…”

“Me being there will put a lot of people’s hearts at ease.”

No actually, it was going to put only one person’s heart at ease.

Lady Stark.

You were guessing Lord Stark’s departure was related to this. He was the one who had a soft spot for Jon, unlike Lady Stark who disliked his presence, and made no attempt to hide it. You couldn’t blame Jon for wanting to be out of her sight, but spending his life at the Wall as a soldier did not sound like the perfect solution to that.

Not to mention, Silas would never forgive you if you let his affair go off to the Wall to spend the rest of his life celibate and frozen.

“Not any of your siblings’ hearts.”

“Sansa and Arya will be in the south.”

“Robb will be here,” you reminded him. “So will Bran, who I’m sure would be devastated if he woke up and couldn’t find you here. And Rickon.”

“They’ll understand,” he said. “With my father in the Capital, Lady Stark will rule in his stead as the Lady of Winterfell—”

“Current,” you corrected him, making him tilt his head like a confused puppy, a gesture you had seen Robb do multiple times.

“Hm?”

“Current Lady of Winterfell. Funny how titles work, because as Robb likes to remind me, I’m to be the future Lady of Winterfell, and I’d very much like to have you here,” you said. “And I’m afraid you’re mistaken. With your father in the Capital, Robb will be ruling in his stead, and he wants you here as well.”

A frown pinched his forehead while he stayed silent, and you reached out to squeeze his forearm in an assuring manner.

“Please,” you said. “Stay, at least for a while. If you still think the same in a year, I swear I’ll embroider you a handkerchief that says the Lord of Night’s Watch for you to take it with you—”

“The Night’s Watch doesn’t have lords,” he stated, although your jest seemed to twitch his lips into a tiny smile. “It’s a brotherhood.”

“Whatever it is that they have over there.” You waved a hand dismissively. “But Jon, come on. You’re the only person I can talk to here, and Robb is going to be so busy. I’d like to have someone who I can trust, gods know I lack those here.”

Jon swallowed thickly, lowering his gaze to his hands.

“My whole family is away,” you reminded him. “And I already see you as one of my brothers. It’d put my heart at ease to have you here, as I know it would Silas’. You are one of the very few people whom he trusts.”

When his eyes snapped up to yours again, the stubborn light in them softened albeit in hesitance. You couldn’t help but smile at the unfamiliar sight, and he blinked a couple of times like he was trying to pull himself together, letting out a breath.

“You’d still have Theon,” he joked, making you grimace.

“Gods, even more reason for you to stay,” you muttered. “Can he not join the Night’s Watch?”

Jon bit back his grin. “I doubt he would.”

“Can we not offer his name?” you asked, and for once that managed to make Jon burst into laughter while you giggled. “No I’m serious—Jon listen, we can write a letter of recommendation, I’m quite good at those!”

On the day of departure, Lady Stark didn’t come out of Bran’s room to see Lord Stark and the girls off, they went there instead. You were almost certain that it was because she was angry at the fact that Lord Stark was leaving for the south, but it wasn’t as if you could ask her, or anyone else. On happier news for you, Robb had told you that Jon decided to wait a little before he joined the Night’s Watch, and though you knew it would’ve made Lady Stark upset if she knew you had made him change his mind, you were glad for it either way, and so was Robb.

Right after breakfast, while the squires readied the horses, you gifted Sansa two of your silk gowns that you had asked the seamstress alter for her. She hugged you tight, telling you all her plans to become the best queen the realm had ever seen, and even though you still weren’t sure about Prince Joffrey, you made sure to share her enthusiasm, promising her that you’d come to see her in King’s Landing before her wedding. You also told her to make friends and stay close to Margaery as much as she could, hoping that she would listen.

Arya, on the other hand, wasn’t as easy to give advice, or presents.

“I have been straining my mind to find out what to gift you,” You plopped down next to her on the stairs while the servants carried the chests into carriages, her direwolf Nymeria curled up at her feet. “And I’m told Jon already gave you a sword?”

Arya grinned at you.

“He did! I named it Needle.”

“A very fitting name.”

“And you don’t have to gift me anything,” she added. “I don’t need silk gowns.”

You hummed.

“Do you have no trust in me at all?” you asked and held out the small package, Arya’s face lighting up. She tore the paper open, then held her breath when she saw the armguard that you embroidered with direwolves. “Consider it my thank you for teaching me how to shoot arrows. Even though I’m not quite as good as you at that just yet.”

She threw herself into your arms, making you let out a laugh and hug her tight.

“Thank you!”

“Of course, my sweet,” you said when she pulled back. “And I have another thing for you.”

You placed the small gold medallion into her palm, making her frown as she lifted it to inspect it.

“What is this?”

“That is a special medallion that Cliff gave all of my brothers and I,” you said and paused for a second, then took a deep breath. “Arya, King’s Landing can be a very dangerous place. And I know how adventurous you are, so you might find yourself in trouble away from the Red Keep. If that happens…” you trailed off. “Find a harbour. Tell a captain there you’re Cliff Greensted’s sister, and show them this. They’ll take you to him, and he’ll bring you to safety. No matter what.”

She shifted her weight. “Will he teach me how to be a pirate if I do that?”

A small burst of laughter escaped you.

“We’ll see,” you said. “Keep this with you all the time, promise?”

“Promise. But think about it, I could be a great pirate.”

“If there’s anyone in the realm who could be anything they want, it’s you,” you told her. “And it’s a good thing you have a lot of time to decide what it is.”

“If I were a pirate like Cliff,” she mused, “I’d go on so many adventures, and come back with many stories.”

“He has great stories, does he not?”

“And I’d bring your babe things from all over the realm too.”

Your head shot up. “Hm?”

“Your and Robb’s I mean,” she said as if that wasn’t clear, and you tried to ignore the way your heart skipped a beat.

“We don’t have a babe, my sweet.”

“Sansa thinks you will.” She shrugged her shoulders. “So do your ladies-in-waiting, I heard them talking.”

“Only the gods know those things,” you managed to say. “In the meantime, promise me you’ll use that medallion when you need it, not when being a pirate sounds like a fun idea.”

“Fine, fine…” she mumbled and stole a look at you. “Do you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“That I could be what I want to be.”

Well, that was a complicated question; the realm didn’t offer many options to girls. While your brothers got to be whatever they wanted to be, you yourself had always known you’d wed one day and become a lady of a castle. Thankfully your father and Silas protected you from the fate that many unfortunate women faced and made sure you wed someone who was handsome, kind and honorable who turned out to be the love of your life, but at the end of the day, marriage was one of the very limited options you had as a woman.

The other was becoming a septa.

But you weren’t going to tell Arya that. Instead, in the future, when her father—and Robb— decided it was time for her to be betrothed, you were going to make sure to find someone who would be to her liking.

And who knew, really? Arya’s family loved her, and times were changing.

Perhaps she could indeed be something else other than a lady of the castle.

“All my brothers chose their own paths,” you commented. “It can’t be that hard if they did it.”

She frowned in deep thought. “Did you choose yours?”

“Not in the sense my brothers did,” you admitted. “But I’m very lucky either way, and very happy.”

“You’ve always wanted to wed Robb?”

“I’ve known him for two moons, my sweet,” you told her with a laugh. “I didn’t even know he existed until I was informed of our betrothal. I…” You paused for a moment, then reached out to hold her hand. “I think there’s nothing wrong with having different goals. Mine were quite similar to my friends’ when I was your age, yours are not. It doesn’t mean either of us are in the wrong; everyone’s happiness looks different, simple as that.”  

She heaved a deep sigh, then turned your head when Sansa’s voice reached you both from the yard.

“Arya, time to go!”

“Coming!” she called out and you both got up from the stairs, then made your way to the yard with Nymeria following you behind. Sansa and her wolf Lady were already by the carriages, and it seemed that the whole family except Lady Stark and Bran were in the yard to see them off. Arya went directly to Jon and Robb, and you curtsied at the king and the queen before approaching Lord Stark.

“I wish you and the girls a safe trip, Lord Stark.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he said and his eyes found Robb over your shoulder. “Make sure he doesn’t throw himself into another duel if anyone from the south comes by?”

A laugh climbed your throat.

“I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“And uh—” He cleared his throat. “If Bran…”

“Robb will send you a raven as soon as he wakes up,” you assured him. “And I’ll make sure to help Lady Stark in the meantime. Do not worry about here, Robb and I already talked of what to do in your absence.”

That managed to make him smile, even if it was a little.

“I appreciate that.”

“And I haven’t got the chance to thank you before,” you added. “For agreeing to our union. I recognize the rest of the north hoped for something different, but I love Robb, and I’ll be grateful to you my whole life.”

“I gave him the same advice yesterday, but he stops listening whenever you’re anywhere within his sight,” he said, a fire awakening under your cheeks. “I’m glad you two are happy, but a marriage takes more effort than just depending on love. With all these new responsibilities on both of you, do keep that in mind.”

“I will.”

“Let’s go!” the king’s loud voice rang in the yard, and you rushed to bid the girls goodbye, then went over to Robb’s side. Rickon was clinging to his leg, Shaggydog by Grey Wind and Ghost’s side while Robb nodded at his father in acknowledgment, no trace of worry on his face in such northern manner. Lord Stark mounted on his horse and turned his head, his eyes stopping on Bran’s window. For a moment you wondered whether Lady Stark was looking out the window, but you forced yourself not to check seeing that it would’ve been rather intruding, so you smiled at Rickon instead, whose brows were furrowed in worry. He blinked back the tears when his father turned his horse around and followed the king out of the yard, and Robb ruffled his hair.

“You’re alright,” he told him, more of a statement than a question while Maester Luwin approached Robb to mutter something into his ear.  

“I’ll be right there,” Robb told him, and you tilted your head.

“What is it?”

“There are some petitions I must listen to,” he said and pressed a kiss on your temple. “I’ll find you later. Jon, I need you in the room as well.”

Jon nodded his head and they both walked away from you and Rickon, who lingered in his spot as if he didn’t know what to do. You could see your ladies-in-waiting by the entrance of the keep and Wylla motioned at you as if asking you whether you needed anything, but you shook your head, then crouched down get to Rickon’s eye level.

“Rickon my sweet,” you said, reaching to push his hair out of his eyes, noting once again that just like most of his siblings, he took after his mother in looks. “May I ask something of you and Shaggydog?”

He nodded in silence.

“You’ve met Frost, have you not?”

His hand shooting up to his mouth so that he could bite at his thumb. “Yes.”

“I’ll go to the stables to check on her and give her some treats,” you said. “And then I’ll visit my horse Silk to do the same. Do you mind helping me?”

He looked up at you with wide eyes. “Me?”

“Of course,” you said. “And Shaggydog can wait at the door to protect us, how does that sound?”

He held his breath and nodded fervently, an adorable look of determination settling on his face as if you had just given him the most important duty in the realm.

“He will!” he said. “Shaggy already knows not to hurt Frost. And I’ll help you!”

“Wonderful,” you said and straightened up, then took his small hand into yours. “Now come. We need to get treats from the kitchens, Frost loves carrots, and Silk loves green apples.”

You had spent the entire day with Rickon; at first letting him feed Frost and Silk, and then you and the rest of your ladies-in-waiting made sure to keep an eye on him. Lyra had volunteered to be a monster to spar with him with wooden swords while Jorelle and Wylla pretended to be maidens he had to save until dinner time, the simple game managing to distract him from Bran and his mother, and the rest of the family who had left for the Capital.

With Lady Catelyn nowhere in sight, it had fallen upon you to converse with the other northern guests and be the lady of the castle, despite them being more familiar with Winterfell than you.  The irony wasn’t lost on you or them, but surprisingly no one had commented on it, and you couldn’t help but wonder whether it was because Robb was in charge of the castle and by extension the north now. Robb had sent you word with a servant that he wouldn’t be joining dinner, and he had been busy with some northern lords in his father’s solar—or his solar now, if you had to guess—until after you retired to your and his bedchambers. You took a bath, got into your nightgown and were just in the process of writing a letter to Silas when Robb entered the room and flung himself on the bed facedown. You looked up from your scroll, biting back a smile.

“I take it you’ve had a very peaceful day.”

Robb groaned into the pillow before he reached to open and close his hand as if grasping air without lifting his head from the pillow. You raised your brows.

“Am I supposed to understand—”

“Come here,” he said, raising his head a little so that you could make out what he was saying, and you repressed a grin.

“Am I being commanded?”

“Implored,” he whined. “Please?”  

You took your time crossing the room with deliberately slow steps, and the moment you reached bed Robb sat up so that he could wrap his arms around your waist, pulling you to his lap in haste. A giggle climbed your throat while he buried his face to the deep plunge of your cleavage, his beard scratching at your skin in the most pleasant way.

“They are so vexing,” Robb’s voice came out muffled while you played with his auburn curls, tension washing off his shoulders. “And unreasonable.”

You hummed, running your nails over his scalp and down to the nape of his neck.

“Gods, you smell amazing,” he mumbled into your skin, coaxing a smile out of you.

“If you think flattery will make me forget that I couldn’t see you whole day…” you teased him and he lifted his head to look at you with heavy lids, the sight making your heart skip a happy beat. The rest of what you were going to say long forgotten, you leaned in to brush your lips against his, but you both snapped out of it when someone knocked on the door, making your stomach drop.

Gods, if it was this late at night…

You slipped off his lap and put on your dressing gown, your heart slamming against your ribcage while Robb made his way to the door with a frown on his face, but the moment he opened it, Rickon rushed inside to clutch at his leg.

“I had a nightmare!”

You pressed a hand on your chest and let out a breath, thanking the gods that it wasn’t bad news about Bran.

“Rickon…” Robb said with a tired sigh and crouched down while Rickon sniffled, clutching his direwolf toy to his chest.

“I had a nightmare, father was dead and they put him in the crypts—”

“Father is on his way to King’s Landing,” Robb told him while you crossed the room, and Rickon’s big tearful eyes snapped up to you, your heart clenching at the sight of fear in them. “He’s not in the crypts, and he’s most certainly not dead.”

“But he was!” Rickon insisted as you crouched down as well, reaching out to hold his little hand. “He was, I swear it!”

“It was just a nightmare, that’s all,” Robb said, wiping the tears off Rickon’s chubby cheeks. “Come on now. You’re a northman, and a Stark. We don’t cry.”

You frowned at Robb, then turned to Rickon to give him a smile.

“Nightmares can be very scary,” you told him while he hiccupped. “Would you like to sleep between us tonight, my sweet?”

“Wait, what?” Robb asked incredulously, then shook his head. “No. Rickon, go back to your own room. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

You narrowed your eyes at him.

“Robb, would you mind stepping out with me for a moment?” you asked and straightened up, then grabbed his wrist to lead him out of the room into the hallway where Grey Wind was curled up by the door, but this time he was accompanied by Shaggydog. You stepped away from the door so that Rickon wouldn’t hear you, then whirled around on your heels to glare up at Robb. “Is this your first time hearing what a nightmare is?”

“He’s not sleeping between us just because he had a nightmare,” he said. “He’s a northerner, and a Stark.”

“He’s a child,” you reminded him, pointing back at the room, “and he’s terrified!”

“He won’t be a child forever,” Robb insisted. “And he must learn to face his fears.”

“He can’t expect to be soothed whenever he’s scared.”

“And you think he must learn to face his fears at this moment, when his brother is sick, half of his family have left, and his mother is too worried to leave Bran’s room?”

Robb’s jaw clenched.

“When else should he expect to be soothed?” you asked. “When I was his age, whenever I had a nightmare—”

“We’re not coddling him,” he cut you off. “We don’t do that in the north. I understand that things are different in the south, but winter is coming. He must learn.”

Of course.

You should’ve known. Lord Stark had taken Bran to watch a traitor be executed just last month, and Robb was raised believing that was normal and expected.

It was very clear House Stark raised children much differently than House Greensted.

You gritted your teeth, then looked in the direction of the room over your shoulder before you turned to him, crossing your arms.

“Are you going to be like this when we have our own?”

“Are you?” he asked back with a tense chuckle. “Because we’re not going to be raising little southern lordlings who cling to their mother’s skirts whenever they’re scared.”

Anger shot through you faster than lightning.

“We’re not going to be raising little northern lordlings who’re not even allowed to cry after a nightmare either—you know what?” You held up a hand. “I’m not going to stay here and argue with you when your little brother is terrified.”

“He’s going back to his room—”

“He’s not,” you retorted. “He either sleeps between us tonight, or he can sleep in my bedchambers with me and Frost while you sleep alone in your own.”

He scoffed in disbelief. “My wife sleeps in my bed—”

“Your wife sleeps wherever she wants!” you snapped, glaring up at him. “It’s up to you where you sleep, but I am not sending a terrified child to his own room.”

Your name left his lips in exasperation while you walked away from him and entered the bedchambers to find Rickon already sitting on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs while still clutching to his direwolf toy. You went over to sit next to him as Robb entered the bedchambers and closed the door behind him.

“Would you like a bedtime story, my sweet?” you asked Rickon who sniffled and wiped his cheeks with the back of his hand, then nodded vigorously and pulled himself up to get comfortable under the covers. Robb threw his head back, then held up his hands to gesture surrender after you shot a curt glare in his direction.

“I said nothing,” he grumbled as you raised your brows at him, then smiled at Rickon.

“Alright then,” you said, your voice soft. “Would you like to hear about the first king of the Reach?”

[superbassbuck]

Wildflower [masterlist]

pairing: single dad, farmer!bucky x florist!reader word count: 72.9k warnings: 18+, enemies to lovers, domestic fluff, sexual tension, no y/n, f!reader, angst/comfort, slow burn, smut, sex, divorced parents, daddy kink, found family, mutual pining, grumpy bucky || ao3 || playlist synopsis: After your grandmother's passing, you inherit not only an empty house but also a failing floral shop teetering on the edge of closure. as you settle back in town, your bad day only gets worse after a horrible run-in with none other than the grumpy local farmer and single dad, Bucky Barnes. Immediately off the get-go, you despise eac other. You oth made a silent vow to never cross paths again. But this town is too small for the both of you. Especially after you reluctantly hire a moody teenager named Jamie to help around the shop... not realizing he's Bucky's son.

one || two || three || four || five || six || seven || eight || nine || ten || eleven || twelve || thirteen || fourteen || fifteen

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [29] - Unease

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: Fears burden the mind.

Word Count: 4,3k

Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of pregnancy, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

Back at the Reach, one of the things both you and Margaery would get reprimanded for was gossip.

It wasn’t rare for either of you to stay up until the hour of the wolf and going over what happened during the day over and over again, focusing on a different person each time. Sometimes it’d be about fashion, or paramours, or the latest scandal, but there was always something.

And now, especially with the king’s visit, you had so much to go over, yet Margaery wasn’t here, and you still didn’t trust anyone in Winterfell.

So you had found a different solution.

“Robb, wake up!”

Robb let out a small groan when you shook him by the chest.

“Wake up,” you insisted. “I have things to tell you.”

“Can it wait?” he mumbled into his pillow, and you shook your head even though he couldn’t see you.

“Do you not find it strange that the king ignores the queen all the time?”

Robb’s eyes fluttered open and he squinted at you, the sight of his messy auburn curls making your chest all warm.

“What time is it?” he rasped out and you shrugged.

“Early. It’s rather rude of him, is it not? He ignored her in front of everyone when they first got here. And then at the feast too.”

“Why are you—”

“And not only did he ignore her, he also humiliated her at the feast, in front of people!” you insisted. “Does he not like her at all, do you think?”

“You woke up at this hour to gossip?”

“We barely talked last night,” you whined, your shoulders dropping in defeat while he smirked.

“We were too busy to talk.”

“But I wanted to talk!” you insisted. “And now that you’re awake—”

“I’m not awake.” He threw his arm around your torso to pull you to his chest, coaxing a giggle out of you as you propped yourself up on your elbows.

“Is it not strange?” you asked. “I mean when they wed, everyone agreed that she was the most—” You shook him, making him groan again. “Robb, I don’t think you’re listening!”

“Gods be good…”

“Has your father said anything about them?”

“No.”

“How come you—” A squeal escaped you when he squeezed your butt still half asleep, but you reached back to grab his wrist. “Not now, focus! Why didn’t you ask?”

“Why would I ask?”

You rolled your eyes.

“I swear I will never understand men,” you grumbled. “How are you not curious? He doesn’t like her, it’s very surprising.”

“Is it?” he asked with a yawn and opened his eyes, then ran a hand over his face as if trying to get rid of the haze of sleep. “Of course he doesn’t like her, she’s not pleasant at all.”

“Maybe not to other people, but she probably was pleasant to him at least at first,” you said. “She must have tried. There is no way she did not.”

“I suppose sometimes it just doesn’t work.”

“Her family is powerful,” you insisted, counting with your fingers, “she’s beautiful, educated, fashionable—”

A chuckle escaped him. “I don’t think the king cares much about fashion.”  

“It helps still,” you commented. “I don’t know, the realm thinks she’s everything a queen is expected to be. And they have three children together, one would assume…”

“Hm?”

“How did he not eventually fall in love with her?”

He folded an arm under his head. “Maybe his love for Aunt Lyanna does not let him love anyone else.”

“It is rather odd, how every man has a different reaction to being left behind,” you muttered, heaving a sigh as you rested your chin on his chest, absentmindedly tracing his muscles. “The king wed and fathered children, but he still loves your aunt. And my father never recovered after my mother. No mistresses or wife, even though everyone kept pressuring him. It makes me wonder what she would think. Or what your aunt would think had she lived.”

If you hadn’t been so lost in your own thoughts, you would’ve noticed the silence falling upon the room, or his body tensing up.

“I guess there’s a reason why so many love ballads are sad,” you mused. “Heartbreak one way or another. That might be the one thing years cannot take away.”

He was so quiet that for half a minute you were convinced he had fallen asleep again. Yet, his deep voice that rumbled in his chest and vibrated underneath your palm didn’t sound sleepy at all when he finally spoke, the stern command almost taking you by surprise.

“You’re not allowed to do that.”

You lifted your head to blink up at him.

“Do what?”

“You’re not allowed to die before me.”   

You couldn’t stop your chortle. “Robb…”

“I’m serious. You cannot.”

“When it comes to longevity, the gods seem to favor men more,” you couldn’t help but point out. “Men die in battle in wartime. Women die in childbirth regardless of war or peace.”

His eyes found yours.

“Is that what you fear?” he asked quietly and you pinched your lips, trying to pick the right words.

“I don’t think fear is the right word for it,” you ended up saying. “I’m no fool, I know what happened to my mother was largely related to the very short time between the twins’ birth and mine.”

Silas and Arys had told you that. Upon hearing your septa talking about how motherhood came with a price and the childbirth was the ultimate sacrifice, Silas had said fuck off to her face, making you burst into laughter even with the fear churning your stomach.

“My sister will not be sacrificed just so that some prick somewhere can have an heir,” Silas had spat. “And she will be educated to minimize the danger. Stop filling her head with nonsense, unless you want my father to release you of your duties.”

Arys had been the one to tell you all about it; how it was of importance that one’s body was given enough time to rest.

“When you wed,” he had told you, “you’ll have many herbs at your disposal. We’re not letting you wed anyone who you might not like, but regardless of how much you might like your future husband, you are putting your own health first. Always. No babe is more important than you, and you’re not making the same mistake mother and father did. You will only have kids when you’re ready, and they will have at least 3 years between them, not like us.”

“We won’t…” Robb started, then paused and shook his head. “I would never put you through that.”

Nor were you going to put yourself through that. You were going to be very careful and take nothing for granted, because you knew how it went for your mother; she’d had such easy childbirths until you, and each time she had bounced back so fast that both she and your father were convinced nothing bad would happen.

So the gods had decided to prove to them otherwise.

“No,” you said in an attempt to sound more confident than you felt, willing yourself not to think about Arrana’s bad wish. “It won’t be like that for me.”

But there was still that danger.

Even if you did everything right, there was still that danger, for you and for every woman in the realm.

However, Robb was never going to hear that from you, not even with a blade to your throat. He wasn’t going to hear that, your own family wasn’t going to hear that, none of the Starks were going to hear that, none of your ladies-in-waiting or your maids were going to hear that.

The only person whom you had shared those concerns with was Margaery, and it was going to stay that way.

“Nothing bad is going to happen to me,” you added, desperate to disperse the gloomy air that felt almost suffocating around you. “Besides, no use worrying about any of that, only the gods know these things. Look at your own mother, she’s very healthy and she’s had five children so far—”

He pulled his brows together, confusion snapping him out of his own thoughts. “So far?”

Of course it worked.

“Well yes.” You shrugged your shoulders. “So far. You never know, they’re both still young—”

From the grimace twisting his handsome face, one would’ve thought you had spoken of something utterly unacceptable.

“Seven hells, don’t say that!”

A burst of laughter escaped you. “Robb, my love, I don’t know how to tell you this, but the fact that you have four other siblings—”

“That happened in the past!”

“Rickon is still little,” you argued. “And your mother and father are in love, anyone could see that. It’s normal!”

“It’s not normal,” he said, still grimacing while he motioned at the door. “He loves her from…from afar.”

“Mm, from up close. Very close, I’d say, because five kids is no duty—”

“From a respectable distance.”

“No to that also.”

He made a noise of disgust. “Can we stop talking about this? They’re too old to have a babe.”

“They’re not too old.”

“Fine, I’m too old to have a sibling,” he said, your laughter bouncing off the walls. “And I refuse to believe they would betray me like that.”

“Oh, such betrayal,” you said in an exaggerated manner, a hand on your chest. “Disaster, if you will.”

“Aye, it would be.”

You rolled your eyes at him while his gaze darted over your face, a frown pinching his forehead again.

“But you’ll be—” He swallowed thickly. “You’ll be fine, when…” 

He didn’t need to finish his sentence, you knew exactly what he was referring to. You turned your bracelet around your wrist, heaving a dramatic sigh.

“How about this?” you said. “You give me your word that you won’t die in war, and I’ll give you my word that nothing will happen to me in childbirth. That’s called diplomacy, if you’re too northern to recognize such concept.”

That managed to make him huff out a chuckle, though the haunted look in his eyes didn’t disappear, not completely. He nodded after a beat, reaching out to cradle your cheek in his palm.

“Very well,” he said. “I give you my word. Do you?”

You lifted yourself a little to brush your lips against his, his hand slipping from your cheek to the side of your neck. His other arm snaked around your waist to press you to his body, butterflies erupting in your stomach.

“I do,” you said, a smile warming your face. “See? Who said the north and the south can’t negotiate?”

All your ladies-in-waiting agreed that the queen had to have grown bitter in time, perhaps because of her husband, perhaps because of her responsibilities, and perhaps because she had fewer admirers now than when she first wed the king. You didn’t know the reason, nor did you say too much out loud, but you were more than aware that she did not look happy at any time, with the exception of when she was talking to her brother.

Well, one of them, at least. Her other brother, Tyrion had arrived in Winterfell nearing the end of last night’s feast, having spent the whole day in a brothel in Wintertown, so if you had to guess, he was going to get along well with Theon.

Robb was busy throughout the afternoon, and so were you. While he went on a hunt with his father and the king, you and some of your ladies-in-waiting were tasked with taking baskets of food and herbs to Wintertown per Lady Stark’s orders. As much as you liked going to Wintertown, you still wondered whether there were no servants left in the castle to do this exact task, but you managed to keep your mouth shut.

She was probably making sure everyone in Wintertown had seen you and talked to you, and this was a good way to make sure of that.

Or perhaps she was trying to keep you out of the queen’s sight after that little exchange of yours the other night, that could’ve been the reason as well.

Alys, Lyra and Wylla had gone into the other street, leaving you with Barbrey and Jorelle. It had taken you a much shorter time to give the baskets to all the houses you were supposed to visit, so now you were waiting for the others while you explored the market, making small talk with vendors as Barbrey and Jorelle trailed after you. This was yet another instance that you couldn’t help but note was different in here, because back in the south, the vendors sold many different types of jewelry seeing that it was popular among noble ladies. In the north, rather than jewelry, women embroidered their gowns with beads and intricate pieces of bronze, copper and ivory.

Perhaps you could use some of those on your cloaks at least.

“…And my cousin will visit Winterfell with her lord husband, and she’ll die when she sees me,” Barbrey chattered. “I doubt she believed me when I wrote to her to tell her I’m a lady-in-waiting. I’m planning to get a new gown and embroider it by the time she visits, she’ll be so jealous!”

You accidentally exchanged glances with Jorelle who looked like she was trying her hardest to keep herself from rolling her eyes at Barbrey.

“Her wedding was two years ago, and she had the audacity to criticize what I wore to it. And let me tell you, her wedding gown wasn’t so impressive either! Her lord husband is of House Flint, and her gown had eyes all over it, it looked so weird.”

You raised your brows. “Her gown had eyes?”

“House Flint’s words are Ever Vigilant,” Jorelle explained, “and their banner has a pair of eyes on it.”

“And it looked like she was wearing the banner itself,” Barbrey added. “Let’s see whose gown is better now. And also, if I may, I’m sure I’ll make a better marriage now that I’m—”

“Barbrey, did you see that vendor over there?” Jorelle cut her off. “I think they have more colorful beads over there, they’d look good on your purple gown.”

“You’re right!” Barbrey gasped. “My lady, may I—?”

“Please go ahead,” you said a bit quicker than intended, but Barbrey was too excited to notice that. She rushed to the stall Jorelle was pointing at, and Jorelle let out a breath.

“There. Some peace and quiet.”

You bit back a smile. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

 You sometimes wondered whether you would’ve been able to get along well with Jorelle if it weren’t for her family and her whole almost betrothal with Robb. She probably held some resentment for you, and you still felt rather threatened by her. Despite that, sometimes she reminded you of Margaery with the calm air around her that made it nearly impossible to see through her, but you cast the thought away from your mind, forcing yourself to look at the beads on the tray.

“These look nice,” you commented as you approached the counter. “Are you good at embroidery, Jorelle?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Not my absolute favorite, but yes.”

“What is your absolute favorite?”

“I like riding.”

Right.

Of course she liked riding.

“So do I,” you said, taking a couple of bronze pieces into your palm to inspect them. “Silk is faster than my horses back in the Reach, but I’m getting used to such speed.”

“Your brother gifted her to you, did he not?”

“Yes. Cliff.”

She stole a look at you.

“And you’re close with all your brothers?”

“Mm hm. Well, Silas is the one I’m closest with, and then the twins. Arys and Cliff left home quite early, so I see them very rarely. Mostly on my namedays and such.” You lifted your gaze from the pieces in your hand. “I think you’ve talked to Perceon?”

Jorelle blinked a couple of times, her cheeks betraying her nonchalant demeanor when they turned pink.

“Yes,” she said, making herself busy with the beads. “He was—he is very southern.”

“Dornish, more like.”

 A silence fell upon you and Jorelle nibbled on her lip, her eyes falling on Barbrey before turning to you.

“Can I ask you something?”

You put the bronze pieces back and grabbed a particularly shiny bead. “Of course.”

“Why did you…” she trailed off. “Why did you choose her to be among your ladies-in-waiting? After what Arrana has said?”

That question wasn’t about Barbrey, and you both knew it.

You had to give it to Jorelle, unlike other northerners, she did know how to be subtle. A bitter smile twitched your lips as you put the bead down, then reached for a thin silver chain, pretending to direct your attention on it.

“I’m very southern,” you said, your voice silky. “That’s one of the many cultural differences, I’ve found. Northerners are quite direct about alliances or enmity, but back in the south, it’s more complex than that. We’re taught to keep some people close, precisely because of lack of trust.”

She raised her brows, staring at you as if the remark had taken her by surprise.

“Ah,” she said after a beat, pressing her lips into a thin line. “I see.”

“My lady!” Wylla called out, making you look over your shoulder to see her approach you with Lyra and Alys following her. “We’re finished. Shall we go back?”

You thought for a moment, then shrugged your shoulders.

“Let’s stay a while longer,” you said, linking your arm through hers to lead her to the nearest stall. “I have plans for some of my cloaks, and I am in a desperate need of some beads.”

Much to your displeasure, you couldn’t see Robb for the rest of the day. He had been with his father and the king in the Wolfswood the entire day, and they hadn’t returned to the castle during dinner either, because of the king’s request to have their dinner in the woods like he and Lord Stark used to whenever they went hunting in their youth.

At least that was the explanation Robb mumbled into your ear when he joined you in bed at dawn, waking you up with kisses instead of going to sleep himself. At first you had assumed he would be too tired, especially after having spent the whole night in the woods, but you were soon proven wrong.

There were many things, you had found, that you loved when it came to marital bed. The act itself was pleasurable beyond words, Robb always made sure you enjoyed it every single time, unlike what that lady of the night had told you back in the Reach. You hadn’t even thought it possible before, but it made you fall in love with him even more, your heart so full of him that it sometimes made you worry whether there would be room for anything else. You enjoyed his kisses, his touch, his weight upon you, and how he made you feel before and during, and after.

That was one of your favorite parts as well.

After.

How he held you until your trembling passed, with chaste kisses and the sweetest praises that made your stomach flutter happily. Even now, while you tried to catch your breath with his arm around you that pressed you tight against his chest, you felt half delirious, all thoughts but him shattered to different corners in your mind, impossible to put back together. He pressed a kiss on your damp forehead, his other hand brushing back your hair before he dipped his head and his lips found yours. You couldn’t decide if the fire that colored his cheeks was because of the heat of the room or the chase of pleasure more; a sheen of sweat making him glow under the sunlight spilling through the thin curtains around the bed. His curly auburn hair was a mess in the most handsome way, and the light in his eyes was so soft that you could swear your heart melted when he looked down at you with a fond smile, awakening your own.

You felt tired, and sore, and sticky all over, but most of all; completely and utterly happy.

“What are you thinking about?” you whispered while your fingertips traced his chest up and down, light as a feather.

“How pretty you are,” he said, the northern accent in his deep voice drawing a giddy giggle out of you before you brushed your lips against his.

“Right answer,” you said. “Especially after spending a whole day away from me.”

“It wasn’t by choice,” he grumbled. “I considered sneaking back into the castle like a common thief, more than once.”

The image his words conjured up in your mind was too funny for you to hold back your laughter. “Really?”

“My beautiful wife was in our bed waiting for me, and I was in the woods with a bunch of men.”

“But you were hunting,” you told him. “You love hunting.”

“Lamb, I promise you, there’s nothing I love more than this.” He motioned at your naked body, making you scrunch up your nose in embarrassment. “I was all but taken hostage. Just because the king doesn’t want to go back to his wife doesn’t mean he should assume the rest of us share that sentiment.”

…Was that—?

Was that Robb gossiping?

“Did he say that?”

“No, but he said something else while drunk,” he answered with a grimace, making your jaw drop. “I will not repeat those words to you, but he dislikes her even more than you assume.”

Very well, there was room for improvement there.

Not everyone could be a natural like you and Margaery, you’d teach him how to gossip in time.

“The queen drinks too,” you said. “I noticed it at the feast, and tonight’s dinner as well. Too much wine.”

“Might be the only thing they have in common.”

“Not the only thing, because she doesn’t like him either,” you said. “Have I told you the other night at the feast, she tried to give me advise, and then she said…”

“Hm?”

“She said she hopes we’ll be as happy as her and the king.”

Robb flicked his gaze up for a second with a scoff, the gesture so similar to the way you rolled your eyes whenever you were annoyed.

“She can keep hoping,” he said. “Seven hells, I can’t wait until they all leave.”

“But you don’t think—” You paused. “Do you think it was like that always?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s rather bitter, and all my ladies-in-waiting have many ideas about the reason. The queen had a lot of admirers when she was young, and Lyra has this theory that when one who’s used to compliments grows old…” you trailed off. “I don’t believe time takes away beauty, but I don’t want to be bitter like that when I grow old.”

His fingertips traced shapes on your bare skin. “You won’t.”

“It worried me all day today.”

“It shouldn’t have.”

“But perhaps she wasn’t like that either at first, because—”

“You couldn’t be bitter if you tried, it’s not in you.” The corners of his mouth curled, the glint in his eye making you blink up at him in confusion. “And I would know, I was just in you.”

A gasp left you and you pushed at his shoulder, heat sweeping over your face like a firestorm.

“I’m talking about something of importance!” you whined when he caught your wrist, his laugh echoing in the room. “And you’re making jests—”

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he cooed, though that mischievous smile of his betrayed the gentle tone of his voice. “I’m sorry. Come here.”

He pulled you to himself while you pouted at him, your brows knitted together in defiance. He bit back his grin, the pad of his thumb smoothing over the pinch of your frown before he cradled your cheek, his lips finding yours. That familiar warmth dripped down and down, a half sigh hitching in your throat as the kiss deepened, melting away your frustration along with every other thought that was plaguing your mind. Your eyes fluttered open when he nudged your nose with his, then pressed a kiss on the corner of your mouth, coaxing a giggle out of you.

“Jesting aside,” he said, the pleasant rumble of his voice vibrating under your palm resting on his chest. “It shouldn’t have worried you.”

“But what if you—”

“It shouldn’t have worried you, because there will never come a time when I look at you and not forget to breathe.”

Whatever you were going to say disappeared somewhere between your mind and your mouth while you gazed up at him, painfully aware of the lovesick smile on your face.

“And also,” he added, idly playing with your hair. “I meant it when I said you couldn’t if you tried. Your heart is too soft to be anything like her.”

That made your smile falter. You bit inside your cheek in deep thought, and when you spoke, your voice was almost too low to hear in the already quiet room:

“Everyone says life has a way of hardening hearts.”

He ran his knuckles down your spine as if trying to assure you.

“You entrusted me with yours to safekeep,” he murmured. “I will protect it from harm, for as long as I draw breath. Such fears will never come true, I promise.”

Tears rushed to your eyes out of nowhere but you blinked them away fast, desperate to swallow the lump in your throat. You captured his lips with yours, his hand slipping to your jaw to tilt your head, but you were both pulled out of the haze when someone pounded on the door, making you recoil in his arms.

“What?” Robb snapped at whoever it was behind the door. “What is it?”

It took you only a second to understand something was wrong.

 “Robb, it’s—” Jon’s voice cracked mid-sentence before he took a shaky breath. “It’s Bran. He fell from the Broken Tower.”

[not-neverland06]

𝘕𝘰𝘸 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨…

💿 Goodbye 💿

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘬 𝘧𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘦𝘴: 𝘈𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘸 '𝘗𝘰𝘱𝘦' 𝘊𝘰𝘥𝘺 & 𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

Goodbye / Means that you're losing me for life / Can't call it love then call it quits / Can't shoot me down then shoot the shit / Did you forget that it was you who said / Goodbye / So you don't get to be the one who cries / Can't have your cake and eat it too / By walking out that means you choose / Goodbye

Overview: You loved Andrew, even if that meant accepting he would always be in love with someone else. But things changed between you before he went to jail. You thought that maybe you finally meant something. Then you get the letter he'd meant to send to Cath and you have to accept that he never saw you as anything but an easy lay.

You left the Codys behind years ago. Now, Pope's at your door and you don't know what to do with the story he's telling you.

wc: 9.2K

the end of my extravaganza

The first time it happened, you were at Andrew’s house. Smurf had been pissed at the boys for a reason you can’t even remember. So they’d raided their brother’s house, used his pool, and thrown a party he hadn’t realized was happening until he got home with you.

You’d been out shopping with him all day. You were trying to help him find furniture to make his sterile house feel like a home. 

You’d laughed when you saw his brothers abusing their privileges and smoking by his pool. It had cut off when you saw how still he’d gone at the mess they’d left. With a sigh, you took the shopping bags from his hands and walked into his living room. 

“I hate when they do this,” he muttered, and you didn’t respond, knowing he wasn’t really talking to you. Just out loud so he could try to regulate himself before he got really angry. 

When he stayed quiet too long, you looked up and found him standing by the island. Face pinched with as close to visible anger as you’d seen in a while.

“Smurf will forgive them soon,” you reassured. His eyes shot up to yours, and you offered a weak smile. “The novelty of raiding their big brother’s house will wear off.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, and you bit back a smile as he walked over to help you with the bags. “I think that couch you ordered will look really nice with the blankets you got,” you told him, cutting off the tags to throw them in the wash. 

“You picked them,” he reminded you, eyes darting up to meet yours before looking away. You hummed to yourself, a proud smile on your face as you realized that your touch would always be a part of what he called home. 

The peaceful bubble you’d surrounded yourself with shattered as his sliding glass door opened. “Oh.” Your shoulders tensed as you recognized the voice. “You’re home.” Cath offered a stilted smile to Andrew as he froze where he was standing. 

You walked out of the laundry room and shot her a grin you hoped passed as friendly and not sick to your stomach. “We went shopping today. I’m trying to make this place look less like a psych ward.”

Cath’s eyes narrowed as you loaded Andrew’s new dishes into the dishwasher. He remained still beside you, fist clenched on the granite counter while he looked anywhere but at Cath. 

“I didn’t realize you moved in,” she offered, something about her tone making you defensive. When you looked up, her brows were raised, a knowing look on her face that needled at your skin. 

“She didn’t,” Andrew interjected before you could. Your jaw snapped shut with a click as Cath scoffed. 

“I figured,” she muttered, cutting you a look that had you clenching your fists so you didn’t hit her. 

The sliding door opened again and Craig lumbered in, brows raising when he saw the stand-off happening. He let out a low whistle, wet feet slapping across the floor as pool water dripped off him.

“What’s going on?” He chuckled, the shithead knowing exactly what was happening. 

He took a drag from the blunt in his hand, grin widening when he saw how Andrew’s jaw clenched at the smoke billowing in his house. “Want some?” He offered, holding it out.

You took it before Andrew could, needing something to calm you down. “You know he’s a dick about this shit,” you snapped, taking a long drag.

It was cruel, you knew that. But nobody ever claimed hanging around the Cody men made someone less emotionally volatile. 

You headed toward the door, stripping off your clothes. You’d learned a while ago that it was better to just keep a bathing suit on underneath if you were hanging out with Andrew that day. You usually ended up at the pool or the beach; there was little in between. 

Craig chuckled behind you as you walked outside. “Yeah, he’s the dick,” he muttered. You forced yourself to ignore the dig and headed down to the pool. You threw yourself onto the chair closest to Deran. He tended to just leave you alone, and his typically miserable demeanor deterred others from approaching, as well. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you clenched your eyes shut and tried to pretend you were just tanning. Of course, Deran decided today was the day to test out being chatty. “How was the little shopping spree with Pope?”

Rolling your eyes, you tilted your head to look over at him. There was a knowing smirk on his face that had you tensing up. “Fine,” you grit out, hoping he might take the hint. 

“You run into Cath?” He taunts, clearly knowing the answer. The Cody family skill seems to be pissing you off. 

Flicking your sunglasses up, you shoot him a glare. “What’re you getting at, Deran?”

He shrugs and relaxes back on his chair. “That my brother’s a fucking idiot,” he shoots back, tone casual. 

“Am I that obvious?”

The snort he lets out is an answer enough. With a small smile, you lean back on the chair and shake your head. “I don’t get it, man,” Deran continues; clearly, he’s taken something that’s loosened his tongue. He’s not typically cold toward you, but the pair of you aren’t exactly close. 

“Get what?” you mutter, trying to relax the tenseness in your muscles. 

“You hang around him all the time. Put up with all his weird shit. You even do fucking shopping trips together.” You peek an eye open and catch him shaking his head in disbelief. “Cath can’t even look him in the eye.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t know what goes on in his head.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” you scoff, biting back the burn rising in your throat. 

“No, but you’ve come the closest.” You don’t think Deran understands just how much it hurts hearing him say all of this. It’s easy enough, lying to yourself and pretending you’re not obvious. That the reason Andrew doesn’t reciprocate is that you haven’t shown him how you feel. 

But when Deran- hell, when even Craig picks up on your hints- you know it has nothing to do with how obvious you are and everything to do with the fact that you are simply not the woman he wants. 

A minute later, a shadow descends over you. Frowning, you look up and see Andrew hovering, mouth pinched as he stares. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of Craig’s weed wafting off him.

“Did you smoke?”

He nods and you frown. “You don’t smoke,” you point out. Andrew takes the conversation as an invitation to perch at the end of your chair. 

“Why not?” He shrugs and it only serves to confuse you further. He holds the blunt out to you. You suck your teeth, but it only takes a second for you to accept. Some ridiculous part of you thinks about how his lips had been wrapped around it only a second before as you take a puff. 

That’s how it happened the first time. You’d been pissy about his infatuation with Cath. He’d probably been hurt by a comment you hadn’t meant. You got high off weed, and you’re sure Craig had laced it with something else. The next morning, your head felt fuzzy, and memories of the day before came back to you slowly. 

It had taken you longer than you’d like to admit to realize there was an arm slung around your waist. Then, Andrew had woken up, both of you frozen as you realized what you’d done the night before. 

“Holy shit,” you whispered, sheets pulled up around your naked chest as you stared down at your lap. 

Andrew flexed his hands, eyes not meeting yours as he glared at his comforter. “I don’t remember,” he muttered. 

You shook your head, “I don’t either,” but it was undeniable, considering that was your underwear thrown on his floor. 

“We should try again.” Your head whipped up and you ignored how it made your vision swim. He held your gaze, face deadly serious. Your jaw dropped, lips parting as you struggled for words. 

“What?” You squeaked out.

“We should try again,” he repeated, just as blunt as he was the first time around. “Neither of us remembers anything.” You don’t know why you almost said no. Almost denied what you’d wanted since the day you met him. But something seemed to think this wasn’t right. 

Maybe you wanted it to be more romantic. Or for this to have happened after a date when you were actually sure he really cared about you as more than just a quick lay. But a part of you, deep down, knew that was likely to never happen. So you’d nodded, eyes closing as he dipped his head, lips meeting yours hesitantly. 

It only took a slight tilt of your head, hands dropping the sheets from your chest as you moved toward him, for him to fully give in. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you onto his lap as you slung your arms over his shoulders. That’s how the first time you actually remember happened. 

And then, it kept happening. Your friendship continued as it always had. You’d go out for lunch and dinner. Breakfast sometimes if you stayed the night.

The pair of you might go shopping for his new house or just to get away from his mother. Occasionally, it ended with sex. But that wasn’t always consistent. 

It both hurt and was reassuring. On the one hand, you wished he would want you as much as you wanted him. Not just when he needed a moment of reprieve.

But, at the very least, that meant he didn’t just see you as some sex toy now. He still cared about you the same way he did before. You’re not sure if it made you happy or upset how little the sex changed your relationship with Andrew. 

When it did happen, you’d pretend he wasn’t thinking about another woman. That it was just you in his mind, that he was okay, that it was you in his arms and not Cath. You could lie to yourself that it didn’t bother you. That you were okay with this as long as you had some piece of him. 

It was never enough to stop the hurt from seeping through. 

You remember one time, a few months after this new thing with Andrew started, Smurf invited you out. It was clear enough that Smurf didn’t like you. But she hadn’t minded as much when you were just an occasional presence in her house. 

However, when you and Andrew got more physical, you were at her place a lot more than you had been before. The sex had changed little about your relationship except that you became clingier than you would have liked to be.

You started hanging around with him more, waiting for that little extra bit of attention he occasionally spared you. It was pathetic; you knew that, but you were hopeless when it came to Andrew. You always had been. 

His arm was slung around you while you watched some brutal animal documentary on some beast called a Shoebill. You’d been cringing at the way it was staring down the lens of the camera when Smurf had walked in. 

“Well,” she rasped, a tight smile on her face. “Isn’t this cute?”

Andrew’s arm had tensed around you as he drew you closer, eyes pointedly kept on the screen. Her glare narrowed as she walked down the steps to the living room. “You’ve been around a bit more, hun.”

You shifted uncomfortably under her stare, hand tightening in Andrew’s shirt as you shrugged, offering a half-hearted smile. “I guess so.”

Her head tilted and she kept walking until she was standing just right to block the TV. “Are you two finally dating?”

“No,” Andrew was quick to answer. You bit your lip, swallowing down the hurt as you tried to shift away. He didn’t seem to notice, his arm just as tight around you as he straightened up.

“We’re not dating,” he doubled down, and you resisted the urge to crawl away and hide in some dark corner. 

Smurf hummed, clearly unconvinced. “‘Course not,” she reassured, her voice sickeningly sweet. Her attention drifted back to you.

You grit your teeth, pretending like you weren’t just the slightest bit afraid. Not necessarily of her, but of the hold you knew she had on Andrew. It wouldn’t take much for her to wrench the two of you apart. 

“You have plans this Saturday, sweetie?”

You grew cold as Andrew withdrew his touch. He leaned forward, his glare steady on his mother, and you frowned. “Don't,” he warned, his lips a tense line of irritation. 

Her gaze snapped to his, brows furrowing with consideration before she redirected her attention. “Well?”

“Uh,” you swallowed roughly and spared Andrew a glance before shaking your head. “No, no plans.”

“Perfect,” she hummed. “You can join Pope and me then.”

“Smurf,” he tried again, getting to his feet. You stared up at him in surprise. He didn’t typically butt heads with her like this. 

“That’s enough, baby. Don’t be rude.” Smurf fixed him with a firm look before stalking back out of the room. Your brows furrowed as you waited for him to sit back down. Instead, he glared down at the coffee table, fists clenched at his sides. 

“Andrew,” you tried, getting to your feet. You reached for his arm, but he jerked away. 

“Let’s go,” he demanded, already heading to the front door. You followed after him, but he didn’t give you any more answers. Just drove you to his house. 

He still seemed out of character when he took you to his bed that night. Strangely desperate, more handsy than usual. Like he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night, change your mind about the whole deal. 

Like you ever would. The idea was laughable. 

Andrew drove you on Saturday. To where, you couldn’t say. You got lost when paved roads turned to gravel, and it started to look like he was driving you out to some warehouse to be murdered in. 

When he’d stopped on a random cemented piece of land with trucks and bikes scatteringly parked, you almost didn’t get out. But you trusted him. As much as you probably shouldn’t. So, you’d let him open your door, help you out of the car, and followed behind. 

He didn’t speak. He hadn’t the whole morning. Just kept his eyes pointed anywhere but your face. Still, he seemed to linger more than normal. Hand staying wrapped around yours. Walking closer than he typically does. 

The odd behavior, even from an already odd man, had you on edge. Smurf being behind this whole thing didn’t help soothe you at all. No, the closer you got to what sounded like loud, drunken cheering, the more your stomach soured. 

“When are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” 

Andrew paused, head dipping between his shoulders as he sucked in a sharp breath. You waited with bated breath, the prolonged silence making you antsy to just get the hell out of there. “I need you to-”

“There you are!” Smurf walked up, a malicious grin on her face. Her oversized sunglasses hid her eyes, but you still felt the ill intent in her gaze.

“Here I thought you weren’t going to show. I should’ve known better.” She reached forward and squeezed Andrew’s shoulder, drawing him away from you as she draped herself over him. Your nose wrinkled with poorly hidden disgust. “My baby boy doesn’t disappoint.”

You offered a weak chuckle to try to disguise the visceral hatred you felt toward the woman. It only got worse when you saw how Andrew couldn’t meet your eyes, unable to get out from under her touch. 

It didn’t matter if it was a stranger, a friend, even her own daughter; Smurf didn’t play nice with other women. Desperate to be the only one in her boys’ lives. Whatever she had planned for you today was certain to be an attempt at kicking you out of Andrew’s. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you motioned for her to lead the way. You were determined not to let her win this time. 

Andrew needed a win; you weren’t about to be another disappointment. 

Though that conviction of yours weakened the closer you got to the cheering. It was gone by the time you realized what exactly she was having him do today. Inside a metal cage, two men were beating each other bloody, the people watching screaming insults as cash was traded between different hands. 

“God dammit,” you muttered, ripping your gaze away at the sound of a wet crunch as one of the men dropped to the ground. 

“Weak stomach?” Smurf taunted, shoving Pope forward before he could say anything to you. A burly man covered in tattoos jerked him forward by the neck, bending to whisper something in his ear. 

You bit your lip and turned toward Smurf. She had seated herself in a foldable chair. It could have been confused for a throne with how comfortable she looked in it. “No,” you responded, refusing to let her twisted little games beat you out. 

“You’ll have one by the end,” she promised, taking a swig from her flask as she turned her attention toward the cage match. Seeing as she hadn’t deigned to provide you a place to sit, you moved closer to the crowd. You weren’t keen on being so close to her, anyway. You’d rather be in the spray-zone of blood than have to stomach her company much longer. 

Pope walked into the ring, knuckles wrapped and eyes boring only into his opponent. He didn’t look outside the cage, not to you, not to his mother. You supposed it was for the best that neither of you got in his head while he was beating another man to a pulp. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, jumping as a bell rang and the small crowd started cheering. You kept them closed, right up until you heard the first sound of flesh breaking against flesh. With a rough swallow, you forced yourself to look as Andrew was shoved into the metal chain, ducking just before the other man’s fist connected with his face. 

Taking a step back, you tried not to grimace as he spit blood onto the cage floor. You could do this for him. You could handle a little while of blood and violence, if only to make sure Smurf doesn’t get to enjoy the victory of chasing you away. 

Nails biting into your palms, you forced yourself to be still. To not react to the blood and teeth that went flying. Or the way you could already see welts and bruises forming along Andrew’s ribs. You made your way through it, right up until the end of the match, when Andrew was standing over the other man, chest heaving and bare chest covered in marks that made you hurt for him. 

Then, in your peripheral, you saw Smurf walking up to the man running the match. Her gaze met yours as she whispered something to him. Your heart dropped as you realized she wasn’t going to let this stop until you or Andrew tapped out. 

Head whipping back to him, you felt yourself go light-headed as an even bigger man than the last walked in. He hardly waited for the bell to ring before he was swinging at Andrew. You watched as he dropped to the ground, shaking the ringing from his ears as he ducked away from another punch. 

You didn’t want to give Smurf the satisfaction of seeing you run scared. But you also weren’t going to be the reason Andrew was beaten bloody just so she could prove a point. With the best terrified expression you could muster, you went running, ignoring the barb of fury as Smurf smirked, completely victorious. You didn’t stop until you reached Andrew’s truck. 

Guilt twisted your stomach into knots. He might not have been looking at you, but it wouldn’t take long to realize you were gone. You knew him, knew that he would be quick to assume the worst. But that was better than having to watch him lie bloody in the cage. 

With a sharp breath, you leaned against his truck, head tipped back as you waited for this to be over. It took about another half hour before you saw him approaching. His head was down, pace furious as he undid the wrap around his knuckles. 

You jolted up, lips pinched as your stomach twisted. He stopped short when he finally saw you waiting, and you offered a tentative smile that probably read more like a grimace. His brows furrowed as he closed the distance between you. Hands flexing at his sides, you felt like he wanted to reach out; maybe you were projecting, but you took the leap anyway. 

“How bad does it hurt?” You asked, taking his hand in yours and frowning at the split skin of his knuckles. 

“I thought you left,” he muttered, stepping even closer. 

You already knew he would expect the worst, but the lack of faith still hurt. “Smurf clearly wanted me gone. I figured she’d be done with it if she thought I ran scared.” 

“But you didn’t.” He stared at you, eyes narrowed like he didn’t quite believe you. 

“I didn’t,” you smiled softly. “Now, keys, I don’t trust that you don’t have a concussion.” He didn’t argue as he placed them in your palm, leaning into you when you reached up to press a kiss to the unmarred spot on his cheek. “Let's get you home,” you murmured, rounding the front of his truck. 

The ride, like that morning, was quiet. You didn’t push, letting him stew until you pulled up his driveway. “Come on,” you motioned him inside, guiding him toward his bathroom so you could clean him up a bit. 

He took a seat on the rim of his tub, eyes intent on tracking you as you dug around under the sink for the first-aid supplies. You spent so much time at his house that it was practically more familiar to you than your own place. 

It was when you were kneeling down in front of him that he finally spoke. “I didn’t want you to see that,” he admitted, eyes glaring down at his bathmat. Your hand hovered over his cheek. 

You dipped your head to meet his gaze and grinned. “Why? Because that second guy knocked you on your ass?” He let out a little huff and you figured that’s the closest to a laugh you’d get today. “I’m not scared of you, Andrew,” you promised, putting the alcohol swab to the side for a moment. 

When he still wouldn’t meet your eye, you lifted your hand, careful of his cuts as you cupped his cheek. Gently, you tilted his face toward yours, imploring him to just listen to you, for once. His eyes darted between yours, expression tightening before it slowly softened. He nodded, letting his weight rest in your hand. 

You stayed the night, slept beside him, his arms tight around you while you held him back. You didn’t have sex, but you think that was better than if you had. Andrew needed something gentle in his life. A relationship that gave without anything expected in return. You never had any problems being that for him. 

“So,” you glanced around the restaurant, feeling more than a little out of place. “Why the change of plans?” You turned your attention back to Andrew, hoping you didn’t look as uncomfortable as you felt. 

Tonight, you were supposed to have dinner at his place. Possibly convince him to watch the new horror movie that just came out so you wouldn’t have to suffer through it alone. Instead, he’d told you to wear something nice and dragged you to a restaurant so fancy there was a chandelier over your table. 

It should be telling you don’t belong here if you think a chandelier is the epitome of class. 

Nails drumming along the table, your eyes dart between the nicely dressed couples and waiters with better posture than your own. The Codys had money, sure, but that didn’t mean class. And you’d known Andrew before they’d made a name for themselves. This wasn’t your sort of place, and you knew it wasn’t Andrew’s. 

“I thought you might like it,” Andrew answered, his voice low as he stared down at the menu. Your brows furrowed, but you decided not to push. He was clearly trying to make an effort. You didn’t want him to feel bad because the judgmental glares of the staff made you want to crawl out of your skin. 

“Well,” you hummed, struggling for a kind word. “It’s nice,” you settled on lamely.  

His brows rose and you let out a stiff chuckle. “You don’t like it.” You must have an even worse poker face than you thought. 

Shrugging, you lean back in your seat. “It just doesn’t seem like your sort of place.”

Andrew frowns and you worry you might have offended him. “I thought you’d be sick of my sort of place.”

Scoffing, you shake your head. “Why would you think that?”

He lets out a hefty sigh, hand scrubbing along his jaw. “It’s just something Baz told me.” Well, his first mistake was ever taking advice from Baz. “When he and Cath started dating, he said she didn’t like just hanging out at the house all the time.”

Jaw tightening, you suck your teeth, forcing your face to remain kind. “I’m not Cath,” you remind him, though you’re sure you’re both bitter about that fact. 

His eyes shoot up to meet yours, his frown deepening at the expression on your face. “I know that-”

“Then don’t try to treat me like her,” you cut in, your tone far more venomous than you’d meant. Andrew draws back, and you suck in a sharp breath. “I want to leave,” you tell him, tossing your napkin on the table and finding it difficult to meet his eyes. You don’t wait for him, getting to your feet and collecting your bag before you’d even had a chance to order. 

Andrew hurries to follow behind you as you storm out of the restaurant. You know you’re too sensitive about these things. But one night with him- where you might even be able to pretend you’re on a date like a proper couple. Is that so much to ask for? Just a night without the reminder you’re barely even a second choice. 

Deciding you need to calm down, you walk off the sidewalk of the restaurant and head down toward the beach. Andrew catches up to you quickly, hovering at your side, unsure what to say. You grab hold of his arm, leaning against him while you undo the straps of your heels. 

“Let’s walk,” you mutter, caught off guard when he reaches over to take your shoes from you. Lifting the hem of your dress, you trudge through the sand. Andrew doesn’t shake off your hold, just lets you use him for balance. 

It’s not uncommon that he allows you to be touchier with him than most people. But he’s not usually this tolerant. He already doesn’t like the feel of sand, the way it pools in his shoes and inevitably ends up trailing through his home.

Normally, he’d have gone stiff, trying to silently tell you to back off. But he’s leaning into you know, hand drifting along your waist as you listen to the soft crash of waves in the distance. 

“I’m sorry.” He finally breaks the silence. 

You bite your lip and shake your head. “I shouldn’t have just left like that. It was nice,” you reluctantly admit. He frowns down at you. With a huff, you clarify, “The restaurant idea was nice. It just wasn’t for me.” It was for the woman you actually want to be with. 

Andrew just nods, gaze pensive as he stares off into the dark waters. “I wasn’t…”

“Hm?”

He shakes his head, hand tightening around your waist as he leads you back toward his home. “Never mind,” he mutters, brows furrowed as he stares down at the sand. You frown but decide it’s better not to push. You’ve already gotten your feelings hurt once tonight; no need to risk any more. 

When you make it to his home, you almost debate asking for a ride home. You’re not hungry anymore; you don’t want to watch a stupid movie with him. He’s made it more than clear that all you are is a placeholder until he gets what he really wants. Now, all you want is to just be left alone. 

“Come on,” he mutters, already opening the door before you muster the backbone to leave. You hover at the threshold and he pauses, turning back with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

You almost back up, almost leave. Instead, you shake your head. “Nothing, never mind. I’m just tired,” you whisper, following after him. The door closes and his hand finds its way to your back. 

He turns you to face him, calloused hand drifting up to push back a strand of hair. You’ve been conditioned to lean in just as he starts to. To push closer as he wraps his arms around you and tugs you toward him. 

You wrap your arm around his shoulders, head tilting as his lips brush softly against yours. Once, twice, you wait for the third pass, when he lets go of his reservations. Grips you tighter and pushes you toward his bedroom, hungry for something only you can give him. 

But it never comes. He stays soft, hands drifting up and down your sides as he holds you by the door. You’re not complaining, enjoying the tender intimacy of the moment. He never changes pace, just takes his time, savors the moment. And you. 

You could get used to feeling so desired by him as he slowly begins leading you back to his bedroom. It’s not that he’s never like this. Occasionally, you get moments of softness with him. But this is different, somehow. Like he really means it, and isn’t just giving you gentleness as a courtesy. 

His hand works on the zipper of your dress, fingers dragging along your spine as you slip your arms from the sleeves. It falls down your body, and he lifts you, picking you up before it trips you. You tighten your legs around him, smiling when he drops you on his bed. 

It’s different that night, the way he is with you. You could almost pretend he loves you just the same as you love him. Pretend that this wasn’t his own desperate need for connection with someone else. Allowing the illusion, just once, couldn’t hurt. 

That was the last night you were together. You didn’t know- he didn’t tell you- about the bank job he and his family had planned for the next day. You couldn’t have known how badly it would’ve gone, that Andrew would end up taking the fall for Baz. 

Because Baz has a family, Deran had explained afterward. Pope doesn’t have anyone. 

He had you. Clearly, though, you didn’t count for anything in their eyes. You almost wonder if Baz had messed up on purpose. If he’d done this to get Andrew out of the way so he could take over. It wouldn’t surprise you, given how quick he was to take Andrew’s place as the eldest son. 

What shocked you the most, though, was that Smurf just let him. Baz wasn’t even hers and she still let him slip into Andrew’s place. Like he’d never been there at all. 

You weren’t allowed at the trial; you’re not even sure if you’d want to be there. But Smurf had made it abundantly clear that with Andrew gone, your place in her home would soon become nonexistent. 

You still hung around, mainly with Deran. Purely for updates on Andrew. Try as you might, each attempt at reaching out seemed to go ignored or just not work out. You sent letters. A lot of letters. At least twice a month. 

Sometimes, you couldn’t believe yourself. Andrew had been sentenced to six years. What? Were you just going to wait around for him that long? How much more pathetic could you possibly get?

A lot more, you thought to yourself, penning another letter for the third time that month. 

Andrew,

I really don’t know if you’re getting any of these. I hope you are. Smurf had me taken off the visitors list, so I can’t come and see you now. I swear, I would if she didn’t hate me so much. 

I’m sorry. Sorry I can’t see you. And sorry about how your family’s acting. They sold your house. I was going to try to buy it with the money you gave me, but Smurf figured out it was me and stopped the deal. 

There’s no guarantee when they’ll let you go. But whenever you’re free, wherever I am, there’ll be a place for you. I’ll leave my key in the plant hanging by my door if you get there before me. 

You continue on, talking about your life, struggling to decide whether or not you should ask about his. He’s in prison; you doubt there’s anything particularly exciting he’d like to share. If there was, surely he would have responded by now. 

But he never did. For two years, you kept up your letters. Kept up hope that, despite the fact he wasn’t responding, some part of him still cares for you. Deran had told you no one else was getting any letters either. But you didn’t think they were sending any or reaching out, either. 

It shouldn’t have been, but it was astounding just how little his brothers seemed to care about his absence. If anything, they seemed more at ease. Big brother wasn’t there to keep them in check anymore. Baz let them just run free, just as eager to be careless as they were. 

For two years, you loved Andrew when everyone else seemed so content with forgetting him. And two years is exactly how long Smurf’s patience lasted before she finally grew sick of you. You weren’t a threat, not anymore, but that didn’t mean she liked you any more than she did before. 

You were lounging at the pool with Deran, prattling on about your new boss while he smoked. She walked up with a cruel smirk on her lips. Which should have been your first sign to cut loose and run. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her jeans and you leapt up. Water dripped from your legs as you climbed the stairs of the pool. “I think this might be for you.”

You hastily dried your hands off on your towel, taking the letter from her with trembling hands. Two years, and he was finally letting you hear from him again. Smurf let out a little laugh, crossing her arms as you eagerly ripped open the envelope. Your second sign that you should have just ignored her. 

It was a letter, but not to you. He didn’t say her name at first. But you caught on quick enough. Mainly, when he started telling her how jealous he was of Baz. How Baz wasn’t good enough for her. She could do so much better. He could treat her so much better. He wouldn’t play around with her; he would take care of her like she deserved. 

Your throat tightened to the point it felt like you were being strangled the longer you read. Tears burned against your lashes, but you refused to let Smurf see them fall. You could barely stomach half of the letter- drawing the line at him declaring his love for Cath- before you were folding it back up. 

“It’s not for me,” you whispered, your voice breaking around the words as Deran finally lifted his head. He frowned at the look on your face while Smurf stepped closer. She took the letter from your hands, cupping your shoulder as she leaned toward your ear. 

“He didn't want anything except what’s between your legs. I don’t want you, and my family doesn’t. Leave, or I’m going to have to make you, honey.”

And you did, just like she ordered. But you didn’t just leave her house; that wasn’t enough for you. You had to leave every reminder of the Codys behind completely. 

Deran helped you, just a little, by giving you some of the money Andrew had stashed away before he was arrested. You didn’t want to take it. How could you start fresh if he was funding your future? 

But you didn’t have a choice. You were working a dead-end job and barely making minimum wage. So, reluctantly, you took the cash and moved a few hours out of Oceanside. A cute place, right by the beach. 

It was a relatively small town, quaint and filled with retirees. The type of quiet you were desperate for. Smurf bought up your old place without you knowing. You’d just made a blind deal, desperate for more money and a quick way out. 

Which meant she got the one letter Andrew ever bothered to send. 

They’re letting me out on good behavior. I want to see you. She’d scoffed as she’d tossed it in her fireplace, smiling as she thought about getting her boy back. Without any distractions in the way. You’d been dealt with. Cath wouldn’t be so hard to get rid of. 

Pope didn’t expect his family to be waiting outside the prison for him. He’d only told one person he was getting out. And he’d been hoping to see you, but he wasn’t surprised when you weren’t there. Just a little disappointed. He was sure there was a reason for it, it’s not like you’d miss something so big on purpose. 

But you hadn’t been waiting for him at Smurf’s either. You’d already warned him they’d sold his home. But you didn’t tell him they’d given his room away to his twin sister’s kid. No one had even bothered to tell him Julia had died. 

He sat in the living room, feeling more out of place than he ever had before. Cath couldn’t look at him. Baz seemed angry that he had even made it out. The kid, J, was just pissing him off more, a painful reminder of the sister he’d lost. Smurf seemed on edge, with tight smiles and cloying words, while she tried to keep him placated. 

There was one person very clearly missing. Someone they were pointedly not bringing up. You were never a huge part of the Cody family, but you were important to him and they knew that. But you weren’t here. And your letters had stopped a year ago. He had never figured out why, but he’d held out hope for a long time that a guard would bring him one again. 

He had never written back. There was never anything more to be said. He couldn’t talk about being shoved in solitary. Or the way the guards used to beat and humiliate him. That was never something he wanted you to know. It wasn't the way he wanted you to think of him.

So he had just greedily accepted your letters, your stories. But he never thought his silence would be enough to finally push you away. 

Pope broke the tense silence of the living room. “Where is she?” He stared down at his hands, knees jumping beneath his arms as he tried to keep himself calm. 

Smurf shook her head and he shot her a glare. She knew exactly who he was talking about. “Oh.” Smurf rolled her eyes, reaching over to stroke his hair. He tried not to grimace, hating the way it felt. The only person he wanted that from right now was you. 

“Forget about her, baby. She ran out a while ago. Took some of our money with her,” her voice tightens, gaze cutting to Deran, who wouldn’t look his way. His eyes narrow at that, his shoulders tensing at the discomfort on his brother's face.

“Just another skank looking for a quick fix,” Smurf callously dismissed. As if you hadn’t been there since they’d rebranded him Pope. Like you weren’t the only constant in his life, the only person he could actually rely on. 

He knew you. You weren’t an addict. You weren’t like Ren, hooked on Craig because they’d both shot each other up one too many times. You’d never cared about the money he might’ve given you. You've only ever dealt with his shit and his family for him. 

Pope refused to believe that you’d just left. That you wouldn’t have sent a letter explaining your absence. Or at least have waited until he got out to say goodbye 

But Pope gave Smurf what she wanted. He nodded, pretending you were just some chick he liked to fuck sometimes. He let her believe the lie until he finally got a minute alone. 

He tried to check all your socials, but you’d deleted them. He went through friends of yours and checked their posts to see if you’d ever popped up in any of them. He paced his room and spoke softly to himself while he tried to figure out where the hell you could have gone. Why would you have left? 

Smurf had a hand in it; he was sure of that. But you’d survived her for years. Why would you suddenly give up, now?

He checked all of the letters you’d sent him. But the return address remained the same right until the last one. Pope racked his mind for any places you mentioned wanting to visit, but none of them seemed feasible for you to simply disappear to. 

When all other options had been exhausted, he went another route.

Deran

He cornered him by the pool, eyes narrowing at the way Deran refused to meet his stare. “Where is she?”

“What the fuck are you talking-“

Pope shoved him back and Deran let out a low hiss as his spine slammed against the corner of the bar. “Don’t play dumb, Deran. You know exactly who I’m fucking talking about.”

Deran shot Pope a harsh glare, rubbing his bruising back. “Look, man, I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Pope tilted his head with a frown. “Even me?”

Deran scoffed and sneered. “You're kidding me? Especially you.”

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

“Do you really want to do this?” Pope snapped, hands balling into fists at his side. He had a lot to work out. The majority of it was anger, most of that directed at his family. He wouldn’t mind making his little brother bleed if it got him what he wanted. 

Deran seemed to realize that, too, disappointingly. “Fucks sake,” he huffed. It’s not like you and Deran were ever very close. Pope's not sure why you thought he would be a good choice to keep your secrets. Or why you were trying to keep secrets from him. But he could figure all that out when he saw you. 

Because he would, now, as Deran wrote down your address and pressed the slip of paper into his palm. 

You’d moved a few hours outside of Oceanside. Clearly desperate to get away. But that hadn’t been something Deran had been able to give a reason for. You kept a few things from him, it seemed. 

The town was small, decent, and safe enough. It seemed to be full of retirees rather than anyone close to your age. He parked downtown, fiddling with the GPS on his phone while he tried to work out the best way to get to your place. 

As luck would have it, he’d parked in front of the store you seem to frequent for groceries. Pope looked up just as you walked out of the store. His hand tightened around the steering wheel until the leather was creaking. 

He’d imagined seeing you again a lot in prison. But the memory of you had begun to fade the longer he went without. 

You seemed surreal as he watched you. Like something he dreamed up as you loaded your car with your bags. His hand dropped to the handle of his door. He wanted to jump out, hound you for an answer on why you left. Kiss you and take you right in the middle of the parking lot. He didn’t give a shit who saw; he just wanted you. 

But he stopped himself. Kept himself locked in his car while he watched you. His chest was tight as you closed your trunk, hopping into your car and pulling out of your parking spot. Andrew started his truck back up, carefully, as he pulled up behind you. 

He forced himself to stay back, to keep enough distance that you didn’t grow suspicious. He watched as you ran your errands. A stop by the general store where you picked up some tools. A few minutes in a boutique before you were walking out with empty hands. He watched it all, growing increasingly more frustrated that you seemed completely unaware someone was following you. 

By the time you made it home, his patience was gone. He watched you head inside. Watched the lights flick on behind your curtains. How your silhouette moved through the house before you turned off the living room lights. You moved through the house, a light flicking off the closer you got to your bedroom. Andrew’s leg bounced as he watched the last one go off. 

Then, he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He jumped from his truck, storming up the steps of your porch. He pulled his pick from his pocket, using his body to block anyone’s view as he pushed it into your lock. 

His hands paused, though, when he remembered one of the first letters you’d sent him. A promise of a place always waiting for him with you. His eyes darted around the porch, chest tightening when he saw a hanging plant in the corner.

He walked over, glancing over his shoulder as his hand dug through the dirt. He’d almost given up hope when he felt the smooth metal of a key beneath his fingers. 

He couldn’t decide whether to be upset or relieved. It was stupid of you to grant such easy access to your home. At the very least, though, this meant you still had to feel something for him. 

He slipped through your door quietly. Toeing off his boots, he took care not to step on any creaking wood as he made his way through the house. 

The interior was what you would expect from a beach bungalow, nice enough. Even with the limited light streaming through the curtains, he still spotted touches of you. Little pieces of color that he had missed while he’d been gone. 

He’s aware this is probably the wrong way to go about the reunion. But he can’t trust that you won’t just avoid him if he tries to approach you naturally. It’s not like you to just disappear without a warning. He couldn’t stand seeing your face as you told him to stay out of your life. He’d rather deal with that rejection in the dark, when he doesn’t have to see the hatred in your eyes. 

At the end of the hall is your bedroom. The door is cracked open slightly. Pope carefully pushes through, taking care to make sure the whining hinges don’t preemptively announce him. 

You don’t move, sprawled across your bed as a sound machine blasts at top volume, and half your face is obscured by an eye mask. He crosses his arms with a scoff. You have made it incredibly easy to break in. 

Pope shakes his head and steps further inside until he’s hovering over you. His brow furrows, his expression softening as he relearns the slopes of your face. There’s a smile growing on his face when you suddenly shoot up in bed. 

He jolts back as your head swivels wildly. Suddenly, you’re ripping off your mask. He grimaces at the shrill scream you let out, slipping across your bed until your body is thudding against the wood. 

He tries to say your name, but you’re jumping back up, a metal bat now in your hands. At least you’re marginally prepared. 

“It’s me,” he calls out. 

“What?” You snap, reaching for your lamp. He squints against the sudden light as you shove your hair out of your eyes. “Andrew?” You gasp, the bat slipping from your fingers. 

“Hey,” he offers. He waits for you to hug him, to yell at him, or maybe to scream at him to get the hell out of your life. But you don’t; you just stand there, jaw dropped. He whispers your name, and you jolt back to life, shaking your head. 

“What- how are you-" You press a hand to your temple and stutter out nonsense. He rounds the bed, slowly taking your hands in his as he leads you to sit back down.

You suck in a sharp breath, hands tensing in his hold, but you don’t jerk away. You also won’t meet his eyes. “Why are you here, Andrew?” He hates that there’s no familiar warmth when you say his name. 

“What do you mean?” Where else would he be?

“I mean,” you snap, finally meeting his eye. But it’s cold, the way you look at him. “Why are you here? In my house,” you grit out, eyes wide as you gesture toward your bedroom. 

Pope rubs the back of his neck. This is a slightly better reaction than what he’d been preparing for. But he can’t tell if catching you off guard was the right call. 

“I told you I was coming back.”

You narrow your eyes and shake your head. “When?” You huff. 

Andrew frowns. “In my letter,” he’s sure he must’ve seen it before you moved. Or, at the very least, one of his family would’ve given it to you. 

“Oh,” you scoff and jump to your feet. “No, I never got a letter from you, Andrew. Just one person did.” You smile as Andrew frowns, shaking his head helplessly. “Cath,” you elaborate, patience running thin. 

“I never sent her a letter,” he insists, not having a goddamn idea what you’re talking about. He just wants you to sit down again. The way you’re eyeing that bat is disconcerting. 

“Are you seriously trying to lie to me right now?” You demand, pacing in front of him. 

He snaps your name and you freeze, forcing yourself to look at him. Pope stands, but you take a step back. It's hard to ignore how much that hurts.

“I never sent anyone any letters, alright? I- I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk about what was happening, so I never sent anything. But I told you I was coming back.”

A part of you softens. You’re still not happy, but you seem more inclined to believe him. “I’m sorry.” You shake your head. “I never got anything. When did you send it?”

“A few months ago.”

“No,” you bite your lip, glaring down at the floor. “I’d already moved. Smurf would’ve-“

You cut yourself off with a low hiss as you slump back into your bed. Pope hovers in front of you, unsure what to do now. “God, that fucking bitch. Goddamn control freak,” you snap. 

Your eyes shoot up to his, “Did you ever, in your life, write Cath a letter?”

Pope grimaced, thinking about it. “Yeah, when we were kids.” You let out a bitter laugh, head falling into your hands. Hesitatingly, he took a seat beside you. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

Your head shoots up and you stare at him for a long time. Long enough for him to grow uncomfortable. “No,” you finally whisper and something inside of him finally relaxes. “No, I’m not mad at you.”

He reaches out, eager to finally hold you again, but you hold up your hand, jerking away. “But I can’t do this again. I’m so glad you’re out, I really am. But I can’t go back to being what we were.”

Pope shakes his head, drawing back into himself. “What we were?”

“You can’t just come back and expect me to be your fuck buddy again, Andrew.”

“That’s not what we were,” he snaps. How could you debase it like that? Just like Smurf had.

“You never called to anything else,” you scoff, brows drawing together with irritation. Were you always so volatile? 

“I never called it anything.”

“Exactly,” you snap. “Andrew, I don’t know how else to make it clear. I wrote to you for two years, without ever getting anything back. I’ve been in love with you for so long. But you don’t get to come back into my life and offer nothing but sex. It’s not fair.”

His chest aches as you cut yourself off, your voice trembling. Is that what you’ve thought? All this time, you just thought that the way he treats you is how he’d ever treat anyone else?

“It was never just sex.” He pauses, completely unsure if he even has the words to properly convey how he feels about you. “I love you,” he admits, and your breath hitches painfully. “I thought you knew that. How could you not know?” It's embarrassing, the way his voice breaks.

“How would I?” You scoff, watery eyes lifting to meet his. “It’s not like we talk about our emotions a lot.”

Pope swallows roughly. This isn’t how he works. He can’t just spew off romantic words of undying love. He just isn’t good at that. Always better at showing others how he feels. Though clearly that isn’t working either. 

“I love you,” he promises. “I’ve waited three years to see you. And when you weren’t at the house today, I thought…” he can’t finish. He’d had a hundred thoughts of the worst possible explanations for your absence. And each one had hurt worse than the last. 

You let out a rough sigh, and Andrew waits for you to tell him to get out. He jolts when he feels your arm around him. You pull him closer and he seeks your warmth immediately, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he winds his arm around you. 

You let out a small laugh, stroking his back as he sinks his weight against you. “I never stopped loving you,” you whisper. “I was pissed off for a while. But, infuriatingly, you’ve always stayed with me.” He pulls back and you nod. “Always,” you swear, frowning at the look in his eyes. 

“Please,” he whispers, hardly even caring he’s this close to getting on his knees and begging. “Can I stay here tonight?” 

You frown and shake your head. “Of course,” you lean down, lips soft as they press against his temple. “As long as you want.” He’s sure you have no idea just how long you're signing up for. 

Or, maybe you were. You seem to have been waiting for this as long as he has. He’s not planning on giving you up anytime soon. Not again. 

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                 ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 Can't call it love then call it quits 💿

end. — I do not own the characters or the show Animal Kingdom, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [28] - Grudges

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: Royal visitors can cause problems.

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: Explicit language, (canon) comments about weight, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

It wasn’t that you weren’t good at holding grudges.

You were excellent at it, actually. Your very own sister-in-law was the proof of it, you hadn’t been able to get along well with her ever since you were a child.

So it wasn’t that you lacked the ability to hold grudges, it was just that Robb made it very difficult.

Day by day, your resilience was chipped away. You were still angry at him for calling that lady “pleasant” but he kept claiming it was for Jon, and though you hated to admit it, he also had a way of…

Well.

Convincing you and quenching your anger at the same time.

You were trying to choose between two pairs of earrings when Robb walked into your bedchambers, and you had to do a double-take to realize it was not a stranger who barged in, but your husband. You gasped, your hands shooting up to cover your mouth.

“What happened to your beard?!”

“My mother made me shave it,” he grumbled while you gawked at him. “For the king’s arrival.”

You had never seen Robb without a beard; he always had either a stubble or a very short beard, so this was the first time you were seeing him clean-shaven. Though he was handsome as always with his sharp jawline which was even more prominent without a beard, the sight felt rather strange to you, and it took you a couple of seconds to understand the reason. A huff of laughter escaped you, muffled by your hands before you lowered them.

“You look like a Reach knight!”

The way his expression turned from annoyed to complete and utter betrayal could’ve made a simple observer think you had just insulted him. He let out a displeased exhale through his nose, then strode past you to approach your mirror like it could magically grow his beard back if he glared at his reflection hard enough.

“I do not understand why she insists so much,” he mumbled while you tilted your head, watching him in the mirror with your arms crossed. “A northman cannot be without his beard, it’s just not right.” 

You covered your laughter by clearing your throat and plopped down on the bed, a grin curling your lips.

“Recite me a poem,” you demanded, and he turned around to scowl at you.

“I don’t know any.”

“You look like you do,” you said airily. “Can you sing, at least? Play any instruments? Almost every knight in the Reach can.”

“I’m no Reach knight,” he grumbled. “And it’ll grow back.”

“Are you saying that to me or yourself?”

He took another look at his reflection, running a hand over his face.

“I look like a boy.”

“A handsome Reach boy,” you chirped, earning an annoyed glare in return.  

“Don’t.”

You held up your hands in a mock of surrender before you pushed yourself off the bed.

“Well, I must go,” you said. “Lady Stark needed me today, so I’ll leave you and my mirror alone.”

“Wait—” He caught up with you to grab your wrist so that he could pull you closer, drawing a giggle out of you. You playfully slipped your wrist out of his grasp with a gasp, feigning shock.

“I’m very offended by you daring to believe I’d kiss you,” you said with a hand on your chest. “As handsome as you are, I’ll have you know I’m very loyal to my husband.”

“I am your husband!”

You made a noise of disagreement.

“My husband has a beard,” you pointed out, taking a step back. “You appear to be one of the knights who used to follow me around in the ballroom begging for a dance.”

Well, that wasn’t entirely true; none of those knights were as handsome as Robb was, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Learn a poem in the meantime,” you told him, walking backwards to the door. “Or grow your beard back. Whichever is faster.”

With that, you walked out of the room and left him there, your laughter echoing in the hallway.

Though you both had very different trainings, it was times like these you could see that Lady Stark was in fact raised in the south.

Being the lady of the castle—especially when the said castle was Winterfell—came with so many responsibilities. Hosting guests was not only duty but also an art, which she pulled off flawlessly, even before the guests were there. The bedchambers, the feast, the entertainment, it was all ready the moment you got the news that the king would be arriving today. There were direwolf banners hanging in and outside the castle, and by the time you and the Starks gathered in the yard, you could already hear the sound of the horses approaching.

You had picked a pearly gray silk gown for the day, to blend in with the rest of the family, with your pelt thrown over your shoulders. Jon wasn’t allowed to stand with the family per Lady Stark’s orders, and it had put Robb in a rather sullen mood that he only snapped out of at the sight of Arya rushing to cross the yard with a helmet on her head. Lord Stark quickly pulled it off of her head and sent her to go stand between Sansa and Bran. You were right beside Robb, your hand in his while he caressed the back of your hand with his thumb almost absentmindedly, making you bite back a smile before you looked over your shoulder to steal a glance at your ladies-in-waiting in the crowd.

You hadn’t met the king or the queen before, and it had been on purpose, thanks to Silas and your father. The king’s many affairs with other women was not unheard of throughout the realm, and two years ago, around the time that title of yours started being thrown around, he and the queen had visited the Reach. A week before that, per Silas’ counsel and your father’s orders, you weren’t allowed to go outside so that when you missed the feast in King’s honor, the whole Reach thought you had been too sick to join any feast the whole week. The reason was simple; neither your father nor Silas wanted to risk the possibility of you catching the king’s interest, seeing that if you did, there would be so little that they could do except send you to Dorne to keep you safe and away from the most powerful man of the realm.

Though many families in the Reach would be delighted at the idea of their daughter catching the king’s eye and elevating their status, your family loved you way too much to put you in a situation where you would be forced to be a mistress.

But thankfully, you were safe now.

Not that the married women were safe in the southern court, especially from the king. However, you were Robb’s wife now, the future Lady of Winterfell, and nobody, not even the king, could risk the wrath of House Stark and the North by crossing a line.

You were probably the safest lady in the whole realm.

You snapped out of your thoughts when the horsemen passed the gates and entered the yard, a young boy that could only be a couple years older than Sansa—the prince, if you had to guess— at the front. Sansa sighed beside you, making Robb turn to her and then frown at the boy who gave Sansa a smirk, and you had to bite back your smile.

Of course Sansa would admire the prince.

The queen’s carriage entered the yard as well, followed by the Kingsguard and the king, whom you only recognized because of the crown. He was a heavy man with a serious look on his face, his eyes darting around the yard as his horse stopped and his squire rushed to help him dismount. Lord Stark bent a knee, the rest of the family and the whole yard following him suit, and it was only when the king motioned at him to rise that he stood up, all of you doing the same.

The king held Lord Stark’s gaze. “You got fat.”

You blinked a couple of times, holding your breath to see what Lord Stark would say, but he only lowered his eyes to the king’s stomach before raising his brows at him, as if returning the statement without so much as a word. The king burst into laughter, making Lord Stark smile as well before he pulled him into a hug.

…Gods, you were never going to understand men’s humor or their idea of friendship.

“Cat!” he greeted Lady Stark with a happy smile, hugging her as well. Sansa was still staring at the prince, and you leaned closer to her so that Robb couldn’t hear your whisper.

“You might want to pretend to be a little more nonchalant, my sweet.”

Sansa gave you an abashed smile while the king and Lord Stark exchanged words.

“Do you think he finds me beautiful?”

“Of course he does,” you whispered back, watching the queen step out of the carriage. She was beautiful, the displeasure on her face wasn’t enough to take away from it, and she looked around the yard before her eyes stopped on you.

“You must be Robb.” The king shook Robb’s hand before his eyes found you. “And the newest member of the family, I assume. The tales of your beauty weren’t lying, my lady.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” you accepted the compliment with a well-practiced graceful smile. The queen approached Lord Stark who kissed her hand, but everyone’s attention turned to the king in a second when he spoke:

“Take me to your crypt, I want to pay my respects.”

“We’ve been riding for a month, my love,” the queen said kindly, and you had to wonder for a second whether everyone else could hear just how forced it sounded or just you. “Surely the dead can wait.”

The king didn’t even spare her a glance.

“Ned,” he said curtly before he walked away, and Lord Stark followed him into the Keep.

…Ah.

The crypt.

Where Lord Stark’s sister who was also the king’s alleged true love laid in her eternal sleep.

The Queen looked like she wanted to argue, but her brother touched her arm as if signaling her to stop talking, and you averted your eyes, making yourself busy with your bracelet.

It was one of the many things you and Margaery were taught when you were little.

If someone above your rank was insulted or ignored in front of you, you never saw it.

Lord Stark and the king spent almost an hour in the crypts while the queen retired to her bedchambers to rest. It seemed that Lord Stark had much to speak with the king, because Robb had come to find you in the yard around an hour before the feast, clearly released from his father’s solar. You quickly dismissed your ladies-in-waiting so that you could speak freely at the far corner of the yard, and to be completely honest, the way you two sat was not appropriate at all; rather than sitting across from one another, you had your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around you while he nuzzled to your hair.

It had been rather peaceful, at least until a moment ago.

“A betrothal?” you repeated, craning your neck to look up at him. “Between Sansa and…”

“Prince Joffrey,” Robb finished your sentence for you, letting out a displeased noise as you pulled out of his arms to turn to see him better. “Don’t—”

“And Lord Stark said yes?”

“Sansa would cry for the rest of her life if he did not,” Robb said with a grimace. “She is in love already, and they haven’t even talked to each other yet. My mother talked my father into it, he will take the girls with him when he goes to King’s Landing to be the Hand.”

A frown pinched your forehead while Robb’s fingers drew shapes in your palm absentmindedly.

“Robb, I don’t think…”

Gods, how were you going to approach this?

You had to walk a very thin line here. You couldn’t risk anyone think you were trying to sabotage Sansa’s future, especially when the root of your worries was her future. Sansa was the sweetest girl ever, and you were certain she would grow up to be the loveliest lady and queen, but it was because of that you weren’t as excited as Lady Stark about this union.

Sansa was too sweet and naive for King’s Landing.

Not to mention, you knew nearly nothing about Prince Joffrey. There was a reason why it had taken Silas so much time to make a decision about your husband, marriage couldn’t be decided in a haste. Granted the king and Lord Stark were friends, but it didn’t mean their children would form a good union, and the moment they wed, Sansa would be bound to Prince Joffrey forever, regardless of how strong her house was.

And this was yet another time you were thankful to the gods for Silas and the rest of your family.

Those rules didn’t apply to you.

“What is it?” Robb asked, pulling you out of your thoughts. You opened your mouth and closed it again, then took a deep breath.

“Sansa is very young still.”

“Oh they won’t wed right away,” Robb said. “They’ll wait until my father deems it the right time. Sansa will just be in King’s Landing in the meantime, with Arya.”

You stole a look at the rest of the yard, deep in thought.

“Well, perhaps…” You paused. “Perhaps if they won’t wed right away, Sansa could stay here a bit longer so that I can teach her things.”

“Like what?”

“Like how to survive in the southern court.”

He huffed a laugh. “Oh come on.”

“Robb, I’m serious.”

“My father will be with her, she’ll be fine.”

“Your father cannot save her from everything,” you said. “Nor can he help her in everything, especially when it comes to the south. It’s a different world than here, and please don’t get me wrong, but Sansa still believes in fairytales. She must learn know how to—”

You stopped yourself and Robb pulled his brows together.

“How to what?”

Manipulate people.

It was beyond you how no one had given her the necessary training, especially if the southern court had been a possibility all along. You were rather sheltered and very much aware of it, but when it came to southern court games and wielding power, you and Margaery were given a very strict education.

Although you falling in love was unexpected, your husband falling in love with you had always been the plan.

“The southern court is an incredibly dangerous place,” you told him. “I fear she might not be ready for it just yet. If she stays here a little longer—”

“Nothing bad will happen to her in the southern court,” he assured you. “My father and the king are close as brothers.”

“Which is wonderful, but think about it,” you insisted. “Silas didn’t make our union happen because of my father and yours. He made it, because he approved you above all that. Does your father know Prince Joffrey? Do you? Beyond the fact that he will sit the Iron Throne once his father passes?”

“He can’t do anything to Sansa,” Robb brushed you off. “Sansa is a Stark.”

You caught the sight of the queen’s brother Jaime Lannister and Prince Joffrey stepping out of the keep into the yard, then huffed out.

“Can you please ask your father either way?” you asked. “If she can stay here for a moon or two?”

His eyes softened as he cupped your cheek gently, then dipped his head to give you the sweetest kiss, making your heart skip a beat. A giggle escaped you, your cheeks growing hot.

“We’re in public!”

“And we’re on our honeymoon,” he defended himself while you dragged your fingertip over the snarling wolf clasps on his doublet before you buried your face to his chest where his laugh rumbled deep. He pressed a kiss on top of your head, his hand still cradling your cheek.

“But you’ll ask?” you insisted and he heaved a sigh.

“I’ll ask,” he said. “Happy?”

“Very,” you chirped as you lifted your head to beam at him. “Thank you!”

He held your gaze in his, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb.

“I’ll never be able to tell you no, will I?” he asked and you scrunched up your nose, then grinned.

“Probably not,” you said airily. “But then again, why would you want to?”

That drew a chuckle out of him, and he shook his head as if he couldn’t believe himself.

“Aye,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss you again. “Why would I want to indeed?”

Thanks to Lady Stark, the feast was going perfectly.

And everyone was having fun. Sansa was over the moon with the news, and she had made you promise that you would lend her one of your gowns for her to wear in the King’s Landing, so that she could impress the ladies there. Though you wanted to say it would take more than a gown, you decided not to say anything until Robb asked Lord Stark, so instead you assured her that you would help her with choosing the perfect gown and jewelry so that she would make an impeccable first impression on the southern court. Just until a moment ago that you and Robb were sitting at one of the tables among your peers, drinking and laughing, but when Arya threw food at Sansa’s dress, Lady Stark had shot him a look that clearly said to step in, so that the royal family wouldn’t notice the chaos that was about to erupt. Robb heaved a sigh and kissed your temple before he made his way to Arya and lifted her out of her seat, telling her it was time for bed. Arya pouted, but one gentle push from Robb made her start walking, and they both left the Great Hall so that he could tuck her in.

Watching Robb take care of his siblings never failed to make your chest all warm. He knew how to handle all of them, adapting a softer approach with Sansa and Bran while roughhousing Arya and Rickon who loved it. For a moment, you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering off, so you found yourself imagining what a great father he would make one day, to your own kids.

You knew it was too early, you still couldn’t tell whether you were ready, especially with your mother’s fate, yet the simple image of him with a baby made you smile.

You wondered whether they would take after him or you. Or perhaps they would be the perfect combination of you both—

“My lady.” Alys’ voice snapped you out of your thoughts. “Lady Stark and the queen ask for you, I think.”

You turned your head to take a look at the High Table where only Lady Stark and the queen sat—everyone else had scattered around the Great Hall. Lady Stark nodded at you and you pushed your chair back.

“Thank you Alys,” you whispered and stood up, then made your way to the High Table. You swept a well-trained curtsy, then straightened up and smiled at them, clasping your hands in front of you.

“Your Grace,” you said. “Lady Stark.”

“Hello my dear.”

“I wanted to see the infamous Blossom of the Reach,” the queen said, making your smile wider. “Everyone sings your praises, even miles away.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” 

“Including your best friend,” she said, making your head whip up. “Margaery Tyrell. She is dazzling the capital as we speak.”

And judging by the tone of her voice, she was not happy about that.

You would’ve been lying if you said it was unexpected. Margaery never feared anyone, no matter their social standing.

“As she dazzled the Reach,” you said. “I’m sure she flourishes in King’s Landing.”

“Do remind me, who had more admirers in the Reach? You or her?”

The attempt was nearly pitiful, and you had to hold back your laughter. This wasn’t new, the way people would try to sow discord between you and Margaery so that you would turn against each other and become rivals for—

For what?

Attention?

The queen wasn’t the first, nor would she be the last to find out your and Margaery’s bond ran too deep to get harmed by such comments. Margaery could be crowned the most beautiful girl in the realm tomorrow—in your opinion, she deserved it—, and you would be cheering her at the top of your lungs. She could be the queen, and you would be the first to bow down; there was no possibility of you turning bitter for her accomplishments and happiness, you loved her way too much for that.

And it was mutual too. Margaery never held contempt for you even when that title started being thrown around in the Reach, instead she fueled it, so that even more people would talk about it.

There was nothing anyone could do to make you and Margaery turn into enemies, no matter how much they tried.

“Oh, one stops counting after a while,” you said with a laugh. “It was rather hard for us to keep track of it, but the last I remember she had poems and I had songs. You would have to ask her though.”

“The Reach does love its songs, does it not?” the queen asked. “Just as singers love their embellishments, I’d say.”

…Ah.

Well, alright then.

There were only three people in this hall who could tell what that veiled comment really meant; the queen herself, Lady Stark, and you, seeing that you were all quite fluent in the language of the southern court and how it held insults behind compliments, or simple statements.

Like that one.

“Such admirers can affect a lady in a certain way,” the queen added. “Like excess pride. You and your friend should be careful.”

So now not only were your looks exaggerated, but you and Margaery were both arrogant.

Very well.

If she came all this way to your home to insult you and your best friend, you could play the game.

“Both my best friend and I look up to you as the pinnacle of humility, we grew up with the tales of your beauty, Your Grace,” you said airily. “Back when we were little girls, that was all we would hear from King’s Landing. To this day, I still remember how many admirers you used to have back in the day. I’m sure you’re delighted that his majesty relieved you of them, even after so many years!”

The tiny twitch of her lips reminded you of a snarl, but it was gone as fast as it came.

“Well,” she said after a beat. “I hope that you and your husband will be as happy as me and the king have been.”

The same king who had spent the majority of the feast drunk with another woman in his lap.

Sure.

She could keep hoping, Robb would never do that to you.

“I’m sure it would please you, Your Grace,” you said with a bright smile and she held your gaze in hers, then gave you a curt nod, signaling you could leave. You dropped a curtsy straight down with your head held high, then walked away from the High Table to join your ladies-in-waiting.

“The queen does not look happy,” Lyra murmured and Jorelle raised her brows, stealing a look at the table.

“Would you be?” she asked. “If my husband humiliated me like that…”

“I will never wed.”

“You might have to,” Barbrey said and Lyra shrugged her shoulders.

“Not really. I’m not the heir, I have no such responsibilities. One of my sisters has two children, she was never wed.”

“Bear Island has different customs than the rest of the North,” Wylla said. “If my father tried to wed me to someone like the king, I’d run away.”

“She’s still the queen,” Barbrey said and Wylla shook her head.

“I’m too northern to accept such disrespect.”

“By the way, have any of you talked to her ladies-in-waiting?”

“I’ve been avoiding them like the plague.”

“Well, I’ve talked to them, and…”

The rest of Alys’ words disappeared into a buzz when the familiar feeling hit you, making you frown slightly. Your theory was that it was instinct for ladies of the court, you just learned to notice when men were looking at you even without a glance in their direction. Perhaps it was habit, perhaps it was a way to survive, but you knew when they were watching.

And sure enough, when you turned your head, you found Robb, Lord Stark, the king and Prince Joffrey all looking in your direction. Robb did not look happy for some reason, he had his jaw clenched while he listened to the king, and Prince Joffrey scowled before his eyes found mother and his frown deepened, as if she had done something of great offense. You let a lovesick smile light up your face as you waved at Robb without sparing the rest of them a glance, and that seemed to snap him out of his mood, that familiar soft light appearing in his gaze as he lifted his cup a little to greet you. The king said something and smacked him on the back, letting out a boisterous laugh and you lingered there for a moment, then rolled your shoulders back.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” you said and walked away from your ladies to approach the men on the other side of the hall.

“Your Graces, my lord,” you greeted the king, the prince and Lord Stark, then beamed at Robb and turned to them. “May I please borrow my lord husband for a minute if you don’t mind?”

The king laughed.

“Oh he stopped listening to us the moment you looked his way,” he said. “But that’s how a newlywed must be, huh Robb? Your father used to have the same look on his face whenever you looked at your mother.”

“Robert, come on now,” Lord Stark said and the king grinned.

“You did,” he insisted while you laced your fingers through Robb’s. “The same tortured look, even when I dragged you to hunts! That’s how you know it’s a good match.”

 “Speaking of matches, I’ve heard the happy news,” you told Prince Joffrey with a smile. “I’m certain you and our beautiful Sansa will be as happy as we are, Your Grace.”

Prince Joffrey didn’t seem delighted at all, his eyes finding his mother again before forcing himself to smile.

 “Thank you, my lady.”

“Anyway, as I was saying, the whole North is talking of that duel! The future Warden of the North is a great fighter just like his father!”

A shadow crossed Prince Joffrey’s face but you paid him no mind.

“I’m glad the whole North is entertained, but I was rather terrified,” you said, leaning sideways to Robb’s arm and he pressed a kiss on top of your head as if trying to soothe you at the mention of the duel.

“You had nothing to worry about, I told you that,” Robb muttered into your hair and you shot him a mischievous look.

“The love of my life putting himself in danger scares me, that’s no crime,” you said, earning a chuckle from the king. “Is it, Your Grace?”

“Not at all,” the king said. “Even the strongest men are defeated by love more than sword, my boy. Great warrior or not, you might want to keep that in mind.”  

“I will, Your Grace.”

“If you’ll excuse us please.”

Robb followed you as you both crossed the Great Hall, still holding your hand tight until you stopped and turned to him. He seemed rather tense, frowning at Prince Joffrey who had just approached the queen to mutter something to her ear with a sour expression. You raised your brows, watching Robb grab a cup from one of the servants before he took a sip, still glaring at the High Table.

“Is everything alright?”

His attention snapped back to you. “Mm hm.”

“Are you certain?” you asked. “What were you all talking about before I approached?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

Though you wanted to insist, you decided otherwise. “Have you had the chance to talk to your father yet?”

“About?”

“About Sansa!” you whispered. “If she can stay a bit longer.”

“I mentioned it, he said no.” Robb shrugged his shoulders. “And I’ve told you, he’ll keep an eye on her. She’ll be safe.”

You pursed your lips before taking a deep breath.

“Alright, then I’ll send a letter to Margaery first thing in the morning,” you said. “She’s in King’s Landing, she should be able to help Sansa.”

He tilted his head.

“Margaery Tyrell?”

“Do you know another Margaery?”

“Your best friend whom you’re angry at?”

“It doesn’t matter whether I’m angry at her or not,” you said. “At the end of the day, I trust her with my life. We both know what’s important and when to put aside disagreements, she’s never going to deny me if I ask her for a favor.”

“Even after what happened?”

“Don’t underestimate her loyalty to me, or mine to her,” you said. “Trust me. If I need help, she’ll help.”

“I’ll never understand you two,” he muttered. “And I still think you’re worrying for nothing and Sansa will be fine, but very well. Write to her if it’ll put your heart at ease.”

“Hey.” Jon’s voice reached you and you looked over your shoulder to find him smiling. The sight seemed to have taken Robb by surprise as much as you, because he scoffed a laugh.

“Did Theon get maimed?” he asked. “How come you’re smiling?”

“Uncle Benjen is here.”

Robb’s eyes widened. “Really?”

“Wait, Benjen Stark does exist?” you asked, looking between him and Jon, and Robb nodded fervently.

“Our uncle. He’s the First Ranger of the Night’s Watch.”

You were guessing that was an impressive title in the North, from the proud tone of Robb’s voice.

“Come,” Robb added. “I must introduce you to him, he’s amazing.”

“I mean to be honest, I doubt introductions are needed,” you pointed out, drawing chuckles out of both brothers. “I feel like I know him already.”

“Yeah, maybe—” Robb paused. “Maybe don’t mention the…”

“Name issue?” you asked and exchanged glances with Jon who all but read your mind, because you both shook your heads at the same time.

“No way.”

“Aye, he’s gonna hear it. If not from her, then from me.”

“Great,” Robb grumbled as you all started walking. “It was worth the try. And just so you both know, I do not like this alliance.”

[54nboo]

"hotel california." bucky barnes.

summary: you’re a runaway and his truck has broken down. the only thing you two have in common is that you’re both staying in a shitty motel. you have three days to try to convince him to take you all the way to california, and three days to decide whether or not you can trust a stranger more than the place you ran from.

pairing: trucker!bucky barnes x fem!runaway!reader

word count: 30.5k................. im so sorry guys it drags a bit

content contains: 18+ content— smut. porn with way too much plot, slowburn(?) not really, age gap (bucky is early fourties, reader is early twenties minimum), strangers to lovers, mentions of an abusive boyfriend, sambucky mention 😛, creepy man, mentions of gun use, pet names (princess, sweetheart, etc), fem!masturbation, dry humping, boobies, fem!oral, unprotected PinV, basic sex stuff

authors note: hi guys ;P i am back. take this monster as a reward for your patience with me. this idea and the plot came to me at 10pm on a friday night. i was staring at the last picture on the moodboards and i was possessed by something evil and a little freaky. i was genuinely in a flow state… imagine jeffree star organising that eyeshadow and then shane dawson saying oh oh oh in the background that was my vibes.

you've never really liked highways.

they were far too big and still so small at the same time. they were barren and isolating, almost metaphorical in a way you can't quite name; but even though you find they take more than they give, you find escape in route 66.

it stretches and stretches, a torn grey ribbon pulled tight against the ground, disappearing against the horizon. every mile looks exactly the same as the last. its the same yellow lines and the same broken guardrails, the same low hills and the same signs that promise towns that you never seem to ever reach.

it all feels like a big circle that you can't escape, and from the passenger seat of a stranger's car, it certainly feels endless.

the window is half-open, just enough for the wind to tangle in your hair and carry in the smell of gasoline and dry asphalt. the car hums beneath you, the steady rhythm you've been enduring for the past seven hours constant enough that it almost lulls you into forgetting where you are or WHY you're really doing this at all.

but you remember. you always remember.

the car you sit in is a rented SUV. it smells faintly of sunscreen, beef jerky, and the sour tang of someone who hasn't showered in a couple of days. the glovebox is full of old batteries, a few maps of america, and fast food wrappers. in the front, a cassette tape rattles quietly in the stereo, the sound of bruce springsteen's voice filling the cab, loud enough to be heard, but still quiet enough that nobody has to yell.

there's one person in the drivers seat and two in the back, their voices overlapping like they've been traveling together long enough to finish each other's sentences. you dont know their names yet, and you don't think you'll ever learn them, but you can tell by the way they talk that they met on the road— friends made at rest stops, gas station restrooms, motels with peeling wallpaper, and— like you— on the side of the road.

they'd seen you on the side of the road in missouri with your thumb stuck out and a bag that fit your entire life slung over your shoulder. they'd picked you up with no hesitation with the simple explanation of 'that was us once', and you fit in the passenger seat like it was made for you.

"dude, seriously, stop singin'." the woman in the back groans, her plea directed to the man driving the car. "you're gonna blow our ears out if you keep tryin' to duet springsteen."

the driver scoffs, "come on. you know you love it. admit it."

"you sound like a dying dog. nothing to love about that." the man in the back seat chimes in, his arms crossed against his chest. "put my mixtape in and we'll see what real music is."

the woman in the backseat narrows her eyes. "sorry, but nobody wants to listen to ten hours of duran duran's best hits either."

"oooh, burn!" the driver snorts from the front seat, glancing into the rear-view mirror to catch a glimpse of his friend's defeated face. "i think that officially made you the least popular person in the car."

you watch them out of the corner of your eye, sometimes finding yourself glancing in the rear-view mirror just to see what they're doing. they're loud and messy and a little corny, but a part of it is comforting. you say nothing and find peace in their noise.

"hey." the man in the back says suddenly, attention diverted towards you now. "is this your first time riding like this? spending hours in the car with people you don't know driving across america?"

you blink a few times before glancing over your shoulder. the attention is a little sudden, and it takes you a moment to gather your thoughts. your thumb brushes against the fabric of your pants, a small and unconscious anchor.

"i only started doing it when i first decided to leave chicago." you tell them, your voice only slightly louder than the hum of the music. "it was more impulsive than anything."

"huh..." the driver tilts his head as he sneaks a glance at you.  "you dont look like someone who just throws themselves out there without a plan."

you shrug, keeping your eyes on the dark streaking asphalt outside. "i didn't think i was that type of person either." you mutter.

the man in the backseat hums in acknowledgment, but then leans forwards again like one question wasn't enough. "why are you on the road? whats the story?"

you hear a slap of flesh against leather, and you can only assume that the woman had hit the man on the arm. "what is this, twenty one questions? let the lady breathe!"

"it's fine." you say quickly, almost hesitantly. "i just... needed to get away from home for a while. packed up what i could and i don't plan on going back there anytime soon."

the man in the back leans back with a thoughtful hum. "yeah, i get that. sometimes moving's better than being stuck."

the driver perks up in his seat, eyes wide like he's forgotten his keys at home. "i forgot to ask, but where were you headed?"

you hesitate. for a moment, you consider lying, and then you consider not saying anything at all. you dont know these people and your answer would do nothing but satiate their thirst for stories of the road; but something about the way the car hums beneath you and the way that the wind tunnels down your sleeve makes it easier than usual to let a small piece of yourself slip.

"i'm going west." you finally say. "california."

the woman smiles like you've given her the perfect answer. "that's the spirit. the road likes it when you don't stop movin'."

you manage a small humourless smile as you turn back to the window. california sits in your mind like a red pin on a map of america. its more of a fantasy than anything solid. you dont have an address or a plan that makes much sense when spoken out loud, and with nothing more than the clothes on your back, your duffel bag, and the certainty that if you keep moving west, something has to change eventually.

and almost like a light in the pitch black darkness, a neon glow flickers up ahead. slicing through the amber orange haze of the sunset, a sign that reads 'HOTEL CALIFORNIA' comes into view, and you find yourself following it even as the car passes, your head turning to watch it disappear into the darkness behind you. the letters shine like a signal, a promise, a miracle like an oasis in the desert, and you would be stupid to ignore it.

your hand braces against the car door as you push yourself up in your seat, your other hand tightening around the strap of your duffel almost instinctively. you turn back to the front of the car, brows knitting together as you lean down and zip open your duffel.

"do you think you could drop me off at that hotel california? the sign said it should be about five miles down the road." you ask.

you reach down and riffle through the unorganised mess in your bag and pull out your wallet. its scuffed from years of use and it pops open the moment you press in the buckle. the cards inside rustle around as you count what cash you have, thumb running over the notes just to make sure it's all there.

the driver glances down at you, his eyes scanning over your alarming amount of money you have. "sick of the car life already, drifter?"

you nod as you shove your wallet back into your duffel, a small smile on your face. "i think i need to stand on solid ground for longer than an hour. my body's forgotten what it feels like to be stationary."

the woman smirks. "that's fair. even the best road warriors need a pit stop sometimes. can't be movin' forever. we can spare five miles for our new friend, can't we?"

the driver nods like it's the easiest question he's ever had to answer. "yes ma'am. hotel california, here we come."

and just like that, the road stops stretching endlessly forwards and instead starts narrowing in on a single glowing sign that promised the hope of a new beginning and a moment to rest your feet on solid ground after what felt like a lifetime of running. at least for tonight, the road can wait.

you clutch your duffel bag straps, letting your eyes linger on the motel as it grows larger by the second. the neon light that stands in the front shines against the darkened sky, spitting orange and teal light across the windshield. and after a few minutes, the indicator starts blinking and the SUV swerves to the left, the vehicle shifting as it pulls into the carpark of the motel.

gravel crunches under the tires, and the hum of the engine drops into a softer sigh, like the car itself is exhaling. a few lonely streetlights cover the area in a soft glow and the motel looms just in front of the car— low, wide, and tired-looking, its paint peeling off of the walls and the roof shingles threatening to fall off of the roof.

you hesitate for a moment before opening the door, like you're waiting for permission you don't need. the night air slips in as soon as it clicks open and you hope out, duffel bag following close behind you and your feet finally touching solid ground. it feels strange after hours of motion, but you find comfort in the smell of dust and warm pavement, like the road has finally let you go.

you turn back, glancing at the people in the car— at their messy hair, at their lopsided smiles, at their clothes that haven't been washed in god knows how long— and you can't help but feel grateful. they didn't have to stop for you or give you a seat in their journey across america, but they did it anyways, and that feels bigger than anything you could possibly say.

your hand grips the side of the door like you're unsure of what to say. finally, you settle on "i really appreciate you guys stopping for me. i'm sorry for just... ditching you for a motel—"

"hey, it's all good. don't let us keep you." the man in the backseat tells you with a sincere smile. "if you need a real bed, then i say go for it. after all, seven hours in a car seat isn't the best for your back or for your mind."

the woman smiles, "just take care of yourself, alright?"

"yeah, and if it's anything like the song, just try not to get stuck in the there forever, alright?" the driver jokes, and you meet him with a weak laugh.

you nod, a smile on your face as you manage a small "thanks for everything" before finally closing the door, and the click of it sounds louder than it should. they drive off with a waving hand out of the window, and now you're all alone in the outskirts of glen rio, texas with nothing but the weight of your life on your shoulders.

the night air is warm and dry, carrying the smell of dirt and the sound of vehicles passing by on route 66. the front office glows dimly through the glass windows, the single LED light flickering like it's considering giving up too. a vending machine on the other end of the motel and the ventilations on the rooftop fight for title of loudest noise in the quiet. a rusted water tower stands neglected on the far side of the property, there are no other cars in the parking lot apart from a beat-up pickup truck parked along two spaces, it's paint sun-bleached and chipped, and you can only assume it belongs to the person at the front desk.

somewhere in the distant, there's a bang. a dog barks and the noise echoes in the desert. the world feels thin out here— stretched wide and empty— and you feel so very small inside of it.

you hesitate for a second, eyes lingering on the motel, before you shift your duffel higher up on your shoulder and head towards the office. the concrete is warm beneath your shoes, still holding the heat from the day, and the closer you get, the louder the hum of the lights becomes— a thin, tired buzz that seeps into your bones.

the door squeals as you tug it open, the rubbing lining along the frame sticking before giving way. cool recycled air washes over you as you step into the office, and the sound of the door shutting cuts through the silence of the room.

the office is small. cramped. a long counter runs along one wall, scratched and worn down by years of borrowed keys and elbows. behind it, a lanky middle aged man wearing glasses sits slouched in a swivel chair, his face half-lit by the glow of his ancient monitor. there's a small radio that sits beside him that plays music from the local radio station, a voice and a guitar that blur into the hum of the lights, and you find it incredibly hard to ignore the smell of lemon air freshener and moist carpet.

the man takes a long moment to really register you and your presence— the bag slung over your shoulder, the dust on your shoes and your clothes, the way you're standing just inside of the doorway like you're not sure whether or not you're meant to be there— and he smiles, dental issues on display for you to see.

"evening." he says eventually, head tilting upwards just slightly like he's trying to take you in, "what can i do for ya?"

"hi—" you step towards the desk, your weight shifting as you lean against the counter. you look at the name on his faded name tag, "trevor. i was wondering if you had any rooms available?"

trevor doesn't answer right away. he just looks at you like you're a pretty thing in the wrong place, and his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. his eyes trace over you slowly— your face, your bag, the way your fingers wrap around the straps like you might run— and then he leans back in his chair, hands reaching up to rest on the back of his head.

"yeah." he finally says. "got a few."

you dont like the way he says it.

"okay." you blink. "how much would it be for a week?"

"depends what kinda room you want." trevor makes an odd noise with his mouth as he leans forwards, something like sucking in his teeth and popping his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "you by yourself?"

you hesitate, trying to push down the odd feeling that starts to well in the pit of your stomach, but you nod. "yeah. just me."

his eyes flick over you again, slower this time, and the corner of his mouth lifts into something you'd barely call a smile.

"just you, huh." trevor repeats like he's letting the fact settle. then he sighs and twists in his chair, "alright, give me a sec to pull up the prices."

he turns back to the monitor, fingers moving over the equally as ancient keyboard, and you try to ignore the porn pop-up that he quickly clicks out of and the solitaire match that he's losing. each key he presses fills the silence, loud in the silent office.

click. click. click. then—

blinding headlights sweep through the office, the small room flooding with harsh white light. for a moment, it's so bright that you can't even see a foot in front of you, and you instinctively shield your eyes. when your vision adjusts, you can make out the outline of a massive semi-truck rolling to a stop in the lot, tires crunching into the gravel and engine growling loud enough for you to wonder whether it's meant to be that loud.

it idles near the far end of the motel, headlights still blazing, long shadows cast against the walls. the cab door opens, and you can barely make out the figure of a tall, broad shouldered silhouette stepping out. he pauses for a moment, one hand resting against the cab before he disappears into the darkness of the parking lot.

there's a small, metallic clank, then another, the sound almost hesitant, like he's trying to figure something out or fix something.

but a grating voice brings you out of your head.

"y'know, we don't usually get much foot traffic out here." trevor's lips smack, eyes flicking over to yours in a way that makes your skin crawl. "couple'a hippies and cross country truckers, but nothin' like you."

"who wouldn't want to spend a night in a place like this?" you murmur with a hit of playful sarcasm lacing your voice.

"you don't gotta sugarcoat it, darlin. this place is— and always will be— a shithole." trevor sighs as he rests an elbow on the desk, a cheeky smile growing on his face. "the only thing that makes up for it is the company. if you get lonely and need someone to talk to, i—"

"yeah, i don't think i'll be talking to anyone much tonight." you quickly and bluntly cut him off. you dont really have time to deal with creeps right now.

he chuckles, the noise low and almost wet, like he's amused and disappointed all at once. "we'll see about that, sugar."

trevor goes back to clicking away at his keyboard. you're picking at your nails when you feel the heat on the side of your face cool, and you turn your head to find that the semi truck's headlights are off now. your attention drifts back to the clanking of metal and the tall silhouette that moves around in the dark.

you wonder if you'll see the face that's swallowed by shadow. you wonder if he'll come into the office and save you from the creepy receptionist. you wonder if he'll be equally as creepy and if you'll need to sleep with a weapon in hand.

the squeak of trevor's chair brings you back to reality.

"right. single room's cheapest. one bed, small. got a pull-out sofa if you decide you don't wanna spend the week all alone." trevor drags the word, tongue running along his teeth. "but if you want a bigger bed for your beauty sleep and a bathroom for all of your girly things, then we do have a double."

your brow quirks. "the single room doesn't have a bathroom?"

"nope, so i'm assumin' you're gonna pick the double. it's two-fifty for the week." trevor says, "cash or card, sugar?"

"cash." you reply. "and don't call me sugar."

you ignore the huff trevor lets out. you zip open your bag, riffling through it before pulling out your wallet. you pop it open and pull out exactly two hundred and fifty dollars. you set the cash down on the counter and slide it towards trevor.

trevor's eyes widen just slightly as he does a faint double take. his hand slaps against the counter as he takes the money, counting it. "right on the dot. where'd a lil' thing like you get all this cash?"

"work." you simply reply. a stranger doesn't need to know anything about you or your money, and you're not about to give away more information than needed.

trevor hums. he pops open the register and places the cash into the tray with a small metallic clink. then he turns around in his chair, head cranes towards you like an idea had just popped into his head.

"y'know—" he pauses, brows raising just slightly as he leans closer to you. the closer he gets, the more he smells of tonsil stones and tooth decay, and you swear you can see a thought forming in those bloodshot eyes of his. "if you wanted the room a lil' cheaper, you could come around the desk and show me what that pretty little mouth can do—"

"i'll pay the two-fifty." you cut in, voice firm, eyes meeting his and trying to keep him from crossing the line any further. "and i'll take my key now."

the annoyed groan that leaves the man sends a chill down your spine. trevor reaches under the counter and pulls out a tarnished room key with a small plastic tag. he holds it out for you to grab, but just as you do, he snaps it back like a predator played with cornered prey.

"don't think you can just walk around here with that attitude, lil miss." he mutters, low and rough, head tilted down enough that his eyes bore into yours. "just because you've got a pretty face doesn't mean things always go your way. you pay, but sometimes... you owe."

the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end and the pit in your stomach almost comes up as vomit. you narrow your eyes at the sick grin he has on his face, about to tell the asshole to go to hell, but the squeal of rubber lining and metal screeching stops you.

the office door swings open and slams shut, harsh and sudden, and it catches both your and trevor's attention. the two of you turn your heads towards the figure who had just walked in— a tall, broad shouldered man, no doubt the one you'd seen outside working on his truck in the shadows.

with a shaved head, a thick scruffy beard, and a torn denim jacket, the man moves through the room with quiet confidence. there's grit in his posture, his face tired and rugged, with soft lines on his forehead and a shadowed jawline thats strong but worn. he's the type of man you'd see in a movie and be intimidated by, but this man felt different.

the man doesn't smile, nor does he speak. he simply looks between the two of you like he's figuring out what he's just walked in on. before anyone can react, you lean forwards and snatch the room key from trevor's hand. he awkwardly rubs his hands on his oily shirt like he's suddenly uncomfortable.

the receptionist gives you a fake smile as he ushers you away, voice dropping with false charm. "room one, sugar. best room in the house."

you scoff as you walk off, your shoulder just barely clipping the man's arm as you stomp past. the contact is almost nothing— a brush of denim against your sleeve— but it sends a strange shiver up your spine anyways. you push the door open and the night air hits you instantly, a soothing feeling after being trapped in that stuffy office.

as you cross the lot towards the room, you glance back, and through the office window, you see him.

the man stands exactly where you had left him, broad frame filling out the office, half shadowed by the dim yellow lights, his head slightly tilted as he cranes his neck down to watch you. not in the way trevor had watched you. not hungry or leering, but with curiosity, like he's trying to decide something, and you can feel his eyes boring into your back until you reach your door.

the key sticks in the lock for a moment before you twist the doorknob. you shoulder the door open and step inside.

a single double bed sits pressed against the wall, its blankets thick and vaguely floral in pattern, the colours dulled from years of washing. a small nightstand holds an even smaller table lamp on top, a worn bible sitting on the lower shelf. the bathroom light flickers on the far end of the room, and you wonder how long it's been on for. the carpet feels flat and stiff beneath your shoes, and the air smells of moth balls and fruity room spray that feels like it's trying to cover up the scent of something old and damp.

the room is fine. its nothing special, but it's dry, it's quiet, and it has a door that locks. that's about the nicest thing you can say about it.

you drop your duffel bag at the end of the bed and kick off your shoes. you peel your jacket from your arms and throw it over the backrest of the small dinning set chair before sinking down into the mattress. it creaks under your weight, but it holds. exhaustion settles over you all at once, your eyes feeling heavy now that you've stopped moving.

you dont even bother changing. you just lie back, stare at the stained popcorn ceiling, and then let your eyes fall shut.

sleep comes fast— or at least you think it does.

some time later— you're not sure how long— a sound pulls you back to the edge of consciousness. you think it's a door. it softly opens and closes. your eyes stay shut, but your mind sharpens in on the noise. you hear footsteps, slow and heavy, and then the low murmur of movement through the thin wall next to you in room two.

you frown slightly into the pillow as the noise comes to a slow stop. the trucker, you assume. the man with the shaved head and the quiet eyes. the one who had indirectly saved you from the advances of the creepy receptionist.

you roll onto your side, tuck your legs in a little closer, and tell yourself not to think about it. you're safe, you're inside, and you're not on the road anymore. nobody is going to find you.

eventually, the sounds fade and the motel settles into silence, and when sleep takes you, you welcome the old friend gladly.

the next day, you wake up slowly. not with an alarm or a bad dream, but with a sound— a dull, metallic bang.

your eyes crack open, unfocused and strained in the low light. light bleeds in around the edges of the frilly curtains, brighter than you expect. you place a hand against your eyes, and for a moment, you're disorientated and heavy limbed, your body still weighing on the mattress like it's trying to hold onto sleep.

you blink and the sound comes again— metal against metal, constant and loud as it echoes through the empty parking lot— and your brain catches up to your body.

you groan quietly and roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling before pushing yourself upright. your joints ache in a way that comes with too much rest and your head hurts in a way that comes with not enough. you rub a hand over your face and glance at the blinking alarm clock in the bedside table.

it's late. not morning late; afternoon late. you'd slept through most of the day and woken up with a grogginess that makes it feel like you never really slept at all, but you give yourself a little leeway— you'd been awake for a day and a half beforehand and this was your first proper bed in a while.

your stomach gurgles, void of any proper food. you get up, tug on your shoes, shove your room key into your pocket, and step out into the heat.

the day has already settled over the motel, the texas sun bleaching the colour out of everything. it still smells like dust and hot concrete, but now there's a faint smell of gasoline and soldered metal. you impatiently make your way to the vending machine you'd spotted last night, the humming getting louder as you near it.

the semi truck is still there, the hood up now, the massive front tilted forwards like a jaw. the man from last night is crouched besides it, his hands and shirt darkened with grease and dirt as he works. tools are scattered at his feet— wrenches, screwdrivers, things with long handles and odd contraptions— and a dirty rag is thrown over his knee.

he looks different in the daylight— still intimidating, still broad and still quiet, but you can see the tiredness in him. the set of his shoulders as he tightens a bolt, the slow and careful way he moves like he's trying to conserve energy, the way he huffs out a breath whenever he meets a particularly stubborn piece of metal. he pauses, wipes his hands on the rag, then leans back to look at whatever he's working on with a slight frown like it's not cooperating and hasn't been for a while.

the vending machine beeps obnoxiously loud at you.

its only when he turns his head just slightly to spot the source of the noise and he catches your eye that you realise you're staring. you turn back quickly and begin feeding your coins into the vending machine, awkwardly pressing on the first button you can see, and wait for the dull thud of something half edible to drop.

you're almost disappointed in yourself when a bottle of old fanta makes its way through the machine instead of food, but you pull it out anyways. the cap hisses when you pop it open. you take a sip more out of obligation than enjoyment. its warm, flat, and too sweet. you take another sad sip and let your eyes wander around.

there isn't much to look at.

the motel stretches out in a long line, sun bleached doors, curtains drawn in most windows, and outdated signs as far as the eye can see. you skip over trevor's badly parked car and focus more on the heat waves that hover just above the ground, and just beyond that, there's a hum of cars passing by every so often. you're about to turn around and go back to your room, but your eye catches on a pink sign that says 'pool'.

it hangs haphazardly on a light post on the far end of the property, the arrow beneath it pointing to a pathway between two buildings with cracked pavement. the sign is barely illegible, the paint faded and cracked, but curiosity gets the better of you and you follow it.

the path eventually opens up into a small, fenced in area behind the motel, and you find that there actually is a pool— or at least a poor excuse of one. the water inside is cloudy, a dull bluish green with leaves and a few empty plastic water bottles floating on the surface. the tiles that surround the pool are either cracked or gone completely, and just beyond that, a few plastic lounge chairs are stacked awkwardly on top of one another, sun bleached and warped from age.

you step closer to the edge and peer down into the water. its so murky that you can't even see your own reflection. alas, you try to squint through at the glare of the sun, but then you feel someone behind you, your shoulders tensing before you even turn around.

"thing hasn't been used in years."

you turn. trevor stands there, hands on his hips and squinting at the pool like he owns it. you hadn't even heard him sneaking up on you, and the thought of it happening again makes you queasy.

"i figured." you mutter.

you take a small step backwards just as trevor steps forwards, his head craned down towards the pool like this is the first time he's seen it in years. he kicks a pebble and it lands into the water with a thick splashing noise before he turns to you.

"used to be nice though. families'd come during the summer. kids'd scream and they'd barbecue. used to get a lot of action." his eyes flick to yours, "not like that anymore."

you nod even though you don't really care.

trevor smacks his lips. "what are you doin' round back?" he asks, the question a little pointed and slightly accusatory.

you straighten a bit, gesturing vaguely. "just looking."

"at the pool?"

"at whatever was back here." you say, already turning away from him. "i was bored."

you start walking back towards the front of the motel before he can respond, but the scuff of shoes against pavement behind you tells you that he's close behind and that the conversation is far from over.

"i get that. not much to do round here." he says easily like this is completely casual and like he isn't matching your pace too well. "but we got a little kitchen just beside the front office if you wanna heat up or cook your food. microwave, coffee pot, workin' sink, that kinda stuff."

"okay."

"and you can probably tell, but housekeepin' doesn't run regularly anymore," he continues, "so if you need fresh towels or soap or anything, you just gotta swing by the front desk and ring that little bell. i'll sort it out for ya."

"i'll manage."

"independent type, huh?" he chuckles softly, and then— almost like he has a death wish— he reaches out and places his clammy hand on your shoulder like you're just an old pal. "i like that about you, sugar."

your body reacts before your brain does. your shoulder jerks back, pulling away from his touch, and you turn to him with a glare sharp enough to kill.

"don't touch me and don't call me sugar."

trevor blinks, caught off guard. his hand hangs limply in the air for a moment before it dramatically drops back to his side. he scoffs, hand returning to his hips.

"alright, alright—" he says, lips pursing like you've personally offended him. "no need to get snappy with me."

you don't reply. you just turn and walk away.

trevor stalls for a second, hands on his hips like he's deciding whether he should follow you or just let you go. the clanking from earlier has stopped, but you barely notice it through the ringing in your ears and the crunch of gravel underneath your shoes.

"we also got laundry service if you wanna change outta those rags." trevor calls from behind you, hand cupped around his mouth to make himself louder. "maybe get a new shirt on— it doesn't do much for your figure!"

you ignore the jab, keeping your eyes straight ahead as you reach your room. you reach into your pocket for your keys and pull them out, but your hands shake just enough for you to miss the lock on the first try, the key scraping uselessly against the painted wood. you manage to slip the key in, but then—

"everything alright over there?" a low, calm voice calls out from the far end of the lot.

you pause halfway through turning the key. your shoulders tense before you can fully control it, your breath catching just slightly as the words sink in. you've never heard his voice, but there's only three people here and it's not hard to guess who it belongs to. you glance over your shoulder, half expecting him to be speaking to you, only to realise that his eyes aren't on you at all; they're on trevor.

the trucker has gone still beside the hood of his truck. the rag that once rested on his knee is now thrown over his shoulder and his hands rest on his hips as he takes in the scene in front of him. his posture is calm, almost casual as he glares at trevor like he knows exactly what he's looking at.

"all is good, sir." trevor says quickly, with a thin smile and a weak thumbs up, "jus' helpin' a guest get settled."

the trucker doesn't look away. "doesn't sound like it."

the words aren't loud or aggressive. they're calm in the same way that his posture is calm, and somehow that makes them carry more weight than if he'd raised his voice at all.

trevor shifts in his spot. its subtle and barely noticeable, but you see it anyway— in the way his shoulders drops, in the way his cheeks dimple into an awkward smile, in the way his hands flap around like he's searching for the words.

"everything's fine." he insists with a forced smile. he turns to you and gestures to you like you're supposed to back him up. "isn't that right, lil miss?"

but you don't reply. you twist the key and shoulder the door open, stepping into the room and shutting it behind you. you lean against the door for a second just enough to catch your breath before throwing the fanta bottle onto the bed.

through the thin curtains, the motel parking lot stretches out like a stage. the trucker and trevor are standing in what looks like a stand-off, their bodies still and eyes locked. there's a few words exchanged, but you can barely hear what's being said before trevor flaps his hand once and turns to walk away.

you watch as the trucker shakes his head, and then— just slightly— he tilts his head, and you swear he's looking right at you. your chest tightens and you press yourself a little closer to the wall beside you.

until long, the stranger goes back to working, bending back over the hood of his semi, the metallic clanking noise breaking the tension, and for the first time since you arrived here, you dont feel like you're the first person to realise something is off about this place.

you spend the next three days doing all that you can to bunker down in your motel room and avoid any and all interaction with trevor.

you keep the curtains drawn. you reuse the same towel over and over again just so you don't have to face him. you time your trips to the vending machine with the noises outside of your door. you listen for footsteps, for whistling, for anything that signals his presence before you even think of placing your hand on the door handle.

although it helps, you find that the isolation keeps your mind running rampant with no distraction from it. everything you'd once pushed down floods to the forefront of your mind until they feel like they're echoing— the reason why you'd run from home, the reason why you'd chosen to ditch the travellers, the reason why you're even here at all. its an endless cycle of staring at the roof and spiralling into thoughts that you can't escape from.

and by the third day, your hunger overpowers your caution. the vending machine had stopped offering anything desirable and your stomach has been gnawing at itself for hours by now. later that day just as the sun had set, you find yourself sneaking off to the motel kitchen with the hunger of a man starved, and just like the rest of the motel, you find that it's anything but special.

the fluorescent lights above poorly illuminated the room. the linoleum floor is cracked and sticky with every hesitant step you take. the contact paper on the cupboards is peeling, and they smell of dust and mildew. there's an odd mould stain on the roof in the corner of the kitchen that watches you as you step inside. the refrigerator hums in the corner and the counters are clean apart from a thin layer of dust and— trevor was right— there was a microwave and a coffee pot and a working sink, but theyre so outdated that you aren't even sure whether they function properly.

the first thing you do is inspect the kettle. it's dusty and it's text a little faded, but otherwise useful. you brush the thick layer of dust from the metal and bring it over to the sink, humming softly to yourself as it fills with water. the stove flicks on— surprisingly— with little hesitation, and you waste no time in placing the appliance onto the flames.

you wander towards the kitchen cabinets in hopes of finding something edible. the last proper meal you had was a week ago, and even then, it wasn't much more than something to keep you upright.

most of the shelves are empty or packed with things that have long outlived their usefulness— dusty imploded bean cans, jars of preserves that weren't preserved well, and cardboard boxes full of cereal that were certainly stale by now. your stomach growls anyways as you rifle through the mess, your hand landing on a cup of instant ramen, the kettle whistling as you do so.

the ramen container is slightly dusty and the use-by date had passed a handful of years ago, but it sat like treasure in the palm of your hand. desperate times count for desperate measures, sure, but you really did not want to eat red beans smothered in crystallised strawberry jam anytime soon.

you peel open the foil of the ramen container, empty the sachets, pull the kettle from the stove, and begin filling the container with the boiling water. the faint smell of sauce and dried vegetables mixes with steam, and for a moment, the kitchen feels like its yours; a small refuge in a motel that otherwise reeks of tired paint and decay.

but then the door squeaks open behind you and you freeze, hand hovering over your food as you pray in your mind that it isn't trevor. you tilt your head just enough to glance over your shoulder, and the small breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant.

it's the trucker.

he steps inside the room with the same quiet confidence he's been holding onto ever since he pulled into the lot. he holds a plastic container in one hand and a set of plastic utensils in the other, and for a moment, he takes the time to glance at you. he doesn't say hello or really acknowledge you in any way; he simply moves towards the microwave on the other side of the kitchen like this is his own home and opens the door, sliding in his food, pressing a few buttons, and then leaning back against the counter as he waits, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.

neither of you speak, but you're sure you're both aware of each other. it's a constant battle against your brain to try not to stare at him and watch his every move, not because he's threatening, but because he's unfamiliar— unlike trevor, he's a presence you haven't learnt how to place just yet.

and as you continue trying to make your old ramen soak up the broth, you hear his boots press against the old linoleum as he heads towards the table— the only table in the room— and place his keys and his utensils onto the surface with a soft clink like he hasn't even considered whether or not you might have wanted it. its a small table with only two chairs, but he takes up the space in a way that makes it feel like there's only room for one.

so you stay where you are, hip pressing into the kitchen counter as you stab at your noodles with a fork, watching as the steam lazily curls from the cup, and pretending you're not waiting for him to move.

but he doesn't.

the microwave beeps three times, and the trucker steps forwards and pulls at the handle. the smell of plastic and artificial food spills into the kitchen, and he wastes no time in tearing the plastic seal off and tossing it haphazardly into the trash before setting it down onto the table, pulling a chair out, and sitting down to indulge.

he eats in silence like it's all he knows. his eyes are on his food and his plastic fork scratches at the plastic container, his shoulders loose and his jaw working as he makes quick work of the microwaved slop.

eventually, you turn— just a little, just enough to check whether he's still there. you try not to watch him, but you fail, and thats when your eyes meet his.

he's already looking at you. not in a sharp way, or in a way that feels judgemental, but more like he's observing you. his gaze almost feels the same way as your first night when his semi truck pulled into the motel parking lot and the high beams blinded you, and in a funny way, you almost feel like a deer in headlights.

his gaze flicks from you to the empty chair across from him, then back at you. there's a small shift in his composure— the pause of his jaw as he scavenges for food in his teeth, the scoot of his jean-clad butt in the squeaky metal chair, the cock of his head as he lets out the softest sigh you've ever heard— and then he moves.

he reaches out with his foot and nudges the other chair out by its leg. it scratches against the floor as he pushes it towards you, creating a space where there hadn't been one before. he lifts his chin in a gentle gesture towards it, lip jutting out just slightly.

"i don't bite." he simply says.

you hesitate. your fingers tighten just slightly against the warmth of the cup, your brain running through all the reasons why you shouldn't— all of the ways this could end horribly for you— before you suck in a soft breath, push off of the counter, and move towards the table anyways.

you take the seat across from him. the chair legs shift slightly as you sit, and the sound feels louder than it actually is in the silence of the kitchen. you dont bother tucking in your chair, afraid of invading his space, and the trucker goes back to eating like nothing has changed, his fork stabbing at various vegetables and chunks of artificial meats, eyes on the container in front of him; but not entirely.

every so often, his gaze finds you. he doesn't stare long enough to make it obvious, but his eyes find you frequently enough for you to wonder what he's looking for, and you have to pretend you don't feel it. you believe it's because he's checking on you, like maybe he's trying to figure out what someone like you is doing out in the middle of nowhere.

you shift under the weight of it, not uncomfortable, just hyperaware of it all— of yourself, of him, of the little space there is between you, and of the silence that surrounds you. it's something you didn't necessarily prepare for when you left your room a little while ago.

you continue swirling the noodle around the cup, putting off actually eating them. you dont know whether you should just get it over with and possibly be sick for the rest of the week or if you should just pour it down the sink and live off of stale vending machine chips.

eventually, the table creaks under his arms as the trucker sits back up and sets his fork against the side of his container. you pause at the sudden shift, eyes drifting slowly up to find that he's already looking at you— not in a way that feels invasive or creepy, but thoughtful, like he's trying to piece together the puzzle that is you instead of asking for answers out loud.

"you been on the road long?" he asks like its not even a question he really needs the answer to, but something to fill the silence.

there's a small raise of your brow as you huff out a small breath, the corner of your mouth twitching like you almost find his question funny. you stop stirring your noodles and let the fork sink into the cup.

"not long," you say, head tilting just slightly. "but it feels like it's been forever."

he hums quietly at that like he knows exactly what you're talking about, and you're sure he does. you can see it up close in the lines of his face, in the soft greying of his hair and his stubble, in the freckles surely painted on by the sun through his truck windows, and in the tiredness that sits heavy in his eyes as he nods.

"yeah," he says after a long moment. "roads'll do that to you."

he doesnt say anything after that. he simply shovels food into his mouth, quick but still neat like he hasn't lost interest in eating. a part of you thinks he's only invited you to sit for the company, and you appreciate the gesture for what it is, because you believe you needed it too.

your eyes flick to the dirty curtain-covered window without really meaning to— to where his truck sits out in the parking lot, the hood up more often than not. it sits in the dark, toolbox still on the ground beside it and a half-empty beer bottle laying on the ground next to that.

you decide to ask a question next; something to fill the silence that sits in between the two of you just like he did. 

"is there something wrong with your truck?" you ask, trying to seem casual and actually landing somewhere close to it. "i heard you working on it all day."

there's a second where you think you might've crossed an invisible line— asked something too personal or maybe been a little too demanding in your question. his fork pauses over his food, jaw working as he swallows what remains in his mouth. there's a small pause as he follows your eyes out to his truck before he gives you a half shrug.

"somethin' like that." he sighs like the topic is something that stresses him out. "she runs, but not as good as she used to. somethin' in the hood exploded back in shamrock and i've been tryin' to keep her alive long enough to get where i'm goin'."

you blink. "where are you headed?"

he glances at you, just briefly, like he's deciding whether or not the question is worth answering. the corner of his mouth tugs like he's in on some inside joke you aren't aware of.

"california. america's very own golden state."

his words land heavy as they leave his mouth, and your brain moves before any other part of you does.

california. warm. bright. somewhere that isn't here or home. somewhere thats still so, so far.

three days. that's all you have. three days before the cash you have tucked in your duffel bag grows thin, before trevor gets bolder and meaner and before you inevitably have to leave. you can't stay here and you know that. you dont have a car or a plan. you dont even have a general direction, just a need to keep moving; and suddenly, sitting across from you, is a man who is already doing exactly that.

you hesitate.

you shouldn't ask. you know you shouldn't. this is how people get into trouble— they trust sketchy strangers from dingy motels, follow their impulses, mistake a well-time coincidence as opportunity, and end up on the evening news as a missing person. it's something you know all too well and you're not going to leap into it headfirst.

you're smart and you know it. you'll come up with a plan and you'll stick to it. all you have to do is ration, stick to yourself, and try not to think about how three days is so much closer than you think.

so you keep your mouth shut and simply nod. your eyes fall back down to the neglected cup of ramen in your hands. it's gone lukewarm and a thin film has formed over the broth. the noodles finally suck up the liquid, but they swell into something soft and mushy and vaguely unappetising. you wouldnt even feed this to starving a stray animal.

the man's eyes briefly drop to the cup of ramen that sits in your hands. you stare at it like you dread even thinking about it, and he furrows his brows.

"you gonna eat that, or are you just gonna stare at it until it goes cold?"

"oh, it, uh... i was going to, but..." you grimace like watching the corn pieces swimming around in the soup has suddenly made you loose your appetite. "i'm not even sure if it's still edible."

"here," he motions gently for you to come closer, and you're confused for a moment before he points a finger vaguely at your mug of mediocre noodles. you slide it over and he wastes no time shovelling some of his food into yours. vegetables and meat sink into the soup. the gesture is sweet and you feel your stomach growl at the thought of having actual food for once.

he slides your cup back towards you, and you dare yourself to dip your fork back into the soup, stab at a floating piece of meat, and bring it to your mouth. you chew on it and swallow the bite, the warmth of it settling in your stomach like a small comfort.

"young girl like you has to eat food that hasn't been rottin' in a cabinet for god knows how long." he says, and then continues before you can respond, "trust me. i've been on the road long enough to know what malnutrition looks like."

you shovel another forkful of noodles into your mouth, ignoring the way the soup sloshes around in the cup and certainly sending droplets of the liquid into the air. you shake your head, half-amused and half-unnerved by how closely he seems to be watching you.

"thanks, but i'm not young." you manage between bites.

the low laugh that leaves his mouth catches you off guard.

"well, you definitely aren't old. skin's all plump and clean and you've still got all your teeth." he says, his voice low and almost teasing, eyes still glazing over you in a way that makes your stomach twist. "i've probably got tools in my truck older than you."

the way he says it makes all the noise you hear go silent. suddenly the soup that drips from your chin and the noodle hanging out of your mouth doesn't feel all that casual nor does it feel presentable. he's watching you like you're something he's never seen before, eyes steady and intent, and you're unsure what to do with all of the attention.

you hastily wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, clear your throat, and sit up a little in your chair. maybe a small part of you wants to prove him wrong— show him that you might be young but you're wise beyond your years— and you try to do so by fixing your posture and looking at least somewhat put together even with a cup of reasonable ramen in your hands.

it doesn't go unnoticed. if anything, it seems to catch his attention more.

his gaze lingers, but not in the way that trevor's did— not with hunger or entitlement— but with intrigue, like he's catching the shift in you and filing it away in his head. there's something softer in his expression now, a faint crease in his brows that you've only noticed just now as if you've just become a little more intriguing than he had first assumed.

he gently nods, curiosity trickling into his face. he leans forwards just slightly, elbows digging into the table. "what's your name?"

and the question hits you off guard even though you know it was inevitable.

for a moment, you consider dodging his question— lying, deflecting, keeping yourself small and unremarkable like you've been doing for days. it's not that you don't want to tell him, it's just that answering feels like you're giving this stranger a piece of yourself— a story, something to hold onto, something from your past that you'd been running from this entire time, and the reason you're here.

you turn your head, eyes flicking to the large crack in the middle of the kitchen's linoleum floor that sits split in two. it feels safer to look at something broken that isn't you. he takes your silence as an answer.

"that's alright. you don't owe me anythin'." he says as he leans back in his chair like he's trying to ease the pressure off of you without making a show of it. "my name's james, but you can call me bucky."

hm. he doesnt look like a james, but he sure as hell looks like a bucky.

you turn back to him with a turned lip. "what's bucky short for?"

"full name's james buchanan barnes. it was just a nickname my pa gave me that stuck." he says easily. then, like he's joking, he adds, "now you've got my full name just incase i try to pull somethin' on ya."

you huff softly, "how do i know you aren't lying about your name? i could come up with about fifty fake names right now, and you wouldnt know any better. criminals lie all the time."

he quirks a brow as he pops open the top of his coke bottle, the bubbles popping at the surface as he lifts it to his lips with a sneaky smile. "guess you just gotta trust me then, sweetheart."

you hum softly in acknowledgment, the faintest smile on your lips, fork scrapping at the bottom of the ramen cup for scraps. the food settles warmly in your stomach, and it reminds you that you're tired— really tired.

you stand, the empty ramen cup in your hand, and awkwardly brush your other hand on your pants before vaguely gesturing to the cracked kitchen door.

"i think i'm gonna head back." you tell him like you're unsure of what you should do. you don't know if he even cares, but it feels like the respectful thing to do.

bucky inhales a breath, the sound low and sharp, and it feels like you might've just pulled him from his thoughts. he reaches up and runs a hand over his head before nodding once. "s'pose that's fair. princess needs her beauty sleep."

you hesitate for a second, but a small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth despite yourself. "night, bucky."

he offers you a smile of his own, head tilting just slightly with a soft nod. "sleep tight, sweetheart."

you turn and push the kitchen door open, slipping into the night. the door creaks shut behind you as you tread through the parking lot, unaware of how long bucky sits there after you're gone, or how long he stares at the empty seat across from him like you might come back.

you've never been a great judge of character— you have the scars and the pain to prove it— but this man didn't seem bad, or at least didn't seem like an axe murderer, and unless you want to walk along the edge of route 66 with your thumb stuck out hoping that another car full of non-murderous travellers picks you up to take you to california, your only other bet is trying to hitch a ride with bucky.

and plus, there are worse ways to get to california than riding shotgun with a trucker who calls you princess and sweetheart.

the next morning doesn't come with any great revelation, and you wake with the same boring nothing. there's no obvious sign, no sudden clarity, no omnipresent voice from the universe telling you what to do. theres only the texas heat seeping through your room windows, pressing in in you like it wants you to stay and rot in your room.

the heat is so prevalent that at midday, you've already had about three showers in the dingy bathroom.

it doesnt help much. the water never gets quite cold, the shower head sprays water in every direction but yours, and the humidity clings to your skin before you even step out of the shower. the towel you'd received when you'd checked in had served you well, but now it smelt of dirty laundry and damp cloth, and no amount of air drying or shaking it out seems to fix that.

you stare at it for a second before deciding you're not desperate enough to use it again.

you get dressed into something that could battle the heat yet leave you covered enough when you inevitably have to face trevor and leave your room with your dirty towel tucked underneath your arm.

the lot shimmers in waves under the sun, radiating the kind of heat that you might think will melt the soles of your shoes.

unsurprisingly, bucky's already out there. his truck's hood is up as per usual, his tools scattered all around the front, and he's leaning over the engine with the focus of someone who's been at this for hours, and you could already tell by the metal-against-metal noises that he'd had been up before you'd even opened your eyes.

and the second you shut your door, the noise pulls him from his work.

his head turns to see the cause, and when he noticed it's you, he straightens like he's trying to get a better look at you. for a moment, the truck seems forgotten, his attention caught on the sight of you leaving your room with your little shorts and your towel tucked under your arm. he doesn't rush to get back to what he's doing, and his gaze lingers instead, taking you in like this is a rare pause he doesn't mind stretching out.

sweat darkens the front of his tank top, clinging to his body in a way that makes it clear that the heat is winning. the thin fabric is stretched across his chest, damp and heavy, tracing every muscle earned through years of labour rather than vanity. his jeans are stained with grease and grime from his work, and what little hair he has on his head sticks to his temple in small soft curls.

his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip almost like he's forgotten you can see him, a reflex born from the heat— or maybe something else entirely.

god, he looks good.

after a long moment, he straightens with a soft exhale, grips the hem, and pulls the tank over his head in an attempt to free himself of the wet fabric. the muscles in his arms flex with every move he makes, glistening under the texan sun, and the light catches the sheen of sweat that forms over every inch of his body. the fabric finally slips free and gets tossed over the hood of the truck, leaving him bare to the heat.

you nearly walk straight into the curb. the toe cap of your shoe bumps against the concrete, jolting you from your wandering thoughts. you only barely manage to catch yourself, the towel sliding slightly from your arm, and bucky knows exactly what's happened.

he tilts his head just slightly, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what's he's doing. his eyes flick briefly to the curb you'd almost stumbled over, then back to you, a mix of amusement and some genuine concern flooding his face.

"you alright, princess?" he calls out, his voice low but carrying easily over the heat-laced lot, and you realise you've been staring like a madman. 

"i'm fine." you awkwardly reply, and he hums.

you break eye contact and pick up the pace towards the front office. sweat prickles along your skin, and the warmth of the sun suddenly feels more invasive than it does comforting. you dont even know if youre sweating because of the heat or because of him. 

you hadn't expected this when he'd sat in front of you in a baggy denim jacket last night in the kitchen. where had he been hiding all of... that? the broad shoulders? that lean muscle? the six pack? it had all been covered by fabric and shadow, and you almost want to drop to your knees and thank mother nature for deciding to work in perfect harmony to reveal bucky like this.

you skid to a stop in front of the front office door. the handle squeals as you push down on it and shoulder the door open, and a cold blast of air hits you— blessed, if a little stale. it smells faintly of mold, the result of a leaky unit, and of vinegar potato chips.

trevor is there slouched in his chair like he hasn't moved since the first time you met him. his eyes flick up as you step inside, and with a lazy smile and lopsided glasses, he turns to face you like he's excited to see you.

"hey, you." he drawls with a hint of surprise in his voice. "thought you'd never come back 'round to see me."

"you said you handle the laundry and all that stuff?" you recount, your voice stiff and to the point. you place your folded towel onto the counter and slide it towards him, the action swift. "i'd like a new towel, please. maybe two."

trevor smiles, a yellow tooth poking out from his lips. "i do do the laundry. i can fix up a towel or two for you, gorgeous. can't have the little princess walking around here with a dirty towel now, can we?"

you don't reply, nor do you give him the pleasure of seeing you smile. the rhetorical question hangs in the air between you, practically gathering dust as it remained unanswered. the nickname doesnt roll off of his tongue nearly as good as it does when it comes from buckys—

oh my god. stop thinking about that man. 

trevor leans back in his chair with his shoulders raised. "c'mon, that was funny. you gotta admit that i'm the best thing about this dump."

"the best thing about this dump is the air conditioning." you quickly retort before crossing your arms against your chest. "how long is this gonna take?"

his grin falters just slightly before twisting into something sharper. "it'll take no time, but it'll cost ya a pretty penny."

something cold settles in your chest. "you said it was FREE."

"boss raised it to ten bucks per piece." trevor stays like it's perfectly reasonable. "but if you wanted to discuss another form of payment, you can always come back after dark and we can see how it goes from there."

your jaw clenches. its one thing to demand ten dollars to wash a singular piece of clothing, but it's another to continuously press down on you with the threat of a good time to see if you'll break.

"i'll figure something out." you grab your towel from the counter and turn towards the door. "thanks anyways."

the word thanks tastes bitter on your tongue, but you don't give him the satisfaction of seeing it. you push open the door, and just before it shuts, you can hear trevor shout out—

"oh come on, sugar! you know you want it!"

the door slams behind you harder than you meant it to.

heat hits you all at once, thick and suffocating as it wraps around you like a punishment. you clutch the towel tighter in your hand as you stomp back out into the parking lot, your pulse ringing in your ears.

metal clanks somewhere to your left, and then stops. you dont look, but you can feel the way the air shifts; the weight of someone's attention.

you risk a glance, and quickly find that bucky's no longer bent over the hood of his truck. he's standing upright now, a hand on his hip and a rag in the other. his expression is unreadable, his lips parted just slightly, his eyes slow and assessing, and whatever he sees on your face makes his grip on his rag tighten.

"you okay?" he asks, breaking the silence like he's testing the ice. his voice is calm like it usually is, but there's something sharper that rests underneath it.

you hesitate. every instinct you've honed over the years tells you to just shrug it off, that this is just another case of a man expecting something, to say its nothing and to keep moving. but you're done holding it in.

you huff, gesturing angrily at the front office where trevor is still sitting like a king. "asshole wanted ten bucks for a new towel. and he keeps—" you pause, the words echoing in your mind, "he keeps making these horrible passes at me and i just—"

you stop yourself and bucky's expression changes almost immediately. its not dramatic, nor is it explosive; it's colder, like something you'd said had rubbed him the wrong way.

you look at him then. "it's fine. i'll figure it out."

he studies you for a moment longer as you stand there soaking up the heat. its silent as his eyes flick from your face to the towel and then back to your face. then he exhaled and reaches into his jean pocket.

"i've got a spare towel in my room that you can take. it's clean." he says as he digs for something before he pulls out a pair of keys with a cheap plastic keychain that you recognise as his room key.

you quickly shake your head, "you don't have to—"

"i wasn't askin'." he tosses his room key to you and you catch it, the metal rattling in your palm. "you can take it."

your jaw tightens as you fidget with the keys. they feel heavy in your hand and still warm from his pocket. "i don't want to owe you anything."

the corner of bucky's mouth lifts just a fraction— not quite a smile, but something softer. "good. wouldnt want you to." then quieter, like he can sense your hesitation and like he doesn't want anyone else to hear it, he adds, "it's just a towel."

you really do want to turn him down, but the heat presses in on all sides and you're sure that if you use your towel one more time, it'd leave you stickier than you'd entered the shower feeling. to top it off, bucky is looking at you like he expects nothing in return.

"...thanks, bucky." you finally say.

he nods once, easy and almost proud of you for accepting his help. "it's folded up on the tv console. you cant miss it."

your fingers curl around the key and you give bucky one last glance before you turn and head towards his room. the walk across feels longer than it should, every step you take heavy with the awareness of bucky's eyes on your back. sweat sticks to your skin and the sun is relentless overhead, but the heat isn't what's bothering you— it's the fact that you're about to walk into the room of a stranger and cross a line you didnt even know you were standing on.

you stop in front of the door, slide the key into the lock, and twist— but it doesn't open. you try again, a little harder this time, but there's still nothing. you glance over your shoulder towards bucky.

"oh, the door sticks." he yells from across the lot. he makes a stranger gesture with his shoulder, "gotta give it a shove."

you hesitate, then brace yourself before shouldering your way into the room. the door pops open with an awkward crack, swinging inward enough for you to slip inside.

the first thing you notice is how lived in it feels. its similar to yours, but it's warmer somehow. the curtains are half drawn, letting in a thin strip of sunlight that cuts across the bed and the worn carpet. the air smells faintly of engine oil and generic dollar store soap— the grit hidden underneath the clean— and something distinctly him, like heat and metal and long hours on the road.

there's very little decoration, but what is there counts. a denim jacket is slung over the small desk chair in the corner and a pair of black jeans sit messily folded on the table, scuffed with red dirt like they've seen more miles than most people. a half empty water bottle sits on the rickety bedside table beside a folded up receipt and an open pocketknife, the blade well-used.

the bed isn't neat, the blankets thrown to the side without much care. an open duffel bag sits on the end of the bag, and you hate how nosy you feel when something in it catches your attention.

you take a few steps forwards until you're able to peek inside, hand brushing against the zipper of the duffel. there's not much; a wallet and folded clothes, a blend of worn and clean fabrics— a flannel, torn blue jeans, crisp white socks— but then something out of place catches your eye.

paper.

it's not loose. it's tucked carefully into a pocket on the inside of the bag. you tell yourself that you're only looking because it's there, and you reach in before you can even think, pulling it out with care. just a glance— that's all.

the edges are worn and it's creased down the middle like it's been folded and unfolded more times than it should've survived, evident by the thin piece of tape that's holding a corner of it together. the colour has faded into something dull, but the frozen memory printed onto the front is anything but.

two men stand in the centre of it, close in a way that feels more personal than anything you'd ever known. you recognise one of the men as bucky— younger, happier, and clean shaven— a bright smile on his face as he stares at the other man. the other man is broad shouldered, his features sharp underneath his stubble, and wearing a smile similar to bucky's, one so wide that it almost looks like world hasn't had the chance to take anything from them yet.

your thumb absentmindedly brushes against the photo where bucky's face is, the finger curling right down the curve of his jaw.

there's no writing on the back, nor is there an explanation. who is this mystery man, a friend? a boyfriend? either way, they look awfully close.

your chest tightens, red hot guilt flaring in your stomach with the awful realisation that this is something extremely personal to bucky and you've probably just crossed hundreds of lines. the open bag seems to stare at you, and for the first time since you stepped foot in the motel room, you've become acutely aware of how much of an invasion of privacy this is.

you look away from the photo like it might burn you, heart thudding as you fold it back up and shove it back into the pocket you found it in. you find the towel folded up on the tv console just as bucky had said— white, clean, and untouched— and you grab it quickly, beelining straight towards the door.

you shut the door behind you and lock it. you cross the lot, quicker this time and with your eyes fixed on bucky like he might see through you if you blink. he's still by the truck, arms deep in the engine system, but he stops what he's doing as soon as he hears your rushed feet heading towards him.

"you find it?" he asks as he steps off of the bumper.

you nod and hand him the key. "yeah. thanks again."

your fingers brush when he takes it— just the briefest touch of his calloused fingers against your soft ones— and he curls it into the palm of his hand, gaze flickering at the clean towel in your hand.

you turn to leave, a half smile on your lip. you're halfway through a step when—

"hey." bucky calls.

you pause and turn back around.

"you busy tonight?" he asks,

"unless you count watching old reruns all night and listening to the rats in the walls, not really." you try to joke, but the humour dies halfway in your throat when you realise it's your reality. "why?"

he shrugs like his suggestion is nothing big. "there's a decent diner about ten miles down the road. thought maybe we could get something in you that isn't shit from a vending machine."

for a split second, you almost say yes immediately. the idea of real food, of leaving this place even if its just for a little while, of just having someone normal to talk to, feels like a god-given grace. but instinct cuts in fast. the logical part of your mind tells you to not get comfortable.

comfortable is how you get stuck. comfortable is how you get hurt.

"yeah, i don't know about that." you gesture vaguely to your room, and then to your empty pocket. "running low on cash."

"don't worry bout it." bucky says almost immediately. "my treat. least i can do after you've kept me company these past few days."

you blink. "we met last night."

then, almost like you'd just told him a joke, a small laugh falls from his mouth, and god, something about it makes you weak in the knees. "maybe, but you sittin' in your room all day staring at me fixin my truck is still better company than listenin' to trevor watchin' cheap cable porn in his office all day."

oh. he noticed that?

you open your mouth but shut it again. there's no point in denying it, and the cheeky grin that sits plastered on bucky's face shows that you can't gaslight your way out of this one.

the texas heat presses in and the motel hums around you, and for once, the idea of staying in your room all night feels worse than the risk of saying yes. you lift your eyes back to him and sigh, the fight leaving your shoulders.

"okay." you say, more to yourself than anyone else, then you nod. "yeah, okay. dinner sounds... dinner sounds nice."

bucky's smile spreads across his face, slow and satisfied like he knew you would accept. "good. i'll knock around seven."

and he does.

the knock comes at 6:58pm, solid knuckles banging against the wood. the sound echoes through your room louder than it needs to, and it sets every nerve in you alight.

you sit up straighter in the edge of your bed, your heart giving a traitorous jump. for a second, you stare at the door like the sound might go away, but it doesn't. there's a soft scuff of boots against concrete on the other side, and then there's a quiet huff of breath, patient and unhurried.

"hey." bucky's voice comes through the door, low and careful, almost like he's giving you an out. "it's me."

you swallow. your hands are clammy and there's a strange heaviness that sits in the pit of your stomach. you can't remember the last time someone knocked on your door for you.

"yeah—" you rub a hand over your face, clearing your throat as you push yourself to your feet. you're too aware of how your clothes fit and how you look. "uh, just... give me a second."

"i'm not goin' anywhere."

you smooth your hands over your shirt, eyes glazing over your reflection in the small hanging mirror, and then you look down at yourself. you're presentable enough. with one final breath, you cross the room and open the door.

the creak of the door catches bucky's attention. he's standing there with his hands shoved into his jean pockets, his boots scuffed and his hair a little wet like he's washed up since the last time you saw him. there's something pleasant about the way he smells— like sandalwood and leather and him, a welcome change from the stale mix of dusty carpet and mouldy insulation.

he looks good. he looks handsome.

"ready?" he asks, and you cant ignore the way his eyes travel down the length of your body like he's taking you in for the first time instead of the girl he's seen coming and going all week. "let's get some food in you."

it isn't scrutinising, but it's thorough enough for warmth to creep up your neck, to make you suddenly aware of where your hands are, how you're standing, how close he feels in the narrow doorway. you haven't felt this way since— never mind.

your brows knit as you glance past him and towards the lot. "wait, are we taking your truck? i thought it was fucked up."

bucky's face relaxes as he turns over to glance over his shoulder, then back at you. "she's fucked, but she can still drive."

"i hope so." you murmur as you lock your door and slide the keys into your pocket. you hear bucky chuckle.

as you walk beside bucky, you manage to sneak a glance at him. he's relaxed, his shoulders loose and his steps casual. he carries himself with the confidence of a man who does this all the time— talking to strangers and helping them out, letting himself form connections that inevitably lead nowhere— meanwhile your pulse is throbbing throughout your body, struggling to differentiate the difference between the first date jitters you feel and your fight or flight response kicking in.

you force yourself to suck in a deep breath. bucky is nice. he's done nothing but help you., and even if he weren't, you aren't helpless. you know how to run and you know how to fight. you've done it before and you'd do it again. the thought settles the restless anxiety in your chest, and that gives you enough clarity as you near the truck.

the first thing you realise is how big the truck is. from afar, it looks just like every other semi you've seen in your life. up close, it's rusted metal and worn paint, scratches and dents adorning the length of it, and it towers over you like a skyscraper.

bucky reaches up and over and pulls open the door. "might be a bit of a climb. you think you can get up there yourself?"

"i think i'll be fine." you quickly reply, already stepping forwards.

you reach up and grab a hold of the support handle and plant your foot on the step, and you immediately realise you have no idea what you're doing. something about the layout of the truck is strange in a way that makes your brain short circuit for a long moment. the step is higher than expect, the handle a little too far back, your arms criss crossed and your leg is suspended for a moment as you try to figure out where to go next.

its not graceful at all.

you drop to the ground in defeat. before you can try and embarrass yourself again, bucky's hands are there, firm and warm on your waist, steadying you without being rough.

"'s alright, princess," he murmurs. "i've gotcha."

he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your hands instinctively brace against his shoulders, solid beneath your palms, and you can feel the heat of his skin through the fabric of his shirt. for a second, all you can feel is his hands. you're painfully aware of how close his face is to your stomach— to that area— and you feel a little breathless as he hoists you up and sets you down into the passenger seat like you belong there.

you look down at him with a tight lipped smile, "sorry."

"don't be." he says gently as he gives you a small pat on the side of your thigh, already stepping back with a small smile and his hand on the door. "truck's old. not exactly built for somethin' little like you."

you blink as he shuts the door for you and circles the truck before clicking open his own door and climbing in with ease. the cab feels smaller when he settles into his seat, filled with the low rumble of the starting engine and bucky's scent.

he glances over as you as he pulls his door shut. he glances over at you, eyes flicking downwards. "seatbelt." he reminds you, and you quickly buckle in. he nods once when it clicks, satisfied.

bucky clicks some switches and tugs at some levers, and the truck lurches forwards with a load groan. gravel crunches under the tires as bucky reverses the truck with ease, manoeuvring the huge vehicle out of the small lot. the headlights sweep across the cracked paint of the motel, illuminating the stretch of route 66 that it sits on.

it feels strange— being here on the road again, moving again after a stagnant period— like your body remembers the rhythm of the road even if your body hasn't quite caught up.

for a few miles, neither of you speaks. the radio hums softly between stations, bucky skipping until it lands on something that vaguely resembles dire straits before he finally leans back, one hand on the wheel and the other resting along the sill of the window, the glass cracked open just enough for wind to funnel into the cab.

you watch the world go by through the windshield. there's desert scrub, flickering neon motel lights, the occasional passing set of headlights that fly past before you even really notice them. it's peaceful in a way you hadn't really expected.

"so," bucky breaks the silence without turning to look at you, his voice just slightly louder than the hum of the radio and the growl of the truck. "california."

your head turns towards him before you can really control it. "california." you echo, the word sitting strange and heavy on your tongue despite it being the goal you'd been trying to reach for so long.

theres another small pause before bucky hums.

"what's so special about california? job? family?" he turns and glances at you for half a second, throat bobbing once before he turns back to the road. "or did you just throw a dart at a map and decide it was good enough?"

a small laugh slips from your mouth before you can stop it— soft, surprised, one that almost catches you off guard— but it fades into something you'd barely call a smile. you glance down at your shorts, fingers picking at the fabric, and although bucky doesn't look over, you get the feeling that he's listening in a lot closer now.

"i don't know." you admit. "i just needed to get the fuck out of chicago."

bucky nods once, slow and understanding. "that's fair. not always good to stay in one place forever."

he doesnt ask you to explain, nor does he pry. he simply adjusts his grip on the wheel and shifts in his seat before he adds, almost absentmindedly, "a lotta people end up on the road for that reason."

"hmm." you softly nod. then your head lulls to the side just slightly, enough that you can gesture to the back of the truck that rumbles behind you. "what about you? what've you got back there in the trailer?"

bucky glances over at you for just a second, his brows furrowed like you'd just recounted a complex math equation. "who taught you that?"

"taught me what?" you ask, "trailer?"

"yeah." bucky's lips curl into a soft smile, and you can see the small crinkle of his eyes in the rear view mirror. "usually pretty girls like you just refer to the back— or they just call it the truck. you knew what you were talking about, and that's not usually something you just know unless you've picked it up from someone."

you ignore the pretty part of the sentence, and instead try to put on a teasing grin. "do you talk to a lot of pretty girls?"

and then, almost like he can sense the playfulness in your tone bucky turns his head just enough for you to catch the smirk that sits on his lips. "only the ones who can tell the different between a cab and a trailer."

your chest flutters in a way that unconsciously makes a smile grow on your face, warmth creeping up your neck until bucky finally turns away from you and back to the road. there's something in the curve of his jaw, in the blue of his eyes, in the quiet confidence he drives, in the faint rush of his scent carried by the wind— it's confusing, but also exciting. you can't help the pull of curiosity or the way your mind lingers on the idea of him for longer than you should.

but something horrible tugs at your heart. it's something familiar, something you've know for so many years, something that's made its home in your body; guilt.

"my, uh..." you scratch the side of your neck, pausing just momentarily to pull your eyes away from the side of bucky's face. "my boyfriend built semis. he taught me all about the parts and the frames and stuff to try and get me into the business to help out but—" a small, self conscious shrug follows. "not a lot of it stuck."

"boyfriend?" bucky asks. "and where's he?"

"far away, i hope." you say. there's a tightness in your chest, and you reach up to fidget with the necklace that hangs around your neck. "he's actually the reason why i left chicago."

you're looking out of your window now, but you can feel the burn of bucky's eyes on the back of your head as he turns to look at you for a moment.

"he an asshole?" he asks, half joking, but his tone is soft and patient like he already knows the answer.

"you could say that." you reply with a soft laugh, a little tight lipped and a little sad, but relieved that he isn't prying for more, and for the first time in days, it feels okay to leave it out in the open and mostly unspoken.

the road ahead stretches into flat darkness. the radio hums quietly. the truck rumbles as it rolls over rocks and asphalt. ahead, a bright pair of headlights glow bright. it's peaceful.

"garden gnomes."

your brows furrow. you turn your head towards bucky, who's eyes are set on the road. you're sure you'd misheard him. "what?"

he glances at you, then back at the road, his voice low like he's confessing a classified secret. "in the back. it's garden gnomes."

you blink, a bubble of a laugh slipping free before you can stop it. "you're hauling gnomes across the country? is that a joke?"

"sounds funny, but apparently those little bastards are worth more than both you and i and this truck." he says, dead serious, but there's a small twitch of a smile on his face. "rich people have nothin' better to spend their money on."

you snort again, laughter bubbling from your chest and breaking the heaviness that had settled there. bucky smiles at the sound— small, satisfied, toothy— like that was exactly the reaction he had hoped for. you press a hand against your mouth to try and suppress your laughter, but it barely works.

"hey— they're gettin' a nicer trip than most people do." he half-heartedly adds with a grin. "they're drivin' with the best trucker in america. not everybody can say that."

"the best trucker in america and the most humble."

"don't start, missy." bucky warns you, but the amusement on his face gives him away. "you're apart of the lucky few who can call themselves a passenger of mine."

you scoff, "whatever you say, buck."

the nickname slips out before you can stop it, and for half a second, you wonder if you've crossed a line. but you watch how bucky's eyes linger on you and the way his knuckles flex against the wheel, turning white just ever so slightly as his grip tightens. there's a slight tick in his jaw before his tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip.

a neon light catches your eye. it's bright against the dark of the sky, the singular word DINER illuminated in bright pink and faint blues. it's a simple sign, but it gets the work done. a small building comes into view, small and unassuming yet warm and homey, like it's just waiting for people to stumble in for a feed.

"that must be it." bucky mutters as he squints through the windscreen. he pulls at a few things, and the truck rolls to a slow as you near the building.

"good." you murmur. "i'm starving."

bucky slows the truck, turning off of the highway steering wide and pulling the truck to the far end of the lot where the truck won't block anyone in (even though there's only three or four cars in the lot).

"she's too big to squeeze in there." he adds as he pulls the brakes and shuts the engine off. the rumbling stops, and suddenly it's quiet again. "hope you don't mind the walk."

"it's fine." you tell him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. you click open the door and push it open, almost falling out at the weight of it. you glance down to the step, and then towards the trucker. "uh, bucky... would you be able to—"

before you can finish, bucky's door swings open, the cab groaning at the shift of weight. "i've got it." he says, voice calm but amused before he hopes out and shuts the door behind him.

you watch the top of his head as he circles the front of the truck, and he appears at your door. he reaches a hand out before you can even think about trying to hop down yourself.

"here." he says as you take his hand, the other arm extended just in case you slip.

you let him guide you down, one hand in his and the other on his shoulder. you hop down knowing that bucky would catch you if you fell without hesitation. the gravel crunches beneath your boots when you touch the ground and your hands slip from bucky's.

he takes the time to give you a small smile like it was nothing, and the two of you head towards the diner. the evening air carries the scent of grease and coffee and something faintly like him, and you're not sure if you're smelling him because he's so close or if its because

bucky steps ahead of you to push the door open for you, and the bell overhead dings and echos through the diner. the first thing you notice as you step inside is the clatter of dishes in the kitchen and the soft buzz of the coffee machine on the counter.

although clean and well-kept, the diner looks like it hasn't been updated in decades. the checkered vinyl floor is worn in some places from years of customers, the metal trim around the counter and the stools shine in the bright led light, and the red leather of the booths fray and tear at the corners. there are dozens— if not hundreds— of framed black and white photos on the wall of passing customers, food, and the employees, and next to those are various old school records hung haphazardly.

a few customers are scattered around the diner, all invested in their own world, and don't dream it's over by crowded house plays faintly from the jukebox in the corner, filling the space with music where otherwise would be ambient diner noise. a bell dings and your eyes dart to the kitchen where a chef passes the waitress a plate full of fries and a cheeseburger. the sight makes your stomach growl despite the vending machine snacks you'd had earlier that day.

bucky seems to catch onto your hunger and is quick to place a hand on your lower back and usher you towards an empty booth in the emptier half of the diner. the leather creaks as you both slide in, your hands instantly grabbing for the menu and flipping it open.

the first thing you look at— almost instinctively— are the prices.

"it's a bit expensive for a highway diner." you think out loud as you scan the menu, your thumbnail in between your teeth.

"get whatever you want." bucky says as he watches you. you catch him looking, and through your lashes, you watch his expression soften. "i don't like keeping a bunch of cash on me anyways."

you feel bad, but he's offering. you look down at the menu again, thumb playing with the frayed corner. after a minute, you ask, "so... what are you getting? the BLT looks good."

he shrugs lightly as he leans back against the booth. he gives you a small smile as he shakes his head. "i had somethin' back at the motel."

before you can reply, a waitress appears at the side of your booth. she's older, grey streaks in her brown hair and her eyes kimd but tired. her hair is pulled into a loose bun, and a red apron is tied around her waist. she reaches for her notepad and her pen, and then she smiles.

"evenin'." she greets. "what can i get for you folks?"

you sit up straight and smile, menu in hand. "hi. could i get one classic cheeseburger with fries? and two cokes, please."

the waitress nods and jots down your order on the notepad. you put the menu down thinking you're done, but then you look at bucky, and find that he's already looking at you. you blink at each other before an idea pops into your head.

"actually, sorry, could you make that two cheeseburgers?"

the look at bucky gives you makes you grin.

"of course, sweetheart. so two cheeseburgers with fries?" the waitress recounts, and you nod feeling a little victorious. "alright, it'll be out in no time."

"thank you." you smile.

the waitress leaves, and you lean back in the booth like you hadn't done anything. there's a moment of silence where you're smiling at bucky and he's staring back at you with a perplexed look.

"what was that?" bucky asks after a moment. his brows are raised, and the look on his face turns into amusement.

"what was what?" you reply, feigning innocence.

"that." he gestures vaguely to you. "the— you know... the cheeseburger thing."

you lean forwards. "i'm not gonna sit here and eat a burger while you stare at me, bucky. if we're doing this, we're gonna eat fries and drink out cokes together."

bucky scoffs and shakes his head. "anyone ever told you you don't play fair?"

"once or twice." you grin.

and just like the waitress had said, your cheeseburgers were out in now time. she slides the plates in front of you with practised ease, and you dive in without hesitation.

the bun is soft, the cheese is melted just enough that is droops off of the patty, and the fries are the perfect amount of crispy. you take a bite, one that makes you sigh in relief, and you dont even bother to eat politely. you scarf down half of your burger before bucky's even touched his.

he shoves a fry into his mouth as he watches you chew. "should i be worried you're gonna steal mine too?"

you swallow. "if you dont eat it fast enough, then maybe."

he huffs a laugh through his nose and shakes his head before he finally leans forwards and takes a proper bite of his burger.

the two of you keep eating, but your eyes drift back to bucky every so often. there's something about him that you just can't look away from— the way he holds his burger, the way he chews, the way his eyes watch the other customers behind you, the way his shoulders relax now that he's finally eating— but then, uninvited, your mind slips back to the photo in his duffel bag.

the worn edges. the fading colour. the way bucky looked. the man beside him. everything about it pulls at something in you.

you finish your burger and slow down. you wipe at your mouth with a tissue, your stomach full as you lean back to digest. you watch him for a moment longer before you tilt your head just slightly, reaching for a fry as if to imitate cluelessness.

"what did you do before all of... this?" you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere more questioning. "the hauling, i mean. the travelling and all that stuff. did you always do this, or was there... someone who got you into it?"

its subtle— something in the way your words trail off, in the way your eyes search his for an answer— and bucky clocks it immediately.

his jaw pauses mid-chew. his eyes flick between yours like he's replaying what you asked word-for-word. he swallows his food, and he squints just slightly.

"you snooped in my bag, didn't you?"

your shoulders tense. for a moment, you think about denying it or telling him that he's crazy, but you respect him too much to lie.

"i swear i didn't mean to. it was just... open, and i just—" you blink, huffing out a small breath. "i'm sorry."

bucky doesn't say anything for a moment. he takes another bite of his burger and continues chewing on his food while you stress the fuck out. you sort of just stare at him as he places his burger back down and takes a breath.

"'s fine. not much in there for you to take anyways." he says as he leans back. he crosses his arms against his chest, eyes flicking towards you. "i'm guessing you wanna know who he is."

"only if you want to tell me." you tell him.

a beat passes. then bucky exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's decided on something.

"alright. i'll tell you about sam—" his gaze sharpens just a bit, more intent now. "but you have to tell me more about your boyfriend."

the proposition sits in front of you heavier than you'd expected. your stomach twists, not with fear, but with the awareness that agreeing means opening a door you've been keeping shut.

but your curiosity— or maybe your resilience, that stubborn part of you that refuses to let your past dictate every choice you make— overcomes your fear.

"okay." you nod. "fine."

bucky leans back in the booth, hands reaching out to rest on the table. his fingers drum slightly on the table, his eyes unfocused for a second like he's replaying a memory in his mind.

"the man in the photo... his name is sam." he begins. "we were... friends. real good friends. we had a truck together once— an old thing, nothin' fancy, but we'd spent hours tinkerin' with it, fixin' whatever broke. sometimes we'd race the damn thing down the road just for somethin' to do. felt like we could do anything' back then."

his lips twitch, not quite into a smile, but into something fleeting. you watch as it passes on his face, brief but visible.

"where's sam now?" you ask softly.

bucky exhales. "i don't know. one day, we got into an argument about... everything and nothing, really. it was stupid. and then we just... went in different directions." he speaks slow like he's trying to remember, or maybe he's trying not to feel. there's something underneath, like he's choosing to trust you even if it costs him a second of discomfort.

"do you ever think of going back? of ever talking to him again?"

"all the time. not a day passes where i wish i could just... call him up and tell him i'm sorry." bucky admits. "i've done a lot of things wrong in my life, but not fixin' that... not tryin' to make it right... it sticks with me."

he pauses, fingers stilling on the table. "no matter what i do or where i go, a part of me stays back there— with him."

its said plainly, but there's something in the way that his jaw works that shows he's already said a lot more than he usually allows himself to. the memory isn't old or something fleeting he thinks about every so often. the memory of sam is still very much alive in bucky, and he carries it with him mile after mile.

bucky reaches over and grabs his coke. he brings the straw to his lips, takes a long sip, and sets it down with a sigh. he crosses his arms again, and his eyes flick back to you, steady now.

"that's all i've got. your turn."

you nod once, then again, like the motion might knock you out of the daze you'd pulled yourself into. there's a small inhale through your nose,

"right. okay, um— where do i start..." you think out loud, eyes focused on the condensation of your glass like it might give you an answer.

"i guess it started back in high school. i didnt have many friends or talked to anyone, so the moment a guy started paying attention to me, i guess i didn't know any better." you swallow, eyes unfocused now. "he was older. he knew how to talk, and he was confident, and i fell head over heels. it felt like it was the first time anyone had ever actually seen me."

"but then we moved in together, and it got bad. he hurt me— a lot." the laugh that leaves your mouth is more uncomfortable than anything humorous. your finger traces the edge of your plate just to try to ground yourself. "he knew how to do it in a way that made sure i'd always somehow come running back to him."

your voice wobbles on the last word, and thats when bucky moves.

its not abrupt or enough to startle you, and you barely even look up. he just leans forwards, forearms resting on the table now, like he's making sure you know he's there and that you don't have to do this alone. his jaw tightens, not angry at you, but in anger at the man who left scars you dont name.

"i didnt realise that the attention started turning into control." "you admit softly. "or how easy it is to mistake the control for love when you don't know any better. i don't know. sometimes i wish i could just... shove it all into a box and throw it from a moving car... and then go to bed and sleep for once."

"but would you be able to rest?" bucky asks.

"no." you shake your head. "no, i don't think i would."

you can hear a small sigh slip from his mouth, and you almost feel pathetic. you hated being pitied, and this was prime pity territory.

but then bucky reaches forwards to hold your shaking hand, his grip warm and steady. his thumb presses against your knuckles, grounding, like he knows exactly how close you're coming to slipping.

a part of you still shivers at the vulnerability you display— at being seen like this— but the tired part, the honest part, of you doesn't mind the contact if bucky is the one pitying you.

"sweetheart, people like that... they're good at makin' it feel like you're the problem. like you're the one who keeps messin' up. but that doesn't mean you were weak or stupid. it means you were young and you were lonely, and someone cruel decided to take advantage of that." his thumb presses into your skin just slightly. "you got out."

you look up for the first time since you started talking. your waterline burns with unshed tears, and there's a quiver in your lip despite your best attempts to keep it steady.

"i did something bad, bucky. i did something really bad."

he doesn't interrupt. he doesnt tense nor does he pull away. his hands stay exactly where they are in yours, his thumb stilling. his eyes search yours, waiting, giving you the space to speak.

"i shot him."

the words hang heavy in the air between you, whispered but still deafening, and for a second you think the world might come crashing down on you. you prepare for bucky to rip his hands away from you, to spit in your face, and leave you here to rot— but it never comes.

if anything, his grip on your hands tightens. bucky exhales through his nose. he's not shocked. he's not angry with you either— he could never be angry at you. his jaw tightens, and you watch as his thoughts pass in his eyes. his thumb resumes the small circular motion on your knuckles like he's trying to calm you down.

"okay." he says quietly, like he's afraid he might shatter something more fragile than you, like anything louder that leaves him might break you. "okay. thats okay."

his hands never leave yours, but you watch his face change like he's distanced himself from you.

"did you mean to?" he asks gently, not prying nor accusing, just trying to understand what happened. and before you can spiral into whatever answer you're forming, he adds, still soft, "you don't gotta justify yourself to me. i just wanna know what you're feelin' right now."

you pull away from his touch. it almost feels like too much. you retreat into yourself, hands holding yourself just for another sense of safety, but even then, you dont feel safe in your own skin. your fingers press into your sides just to remember that you're there and that you exist outside of the memory and the guilt and the fear.

"i don't know. i was just scared, and he was— he was yelling, and it was so loud. and i shot him, and i was— god, i don't even know if he's alive." you spit out all at once. you turn to bucky, "please don't be scared of me—"

"i'm not scared of you, princess."

bucky says it immediately— no pause, no hesitation— like there was never another option. his voice doesn't rise in anger or soften in pity, and he never once looks away from you.

"you were scared and you did what you needed to survive." he adds quietly. "nobody can blame you for that."

and for the first time since you've said it out loud, the word shot doesn't echo as violently in your mind as it once did. its still there, but it isn't screaming at you anymore.

you nod because its all you feel you can do. you wipe at your eyes with the back of your hand, embarrassed by the wetness, the vulnerability, the rawness you feel after admitting it for the first time.

"how about we get this packed up, and we'll head back." bucky suggests like he's offering you an out.

"yeah." you blink and nod, "okay."

and that's exactly what you do. you leave the diner in silence, and you drive back to the motel in the same silence. bucky helps you down from the truck, and he hands you the entire bag of food with the soft assurance that he 'isn't hungry', bidding you a good night at your room door.

in the shower, you stand under the running water until your skin prickles and your fingers prune, letting the water run over your body for what seems like hours, and when you get out of the shower, you lay in bed half under the covers staring at the ceiling and tracing the cracks and bumps for what feels like even longer.

your body is exhausted, but your mind won't follow. every time you blink, it's there again; the yelling, the smell of sweat and metal, how loud is was. god, it was so loud.

you see it in fragments. the way his face had changed, the split second wgere you realised this was going to happen whether you wanted it to or not, the recoil, the ringing in your ears, the sound of him collapsing, and the blood.

you suck in a breath and sharply turn your head to the side.

the alarm clock glows an ugly red. 3:04am. you reach over and click on the table lamp, and before you can overthink it, you swing your legs over the bed and pad over to the dresser where your duffel sits, half open and slumped against the wood.

you kneel in front of it and unzip it the rest of the way. you begin sifting through your belongings, your fingers clumsy but determined as you dig through scraps of your life that you've shoved together without much care.

and then your hand brushes against something heavy and metallic. you reach in and grab the gun by the barrel, pulling it out and watching as the metal glows under the lamp light before you pull it into your lap. a shotgun. it looks smaller there, stripped of context and fear, but your hands still remember the weight of it. your body itches like it's bracing for something you know has already happened.

you stare at it for a long time— the stupid, ugly thing that changed everything.

it'd been the thing you shoved into your boyfriends face when he'd threatened to keep you locked up in that cramped apartment of his. it'd been the reason he'd let you go, and the thing that saved your life; but simultaneously, it'd also been the thing that'd ruined you.

you decide to be rid of it.

one second you're sitting on the carpet with the shotgun on your lap, and the next, you're pulling on a spare hoodie and stepping out of your room, completely barefoot and all sense of rationality thrown out of the window. you dont even lock your room door.

you cross the small space between your room and bucky's. you knock once, twice, and then once more for good measure, knuckles stinging as soon as they make contact with the wood.

there's a pause. there's a shift. then the door opens.

the door creaks open, and from the dark, bucky emerges. the first thing that you notice is that he's shirtless, and the first thing he notices is that you're carrying a shotgun.

"what's wrong?" is the first thing he says. his voice is still gravely with sleep or something close to sleep, and you almost feel bad for dragging him into your drama again. he doesnt sound scared or in fear for his own life, but you can hear the concern laced in the question. "is that—"

"i want to get rid of it." your hands tighten around the barrel of the gun.

bucky doesn't ask why. he just nods once and steps back inside of his room to tug on a shirt and grab his keys.

the truck eats the miles quickly, the headlights carving a thin path through the dust and the scrub of the texas desert. the land opens up the further out you go, and the two of you drive until you can't see anything but the darkness. bucky pulls off of the road where the tires fade into the sand and kills the engine.

the land bucky helps you down onto is bare in a way that only places with nothing to witness can be. you cant see much further than a couple of feet ahead of you, and the silence is almost deafening. nobody is driving past on route 66 at this time, and nobody is there to watch you hide the weapon.

you hold the gun while bucky holds the shovel and a flashlight.

you dont know how far out you walk. the ground shifts under your bare feet, toes digging into the cooling sand and small stones, but you keep going until the heavy metal in your hands starts feeling heavier than your body can hold. when you glance over your shoulder, you can barely see the moonlight silhouette of the truck in the distance.

in front of you, bucky slows, his flashlight scanning the area out of habit, then he nods.

"here should be good." he says quietly, turning back to you just to check on you. "doubt anyone every comes out this far."

you don't reply. you simply nod, the action small, fingers curling tighter around the barrel and the handle. your throat feels thick, your words lodged there with nowhere to go, and maybe it's better that way. you dont know what you'd say even if you tried.

bucky holds the flashlight out for you to grab, and you take it and shine it at the ground. the light cuts a pale circle onto the sand, and your brows furrow when bucky presses the tip of the shovel into the ground, tasting the density.

"maybe i should do it." you interrupt, the words coming out thin, like you're testing out the question more than asking it.

he doesnt even look at you. "i've got it."

but you still feel so guilty. he doesnt even know your name and he here is on the border between new mexico and texas buring evidence for you.

"it's my gun, bucky." your grip tightens around the flashlight, the muzzle of the gun scratching against the ground. there's a quiet guilt and responsibility in it, a quiet belief that this is something you have to carry alone. "you don't have to do this for me—"

bucky sighs as he finally pauses to look at you. he pulls his hands from the handle of the shovel and folds them on top of each other on the handle, his eyes soft and unyielding like he's already made up his mind and he's just waiting for you to catch up.

"you already asked me to bring you out here, sweetheart. i'm not lettin' you do this on your own anymore." bucky says, quieter but no less sure, and his eyes never leave your face. "you've done enough survivin' by yourself. let me do this for you."

you hesitate for half a second longer like you might still argue, but the fight drains out of you instead. the way he's looking at you feels like he's willingly shouldering the weight with you— or maybe for you.

you nod once. "okay."

bucky gives you a short nod back like your compliance is all he needs before he turns to the shovel again. he drives the shovel down, the metal biting into the ground with a dull clang. he pulls the shovel from the ground before slamming it back down again, harder and stiffer this time like he knows exactly how much force to use and when.

you keep the flashlight trained on the growing divot, the beam wobbling just slightly whenever the shovel meets the ground. after a while of staring at bucky, you swallow, your voice low.

"do you think i could go to jail for this?" you ask him. the question had been running rampant in your mind ever since you'd left y the apartment in chicago.

bucky pauses mid-scoop for a second, head tilting upwards towards you. the raise of his brows and the small huffed out laugh he gives you makes the question you just ask feel stupid— and in retrospect, it probably was.

"people go to jail for less serious shit than shooting your ex-boyfriend, princess." he says, not unkind, just honest. he turns back to the ground and stabs into the sand. "if that asshole's still alive and he gives the cops a story about how you left guns a-blazin', you could be set up for attempted murder."

"oh." you mutter as you fight the urge to roll your eyes. "thanks bucky. that really helps. super comforting."

he huffs quietly. "you asked."

you kick at a mound of sand like it had personally wronged you, and it's only then that you realise you're completely barefoot. you're not sure when that happened.

"well—" you pause, flashlight dipping just slightly, "yeah, i asked, but hearing it that way instead of a simple yes or no or maybe just freaks me out."

"sorry." bucky exhales through his nose. "not much point in worryin' about it now. thinkin' that far ahead'll eat at you, and it sounds like it already has been."

"whatever." you grumble. "i at least wanna get to california before i get thrown in a cell to rot."

bucky glances at you. "and you will."

bucky finished digging the hole with a finally jab of his shovel, sand piling up around it in a large mound. he steps back and nods towards it, giving the the go-ahead without saying it out loud. you lean down and place the gun inside, pushing it down as far as it can go, the metal scratching against the sand as it sinks inside. when you stand back up, you cross your arms over your chest.

the weapon you'd used to maim someone now looked so small. stripped of its power and its noise. just a cold, ugly thing sitting in a hole in the ground.

for a long while, the two of you just stare at the gun. there's not much to look at, but there's something about it that just feels different now. it doesn't look like fear or adrenaline anymore. it just looks out of place, almost wrong, like it never belonged in your hands in the first place.

bucky breaks the silence first, his question a little too casual for the context behind it. "was it a good shot at least?"

you turn your head just slightly to look at him, and he does the same. he watches you as you search for the answer, a soft sigh falling from your mouth.

"i got him right in the shoulder." you bluntly reply, your voice quiet even in the silence of the desert. "he was bleeding a lot, though. almost thought his arm was going to fall off."

bucky hums once, his face unreadable, then he steps forwards and starts pushing the gathered sand back into the hole. you watch as the ground swallows the gun, and inadvertently swallows up everything else you'd brought with you— the dread, the panic, the buzzing tension you'd felt for so long.

but you feel a lot better now. of course you still have the topic of being homeless and being arrested on your mind, but at least you aren't carrying around the immediate weight of that cold metal in your hands. the gun is gone, and you can rest a little easier now.

you stand there for a moment longer as bucky finishes up, kicking the sand around so it looks a little less messed with. then, almost wordlessly, the two of you walk back to the truck.

he opens the truck door for you, helps you in, and then he circles around the front and gets in his seat. the engine growls as it comes to life and the headlights blink on like the sun on a bleak morning, and with a few pressed buttons and pulled levers, bucky is pulling the truck back onto the road and back towards the motel.

the road is steady underneath the wheels, and for the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter. neither of you really speak at first. the desert stretches onwards, and your eyes glance to the small analogue clock on the dashboard— 4:17am.

and it's almost like bucky can sense the exhaustion that laces your bones. he glances at you, his own eyes tired although his mind is anything but. "you think you're gonna sleep much tonight?"

you shrug, staring out of the windscreen. "i'll try. there's still a lot on my mind."

your thoughts drift, unbidden and unruly— memories of your boyfriend, the way things had been once and how they are now, and the tension you felt in your body when you left home— but the thought of your him somehow brings you back to trucks, and the thought of trucks and sleep brings you back to the thought of the sleeper cab of a semi truck.

a little impulsively, you twist in your seat and pull at the curtain that sits behind you and you peek inside. the little bed sits neatly against the wall, the blankets neatly made and the singular pillow slightly askew at the head of the bed. it's nothing inherently interesting, but it's something that's always confused you.

bucky glances at you in the rear view mirror, "what are you lookin' for back there?"

"just looking at the bed. i've never seen one in real life." you casually reply, "is it comfy back there? mattress looks thin."

bucky half shrugs, his eyes ahead on the road. "it gets the job done, but its not as good as the real thing."

you pull the curtain back just a little further. it's hard to see in the dark, the shadows making it hard to see any object in real detail, but you can make out the pillows and the blankets, a small shelf with a basket full of miscellaneous items— a couple of batteries, a bottle of painkillers, an empty water bottle, and a couple of magazines. you cant read the words, but even in the dark, you can make out the shape of a... is that a lady wearing a playboy bunny costume?

you turn back to bucky and find that he's already watching you through the rear view mirror like a hawk. his brows are slightly furrowed, his eyes dark and steady, but theres a small, sly tilt of his lips.

"are those... playboy magazines?" you almost laugh, glancing at bucky with your brows raised and a cheeky grin. you tease, "those get the job done too?"

theres a moment where bucky sucks on his teeth and glances at you over his shoulder, and you think you should've probably kept your mouth shut— but then he smirks.

"like i said—" bucky lets the corners of his mouth curl, his voice low as he replies. "not as good as the real thing."

oh.

you blink. you blink again. you blink so much that you think you might actually start crying, or throw up, or do something equally humiliating. heat crawls up the length of your neck, settling in your cheeks. what the hell do you reply to that?

"right." you manage, pushing it out a little too quickly. you slide the curtain shut and turn back in your seat, tugging at your seatbelt to get it adjusted right. "yeah. that— that makes sense."

you clear your throat, forcing yourself to stare forwards at the dark stretch of highway instead of paying any attention to bucky. you can feel him glancing at the side of your face, lingering whenever you feel particularly flustered, and you can hear the soft chuckle he makes at your reaction that he doesn't even try to hide.

it settles somewhere low in your stomach, warm and aggravating and far too effective for how little he's actually doing.

god, that image is gonna be burnt in your mind forever.

the motel sign flickers back into view not long after, and the breath of relief that leaves you is almost instant. the neon lights buzz as bucky pulls into the parking lot, headlights beaming over the building before he kills the engine and opens the doors. you follow, and he circles the front and he helps you down from the truck just like he usually does, your hands on his shoulders while his wrap around your waist. it lasts for only a second, but it lingers on your skin all the same.

you walk side by side towards your rooms, the ground luke-warm under your feet and the air cooler now that the night has deepened. it's quiet now in the way most empty places are— no noises or other people for miles, just the two of you sliding your keys into the locks and pushing open your doors.

and when you're about to step foot into your dark room, that's when bucky clears his throat. you pause, poking your head out of the doorframe.

"hey. i'm, uh..." he pauses, voice slower than usual. "i'm sorry about earlier. in the truck. i didnt mean to make things weird."

you blink before the conversation floods your mind. you take a step back out of the door and put on your best attempt of trying to act nonchalant before swallowing down the butterflies that come with the memory.

"there's nothing to be sorry about. its a normal human function and we're both adults." you reply with a casual smile, but you're not sure if you're actually convincing anyone. "right?"

bucky doesn't answer right away. he just sort of looks at you like he's thinking about something that he hasn't decided how to say yet, his jaw clenching once as if he decides against saying anything at all.

"right." he watches you for a second longer, unreadable eyes falling to the dip of your neck, his gaze tracing your collarbone before he looks up again. he gives you a small nod, "get some sleep, okay?"

"i'll try. thanks again for tonight. i really do appreciate it." you pause with a small, faint smile, then quieter, you add, "goodnight, bucky."

"goodnight, princess." bucky replies, his voice soft and steady, carrying enough warmth to make your chest tighten.

and then you're both retreating into your own rooms, doors closing and keys clicking, the thin motel walls swallowing whatever else might've been said.

you don't bother turning on the lights. you pad towards the bed, feet brushing against the carpet to get rid of the sand that sticks to your toes, drop keys onto the tiny table and crawl into bed like sleep might take pity on you if you lie down fast enough.

minutes pass. you glance at the clock. 4:56am. its only been thirty minutes, but it feels like you've been in bed for hours. you lie there on your back half under the covers, your eyes tracing the cracks and divots in the ceiling like they might lead somewhere else, trying to will your brain to shut up, but it doesn't.

the magazines. the sleeper. the idea of bucky

you had meant what you said earlier about how it is a normal human function and that you're both adults and can joke about this sort of stuff all the time and it shouldn't matter, but the mere thought of bucky getting himself off makes you feel like a pervert.

you roll onto your side with a frustrated huff, pulling the blankets tighter over your body as if it might smother the thoughts that plague you, but you have no such luck.

not as good as the real thing.

your brain is cruel enough to supply you images you definitely don't want— bucky alone in the sleeper cab in low light and the magazine crinkling awkwardly in his hands. his pants pool just above his knees, his hand gliding down his stomach, brushing past his happy trail and the waistband of his underwear, the rough palm of his hand wrapping around the base of his cock, the slow looseness of his jaw as it falls open with every tentative stroke—

oh god. you squeeze your eyes shut, heat blooming under your skin, mortified by how fast your own brain betrayed you. you try to push the thought away before it can fully form, like distance is something you can try to manufacture in your head, but it's difficult.

"jesus," you mutter into the empty room.

this is ridiculous. you're exhausted. you're emotionally wrecked. you're traumatised. you should be asleep, and thats all you want to do; so why do you feel so wet? it's pathetic, really, getting wet over the thought of a handsome stranger after he made one joke, but now you're never going to be able to sleep when the heat between your legs feels inescapable.

your hand— almost like it senses your desperation— trails down the length of your stomach and slides past the band of your underwear, fingers dipping through your folds, and the ragged breath that leaves you is almost shameful.

you slide a finger into your weepy entrance, the rhythm you set is slow, the pads of your fingers brushing against your insides at the same pace you imagine bucky would touch you. you can't stop imagining it's his fingers instead of your own.

"bucky." you whine breathlessly into the air as you glide in another finger, the stretch almost delicious.

you pump in and out of your cunt until youre panting into the side of your pillow, until your hips move on their own, until you feel that familiar heat growing deep in your stomach.

then you catch it. cedarwood. musk. his scent. your shirt still smells like him from all those miles you spent sitting in his truck, and the small whimper that leaves your mouth at the smell brings you closer to the edge.

"faster— god, please." you beg, brows furrowing and mouth falling slack as you speed up the assault on your pussy.

you continue until you feel that tight ball of heat finally in your stomach snap. you barely have time to shove your face into your pillow before a borderline pornographic moan rips from your throat, breath hot into the cotton as you grind into your hand.

you pull your shirt over your nose, inhaling bucky's scent with every breath you take, and you find that sleep washes over you easier that night.

the morning light seeps into your room in thin and warm stripes through the curtains, landing across your legs and the crumbled up sheets. you wake slowly— not startled or filled with dread, just rising with a sense of awareness of things of you'd been too overwhelmed with to notice before.

your body feels lighter than it has in a while, rested in a way that almost surprises you. you're not sure if it's because you'd buried one of your biggest worries under four feet of sand or if it was because of your late night self-love session. either way, it was a win for you.

you sit up in the bed, sleep still fuzzy in your eyes, and you look over at the alarm clock— 2:34pm. you'd slept for a while.

then you hear it. the low rumble of a truck outside. it's definitely bucky's— because who else would pull over into this fuckass motel— but it sounds different, almost steadier, not rattling like it had been the last few times you'd heard it. it idles smoothly and confidently, like it finally wants to be running.

you kick the sheets off, pad across the room, shove your feet into your shoes with half-assed effort, and push the door open without bothering to check yourself in the mirror.

the afternoon suns shoots down at you from the sky, rays burning against your skin as you step outside, door closing behind you as you make yourself towards the scene.

bucky is at his usual spot near the hood, shoulders bend and back hunched over the engine, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder and his grey tank dark in places, spotted with sweat and oil stains, clinging to his body in a way that makes it very hard for you not to notice how broad he is.

but you try to ignore those thoughts and the fact that you'd fucked yourself to the thought of him last night. you perk up, hands folding in front of you as you put on an award winning smile.

"morning." you greet, your voice still a little scratchy from sleep but still light.

bucky is quick to cock his head to the side, and when he sees it's you, he straightens, hands still leaning against the metal of the vehicle, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as the truck continues to purr under his palms.

"mornin'." he says back, low and easy like it's the easiest thing in the world. his eyes flick over you once— almost habitual— before  finally settling on your face. "you look happy."

you grin. "i feel happy. she sounds better than she has all week. did you figure out what was wrong?"

bucky groans as he leans back up, pulling at the rag on his shoulders and wiping off his hands, eyes focused on the newly fixed engine. "yup. figured it out about an hour or two ago. somethin' wrong with the fuel line, but i managed to fix it up. i think she'll be ready for the road tomorrow morning.

he gives the metal of the truck a light tap as you nod before his attention drifts back to you. this time, his eyes dont just flick over you once; they take their time, slow and analysing, like he's reading something you're trying not to show.

his gaze lingers at your face, on your posture, on the way you hold yourself in an unwittingly protective stance in response to his peering eyes. his mouth curls into a smirk, almost amused.

he nods towards you, "how'd you sleep?" he asks, voice even, but now there's something in the way he speaks that makes you wonder if he knows.

"it was fine." you meekly reply with a pathetic smile.

bucky hums under his breath in acknowledgment. his eyes stay on yours, unreadable in nature but not unkind. after a second, he exhaled and rolls his shoulders back like he's trying to release the tension that weaves through his muscles.

"hey, you still got the leftovers from the dinner?" he asks.

you blow out a huff of air through your mouth as you glance back towards your room. "i think so. i can heat it up if you're hungry."

"yeah." he says easily. "that's be great."

so that's exactly what you do— after all, it's the least you could do for bucky after he'd practically sidelined his own mission just for you. you head back to your room, pull out the leftovers, head over to the kitchen.

you pop the lid off of the leftovers and slide it over to the microwave, but when you press the button, but there isn't a beep nor is there any numbers on display. you press it again, harder this time like it might flicker to life, but it doesn't. the microwave sits there dead and useless, smelling faintly of popcorn and disappointment.

"great." you murmur.

after a moment, you snap the lid back onto the container. there's only one other option, and you already dread it— trevor.

you enter the office, the air conditioning hitting you square in the face the moment you open the door. you step forwards and ring the cheap desk bell on the counter, and the back room door opens by the second ding. trevor steps out, glasses askew, a few strands of his dirty blonde hair sticking up in strange directions, and a lit cigarette hanging from his mouth like it's part of his uniform.

you don't bother with pleasantries and are quick to get to the point. "the microwave in the kitchen is broken. is there any way you could fix it or maybe heat this up for me?"

trevor squints at you, unimpressed. "i'm not doin' no favours for you after the attitude you've been givin' me ever since you stepped foot onto the property."

"it's not for me." you tip your head towards the window. "it's for him."

both of you glance towards the parking lot. bucky's by the truck, still working, still sweating, still leaning over the hood in a way that makes his muscles look extra toned in the sun and his body look carved out of heat and hard work. you feel your heart thump against your ribs and trevor lets out a pathetic huff, but you're sure you and trevor both look away for different reasons.

he sucks on his teeth as he looks you up and down once because he holds his hand out and makes a gesture for you to hand it over. "i got one in the back. it'll be a minute."

you hand it over with a shit-eating grin. "i can wait."

trevor murmurs something under his breath as he disappears behind the back door. a few seconds later, the microwave kicks on— a loud, rattling sound that you can hear even through the shut door.

you tap your fingers against the counter, eyes wandering around the offie. there's a popping noise that catches your attention, and you find yourself looking out of the window and watching bucky again.

he wipes his hands on his rag and tosses it back onto his shoulder, unaware of your eyes on him and focused enough that his tongue sticks out against his lower lip in concentration. there's something unusually calming about watching him work like this, like the world is simple under the hood of a truck.

"... authorities are still searching for the suspect responsible for the shooting of a man in central chicago last week.

your fingers curl at the edge of the counter? your eyes darting towards the small red radio in the corner of the room. you lean over and turn the volume knob until you can hear the words clearly over the microwave.

"witnesses describe her as..."

your blood runs cold.

the description never seems to end. your hair colour and texture, your eye colour, your skin colour, your height, your build, your type of clothing. everything is listed. it feels like everything about you is being peeled open and dissected live on air for millions to hear.

"... authorities urge anyone with information on the whereabouts of this individual to come forward..."

you turn to the back room door.

you're not sure if trevor can even hear the broadcast, but you hope that he set the timer for longer than a minute. the microwave whirs loudly behind the door, drowning out the radio, and you go silent as if the broadcaster could hear you if you spoke, like any sound you make would make them aware of where you are.

and then it ends. just like that, the radio clicks, replaced by cherry country music that spills back into the room as if nothing had ever happened. you don't realise how tight you'd been holding the counter until you hwar the beep of the microwave from behind the door, and trevor pushes it open with his foot soon after, the steaming container in his hands.

you swallow your fear as trevor slides the leftovers across the counter towards you, forcing your hands to uncurl from around the table.

"it's hot—" he starts, but your hands wrap around the container anyways and you pull it from him.

you turn and shoulder the door open with little care.

"not like i wanted a thank you or anythin'." trevor shouts behind you as you practically shut the door on his face.

the heat seeps through the container and into your palms as you cross the lot towards bucky. he straightens when he sees you, lips already curling into a smile and his mouth parting like he's about to say something.

"what were you doin' in th—"

you lean down and place the leftovers on the top of his toolbox, catching his wrist and pulling him to the side of the truck all without missing a single step. the shade from the truck's body swallows you both, and you almost bucky's quick to steady you, brows knitting as his free hand comes up almost instinctively to hold you by the upper arm.

his brows furrow at the worry in your face. "woah, what's goin' on?"

"we have to go. we have to leave today or tonight, okay? like right now." you rush out in a singular breath. it almost feels like everything from chicago had come back to bite you in the ass.

"hey— slow down." he says, another arms reaching out to hold you steady by your shoulders. he lowers his head slightly, looking at you through his eye lashes. "what happened, sweetheart?"

your lip quivers, and bucky reaches up to cup your face in one of his hands. his thumb presses firmly into the skin on your cheekbone, and the touch is reassuring enough for you to speak.

"in the office, they were talking about what happened— what i did. they started listing all these things about me. my hair, my eyes, my— just everything."

something ticks in bucky's jaw. he glances past you towards the office for half a second, his expression almost unreadable. his shoulders square like he's bracing himself for a hit he'd been expected but still hated taking.

the hand that cups your cheek falls back to your shoulder. "did they say anythin' about a location?" bucky asks, eyes boring into yours.

you shake your head. "no. it just said that there's a suspect, said my full name, and described exactly how i look." "

"and did he hear anythin'?" he asks again.

"no, he was—" you shake your head, glancing over your shoulder towards the office where you can see the top of trevor's head. "he was in the back room with the door closed and the microwave was way too loud."

bucky exhales long and slow, like he's trying to come up with both a plan and a promise at the same time. it doesnt help that you're watching him like he's the only thing keeping you afloat.

his hands fall from your shoulders and rest on his hips.

"alright," he says at last. "we're okay for now."

your chest tightens. "but bucky—"

"hey." his voice softens, his eyes the calm of the storm in the hurricane of emotions you feel. "if they knew where you were, they wouldn't be broadcastin' it all over the radio. this place'd be locked down and you wouldn't be talkin' to me right now. we're fine."

you nod, hesitant, but you're sure he means it.

"and even if they were here, i wouldn't go done without a fight." he adds, trying to cheer you up. "i've had my fair share of encounters with the law."

the mental image is ridiculous enough to shake a bit of the nerves out of you. you let out a soft scoff, eyes rolling just slightly as some of the tension actually manages to bleed away.

"i'm serious, princess." bucky defends himself, brows raised in complete seriousness even though you can hear the tinge of dry humour in his tone. "i fought the cops before and i'll do it again if i have to. just say the word and i'm goin' in there, fists swingin'."

"you can't fight the cops, bucky." you tell him.

"fine. maybe not, but look... how about you just—" he exhales through his nose, the humour escaping from his voice. he gestures vaguely to the toolbox you'd set the food down on. "sit down while i work, have somethin' to eat, and then we'll figure out a plan."

you nod, the last of the tension seeping out ouf you as you finally let yourself believe him. you both turn, bucky's hand falling to your back to direct you to the large toolbox, the metal still warm from the sun. you grab the food and sit down, appetite slow but present, while bucky turns back to the truck, his hands disappearing back into the engine.

you watch him while you eat. the way his shoulder flex, the occasional mutter of something irrelevant under his breath, the pause he takes every so often to think, his jaw set and his eyes focused. its ordinary— almost domestic— and somehow that normalcy steadies you a lot more than any reassurance could.

every so often, bucky glances over just to make sure you're still there with him, and you always are.

as you continue to eat, you realise you'd practically consumed the entirety of the leftovers. all that's left is a quarter of a cheeseburger and a couple of fries, and you feel a little guilty for taking what was meant to be bucky's food.

"are you going to eat anything?" you ask.

bucky pokes his head out from the hood. "no, i'm good. have what you can and i'll have whatever's left over."

you furrow your brows at the slight smile he has sitting on his face, and then it slowly dawns on you. he never really wanted the food— not for himself, anyway. he just wanted to make sure you ate.

you glance down at what's left, then back up at him. without a word, you extend the container out to him, eyebrows lifting just enough to make your point.

bucky pauses. he looks at the food, then at you.

"bossy." he mutters, but there's no real malice in it.

he reaches out and takes what remains of the cheeseburger and takes a bite out of it like he hasn't eaten all day. then another, and another, and the burger is gone in seconds.

you can't help the smile the spreads across your face.

bucky wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, gives you a quick, almost sheepish look, because he clears his throat and goes back to fixing the fuel line like nothing had happened.

you stay right there, sunlight warm on your skin, the truck humming beside you, bucky working hard, and for now, you decide this is enough.

night comes gently.

the texas heat bleeds out of the day, replaced by silence and the occasional cricket chirp, the low buzz of the motel sign outside ringing softly in your ears as you shuffle around the belongings in your duffel bag, reorganising the mess and ensuring you have everything you left with.

you have less than a day left here. in the morning, you'd have to leave. you dont know how you'll get there, but you've mustered up enough courage to ask bucky if you could hitch a ride to california. after all, you'd basically spent the past three days spilling your deepest darkest secrets to him; you aren't just going to leave him now.

you're in your room in the partial darkness, body enveloped in the shadows while the far corner of the room is covered in light from the table lamp. the curtains stir slightly in the breeze of the rattling air conditioning, and its so quiet that you can almost hear the electricity running through the walls.

you pause mid-movement, fingers brushing against something small and cold at the bottom of your bag. you reach in and pull it out.

a locket.

it's small. easy to forget. you'd ripped it off the moment you'd gotten on a bus to st louis and thrown it into your bag hoping it'd get lost and you'd never see it again.

you turn the locket over in your palm, the snapped chain curling around your fingers as you inspect the scratched piece of jewellery. it doesn't open, at least not anymore. the hinge bent inwards and snapped the last time you'd forced it closed, and you're almost grateful for your harsh treatment of the metal. you dont even try to open it. you already know what's in there: a picture of you and your boyfriend, one where you're forcing a  smile and he isn't bothering to even try to look happy. 

for a moment, you just stand there. the weight of it heavy against your skin in the same way it'd been heavy around your neck when you still cared for it. then you cross the room and drop it into the trash. it makes a soft, dull thud at it hits the bottom, and you barely flinch as the engraved flowers stare back up at you.

it's gone now, and although a version of you from the past wouldve mourned the cheap locket, the version of you now feels better without it weighing you down.

then comes a knock at the door. it's soft but firm, and you know who it is before you even look over your shoulder. you wipe your hands out of habit as if the locket was filth and cross the room, the lock clicking and the handle squeaking as you open the door.

bucky is standing there. he looks cleaner than he did when the two of you said goodnight a few hours ago, and truth be told, you're not sure why he's here. he's wearing a clean white shirt and a pair of jeans he probably thinks are comfortable but are covered in splashes of paint and dark spots of dried enamel. the shitty LED light that glows overhead bathes him in a glow that almost makes him look angelic, and you almost have to do a double take.

"hey." he says.

you blink. "hey."

the two of you stand there for a moment. bucky rocks on his heels with his hands in his back pockets and your fingers drum against the back of your door, both of you waiting for the other to say something.

"uh," you clear your throat. "did you... need something?"

his brows raise just slightly like you'd pulled him out of a thought, then he shakes his head once, "no, i just... wanted to check in. make sure you were okay."

something soft blooms in your chest at his words, and a part of you is glad that you shot your boyfriend. that asshole wouldnt have bothered to check on you, and he certainly wouldn't have asked if you were okay. if anything, he would've been the reason you were feeling like complete shit.

"you can—" you hesitate, door creaking open a little more as you step to the side, "you can come in. if you want. i could use the company."

"yeah." he nods. "okay."

you step back as he steps inside, his once confident footsteps falling just short of awkward as he steps into your room. you close the door behind him, the lock clicking shut, pushing the night out and sealing the two of you into the silence of your room.

bucky glances around the room, and the poor guy looks like he's never been in a woman's room before. his gaze falls on your shoes messily discarded by the door, then towards the bed and it's mess, and then it lands on your duffel bag. clothes are still thrown everywhere, and he looks like he might combust at the sight of so much... woman.

you smile softly as you walk back over to your bag, glancing over your shoulder just to glance at him. "you can sit down if you want to, bucky. you're not gonna get cooties or anything."

"...right." he mutters with another nod, and yet he hesitates anyways and decides to sit on the edge of your bed, his thigh just barely brushing against the side of your duffel bag, and he glances down at it before looking back at you. "reorganising?"

you huff out a small, tired breath as you go back to digging in your bag. "just trying to see what i brought. it all happened so fast that i forgot how fast i packed up my shit and left."

you pull out a hoodie and hold it up to the light. the logo of one of your favourite bands stares back at you, you haven't worn it in ages because your boyfriend insisted that you listen to 'girlier' bands, and you being naive and compliant, you listened. the small frown that grows on your face doesn't go unnoticed by bucky.

"you should put it on." he suggests, leaning back on the bed with his palms pressed firmly into the mattress.

you "i'm not even sure if it fits—" "then you should see if it does. no harm in tryin'." he's quick to interrupt.

you blink at him, but he just cocks his head like he wants you to do just as he said. you hesitate, fingers tightening over the worn fabric, then you huff out a breath and tug it over your head.

its a little oversized, but it fits better than you expect it to. the sleeves fall just past your wrists and the hem brushes against your thighs, the fabric warm against your skin, finally yours again in a way it hasn't been in a long time.

you glance down at yourself, then at bucky. "happy?"

"very." he says, a grin pulling easy at his mouth as he tilts his head. he jokes, "suits you. i don't think you should ever take it off."

you roll your eyes at him, already reaching for the hem of the hoodie. "very funny, buck." you say dryly. "it's a million degrees outside. i'd die if i kept it on forever."

you grab the bottom of the hoodie, pulling it upwards to pull it off, the action slow and barely thought through. the cotton slides back over your stomach, the cool air brushing against your skin as it takes your shirt up with it for a couple of inches.

and bucky's eyes drop without meaning to— for a long, gruelling second— just long enough for him to catch the tiniest sliver of black lace peeking out of the waistband of your shorts, the fabric digging into the plush of your hips.

it's practically nothing— barely there— but it's enough.

"shit." he mutters under his breath, the word barely audible but still loud enough for you to catch it as you pull the hoodie over your head.

but just as quick as it had appeared, it vanishes as your shirt falls back down the length of your stomach. his eyes linger for a second longer before flicking back up to your face, hair messy from the hoodie.

"hmm?" you hum as you toss the hoodie somewhere on the bag, brow raised just slightly as you ask him about what he said. "did you say something?"

bucky blinks before he quickly shakes his head, tongue running over his teeth as an involuntary way to distract himself. he sits back up and readjusts himself, digging his elbows into his knees to try and hide the growing tent in his pants, but the faintest amount of tension in his posture has you furrowing your brows.

"nothin' important." he mutters, but there's a tightness in the way he says it. "it was, uh... nothin'."

you brush it off. you lean back into your bag, sifting through clothes and belongings before deciding that you've had enough. you lean over and grab a shirt and shove it back into the bag, not bothering to fold it.

bucky watches you for a second, completely silent. you can feel the weight of his eyes on you as you move, and you try your best to not pay him any attention. finally, he clears his throat.

"your... boyfriend," bucky starts, the title cold and a little accusatory on his tongue, but there's something in his tone that's more careful than it is angry. "you always talk about how he wasn't good to you. talks all big, but inside, he's really just an asshole with a tiny dick."

you sigh, just shy of a laugh. "sounds just like him."

your words come out flat, but there's a crack underneath them that gives you away. you hadn't meant to sound hurt— you tried not to— but the ache sneaks through anyways.

bucky. notices. of course he does. before you can turn back to your things, he reaches out and catches your wrist, his fingers closely gently around your skin, stopping you mid-motion.

"sit." he tells you.

and pathetically enough, you do exactly as he asks. his demands dont fall onto you in the same way your boyfriends did. bucky's are softer and rooted in certainty rather than control, and you're not sure if you could ever disobey him.

you sit on the edge of the bed beside him, your hand settling in your lap while bucky holds the other. your heart thuds against your ribs as your eyes flick between his, never quite brave enough to stay there for long enough. you exhale a small breath, eyes trailing down the curve of his throat, tracing over the bump of his adams apple, and settling on the hollow at the base of his neck where you can see the soft thump of his pulse beating underneath his skin.

bucky swallows when he notices. his thumb just barely shifts against your knuckles, like he's trying to ground himself more than you are.

but god, he smells so good. it's unfair how something so subtle can make your thoughts slow and your pulse speed up. you don't want to think about it, you just want more of it. you almost want to slip his shirt off of him and wear it so the scent lingers even when he moves away.

you want to sit a little closer. you want the bed to be smaller. you want any excuse just for him to touch you more, for him to stop holding onto your hand and touch you in all of the places you'd imagined him touching the night before.

bucky's head dips, eyes focused on where his hand begins to trail down to your fingers, the rough skin on his hands ghosting over your soft knuckles like he's memorising every single joint and every swirl embedded in your skin.

"did he ever pay attention to the little things?" he asks quietly. his thumb brushes gently over your ring finger, pressing into the skin where an expensive ring would sit if he had his way. "like how pretty your hands are. how careful you are with them."

your breath hitches as his hand trails back up your arm, the tips of his fingers climbing up until they're pressed firmly on the skin just under your shirt sleeve, warm and intrusive in all of the right ways.

"or how when you're nervous, there's a little hitch in your breath like you forget how to breathe." his thumb shifts, feeling it happen again as he presses into the plump skin. his eyes lift to yours then, searching your face for something you'd never say out loud. "he ever notice that?"

you whisper, "bucky, what are you talking about—"

"your boyfriend never... took care of you, did he?" the question is innocent, but there's something deeper hidden in the words. this isn't idle curiosity, this is something that wants to claim.

"what do you—" you swallow, your mouth suddenly thick with saliva that makes the words stick half out. "what do you mean?"

bucky doesn't answer immediately. his eyes drop back to where his hand is held against your arm, his other hand sliding slowly up the side of your thigh until he has a firm grip on you. his thumb traces tiny circles into the skin, and he can feel the slight quiver you try to hide so hard.

"never made you feel good? never made you cum?" he murmurs, lips parting just enough for his tongue to dart out and wet his lips. then a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "you probably got off better last night than he ever did for all those years."

and just as head observed, your breath hitches ahain, catching in your throat at his words. god, you thought you were quiet. fuck this stupid motel and fuck its stupid thin walls and fuck bucky. fuck him and his stupid deep voice and his stupidly big hands that make you shiver under his touch.

you blink. "you... heard that?"

he shifts in his spot, moving further onto the bed so he can face you completely. his hand moves from your arm and slides up the side of your neck. his hand cups your jaw, thumb digging into the dip of the bone as he tilts your head, eyes glazing over the soft skin and imagining how pretty it'd looked all bitten and bruised.

"the walls are thin. i heard everything, sweetheart." bucky admits, his voice so low and his lips so close to yours that arousal starts pooling low in your stomach. "your breathing when you touched yourself through your panties... that gasp when you finally dipped your fingers into your needy pussy. could practically hear every time you pumped yourself full of those pretty fingers."

the hand that rests on your thigh slides a little higher, just enough that his thumb digs into your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him the most.

"bucky." you almost whimper.

"heard you say my name too, just like that. almost burst through the door right then and there." he continues, his voice low and even, but you watch as his brows knit together softly as his thumb digs into your inner thigh. "but no. had to settle for my hand instead and imagine it was yours."

you lean into his hand, the warmth and the roughness of his skin something you'd been craving for far too long.

"tell me." he whispers, close enough that you can feel his breath against your lips. "tell me you want me to stop and i will."

you shake your head. "i don't want you to stop—"

and he doesnt wait any longer. bucky leans in fast, almost crashing into you as he pushes you back onto the bed. his lips find yours, demanding and insistent, and your chest tightens as soon as you meet him halfway, caught off guard with how much heat he's radiating. there's no teasing or testing, just the urgency of him needing to close the space between the two of you.

his tongue parts your lips in a quick and desperate action, pressing against yours like all he wants to do is taste you.

his knee slips up until it presses against your clothed cunt, the denim of his jeans rubbing against the soft cotton of your shorts. you pant into his mouth and he swallows them with ease, pressing his leg harder against you as you press down onto him.

the hand that rests on your throat trails down until he has a firm grip around your neck, pressing gently into the skin. his other hand digs into your hip, dragging your hips against his thigh until you leave a spot of your own arousal on the fabric of your shorts. you grind down on his knee, trying to find friction where you need it the most. your hands rest on his sides, and you barely have time to break away for a breath before he's swallowing your words. 

"buck." you manage to whine.

a low groan leaves his mouth, his hands leaving your hips despite the small hesitant 'no' that leaves your lips.

"i like when you call me that." he murmurs before his lips are back on yours, his voice thick with something heavy and almost inhumane— a need to be close, a need to be in you.

his hands trail away from your hip, rough fingertips dipping inside of your shirt and dragging along the soft skin of your stomach, reaching higher and higher until he hits the band of your bra. you reach down and pull the hem of your shirt up until it bunches just below your neck, putting your bra on full display for him.

bucky pulls away from the kiss, his lips all bitten and coated in saliva. almost impatiently, he slides a hand under your back and lifts you up, hand fumbling with the clasp of your bra before it clicks open with a satisfying pop. they spill out as bucky pulls the confining fabric away.

"fuck." he groans, "such pretty tits."

his head dips down before he can even really think, dragging his tongue across the flesh of your breast, lapping up any of the salty sweat that'd gathered in the valley of your chest, his other hand massaging what he can't abuse with his mouth. and when he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, the sound wet and loud in the quiet of your room, you arch into his touch. your hips rut against the air trying to find friction— any friction— but he moves his leg the moment he feels you press against him.

"no, please—"

he detaches from your nipple with a wet pop, a string of saliva connecting his lips to the bruised skin. he pushes himself up onto his knees and eagerly tugs his shirt off, throwing it onto the ground beside the bed. he glows in the dim light, catching the dips of his shoulders and his chest, highlighting all the soft scars and burns from his work, and all of the muscle that he'd gained over the years of hard work. it's nothing you haven't seen before, but you're not complaining either.

he tugs at the waistband of your shorts, sliding them off, and you lift your hips to give him easier access. he slides them down the length of your legs and off of the tip of your toes before he discards them just as he did with his shirt, and the site that greets him steals his breath.

you're wearing possibly the laciest panties he's ever seen. there's almost no opaque fabric, thin lace barely covering anything. its more of a thong than actual underwear. his thumb runs along the edge of your panties, tracing the lace like it's a physical manifestation of everything you need and want.

"did you wear these for me?" he asks.

he sounds so sweet— so sure— that he's the reason you're wearing them, and if you entire body wasn't already warm with desire, you're sure it was burning from embarrassment.

"no, they were—" you swallow, almost embarrassed as the truth slips out of your mouth. "they were my only clean pair."

he hums softly, a small smile playing at his face as he lets out the smallest amused huff. "cute."

you smile, and he leans down to press a warm kiss to your lips. you chase his mouth when he pulls away, but let out a soft gasp when he presses a kiss to your cheek, then another onto your jaw. he presses one onto your neck, kisses your collarbone, and continues downwards until his lips find the delicate lining of your panties.

he hooks a hand under your knee and gingerly places it into his shoulder, his hands wrapping around your waist so he can pull you closer to his face. you hold your breath, waiting for what you think is going to happen to happen. your boyfriend could never get this part right.

and then he does it. bucky presses a chaste kiss to the fabric of your panties, lips pressing into the fabric with a delicious pressure. his tongue darts out of his mouth as he licks a long, slow strip across your clothed pussy, soaking what little fabric there is covering you with his saliva and your slick.

you bite down on your hand and he groans at the taste, eyes flicking from your face to the soaked fabric. he reaches forwards, hooking a finger around it and tugging it to the side, and you instinctively clench at the knowledge that you're practically laid out for him and on full display. he's so close that you can feel his breath fanning over your cunt, and you don't think you'd trade this feeling for anything in the world.

he leans in and presses a kiss to your inner thigh before he licks a slow wet stripe from the bottom of your leaking pussy right to your clit.

you let out a moan, biting down on your finger until it burns, but he reaches up and pulls your hand from your mouth. he interlocks his fingers with yours and places your hands firmly against your hips.

"don't be shy, baby." he murmurs into your cunt, not bothering to come up to make sure you can hear it. "wanna hear every noise you make."

he leans in again and laps at what he can, his nose nudging against your swollen clit every time he tries to stick his tongue further into you. you're not sure if you're the one grinding down on his face or if he's doing it himself, but his tongue pokes through your entrance and you find yourself hooking your other leg over his shoulder and holding him there, and bucky gladly accepts his fate.

his tongue plunges in and out of you, pulling away ever so often to suck on the soft skin of your folds. the ball of heat in your stomach in your stomach is so close to snapping and bucky can tell. he lets go of your hand and slides two thick fingers inside of you, pushing until he brushes up against the spongy spot that makes you curl into his touch, and you can't help but slide your fingers through his hair and tugging at the salt and pepper strands.

he continues the rhythm until your legs are clamping around his head and he tastes the sweetness that leaks from your heat.

"fuck—" you cry, your brain fuzzy and your body hot with arousal, "bucky, i'm gonna—"

but just as you're about to spill all over his face, he pulls away. you gasp, your legs instinctively try to tighten around his head to pull him closer, but bucky's stronger. he pries your legs open like it comes naturally to him and rises until he's on his knees.

and then he reaches for his belt buckle. the noise is startling, but it also brings a flurry of butterflies through you. the band of his underwear peeks from his jeans and you can't help but stare up at him as he pulls his belt from his jeans. his eyes bore into yours as he undoes his jeans and slides them down like he knows he's torturing you.

bucky's thumbs slide under the waistband of his underwear and he slides them down, his cock springing out and hits his stomach, the head all flushed and leaking and begging to stretch you open.

his eagerness is barely hidden in the way his hands are back on you, calloused palms running up your sides and cupping your breasts. the blunt tip of his cock presses against your entrance, sliding past your folds and resting there as he leans down for another messy kiss, but you stop him.

"wait, bucky—" you whisper against his lips, hands flat against his chest. you push him away with little resistance. you can feel his breath against your face, and the worry on his face sends a pang of guilt through you.

"am i hurtin' you?" he murmurs with furrowed brows.

youre quick to shake your head. "no, i'm okay, i just... you still don't know my name. you still don't know my name and we're about to—"

bucky's hand slides up from your breast and cups your cheek, his thumb running against your bottom lip. "you don't have to tell me it if you don't want to, princess."

your head shakes the slightest bit, "but if we're gonna do this, i want to tell you."

so you do. your name falls from your lips like a secret you're whispering to him in the dark, and bucky repeats it back to you with such reverence that you've never experienced before, and you find that you never want him to stop saying it.

you lean forwards and kiss him. the kiss is slower than the others you'd shared, and bucky groans into your mouth as he finally pushes into you. the stretch burns, but your hips push against him despite the pain because he feels just like safety.

his cock drags against your soft walls, every second feeling like pure heaven. every sound that slips from your lips is swallowed by bucky and echoed back into your mouth, a chorus of moans and heavy breathes that never seems to end.

he bottoms out with a low groan before he grinds against you like he can't get enough of how you feel, but before you can beg for him to start moving, he pulls out and rams back into you. a yelp jumps out of you, but you try to hold it back.

"be loud, sweetheart. i wanna hear those pretty moans."

"trevor's still— fuck— trevor's still here."

a breathy scoff spills from bucky's mouth, and the shit eating grin that he wears on his face tells you he couldn't care less. "let him hear. the only time that lowlife's gonna get any action is when he hears how good i fuck you."

then bucky's thrusts get harder and sloppier. his chest presses against yours with a welcomed weight, dragging out all of the pathetic bodies you'd been trying to hold back, and your nails dig into the rough skin of his back to try and make them stop. you're embarrassed. your eyes fall shut in a daze, but a growl stops you.

"no, look at me." bucky huffs out, hands coming to grab you by the jaw and redirect your eyes. his thumb digs into your cheek. "look at me, princess. want you to see who's fuckin' you better than that pathetic boyfriend of yours ever could."

and god, you can't do anything but obey. you practically fall limp in his arms as he looks into your eyes and fucks you, every thrust bringing you closer and closer to where bucky wants you. he's brushing against your walls and pressing into spots that you didn't know where there and dragging noises out of you that you didn't know you could make. your name falls from bucky's mouth like he's a sinner begging for forgiveness, like he's been promised that your name is all he needs to be pure again.

all you feel is warm. bucky's skin as your nails carve your presence into his back, your insides as he fucks you better than your stupid boyfriend ever could, your heart as you pull yourself closer to him with every bit of your being— everything is so perfect.

the noise the fills the dingy motel room is wet and filthy, the stickiness between you building, and with a few final thrusts, you cum with a loud moan, and bucky follows soon after, his head tucked into your neck as he fucks his seed into you with a groan.

you're trembling, every small movement wringing out the aftershocks of your orgasm. bucky pulls his head out of your neck and places a chaste kiss to the soft skin below your ear.

"took me so good, baby. just perfect for me," he murmurs.

bucky pulls out of you with a soft breath. his thumb swipes at the liquid that leaks from your weeping cunt before he brings it to his mouth without a second thought, his lips closing around the digit with a soft hum. his thumb pops out of his mouth and he lays beside you, quick to make sure you're tucked into his side, your body pressed against his perfectly like you'd both been shaped from the same mould. your head falls to his chest, a soft tired sigh escaping you.

a while passes. there's no noise coming from the outside world anymore— no cars or trucks, no planes overheard, no game show playing on full volume coming from trevor's office. you're not sure how long it's been quite for, but you know for a fact that the only thing that could've been heard for miles was your moans.

the bedside table lamp buzzes. bucky's heart beats steadily in his chest. there's the faint call of a coyote, and then another, and then silence. it's the kind of quiet that only happens when you're sure everything will be already.

but of course, nothing stays perfect forever. doubt creeps into your mind like a parasite and feasts on the security you feel. bucky is a stranger and you are just another girl. who's to say he won't just abandon you at this motel and leave you for another sketchy trucker to pick up?

"bucky?" you whisper into the silence, unsure if he's awake or if he's simply staring off into space just as you are. your fingers run through the wispy hair on his chest as you try to anchor yourself, but the wave in your tone gives you away.

"hmm?" he hums, his head tilting just slightly towards you.

"can i ask you something?"

"of course, sweetheart."

"this is probably too much to ask, and you can say no if you want." you hesitate. "but can i come with you? to california, at least. and you don't have to say yes, because i know it's sort of your thing to travel alone and everything, but—"

"i was just inside of you, sweetheart. i don't do that with just anybody. thought it was already a given that i'd be takin' you."

you shrug. "you might've changed your mind."

there's a soft silence until bucky shifts. his hand slides up the back of your next and his fingers glide through your hair. you prop your chin up until you're looking straight at him, eyes flicking between his as you await his answer.

"i'd take you around the world if you asked me to." he says.

your breath falls short, replaced by a smile that makes its way onto your face before you can stop it. "thank you, bucky."

"'course." bucky meets you with a similar smile. "now get some sleep. we've got a long drive ahead of us."

morning arrives faster than you'd like. the truck is packed, your duffel bag sitting snugly on the floor of the passenger seat, and the engine rumbles steadily outside in the texan sun. the familiar sputtering and mechanical sounds that had plagued it for days before was finally gone, and you couldn't wait to get the fuck out of this place.

"checking out." you announce as you place both yours and bucky's room keys onto the counter. the metal clatters against the counter, echoing in the silence of the office.

trevor looks up from the magazine in his lap and stops chewing on his piece of strawberry gum, eyebrows lifting from the keys to you, then towards bucky, who stands behind you with his arms crossed.

"hm." trevor sniffs. he eyes the two of you like you'd dropped a suspicious package right in front of him before he puts his magazine down and stands up. "didn't think you'd get your truck fixed. thought you two were never gonna leave."

"tempting." bucky replies dryly.

"right. you're all set. safe travels, sir." trevor grabs the keys from the counter and holds them in his hands for a second before he nods towards you. "you too, sugar."

the word spills from his mouth like he knows it'll be the last time he can piss you off before you disappear into the desert like all of the other visitors. you want to walk away— it's the responsible thing to do— but you're already on the run, so what's the harm?

you pull your fist back and slam it directly into trevor's face. a loud crack fills the office as he yells, his hands flying to his fac to figure out what damage you'd done. red seeps through his bony fingers and curses spill from his mouth, the man too preoccupied with his broken nose to notice that you and bucky are already leaving.

the last thing you hear is "you fuckin' bitch! you'll pay for—" before the office door shuts. his yelling is drowned out by the glass, and even if you could understand what he was yelling, you really couldn't care less.

bucky steps forwards with a smug smile. he reaches up and opens the truck door for you, a hand extended. "you feel better?"

"a little." you sigh, your hand in his as he helps you climb up the steps and hop into the passenger seat. "would've been better if i knocked out a few of his teeth."

"i could go back in there and bring back a few of 'em." bucky suggests with a grin, though you're not entirely convinced he's joking.

you shake your head, "nah, he can keep them. i'm sure i'm not the first person to hit him and i definitely won't be the last. they'll need something to aim for."

bucky sucks in a sharp breath with a playful shake of his head. "i think spending time with lil old me turned you into a monster."

you roll your eyes. "i shot my boyfriend, fled my homestate, and ran from the cops, bucky. i was a monster before you even pulled into this parking lot."

he hums, "touché."

the passenger door shuts behind you. bucky circles the truck and hops into his seat. the truck rolls forward, tires squealing as the vehicle veers into the road and takes off, and for the first time in a while, you finally know where you're going. your final destination? california.

🏷️ @angryoilslick516 @chateaubarnes @superbassbuck @eatingyourboyfriend @star-yawnznn @daisynotquake @avengemepercy @amoremarveloustime @imnotevenhereatall @scaredofbeingbasic @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @angelryex @herejustforbuckybarnes @janilovecookies @chocolatemilkshakex @krisstyu @earthsmightiestbenders @spdrveil @flockoff-featherface @unificsation @firingstars @its-in-the-woods @iamthatonefangirl @winterdecember18 @houseofhyde @blowingbarnes @heldbybarnes @demiebarnes @emmyluvsclarkkent @pinksplace @honeysucklewatr @avgdestitute @elliestwoleftfingerss @screamingdying

[dreamwritesimagines]

Avalanche [27] - Jealousy

A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷

Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader

Summary: Rumors can cause jealousy.

Word Count: 4,7k

Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.

Series Masterlist

Back in the Reach, when Lady Olenna hired that lady of the night to tutor you and Margaery on marital acts and what husbands liked, she had assured both of you that unlike what everyone around you kept telling you, your name, your family’s wealth, any heirs you’d have with your future husband; none of that was a guarantee that he would fall in love with you.

According to her, it was all about how mesmerizing you would be, and your marital bed was the key. That night, while you and Margaery laid in the bed trying to silence your giggles so as not to wake Loras again and get a scolding, you had both agreed that it was exaggeration; surely it couldn’t have been the case for everyone.

But judging by Robb’s reaction after what you had done last night, you were beginning to believe that lady.

“My maid will be here any moment!” you said as you pushed him gently, making him walk backward to the door. “I must get ready for breakfast—we already overslept!”

He grabbed your wrist and in a blink, you had your back against the wall, a giggle escaping you.

“Robb!”

“Dismiss her when she comes.”

“And what of my ladies-in-waiting?”

He grinned at you. “Dismiss them too.”

“That would be rude!”

“Fine, I’ll dismiss all of them—”

“You’ll do no such thing!” you exclaimed, the look of shock on your face coaxing a chuckle out of him as he cupped your face in his palm, your heart skipping a happy beat.

Gods, he looked irresistible.

He had put on his breeches, but his white linen shirt was half open, letting you peek at his chiseled chest. His curly hair was tousled thanks to last night’s—and this morning’s—activities, and there was a mischievous light gleaming in his eyes as he looked at you, tracing the line of your bottom lip.

You frowned, willing yourself to focus.

“I don’t suppose anyone has told you this,” you said, sticking your nose in the air, “but a lady needs her own time to get ready to be seen in public.”

“A lady or my lady?” 

A smile curled your lips before you could stop it, and you pointed in the direction of the door, making him whine.

“I’ve been away from you for a week!”

You shrugged your shoulders, feigning nonchalance as if you weren’t currently battling yourself not to drag him back to bed. “That was of your own making.”

“That, my sweet wife, is a cruel lie,” he murmured, leaning to brush his lips against yours. A pleasant sigh left you, the familiar warmth blooming in your lower stomach, your mind going blank once again as it always did whenever Robb kissed you. Your body moved at its own accord; you threw your arms over his broad shoulders so that you could pull him closer, ready to lose yourself in his arms but a knock on the door snapped you out of it and made you pull back. Robb blindly chased your lips as you pressed a hand on his chest to push him back again, turning your head.

“Just a moment!”

You went under Robb’s arm to get away from him, whirling on your heels before you stepped back, clasping your hands behind you with a grin. He raised his brows like he was warning you.

“Do not—” he started, but before he could finish his sentence, you had already swung the door open to beam at your maid. She was a sweet girl, only a couple years younger than you. Just like the other northerners you had met, she wasn’t very fond of sharing too much, nor did she jump at the opportunity to gossip unlike what you were used to back in the Reach, but you were certain you were going to be friends soon enough.

“Good morrow Kyra!” you chirped. “My lord husband was just leaving, you may come in.”

Kyra stepped in and curtsied.

“M’lord. M’lady.”

Your grin widened at the look of utter betrayal on Robb’s face. “I shall see you at breakfast, my husband.”

“And I shall see you, my wife,” he said, kissing your temple as he walked past you and left the room. You turned to Kyra, looking down to pretend to fix the silky skirt of your nightgown.

“Kyra, would you mind telling the maids to draw me a bath?” you asked. “And I’d really appreciate it if you could help me take off my necklace, thank you.”

With the King and his court arriving next week, Lady Stark was busy beyond words. She had to foresee anything and everything about their visit, and while you had been following her like her shadow to learn and help out if needed, you also had your own duties.

While the preparations were being made for the feasts upon the King’s arrival, Wintertown could not be expected to put everything on hold, especially with the arrival of autumn. Thus, you and your ladies were tasked with preparing certain supplies for the smallfolk. The baskets mostly consisted of blankets and food, and while back in the south your father had certain people responsible for overseeing such help, in the north, it fell upon Lady Stark—and per her request, you.

You would’ve been lying if you said it didn’t surprise you, but you figured it was just one of the many differences between the south and the north.

Everyone did something here, regardless of who they were.

Your ladies-in-waiting were already in the granary, and you had every intention to go join them when you stepped out into the yard after having a short conversation with Lady Stark, but you stopped dead in your tracks when you caught the sight of Theon sparring with Jon while Bran watched them and Robb sat beside him, no doubt having just finished sparring with either of them. You could feel your heart skip a happy beat as you stole a look in the direction of the granary, but the urge to be with Robb—fleeting as it would be, for mere minutes—overcame your hesitation. You made your way to him, a smile twitching his lips the moment you entered his sight and sat beside him.

“Hello,” you said. “I figured I could take some fresh air before I went inside, I hope you don’t mind?”

“Of course not,” he said quickly while Bran waved at you, still quite shy. You gave him a warm smile, both your and his attention turning to Jon when he blocked Theon’s strike with his sword, pushing him hard enough to make him stumble back.

“But will it happen?” Bran insisted while you rested your head on Robb’s shoulder and he pressed his lips on top of your head, sneaking an arm around your waist to subtly pull you closer. Jon rolled his eyes.

“Of course not, Bran.”

“You never know,” Theon sang and Bran huffed.

“Even if father says so?”

“Father won’t say so.”

“He said so to Robb.”

“He asked me,” Robb corrected him, “it’s not the same thing.”

“What are we talking about?” you asked and Bran turned to you with a scowl on his face.

“Jon getting wed.”

“I’m not getting wed.”

“Silas said he was the one who approved Robb,” Bran said. “And if Robb had to approve your future lady…”

Robb let out a scoff. “I don’t think that falls on me.”

“There’s usually more things to consider than your older brother approving someone,” you pointed out. “Silas saying that isn’t the whole truth.”

“But Jon, would you have to wed Ser Tallhart’s daughter if father said so?”

You bit back a laugh at the exasperation on Jon’s face. While you didn’t know the details of how he and Silas separated, it was quite obvious that Jon’s attention wouldn’t belong to anyone else for a long time, judging by how sulky he had been since your brother left. As much as you wanted him to share his feelings with you, you figured he didn’t want you or anyone else to know, so you had to keep your silence despite seeing his sadness.

Perhaps you could imply you would keep his secret, but you would have to earn his trust for that.

“Ser Tallhart’s daughter?” you asked, making Theon let out a laugh.

“I doubt that’ll happen, Bran.”

“But!” Bran insisted. “But listen. Silas approved Robb, right? And you already said, about Ser Tallhart’s daughter, that Robb approved.”

Robb made a face. “I didn’t say I approved.”

“But Theon said that you called her pleasant and said southern girls and northern girls are different,” Bran said, making your head shoot up from Robb’s shoulder. “You approved, and Jon doesn’t have a southern betrothed, and...”

The look of panic that settled on all three men would’ve been funny if it weren’t for the fury crashing down on you. Theon and Jon stopped sparring as if someone had just barked an order at them, and Robb’s eyes widened as he stared at Bran at a loss for words. Bran seemed oblivious to their reactions, ranting about how Jon couldn’t wed because that’d mean he’d see him less like Robb, while you tried your hardest to keep your expression calm, considering you were in public.

Ser Tallhart’s daughter, was it?

“…Ah,” you said and arched a brow at Robb, an overly sweet smile curling your lips. “Is that what Robb said?”

One simple observer would’ve thought Robb was being accused of treason with the way he shook his head vigorously.

“That’s not what I—Bran, you make it sound very different than what actually took place.”

“But Theon and Jon were saying—”

“I said nothing.”

“I’m not involved in this conversation.” Theon and Jon spoke at the same time, desperate to absolve themselves of any crime but Robb wasn’t so lucky and by the looks of it, he knew it.

“I just said for—for Jon, she looked pleasant.” He waved a hand in Jon’s direction without even sparing him a glance while you tilted your head, still smiling. “For Jon only. I wasn’t even—”

“My lady?” Alys’ voice reached you, making you look over your shoulder. “Maester Luwin says we may start if you’re ready.”

“Of course,” you said as if your stomach wasn’t churning, the familiar ache whenever you were nervous back in its full strength. You got up from the bench to follow Alys, leaving Robb dumbfounded but he snapped out of it before you could reach the granary and caught up with you.

“Wait—”

“I cannot,” you said airily without a glance at him, “I have things to do.”

“That sounded wrong, back there.” He stepped in front of you to block your path, making you narrow your eyes. “I didn’t call her—I did call her pleasant, but only because I was trying to encourage Jon. He’s been sulkier than usual, and Theon thinks it’s because he didn’t like any southern girls at our wedding.”

“And one look at Theon makes you think of wisdom?”

“No,” he admitted after a beat. “Not really. But what else could be the reason?”

Your brother was the reason, but it wasn’t like you could tell Robb that. Besides, that wasn’t the point, you were not going to stand here and get into an argument where the whole yard could see, you were way too trained for that. Jealousy was not mesmerizing, most of the time it held the opposite effect. Lady Olenna used to say that the more a lady looked bothered, the more her influence slipped away. Grasping too tightly would signal to the court that you were insecure, and insecurity was unbecoming of a lady. 

Which meant that even though it took every ounce of control in you, you couldn’t appear angry.

“I don’t find anyone more pleasant than you,” Robb added, almost breathless. “My lady, surely you must know that.”

You could swear the words you were not supposed to say were clawing at your throat, but you took a deep breath and forced yourself to smile.

“Alright.”

Robb pulled back slightly, his eyes darting over your face.

“…Alright?”

“Yes,” you said, your voice holding no trace of grudge unlike your heart. “And if you’ll excuse me, I must be going now.”

“But—” He stopped you, holding your arm before you could turn around. “But we’re alright?”

 As much as you wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, that also would appear very unladylike, so you nodded your head instead.

“Of course,” you chirped. “How selfless of you to assess and compare ladies for Jon, I’m certain he’s grateful.”

“See, that comment right there doesn’t assure me that we’re alright—”

“And though I’d love to hear about the differences between southern and northern ladies, I really must be going now,” you cut him off, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Have a good day, my lord.” 

With that, you walked away from him, anger still pulsing in your temples.

Who even was Ser Tallhart’s daughter? No one had told you anything about her.

There was no wonder your ladies-in-waiting would know about her, seeing that they had likely crossed paths at a wedding or a feast. If you were back home, you could’ve asked your friends, but here in Winterfell you had to be more careful than that.

Any wrong question could lead to many speculations.

Not to mention, you still didn’t trust them. Alys, Wylla and Lyra seemed rather sweet, but when it came to Jorelle and Barbrey, you were still very cautious. Barbrey was going to have to work hard to prove her loyalty to you, and Jorelle…

Well.

You weren’t certain that you could ever lower your guard with her.

It wasn’t even about her at this point, it was more about her family. You knew very well that at any given moment, her family would push her forward if they knew they could undermine you, Lady Cerwyn’s condescending manners were a proof of it. Not only that, the whole North would support them, as they were already fond of Jorelle and her family.

Your family, however, were outsiders to the north, and no matter how much help they would send when the winter came, northerners didn’t trust or like outsiders.

You were pulled away from your thoughts when Wylla spoke.

“That’s a very beautiful necklace.”

Your head snapped up, and you willed a lovesick smile on your face despite the storm in your head.

“Aw thank you,” you said, dipping the spoon into the salt bag to pour some of it into the small container before you walked to place it in a basket. “Robb kindly brought me a gift from Torrhen’s Square.”

Alys and Barbrey exchanged smirks while Lyra and Jorelle folded the blankets to put into the rest of the empty baskets.

“Do you know…” you trailed off, nibbling on your lip. “Have any of you been to Torrhen’s Square before?”

Jorelle lifted her head for only a moment before she returned her attention to the blankets, clearly deciding against whatever she was going to say. Alys nodded her head.

“I have, once.”

“I don’t think I’ve met House Tallhart,” you mused. “I’ve heard high praises though.”

“Did Gilliane come to the wedding?” Lyra asked and you turned your head.

“Gilliane?”

“Their oldest daughter, my lady,” Wylla said. “And no, she didn’t.”

“I think only Erena came,” Alys said. “I’m certain I caught a glimpse of her—her younger sister.”

“I’ve met too many people to count at the wedding, I’m afraid,” you said. “Perhaps I met them and don’t remember it.”

“Erena is very sweet, Gilliane however…”

“Lyra,” Alys warned her and she held up her hands.

“I said nothing.”

You tilted your head. “Oh, now I must know.”

Barbrey grinned. “Gilliane is very emotional.”

“It’s no crime against the king to be emotional!” Alys insisted while Lyra made a face.

“It should be.”

Jorelle bit back her smile.

“Gilliane gets affected by anything and everything,” she told you. “A bit of a crier.”

“And she falls in love with someone different at every Harvest Feast,” Wylla added and fixed her hair in an exaggerated manner. “And if anyone would like to ask me why she didn’t come to the wedding, I have the answer.”

“How?”

“One of her brothers holds affections for me, and he’s a gossip.”

Alys’ jaw dropped. “Which brother?”

“Benton.” Wylla reached out to grab an apple to take a bite, coaxing a laugh out of you while Lyra narrowed her eyes.

“Have you started living in Wintertown and we don’t know about it?”

“It’s just one apple!”

“Don’t let Maester Luwin see you,” Jorelle said and Wylla shrugged her shoulders.

“I am famished, would he rather if I fainted?”

“That is a very sound logic I admit,” you teased them and Wylla gestured at you.

“See?”

“But in return, we hear why she didn’t come to the wedding,” you added, plopping down on the nearest chair and cracking your neck with a grimace. “Sounds interesting.”

“Alright, so…” Wylla jumped to sit on the table. “Benton says she was heartbroken.”

“That’s no news, she gets heartbroken whenever someone looks at her wrong.”

“Jo!”

“Am I lying?”

“No wonder she and I can’t get along well, she has too many feelings for my taste,” Lyra mused and Alys pressed her fist on her lips in an attempt to hide her smile. Barbrey leaned in.

“Who was she heartbroken over?”

“And that’s what is so interesting about it,” Wylla said and turned to you. “Don’t misunderstand this, because I would know if there was anything between them, but…”

You pulled back, your mouth half agape. “Robb?”

The whole room erupted into chaos.

“Wylla!”

“Have they even spoken to each other before?”

“I have never ever seen them exchange words in any wedding or feast.”

“Yeah, Benton says the same. She was admiring him from afar, pushed her father to make an offer of betrothal, but…”

Well, if that was the pleasant girl, at least now you knew she was no real threat to your position or your heart.

“A lot of fathers made—” Barbrey started but Alys elbowed her, stealing a look at Jorelle whose calm face was impossible to read as usual. Lyra shrugged her shoulders.

“I’ll say it if you won’t. Everyone’s fathers made proposals.”

“Lyra, don’t say that!”

“What, like she doesn’t know?”

“I do know,” you assured them. “And I don’t mind at all. If Robb held a grudge over everyone who made a proposal to wed me, our marriage would be cold until we’re old and gray. That’s simply how such arrangements work, it makes sense that families made proposals, I could never hold grudges over that.”

At least that was what Lady Olenna would want you to say.

Untroubled and amused.

That’s what you had to appear when it came to possible former betrothals; untroubled and amused.

Even though what you felt was the complete opposite of that.

“And I don’t want any of you to guard your tongues around me,” you added in a haste, as if you yourself hadn’t been trained to guard your tongue around people since you could speak. “Not when it’s just us, at least.”

No one back in the south would believe or entertain such thought. In fact, if you and Margaery were ever told what you had just said, you both would’ve taken it as an insult to be seen so naïve, but this was the north.

And you could not seem resentful or insecure.

“Now,” you said and grabbed an apple to bite it as well. “Tell me more about this person. I have been suffering from lack of gossip ever since I came here, and I’d like to catch up.”

By dinner time, you had learned everything there was to learn about House Tallhart and their daughters, and thankfully, nothing seemed alarming.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t angry at Robb.

And although Lady Olenna would’ve advised you otherwise, you were going to make sure he knew exactly how you felt.

Lord Stark had made it much easier, albeit not on purpose. He had kept Robb with him the whole day for meetings and petitions, and you had managed to excuse yourself to your own bedchambers right after dinner before he could come back. A week away from home must have meant Lord Stark had much to catch up on, because it was nearly midnight by the time you heard Robb’s heavy gait pass your door. You raised your brows, keeping your attention on your book in your lap when the door to his bedchambers opened, then closed after a couple of complete silence. His footsteps approached your door before he opened it and peeked his head in.

“What are you doing here?”

You flipped the page without pulling your gaze off the book. “Reading.”

“Here?”

“Seems that way.”

“But…” He stepped inside. “But I’m back.”

“Hasn’t escaped me.”

“Then why are you here?”

“It’s my bedchambers,” you replied. “Why are you here?”

“I couldn’t find you in—are you still angry at me?”

“No,” you lied through your teeth. “I simply decided to sleep here tonight.”

Judging by the look on his face, you might as well have announced you meant to annul your marriage: “You’re not sleeping here tonight.”

“I am,” you said, pretending to be engrossed in your book though you barely had any idea what you were reading. “And you can sleep in your own bedchambers and think about Ser Tallhart’s daughter all you want.”

“What?” His eyes widened. “I told you, I only said that for—”

“I care not.” You pointed at the door, your gaze fixed on the page. “Leave me be.”

He lingered there for a moment as if he was trying to find the best approach, then took a step towards the bed.

“My sweet wife—” he started, but stopped dead in his tracks when you lifted your head to glare daggers at him. He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat.

“I was trying to encourage Jon.”

“I heard you the first time,” you said and closed to book to give him a snake like smile. “Now that you’re here though, how are northern girls different than southern girls? Since you are an expert, you should have no issues enlightening me?”

“That’s—” He pointed back at the door like Jon was standing outside, stumbling over his words. “I simply said, if Jon didn’t find any southern girls to his liking, northern girls might be uh—different?” The last word came out like an uncertain question. “In terms of his uh, his…affections.”

You raised your brows, still glaring at him.

“I swear it was for Jon only.”

“Wonderful,” you deadpanned. “You may leave now. Have pleasant dreams.”

A ghost of a smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “I can’t believe you’re jealou—”

“Robb if you finish that sentence, I will make you suffer in a very southern way, and then you’ll know the actual difference between northern and southern girls,” you growled, and he held up his hands, biting back his smile.

“Be angry at me if you wish,” he said, stepping closer to the bed, “but we’re not sleeping in different beds.”

“I’m not coming there, and you’re not welcomed here.”

“Oh you are coming there,” he said and before you could so much as blink, he had thrown you over his shoulder, a surprised shriek spilling from your lips.

“Put me down this instant!” you exclaimed, your voice going high-pitched while he made his way to the door. You pressed your palms on his shoulder to throw him off his balance and wiggle out of his grip, but much to your frustration, it didn’t work. “How dare you? This is actual disrespect, you—”

“You left me no other choice,” he stated, stepping out of your bedchambers into the hallway. “Whose fault is it? Not mine.”

“Put me down!”

He turned, but stopped in an instant, and though you hoped it was because he decided to listen to you, the real reason turned out to be very different. He shifted his weight and let out a curt cough like he was trying to regain his composure.

“Father.”

Oh Gods.

Oh Gods no.

Lord Stark could not see you like this, absolutely not.

“…Robb.”

Alright then, Lord Stark was indeed seeing you like this.

You shut your eyes tight, half hoping it would make both of you disappear from Lord Stark’s vision, scrunching up your face.

“Good evening, Lord Stark,” you squealed out, the angle Robb was holding you in preventing you from seeing your father-in-law, perhaps by mercy.

“My wife and I were just…” Robb started, but even you could tell he had no idea where the sentence would go. “We were uh, going to sleep.”

Well, Robb was a terrible liar, so at least you could find some solace in that for the future of your marriage, especially now that you were going to have to spend the rest of the said marriage not being able to look at his father in the eye. A silence fell upon the hallway before Lord Stark heaved a sigh as if he had the realm’s weight on his shoulders, and even though you couldn’t see his face, you could picture the exasperation on his face.

“I saw nothing,” he ended up saying. “I saw nothing, and I am walking away before I see anything.”

“Good idea, father,” Robb stated, nodding solemnly. “Very wise.”

You heard Lord Stark go past him and you watched him walk to the other end of the hallway without sparing a glance back. A whine climbed your throat and you slumped over his shoulder, hiding your face in your hands until Robb entered his—your—bedchambers and dropped you on the bed. You grabbed the nearest pillow to throw at him, your cheeks burning.

“I won’t be able to look at your father anymore, Robb!”

“He doesn’t mind.”

“He—that—” you stammered, gesturing at the door. “He saw!”

“Aye, and he doesn’t mind,” Robb said, catching the other pillow in the air. “To repeat, you gave me no other choice!”

You gritted your teeth and turned to Grey Wind who was watching you both from beside the fireplace.

“Grey Wind, up,” you commanded and he leaped on the bed, making Robb frown.

“What are you doing?”

“He will sleep between us.”

“No he won’t.”

“Yes he will,” you said and pulled the fur covers on top of you, the direwolf curling up next to you. “You can sleep on your side, or you can sleep somewhere else dreaming of Ser Tallhart’s pleasant daughter, your choice.”

“That’s a vile accusation and a terrible insult—Grey Wind, down.”

“Grey Wind, stay,” you shot back and Grey Wind let out a huff, looked between you and Robb, then yawned and nudged your arm with his snout. “See? He’s staying.”

Robb threw his head back with a groan while you pulled your pillow to yourself.

“Lamb…”

“I’m too sleepy to argue.”

“Then just listen?”

“I shall not,” you said, closing your eyes. “Goodnight.”

“But…”

“Goodnight, I said.”

 Robb exhaled through his nose impatiently and moved about in the room, his heavy steps enough of a clue to what he was doing. Despite trying to control yourself, you still ended up opening an eye to watch him take off his shirt, but you shut your eyes again before he could see you gawking at him. He got under the furs, and after a couple of seconds you dared steal a peek again to find him half naked, his arm thrown over his eyes to block the candlelight, oblivious to the way your gaze followed down his chiseled body while you bit at your lip.

Oh well.

Just because you were angry at him didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy the sight.

[iluvvvdilfs]

"grumpy lil baby" girl that whole grown ass man