#its been like this little bit of sunshine in my day

[erythristicbones]

i think making my own discord server for my original stories was one of the best decisions ive made in awhile tbh

[lia-linny]

summary: A hilarious TikTok trend changes yn's life when her crush sees the funny video titled "reasons why i would date Lee Felix" and a notification pops up in her phone the day after: "@leefelix_brownieboy posted a video"

genre: fluff, Highschool au, social media romance

words: 1.9k

"What about Wooyoung?"

The chatter in the school cafeteria was as loud as ever, but at the table where yn sat with her friends, it felt like a world of its own. Loud, chaotic, and full of giggles. Typical teenage conversations were held, from the latest fashion trends to celebrity gossip. That day, they first passionately discussed how cute Bang Chan and his new girlfriend the skater girl looked together. Then, the topic had shifted to relationships in general, and her friends had started wondering why yn was still single. Determined to change that as soon as possible, they decided to set her up with someone. All they needed now was to find someone who match all her criteria.

"Wooyoung is way too flirty for me," yn replied with a smirk to Karina’s question.

"Jungwon?" Winter chimed in.

"Nah... not really my type..." Yn was sitting between Karina and Winter, across from Ningning and Giselle, while her friends worked through their mental list of guys with the precision of a detective team. As she twirled the straw in her iced tea can, Giselle asked:

"Sunghoon? Figure skater energy?"

"I’d fall, and he’d definitely laugh at me." That sparked another round of giggles.

Giselle rested her chin in her hand. "Girl, your type doesn’t even exist. You’re picky times ten."

"That’s called having standards," yn shot back with a grin but deep down, she knew her friend was right. She had never been someone who fell in love easily. She preferred to watch, analyze, and take her time. If you were going to fall, then it should be for the right one, right? Why waste time just to find out that he is an asshole?

"Okay, wait." Ningning leaned in, her voice a little softer, almost teasing. "What about Felix?" Something tightened in yn’s stomach. Bullseye.

"Felix?"

"Yeah, you know. Bakes like a god, gamer, freckles." All eyes turned to her. Yn had tried to stay neutral, but the telltale blush on her cheeks had given her away. Plus, she was pretty sure anyone within a ten-kilometer radius could hear her pounding heartbeat.

"Oh my God, she’s blushing!" Karina exclaimed.

"He’s just..." yn sighed, playing with her fork in the food. "He’s exactly my type. Looks-wise. Personality-wise. He’s just so..."

"Sunshine?" Giselle teased with a grin. Yn nodded slowly, a quiet smile playing on her lips.

"Guys, I think our angel is in love! Omg, we have to get them together!!! Sunshine meets sunshine!"

"You two TikTok nerds would vibe perfectly," Winter said.

"You’d go viral before you’re even official!" Ningning laughed. Yn laughed along, but one thought stuck in her mind. Felix. She had never really talked to him just a few fleeting glances in the hallway, maybe some mutual TikTok likes but something about him felt... magnetic.

She pushed the thought aside. It was just a fun conversation among friends, nothing more. It wasn’t like she actually had anything to do with him...

But later that night, while scrolling through TikTok and stumbling upon the new trend “Reasons why I would date…”, a thought flickered. What if?

It was just after midnight, the light in yn’s room dimmed, only the fairy lights above her desk casting a warm, flickering glow across the walls. Her finger hovered above the record button. It was just for fun. She propped up her phone on a stack of books, fixed her hair, and pulled the hood of her sweatshirt slightly over her forehead for the vibe. Then she hit record.

“Reasons why I would date... Lee Felix.”

For social media, yn had scraped together every bit of confidence she could find. It was meant to be funny. She looked at the camera with a grin as she raised her fingers one by one, counting off the reasons.

"1. He's nicer to strangers than 90% of people will ever be.

2. He bakes. And well. I mean, come on.

3. His freckles are cuter than anything I’ve ever seen. They are like little stars on his face. It looks so friendly.

4. His laugh. I can’t even explain it, but my heart literally does a flip. I’m convinced that every time Felix smiles, he saves a life somewhere in the world.

5. His voice is fucking hot..."

At the last point, she had to giggl a bit and hid her face in her hands. She ended the video with a crooked smile and added a caption:

@ just.yn'n.bakin: just girly things ~ only my mutuals will see this anyway lol 🍪☀️"

The next morning, she had just wanted to check if her best friend had replied to one of her messages. Instead, TikTok had been blinking with 999+ new notifications. Her eyes widened with shock.

"Oh my God." The video had gone viral overnight. Not “haha a few likes”-viral. Millions of views. And tens of thousands of comments, like: “I ship you two SO HARD.” “Felix, you’ve got 24 hours, bro.” “Manifesting this relationship.” “Why am I crying over this???”

Yn stared at the screen as her fingers trembled.

Ping!

Message from Karina: “YOU’RE GOING VIRAL?!”

Then Winter: “Felix definitely saw it.” Seconds later, another one: “He’s literally liking the comments?? Girl I see your love story already!”

Her heart had started racing fast. Faster. Way too fast. She had never thought this would turn into something real when she recorded the video. She hadn’t even dreamed that Felix might actually see it. Somehow, it all felt... embarrassing. Did it make her seem hopelessly in love? Would he find it weird? Cringe? She could already imagine a response video: "Reasons why I would NOT date yn!!!!!! 🤢🤮😂"

Ping!

Notification TikTok: “@leefelix_brownieboy posted a new video.” Still trying to steady her breathing, she quickly tapped the push notification. Her video the one she had half-jokingly recorded before bed was now part of a duet.

Left side: her original. Right side: Felix.

He was sitting cross-legged on his bed in a hoodie, a blanket half-draped over his legs, his hair messy. But his grin was bright and a little shy. He let the video play in full lenght without interrupting, but it was clear he was struggling not to laugh. His cheeks growing redder with every reason she listed.

Yn, watching, had also turned increasingly red as she saw Felix listening to every single word she had said about him the night before. And just when she was about to die of embarrassment... He started his own list.

“Reasons why I would date yn.

Sunshine recognizes sunshine.

2. She bakes better than me. And I don’t say that lightly. You can literally taste the love in her baking. I almost proposed to her when she handed out those cinnamon rolls on her birthday last year.

3. She makes TikToks that are meant just for her friends and still manages to make me laugh so hard I’ve got a whole folder where I save them.

4. She always likes the same TikToks I do. It’s creepy. But cute. She’s funnier than she admits.

5. And… she stole my heart faster than my friends could even send me her video."

At the end, he looked straight into the camera, tilted his head slightly, his tone soft almost unsure but clearly meant for her.

“Yn, if you’re watching this… I wouldn’t be uninterested. Just saying.” The video had ended with a wink, and her eyes had immediately jumped to the caption:

@ leefelix_brownieboy: Someone tell her I’ll be looking for her in the hallway today.

~☆~

Yn felt like every pair of eyes in the hallway was on her. And she probably wasn’t wrong at least three students had already smiled at her like she was some kind of local celebrity. Some of the younger girls, standing in a whispering circle, looked like they were seconds away from asking for a selfie, the way they were dreamily staring at yn.

She tried her best at stucking close to Karina as they made their way to the lockers. But then yn heard a familiar voice. The same voice she had, just yesterday, publicly declared as hot. “Hey.”

She turned around. Felix stood right in front of her, hands tucked into his pockets, that same crooked grin from his TikTok but somehow more real in person. From the far end of the hallway, the group of girls squealed in delight, and yn was pretty sure one of them was about to faint.

“So… uh. Sunshine meets sunshine, huh?” His gaze turned a little cautious, like he was trying to gauge her reaction. Yn let out a soft laugh, then nodded.

“I guess TikTok shipps us.”

“Then we probably shouldn’t disappoint the internet,” he said with a smirk. A brief pause followed. Yn couldn’t quite tell if he was flirting or asking if she wanted to film a TikTok together.

“Kinda random but... coffee after school? Or cupcake baking? I’ll bring the ingredients, you bring that love-recipe of yours?” Yn’s grin grew.

“Only if you help bake.”

“Deal.”

TikTok or date? Maybe it could be both.

~☆~

The air was thick with the scent of vanilla and melted chocolate, wrapping around the two of them like a second layer of sugar. They both had a natural charm when it came to socializing. Chatting with people had never been hard for either of them but this didn’t feel like just any new aquintance. The conversation flowed easily, jumping from topic to topic, laughter echoing between them as they built inside jokes like it was second nature. Something between them just clicked.

While yn kneaded dough for the second batch with flour-dusted fingers, Felix stood beside her with a piping bag in hand, brows furrowed in concentration like cupcake decorating was a sacred art.

“If you stare at that piece of baked dough any harder, I’m gonna get jealous,” yn teased. Felix looked up, pushed his bottom lip out playfully, and grinned.

“I just want you to know I can do more than TikTok dances. I have to bring out all my baking skills to impress you.” He held up a cupcake with a tiny, hand-drawn heart on top.

“Try it.” She took a bite and immediately burst into laughter.

“You swapped salt and sugar in the frosting, sweetie.”

“What?! No-” He yanked the cupcake back, tasted it himself, and pulled a disgusted face. “Okay, plan B: I bring the romance, you save the flavor.” He wiggled his eyebrows in an exaggerated flirt, which sent them both into another round of laughter.

Once yn had finished baking the rest of the muffins and they had decorated them this time with actual sweet frosting they arranged the cupcakes neatly on the kitchen table. The phone was clipped into the tripod, TikTok already recording. Felix grinned into the camera.

“Okay, guys, you wanted an update…” He gestured to yn, who gave a shy little wave, cheeks slightly pink. “This gorgeous girl said yes mostly to cupcakes, but also kinda to me.” They both giggled and grabbed a cupcake each, holding them up in front of their faces like silly dough-eyed monsters. And just before the recording timer ran out, Felix leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek.

@ just.yn’n.baking: From TikTok mutuals to cupcake partners. Recipe for love?

The comments exploded: “STOP I’M CRYING THIS IS TOO WHOLESOME” “The internet really just played cupid for a softboy and a softgirl.” “Think I’ll try TikTok instead of Tinder now. This gives me hope.” “If they start dating I won’t even know which one I’m more jealous of.”

~☆~

A warm Sunday afternoon, sunlight spilling golden through the half-open window. Felix’s room was a cozy mess: a gaming setup in one corner, a plushie on the bed that yn had jokingly given him weeks ago now clearly treasured and a fruit plate his mom had brought in with a knowing look. A TikTok tripod stood in the middle of the room.

“Okay, this time you’re nailing the drop, right?” yn teased.

“Hey! I’ve gotten better.” She tossed him a hair tie with a laugh. He caught it and tried to tie back the loose strands of his long blond hair, but the ponytail failed miserably most of his hair fell right back into his face.

“Let me do it,” she said without thinking and stepped closer, gently gathering his hair in her hands. She was standing so close now that Felix had to swallow hard. When her hands dropped, they looked at each other. Their eyes met long, deep, and quiet. But just as quickly as the moment came, it passed.

They both stepped back, the music started. Three… two… one they danced. But at the crucial part, Felix missed the beat, stumbled, and nearly fell backward straight into yn. She didn’t fall, thankfully, instinctively placing her hands on his waist to steady him. His face was just inches from hers. Suddenly everything went quiet. The music was still playing, but they could barely hear it. Yn’s heart thudded in her chest. Felix’s breath brushed against her cheek. The distance between them was so small. So easy to close. But neither moved. They were too new at this. Too unsure. As far as yn knew, Felix had never had a partner. Neither had she.

Later she saved the video in her drafts. Too sweet to delete. Too intimate to post.

~☆~

A gray Tuesday. The sky above the school looked like someone had drained all the color from it. Thick, looming clouds were gathering. something was definitely brewing up there. And right on cue, as the final bell of the day echoed through the halls, a sudden downpour broke loose.

“Oh no,” yn murmured, clutching her backpack closer. Of course she hadn’t checked her weather app that morning. Now she was standing there no umbrella, no jacket just a light top already fluttering from the sharp wind.

“Here.” Before she could protest, Felix had tugged off his hoodie. warm, soft, smelling like him and pulled it over her head, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“But you’ll get soaked.”

“I’m Australian. I’ve seen worse,” he grinned. They walked through the rain together, shoulders brushing. Even though his shirt was getting soaked, he looked at her like none of it mattered like she was the only thing that did.

Cautiously, she slipped her hand into his. And it felt so right, they practically floated home.

“Keep it warm for me. Or keep yourself warm with it. Both work.” That had been Felix’s last message. He’d walked her home, hoodie and all flashing her a shy smile as he told her to keep it. The butterflies it gave her then? Gone now.

Because the rain had left her with a cold. Her nose was red, her throat scratchy. She layed curled up on the couch under a fluffy blanket, some random Netflix series droning in the background as she scrolled aimlessly through social media. The day dragged on like molasses. She had canceled on her friends and was now just... existing in a pile of tissues and self-pity.

The soft chime from the doorbell snapped her out of it. Groaning, she shuffled to the door only to blink in surprise when she opened it to see familiar doe eyes and a freckled face. Felix stood there. One hand held a small paper bag, the other a thermos. His hoodie was pulled up over his damp blonde hair, misted with rain. Somehow, that made him look even more handsome.

“Heard you’re not quite yourself today.” yn blinked.

“How did you…?”

“Karina. And the TikTok silence. Very un-yn to not post something silly all day.” He offered the bag to her.

“Cough drops figured your throat’s killing you. And… ginger tea. I know, it tastes like trash, but it works.” She gave a raspy laugh.

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe. But cute while doing it.” She let him in. They didn’t talk much he sat on the floor while she remained bundled up on the couch. They both scrolled through TikTok, showing each other their favorites now and then. It was low-energy, simple… but somehow perfect. And somewhere between one video and the next, yn fell asleep.

~☆~

The TikTok started with light and romantic pop music. Felix stood in the foreground, Chan holding the phone, and Hyunjin commentating loudly off-camera: “Okay guys, today’s the day. Sunshine’s asking Sunshine!”

Cut.

A timelapse of the boys decorating a small garden, fairy lights twinkled overhead, handmade paper stars hung from branches, and colorful paintings swayed gently in the breeze.

Cut.

Felix, in a pastel yellow shirt, tried to mask his nerves with his signature crooked grin.

“She has no idea,” he said to the camera. “when this works, it’s gotta be the most wholesome TikTok move of the year. Holy crap, I’m nervous.”

Cut.

Yn appeared, led into the garden by Ningning, who could barely suppress her squeal. When yn saw the lights, she froze. Her eyes widened. The boys stood in a line, each holding a sign. Above them hung a banner: "REASONS WHY I WANT YOU TO BE MY GIRLFRIEND:"

Cut.

A clip played showing the signs up close:

1. Because every day with you feels like my favorite song and I never want to hit pause.

2. Because you wear my hoodie like it’s always been yours.

3. Because you’d give me the last cupcake.

4. Because you record our cringe moments and turn them into my favorites.

5. Because you’re sweet. But not just that. You’re brave, smart, funny… and most off all perfect for me.

6. Because your laugh makes me laugh even when I have no idea what’s funny.

7. Because you make me feel chosen. And you’re picky. But you picked me.

At the end, Felix stood there holding a cupcake, his eyes soft, his smile quietly excited.

Cut.

YN’s eyes glistened as the realization hit. Gently, Felix stepped closer.

“Yn… from the first video, I knew you were special. And with every laugh, every cupcake, every second together… I knew it even more.” He cleared his throat, voice shaking slightly as he looked into her eyes.

“So… will you be my girlfriend? Officially? My Sunshine?” Yn covered her mouth, eyes wide. She was laughing half overwhelmed, half head-over-heels.

“Yes. A hundred times yes.” She threw her arms around him, and as cheers erupted behind them, she kissed him. Soft. Warm. Honest.

The boys exploded behind them. Changbin shouted, “FINALLY!” Hyunjin zoomed in dramatically. Seungmin threw confetti. Jisung yelled, “THAT’S MY BOY!”

Pure chaos erupted. The video ended on a freeze frame of the kiss, calmly lit by the fairy lights.

@ leefelix_brownieboy: Sunshine x Sunshine official now! 🙀🥳💙

[hyunebunx]

˖˙ ᰋ ── hyunjin messes up and kkami helps him apologize

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. genre: fluff (might be the cutest thing i wrote recently)

﹙ʚɞ˚﹚. a/n: this is definitely inspired by the new book i'm obsessing over right now so pls enjoy and let me know what you think!! <33

“Well, well, look who finally remembered he has a loving partner missing him at home.”

You hear Hyunjin sigh on the other end, sheepish, obviously expecting you’d cut him some slack for disappearing for days, like talking to him wasn’t the best part of your day. Touring was hard, and he’s been insanely busy from day one – you get it. That’s why, your tone’s more playful than intended, only being able to let the phone ring for two heartbeats before rushing to answer and let his velvety voice bring sunshine back into your dull life.

“Hello, the absolute love of my life I think about daily.” He clears his throat, brushing over your comment in hopes you’re not truly upset he hasn’t called in so long. Two days weren’t a big deal, but for clingy people like you and him, going 48 hours without hearing what the other has been up to was torture. It was just enough time for insecurity to creep in, feeding you lies upon lies about how he’d forgotten your relationship and was currently in the process of replacing you with someone else, someone better and more worthy of owning his heart.

Your heart flutters, a grin finding its way onto features despite your attempts at stopping it. “Hello, Hyunjin.”

“Who the fuck is Hyunjin?”

No longer able to keep the happiness at bay, you burst out laughing, the aggravation clear as day in the absence of his usual pet name. Hyunjin was your baby, nothing else. His name only ever left your pretty lips you couldn’t wait to press against his only when the situation called for seriousness.

Settling down, you ignore his displeased huffing. “The guy who hasn’t called me in a week. You might know him.”

You’re teasing. You both know it, just like he knows that behind your words, the only genuine thing is the longing and the wish to have him close again, missing the steady beat of his heart and his familiar warmth that usually lulled you to sleep, badly. Hyunjin has always been great at reading between the lines, figuring you out easily, like you were nothing more than an unchallenging puzzle he could solve with his eyes closed.

“A week? I know I messed up, love, but it’s only been two days. Not even, just about 45 hours.” You hear sheets rustling on the other end, helping you picture him lounging about in the hotel bed, hair most likely still damp from his previous shower. For once, the time difference was not absurd, allowing you to stare wistfully at the moon with certainty the other was doing the same, sharing stories of your love and trusting she’ll keep them safe.

“You counted?” You giggle, making yourself more comfortable on the couch, right next to Kkami who is sleeping soundly.

“I’ve been counting the hours until I can see you again the second I stepped outside our apartment.” He confesses, voice suddenly heavy with emotion before he gasps, ruining what could have been a sweet moment. “You’re telling me you haven’t?”

Of course, you have. Time seemed to go by incredibly slowly whenever he wasn’t near, the increasing distance causing his magnetic pull to grow weaker each day, but never diminishing, never losing its hold on you. That was impossible.

“No.” You lie blatantly, leaning back against the couch casually, one hand moving to slowly pet Kkami’s head whose slumber gave him the perfect excuse to ignore you.

“Liar.”

For the first time in your life, the fact that he knew you like the back of his hand was annoying.

“Don’t change the subject! You’re still not in the clear for forgetting about me for two whole days, Hyunjin.” You’re not actually mad, just feeling a little bit neglected. Hyunjin has never gone MIA like that, without even texting you brief updates throughout the day just so you’ll know he was still alive and kicking. Your boyfriend was thoughtful, sweet, and considerate – the radio silence you got for the past two days was very unlike him.

“I didn’t forget.” He counters, and you’re sure he’s shaking his head vehemently, denying all of your accusations. “I could never forget, not in this lifetime or any others.”

“Liar.” You mock him, making a face he can’t see and tease you about like he’d usually do. “You could have texted, at least. Let me know you’d be busy.”

“I’m sorry, love.” His voice is soft, apology genuine as can be when he doesn’t try to justify himself or find excuses. Hyunjin is aware that if the roles were reversed, he’d feel the same way you’re feeling right now, the anxiety and worry eating at him from the inside and leaving behind a restlessness he couldn’t shake off no matter how hard he tried to. And he does, to an extent. Not being able to contact you drove him on the brink of insanity, making him moodier and more difficult to work it, which was so unlike him.

“Can I talk to Kkami?” He adds, trying to make it up to you in his own, creative way you’ve come to love.

“What?” You can’t help but laugh, not sure you heard him right.

“Pass the phone to Kkami for a moment, please?”

Now you’re curious, wondering what that beautiful mind had in store for you this time. You’ve been dog-sitting Kkami since he left, sending him regular updates in hopes of brightening up his day and keeping the homesickness at bay. Your camera roll has been full of pictures and videos of Kkami - walking him, playing together and being cute just for Hyunjin’s delight. A small price to ensure your boyfriend’s everlasting happiness.

“Should I leave you two alone? Give you some privacy?”

He laughs, and you hear the sound of a bag zipping up. “Yes. This is just between us boys, sorry baby.”

Shaking your head with a smile, you do as he asks, lowering the phone close to Kkami’s ear like the pup could actually catch Hyunjin up on what’s been happening around the house since he left. At the sound of his owner’s voice, Kkami’s eyes open as his ears perk up, visibly excited to hear him after so long. With his tail waggling, Kkami listens attentively to whatever Hyunjin is telling him, sleep long forgotten as you start giggling next to him, not believing your eyes.

Kkami was not an affectionate dog, often biting or growling at your lover like he was sick of him. Hyunjin’s presence and fussing were a bore, the dog quickly growing tired of his excited nature, even though your boyfriend was the person he loved most in the world.

That’s exactly why, you’re taken aback when he sprints off the couch, running a lap around the living room before returning to jump at your feet, barking and licking the hand closest to him excitedly.

Dumbfounded, you bring the phone back to your ear laughing. “What did you say to him? He’s suddenly so happy to see me.”

“He’s groveling in my stead. I told him to show you how much I miss you.”

Your heart melts, and suddenly he’s all forgiven as tears well up in your eyes. “Hyun…”

“Actually, I asked him if he wanted a treat.” Your tears get absorbed right back as a laugh bubbles out of the both of you, with Kkami jumping into your lap to beg properly. “I guess he figured I wasn’t there to give him some, so now he expects them from you.”

“You set me up.” You say, voice laced with playfulness as you stand up, scooping Kkami with one hand to fulfill his request. A true glutton, he’d never forgive you if you denied him his beloved snacks.

“Maybe. But my words had the desired effect.” His tone is softer now, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re laughing.”

Yet, the joy didn’t reach its full potential, and never will with hundreds of miles between you. Happiness in its truest form found you in a handful of moments, and for most of them, Hyunjin was right by your side, fueling you with the love and devotion he held for you and you alone. He made you happy like nobody else, helping you see color even on the darkest days. Your beloved loved painting, that’s what he did, you just never thought he could bring forth his talent and make you see beauty in everything, guiding you to see the world through his eyes that always sparkled like he held the entire galaxy in them.

“Baby.”

Hyunjin gasps so loudly, almost like he is on the verge of bursting with happiness, matching Kkami’s energy to a T, ready to jump through the phone to feel your love and affection again.

“Can we facetime? I miss your beautiful face.” You add once Kkami is back on his own paws, devouring the stinky treat in your hand as you crouch to his level.

“Facetime? Love, I’ll literally catch the earliest flight and be there in record time! This little screen isn’t cutting it anymore, I need to see you with my own eyes before I get so desperate I start walking back just to be in your arms!”

And that is your cue to get on a plane first and finally visit your boyfriend before he keeps his word and ends up at your doorsteps with nothing but a duffle bag and a sob story about how much he missed you to justify his careless actions.

[grayandthyme]

nights in white satin | oneshot

masterlist

jackson!joel miller x f!reader

synopsis: what if that cold winter day happened a little bit differently? what if he survived? what if you got your happy ending. and, what if you showed him what that happiness really felt like? warnings/tags: 18+ smut, mentions of violence, death, and gore. mentions events of s2e2/second game, mild angst, confession, mentions of survivor's guilt, extreme guilt, anxiety, maybe some ptsd, yearning, unprotected p in v, mentions of overstimulation, oral sex (f receiving), mature language, grumpy x sunshine, no use of y/n. maybe a fix it fic....

authors note: im a widow, okay? take a oneshot bc i miss seeing him. also this has been in my drafts for awhile.. so pls ignore if its choppy</3

w/c 10.1k

"Mornin'," he rumbles, voice thick with sleep, rough like gravel under boot. The coffee cup skates across the cool granite, leaving a streak of warmth behind, and the smell—rich, dark, almost divine—hits you like a prayer answered by the gods above. Liquid fuckin sleep.

"Good morning to you too, Miller," you murmur around a yawn, curling two fingers through the handle and pulling the mug close. Heat seeps into your skin, chasing away the chill clinging to your bones.

Your gaze lifts to him—Joel—watching as he drags a hand down his face, wiping away whatever dreams still clung to him. His fingers thump against the counter with a soft, aimless tap, and you catch yourself staring at the rough, calloused pads of them, worn, weathered and real.

"Tired?" His voice is softer this time, threading through the sleepy silence between you.

You nod, sipping carefully at the coffee. Blessed and sorely needed.

"Is Ellie up, or did you let her sleep in?" you ask, stifling another yawn as you tip your head in a lazy nod toward the next patrol filing into the mess hall.

"I let her sleep," he mutters, gaze flicking down to the coffee steaming in his hand. You don’t have to press him—you already know. They’re still tangled up in whatever silent war they started. Fighting, ignoring each other, walking on eggshells… some messy, stubborn version of a father-daughter standoff that's got both of them fraying at the edges.

"Aren’t you a good daddy, eh?" you tease, hiding a smirk behind the rim of your mug. Your eyes cut sideways, waiting—almost daring him—to react.

Right on cue, he lets out a low, gruff hnf, a sound half embarrassment, half warning.

"I wouldn't press you about it anyway, Miller," you say with a soft grin, slipping down from the barstool. The soles of your boots scuff lightly against the floor, the sound too loud in the sleepy hush of the mess hall.

"I'm with Jesse this morning—we’ve got the market patrol," you add, turning as you shrug into your jacket, tugging it into place with a few sharp tugs. Still, your gaze can’t help but drift back to him.

Joel stands there, broad-shouldered and a little crumpled around the edges, like sleep hadn't quite finished with him yet. Your eyes catch on the strands of silver threading through the dark, messy curls at his temples.

Pretty, you think, a little surprised at yourself. Stupidly pretty.

He doesn’t notice the way you’re looking—or maybe he does and just pretends not to. He’s good at that.

"I'm with Dina," Joel says, giving a small nod. His eyes flick sideways, quick, like a habit he can't quite shake. Watching you. Pretending not to. It's subtle, the way he does it—barely there—but you catch it anyway.

"If you’re back in time, we can hit the bar for happy hour~," you tease, voice lilting into a singsong as you nudge a playful jab toward his shoulder, stopping just shy of actually making contact. "Maybe even get you to talk about your little daddy-daughter debacle."

You flash him a grin, wide and shameless, knowing full well how much he hates when you call it that. The word debacle alone is enough to get that tight, uncomfortable pinch around his mouth—the one he tries and fails to hide every time.

He huffs out a breath, more air than sound, and levels you with a look—one that’s supposed to be warning, but doesn’t have much bite behind it. His mouth pulls into a tight line, and for a second, you think he’s going to let it go.

But, of course, Joel Miller never lets anything go easy.

"You’re askin’ for trouble, y'know that?" he mutters, low and gravelly, eyes narrowing just a touch. Not angry. Just… exasperated. The kind of exasperated that sounds a whole lot like fond when it’s him.

You just laugh, light and careless, throwing a wink over your shoulder as you head for the door.

"Been askin' for trouble since the day you met me, old man," you call back, earning a rough, half-hearted hnf that follows you all the way out into the morning chill.

. . .

Patrol was boring. The kind of boring that makes you wish for something stupid to happen, just to feel your blood move a little faster. The roads were dead quiet, muffled under thick, heavy snow. Jesse didn't talk much—just rambled now and then about town repairs, busted generators, and roofs that needed patching. Stuff that drifted past your ears without sticking.

Building wasn’t really your thing, anyway. You stuck to what you were good at—helping out in the greenhouses, lending a hand at the infirmary—anything that didn’t require a hammer and nails. Unfortunately, you were still subjected to freeze your ass off on patrol.

The wind bit at your face until your eyebrows went numb, your eyelashes stiff and clumped with frost. You were about five minutes away from becoming a human popsicle when you finally reached for your walkie.

"Jackson, come in, over," you called, voice crackling through the static.

There was a beat of silence before a faint voice answered, a little too quick, a little too tense. "Jackson copy. Twin Forks, how’s it looking out there?"

You glanced over at Jesse, who just gave a small shrug, his breath clouding in the frozen air. Raising the walkie back to your mouth, you huffed out a sigh.

"Freezin' half to death. Roads are mainly clear. We're headin' back, over" you said, teeth chattering a little around the words.

Static hissed through the speaker again. Longer this time.

Your eyebrows pulled together, unease creeping slow and sharp down your spine. That wasn’t like Jackson. They were usually fast—too fast sometimes, like they were just waiting for any excuse to chatter your ear off.

Before you could say anything, the walkie cracked back to life:

"Twin Forks, copy—have you heard from Dina or Joel? Over."

Your stomach dropped clean through you. Like stepping into thin ice.

You tightened your grip on the walkie, heart already kicking up in your chest.

"No," you said, sharper than you meant to. "Aren’t they supposed to be back already?"

The static answered for them.

And for the first time all morning, the cold wasn’t the thing making your hands shake.

Your eyes flicked up to Jesse. His face was stone—jaw tight, mouth a grim, thin line. You knew he had something with Dina. Whatever messy, tangled thing it was between them, it ran deep enough to light that cold fury in his eyes now.

"I'm following their route," you said, voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "You can come with me… or you can go home."

Your teeth caught your bottom lip, biting down hard enough that the sting cut through the churning anxiety in your gut. It felt like your stomach was trying to turn itself inside out, the nerves scraping raw against your ribs.

For a second, Jesse didn’t say anything. Just stared at you, snow catching in his hair, breath huffing out in slow, frosted clouds.

Then he nodded once. Sharp. Decisive.

"Let's go."

You didn’t wait. You just adjusted your pack and started moving, boots crunching hard through the deep snow, following the trail Joel and Dina were supposed to take.

Every step forward made the pit in your stomach twist tighter. Something was wrong. You could feel it, thrumming under your skin like a warning.

You tapped your heel against your horse’s side—once, twice—and the animal surged forward into the snow, kicking up white powder in its wake. Fingers tightening so hard around the reins that the leather bit deep into your palms, leaving angry, stinging red imprints.

"Joel? Dina? Come in. Over," you barked into the walkie, voice clipped and sharp from the cold and the panic creeping higher in your throat.

Static answered. Again. No Joel. No reply.

"Fuck," you hissed under your breath, jamming the radio back onto your pack with a rough snap.

The trail ahead was still. Too still. Snow stretched in every direction, pristine and coated except for a broken trail of hoof prints leading up toward the mountain.

You didn’t need to think. You urged your horse faster, heart hammering in your chest, every muscle wound tight.

It was only a few yards up the slope when you saw it—Dina and Joel’s horse, standing riderless in the snow.

But no Dina. No Joel.

Your eyes snapped to the cabin tucked just ahead. It looked solid—half-renovated, sturdy enough to stand against the winter. Someone had been here, maybe still was.

"Jesse—front door," you ordered, voice low but firm. "Make sure no one goes in or out."

Your gaze cut to him, sharp and urgent. He nodded, pulling his gun free from his belt as he circled wide, boots crunching over the frozen ground.

"I’ll take the side door," you added, already slipping from your horse, landing hard in the snow. "Look around."

You hesitated, just for a second—just long enough to catch his eye—and the words slipped out, rougher, quieter:

"And… be safe."

The look you gave him said the rest. You were already wired tight with anxiety, your nerves scraped raw. One wrong move, and this whole thing could turn sideways fast.

Jesse gave you a tight nod, disappearing toward the front, and you turned toward the side of the cabin, heart hammering loud enough you swore it echoed in your ears.

Hand on your weapon, you moved in.

he bile clawed up your throat, threatening to spill out. Your whole body felt like it had caught fire—nerves sparking, brain short-circuiting, tears stinging hot at the corners of your eyes.

You rounded the corner of the basement, sweeping it methodically, breathing shallow, every inch of you tight with dread. Clear. Clear. Clear.

Until the stairs came into view.

You climbed them slow, careful, each step deliberate, barely daring to breathe. The wood creaked under your boots, but only slightly—only enough to make your heart jump into your throat.

Then— "Ha—ha—HA—"

The ragged gasping hit you like a blow to the chest. Violent. Desperate. A woman’s voice, cracked and breaking from the strain of it.

You froze, finger curling tight around your trigger, inching closer to the source.

Through the narrow sliver of the cracked door, you saw it.

Blood. Everywhere.

The metallic scent hit you hard, thick and suffocating.

And then— The mess of salt and pepper curls. Familiar. Burned into your mind from only this morning, when you were smiling over your coffee and teasing him about happy hour. When you wished you had told him that since the day you met him, he had meant everything to you.

Joel.

Blood soaked the floorboards beneath him, pooling like something alive, something hungry. Gushing. And he wasn’t moving.

Your body moved before your brain had time to catch up. You slammed your shoulder into the door with a force you didn’t even know you had, sending it crashing backward with a groan of splintering wood.

The room was a blur—chaos and blood and panic. The familiar weight of a body on the ground, unmoving. Your eyes barely caught it before you were reacting, fingers tightening around your weapon. The shot was instinct, clean and precise, straight to the face. The sound of the gunshot rang in your ears as one of the women dropped like a ragdoll, her body crumpling.

But then— The wind was knocked out of you.

The second she hit the floor, another figure lunged, grabbing you by the shoulders, slamming you back against the wall with bone-crushing force.

You gasped for air, panic flooding in as your body screamed to move, to do anything but be pinned here. There was a man on you, wild eyes flashing with terror and fury. You fought back, muscles burning, your hand darting to the nearest thing—anything to give you an edge. It landed on a glass bottle, slick and cold in your grasp.

Without thinking, you swung it, the bottle crashing against his skull with a sickening crack. He staggered back, momentarily dazed, giving you just enough space to slip away, your chest heaving as you fought against the rage, the fear, the overwhelming anxiety that turned your blood to fire.

Your eyes blurred—tears, or maybe just the smoke of too much anger, too much chaos. Every breath felt like a fist in your ribs.

You barely recognized yourself in that moment.

The fury inside you was pure, uncontrollable—fueled by terror, by the sight of him, by the fact that he was here, and he shouldn’t be.

And it was all too much.

You spun around, gun already raised, your finger pulling the trigger without a single hesitation. The man who had been on you moments ago crumpled to the floor with a sickening thud, his body twitching once, twice, thrice, before stilling.

Your eyes snapped to the remaining two. One was kneeling over Joel, her braided hair swinging wildly with each frantic movement, fingers locked tight around a golf club. The other was above Dina’s body, her face stained with tears as she hovered over the fallen woman. You couldn’t tell if Dina was still breathing. The sight of it made everything inside you twist in fury.

The world around you narrowed—there was no room for hesitation, no time to think.

Angry. So fucking angry. Calculated. Bloodthirsty.

You took a step forward, the weight of the rage feeding you, making everything feel sharp and clear. With one fluid motion, you threw your empty gun to the floor. The clatter echoed in the room, loud and final.

The braided woman took a sharp breath, and before you could even blink, she swung the club at you, a brutal arc aimed right for your face. You felt the crack against the bridge of your nose, the force enough to send you stumbling back, but you didn’t flinch. You welcomed it—felt it fuel the fury already pumping through your veins.

You wanted to feel this.

You didn't give her a second to recover. You lunged, body crashing into hers with everything you had. It was all strength—no technique—just pure violence. She hit the ground hard beneath you, gasping for breath, but you didn’t stop.

Your hand found her side, fingers brushing over the knife strapped to her waist. In one brutal move, you ripped it from her and lifted it high.

The first slash was messy, a deep gash across her throat. She choked, but you didn’t stop. Not until the blade bit down again and again, each thrust deeper, each second an eternity of rage, until her body stopped moving entirely.

You pulled the knife from her throat, your breath coming in ragged gasps, chest heaving as the adrenaline coursed through you, a sick buzz that made everything feel… distant. Empty.

The silence in the room was suffocating now.

You hadn’t even realized it, but Jesse had already moved in, subdued the woman who had been hovering over Dina, and now he was holding the girl in his arms, checking her pulse. Through the ringing in your ears, his voice cut through—low, steady, but with a note of relief.

"She's alive."

The knife slipped from your fingers, clattering to the floor with a sickening finality. But you didn’t even look at it. Your body was already in motion, adrenaline still coursing through you, pulling you toward the only thing that mattered now.

You stumbled over to Joel, heart hammering in your chest, each beat pounding like a war drum. You leaned over him, your breath shaky as you hovered above his bloodied form.

"Hey, hey, hey…" The words came out soft, almost like a prayer, your fingers hovering above his battered skin. Every inch of you wanted to touch him, to make sure he was still breathing—still there—but you were terrified. Terrified that if you did, if you moved too quickly, you might break him with a single touch.

His face was bruised and battered, blood streaked down his jaw and neck. His breathing was shallow, ragged—but it was still there. He was still here.

Your hand trembled, fingers hovering just above him, a fragile hesitation before you finally let them settle on his chest, feeling the weak rise and fall beneath your palm.

"Joel," you whispered, voice cracking, soft but desperate. "Joel, stay with me. Cmon, don’t do this.”

. . .

It had been two weeks since the incident, but time felt warped—like it had both stopped and dragged on at once. You hadn’t left this chair. Maybe just to go to the bathroom, but even then, you barely registered it, too numb, too drained.

The room had become your world. The pale walls, the soft beeping of the machines keeping a rhythm to your broken thoughts. Every other sound faded into the background, until it was just you and the memories that haunted you.

At some point, Tommy had barged in and threatened to force-feed you if you didn’t eat something, anything, before dragging you out of the infirmary for a few minutes of air. You barely remembered it—just that he was there, urging you to move, to care, but you hadn’t felt it.

And then Maria had made you change. She wasn’t gentle about it, but you were too far gone to fight back. She made you strip the bloodstained clothes off your body—clothes that clung to you like a second skin of guilt—and put on something fresh. Something clean. Something that didn't smell like the blood of the man you nearly lost.

Joel was in stable condition now, his heart still beating, his lungs still taking in air. He still hadn't woken up.

His face was burned into your consciousness. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw it. The bruising. The blood. The scar on his temple you always teased him about, now covered with black and blue. The deep, unsettling weight of it all settled in your chest, each time harder to breathe through.

You couldn’t escape it.

His face. The desperate, silent plea you could never erase.

Ellie had visited numerous times. She never asked what you were thinking, never pressed you to speak, but she didn’t have to. She knew you well enough to see the anger, and sadness swirling beneath your skin, the tension in your every move.

She knew this wasn’t just exhaustion or grief—it was guilt. Deep, suffocating guilt. Whether it was survivor's guilt or something more, Ellie saw it, knew it. And she also knew, without a doubt, that you cared for him. The way your eyes lingered on his sleeping form. The way your hands would twitch, wanting to touch him, but afraid to.

But you didn’t act on it. You couldn't.

It was too much. The weight of your own feelings, the weight of what had happened, the fear that maybe you didn’t deserve to feel this way. Not after everything. Not after the bloodshed. Not after the fact that you were still here, breathing, while he was lying unconscious, fighting for every breath.

Would it be better to die? The thought had plagued you more than once. To die with him, to end it all and erase the possibility of this endless ache that gnawed at your insides. To take away even the chance of missing him, the chance of waking up and still feeling this pain in your chest.

What if he died and you never got the chance to say you loved him. How each and every longing stare meant something more than 'I'm afraid to let you in.' Please don't leave without letting me love you.

You wondered if it would be simpler, if the universe would just let you follow him into the dark. Maybe it would stop this gnawing emptiness. Maybe it would stop the endless loop of what-ifs, of imagining him waking up and letting your hands roam against his skin—lips and tongue trailing against every scar, every inch pain he's ever received. kissing it better.

It wasn’t supposed to feel like this. It wasn’t supposed to feel this heavy.

But, you couldn’t escape it. The raw, bitter truth that you couldn’t let go. You couldn’t leave him. And somehow, even if it felt like a punishment, you had to keep going. Had to keep breathing for him, even when every part of you wanted to shut down and fade into nothing.

. . .

You could barely function the morning it happened. Your body felt like it was made of lead, eyes swollen from exhaustion, hands shaking as they pressed against your temple in an effort to stay upright in the hospital chair you hadn't left in days.

The rustling of sheets cut through the exhaustion. Your eyes shot open, heart hammering against your chest, panic. For a split second, the room seemed to warp—was it another dream? Another cruel twist of your mind playing tricks on you?

You blinked, trying to focus through the haze of fatigue, and then you saw it. A pair of soft, tired mocha eyes meeting yours—slow and heavy, yet unmistakably aware. It wasn’t a hallucination. He was here.

“Joel…” The name slipped from your lips, barely a whisper, trembling and unsteady, as if you weren’t sure if it was real either.

He blinked once, his gaze flickering around the room like he was still piecing things together, his breath shallow but deliberate. The faintest glimmer of recognition passed through his expression, a slight furrow in his brow as if the fog in his head hadn’t completely lifted yet.

But the sight of him—alive, awake, breathing—was enough to make the world stop spinning for a moment.

You held your breath, every muscle in your body frozen. You couldn’t tear your eyes away. You didn’t want to blink, didn’t want to miss a single second.

Before you could finish your thoughts, before you could form some grand gesture, before your body could even drop to its knees in relief or allow yourself the catharsis of crying… the door to the room opened.

The flood of people—Tommy, Ellie, Maria, and a few others—poured in. Their voices were muffled, distant, like static in your ears as the room seemed to close in on you. You felt their eyes, their relief, their joy. But all you could feel was the suffocating weight of guilt pressing down on your chest. It crawled beneath your skin, an infection that wrapped itself around your throat, choking the air from your lungs.

He’s alive. You wanted to scream it, to be happy, to feel like you had the right to feel something other than shame. But it was like the joy couldn’t reach you.

Instead, it only deepened the ache. The guilt. You had almost lost him. You had almost killed him. What if you didn't make it in time? You should have gotten there sooner. Look at him. Do you see those bruises? Do you see his face? This is your fault. Your fault.

You didn’t want to face anyone. Not yet. Not now.

You turned, before anyone could speak, before they could reach you. The world seemed too loud, too bright. The room felt like it was spinning out of control, like every inch of space was filled with a thousand questions you didn’t want to answer. You left.

You couldn’t breathe in that room, surrounded by their relief, their comfort. You couldn’t breathe with him alive, with everything still hanging in the balance. You couldn’t face them. Not now.

It had been four days since he woke up. Four days since the flood of guilt and relief had crashed over you, and you hadn’t spoken to anyone since. You hadn’t answered your door when they knocked.

The world felt suffocating, and you didn’t feel like you deserved to face it. You didn’t want to face the world. You shouldn’t. The anxiety gnawed at you, relentless. It kept you up at night, pacing in the small space of your mind, suffocating you with every breath. And tonight, it was no different.

You found yourself standing outside his door in the infirmary, fingers trembling as you reached out. The wood was cool beneath your touch, but your hand felt as if it might tremble right through it. You had to do this. You had to.

A soft breath escaped you as you gathered whatever courage you could, your hand hovering just inches from knocking. Your heart thumped loudly in your chest, a steady, painful rhythm that echoed in your ears.

Knock Knock Knock

What if he’s angry? What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if it’s too late for us?

The thoughts swirled, but you pushed them down, your knuckles gently tapping against the door. The sound seemed to reverberate through your body, like an announcement that you were about to face everything you had been running from.

"Come in."

The voice was rough, deep, and it hit you like a wave—like honey to your brain, smooth and warm, yet leaving you trembling in its wake. The same voice you had sinned thinking about. "Thatsa' good girl." … "It's like you were made for me." … "Take me so good." Late at night when your thoughts spiraled, when guilt and longing tangled into something too complicated to sort through.

The same voice that had sent chills down your spine and made your heart race even when you tried to ignore it. The same voice that had teased you about liking sugar in your morning coffee, a soft joke that always lingered just a little too long.

Your breath caught in your throat. That voice. You could still remember every word, every inflection, like the memory of him had been etched into you long before this.

You let out a shaky breath, pushing the door open slowly. You didn't dare let your footsteps be loud, like maybe if you made yourself small enough, you could avoid the flood of emotions threatening to pour over the edge.

You shut the door softly behind you, the sound of it clicking shut making everything feel too real. Too right.

Your gaze flickered to him.

Joel was sitting up in the bed, propped up by pillows, his figure still worn but somehow more solid than you'd seen him in days. His expression was tired, but his eyes—they locked onto yours with a quiet intensity that made your heart skip. His hair, though still messy, had the same dark, unruly curls you remembered. But the bruises were fading now, the bloodstains mostly gone, leaving just the raw remnants of the pain he'd been through.

He didn’t speak at first, but his gaze said everything.

You’re here.

You opened your mouth, but the words wouldn't come. They got stuck somewhere in your throat, tangled in the fear, the guilt, the ache.

"Hey, Miller…" Your voice came out soft, creaky, and far too small. Awkward. You felt like a stranger in your own body, unsure of how to act, unsure of how to bridge the chasm of silence that had stretched between the two of you for so long.

Joel's gaze softened slightly, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. He was tired—physically, mentally, emotionally. His face still held the remnants of pain, the tiredness that seemed to etch deeper into his features every day. He had a rough, unshaven jawline, the dark stubble more pronounced now, and his eyes looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks either. You weren’t the only one haunted by everything that had happened.

You felt a flush of heat rise up your neck, self-conscious of how you must look—dark circles under your eyes, skin pale and flushed from lack of sleep, your clothes barely hanging on your frame from the stress and nightmares that had claimed your nights.

It felt like everything about you was falling apart. You didn’t want to show him this side of you. The broken, tired version of yourself that you were trying so hard to bury beneath the weight of it all.

Joel's voice was rough when he finally spoke. "You look like hell."

The words were blunt, honest—but there was no cruelty behind them. Just a quiet, tired acknowledgment.

Your chest tightened. You don’t even know the half of it.

"I—" You swallowed thickly, but the words stuck. The shame, the anxiety, the feeling of being so lost in your own head, it all bubbled up, suffocating. "I didn't—"

The guilt was there again, squeezing at your lungs, choking the air out of you. You hadn’t been there for him. Not in the way you needed to. And now, everything between you felt like it was slipping through your fingers.

You swallow. Deep. Visibly. The lump in your throat is thick, hard to push down, but you try. You have to say something.

"You're one to talk." Your words are meant to be a jest, a poor attempt to deflect, to mask the fragile state you’re in. But the moment the words leave your lips, you know it’s hollow. You feel it in the way your voice cracks, in the way your shoulders tremble with the weight of everything unsaid.

The tears start to fall, slowly at first, as if your body couldn't hold them back any longer. You feel them trickle down your cheeks, hot and stinging, leaving tracks where they slip beneath your eyes. It’s like the dam inside of you has broken.

"C'mere, Darlin'." His voice is low, a soft sigh that seems to carry all the weight of everything unspoken between you.

Before you can even respond, his fingers are wrapping around your wrist, gentle but firm enough that you can’t pull away, not even if you wanted to. The touch isn’t demanding; it’s an invitation. A silent plea for connection, for comfort, for whatever fractured piece of yourself you were too afraid to offer.

His pull is soft, like he’s letting you decide whether or not to lean in. And you do. Slowly, you lean over the bed, drawn toward him like a magnet, feeling the warmth of his body. It’s the closest thing to safety you’ve known in days.

The moment you’re within reach, his arms are around you, pulling you in, and you can’t stop the sob that escapes you. His hands are in your hair, fingers splaying against the back of your head, holding you to him like he’s afraid you might break into pieces if he lets go.

It’s a hug. No words, no explanations. Just him and you, and the space between you that was never meant to be there.

Your arms sink into his body, like you were carved for each other, like you were always meant to find this moment. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, and you can feel the steady beat of his heart. It’s solid. It's real. It’s the reassurance you didn’t know you needed.

For the first time in what feels like forever, you let yourself breathe. You let yourself break. His presence steadies you.

"I thought I lost you." You hiccup, the words coming out ragged, broken. The tears just keep falling, unstoppable now. The weight of everything hits you harder than you expected, each sob shaking you to your core.

"I thought I didn't make it on time—" You inhale sharply, the breath hitching painfully in your chest as your heart races. The air feels too thin, too cold. "I thought, I thought—" The words don’t come out in a way that makes sense, but it doesn’t matter. You don’t need to explain.

Joel doesn’t speak at first, but his arms tighten around you just enough to ground you. To remind you that you’re still here. That he’s still here. But when you whisper the words that have been haunting you, your voice soft, shaking, the weight of it lingers in the space between you:

"What if you died?"

It’s like you’ve just said the one thing you’ve been avoiding for days. The truth. The thought that has been crushing you silently, quietly, as you tried to keep it together. The silence that follows is thick. Heavy. Joel's breath stills for a moment, and you can feel the subtle shift in his chest, like he’s absorbing what you’ve just said. He doesn’t pull away, though. He doesn’t let you go.

After a long pause, his voice comes, deep and steady, like he's trying to find the right words to anchor you. "I’m here, Darlin'. I’m here. And I’m not goin’ anywhere."

You tremble against him, a few more tears slipping free. His words feel like a lifeline. Like the space you’ve been treading on has finally found solid ground.

It felt like hours passed, the tears still coming in waves, but slowly they began to quiet. You didn’t even know how long you’d been there, in his arms, the two of you sorting through the guilt, the fear, the helplessness.

The silence between you now wasn’t suffocating—it was calm, soothing.

Somehow, though, you found yourself on the infirmary bed, tucked next to him. His presence was warm, steady, and his chest rose and fell with a deep, even breath that kept you grounded.

You had never thought you’d end up like this—lying next to him, with the scent of sterile bandages in the air, the soft hum of the room around you, and the quiet weight of his hand in yours. But here you were.

The pad of your finger traced along a deep purple scar against his forearm the one you couldn’t help but notice when you first sat down beside him. It was a stark reminder of how close you came to losing him.

Your touch was gentle, almost reverent, like you were afraid that if you pressed too hard, the moment might shatter. His skin was rough under your fingertips, but it was warm, real, and alive. Each scar, each mark on him felt like a story, a part of him that you couldn’t change. It made you ache. It made you feel sick.

Joel’s voice broke the silence, quiet but with a hint of warmth that made your chest tighten. "You don’t gotta do that, y'know." He said, his voice softer than usual, but there was an understanding in it.

"I know," you whispered, your voice a little strained, but calm, for the first time in what felt like forever. "I just… need to know you're okay."

"I'm here. Can't get rid of me." His voice is steady, but the weight of it carries something more—something unspoken. Joel’s eyes drift over your face, tracing each line, each imperfection. He doesn’t say anything about how you look, though the words are there, heavy in the air. You look like hell—tired, broken—but to him, you’re still the most beautiful damn thing he’s ever seen.

The intensity of his gaze makes your chest tighten. For a second, it feels like everything stops. The world outside the infirmary fades away. His eyes are searching you—like he’s trying to figure something out, but you can’t quite tell what. Maybe it’s the same thing you’ve been trying to figure out, too.

Your breath hitches slightly, but you hold his gaze, even though you can feel your heart pounding in your chest. It's like time slows down. An eternity of silence stretches between you, and in that silence, everything seems to hang.

You don’t want to ruin this. Not this moment. Not whatever this is.

The thought of naming it—of putting a label on it—feels overwhelming. Is it friendship? Coexistence? Just two people trying to make it through this hell together? Or is it something more? You can’t tell, but you’re afraid that if you try to define it, if you try to make sense of it, you might destroy what little of it you have left.

“You’ve got a way of making everything feel… complicated,” you finally whisper. You wish you could say more, but you don’t know how.

He chuckles softly, and you can hear the tiredness in his voice. “Yeah, I’ve got that effect on people.” His hand shifts, his fingers lightly brushing the side of your face, almost tentative, but the warmth of it fills the space between you. "I don’t have all the answers. But you’ve got me, Darlin'. That’s more than I can offer right now."

Your eyes close for a brief moment, the weight of his words sinking in. There’s a kind of comfort in them, in the uncertainty. In the fact that neither of you has it all figured out.

Fuck it.

Like a string that snaps, your brain rewires the moment you make eye contact again. It’s sudden, electric—You don’t think about it. You don’t think about the consequences, the mess, or the fact that this might break whatever fragile balance you’ve managed to keep. You just act.

Your hands slip up, fingers trembling ever so slightly, but the moment they make contact with his dark curls, something inside you stills. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. His eyes are steady on yours, but there’s something raw in them now. Something that tells you he’s as desperate for this connection as you are.

Inches away, you breathe in his scent, that familiar mix of dust and earth, the roughness of the world outside, but underneath it—there’s him.

A presence that’s always been there, always just out of reach. But now, now it’s close enough to touch.

Your lips part, but it's only an invitation. You don't say anything. Don’t have to. Everything that needs to be said is written in the way your bodies lean toward each other, drawn together like magnets.

His breath hitches, and before you can even think about it, he’s closing the distance between you. His lips find yours with a desperation that takes your breath away, and the world outside falls away entirely.

It's nothing like you imagined. It’s messy, raw, and full of that intensity that neither of you can contain.

His free hand slips effortlessly against your thigh, lifting your leg and guiding it over his waist. It’s instinctual, animalistic, the movement seamless. His fingers tangle in your hair, pulling you closer, if that’s even possible. He kisses you like a man starved, teeth scraping lightly at your bottom lip, as if claiming you in a way words never could.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the rush of heat, the feeling of him—his strength, his need, his warmth, the way his body presses against yours.

Then, as if sensing the balance of control slipping away, you pull back just enough to whisper, your voice rough, "This was—"

He inhales, as if the pull away from you visibly made him chill.

"This was a mistake. I'm sorry." You mumble, slipping back from his hands cascaded gently into your hair. His eyes dull, as if they really calculate what's really happening here.

"I don't want to mess anything up — make it weird…" You hesitate before taking another step back. Feet brushing against the ground of the hospital, boots making a small scraping noise as they lift from the floor. "I'm glad you're awake. I'm glad you're alive." You practically spew, "But this— Us? This can't happen."

Joel doesn't move. Not right away. His hands remain suspended in the air where you'd just been, as if the weight of your absence took a moment to register. Slowly, they fall to his lap, fingers curling inward like he's holding something fragile that just shattered in his palms.

His brows pull together, the light in his eyes dimming but not extinguished. He nods once—slow, like he's swallowing something bitter—but doesn’t speak right away. The silence between you is thick, suffocating. The kind that says everything without a single word.

Then, his voice breaks through, rough and low. “You ain’t messin’ anything up.” He pauses, eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory in case you don’t come back. “But I get it. Hell, I probably shouldn’t’ve—”

He stops himself, jaw clenching. You can see the hurt there, just beneath the surface. Not anger. Just a quiet ache he doesn’t know what to do with.

“You don’t owe me nothin’. Not after what you did for me. For Dina.” His voice cracks slightly, but he clears it, steadying himself. “If this—whatever this is—ain’t somethin’ you want, I won’t push it.”

You turn to go. You don’t want to, but standing in this room any longer feels like peeling skin off a wound that’s still fresh. Like clawing your skin open, nails rough, sharp. You grip the door handle like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality. The cold metallic of the handle searing into your hot sweaty palms.

But before you pull it open, you hear him again—softer this time, almost like he's talking to himself.

“I was glad it was you. When I woke up… I was glad it was you sittin’ there.”

Your chest tightens, fingers trembling around the handle. The sound of your boots echo as you leave, but his words follow you long after the door clicks shut.

. . .

It was two days later. Two days of hiding from the town. Hiding from the man whose ghost now walked on flesh and bone legs, breathing and real, and everywhere, even your head. Since Joel had been released from the infirmary, you hadn’t so much as walked past the diner. Not the greenhouse. Not even the training range.

He was free now. Free to walk Jackson’s frosted streets. Carrying the weight of that night, that kiss, that almost. Whatever almost was.

Flyers for the winter social had started popping up, taped to doors with half-used duct tape, and coffee stained paper.

Pulling one off your door with more force than necessary, crumpling it before it could flutter too long. The word celebrate stared at you like an accusation.

Celebrate what? Survival? Guilt?

You hadn’t even gone into town yet. Too afraid of seeing him again. Of his eyes. Of that voice, gravelly and soft, saying your name like it meant something.

But, I guess it did mean something. 'If this—whatever this is—ain’t somethin’ you want, I won’t push it.'

'I won't push it.'

Fuck, Joel—You don't have to push anything. If you asked me to lay down on the ground and die, I'd surely succumb.

Your jacket felt too heavy as you shrugged it on. Maybe you’d walk. Maybe not toward town, but just out. Just far enough to quiet the thoughts screaming through your skull. Just long enough to convince yourself he hadn’t meant anything by it.

But then—three soft knocks on the door.

You froze, hand on the knob. Breath held. Like if you didn’t move, whoever it was would give up and go.

But they didn’t.

“Darlin’…?” The voice was muffled, but unmistakable. A drawl like smoke and honey, carrying your nickname like it was a prayer and a curse all at once.

Joel.

You don’t open the door. Can’t. Your fingers ghost over the handle like it might bite, like turning it would unravel something you’ve spent days trying to sew back together.

“Yeah?” you call, voice thinner than you’d like, strained from disuse and guilt and whatever mess you and Joel had brewed up in the dark of that infirmary room.

A pause. You can almost hear him shift his weight on the porch. One boot against the old wood, creaking just slightly. He’s nervous. Or maybe annoyed. It’s always hard to tell with him.

“I ain’t here to fight,” he finally says. His tone is gentler than expected. Tired. “Just… wanted to talk.”

You lean your forehead against the wood. Cold. Solid. Safe. “About what?” you ask, not unkindly, but not welcoming either. Somewhere in the middle. A purgatory of almost.

Another pause.

“’Bout that night,” he says, like it hurts to even admit it out loud. “About… what you said..”

You squeeze your eyes shut, breath catching somewhere between your lungs and your chest.

You don’t want to open the door. But God, you want to hear what he has to say.

"I am uh— very sick. very ill." You lie, a fake cough following the announcement. "Cough, Cough, Haack."

There’s a pause. Long enough to make you think—maybe—he bought it.

“That so?” Joel says, flat. Almost amused.

You can practically hear the eyebrow he’s raising.

“’Cause I saw you at the stables this morning, arguing with Tommy ‘bout the feed schedule. Didn’t look real near deathbed to me.”

"That—was a hallucination," you say quickly. "Fever dreams. Very common with… plague. And, you're still recovering." Your face burns. Shit.

A muffled chuckle—soft, rough, and goddamn sweet.

“I’ll wait,” he says simply, like he's got all the time in the world. “Out here. Cold’s good for the immune system, and recovery.”

You bite your lip. Damn him. Damn that gravel-sweet voice and that infuriating patience. Damn that sexy ass fucking voice.

Because you know—you know—you’re going to open the door. Maybe not now. Maybe not in the next ten seconds. But eventually.

Your fingers wrap around the handle, pressing it down and pulling toward you. The wooden door creaks open, revealing the screen door. A thin barrier between you.

He looks… good. Brown jacket, blue jeans, a belt, and new boots, the remnants of blood no longer. His eyes were still dark, and tired, but there was an air of relief to them, like he had relaxed long enough to feel somewhat a semblance of peace.

The cold air rushes in, bites at your skin like karma. He’s watching you with that unreadable expression, the one that’s somewhere between stern and soft. Somewhere between don’t push me and please, push me just a little.

“Hey,” he says, simple. Low.

You swallow hard. Your throat’s suddenly dry, like the lie about being sick took too much out of you. Fuck, maybe you were ill.

“Hey,” you echo. Quieter.

He shifts, thumbs hooking against his belt. It’s a casual stance, but you can see the tension sitting behind it. You know him well enough to read the signs. He’s rehearsed something. That jaw twitch? That's anxiety settling into his gut. That tiny nod to himself? That’s a man about to dive headfirst into something he’s not sure he knows how to swim through.

“I ain’t here to mess things up,” he starts, voice steady, “or push somethin’ you don’t want. But I been thinkin’, and…” He pauses, scratching the back of his neck. “You’re not the only one who’s scared, y’know.”

That hits harder than you expect.

“I wake up every day grateful I get to be scared,” he adds, quieter. “Grateful you pulled me outta there. Grateful I get to even have this conversation.”

Your fingers twitch around the edge of the doorframe. The weight of it all, the what-ifs, the blood, the almost—they come rushing back.

He steps a little closer, boots scraping softly against the porch wood.

“So I figured… if you're done bein’ on your deathbed," his mouth tugs in a half-smile, “maybe you’d let me take you to that winter social at tipsys…”

You stand there. Mouth hung agape open like some fucking fool. I'm sorry? He said what? What the fuck did he just say to you?

"You.. uh.." You stutter, fingers curling against the door frame, "You… don't hate me?"

Joel’s brow furrows—just slightly. Not in frustration, but in that Joel Miller kind of way. The one where he's thinking? The one where he's registering how to fix this. The kind where concern looks like confusion and softness hides behind the grit.

“Hate you?” he repeats, like the words physically repulse him. “Darlin’, I don’t think I could hate you if I tried.”

He steps a little closer again, enough that the warmth of his breath ghosts across the screen.

“You saved my life. You nearly lost your damn mind doin’ it. I saw it. Hell, I felt it.”

His hand lifts, hovers at the screen like he wants to touch you through it but won’t risk the boundary unless you give the signal.

“I hated that you ran. I hated that I woke up and you weren’t there. But hate you?” He shakes his head, the weight of it settling like snowfall. “I could never.”

The silence that follows is sharp and thick, clinging to the air between you.

“You still think I don’t want you?” he asks, voice rough. Not angry. Just naked. “'Cause I’ve been tryin’ not to want you every damn day since I met you. And I’m losin’ that fight.”

Your pulse is thunder in your ears.

Oh fuck…

Your gaze drops—floor, boots, anywhere but his eyes. Then slowly lifts again, like your body’s trying to catch up to your heart.

Your brain? Gone. Empty. Nothing but static between your ears.

Your hand moves on its own, fingers brushing the cold metal of the screen door latch. One soft twist.

Click.

The lock gives.

You glance up, startled by your own movement, eyes locking with his like you just said something out loud without speaking.

Because you did.

That sound—that soft, quiet click—wasn't just a noise. It was a confession.

You wanted him. Still do.

You stand there, rooted to the spot, waiting for him to make the first move. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip, a nervous habit you can’t shake. Your pulse hammers in your ears, and for a moment, you wonder if it’s just you feeling this, or if he’s as sick with it as you are.

The seconds stretch on, too long. Too quiet.

Then, without warning, he steps forward, closing the distance between you. His hand reaches up, brushing the edge of the screen door, before he grips the frame with the same steady, sure hands that had been so tender earlier.

His gaze doesn’t leave yours. “You sure about this?” he asks, low and rough, voice dragging across your skin like a touch.

It’s a question, but you both know it’s not. It’s him waiting for you, giving you space to breathe, even as every inch of him is drawn to you.

You can feel the heat radiating off him, and it pulls at you like gravity, drawing you closer despite every rational thought telling you to back away. He’s patient, but there’s that edge beneath his calm—something hungry, something wild, that’s been buried too long.

“I wouldn’t be standing here if I wasn’t,” you say, your voice quiet but steady, betraying the storm crashing in your chest.

He gives a half-smile, a flicker of something dangerous. “Good,” he mutters, then leans in, just close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your lips, but not close enough to touch.

The tension is suffocating. The world outside doesn’t exist. Not anymore.

And then he speaks again, voice almost a whisper, lips brushing against your ear.

“Because you ain't runnin' away this time.”

With one quick motion he's in the house, hands slipping against the hooks of your jeans. His boot knocks against the wooden door, closing it. A sway of air as it slams.

His mouth is already against yours, hand moving up to splay against the middle of your back—leading you, leading you straight back against your kitchen countertop only a few feet away. Mouth falling from your lips, he moves into the nape of your neck, a quick and deep inhale—"Fuck, darlin,'"

"You don't know," A small nibble against the tender skin, "… what you do to me."

The air is thick, heavy with anticipation. His body presses against yours, firm. You gasp, it's the warmth of his breath skimming across your neck, his lips brushing against the delicate curve of your shoulder. Facial hair leaving a tickling sensation in wake.

His fingers tighten around you, pulling you even closer, and it’s as if your bodies have a language of their own—unspoken, raw.

“You don’t know what you’ve done to me either, Joel,” you breathe, your own hands trembling as they find their way to his chest. His shirt soft against your fingertips, pulls at you like it’s just one more obstacle you need to get past. Nails scraping at the buttons of the flannel. You feel like a caged animal.

“I think I got an idea.” His chuckle is low, dark.

His hand slips between your legs, hand splayed across the material of your jeans with a subtle press. "Can practically feel it."

His lips find yours again, hungry this time, teeth grazing against your bottom lip. His free hand presses against the small of your back and the other your thigh, hesitating to lift you.

His voice drops, barely a whisper against your lips. “You sure you want this, darlin’?” It’s the same question from earlier, but now, it’s not doubt—it’s something softer, something more urgent. A plead. A fucking prayer. Like if you said no, he'd get on his knees and beg.

His eyes lock with yours, his thumb brushing the side of your jaw as he waits for you to answer.

It only takes seconds for you to dive into another kiss, urgency flooding your body like fire. Your fingers tremble as they work at the buttons of his flannel, fumbling slightly with each one.

His lips are on yours again, a hungry, desperate rhythm that matches the frantic pace of your heart. His hands move to your waist, gripping you tight. The flannel falls open, the fabric grazing your hand, and fingertips finding refuge against tanned scarred skin. It's a sin to hide a body this fucking pretty under clothing.

Joel pulls back just enough to look at you, his breath ragged, eyes dark with something raw, something dangerous. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. The hunger in his gaze says it all. Without a word, he shifts you, his hand firm against the curve of your back, pulling you up just enough to sit you on the edge of the counter. The movement is quick, efficient, and the cool granite meets your skin, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of his body, pressed against you.

Your breath hitches as his hands slide under your shirt, rough against your skin, pulling you even closer. His lips hover just above your ear, his voice gravelly, rough. “You kiss like you patrol.”

He's purposeful with each movement. Every drag of his finger causing a fire in it's path. Hands gently coming to the hem of your jeans, and then with a small pop, the button is undone. A slow, and soft shimmying down until all he can stare at is his glistening prize.

"Greedy… Unhinged..." He continues, lowering down to his knees— his hands slipping down your thighs, to your ankles, and then hooking your legs above his shoulders, "Clumsily, maybe…"

Within seconds his mouth is against you. It's hot, wet, animalistic as if the man is starved. Clumsy. Messy. Tongue grazing over every sensitive fold— and your very swollen clit. He flattens his tongue against you,—then as quick as he can extinguish the pleasure, he nibbles against you. Profanities dripping from your mouth, his name followers like a prayer of forgiveness.

"Needy fuckin girl, y'taste so good."

The response to his words. Your free hand shoots out to the top of his head, fingers interlacing with salt and pepper curls. Wanting can't even describe your state of mind right now. It's more like yearning, fucking craving.

Forearm burning from strength it takes to hold yourself up on the countertop, needing to see him on his knees for yourself.

You curl your fingers, a soft tug of his hair earns that deep guttural growl from his throat.

"mmh, easy, girl," His breath fans across your pussy, sending shivers shooting up your spine.

You try to look away—try to break this sight, but you're pretty sure if you blinked hard enough you'd wake up from this dream. He dips lower, his mouth pulling you closer to the edge, grounding you to him like you were the only thing that ever mattered.

His lips release from your cunt with a pop, tongue curling against the spit line that follows. His eyes settle against your own— dark, and frantic.

The release of the sensation causes you to shiver, the overstimulation already coiling in your core. Twitching, a small huff to every breath you release.

"That all it takes to get you shakin' like a leaf?" He chuckles—soft.

The tension in the air thickens as you lean down, close enough to make your heart race, yet he doesn’t rush it. His hand still holds your thighs spread apart, the warmth of his touch grounding you.

"I want you." The words flow easily. Easily because your brain is pathetically melted inside of your skull.

He practically purrs, another deep growl from his throat, "Yeah?"

"Then take it… 'ts all yours," He tilts his head with his words, eyes dancing over every single feature you have. He stares at you like his brain maps out every mole, and scar. You needily grab at the remnants of his unbuttoned flannel, pulling it up towards you. He smiles, smiles. Excitedly standing back up, and leaning into your touch.

You don't hesitate. You pull him back in, mouths clashing, breaths hot and broken. His hands roam your thighs, your hips, possessive like he’s memorizing you, branding you. You feel the scratch of his callouses against your skin, grounding you, making you dizzy all at once.

One hand tilts your chin up, the other slides up your back, holding you steady while his mouth traces a trail from your lips to your jaw, then lower, pressing kisses down your throat, your collarbone.

You tilt your head back to give him more space, a soft, desperate noise escaping your throat. His name slips from your lips without thinking—"Joel."

That sound alone seems to snap something inside him. Saying his name like that. Like you need him. Like you fucking crave him. It practically got him drunk on sin.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and molten. His hands grip your waist firmly, thumbs stroking slow circles against your sides. “Gonna take care of you, darlin’. Gonna give you everything you been needin’… just like you deserve.”

The jingle of his belt catches your attention, as if your brain can process anymore. His fingers softly unthreading the leather from the metal, and with a clank—it's slipping to the floor.

“Still with me, sweetheart?” he murmurs, voice rough, thumb brushing tender over your hipbone.

You nod, too breathless to speak.

That's all he needs. The pads of his fingers undoing the button of his jeans, a soft slide down and the sight nearly makes you keel over. You've met god. How could someone hide such a perfect cock? The size of him itself steals the air from your lungs.

"Please," You breathe, "Please Joel."

"You look so damn pretty like this," he says, half in awe, half in something darker, heavier.

"Layin' below me, fucked out on your kitchen counter."

Without a delay he inches in, the tip of his cock pressing against your needy, and swollen entrance. The angle is perfect, a slow and greedy intrusion that causes your nails to scrape at the granite of the countertop.

"Fuck—" He exhales, a restrained whine from his throat, "You were made f'r me…"

Joel inhales as he plunges himself fully. Without a second thought, he pulls back out, before sliding back in. It's like a game for him, eyes downward on the motion. Watching the back and forth of his cock as he dives in and out of you.

His pace quickens, the musical rhythmic of the thrusting becoming faster, and faster. He's hitting spots you didn't even know you had. Spots that nobody has ever reached. You can barely hear, ears ringing, vision blurred by inklings of tears.

You don't realize your howling his name until he speaks.

"Gotta… Quiet down there, darlin'…”He chuckles, deep and gravelly as he holds back a strained noise. Hips snapping back and forth, the wet squelches of your pussy like music to his ears, "… don't want the neighbors thinkin' you got coyotes."

Every thrust is a further hit to your core, releasing a sound that vaguely resembles a wheeze rather than a moan. Each muscle in your thighs threatening to give out, as you open your legs wider and wider for his ravaging.

Joel likes to drag it out, pulling his cock all the way out, leaving only the tip—grinding there for a moment until his own body twitches, and then slamming back in as hard as possible. Hands vice gripped around your thighs, bringing you to and from him like a pocket pussy.

“Sweet girl, oh fuck.. fuck..”

Sloppy around him, already drenching the area between you two - wet squishing noises as he drags back the mixture of pre and slick, just to bury it back inside of you.

"Gonna paint your fuckin' insides at this rate…" He exhales, shakily. He's fucking into you like a wild animal. At the end of the day, that's what he is. Bloodthirsty, a killer, known for his haunting and inhuman actions.

“Fuck, please.. right there, oh fuck, Joel—" You cry out, hips clumsily and weakly fumbling against your meeting point, trying to bury him deeper inside of yourself.

Bottom lip taken between his teeth, glossy eyed staring down at the sight of his cock sliding in and out. "Can feel you squeezn', know how close you are…"

Back and forth— milking cries from your sweet lips. Continually riding the way you clamp down on him desperately, leaning into your orgasm.

"J-Joel— Oh my g.." The words can't even release from your throat, before your head tilts back and a series of gargled profanities and pet-names drool out.

"Good fuckin' girl, just like that… take it just like that…" his words are pure fucking filth.

It's not long after you that his hips start to snap messily, losing his train of thought at every deep bury into your overstimulated pussy. Head tipping down—he clamps his eyes shut, riding the high of your squirming.

He cums. It paints your insides with boiling heat, both of you stringing out whines and grunts. The snapping motion continues, as he ruts the cum deeper and deeper inside of you. He's purposefully dragging out his own relief. Doesn't want it to end. Fuck, he never wants it to end.

"Fuckin' hell…" Joel murmurs softly, slipping out with a slow release. The tension eases in your gut, and you feel every muscle in your body screaming at you. You let out a noise between a sigh and a whimper, the feeling sends a shiver up and down your body. Goosebumps in the wake of his hot breath.

“Yeah.. you ain't gettin' away from me again…"

[frownyalfred]

Arkham Prince - Masterlist of Posts

I've linked the major asks below with a preview (edited for length) below, grouped by subject/theme and rough chronological order of how I received them. Additional shorter asks/clarifying questions, as well as shorter bits of commentary are at the very bottom.

The very first post:

I have been thinking about the idea of Bruce going insane without being Batman, about Batman being his coping mechanism, and that reblog that was like "he would definitely have ended up in Arkham if he didnt make Batman." Now I'm thinking of an AU where that is exactly the case, and maybe Clark expands his interest towards Gotham a bit, as much as he doesnt like heroing there, because it is the neighbor city of Metropolis. It's like his backyard. And maybe he wants to understand the problem of Gotham at the root, so he goes as Clark Kent, reporter, to interview the patients at Arkham, and there meets Bruce Wayne. Maybe falls in love. Maybe its angsty as fuck because this Bruce is 10 times less adjusted than the Bruce we're used to, but of course, equally as brilliant. (Maybe he could escape any time he wanted but thinks he would murder people if so. Maybe he doesnt trust his anger.)

Expanding Asks:

the idea of arkham patient bruce wayne has burrowed into the depths of my mind. this is SUCH a fascinating thought and changes so many things…how does the justice league fare without batman? how does alfred? i’d assume alfred is given bruce’s guardianship when he’s institutionalized, and i could even see him taking in the robins – finding and helping these children who remind him so much of his own boy, trying not to fail them as he failed bruce. how bruce himself does in arkham is so interesting to consider…is he kept on the same level of security as the real supervillains? is he moved there after Events?

Clark, realizing the League has a problem, a trap from someone like Lex they don't know how to unknot, something which requires finesse and strategy which is a little beyond them... taking that stroll (flight) down to Gotham, feeling insane himself for seeking advise here of all places... but the Arkham Prince delivers. Clark explains the situation, answers questions that he had no idea related to the issue, and Bruce hands him the solution in the span of 10 minutes, while the League had been brainstorming and going in circles over this for days...

Clark Kent and the Arkham Prince Finding Common Ground:

clark’s first attempt to interview the prince of arkham go about as well as you might expect, given that he’s a reporter with sunshine all but seeping out of his pores. the first time bruce doesn’t even talk to him, too furious at the gall of this metropolitan newshound to interrogate him for the sake of some gruesome, sensationalist op-ed obviously about the tragedy of the family wayne and the irredeemable mire of gotham to do anything more than death-glare at him for the entire length of the meeting. but clark, unsatisfyingly, doesn’t give up after that. if bruce doesn’t talk to him, he sure talks to bruce, and with each subsequent interview the questions…change. no longer trying to establish facts about bruce’s life or his crimes, not asking about his experience in arkham, not even going for the low-hanging fruit of why’d you train for years to kill those people, but seemingly random and unrelated things. he wants bruce’s opinions on emissions policies (need to be stricter and more tightly enforced, especially in gotham, jesus, there’s a reason lung cancer and asthma rates are through the roof) and lex luthor’s keynote speeches (unprintable, wiped from clark’s tape recorder in case luthor somehow finds out) and whether or not clark should buy a new suit (why bother, it won’t be any less tragic than every other polyester abomination he cruelly forces bruce to look at every time he stops by). clark slowly and stubbornly makes himself as much a part of bruce’s routine as visits with alfred and lucius and the doctors, and all the while superman is playing a high-stakes game of mental chess with the sinking suspicion that bruce wayne has already won in more ways than one bruce figures out kent is superman about three hours after the first time big blue gets namedropped during an interview. he commences with a plan that is part honeypot, part campaign of psychological warfare, and part genuine bid to get this midwestern alien who holds the safety of his city in his hands to try and give a damn like a proper gothamite would, like no one but bruce ever seems to.

Clark, whose one of his grestest fears is being constrained, treated as a threat, dissected, studied, as the alien specimen he is. He has to pretend. He had to be so careful. Every day or he won't have a life to live.

Clark asking the Arkham Prince to Consult for the JL:

i would kill to have clark-as-supes get some kind of special dispensation to bring arkham prince bruce to the jl hideout (the watchtower doesn’t to be without batman’s engineering/logistics knowhow and WE funding, at least not until bruce is more formally considered a consultant) for help on one of lex’s more convoluted and immediate threats. it’s just not possible for bruce to solve the problem in isolation without the league’s resources, so instead of bringing league missions to bruce superman has to bring bruce to the league mission. i started imagining the team’s reaction to their unwitting reliance on criminally insane mass murderer bruce wayne and then i remembered oliver exists and now i feel only sadness thinking about that particular reunion

Just wondering how regular JL universe would react to meeting this au, meeting Batman and seeing Bruce Wayne's potential Would they realize that their Bruce is limited by what he can do inside Arkham, but that this Batman is also limited by his own rules and codes. Would Ollie be crushed at what his former friend could have been, thinking maybe if he had stepped up and been a "better friend" Bruce wouldn't be in Arkham, he could of been working beside him instead. Can imagine Batman saying "I don't kill" and Bruce just smiling in what should have been the brucie smile and replying "but I do"

The crossover is so funny in regards to Supes. Like here's Arkham Prince AU Clark, terribly in love with a version of Bruce who is so unavailable to him on so many levels, aching with it every time he dares think about it, staring at Regular Universe Clark in complete and utter disbelief. (expansion of "regular JL universe" ask above)

Your take on Prince of Arkham's level of influence on JL members, at the top being of course Clark. And also: first time he is taken into the JL base, does he hack into their systems?

OMG arkham bruce and clark have gotten closer and maybe clark makes bruce promise not to kill again after bruce gets out of arkham so he can join the jl but then someone is killed and theres evidence it was bruce but bruce swears it wasnt him ( bc it wasn’t him ) but theres so much evidence that even clark is starting to doubt bruces innocence and the jl has to kick him out and hes taken back to Arkham or for interrogation and then ANGST BRUCE BEING TORTURED FOR CONFESSION BUT HE STILL SWEARS HE DIDNT DO IT until its proven that he didnt do it

@bat-chik's Harvey Dent Visits Bruce in Arkham

"We can't even claim self defense," Harvey continued. "You-" "He has cancer." Harvey blinked at the non-sequitur, "What?" Finally, the orphaned Wayne turned and faced him, face blank, unconcerned about how much more this action would add to his sentencing. Unconcerned except for the steel eyes seething yet holding back so much hurt. Harvey remembered once again, with a small pang, why he had gotten a crush on Bruce in their college days. "Nygma. He has cancer. The only way to get medical care in Arkham is by ending up in the hospital wing." Bruce moved with all the weight of the world on his shoulders and sat in the bolted chair across from his lawyer, and life long friend.

Where are the Batkids in This?

pls consider. a dick greyson who gets tossed in arkham after tracking down and torturing then killing killing his parent's murderer. tiny and lost now that what was driving him is done. a bruce wayne who hasnt been in That long yet, not long enough for people to see him as a threat rather than just an oddity, who takes one look at that angry little kid and says "oh. oh that ones mine" and spends as much time with the kid as he can. and bruce Loves gotham, thats his whole drive. but to dick, gotham is nothing but the place his world crumbled. and i think this bruce never sat with his feelings of grief either. i think he always needed a cause. and i think he saw dick having lost his cause and tries to help him find another (id like to put forth escaping as a hobby, managing to get into Any part of arkham that he pleases especially with his athleticism and small size)

It would be funny if in the Arkham Prince AU, since all the kids are in there for being um - gremlins and down with murder - that Jason in this was the pacifist?

Re: Jason being the pacifist: "I will follow you forever because you killed him." Endlessly devoted Jason my beloved. If you give him one (1) positive attention he will light himself on fire to keep you warm. I love him so much. Self destructive king.

Tim committing a crime just to end up in Arkham and study the famed insane Bruce Wayne is actually startlingly in character for him...

Clarifying Asks:

when do you see him as getting committed? was he already batman? did he already have any of his kids? if not, what *happened* to those kids who never had bruce to fight for them?

Okay, but since Bruce is the Prince of Arkham, whats stopping his kids from being in there with him?

Oh I am sooooooooo curious about what Clark thinks about Arkham Bruce having a gaggle of prison murder children.…you ever think he’s asked Dick to give Clark flowers during one of his escapes????? Or is that too corny for them.

I've seen some Arkham Prince asks and responses referring to Bruce still being rich, but would he still be?

Additional Thoughts:

i am torn between the other Inmates Hating bruce (hes the picture of those who hurt them. a rich man who is just like them but gets Way less pain for it) and adoring him

Picture this, Alfred goes to see Haly's, sees another black haired blue eyed child losing his parents at just about the same age. Another feral child with murder in his eyes.

it’s extremely important to me to consider arkham prince bruce with longer, shaggy hair and a perpetual three-day beard

The smut in the Arkham Prince AU would be INSANE.

This Arkham Prince AU has folks in a choke hold but ya'll forget one thing. The Joker and Harley Quinn.

god i am just exploding thinking about bruce and sex in the arkham prince au. there is absolutely no way he’s not accustomed to exchanging sex for favors, information, anything he wants or needs. (additional thoughts on how Clark fits into this/Superbat)

Okay hi so my main source of Arkham knowledge is the Penguin show so I’m gonna ramble a bit about factions and divides and stuff. (Sofia Falcone expansion)

continuing my thoughts on Sofia Falcone coming off your great opinions to my last ask.

There is a parallel thread between Bruce and Sofia

[sturnmeovr]

♡‧₊˚ Babydaddy!Chris x Sweetheart!Reader - Indecisive

Your grip firm on the handle of your babydaddy’s passenger door, you take a deep breath before pulling it open, the thick scent of black ice mixed with a hint of weed wafts over you, nearly making you lightheaded. Your face crunching in disgust, “have you been smoking?” you ask him before dipping down into the passenger. Chris sits reclined back in his seat, one hand on the steering wheel, and his elbow propped up on the center console, “what – no!” he spits out defensively.

You knew he was lying; he was quick the lie. You decided to bite your tongue for the sake of what you were about to tell him. The next topic of conversation would ruin his night, much like the topic of him texting another girl behind your back that played like a broken record in your head, ruining every night and day for you since you found out. You crack the car window a bit, “I don't care,” muttering before turning to Chris with slumped shoulders, “just make sure you don’t do it around Bear when he gets here.”

A gummy smile makes its way across his face, “you took my name suggestion,” he coos, reaching a hand out to smooth over your belly, your son making sure to kick as soon as he feels Chris’ hand. As much as you missed the comfortability of being around Chris, you weren’t ready to go back home with him, seeing him every day would just cause you more heartache. Seeing his car parked outside of your best friend's house everyday like clockwork already hurt enough. Your pregnancy hormones were raging, and you were more emotional than you had ever been. 

You blink away tears, giving him a toothless smile, “I really like it. It’s fitting,” you tell me, looking down at his hand still placed on your belly. It was bittersweet, Bear wasn’t even here, and he made it known he missed Chris almost more than you did. Chris lets out a chuckle, feeling the light kicks against his hand, “yeah?” he questions, looking up at you, those icy blue eyes burning deep holes into your figure, “can’t wait ‘til you're back home.” Your smile fades at his words, telling all that was needed to be told. Chris’ face crunches in confusion which ultimately makes you continue, “that’s uhrm — that’s kinda why I wanted to talk to you,” you chime in, looking away from his intense gaze. His eyes alone would make you crack under pressure any second, giving into whatever his wishes were, which is why you stayed as far away as you could. Chris was a dangerous type of man.

He clears his throat, “what is it?” looking back down at your baby bump like he’s reluctant to pull away. He missed the little butterfly kicks from his son almost as much as he missed seeing you waddle around the house with a jar of jiffy peanut butter in one hand and a spoon in the other. He sported bloodshot eyes, you couldn't tell if it was due to lack of sleep or if he was smoking too much weed, the dark bags underneath of them didn’t do him any justice either. Pressing your lips together, you didn’t want to tell him, but you knew it had to be done, “I think I might stay here for a little while longer — I’m not sure how much longer,” your voice comes out small and brittle, like it could break at any moment.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, emotion lies thick in his voice, “wha – what do you mean?” his Boston accent peeking thru subtly. Tears fill his eyes to the brim, and you watch as he blinks them back, scrunching his face before letting a stray tear stain his cheek. He quickly wipes it, looking out the front windshield like he's trying his hardest to find his next words. Staying strong was so hard when Chris was on the verge of an emotional breakdown in front of your very eyes. You had a soft spot for him, and you feared it wasn't going away anytime soon. It took all of you to not crawl into his lap, run your fingers thru his brown locks, and pepper his face with kisses while he cried into your chest. He was a ray of sunshine; seeing him sad was heartbreaking. You couldn’t help but wonder if he really felt as bad as you did or was it all an act to get you to come back home to him. Either way, his emotional state left you feeling gutted – just like the revelation of him cheating made you feel. 

Chris sniffles, making you pick your head up to look at him, “you don’t want to be with me anymore?” The question that had been running loops thru your mind the last three weeks. Did you want to be with Chris? Of course you did. That wasn’t up for debate. The real question was - could you go back to normal with Chris, raising a newborn without dwelling on the fact that he cheated on you? You couldn’t say for sure.

“I didn’t say that,” you croak out, tangling a hand in your hair. You let out a breathy sigh as your hand drops to your bump, “I just need more time, m’sorry, Chris.” Bear was going backflips at the sound of his dad's voice, or maybe it was your emotions doing the work. A light scoff, filled with hurt leaves his lips, “I’ve been giving you time. It’s been weeks,” he says, tugging another hand thru his hair as he looks at you, biting on his bottom lip to keep it from quivering. 

His sad puppy dog eyes are too heart wrenching for you to handle, so you look away. “I know that, but you’ve been parked out here every day,” you tell him, letting out another sigh. He’d never understand the turmoil and pain he caused you. He’d never understand that you’d never forget what he did. You were at your most vulnerable state, your body was going thru so many changes, you were constantly nauseous or vomiting, and you were keeping your pregnancy from the world. Regardless if Chris only had one conversation with another like he claimed, it hurt, and you didn’t deserve it. 

“M’sorry — I miss you, I don’t know,” he blurts out, turning his body towards you to show you have this full attention, “Bears gonna be here soon and I don’t want anything happening while we’re apart.” You don’t dare to look at him until he places a hand on your thigh, giving it a light squeeze. His touch sends tingles up your spine, as touch starved as you were. You missed his touch more than anything, “I just want to go back to normal; to us. you’re pregnant and —.” His hoarse voice getting cut off by yours, “exactly, Chris — I’m pregnant.”

Tears sting your eyes, a few escaping as you attempt to fan them away. Chris hangs his head low, and you can see his tears make water marks on the center console, “I fucked up, I know,” he manages, the words getting stuck his throat a bit, “I can make it better – I promise I will.” 

You were at a crossroads. You didn’t know if you could believe him, you couldn’t trust him after all. You couldn’t trust the person you created a life with; it was crazy to think. The thought makes you lose control of your emotions. The waterworks start and light sobs leave your lips as Chris pulls you into a tight embrace, rubbing his hand up and down your back in a soothing manner. His own tears soaking a wet patch into your hair, you can feel his chest rise up and down as he breathes staggered breaths. It was comforting in a way; the person who caused all your pain cared enough to console you, he cared enough to cry with you.

“Jus’ please come home,” Chris hiccups, making sure to keep his grip tight on you, “I’ll sleep on the couch. I can fix it, okay? Jus’ let me fix this,” he rambles on as he smooths your hair down with the palm of his hand, repeatedly pressing light kisses to your temple as your sobs fade out. 

You pull away from Chris, tugging your sleeves over your hands and bring them up to your face to collect the leftover tears, “I don’t want — want Bear to grow up in a split up home.” The thought of having to coparent instead of having your son grow up with two active parents who love each other, and him, chokes you up. You and Chris both had two married parents who raised you, it wasn't fair that you son might not get that before he was even born. You fail to keep your composure, sob erupting from your chest, “but I don’t see us working if you can’t change your act.”

Wc - 1499

♡‧₊˚ Cheys Note - Big thanks to everyone who helped me reach 600 followers!! I love every single one of you so, so, sooo much!🥲🥰 I changed my handle, no longer m00nl1ghts1vt - I am now sturnmeovr! You guys are eating these angsts up and I'm not mad at you😋🫣 I made this one a bit longer, sorry about the delay! Send me asks or suggestions about Babydaddy!Chris & Sweetheart! <3

Masterlist

Babydaddy!Chris Masterlist

Taglist (comment to be added)

[lunajay33]

Am I Gonna Make It?

•🌲🌑🪵🐾•

Summary: You found yourself pregnant during the prison but it fell and you’re on the road alone till you find the group but with your growing belly and growing weakness will you survive? Will Daryl be strong enough to watch you wither away

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x f!reader

•Masterlist•

After the prison fell I was on the road with Tyrese, the three little girls and Carol, being 5 months pregnant really weighed me down but when we got reunited with the group and I was back safely in Daryl’s arms it felt like maybe things would be looking up again

That was a month ago and we’ve lost Beth and Tyrese since then, no food, no water, plus the blistering heat was taking its toll on me, I could feel my little baby sucking up ever last bit of nutrients from me and I could tell Daryl was getting worried even

“Okay everyone back in the road again” Rick called out, we’ve been walking so long and he gave us a little break but I don’t know if I can last much longer

I stand on wobbly legs gripping Daryl’s arm as he helped

“Ya okay sunshine?” I nod even though my sight was blotchy

“Ya just…..give me a sec” the group heads infront of us as we stick near the back, Maggie and Glenn in front of us keep looking back with worried eyes

“Here have my water” Maggie said handing it over to me

“No you need it too”

“Sweetheart you’re pregnant take it” I smile and gulp down the little water that was left, Daryl took the bottle and put it in his pack

“I’m so tired D” I sigh as I keep pushing each step I take

“I know sunshine, we all are something will turn up” I could see the weariness written all across his face

After another hour of walking I couldn’t do it anymore and as the world spirals around me I fall, my back scratching against the road

“Rick we gotta stop” Glenn calls as Maggie and Daryl rush to my side, I feel so limp like I don’t have a bone in my body

“Come on stay awake, ya can’t go on me like this” Daryl says frantic as he holds me close

“I’m……I’m just so tired” and the world finally goes black

•

Daryl’s pov

I sit with her in a barn I found, her limp body laid across my lap as I brush my fingers through her hair

The rest of the group scattered around, I’m hoping the fire will help her

“We will find something Daryl” Michonne said next to me, I stay silent resting my hand on her baby bump, scared I’ll lose both of them

I grunt not being able to take my eyes off of her, seeing her breathing settle I hold her closer not being able to sleep all night seeing the sun start to shine through the ran down barn

Maggie and Sasha come across some man trying to convince us back to his place but for good reason we’re untrusting

“We have doctors we have food, we can help her” he said gesturing towards y/n who was still out making me more worried every minute

“She needs help Rick” Maggie chimes in and the rest nod and then we’re off back to this town

Sitting next to her in an RV as she’s laid on the bed

“Ya gotta wake up, we’re going somewhere new, they can help ya” I hear her groan and squeeze my hand

Y/n Pov

I wake up feeling weak, my arms heavy and my head splitting, I knew what was happening, my body was growing weaker, the baby taking any bit of nutrition I had

I look around noticing I’m in a strange room just like back in the old word, clean and put together

“Finally yer awake” I hear Daryl next to me as he stands over me brushing my hair back worry written all over his face

“Where are we?”

“Found a place, they got ya hooked up to some medicine er somethin”

“Is….is the baby okay?” My heart tensing waiting for what he might say

“She’s fine Angel, we’re havin a lil girl”

“Are you serious!” My lip wobbles as I feel tears well up

“Our lil baby girl”

For the rest of the day he lays with me catching me up on everything and just making me feel safe, he always has been that protector and I’ll love him and this baby forever

[blueberrypancakesworld]

Hiii! Can you do one with emperor caracalla and what he would be like as a father?? I’m in a drought of carcalla fics 😭

Emperor Caracalla as a father

Caracalla x wife!reader

warning : fluff, hurt/comfort, mention of family problems, a bit emotional, kissing

info : Anon I love you thanks for the request, Caracalla is just such a ray of sunshine he's only better as a father ;) I hope you enjoy reading and sorry for not having a cover, but today was exausting.

masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything has always been ours, never his. He may have been the younger one, the one with the problems, the madness and the insufficient seriousness for politics, but that didn't mean everything had to be ours, did it?

No, it didn't have to be because where Geta was in charge of politics and dealing with the Senate, it was Caracalla whose position was used to provide an heir, a marriage to a princess only the best for the human gods. A marriage that didn't bother him a bit, he loved his wife with all his heart, from the moment he saw the golden dress, the jewelry but above all her loving nature was what had won him over.

His sun was at its greatest and the happiness of the imperial family was only surpassed when the priestess announced his wife's pregnancy...a pregnancy that would soon make him a father.

°Caracalla as a father from the moment he heard that his beloved was pregnant from him he cried, not breaking out of his madness for the first time and apologizing to her, ,,I-I...I'm responsible...as much as I'm happy...what if our child goes into madness?" a question he asked her kneeling, his head resting on her lap and his hands clutching her tunic. The moments in the here and now were hard enough and his condition touched her, her hand stroked his head and gently made him look at her, ,,Even if the gods are not merciful, Caracalla it is our child, our little one it would not change anything” she assured him and pressed a gentle kiss on his head.

°The months leading up to the moment of birth were up and down for all three of them, Caracalla getting more and more nervous, seeming to switch back and forth between delusion and his mind. His wife helped him as best she could, praying to the gods that it would not destroy him, and a Geta who took care of both of them. But from the construction of the nursery, the preparation for their birth and the cuddles, it was a time of harmony and love. Every day Caracalla put an ear to her belly laughing whenever he thought he heard something and helping his wife as much as he could, even Dundus seemed calmer and not too demanding of his owner as if they all knew what was at stake.

°The further her pregnancy progressed, the more excited he became, talking to her and his child as if it could already hear him, ,,Of course it heard us! It's a little monkey as often as it moves,” he said, kneeling in front of his wife, who was mostly still sitting or lying down because of her belly, not to mention the pain and discomfort. Whenever he saw the moving and kicking he let his hand wander over it with hers, ,,Just as excited as his father,” she said softly and gave Caracalla another reassuring kiss, giving her everything she needed, almost as excited as the child itself seemed to be...until the moment of birth.

°The late night was filled with screams, in the empress's room the midwives helping her as much as they could and outside a crying Caracalla whose worries were growing, ,,What if she dies brother? A child without a mother? It's my fault, my madness? The midwives will die if she dies” he mumbled to himself, pacing up and down, waving a sword only to throw it away, his brother's words barely calming him down. He looked as exhausted as his beloved when the door opened and he interrupted the woman, ,,Is my sun alive?” he asked ignoring his child and running to the bed, his hand seeking hers and only calming down when he saw her exhausted smile, ,,Yes...I'm alive and so is our little monkey” she said and the midwife gave her the little boy wrapped in a cloth. A little boy with his blue eyes and her hair, a little baby who smiled a smile that infected his father.

°From that moment on, he was smitten with his son, little Solis ortus, who everyone called Solis, from the Latin for sunrise. The little one was born with the sunrise and came from his mother the sun itself, he was the joy of his parents a little baby who almost always seemed too happy, ,,He is so loving...and not full of madness” Caracalla said and wiped away a few tears when he saw the now small child crawling on the floor and playing with a few small figures, ,,Yes he is perfect just like his father” his wife said and once again held his hand.

°The years passed quickly and even though the madness in him did not diminish, erupting again and again and more often, this did not even happen in front of his son, ,,Father is fine Solis don't worry” he pressed out and retreated to his chamber, where he could go about his business surrounded by swords and blood without hurting his wife or son or Geta. In the hours he was gone Geta took care of his nephew in the little free time she had to give the Empress some rest, ,,It seems there are often two to take care of,” she said, giving Geta a grateful look as she turned from her son to her husband.

°The hours with Caracalla were hours of grief and love, she held him through the madness, took the sword away from him and if he cut her, shouted at her or even hit her, she didn't hold it against him. ,,It hurts, but having you back with me again for sanity, with Solis, is more important,” she reassured him as they sat together leaning against the bed, his head against her chest, mumbling words to himself and he kissed her body apologetically and she held him. Before both parents slowly reappeared and took care of the little prince who was their pride and joy.

°Apart from the madness, Caracalla was a good father, the skills he didn't have in politics like his brother or the talent for music and writing like his wife, he made up for with fighting and wit, with understanding and love for animals. For every hour that the ever-aging Solis spent with his uncle in the senate, with his mother on the harp, he spent twice as much with his father in the arena studying and training the animals. Dundus belonged to Caracalla but Solis, at not quite ten years old, had a mature lion, the beast of a ruler, powerfull as a sun and yet always playful at heart. Solis would become the best of his parents and whenever Caracalla noticed that the madness was not in his son, he was genuinely happy and gave his wife a kiss.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@potatoesenpaii , @cottoncandiescupcakes , @k-yurieee , @somepallings , @userchai , @ohburrryoureabsolutelyridiculous

[hrts4-jay]

Hey , my birthday is tomorrow , nd I was wondering if you could do birthday Seong-Je please .

❀Birthday Surprise❀

Pairings: Geum Seongje x Reader

wc: 1.3k

A/N: all fluff~ happy birthday in advance! hope u enjoy♡ @nettienetteluv2yuuu

~⑅❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀❀⑅~

Today was your birthday.

And today, Geum Seongje, the ruthless leader of the Union, was attempting something entirely foreign to him: romance.

Seongje stood by the window in his usual corner of the rooftop. He looked every bit the intimidating figure everyone knew him to be. His dark hair was impeccably styled, framing a face that was usually set in a permanent scowl. But today, there was a subtle twitch at the corner of his lips, a flicker of tension in his usually intimidating eyes.

He'd been worrying over this for weeks. Birthdays, gifts, declarations of affection – these were completely alien to him. His world had always been defined by power struggles, loyalty, and the brutal realities of survival. He understood how to command respect, how to instill fear, how to protect what was his. But love? That was a different beast altogether.

He'd asked his little minions for advice, a move that had been met with a mixture of embarrassment and amusement. But their suggestions, ranging from expensive jewelry to a new motorcycle, felt hollow and impersonal. He didn't want to buy you something you could show off. He wanted to give you something that would show you how he felt, something that would bridge the gap between the brutal world he lived in and the gentle soul he knew you to be. He wanted to give you something that came from him.

He finally settled on something simple, something…homemade. Something that had cost him sleepless nights and a great deal of frustration. He just hoped it would be enough.

The bell signaling the end of classes finally rang, shattering the tense silence of the rooftop. Seongje straightened his shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked towards the stairs, a small, carefully wrapped package clutched in his hand.

You were waiting for him at the usual meeting spot by the cherry blossom tree, its delicate pink petals swirling around you like confetti. You were laughing, your eyes sparkling with sunshine as you talked to a group of your friends.

Seongje felt a pang of possessiveness, a primal urge to pull you away from the crowd and keep you all to himself. He tamped it down, reminding himself that your happiness was paramount.

As you turned and saw him, your face lit up with a radiant smile that made his heart skip a beat. The world seemed to fade away, leaving only you.

"Seongje!" you called out, breaking away from your friends and rushing towards him.

"You're here!"

He managed a small, awkward smile in return. "Happy birthday, my love." He held out the package, his hand trembling slightly. "I… I got you something."

You took the gift, your eyes shining with curiosity and excitement. "You did? Oh, Seongje, you shouldn't have!" But your cheerful expression told you that you were happy he had.

You carefully unwrapped the package, revealing a clumsily crafted wooden box. The wood was rough, the edges uneven, and the simple heart carved into the lid was slightly lopsided. It was far from perfect, but it was made with sincerity.

Inside the box, nestled on a bed of soft velvet, was a collection of pressed flowers. Each flower was carefully chosen, each one representing a memory they shared together: a vibrant sunflower from the day they spent at the amusement park, a delicate forget-me-not from the time you both got caught in the rain, a single, perfect red rose from the night he had awkwardly confessed his feelings for you.

You gasped, your eyes welling up with tears. You gently lifted the box, running your fingers over the delicate petals.

"Seongje.." you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. "This is… This is the most beautiful gift I've ever received."

He shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to respond to your overwhelming emotion.

"I… I didn't know what to get you," he mumbled, his gaze fixed on the ground. "I'm not good at this sort of thing."

You cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "Seongje, don't you ever say that. This is perfect. It's more perfect than anything I could have ever imagined. It's… It's from you."

He looked into your eyes, searching for any sign of insincerity. But all he saw was genuine affection, pure and straightforward.

"You mean it?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your tears now streaming down your face. "I do. It's not about how expensive something is, Seongje. It's about the thought, the effort, the love that goes into it. And this box… It's filled with your love."

He reached out and gently wiped away your tears, his rough fingers surprisingly tender. "I… I wanted to give you something that would last," he said, his voice gaining strength.

"Something that would remind you of us, of all the good times we've shared."

"It will," you assured him, taking his hand in yours. "It already does."

A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the gentle rustling of the cherry blossom tree. Seongje looked at you, really looked at you, and realized that he had stumbled upon something truly precious. He had found a love that was tender, a love that had the power to transform him, to soften the edges of his hardened heart.

He leaned in and gently kissed your forehead, a silent promise to protect you, to cherish you, to love you with every fiber of his being.

"I have one more surprise for you," he said, pulling away slightly.

You raised an eyebrow, your eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Oh? And what is it?"

Seongje took a deep breath and led you away from the cherry blossom tree, towards the edge of the rooftop. He gestured towards the city skyline.

"Look," he said.

You followed his gaze, your eyes widening in surprise. Spanning across three skyscrapers, in bold, vibrant neon letters, were the words: "HAPPY BIRTHDAY Y/N. LOVE, SEONGJE."

You gasped, your hand flying to your mouth. "Seongje! You didn't!"

He shrugged, a small smile playing on his lips. "I wanted everyone to know it's your birthday."

You threw your arms around him, burying your face in his chest. "You're crazy," you mumbled, your voice muffled against his jacket. "Completely and utterly crazy. But I love you so much."

Seongje wrapped his arms around you, holding you close. He knew that he was probably going to have to deal with the consequences of his extravagant display of affection later – the school administration would be furious, and his rivals would undoubtedly see it as a sign of weakness. But in that moment, none of that mattered. All that mattered was you, your happiness, and the overwhelming feeling of love that filled his heart.

As they stood there, bathed in the warm glow of the neon lights, he realized that he had finally understood the true meaning of love. It wasn't about power or control, or possession. It was about vulnerability, about sacrifice, about putting someone else's happiness before his own. It was about finding someone who saw the good in you, even when you couldn't see it yourself. And he had found that someone in you.

He knew that he would never be able to fully shed his past, that the world he lived in would always be dangerous and unforgiving. But with you by his side, he knew that he could face anything. He had found his anchor, his safe haven, his reason for fighting.

As the city lights twinkled around them, Geum Seongje, the ruthless leader of the Union, was no longer just a fighter. He was a lover, a protector, a man completely and irrevocably in love. And that, he realized, was the greatest power he could ever possess.

The neon lights continued to blaze: "HAPPY BIRTHDAY Y/N. LOVE, SEONGJE."

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 1 - Purgatorial

Main Masterlist - Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, very light fluff, mutual pining, time loop!

Summary/Warnings: Something is frighteningly familiar about the day. You feel as if you've done this all before. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: Palm Springs top ten movies of all time. That's not at all what this is but I just wanted to do some non-sponsored promotion of my favorite time loop movie. Enjoy the story!

Word Count: 6.4k

Read on A03! - Chapter 2

You’ve been here before.

You’ve literally been here before.

Staring at the ceiling of your bedroom, a fluffy blanket tangled over your limbs but your bed stripped on its sheets, and Dean loudly singing from the kitchen. 

This is how you woke up yesterday. Or- This is how you woke up in your dream, or simply a while ago in a faded memory, because you remember yesterday but it’s all fogged and clouded, as if some had dragged it through mist and smoothed all its features. The familiarity is eerie, but it could just be the lost haze of whatever was making your head pound and the world spin as you push up on your feet.

You must have been drinking last night. You don’t remember drinking—you don’t remember much, past a haze of Dean voice grunting in your ear something that’s only jumbled noise in your brain—but that could just be a result of the drinking. Cas keeps impossibly strong vodkas in the kitchen, because they were the only thing that gave him a buzz and he likes to be included.

He always stops you from drinking them, when you try to climb on the counter and grab them while no one is looking.

Maybe last night you finally managed to slip past him, and you’re paying the price now. Everything just feels like Déjà vu because your brain is floundering to recover from the night of drinking what Sam had called legally poison. You’ve woken up in your bedroom countless times. Dean sings like that every other morning. This is how most days begin, so it’s probably nothing-

Something clatters and bangs down the hall, and you wince as the sound echoes through the room.

“Son of a bitch!” 

Dean’s shout is a higher pitch than you’ve ever really heard it.

But it’s still oddly familiar. 

And that’s probably nothing.

Pushing out of bed and shuffling down the hall takes more effort than it should, but you’re the room is spinning, and the bunker is filled with fluorescent lights that always seem to flare at the wrong time, and why does Dean always insist on being off key when you know the asshole can sing-

“Morning, sunshine.” Dean looks up at you from the floor, a mess of eggs and bacon on the floor across the kitchen, and you blink at him. 

You’ve seen this before. The pan upside down on the counter, Dean crouching with a rag in his hand, the trash can dragged to his side as he glares at the mess scattered across the tiles. 

“I- uh,” you swallow, everything moving too slow and your words mechanical and slow, because you’re sure you’ve said them before. “I think it’s more like noon?”

“Nah, eleven. Still morning.” Dean points over his shoulder to the sink, and a little bit of egg falls out of his rag. “Can you grab me the cleaner, sweetheart? Gotta clean this up before Sammy gets back from his run and tries to teach me how to use a mop again.”

“What do you say, Winchester?” You cross your arms, raising your brows at him, and that must be familiar because you’ve done it a million times before. And Dean’s always rolled his eyes like that, and you’ve always grinned at how adorably grumpy he can be. This is Deja vu because you live in these moments all the time.

Where Dean’s looking at you, and only you, and he’s glaring but there’s no hatred or real annoyance behind his features. He likes playing this game just as much as you do. 

He doesn’t love it, adore it, live for it every single second of every single day, but he enjoys it. 

And that itself makes these moments ones you replay a million times, because you have no other way to hold him with your hands, so you grab every grin and word by the throat and add it to the mural of Dean that covers your skull.

“Please,” he grunts your name, and there’s a light in his eyes that ignites over your ribs. “Save my ass and get the cleaner.”

“Hm,” you tilt your head at him, pretending that you’re actually thinking about it—you’re already sold, you were sold the moment Dean said can you and it was something that was possible—and hold his gaze just long enough for him to look a little worried, and then you grin. “Okay.”

You step over his arm—supporting him against the counter—to get to the sink, and it brushes against your thigh. Sparks fly over your skin and your blood fills with light for only a second, and then it’s all gone as you keep moving, and Dean stays behind you.

That’s happened before. It happens whenever Dean touches you, but it’s still familiar in a way that’s far too specific. Almost as if he’d hit a raw, open wound. A place he’d already shot and branded you before, and now the contact is twice at strong.

This whole morning feels too familiar. Dean has winked at you a million times before, and you’ve sat on the stool watching him so often it could be classified as an addiction, and the bunker door has always echoed behind Sam when he got back from a run, but this feels like more. Like a polaroid photo stuck in a faded but over saturated color, a snapshot of something you know you’ve seen before.

“Dude, what’s wrong with you.” Sam walks into the kitchen, and you’d already been looking at the door. As if you’d been expecting him. “You look like a keyed car.”

Dean’s head shoots up from beside you, where he’d been grumbling about the gross lack of food in the fridge and glaring at his hand. “Did someone key my fucking car-“

“No, it’s a metaphor-“

“Simile. Not a metaphor.” You hum, shredding the paper towel in your hands into tiny little pieces you—somehow—know won’t be cleaned later. “And he dropped his breakfast.”

Dean scowls. “Fucking frying pan burnt me, I didn’t just drop it-“

“Burnt you?!” You grab Dean’s hand before you can think, turning it over to find a swollen, blistering red mark. “You- Fucking Christ, Dean you need to ice that-“

“It’s alright, sweetheart, I’m fine-“

“Nah, man.” Sam leans over your shoulder, frowning at Dean’s palm in your hand. “That looks like it’s second degree.“

You swallow, your eyes fixed the mark—long and red and thin, in the shape of the pan’s handle—and you could fucking swear you’d seen it before. He hadn’t even said which hand he’d burned, but you’d grabbed the right one, and this is so strange-

Dean clears his throat, and when you look up he’s rubbing the back of his neck, staring at where you’re still holding him. “I kinda need my hand back. If you’re gonna make me ice the damn thing-“

“I’m not making you do anything.” You mutter, releasing him with a frown. ”But you should-“

“I gonna. I’m goin’ right now.” Dean pushes out of his seat, giving the fridge a longing, rueful look as he passes it. “Sammy, you goin’ out to get food later-“

Sam shakes his head. “I need to clean up, dude, I just ran ten miles-“

“That’s too many miles.” Dean mutters, and you can’t stop looking between them with a slight gape hanging from your mouth. You’ve heard this conversation before. “Gonna pull a hamstring or something-“

“I won’t. You would. But we,” Sam gestures between himself and you, and you stare at him, feeling a little frozen as you mouth along with his next words. “Aren’t made of grease and junk. We’ll be fine.”

Dean scoffs, and you know what he’s going to say as well. “I’m not grease and junk-“

“You were eating bacon.”

“We don’t have anything else, and I don’t hate myself enough to eat your damn rabbit food-“

“Well, that’s why you’d pull a hamstring-“

Dean scowls, and you feel your hands mirror his as he presses the ice to his palm. “I’m not in the mood for your health shit, Sammy, I’m starving and we have nothing-“

“We have Lucky Charms.” You say, and it feels like a cue. Like that’s what you were supposed to say, from some invisible script, at that exact moment. “In the cabinet. And I’m not going on one of your runs, Sam. Stop trying to convince me.”

Sam lets out a long sigh, giving you a disappointed look, and Dean’s grin could power the entire bunker for a year. 

“That’s my girl.” He shoots Sam a smug look, and you swallow.

He’s said that before. It had punched you in the gut in the exact same way, and his smile had been that exact amount of blinding, and you’d felt this electricity in your blood at the same voltage, and-

“I’m gonna call Cas,” your voice is a whisper, and you feel like a tape recorder. You’ve said this before. “We’ll go to the store after I get dressed.”

Sam and Dean nod, and you know exactly what happens next. Dean goes to grab the Lucky Charms, and you’re supposed to giggle when he lets out a loud groan and the lack of “normal” milk in the fridge. You tell him that you’ll get three bottles, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. And then he grumbles about having to use Sammy’s stupid fuckin’ plant milk, and puts his hand on your lower back as he reaches to grab it, and your breath hitches.

He stares at you. You’re supposed to stare back, and get lost in his eyes for a long second—just long enough to burn them like a neon light over your vision—before excusing yourself with soft words. 

You walk past the shower, and Sam’s singing Celine Dion. Your hands tap to the beat before you even pick up on the exact song, because you’ve heard it before. You get dressed and it feels like a costume. What you’re supposed to be wearing. 

Cas is right in front of your door when you open it, and you don’t jump like you usually would. 

You’d known, somehow, that he’d be there.

“I heard we are going shopping.” He tilts his head at you, and you nod slowly, the right words creeping into your throat.

“Yeah, if we don’t, I’m worried Dean will resort to something stupid.”

He may take drastic measures to get bacon. 

“He may take drastic measures to get bacon.” Cas hums, reaching out to hold you by the shoulder. “Have you eaten today?”

You nod slowly. “I had the last apple.”

“I will make sure we land near a bathroom, then.”

You don’t get further warning before the world turns to a blur. Molding and morphing from the bunker hall into the meat isle of a grocery store, and you feel sick, and-

“It should be to your righ-“

You’re stumbling to the bathroom before Cas can finish his sentence, and you always vomit like this after he flies you somewhere, but this is different. There’s a ghosting image over your vision of this exact bile in this exact toilet bowl, and when you shuffle back to Cas, you’re not surprised he’s not where you left him.

And you find him too fast. In the snack isle, scanning over the million Oreo flavors with a frown.

He doesn’t look up as you approach him. You hadn’t expected him to.

“I didn’t mean to wander.” He hums. “I find it fascinating that there are so many varieties of one, simple cookie. Is double stuffed not enough?”

“Not for most people, no.” You point to the Mint Oreos, and they feel like a fucking prop. “These ones aren’t even that good, but that’s never stopped anyone before.”

“Hm.” Cas shrugs, grabbing the Mint Oreos, and you’re pulling out your phone before he can even ask the question. “Do we have a list of our required items?”

“Yeah, I had Sam text me everything.” 

Cas opens his mouth. You cut him off a beat before you were supposed to.

“If I asked Dean, we’d buy half the store.”

Cas nods, and that’s the last Dean will be mentioned until the checkout aisle. You know that. You still can’t tell how you know that, but you do, and all of this still feels like it’s played out before. It’s more than Deja vu. It’s a show. You will stand on your mark, right at Cas’ side, and on cue you’ll make a joke to match his dry comment. You’ll let him buy five bottles of honey, and you’ll talk him into sharing a tub of ice cream with you, and you need to get these apples and not those ones because that’s that the invisible script calls for.

You’re not supposed to speak of anything but food and the pre-set list until it’s time to pay. Then Cas will say-

“You told me the list called for pumpkin pie.”

And you need to respond-

“That’s because Sam is trying to trick Dean into eating healthier.”

“Pumpkin pie is not healthy-“

“It’s healthier than other pies.” You shrug now, and the movement feels mechanical, and Cas is frowning at you.

“Then why is this cherry pie.”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to answer. You have to hum and fidget with your own fingers, until Cas speaks again. 

“You do not wish to try and change him. To make Dean try and be something else.”

Now you have to blink at Cas. “I- I want him to be healthy, I just know he doesn’t like being tricked like that-“

“Because you care for him.”

“Because I know him-“

“And your feelings bar you from engaging in deception against him.” Cas places the pie on the belt, his voice remaining too casual for how your heart is pounding at your chest. “If it is any help, I agree. I do not believe the way for Dean to improve his health is via deception.”

You swallow. “Um-“

“I do believe he would be helped by you being forthcoming about your feelings. It would serve as motivation.”

“I- what?”

“Your romantic and sexual feeling towards Dean-“

The air becomes too thin, but you’d been expecting it. This whole conversation is too heavy in your throat and making your heartbeat like a drum—right out of your chest to spill over the floor, because these words were never supposed to be said aloud, where people could hear them—but you’d been braced for it.

And you have a phantom memory of the same conversation, but you hadn’t been braced. You’re supposed to stumble back and gape at Cas, but you’d been ready.

You’ve done this before, so you were ready.

“I, um, there’s- You haven’t told him, right?” The words are falling out of you at a frantic pace, but it’s still not as fast as they should be. “Cas, don’t tell him-“

“He is not aware.” Cas frowns into the air, watching you carefully as he continues. “But I firmly believe that it would be to both your benefits to have a conversation-“

“No- it’s-“ Long breath. Run your hand through your hair. “It’s complicated. I- please don’t tell him. He can’t know. Please.”

Cas says your name, and his tone is cautious, and your blood is going to leak out of your body. “I am… more perceptive than most. I know you anticipate rejection, but I do not think the conversation would end as you fear-“

“Cas.” You make your voice firm, and shake your head. “Please. Drop it.”

He does. He looks like he’s going to push it, but you relax before he nods and turns back to the shopping belt, because you know he’s going to drop it.

Just like you know he’s going to only make you carry two bags, and will bring you back to the bunker right next to the bathrooms again. 

And you’ll vomit, and he’ll put all the groceries away. And Dean will be in the library when you get there, and he’ll grin at you, and you’ll flush.

“I got you pie.” You whisper, because that’s how you’re supposed to say it. “Cas put it in the fridge.”

His grin widens. “You’re an angel,” he’ll say your name, and you’ve already pulled a blanket over your body to hide the squeeze of your thighs. 

“No,” you return his smile, pulling a book into your lap. “He’s putting the pie away.”

Dean snorts, and it’s a horrible, cheap-shot joke, but it works. You’d known it would work. And Dean will ask what else you got, and you’ll tell him. Sam will come in after exactly three hours, look between you and Dean—pretending to read but mostly just talking and smiling—with a dramatic sigh, and then walk out again. 

“He’s grumpy you’re not falling for his death-traps.” Dean mock whispers, and you giggle.

“I don’t think he cares that much, Dean. They’re just runs-“

“You’re wounding him. Brushing Sammy’s massive ego by calling his runs stupid-“

You hum, giving him a pointed look. “Sam’s massive ego?”

“Uh huh.” A bright joy dancing behind Dean’s eyes as he holds your gaze, and you melt a little into your chair. “Turn a man down enough and he’s gonna start falling apart.”

“I think he’ll recover.” You drawl, and Dean just shrugs.

There’s a long moment of silence here. Dean will break it.

“You still seeing that guy from the city?”

You blink at him. “Huh?”

“The suit and tie asshole, from the bar last month.” Dean frowns at his book. He’s not going to look up at you for the rest of the conversation, and your heart is going to tighten and feel like stone, right here, until at least the end of the day. “Sam said you were out with him last week.”

“Sam is a liar.” You say, and guilt will twist in your gut because Sam’s not a liar. You’re the liar. You had gone to see the Suit from the City, because you’d been cold and lonely in your too-big bed, and Dean had come home the night before with a hickey, and you hadn’t known how else to handle it beside finding an artificial warmth that you’d known wouldn’t last.

Because it wasn’t Dean’s warmth. The only heat that ever lingered was set off by Dean, but it was never enough, and it always faded to something colder than before. Something that had more longing burned and tainted over your skin, that would be harder and harder to replicated and fill with flickering, weak embers.

You don’t know why Dean cares. Why he’s asking at all. You do know that, in about ten minutes, he’ll stand up, grumble that he’s going out, and leave. The slam of the door echoing behind him, and you’ll move to sit in his chair because it’s a simple, easy way to steal a little more of his heat. 

He’ll call you in five hours. His voice will be slurred over the phone, and you won’t understand half of what he’s saying but you’ll know he’s drunk, and shouldn’t drive himself home.

You’ll send Cas to get him. 

And Dean will shove Cas away from him the moment they pop into the bunker, collapsing over you instead.

You’re supposed to stumble back. But you’d been ready for it. Just as you’re ready for him to grab your face between his hands, and say your name like it’s… Something. Anything. More than just your name. 

“You’re- Look at her, Cas-“ His words mold together in your head, and you can’t really hear them because Dean’s touching you, and you’ve never been warmer. “Son a bitch, she’s pretty- I need- gotta tell her-“

He slumps slightly, his head dropping to your shoulder, and you don’t call to Cas for help. That’s not what needs to happen here.

You get to run your hand through Dean’s hair and hear him moan in your ear, and then you get to help him to bed. He’ll keep muttering low praise that you’re going to be stuck thinking about until the day you die, and when you try and put him to bed, he’s going to drag you right down with him. 

“Dean.” You whisper in his ear, and he squeezes you around your waist. Keeping you pressed his chest, and he smells like whiskey and you- 

You don’t know what you’re supposed to say here. 

For the first time all day, this is new. Nothing is familiar, and the world feels too real. Dean is big and strong around you, and you can hear the pound of his heart and feel every flex of his muscles. The world is sharp and bright and violent in your head because suddenly it’s too much, and you don’t know what’s about to happen. 

“Dean.” You repeat, because it’s the only thing you can know for sure. Dean’s here, and he’s—for now—still awake to hear you. “I- You’re holding me really tight-“

“Gotta hold you,” he mutters, hauling you a further up his chest and burying his face in your shoulder. “You’re gonna leave.”

“I-“ You frown, trying to push up on his chest to look at him, but he’s strong. You’re stuck. It’s doing unfair things to your gut and heart, and part of you knows you’re never going to recover from this. From Dean. From him holding you like this, and you not having enough will to fight it, because you crave it more than anything. “I’d never leave, Dean-“

“Good.” He hums, and you can feel his voice. Rumbling in his chest and moving into your ribs, breath fanning right over your ear and making your whole body shiver against him. “Can’t do it… Don’t- you need to be here, baby. Need you.”

“Dean.” He’s talking nonsense. You can’t hold onto this too tight, because he’s drunk and talking nonsense. You still can’t push away. “You need sleep.”

He hums, and his words are barely a breath. “Need you. Better than sleep. Love you more than sleep.”

The first snore tears through the room, and you can’t think. You can only hear Dean, over and over and over. Love. He said love. Dean said he loves you and he’s still here and love, why would he say love and then just fucking fall asleep, why would he say love at all-

Everything fades to black, and the last thought you have before a light seems to turn off far in the distance is just an echo of Dean’s voice, saying love.

———

You’ve been here before.

You’ve literally been-

Fuck.

The ceiling. Th blanket. No sheets and no memory of how they vanished.

Dean hits a horrible, off-key high note, you sit up with a start, and this can’t be right. Or good. Or logical.

But you’ve been here before. Twice.

And it’s not a dream or show or sense of Deja vu. 

It’s real. It’s happening again. And when you take a long, deep breath and dig your nails into your arms to make sure you’re still alive, you count down from three and-

“Son of a bitch!”

You almost vault out of the bed, discarding the blanket on the floor as you sprint down the bunker hall, slamming your gut into the counter as you skid to a stop.

“Fuckin’-“ Dean shouts your name, and a second clatter echoes through the kitchen as you groan. “What the hell are you doing?”

Dean moves to your side in an instant, wrapping his arm around your waist to keep your upright, and you should’ve leaned into him. On any other day you would’ve just whined and molded into Dean’s side, grumbling about Sam’s habit of wiping the floor until they’re practically ice rinks and letting Dean laugh as he took care of you.

But today is not any other day.

Today is yesterday. And—if your horrible, gut twisting feeling is right—the day before as well.

Today you grab Dean’s hand before he can protest, and feel your blood freeze through your body.

There’s a long, thin, bubbling red mark on his palm. When you look around his body to the floor, bacon and eggs are scattered on the tiles. 

Fucking- Fuck-

“You need to ice that.” You mutter, pushing yourself out of Dean’s grip and moving to the freezer. “It’s second degree.”

Dean shakes his head, trialing behind you. “It’s alright, sweetheart, I’m fine-“

“Ice it.” You snap, tossing him an ice pack with a firm glare. “And there’s Lucky Charms in the cabinet. Eat that while I clean.”

Dean looks between you and the ice pack, slowing pressing it to his palm as he watches you march to grab the mop. “You feeling okay? You’re- you seem a bit, I dunno, touchy-“

“I’m feel great.” Your voice is flat. Drained. You feel mechanical, as if you’re drifting through every motion, and that doesn’t feel like it will bode well for the future. “There’s no milk in the fridge.”

“You sound great.” Dean drawls, still only a few paces behind you. “And I saw milk in there before you busted in, we’re good-“

“It’s Sam’s milk.”

“No, it’s-“ You hear the fridge door open, and Dean cuts himself off with a groan. “Son a bitch-“

You sigh, running a hand through your hair as you move back to the mess on the floor. “I’m going shopping with Cas later. After I clean this up and get dressed.”

He nods, and you clean, and this is a little different. Maybe you just needed to realize what was happening, and it will all be a horrible dream. 

Maybe you’ll scrape the last eggshells into the trash, and sit down next to Dean as he eats all the marshmallows in his cereal, and it’ll all be okay-

Dean gives you a wide grin, and places his good hand on your thigh. Right where he’d brushed against you before. Sparks. Sunlight in your blood. Raw and wired and beautiful right to the point of pain, just like before.

“You’re an angel, sweetheart, you know that?”

“Yeah,” you offer him a weak smile in return, and he takes a long, deep breath.

“I mean it. You’re- I mean- Son of a bitch. Never mind.”

Dean glares back to your cereal, his brows drawn and jaw clenched. Something’s off. This whole thing is off, but you still know Dean, and something’s off with him.

“Dean-“

“Dude, what’s wrong with you.” Sam walks into the kitchen. This whole thing feels like a crude, poorly crafted joke. “You look like a keyed car.”

Dean’s head shoots up from beside you. “Did someone key my fucking car-“

“No, it’s a-“

“Simile.” You whisper. You’re going to throw up. “It’s not a metaphor, Sam. It’s a simile. And Dean burnt his breakfast and his hand, but he’s icing it. You should go shower, you just ran ten miles.”

“I, uh-“ Sam blinks at you. “That was the plan, yeah. Are you feeling alright?”

You nod, and Dean makes a face in Sam’s direction.

“Course she’s alright, you didn’t force her on one of those stupid runs-“

“They’re not stupid, dude. Movement is good for the body-“

“Not if you pull a hamstring-“

“I’ve never pulled a hamstring. Neither has she. You would, but we,” Sam gestures between himself and you, and you cut him off with a choked whisper.

“Aren’t made of grease and junk. We’ll be fine.”

Dean shoots you a glare. “I am not grease and junk-“

Sam snorts. “You were eating bacon.”

“We don’t have anything else, and I don’t hate myself enough to eat your damn rabbit food-“

“Well, that’s why you’d pull a hamstring-“

“I have to go call Cas!” You half scream, shooting up out of your chair. “And I’m not doing a run, Sam. And Dean’s getting cherry pie, not pecan.”

Dean grins at you. “Awesome. Suck on that, Health Boy.”

Sam grunts, mostly just frowning at you. “Shut up, dude. Uh,” he scans over your panicked movements, saying your name is a slow, careful tone. “Are you sure you’re good-“

“Yeah! Just gotta- Cas. Pie.”

You scramble out of the kitchen, and behind you Dean chuckles, his words still somehow audible over your heartbeat.

“That’s my girl. Priorities, Sammy. Priorities.”

It’s amazing you stay on your feet. It’s amazing you get changed, and open the door, and manage to not scream at Cas for help the moment you see him.

You’d still eaten the apple. You still vomit when you reach the store, and everything falls in a disgusting, perfectly places picture of yesterday, and you find Cas staring at the Oreos.

“Double-stuffed isn’t enough.” You say, and he turns to you with a frown.

“I- That is exactly what I was wondering.” He nods over your shoulder. “What about Mint?”

“They taste like shit. I have a list, and we can get five bottles of honey.” You take a deep, shaking breath, watching Cas carefully. “Is anything- I don’t know do you sense anything that’s wrong? With the world?”

“Many things are wrong with the world,” he shrugs. “The phenomenon humans have named ‘climate change’ is about 236% worse than your scientist believe, there are an uncountable amount of living creatures in imminent peril at this very second, and the washer in the bunker laundry room is jammed with sheets-“

“No, I know,” you shake your head, fidgeting with your fingers as you frown around the aisle. “You’re just more perceptive than most, and I was wondering if you’d noticed things being- I- Just off-“

Cas frowns at you. “Is this about you and Dean?” 

“I- no-“

“Sorry.” Cas tilts his head at you, his voice dropping slightly. “I did not mean to overstep. I am simply aware of your… complex feelings for him, and believe that it would be to both your benefits to have a conversation-“

If this is a part of every loop, you’re going to shoot yourself in the head.

“I don’t want to talk about this.” You snap, pulling out your phone and shoving it into Cas’ hands. “I’ll get the frozen and produce, you get the rest, and I’ll meet you at check-out.”

You’re being a bitch. Guilt twists in your gut and crawls over your skin, because Cas was just trying to help and you’re being a bitch, but your skull feels like it’s teetering on your spine and the smallest nudge will make everything topple. Something is so very wrong but no one else can see it. Cas had been the check, the only person you had on call who would’ve been able to tell you that you weren’t just going mad, but nothing was abnormally wrong.

Everything is stuck on a scratchy, slightly shifting repeat, but nothing’s wrong. 

You vomit when you return to the bunker, and Cas puts everything away. Dean is in the library, but he gets up the moment you enter this time, clapping his hands and grinning like a child about the pie he already knows is in the kitchen. He returns with a plate, drops back in his chair, and both of you pretend to read. Sam comes in after three hours, then leaves. You joke about hurting Sam’s ego, and nothing feels like you’re doing it. It’s like you’re a puppet.

Dean mentions the Suit from the City, and you still don’t understand the switch that seems to flip inside of him, and he storms out. 

You try to busy yourself. You find your sheets and make your bed, you find Cas and apologize for being, tense, but he doesn’t seem that bothered.

He brings up your feelings for Dean again.

You manage to escape the conversation when Dean calls you right on time, slurring and drunk and not safe to drive.

Cas volunteers to go get him.

You go yourself instead.

Dean shouts your name, a wide, boyish grin on his face the moment his eyes land on yours.

“This is-“ He burps, slinging his arms over your shoulders and pulling you right into his side, speaking to no one but the air and inanimate bar. “She’s the one. You’re- Shit, you’re so fuckin’-“

“Pretty.” You give the bartender an apologetic look, letting Dean keep himself upright as you pull out your wallet. “How much does he owe you?”

Dean hums in your ear, his fingers running through your hair as you settle his tab. “More than pretty, baby- I gotta- needed to tell you something-“

“I know, Dean.” You sigh, wrapping your arm around his waist and guiding him to the door. “C’mon, let’s go home-“

“Already home,” he mutters, burying his face in your shoulder. “Got you. Need you. That was- son of a bitch, is the room spinning for you too?“

“No, it’s not.”

“Then why’s is doin’ that.”

He sounds like he’s whining, and you have to bite back the smile on your lips. “It’s because you’re drunk, buddy.”

You can feel his frown on your skin, his body tenses around yours. “Not your buddy- needed to- Can’t just be your buddy-“

He shoves himself up suddenly, and you to try and steady him back against you on pure instinct.

“Dean-“

You’re cut off as his mouth slams into yours, and the whole world turns to only color and the smell and taste of whiskey, and Dean. This isn’t a reputation. This is real, and new, and amazing. His lips are chapped, but they fit so well against yours. He’s walking you back to pin you against the bar wall, and his body is so warm and sturdy, and he’s drunk out of him mind but you know he’d never let anything hurt you. That you’re safe here, being kissed stupid and weak-kneed, and he might regret this in the morning, but when he pulls back from a ragged breath, all you can see is adoration and affection in his eyes. 

“Love you.” He mutters, and it’s the most sober you’ve ever heard him. “So- Fuckin’ hell, I love you so much-“

The fade is starting. Dean’s blurring, but he can’t go yet. 

You yank him back down with a half-whine, he smirks against your lips as the kiss turns open and sloppy and needing, and there it goes. 

The light switches off, and everything turns to black.

The last thing to vanish is the feeling of Dean’s lips, pressed to yours, and the feeling of his groan down your throat. 

———

You’ve been here before.

You don’t wait for Dean’s shout this time before you’re out of bed. You march down the hall, and enter the kitchen right as Dean roars and the pan falls to the ground.

“Hey, you’re-“

“There’s cereal in the cabinet.” You snap. It’s harsher than Dean deserves, but you’re losing your fucking mind and you’ve been here before. “And that’s second degree, Dean. You need to ice it.”

“It’s alright, sweetheart, I’m fine-“

“Shut up.” You point to the freezer. “Ice.”

Dean just stares at you. “You feeling okay? You’re- you seem a bit, I dunno, touchy-“

“Ice, Winchester, now.”

You stomp past him to get the mop, and he catches your wrist. 

“Look,” he says your name carefully, and you can see the concern painted over his every feature as he holds your gaze. “You know you can talk to me, right? About anything, even if it’s really dumb?”

You swallow, your heart turns to the tight stone hours ahead of schedule.

“Yeah.” You whisper, your voice softer. Weaker. “I know.”

You run a hand through your hair, and sigh. You clean up and Dean eats his marshmallows. It’s all going to be pointless routine until Sam gets back anyway, so you drop next to Dean and eat your apple, and prepare yourself for the spark through a raw wound when Dean places his hand on your thigh. 

“You’re an angel, sweetheart, you know that?”

“Yeah.” Weak smile from you. Deep long breath from Dean.

And something is different on his face this time. More determined.

“I mean it. You’re- I mean-“ He squeezes his hand on your thigh, and looks at you like you’re something priceless. Like you’re going to vanish out of his hold if he’s not careful. 

He doesn’t know just how right he his, and the stone triples in weight.

“Are you-“

“I’m good, I just gotta do this now. Before I-“ He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Needs to be now. Just- I- Shit-“

You know where this is going. It has to be a joke. You don’t want to dread it in the way you’re starting to feel over your bones. “Dean, you don’t have to-“

“I love you.” He blurts, staring at you with a wide, almost frightened expression. “You- don’t say anything, just- I fucking love you, and this never happened, but I needed to say it. And I mean it. So- Just- Yeah. Done.”

Dean looks back to his cereal, his face red and body tensed, and you can’t breathe. You can’t speak. It’s all going too fast, and there’s the light, but you weren’t ready and you can’t go, not yet-

Everything fades to black.

———

You’ve been-

No time.

You scream at Dean to ice his burn as you sprint past the kitchen, and a clatter follows seconds later. You don’t stick around to find out if he listened. 

You fly out of the bunker doors and start running. 

Dean was right. This is fucking hell. You don’t know how Sam does it all the time, but you don’t care because he does it, and it’s a million degrees outside but Sam has to be here somewhere, how can you possibly be missing him, he’s a million fucking feet tall-

Someone shouts your name, and you turn on your heels to see Sam jogging towards you, a deep frown on his face.

“Are you-“

“I’m not- Fuck.” You double over, clutching your stomach through ragged breaths. “Just- gimme a second-“

“What’s wrong?” Sam moves to keep your steady, his brow set in worry as he scans over you. “You’re not hurt, is Dean-“

“Dean’s fine.” You wheeze, shaking your head. “Sam- I- We need to talk. Now.”

End Note: Need a reverse limitless drug to slow down my brain. Enjoy the series!

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[nerdygirlramblings]

Hi~ hope you are doing great and having a good time; sorry to bother you, but can I ask some poly 141 x reader who is a veterinarian, or dog caretaker or trainer or K9 unit; and has taken care of many dogs, pets, service dog, militar dog, and so on; and the team saw her a little more introverted, seeing her eyes a little watery but not that red, still working but seeing the tell signs of touch starved and then they learn or know that a dog she helped bring into the world when born, now she had to put to sleep for injuries or sickness, what would they do? Since not many know how painful it is even if not your partner or dog have to do this?

Sorry for the long part, and feel free to ignore if too bothersome, actually I'm a vet and Im all teary, but can't really cry or bent since my family is cold or strick and the rest say like 'its just a dog's, and I'm also touch starved, sorry for this; just that I need a little comfort

Best regards :)

Oh @boogeysmoth I am so so sorry! I can't imagine how hard the bad days must be. I'd be heartbroken and crying all the time. (We're a family that believes in fur babies, so I get it. I hope this helps a little bit.)

cw: implied child neglect (memory), animal death (off-page), poorly executed accents

Everyone on base knew who you were. Soft, sweet thing who was definitely more comfortable with dogs you trained than the people. It was an open secret on base that, despite what you were training the dogs to do, you recognized their value as therapy animals. Soldiers often found their way to your portion of the yard after a mission gone wrong or when a unit lost someone or when the memories just became too much. You were patient with the soldiers who came to you, teaching them commands so the dogs could continue their learning and yet support the troops in a completely different way. You never shied away from the soldiers in those encounters, perhaps recognizing something in their hollow look, a kindred spirit in need of tender care.

The 141 in particular was well acquainted with your work. They never said it, but in their eyes, you were theirs.

Simon knew how it felt to feel like you didn't belong. Gaz understood what it was like to care for so many others with your whole heart. Price recognized the weight of responsibility you carried; your job was to train and watch out for your dogs the same way he did for his men. Soap saw how you retreated into yourself, like Ghost had when they met, and vowed to pull you into a world that might not deserve your sunshine.

It was Ghost who noticed first. Back from a solo mission, he'd swung by the K9 grounds on his way to the barracks. You were on the field like usual, but as his steps slowly brought him to the edge of your space, he saw you hesitate to reward your current charge after a followed command. There was stiffness where once had been ease, distance when you were typically close.

In Price's office for debrief, he said, "Somethin's wrong." Price merely raised a brow, so he continued. "She's actin' like the dogs are a chore. She loves them damn things." He paused, thinking of his childhood, the indifference from some who was supposed to love him. "'S not right. She loves them, Price. And if she's actin' all cold, somethin' happened."

So Price started watching too. Saw what Ghost meant, how you didn't seem to want to touch the dogs any more than you needed to. When two rookies came up, looking to sit with the dogs, you turned them away. There was no hard look, no sharp retire, but it was one of the meanest things he'd seen on base.

Several days later Gaz was sent to the K9 unit with a pile of slightly worn blankets. Requisition order gone wrong and they were far too small for the barracks' beds. He walked into your office, smile in place, and said, "Got some presents for your pups, doll."

You looked up blankly at him and the blankets. "Oh. Er, that's nice, but the dogs don't need them." You turned back to the papers on your desk, but Gaz stayed rooted where he was. You were always looking for comfort items for the dogs to make them feel cared for. You asked for stuffed toys and never turned down blankets and soft bedding.

Two weeks after Ghost first saw something off, Soap came around the edge of the K9 kennels to find you weeping in the back of an empty cage. Kneeling in the back, face buried in your hands, quietly sobbing. He didn't hesitate to open the unlocked gate and join you on the cement floor.

You felt a strong arm wrap around your shoulders before pulling you into a warm, solid chest. Quiet shushing and a whispered, "Ah've got ye," accompanied by gentle rocking. He stayed with you as the tears tapered off, and only when they were done did he ask, "Ye want tae talk about it?"

Your inhale was fast, shakey. The tears were barely at bay when you started talking. "I had to put him down," you said, voice laced with grief. Soap couldn't remember the last time he'd heard someone's heart break, but he swore yours did as you spoke. He didn't say anything, but the arm around you squeezed a little tighter. "My little Rascal. I know he's in a better place, but I miss him." The tears started again, and you didn't even try to staunch them. "And I don't know if I can keep doing this," you said between sobs. "I know what happens to these dogs in the field. I'm giving them over to be slaughtered!"

He could hear the change in your breathing, the breaths coming faster and faster. "Ach, bon! De ye no see how much good ye do?" He positioned you so he could see your face. "Love, ye give hope! The dogs ye train help keep us safe, an' we do our best to keep 'em safe in return. We treat 'em like another member of a unit. We doan let 'em get slaughtered." Deep down you knew this, but hearing it now helped ease the gaping ache in your heart just a little.

Your breathing slowed slightly. But before you could reply, try to tell Soap he was wrong, he continued in a whisper. "An' here ye help us feel human again when ye let us be wi' the pups." Shame raced through you, remembering how you'd turned the privates away last week.

You hiccuped and said, "I don't think my heart can take it to keep caring." You were so quiet Soap could have pretended he didn't hear you, but you and the dogs deserved better.

"Oh, love. When it hurts too much tae care, you come find us, yeah? We can help set ye tae rights."

You nodded. "Okay," you mumbled. "I think I can do that."

He stood and pulled you up, walking backwards out of the empty kennel. "And Ah ken the best way tae start," he stated, maneuvering you further down the hall to the full kennels. He put a light hand on your waist, deftly pulling the keyring off your belt. He found the cage with the youngest dogs and tried each key until one worked. When the lock clicked, the three puppies on the other side of the gate came running. Soap pulled you in behind him and closed the gate. He took a seat on the floor and patted the space next to him.

By the time you dropped to the ground, two puppies were already climbing on Soap's lap. He coaxed the last into your arms. You stayed with him, arms full of warm puppy, until you felt the cold grip around your heart melt.

an: This was a little tribute to my in-laws doggie of the same name and my cat menace, Mushu. They're over the rainbow bridge now. ❤️

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[lamentationsofalonelypotato]

Where'd You Come From?

Pairing: Din Djarin x f!reader, Reader POV

Summary: An adorable customer wanders into your bakery and introduces you to someone you'd never met, who piques your curiosity. Takes place after Season 3 when Din and Grogu have been living in their cabin on Nevarro. This is the first fic in my Sugar, Spice, and Starlight Series!

Tropes: Fluff, Meet Cute, Bakery AU, Grumpy vs. Sunshine

Word Count: 4.9K

Warnings: I don't think there's really any? The reader is really soft and likes to bake? The reader simping over a man's voice (as we all should)? Din might be a little bit OOC. It's mostly just fluff.

Note: This is told from Reader's perspective. Any references to the reader is made using you or your. There is no use of y/n! I tried my best to proofread, but nobody's perfect. If you don’t like, don’t read, but if you do like, you’re my favorite! This is my first time writing for Din, so please be gentle.

Internal monologue is in italics and is in first person.

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A/N: Honestly, I've been kinda afraid to post this for a while, but @jollyhunter thank you so much for encouraging me! You're a wonderful friend 💗

The smell of fresh bread, cinnamon, and brown sugar wrapped you in a blanket of warmth as you pulled a tray from one of the large ovens at the back of your bakery. It was not the first tray to be born of flame and love today, nor would it be the last.

You smiled down at the perfect pan of browning pastry with pride swelling in your chest, admiring your handiwork. It had been two days since you opened your small bakery tucked into the corner of a colorful street on Nevarro and you were already convinced that it was the best decision you had ever made, despite your older brother's insistences that you were crazy for doing so.

Sure, Nevarro was in the middle of nowhere, was populated by angry bounty hunters, and probably wasn't the safest place to live, but you loved it. Every day there was a market that opened in the early hours of the morning, close enough that you could wander through the colorful stalls meeting new people, trying food and sweets from all over the galaxy, and browsing through the handcrafted wares the others sold. On weekends the new fountain in the center of town was surrounded by parents while children squealed and ran through the cooling sprays of water. It was a lovely place to sit and soak up the warm sun, while your mind slipped into the soothing prose of a book perched on your knee.

The longer you stayed on Nevarro, the more you felt apart of its growing community and the more you felt like you belonged there. You hadn't felt like you belonged anywhere in years, not after you lost your grandmother, and you were left with an cold empty house filled with echoes of someone long gone, shades of a life you lived that could only exist in your memory.

Your brother had left you years before, angry, fueled with a fire to make the people who destroyed your home and orphaned the two of you pay, choosing rather to leave you with your grandmother than watch from the sidelines.

But you never blamed him for leaving when he was only fifteen and you barely ten. You weren't angry anymore about losing your parents to the war the way so many others had. Maybe it was because you'd lost them when you were too young to remember their faces while your brother was still haunted by the voice of your mother singing him to sleep.

But you supposed that without your grandmother you never would have fallen in love with baking and found the thing that made you feel whole and brought you comfort when everything else seemed to fall apart around you. It was her that fueled your own love of baking, tempered it and helped it grow from a small spark to a burning flame.

Her constant praise and encouragements in the time the two of you spent tucked into her kitchen filled with light and love made you the person you were today. She taught you everything you knew, spoke about opening a bakery of her own for years, but never did. You knew that she would have wanted you to sell the house to do what she couldn't, so you did, and you didn't look back.

The constant flow of customers in and out of the shop, the chatter that rose from patrons sitting on the carved wooden tables made of strong smooth wood, and the people who continued to say how wonderful it was to have you there only supported your decision to move here.

She would have loved this.

You think to yourself with a smile, gaze falling to your grandmother's overstuffed book of recipes that sat with pages fanning on the counter, before you drop your free hand to smooth a wrinkle from the floral apron wrapped around your waist. One of hers that you'd tied there for good luck over your dark blue skirt.

You supposed that it was working given the fact that you'd completely sold out of treats yesterday and now already halfway through the third day, you were out of some of your favorites.

At this rate I'm going to have to hire someone else to work the counter for me.

You never imagined to have this kind of response, but now you lived for it.

The fresh tray you pulled from the oven is heavy, but it's a pleasant weight. You maneuver through the cozy kitchen to place it on the counter where the sweet buns could cool before you iced them with the thick periwinkle colored frosting chilling in the refrigerator in the corner, but as you do, you hear the front door chime.

It was later in the day, and you were taking advantage of the lull before you expected another rush of customers to come in. The last patron had left fifteen minutes ago, placing her ceramic mug in the big plastic bin on top of the trashcan by the front doors, before walking out with a cheerful "goodbye."

The smile you have when you hear the jingle is genuine, the prospect of sharing your gift of baking with someone else warming your heart.

"One minute." You call, arranging the tray on the crowded countertop before you wipe your flour covered hands on the apron at your waist and make your way through the green curtain that hangs in the doorway of the kitchen, dividing the front and back of the shop. Your eyes flick upwards, expecting to see someone standing there behind the counter waiting for service, but the shop is empty.

"Hello?" You ask tentatively, looking over the counter at the empty wooden chairs and tables arranged beyond before the doorway and wide windows at the front of your shop. Sunlight filters through the glass in happy patches of light, illuminating the furniture just inside the door.

But no one answers you.

That's weird.

You hear something make a cooing noise, but you still can't see anyone, and there's a small part of you that's disappointed someone left without asking for help.

The odd noise sounds again, almost like the small multicolored bird-like creatures in the cages hanging above the shop next door.

Maybe one got out and is trapped in here somewhere.

The thought makes your fingers itch for the broom leaning in the corner, expecting something to come swooping down at you from the rafters above. Nothing was worse that finding out at the last minute that something you were trying to shoo could fly.

You walk around the counter looking for the source of the sound while bracing yourself for attack, but stop when you see a little green creature swaddled in brown cloth standing in front of the one of the glass cases loaded with sweets. He turns his gaze in your direction, presses his little three fingered hand against the glass, and coos softly as if asking you for one of the treats that sit in organized rows within.

"Um-" You look around the room hoping to see an adult, someone who he belongs to, but there's no one. "Hey there little guy." You stoop down next to him so you can see him better.

The creature smiles and gurgles happily, tapping his hand against the front of the case filled with pastry again to make a point.

"Where's your mommy?" You pick him up gently, cradling him in your arms. "Did you get lost?"

He coos again and touches your chin with a smile so cute that it's impossible not to return it. The sharp nails catch against your smooth skin, but you don't mind.

He's so cute.

You think to yourself with a soft smile.

I wonder who he belongs to?

You bite the inside of your cheek and contemplate what you should do. You were still relatively new on Nevarro and hadn't introduced yourself to the sheriff yet, but you'd heard of her. The problem was you had no idea where Cara Dune would be at this time of the day and you'd never seen a creature like him walking around when you went to the market or... really seen a creature like him ever.

I can't just keep him! Someone could be looking for him and it wasn't on my agenda today to become a kidnapper. I mean, that's never on my agenda, but today isn't any different!

You raise your eyes to look out the front door and large windows of your bakery, watching a few people pass by, but you don't see anyone resembling the child in your arms.

A sigh builds in your chest, contrasting the thrumming anxiety building in your body.

Maybe I should feed him, he looks hungry. And if his family doesn't come in by the end of the day I'll go find Cara Dune. She's got to know who he belongs to.

It seemed like a good plan, plus you figured the way that the creature was looking at the pastries it wouldn't hurt to give him a little something before you tried to find his family.

"Well, I don't really know how you ended up in here, but somebody's gotta be looking for you." You sigh, softly stroking his green ears. He wriggles in your arms, sighing under his breath and leans into your comforting touch. "Are you hungry?"

He turns and waves his hand at one of the glass cases loaded with multi-colored pastries again.

"Guess that's a yes." You laugh as you walk back around the case to place him on the counter right next to the register resting in between the two glass displays. "Sit here cutie. I'll get you something."

He waits patiently on the counter kicking his little feet where they hang over the edge, while you turn to the case on your left and grab a Uj'alayi square, a traditional Mandalorian sweet, from the display. The brown sticky pastry crumbles in his little hand as you give it to him. "This one's my favorite. It's my mother's recipe."

Your mother had been born on Mandalore years before the Clone Wars, but she'd left when she met your father, taking the traditions from her family with her to start anew. You'd never met any of her family members before and supposed that they died in the purge of Mandalore. The recipe for Uj'alayi was one of the only things you had left of her, something you'd found in the box of belongings pulled from the remnants of your home following it's destruction.

It had taken you years to perfect the recipe, thought that making it would awaken some memory deep inside of your mother, but it never did. Your brother, Ezekiel, remembered the moments that slipped between your fingers like running water, seeping through the cracks in your memory of the fleeting moments you'd spent with your parents before they were killed.

When the creature bites into the square, he gurgles, his dark eyes blinking at you and crinkling slightly from the lights that line the ceiling of your shop.

"I know. Good huh?" You smile and break off a piece of the cake before popping it into your mouth. The crunch of nuts and the tang of the sweet syrup brings a melancholic feeling of nostalgia rising on the crest of a wave, but slowly ebbs out to sea with your exhale.

It wasn't an unusual feeling, you'd been feeling more nostalgic since you'd opened the bakery.

The child munches on the square with a happy giggle and it makes you smile. Sharing your gift of baking always brought joy to your heart, and this was no different.

I wonder where his family is. He's so small, he couldn't have gotten too far, and he shouldn't be out by himself. Something could happen to him.

The thought makes your smile falter. The population of bounty hunters on Navarro had lessened in the months before your arrival, but you weren’t sure that someone as little as him should be walking around by himself.

The front door of the shop opens with a pleasant jingle.

"There you are." Someone sighs in a buzzing monotone.

You glance up from the little one your counter with curiosity, blinking in surprise at who stands in the doorway. Honestly, you weren't expecting it to be a Mandalorian, you were expecting someone else who was maybe a little bit bigger, but also green.

Maybe the little one is a foundling? That or he’s green under that thing.

The thought of the broad shouldered man standing in your shop squeezing pointy ears underneath his helm makes a laugh tickle in the back of your throat.

You'd heard your patrons talk about the Mandalorian who lived just outside of town, in hushed whispers around the crunch of pastry within your shop. The one that everyone steered clear of for fear that he would hurt them and take their children in the night, as if he was a creature that dwelled in a cave crouched over piles of gold. The people in town were all afraid of him, said that he was a blood thirsty bounty hunter who should be avoided at all costs, but seeing him stand here in your shop, arms crossed over his chest, hip cocked to the side, while looking down at the small child on the counter, you don't feel afraid.

The child coos happily and reaches up with two sticky hands opening and closing, asking to be picked up by the intimidating figure.

They never said he was a dad.

Despite their reputation, Mandalorians didn't scare you. When your brother left trying to find an outlet for his anger, he had found solace with a small clan of Mandalorians inhabiting a planet in the Outer Rim. They'd taken him in when he needed a home and given him a place where he could learn to control the rage he kept close to his heart. You were grateful for that, but it didn't make you miss him any less.

Whenever he would visit, he'd bring members of his clan with him all of which who were nothing but kind to you. But you still worried about him.

You worried he wasn't eating enough and when he came you would spend most of your time cooking for him and his new family. It was never a bother, you liked doing that for other people, cooking for them and taking care of them when no one else could. It was a form of comfort and warmth you believed that no one should be deficient of. In your heart everyone deserved to feel at home and have someone who wanted to take care of them.

"He belong to you?" You smile at the man standing just inside the doorway. He's so tall that he'd had to duck when he came in through the front door.

"Yes." He lets out another sigh that pops and crackles in the modulator.

"Well, I'm glad you found him, at the rate he's going, he's probably going to eat everything I have."

The man tilts his head to the side as if confused. You wonder if maybe you came on too strong or if it's just a habit of his, to size up everyone he comes in contact with.

He is a bounty hunter. Probably picked it up along the road somewhere.

His armor is a startling silver, sending flickers of the sunshine behind him over the walls of your bakery. You'd never met a Mandalorian who didn't paint their Beskar. Your own brother's was painted in shades of red and orange, and embossed with his clan sigil in a startling white.

But there was something about this Mandalorian's armor that was almost… pretty, but you supposed it was the same glinting beauty of a knife sitting on a kitchen counter, beautiful but deadly.

You look back down at the creature, who touches your hand and points back at the Uj'alayi in the case as if asking for another. The three fingers are sticky with the remnants of the desert. "Fine. One more. But I don’t want you to spoil your dinner."

You reach back into the case for another crumbling brown square to give to him with a laugh on your lips and watch as the skin around his little black eyes crinkles in gratitude before he bites into the treat.

The Mandalorian approaches cautiously and despite the helmet, you can feel his eyes on you, contemplative and curious.

"Is that Uj cake?" His voice comes out through the harsh buzz of the modulator.

"Yeah it's Uj'alayi. He really seems to like it. Is he your foundling?" When you look up and smile at the helm, you can only see your reflection in the brilliant metal of the armor.

Surprise flickers across your mind. You weren't expecting him to still be wearing the helmet and you're not used to talking to someone who didn't reveal their face to you. It was a little odd.

Whenever your brother or his friend Josh were talking to you, they always took off their helmets, but this felt different.

Honestly, even though he had the visor, you still weren't quite sure where to look to make eye to (through the helmet) eye contact.

Is it rude to tell him to take it off?

You'd never been put in this kind of position before, so you decide to ignore it.

"Yes." The helm turns from you to the other Uj cakes in the case. "Did you make it?"

You nod, blushing with pride.

"Are you Mandalorian? Do you speak Mando'a?" The Mandalorian asks, you can't but help notice that he sounds a little bit hopeful.

"No, I'm sorry. My mother was from Mandalore, it's her recipe." You admit sheepishly.

He nods in understanding.

The two of you sit in comfortable silence for a few moments watching the child eat on your counter, the sticky brown cake smeared against his cheeks.

It gives you a moment to size up the Mandalorian out of the corner of your eye. Again, you're struck by how beautiful the armor is. A brilliant silver and polished to a shine, proud, but not haughty. There's a charcoal cowl that wraps around the base of his throat and extends into a cape behind him and he's wearing a set of tan and brown gloves to ensure that no part of his skin is showing.

I wonder if it gets hot under there. Nevarro isn't exactly temperate.

And when the Mandalorian turns to the left to look at the other mulit-colored pastries in the display case and you catch a glimpse of the sigil of a Mudhorn on his shoulder.

Makes sense that someone so formidable would have that as their clan sigil.

Your brother's clan had the sigil of one of the large birds that inhabited the cliffs of their home planet. Each child had to scale the cliffs and bring back the skull when they came of age to prove their strength and prove that they were worthy of the mark.

I wonder what he did to get that as his sigil.

Your eyes fall back on the creature munching happily on the pastry.

"Look at you, you're a mess." You laugh, pulling a napkin from your pocket and wetting it with your tongue before wiping it over the little one's face to clean him.

He squeals indignantly, but you avoid the impetuous swipes of his hand as he tries to push you away.

"He doesn't like it when you do that." The Mandalorian says, but you can hear some humor come through the crackle of the modulator.

"I can see that." You snort, before disposing of the napkin. "Here, you take some. He really likes it and you should try it. It's my favorite thing to make for the shop." You turn back to the case and wrap up several squares for the Mandalorian to take with him. “I’m-” you say your name, busying yourself with folding the tissue paper around the pastry.

He whispers your name back to you as if he's trying it out and you're not prepared for the warmth that travels through your body when he does.

That's weird.

When you give him the bag, he holds out a handful of credits, but you push his fingers into a fist, feeling the rough scrape of his gloves against your fingertips. "It's okay. Free for first time customers. Plus it was payment enough to see this little one."

You give the kid an affectionate pat on the head, who coos and reaches for your face. It makes you laugh at how friendly he is and you pick him up so he can lay his hand on your cheek. He squeezes it between his fingers, crinkling his eyes with a wide smile. "Aww. You gotta go with your dad now okay? But you can come back and visit me any time you want."

The Mandalorian is watching you, and you again wonder why he hasn't removed his helmet to say hello.

I'll ask Ezekiel about it.

You were sure your brother would be showing up soon. When you sent him the transmission that you finally opened the shop, he said he was excited at the prospect of eating sweets for free, as if he already didn't do that.

I miss him.

It had been at a few months since you'd last seen him, right after you sold your grandmother's home and before you moved to Nevarro. He'd tried to talk you out of opening the shop, asked you to stay with him for a little while, but you thought it was about time you went out on your own.

You hand the child to the man standing on the other side of the counter, trying not to notice how his muscles flex beneath his Beskar when he does or how broad and wonderfully tall he is. So broad and strong that you know he could probably lift you just as easily and the thought makes a flush burn against your cheeks.

Get a grip, he's not a piece of meat.

"Thank you." He says in the buzzing monotone, but it makes you long to hear his real voice.

"You're welcome. Come back anytime."

"We will."

"Good. I'll look forward to it. It was nice to meet you-" You hesitate.  "Um- Actually, I didn't catch your name."

The Mandalorian doesn't answer immediately as if he's mulling it over in his head, while the child coos and giggles in his hand touching the bottom of the helmet on his father's head. It was a startling contrast the the formidable form of the Mandalorian to have a wriggling bundle of joy in his arms, one that made you smile just a little wider.

"Din." He says in a whisper.

"Din." You repeat slowly, rolling the name around in your mouth and enjoying how it sounds on the tip of your tongue. "It was nice to meet you Din." You smile widely up into the helmet, watching the reflection of yourself glinting in the metal.

Din doesn't move for a minute, he's hesitating, and it makes your smile falter on the end of your mouth for a moment in confusion.

Did I do something wrong?

But then he nods once and leaves, the only clue that he'd been there is the almost empty batch of Uj Cake and the brown crumbles covering your counter.

The next few days pass in a blur of you baking, cleaning, and selling as many sweets as you can while trying not to think about Din and the kid, but it's proving to be impossible.

You didn't understand why you were so focused on them. You'd had many customers that day and on the days that followed, but for some reason you couldn't get him out of your head.

When you'd lie awake at night you'd remember how he sounded when he said your name, how you wished that he would remove his helmet to look at you and let you see what he looked like, because with a voice like that the man underneath had to be just as beautiful-

Stop.

You cheeks warm as you clean the counters with a wet rag, your back to the door while you try to forget Din and his voice. This had never happened to you before, being unable to stop thinking about someone.  But each time everything went quiet, your mind would flash to the image of Din ducking to get though the front door of your shop and the sound of his voice through the helm.

The clock on the wall behind the register stated that it was exactly two minutes past closing time, which meant that you were about an hour away from crashing in your bed. You still had to clean the ovens, and pack away any leftover supplies. Not to mention the tossing and turning that came when you would lie awake and think about Din, hoping he would come back.

I need to get over this. He's just a man you met one time. Don't romanticize him.

You blamed the stack of books on your bedside table, the ones you read over and over about adventures all over the galaxy and true love. It also didn't help that you'd never once had a relationship, but why would you when it was more exciting to live vicariously through your favorite heroines? Not to mention you didn't have to make a fool of yourself falling for someone who probably thought you were just a weird person who smiled too much and baked for fun.

You wondered if that was why Din hesitated before leaving the other day when you smiled at him, that he couldn't figure out why you were so happy.

The bell on the door rings behind you, pulling you out of your head.

"I'm sorry we're closed." You respond without turning around, fingers scrubbing with the cloth at a particularly stubborn smudge.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize how late it was." Din's familiar voice floats through the air and makes a shiver travel down your spine.

"Din. Hey." You smile as you turn around, waving a hand, cloth still clasped between your fingers. "It's okay, you're always welcome."

He's still wearing his armor and helmet, the silver catching in the dim lights of the room, contrasting with the yellowed light that streams from the streetlights outside and emphasizes his figure.

Your eyes drop to the bag hanging on his hip expecting to see the child, but it lies empty.

"You're alone today." You say a little disappointed, but still happy that Din is here.

"Grogu's asleep. I didn't want to wake him." Din clears his throat.

"Grogu." You say the name back to him slowly. It didn't seem to fit the small child who swung his little feet on the end of your counter and shoved as much pastry into his mouth as he could. "That's an interesting name."

"Came with the kid." Din's voice shifts a little bit and you wonder if it means he's smiling at a memory. Your mind predictably begins to imagine what Din's smile must look like. "I was wondering if you had any Uj cake left." He continues, oblivious to your train of thought.

"You're in luck, I just pulled a tray out of the oven for tomorrow. Come on back." You motion with your hand for him to follow you through the curtain that divides the front of the shop from the kitchen. "Sorry it's a little bit messy, haven't had time to clean up back here yet."

The kitchen looked exactly as it should, two large ovens on the right wall with fire still burning underneath, a sink filled with dirty mixing bowls, spoons, and utensils, a large table in the center of the room that served as a counter top, and in the corner there was a plush armchair that you had fallen asleep in more than once with a book open on your chest.

Your apartment was a few doors down, but you found yourself spending more time here. So much in fact that you were contemplating moving in to the back of the shop. You didn't have many possessions, mostly books, and seriously started thinking about it last night because the people who lived on top of your basement apartment were so loud that you could see the floor vibrating with the sound of their yelling.

You walk over to the tray of reddish-brown pastry cooling a rack in the center of the kitchen.

"It's alright. You should see where I live." He freezes on the edge of the room, realizing what he said, but you only laugh.

"I'm sure its no worse than my apartment. I’ve lived here a few weeks and I’m still not completely unpacked. Each time I go home I have to avoid stubbing my toe on the boxes”  You pick up a knife to cut the pastry into generous sized pieces. "But I guess you liked the Uj cake to come back here so late." You tease him, glancing up with a smile. "Midnight craving?"

He laughs and it makes your heart stutter to a halt. Even through the helmet it's hypnotic and you want to hear it again. "It was good, it reminded me of-" Din stops mid-sentence.

"Of?" You look up into his helm, wanting to hear more.

Truthfully, you were curious about him. You wanted to know more about the Mandalorian who lived on the outskirts of town, the one that everyone else seemed avoid.

"When I was a kid." He says it quieter, almost embarrassed.

"Me too. Whenever I make it I feel like I'm in my grandmother's kitchen again." You smile to yourself as the memory of her washes over you again. "She's been gone for a few years now, but I like to think that I honor her memory by baking, she taught me everything I know. Raised my brother and me by herself." You wrap the squares in tissue paper before placing them in a white paper bag.

"What about your parents?"

His question surprises you, you didn't think that he actually cared enough to listen.

"They-um- they died when I was little. My brother and I were visiting my grandmother when it happened."

"I'm sorry." Din sounds sincere.

You shrug. "I can’t remember them. My brother remembers more..." You trail off a little bit. "It was harder on him, but somehow it all turned out okay." You hand him the bag, but when he tries to reach for the credits at his belt, you push his hand away. "I don't make friends pay."

“But-“

“Din, I refuse to let you pay.” You smile wider, saying it a little more forcefully, but it holds no bite. “Don’t make me ban you for life.” I don't want to do that to Grogu."

He huffs out a laugh. "Thank you." His helmet tilts down towards you and you again try to imagine what he looks like underneath.

Would he have a strong jaw covered in a thick beard? Curly blonde hair that falls past his shoulders? Green eyes with flecks of light that resemble the stars?

No matter how many times you thought about it over the past few days, nothing seemed to fit Din.

There's an audible silence between the both of you as you stand there in the kitchen, and you don't want him to leave yet.

“You’re welcome.” You could feel yourself beginning to blush a little under his gaze. It was odd to feel someone’s eyes on you and not know what they looked like. "Now, don't forget to share with the kid. He deserves some of that too." You say raising an eyebrow and pointing to the white bag in the Mandalorian's hand.

Din chuckles. "Thank you-" He says your name and it makes the warm feeling come rushing back.

Even through the helmet, it was inviting, and made you want to curl up in the feeling it brought over you. You try not to imagine what it might sound like if he wasn't wearing the helmet.

"You're welcome Din. Don't be a stranger."

"I won't." He hesitates again, the same way he did when you'd first met in your shop. Standing in front of you for another few fleeting moments, his head tilted curiously in your direction. And for just a second you think that Din doesn't want to go either.

But he turns and shoulders his way through the curtain hanging in the doorway, boots thudding against the floor, and you hear the jingle of the door as he closes it behind him.

Something inside pricks when he leaves and maybe that scares you the most, the fact that you were already so attached to him and you didn't know anything about him except the rumors everyone in town said. The ones whispered on tremulous breath that condemned the man you were so curious about to be a blood thirsty bounty hunter who couldn't be trusted.

But in your heart those warnings held no power, because the man who'd sincerely cared about you losing your parents, couldn't be the same one.

Could he?

Thank you so much for reading! Likes, Reblogs, and Comments are not required, but are always appreciated! If you'd liked to be added to my taglist for fics in this universe please let me know!

Taglist:

@jollyhunter

[sakurocha]

I love the idea of a Sunshine!Partner with Sebastian- Barely even needing to try to put him in a better mood, just so effortlessly sunny and hyper.

Awh but when you're having a gloomy day of your own :(

I can see him trying his very best to recreate that cheery demeanour, failing so cringily that it just makes you bust into a bunch of giggles - Task Fail Sucessfully

Just some thoughts.. ramblings even... heheh

YESSS omg honestly this is my otp!! i LOVE sebastian with a constantly sunny farmer so so much ☀️🌙🤍

sebastian cheering you up !

in which sebastian delivers a tiny gift for you when you're having a rare gloomy day.

you definitely got on his nerves a bit when you first arrived in the valley, constantly scampering over to him to ask a million questions and shower him in random knick-knacks you found in the mines and around the farm. can't you just let a man light up by the lake in peace?

the answer is obviously no. but he realizes that maybe your company isn't so bad, and somewhere along the way, he eventually finds himself somehow looking forward to your sickeningly sweet demeanor and constant questions every single day. as cliche as it sounds, you are the literal sun in his life. <3

one day, when you don't show up by the lake one night like you always do, dread pools in his stomach as he worries he did something wrong. but, swallowing his fears, he ventures to the steps of your farmhouse, where the lights are still on.

he knocks softly. silence. just as he was about to give you some space, you open the door ever so slightly, allowing him to take in your rumpled appearance, as though you had been holed up in bed all day—a feeling he was all too familiar with.

"seb?" you asked quietly.

at first, he was too stunned to speak. he had never seen you like this—anything less than a cheerful ball of sunshine. you simply blinked at him, tears threatening to pool in your eyes.

"hey, hey..." he said, his words trailing off. he had never felt so awkward, standing there on your doorstep, completely at a loss as to how to console his favorite person in the valley.

embarrassment crept up the back of his neck, an idea forming in his head as he recalled all of the sweet, caring ways you had cheered him up whenever he was having an off day, which was more often than he'd like to admit.

he had to repay the favor—it was the absolute least he could do.

"i'm sorry, seb, i'm just not feeling well today..." you said, moving to shut the door.

"wait—no, please, just listen to me... i, uh... brought you something..." he dug around in his pockets, searching for...?

you cocked your head with curiosity, watching him pat down his pockets before his eyes lit up with excitement. "there!" he stooped down, cupping his hands in the grass before jolting upright again, meeting your gaze. "give me your hands."

you did as he said, holding your hands out together in front of you before he spilled the gift in his palms into yours.

it was... oddly bumpy?

and a little bit slimy?

you looked at the little green creature in your hands, its two beady eyes staring right back at you.

"...you're telling me a frog just fell out of your pocket?" you asked, staring up at sebastian incredulously.

a pink flush spread across his bashful cheeks as he met your gaze. "um... yes?..."

the bright laugh that escaped from your lips was so, so pure; you couldn't help but giggle at his earnest attempt to cheer you up. and to be honest? it worked.

"thank you, seb, i love him." you cooed at the tiny frog in your hands, watching its little eyes flit around.

sebastian let out a relieved sigh, clearly more tightly wound than he wanted to let on. a small smile spread across his lips. "good, i love him too." he reached a finger out to softly stroke its back. "want to keep him?"

you pouted up at him. "no! i bet you just snatched him away from his loving family. we'll help him home." you bent down, gently letting your little friend leap back into the grass. "go on, tiny! get home safe!"

the two of you watched it hop away into the night before you turned to sebastian.

"thank you for stopping by, sebastian." you smiled up at him, a beaming, genuine smile. "i really do appreciate you. oh, and our new little friend."

he returned the grin, simply relieved to see you get your spark back. "i'll never say no to spending time with some frogs." he looking off wistfully, playfully ignoring the death glare you gave him. "oh, that's right, and you."

you batted him on the shoulder before dragging him into the farmhouse for a cozy night in. <3

thank you so much for reading! requests are always open~

[nightscythe]

legions reaction to their primarch wooing you?

but i would love love love to read the more taboo version of primarchs kinks :D

hope you have/had a wonderful day :p

thank you anon hope you have/had a wonderful day too!! i waited for a plumber all day. created this as I waited •⩊•

please forgive me for what this turned into. i have made it less serious that originally planned but it just happened i am so sorry. i live in a fantasy where 30k is sunshine and rainbows. hope you enjoy anyway!! taboo vers. of the kinks will be posted later this week.

this is all pre-heresy. little bit nsfw on one i think so 18+ please.

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lion: there was no evidence, until the very very end stage of his courting, that the lion even had the slightest feeling of love in his body. but when he didn’t react to you approaching him, when he spared a glance at you, answered questions as though he didn’t just see you as another person beneath him. oh. they knew. and no one even dare speak a word of it. no side glances, no reactions. they ignored everything that happened. it was luther who eventually started a conversation about it with some others that same evening, away from the prying ears of their primarch. he’s so fucked. literally. because there’s no way in hell that the lion was the one chasing you. whatever he had said, you’d reciprocated, and if luther knew one thing about the lion… it’s that he won’t let things go that he thinks belong to him. it’s the nightly gossip when they have nothing better to discuss, and the lion really thinks no one has even noticed. 

fulgrim: they were all enthralled by his tactics at first. such elegance, such style, fulgrim spared nothing in making you his absolute muse. but then fulgrim gets them all involved. they are delivering the pottery and jewellery to you by hand, ordered to protect you even (which they didn’t have the biggest issue with, you were nice) – fulgrim wanted to prove that even his finest warriors are on the table for you. and then it became all he talked about. and then, when you had finally been convinced of his love (because he told you his feelings father than gifted you a whole planet), fulgrim’s own ego was so entirely huge that he declared himself master of courtship. and now he’s got classes on how to make someone fall in love with you with guest speakers. eidolon is literally at the front seat, heart eyes, yes my perfect primarch please teach me your ways type thing. vespasian, on the other hand, is just wondering why he was even invited. 

perty: they didn’t dare question their primarch, but they weren’t stupid. the handcrafted tools that he would spends hours on just to give away. the armour customised to a much smaller body. the books he’s borrowedfrom magnus that he has no interest in. vhalen had noticed because he had stumbled on a book his primarch kept detailing interests of yours. connected the dots. didn’t say anything because it wasn’t his place. silently tried to help out by leaving flowers you liked or herbs you needed for perturabo to give to you. never wanted anything in return, but believed that maybe you’d be able to help ground him, truthfully. but forrix? no. this was weak. they were taught to never be weak and this was a weakness to its very core. out of their control, completely inefficient, a waste of time in his eyes. he would never understand why perturabo was doing, but at the very least he wouldn’t say a word – not the same could be said about everyone in the legion though. 

khan: at first it had started with the stashing of treasures he thought may be of interest to you. then, the invitation came. an esteemed guest would join for an adventure. and they were very amused. an esteemed guest? shiban might begin to joke, testing the khan’s reaction. and when his primarch looks up with the slightest smirk on his lips, there would be an immediate laugh. i think you may need to revisit that title my lord, perhaps something with… meaning. though many of the white scars would avoid asking questions, they enjoyed the details of it. it was a new adventure to them, and the khan was leading the way. but shiban would keep seeing this title, esteemed guest, and constantly change it to a new one. warhawk’s chosen was most common, because that’s what you were. and he’d probably be a banging wing man too, but the khan never needed it.  just asks every so often how things are going and reports back to the others.

leman: they’d critiqued you as they watched their primarch try to train you how to protect yourself. with a sword, with a gun, with whatever was around. your own fists even. and you may have been no match for leman, but they were still impressed in their own way. a collective nod between them as you flawlessly replicate something he showed you. it’s when leman has you pinned against the floor and it becomes extremely obvious that he got so carried away that his hard on is pressed against you and you most certainly have noticed. whatever happened next, they weren’t sure. leman’s courting may just have been giving you a taster of what might happen if you accepted his love. they’d all given you privacy to say the least. another collective nod between them, what a majestic man their primarch was. and if you were brave enough? join them for beer as well. 

dorn: it had been a normal day. life was just moving by calmly, not a thing or person out of place. dorn was discussing something about a building, the internal structure, yada yada. it was a really nice day to be an imperial fist. but then his hand reached for your shoulder, and the remnants of a smile fell on his lips as he lead you on to show you something else in the structure, something integral to building. and he wasn’t really wooing you in any sense of the word, but he was opening himself up in a way that only dorn could. he was… trying to impress you? no. archamus believes that there must be reason for this, his primarch is being tactical. you know something. sigismund believes the same. this is calculated and logical. explaining the internal structure must provide a benefit to the legion. perhaps you’re an expert of some kind. the pair don’t ever mention what they saw again, but they do consider what kind of expert you are later down the line when they’re standing outside their primarch’s doors waiting for the consultation to be over. whatever it was, you obviously felt very strongly. 

curze: jago sighs. he’d had to watch his stupid primarch stand outside your window for what seemed like weeks now, neglecting his duties, or anything other than you really, whilst never saying anything. curze didn’t know he was there, but jago was too curious to let it go. he thought you were just another victim, someone curze was taking his time with, but then he realised the whole situation. curze was just watching. staring. felt but never seen. stole an item of your clothing. jago didn’t want to find out what item, but deep down he knew. curze was spiralling, staring into the distance, eyes glued to you even when you looked uncomfortable, but never actually talking to you. so jago takes it into his own hands. sends you directly to curze, makes the primarch speak to you. really, curze is just haunting you, but that’s okay - jago will fill in the gaps, woo you with all his own tactics until you actually start to reciprocate whatever it is curze is feeling. and the rest of nightlords are confused more than anything. does standing in the shadows actually work? are humans that enthralled by primarchs? gendor tries it out for himself, wanting his own partner (or, human trophy). doesn’t work for him but claims it does.

sanguinius: what a pure demonstration of love this is. to see their angel, someone who would fight in battle for hours without breaking, stutter over some words in front of someone? to watch as he fought to keep a conversation going just to hear your voice? his sons are in awe. of you, because how pure must you be to have won the attention of their primarch? but also of him, because it was the most human he had ever felt. they saw his nervous looks, his shy appreciation of your perfection, and valued it deeply. and overtime you’d start receiving flowers from him, handpicked by his sons who saw it as a way to help steer their somehow clueless primarch in the right direction. azkaellon specifically had handed him roses for you, cut from the most perfect bush, claiming it was something romantic that you would appreciate. and you did. and sanguinius was extremely happy when you kissed his cheeks (and the silent celebratory crowd of blood angels watched on in joy). 

ferrus: you’re his personal project. he spent every hour of the day with you, it felt like. improving you, working on enchancements. making you perfect. but then something else started happening. it was no longer pride that kept him going. it was you. and they all noticed. at first he didn’t care for anything you said. now? he listens to every word. like you are another of his brothers, but it’s different, even than with fulgrim. he cares in a way they don’t understand. no one would ever say a thing – they’d all pass their silent judgement on how this went against everything he seemed to stand for. but maybe santor would ask about it just once. not for details, not for questioning. just to confirm. they are different, my lord? ferrus wouldn’t hesitate with his answer. they are everything. what does that even mean? it would never be mentioned again. by anyone. whilst some of them would question his decision internally, most would trust him – their primarch understood weakness, and if he didn’t see you as weak, neither would they.  

angron: does anyone even know what is going on with you? could it even be considered wooing? barely. angron would want to kill you some days, and want to fuck you other days. and somewhere in between he’d just want to be with you. it was within that where kharn saw a positive. he saw hope. angron was capable of something other than rage and somehow you could control it for more than a single sentence. and in that regard, kharn becomes your biggest supporter. he would do anything he could to not only protect you in moments of rage but to encourage you when angron needed it the most. he’d prepare for those small moments of clarity to see if you could help balance angron out. but the others? it was a fluke. you weren’t changing anything. angron would never be any different. but go off, try and kill them, that shows you love them right? 

rob: it only took one to notice. how a slight shift in his schedule put him back in the room with the same person he saw the week before, and the week before that. and he’s seeing them next week, and the week after. are they a diplomat? are they a specialised counsel of some kind? a small team of investigators forms, and no, you are none of those things. you are the object of lord guilliman’s attention. his carefully considered words. his offering of a basket of fruit you liked, supposedly something not liked by his offices. what a liar. they never receive baskets of fruit like that. it becomes a hot topic for gossip, and it isn’t until valentus asks if ‘this person’ he meets with so often may want something other than fruit baskets, and that he can ask for something to be custom made, that guilliman reconsiders his whole approach – and takes valentus up on that offer. speculations are common. whispers even more so. but they are all pleased for him in their own way. 

morty: well it wasn’t really courting. he gave you something, said that would care if you died, and then waited for you to respond. and when you finally said that, yeah… you would too? he nodded and took that as confirmation of, uh, something between you. so you’re confused, and so are his sons. you even catch eyes with one and shrug comically because what the fuck? the entire legion falls silent about the issue. no one says a word. but internally? what the fuck was about right. morty didn’t seem to care for anything, he barely even seemed like he cared for his legion some time, and now he doesn’t want you to die. huh. whatever. typhon would be the one to outwardly say something. my lord, is this not a shackle that binds you to humanity? and the primarch would dismiss the thought without doubt. not every attachment is a weakness. deathguard HATE this guy. 

magnus: ahriman should be ashamed of himself. he could be doing something important. he could be doing anything but this. but he’s silently observing his primarch, sat on the balcony of his private chambers, sharing a bottle of his finest wine with someone who has been here a few times now. sharing it with you. and he’s drabbling on about the universe and stars and how the universe began with his eyes all wide and bright, looking to see your response, needing to hear your voice and how you’re impressed by his understanding. ahriman isn’t spying. he’s protecting his primarch from the dangers at large. you could be dangerous. or, more realistically, ahriman wished to listen to magnus’ wisdom as well. but he can’t help but be genuinely impressed by how magnus handled himself, how he knew all the right things to say, how he was so genuinely charismatic with you. and equally, how he’d managed to hide this from the entirely population of tizca when he was right on the balcony. ahriman takes notes. he may need them in the future. 

horus: a couple of the mournival had watched him from the corridor. horus had basically made you putty in his hands, he knew when and where to touch you, how to exude the right amount of character and strength, mixed with emotions and feelings, at the exact moment it was needed. he’s a traditionalist, he knows how to make someone swoon. a compliment here. a smile there. it’s a masterclass. this must be where fulgrim learnt it from. and his sons are living for it. that is until tarik hums to himself knowingly. i know them from somewhere. and loken hesitates, because isn’t that the person abbadon kept talking about before. yes it was. horus was courting the one person who caught abbadon’s interest, clearly taking something from that conversation. the pair keep it to themselves for now. loken walks away wondering how horus managed to make the word sweetheart sound so different – and how long it would be before everyone knew about this, because it would be a good source of a amusement.

lorgar: erebus and kor phaeron rarely lorgar out of their sights, because it seemed their grand plan would fuck up each time he managed to escape. this time? it seems the primarch has gone and fallen in love. they’d watched as lorgar handed you a book. perfectly accompanied by sticky tabs, post it notes, underlined words and highlighted phrases that made him think of you. each page was absolutely covered. kor phaeron had been the first to laugh, seeing his pathetic attempt at worship only elicit an uncomfortable smile from you as you flicked through the pages and saw the depths that he was going into. erebus was quieter, but equally amused. so easy to manipulate, he’d comment, seeing the way the lorgar would quite literally fall to his knees and praise you, another weakness he falls so easily to.  but on the other side of things, argel tal is a few steps behind his primarch, peering around subtly in admiration of lorgar’s attempts. he sees it as sweet, actually, and rather than a weakness in his devotion to the emperor, saw it as an extension. some others may find it heretical, depending on where their loyalty stood. 

vulkan: he first crafted you a knife, such a beautifully build and shaped weapon that everyone could tell his entire soul went into it. but he could have done that for anyone. and then he crafted a necklace, forced from things he owned, and was not shy about handing it to you in front of everyone. he wanted every one of his sons to know his feelings, maybe without directly saying it, and begin to internalise what this all meant. which is exactly what they did. and it was like a tension lifted. every single one of them is rooting for him, for you, for whatever is going to come from it. and vulkan can’t be criticised in his ways either. numeon may even comment, offhandedly, that he would inspire generations to come with his actions. and xiaphas? would plan the wedding. the most normal legion on this list, it seems.  

corvus: he was silent about it, never revealing a thing to any other. his silent courting, his gestures that had no meaning until they did. it wasn’t until they’d see him protect you, maybe even just the flick of his wrist to prevent an action that he would never usually stop, that they all start thinking. wondering. could their primarch truly have feelings in this way? was there really one person who could capture all of their attention? it would come down to someone like sharrowkyn to say something. voice an opinion to his brothers and then to the primarch himself. with caution, of course. are they worth it, my lord? he wouldn’t hesitate. they are worth my entire being. and from then ravenguard watch in the shadows for you as well. they would accept it, they may not understand it, but they wouldn’t question it. he did not want to fail you. and if any of them did want to understand, he would explain it. 

alpharius: regardless of which one it is that’s wooing someone, they were all involved. because this is alpharius after all - he’s not just going to make someone fall in love with him because he’s really nice. or he couldn’t be bothered to try. so the whole legion is in on it. they are all courting you, working on this plan which they don’t really understand. they all think its part of something bigger. they all think you must be someone who is so important that all their attention has to be focused on you. but no, alpharius just has a crush. and it becomes obvious when pretty soon alpharius does not want to share with anyone. a few of them would be kind of pressed about it. didn’t want to be involved, didn’t want to carry it on. a couple accidentally catch feelings because they were forcing themselves to replicate what alpharius was doing and he’s a very touchy-feely man. or was it omegon? who knows. maybe it wasn’t even alpharius that started this all, he was just caught up in the cross fire. regardless, alpharius is smitten, and his legion is… not.

i am very sorry if any people/legions are mischaracterised at all!! i am more familiar with some legions which probably comes across in this, but please tell me if something wouldn't happen, so i know for next time ◡̈

[jjeongkii]

Spring love — Jungkook one shot

finally posted something we cheered 🙏🏻

bf!jk × reader

summary — You surprised Jungkook with a spring picnic, where you both shared laughs, kisses, and paint, creating a sweet memory together.

warning — none! just jungkook being that sweet but annoying boyfriend who loves you so much 💕💝💘💓

word count — 1,157

song recommendation — Still With You - Jungkook | Lover - Taylor Swift

It was a perfect early spring day, the weather finally warming up, leaving behind the ugly chill of winter. Sunshine filled the sky, and happiness seemed to radiate from every corner. Honestly, who even likes winter?

It was March—spring's start—and you had decided to surprise Jungkook with a surprise picnic. Both of you loved the outdoors, walking around, and discussing absolutely everything. you worked so hard to prepare your picnic spot, laying out the soft blanket on the grass.

You'd brought a little raspberry chocolate cake, snacks, fresh fruits, and juice. You even brought a little canvas and paint so that you could paint after lunch. When all was ready, she got out your phone and sent him a text.

"Hey Kookie, can you come to the park? I want to show you something."

Your phone vibrated almost instantly.

"Coming right now."

Damn, that was fast. Guess he was eager to see you. You played with your dress as you waited. It was a nice blue one, perfect for the springtime.

Meanwhile, Jungkook was getting ready too, fixing his hair. He wore a simple white shirt and some ripped blue jeans—a common combo, but somehow he made it look effortlessly hot.

As you waited, a wave of nervousness built up inside you. But you knew Jungkook loved moments like this. He always loved it when you went out of your way to do something special for him. It made his heart flip every time.

Jungkook headed towards the park, his eyes scanning for you. And when he finally spotted you, standing there with the sun softly caressing your skin, he was rendered speechless. The blue dress, your hair gently swaying with the wind—it was something he could never get used to.

He approached from the back and kneeled, a teasing smile spreading across his face. "So, all dressed up for me, huh?" he joked, nudging your shoulder gently.

You hit his arm lightly, a blush working its way up your neck. "Shut up," you muttered, trying to hide your embarrassed face.

"Aww, my baby's already blushing? Adorable," he chuckled, sitting down next to you.

Jungkook's grin swept over the picnic setting, his eyes landing on the canvas and paints. "You're going to let our inner Picassos out?" he inquired, an eyebrow arching upwards. "Since, you know, I'm terrible at painting."

You dismissively waved your hand. "Jungkook, you don't have to be Picasso. I just figured it'd be something fun to do after we ate.

You spent the next bit of time enjoying yourselves together—eating, chatting, stealing little kisses between bites of food. Everything seemed like it should be. The sun was out, the air was fresh, and everything just felt right. You even fed each other, laughing at the mess you made.

Jungkook had given you a chocolate-covered strawberry, but the melted chocolate had dropped onto your lips. He gently laughed, leaning in closer to wipe it away. "You're always such a mess, aren't you?"

"Hey, not my fault you feed me like I'm some cow," you joked, making him laugh even harder.

After your little food fight, you grabbed the canvas and the paintbrush, your eyes sparkling with excitement. "Well, ready to bring out the Picasso within you?"

Jungkook laughed, grabbing his own canvas. "Oh, I'm ready. Let's make the art world proud," he replied, squeezing paint onto the palette.

You had always been very skilled with a paintbrush. You'd gone to art school when you we're younger, so it came second nature to you. But even though Jungkook had seen your talent before, he couldn't help but be amazed by your work every time.

As time passed, you both were deeply focused on your paintings. Jungkook was doing his best, and you couldn't resist trying to sneak a peek at his canvas. "Whatcha got there?" you joked, trying to get a peek.

"Nope, no looking," Jungkook said, covering his work. "Patience, baby."

You crossed your arms and looked at your own painting. You added a few more details, your brush strokes becoming more confident.

Finally, after what had seemed like forever, you both finished your paintings. You counted to three, eager to reveal your works.

"On three. One… two… three!"

You flipped your canvases around. Your painting was a beautiful, detailed depiction of a flower field, every petal and leaf showing your attention to detail. You’d clearly put a lot of effort into it.

Jungkook's artwork, however, was of you—sitting as you were now, painting concentratedly. It was pretty good for someone who claimed to be awful at art. It wasn't flawless, but it was created with so much love, you could tell he'd put his heart into it.

"Oh my god, baby… this is so beautiful." You looked at the painting, holding it up, noticing the little hearts surrounding your figure. Your heart skipped a beat. He really loved you, and this painting was proof of that.

"Thank you, my love," Jungkook smiled, leaning in and kissing you on the cheek. "I'm glad you like it."

You felt a wave of warmth run through you as you looked at him. His eyes sparkled with genuine affection, and you could tell that everything he did—every little thing—was filled with love. You leaned in and kissed him softly on the lips, lingering for a moment as if time itself had paused. The still, quiet moment between the two of you was ideal.

"I'm so lucky to have you," you whispered onto his lips, your heart overflowing with emotion.

Jungkook grinned and enveloped you in his arms, pulling you near. "Nah, I'm the lucky one," he replied, his voice gentle. He rested his chin on the top of your head as you burrowed into his chest, the two of you warm in the peaceful moment.

The sun still shone overhead, and the gentle breeze played with your hair, but nothing could be more ideal than this. Just the two of you, surrounded by love, laughter, and art. The picnic could have been simple, but the memories you were making were priceless.

You both just sat there for a while, talking, laughing, and just basking in the simplicity of each other's company. The world around you just melted away, and it was like nothing else mattered. You didn't need fancy plans or material things to be happy—just each other, and these moments that felt like they could last a lifetime.

And when the day began winding down, Jungkook stood up, pulling you along with him. "Come on, let's take this masterpiece home," he said with a playful wink, jerking his head in the direction of your paintings.

You laughed and took his hand, feeling like the luckiest person in the world. "Yeah, let's go. But you're gonna carry your 'Picasso,' not me.".

"Deal," he chuckled, pulling you into his side as you walked hand-in-hand back to the car, your hearts full of joy, and your smiles never fading.

[bellaxgiornata]

You Are My Sunshine [7]

Pairing: Jax Teller x Fem!Reader Word count: 4.7k [Series Masterlist] [Jax Teller Masterlist]

Warnings/tags: 18+; sunshine!Reader/grumpy!Jax (somewhat), fluff, angst, friends to lovers, eventual smut, canon divergent, canon typical violence (more tags to possibly come)

a/n: I love seeing how many of y'all have been enjoying this little series with Jax and Sunshine! I was tweaking the ending of this so it took a bit longer to get ready, but here you go! Enjoy! Feedback and reblogs are always appreciated!

tag list: @mariamadison6-blog @moongirlgodness @kmc1989 @thedreadandthefugitivemind @fallout-girl219 @nfm-12 @f1samcro @sinfulscorner @danzer8705

Leaning against the wall of the clubhouse, Jax drew the lit cigarette back up to his lips as the sun gradually sank towards the horizon, disappearing slowly behind the automotive shop. The sky was on fire with a myriad of oranges, pinks, and purples, but that wasn’t what held his attention as he inhaled a deep drag. Blowing out a trail of smoke between his lips, Jax’s gaze lingered across the street.

For the past ten minutes, he had been standing outside in the clubhouse parking lot smoking a cigarette while watching you through the coffee shop’s windows across the street. You were alone in there as you closed your shop, wiping down the tables and counters with an uncharacteristic frown set on your face while you worked. Jax could spot it even from across the street, a matching one settling onto his own face at the sight. That expression didn’t belong on your face. As he raised the cigarette to his lips for another drag, he remembered how he’d stopped into your shop earlier today and overheard that you’d been having a bad day. The sight of you looking stressed, your arms full of bags of coffee as even more had been scattered around your feet, had pulled at something inside of him this morning.

For some reason the thought of you having a bad day bothered him. The goddamn frown that had been on your face all day whenever he'd caught you through the shop windows today bothered him. You were supposed to be the oddly bubbly and cheerful coffee shop owner across the street, the woman who radiated warmth and light like the goddamn sun itself. The woman who welcomed everyone with a smile. It wasn’t right that you were having a bad day, that there was a frown stuck to your pretty lips. He didn't like it.

Jax stood in silence smoking his cigarette as he watched you close up your shop. He was waiting for you to finish so that he could give you a ride home just like he’d told you he was planning to do this morning. It wasn’t safe for you to be out walking around Charming at night by yourself, not with the shit that had been going on lately.

“There ya are, Jackie,” Chibs said, breaking through Jax’s thoughts. “Been lookin’ for ya.”

Exhaling another thick cloud of smoke, Jax sent his sergeant at arms a sidelong glance and a single nod of acknowledgement. He’d been so wrapped up in watching you across the street that he hadn’t even heard his approach. Reluctantly, Jax tore his attention away from your tense form through the shop windows across the street and focused on him. Though Chibs’ eyes darted across the street at what Jax had been watching, his gaze lingering on you over there for a moment longer than necessary. There was a curious look in his eyes that Jax didn’t quite like. 

“Why, what’s goin’ on?” he asked Chibs.

At the question, Chibs focused back on Jax, his expression grim. “Don’t have anymore news on those home invasions, but Roosevelt’s tryin’ to get up our arse about it,” he informed Jax. “Came ‘round here earlier today making little threats about coming down hard on the Sons if any blood gets spilled in Charming.”

Jax’s jaw tensed at the information, his irritation flaring as his fingers tightened around his cigarette. He’d barely been out of Stockton running this club as its president and he already had a fucking mess on his hands inside of Charming. His own fucking people being targeted in his town. 

“It’s gotta be Pope,” Jax growled, his eyes dropping down to the almost finished cigarette in his fingers. “Retaliation for his daughter. Only goddamn thing that makes sense.”

“Aye, well, we gotta do somethin’ about this before it gets outta hand, Jackie boy,” Chibs said with a sigh. 

Nostrils flaring as he exhaled sharply, Jax nodded in response. His eyes darted across the street once more, drawing the cigarette to his lips for a final drag. You were wiping down the different machines in your shop now, which meant you’d be another ten minutes before you were finished for the night. Something he only knew from how often he’d stood outside smoking and watching you close your shop.

“Yeah,” he muttered, still focused on you. “I’ll set up a meeting with Pope. Try to feel him out. Doubt he’ll come right out and tell me anything useful, though.”

A silence settled between the pair, Jax’s eyes still fixed on you as he tossed the cigarette to the pavement. Absently he stepped on it, grinding it out beneath his shoe a little more roughly than necessary as he watched you continue to close up your shop. You were still fucking frowning over there.

“What’s goin’ on with that?” Chibs asked cautiously, his head gesturing across the street to you. “Don’t know how many times I’ve seen ya out here watching that girl while you’re having a smoke. Seen ya with coffee cups from her shop a few times now.”

Jax’s irritation only flared further at the probing questions. His personal life wasn’t up for questions or discussion–never had been, never would be. Turning to focus back on Chibs, a muscle feathered in Jax’s cheek as he fought the urge to just tell him to fuck off.

“There’s nothing going on with that,” he stated sharply. “You and my mother both need to stop fucking making it a thing. It’s not.”

A brow jumped up onto Chibs’ forehead at the harsh response, his mouth twitching as it fought to curl into a smile. “Ya seem pretty defensive, brother,” he pointed out. “For somethin’ that’s nothin’.”

Jax’s eyes narrowed into a sharp glare at Chibs, his anger only increasing at the way he was trying to keep poking and prodding at the subject. What the hell was it with everyone? All Jax had done was take an interest in someone that had such a curious and strange outlook on life–someone he’d only chatted with a handful of times because he found you interesting–and now everyone found it necessary to suddenly question what he was doing or to threaten him to keep his distance from you? Why the fuck couldn’t he just have this one thing to himself without it being anyone else’s goddamn business?

“Dont’ fucking look at me like that, asshole,” he growled. “There’s not a damn thing going on there. She’s nice to Abel and Gemma. Makes good coffee. Her shop is across the fucking street and she just happens to be more enjoyable to look at when I’m having a smoke than the rest of you fuckers. Not a goddamn thing more to it.”

“If I recall correctly, I remember a jealous Ima bitchin’ about ya giving some girl a ride home last night,” Chibs continued, that ghost of a grin still on his lips. “Wouldn’t happen to be the nothin’ over there, would it?”

“Piss off,” Jax snapped. “So what if I gave her a ride? She walks home alone at night. It ain’t safe right now for that shit in Charming, especially with her right across the goddamn street from us. Whoever the fuck is behind those home invasions might target her with how often Gem takes Abel there.”

Chibs’ hands flew up in mock surrender at the sharp edge to Jax’s words and his obvious defensiveness. While it looked like he had more to say on the matter, he kept his mouth shut on the topic.

“Alright,” he said, taking a step back towards the clubhouse. “I’ll be inside if ya need something.”

Staring at Chibs’ retreating back, Jax’s hands clenched tightly into fists at his side. Was it that goddamn impossible to believe that he’d just made a friend outside of the club? Even if he found himself occasionally flirting with you, it didn’t mean a damn thing. He wasn’t about to make a move on you, wasn’t going to risk tainting your light with his darkness. He just enjoyed feeling it cast away the shadows plaguing his mind for a little while. What was so wrong with that?

The evening heat slammed into you the second you stepped outside of Honest Coffee and onto the sidewalk, pausing to dig through your purse for the key to lock up your shop. You were ready to be done with this nightmare of a day which had only gotten worse despite how hard you’d tried to remain positive.

And the day only continued to get worse when you’d twisted your key into the lock of the shop door before it had gotten stuck in it. A frustrated noise slipped out between your lips like a hiss as you yanked on the stupid key, trying to retrieve it from the lock. Because of course this would happen when you were trying to just close up and get home for the night. As you jiggled the key and tried to loosen it, the palm of your hand frustratedly hit the glass door as the key remained in the lock.

“Key stuck, sunshine?”

A surprised gasp came from you at the sound of Jax, your head whipping over your shoulder. You saw the surly expression shift on his face instantly, his lips struggling to keep his amusement at your reaction hidden. That was the second time today he’d startled you. 

Raising a hand and gesturing at the key you were desperately yanking on, Jax raised a questioning brow at you. “You want some help with that?” he asked, fighting back a smirk.

With a frustrated huff, you stepped aside from the door and waved a hand at him. “By all means, be my guest,” you replied, watching as he stepped over to the door, “but that thing is really stuck in–”

In one swift movement, Jax had pulled the key right from the door with barely any effort. Your words died on your lips as you stared at it in his hand. A flat, unamused look crossed over your face as second later you reached a hand out, taking your key from between his fingers and placing it back into your purse.

“Thanks,” you grumbled.

“Still having a bad, darlin’?” he asked. 

“Clearly,” you muttered.

When you looked back at Jax, you saw a faint crease form between his brows as his eyes scanned your face. An unreadable expression was present, but you could tell he was thinking hard about something as he stood there in front of you. That’s when you remembered this morning when he’d stopped into your shop–which felt like a lifetime ago after all the other horrible things that had happened today–and how he’d said he was planning on giving you a ride home again tonight. You'd forgotten about that.

“You don’t need to give me a ride,” you told him. “I’m perfectly capable of walking.”

“Already said this morning that the ride wasn’t up for debate,” Jax replied, still quietly eyeing you. “But I think there’s something else we should do first.”

Face scrunching up at his words, you had no idea what that meant. Something else you both needed to do first? What else could he possibly mean?

Jax only chuckled at your confusion, grinning as he took a step backwards in the direction of the clubhouse. “It’s also not up for debate,” he informed you. “C’mon, sunshine.”

With a cautious curiosity, you followed after Jax as he crossed the street. You wondered what he could possibly have in mind with each step you took, starting to wonder if he was planning to drag you to a Sons’ party or something. Though once you neared the clubhouse, you noticed how much quieter the building was tonight than last night, meaning there clearly wasn’t a party going on this evening. But when Jax continued on around the side of the building and away from the front door, that only confused you further. Wordlessly, you followed after him, not understanding what he was doing until you saw him come to a stop in front of a ladder that led up to the roof of the clubhouse. 

Jax reached a hand out, resting it against the metal ladder as he turned around to face you, a wide grin stretching across his mouth. Did he want you to climb that? Immediately you shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest. There was no way in hell you were about to climb up to the roof.

“No, absolutely not,” you stated with a shake of your head. “That’s not happening.”

Jax's grin twisted into a smirk, the corner of his lips curling up at your immediate refusal. “Oh come on. It’s perfectly safe,” he assured you. “I promise.”

“Are you serious?” you shot back, eyes darting up the length of the ladder. “With the luck I’ve been having today? I’m likely to fall off of that and break something.”

“I’ve climbed up this thing more times than I can count,” Jax replied, his smirk gradually softening into something more reassuring. “You won’t fall off of it, sunshine. I’ll even climb up after you. Catch you if you start to fall.”

“Yeah, I don’t think that’s how that works,” you muttered, still eyeing the ladder nervously. 

Pushing off of it, Jax crossed the distance over towards you in the dim lighting behind the clubhouse. At the movement, your attention focused back on him, studying the uncharacteristic gentleness in his eyes. The sight of it had your heart beating a little unsteadily in a way that you weren’t ready to question.

“I wouldn’t ask you to do something that would hurt you, alright?” he told you. “It’s just…you’ve been having a bad day and that frown doesn’t look right on your face. Thought this might cheer you up.” His tone quieted as he turned his head, focusing on the roof of the clubhouse with a faraway look in his eyes. “It’s where I always used to go to clear my head. To think. Haven't been up there in a bit, though…”

The raw truth in his words and the vulnerability on his face gave you pause. This was something important to him and he was sharing it with you. It meant something. And not only that, he was attempting to try to turn your bad day around by doing something nice for you–which he absolutely didn’t need to do. A warmth unrelated to the evening air filled you at the thought.

Chewing your lip nervously as you focused back on the ladder, you knew you were going to push your fear aside and climb it. If he was going to let you in just a little bit more behind that hardened exterior of his, you weren’t going to push that opportunity away. 

Stepping over to the bottom of the ladder, you placed your hands on the cool metal and began determinedly making your way to the top one rung at a time. Though after the first handful of steps, you could feel your hands shaking slightly against the metal as you climbed higher. But you refused to stop, your stubbornness propelling you upwards until you finally reached the roof. 

Jax had been close behind you, pulling himself up onto the roof shortly after you. Nervously, you stepped over to the edge and looked over the side of it, scanning the parking lot below. You pulled a face at how high off the ground you were before Jax’s rumbling chuckle at your expense met your ears.

“We aren't that high,” he pointed out. “Besides, you're focusing on the wrong thing.”

Looking back over at him, you saw Jax point a finger upwards at the sky which had significantly darkened by now since the sun had fully set. You looked up, taking in the expanse of black and the handful of stars you could see through the light pollution. A crescent moon hung low in the sky, your eyes drawn to it next before your gaze gradually lowered, taking in the perfect view of downtown Charming at night. You could see quite a bit of it from up here.

“So this is where you come to think?” you asked, scanning the different buildings on the nearby streets below.

“Been awhile since I have,” he admitted again. “But yeah. It's quiet and away from everyone harassing me.”

Tearing your gaze away from the sight of Charming, you watched as Jax made his way over to a flat structure on the roof. He settled down onto it with a comfortable familiarity, as if he'd sat there hundreds of times before. You smiled warmly at the sight of him relaxed in his own world–one he'd just opened up a little to you.

“It offers a different perspective up here, that's for sure,” you mused, looking back up at the sky.

A heavy silence fell between the two of you for a few minutes, which seemed a bit out of place considering how loud it usually was around the clubhouse and the auto shop. Jax had gotten even more comfortable where he was sitting, his eyes watching you explore your surroundings as you carefully walked around the roof, taking in the different views from various vantage points. It wasn't until Jax cleared his throat that you realized how long he'd been quietly staring at you. 

“So why'd you name it Honest Coffee?” he asked, reaching into his kutte and pulling out a pack of cigarettes. “Got a lot of dishonest coffee shops out there?”

You couldn't fight the surprised laugh that bubbled up out of you at the unexpected joke, turning around on the roof towards him. Jax was slipping an unlit cigarette between his lips as he grinned back at you, sliding the pack back inside of his kutte before reaching for a lighter. Your heart gave an uneven stutter at the sight of him looking like he did in the faint light coming up from the building below–carefree, content, and a little bit like a smartass.

“No,” you answered, that strange fluttering from earlier today returning at the sight of him sitting there. “I named it that because I liked the idea of a place that was genuine, you know? Real. Somewhere that felt welcoming for everyone. Because I feel like every community needs spaces like that.”

Jax leaned back on the structure, kicking his feet out in front of himself as he lit his cigarette. Afterwards, he took a deep inhale while his eyes lingered on you as he considered your response. After a moment, his other hand moved to the space beside him on the structure he was using as a seat. You watched him pat the space with his palm in invitation as he lowered his cigarette, expelling a long trail of smoke that drifted up into the dark sky. 

“Sit down, sunshine,” he said. “Don't gotta just stand there.”

Hesitating for a few seconds, you focused on the space beside him. There was plenty of room for you to sit there, that wasn't what had given you pause. It was the fact that you'd be practically sitting right against his side with barely any space between you both if you did. But when he tilted his head questioningly back at you as he flicked some of the ash off of his cigarette, you realized you'd sound ridiculous having to explain why you were still standing there if he asked.  

Crossing the distance over to where he sat, you lowered down to occupy the space next to him. Your thigh just brushed against the side of his as his body heat warmed the side of you. Turning to look over at him, you realized his face was barely more than a foot away from yours as he pulled his cigarette back up to his lips for another drag. Gaze dropping down, you watched the way they wrapped around the end of it, almost transfixed by his mouth as he did. When he withdrew the cigarette from his lips a few seconds later, smoke curled its way out from between them as he focused on the view of downtown Charming in front of him.

“I think you accomplished that,” Jax murmured, staring into the distance.

His voice drew you back to the present, your attention falling away from his mouth and instead focusing on his eyes. Even in the dim lighting on the roof of the clubhouse they looked full of turmoil, as if he was battling his own mind as he sat beside you. The pain you'd noticed lingering behind them in previous interactions had returned as he sat staring into the distance.

“Accomplished what?” you asked.

There was a long pause before he answered you, his eyes glancing down at the cigarette pinched between his fingers. His attention remained there when he spoke, his voice low enough that you had to pay close attention to actually catch what he said.

“Making your shop feel welcoming to everyone,” he answered.

He turned towards you, that vulnerability from a bit ago having returned. You figured it was a rare sight when it came to him. But there it was as he fixed you with his endlessly expressive eyes–a rawness you knew you needed to be careful with, to properly appreciate the fact that he was showing it to you.

“Gotta say, sunshine,” he continued just as quietly, his cigarette still pinched between his fingers as he held your gaze, “there aren't too many places I've ever gone in my life where someone just saw me. Not the kutte, not some criminal, not someone to be feared, but just me.” A bitter scoff fell out of him before he added on, “Actually, there's never been anywhere like that for me.”

He shook his head, looking back out over the view of downtown Charming as he brought his cigarette to his lips again. Swallowing hard, you felt his confession twist your heart inside of your chest. He'd never felt like he'd ever been seen for just himself before? No one had ever seen Jax Teller as just the man he was and not the Son? The thought saddened you as you watched him sitting there smoking, that melancholy still lingering in his eyes. It took a great amount of willpower for you to resist the urge to reach out and place a comforting hand on his shoulder, not wanting to push his boundaries too far. 

“You're always welcome at Honest Coffee,” you reminded him. “The only thing I see when you come into my shop is a guy that just wants a coffee.”

A soft, amused huff fell out of him as he shot you a sideways glance. It was obvious he was about to abruptly attempt to cover up that vulnerability he'd just laid bare in front of you.

“Just a guy, huh?” he mused. “That's what you see?”

The smallest, teasing grin tugged at your lips. “Unless you're a very well disguised turtle.”

Something almost like a snort fell out of Jax before a surprised bark of laughter followed it. His shoulder bumped against yours playfully before he shook his head at you. Your own smile grew on your face, warm and genuine, at the sight of his. You liked when his smile reached his eyes, liked the way it brightened that darkness in them. 

“You caught me, darlin’,” he joked back. “I'm just a turtle with a Harley.”

“That why you wear the kutte?” you asked him, gesturing a hand at the leather vest. “Covers your shell?”

Another bark of laughter came from Jax, his shoulders shaking and gently bumping against yours as the pleasant sound rumbled through the night. The cigarette dangled between his lips as he focused back on you, a wide grin on his face as the corners of his eyes creased in amusement.

“Are you guys all just secretly mutant ninja turtles?” you continued, laughing lightly yourself. “Is that why I always see you guys eating so much pizza in the clubhouse?”

“Shut the fuck up,” he said around the cigarette in his mouth, a chuckle accompanying the words.

“Now you all seem even less threatening if you're just turtles,” you mused, enjoying the way he was silently laughing beside you as he smoked. “I'm amazed all of you can even operate a bike let alone run an auto shop.”

“Goddammit, sunshine,” he muttered with a shake of his head, the smile still on his face. “You're something else, that's for damn sure.”

“I'm a delightful presence,” you replied, lightly nudging his shoulder with yours as your tone grew more serious. “But thank you. This actually did make my bad day better.”

Jax withdrew the cigarette from between his lips, blowing the smoke away from you. “Yeah?” he asked. “Well same here, sunshine.”

His eyes held yours for a long moment, the last of his cigarette forgotten as a tension suddenly fell between you both. It felt like something had shifted unexpectedly in the air as your eyes held his, a trail of smoke drifting up to the night sky from the cigarette in his hand. Mouth going dry, you realized just how close he was actually sitting next to you, how you could feel the heat from his body warming the side of yours and the pass of his warm breath over your neck. You could smell the scent of him beyond just the leather and cigarettes–there was something sharp and woodsy, too. He smelled good. Safe and comforting. 

But the longer you sat there in the tense silence that hung heavy in the air, not too sure if one of you had inched closer to the other, you noticed that faint, worried crease between his blonde brows forming. Something troubled and conflicted seemed to be swimming in his eyes as they continued to hold yours captive, and that's what had you slowly breaking out of the moment.

“Are you…okay?” 

Your question came out just barely above a whisper, your eyes still focused on his. A muscle jumped in Jax's cheek when you spoke before he broke eye contact, leaning away from you as he drew the cigarette back up to his lips for another drag.

“You just always seem like there's the weight of the world on your shoulders whenever I see you,” you continued just as softly. “Like there's something on your mind.” 

You paused for a moment, watching him roughly blow the smoke out from between his lips without a word, his fingers fidgeting with the cigarette between them. He seemed almost agitated now and you had a feeling it was your switch in conversation, the way you'd focused on him. Clearly, he was done being vulnerable with you tonight.

“I'm not saying you need to tell me anything, I just…” you trailed off for a moment, hoping you weren't ruining things between you both by opening your mouth. “I was just wondering if you were okay.”

“I'm fine, sunshine. Should probably get you back home, though,” he said as he abruptly stood up, ending the conversation before it even began. “Don't wanna keep you out all night. I know you gotta get back.”

Clearing your throat, you tried to shake off the disappointment at him avoiding answering you. But what else would you have expected? For him to suddenly reveal absolutely everything inside of himself to you? Standing up beside him, you watched as Jax dropped his cigarette and crushed it out beneath his shoe along the roof.

“Yeah, I need to make dinner. Get some stuff done at home,” you said half-heartedly, attempting to hide that odd wave of disappointment filling you. “I should get back.”

Jax gestured his head across the rooftop, his expression oddly hard to read now. “Lemme give you that ride.”

Following behind him, he led you back over towards the ladder at the edge of the roof and carefully helped you down onto it. The care and concern in how he gently guided you onto it didn't go unnoticed by you despite his current shift in mood, but as you descended the ladder, you wondered if he'd ever lower his guard with you like that again or if you'd just pushed too hard too fast and ruined your chances.