#let’s hear it for the man who has everything

[gifsbysimplysonia]

Hola otra vez! For anyone not familiar with my annoying rambly feedback, ahead there be

This is the end of the first paragraph of the story and it's just so fcking ... like it works SO well for me, it makes me wanna spike a football

it's hard to find places where he's thought of as a stranger. no familiar faces, no conversation, no fuss. just logan, a bottle of whisky and time.

logan had no reason to keep count. until he saw you.

Well, if there's any indication a man is smitten, I'd say it's when he decides to keep counting after 200 years on Earth cuz of YOU *ded*

the bar was busy, as it normally was. he didn't mind it this way, less attention on him, less chances of someone trying to pick a fight with a specific stranger. not that they'd win, but logan had grown too tired for petty fights these days.

It's super interesting to think about Logan in relation to time and age. We just went from him deciding he's got a reason to keep counting the years to him being so tired that he doesn't want to get into petty fights. And as someone who grew up with Logan on the XMen cartoon lol, I know Logan to BE petty. So whilst we can't always think of Logan in terms of age, cuz looking at his appearance can make us forget, to hear that he's so TIRED that he doesn't even wanna squabble up on occasion? Well, that's impactful. The author makes it hit home in this other way and I really like it.

And here's another example of the author getting across to us where Logan is at when we meet him in life:

you're easy on the eyes, especially to these tired old hues that have grown accustomed to staring at the same old walls.

Straight up now we have the word tired, but also old. And not in relation to himself, but what he's got eyes on. It's such a clever thing the author has done here, and I really am appreciative of it.

logan can't let himself look too much, he isn't allowed nice things, especially not pretty little things such as yourself. he's poison, tainting everything he touches, spoiling it. he's experienced enough heartbreak, enough losses for a lifetime and more.

Sad face. This is very in line with the Logan I think most of us know (and adore). Gotta take all the blame, gotta punish yourself, gotta try to protect others from you by denying yourself connections. Wanna hug him.

he wonders if you know most of the tips you receive by the end of the night are from him. you're diligent, you work hard, and you deserve more than the minimum wage you're probably getting.

Also very on brand for Logan. Sees a need, fills the need, but doesn't want credit for it. He's also seeing someone he believes is worthy (and perhaps not in a way he feels he could ever be?) of more so he tries to be the provider.

it's not even lust on his mind either, he just finds himself captivated by your presence. he wonders about your life, your interests, your dreams. . .

And again, we are seeing how smitten he is because the man who has been painted as weary and bored suddenly has questions and wonderings again. That is, in the context of Logan's long a$$ existence, quite magical. But that magic is immediately followed by

though he'd be lying if he said he'd never pictured bending you over against the bar and fucking you senseless. he is an animal, after all.

and it's like

relying on others was a weakness. besides, what would you be to him but just another person he'd lose someday? it wasn't worth it. you weren't worth it. fuck.

"Relying on others was a weakness" is just hella relatable to me, so I key in on that. And then that ire being followed by showing vulnerability by thinking of her as another person he'd lose; Logan's heart has always been huge and you just know he remembers the faces and details of each person he has had to lose and she has that status already. Logan trying to lie to himself with the "not worth it" talk only to have to curse himself cuz he KNOW he's lying is also peak Logan behavior, and once again on a personal level, hiiiiiiiiiiiiiighly relatable lol. I'm always lying to myself about my own feelings.

you were strangers, this was stupid, it was all fucking stupid. but the mind of a lonely old man is a desperate one, and what logan really craves isn't just eye candy.

"Lonely and desperate" self descriptions and Logan referring to himself as "stupid." I'm sure we all wanna shake this old man, right? LOL because when he let's himself think about the truth:

he craves a touch, that first touch that sparks electricity throughout your every nerve ending, causes goosebumps to ripple along the skins surface. he craves something, anything. he was so fucking hungry. always so fucking hungry. a rumbling hunger that starts at the pit of his stomach and gnaws through him like a rabid animal frantically trying to escape a suffocating metal cage. it's a hunger he can't satisfy, he knows he can't satisfy. but he'd been alone so long.

It's connection, and it's gnawing at him. Loneliness is a helluva thing, and I think a lot of us know this. But this author is shining in the way she is describing it for us, outside of the usual age/years gone by methods. Tired, lonely, and now ravenous. And while we are in the space of a more spiritual hunger, here, it so easily slides right back to physical as well because he's thinking about a woman and wonders

surely one bite couldn't hurt?

Me literally screaming into my pumpkin pillow cuz I'm like NO IT COULDN'T LOGAN, GO GET HERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR cuz I know what's gonna follow is gonna be liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit.

switching bars wasn't particularly appealing to him, but it was better than having to look at you and feel that familiar ache.

The self loathing and denial is top tier Logan. He will inconvenience and punish himself just as long as it's in line with denying himself cuz he just "doesn't deserve it." Siiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

Logan then proceeds to go drain the snake before he beings his newest self inflicted penance, but she comes in to clean the bathrooms thinking they were empty.

Gurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl lol

your eyes lock on one another for just a split second before you quickly busy yourself with the mop again. but that split second was enough. it was enough to notice how you were looking at him.

HOW WAS SHE LOOKING AT YOU, LOGAN?!?! It's funny how if it was almost any other man, I'd snort and be like, sure buddy. But it's Logan so I have ZERO issue believing whatever he saw in her eyes let her know she DOES indeed know him and want ... well, something.

you lean back against the bathroom stall divider, eyes drifting across logan's figure. he was tall, big. this is the first time you're really able to look at him, to study the features of his face. this time he's not hiding behind a glass or a bottle.

How interesting to see the contrast of her view of Logan because while he's always looking at her and sworn that he never caught her looking his way, she's letting us know she has definitely looked his way enough to notice he was a man in hiding. And she actually acted respectfully to respect that and not ogle him, which bummed Logan out lol.

the hunger in his gaze is obvious, but it's dulled, like he's just barely holding back. you think he looks lonely, there's a distinct air about him that practically screams that he needs to be touched.

Oof, she's intuitive! So she SEES what he needs and seems to be quite willing to, ahem, deliver for him but WILL HE LET HER is the big question.

logan pushes himself from the sink and approaches you slowly. was he really doing this? after a month of pining and longing for you, a stranger in a bar, was he really going to give in to his desires? would you let him? the lust was clear in your eyes and he knew he was reflecting it right back tenfold.

you eye the stranger who's been watching you, tipping you. of course you've noticed, you'd have to be pretty stupid or oblivious not to. you've come to expect him at each shift, but his presence intrigued you more than the other regulars. not just because he was more handsome, considerably more handsome. no, it was those sad eyes that seemed to say a million words while his mouth remained firmly shut that had you curious. even now as he stands before you so silent you could hear a pin drop, when you look into his eyes you can feel a sea of words brewing.

I do so love the fact that she's intuitive, curious and sees beyond the big burly handsome cover. He never speaks but look at his eyes and boy, are there a thousand stories waiting to be told. And it's the SAME WAY in the present with her. Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiike, it's about to go off.

oh how you wanted to open him up, to peer inside behind that rough exterior, to take a peek behind the facade. you're sure you're easier to read than he is.

Again, I love that this goes beyond physical with her and that she's genuinely intrigued by him and by what probably most others don't see in Logan.

"i've seen you, you know," you mumble bravely, "looking at me." logan doesn't seem surprised, he brings a hand up to hold your chin, turning your face from side to side to get a proper look at you now that he has you up close. "yeah?" "yeah," you reply shakily, "thought i was imagining it at first. but by the second night it was obvious." he smirks, so he's not as subtle as he thinks.

No because how is he the King of Self Denial but somehow automatically is giving Dom the first time he approaches a woman he means to get to know? Not even embarrassing at being caught at his blatant perusal of her. SIR.

logan grips your wrists, not the suit. he wasn't talking about that now, he had to shut you up.

When I tell you this BROKE me. King of Self Inflicted Penance. I stg. And it's quite the conundrum to be going through an emotional gut punch when it's immediately followed up with

he leans in, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss as his strong hands keep a firm grip on your wrists. you submit, leaning back against the cubicle divider as you let him slip his tongue into your mouth.

and we know it is OFF TO THE RACES!!!

"taste so fuckin' sweet," he mumbles against your lips, kissing you between words, "you do this often? let men kiss you in the bathroom?" you mumble a 'no' under your breath, ". . . just the ones who tip good," you grin.

OH SH!T, WE HAVE HAN AND LEIA BANTER! They are my OTP so I'm always gonna call a combative in love couple that, but this dynamic is MY JAM and I love that what we seem to have here is a clearly dominant male with a bratty female. I am in Heaven lol

logan feels himself chuckling, biting your lower lip. oh, he liked you.

WE DO TOO, LOGAN!

his hand travels upwards, finding purchase around your neck. you gasp in response, moaning. he eagerly swallows your moan with his mouth, drowning out any sound that threatens to escape.

Always a trip when I am personally attacked by a fic lmaoooooooooo

he kisses you like a man starved, like he'd devour you if you let him. and you would, you think, if it felt this good.

"shhh, shhh," he whispers against your lips, "feel good? i know it feels good, but you gotta stay nice and quiet."

I want to diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiie at the giving of instructions and reminder that, HEY WE ARE IN PUBLIC but we are absolutely NOT stopping.

"you wanted this just as much as i did, huh?" he growls into your ear, "need it, need me to fuck you."

Excellent dirty taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaalk

he nods against the side of your cheek, his stubble scratching against your soft skin, "there we go, attagirl. . ."

And he praises? *dies again*

"yeah i am," logan smirks, he knows he's big, and he knows exactly how to use it. you just have time to gasp before you feel one of his hands connect harshly with your skin, the sound ringing out in the small bathroom of the bar.

"you've been thinkin' about this since you started your shift," logan says confidently, his words confirmed by how you drip around him, "thought about me fillin' you up, nice and full?"

I once again must mention top tier dirty talk!

and fuck does it make him harder to know that you've thought about this just as much as he has.

Once again, Logan's vulnerability is illustrated here because it's very human and natural to WANT TO BE WANTED so that it's exciting for him makes all the sense.

he knows if he lets you look at him, look up at him for too long, he'll lose it. he can't have your soft eyes on him while he fucks you, he doesn't deserve it.

*shakes him* He's still so Logan. Trying to convince himself again he is just not worthy. But I also do this to myself which is no doubt why I key on it, mention it, react to it. That just means the author is striking a chord with me and isn't that what we want? To feel resonance and know we are not alone in our experiences?

because he can't describe the shame that swirls in his stomach, that this is how he relieves himself, a quick fuck in a bar. this dirty older man who's seen so much sin, perpetuated sin with his own hands, who longed for the young pretty little thing in the bar. logan doesn't deserve nice things, this he knows.

It's a jarring feeling to be really into some hot smut and then have there be an intermission of this caliber. Cuz again, we are seeing into Logan's heart and his internal self who just screams and screams about not being worthy. And it's so painful and wretched for us as an audience cuz we KNOW it's not true and we just wish HE WOULD SEE IT.

you can't help but smirk, mouth stuck open as you moan softly, he likes it when you talk to him during, huh?

Even in her blissful state, she is noticing what he likes and trying to provide that for him and I love her for considering him and being thoughtful with him. HE doesn't think he deserves it, but we readers know that he absolutely does so it's sweetness in this midst of lust and shows us that she cares beyond whatever is happening now in this bathroom.

Y'all NEED to go read this cuz the smut is rough but because of the well established connection the author built between these two, it's very intimate despite the circumstances which don't necessarily lend themselves to anything other than a "quickie." Because of what's going on between these two and how well laid out that is for us, we know that the reason this is so rough and intimate is BECAUSE it's not meant for just here and now. But will Logan allow anything more?

standing on trembling legs, you lean up, giving him a surprisingly soft kiss. your hands take over his, helping him back into his jeans, zipping them up, clasping the buttons together and buckling his belt. all the while your lips are on his, slowly, passionately intertwining together.

And again, I love her for her thoughtfulness. She's being soft and tender with him. I'm not sure if it's a conscious effort to keep him from screwing things up (by trying to now brush her off) or if it's just naturally who she is and giving into her instinct to want to be gentle with him and keep him close. Either way, I love love love this moment.

". . . does that count as your tip for the night?" you joke with a smirk, hoping to see a flash of his smile again, hoping to alleviate some of that shame he's carrying.

Adore her for infusing humor into the situation and wanting to bring light back into his eyes. Whoever is going to be with Logan needs to have a sense of humor and give him as good as he gives.

the shame seems to settle, begins to dissipate. it feels less like satisfying an urge and more like. . . exploring something new. his eyes drift back to you.

Is Logan ACTUALLY going to give this thing a chance, and more importantly, HIMSELF a chance?!?!

I hate to quote too much in a story, especially an ending becuase I WANT PEOPLE TO GO READ FOR THEMSELVES but I need @silverskyeline to know that the last 3 paragraphs of this piece are SO FCKING GOOD.

The breakthrough and revelation he has, the tentative willingness to let himself release a burden and not self flagellate? OMGGGGGGGGGGG. Literally all the applause and bravo on this amazing piece. I really really fcking enjoyed it and am so grateful to you for creating and sharing.

It's really a wonderful character analysis or look at who Logan is, the person he think he has to be, with some hot smut that actually isn't a pause in the narrative but continues the throughline of exploring who he is and what he thinks he deserves and how he's giving himself permission to be a man again. I just ... I love this so so much. Thank you again.

'hunger' 18+

worst!wolverine x f!reader (3.9k words) summary: logan can't tear his mind away from the new barmaid at his usual haunt. he tries to resist you, he really does. but when you're both alone in the bathroom, he finds he's not the only one plagued with filthy thoughts. tags: for the 'longing' prompt for logan promptober, set in the bar from the movie, kind of angsty, filthy, pent up logan, alcohol consumption, doggy style, creampie, biting, light choking, pinning wrists, hair pulling, spanking, rough sex, implied age gap, sweet ending.

his usual haunts offer comfort, safe nests tucked away down isolated roads, usually requiring quite the drive to find - it's hard to find places where he's thought of as a stranger. no familiar faces, no conversation, no fuss. just logan, a bottle of whisky and time.

time spent staring into the grain of the old wood on the bar wondering how the fuck he ended up here. he'd stopped keeping count a long time ago, how long he'd been around, been alive. things get kind of hazy after two hundred years. logan had no reason to keep count.

until he saw you.

the bar was busy, as it normally was. he didn't mind it this way, less attention on him, less chances of someone trying to pick a fight with a specific stranger. not that they'd win, but logan had grown too tired for petty fights these days.

he's sat at the bar when the bartender clocks off, switching with someone new, someone he'd never seen before. you walk in and his eyes immediately scan your face, your build, your outfit. it's a habit of his, one he hoped he'd grow out of - but logan has learned that he'll never stop assessing for new threats. it's just in his dna.

but what he finds isn't a threat.

you're easy on the eyes, especially to these tired old hues that have grown accustomed to staring at the same old walls. he drags his eyes back down to his glass like he's forcing himself to look down the barrel of a gun rather than looking at you, before settling on you once more.

logan can't let himself look too much, he isn't allowed nice things, especially not pretty little things such as yourself. he's poison, tainting everything he touches, spoiling it. he's experienced enough heartbreak, enough losses for a lifetime and more.

. . . but what harm can looking do?

a few weeks pass, logan notices you're in every few nights from now on, must have been put on the regular rota. he wonders if you know most of the tips you receive by the end of the night are from him. you're diligent, you work hard, and you deserve more than the minimum wage you're probably getting.

you've never noticed him, or at least, he's never caught you looking in his direction. but he finds himself craving it, willing your eyes to meet his even for a second. the extent of your interactions have been sliding a glass or a bottle in his direction before continuing with your other duties.

it's not even lust on his mind either, he just finds himself captivated by your presence. he wonders about your life, your interests, your dreams. . . though he'd be lying if he said he'd never pictured bending you over against the bar and fucking you senseless.

he is an animal, after all.

he wonders if he should switch bars just to distance himself. he couldn't let himself become comfortable with the idea of you. relying on others was a weakness. besides, what would you be to him but just another person he'd lose someday? it wasn't worth it. you weren't worth it.

fuck.

logan curses himself under his breath for even having this internal debate. you were strangers, this was stupid, it was all fucking stupid. but the mind of a lonely old man is a desperate one, and what logan really craves isn't just eye candy. he craves a touch, that first touch that sparks electricity throughout your every nerve ending, causes goosebumps to ripple along the skins surface. he craves something, anything.

he was so fucking hungry. always so fucking hungry. a rumbling hunger that starts at the pit of his stomach and gnaws through him like a rabid animal frantically trying to escape a suffocating metal cage. it's a hunger he can't satisfy, he knows he can't satisfy. but he'd been alone so long.

surely one bite couldn't hurt?

no, he finds himself shaking his head as he stands from the bar. he'd take a leak, and leave early. it'd only been a month since he first saw you, he could get over this. switching bars wasn't particularly appealing to him, but it was better than having to look at you and feel that familiar ache.

the bathroom door swings open and he walks inside, situating himself at one of the urinals. a few moments later, the door swings open again, logan doesn't bother to look over.

"oh, thought these were empty, sorry."

his head turns quickly. it's you, mop in hand. there's an uncomfortable silence that follows.

speak, fucking speak. "it's fine."

you pause, then nod a little and begin mopping the floor.

his eyes are back on the urinal, swallowing hard. was this really going to be your first conversation? with his eyes glaring into old porcelain, dick in his hand? he tries not to picture you stealing glances at him, but he can't help it. is that what he wants?

maybe.

finishing up, he quickly makes his way over to the sinks, pushing his hands under the cool water and rubbing with soap. his eyes flit up to the mirror. and he catches you.

your eyes lock on one another for just a split second before you quickly busy yourself with the mop again.

but that split second was enough. it was enough to notice how you were looking at him.

"all done," you say with a sigh after a few moments, standing straight and gripping the mop but making no effort to leave just yet.

logan eyes you in the mirror, watches how your eyes dance across the room before inevitably landing on him again. he turns to face you, noting the distance between you both in the room.

you lean back against the bathroom stall divider, eyes drifting across logan's figure. he was tall, big. this is the first time you're really able to look at him, to study the features of his face. this time he's not hiding behind a glass or a bottle.

the hunger in his gaze is obvious, but it's dulled, like he's just barely holding back. you think he looks lonely, there's a distinct air about him that practically screams that he needs to be touched.

you rest your mop against the wall, "you're in here often." you state, it's not a question.

"guess i'm a regular," he replies curtly.

swallowing hard, you continue, "i noticed. i always have to restock the whisky when you come by."

logan pushes himself from the sink and approaches you slowly. was he really doing this? after a month of pining and longing for you, a stranger in a bar, was he really going to give in to his desires? would you let him? the lust was clear in your eyes and he knew he was reflecting it right back tenfold.

"i like a drink." he says with a subtle shrug, just a step away now, eyes never leaving yours.

a small smile tugs at your lips, "i know."

you're not sure what you're really doing. you're supposed to be on shift, designated five minutes to clean the bathrooms. five minutes you'd much rather spend doing someone something else.

you eye the stranger who's been watching you, tipping you. of course you've noticed, you'd have to be pretty stupid or oblivious not to. you've come to expect him at each shift, but his presence intrigued you more than the other regulars. not just because he was more handsome, considerably more handsome.

no, it was those sad eyes that seemed to say a million words while his mouth remained firmly shut that had you curious. even now as he stands before you so silent you could hear a pin drop, when you look into his eyes you can feel a sea of words brewing.

oh how you wanted to open him up, to peer inside behind that rough exterior, to take a peek behind the facade. you're sure you're easier to read than he is.

you're not sure when or how it happened, but he's right in front of you now, his body almost touching yours. you look up at him with a feigned innocent look.

"i've seen you, you know," you mumble bravely, "looking at me."

logan doesn't seem surprised, he brings a hand up to hold your chin, turning your face from side to side to get a proper look at you now that he has you up close. "yeah?"

"yeah," you reply shakily, "thought i was imagining it at first. but by the second night it was obvious."

he smirks, so he's not as subtle as he thinks.

your hands snake down, finding his belt buckle and brazingly begin to unbuckle it. he watches you, eyes fixated on the way your fingers move. he swears he's about to start drooling. but then you move, hands winding up to the buttons on his shirt. you splay your hands across the fabric, eyes widening when you feel what's underneath.

"are you. . . is that-"

logan grips your wrists, not the suit. he wasn't talking about that now, he had to shut you up. he leans in, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss as his strong hands keep a firm grip on your wrists. you submit, leaning back against the cubicle divider as you let him slip his tongue into your mouth.

he moans, relishing the taste of you, the taste he's thought about for so fucking long. he brings your hands up, pinning them above your head, shifting his grip so one hand easily pins your wrists, leaving his other hand free.

his free hand plants firmly across your upper chest, the rough pads of his fingers brushing against your collarbone as he explores your mouth with his tongue. you're lost in the sensation, knees going weak as you allow the older man to have his way with you. he needs this, you know it.

"taste so fuckin' sweet," he mumbles against your lips, kissing you between words, "you do this often? let men kiss you in the bathroom?"

you mumble a 'no' under your breath, ". . . just the ones who tip good," you grin.

logan feels himself chuckling, biting your lower lip. oh, he liked you. his hand travels upwards, finding purchase around your neck. you gasp in response, moaning. he eagerly swallows your moan with his mouth, drowning out any sound that threatens to escape.

the kiss grows in intensity, you wonder how long it's been since he's kissed someone. he kisses you like a man starved, like he'd devour you if you let him. and you would, you think, if it felt this good.

his hand on your neck gives a gentle squeeze before running down your torso, palming at your jeans suddenly. you try to whimper in pleasure, but he's silencing you with his lips again.

"shhh, shhh," he whispers against your lips, "feel good? i know it feels good, but you gotta stay nice and quiet." logan can feel the material of your jeans begin to damp and he resists the urge to growl, feeling the way the fabric beneath gives way.

you nod, whispering small affirmatives as he touches you through the material. "just give me more," you whine.

and that spurs him on. in a flash he's pushing you into the stall, stealing a few more kisses where he can before he turns you, pushing your back against his chest. his lips find your neck, pressing hot open-mouthed kisses along the skin he finds there.

you're like putty in his hands, melting back against him as his hand returns to your crotch, rough hands massaging circles against your clothed core. you resist a moan, exhaling shakily instead as you let him use you.

"you wanted this just as much as i did, huh?" he growls into your ear, "need it, need me to fuck you."

you nod quickly as you feel his lips curve into a smirk against your skin.

"yeah, thought so," he nibbles on your earlobe, breathing deeply through his nose as he tries to steady himself, preserve the moment. but how can he when you feel this good beneath his fingers, taste this good on his tongue? "tell me you want it."

"want you to fuck me," you whimper almost immediately, suddenly feeling so very needy. there's a hot ache growing between your legs, one you're desperate for him to fill.

logan laughs, "you can do better than that, honey, know you can."

"please," your voice cracks and you swallow back moans as you squirm beneath his touch, "please fuck me-" it becomes apparent to you at that moment that you don't even know his name. your cheeks flush at the thought of letting this stranger, this older man fuck you in the bar bathroom, but actually, you kind of like it that way.

he nods against the side of your cheek, his stubble scratching against your soft skin, "there we go, attagirl. . ."

with that, he pushes you forward, forcing your hands onto the tank of the toilet to support yourself as he bends you over. his hands find your waist, his hips connecting with yours and slowly grinding his very apparent, large bulge against you.

you let out a whimper, arching your back a little at the sudden contact.

"feel that?" he mumbles, guiding your hips to grind back against him, "feel what you do to me?"

a gasp, "fuck, you're big." you can already tell, the way his bulge is pressing against you, demanding to be felt. you swear you can almost feel it throb through the material.

"yeah i am," logan smirks, he knows he's big, and he knows exactly how to use it.

pulling back slightly, he roughly pulls your jeans down, practically manhandling you, your underwear disappearing with it. he grabs handfuls of your ass before kneading the skin. "look at that, pretty little ass, all for me."

you just have time to gasp before you feel one of his hands connect harshly with your skin, the sound ringing out in the small bathroom of the bar. "f-fuck!" you whine, feeling the sharp sting, knowing there's a bright red imprint in the shape of his large palm on your ass.

there's some jingling, the sound of his belt being moved out of the way, a zipper. you prepare yourself, or at least you try to, but his cock is already slapping against your backside before you have time to steady your hazy mind.

"you gonna take all of me?" he asks, biting his lip as his aching length slaps against your skin, "think you can?"

you nod quickly, looking over your shoulder at him, "mhm!"

"if you say so. . ." he smirks and positions himself, one hand on your hip and one aiming his cock at your tight little hole.

then, all at once he's sinking in. you gasp, he gasps. and fuck, he is big. you feel that sweet stretch, his cock throbbing against your tight walls as it slowly glides inside. you're whining as it slowly fills you, eyes rolling back at the sensation. but he pulls out a little, only to push back in again.

he's working you up just right, mesmerised by the way you take his cock. his eyes are fixed on your tight hole begging him to enter, loving the slick sound as it pushes inside.

"you've been thinkin' about this since you started your shift," logan says confidently, his words confirmed by how you drip around him, "thought about me fillin' you up, nice and full?"

despite the way your cheeks flush bright red, you can't deny it. you've thought about it more than once, fantasised about it in bed, hoping that one day that stranger from the bar would fuck you so good you forget your own name.

you don't need to reply either, because he knows. he knows from the way your wet hole flutters around him, and fuck does it make him harder to know that you've thought about this just as much as he has. he begins to pump into you at a leisurely pace, firm hands on your hips.

"holy fuck, so fuckin' tight," logan grumbles, his deep slow strokes hitting you deep as he bottoms out inside of you.

you try to turn your head, to look up at him, but he grasps the back of your hair, pushing your head down. "nu-uh, keep that head down."

he knows if he lets you look at him, look up at him for too long, he'll lose it. he can't have your soft eyes on him while he fucks you, he doesn't deserve it. he'll take you, just like this, with your head down and your ass up and his cock buried deep inside you.

because he can't describe the shame that swirls in his stomach, that this is how he relieves himself, a quick fuck in a bar. this dirty older man who's seen so much sin, perpetuated sin with his own hands, who longed for the young pretty little thing in the bar. logan doesn't deserve nice things, this he knows.

you feel his thrusts grow rougher, your legs slipping apart as you attempt to hold yourself up, hands planted firmly on the tank of the toilet. you're squeaking softly with each pump, feeling him use you to release his pent-up frustrations. and it felt so fucking good.

with his firm grip on your hair tightening by the second and his other large hand digging into your hip, you begin to bounce back against his motions, sending him even deeper. you both moan in sync with the feeling and you pant softly, cheeks flushing further at the soft 'plap plap plap' of his hips connecting with you, the sound reverberating around the small cubicle.

"that feels so fucking good," you sing, closing your eyes. logan gives a particularly hard thrust, speed picking up. you can't help but smirk, mouth stuck open as you moan softly, he likes it when you talk to him during, huh? "keep fuckin' me, just like that, so good. . ."

he groans, wrapping your hair around his fist as he relentlessly pounds into you. harder and harder, deeper and deeper, you're sure you'll have bruises littered over your body before the day is through.

"harder!" you cry, feeling your legs tremble. you're not gonna last long like this, and by the way his cock is twitching inside of you, he isn't either. "i'm gonna cum, you're gonna make me fuckin' cum!"

another groan slips from his lips, gritting his teeth as he uses you, watching you take his throbbing cock beneath him. "look so pretty like this, bent over, takin' what i fuckin- shit. . . takin' what i give you."

your body grows hotter, sweat forming on your forehead, each impact pushing you forward roughly. you're really not gonna last long.

he begins to hunch over, his chest flush with your back as he huffs against your neck, fucking you like a rabid animal. you're squealing now, the pleasure swirling in your lower stomach, threatening to send you crashing into bliss. at this point, you don't fucking care if someone walks in and finds you like this, sees his feet planted behind yours underneath the stall. in fact, the thought of the risk sends a bolt straight to your gut.

"yes yes yes," you mutter, feeling your orgasm approaching steadily. you swear you can feel him in your guts. you begin to flutter around him, begging for release, knowing it's going to completely destroy you.

logan can't even form words, just grunts slipping from his lips against the side of your neck. and then he feels it, his cock twitches, his mind reeling with the imminent release. he needs this, oh he fucking needs this.

he bites down on your neck, teeth sinking in slightly as he feels himself release deep inside you, his cum spilling out in strong waves. you feel your knees buckle, but a strong hand planted on your tummy helps keep you upright as he fucks his release deeper into you.

the animalistic nature of his thrusts combined with the sensation of his hot cum painting your insides sends you flying over the edge, your orgasm milking him as you clamp around his aching cock. he slams his hand against the stall wall with a loud metallic bang, splaying his fingers across the metal as if to ground himself as his thrusts falter.

his tongue lazily licks the indents of his bite mark against your neck, groans easing their way from the back of his throat. you can hardly catch your breath, legs still shaking from such an intense release. it's hard to think straight with his dick still buried deep inside, feeling it twitch with every aftershock.

you both stay like that for a solid minute, panting, coming down together. he's planting soft kisses along your neck as your breath slowly comes back to you.

he pulls out, stepping back as he stuffs himself into his jeans. you collapse onto the toilet seat, shakily pulling your jeans and underwear back up as you look up at him. it's clear he's looking to leave, a distant look in his eye, maybe a little shame creeping into his features.

standing on trembling legs, you lean up, giving him a surprisingly soft kiss. your hands take over his, helping him back into his jeans, zipping them up, clasping the buttons together and buckling his belt. all the while your lips are on his, slowly, passionately intertwining together.

you pull back, buttoning your own jeans as you continue to look up at him. ". . . does that count as your tip for the night?" you joke with a smirk, hoping to see a flash of his smile again, hoping to alleviate some of that shame he's carrying.

and there it is, a small smirk on his lips as he glances away. "maybe."

the shame seems to settle, begins to dissipate. it feels less like satisfying an urge and more like. . . exploring something new. his eyes drift back to you.

"i'll see you tomorrow?" you ask, tilting your head.

he blinks, suddenly remembering time exists outside this small space seemingly crafted just for the two of you. "yeah," he says, quietly.

"good," you pat his chest before moving past him, leaving the stall. you stand, looking back at him. a beat, "or, you can meet me after my shift ends?"

his eyes widen, taken aback. fuck, had he forgotten how to do this? his eyes flit to the side, before making up his mind. he gives a firm nod.

you smile before leaving him in the bathroom, returning to the bar through the door.

logan stands there for a few moments, running his fingers through his hair. he smooths down his shirt, feeling the suit beneath, a stark reminder always of his past.

but maybe he could begin to take a few steps forward. maybe he deserves more than to suffer forever, forced to keep everyone at arm's length. maybe he could allow himself this small happiness, a date, or whatever this was.

maybe it was time to satisfy his hunger, his loneliness, for good.

[secretmaniacc]

RIDE OR DIE

Parings: The salesman x Fem!oc

Summary: Two fierce recruiters, locked in a heated rivalry over who can secure the most players, strike an unusual deal: whoever wins the next recruit gets to drag the other out to dinner. But when tempers flare and egos clash, their “game” turns into a battle of wits, slaps, and simmering tension. What starts as a simple challenge spirals into something far more unpredictable—because in their world, nothing ever goes as planned.

Warnings: slow burn, language, violence, dom!salesman x baddie oc, teasing, work rivals, kissing, fingering sex, mentions of blood, slapping, maybe something else that I don’t remember.

Wc: 5.4k

A/n: this is my first post and idk how do you use tumblr and I can’t even add warnings cuz idk what should I warn about but I hope y’all can enjoy wtv the hell I wrote, English isn’t my first language so no attacking. Not proofread. This is so bad ik.

The dimly lit café hummed with quiet chatter, the occasional clatter of cups breaking the tension in the air. She adjusted her sunglasses, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as she leaned forward, her fingers tapping softly against the edge of the table. The man seated across from her was sweating through his cheap dress shirt, his eyes darting nervously to the plain white envelope she'd slid toward him just moments ago.

"Inside that envelope," she began, her voice calm but charged with intent, "is the answer to all your problems. Every overdue bill, every phone call you're dodging, every sleepless night. All gone."

He hesitated, staring at the envelope like it might bite him. "I don't know... I mean, this doesn't sound—"

"—legal?" she finished for him, leaning back casually. She tilted her head, the smirk widening. "You'd be right. It's not. But when has that ever stopped you before?"

His mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Bingo, she thought, watching him flounder. That reaction told her everything she needed to know.

"Think about it," she pressed, her voice dropping an octave, almost a whisper. "A few games. A few hours. And then you walk away with enough money to start fresh. No more debt. No more hiding."

He reached for the envelope, his hand trembling. But just as his fingertips brushed the edge of it—

A familiar voice cut through the air. "Amateur move, don't you think?"

Her eyes narrowed behind her sunglasses. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was. Only one person could manage to sound both smug and bored in the same sentence.

"Go away," she said flatly, her tone ice-cold.

But of course, he didn't.

"I mean, honestly," the salesman continued, sliding into the booth beside the man like he owned the place. "Laying it all out like that? Where's the finesse? The mystery? The intrigue?"

She finally turned her head, pushing her sunglasses down just enough to meet his eyes. "Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk?"

"Not when I'm right," he replied, flashing her that infuriatingly cocky smile.

She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, and gave him a sweet, fake smile in return. "Right about what? Annoying the hell out of me? Congratulations, you've mastered the art."

The man between them shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting from her to the salesman and back again. "Uh, I should probably—"

"You're not going anywhere," she said sharply, cutting him off. She reached for the envelope and slid it back toward the man with deliberate slowness, her gaze never leaving the salesman. "You want to talk about finesse? Fine. Let's talk about your pitch. What is it this time? Another mysterious slap game in the subway? Real creative."

He laughed, the sound low and easy, and leaned back in the booth. "What can I say? It works."

"Until it doesn't," she shot back.

"Why don't we let him decide?" he countered, gesturing to the man, who looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

She turned her attention back to her target, her expression softening. "You want to trust him? Go ahead. But let me ask you this: When he disappears into thin air after taking his cut, who's going to be there to clean up the mess? Not him."

The salesman's grin faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to make her smirk.

"Fine," he said, standing abruptly and brushing imaginary lint off his suit jacket. "He's all yours. Let's see if your little sob story gets him to bite."

"Gladly," she replied, leaning back with a victorious gleam in her eyes.

But as he turned to leave, he leaned in close, just enough for his breath to brush against her ear. "Next time, sweetheart, try not to play so dirty. It's almost cute how hard you're trying to beat me."

She didn't flinch, didn't react, even as her grip tightened on the edge of the table. He chuckled softly and walked away, leaving her with the trembling man and the lingering scent of his cologne.

"You should take the deal," she said finally, sliding the envelope across the table one last time. "Before someone else comes along and makes it worse for you."

This time, he took it without hesitation.

As she left the café, she spotted the salesman leaning casually against a lamppost outside, twirling a coin between his fingers.

"You owe me," she called out, not breaking stride.

"For what?"

"For not strangling you in there."

His laugh followed her down the street, a sound that stuck in her head longer than she cared to admit.

Next day

She pushed the door to the briefing room open with a little more force than necessary, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor. He was already there, of course, leaning back in one of the chairs, his feet propped up on the table like he owned the place. The sight made her want to turn around and walk right back out.

The office reeked of stale coffee and carried the faint metallic tang of the envelopes they used to seal people's fates. Spotting their shared desk, she sauntered over and dropped into her chair, leaning back with a casual air. Her red-tipped nails drummed a steady rhythm against the table, a small but deliberate sound to break the silence.

"So," she started, her voice smooth but sharp enough to cut, "how many desperate souls did you con into signing today?"

"You're late," he drawled, not even bothering to glance up from the notepad he was scribbling on, "I've already got a head start."

She ignored him, tossing her clipboard onto the table with a loud thwack. "Four recruits," she announced, while sitting in the chair across from him.

That got his attention. He arched an eyebrow, finally glancing up. "Four? That's cute."

Her lips twitched, but she kept her expression neutral. "Better than your three."

The smug grin he'd been wearing all evening faltered for a split second, and the sight was immensely satisfying. He quickly recovered, sitting up straighter and folding his arms over his chest. "Who says I only got three?"

"I saw you at the station earlier," she shot back. "Your guy ran off before you could even give him the envelope."

"Ah, but that's where you're wrong," he said, leaning forward with a conspiratorial glint in his eye. "He came back. Took the bait. Easy money."

She narrowed her eyes, trying to gauge whether he was bluffing. With him, it was impossible to tell. He could sell a lie as easily as breathing, and she hated how good he was at it.

"Let's see the proof, then," she said, gesturing to his notepad.

He hesitated, just long enough for her to pounce.

"Liar," she said smugly, leaning back in her chair.

"Fine," he admitted, tossing the notepad onto the table. "Three. But mine were quality recruits. You're probably scraping the bottom of the barrel as usual."

She bristled at that, her fingers curling into fists under the table. "Quality? The last guy you brought in was a drunk who passed out halfway through the first game."

"And he still made it further than your little college dropout," he countered.

"That dropout lasted three games," she snapped. "And he made us more money than any of your recruits ever have."

"Us?" He laughed, the sound low and mocking. "Sweetheart, there is no 'us.' This is a solo game, remember? And right now, you're losing."

The word sweetheart grated against her nerves, but she forced herself to stay calm. She wasn't about to let him see how much he was getting under her skin.

"Keep telling yourself that," she said coolly, pulling out a pen and jotting down the day's numbers on her clipboard. "Meanwhile, I'll be over here actually doing my job."

He watched her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he reached across the table and snatched the clipboard out of her hands.

"Hey!" she protested, but he held it just out of her reach, flipping through the pages with a smug grin.

"Let's see... Ah, there it is," he said, tapping the page with the end of her pen. "Four names. Not bad. But you forgot to include the part where they all looked ready to bolt the second you left."

She lunged for the clipboard, but he pulled it back again, chuckling under his breath. "Careful now," he teased. "Wouldn't want to make a scene, would we?"

She glared at him, her jaw tightening. "Give it back."

"Say please."

"Go to hell."

He laughed again, but this time, he relented, sliding the clipboard across the table. She snatched it up, smoothing the crumpled pages with deliberate care.

"You're insufferable, you know that?" she muttered, not bothering to look at him.

"And yet, you keep coming back," he replied, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk.

She bit back the retort that was on the tip of her tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her lose her composure. Instead, she focused on her clipboard, pretending he didn't exist.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. Finally, he broke it.

"You know, you're lucky you have me as competition."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And why's that?"

"Because I keep you on your toes," he said, leaning back in his chair and lacing his fingers behind his head. "Admit it. If it weren't for me, this job would be boring as hell."

"Boring?" she repeated, her tone icy. "You think ruining people's lives is boring?"

"Don't get all self-righteous on me," he said, his voice low and teasing. "We both know you enjoy the thrill just as much as I do."

She opened her mouth to argue, but the words caught in her throat. He wasn't wrong, and they both knew it.

"Speaking of thrill," he continued, his eyes gleaming with mischief, "how about a little wager?"

She narrowed her eyes. "What kind of wager?"

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Next recruit wins."

"Wins what?" she asked warily.

He shrugged, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Bragging rights. And dinner."

She snorted. "You think I'd let you take me to dinner?"

"Who said I'd be taking you?" he shot back, his grin widening. "You'd be taking me."

The audacity of it made her laugh, a sharp, bitter sound that echoed through the sterile room.

"Fine," she said, standing up and smoothing her pencil skirt. "But don't cry when you lose."

"Don't worry about me, sweetheart," he said, rising to his feet and adjusting his tie. "Worry about yourself."

With that, she grabbed her clipboard and swept out of the room, her heels clicking sharply against the tiled floor.

Later That Night

The neon lights of the city cast a harsh glow on the bustling streets, illuminating the restless hum of nightlife. Cars honked in the distance, their headlights cutting through the mist rising from sewer grates. She stood near the entrance of a seedy-looking diner, a faint flicker of its neon sign sputtering above her. The air smelled of fried food and rain-soaked pavement, but she didn't notice. Her sharp eyes scanned the crowd like a predator hunting for its next meal.

She didn't need long to spot potential. It was always the same—the defeated ones, with slumped shoulders and darting eyes. They carried their desperation in their posture, wearing it like a beacon.

Her instincts honed in on a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit leaning against a lamppost. He clutched a briefcase to his chest like it was his last lifeline, his lips moving silently, perhaps rehearsing excuses or trying to summon courage to return home empty-handed.

Perfect.

Before she could move, a faint ripple of awareness prickled at the back of her neck. She didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

"Stalking me now?" she asked, her tone sharp but low enough to remain unnoticed.

"Just observing," came his smooth reply, closer than she expected. "Wouldn't want you accusing me of cheating."

Her lips twitched, almost betraying a smile, but she held it back. "You can't cheat at something you're already losing."

"Keep telling yourself that," he said, and she could feel the smirk in his voice without even glancing back.

She pushed his presence to the back of her mind, focusing instead on her target. With a subtle breath, she strode forward, heels clicking against the pavement, the sound cutting through the ambient noise of the street. She approached the man with the kind of confidence that disarmed even the wariest prey.

"Rough night?" she asked, her voice soft and sympathetic, like the purr of a cat just before it strikes.

The man flinched slightly, his tired eyes meeting hers with a flicker of suspicion. "Something like that," he muttered, his voice hoarse and uncertain.

She tilted her head, her expression warm but unreadable. "Well," she said, slipping an envelope from her jacket pocket and holding it out to him, "what if I told you there's a way to turn your luck around?"

The man hesitated, his eyes flicking between her face and the envelope as if weighing the risks. Behind her, she felt his presence again, closer this time. The faintest shuffle of shoes on asphalt told her he was watching, and she resisted the urge to smirk. This one was as good as hers.

Just as the man reached out to take the envelope, a hand shot over her shoulder and plucked it from her grasp.

"Now, now," he said, stepping into view with that maddeningly smug grin, twirling the envelope between his fingers like a magician showing off a trick. "Let's not rush things."

Her jaw tightened, the air around her practically crackling with tension. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed, her voice low and sharp.

"Just helping out," he replied, unfazed by her glare. With a deliberate slowness, he handed the envelope back to her, throwing in a playful wink that made her blood boil.

The man, caught in the crossfire, glanced between them, his confusion turning into hesitation. "Uh... Is this some kind of scam?"

"Not at all," he said quickly, his tone dripping with practiced reassurance. His smile widened, radiating a charm that seemed almost genuine. "We're just offering a little game. High stakes, high rewards. Interested?"

The man hesitated, his grip on the briefcase tightening. "What kind of game?"

"It's simple," he said, crouching and slamming the folded paper onto the pavement with a sharp snap. "You use your own tile and try to flip mine. If you win, you keep the envelope and some extra cash." He pulled a wad of bills from his pocket, fanning them out enticingly.

"And if I lose?"

He smirked, the gesture sharp and taunting. "Then I get to slap you. Fair trade, don't you think?"

The man recoiled, his skepticism deepening. "What kind of twisted game is this?"

"Just a little fun," the salesman said, his tone light but unyielding. "Besides, no one plays if they think they're going to lose. Are you scared you'll lose?"

She suppressed a groan. He always did this—pushing just hard enough to make them take the bait.

"Or, you take the envelope and walk away, no games required." She suggested.

Her rival's chuckle was low, almost teasing. "Where's the fun in that? And where's the money he so desperately needs, Let him decide."

The man glanced at the envelope, then at the money, and finally at the salesman's smirk. "Fine. I'll play."

Her rival's grin widened. "Excellent.", gesturing toward a nearby alleyway. "Let's make this quick."

She followed them into the dimly lit alley, her annoyance simmering just beneath the surface. He always turned everything into a game, always needed to prove he was one step ahead

He handed the man a folded paper tile, stepping back and gesturing for him to begin. The man crouched, his hand trembling slightly as he slapped his tile against the one on the ground. It barely budged.

"Not bad," the salesman said, picking up the tile. "But let me show you how it's done."

He crouched, his movements fluid and confident. With a sharp snap, his tile slammed down, flipping the man's effortlessly.

Without missing a beat, he straightened and grinned. "Looks like I win this round." He raised his hand, his smirk deepening.

The man flinched, bracing himself, but the salesman stopped short, hovering just close enough to make him sweat. Before delivering a slap that echoed through the alleyway like a gunshot. The man staggered back, holding his cheek with a mix of shock and indignation.

"Oh my—" she whispered, flinching

The salesman, unfazed and borderline proud, grinned down at the man. "another round?."

The man blinked, rubbing his face. "don't you think this was abit painful?"

"Wasn't this our deal?"

"Alright, I'll go again," the man exclaimed, determination etched on his face. He grabbed the colored tile with trembling fingers and slammed it down with force.

The tile on the ground barely budged.

Slap.

Slap.

Slap.

Minutes passed, and the man refused to give up, his voice hoarse as he repeatedly asked for another round. His face, now blotched with red and purpling bruises, told the story of his futile persistence.

Growing impatient with the drawn-out game and the waste of her time, she decided to intervene. Not only had her rival stolen her recruit, but he was also dragging this nonsense far longer than necessary.

"I'll go easy on you this time," she heard him say, his voice laced with mock compassion.

"Or," she interjected sharply, pulling a thick stack of cash from her pocket, "you let me take over and raise the stakes."

Her rival's brows lifted, amusement lighting up his face. "Feeling brave, are we?"

"I just like winning," she retorted, her tone clipped as she handed the cash and envelope to the bruised man. "I don't think you have a reason to continue this."

The man hesitated for only a moment before greed overtook him. He snatched the envelope and money from her outstretched hand, shoving them hastily into his pocket. "Thanks," he muttered, practically sprinting into the crowd and out of sight.

She turned, her eyes narrowing as they locked onto her rival. "Happy now? You scared him off."

He smirked, stepping closer, his movements deliberate and calculated. "Scared him? I think I made his night."

"Your ego is insufferable," she said, arms crossing over her chest.

"Is it?" he countered, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from her face with a maddeningly light touch. "Or is it just that you don't like losing?"

Her pulse quickened at the proximity, but she refused to show any sign of weakness. "I didn't lose. He took my deal."

His smirk deepened, his expression dripping with arrogance. "If that helps you sleep at night."

Before she could reply, he leaned in, his voice dropping to a low, velvety murmur. "The game's not over yet. Want to take his place?"

Her breath caught as his fingers grazed hers, sliding the blue tile into her palm before he pulled away. The motion was deliberate, calculated to unnerve her, but she refused to let him win that easily.

She exhaled sharply, tilting her chin upward as she crouched down. Focusing on the game, she slapped her tile against the ground with all the force she could muster.

The crack echoed through the narrow alley, but the result was disappointing—the tile barely shifted.

"Tough break," he quipped, crouching beside her, his voice a teasing whisper. "Maybe you should let me teach you a thing or two."

Her eyes snapped to his, sharp and unwavering. For a moment, the tension between them was palpable, an electric crackle in the chilly air.

"I don't need your lessons," she bit out, rising to her feet and brushing past him, her jaw tight.

"Alright then," he said with infuriating ease. He crouched effortlessly, his movements smooth as silk. With a single, sharp slap, his tile flipped hers with almost mocking precision.

Standing, he turned toward her, a mock pout curving his lips. "I guess I'll have to slap that pretty face of yours now. May I?" he asked, his voice dripping with a false politeness that made her blood boil.

Her jaw tightened, and she nodded stiffly. Before she could brace herself, his hand connected sharply with her cheek. The slap rang out in the alleyway like a firecracker, her head snapping to the side with the force.

Pain bloomed hot and fast, her body recoiling slightly as she stumbled a step back. She could already feel the beginnings of a bruise forming, the sting radiating from her skin.

Her chest rose and fell as she steadied herself. "Again," she demanded, her voice steely.

This time, she took her turn, and with a fierce slap of her tile, she flipped his. A slow, triumphant grin spread across her face.

"Your turn," she said smoothly, stepping closer.

His smug grin never wavered, even as he leaned in for his next move. The sharp crack of his tile meeting her tile.

he missed.

His tile flipped awkwardly, tumbling off-course and skidding out of bounds. A flash of annoyance crossed his face, but before he could recover, her palm came down with brutal precision. The slap echoed louder this time.

He staggered slightly, his face turning away as her hand left a bright, stinging imprint on his cheekbone. The smirk she wore grew darker, more dangerous. "Losing your touch?" she taunted, her voice mocking.

His jaw tensed, but he said nothing, merely resetting the tiles and motioning for the game to continue.

The game continued, the back-and-forth intensified, each slap a resounding echo through the narrow alleyway. The tension between them crackled like static electricity, thickening with every calculated strike. Her cheek throbbed, the sting from his earlier slap blooming into a vivid bruise, while his jawline reddened with the marks of her retaliation.

Then she missed.

Her tile spun wildly off-course, landing far from where it needed to be. The mistake was glaring, and he seized the moment without hesitation. His hand came down with brutal force, striking her cheek hard enough that the metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

The impact sent her staggering, and this time, a trickle of blood began to run from her nose. She stood frozen for a moment, her fingers brushing against her upper lip. Crimson streaks stained her pale skin, a sharp contrast that only seemed to embolden her defiance.

She tilted her head back slightly, wiping the blood with the back of her hand, smearing it rather than cleaning it. When she looked back at him, her smirk was intact, as sharp as ever.

"What's the matter?" she teased, her voice biting despite the blood. "that's all what you've got?"

For the first time, his confidence faltered. His hand, raised for the next strike, but then froze mid-air. Her face painted with blood hit harder than any slap, and the hesitation in his expression was palpable.

Before she could press further, he stepped forward abruptly, closing the distance between them in one smooth, deliberate motion. His hand dropped from the air to grip her arm firmly, and he pushed her back against the cold brick wall.

The impact stole the air from her lungs, the rough texture of the wall biting into her back. Yet her smirk didn't waver. If anything, it grew sharper, her chin tilting upward as if daring him to try harder. His arms came up, caging her in, palms pressed against the wall on either side of her head. Her breath hitched at his closeness, but she refused to let him see her flinch.

His eyes flicked to her nose, catching the blood still trickling down. Slowly, with deliberate precision, he raised his hand.

She braced herself for another strike, but instead, his thumb brushed against her face. The unexpected gentleness of the motion sent a shiver down her spine, though she masked it well. His thumb wiped away the blood, his touch lingering a second longer than necessary.

He pulled his hand back, glancing at the crimson streak now staining his thumb. Without breaking eye contact, he reached down and wiped it clean on her shirt, the motion casual but calculated.

"Better?" he asked, his tone mocking, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

Her smirk dissolved into a sharp scowl, her voice snapping as she opened her mouth. "You—"

He cut her off without a word, his lips crashing against hers in a fiery, passionate kiss. The world around them faded as his hand ditched the wall completely, roaming over her body, pulling her impossibly closer.

For a moment, she pulled back, eyes wide with shock, breathless and taken aback as if the kiss had surged through her like electricity, igniting every nerve ending. What had just happened? How had everything shifted in the blink of an eye? But before she could fully process the intensity of her feelings, his grip tightened on her hips, anchoring her in place, and the heat radiating from him was undeniable, wrapping around her like a warm blanket.

Her heart raced, a wild flutter in her chest that felt like it could lift her off the ground. There was something magnetic in the way he looked at her, a primal pull she could no longer resist. The air was thick with tension, charged with unspoken promises, and just when she thought she might pull away entirely, the fire in his gaze ignited something deep within her.

With a soft sigh of surrender, she leaned back into him, allowing herself to melt against his body. He cupped her face, his thumb brushing along her cheek, as if memorizing the delicate curve of her features. And then his lips crashed into hers again, hungry and demanding, hungry as though he had been waiting for this moment forever. This time, he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, his tongue slipping past her lips to dance with hers in a slow, teasing rhythm that sent shivers down her spine.

She gasped at the sheer sensation, heat pooling in her core as every ounce of tension from earlier evaporated in an instant. The taste of him was intoxicating—warm, slightly sweet, and utterly captivating. Her hands found their way to the nape of his neck, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, urging him for more.

He pulled her closer still, his hands roaming over the small of her back, mapping every curve as if he were trying to memorize her with his touch, urging her to lift her legs around his waist. Instinctively, she obliged, feeling the strength of his body as he lifted her effortlessly. she wrapped her legs around his waist, instinctively urging him to lift her higher, to take her deeper into his embrace, their bodies fitting together perfectly—two pieces of a puzzle that had finally found their match.

The world around them vanished, a blurred backdrop to this moment where only they existed. He breaks the kiss, his lips trailing kisses down her jaw, throughout until he meets her neck, pausing to nibble at the sensitive skin just below her ear, igniting fire in her veins with each flick of his tongue and gentle bite. She could feel the tension in his body, the way he held her tightly as if he feared she might slip away. His hands gripped her hips, pulling her impossibly closer, their bodies pressed together in a way that felt electric.

When his lips began to trail again over her delicate skin, she hissed, "You can't leave more marks; they'll know."

He paused, pulling back just enough to meet her gaze, a teasing light in his eyes. "How would they know it's me?" he murmured against her skin.

"The cameras," she whispered, referring to the implanted devices on both their jackets that monitored their work. But just as the words left her lips, she felt his mouth curl into a smirk against her neck.

"Then we might as well give them a show and leave as many marks as I want." He falls back into her skin, his lips teasing the flesh between his teeth as he moves to mark her as his own. His lips pause at one of the pulse points on her neck, noticing how her heartbeat quickens and flutters. Was this typical?

He wasn't sure, but he finds himself praying it's a good thing. A chuckle escapes him as her hands grow desperate, pulling at the back of his head, stifling a groan. "Easy, girl."

"Remember when you said you'd never kiss me? That I wasn't worth it?" she teases, a playful smile flickering on her lips.

"Fuck, did I really say that? I don't recall," he replies, feigning shock.

"Just saying that because you can't make me come," she laughs softly against him, and he can't help the way a small smile curves his lips. His fingers slip underneath her skirt, pushing past the hem of her panties. He finds her wetness already coating his fingers. "Can't make you come yet you're so wet for me, hm?"

She bites her lip, allowing her hips to sway against his fingers as pleasure envelops her thoughts. Though he's unsure of what exactly to do, he has overheard other men discussing this, and he hopes it delivers as much pleasure as they say when he dips a finger inside her. She's loose around him, wet, eagerly sucking him in. He quickly adds another finger, finding his rhythm almost immediately and growing bold. He dares to let his thumb tease the edges of her clit.

He notices the way her nails dig into his shoulders, biting her tongue so hard that crimson might seep forth at any moment.

The salesman had kissed many women, been on the brink of sex, yet none had reacted the way she did. They were quick to show their responses, every emotion not hidden behind a curtain of embarrassment; yet now, despite the situation, she found herself shy about making noise. He allows another finger to push inside her, the pink velvet of her insides gripping him. He hears her gasp when his fingers threaten to curl, and he allows himself another smile. His thumb finds her clit again, and that's when her grip becomes lethal, biting her lip no longer serving as a guard for her moans.

"Please," she mumbles, whimpering.

"Please what, sweetheart?"

"I... I need you," she moans, surprising herself with her confessions to a man so dangerously psychotic, one who has killed and toyed with lives—this was something she swore she would never do. Yet here she was, becoming intimate with him, and his touch felt so gentle it was as if his past didn't exist. She can see the vein pulsing in his neck as he finally pulls his fingers out, his eyes fixed on hers as he moves his hand to his mouth, savoring her taste.

Her pupils dilate at the sight, skin warming before she realizes she's replacing his fingers with her tongue, pressing her mouth against his again. His hand falls to her waist.

Now every kiss deepens, an intoxicating blend of urgency and desire. She feels each heartbeat echoing between them. Every brush of their lips sends sparks racing through her veins, igniting every part of her being. It's primal and raw, yet intimately tender, as if they were revealing hidden parts of themselves that only the other could see.

Their lips finally part after what feels like an eternity, both gasping for breath. Foreheads resting against each other, they feel the warmth radiating from their skin, their hearts racing in unison. His eyes flutter open to find her looking up at him, a soft, teasing smile spreading across her face.

"You can put me down now," she breathes, her eyes dancing with mischief.

He reluctantly lowers her to the ground, still holding her gaze, trying to steady himself.

But as soon as her feet touch the ground, she kneels right at his crotch. "That's for not giving me a warning," she laughs, her sound teasing and light.

He winces, a mixture of surprise and discomfort crossing his features as he stumbles back. "Fuck."

She turns with a gleaming smile, beginning to walk away, glancing over her shoulder. "And now... I win. Dinner is on you," she calls back, her laughter lingering in the air.

"We are not done yet!" he calls out one last time, holding himself in pain.

[yoonjae20]

5 Times people outside of the immediate Batfamily find out that B is married and the one time the world meets his husband [Bruce/Danny; Spirit Halloween]

Surprise, surprise! Due to immense positive reaction to the last Spirit Halloween Oneshot, I wrote another Oneshot interconnecting with the previous one. As you can see per the title it's a 5+1 Oneshot! Inspired by PaperPuffin's "Batman's Husband" over on ao3.

Read on ao3. Masterpost.

Previous.

1.

Barbara stretches her arms above her head and winces at the pop her joints make. It’s well into the early hours of the next day and it has been a long night – there had been an Arkham outbreak which needed all hands on the deck. After 5 stressful hours every Rogue was captured and back behind bars – all that remained were the reports they needed to fill out.

“I’ll head off for the night, I want to get at least a little bit of sleep before I have to go open the library,” Barbara announces over the comm.

“Thank you for your help today, Oracle,” Bruce grunts and Barbara is about to put down her headset when she hears paper getting shuffled around before the distinct sound of ceramic being settled down echoes through the comm.

“Thank you dear,” Bruce’s voice is surprisingly soft and Barbara wonders who brought the man tea – Cass perhaps? There’s some incomprehensible murmurs before Bruce hums thoughtfully. “I’ll probably be done in about 20 minutes or so – just need to finish this report. You can go ahead to bed – I’ll follow you in a bit.” Some more unclear mumbles, but distinctly male before Bruce snorts. Then there is the distinct sound of lips meeting each other. “Good Night, I love you.”

Barbara feels like she intruded on a very intimate moment and she quickly logs out of the comm system before she bursts the bubble Bruce seems to have settled in. 

She places her headset next to her keyboard before rolling backwards and only then she lets out the squeal she had been holding in. Since when has B been in a committed relationship? She’s so gonna milk Cass for the details – she needs to know everything. 

2.

“Where’s Bruce?” Steph asks as she meets the rest of the Batfamily in the manor for movie night.

Normally the man never skipped out on those unless on an out of world mission.

“On a date,” Tim says absentmindedly as he scrolls through their selection.

Steph’s face scrunches up.

“As in Brucie?”

Jason snorts.

“Actually no,” he says. “Do you remember Bruce’s ring?”

“Yes?” Steph answers, uncertain where Jason is going with this.

“Yeah, apparently he’s married.”

“Wait, what?” Steph doesn’t believe her ears. Bruce Wayne? As in - brooding, stoic Bruce Wayne, who goes out at night in a Furry Costume to fight crime? “For how long?”

Jason turns to Tim who startles with all the attention on him. 

“26 years,” Tim states and Steph almost chokes on her spit. 

“No way.” Steph shakes her head. “That would mean he’s been married since well before like either of us all knew him!”

“Believe me, we were also quite shocked,” Jason mutters, before adding something under his breath. “Should have known that even his taste in men is quite peculiar.” 

Tim starts their movie, but Steph can’t focus for a single second. What the hell is ‘peculiar’ supposed to mean? 

3.

Lois opens the door to see Bruce standing before it – along with a gift bag where a bottle of champagne is peeking out of it.

“Bruce!” Lois greets him warmly. “I’m glad you were able to make it!”

The man grunts before handing her the gift bag and following her into the house.

“Clark is doing a little errand, but he’ll be here soon enough.”

Bruce just nods and Lois settles down the gift bag on her kitchen counter, pulling the champagne bottle out. Her and Clark are celebrating their 15th wedding anniversary and the latter had wanted to invite Bruce to a simple, quiet dinner in their house in Smallville. 

“Where are the boys?” the man questions when he sees that their table is only set for three people.

“Jon said he had a hang-over with Damian and Kon is on a mission with the Teen Titans.”

Bruce hums and soon Clark arrives back from his errand and they sit down at the dinner table.

In the middle of the meal, Clark opens the Champagne bottle with a loud pop before filling three glasses. Clark raises his own glass as he clears his throat.

“To another 15 years!”

Lois echoes the sentiment while Bruce nods stoically. 

Their glasses clink as they toast to each other and then they finish their meal. Bruce still sips on his first glass of champagne when Clark broaches the topic.

“This would have been even better if you also had someone at your side, Bruce,” the man says. “Doesn’t it get lonely?”

Bruce raises an eyebrow and Clark coughs at the man’s deadpan expression.

“Just imagine if we could have celebrated your 15th anniversary too!” the man tries to save the conversation and Lois snorts at her husband fumbling. 

“What Clark wants to say is that we wish for your happiness and that we sometimes wonder if a partner would achieve that,” Lois helps out and Clark shoots her a relieved smile. “We've never really seen you date anyone – and those headlines about ‘Brucie Wayne’ don’t count, you know?”

“That might be because my 27th wedding anniversary is coming up,” Bruce says as if he is talking about the weather.

Clark sputters while Lois’ eyes widen. 

Bruce raises his right hand and Lois’ eyes focus on the ring on his ring finger – it only now really registering for Lois. It had almost become invisible over the years. Bruce’s lips twitch into a faint smirk.

“Or do you guys think of this as decoration?”

Lois' eyes twinkle as she suddenly pulls out her notepad. 

“Tell me everything.”

4.

A knock on his window makes Jim pause in his reading. The world outside is dark and Jim groans when he sees the time displayed in the corner of his screen. 03:57 am. He had been supposed to be home more than a few hours ago to eat dinner with his daughter.

His joints creak when he stands up from his seat — walking over to the window. He’s not surprised to find a looming shadow lingering behind it — quickly letting Batman in.

The man enters, landing softly and without a sound before he hands him a file. Jim purses through it — quickly recognizing it to be one of his recent murder cases.

“Red Robin made a breakthrough,” Batman explains gruffly. “He wanted you to receive this as quickly as possible.”

Jim nods before settling the file on his desk, before sinking back into his chair.

“I hope you are not planning on going back on patrol.” Jim rubs his tired eyes as he shuts down his computer. “While you may be a Cryptid, even you need your sleep.”

Batman’s soft snort surprises James.

“Actually I wasn’t,” the man claims. “My partner was very adamant about the fact that I would deliver this file and then go straight back to the Cave no matter what happens.”

Jim pauses. ‘My partner.’ The way the Batman had said it so casually surprises Jim. 

He barks out a laugh.

“Good that there’s someone other than Agent A looking out for you then,” he teases as he watches the computer turn black. “You need it.”

Batman huffs out a breath and that’s as good as a laugh for the man than anything. 

“Update me on the case,” the man says in lieu of a goodbye before disappearing out of the room with a swish of his cape.

Jim leans back in his seat, snorting. He never expected anyone to tame the Dark Knight — but apparently even the impossible is possible. 

5: Wayne Enterprises staff 

The Board Meeting dragged on. It was one of those rare times that Bruce actually attended them - normally he left those to Tim, but the boy hadn’t had time this time.

Once again Lucius applauds Bruce’s ability to stay patient even when Tiffany from HR drones on about unnecessary gossip — only smiling politely and nodding once here and then. 

They had gone over the new developments and their future goals already and were well into their allotted one hour time slot. Most of them knew by now that these meetings often overrun and could go well up to two hours if no one (most of the time either Tim or his assistant) cut it short.

Normally Bruce is well versed in being the picture perfect CEO - kind and never once complaining. However this time Lucius notices the man glancing at both the clock opposite to him and his watch that he is wearing multiple times as they near the one hour mark. Lucius can even hear the man audibly grit his teeth and his left eye twitching once Tiffany goes on another tirade.

It’s 10 minutes past their allotted time slot that Bruce seems to have enough — he cuts off Tiffany's rant about one of their engineers with a firm, “Well if that’s everything — I have to get going. My partner and I are celebrating our anniversary.”

Then he promptly leaves the room after dropping that bombshell. Not a millisecond later when the door closes the room erupts in hushed whispers. Lucius doesn’t doubt that by the end the entire building will know about the man’s “mysterious” partner. Lucius quietly schedules a press conference for the next day.

+1

The media gets wind of it by the next day — because of course they do. Each headline is more extreme than the next and Danny has fun teasing Bruce by reading each one out. 

The interview Lois had forced Bruce and Danny into would probably go up either tomorrow or today now that the cat was out of the bag so to speak, but he probably would still need to address the general public in the press conference. Bruce silently thanks Lucius for his foresightedness in scheduling a press conference for today – Bruce had been tired yesterday, the exhaustion loosening his lips. While he didn’t want to hide away Danny now that he was back, he had wished for more time to announce it on his own terms. 

Bruce stands in front of the mirror as he adjusts his tie and Danny stands behind him, chin on his shoulder and arms around his waist. 

“You’ll do fine,” Danny cheers up Bruce. “Just deflect to the fact that an exclusive interview is going up soon and keep it short and simple.”

“You are not one who has to address them,” Bruce grumbles. 

“Do you want me to?” Danny’s voice is uncharacteristically serious. 

Bruce turns to see the man instead of looking at him through the mirror. Danny runs a hand through Bruce’s styled hair before settling it on the man’s cheek. A finger brushes Bruce's lips before Danny pulls him in for a soft kiss.

“You know I would do everything for you, darling.”

Bruce huffs out a fond breath and settles his forehead against Danny’s.

“I know,” he confirms, before linking their hands. “Together?”

“Together,” Danny affirms with a grin. 

Danny changes into a nice dark blue suit – complementary to Bruce’s blue tie and together they step on the stage to address the news. Both of them smile as they wave at the flashes of the cameras.

“Hello Gotham,” Bruce greets. “This is my husband – Danny.”

[novaursa]

A Lion's Folly

- Summary: A story where a lion falls for the eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Jaime Lannister

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Next part: sins

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround

The cold air bites at his face as Jaime Lannister dismounts his horse, his armor catching the pale Northern sunlight. Around him, the bustling retinue of the royal procession begins to settle, attendants scattering to prepare for the King’s arrival. Yet, as his gaze sweeps across the courtyard of Winterfell, Jaime’s mind is far from the cold, far from his duties, and even far from Cersei.

You stand by your family, a quiet and poised figure amidst the wolves. Your dark cloak, trimmed with fur, clings to your shoulders, framing the soft lines of your face. Your hair glints in the light, a rich hue reminiscent of autumn leaves, and Jaime’s breath catches in his throat. There’s something about the way you hold yourself, the proud tilt of your chin, the quiet intensity in your eyes as you watch the King approach your father.

For a man who had once thought himself incapable of wanting anything beyond what he already had, this moment feels like a betrayal of everything he believed about himself.

He shouldn’t look at you, yet he does. He shouldn’t think about you, yet he knows, already, that he will.

The evening feast is lively, as all gatherings in Winterfell tend to be. The great hall is warm with roaring fires, the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine filling the air. Jaime sits among the knights of the Kingsguard, a golden lion among his brothers in white, but his eyes stray across the room to where you sit at the high table with your family.

You laugh at something Robb whispers to you, your smile lighting up your face. It’s not a smile meant for him, but gods, how he wishes it were. He tells himself it’s a passing fancy, that you’re nothing more than a pretty distraction in a dreary northern hall. Yet, when your gaze briefly flicks his way—entirely by chance—his heart jolts. You look away almost instantly, oblivious, but it’s enough to set his blood aflame.

“You’re staring, brother.” Tyrion’s voice interrupts his thoughts, sharp and laced with amusement. The younger Lannister leans back in his chair, his mismatched eyes gleaming with mischief as he follows Jaime’s gaze. “And at the Stark girl, no less. A dangerous game, wouldn’t you say?”

Jaime tears his eyes away from you, scowling at Tyrion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Tyrion replies with mock innocence. “But if you did, you might consider that our dear queen wouldn’t take kindly to your… wandering attentions. Nor, I suspect, would her father. And let’s not even think about Lord Stark. I hear he has a way of parting men’s heads from their shoulders.”

Jaime’s jaw tightens. He knows Tyrion is right, of course. Whatever this strange, sudden longing is, it’s not something he can act on. Yet, as he glances back at you, he finds himself wondering what it would take to make you look at him the way you look at your brother.

Later, as the hall begins to empty and the fires burn low, Jaime finds himself wandering the courtyard. He tells himself it’s for the fresh air, but deep down, he knows better. The truth finds him soon enough when he sees you there, standing by the kennels with your direwolf pup at your side. The creature is a pale, ghostly thing, its eyes sharp and intelligent as it watches him approach.

“Ser Jaime,” you greet him politely, your voice soft but steady. There’s no fear in your tone, only curiosity. “What brings you outside? The warmth of the hall doesn’t suit you?”

He smiles, a practiced, easy expression that hides the turmoil beneath. “Perhaps I needed a break from the noise. The North has a way of making a man appreciate silence.”

You nod, stroking the wolf’s fur absentmindedly. “Winterfell is quieter than King’s Landing, I imagine. Though I’ve never been.”

The way you say it, with a hint of longing, makes him pause. “You’ve never been to the capital?”

You shake your head. “No. My father prefers to keep us here, close to home. My mother says the South isn’t meant for wolves.”

“Perhaps not,” he agrees, though he can’t help but think how wrong that is. You would shine in the South, your beauty and grace unmatched by any courtier or queen. The thought of you in the Red Keep—so near, yet so far—sends an ache through him.

You glance at him, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “Do you miss it? The South, I mean.”

He hesitates, caught off guard by the question. Does he miss the South? The warm sun, the endless intrigue, the weight of his family’s expectations? “Sometimes,” he admits. “But there are things worth appreciating in the North.”

It’s a simple statement, but the way his eyes linger on you as he says it betrays his meaning. You tilt your head slightly, studying him, but before you can respond, the direwolf lets out a low growl, breaking the moment.

Jaime chuckles, taking a cautious step back. “It seems your wolf doesn’t trust me.”

“Winter is protective,” you reply, patting the pup’s head. “But he’ll come around.”

Jaime isn’t so sure. The wolf isn’t the only one he’ll have to win over, and he knows it. Yet, as he watches you disappear back into the warmth of the castle, he can’t help but think that you might be worth the risk.

The next morning, Jaime finds himself once again in Winterfell’s training yard. The clang of swords fills the crisp northern air, accompanied by shouts from young men sparring under the watchful eyes of Jory Cassel. Jaime usually enjoys watching such displays, though they pale in comparison to his own skill with a blade. Today, however, his attention is elsewhere.

You stand on the edge of the yard, wrapped in a dark cloak to ward off the morning chill. Winter, your direwolf, sits dutifully at your side, her fur gleaming in the pale sunlight. Jaime notices the way your gloved hand absently strokes the wolf’s head as you observe your younger brothers practice with wooden swords. There’s a faint smile on your lips, one of quiet pride, and it’s enough to make his chest tighten.

For the hundredth time since his arrival, Jaime curses himself for this weakness. You are a Stark, born and bred, and your father would sooner see him dead than allow him to so much as glance your way. Yet his gaze strays to you regardless, drawn like a moth to flame.

“Are you going to keep staring, or will you finally say something?” The voice belongs to Jon Snow, who stands a few paces away with his sword in hand. His tone is quiet, but his grey eyes are sharp, a touch of irritation flickering behind them.

Jaime straightens, masking his surprise with a smirk. “Staring? I don’t know what you mean.”

Jon’s lips press into a thin line. “You’ve been looking at my sister since you arrived.”

At that, Jaime’s smirk falters. He glances toward you, but you’re still focused on the sparring match, oblivious to the conversation. Winter, however, seems to sense the tension and looks toward him, wolf's icy blue eyes meeting his.

“I think you’re mistaken,” Jaime says smoothly, though his pulse quickens. “Your sister is a lovely young lady, but I assure you, I have no improper intentions.”

Jon’s expression darkens. “You’re a Lannister. Everything about you is improper.”

The accusation stings, though Jaime hides it well. He steps closer, lowering his voice so only Jon can hear. “Careful, Snow. You might have Stark blood in your veins, but you’re still a bastard. Don’t presume to lecture me on propriety.”

Jon bristles, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword. For a moment, Jaime wonders if the boy will strike him. Instead, Jon takes a measured breath and steps back, his gaze still burning with suspicion.

“Stay away from her,” he says simply before walking back toward the training yard. Jaime watches him go, his jaw tight.

The day drags on, and Jaime finds himself more restless than ever. Every time he catches a glimpse of you—walking with Sansa in the godswood, speaking quietly with Maester Luwin, laughing softly at something Arya said—his resolve weakens. By the time the evening feast begins, he’s resigned himself to another torturous night of stolen glances and unspoken desires.

The great hall is alive with laughter and conversation when Jaime enters, though he barely hears it. His eyes immediately seek you out, finding you seated beside your mother near the high table. You look radiant, even in the simple Stark colors, your hair falling in loose waves over your shoulders. He forces himself to look away, focusing instead on the goblet in front of him.

“Still pining, are we?” Tyrion’s voice cuts through his thoughts, low and amused. The younger Lannister has appeared beside him, a knowing smile on his face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jaime replies, his tone clipped.

“Oh, come now, brother,” Tyrion says, pouring himself a generous helping of wine. “You’ve been staring at her as if she’s the Maiden herself come to life. It’s quite unlike you.”

Jaime glares at him. “Drop it, Tyrion.”

“Gladly,” Tyrion says, raising his goblet in mock surrender. “But you might want to be more careful. The Starks are an observant lot, and I doubt they’ll take kindly to a Lannister coveting their eldest daughter.”

Jaime doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as Tyrion saunters away. He risks another glance at you, only to find your brother Jon watching him from across the hall. The boy’s expression is unreadable, but the weight of his scrutiny is unmistakable.

Later that night, Jaime finds himself wandering the courtyard again. The cold air bites at his skin, yet it does little to extinguish the fire raging within him. He curses himself under his breath, berating his foolishness. How could he allow his thoughts, his eyes, and now even his heart to betray him? A Stark of all people—a wolf, untouchable and pure in her Northern pride.

He’s so lost in his turmoil that he doesn’t notice your presence until Winter’s soft growl cuts through the silence. He looks up sharply, finding you only a few feet away, the wolf standing protectively at your side. The moonlight catches in your hair, casting an almost ethereal glow around you, and Jaime feels his chest tighten.

“Ser Jaime,” you greet him, your voice soft yet steady. There’s a hint of curiosity in your tone, as if you’re surprised to see him here.

Jaime straightens, his heart stuttering at the sound of your voice. He bows slightly, forcing himself to maintain his composure. “Lady Y/N,” he replies, his voice smooth despite the turmoil within. “Out for a stroll?”

You nod, your breath forming faint clouds in the cold air. “I could ask the same of you, Ser Jaime. Though I didn’t think knights of the Kingsguard wandered alone at night.”

He chuckles lightly, the sound hollow to his own ears. “Even knights need a moment of quiet now and then,” he says, his hand tucked discreetly behind his back. “The North, for all its chill, does have its charms.”

You tilt your head slightly, studying him as Winter’s piercing gaze mirrors your own. “And what charms would those be?” you ask, your tone light, but your eyes keen.

Jaime hesitates, his smirk faltering for the briefest moment. The truth lingers on the edge of his tongue—that it’s you, your presence, the way you make the world feel brighter even in the dead of winter. But he swallows the words, masking his emotions as he always has.

“The stars, perhaps,” he says smoothly, gesturing toward the clear night sky. “King’s Landing rarely grants us such a view.”

You glance upward, and for a moment, your expression softens. “They are beautiful,” you admit, your voice quieter now. “The North feels closer to the heavens.”

Jaime watches you, his eyes tracing the curve of your profile. He doesn’t trust himself to speak, fearing that his voice will betray the yearning he’s so desperately trying to suppress.

After a moment, you glance back at him, your expression unreadable. “Goodnight, Ser Jaime,” you say simply, a polite smile gracing your lips. There’s no hesitation as you turn and begin walking back toward the castle, Winter padding silently at your side.

Jaime doesn’t move, his gaze fixed on your retreating figure. The ache in his chest grows heavier with every step you take, but he remains rooted in place, unwilling to call after you. He knows this desire is foolish—impossible, even—but gods help him, he can’t seem to let it go.

As the shadows swallow you whole, Jaime exhales slowly, the cold air burning his lungs. He turns back toward the castle, his mind a tangled mess of longing and guilt. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he hears Tyrion’s voice again, mocking him for his weakness, warning him of the consequences. And yet, for the first time in his life, Jaime finds himself wanting something he can never have, and he’s not sure he can stop.

The air inside the old tower is thick and stifling despite the chill that permeates Winterfell. Jaime paces restlessly, the sound of his boots echoing against the stone walls. His white cloak feels heavy, a constant reminder of the weight he carries—not just from his duty but from the turmoil in his heart. The torchlight casts specters across the room, but none darker than those in his thoughts.

Behind him, Cersei leans against the table, her arms crossed, her green eyes fixed on him with a mixture of irritation and suspicion. She looks as regal and dangerous as ever, her beauty as dangerous as a dagger. But tonight, it does nothing to soothe him. If anything, her presence feels suffocating.

“You’ve been different,” she says finally, her voice low and accusing. “Distant. Distracted. You barely look at me, Jaime.”

He stops pacing, turning to face her. “We’re in the North, Cersei. It’s not exactly a place for… indulgences.” His words come out clipped, and even as he says them, he knows she won’t accept them.

Cersei’s eyes narrow. “Don’t lie to me. I’ve known you all my life, Jaime. I know when your mind is elsewhere.” She steps closer, her tone softening, though the edge remains. “Is it that Stark girl? The one you keep staring at when you think no one notices?”

Jaime’s heart pounds in his chest, a flush of guilt and anger rising to his face. “Leave her out of this.”

Her laugh is cold and sharp, like the crack of ice. “Oh, how noble of you. Is that what this is, then? You’ve decided to play the gallant knight now? To pine for some Northern wolf pup who’d sooner slit your throat than look at you twice?”

“Enough, Cersei,” Jaime snaps, his voice harsher than he intended. “You don’t understand—”

“Oh, I understand perfectly,” she interrupts, stepping closer until they’re nearly face to face. Her voice drops to a venomous whisper. “You’re mine, Jaime. You’ve always been mine. And now, in this frozen wasteland, you’re letting your mind wander to some girl who wouldn’t even know what to do with you.”

He exhales sharply, taking a step back. “This isn’t about her. It’s about us. About what we’ve become.” He gestures between them. “Do you even remember who we were before all this? Before the lies, the secrets?”

Cersei’s face twists in fury. “Don’t you dare lecture me about lies. Everything I’ve done, I’ve done for us. For our family. And now you’re standing here, acting like you’re above it all.”

Jaime shakes his head, his voice dropping. “I’m tired, Cersei. Tired of living like this. Of hiding. Of lying to myself.”

For a moment, there’s silence between them, broken only by the distant howl of the wind outside. Then Cersei steps forward, her hands reaching for him, her expression softening into something almost pleading.

“We don’t have to lie, Jaime,” she murmurs, her fingers brushing against his chest. “Not here. Not now. It’s just us.”

But as her hands move to pull him closer, Jaime steps back, gently but firmly pushing her away. The rejection is immediate and cutting, and he sees the fury ignite in her eyes.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice firm. “Not tonight, Cersei.”

Her face hardens, her voice dropping to a dangerous hiss. “You’re a fool if you think you can walk away from this. From me.”

Before Jaime can respond, a faint noise catches his attention—a soft creak from above. His eyes dart to the window, and there he sees it: a boy, perched precariously on the ledge, his wide eyes staring down at them.

“Bran Stark,” Jaime mutters under his breath, realization hitting him like a blow.

Cersei follows his gaze, her expression darkening with panic. “He heard us,” she whispers, her voice frantic. “He’ll tell.”

Jaime feels his heart race, a thousand thoughts colliding in his mind. If the boy overheard their argument, their secret could unravel everything—their lives, their children, their fragile hold on power. He takes a step toward the window, his movements measured.

The boy’s gaze flicks between them, fear etched across his young face. “I didn’t see anything,” Bran stammers, his voice shaking. “I swear, I won’t tell anyone.”

Jaime’s chest tightens. He knows the boy is lying. He would run straight to his father, to the honorable Eddard Stark, and the consequences would be disastrous.

“Jaime,” Cersei hisses, her voice sharp and urgent. “You have to do something.”

He looks back at her, then at Bran. His mind feels like it’s splintering in two, but deep down, he knows what must be done. Slowly, he moves closer to the window, his expression unreadable.

“The things I do for love,” he murmurs, the words bitter on his tongue.

Before Bran can react, Jaime reaches out, his hand striking with calculated force. The boy lets out a startled cry as he loses his balance, tumbling backward out the window and into the void below.

For a moment, there’s silence. Jaime stands frozen, his heart pounding as he stares at the empty window. Cersei’s breathing is heavy behind him, her hand clutching the table for support.

“It had to be done,” she says finally, her voice shaky but resolute.

Jaime doesn’t respond. He feels hollow, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a mountain. As he turns away from the window, he catches his reflection in the light—the face of a man who has just crossed another line he swore he never would.

The days after Bran Stark’s fall are cloaked in a heavy silence, broken only by the whispers of servants and the occasional sob echoing through Winterfell’s halls. Jaime feels the weight of it everywhere he goes. He had known the boy’s fall would ripple through the Stark family like a shockwave, but seeing the grief firsthand is something else entirely.

He avoids the godswood, where Lord Stark retreats daily, his shoulders heavy with unspoken blame. He avoids the Great Hall, where the Starks’ laughter has been replaced with quiet murmurs and somber meals. But he cannot avoid you—not when every time he catches a glimpse of you, his chest tightens with guilt.

You are a ghost of yourself now, a shadow lingering by Bran’s chambers. You rarely leave his side, seated by his bed with your mother, Lady Catelyn, as the boy lies in his endless sleep. The firelight from his room casts flickering shadows across your face, accentuating the hollowness in your eyes, the pallor of your cheeks. Jaime has never seen you like this, and it tears at something inside him.

On the third day, Jaime makes a decision he knows he shouldn’t. He tells himself it’s for appearances, to offer his condolences like any dutiful guest, but deep down, he knows it’s more selfish than that. He hopes, foolishly, that speaking to you—seeing you—might ease the gnawing guilt clawing at his chest.

He climbs the tower steps slowly, each creak of the stone beneath his boots echoing louder in his ears. When he reaches Bran’s chamber, the door is ajar, allowing him a glimpse of the scene within.

Catelyn sits closest to the bed, her face pale and drawn, her hand gripping Bran’s small, lifeless fingers. Beside her, you sit silent and still, your gaze fixed on the boy’s face. Winter and Summer curled at your feet, their fur dull in the dim light. There is something devastating about the stillness of it all, as though the grief in the room has frozen time itself.

Jaime clears his throat softly, stepping into the doorway. “Lady Stark,” he says, his voice measured, “Lady Y/N. I wanted to offer my condolences.”

Catelyn looks up abruptly, her blue eyes filled with a mixture of exhaustion and suspicion. You, however, don’t move. You don’t even glance in his direction, as if his presence isn’t worth acknowledging. It’s as though you know, and the thought sends a jolt of unease through him.

Catelyn rises slowly, her movements deliberate as she steps toward him. She doesn’t bow, doesn’t offer him the courtesy one might expect toward a knight of the Kingsguard. Instead, she crosses her arms, her voice cold as the northern winds.

“Your words are noted, Ser Jaime,” she says, her tone sharp enough to cut. “But they will not wake my son.”

Jaime swallows, keeping his composure. “I understand. I only wished to—”

“To what?” she interrupts, her voice rising slightly. “Ease your conscience? You’ve done nothing for this family but bring conflict and mistrust. My son lays in that bed, and you think your words will bring us comfort?”

Jaime doesn’t flinch, though her words land like blows. He glances past her to you, still seated by the bed, your expression blank as if you haven’t even heard him. His chest tightens further.

“I only wanted to offer my sympathies,” he says quietly. “For what it’s worth.”

“It’s worth nothing,” Catelyn says firmly, her eyes blazing. She steps closer, lowering her voice. “You are a Lannister, and I would have you far from my family’s grief. Leave this room, Ser Jaime, and don’t come back.”

Jaime hesitates for a moment, his pride and guilt warring within him. Finally, he nods, stepping back into the hallway. Before the door closes, he allows himself one last glance at you, but you don’t even look up. If anything, your stillness feels more damning than Catelyn’s fury.

He retreats to his chambers, the cold stone walls offering no solace. The memory of your grief and your mother’s anger churns in his mind, mixing with the echo of Bran’s fall. For the first time in his life, Jaime wonders if he truly is the monster people whisper about.

Tyrion finds him later, pouring himself a generous goblet of wine as he takes a seat by the fire. “You look troubled, brother,” Tyrion says, his tone light but his gaze focused. “Let me guess—our hosts aren’t quite as warm as you’d hoped?”

Jaime doesn’t respond immediately, staring into the flames. Finally, he exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I went to see the boy.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “A bold choice. Let me guess—Lady Stark wasn’t particularly welcoming?”

“She threw me out,” Jaime admits, a bitter edge to his voice. “And she’s right to. What business do I have there, playing the role of the concerned guest?”

“None,” Tyrion says bluntly. “But I suspect it wasn’t Lady Stark you wanted to see.”

Jaime’s jaw tightens, his silence telling Tyrion all he needs to know. The shorter man studies him for a moment before speaking again, his voice quieter now.

“You’re not yourself, Jaime. Not here. Not around her.”

Jaime doesn’t respond, his gaze fixed on the fire. He knows Tyrion is right, just as he knows the truth of what he’s done will haunt him for the rest of his days. But the image of you by Bran’s bedside, broken and silent, refuses to leave his mind.

And for the first time in his life, Jaime Lannister feels truly powerless.

The day of departure dawns cold and gray, the kind of day that seems to stretch endlessly over the North. The royal procession is bustling with activity in the courtyard as servants load carriages, horses are saddled, and final preparations are made. Jaime Lannister stands near his mount, but his thoughts are elsewhere.

You are nowhere to be seen.

He tells himself he shouldn’t care. You have no reason to be here, no reason to bid farewell to those who brought tragedy to your family. But he had hoped—foolishly, selfishly—that he might catch a glimpse of you before they left. Even just a glance, a fleeting moment to reassure himself that you hadn’t vanished completely from his world. But the absence is palpable, heavy like the northern winds.

Instead, he watches as the Stark family fragments around him. Lord Eddard, ever the dutiful man, stands by King Robert, his expression as stony as the walls of his home. The young Stark girls, Sansa and Arya, hover nearby, each reflecting their own feelings about the journey ahead—Sansa’s excitement barely contained, Arya’s irritation unmistakable.

Robb Stark lingers at the edge of the courtyard, his eyes cold and watchful, flanked by the hulking presence of Grey Wind. His gaze catches Jaime’s for the briefest moment, and the hostility there is unmistakable. Robb knows nothing, but the tension between them has grown like frost on the castle walls.

Jaime turns away, his attention drawn to Jon Snow, who stands near the castle gates with Ghost at his side. The boy’s expression is unreadable, though there’s a certain heaviness to his movements. Tyrion, standing beside him, chats animatedly, his tone light despite the weight of the day.

Jaime moves toward them, if only to distract himself from the ache in his chest.

“Ah, brother,” Tyrion greets as Jaime approaches, his voice tinged with amusement. “Come to bid me farewell? Or perhaps you’re here to remind me not to fall off the Wall.”

Jaime smirks faintly, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m here to ensure you don’t disgrace the family name. Though I suppose that’s a futile effort.”

Tyrion laughs, clapping Jaime on the arm. “I’ll do my best to uphold our reputation. By which I mean, of course, drinking my weight in wine and pissing off the edge of the world.”

Jon Snow remains quiet, his eyes flicking between the brothers. Finally, he speaks, his tone low and wary. “I thought knights of the Kingsguard stayed close to the King.”

“I thought bastards didn’t speak unless spoken to,” Jaime retorts smoothly, though there’s no real venom in his words. The boy is too much like his father—stubborn, proud, and entirely too serious for his age.

Jon stiffens, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword, but Tyrion interjects before the tension can escalate.

“Come now, let’s not start a duel before we even leave Winterfell,” he says lightly, though his gaze sharpens as he looks at Jaime. “We wouldn’t want the wolves feasting on a lion before we’ve even reached the capital.”

Jaime exhales, forcing himself to step back. He glances at Jon, then at Tyrion. “Be careful on the road,” he says finally, his voice softer now. “The North doesn’t take kindly to outsiders.”

Tyrion raises an eyebrow. “Neither does the Wall, I’m told. But I appreciate your concern, brother.”

Jaime nods, though his mind is already drifting elsewhere. As the final calls for departure echo through the courtyard, he finds his gaze sweeping the castle walls one last time, hoping against hope to see you there.

He doesn’t find you, but his thoughts linger on you regardless as the procession begins its journey south. The sound of hooves and wheels fades into the distance, leaving Winterfell behind. Jaime rides near the front of the column, his armor catching the occasional glint of sunlight, but his mind is far from the road ahead.

The memory of you at Bran’s bedside is seared into his mind—the grief in your eyes, the silence that cut deeper than any words. He can’t shake the feeling that you knew, somehow, that he was responsible. That you had looked through him, seen the guilt he tried so desperately to bury.

The road stretches endlessly before him, but his thoughts remain in Winterfell, lingering in the cold halls and shadowed chambers where he left a piece of himself behind.

And in the silence, he wonders if he’ll ever truly be free of it.

[ultravi0lence14]

SWEET ANGEL

dean winchester x angel!reader

2.5k | angst, enemies to lovers, spn level violence, szn nine

summary: with angel now living in the bunker, dean has to swallow his pride and realize not everyone is out to get him.

WHEN ANGEL FALLS IN LOVE

the drab walls of your room in the winchester’s bunker stared back at you, almost taunting in how their beige and gloomy colours looked around you. it was coming up on week four post fall, almost a month since you were locked out of heaven, and you seemed to be making absolutely no progress.

sam had tried to teach you about humans, explaining different types of slang and technologies that they had created. though, he decided to stop after his brief pop culture unit turned into a brutal argument stemming from your confusion.

it didn’t make it any better that you had no clothes. your white dress from the day you were found under the wilting willow was all you had; grass and mud washed away though the memories still lingered.

everything was starting to become unbearable. the scratchy sheets on your bed, the barren walls with no life or colour. your day to day routine wasn’t too bad. wake up, talk with sam about humanity and it’s customs, try a new snack, and then hobble away to your room where you’d indulge in copious amounts of youtube videos and pinterest boards.

there happened to be an old laptop of sam’s lying around, and after some grumbling from dean, both he and his younger brother helped you set up and navigate the device.

dean was a topic you wished to never bring up or even think about. the man stuck to his word, not talking to you unless you initiated first. even then he sometimes wouldn’t respond. when he did, it was always snippy responses that had you rolling your eyes, retreating to where you actually felt wanted; an enigma of a place that you created in your own company.

the internet was something you marvelled at. looking at a plethora of video content on youtube, and all different types of pictures on pinterest.

a sense of fashion was something you started to pick up on, looking at countless pieces online and even grabbing magazines from the store when sam would take you out with him.

your angelic roots peaked through in the fashion and aesthetic you gravitated towards. a girly vibe was always something you enjoyed, but you also seemed to like the more quirky and unique styles. skirts, plain and colourful tights, bright sweaters and form fitting tops seemed to find a way into your brain; the drab cotton dressed you landed on earth in going to shame as you looked at all the different patterns and fashion choices.

it finally dawned on you that this is what you needed. the boring walls, uncomfortable bedding, and borderline empty room just wasn’t doing it for you anymore. you needed to find yourself, express who you wanted to be without the chains of heaven wrapped around your body.

you needed to go shopping, and fast, but there was simply one problem. sam had left yesterday to go help some hunter friends on a case, leaving in their car and expressing how he’d be back in two weeks time. so, it seemed as though dean was the only person who could help you with your recent epiphany.

the plan was a lost cause, but begrudgingly, you got up from your bed and made the short walk to dean’s room. twirling your hair nervously, you found yourself stood in front of his door, hearing the faint sound of music coming from what you assumed to be his record player. slowly lifting your hand, you let a delicate knock linger on the wood; a drastic change from the intense music playing from behind the door.

music halted, a metaphorical record scratch being heard as heavy feet came towards the door. wind blew the front pieces of your hair back, and you were greeted with dean’s gloomy face as he stared down at you from where he stood.

“what do you want, feathers?” his words had a cadence of annoyance, like he’d rather be doing anything else but talk to you. it made you wring your fingers together, picking at your cuticles as you looked up at him through your lashes. “i have a favour to ask.”

if this were any other occasion, dean would say no. hell, he’d probably slam the door in your face. but those eyes, those goddamn eyes that stared into his soul. they were big, giving your already angelic features a doe-like look. dean was mentally kicking himself at how easily he was folding.

with a sigh, he cocked his head to his right, staring at you intently, a way to mask how your look was making him feel. “i’ll only say yes ‘cause sammy’s away — but tell me what it is first. i’m not going on some whack ass trip all ‘cause you batted your eyes at me all pretty.”

the words that left dean’s lips had your own parting in shock, eyes widening even more. he was so strange. one second he hated you and the next he was flirting like you were a girl he saw at the bar. but you decided a while ago to not question dean’s ways, for diving in too deep would be like swimming in the mariana’s trench.

with a light cough, you continued your recent proposal as dean looked down at you with a cocky grin on his face. “i want to decorate my room, get new clothes, really integrate myself into society. and before you complain, i’ve been wearing the same dress for a month; it’s time for a change.”

dean would love to say no, he truly would. he’d love to laugh in your face, tell you that your sweet and innocent act wasn’t working on him. every angel — besides cas — that sam and dean had come across left them with more problems then they started out with. why should dean trust you?

but over the past weeks, he couldn’t help but realize how unreasonable he was being. cas trusted you, and sam seemed to be doing just fine in hanging out with you everyday. dean had to swallow his pride and realize that someone wasn’t planning to hurt him or his brother, that all you had on your mind was reinventing yourself and not dwindling into psychosis by staring into your empty abyss of a room.

though it was dean at the end of the day, and he could never admit that for once he was wrong. so with practiced ease, he pushed down those feelings and huffed loudly, reaching across the door frame for his keys and pushing past you out the door.

“c’mon feathers,” he grumbled as you stood by his door shocked, not knowing how to react to dean actually wanting to help you. “hurry up before i change my mind.”

the car ride was tense, an awkward tension that had you smushing into the side door. dean’s music blared through the speakers, a testimony on the fact he didn’t want to talk to you. there was no place in your bones that had you wanting to talk to him, but after 2 hours in the car, you got confused on where he was going.

“umm, dean?” you questioned, turning your body towards his and watching as his jaw ticked from his side profile. “where are we going?”

he didn’t turn his head, didn’t look away from the road as his jaw tensed and his fingers gripped on the steering wheel. “minnesota.” your lips parted, confused on why he was going to a whole different state before he spoke again. “you’ve never been to the mall of america. i’m giving you important life experiences, feathers.”

dean watched as your eyes widened, pouty lips opening wide as shock filled your body. he honestly didn’t know why he was driving a whole ten hours for you to go shopping. it was unnecessary, but dean couldn’t stop himself from continuing his drive.

“oh.” your voice came out breathy, your head going down to your chest as you fiddled with your fingers. “well, i’ve never been on a drive this long. what do you do?”

what did you do? when he was with sam, it was like muscle memory. sit in silence for a bit, jokingly bicker back and forth, sam would sleep for a bit. but you had never done this before. so dean had to think of a whole new way to keep you entertained.

he truly was trying to work on his animosity towards you. so with a sigh he turned slightly to look at you. “some people sleep, some talk to the whole time. what do you wanna do, sweetheart?”

“can you tell me about your views on the world?” your words had dean fully turning his head to look at you. he briefly gave you a confused look before turning back to the road. why would you ask that? he understood you were an angel, a heavenly creature that didn’t know anything about her own father’s creation, but why did you what to know his views on it?

sensing his confusion, you backtracked as best as you could, shaking your head and staring out the car window at all the trees and fields melding together like molten lava. “i just mean, i’ve heard how sam feel’s about certain things, but i want to know how you feel. your favourite music, movies, what your dreams are. i don’t know dean, i just want to know more.”

he was shocked, not ever having someone ask him what his dreams and favourite things were. he slightly turned his head again, eyes watching as your hair curtained your face. tentatively, he pulled his hand away from the steering wheel so he could brush the strands away from your face. your cheeks blushed as he tucked it behind your ear, hand gracing your cheek softly as he let it fall down your arm.

“sure, whatever you want, angel.”

that’s how you two spent the rest of the drive; dean raving on about all his favourite things while you silently listened, inventively taking in all his interests. you noticed how over time he became more open, excitedly talking about his interests from childhood to now. it was nice, listening to all the things that made dean, well, dean.

it wasn’t even like he wanted to stop. this was one of the most relaxing drives he’s had in a while. you didn’t interrupt him, you just sat and listened. sitting in his front seat like the heavenly angel you were and looking more like a painting than a celestial being.

dean even drove through the night, not wanting to wake you as you slept so pretty in the car. he didn’t mind not getting any sleep if it meant not waking you up to go to a motel. he was also accustomed to not sleeping for days, so he was honestly fine.

the mall finally came into view just as your eyes peeled open. you were confused, not used to the notion of sleeping. it was like a massive weight had lifted off your chest, arising like snow white out of her bed of flowers. as you noticed where you were, you excitedly looked at the structure, eyes wide in awe as you scrambled out of the car and dashed towards the entrance.

you were like an excited bunny, hopping around from store to store as dean kept a close eye on you. each shop you came out with something new — god bless fake credit cards — and dean had to stop himself from thinking about how pretty you looked in certain items.

at first you needed to figure out what your size was, so dean would be succumbed to sitting in stuffed changing rooms with obnoxious pop music playing while you tried on tops and skirts behind a flimsy curtain. when you came out in your first outfit — a long sleeve black and white striped top with a denim mini skirt — dean almost passed out in the fucking store.

his breath almost lodged in his throat, making him choke on his own breath like a damn child. that white dress of yours never let him see how long your legs truly were. they exemplified the skirt low on your hips while your just as long torso helped the shirt fit perfectly.

he knew you were a tall person, but holy shit.

you were like a fucking model. dean had to remind himself of his forced hate towards you for if he didn’t, he’d push you into that change room with his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.

when dean awkwardly mentioned that you probably needed to buy some undergarments, he sat outside the victoria’s secret as you toddled in with a perplexed look on your face and his credit card in hand. the bag you came out with was massive, and dean was enough of a gentlemen to not look inside or too close to it.

the rest of the stores were a blur. a plethora of bags filled with tight fitted zip ups — some knitted, multiple skirts, tight fitted tops, cozy and colourful sweaters, a multitude of coloured tights, brown and black suede boots, and even more dresses that dean swore that it wouldn’t all fit in the impala.

it didn’t make it any better that you even shopped for your room. floral sheets with ruffled pillow cases, a white comforter, multiple tall, thick and short candles to decorate the space, and a multitude of prints and paintings that had dean shocked by your artistic eye.

as you finished at the mall, dean decided that a couple of thrifts store wouldn’t hurt. you were enthralled, looking around and grabbing as many cool trinkets as you could for your shelves. he found you a used cd player, taking you to the section with cd’s so you could pick out some music.

sam had gotten you a spotify account, so you knew the stuff you liked. songs and albums from artists dean didn’t even know you knew about graced your cart. britney spears, alanis morissette, carrie underwood, abba, fleetwood mac, and other similar artists that dean didn’t simply like, but he’d buy them just for you.

he even saw you pick up old one direction and justin bieber cd’s, and decided to not even question you on it.

you were so excited, and dean didn’t want to dim the ravenous sparkle that lilted your eyes. you rambled on about how you were going to revamp the old furniture without even needing to buy new ones, how the art studio stool that you bought for the desk was going to be so much better than the uncomfortable wood chair.

dean promised he’d take you to shops around the bunker to get essentials like comfy clothes and pajama’s, but for now, it was time to go back home.

the ride home had dean’s heart pumping just like before. you kept asking him more questions, asking stories about his childhood and how long he’d been hunting for. you were so interested in his life, which sent a wave of electricity through dean’s bones.

he started to admit to himself that he may be an asshole. how could he be so mean to such a sweet angel like you. your innocence, darling nature, and soft yet exuberant aura left dean feeling like he was floating on a feather.

you just made everything simple, and dean realized that helping you become human was the best thing cas had ever decided for him.

TAGS: @floralscented @deansbeer @titsout4jackles @ostaramoon @haunteres @fallbhind @rubyvhs @foolinthera1n @taurus0queenie33 @vaiieydoii @jasvtsc @bitchykittenconnoisseur @angel-inspiredblog @galacticalllcafffeine @pascal-rascal424 @annoyingstrawberryballoon @fayeisuppose @geisterfvhrer @bluemerakis @si1ver06 @drqstqr @wh0s-ra3 @supernatural-bangtanboys @whump-loverz @mostlymarvelgirl @d3anwinchesterswife @youdontknowe @oceanolokys

*creating my perfect 2000s makeover montage in this chapter and living vicariously through it. also poor angel doesn’t know what online shopping is. she’s going to be a depop warrior tho i will tell you that much.

[jackiepackiee]

Telemachus x Fem! Reader

an - this is my first time writing for Epic! I’m very excited to join this community, and obviously not everything is going to be accurate to the odyssey…

Prince Telemachus has always wanted to be a hero, and even with never knowing him he knows a real hero is just like his dad, Odysseus. Fighting monsters, commanding armies, keeping everyone safe. But only now has he truly realized one important thing about being a hero like his father, having a lover you’re willing to do anything for

The nights on the island Ithica had always been cold, ocean breeze blowing cool air into the windows and halls of the palace. Shushing the everlasting hum of human movement into a lullaby in the seaside air.

With the gentle night came the long awaited silence from the suitors gathered in the main hall, only sounds of breathing in deep sleep and the occasional thud of movement from a man rolling over.

Even the servants were just about still, last one just getting to bed after extinguishing the torches that illuminated the walls.

All, expect for Telemachus.

The prince laid wide awake, eyes trained on the ceiling above his bed and hands petting his loyal dog. He was waiting… waiting for the sound of the palace guards to switch posts. Each night they would spend 5 minutes traveling back to their quarters to switch off a sleep schedule. His father had written the system, and Telemachus had studied the time just for this. Just for you.

When he heard the familiar shuffling of feet leave the hall and go further into the night he stood. Straightening his Chiton and adding his Epiblema to keep him from the cold of the night, even though he fully planned to lend it to you if you so wished.

As quickly as he stood up was he off, tip toeing down the hallway with his dog sniffing insistently to make sure they were alone. His travel went only so far as your room, the soon-to-be princess of Ithica. His lover.

Now he wasn’t the only one awake, as the excitement of plans made during dinner kept you tossing and turning all night long.

Being the one the prince was courting, you were allowed to live inside the palace, but in a separate room. Telemachus specifically asking for you to be put directly down the hall from him, knowing the suitors could be impulsive and he wanted to protect you.

Once he reached your room, he knocked on the door three times to let you know it was him. You swung it open, beyond excited at the plans for the next few hours. But you had opened it while he was “preparing himself.”

He was mouthing a greeting, seemingly practicing what to say to you. Fixing his slightly curly hair and taking a deep breath all when you opened the door to see him in his state of boyish nervousness.

His cheeks grew pink quickly, but they always had when he was near you. Even if he hated it, it was undeniably adorable to see him flustered.

Usually you would greet him formally, but tonight you were eager so you quickly grasped both his hands into your own. The action making him even redder.

“You’re here! Will we be leaving now?”

Your excitement shown in your eyes, soft glow of the stars and moon pouring in the room to make you both slightly visible to one another.

Nodding, he squeezed your hands in reassurances. His dog nudging at your leg, looking for attention.

“We have to be quick, I’ll show you the path.”

He spoke at you scratched the pet, nervously offering you his hand as a guide. It’s not that he didn’t expect you to take it, but he still was nervous. He’d never snuck out with you before.

As soon as you took his hand he was guiding you down the corridor. Small giggles leaving you both at the prospect of what you were doing, sneaking out like little kids.

“This way, we have to be quiet.”

His giggles died down, but his grip on your hand growing firm. No way was he letting you go, not as you entered the main hall.

You both clung to the outer wall, dodging sleeping suitors and their mess, hearing the snoring of men who had eaten a feast too much for even kings.

Before you took a step, he quickly put his free hand on your waist to still you.

“Careful,” he whispered.

You had almost stepped in a puddle of spilled wine, soaking the floor.

“You shouldn’t ruin your pretty dress.” He removed his hand after making sure you had your balance and continued to travel.

Quickly you two had made it outside into the cool night.

“You think my dress is pretty?” You asked, finally able to speak normally again outside of the walls of your home.

He flushed once again. “Well! You know… yes, your dress is pretty.” He looked away, almost pouting in frustration at how easily you made him nervous.

He wondered if he could make you feel the same?

You giggled at his stuttering before continuing your walk. Passing rows of olive trees and mountains in the distance. All normal until you began to shiver softly.

The second you started he placed his over coat on your shoulders, place it with such care to ensure you stayed warm. And warm it was, it felt like he was hugging him with the body heat he had left in the wool.

“Thank you, but won’t you be cold?” You looked at him, squeezing his hand.

He simply shook his head, smiling. “Knowing you’ll be warm is all I need. Let’s get going, the moon is almost at its brightest!”

As quickly as you stopped for the coat was he guiding you again. Pasting the threshold of the gates and down the hill. Into the palace garden. A beautiful sanctuary of fresh fruits, and a new edition of flowers.

Over the years they had been dying, originally planted by Odysseus for Penelope when they first were married. Petals soon drying at his absence with no one having the time to care for them.

Until Telemachus began to nurse them back to life, specifically the night he asked for you hand. If you asked Penelope the night you accepted him he ran home, told her, and then went to the garden with absolutely no experience in the craft.

So the servants may have helped him… but so what? Not like he’d tell you anyways, that the section of flowers was just for you.

“Tele!” He felt your tug at his hand and followed without hesitation. “The flowers! I’ve never seen roses so red. They’re stunning!”

You marveled at the array of florals, constantly tugging at his sleeve to show him each plant in the soft moon’s glow.

“Oh! And this one…” He loved your voice, he really did, but he couldn’t focus. Seeing you so excited at the work he’s put in for you, and the way the moon gave this soft cool light on your skin made him practically shiver. Eyes glimmering from the stars. To him, you looked like the picture of beauty.

Before you could catch him staring, he plucked a rose from the bush. He handed you the flower, carefully cradling your hands around his so you wouldn’t touch any of the thorns.

“I know it isn’t much. Gods, even this flower doesn’t compare to your beauty. How much I long for your presence by my side.” For the first time in a while he spoke completely honestly, no hint of nervousness or confidence, just a middle ground of true feelings.

Only after did he realize his confession did he begin to start to back track. Ready to stutter his way through a “I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable.”

He was completely ready for the embarrassment until he looked at you.

Calm, gentle, lovely you, who was now nervous.

Never before had you been flustered by anything, not in fear of the suitors or during his first confession when he offered to take your hand. It’s not that during his original confession you didn’t love him, instead you couldn’t be the flustered one since he took the role as a blushing mess.

But now… with his absolute sincerity you were left with the cutest, shyest expression. Nuzzling into the overcoat he had given you, looking away from him while you touched your cheek. You could feel the blood rushing to your face, butterflies in your chest and stomach, practically your entire body.

And Telemachus adored it.

All this time together he never realized what it’s like to be the one not embarrassed, and gods you looked so cute!

Right then he knew something, in the back of his mind something clicked at the sight of you so vulnerable. What would make him a hero, make him fight like his father.

Love, an absolute and undying love that he felt in that moment that would push him to fight anything that dared to hurt you or come between you two. Gods, monsters, men, no matter the cost.

All from that one flustered look he knew he was willing to be a hero, for you.

[polarisjisung]

LOVE ON THE COURT | 40 MY LOVE ALL MINE

SYNOPSIS | every college student has their struggles, but raising her younger brother has Y/N top of the list, struggling her way through college whilst balancing her academics and basketball captaincy is difficult no doubt and with Jaemin, her ex best friend and captain of the guys basketball team, and his growing one sided hatred towards her, it doesn't seem to be getting any easier

WARNINGS | swearing, jealousy

Jaemin would be lying if he said he wasn't excited. Well at least he was.

The sound of Y/n's voice, usually music to his ears was no worse than nails against a chalk board today, and he couldn't help but hope she'd stop talking. Quite frankly, he couldn't stand it.

She had been talking about Jay all day.

Even now, as she explained how she'd ended up somehow managing to burn a pot of pasta and had to call Jay to help her save it, he fought the urge to stuff his fingers inside his ears and stop listening.

Despite his usual patience, Jaemin felt himself growing more frustrated.

The tickling feeling in his stomach had quickly been replaced by a deep churning, bubbling inside of him, simmering, ready to boil over.

Small details he otherwise couldn't have cared less about, the heart next to Jay's contact name, the sweet texts he'd accidentally caught sight of, the fact that Jay and Y/n had so many pictures together that it was hard to find anything else in her camera roll. Jaemin pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek. It irked him.

Her eyes lit up with every mention of his name, her smile seemed just a little brighter and her mood seemed to lift, like everything about Jay made her feel at ease, like he was perfect.

Jaemin wanted it to be him.

The giggles, the sparkle in her eyes, the pep in her step, God, he so badly wanted it to be for him.

For a moment, he almost forgot everything he had planned, things already not going the way he hoped. But still, he persevered. The day wasn't ruined, not yet. He could get over it. All he had to do was direct the conversation away from Jay.

Easier said than done when the man himself had magically appeared in front of him and Y/n inside the mall. Jaemin's fingers curled into a tight fist, teeth clenched together, his heart pounding in his chest as he watched Jay lean in closer to Y/n a little further ahead of him.

A knot twisted in Jaemin's stomach.

He could see the girl’s smile, her eyes sparkling so much brighter now that he was in front of her.

That oh so familiar feeling bubbled up inside of him, hot and consuming, as he fought the urge to stride over and interrupt their conversation. The warmth of the room was suffocating, and Jaemin could feel his face flush with a mix of frustration and helplessness.

His mind raced with thoughts, replaying moments where he could have said something, done something differently.

But the wave of insecurity was fleeting, and as he marched over, there was just one thing on his mind.

Jaemin was a man on a mission, and he'd be damned if he let it all go to waste over something so trivial.

He moved quickly, with an indescribable urgency, reaching out for Y/n's arm, not caring who was watching.

"Hey Y/n, let's go." he had a grip on her wrist stronger than any other, not even wasting his breath to acknowledge Jay who stood opposite her as he dragged her away.

"But Jaemin I was talking to Jay." Y/n's retort fell on deaf ears, Jaemin's only focus being on making their way outside. Though he didn't fail to miss the way she apologetically waved goodbye. He rolled his eyes.

"Jaem, I was talking to him." She continued, softer, trying to pull her wrist from his grip, was he always this strong?

If he wasn't so focused, then perhaps Jaemin would've found the slight furrowing of her brows adorable, confused at his actions.

"Jaemin are you even hearing me?" she asked, growing restless in his grip as they finally reached the car park.

He sighed, letting his grip fall loose as he raked his fingers through his hair, huffing.

"I've been hearing you all day long."

Her heart dropped, his tone so much sharper than she'd been used to recently. His stare was piercing, his jaw set in a harsh line.

Y/n felt hot under his gaze. And her heart dropped when he exhaled, shortly and with the click of his tongue.

For a moment it was quiet, and their eyes locked. Jaemin's chest was rising and falling faster than ever before, the usual soft aura that surrounded him nowhere to be seen. His presence strong.

Y/n stood opposite him, perhaps just a few feet away, with her lips slightly parted as she stared at him in shock. So many emotions filled the air between them, each of them struggling to find the words to approach the situation.

"Do you like him?" Jaemin finally snapped, sick of the silence consuming them.

"Huh?" 

Jaemin scoffs.

If she wasn't before, Y/n found herself absolutely taken aback now. Jaemin had never acted like this before. It was weird, how he was being so... brash

"Do you like Jay?" he asked again, this time giving her no oppurtunity to respond,, "Because it's driving me insane. The way you speak about him like he's the only thing that matters, the way you look at him like he's the only one in the room. It feels like a punch to the gut."

Confused, Y/n parts her lips to speak, a sinking feeling in her chest at the slight crack in Jaemin's voice.

"What's wrong Jaem, what do you mean?"

She inched forward, taking his shaky hands into her own. Jaemin didn't protest, melting into her touch. But the fire in his eyes is far from extinguished.

"I mean, seeing you with him makes me go batshit crazy. When he looks at you with hearts projecting out of his eyes, I wonder if you like him the way I like you." Jaemin's cheeks burned, the words echoing in his ears, unravelling and honest. He hadn't expected it to play out this way. "I like you so much it hurts. And everything I've ever done, ever felt, it feels like it falls down the drain the second you smile at him. I'm jealous, "

He says, not lacking confidence for even a second, punctuating his words with harsh ragged breaths.

"I'm so jealous. Because I wish it was me you laughed at that way or me you called when you burn the new pasta recipes you try out. I wish it was me, I wish it was us who filled every corner of your camera roll. Forget like Y/n, I love you, and you never seem to see it."

When he's finished, Jaemin takes a moment to catch his breath but his eyes don't leave hers once— like he's studying every detail of her face, committing it to memory.

"Jaem.." she trails off, and Jaemin desperately holds onto his hope, praying that just this once, things would work out. His eyes bore into hers, searching, though hes not sure what for.

Her eyes had always held the world, always so open and honest yet right now, all Jaemin saw was the glow of his reflection staring back at him.

"I didn't know you felt that way," she pauses, as if to find the right words to say, but Y/n doesn't think she can, "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

When Jaemin looks up, averting his gaze, she can only reach up, caressing his head with the utmost tenderness and care before guiding it back down. Her touch is feather light, almost like he's delicate, a vase ready to shatter and break with one wrong move.

Even now, as their eyes lock, faces barely even centimeters apart, Jaemin feels it, the rush of electricity that sparks through him. Like he's on fire.

His voice came out in a whisper, and suddenly that raw, gentle, caring side of Jaemin was stood in front of Y/n again, his presence warming.

"I was scared" A shaky breath fell from his lips, "I thought we would crumble, that we wouldn't be able to handle it. That we'd end up like before" he sighed, feeling so incredibly stupid as he heard his own words. "I thought we'd be over, for good."

A mix of vulnerability and fear shines in Jaemin's eyes, his heartbeat echoing.

He feels like he's on a tightrope, teetering, ready to fall and break with the slightest movement. But God, he's holding on for dear life.

"I didn't think y-" Jaemin cuts Y/n off, the tension palpable. He needs to know her answer. He needs to know now.

"That's the thing, Y/n, you don't think. I'm standing here pouring my heart out, and you're just... suprised? I need you to see me, peach. To really see me."

Her heartbeat raced, and for the first time ever, Y/n truly, genuinely and really found herself conscious of the way her cheeks flushed at the sight of the man in front of her.

His hair tousled in the wind, the tips of his ears turning pink— that was his favourite colour, hers too— his eyebrows were strong and arched. She realised everything she loved was held between those features, his compassion, his care, him.

That was it.

Despite all the people she'd loved in her weird and wonderful ways, it finally made complete sense. Why she never realised.

It was so hard to put Jaemin into words, because she loved him in a way she had never loved someone else.

Because Y/n didn't look at Jaemin and see just a boyfriend, a partner, or a lover—Y/n looked at Jaemin and saw forever.

Her forever only.

"I love you." She speaks with full surety and a big smile, tears welling in her eyes.

"Say it again." Jaemin holds his breath, needing to hear her once more before he lets himself go, to become truly vulnerable in front of the one person who meant everything to him. Forever.

"I love you, Jaem."

prev | masterlist | next

NOTES | I hate writing confessions I've come to realise, but its here guys, jaemyn is official ‼️ i also don't fw writing do u wanna be my gf/bf bs so you're gonna have to imagine that i just CANNOT do it without gagging, total me problem but it is what it is , maybe I'll grow up and write it into a bonus chapter or something 🤷‍♀️

TAGLIST: @jenobubbles @justalildumpling @nanawrlds @222brainrot @sungookie @pepperedthot @dinonuguaegi @haechansbbg @90s-belladonna @bath1lda @jeongintwt @daegalfangirl @ahnneyong @jammingjaem @paper-boats-rose @iraa567 @errrrrat @kyusqult @suzayaaa @jising-jisang-jisung @soonyoonswoo @nctrawberries @wonbin-truther @sunghoonsgfreal @lotties-readings @onlyhyunjin @swee7dream @natokkiz @beomgyusonlywife @nanaxwi @nosungluv @tommina @sinisxtea @20sdiary @otblous @p-d1ddy @lostinneocity @soobs-things @odxrilove @buns-inhiding @busy-daydreaming02 @starfilledgaze @papichulomacy @grassbutneo @iwilleatyourgod @jeeluv @mystverse @meowtella

[shadowmaat]

Drink Caf and Know Things (or not)

Rex sat in the tiny caf shop, nursing a caf long gone cold. His head was too full for the rowdiness of 79's, and alcohol wouldn't mix well with his emotions anyway, even if Skywalker had given them all vouchers. Fives was dead, and they only had this last night to mourn him before they shipped out again in the morning.

The bell above the door jingled and Rex looked up. A familiar face slouched in, nodded at him, and headed for the register. His hands tightened around his mug. Naturally Fox would find him here. The bastard had eyes everywhere.

At least Fox was in his civvies; a ratty, oversized hoodie advertising Mercy's Garage, a pair of equally ratty jeans, and boots he'd probably confiscated from a natborn officer.

Steaming caf in hand, Fox made his way over to Rex's table and sat.

"Captain," he said, sipping his drink and sighing in appreciation.

"Commander," Rex replied, wary.

"Thanks for submitting that report," Fox said. "I know it isn't easy when it's one of your own that turns."

"Yeah." Rex grimaced, then grimaced again as he took a sip of his own stone-cold caf. "First Cody's man, Slick, and now this." He took another sip.

"I'll forward you my own report once I've got everything analyzed."

And that was Fox to a T: meticulous attention to detail, bordering on obsessive, at times. It had only gotten worse on Coruscant, where bureaucracy was the lifeblood of the upper echelons of power.

"Appreciate it." Rex abandoned his mug and rubbed his temples. "I just wish I could understand why. He was a good soldier until this. A little annoying at times, but who isn't?"

Fox snorted. "That way lies madness, Cap. Everyone has a cracking point, and with the way this war is dragging on..." He shrugged.

Anger washed through him, along with the pulsing mantra of Why Fives? that had been a constant in his head since this shitshow had begun.

"And that thing about us having chips in our head." He let out a huff of frustration, and glanced up to see Fox watching him with sharp-eyed attention that immediately disappeared under a veneer of indifference.

"Anything to that?" Fox took another swig of coffee.

Rex frowned at him, not allowing himself to be distracted by the faint whiff of vanilla coming from Fox's mug.

"No," he said, watching the Commander closely. "I had Kix look through all his records. Plenty of scans showing plenty of brain trauma, a couple cases of parasites I don't want to think about, and one trooper who got a piece of shrapnel embedded in his skull, but nothing that looked like a chip."

There was a brief flash of disappointment, there and gone so fast Rex wondered if he imagined it. Fox nodded.

"Right. Well, if you hear any more, my inbox is always open." He stood, gulping down the rest of his vanilla latte and setting the mug on the table. "I'll let you get back to your brooding."

Rex scowled up at him. "I'm not brooding!"

He wasn't. There was a difference between brooding and thinking deeply on something important.

"Whatever you say, Captain Broody."

Rex threw a sugar packet at him as he headed for the door, but the bastard actually caught it.

"Oh, and Rex?" Fox turned back to look at him, all hint of amusement gone. "I am sorry. It's never easy having to put down one of our own."

Rex shrugged, the grief heavy in his chest. "He tried to kill the Chancellor. You had your orders."

"Yeah, I did." The bell jingled as Fox opened the door. "Doesn't mean it was right."

He was gone before Rex could think of a response.

Taking both mugs back to the counter, Rex puzzled over Fox's behavior. Was the Commander acting weird or was he just imagining things? Like Fives had been imagining things. Ugh.

He got a fresh caf, a vanilla latte this time, and headed back to his table to broo- to think. Was this the end of it, or just the beginning?

[ladyeyrewrites]

Another amnesia fic you say? Heehheheheheeh

💭💭💭💭💭💭💭💭💭 😌🙂‍↕️

@typicalopposite you are taking your "make me write" duties very seriously and I respect it. This has been sitting untouched in my drafts since June and you've just made me double what I had already written:

Evan opens his eyes with a groan. At least, he thinks he opens his eyes; everything’s blurry and white like he’s staring into fog. He blinks. Groans.

“Buck!” he recognises the voice but not the name, but he must be imagining things because Maddie’s in Pennsylvania not Peru. Except, now that his vision’s clearing he sees the tell tale ceiling tiles and fluorescent lights of a hospital above him, hears the distant beeping of machines in other rooms, feels the rough scratch of a hospital gown against his skin.

“Maddie?” he turns his head and there she is, sitting next to him, eyes glassy and red rimmed like she’s been crying. “How are you here?”

“Of course I’m here.” She squeezes his hand, leaning closer. Her face is different, rounder, the lines carved deeper around her eyes and mouth. It’s been years since they last saw each other, but somehow she seems older than she should.

“What about Doug?” Evan asks. “Surprised he let you fly to Peru.”

“Buck, Doug’s dead,” Maddie says, frown deepening.

“What? How?” Evan asks. “And why do you keep calling me Buck?”

Maddie’s eyes widen. “Evan, can you tell me what year it is?”

Evan frowns. “2017. Why?”

Maddie’s eyes widen.

“What?” Evan asks. “What’s wrong?”

Before Maddie can answer, the door to Evan’s hospital room opens and man he’s never seen before enters with two cups of coffee. Evan’s mouth goes a bit dry at the sight of his broad frame and well defined chest that’s barely contained under a tight-fitting henley. God this guy is ripped, but who is he? And why is he giving Maddie coffee?

Why is he smiling at Evan now with so much relief it makes Evan want to cry for some reason?

“Evan,” the man sighs, face lighting up, nose scrunching in a smile that flips Evan’s stomach. “You’re awake.”

“Tommy,” Maddie puts a hand on the guy’s arm. “He thinks it’s 2017.”

The man’s – Tommy’s – face falls like he’s been hit over the head with a hammer.

“Do I know you?” Evan asks.

[p0pp3t]

daisuke x reader | what are you doing new year's eve?

content: sfw, fluff, confession, daisuke calls reader "man" and "dude" but gn reader otherwise, mostly dialogue whoops

word count: 895

writer's note: jimmy only speaks once, but in my head this is an au where he does nothing wrong so reading it like that might make it more bearable. sorry for giving jumbotron dialogue </3

Holidays never meant much on the Tulpar - especially not New Year’s. Days blur together when you follow the same routine in the same place for months on end. Time hardly passes -  and another rotation around the sun doesn’t feel the same floating through space anyway. 

Still, your humble crew made the best of it. And now all of you were gathered around the coffee table with a cake in the center, waiting for the clock to hit midnight.

“Any resolutions, guys?” your captain asks. “Let’s hear it.”

“To find a new fucking job.” Jimmy states, crossing his arms and slouching back into his chair.

“Guy’s got the right idea. As much as I hate to say it.” Swansea agrees. His party hat has shifted out of place, though he makes no effort to readjust it.

“Oh come on, guys, don’t be such downers,” Anya interjects, trying to lift the mood. “We’re with each other, right? It’s not all bad.”

“Yeah, the New Year’s all about opportunities and fresh starts and junk!” Daisuke adds. “My resolution this year is to finally find myself a hot date.” he laughs, pleased with himself.

“Still,” you sigh, “It’d be nice to be home right now.” You rest your chin in your hand, hunched over a little with your elbow on your lap.

Daisuke smiles and pats you on the back reassuringly. “Don’t sweat it, man! We’ll be home before you know it.” He rests his hand on your shoulder, oddly comfortably.

The living room screen flashes to life with a faux-happy countdown to midnight. It’s far too bright, especially compared to the gentler nighttime graphic (“I miss it, but ‘tis the season, right?”). As the clock approaches 12:00, only some of you bother counting along aloud, though those who do are rather enthusiastic. And when the clock strikes 12:00, only some of you bother cheering. The ship’s speakers ring out with a joyous tune, and Polle’s artificial voice wishing his most valued team a happy new year. Your crew goes around exchanging handshakes and hugs and all the gestures that come with the New Year’s fresh start.

The last to approach you is Daisuke, who spreads his arms out wide, smiles even wider, and squeezes you tight in a hug.

“Thanks for everything, dude. You’re awesome! Couldn’t do it without you.” 

Nobody takes a Pony Express internship for the company’s good reputation. Like your fellow intern, you were down on your luck, unsure of your future, and looking for something to get you on your feet. Luckily for you (or perhaps both of you), he made things a little easier. You’ve learned and laughed together since the start of your time on the ship. No matter how tough things got, Daisuke was always there, ready to crack a joke or offer a listening ear. 

“Couldn’t do it without you, either.” you tell him in earnest. “You make it good.”

He lets go of you, his smile dropping slowly. Daisuke looks off somewhere to the side with the slightest flush to his face.

You tilt your head. “Is something wrong?”

“No! No, everything’s alright, I just, uh-” he trails off for a moment, choosing his next words carefully. “Can I talk to you for a second? Like, just us?” The flush on his cheeks deepens.

You look around to find that the rest of the crew has busied themselves with slicing and distributing the cake. “You’re sure everything’s okay?” 

“Promise!” he says, pushing some confidence.

The two of you slip out of the living area and into the hall, walking a little ways away from the festivities and commotion. 

“What did you wanna tell me?” you ask.

“You’re really cool, y’know?” he says after a beat of silence. “Like you’re always helping me and explaining things when I don’t get them and saving my ass from getting yelled at. I meant it when I said you’re awesome.”

Your eyes and lips raise into a small smile. “That’s really sweet, Daisuke. You’ve been great too, always keeping our spirits up. You’re wonderful.” 

He beams, happily accepting your praise. You look him in the eye, anticipating whatever he might say next.

“But there is something I wanted to tell you.” Daisuke raises his hands out of his pockets hesitantly, his palms up. “Can you hold my hands first? I think it would help right now.”

Your eyes widen slightly in pleasant surprise, and you place your hands in his with a comforting grasp. “What’s up?”

“I’ve liked you, like, like-liked you for a while. Like, ever-since-we-started-working-together a while. So I was wondering maybe possibly if you wanted to, you could be my date? Like I was saying earlier?” He blurts out the words, nervous for your response.

It’s unglamorous - but it’s sincere and heartfelt and so perfectly him that you can’t help but break out into giddy laughter.

“Don’t laugh at me, that was hard!” Daisuke scolds in mock-frustration. 

Your amusement dies down and you sigh contentedly, his eyes meeting yours.

“Yes, I’d love to be your date.”

Daisuke wasn’t sure when he’d hear the end of it. Maybe asking every other person on board for advice wasn’t worth the relentless teasing that would follow. But, he was sure it was worth it for his first proper New Year’s kiss, and for the life you would lead together back home.

[deadhands69]

I Never Told You What I Do For A Living

Hitoshi Shinso x Reader

Hurt/Comfort ☔ >>☁️ From the First Five Ask game Hurt to comfort but it got a little weird. Sorry. I’ll do more Shinso in the future! Request from anon, thank you!! Who would have thought your boyfriend’s secret hero identity being outed would be a good thing?

It's so sisyphean. 

You’ve been with Hitoshi Shinso for years, but you still have no idea what he does for a living. He leaves every evening before the sun goes down and comes home late every night, sometimes covered in blood. 

Usually, it’s not his.

Usually, you don’t ask.

You just expect it. Running stacks of washcloths under warm water to clean him up every night. Tending to his wounds and reassuring him that it’s fine. 

But it’s not fine. 

Your heart breaks every time you have to look into his eyes and see the pain of whatever he’s been through. Knowing, he’ll never be able to tell you like you’ve asked, begged him to in the past. 

All he’ll tell you is: it’s nothing immoral, nothing illegal.

You spend all night wondering how anyone could even get close to him with his quirk. What he could possibly be doing. And what kind of life you’ll have with someone who clearly has a separate life they could never share with you. Just when you start to fall asleep, the alarm goes off. The bags under your eyes can easily compete with his at this point.

And then you drag yourself out of bed and do it all again the next day.

This repeats night after night after night, like it always has.

Until it doesn’t.

And he doesn’t come home. 

Or answer his phone.

The sun is beginning to peek through the blinds in your shared apartment when, finally, your phone buzzes. You answer hopefully but your heart immediately drops. 

It’s the hospital. Something about taking him in for surgery. You vaguely hear the words ‘fractures’, ‘contusion’, and ‘lucky’ but you’re barely able to listen at this point. Everything is a whirlwind. You throw on your jacket and rush out the door still in your house slippers. 

Only to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The TV bolted to the wall overhead flashes through recent news. Weather. More news. It’s all quite repetitive until a new story is thrown into the mix.

“BREAKING” the headline flashes, “unranked secret hero hospitalized after identity leaked.” You don’t need to listen to the rest of the story to know who they’re talking about.

Eventually, you’re joined by a tall dark haired man in the waiting room. You’ve never met him, but he knows you by name. Without much introduction, he jumps into the details. 

 How they’re moving him to other missions. How they should have been more careful and he’s so sorry for the pain he’s caused you both. An hour ago, you didn’t know anything about your boyfriend’s life, now you’re overwhelmed with it. The man sitting in the uncomfortable chair across from you continues speaking with the assumption someone had already contacted you before this. He apologizes again.  

It should come as some small relief to hear the man speak about their missions. Knowing the significance of the cycle you’d been in, what he’s done to help people. You should feel relieved that he’s always had someone there to talk to. That he’ll never have to hide anything from you again. It’s not over yet though.

Hitoshi should be the one to tell you these things. 

“Excuse me,” you mumble to who you’ve assumed to be his sensei. He nods.

The nurses station is busy, but as soon as they see you, you’re informed they were about to bring you back. As you follow their footsteps, you worry what state he’ll be in. Wishing you’d listened more to the phone call. Asked more questions while you were in the waiting room. After years of cleaning his wounds, you were used to it on some level but this is different.

“He’s just waking up, I’ll give you some time before letting anyone else in.”

“Thanks,” you mumble, tapping open the door to the dark room.

He doesn’t look much worse than you’ve seen him. The IV and stitches are new, but he’s awake. He smiles when you enter and you’re not sure if it’s the morphine or if he’s actually happy but you’ll take it either way.

Sitting on his bedside, he leans into your arm. 

“I have so much to tell you later,” he murmurs sleepily before closing his eyes.

It’s over.

And it’s going to be okay.

masterlist

Vampire vibes! I almost ran with it but it got realllllly not comfort ending really fast so I bailed.

[ledesaid]

I saw this in a post from the Cap community and thought: okay, let's do it!

AU? Billy Batson Speedster.

Fawcett City has been destroyed by a villain unknown to the locals. "Two lightning bolts had struck everything!"

They don't know what's happening, but every survivor was displaced across the country. Among them is a child: Billy Batson. Small, barely eight years old, along with a large number of children who have lost their parents, waiting to find a new place in the world.

Bureaucracy does its thing and five children are sent to Central City.

Billy isn't very lucky and is the last child waiting at the police station. He knows he shouldn't go away, a social worker is going to come for him. But he doesn't want to go with her. Not again. The last time... The last time ended in a very cold place.

So with all the chaos, it is very easy for him to slide through the station with great care due to his size, and really, when you have everyone fussing around dealing with their own problems, they weren't going to interfere with yours.

He jumps out of a window and it doesn't end as he expects.

A blond man has caught him. Billy doesn't know what to do exactly, so he does what that little voice in his head tells him:

"Run, Billy, run!"

And he does. He runs and runs. He leaves behind the buildings, soon the city, and when he realizes it, he is about to reach a big forest.

But two arms prevent him from continuing to run. The smaller boy bites the stranger. There's a scream and it's not Billy's.

Billy unfortunately falls because of an exposed root as he resumes running.

And he sees it.

And he hears it.

"Kid... calm down. I'm... I'm a hero... see?"

Billy focuses on the colors. Red and yellow. A yellow lightning bolt.

"You're Flash."

A declaration.

And the guy doesn't look very heroic, he actually seems very sad and neglected.

Billy extends a hand.

Flash takes it.

"Billy Batson, thanks for saving me."

The man starts to cry.

"A woman on the bus wanted to tell you that she doesn't blame you for what happened. I don't know her name, but she really wanted to tell you that. Thanks for coming back."

And there he was. A small boy who had received a few divine gifts. A speedster who needs to heal. A need to put Billy in safe hands. Barry Allen becoming a foster father. A little hero "Red Mercury" in Central City and a future surprise for Flash when he sees that the little one can do more than run with the Speedforce.

-----

[rey-jake-therapist]

Crazy thought maybe, but what if finals 'Glambrand' was a foreshadowing of the look that Sauron will have in season 3? 👀

I know most of TROP fans want Sauron to create another persona and to have another change of look. It wouldn't make sense for him to remain Annatar to meet the "kings of men" who will take the Nine rings of power, so he'll probably turn into a man again. But as much as I'd like to see Sauron with red hair from a purely esthetic point of view, TROP-canon wise I don't really see why he would bother transforming again, while a connection has already been established between him, the ex Southlands now Mordor, and Numenor...

I just don't believe that the "king of the Southlands" plot was created only for the sake of showing Sauron deceiving Galadriel tbh. I also don't think that Sauron asked Adar to "let his people go" only to deceive him into thinking he was just a good king who cared for his people. I still believe he had another agenda, like reminding the Southlanders that he was still alive, and making them root for him.

I mean, imho he influenced Adar into releasing them. Adar's first reaction to Halbrand!Sauron's proposal was "I will torture you until you tell me everything I want to hear and beg me to kill you", basically. Adar had no intention of freeing these people, he didn't take this little man seriously.

But finally, what happened? Adar didn't even try to torture Halbrand!Sauron (I don't think we can count Waldreg's pathetic power trips as 'torture', and it wasn't done on Adar's orders), he went straight to him and told him his people were free. What changed, if not that Sauron messed with Adar's mind and influenced him into doing what he wanted? Like he did through all season 2: until he wore Nenya, Adar was doing Sauron's bidding without being aware of it.

Between the scene where Waldreg mistreats Sauron for fun (which is hilarious considering that his goal always had been to serve Sauron, not Adar uh uh) and the scene where Adar visits Halbrand!Sauron, we see Adar filmed from behind, standing and hearing Waldreg beating him up, apparently deep in his thoughts. I think Sauron felt/saw his presence outside and established a connection with him.

Let's not forget what Gil-Galad told Galadriel in the following episode: "once the Deceiver obtains a being's trust, he gains the ability to sculpt their very thoughts. To deceive not only their heart and mind, but their eyes and ears. To alter their very reality. You have already been affected once." (a foreshadowing for a struggle that we didn't see Galadriel face yet, by the way. Sauron didn't try to do that to her at any point during season 2, not even during the finals). Adar was already affected by Sauron as well, the connection they have is undeniable.

And why would Sauron want Adar's slaves to be freed? There's no way he genuinely cares for these people, hence why I suspect it was part of a larger plan...

As Halbrand, Sauron's already considered as "king of the Southlands": he's just got one more extra step to claim himself as "King of Men", after distributing the Nine rings of power like candies to the "good people" of his choice (men he can easily corrupt), which would connect TROP with the lore.

"[...] and [Sauron] had taken now the title of King of Men [...]" —The Silmarillion, Akallabêth"

It will piss off Ar-Pharazon, who will sail to Mordor with his armies, seemingly capture Sauron and take him to Numenor as a 'prisoner'. Sauron being the sneaky little shit he is, he will of course turn the tide in his favor. That won't happen before the end of season 3 or early season 4, imho.

Master and god of most of the Men in Middle-earth in the Second Age,[1] Sauron styled himself as "King of Men",[2] encouraging a cult of fear and worship among his subjects.[3] Later, Ar-Pharazôn arose seeking to supplant Sauron as ruler of all Men, After seemingly humbling Sauron, Ar-Pharazôn claimed the mantle of "King of Men" upon returning to Númenor, though in truth "Sauron ruled all from behind the throne". Ar-Pharazôn continued to formally hold onto the title until his fall.[2]

Why wouldn't he take another form to do all that? To me the real question is, "why would he?"... Because in the lore, it's said he has a new appearance and calls himself by other names? It's a fair point, no doubt, but TROP has established its own canon. There's no 'Halbrand' in the books; Sauron was never crowned "king of the Southlans", and he probably never met Galadriel before he went to Eregion. And he of course didn't get access to Celebrimbor thanks to her either. That's why I'm not convinced that they'll follow the book lore in this regard, while they have this Halbrand personal who already established a connection with Ar Pharazon (who knows he's Sauron thanks to the Palantir).

If I suggested at the beginning of this post that he could go back as Glambrand and not just as Halbrand, it's because in the books he's described as "wise and fair", when he claims himself "king of Men". Halbrand didn't look "wise", but I think Glambrand could do the trick.

This if of course pure speculation from my part. Feel free to bring another point of view!

[qin-qin16]

Murder Time Trio as a poly... or something else

NOTE: This was supposed to be a relationship chart, but I couldn't find any that I liked, and I got frustrated trying to make one, SO I decided to do it in the form of text and headcanons and is slighty ooc because i can’t write them realistic, its against my policy

Before I elaborate on my thoughts about Murder Time Trio poly, I will present to you a summary of the BACKGROUND that I will use for my upcoming discussions about this trio.

In this post I share a bit about that thought and there is this au created by @what-have-i-unleashed named Mermaid Bunny AU, you can find it on their pinned post (is focused on kist in some parts, read the warnings before reading!)

However, since that post I made was more focused on Killer, I will also comment on the other parts of this relationship below!!

NOTE²: To avoid confusion, the first Killer will be called Kei (as a way to start fresh, he chose to abandon the name given to him after his code was altered), while the second Killer will simply be called Killer, as he has neither the desire nor the order to change the title given to him – a title his best friend, his partner, gave him. That being said, let’s move on to their background

HORROR'S ARRIVAL

Horror was the second to arrive, dragged by the slimy tentacles against his will – Kei vaguely remembers hearing his screams calling for someone, spitting threats at Nightmare as if he had no fear for his own life. He didn’t even notice his soul subtly writhing when Nightmare did nothing but toss the skeleton at his feet. "Show him his new home." Those were the orders he heard, and not even a minute later, they were already walking through the abandoned place (whatever it was, the hallways were too long to be considered part of a house, and the rooms were dark enough to make Horror question the things he saw inside them).

It wasn't for lack of trying that their almost-friendship was created – as fragile as a thin twig. Kei had been ordered to teach Horror everything he knew: what Nightmare liked to hear when they returned from missions, how to act when spotted by any resident of the universe they were exploring, what not to do when the hallways of their home (Kei called that dreadful place home, even though it was worse than the hell Horror said Snowdin was) seemed to grow darker and darker, how to ignore the torn and moldy paintings when they appeared to move in the shadows… Everything Kei had learned, he passed on to Horror, but like a mule being whipped to carry its load, Horror would always stall at the most important moments.

Like the time he screamed to go back home, for Nightmare to throw him back into the deep hole that was his past problems. Kei never heard Horror mention his old home again after that night – at least, not while Horror was conscious; only on nights when he finally fell asleep, so light that even the faintest sound would bring that red orb back to life. Of course, Kei knew this – who else but him would keep an eye on his copy to make sure he didn’t try anything stupid? He had to check and act as the loyal right-hand man he was. It wasn’t as if Horror was the only somewhat safe company for him there, no – he couldn’t allow himself to get attached to someone that he would abandon at the first chance he gets.

But Kei could be a little selfish, couldn’t he? Horror was selfish too when he claimed the least uncomfortable bed would be his when they were traveling, or when he shrugged whenever Kei questioned the disappearance of some witnesses who had seen them lurking too close to AUs near the Omega Timeline. Or when Horror got too close to his body on freezing nights, trembling after hours of walking through the thick snow surrounding their home. “This thing is warm.” He pointed at the circle in front of Kei's chest, seeming to hesitate – or not wanting – to call it a soul.

Kei could be selfish if Horror was the one to blame for making it impossible for him to sleep in separate rooms after that.

MURDER'S ARRIVAL

Horror never thought that a third member would be added to the chaotic and dysfunctional duo that was him and Kei. From what he could hear through the poorly closed and fallen door of the room where Kei and Nightmare often argued about their performance, the boss (even though Horror would never call him that) never mentioned anything about adding another screw-up monster like them to the group.

But it wasn't as if Nightmare cared about their opinion on anything, or even cared about their existence - as long as they stayed alive, that was enough.

Murder's entrance was so different from his, so much more... silent. No sudden movements, no explosion of LV, nothing but incomprehensible murmurs beneath that dark hood. If Horror thought Kei was unpredictable and full of weird traits, Murder had just stolen his place. It wasn't as if Horror was a healthy or sane person either, but Murder was an extreme even for him: clothes covered in monster dust, eyes — when lit — always twitching, looking side to side as if others were in the room besides the three of them.

And it was agonizing to see someone so similar to his former self — when there was no danger around them, or when Murder seemed to finally relax those pale bones, those two little lights would glow in white, in a nostalgic way. Horror didn’t like that feeling. Kei was another one who seemed out of place with Murder’s addition to their little group.

“You’re real…” he murmured between laughs — an almost undistorted reflection of himself.

It was hard to adapt Murder into their already chaotic and unpredictable routine, almost like caging an euphoric animal alongside two others already in captivity — the rare calm of before was quickly torn apart by Murder's trembling and impatient presence. As sadistic as the last one, Kei once commented, referring to Horror, who just scoffed and mumbled something like "don’t compare me to that..." It wasn’t a good start between them, definitely.

And no matter how much Horror tried to deny it and even fight with himself, he wasn’t so different from the other two. Nightmare’s motivation in handpicking each of them was clear — it almost had a bitter kind of charm to it, if it weren’t so inconvenient. At least he and Murder seemed to want to be as far away as possible from there, but Kei? Why was he so loyal to that demon?

Horror never knew Kei’s deep desire to escape that hell, to crush Nightmare’s rotten soul underfoot like an insignificant insect. At least, Kei never confessed it to them specifically. No, no.

"As if I care who you talk to outside of work..." Horror once huffed, sounding strangely genuine. "If you want to chat with that rainbow skeleton, that's your problem, don't drag us into your issues, capiche?" And so Kei did.

Part two is on their way~

[stars4noah]

HALLEY'S COMET- three.

{WARNINGS}: swearing, drinking, allusions to depression, reader and noah making up yayyyy 🥳🥳

w.c- 2,898

a.n- if you guys couldn't tell by now, this story has kinda turned from being inspired by only halley's comet to being inspired by the entire album! go listen to happier than ever by billie eilish. the album. not the song.

enjoy! <3

{TAGLIST}: @lacy1986 @collisionofyourkissmakesitsohard @chey-h @rumoured-whispers @oobleoob

if you would like to be added to the taglist, please comment!

i haven't slept since sunday. midnight for me is three a.m. for you.

three more weeks passed since everything happened. the next day, noah tried to come back. i told him to stay away. forever. i promised him that i would be just fine without him, that i didn't need him to prove to me that he was something he didn't want to be. because i was so convinced he didn't want to be better. he just wanted his photographer back.

i started working at a local coffee shop, the spark in my eyes that was once consistent now gone. i didn't have that kind voice that everyone grew to love. i didn't put any effort into my appearance. i just threw my hair into a ponytail and moved on.

a lot of the time, i was glad i lived alone. i could fall back into old habits without being scolded. like drinking, for example. it was the only way i knew how to handle my feelings. which wasn't working very well.

but you're all it takes for me to break a promise.

i knew the next time i saw his face i would break. i would run back. i would stay. spending years with somebody who you're secretly in love with will do that to a person. so i made it my goal to purposefully ignore him.

every time i would go home, i would scroll mindlessly on my phone. i found out that noah canceled the rest of the tour. mental health reasons, or whatever. i rolled my eyes, turning off my phone and cracking open yet another bottle of liquor, feeling the familiar burn go down my throat that i've grown accustomed to. i walked around my apartment mindlessly, humming some unfamiliar tune to myself.

these past few weeks, music has been my number one savior. aside from alcohol.

NOAH'S POV.

these weeks without her proved to be difficult. having fallen into a depression after alyssa and i broke up, [y/n] leaving only made it worse. i sat in my room, staring at the door. sometimes i would pray that she would walk through. surprise me and say it was all just a cruel prank.

countless bottles of hennessy sat in front of my bed. that was all i had been doing. drinking and working out and writing to ease away the pain.

"but nevertheless, i'm fucking depressed. i hide it with sex, and drink till it's fatal." i murmured to myself, taking another sip from the bottle before letting it clatter to the ground, snatching my pen and paper from my desk.

when i went through things like this, i always liked to write down my thoughts. some of those thoughts ended up in songs. and since we were in the middle of writing a new album, this was perfect.

there was a knock at the door and i grumbled a greeting, my eyes never leaving the paper. a couple seconds later, jolly walked in.

"christ, man, you look like hell."

i hummed, continuing to write as he sat in front of me.

"look, i know you're struggling. because of-"

i knew exactly who he was talking about. i didn't want to hear her name. she hurt me enough. "don't say her name."

jolly sighed. "because of her. but dude, we're worried. you know none of it was your fault, right? she was stupid to do that to you."

i scoffed. "she said it herself, jolly. 'he's richer, hotter, and bigger'" i scowled, repeating her words that she had said to me that night. some part of me regretted walking out of that door. i loved her. for years. and i had grown used to loving her. she was all that i had. she was what made me what i am. she was right, really. i would be nothing without her.

"you're doing it again." he said. at this point, i had stopped writing, staring off into space. "doing what?"

"that thing you do when you get all into your head. blaming yourself for everything. how many times do i have to tell you it's not your fault for you to get it in your head, man?" he said, sternly but gently.

i rolled my eyes. "you're wrong."

"how?"

"because i loved her, jolly. i fucking loved her, and i screwed it all up because i can never do anything right. i'll never be good enough. for myself, or anybody."

i buried my face in my hands, sobs racking my body once more. i never liked to be this vulnerable with anybody, even my closest friends. but honestly? i didn't give a fuck anymore. let them see.

"i know man. i know." he said, rubbing his hand over my back in an attempt to sooth me.

it pained jolly to see me like this. i knew that. but it was better to tell people of my thoughts than to keep it bottled up inside, right?

READERS POV.

i was making that damn song all the way till the early morning. i didn't even realize how late it had gotten until i woke up to my alarm. i had fallen asleep at my desk, my computer still running and everything. i didn't have work today, so that left me plenty of time to do whatever the hell i wanted.

months passed. months without seeing or talking to him. i would occasionally text the others, but i wouldn't dare send him a single text. i caught up a bit with folio and jolly, telling them about my ongoing journey with music. i still pursued photography as a side hustle, but my main focus was getting this song perfect.

it was almost done. almost ready to be released. maybe as an album? no, i can't get too carried away. music isn't for me. but as i listened to the song and made sure everything was right, my feelings began to change.

"i don't want it, and i don't want to want you. but in my dreams, i seem to be more honest. and i must admit, you've been in quite a few."

it wasn't a lie. he had began to show up more often in my dreams. not as nightmares, but as something that we could've been.

"Halley's Comet comes around more than i do. but you're all it takes for me to break a promise. silly me to fall in love with you."

that promise. that stupid promise.

"[y/n], please. let me explain-"

"no, noah! i don't care about your shitty explanations and your shitty behavior and your stupid face! i promise, i'll be just fine without you. leave me alone!"

"i haven't slept since sunday. mdnight for me is 3:00 a.m. for you. but my sleepless nights are better with you than nights could ever be alone, ooh-ooh-ooh. i was good at feeling nothing, now i'm hopeless. what a drag to love you like i do, ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh."

it wasn't entirely a lie. when i imagined him in the bed next to me, it felt like i could sleep better. when i pretended everything was okay, everything felt lighter. the weight on my shoulders seemed to momentarily disappear, only to crash back down when i realized it was all just a fantasy.

"ooh-ooh-ooh, ooh, ooh-ooh, ooh. i've been loved before, but right now in this moment i feel more and more like i was made for you. for you. i'm sitting in my brother's room. haven't slept in a week or two, or two. i think i might have fallen in love. what am i to do?"

as the song ended, i found myself picking up my phone, going to his contact. i laughed softly to myself as i saw the contact. it was still the same. when everything was nice. when i wasn't all alone. i decided to jump the gun, shooting him a text.

i breathed out a sigh of relief. maybe he didn't hate me as much as i thought. i immediately thought back to the time i took it. when things were better. happier.

"come on! put it on!" i laughed, holding out the little plastic tiara to him. we had gone to disney world for a summer vacation, and i won a tiara from one of the game booths.

"i'm not putting that on." he said, his arms folded across his chest.

i pouted, looking up at him with those puppy dog eyes i knew he couldn't resist until he groaned, snatching the tiara from my hands and putting it on his head. despite his previously grumpy demeanor, he still wore a smile when i took the pictures.

i missed that.

the moment i saw him walk through those doors, it was like everything hit me all at once. he looked terrible. i did too, but definitely better in comparison.

"hi." i said softly.

"hi." he said back, sitting down in front of me with his hands in the pockets of his sweats.

i bit my lip as we sat in an awkward silence for a moment before i spoke.

"noah, i-"

"[y/n]-"

i couldn't help but smile softly as we spoke at the same time.

"you first." he said.

i took a deep breath, mentally preparing myself. "i know you've been through a lot, noah. and i should've taken that into consideration when i said all that shit. honestly, i haven't been doing too well myself, if you couldn't tell." i said, gesturing to myself.

"it sounds stupid as fuck, but it feels like theres this void in my chest that's just been so empty since i left. i miss you guys. i miss the band." i said.

he sensed there was something more. "but...?"

"but," i began. "i can't come back as the photographer. after i've recovered somewhat from everything, i realized photography isn't for me. i was to pursue something bigger."

"like?"

"music."

he raised his eyebrows. "you want to become a musician?"

"i know, it sounds absurd and like a child's dream, but i really think-"

"no, [y/n] that's fucking amazing." he said with a small laugh, leaning forward. i smiled slightly. there was that smile i missed.

"yeah?"

"yeah. i mean, i've only heard you sing a handful of times, but you're great. you're gonna make it big, trust me." he said.

my heart warmed at his words. "thank you." i said.

"look, [y/n], i'll be the first to admit how much of a douche i was to you. i've had time to think about it. to get over it and stop wallowing in self-pity. and i'm really sorry. i'm kinda shocked you didn't quit sooner, honestly. but, if you'd like, we could start fresh. you don't have to come back to the band, but we can hang out and shit. maybe i can help you with your music."

his words only made my smile brighten. "yeah, i'd like that. a lot. thank you."

"of course, princess."

after our little friend date, we went to his studio to work on some things. he showed me how different things worked and helped me on writing a song that i had been thinking about.

i bit my lip, jotting down a few lyrics in my notebook as he watched.

i don't really wanna know why you went there. i kinda don't care. you want to kill me? you want to hurt me? stop being flirty. it's kinda working.

i hummed a soft tune to myself as i read the lyrics, trying to figure out what would work right.

did you really think this is the right thing to do? is it news? news to who? that i really looked just like the rest of you.

noah snapped me out of my continuous thoughts, turning back to the computer. "i've been working on stuff, too." he said.

"yeah?"

he hummed in response, pulling up a file full of different songs. "pick one." he said, leaning back.

i bit my lip in thought before clicking on the one titled The Grey.

"evened the scores, then i let it all go fall apart. and every step forward put a little more sword in your heart, yeah. looking sideways when i say i'm okay with the past. but i'm afraid of what i might say if you ask."

i leaned back in my chair as i listened to the lyrics, knowing that this song could be about one of two people. me, or alyssa.

"gave you way too many chances, you ran through them all. got everything i could want but it wasn't enough. nobody left for me to talk to, nobody to call. got everything i could want but i still wanted more. yeah, i still wanted more."

the pure emotion in his voice was enough to make my heart break into pieces and clarify who it was about. i knew after what happened with her, he was broken. and this song was only proof.

"there's not another way, don't let me go. don't dig another grave today. i'll make the same mistakes, i'll never know who i was before i faded away into the grey."

the recording stopped, and my eyes darted from the screen to his face. "that's all i have right now." he said. "we have more sessions later this week to finish it."

i gulped. "noah..."

he looked at me and raised a brow. "what?"

"that was fucking beautiful."

i almost felt like i was going to cry. i always loved his voice, but that was on a whole other level. usually he was screaming. he never had those soft vocals like what i just heard.

he smiled softly. "thanks. now get in there."

i blinked, shaking my head. "sorry, what?"

"go on. get in the booth. i want to hear you sing this. we can figure something out."

"noah, i-" "don't argue. go."

i sighed, getting up and heading into the recording booth. maybe it would be okay. i wouldn't fuck it up. i put on the headphones, looking back up at him through the glass. "which one?" i asked.

he hummed, looking through the notebook i had left on the desk.

"what about my future? start it off strong."

i nodded, mentally preparing myself for whatever the hell was about to happen.

"i can't seem to focus, and you don't seem to notice i'm not here. i'm just a mirror. you check your complexion to find your reflection's all alone. i had to go. can't you hear me? i'm not coming home. do you understand? i've changed my plans. cause i, i'm in love with my future. and i, i'm in love. but not with anybody else. just wanna get to know myself."

it really was a beautiful song. and it was me putting all of my feelings on the line. the lyrics didn't have a deeper meaning to them like noah's often did. their meaning was just laid flat out. i changed my plans for the future, and i'm waiting to sort things out with myself before falling in love again.

"i know supposedly i'm lonely now. know i'm supposed to be unhappy without someone. but aren't i someone? i'd like to be your answer. cause you're so handsome. but i know better than to drive you home. cause you'd invite me in, and i'd be yours again."

the lyrics seemed to flow freely as i sang, my eyes closed and hands moving in random directions. i didn't even notice him staring.

"but i, i'm in love. with my future. and you don't know her, mm. and i, i'm in love. but not with anybody here. i'll see you in a couple years."

i opened my eyes and looked at noah, noticing how his mouth was slightly open. i laughed. "don't start drooling."

he shook himself out of his thoughts. "sorry, that was just. really fucking good. you're a natural, princess. i'm jealous." he said.

i rolled my eyes, stepping out of the booth.

"great, now let's work out a tune."

we spent hours and hours fixing up the song, getting carried away in our musical abilities. last time i checked, it was around 2 am. i didn't want to go home, so i suggested we took a little break and watched a movie or something. he nodded and we sat on the couch, turning on the tv (of course he turned on naruto). my head ended up lulling to the side, landing on his shoulder as i slowly fell asleep. the last thing my brain registered before falling into dreamland was the soft kiss on my forehead and his soft words.

"goodnight, princess."

his lips against mine felt like heaven. it felt like my whole life was complete when i kissed him, when i felt him. he felt like home. something i hadn't known in a long time. i pulled away, breathing slightly heavy as i looked into his chocolate brown eyes.

"noah.." i whispered.

he smiled softly and hummed.

"i fucking love you."

"mm.. [y/n]." he mumbled against my lips.

"princess."

"[Y/N]!"

[dixonsbrat]

𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐚 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩 — send in any character from my masterlist + a prompt from one of the lists ( fluff , angst , smut ) for a blurb.

❛ i don’t think i’ve ever seen you smile. ❜ with babygirl daryl dixon <33

── .✦  𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐒𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄 ┆ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧

𝐢𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 ; you see daryl smile for the first time in a while.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ; daryl dixon x reader , alexandria era, just lots of fluff.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 ; 1.5k .ᐟ

𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ; this was only supposed to be a lil blurb but i got carried away writing for my scrumdidlyumpcious mans *sighs dreamily*

you were sitting alone on the front porch as the rest of alexandria slept soundlessly around you. the air was warm against your skin with only the slightest breeze. it was the perfect night to sit under the stars and just let yourself breathe for once.

though, the small moment of peace is interrupted when you hear footsteps coming up behind you. they were soft against the wood, yet making it creak beneath them, and you don’t need to turn to know who it was.

daryl slowly sat down beside you, sinking onto the step you were on, and leaning his head against the pillar behind him. he looked tired, more tired than usual. dark circles encapsulated his otherwise icy blue eyes, and there was a slumpiness to his shoulders.

"can't sleep?" you tilt your head to the side slightly, turning so that you too were leaning against a pillar now and facing him onward.

“nah,” he murmured, his drawl thick and heavy with exhaustion. it was clear that something was weighing down on him. perhaps the same thing that had even been disrupting his sleep.

you give it a moment to see if he would tell you what was wrong on his own accord, but this was daryl, and he wasn't one to talk about his feelings or express his troubles without prompting. he rarely spoke much anymore as it was, not compared to how he used to anyway.

watching as his gaze pans off to your surroundings, taking in the other houses along the street and the trees that were rustling in the wind, you can’t help but wonder what’s got him so stuck in his head. there was a clear distance in his eyes that you had only ever seen a few times before, but there was no telling what could be the cause of it.

eventually, you gently nudge his leg with your foot to get his attention, "what’s going on in that big ole head'o yours? and don't tell me it’s 'nothing'."

daryl’s eyes flickered towards you as you nudged his leg, as if being pulled back to reality for a brief moment. he looked away again, the darkness outside seeming to be easier to focus on than actually having to talk. he knew it was only because you cared and he, of course, didn’t want to worry you. you already worried about him enough as it was.

“it’s just…” he begins after a few moments, but stops, shaking his head. it was clear by the tension in his jaw that he was really bothered by whatever it was.

"hey, you can talk to me." you say, offering him solace for his thoughts.

he glances over at you, seeing the genuine concern in your eyes. he knew he wouldn’t be able to avoid telling you, not when he knew how stubborn you could be and that you probably wouldn’t leave him alone until he gave you some sort of an explanation. he takes a deep breath, trying to gather his thoughts into words before responding.

“it’s just… it’s been a lot,” he finally mutters, his voice low and gruff in the air.

you sit forward now, no longer leaning on the pillar behind you as you rest your hands in your lap, "what has?"

he rubs a hand over his face, frustrated, though not at you. never at you. his shoulders slump a bit more and it makes him look even more exhausted. “everything,” he answers after a short pause, the word simple enough, but you knew well enough that he wasn’t talking about just his tired state. he shakes his head, looking back out towards the small settlement, not really focusing on anything in particular. “jus’ feelin’ a bit… weighed down lately. i guess.”

you nod along softly as he speaks, taking in his words and letting him know that you were listening, "is there anything i can do to help?"

he can’t help but feel a swell of warmth in his chest as you offer your assistance. you always cared so much, cared about him. it made his heart feel full for the first time in a while. but he was stubborn, and even now it was difficult for him to admit that he needed support sometimes. the feeling of being a burden loomed over him constantly as that’s what he was accused of being growing up.

he shook his head slightly, still not looking at you, though a small part of him wanted to. “you do enough,” he mumbled.

“daryl, i’m serious. what can i do to help?” you move forward on the step a little, your knees hitting his now. “do you want me to take up some of your runs? will that help make you feel better?”

his brow furrows as you press the question again, his jaw tensing. he felt stuck between letting you help and being his stubborn self that tried to push everything away. though hearing you offer to take up some of his runs, a part of him considered accepting, which surprised even himself.

he was silent for a moment before speaking again in a hushed, gruff voice, the words almost being strained from his mouth, “i don’t… i don’t wanna ask things of you.”

“don’t be silly. i care about you, and i don’t want to see you run yourself into the ground.” you place a hand on his knee and give it a little squeeze. you hated how stubborn he could be, how he always pushed away the help that he clearly so desperately needed. “you do that and then who else am i going to annoy, huh?”

daryl stiffens a bit at the touch of your hand on his knee. it’s unexpected and he could feel the warmth through his jeans. he knew you wanted to help him and he knew you cared, but he was too used to being self-sufficient. yet, there was something about you, something that made him want to let his guard down and accept you. to allow your kindness to seep through the many walls that he’d built over the years.

so, after a short pause, he lets out an exhausted sigh and the faintest smile graces his lips, “mhm, cause i’m the only one that puts up with ya.”

"okay, wow. rude." you scoff a laughter, and shove his knee with the hand that was still on it. you let out a small sigh after a moment, before meeting daryl’s gaze once more. you don’t say anything, not for a second, you just wanted to take him in. "y'know, i don't think i've ever seen you smile. not like that anyway.”

he was surprised when you shoved his knee, more surprised by the fact that he didn’t expect to enjoy it. he lets out a small huff of a laugh at your reaction. though, the moment is short lived when you mention his smile and it quickly fades, the tension from earlier returning to his jaw.

“yeah, well, i ain’t much of a smilin’ kinda guy,” he says, shrugging his shoulders as if it was nothing.

you let your gaze fall to your lap, your fingers idly playing with a loose thread on your pants. “maybe you should be. you have a nice smile,” you shrug, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks immediately.

daryl’s heart suddenly seems to jump inside his chest at your comment, the words catching him off guard. no one had ever said that he had a nice smile before. though, coming from you, it seemed to hit him hard in a way that he had never felt before.

the smallest touch of pink spreads across his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he glances to the side, avoiding your gaze as you look back up at him. “shut up,” he mumbled under his breath, the words without any malice just more embarrassed than anything.

“i’m being serious. i like your smile,’ you admit, causing not only yours, but daryl’s heart to race even more.

the honesty in your statement causes him to look back at you, his heart slamming against his chest. the sight of how sincere you are causes his stomach to twist and yet, he feels as if he could melt into the wooden steps beneath him.

“… shut up,” he says again, though it’s said with less embarrassment and more just overwhelmed feelings, and the faintest hint of a smile returns to his lips.

you just shake your head, and roll your eyes, at his reaction. he was so cute whenever he got flustered, and you enjoyed the fact of knowing you were the one that had caused it. though, you decide not to push him any further and leave it, letting yourselves enjoy the rest of the quiet before you knew you had to eventually head back inside.