#stale weariness almost?

[itspileofgoodthings]

also it’s interesting because. my family is deeply unsentimental (in a very powerful way) and society is divided into the pretty heartless or the pretty sentimental (generally speaking) and I’m sort of this walking heart wound of emotion trying to straddle these lines (and having a hard time of it!) but one of the things that does guard me from being more sentimental than I am is the secret cruelty and unfairness that lurks at the bottom of all sentimentality.

[thewulf]

Bulletproof Bonds || Aaron Hotchner

Summary: Request - Maybe a husband!Aaron x Long Time BAU!wife and how there’s a new member to the BAU and she keeps trying to flirt with Aaron but he keeps turning her down🥲 but the new member doesn’t know that Aaron and reader are married, and new member just thinks of reader as competition to get with Aaron, eventually leading to reader getting really mad cause new member does something really stupid on a case that leads to reader almost getting seriously injured??... Read Rest Here

A/N: Really loved writing this one. Hope you all enjoy! Thank you for the request @viscade !

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader,

Word Count: 3.1k

TW: Yelling, gunshot (non wounded)

In the bustling chaos of the BAU bullpen, Aaron Hotchner sat at his desk, his brow furrowed in concentration as he sifted through the multitude of case files scattered before him. A usual sight for the unit chief. The harsh fluorescent lights cast stark shadows across his features, accentuating the lines of exhaustion etched into his face by years of chasing monsters in the dark.

You sat by his side, a silent sentinel amidst the whirlwind of activity. Your own workspace dedicated beside him cluttered with documents and crime scene photos. The faint aroma of stale coffee hung in the air as you both delved into the intricate web of clues left behind by the latest serial killer to plague the streets. It was always so easy with him, your husband. The way the two of you were able to bounce ideas off each other was like none seen before.

The tension in the room was palpable, a heavy weight pressing down on everyone present as they grappled with the enormity of the task at hand. Each unsolved case seemed to loom over them like a specter, a constant reminder of the lives lost and the justice yet to be served. Amidst all the usual chaos, Agent Sarah Miller made her presence known. Her arrival heralded by the soft click of her heels against the linoleum floor. She moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, her youthful exuberance a stark contrast to the world-weary countenances of her colleagues. She had no idea what she was getting herself into.

Sarah's eyes lingered on Aaron as she sauntered past his open aired desk, a knowing smirk playing at the corners of her lips. She was young, ambitious, and hungry for success. Her gaze fixed on the formidable figure of the BAU's leader like a moth drawn to a flame.

Despite Aaron's cold indifference, she persisted in her attempts at flirtation, undeterred by his lack of response. Her tactics were shamelessly transparent, her words dripping with false sweetness as she sought to capture his attention. Agent Sarah Miller yet again walked past Aaron's desk, her gaze lingering on him for a moment too long before she turned her attention to you. There was a subtle flicker of annoyance in her eyes as she took in your presence, her lips curling into a barely concealed sneer.

"Hey, Hotch," she purred, leaning against the edge of his desk with practiced ease. "You must be tired of staring at all those files. Why don't you take a break and grab a coffee with me?" Her eyes kept looking back to you in brief flashes to gauge your reaction. You decided early on after her brazen attempts that you would give her none. A layer of disgust masked on top of the doe eyes she was attempting to give your husband was meant for you. She was very forward, you had to give her that one.

Aaron's response was polite but firm, his tone devoid of any warmth. "I'm sorry, Agent Miller, but I have work to do," he replied, his eyes never leaving the papers in front of him.

Undeterred, Sarah flashed him a flirtatious smile, her gaze lingering on him expectantly. "Maybe some other time, then," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness before she finally strolled away.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at her blatant display of interest, the subtle scoff escaping your lips as you returned your focus to the files sprawled across your desk. "Some profiler she is," you muttered under your breath, the sarcasm dripping from your words like venom. It was a small act of defiance, a way to vent the frustration bubbling just beneath the surface as you watched Sarah's failed attempts at seduction.

Your comment earned a small smirk from Aaron, his lips quirking up in amusement as he glanced up from his work. His eyes met yours, a silent acknowledgment passing between you, a shared understanding of the absurdity of the situation. In that fleeting moment, you found solace in the unspoken reassurance that he was not blind to Sarah's antics, nor was he unaffected by them.

As the tension in the room continued to get heavier, you exchanged a knowing glance with Aaron, the unspoken bond between you speaking volumes. It was a silent reminder of the unbreakable connection that bound you together, a tether grounding you amidst the disarray swirling around you. In that moment, you drew strength from the knowledge that no amount of flirtation from the new agent could ever hope to rival the deep-seated love and loyalty that defined your marriage.

But beneath the surface, resentment simmered, fueled by the blatant disrespect for the boundaries of your marriage. Each lingering glance, each flirtatious comment served as a reminder of the fragile line Sarah was treading, unaware of the storm brewing beneath the calm facade. Yet, as frustrating as her antics were, you knew that the true test of your marriage lay not in her misguided advances but in the unwavering trust and devotion you shared with Aaron. A bond that would withstand any challenge thrown your way.

You had to give the girl credit. She certainly didn’t stop. It was not even an hour later that the girl came crawling right back to him. In the dimly lit bullpen of the BAU, the seasoned agents huddled together, their eyes darting furtively around the room as they exchanged knowing glances. Reid, Garcia, Morgan, and Prentiss stood in a tight circle. Their voices hushed as they leaned in conspiratorially.

"So, who's going to crack first?" Garcia whispered, her eyes sparkling mischievously behind her glasses.

Prentiss smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. "My money's on Y/N. She's got that poker face down pat."

Reid nodded in agreement, adjusting his glasses. "And she's got a wicked sense of humor. I don't think she's sweating it."

Just then, Morgan, ever the observant one, interjected with a grin. "You know what, I'm with both of you on this one. Y/N's handling this like a pro. She's probably just waiting for the perfect moment to drop a witty comeback."

The others turned to look at you, noticing your bemused expression as you observed the scene unfolding with a mixture of amusement and annoyance. The new agent, eager to impress, leaned in a little too close to Hotch, her voice dropping to a suggestive whisper. "So, Hotch, any plans for dinner tonight?"

Hotch glanced up from his paperwork, his expression remaining impassive. "Just finishing up some reports, Agent. Nothing planned."

Undeterred, the new agent persisted, fluttering her eyelashes coyly. "Well, if you change your mind, I know this great Italian place down the street."

Hotch merely nodded, returning his attention to the file in front of him. "I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Agent."

Behind his back, the BAU members couldn't contain their laughter, stifling their giggles as they watched the new agent's attempts fall flat. It was clear that Hotch was immune to her charms, his focus unwavering even in the face of relentless flirting.

As Sarah retreated, finally somewhat defeated, the BAU members exchanged triumphant looks, their silent bet settled. Hotch may have been unflappable in the field, but when it came to dodging unwanted advances, he was truly a master of his craft. And you, well, you were just enjoying the show, your amused smile barely masking your annoyance as you watched the scene unfold.

The breaking point came during a particularly intense case, where the unsub's erratic behavior had everyone on edge. You felt the adrenaline coursing through your veins as you moved cautiously through the dimly lit corridors of an abandoned warehouse, every nerve on high alert.

In the heat of the pursuit, Sarah's impulsive decision shattered the fragile equilibrium you had struggled to maintain with your team. Ignoring protocol and disregarding the safety of the team, she charged ahead recklessly, her actions sending shockwaves rippling through your ranks. Bullets flew past you like angry hornets, the deafening roar of gunfire echoing off the walls as chaos descended upon you.

It happened in the blink of an eye, a split-second decision with far-reaching consequences. A bullet sliced through the air like a deadly whisper, its trajectory aimed straight for your chest. But thanks to the protective barrier of your bulletproof vest, the impact was nothing more than a forceful shove, the fabric absorbing the blow with a sickening thud. The impact knocked the wind out of you, pain searing through your body as you stumbled backward, clutching your chest.

As the adrenaline faded and the reality of what could have been sunk in, fury ignited like a wildfire within you. You rounded on Sarah, your voice a crescendo of anger as you unleashed the pent-up frustration that had been building for weeks. Each word was a dagger aimed straight at her heart. Your tone laced with a venomous ferocity that mirrored the intensity of the emotions raging within you.

Coughing up blood, your vision blurred as you struggled to make sense of what had just happened. Anger surged through you like a tidal wave, drowning out the pain as you staggered to your feet. With a primal roar, you lunged at Sarah, grabbing her by the collar with a strength born of desperation.

"What the fuck was that?" you yelled, louder than you ever had before. And certainly not in front of the team. Your voice raw with fury. Each word was a thunderclap, reverberating through the warehouse like a warning shot. "You could have killed me! Or them! Do you even realize what you've done?"

But Sarah's response was a defiant sneer, her gaze unwavering in the face of your righteous indignation. "I did what needed to be done," she spat, her voice laced with arrogance. "I'm not afraid to take risks to get the job done."

The words were like a slap to the face, a cruel reminder of the recklessness that had nearly cost you everything. With all your rage, you shoved her away, your hands trembling with anger as you struggled to contain the tempest raging within you.

"You're a liability," you growled, your voice a low, dangerous whisper. "And if you ever put my life, their lives,” You pointed to Spencer and Emily behind you, “in danger again, I won't hesitate to take you down myself."

As you stood there, trembling with fury and pain, the rest of the team made their way over. You still hasn’t seen Aaron yet but the rest of them looked on in shock and disbelief. Derek surged forward, his strong arms wrapping around you as he pulled you back from the confrontation. "Easy there Y/N," he said, his voice low and soothing as he tried to calm the storm raging within you. "Cool off."

Emily and JJ exchanged worried glances. Finally, Aaron found you after too many moments of losing it in front of everyone. His eyes widened in alarm as he took in the sight of blood staining your lips, his heart clenching with fear at the sight. "What happened?" he demanded. His usually calm voice was laced with urgency as he reached out to gently touch your arm. His fingers trembled against your skin, his touch a comforting anchor in the swirling chaos of the moment.

Still reeling from the confrontation and the shock of narrowly escaping serious injury, Spencer stepped forward, his voice calm but tinged with urgency. "Aaron, Sarah made a nearly fatal mistake," he said, his words cutting through the tension like a knife. "Her impulsive actions endangered everyone on the team, especially Y/N." You were thankful he was willing to step in because you weren’t quite sure if you had the right words.

Aaron's eyes narrowed, his jaw clenching with barely contained fury as he turned his gaze on Sarah. The air around him crackled with palpable anger, his protective instincts kicking into overdrive. "Is this true?" he demanded, his voice cold and steely as he pinned her with a hard stare.

Sarah shifted uncomfortably under his intense scrutiny, her bravado faltering in the face of his unwavering gaze. "I...I was just trying to apprehend the unsub," she stammered, her voice wavering with uncertainty.

But Aaron's patience had worn thin, his temper flaring like a raging inferno. "You made a reckless decision that put the entire team at risk," he snapped, his voice echoing off the walls of the warehouse. "Until you can prove that you're capable of following protocol and putting the safety of your teammates above all else, you will not be back in the field."

The weight of his words hung heavy in the air, a stark reminder of the consequences of her actions. Sarah's expression fell, her defiance crumbling under the weight of his judgment. It was a harsh lesson, but one that she would need to learn if she ever hoped to earn back the trust of her colleagues and prove herself worthy of wearing the badge.

As Aaron turned away, his attention returning to you with a renewed sense of protectiveness, you couldn't help but feel a surge of gratitude for the unwavering support of your team leader and husband. But as you tried to catch your breath, a sudden coughing fit wracked your body, drawing Aaron's attention back to you. Concern flashed across his features, his eyes narrowing with worry as he stepped closer, his hand reaching out to steady you.

"Hey sweetheart," he murmured softly, his voice a gentle caress against your ear as he brushed a strand of hair away from your forehead. "Let's get you checked out, alright?"

You attempted to speak, but the coughing fit continued, leaving you gasping for air. So, you shook your head in protest. You were fine and you knew it, but the damn bullet hit you right in the lung leaving you gasping for air. Aaron's worry deepened, his brow furrowing with concern as he knelt down beside you, his hands hovering anxiously over your shoulders.

"Honey, just breathe," he urged, his voice filled with tenderness as he placed a comforting hand on your back. "We'll get you to the hospital, and they'll take care of you. I promise." It wasn’t usual that he dropped those sweet terms of endearment to you in front of the team, but he couldn’t really care. Not when he could’ve lost you.

Despite your protests, Aaron's determination remained steadfast. With gentle insistence, he scooped you up in his arms, cradling you against his chest with a strength born of love and concern. "You're going to the hospital," he declared, his voice unwavering as he carried you towards his SUV. “I’m not taking no for an answer sweetheart."

As Aaron settled into the driver's seat beside you, his eyes flickered with concern as he stole glances, his hand reaching out to brush against yours in a silent gesture of reassurance. But despite his unwavering determination to get you to the hospital, you couldn't help but feel a stubborn sense of resistance bubbling within you.

"I'm fine, Aaron," you insisted, your tone tinged with frustration as you crossed your arms over your chest. "This is incredibly dramatic. You’ve been hit in your gear too."

Aaron's expression softened at your words, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Maybe I am," he admitted with a chuckle. "I also know what it feels like honey. I’d rather be safe than sorry."

You shot him a playful glare, unable to suppress the teasing smile that danced on your lips. He cared for you, truly. Every inch of himself loved you more deeply than even you could have fathomed. You also knew that love bore stubbornness and there was no talking him out of what he knew he had to do. You were just along for the ride now. "You just can't resist playing the hero, can you?" You spoke up after a moment of silence between the two of you.

Aaron chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he glanced over at you. "Guilty as charged," he replied. "Always remind me never to get on your bad side," Aaron quipped, a lighthearted smile playing on his lips as he attempted to alleviate the tension that hung heavy in the air.

You managed a weak laugh trying your hardest to hide the pain radiating from your chest. However, so grateful for his attempt to lighten the mood. "You looked like you were about to take matters into your own hands back there," he teased gently, his voice laced with affection.

The image of you, ready to throw down with the new agent, brought a genuine laugh bubbling up from deep within you this time. "Well, she did have it coming," you admitted with a mischievous grin. "But I guess I'll let you handle the heroics this time."

As the laughter subsided, Aaron's expression turned more serious, a hint of regret flickering in his eyes. "I'm sorry things got so heated," he said softly, his voice tinged with sincerity. "I should have stepped in sooner. I thought she was harmless. Dealt with her type so many times before." He sighed, running a hand through his hair before finding your hand and lacing his fingers within yours.

You squeezed his hand, a warm smile spreading across your face. "It’s not your fault you’re such a silver fox," Tossing him a wink you couldn’t help but to tease him right on back. It’s how you knew everything was going to be just fine. The two of you had dealt with so much worse and come out even stronger, this would be nothing but a minor blip on your journey together.

Aaron laughed at your playful comment, a warmth spreading in his chest at your familiar banter. "Ah, so you're saying my charm is both a blessing and a curse," he retorted with a grin, his gaze softening as he looked at you.

You nodded, a fond smile playing on your lips. "Something like that," you agreed, feeling a surge of gratitude for the ease with which you could navigate even the toughest moments with Aaron by your side.

As the car glided through the streets towards the hospital, a comfortable silence settled between you, punctuated only by the gentle hum of the engine. Despite the events that had unfolded, you found solace in the quiet intimacy of the moment, knowing that whatever challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. With each passing mile, you felt the weight of the day begin to lift from your shoulders, replaced by a sense of reassurance that only Aaron could provide. His unwavering love and support was everything you needed. He guided you through the darkness, illuminating the path forward with hope and determination.

As you arrived at the hospital and Aaron helped you out of the car, you knew that this was just another chapter in your life together. You couldn't help but feel a profound sense of gratitude for the man beside you, your literal partner in crime, your rock, your everything. Together, you were truly unstoppable.

Aaron Hotchner/Criminal Minds: Permanent Taglist (If you'd like to be added to any or all works please fill out the form here: (Taglist Sign Up) @loving-and-dreaming @kmc1989 @memeorydotcom @matisse556 @buckylov3r @taygrls @ah-blossom @daily-evanstan @hardballoonlove @14buddy22 @rosiahills22 @djs8891 @mrs-ssa-hotch @panandinpain0 @viscade @kreepja @il0vebeingdelulu @hiireadstuff @kajjaka @guacam011y

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[joelsrose]

Dust & Devotion

This was heavily Ethel Cain inspired I listened to Strangers by her on repeat

You lay on the mattress pressed against the worn wooden floor, your fingers tracing the deep cracks in the old boards, feeling each rough edge beneath your touch. The room was small, but in its quiet, it offered refuge from the nightmares lurking beyond these walls. You and Joel had found this place by some stroke of luck, an ancient cottage that felt torn between being a chapel and a farmhouse, unable to settle on either, caught somewhere in between—a sanctuary for the weary.

As you had stepped into the house, a strange kind of stillness fell over you, broken only by the crunch of glass beneath your boots. The walls were lined with worn, faded crosses, their wood splintered and edges chipped as if they’d borne witness to countless silent prayers over the years.

Religious memorabilia dotted the room—small, withered icons coated in dust, a cracked rosary tangled around a rusted nail, and framed portraits of saints, their eyes gazing somewhere far beyond this broken world. Many of the pictures hung askew, their glass frames shattered, jagged edges catching what little light crept through the boarded windows, casting fractured reflections onto the floor.

The hall itself was narrow, and every step brought a quiet symphony of decay—the soft groan of the floorboards, the creak of loose nails. A faint smell of mildew clung to the air, mixed with something old and faintly metallic, as though time itself had grown stale within these walls. You felt almost like an intruder here, disturbing something sacred, though forgotten—a relic of faith left to wither in the shadows.

Joel muttered his usual “Stay here,” his voice low and gruff, a command softened only by the familiarity of it. As always, you waited, lingering in the entryway as he moved further in, his steps deliberate and cautious, each one carrying a quiet vigilance. You watched his broad frame melt into the dim shadows of the room, his shoulders tense, every movement precise.

He scanned each corner, his head tilting just so, eyes narrowing as he checked every possible hiding place. You held your breath without meaning to, a small ritual of your own, waiting for that assurance, that single word that meant safety.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, his voice cut through the silence, firm and unmistakable: “Clear.” Only then did you feel your shoulders relax, the air finally leaving your lungs as you took a tentative step forward, drawn by the quiet relief that came only with his presence.

Now as you lay, you heard the familiar creak of footsteps from downstairs. Joel was moving around, probably hunting for something to sharpen his blade with. You could picture him clearly, brows knit together, that perpetual scowl etched into his face like it was part of him.

More movement followed, his footsteps a steady rhythm, growing louder with each step as he climbed the creaky stairs. You could feel the weight of his approach, the subtle tension that always came when he was near.

When he finally reached your door, he gave a soft knock—a restrained sound, just enough to announce himself without breaking the stillness that lingered in the room. You shifted, pushing yourself up onto your shoulders, back straightening as you awaited him, anticipation pooling in the quiet space between his knock and whatever he might say next.

“Come in.” Your voice barely escaped you, soft and fragile, as it always seemed to be around him.

He pushed the door open just a crack, enough to meet your gaze. “Water’s working,” he said in that low, gravelly tone. “But it’ll only be hot for a minute, so if you’re wantin’ a shower, better take it now.”

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, and he nodded—a silent answer, as usual. Joel had a way of saying more with a tilt of his head than most could with words. You’d come to understand it in the time you’d known him.

You padded softly down the narrow hallway to the single bathroom, a neglected relic from another time. It was grimy and unkempt, the tiles chipped, the porcelain stained from years of disuse. The mirror was fogged with age, and something blackish lurked in the corners of the tub.

Yet, it was water, a rare luxury out here, and that was enough.

You paused, catching sight of yourself in the mirror. How long had it been since you’d seen your reflection so clearly? You tugged off your clothes, frowning as your gaze lingered on the hair on your legs—a trivial thing, but somehow, since Joel, it felt like something.

You caught yourself eyeing the counter, wondering if, somewhere, a clean razor lay forgotten, a stupid - pointless hope.

With a sigh, you stepped into the shower, feet curling against the cold, gritty surface. You turned the knob, anticipating the rare reprieve of hot water, but nothing came. Just the creak and groan of the pipes, the faint splutter of disappointment.

Frustrated, you stepped out, cracked open the door, and called out to Joel.

“What?” His voice bellowed back from some corner of the house, thick and unmistakable.

“Shower’s not working,” you shouted, annoyance leaking into your tone.

You could hear the muffled groan of him rising, could imagine his joints protesting as he pushed himself upright. His footsteps grew louder, and you realized suddenly how exposed you were, grabbing for your sleep shirt and hastily pulling it over yourself.

“You decent?” he asked, voice closer now, rough around the edges.

“Yeah,” you muttered, tugging the shirt down over your thighs.

He stepped in, casting a quick, assessing look over you. Your hair was loose, tumbling down your shoulders, ready to be washed. You caught him looking, just for a second, something shifting in his gaze. His eyes lingered at your legs, and you felt a pang of self-consciousness—the pricks of hair, the way your arms instinctively crossed over yourself.

He’d noticed, in those small, fleeting ways, how you’d started to care about the tiniest things—things he knew wouldn’t have crossed your mind before. The way you tugged at your sleeves when your hands felt rough, or how you’d sometimes run your fingers over your legs absently, a flicker of irritation passing over your face when they weren’t smooth. He saw it in the way you’d bite your lip and avert your gaze whenever you felt exposed, adjusting yourself, hiding those little imperfections you’d never have thought twice about.

Joel noticed, too, how you seemed to eye the worn-down counters in each place you landed, almost as if searching for some scrap of luxury—a mirror, a razor, a brush that hadn’t been cracked by years of dust and grit. He couldn’t quite explain why it mattered to you, but he noticed it all the same.

Joel couldn’t give a damn if you had hair on your legs or if your hands were rough from calluses.

He was a man, not some boy caught up in a picture-perfect idea of what a woman should be. He knew better. Life had taught him that women were more than delicate, pretty things meant to be displayed; they were fierce, resilient, built from the same grit that held the world together. But still, a part of him felt that quiet ache, that twinge of regret that the softness you’d once carried—the gentle things you’d once let yourself want—had been taken from you, piece by piece.

But as always, Joel said nothing, just knelt down with a quiet exhale, hands deftly working the knob until the pipes coughed and sputtered back to life.

You watched his hands, rough and weathered, calloused from years of hard work and survival. His fingers were thick, his nails perpetually rimmed with a faint trace of dirt, as if they carried the remnants of every struggle he’d ever faced. Those hands—hands that could grip a weapon, hold the collar of a man with an unyielding strength, fend off whatever the world threw at him. And yet, despite their harshness, you couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever be gentle enough to cradle you.

You found yourself drawn to the thought of them, of what it might feel like if he allowed his touch to soften, if those hands could lay down their burden, even just for a moment. It was a ridiculous, hopeless longing, yet it lingered there, deep in the marrow of your bones—a wish that those same hands, capable of such violence and grit, might one day trace your skin with a tenderness they seemed almost incapable of.

There was something in their roughness that beckoned you, a quiet desire for the impossible, for warmth to spring from what had been hardened and scarred. And it haunted you—the idea that those hands, fierce and unforgiving, might hold you like something precious, just once.

The water finally trickled, then flowed warm. He held his hand beneath it, testing the temperature, his voice low. “It’s warm now. Better get in while it lasts.”

You nodded, avoiding his gaze, murmuring a soft “Okay.”

As he left, he left the door slightly ajar, his figure starting to disappear down the hall. But before he turned away, he glanced back, catching a glimpse of your bare shoulder and the slope of your back as you stepped beneath the stream, the thin pink curtain closing around you like a final curtain on the only softness left in this world.

[itacats]

Operation 141: The Family Business

FT: TF141 x gn!reader - Mafia AU

Warnings: mafia themes, stalking, use of the name "sweetheart", please let me know if anything else should be here!🙏

A/N: Welcome to the underground, where secrets are currency and alliances are as fragile as glass. Part 1 of our Mafia AU story is here, ready to pull you into a world of shadowy deals, unexpected loyalties, and high-stakes drama. Step carefully, but don’t look away—you won’t want to miss a thing!

Read Part 2 Read Part 3 Read Part 4 Read Part 5 Read Part 6 Read Part 7 Read Part 8 Read Part 9 Read Part 10

Part 1: The Hidden World

The dim lights of the bar flickered, casting a soft amber glow across worn wooden tables and well-worn stools. The low hum of the jukebox played in the background, mingling with the clink of glasses and the steady hum of conversation. The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hung thick in the air, a constant reminder of the bar's gritty charm. This was no high-end joint — just a dive, a haven for the forgotten and those who preferred to keep their lives in the shadows. For years, you’d been part of that rhythm, the steady beat of routine keeping the world at bay, making you feel just detached enough to avoid the spotlight.

And then they walked in.

Members of the 141 Mafia.

For months now, they’d come in like ghosts slipping through the shadows — deadly, enigmatic, and utterly out of place in the world most people knew. To the outside eye, they looked like any other patrons, but the air around them was charged, like a storm perpetually on the horizon. The kind of tension that made you realize they weren’t just men who had seen an unspoken battle, but men who carried it with them, like a weight that could never be set down. But to you, they were just regulars, faces who blended into the dim light like anyone else. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

John "Soap" MacTavish was the first to break the ice. His boyish grin and easy banter disarmed you from the start, making you forget, if only for a moment, that he was part of something darker. He’d sling a joke your way or toss a casual flirtation across the bar, a half-finished beer in hand. His carefree nature seemed almost out of place, but when you caught the flicker in his eyes — a fleeting darkness — you knew there was more to him than the easy charm. He often asked you to stay after closing for a drink, and though you’d laughed it off the first few times, lately, you found yourself lingering a little longer, drawn to the mystery behind his laugh..

Then there was Simon Riley — Ghost. Silent as a shadow, he would plant himself in the farthest corner of the bar, a hood pulled low and that eerie skull-patterned mask always hiding his face. No one dared approach him unless invited, but his eyes, constantly scanning the room, missed nothing. His mere presence sent shivers down your spine, though not from fear — it was something else, something deeper, as though he carried the weight of a hundred lives on his shoulders. Whenever Soap got too close, Ghost’s gaze would darken just a shade, his silent watch never breaking, as though ensuring nothing more than words passed between you two.

John Price was different — a man who exuded authority and a weariness that came with a lifetime of hidden battles. He’d sit at the bar nursing a tumbler of whiskey, sharing stories that sounded more like fiction than fact. 

And then there was Gaz. He brought a breath of fresh air to the heavy atmosphere. His laid-back attitude, the way he could light up the room with a joke or a quick challenge to a game of darts, made it easy to forget that he too was part of this group of regulars. He’d always laugh at your terrible aim, encouraging you despite the fact that you’d never win, but that was the charm of it. He had a way of making you feel like you were in on the joke, like you were part of their world, if only for a moment.

But tonight was different.

The bar, usually bustling at this hour on a Friday night, had grown unsettlingly still. Midnight had come and gone, and the usual hum of late-night laughter and drunken banter was absent. You were meant to take your break, but something gnawed at the back of your mind, keeping you anchored behind the bar. There was a heaviness in the air, a stillness that made you feel like you were standing on the edge of something you couldn’t quite see.

You wiped down the counter, deciding that it’d be better to call your boss and close up  instead of standing around, casting a glance toward the door. Nothing. No one. Even the regulars had slipped away without you noticing. The quiet was unnatural, as if the bar itself had exhaled its last breath. The jukebox continued its soft, haunting melody, the only sound left in the deafening silence. As you reached for a bottle to busy yourself, your fingers brushed against something cold.

A folded piece of paper.

It sat there on the counter, exactly where an afternoon patron had been sitting earlier. Your heart thudded in your chest as you unfolded it, the jagged handwriting making it somewhat hard to read:

"I’ll see you later, sweetheart…"

Read Part 2

Part 1 just scratched the surface of what’s to come! Thanks for taking this first step into the underworld with me. The stakes are only getting higher, and Part 2 will be here before you know it!

[wonderlanddreamer]

The Rook

— Chapter One

Summary: Reeling from a recent loss and seeing no light at the end of the tunnel, Tommy drives with no end in sight. But what happens when he accidentally happens upon a quiet little pub and a barmaid with a smile like sunshine?

The biting wind whipped at Tommy Shelby’s coat, offering little protection against the icy despair that gnawed at his soul. Birmingham, usually a city pulsating with his ambition, felt suffocating. The weight of his decisions, the ghosts of his past, pressed down with the force of a collapsing mine shaft. He’d stared into the abyss, and it had stared back, promising oblivion – a welcome respite from the ceaseless turmoil.

He’d almost taken it. Almost yielded to the seductive whisper of darkness. The pistol, cold and heavy in his pocket, was a dreary reminder of how close he’d come. He’d driven aimlessly until the city lights faded, replaced by the inky blackness of the countryside.

Then, a single, flickering light emerged – a small, unassuming pub nestled beside a winding road. Its sign, barely visible in the gloom, read: The Rook. Curiosity, or perhaps a perverse instinct for self-preservation, compelled him to stop.

The building was low-slung and weathered, its stone walls stained by time. Mismatched window panes, steamed with condensation, hinted at warmth within, a contrast to the chill that permeated his bones. He hesitated, his hand instinctively resting on the pistol. The thought of seeking solace, of finding even a fleeting moment of peace, felt anomalous.

But bone-deep weariness, the crushing weight of his burdens, finally won. He pushed open the heavy oak door, the bell above it jingling a discordant welcome. The air inside was thick with the scent of stale beer, wood smoke, and something else… something indefinitely comforting.

A single barmaid, wiping down the counter with an expert hand, looked up. Rosemary King, with warm brown eyes and a kind smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes, her name was embroidered on her apron in faded script. The bar itself was a rich, dark wood, polished to a high sheen, but cluttered with personal touches – a small vase of wildflowers, a framed sepia photograph weighted down by a miniature porcelain cat. Everything felt carefully tended, cherished, and loved.

The pub itself was small, cosy, radiating warmth and a sense of belonging. Mismatched chairs, some worn leather, others sturdy wood, were grouped around small, round tables, each bearing a unique chipped teacup or a faded photograph tucked into a cracked frame. The walls, painted a comforting cream, were adorned with family portraits – generations of smiling faces peering down from faded frames, a tapestry of lives lived and loved within these walls. A grandfather clock in the corner, its pendulum swinging rhythmically, ticked away the seconds. The scent wasn't just of woodsmoke and damp earth; a hint of baking bread and something sweet, perhaps apple pie, also lingered, enhancing the homely atmosphere. It felt less like a public house and more like a haven; a family's carefully kept secret.

Tommy pulled up a stool at the bar, the worn leather surprisingly soft beneath him, and stared straight forwards. He didn’t order anything, just sat, lost in the shadowy depths of his own thoughts, the warmth of the fire a meagre counterpoint to the storm raging within him.

“Evening,” the barmaid greeted, her voice as welcoming as her smile. “What can I get for you?”

“Whiskey. Neat,” Tommy replied gruffly, his tone sharper than intended. He wasn’t here for pleasantries.

She didn’t flinch at his brusqueness. Instead, she nodded and turned to retrieve a glass, her movements graceful and unhurried. “Coming right up,” she said, pouring the amber liquid with an expert hand. As she slid the glass towards him, she added, “Not many find their way to The Rook. You must be looking for some solace.”

Her perceptiveness startled Tommy. It was as if she saw right through the hardened exterior he wore like armour. “Something like that,” he muttered, taking a sip of the whiskey. It burned, but it was a welcome sensation—a reminder that he was still here, still feeling, despite the darkness that lingered at the edges of his mind.

Rosemary leaned against the bar, her demeanour open and unassuming, exuding a warmth that seemed to soften the sharp edges of the world. “Well, you’ve come to the right place. We’re not much for noise around here.”

For reasons he couldn’t quite grasp, Tommy found himself unwinding, if only slightly. Her presence was soothing, a gentle balm on his troubled mind. She seemed to offer a refuge, however temporary, from the turmoil within. “You been here long?” he asked, more to keep the conversation going than out of genuine curiosity.

“Long enough to know the regulars and their stories,” she replied with a soft laugh. “But you’re new. What’s your story?”

He looked at her, really looked at her, and saw no judgement in her gaze—only an earnest interest that was both unnerving and oddly comforting. In her eyes, he saw a flicker of understanding, as if she recognized the weight he carried. “Just passing through,” he said, deflecting, as was his habit.

“Well, Mr. Passing Through, I hope you find whatever it is you’re looking for,” Rosemary said, a hint of playfulness in her tone. There was no pressure in her words, only a gentle encouragement, as if she truly wished for his peace. She straightened up and moved to attend to another customer, leaving Tommy alone with his thoughts and the unexpected warmth of her smile lingering in the air.

He sat for a long while, nursing his whiskey, the silence of The Rook a balm to his turbulent thoughts. Rosemary had checked on him twice, her kind smile a silent reassurance. He hadn't spoken much, but her presence, her quiet efficiency, had woven a thread of calm through the chaos within him. He couldn't articulate why, only that the pub's warmth had invaded him, a welcome intrusion he knew he'd need regularly.

He pushed himself up from his chair, the worn leather creaking a soft protest. He felt…lighter. The weight hadn’t vanished entirely, the ghosts of his past still whispered, but their voices were muted, dulled by the warmth he’d found within those four walls. The pistol, still heavy in his pocket, felt less like a solution and more like a forgotten burden.

He approached the bar, and Rosemary looked up, her brown eyes questioning. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, the gesture acknowledging her unspoken kindness. He placed a couple of shillings on the counter, more than the drink cost.

"Thank you," he rasped, his voice rough from disuse.

Rosemary smiled, a genuine, heartfelt smile that effortlessly reached her eyes. "Anytime."

Tommy stepped back out into the night, the cold air no longer biting, but bracing. The city lights in the distance no longer felt suffocating, but beckoned. He walked to his car, the decision to go home solidifying with each step. The Rook, and the unexpected peace he’d found there, had given him the strength he so desperately needed. He wasn't cured, not by a long shot, but the abyss had receded, at least for now, replaced by a faint, flickering hope. The drive home was quiet, the night a canvas of unshed shadows. He would face his problems; for tonight, home was enough.

[valkyriex]

"Always with you"

PAIRING: Jill Valentine x fem!reader

WARNINGS: Fluff and angst

WORD COUNT: 1.5K+

DESCRIPTION: After leaving Raccoon City for work, you receive shocking news from Jill Valentine after days of silence, urging you to meet her.

AUTHORS NOTE: This is my first time writing fanfiction, I hope its good

September 26th, 1998, twilight. You were driving your car through the almost empty highway, raindrops hitting the windshield in a steady, hypnotic rhythm. The wipers struggled, barely keeping up with the heavy rain, each swipe leaving streaks of water that blurred your vision. They squeaked slightly, their worn-out rubber scraping against the glass, making it clear that they hadn't been replaced in a long time. "I really have to replace them," you murmured to yourself, the thought lingering in your mind.

Inside the car, the smell of stale coffee hung in the air, mingling with the faint scent of wet fabric from the umbrella tossed carelessly onto the passenger seat. The dashboard lights glowed a dull orange, casting a warm hue on your hands gripping the steering wheel. The soft hum of the engine was accompanied by the sound of music quietly playing through the radio—your favorite cassette, the one your girlfriend, Jill, made for you. Each song felt like she was there with you. Her presence somehow visible in the song's lyrics.

As you drove, your thoughts drifted back to why you were even on this lonely road. You had been forced to leave Raccoon City for a job that felt more like a necessity than a choice. It wasnt very far: an hour-long drive, and the offer to move for a work project was something you couldn't refuse. Your heart was heavy with worry for Jill. Ever since her last mission in the Arklay Mountains, she had been plagued by nightmares that haunted her every night. You felt like you were the only one who could comfort her—and it was true.

In just a few days, you both were supposed to leave Raccoon City and take a flight to Europe. Jill was determined to join her friend, Chris Redfield, and continue her search for evidence to take down Umbrella once and for all. While you knew you couldn’t help her with the mission, she needed your presence, your touch, and your reassuring words—and you needed hers just as much.

Few days after that, the radios and news were ablaze with reports of a strange pandemic. You and Jill had seen enough to know that the media often twisted the truth, which only deepened your worry for her. After everything she’d told you about the horrors of the Spencer Mansion, you feared that what was happening was far worse than a pandemic—so much worse. And you were right. Days turned into a blur as you tried to contact Jill, but each attempt was met with silence. You couldn’t even focus on your job anymore, consumed by anxiety.

Finally, at the beginning of October, she called. Raccoon City had been nuked, and she needed to tell you everything that had happened—but only if you came to her. She was staying in an old hotel not far from where you were, and without a second thought, you jumped into your car and drove there immediately. As you pulled into the nearly empty parking lot of the hotel, a mix of relief and anxiety washed over you. You were finally going to see her again. The building was tall, its brick exterior a mix of worn patches and faded paint, but it still exuded a certain charm. The sign above the entrance, though a bit weathered, glowed softly in the evening light, inviting weary travelers inside. As you stepped into the lobby, the air was filled with the faint scent of old wood and cleaning supplies. The reception desk, manned by a friendly clerk, stood proudly in the center, while mismatched furniture created a cozy, if slightly dated, atmosphere. Soft music played in the background, and the walls were adorned with photographs and knick-knacks that added character to the space.

"Room 128," she told you. You made your way there and knocked, the sound of your fingers hitting the door echoing through the quiet corridor. When Jill opened it, you immediately wrapped your arms around her, and she clung to you just as tightly, seeking comfort in your embrace.

“Jill, I was so worried about you. The media was saying—” you started, but she silenced you with a kiss, soft yet desperate, as if to convey all her unspoken fears. As you pulled away, you looked into her eyes—the same ones you fell in love with the first time you gazed into them. But now, they seemed heavy with sorrow. You could feel her pain radiating from her, and it made your heart ache. You were ready to listen to her every word.

“Let’s go out to the balcony,” she suggested. As you stepped outside, a cool breeze enveloped you, ruffling Jill’s hair and filling your lungs with the crisp night air. You leaned against the railing, taking in the breathtaking view of the forest silhouetted against the setting sun, the vibrant colors fading into shades of twilight. The beauty of the moment was almost surreal, a stark contrast to the turmoil in your hearts.

Jill took a deep breath, her voice trembling as she spoke. “This... thing... it’s been hunting me, and I’ve lost so many people.” She paused, her gaze falling to the ground before meeting your eyes again. Her hand reached yours. “But at least... you’re here.” Her hand felt cold in yours, and you squeezed it tightly, wanting to share your warmth with her. “Always, Jill. Always for you,” you promised, your voice steady but filled with emotion.

“I just want to end Umbrella, you know? So no one will ever have to live through that nightmare again.” She looked at you, her vulnerability shining through. You settled next to her, resting your head on her shoulder, feeling the weight of her burden. “So… you’re joining Redfield in Europe?” you asked softly, and she nodded, a mix of determination and weariness in her expression.

As she recounted everything that had happened in Raccoon City, the weight of her words hung in the air. You could see the exhaustion etched into her features, the toll that the last weeks had taken on her. After the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep hues of indigo, both of you eventually retreated inside, curling up together in the bed.

“Whatever you decide, I’m with you,” you whispered gently, wanting her to know she wasn’t alone in this fight. A soft smile spread across her face. “I know,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, before taking your hand and placing a tender kiss on it. As she drifted into sleep, you watched her calm features, finally at peace for the first time in a long while. Feeling the weight of the moment settle around you, your own eyes grew heavy, and you surrendered to sleep beside her, comforted by the connection you shared.

But a few hours later, you felt Jill stir beside you, her breathing uneven as she woke from a troubled dream. You turned to her, immediately sensing her distress. “Jill, hey, it’s okay. I’m here,” you murmured, reaching out to gently stroke her hair, grounding her in the moment.

She blinked slowly, her gaze finding yours, and for a moment, you could see the remnants of her nightmares flickering behind her eyes. “I… I’m sorry I woke you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

“Don’t be. You don’t have to apologize for anything. Just tell me what you need,” you said, pulling her closer, wanting to shield her from the darkness that lingered.

With a shaky breath, she started to share the fragments of her nightmare, but as the shadows of fear loomed, you gently shifted the conversation. “Remember that time we got caught in the rain on our way back from that movie? You were so mad at me for forgetting the umbrella, but we ended up laughing so hard when we arrived soaked to the bone?”

A small smile broke through Jill’s anxious expression, and she chuckled softly. “How could I forget? You said we looked like a couple of drowned rats.”

“And we definitely did.” you added, joining in her laughter. “And you insisted on making hot cocoa when we got home, but we both ended up burning our tongues because we were too eager to drink it.”

Jill’s laughter filled the room, and for that moment, it felt as if the weight of the world had lifted just a little. “I think you were the one who was too eager!” she retorted, her eyes sparkling with laughter.

“Okay, I’ll admit I may have gotten a bit too excited, but who can blame me? You make everything better,” you replied, squeezing her hand and leaning in to kiss her forehead.

The two of you spent the rest of the night sharing stories of silly moments from your relationship, from the time you both dressed up in ridiculous costumes for Halloween to the day you attempted to cook dinner together, resulting in a kitchen disaster. Each memory was a thread, weaving warmth into the fabric of the night and allowing you both to escape the harsh reality that awaited.

Eventually, Jill’s laughter subsided into soft breaths, and you felt her relax against you, finally finding solace in your embrace. As you both drifted back into sleep, the shadows that haunted her dreams began to fade, replaced by the light of your shared memories, bringing a sense of peace to your restless hearts.

[honorarysimp]

Interlude: The Diner

series masterlist

Out of everywhere in town you’ve been since you arrived two weeks ago, this is the only place you’ve truly felt safe.

The diner was a blast from the past, a relic of a time long gone. The checkered linoleum floor worn and scuffed in places, and vinyl-covered booths gave the place a retro feel, while the crackled and faded wallpaper added a touch of nostalgia.

The smell of stale coffee and fried food hung in the air, adding a distinct atmosphere to the place.

The diner was dimly lit, the fluorescent tubes above the counter casting a harsh, almost clinical light over the small space. In one corner, an old radio played quiet music, the sound barely reaching a few booths in the room.

You are currently sat in a booth towards the back, visibly exhausted beyond measure as you nurse a cup of black coffee.

Coffee is suppose to be the answer to everything, but you’ve had to reconvey your initial claim the last week.

Your phone suddenly rings loudly in the quiet diner, the sharp sound causing you to flinch, jarring and breaking the ambiance like a hammer against glass. You glance down at the screen, expression darkening as you saw the word "Mayor" flash across the display.

With a heavy exhale, you let the call ring through to voicemail. The Mayor was the last person you want to deal with at the moment. You’re frustrated and exhausted, as this investigation seems to be leading nowhere.

Why answer her when you have nothing to report? She knows where to find you if she’s that desperate for results.

You reach into your coat pocket and retrieved your tape recorder. You lay it on the worn tabletop and looked at it for a moment with a slight grimace.

You hesitate before starting the recording, the weight of your lack of progress weighing heavily on you. With a weary sigh, you hit the record button and began speaking, voice low and tired.

"It's been two weeks since I arrived here, and so far, I've got nothing. No leads, no suspects, just a whole lot of dead ends."

You continue, your voice growing more frustrated as you detail your efforts thus far.

"I've tried everything," you admit, hand running through your hair in exasperation. "Witness interviews, forensic analysis, even digging through records going back decades. But every time I think I'm onto something, it just leads nowhere."

You lean back in the booth, shoulders slouched in exhaustion. "It's like this town is intentionally keeping secrets."

You pause for a moment, expression thoughtful.

"The people here," you begin, voice a bit softer. "They're just as much victims as anyone. I've started to get to know some of them, and they're just trying to live their lives. But then there's this..."

You trail off, expression conflicted. You knew you’ve always tried to be logical and professional when it comes to your job, ruled by rationality and evidence. But this case is pushing your boundaries, forcing you to question your own beliefs.

"Maybe... maybe there's no logical explanation," you admit, voice barely a whisper “the only thing that’s consistent is the fact one person goes missing a month, but even that doesn’t make sense because it stops and starts randomly- goddamn it.”

You hit the pause button on the tape recorder, frustrated. You sit back, the silence in the diner somehow making the weight of the case even heavier.

You sat for a moment, eyes unfocused as you mull over everything that has happened in the last two weeks. The disappearances, the dead ends, the strange events... everything about this case was slowly chipping away at your certainty, your usual rational mind struggling to find footing.

You start the tape recorder again, voice weary but determined.

"The attack in the woods," you began. "I've tried to make sense of it, but it just doesn't add up. The masked figure came out of nowhere, silently and unexpectedly. The knife cut me, but there was no blood, no trace of any kind at the scene. And even after searching, there were no footprints or tracks of any kind. Nothing."

You trail off, eyes fixed on the tabletop. "It's like the assault never even happened."

You again continued, tense with disbelief. "And then there's Wes," you say, shaking your head. "He just vanishes after walking into the lake. We've searched the lake more times than I can count, and we haven't found a body. Nothing. It's like he just vanished into thin air."

Your frustration and confusion becomes more and more evident the more you spoke, the mystery of the case growing more complex with each passing moment as you verbally try to debunk it aloud. "It makes no sense," you mutter, raking a hand through your hair once more, knee bouncing in a fidget underneath the table.

You pause for a moment, taking a deep breath to calm your frustration. "The disappearances, the attack, the lack of any solid evidence... everything about this case just feels wrong. Like there's something bigger going on, something just out of my grasp.”

You look down at the tape recorder, brow furrowed. "But how do I solve something when I can't even see all the pieces? How do I find answers when everything I've tried leads to more questions?"

You sat slumped in the booth, gaze unfocused as you wrestle with your thoughts. "I need... I need..." you repeat in a low voice, frustration and desperation mingling in your tone.

I need a fucking cigarette.

You clench your fists, refocusing on trying to piece together the elusive clues in your mind. "I need something decisive, something concrete," you continue, eyes sweeping over the steam rising from your mug as if the answers were etched within the small bubbles resting on the liquid’s surface.

You let out a heavy sigh, the frustration etched on your face. You reach out and hit the pause button, shutting off the tape recorder.

You lean back in the booth once again, taking a moment to gather your thoughts. The weight of the case hung heavily on you, the lack of progress a crushing disappointment. Never has a case had you so in the weeds before, you should have something by now.

"I need to find something," you mutter to yourself, jaw clenched. "I can't keep spinning my fucking wheels like this."

You rest your elbows to the table for a moment, rubbing a hand over your face as if trying to scrub away the fatigue and temporary defeat. Everything about this case was getting under your skin, the lack of progress wearing on your already frayed nerves.

The Diner's bell jangled as someone entered, causing you to look up from your thoughts. Your gaze lands on Tara of all people, who had just walked in.

You register the first responder uniform she is wearing, coming to the conclusion that she must be working the night shift. Or just got off it, depending on what time it is, that of which you aren’t sure. Your eyes lingered on her for a moment, taking in her tired but determined expression.

Her head turns and you’re already meeting her gaze, a pause between you, and then you silently gesturing for her to join you. You see the hesitation on her face, the fatigue and worry that mirrored your own. But after a moment, she relents and walks over to the booth, sliding into the seat opposite you.

“Hey” you start softly, watching her take your coffee mug off the table and take a small whiff before taking a sip.

You don’t question it.

“Nothing yet on our end, you?”

You shake your head, “even if we did, I’m sure Sam would be the first one to let you know.”

Tara nods, and you both fall silent.

The one waitress that seems to be working tonight walks over, she gives you both a kind smile.

“You’re working late tonight, Cici” Tara says politely, which makes the woman laugh good naturely.

“I could say the same to you, coffee?”

“Please.”

She scribbles it down, glancing back up “and the usual?”

Another nod from Tara, which then has Cici’s gaze going to you expectantly.

“I’m still doing okay with just coffee-“

“The Detective will have what I’m having Cici, thank you” Tara cuts you off, making Cici glance between you knowingly as she jots the order down and heads off without another word.

You look to Tara and narrow your eyes, but she beats you to it before you can speak.

“I wish you’d stop making assumptions about me, you know.”

A pause, you reach across the table for your mug but she pulls it from your reach.

There’s a good chance Tara is talking about the last conversation you two had before you found Wes and Chad, but of course you’d hate to assume.

So you wait for her to continue, after a moment her expression softens slightly and she nudges your coffee mug back across the table to you.

“For what it’s worth, I’m rightfully in the same boat. Worrying certain people are only around for information, for wanting to know things rather than-“ she stops, clearing her throat.

That’s when you get it. The hot and cold.

“Look… I’ve never once been dishonest with you, I’ve got no reason to be” you start slowly, giving your still aching shoulder a little roll before reaching across the table to accept your mug back.

“But-“ you pause, as your fingers brush against hers, neither of you acknowledge it as you pull the coffee mug back to your side “unfortunately that’s the one thing I’m under contract not to tell you, which is who hired me. You already know why I’m here, and if there’s one thing I can promise you is that I’m not using you for any reason.”

She is clearly skeptical, you can tell by the way she looks at you. But you can also see that slight softness between her brow, like she wants to believe you.

You sip your coffee, sitting it to the side before placing your palms flat on the table top, “ask me anything you want, no pool games, no deals, no trades, no bullshit. And then I’ll do the same.”

That look returns, the one Tara gave you a week ago when you’d asked her out for drinks.

“You still are trying to pick my brain” Tara says with an amused tone, you offer a smile and shrug.

“I wanna know you, is that so hard to believe?” You say as you nudge your coffee mug back over to her, a silent offer.

Tara eyes you, then the mug, then you again. She’s fighting back a smile, something you’ve noticed she does a lot with you. In a way you consider it a win, because it means she’s starting to like you even when she doesn’t want to.

“Fine” she agrees, pushing the coffee mug back across the table to you before crossing her arms, “but you’re on thin ice hot shot.”

You grin, trying not to feel triumphant for finally managing to somewhat get through to her.

“First things first, what’s your favorite scary movie?”

The disapproving look Tara gives you makes you laugh harder than it should, which in return, makes her smile more than she should.

And for the first time in a while, a sense of normalcy envelops you both. It won’t last, but for now, it’s nice.

previous, next

[f3mme-f4tale]

☾ bound by bloodshed ☾

part four

⇠ part three word count: 3.7k potential warnings: explicit language, mean!ellie, mild sexual content, fluff at the end?? pairing: seattle!ellie x female reader ☾ mood board authors note: this is more of a filler chapter than anything else, so i apologize. theres been a lot of changes in my life over the past few months -- so i've been trying to deal with that. regardless, i have a lot more free time now that ive graduated form college & moved (yay!), so hopefully (fingers crossed), i'll be more active on here :)

FREE FREE PALESTINE!

You kick at the dirt with the rubber sole of your shoe, feeling the grit shift beneath your feet, a tiny cloud of dust puffing up like a sigh too weary to lift off the ground. It’s the same sigh that escapes your mouth, the sound barely more than a breath of resignation. Ellie pretends not to notice – or maybe she does and just chooses to ignore it – her determined stride carrying her further ahead, her silhouette hunched slightly under the weight of the days and miles. It’s infuriating how stubborn she could be, how she can walk right past you, eyes set on the distance, as if the tension between you doesn’t hang in the air, thick and unyielding.

It’s been two days since you’ve tasted each other, two days since that frenzied collision of lips and limbs. Two days, and Ellie is still reeling in the aftermath, the memory of your shared warmth now a cold space between you. The military base should only be a few more days out, but every mile feels like it’s dragging the earth with it, the ground itself conspiring to keep you from reaching any sense of normalcy.

“Up there,” she mutters, digging around in her bag as she gestures up ahead to the remnants of an storefront – Walsh’s General written in faded ochre lettering above the door. Ellie goes to mess with the front door only to be met with an unmoving lock. 

“Hold up,” you say, lightly pushing past her to kneel in front of the latch. A disordered piece of discolored metal slips from your front pocket, your fingers pushing the shiv into the lock with practiced ease. The familiar click of the tumblers falling into place is a small victory, a sound that seems to echo in the stillness of the abandoned street. You push the door open, and it creaks in protest, the wood swollen and warped from years of neglect.

Ellie steps in first, bravado always hindering, eyes scanning the dim interior. The air inside is thick and stale, filled with the scent of old dust and decaying wood. Shelves stand half-empty, their contents long since looted or ruined. A few cans of food, some faded clothing, and a scattering of other forgotten items are all that remain.

"Let's see what we can find," Ellie says, her voice low but determined. She moves deeper into the store, her movements careful and deliberate. Despite the tension between you, there's a sense of unspoken understanding; you both know what needs to be done.

You follow her lead, moving to the back of the store where a set of stairs leads to what was once an office or storage room. The floorboards groan under your weight, and you have to tread lightly to avoid falling through. Ellie remains on the ground floor, rifling through the shelves, while you ascend the creaky staircase.

At the top, you find a small room, its walls lined with dusty boxes and old papers. A single window lets in a thin beam of light, illuminating the dust particles that dance in the air. You approach the window, peering out at the deserted town beyond. Outside, the world is a tableau of decay, the buildings slumping like weary travelers, their facades peeling away in layers. A deer cautiously steps out from behind a crumbling wall, its sleek body almost ghostly in the fading light. For a moment, you watch it, captivated.

The deer suddenly freezes, its ears twitching as if it senses something you can’t see. Then, in a blur of movement, it darts back into the shadows, disappearing as quickly as it appeared. The stillness that follows is almost suffocating, and that uneasy feeling in your gut tightens once again. You turn away from the window, pushing the momentary distraction out of your mind. There's nothing to gain from dwelling on what you can't change. Instead, you focus on the task at hand; the room offers little in the way of comfort or safety, but there’s a chance it might hold something of value. 

Your eyes land on a particularly large, dust-covered box in the corner. It’s sealed with old packing tape, its once vibrant logo now faded and peeling. Curiosity, or perhaps the need for something to distract you from the growing tension, drives you to your knees, your fingers carefully peeling back the brittle packing tape that holds the box closed. The box gives way with a soft crackle, revealing a jumble of items inside.

You sift through its contents, finding old rags, a few yellowed notebooks, and a tarnished ring. Nothing of immediate value, but then your fingers brush against something cool and metallic. You pull it out, revealing a small, rusted tin canister. The label is barely legible, but you recognize the symbol – it's an old military supply canister, the kind that usually held emergency rations or medical supplies.

Excitement flickers in your chest as you twist the lid open. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, is a small stash of medical supplies – a roll of bandages, a few vials of antiseptic, and a couple of syringes. It’s not much, but in your world, it’s a treasure.

“Ellie’s going to be thrilled,” you whisper to yourself, carefully tucking the canister into your bag. A crumpled up piece of paper drops from the canister – a curious predicament.

You unfold the paper, its edges fragile, and find not just a note, but a letter that seems to have been written in a rush. The handwriting is small and neat, though the ink is slightly smudged, as if the writer’s hand had trembled. Nestled within the folds of the letter is a small, faded photograph of a man and a woman, standing close, their expressions solemn but tender. They aren’t smiling, but there’s a quiet intimacy in the way they lean into each other, a shared understanding.

Annabell, I’ve fought against everything that’s kept me from you. I tried, Annabell, I really did. But trying wasn’t enough, and that will haunt me. Of all the choices I've made, the one that keeps me awake at night is not being by your side. We were always more than just two people – more like threads spun together, impossible to separate without unraveling completely. This letter isn’t a goodbye, though I fear it feels like one. We were never ones for dramatic gestures or tearful farewells, were we? So I’ll spare you that. If you find yourself heading north, there’s a place that might offer some safety. Look for the old oak in the front – the one with the hollow trunk where we used to hide our notes when we were kids. I left something there for you. I hope you find it. I hope you make it. And if you don’t… well, if you don’t, then at least know this: Every decision I made was to try and make the world a little less cruel for you. For us. Maybe I failed, but it was never for lack of trying. If someone else finds this letter, I hope you carry it forward. Maybe it’ll mean something to someone. Maybe it won’t.  I'm sorry Annabelle. Matthew. 

The letter hits you with a quiet intensity, the words measured and grounded, stripped of any romanticized finality. You gently pick up the photo, studying the faces of the couple. Their faces are looking at one another, a knowing look passing between them like a punch to the gut, raw and real in a way that makes the dusty room around you seem even more desolate. 

When you make your way back downstairs, Ellie looks up, her gaze curious but wary. You pull out the letter and the photograph, handing them over without a word. She doesn’t react much at first, just taking in the words and the faded image. After a moment, she hands it back, her expression a little more thoughtful than before.

“Did he make it?” she finally asks, her voice subdued.

“Doesn’t sound like it,” you reply quietly. Ellie shifts slightly, moving her weight from one foot to the other. She doesn’t meet your gaze, her eyes instead fixed on some distant point in the room, as if looking directly at you might break the fragile peace that’s settled over this moment. The tension between you has been a constant companion, a silent third party in your journey, but now it feels different, heavier, more present.

“They were holding on to something,” she says, her voice quieter than usual, almost as if she’s speaking to herself rather than to you. There’s a sadness in her tone, a kind of weariness that you recognize all too well – the exhaustion that comes not just from the miles you’ve walked or the battles you’ve fought, but from carrying the weight of memories. 

“Seems like it,” you reply, slipping the letter back into your pocket. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. Ellie’s gaze lingers on you for a second longer than usual, her eyes searching yours for something – understanding, perhaps, or maybe reassurance that the words you’ve just exchanged mean more than they seem. But before you can offer anything, before you can even think of what to say, she looks away, the moment passing like a brief pause in the rhythm of your steps. It’s a fleeting connection, a moment of vulnerability that’s here and then gone, lost in the vast expanse of everything else that remains unsaid between you.

You both know the score, the unspoken agreement that binds you – survival first, everything else second. But something has shifted in the dynamic between you, even if neither of you is quite ready to acknowledge it yet.

Then, without another word, you both move on, the creaking floorboards underfoot the only sound that accompanies you as you head toward the exit. But as the door closes behind you with a soft thud, the mood shifts, subtle at first. You can sense it before she even speaks; Ellie’s demeanor changes, her shoulders tense as her steps grow more deliberate, more forceful. 

“Was that all you found?” she asks, her voice sharp and laced with impatience. The softness from just moments ago is gone, replaced by a hard edge that catches you off guard

You’re taken aback by the sudden change in tone, but you quickly shake off the surprise and respond with a controlled voice. “I mean, there were just some old rags and useless company papers up there, if that’s what you mean.”

Ellie’s eyes narrow, the frustration in her gaze intensifying. “So you didn’t actually find anything useful, then? Great. Just great.” Her tone is dismissive, almost accusatory, and it stings more than you’d care to admit. The way she says it, the implication that you’ve somehow let her down, it’s like a slap in the face after everything you’ve been through together.

You raise an eyebrow, your irritation growing. “I didn’t see you finding anything of value. Maybe you should’ve gone up there yourself if you thought it was so easy.” The sharpness in your voice reflects your own mounting frustration.

Ellie’s face flushes with a mix of embarrassment and anger. Her hands ball into fists at her sides, her posture rigid. “It’s not about the supplies,” she snaps. “It’s about you acting like you’re doing everyone a favor by finding something we already knew was probably useless.”

You throw your hands up in exasperation, your frustration boiling over. “I’m not acting like I’m doing anyone a favor. I’m just trying to make sure we’re prepared for whatever comes next. But if you’d rather sit around and wait for something to magically appear, that’s fine too.”

Ellie shakes her head vigorously, her voice rising with each word. “You know what? Maybe I would if you didn’t keep making everything so complicated. You’re always trying to prove something, and it just makes everything worse.”

“Prove something? What are you talking about?” You shoot back, your patience wearing thin. “I’m just trying to survive, same as you. If you stopped making everything a competition, we’d actually get somewhere.”

Ellie’s laugh is bitter, her frustration palpable. “God, you love to pat yourself on the back. But I guess that’s just your thing – acting like you’re the hero when you’re really just making a mess.”

You’re silent for a beat, fully taking in her jab. Is that what she really thinks of me? Sure, you had exasperated your fair share of insults; but that seemed over the line. It’s one thing to clash over strategies or tasks, but her comment feels like a personal attack.

At this point, you can feel the argument spiraling into pointless bickering, the tension in the air thick. “Fine! If it means that much to you, I’ll let you handle it. I’ll let you handle everything. I’m done trying to help. ”

Ellie scoffs, the exasperation clear in her voice. “I never asked you to.” 

⭒⭒⭒⭒

Ellie and you sit on opposite sides of the campfire, the darkness amplifying the unspoken frustration that lingers between you. The day’s patrol had been grueling, and the tension between you two is nearly unbearable. Ellie glances at you from across the fire, the glow from the flames dancing eerily on her freckled face.

You chance a glance at Ellie, her lips tightly pursed, and her knuckles white as she grips the edge of the rock she's sitting on. She seems lost in her own thoughts, and it's clear that she's just as uncomfortable with the situation as you are. Ellie breaks the silence first, her voice harsh and cutting. “You know, you really have a talent for pretending everything’s fine. How do you manage it? Acting like you don’t care about anything except what’s right in front of you?”

You shoot her a sharp look, the accusation hitting hard. “Oh, don’t even start. It’s not like you’re any better. You’ve been walking around with this chip on your shoulder, acting like I’m the cause of all your problems!”

Ellie's eyes widen slightly, her grip on the rock tightening even more. Her jaw clenches as if she's holding back a flood of retorts. "Excuse me? Me? I'm the one with the chip on my shoulder? That's rich coming from you." Her voice is laced with both anger and hurt. She leans forward, the fire casting shadows across her face. "Ever since we got paired up, it's like you've been counting the days until we're done. Like I'm nothing more than a nuisance."

“And you’re just so perfect, right?” you snap back, standing up, your frustration boiling over. “You act like you’re handling it all, but you’re the one pushing everyone away because you’re scared of actually dealing with it!”

Ellie stands as well, her voice rising. “Scared? Scared of what? Dealing with your endless stream of excuses and half-assed attempts at being a decent partner? Newsflash: I’m not here to babysit your emotions!”

“You know what? Fuck you,” you shoot back, stepping closer, your anger palpable. “You’re so sick of me? Tomorrow I’ll be gone.” The argument is raw and unrelenting, every word a dagger. The emotional weight of the day, combined with the unresolved tension, erupts between you. Ellie’s frustration and your own anger collide in a chaotic, volatile mixture.

And in a moment of impulsive recklessness, Ellie grabs your collar, yanking you closer. It’s not a gentle kiss, but a clash of emotions and raw need, driven by the tension that’s been simmering for so long. You respond with equal fervor, your hands finding their way to her face, pulling her closer.

The kiss is a desperate release, a tangled knot of emotions unraveling in a moment of primal need. It’s messy, rough around the edges, but it’s also real and unfiltered. You push her back against a nearby tree, the rough bark pressing against her back as the kiss deepens. The pain blends with the heat of the moment, and despite her internal conflict, you find yourself returning the kiss. Her hands rest on your waist, unable to decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you manage to utter, fingers running through auburn locks. The other girl scoffs against your mouth.

"And you're just as annoying," Ellie snaps back between kisses, her fingers digging into your hips. “Insufferable... Aggravating... Impossible..." She mutters, the words lost in a clash of kisses and tongue.

“Say you need me,” you demand, holding her face. Ellie pauses, the words caught in her throat. She hesitates, her eyes locked on yours. The admission hangs in the air, caught between desire and pride. But slowly, reluctantly, she concedes. Her breath shivers slightly as she speaks. 

"I need you.”

She unfastens the buttons on your shirt, one by one, her movements deliberate and filled with barely contained need. Hesitantly, you capture a stray piece of hair between your knuckles and brush it behind her ear. Ellie's attention flickers to the touch, leaning into your hand and expression softening for a moment. You swear she could feel the fast pace beat of your heart against her chest, breath hitching in your throat. You pathetically whimper as she palms your stomach, wanting nothing more in that moment for her to do inappropriate things to you in the middle of the fucking forest. 

A hushed moan left Ellie as she traced patterns onto your lower abdomen, the other woman getting off on your body’s reaction. In turn, your skin felt on fire, Ellie’s touch igniting a blaze within you; as if she was the match and you were burning. Her kisses move from your mouth to your jaw, then down your neck, each one like a scorching brand against your skin.

"Ellie... you're maddening," you pant, a needy edge to your voice. "I want to strangle you... and kiss you senseless."

She drags her lips back up to yours, capturing them in a kiss that’s as much a challenge as it is a surrender. It’s rough and needy, like she’s trying to prove something, trying to make you understand just how deep you’re both in. You clutch at her shirt, desperate for something to hold onto, feeling like you might fall apart if you don’t.

But beneath the rawness, there’s a tenderness that neither of you can deny. It’s there in the way her hand trembles slightly as it trails up your side, in the way she hesitates just for a fraction of a second before deepening the kiss, as if she’s afraid of breaking something fragile between you.

There’s a softness in her eyes that wasn’t there before, a vulnerability that takes your breath away. “Don’t leave,” she says quietly, almost like a plea.

Within minutes, Ellie was on her knees. 

⭒⭒⭒⭒

Ellie’s face is soft in the dim light, her features relaxed in a way that you rarely see anymore, the hard edges of survival temporarily softened by the quiet peace of the early morning. There’s a hint of a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth, a subtle curve that you catch out of the corner of your eye, and you turn to her, curious. 

“Hey,” she begins, her voice low, almost hesitant, as if she’s not quite sure she wants to break the spell of silence that has settled over you. “Remember that time we tried to make a treehouse out of scrap? We thought we’d live in it and everything.” Her words are light, almost playful, a stark contrast to the usual tension that accompanies your conversations, and you can’t help the smile that tugs at your own lips in response.

The memory she’s conjured is vivid, a flash of color and sound that washes over you in an instant, transporting you back to a time when things were simpler, when the weight of the world hadn’t yet settled on your shoulders. You can see it clearly in your mind’s eye – the two of you, younger, more carefree, standing in a sun-dappled clearing back in Jackson, surrounded by the scattered remains of what was supposed to be your masterpiece. The air had been thick with the scent of pine and freshly cut wood, the sound of your laughter echoing through the trees as you hammered and sawed, your hands sticky with sap and dirt.

You laugh now, shaking your head at the memory, the sound of your voice startling in the stillness of the morning. “Yeah, and we ended up with a pile of broken wood and a lot of splinters. Didn’t exactly turn out like we planned.” The words are tinged with nostalgia, a warmth that spreads through your chest as you recall the look of determination on Ellie’s face, the way her brow had furrowed in concentration as she tried to fit the mismatched pieces of wood together, her tongue poking out slightly in that way it does when she’s really focused.

Ellie’s laughter joins yours, a light, genuine sound that fills the space between you, breaking through the tension that has lingered there for so long. It’s a rare moment of levity, a brief respite from the seriousness that has come to define your lives, and you find yourself savoring it, the sound of her laughter like a balm to your weary soul.

“Yeah,” she agrees, her grin widening, her eyes bright with the memory. “But it was fun. And it was ours.” There’s a note of pride in her voice, a quiet satisfaction that comes not from the end result, but from the effort itself, from the shared experience of creating something together, no matter how imperfect.

You look at Ellie, really look at her, and in the soft light of the approaching dawn, she looks younger somehow.. There’s a lightness in her gaze, a vulnerability that she rarely allows herself to show, and it makes your heart skip a beat, a quick, fluttering sensation that catches you off guard. It’s not just the memories that have stirred something within you, not just the shared experiences that have brought you closer over the years – it’s the way she looks at you now, the way she allows herself to be open, to be seen, if only for a moment.

“Yeah,” you say softly, the word barely more than a breath. “It was.”

fic taglist: @seraphicsentences @onlinelesbo @yumimak @elliewilliamsblunt @bready101

[deadly-omen]

My Wincest head canon? Sam listens to ASMR every night to fall asleep. Dean doesn’t understand how listening to someone tap and scratch can be soothing. If anything, he finds it irritating and annoying and almost immediately after Sam falls asleep, Dean is turning off Sam’s phone to get some peace and quiet. But when the boys are working a case in the middle of nowhere with no Internet connection and Sammy just can’t seem to fall asleep, Dean takes matters into his own hands.

-

The neon sign outside the hotel flickered erratically, casting an eerie glow through the dust-covered window of their dingy room. Sam tossed and turned on the creaky bed, his eyes glued to the stained ceiling above him. The persistent buzz of a distant highway did little to dull the sound of his racing thoughts. Despite the weariness weighing down his eyelids, sleep remained an elusive guest, teasing him with brief moments of silence before retreating into the shadows once more.

Dean, ever the night owl, sat in a chair by the window, his attention divided between his phone and the dark parking lot beyond. The screen's glow illuminated his worried expression as he scrolled through various articles and forums, searching for anything that might help Sam relax. He knew his brother's insomnia was more than just a restless night; it was a window into the turmoil churning within him. With a sigh, he pocketed the device and pushed himself up from his seat. "Alright, Sammy," he announced, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. "I've got an idea."

Sam rolled over, hope flickering in his eyes. "What's up?"

"I'm gonna go out to Baby and record some ASMR," Dean said, a hint of excitement in his voice. "Some engine purrs, a little road noise, maybe some rain on the roof if it starts up again. Might do the trick."

Sam managed a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling with the beginnings of a laugh. "Seriously?"

Dean nodded, his grin growing. "Yeah, why not? It's all the rage these days. And it's not like we don't have the perfect setup." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the window, where the Impala sat gleaming under the intermittent neon light.

Sam's smile grew into a chuckle. "Okay, go for it." He propped himself up on an elbow, watching as Dean grabbed Baby’s keys from his duffel bag and headed for the door.

Dean stepped out into the humid night, the cool air a stark contrast to the stale hotel room. The Impala's chrome gleamed under the neon light, looking almost alive despite its age. He slid into the driver's seat and closed the door with a soft thud. The engine rumbled to life, purring like a contented cat. He leaned back, his palms resting on the wheel, and took a moment to appreciate the familiar scent of leather and gasoline that surrounded him.

He adjusted the recorder's settings, ensuring the microphone was sensitive enough to capture the subtle sounds. Raindrops had started to patter on the roof, a rhythmic symphony that grew louder as the storm approached. He leaned closer to the microphone, speaking in a hushed tone. "This is Dean Winchester, bringing you a little slice of tranquility in the one and only Baby."

With deliberate slowness, he began to tap the steering wheel with his fingertips. Each tap resonated in the cabin, echoing the rhythm of a gentle heartbeat. He varied the intensity and speed slightly, creating a calming melody. Then, with equal care, he moved to the windows, tracing the edges with the pads of his fingers. The glass was cool to the touch, and the taps against the metal frame sent a soothing vibration through his hand and into the microphone.

Next, he shifted his attention to the leather seats. Running his palms along the smooth, worn material, he felt the years of use and countless battles won and lost within the car's confines. He knew every groove and indent, every memory stitched into the very fabric of the upholstery. He focused on the steady beat of rain droplets striking the car's roof, letting it guide his movements as he gently massaged the leather, the sound of his touch melding with the percussion of the storm.

The glove box clicked open with a familiar sound, revealing an assortment of travel essentials: a map, a pack of beef jerky, and several glass bottles filled with holy water. He picked one up, the weight comforting in his hand. The clear liquid sloshed gently against the sides as he held it up to the microphone, the faint smell of incense wafting from the cap. He tapped the bottle softly, the glass resonating with a clear, bell-like tone. The sound was soothing, almost mesmerizing, and he could see in his mind's eye the ripples spreading out in perfect circles across the water's surface.

Setting the bottle aside, Dean reached into the back seat, his hand brushing against the cold metal of the shotgun. He chuckled to himself, knowing that Sam would never forgive him if he turned their peaceful ASMR session into an impromptu firearm showcase. Instead, he found what he was looking for: a well-worn flannel shirt.

He held it up, the fabric feeling coarse and familiar. The scent of dirt and smoke clung to it, a testament to the countless salt and burns it had been on. He brought it closer to the microphone, his fingernails running along the soft threads.

The sound was surprisingly comforting. A gentle, rustling whisper, reminiscent of leaves in a breeze or a quiet campfire crackling in the night. The scratch of blunt nails against fabric sent a shiver down Dean's spine. He continued, varying the pressure and speed of his nails, creating a soothing symphony of textures. The shirt's collar, the tight weave of the sleeve, the worn elbow patches – each section of fabric offering a unique sound.

Unable to resist, Dean put the shirt down and grabbed the shotgun in the back. It was a sawed off ithaca 37, a relic from a time when their battles were simpler and their hearts less scarred. He held the cold, metal barrel to the microphone, the rain's patter a backdrop to his actions. He began to tap the metal gently, letting the sound resonate through Baby’s quiet cabin.

The taps grew rhythmic, a pattern of comfort he'd found in countless moments of danger. Each strike echoed in the confined space, the vibrations traveling through his palm and up his arm. The sound was soothing, a metronome of protection that had seen them through so much. He moved to the wooden stock, running his thumb along the grain, feeling the smoothness of it from years of use. The taps grew more complex, mimicking the steady beat of their never-ending hunt.

As he tapped, he couldn't help but think of all the times the shotgun had saved their lives. The battles they'd won, the monsters they'd sent back to hell. It was a part of their story, a silent companion in the fight against the dark. He paused, his hand hovering over the recorder, contemplating if this was the right sound to send Sam off to sleep. Then, with a shake of his head, he decided it was. It was as much a part of their lives as Baby herself.

The rain had intensified in the time Dean had been recording, the droplets now drumming an insistent tattoo on the metal roof. The wind picked up, whipping around the car, sending leaves scurrying across the pavement. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a deep bass that resonated through his chest.

He glanced at the dashboard clock, realizing he'd been out there for over an hour. He hit the stop button on the recorder, the cabin falling into a sudden quiet. The rain was a cacophony outside, a stark contrast to the soothing sounds he'd been trying to create.

Dean knew it was time to get back to Sam before the storm reached its peak. He killed the engine, letting the rain wash over the car as he stepped out into the downpour. Water soaked through his shirt almost immediately, the cold bite of the rain made him shiver. He pocketed the recorder to protect it from the rain as he sprinted to the hotel room.

Inside the room, the air was dry and warm, a welcomed change after the cool embrace of the storm. Sam was still awake, his eyes glued to the TV, though the volume was turned down so low that only the flicker of the screen gave it away. "How'd it go?" Sam asked, not taking his eyes from the flickering images.

"Got some good stuff," Dean said, a grin playing on his lips as he held up the recorder. He could feel the chill of the rainwater seeping into his skin, but he was too excited to care. "Some engine purrs, taps on the steering wheel, and even a little shotgun ASMR."

Sam raised an eyebrow, amusement lighting up his eyes. "Shotgun ASMR?"

"Yeah," Dean said with a smirk, "thought it might help you drift off, given all the good memories we've got with it." He took a step towards the bed, the water dripping from his hair and clothes, forming a small puddle on the stained carpet.

Sam couldn't help but laugh. "You're something else, Dean." He said, tossing Dean a towel and dry clothing. After hearing the rain against the hotel window, he decided to prepare for Dean’s return, knowing his older brother would be soaked on his walk back to the hotel.

Dean caught the items that were thrown at him. "You're one to talk, Mr. 'I need ASMR to sleep.'" He peeled off his wet clothes, revealing a well-defined torso that gleamed with moisture. Sam didn’t even have time to marvel at the sight before Dean was scrubbing himself down with the thread bare towel.

He stepped into the dry pajama bottoms and pulled the oversized shirt over his head. It was one of Sam's, the fabric smelling faintly of laundry detergent and something else that was uniquely Sammy. It was a comforting scent, one that filled the car when they drove for hours on end, one that was as much a part of this life as the smell of leather and gunpowder.

Dean climbed into the bed with Sam, the mattress groaning in protest beneath his weight.

He handed Sam the recorder, his eyes shining with excitement. "Give it a listen," he urged. "I think it'll do the trick."

Sam took the device, his curiosity piqued despite his skepticism. He shifted around in the bed until he was comfortable and hit play, closing his eyes as the sound of the engine's purr filled his ears. The gentle tapping grew louder, the rhythm of the rain on the roof soon joining in. He felt his muscles start to relax, the tension of the day slowly unwinding. The sound of the fabric was surprisingly soothing, and he couldn’t help but smile at the thought of Dean, his tough exterior giving way to such a tender act of care.

The taps grew more complex, and he could almost feel the weight of the shotgun in his own hand, the familiar grip bringing a sense of comfort that was hard to explain. The thunder in the background added an unexpected layer of serenity, a reminder that even in the harshest of storms, they had each other. He felt his breathing deepen, the steady sounds of the car and the rain lulling him into a state of peace.

Dean's voice, low and reassuring, filled the space between the sounds. "Sammy, you're safe," he murmured. "I got you." And for the first time in what felt like an eternity, Sam believed it. He let the rhythmic taps and the soothing whispers of Dean’s voice carry him away from his fears and into the quiet sanctuary of sleep.

Outside, the storm raged on, but inside the hotel room, the only sounds were the faint noises of Dean's recording and Sam's even breathing. The thunder rumbled closer, and the rain grew more insistent as it pounded against the window.

Dean couldn't help but smile to himself as he pulled Sam closer, nestling his face between Sam's shoulder blades. He took a deep breath, sighing contently against the soft fabric of Sam’s sleep shirt.

The rain grew louder, the thunder closer, but the sounds of the engine and the tapping remained steady, a metronome of comfort that seemed to sync with Sam's breathing. The storm outside was a stark contrast to the calmness that had settled over Sam. He was finally getting some rest and that was all that mattered to Dean.

As the recording went on, Dean found himself drifting off as well. The rain's rhythm grew softer, the taps on the steering wheel more distant, but the feeling of peace remained. He didn't bother to turn the ASMR off, letting the soothing sounds wash over them both. He figured if it was helping Sam, it couldn't hurt him either. And truth be told, he enjoyed the quiet moments of tenderness between the two of them, even if they were wrapped in the guise of something as peculiar as ASMR.

-

[cynassa]

countermelody

1.

Gimli has witnessed, before this, the grief of a father or a mother who has outlived their child. Even as his craft lay elsewhere, like all young and strong Dwarves half his life was in the military. As he grew in stature and wisdom, he had begun to lead patrols, or even the occasional skirmish against orcs and spiders and other dark creatures innumerable and unnamed. With this came the duty of going to parents and telling them that their child had perished bravely and gained much glory, whether it was true or not. Perhaps it brought them some peace, although Gimli doubted it.

Some of that grief he could see in Elrond's face, from time to time, as the day wore on, and the gentle lordliness occasionally slipped away to reveal the father. More than one parent, in Gimli's knowledge, quietly gave themselves to the forge after completing their child's last rites, but elves, of course, had no such recourse.

So Gimli dances, when Legolas and Pippin drag him off, and drinks as much as he can to the King and his new Queen's happy marriage, he scatters gold according to his own customs, and flowers according to elven, and cheers when the bride and groom dance on a shield until it is beaten flat, as the custom of Gondor calls for.

And when the wedding ends, he walks long with Legolas, hither and thither, to balconies and roofs, but when they reach the final juncture he unhesitatingly goes to his own room. He does not ask.

2.

Despite what elves seem to believe, occasionally to Gimli's amusement, Dwarves too can love living things. Sometimes they even love Dwarves back. Gimli has had to gently counsel a young dwarf, not even two full decades old, to let go of a wild parrot that she had found half-dead and nursed back to health. It was almost as much a task to coax the parrot away from her, she who had fed it grain by grain when its beak was barely capable of movement. Yet, once it was out of the cold and dampness of the Mountain, it immediately burst into song, voice going from a stale croak born of disuse to the richness born of joy, calling forth many of its own kind to come sing with it. In forty years, the parrot has ever and anon come back to the edge of the forest, but it grew too dangerous to allow their children, so it could only sing from afar. Even were it willing to come back, Gimli told the dwarf, it would waste away again so far from the greenness of its home and the song of its own kind.

In the Glittering Caves of Aglarond, Legolas is as a tall young tree, and as silent as one, a shock to the eye amongst the lovely veins of ore that go line by line unending into the far deepness. His green and grey travel cloak conceals him entirely, and yet the rippling gold of his hair marks him out to the eye at once.

In Fangorn, where finally they walked only two alone, Gimli sees much to wonder at, not only in the trees and fauna around him but in his companion. Legolas seems young indeed, laughing and singing, even more than usual.

And so, even as they make a fire and lay their bedrolls, Gimli does not ask.

3.

After they had walked a long road, they rest, weary yet happy. Unknowingly, Gimli comes to tell Legolas the story of a Firebeard bride. Her Ironfoot husband took her to the far South, and she left all she had to follow him, but after the marriage they came to much misfortune. Many of his kin died and those who lived a while before succumbing told of a terrible beast who ripped them apart with claws alone.

Gimli pauses and Legolas says, with surety, "It was the bride."

"Yes," Gimli says, "and it ends very sadly, with her laying hands on her own babe. Unable to accept it when in her right mind, she ultimately took her own life."

"I pity her, although you may not," Legolas says.

"You are mistaken, she is indeed pitied by all," Gimli replies. "But we also take it as a lesson, that a diamond must be set in its own place and coal in its own."

Legolas laughs quietly. "And yet, even I, ignorant elf that I am, know that one cannot have diamonds without first having coal."

His eyes glint challengingly at Gimli, who finds himself rising to it on instinct, who says, "And yet one would not expect diamond to burn like coal, or a parrot to live long in a cave, or a father to outlive his son."

Then he flinches. I did not ask, he tells himself, surely I did not.

Legolas laughs again, ringing out like bells or the sound of a waterfall from far off, beckoning. "A parrot may nest in a tree outside a cave, and with time coal may do a diamond's task. I have outlived the deadly quest we were on, and what there is beyond this is not in my ken, but my father will not have cause to grieve me for many years yet."

"Some things cannot be asked for," Gimli says, his heart beating like it would escape his chest and fly to his love, if Legolas holds out his hand for it.

"You need not ask," Legolas replies and leans down to hold his furred cheek and chin in two long-fingered hands and kiss him like gentle rain after scorching summer.

[teteminne]

Just passing by to say i miss Flatlands a lot <3

And Happy Halloween! 🤎🧡🤎🎃🦇👻

Hello! I think this ask might just be the perfect place, then, to post a little snippet of the next chapter! Hope you like it (once again, sorry for the long wait) and happy halloween!!

SANSA

The white wind, entwined with snow, swirls around them, against them, chafing at the pale skin of their faces, bitten red, up at the open extension of the Southern parapet. Jon doesn’t outwardly react to the cold despite the purplish tint of his lips and the blue shade of the skin around his eyes. Even Sansa, with her weary body, so prone to inflammation, has at this point grown so accustomed to winter’s bite that neither cold nor pain is quite enough to remind her to shiver. The sable fur of her hat feels soft against her ears; her breath leaves her nose as a white cloud with a stinging sear, and she blinks against the dry burn freezing her eyes’ sclerae without much thought. 

The silence between them feels potent, latent with unsaid, implied truths. Though it’d been half a day since, Sansa nearly feels like she’s sitting in her armchair staring at the fire still, ears ringing with the sounds of Jon’s distancing footsteps long after he’s left, like she, a part of the castle, could hear him walking any and everywhere inside Winterfell. 

They don’t look directly at each other, gazing far off into the horizon instead. Sansa takes note of how the snow moves in the wind. In a part of her she’s still stunned he’s even here. Waking up, alone in her stagnant bedroom, she’d been distantly haunted by the silliest, most disturbing notion that he’d never returned at all. That she’d leave the room to find Winterfell empty. A senseless paranoia she knew to be untrue. Even so, the sight of him, present and solid, is a relief - despite how purposely they’d not dared touch -.

“Arya’s told me of Baelish’s fate.”

Sansa’s lips twitch despite the bitterness that coats her tongue at the mention, gathering thick as old honey in her throat. The tenseness that fixes her features isn’t grief, at least not as she’d known it till then, but it is something still; she cannot help but feel it, despite everything. 

“Were you glad to hear it?”

“Quite.” his immediate answer surprises her, though she does not show it. She strives to keep her composure then when he turns directly to her before speaking again, sharp-eyed: “But what of you?”

“What of me?”

“What are your feelings?”

Sansa blinks against the painful burn in her dry eyes again, looking away, clinging to the self-control that so meagerly comforts her:

“Wouldn’t you like to hear the minutiae of his tragedies?”

“I would like to hear of you. I care little for him or whatever ailed him.” he puts dryly, matter-of-fact. Sansa swallows, feeling raw, exposed. The time for them to go back inside is nearing; she half considers saying they should step back in.

“I’m unsure…” she begins before her voice trails off. What can she say? The scarlet red of his blood appears vividly behind her eyes, the grotesque sight of his felled neck, his rolling head. She feels nauseous with disgust stacked on top of hatred, with all kinds of guilt: something of him lingers still in her body and it sickens her to the core, almost as much as the thin, feeble string of not-quite-grief that twists inside her whenever she remembers how cold is the finality of death. <i>He isn’t coming back</i>. She’s disgusted with herself. “I know not how I feel.” she finally answers, stale; “All I know is that he is dead, and in that I find some relief.”

Jon says nothing, just keeps looking at her. She avoids the piercing darkness of his eye; he can see everything. He can see through her. How horrifyingly delightful it is to be seen, stripped bare: there’s nowhere to hide without his finding her - she’s never been less alone. It strikes a cord deep inside her; makes it rumble. Her chest feels tight.

“Will you tell me of your Southern affairs?” she asks lowly, voice blending with the wuthering howls of the wind. Jon hears her regardless though, and he scoffs, half derisive - if at the subject matter itself or at her poor attempt to divert the conversation, she knows not for sure, but she suspects: there’s a tight, cutting sort of tenseness to the flesh around his eyes that hints at something greater. Sansa waits:

"I was somewhat surprised you did not bring it up yesterday." he remarks, superficially bitter, but inwardly, much more deeply distraught. 

She nearly opens her mouth to speak, but is kept from answering by a mute, unnamable force within her that stops her tongue: she cannot speak of yesterday. She chooses a different answer:

"Why didn't you?" she asks instead. Jon’s eyes flash over her, and she can see he knows her feelings at once. He presses his lips flat before saying:

"It wasn't what I wanted to talk about."

Silence once more. They’re only an arm’s length apart. It is a minute before Sansa finally ventures to ask again:

"What happened in Dragonstone, Jon?”

He doesn’t immediately answer. Instead, he looks falsely into the distance, body tense, mouth pursed. His inner turmoil is so thoroughly understood by Sansa as to leave a taste of its bitterness on her tongue. Her patience is boundless; she could wait for him forever, and it’d pain her not.

"You got my last letter, did you not?" he finally speaks.

"Yes, your sole report." Jon's eyes flash to her with some alarm despite how neutral she’d thought her tone. She doesn’t remark upon it: "You bent the knee in exchange for her aid against the dead."

"Which you knew was to happen already, from the beginning." he puts it matter-of-factly, distantly. Sansa aquiesces. Jon nods, turning away again. 

"Deep down, so did I." he confesses. 

She remains silent for a moment, not knowing how to comfort him.

"You got something from her, though.” she finally strings the words together in soft tones and gentle demeanor, toiling against the risk of, in her tameness, awakening the lonely, but sturdy fiber of pride that strengthens Jon’s heart without acceptance of being denied: “Her aid against the dead. That alone might as well be seen as a win. Should be. That you’d have to bend the knee… there was no escaping it. We should see this result as a victory, then. Your victory."

Jon lets out a blow of a breath that is half a disbelieving laugh, half a scoff. He turns his whole body away from her in a sardonic spin of his heel, and Sansa frowns, nearly taking half a step towards him before she even notices, body stilling in place, brow furrowing tightly. 

“Is that what you told the lords?” he asks sardonically, turning back around. “Did it make them despise me any less?”

Sansa makes a face.

“There are many ways this whole endeavor could’ve gone worse, Jon, and not many ways it could’ve gone better. They’ll have to settle with that, as will you.”

They stew in the aftermath of her spirited, stern piece of sense for a moment before, in a low murmur, Jon breaks through the stiffness of their conversation to turn up its soft underbelly: a step back into deeper intimacy. The wind nearly carries the rumble of his voice away:

"Were you angry at me?” <i>Are you?</i> she hears the unsaid words as though a soft whisper in her ear. Sansa falls silent, looking down at the snow-covered stone floors of the Southern walls. </i>Why had they come here?</i> She knows why. All around them, it is only the white plains struggling to override the near-horizon of the Wolfswood that bear witness to this scandal hiding in plain sight. She can hardly bear the thought of bearing the anguish of the anxiety of obsessing over the possibility of there being someone to hear, to <i>see</i>. Something inside her insists in paranoia despite their every effort; she can’t help but think, <i>it’d take a single look…</i>

"Yes." she confirms eventually, simply, even though she’s not angry now, not really, not anymore. She <i>was</i> angry, very angry, at some point, long before. But now… Now that he’s back, right beside her, with her, after so long… The sight of him nullifies any resentment, any frustration, any grief. 

But he needn’t know that, of course.

Jon rubs a gloved hand down his beard, over his mouth, eyebrows shooting up in tired exasperation. Sansa watches him. 

"Do you wish to lay it down upon me?" he finally questions, tiredly ready, exasperatedly expectant, awaiting. Sansa raises her brows in spirit, though outwardly her face remains the same:

"Must I?” there’s nothing she can say he doesn’t already know. Didn’t already know then, right then, before he ever left. It’d been part of what’d silenced her, all those moons ago: he knew, he knew it all, he was just leaving anyway.

He understands her meaning thoroughly, of course. <i>Of course</i>. He sighs, looking off at the setting sun again. <i>Besides</i>, Sansa thinks, watching him, tracing the sloping lines of his shoulders, the nearly haggard features of his proud visage; <i>he doesn’t want her to chastise him</i>. He’s tired, Sansa can see. Too tired. He doesn’t want her reprimands, nor does he need them, and, in truth, neither does Sansa want to needle him either. Why pursue grievances when it’d please neither? It is her nature; Sansa would rather move on. But before, she must know - she must confirm:

“Why, then? Why did you go?” she wishes her voice could’ve come out stronger, sturdier, firmer. Less willowy, and so insistently sad. Jon’s brow twists in sorrow, in sympathy. She keeps herself looking determinedly away, appalled by the mere idea of having him pity her.

“How could I stay?” his voice cuts through the wind clearly. <i>He couldn’t</i>, she now knows that’s what he thought: <i>he couldn’t possibly</i>. The soft muscles of her face feel stiff as she blinks away the insistent burn from her weary eyes.

“I delusioned myself into perfect obscurity with you gone.” she reveals, still looking away from him. It is impossible, she finds, to discuss this subject, even this vaguely, while looking at him; even pushing herself far away, she still half doesn’t believe the words are leaving her lips: “Fooled myself for moons.” she finishes pointedly, bitterly. Talking about it… it calls every feeling up her gut, in vivid colours. She tries and swallows it all down.

Jon says nothing. She’s nearly glad of it; they’re submerged in dense silence for a moment, looking away from one another. 

“Would you have done things differently?” he questions out of nowhere, vowels straining from his mouth in such a way she knows he’d sttruggled against the question, tried not to say it; it had to come out anyway, despite his every inclination. She knows there’s no way she can relieve his embarrassment at having to ask; she can only answer:

“What does it matter?”

It doesn’t satisfy - that is clear in the quick glance he flashes her way -. Sansa surrenders her words further, then, to his relief - only because she knows he needs to hear them: “No one wanted me to decide anything, Jon. They wanted you. They chose you.”

“Some of them might just regret that.” bitterly.

“Only fools regret.” the answer comes easily. Sansa finds, in the silence that follows, that she does believe that, despite all her inner habits of obsessive self-mutilation. The mind can be paradoxically non-sensible; no amount of sage wisdom, no matter how harshly, intellectually acquired, can squash the true expanse of all her guilt. She could die a thousand times without ever atoning: “You’ve done your best. In the end, that is all.” she means it, for his sake, but she fears the words ring empty for him, too.

“What is done is done.” it is the saddest thing he could say, when spoken in the way he says it. Sansa can feel her whole face being weighed down by the brunt of his sorrow.

A long while after, she finally speaks again to call, softly: “We should go back inside.” her extremities feel numb, and her whole body quivers, stiffened. Jon nods at once, bending his head down, into his chest, as he turns to leave, as he’d do when a boy. Sansa’s lips pull softly outward at the sight, the movement very slight.

As they cross the hallways of the castle, shaking off the snow, Sansa wonders, then, why should she be miserable, with him so near? Jon removes his sable fur hat, hair an overlong mess of curls she’s cut herself, once, surrounding his head like a dark halo; <i>what she truly needs is here.</i> As they go, Sansa’s heart sheds a good part of its listless sadness.

[ladylucksrogue]

Hi! Could I pretty please ask for Rexsoka with 32 - A kiss while someone watches!

Thank you for this one!

Set post order 66, at some point while they are on the run...

Ahsoka paused at the stand, her eyes scanning the items on display. They needed clothing, and this stall seemed promising. She reached out to touch a cloak, inspecting the fabric and weave. The color reminded her of the 501st blue on Rex’s armor. She wondered if it might be too obvious a choice. Before she could decide, a voice interrupted her thoughts.

“That color would go great with your eyes,” a human man said, stepping closer. Ahsoka blinked, pulled from her reverie. The man might have been handsome once, but now he had the weary look common on the Outer Rim. His hair, streaked with gray and a bit greasy, hung to his shoulders, and his smile made her uneasy. Something about him set off her instincts.

She took a step back almost unconsciously, offering a polite smile. “Oh, it’s not for me,” she said.

“A pretty girl like you should treat herself,” he pushed, launching into a sales pitch. He began showing her various items, most of which Ahsoka had no interest in, and many far beyond her budget.

She tried to steer the conversation toward what she was actually looking for, but he paid her no attention.

“Don’t see many Togruta out here. What brings you to these parts?” he asked, moving closer again. The scent of stale sweat mixed with cheap cologne made her resist the urge to wrinkle her nose.

“Oh, this and that,” she said vaguely. What was she supposed to say?  She was on the run?  Not that he was even interested in her words, especially when he was eyeing her with all the subtlety of a gundark sizing up its prey.

“Look, thanks, but I’m going to look elsewhere. Have a nice day,” she said, forcing a strained smile. She turned to leave, but the vendor’s hand closed around her wrist. Her first instinct was to use a close combat move that probably wasn’t appropriate to use on a civilian, but she restrained herself. Still, as she tried to pull away, the urge grew stronger.

Just then, she felt the warmth of a familiar presence seconds before an arm wrapped around her shoulders from behind, a very familiar arm.

“Sorry I’m late,” Rex said, his voice low beside her montral as he moved in front of her, his lips brushing hers. Ahsoka almost flinched in surprise but quickly understood what Rex was doing. To the vendor, they would just look like an affectionate couple, much less dangerous than causing a scene. She felt the man’s grip loosen and disappear as she instinctively leaned into the kiss. She felt the stubble on Rex’s face, tasted the hint of jogan fruit ice they’d shared earlier, smelled the clean scent of his soap. 

All too soon, it was over. When Ahsoka opened her eyes, she found Rex watching her with an unreadable expression. The move had defused the situation, safer for everyone involved, except maybe her heart. It pounded so hard she was sure Rex could hear it.

“Ready to go?” Rex asked.

Ahsoka nodded, sparing only a brief glance at the vendor, who had retreated behind his counter, pretending to busy himself with his wares. She didn’t miss the glare he sent Rex’s way.

As they moved through the crowd, Ahsoka’s thoughts spun. She was grateful for Rex’s quick thinking, but was that all it had been? She couldn’t shake the look he’d given her. Should she ask him about it or pretend it never happened? As they walked, she felt his hand brush against hers. She thought it was an accident until it happened again, only this time, his hand enveloped hers, giving it a gentle squeeze. She glanced over at him, catching his bashful smile.

And she couldn’t help but smile back.

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Ten

(AO3 counterpart here.)

Fireheart was left to ponder that vision for the rest of the night. Even more confusing, he didn’t see Yellowfang or Cinderpaw go to Bluestar with this news. He caught sight of Yellowfang speaking to Speckletail, at least, but he had to be content with that by the time he went to sleep. Maybe Bluestar would be talked with tomorrow.

But Yellowfang didn’t talk to Bluestar. In fact, no one did. She didn’t leave her den. Fireheart and Whitecloud were the only ones to see her for a couple days; any time they checked in, she was curled up and asleep, often with half-eaten remains of the prey they left for her lying near the entrance of her den.

“Do you think she’s sick?” Fireheart asked Whitecloud one night.

Whitecloud’s answer was delayed and quiet. “I can only hope that’s the case.”

Speckletail, at least, was pulling her weight admirably. She only had to be told once that Bluestar was feeling unwell for her to double her efforts, recruiting Whitecloud to help her schedule patrols and decide on where the night’s hunters would be sent to level the prey supply. Fireheart did his best to show his appreciation with thanks and not bothering her with questions about Bluestar.

Not to say that Bluestar didn’t come up. A couple nights after Fireheart’s question, he went for breakfast to find Speckletail tiredly pawing around the pile, her ears poorly resisting folding back and her tail twitching. Her cream-and-brown coat had lost a bit of its usual shine, dull with exhaustion.

“Good evening!” Fireheart said brightly, coming up to the side of the pile across from her. He tilted his head, concerned. “You look like you didn’t sleep. Are you alright?”

“Evening.” Speckletail gave him a weary blink. “I slept, don’t worry. It’s just been a busy few nights.” She barely managed a huff of what failed to sound like amusement. “Seems like I’ve got to do everything myself lately. I haven’t gotten Bluestar to come inside and do her job.”

“Oh…” Fireheart nodded, valiantly hiding the immediate spike of worry in his chest. “Yeah, I know what you mean. Do you want me to talk to her for you?”

Another attempt at a chuff, slightly more energetic than the last, and she shook her head. “You don’t need to worry about that, Fireheart. You’ve been taking care of Bluestar like she was Yellowfang. Don’t think I didn’t notice—bringing her prey and making sure she’s alright.” Speckletail gave him a warm look. “I appreciate you trying to help, but it’s not your concern.”

Fireheart almost squinted at her in bafflement. “She’s the leader of ThunderClan and my mentor, and suffering with something she won’t talk about. I would darn well think it’s my concern.”

The deputy’s whiskers twitched. “Right. I forgot I was talking to you.” She sighed, her eyes turning in the direction of Bluestar’s den. “Well, I won’t order you to, but if you think you can get a word out of her, or even get her out of her nest, you have no complaints from me.” She looked back at him. “But perhaps eat first.”

Fireheart obeyed with a head-bob and quickly took a mouse while Speckletail continued to look through the pile. He ate with no ceremony or thought, shook out his fur and trotted out of camp with a tail-flick to Speckletail, who had finally found a squirrel she wanted.

Fireheart took a breath as he approached Bluestar’s den. It was deathly silent out here, a particular void of sound seeming to coalesce specifically behind the lichen curtain. A moment of hesitation, and then Fireheart quietly pushed past the lichen and stepped into Bluestar’s den.

As before, he only saw his mentor’s back, the fur of which was more ruffled and stiffer than usual. She was tightly curled up, breathing so slowly and softly that Fireheart had to watch her side rise and fall to be sure she was still alive. The prey she’d tossed aside, at least, was mostly eaten, but it had gone stale and was starting to stink a little. A few little prey-bones were scattered around where Fireheart or Whitecloud had missed them in scooting the remaining meat outside.

Carefully, Fireheart cleared his throat and spoke quietly. “Bluestar?”

Her head did not jolt up as it usually did; instead, she lifted it with groggy surprise, looking around blearily and slowly twisting from lying on her side to on her stomach. In a voice creaky with disuse, she said, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me,” Fireheart said, stepping sideways to get into her view. “I didn’t meant to interrupt your sleep, but I wanted to check on you.”

Bluestar did not meet his eye, or even really look at him beyond a glance as she turned her head this way and that. Fireheart could swear he heard her whisper, “Where…?” before she shook her head like she was clearing away flies and finally looked at her apprentice, though their eyes still didn’t connect.

“Er…” Fireheart cleared his throat again and took a step closer. “Well, I was thinking—you’ve been in here for a few nights now, and the Clan’s a little worried, so I thought maybe you could come in and order a patrol. And, um, get some food, too.” He nudged the mostly-eaten prey with his paw. “This is a little old to finish now.”

“Oh—” Bluestar blinked like she’d been hit in the head and slowly got to her feet. “Yes. Right. Patrols.”

Before Fireheart could say anything else, she walked past him, her tail sticking straight out. Fireheart caught sight of a few bits of dry moss clinging to it.

He hurried out after her, trying to match her pace to stand at her side, having some foggy notion that she was about to fall over and he needed to catch her. She didn’t, obviously, but he was still reluctant to let her walk in front of him as they went through the entrance to camp.

Her arrival was welcomed with many heads turning her way and sparks of conversation and greeting. Fireheart caught up to her, some small part of him relieved at the warm reception for reasons he couldn’t name, and turned to speak to her.

Then he stopped. Watched her eyes roam over camp, mouth ever-so-slightly opening and closing, posture stiff. She was staring at everyone like they were strangers.

Why does she look so confused?

Before he could follow that line of thought, Bluestar vigorously shook her head again and her eyes cleared. She straightened up and, with steps that had a bit of forced regality, made her way over to Speckletail, who had stood up from her meal to greet her leader.

Bluestar got to the point. “Have you sent out a patrol for Sunningrocks’ border?”

“Not tonight,” Speckletail said. “I was busy with the hunting patrols. Should I—”

“No, no.” Bluestar waved her moss-spotted tail. “I can do it. You’ve been working much more than you should have to.” She looked around again, inspecting her Clan distantly, then looked to her apprentice. “Fireheart, will you take…” Again, a scan of the clearing. “Lizardtail and Willowpelt, and their apprentices, to Sunningrocks?”

“Sure!” Fireheart nodded, eager to help. “Should we have someone else come with us, since we have apprentices?”

“It… should be fine.” Bluestar’s eyes fogged for an instant before she blinked the fog away. “Swiftpaw is nearly a warrior. He can count as an adult for this patrol.”

Swiftpaw, sitting by his mentor, brightened up, looking at Lizardtail excitedly. Lizardtail purred and flicked him with his tail.

Willowpelt nudged Brackenpaw and stood up, the golden-brown apprentice jumping up after her. The pair of pairs trotted up to Fireheart, who turned and nodded to Bluestar.

“Get something to eat, too,” he said to her in a low voice. “And please eat all of it.”

At this, Bluestar’s gaze swung over to the prey-pile, and without responding she walked past him and to the scattered animals. Barely holding in a sigh of relief, Fireheart gestured with his tail and led the warriors and apprentices back out of camp.

All in all, it was a rather peaceful walk. Swiftpaw and Brackenpaw hung at the back of the patrol, Swiftpaw telling a story about his first encounter with a deer and Brackenpaw hanging on every word, staring with big-eyed awe at the older apprentice. Fireheart half-listened in, but mostly enjoyed the breeze wafting towards the patrol and winding around them. With the lack of foliage to block it, scents from much further off in the territory greeted him. He was so caught up in trying to identify which particular plant he was smelling, however, that he didn’t notice Willowpelt picking up her pace to catch up to him until she whispered in his ear.

“Is Bluestar okay?” she asked.

Fireheart flinched in surprise and looked at her. “Huh?”

“Bluestar.” Willowpelt glanced back at Lizardtail, who was walking a little faster after them with his ears perked. “She was… well, she felt off. You’re the one who’s seen her the most, so you’d know what’s up, right?”

“Oh,” Fireheart said, scrambling for a satisfying answer. “I have a feeling she’s ill with something. She’s just been sleeping these past few nights. She ought to get better soon.”

Willowpelt nodded, though she didn’t look entirely convinced. Lizardtail, now very close behind, shared an expression of scrutiny with her.

“Just give her time,” Fireheart whispered to them both. “She’ll be okay.”

The faces were much more doubtful, though Fireheart didn’t miss that glint of hope in their eyes. They said nothing more, just walked along their way, the unaware apprentices still talking.

Sunningrocks came up quickly, announced far in advance by the rush of water. Fireheart let himself feel that stab of grief as the thought of Silverstream came back to his mind, and it dutifully drifted away once he found something else to think on. His nose twitched at the faintest smell of fish that grew stronger as they closed in on the stretch of flatland. RiverClanners were near, it seemed.

Good thing Greystripe isn’t with us, he thought. They’d all try to kill him.

Why just him? a mean little bite of an idea snipped. They’re the ones that let Silverstream die. All Greystripe did was love her. He didn’t scare her enough to make her starve herself.

Fireheart unconsciously clenched his teeth on that snip. Don’t. It’s done.

Even with that firm rebuke, he could feel the thought tapping around in the back of his mind, muttering anger. He tried to breathe it out, didn’t succeed, and chose to file it away to consider later.

“You smell that?” he asked brightly of the other warriors. “There must be some RiverClan cats by the water.”

Lizardtail sniffed. “Then we’ll have to remind them where the border is.”

“RiverClan?” Brackenpaw’s voice popped out of the quiet of the forest. “Do I get to see them now?”

“You should, yeah,” Swiftpaw said. “You’ll think they’re funny. Big heads and short tails.”

Brackenpaw’s eyes sparkled. “I bet I’m taller than all of them already.”

Swiftpaw chortled. “You’re at least a better fighter than them.”

“Really?” Brackenpaw tilted his head. “I thought when you guys fought them, you lost.”

“That was a fluke,” Lizardtail said quickly. “They had the element of surprise and more cats.”

“We really ought to go for Sunningrocks again,” Willowpelt muttered, seemingly to herself. “That land will be useful in winter.”

Fireheart sighed, grateful that his head was now turned forward so they couldn’t see him roll his eyes. He’d been happy about the lack of comments about the stupidest quarrel in the territories for the past couple of months, but now that prey was guaranteed to run thin, he expected it would come up again. Fabulous. Exactly what he wanted on this peaceful walk.

“Don’t you sigh like that,” Willowpelt said, more warm than annoyed. “We’re going to need all the prey we can get.”

“There’s no prey on that land, Willowpelt!” Fireheart looked back at her. “It’s a bunch of dumb rocks no one sits on, who cares who owns it?”

To his relief, Willowpelt just crinkled her eyes and shook her head. Even Lizardtail seemed amused by Fireheart’s frown, rolling his own eyes more jokingly than seriously. Fireheart himself just turned forward again, curling his tail good-humoredly.

That cheery mood lasted about as long as it took for a new scent to hit Fireheart’s nose—one that he was very familiar with by this point, but stronger and more disgusting than usual.

“Anyone smell blood?” he asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Lizardtail picked up his pace to catch up and walk by Fireheart, his nose in the air. His eyes narrowed. “I do. That’s not prey blood, that’s…”

“Cat blood,” Willowpelt finished. Her tail bristled. “Someone’s hurt.”

The apprentices fell quiet, sniffing too. In unison, the patrol broke into a run. Fireheart lost his lead to Swiftpaw and Lizardtail, choosing to hang back a bit to block Brackenpaw’s view from whatever it could be. The scent of blood, and now raw meat, strengthened enough to make the mouse in his stomach curdle.

They all skidded to a halt as they reached Sunninrocks’ border. Fireheart poked his head out of the treeline and stared at the sight before him in horror.

A crowd of RiverClan cats were clustered in a pair of groups, the larger one surrounding a large streak of bloody grass and the smaller by the water, where blood joined with the river and melted into it as it was carried downstream. The cats were blocking most of the view, but tails, legs and a familiar warm brown head could be seen, the head with its jaw nearly disconnected and the eyes faded and empty.

“Is that Oakclaw?” Fireheart said, his voice almost cracking.

At his voice, the broad heads shot up and turned the patrol’s way. Fireheart recognized the pale grey calico Pansyheart, and she in turn seemed to realize who he was and relaxed, though her face lacked any of its usual merriment.

“It’s Fireheart and a patrol,” she said dully to her Clanmates. “I’ll talk to them.”

A few cats nodded and looked back down at their deputy and the smaller cat by the water. Pansyheart walked slowly and lethargically up to the treeline, not even seeming to have the energy to twitch her tail at the intrusion.

“You all wouldn’t happen to have found evidence of any dogs in your forest, would you?” she asked when she was standing across from them.

Willowpelt had the good sense to be professional. “We’ve scented them on our border near the neutral grounds, but we haven’t spotted them ourselves, no.” She tilted her head. “What happened here?”

“Take a sniff,” Pansyheart sighed. “Once you get past the dead cats.”

Obligingly, the patrol all lifted their noses, Fireheart opening his mouth to taste the air. The stink of dog was there, just under the meat and blood.

“That’s awful,” Fireheart said softly. “I’m sorry. Who’s been killed?”

“Our deputy and his apprentice, Burdockpaw.” Pansyheart hung her head. “They were out here to mark the border. We thought… we thought, with our land being flat, we could see the dogs coming from far off. I suppose that wasn’t the case.”

“Or it didn’t matter,” Lizardtail said, and to Fireheart’s surprise (and relief) his tone was solemn and empathetic. “Dogs are faster than we think, usually.”

Willowpelt nodded and asked, “Did you see them at all? Where they could have gone?”

Pansyheart gestured limply with her tail behind her. “Across the river. We can smell them on our side.”

Hesitantly, Swiftpaw came forward. “Is everyone else alive?”

“For now, thank the stars,” Pansyheart said with no enthusiasm. “I assume you all came to mark the border. Feel free to. We’ve got this handled.” Her eyes lowered to the ground. “I suggest you all be careful, in case they swim back this way.”

Before anyone could respond to her, she turned around and dragged her feet back over to her Clanmates. They didn’t greet her as she rejoined them, instead just looking back to the bodies in silence.

Fireheart looked at the rest of the patrol and whispered, “We can put off marking, can’t we? They don’t need that right now. It’d be in poor taste.”

Willowpelt looked at Lizardtail, the two communicating silently. Lizardtail tilted his head in thought, then sighed, saying, “Fine. But if they come over here, I’m tattling on you.”

“They’re not going to,” Fireheart said firmly. “Don’t assume that of them when they’re like this. Let’s get prey and go home.”

Swiftpaw and Brackenpaw were giving him highly surprised looks as he turned away from the clearing and walked deeper into the forest, the older warriors following him and the apprentices quickly coming along.

The entire patrol was silent, but Fireheart was more quiet out of a horrible, nauseating ice in his stomach. He’d have to report this, and of course he would. That was just facts.

But how do you tell your ailing leader in a kind way that her former mate is dead?

[bexxa12]

STUDIO SECRETS|| JJ x Y/N

{Summary}

Jungkook, a musical prodigy whose voice captivates millions, finds himself drawn into a world beyond the spotlight. His path crosses with the enigmatic daughter of his esteemed producer, a woman whose secrets run as deep as the melodies he crafts.

Chapter 5

WC: 2,161

The flight was a blur of case notes and turbulent thoughts. Y/N's mind raced with the gravity of the upcoming trial.

The plane's gentle descent into Busan's Gimhae International Airport brought her back to reality. The early morning sun painted the city in soft pastels, a stark contrast to the harsh fluorescents of the Seoul office. 

The warmth of the cabin dissipated as she stepped into the brisk air of the coastal city. The scent of the sea mingled with the crispness of the dawn, a refreshing change from the stale air of the flight.

Her driver, a stoic man in a black suit, held a sign with her name neatly printed on a white card. He nodded curtly as she approached, his eyes never leaving her. She couldn't help but feel a touch of nervousness under his scrutiny. 

As they made their way through the quiet streets, the city began to wake up, the soft hum of early morning traffic a gentle crescendo to the silence of the night. The hotel loomed into view, a sleek tower of glass and steel, a stark contrast to the cosy, familiar streets she'd left behind. 

The lobby was a study in modern luxury, with a minimalist aesthetic that somehow managed to be both welcoming and intimidating. Y/N's heels clicked on the marble floor as she followed the bellhop to the elevator, her briefcase feeling heavier with every step. 

The ride up was quick, the city shrinking below her until it was nothing more than a quilt of lights. When the doors slid open, she stepped into a plush hallway that seemed to stretch on forever, the only sound the muffled whispers of the hotel's hidden life.

The room was a sanctuary of calm, the soft hum of the air conditioner the only intrusion on the silence. Y/N dropped her bags by the door and took a moment to breathe, the weight of the case file in her briefcase feeling like it had transferred to her shoulders. 

She walked over to the floor-to-ceiling windows, her reflection staring back at her, a tired but determined young woman ready to conquer the world.

The view was breath taking, the sea stretching out like a vast canvas painted in the soft hues of the early morning. The horizon was a blur of colours, a promise of a new day, a new challenge. Her heart swelled with excitement and nerves as she thought about the high-profile murder case that awaited her.

Y/N unpacked her suitcase methodically, her mind racing through the list of tasks she had ahead. Each item she laid out had a purpose, a role to play in her quest for justice. She hung her suits with care, the crisp fabric whispering a promise of professionalism. The sight of her neatly arranged work clothes brought a sense of order to the chaos of her thoughts.

Her phone buzzed, jolting her out of her thoughts. It was a message from her father, reminding her to eat something before diving into work. 

With a sigh, she called room service and ordered a simple breakfast of toast and eggs, the comfort food of her childhood. 

As she waited, she couldn't help but think about Jungkook, about the weariness in his eyes as he navigated the airport's gauntlet of flashing lights and intrusive questions.

The knock on the door startled her, and she jumped to her feet, her heart racing. It was just room service, a young man with a tray laden with her breakfast. He set it down with a polite smile, and she couldn't help but feel a pang of loneliness. 

The silence of the hotel room was deafening once the door clicked shut behind him.

Y/N took a deep breath and forced herself to eat, the food a comforting reminder of home. She could almost hear her mother's voice telling her to eat up, to keep her strength up.

The eggs were perfect, just the way she liked them, and the toast was warm and crunchy. Yet, even as she savoured each bite, her mind remained sharp, slicing through the legal jargon and the facts of the case.

Once she'd finished, she showered and changed into her first suit of the trip, a sleek, black number that made her feel like a warrior ready for battle. The mirror reflected a confident, capable woman, the kind her father had always believed her to be. 

Y/N took one last look before grabbing her briefcase and heading out, her heels clicking a rhythm of determination on the marble floor.

The drive to the law firm was a whirlwind of unfamiliar streets and the salty scent of the sea. The office was a stark contrast to the hotel, a nondescript building nestled between a convenience store and a coffee shop. 

The interior was a maze of cubicles and closed doors, the air thick with the scent of coffee and stress. She was ushered into a small, windowless room filled with boxes of documents and a single, worn-out desk. This was to be her base for the foreseeable future.

Her team was a mix of seasoned veterans and young, eager faces. They greeted her with a mix of respect and curiosity, whispering her name as if it were a password to some secret society. Y/N felt a shiver of excitement run down her spine.

This was it. Her moment to shine.

The lead prosecutor, Mr. Park, was a man with a reputation that preceded him. His stern gaze swept over her as she entered the conference room, his expression unreadable. He was a man of few words, but when he spoke, everyone listened. 

His briefing was succinct and to the point, laying out the grim details of the murder case that had shaken the city of Busan to its core.

Lyle Castellanos, a prominent businessman, had been found in his penthouse, brutally stabbed to death. The evidence was damning, but the motive was as murky as the waters of the Busan harbour. 

Y/N took furious notes, her mind racing with questions. Who would benefit from Castellanos's death? Was it a crime of passion or a calculated move in the cutthroat world of business?

The suspects ranged from his scorned lover to his disgruntled employees to his rival companies. Each had their own web of alibis and motives, a tangled knot that she would have to unravel. 

The stakes were high; the case had captured the nation's attention, and the senior partner's expectations were clear. Y/N had to win this one, not just for her career, but for her father's pride.

The rest of the day was a blur of meetings and strategy sessions, the walls closing in with every passing hour. Yet, as the sun began to set, painting the sky with a palette of fiery reds and oranges, she found herself oddly at peace. 

The office windows framed a view of the bustling city, the distant sound of the port's activity a gentle reminder of the world beyond the case files.

As she left the office, the cool evening air kissed her skin, a refreshing embrace after the day's battle. The streets of Busan were alive, the neon lights and chatter of passersby a stark contrast to the sterile silence of the hotel.

Jungkook's flight had landed hours ago, and as this driver weaved through the familiar streets, his heart swelled with a bittersweet nostalgia. The sight of the bustling marketplaces and the comforting aroma of street food brought back a flood of memories. 

When he finally stepped out of the car and onto the well-worn path leading to his childhood home, his anticipation was palpable. 

The house looked smaller than he remembered, but it was as if it had been painted with a warm glow, welcoming him back with open arms. He took a deep breath, savouring the scent of the sea breeze that carried the promise of comfort and belonging.

Jungkook's hand hovered over the doorbell, his heart racing like the first beat of a new song. He could almost hear the echoes of his past, the laughter and love that had filled these walls. With a gentle push, the chime rang through the house, and he felt the weight of his career slip away, replaced by a simple, profound yearning for home.

The door swung open, and there she was, his mother, her eyes widening with joy as she took in the sight of her son.

The warm embrace that followed was like a lullaby, soothing the ragged edges of his soul. Her scent of homemade kimchi and comfort wrapped around him like a warm blanket, reminding him of the unconditional love that waited for him here.

The house was a time capsule, unchanged from his last visit, the walls lined with family portraits and childhood trophies. The chaos was a symphony, a beautiful reminder of the life he had left behind in the pursuit of stardom.

His mother's kitchen was a warm sanctuary, the air thick with the aroma of kimchi jjigae simmering on the stove. 

The familiar clatter of pots and pans, the sizzle of ingredients hitting the hot pan, was music to his soul. He watched her, her movements efficient yet filled with love as she stirred the pot, her eyes never leaving him. She asked about his life in Seoul, his band, his music.

The rest of the evening was spent sharing stories, the laughter and warmth filling the void that fame had left behind. Jungkook felt a sense of belonging, a reminder of who he was before the lights and the cameras had become his constant companions. 

As the night grew late, he excused himself to his old room, the one he had not slept in for too long. 

The sight of his old bed, the posters of his childhood heroes still adorning the walls, brought a smile to his face. He unpacked his suitcase, placing his clothes in the drawers with a sense of comfort that was foreign in the city that never slept.

As he pulled out his phone to charge it for the night, a message from a familiar number popped up on his screen. It was from his childhood friend, Yoo-Jiin. 

"You're back!" it read, followed by a series of smiley faces. Jungkook felt a rush of excitement; it had been too long since they had last seen each other. 

Yoo-Jin proposed a reunion dinner tomorrow night, suggesting they catch up over some of their favourite street food and a couple of drinks. The thought of escaping the spotlight for just a few hours was tantalizing, a taste of freedom he hadn't experienced in a long time.

With a smile, Jungkook typed out his reply, agreeing to the meet-up. The anticipation grew within him like a chorus of cheerful notes. He hadn't had a night out like this since before his debut, a time when he could be just Jungkook, not the star of a world-famous boy band.

He quickly texted his manager to inform him of his plans, asking for a low-profile exit and minimal security.

The manager, ever understanding, assured him that it would be arranged. Jungkook could feel the burden of his celebrity status lift slightly, the thought of a night of anonymity a rare luxury. 

As he set his phone aside, the quiet hum of the old house lulled him into a sense of peace. He took a moment to breathe in the scent of home, a blend of the sea breeze that wafted in through the open window and the faint aroma of the dinner his mother had prepared.

The next day, Jungkook tried to keep his visit low-profile, spending time with his family and helping out around the house. His mother watched him with a knowing smile, her eyes filled with a mix of pride and concern. 

She had always worried about him, living that fast-paced life in the city, and she was grateful for this unexpected chance to reconnect.

Y/N, on the other hand, was thrown into the deep end of her high-profile case.

The office was a whirlwind of activity, with phones ringing off the hook and lawyers rushing to and fro, their heels clacking on the tiles like a staccato beat. Despite the chaos, she found a rhythm, her mind a finely tuned instrument sifting through the evidence and witness statements.

As the day dragged on, she felt the pressure building, the weight of her newfound responsibility pressing down on her shoulders. It was during a brief respite for coffee that she bumped into Min-Ji, a junior prosecutor with a sharp mind and a penchant for dramatic storytelling.

Min-Ji's eyes lit up when she saw Y/N, and before she knew it, she had been roped into an invitation for drinks after work.

Y/N hesitated, her mind already racing with the tasks she needed to complete, but the other woman's enthusiasm was infectious. 

"Come on," Min-Ji coaxed, "you've got to unwind. You can't work all day and night without a break. Plus it will be a little welcome moment to mark the start of your journey in Busan." With a sigh, Y/N found herself nodding, the promise of a few hours of normalcy too tempting to resist.

[lifeofpriya]

Jack with a sleepy girl :’-) my heart

i got you, bestie 🤭👍🏼

Will They, Won't They?

wc: 3.5k

"Come on, get up," you say, gently shaking Jack's shoulder. His eyes flutter open, and you're met with a sleepy smile that quickly fades into confusion as he takes in his surroundings—the crowded bar, the disco lights reflecting off the sweaty faces of the people around you, the sticky floor beneath his feet.

Jack groans, his head lolling to one side. "What time is it?" he mumbles, his voice thick with the weight of the drinks he's had.

You check your phone with a sigh. "It's almost two in the morning. We need to get you home before you pass out."

Jack nods, looking a bit green around the edges. "Yeah, you're right." He tries to stand, but his legs wobble like a newborn fawn's. You wrap an arm around his waist, bracing him as he sways precariously. The bar's music thumps in your ears, a relentless bass that seems to echo the rhythm of your own pulse. The smell of stale beer and sweat is overpowering, and the strobe lights make the room spin even for you, who's had nothing but water all night.

You navigate through the throng of people, the floor sticking to your shoes with every step. Each flash of light reveals a blur of faces, some lost in their own worlds, others watching you with a mix of amusement and envy. You're the designated sober one, the reliable friend who's always there to keep things together when everyone else falls apart. It's a role you've played before, but tonight you're feeling the weight of it more than usual. Your eyes burn with the need for sleep, and your body begs for the comfort of your own bed.

Outside, the cool night air slaps Jack's cheeks, bringing a little color back to his face. "Come on, Jack, work with me here," you say, as you help him stumble down the street. The sidewalks are uneven, and every time he missteps, your heart jumps in your chest, afraid he'll tumble into the gutter. You've had your share of late nights, but this one seems to be dragging on longer than usual.

The journey to Jack's apartment feels like an eternal trek. The streets are eerily quiet, the occasional car passing by casting elongated shadows that dance along the pavement. You can hear the distant hum of the city, a stark contrast to the loud, pulsing bar you just left. Each breath you take is a little easier than the last, and you're grateful for the relative calmness outside. The chill seeps into your bones, reminding you that you're dressed for a night in, not a walk of shame.

Jack leans heavily on you, his weight a constant reminder of the responsibility you've taken on. His speech is slurred, and his laughter—though muffled—rings out, echoing through the stillness. You manage to steer him away from a particularly nasty puddle, not wanting to deal with wet shoes in addition to his inebriation. The street lamps cast a warm glow, painting the world in shades of gold and shadow. You can't help but feel a little envious of the sleeping houses you pass, their windows dark and silent.

As you approach Jack's apartment building, you notice the lights are still on in the lobby, illuminating the path to the entrance. The buzzer feels like a lifeline in the quiet night, and you press it with a sense of relief. It takes a few moments, but finally, the crackle of an intercom breaks the silence. "Jack, is that you?" a groggy voice asks.

The crackle of the intercom appeared to have woken Paul, Jack's roommate and close friend, up from his deep sleep. "Jack, you okay?" he asked, his voice filled with concern.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Jack slurred, barely coherent. "Just had a little too much to drink."

Paul's sigh of relief is audible through the speaker. "Please tell me someone is there with you."

"Yeah, it's me," you reply, your voice firm but weary. "I've got him."

"Thank God," Paul says, the intercom clicking as he buzzes you in.

The lobby is a welcome respite from the cold night, the warmth enveloping you both as you stumble through the double doors. The carpet feels plush under your feet, a stark contrast to the gritty sidewalks. You help Jack into the elevator, his body lurching against yours as the doors close with a gentle ding. The metal walls seem to close in around you, the quiet whirring of the elevator's ascent a strange comfort in the otherwise chaotic night.

When you reach the floor where Jack lives, the elevator lets out a soft ding, and the doors slide open. You guide him down the hallway, his arm slung over your shoulder, his feet barely touching the floor. The fluorescent lights cast a cold glow on the patterned carpet, making it look like a river of sickly green waves beneath your feet. The sound of your footsteps is muffled by the quietude of the building, the only noise the occasional snore or muffled TV show seeping through the walls.

Finally, you arrive at the door to Jack's apartment. You fish the keys out of his pocket and unlock the door with a click that seems unnaturally loud in the silence. The living room is a mess of half-empty takeout containers and dirty laundry, a stark contrast to the pristine courts he's used to. You help him to the couch, his body collapsing onto it like a ragdoll. "Thanks, buddy," he mumbles, his eyes already closing.

Paul emerges from his room, his hair sticking up in every direction, a clear sign of his hasty exit from bed. He takes one look at Jack and shakes his head, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Same old, same old," he says, his voice filled with affectionate exasperation.

"Unfortunately, there was no killer rendition of 500 Miles tonight," you joke, remembering the moment Jack shared with Andy last year during a four-hour car ride.

Paul chuckles, the sound low and tired. "More like 500 meters before he conked out," he says, approaching the couch. "Let's get him to bed before he throws up everywhere."

Together, you and Paul hoist Jack up from the couch, his legs dragging behind him like a ragdoll's. His arms hang loosely around your shoulders, his weight a surprising burden for someone so fit. You manage to maneuver him down the narrow hallway, the walls seemingly closing in with every step. The smell of his cologne, usually so pleasant, is now overpowering and sickly sweet.

In the bedroom, you help him onto the bed, the mattress groaning in protest. He flops down, his head landing with a thud on the pillow. You remove his shoes, the sound of them hitting the floor echoing through the room. You both breathe a sigh of relief as he stays put, not even bothering to kick off his socks. The room is a mess, clothes strewn across the floor, but you know better than to try to clean it now. That's a battle for tomorrow.

"I'll get him settled in, you go back to sleep," you couldn't help but yawn mid-sentence. The room felt stuffy, a cocoon of stale air and the faint scent of Jack's sweat.

Paul nodded, his eyes drooping. "Thanks, mate. I owe you one."

"Don't worry about it," you reply, smiling despite your exhaustion. "Just make sure he doesn't miss his morning practice, okay?"

Paul nods, his eyes already half-closed. "I'll set an alarm for him," he mumbles, his feet shuffling back towards his room. "And for me, I guess."

You watch him disappear into the hallway before turning back to Jack, who's already snoring softly, one arm flung over his face. With a sigh, you pull the blanket over him, tucking it around his body as best you can. His breathing is deep and rhythmic, the occasional snort punctuating the quiet. You can't help but feel a pang of adoration at the sight of this usually poised athlete, now a rumpled mess on his bed. But your smile fades as you remember the walk here, the weight of his body leaning on you, and the sheer exhaustion that's taken over your own limbs.

With a last pat on his shoulder, you slip out of the room, the door clicking shut behind you. The hallway light feels like a spotlight on your bleary eyes, and you squint against it as you make your way back to the couch. The living room seems even messier than before, but you're too tired to care. You kick off your shoes and drape your jacket over the arm of the chair before collapsing onto the couch, your body melting into the cushions.

The quiet is a balm to your ears, the only sounds now the occasional snore from Jack's room and the distant hum of the city outside. You let out a deep, shaky breath, feeling the tension slowly seep out of your muscles. Your eyes drift closed, and for a brief moment, you're tempted to just stay there, to let sleep take you in the warm embrace of the couch.

But you know you can't. You have your own place to get back to, your own bed that's been waiting for you all night. With a grunt, you push yourself up, your bones protesting the sudden movement. You gather your things, the cold floor a shock against your socks as you tiptoe through the apartment. In the kitchen, you grab a glass of water and a couple of painkillers for Jack, placing them on the nightstand next to his bed.

As you exit the room, you pause for a moment, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. You've known Jack for years, seen him at his best and his worst. Nights like these are just part of the job description of being his friend. You tiptoe back to the living room, the couch calling your name like a siren's song. But you know better than to give in.

Before you could even pull your phone out to order a taxi, you could hear Jack mumbling something incoherent from the bedroom. You groan, your body begging you to stay put, but you know you can't leave him like this. You trudge back down the hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet.

Jack's room is a disaster, clothes scattered everywhere as if a tornado had ripped through. You make your way to the bed, where he's tangled in the blankets like a drunken octopus.

"Jack," you whisper, giving his shoulder a gentle shake. He stirs, his eyes cracking open. "I'm leaving now. Do you need anything?"

He mumbles something unintelligible, his head rolling to the side. "Stay here with me," he slurs, his grip on the blanket tightening.

Your heart raced faster at the thought of spending more time with Jack, but you knew your own bed was calling your name. "I can't, Jack. I've got to get home," you whisper, your voice filled with reluctance. "But I'll be here for you tomorrow, okay?"

Jack's eyes searched yours, "please? Just a little bit longer?" His voice was small and desperate, a stark contrast to the confident tennis star you knew.

You sigh, feeling the weight of his request tug at your already stretched patience. "Alright, just a little bit," you concede, your body dropping back onto the edge of the bed. The mattress dips slightly under your weight, and Jack shifts closer, his head lolling onto your shoulder. His breath is hot against your neck, and his hand finds yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles. The intimacy of the moment is unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome.

For a few moments, you sit in silence, the only sound the steady rhythm of his breathing and the occasional snore. The room spins gently around you, the remnants of the night's events playing out in your mind like a fuzzy movie reel.

Jack's hand tightens around yours, and he mumbles something you can't quite make out. You lean in closer, your ear brushing against his hair, which smells faintly of shampoo and the lingering scent of the bar. "You're the best," he whispers, his voice thick with sleep.

You smile despite yourself, the warmth of his hand in yours bringing a strange comfort to your weary body. The room is a cocoon of darkness, the only light a sliver of moonlight peeking through the blinds. The coolness of the sheets against your back is a stark contrast to the warmth of Jack's body beside you. You know you should leave, but there's something about the vulnerability of the moment that keeps you rooted to the spot.

"You know, you're pretty amazing too," you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper. You feel his chest rise and fall with a sigh, his grip on your hand loosening as sleep takes him fully. It's a gentle reminder of the friendship that's grown between you over the years, a bond that's seen you through countless late nights and early mornings.

The room feels eerily still, the only movement the occasional rustle of the curtains as the wind whispers outside. You sit there, your eyes drifting shut, lulled by the sound of his breathing. You're on the edge of sleep when Jack shifts again, his hand finding its way to your cheek. His thumb brushes against your skin, a feather-light touch that sends a jolt of something unfamiliar through you. You look at him, his eyes closed, his face relaxed in sleep. It's a side of him you rarely see, stripped of the layers of confidence and charm that he wears so easily.

You can't tell if it's the exhaustion or the intimacy of the moment, but your chest feels tight, your heart beating a strange tattoo against your ribs. You lean in, your nose brushing against his hair, and breathe in his scent—the faint smell of sweat and alcohol mixed with something deeper, something uniquely Jack. You've been here before, but never quite like this.

The room spins a little more, and you realize that maybe you're not as sober as you thought. Or perhaps it's just the lack of sleep playing tricks on you. Either way, Jack's touch feels surprisingly comforting. You're about to pull away when his eyes flutter open again, his gaze hazy with sleep. For a moment, you're trapped in his stare, the hazel of his irises swirling into the darkness of the room.

"Thank you," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "For everything."

You nod, unsure of what to say next. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy with unspoken words. You can feel the warmth of his hand on your cheek, his thumb still making lazy circles on your skin. The urge to lean in and kiss him is strong, but you fight it, telling yourself it's just the exhaustion playing tricks on you.

Jack's eyes drift shut again, and you sit there, your mind racing. You've had feelings for him before, but they've always been buried under layers of friendship and mutual respect. But now, in the quiet of his room, with his hand on your face, those feelings feel closer to the surface than ever before. You tell yourself it's just the intimacy of the moment, that it doesn't mean anything.

With a deep breath, you gently move his hand away and stand up. You need to leave before things get complicated. You tiptoe to the door, the floorboards groaning beneath your weight. The hallway seems to stretch on forever, the light from the living room a beacon of safety. You grab your shoes and jacket, feeling the weight of the night's events pressing down on you.

As you slip into the cold embrace of the night, the sound of the door closing behind you echoes through the empty streets. The cool air is refreshing, waking you up a little. You pull out your phone to call a taxi, your thumb hovering over the screen. But before you can press the button, you hear footsteps behind you.

You turn to see Jack, still in his rumpled clothes, his hair sticking up in every direction. "You're leaving?" he asks, his voice tinged with surprise.

"Yeah, I have to get home," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. "You're all set now."

Jack's eyes search yours, a hint of something unspoken passing between you. "Would you…stay?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just for a bit?"

You hesitate, the cold night air stinging your cheeks. You're tired, your body begging for rest, but you can't ignore the vulnerability in his voice. You nod, and together you make your way back to the couch, his arm draped over your shoulders. The living room is a mess, but you don't care. You just want to lie down.

Jack's weight shifts as he sits beside you, his hand still clutching yours. You can feel the warmth of his palm, the gentle pressure of his thumb. You're so close that you can see the individual lashes framing his eyes, the faint freckles across his nose. The room feels smaller, more intimate, with just the two of you in it.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," he mumbles, his voice thick with sleep. You can't help but smile, the corners of your mouth tugging upward. You've been there for him through countless matches, interviews, and parties. But this… this feels different.

You lean your head back against the couch, Jack's hand still clutching yours. The fabric of the couch is rough against your cheek, but it's a comforting sensation in the quiet room. His breathing evens out, and you listen to the sound of his slow inhales and exhales. The TV is still on, playing some infomercial at a low volume. The blue light flickers across the ceiling, casting strange shadows.

As your eyes drift shut, you feel a nudge. "Hey," Jack whispers, his voice raspy. "You okay?"

You nod, the couch feeling more like a bed with every passing moment. "Yeah, just tired."

Jack's grip on your hand tightens, pulling you closer to him. "Me too," he murmurs, his eyes drifting shut again. His breath is warm and even, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. You can feel the thump of his heart, a comforting beat against your side.

For a while, you just sit there, the silence stretching out between you like a tightrope. You're aware of every breath he takes, every little shift of his body. The room feels charged with something you can't quite put your finger on—it's not just friendship anymore. But you're too tired to analyze it, too sleep-deprived to do anything but let it wash over you.

Jack's hand is still in yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the back of your hand. It's a comforting gesture, one that makes you feel less alone in the quiet of the night. You lean your head against his shoulder, the fabric of his shirt rough against your skin. He feels solid, real, a comforting presence in the chaos of the night.

For a while, you just sit there, listening to the steady beat of his heart, the low murmur of the TV in the background. It's peaceful, almost too quiet. You're aware of the line you're crossing, the one that separates friendship from something more. But the darkness of the room and the weight of your eyelids make it easy to ignore.

Jack's breathing deepens, and you feel his body relax further into the couch. You know he's asleep, but you can't bring yourself to move. Your heart thuds in your chest, the silence echoing the questions in your mind. What if you leaned in a little closer? What if you let your head rest on his chest, just for a moment?

But you don't. You sit there, the couch's springs digging into your side, Jack's hand still wrapped around yours. The TV drones on, the infomercial now a white noise lullaby. You're so tired, your eyelids feeling like they're made of lead, but you're afraid to move, afraid to break the spell.

Finally, you can't resist anymore. You lean in, your cheek resting against his chest, the thump of his heart a steady rhythm beneath your ear. His arm tightens around your shoulders, pulling you closer, and you let out a sigh of contentment. It feels right, like you've found your place in the world, if only for a moment.

The TV's glow dims as your eyes drift shut, the soft hum of the city outside the only soundtrack to your slumber. The tension of the night fades away, replaced by the warmth of Jack's body and the comfort of his embrace. You've never felt so at peace, so safe.

But sleep doesn't come easy. Your mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, racing through the moments of the night, replaying every touch, every look. You've been friends for so long, but now, in the quiet darkness, it's like seeing him with new eyes. You wonder if he feels the same way, if he's ever felt the same way.

[ahsokathegray]

Rain Over Me

Pairing: Rexsoka

Prompt: Rexsoka Monthly Dec. ‘23 - Unexpected Encounters

Summary: When it rains, it pours. At least, that’s how Rex had always heard it. But he soon finds even the most dreadful of rains give life back to that which lacks it.

Tags: angst, bittersweet, rainy confessions, lost without each other, established relationship, post bad batch

Word Count: 3,426

A/N: this was just an excuse to write sad, lonely Rex with a reunion in the rain and I’m only somewhat sorry (@rexsoka-monthly)

read on ao3! / masterlist

The wood on the dusty, old shack was darker now with the onslaught of rain. Its months dry boards drank in the water and was hydrated once more, appearing to be in its prime again if only until the rain cleared. In more ways than one, it had been a dreary summer and the rain was much needed.

Rex had grown fond of the little restaurant — if one could call it that.

It wasn’t kept up to standards, he was most certain. He’d only seen someone sweep the place once. It was a sad little place, but comforting in its own right. The only faces that were constant here were those of the owner or the employees. Rex never saw anyone else twice.

Maybe he saw a bit of himself in the old shack — weary, unkempt, a stranger to itself, lacking energy.

He wasn’t an old man, no, the cure had stopped all that. But he did feel like it, and he’d always look older than his true age. Seventeen years of life didn’t reflect what he felt in his joints, what he recalled in his mind, what was on his false chain code, and what he saw when he looked back at himself in the mirror.

Yeah. Like the shack in the rain, he felt he was falsely young in appearance. It felt wrong not to age so quickly anymore, even though it was the most normal part of human life.

Rex carded a few fingers through his short, blonde curls, wicked the rain off his coat, and ascended the creaky steps. He took a menu, even though he knew he’d order the same thing as always, and seated himself at his usual booth.

The owner, who was old, wordlessly brought him a steaming cup of caf.

“I see we are past the point of asking now,” Rex observed, a corner of his mouth turning up.

A raspy laugh filled the stale, humid air, “What can I say? You’re my favorite regular, Rex!”

The other corner of Rex’s mouth raised, “I’m your only regular, Mr. Kip.”

“And a damn good tipper too,” the Ithorian man smiled, winking before walking back into the kitchen.

Well, he had nothing else to spend his credits on.

Rex scanned the menu items as if he didn’t already have the selections memorized. Even the daily special was the same every single day. Nothing changed and he found he had no qualms about that. After years of unpredictability and pushing his body, mind, and heart to their limits of strain, he found peace in the monotony of routine.

After much deliberation, Rex settled on the Single Sun Breakfast to no surprise. He half expected his meal to be brought out without confirmation, but old Kip stopped back by to make sure anyway.

He could get used to it — the not talking. It was rare he did much of it anyway these days, what with living alone. And, truly, he did enjoy the company of the staff, but the more minimal the interactions the better. Getting attached to people was a flaw he would never risk again. Losing so many loved ones in such a small frame of time would prompt anyone to make such vows.

Rex very much hoped there was a version of himself out there that hadn’t sworn it off, that he was happy and surrounded by those he held dear.

His fork was turned around in his fingers as he tried to ignore the fact he’d finally acknowledged that he was unhappy. It had been that way for years now and it was difficult to revisit the last time the opposite had been true.

It had been warm on Mandalore, when rumors of the war ending sparked hope rather than memories of almost; when battle felt good and he felt invincible and life had been first punctuated by something like love and a woman like her.

Squeezing the cutlery, he set it back down and threaded his fingers together, glancing out the condensating window instead.

Rain came down violently onto the flora just outside the establishment, but pattered softly on the windowsill. Every now and then, a drop found its way inside, or perhaps it was the water droplets still clinging to his hair. Oh, if that illustrious Captain could see him now. That version of himself would disapprove immensely of so many things — but his hair would be at the top of the list.

He did not wish to remind himself of what came second and was thankful when he spotted his plate emerging from the kitchen. His breakfast was brought out with little fanfare and looked as if always did. This pleased him.

As he ate, he thought of what he needed to get done in the upcoming week. He needed to give the old Y-wing a fresh coat of paint; the Republic and medic insignias were becoming visible again, as well as a damning shade of blue. The hole in the roof of his tiny home needed to be patched still. He kicked himself for not doing it sooner and added purchasing a bucket to his growing list.

Something like a laugh escaped him around a bite of rolled omelette, thinking about his helmet being used to collect water from a roof leak. It was when his head lifted up to do this that he saw a pair on montrals facing away from him, seated at a booth closer to the door.

There was a tightening in his lungs and the gaping hole in his heart was reopened; discarded of anything he’d ever used to cover it with. Rex swallowed hard and placed his head in his hands, counting as he regulated his breathing.

This happened every time he thought he saw her.

And, without fail, it was never her.

He ought to have internalized that by now. It had just been so long since the last time he mistook someone else for her. Lone Togrutas were not a sight seen often; they didn’t tend to stray very far from Kiros or Shili.

Rex wished that wasn't the case.

Seeing them more often might’ve kicked this fool’s hope earlier — the one that bubbled up violently inside him whenever he caught a glimpse of three lekku rather than the usual two or, like today, a set of montrals.

They were femininely shaped and blue, just like he knew hers to be, which didn’t help matters.

Getting up from the table to visit the refresher solely to see if it was her was something he was not going to let himself do. He had to get over this. He couldn’t let it control the trajectory of his day each time it happened.

Exhaling and centering himself, Rex finished his meal with a difficulty that hadn’t been present before and told himself his appetite was still there even though that was far from the case. Memories of similar breakfasts in similar restaurants with her bullied their way to the forefront of his mind. Small bouquets of freshly plucked flowers, dirt still clinging to them, being given to her and then placed in a cup of water from wherever they’d been eating.

Rex couldn’t help himself.

Once his plate was clear, he looked across the six booths that separated them. But the woman’s montrals were nowhere to be seen. Rex waited a little longer to see if she was just leaning down looking over a menu or taking a bite of food, but the montrals did not reappear.

Panic swept through him, his veins turning into hot plasma underneath his skin.

He rose promptly from his booth, eyes glued to the one she’d been at. Only a half finished mug of tea sat on the table. She never did like caf. His heart rate shifted into high gear and he made a beeline for the register, already fishing around in his pocket for credits, his fingers shaking.

“Oh, there’ll be no need today,” Kip said with a particularly pleased smile.

The hand in Rex’s pocket stilled and his heart leapt into his throat. “What do you mean?” His voice rattled as he spoke.

“Why, the young lady who just left covered your meal. Said to thank you for your service,” The Ithorian pointed to the entrance as the door slid closed.

For the first time in a long time, the world around Rex melted away and began to slow. Everything became muffled. The credit chits he had in his hand were placed onto the counter despite what the owner had just told him and before he could even tell them to do so, his feet were carrying him to the exit.

“Rex, what do you want me to do with this?”

“I don’t care,” he answered without looking back. “Pay it forward.”

Thick sheets of rain now came from the sky, pouring down so heavily that the world around him had turned white. The clouds flickered and thunder sounded, accompanied by angry strikes of lightning. Any footprints that might’ve been left behind in the mud had been washed away as quickly as they were made.

Whoever she was… she was gone.

A hand was clapped to his shoulder but Rex didn’t look down.

Kip sounded confused yet sympathetic. “She’s not gettin’ away in that, if that’s what you’re thinking.” The old man paused. “If you’re after her, I reckon’ she’ll be back again tomorrow.”

The hand was removed and Kip walked away, but Rex stayed frozen in the doorway. If it was her, he was doubtful she’d be back for breakfast the following morning. She could get away even in the most hopeless conditions.

Rex clenched his teeth, pulled his raincoat tighter and set out anyway.

It was like he hadn’t been living on Dantooine for the past year and a half. He was directionless, as if all the memorized paths, landmarks, and shops had been washed away with the rain. There was no departing vehicle, no lights, and no indicator of where the woman had gone.

Defeated, Rex looked up into the sky with his eyes closed, letting the rain fall over his face and streak through his hair. His chest had knotted itself and his knees threatened to buckle under the torrential downpour.

But Rex stood firmly, shoved his hands into his pockets, and let the rain soak him to the bone as he walked towards the small town.

He spent the remainder of his morning stopping by every establishment there was until the shopkeepers started closing up due to weather. The folks he did manage to speak with hadn’t seen her and each tried to hand him an umbrella or invite him inside until the storm passed.

He declined.

Straggling passersby still caught in the rain gave him funny looks as they ran to get to cover. Rex was in no such hurry.

The overgrown road that led to his tiny home was taken in the shortest possible strides. He did not wish to return there, especially not to a datapad he knew would have no messages on it. He had half a mind to turn back to the restaurant if he didn’t think they’d already closed up like everyone else.

Rex stepped into his home and was greeted by the sound of dripping water. He sighed deeply, unmoving in the doorway until he could suppress the viscous tears that taunted him behind closed lids. Once they were managed, his boots and raincoat were discarded, the mess from the leak was mopped, and his helmet was removed from its place under the bed to sit and collect the intruding water.

He watched the rain fill his bucket until it went past the visor before he fell into the awaiting embrace of sleep that was always there to help temporarily subside the pain.

More than anything, Rex wished he could say that he hadn’t woken up early, that he hadn’t gotten up before the neighbor’s nunas began to stir. He wished he could say it wasn’t in his plans to go sit up at the restaurant and wait all day to see if the woman turned up.

Really, he should be using his time to buy paint for his ship as well as a proper bucket for the leak, but neither of those things seemed to matter much at the prospect of running into her.

It was pathetic. He knew that.

He could’ve just saved himself all this trouble if he’d gotten up and used something as an excuse to see her face. But no, Rex chose to be strong when it mattered the absolute least.

His thin blanket felt as though it weighed ten tons when he rose out of bed, dreading vehemently the idea of waiting around all day for nothing — dreading the pit in his stomach he knew all too well when it wasn’t her after all and just some stranger. Rex’s feet hit the worn wooden floor and he rubbed his bleary eyes, aiming first for the refresher and then for his helmet.

A considerable amount of rainwater had been collected in the makeshift-not-makeshift bucket and more was being added still. The rain had yet to cease but it had slowed a great deal. He picked it up carefully and walked it to the door, yawning as he did so. Soft sheets of rain greeted his bare feet as the door slid aside, coming down now in a gentle shower-like way as opposed to yesterday’s storm.

Rex decided that when the rain stopped, he’d call it. He’d tie his mood to it, give himself an allotted period of time to feel this incessant pain before forcing it down again.

He swung his helmet to the left and watched as the water landed on his long-dead flowers, before looking out at the state of the rest of his yard.

The helmet nearly fell from his hands.

A hooded figure was inspecting his ship, an orange hand running across a partially revealed red sigil and skirting across blue paint. Any fleeting thoughts of making a grab for his blasters vanished. Rex knew that hand better than either of his own.

She turned and lifted slightly the hood of her cloak to get a better look at him.

There she was. Then she was as if no time at all had passed. As if she’d been down the road all along.

Ahsoka was dressed in that gray cloak he knew well, with lekku he used to know but that were now nearing her waist. Her montrals were taller than they were last time. He wondered if they’d be eye to eye this time, and if looking her in the eyes would still feel the same as it always did, as he wanted it to — needed it to.

Even from this distance, he could see her bottom lip quiver.

“I had to be sure,” she called out over the rain.

Rex struggled to speak, suffering from having too many words in his mouth and yet not at all.

She glanced back at the Y-wing behind her and ran a hand over the chipped paint job, revealing a bit more of that 501st blue.

“I knew your face as soon as I walked into the restaurant yesterday, but I wasn’t certain that it was the one… that it was the one I had loved,” she continued.

He joined her in the rain now. It was cold on his bare shoulders and worse as it streaked down his torso, but he didn’t shiver, nor did he care he’d be tracking yet more water inside. Rex’s chest tightened and his mouth dried. “Loved? As in the past tense?” he called, water beading on his hair and lashes. Not all of it was from the rain.

Ahsoka shook her head, droplets running off her lekku.

The pause between them was occupied by the steady fall of rain.

“You know the worst thing about love?” he asked.

She nodded, looking briefly at her feet, “That you remember it.”

Rex’s tongue pressed into his cheek and he nodded with her, “I knew from the moment we parted the first time that I’d spend a lifetime missing you.” He waited a bit. “It’s proved true so far. Each time it gets worse.”

He couldn’t tell her tears from the rain, but knew that she was crying. Rex was always aware that it hadn’t ever hurt any less for her. “I never intended it to be that way,” she called.

“I know.”

She stepped closer, weighing her words. “Rex, the hardest thing I’ve ever done is walk away still madly in love with you. There’s not a minute that goes by that I don’t regret it — that I don’t sit and wonder about what you do each day.”

“Well currently, it’s wishing I’d gotten up as soon as I saw you sitting at that booth. I’d know your montrals anywhere. Convinced myself it wasn’t you.”

“And before that?”

“Wishing I never let you say goodbye.”

She swallowed hard. “I have a lot to make up for. I know that. And I know this doesn’t begin to cover it, but do you think I could start with breakfast?” she asked, holding up the takeaway box that was under her cloak. “Mr. Kip told me where I could find you, said you ran out after me.”

Rex couldn’t suppress his smile. “No. Breakfast was covered yesterday. I think you’ll have to get more creative than that today.”

Ahsoka laughed and bit her lip, her eyes overcome with emotion. Shaking his head, Rex dropped his helmet into the flowerbed and all but ran to her, holding her trembling frame to him with possibly too much strength. The box fell. Her arms wrapped under his and he found that she fit better than she ever used to. He removed her hood with desperation and his chin fell into place between her montrals, still having at least one head in height over her. Rex kissed repeatedly the space between her uppermost chevrons as the sobs took control of her body.

The rain slowed to a drizzle and, as he’d vowed earlier, his mood lifted with it. Morning rays peeked out at them from behind the trees, warming their skin.

Being with Ahsoka was like walking into the sun, like walking directly into sunlight after the longest winter.

She pulled away first, though by the look on her face, it seemed to be the last thing she wanted to do. Her eyes were glued to the mangled scar on his chest, momentarily ashamed of looking him in the face.

But Rex’s hand slid under her jaw and moved her to look up at him. “I can’t think of anything better than breakfast with you. We’ve suffered enough, Ahsoka. Come inside. Stay with me until we have no choice but to leave; and even then, stay with me until there are no more planets left to run to. Let’s have breakfast together for as long as this life allows us because life without you is no way to live.”

“I haven’t had breakfast in a year and a half,” she said, tears streaking her cheeks.

Rex wiped them away. “You’re not missing out. It doesn’t taste the same when we aren’t together.”

Ahsoka eyed the slightly crumpled box of food on the ground and Rex picked it up, popping it back into its correct shape and wicking the water from it.

Apologies tumbled from her lips, but Rex wouldn’t hear any of it. She’d fought and offered her aid to the Rebellion until she couldn’t any more; until she was sure they could manage without her and that Rex wouldn’t die if she came home. It was the type of thing he had long since accepted — back when it had been cold on that moon, when rumors of another war began, and battle no longer felt good and he no longer felt invincible unless he was with her. Only one thing stayed the same. Life had still been punctuated with something far greater than love and a woman named Ahsoka.

His eyes did all the asking as he leaned in close. Ahsoka gave the faintest of nods, allowing him to kiss away her apologies; first slowly and then with an energized passion only she could provoke.

And just as he hoped they would, Ahsoka’s fingers found his curls, and he carried her and their very cold breakfast inside, leaving his helmet to become the home for several long years of blossoming flowers.