Juice starts sleeping on your couch because he “just needed somewhere quiet.”
Eventually you realise he hasn’t gone home in weeks.
juice breaks my heart
The first night Juice slept on your couch, he showed up at two in the morning with a split lip, blood on the sleeve of his hoodie, and exhaustion carved so deep into his face it looked permanent.
You answered the door half asleep, one hand clutching the edge of your oversized T-shirt while the porch light painted him gold and bruised.
“Jesus Christ,” you breathed immediately. “What happened?”
“Nothin’.” His voice was rough. Tired. “Can I crash here tonight?”
You should’ve asked questions.
Maybe with anybody else, you would have.
But this was Juice.
And Juice Ortiz looked at people like he expected to be shoved away eventually.
So instead you stepped aside and unlocked the screen door wider.
“Yeah,” you said softly. “Come in.”
Relief crossed his face so quickly it hurt to look at.
“Thanks.”
Your apartment was small. One bedroom. Tiny kitchen. Old building with uneven floors and terrible plumbing. But it was warm. Lived in. There were books stacked beside the couch and plants near the windows and soft yellow lamps instead of harsh overhead lights.
Juice stood awkwardly in the middle of the living room like he didn’t know where to put himself.
“You hungry?” you asked.
He shook his head automatically.
His stomach growled immediately after.
You stared.
He sighed. “Maybe a little.”
Twenty minutes later he was sitting at your kitchen counter eating grilled cheese and tomato soup with the kind of concentration that made it obvious he hadn’t eaten properly all day.
Maybe longer.
You leaned against the opposite counter watching him.
“You wanna tell me why you look like somebody dragged you behind a truck?”
He snorted quietly at that.
Then shrugged.
“Club stuff.”
You accepted the answer because you knew enough about SAMCRO to know pushing usually got you nowhere.
You had known Juice for almost two years.
He’d started coming into the auto parts store where you worked because the place carried some specialty imports he liked for his bike. At first he’d just been the hyper guy with too much energy and too many tattoos who flirted badly and bought energy drinks in bulk.
Then he kept coming back.
Eventually he stopped pretending he needed parts.
Eventually you started setting aside his favorite snacks before he came in.
Eventually he started fixing things around your apartment without being asked.
You never officially labeled the relationship.
Friends felt too simple for whatever this was.
But neither of you pushed harder.
Maybe because Juice always seemed halfway convinced good things would disappear if he touched them too much.
After he finished eating, you handed him a clean towel and pointed toward the bathroom.
“There’s antiseptic in the cabinet. Use it before your face falls off.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He smiled faintly when he said it.
It vanished the second he thought you weren’t looking.
The next morning you woke up to the sound of cabinets opening.
For one horrifying second you thought someone had broken in.
Then you smelled coffee.
You shuffled into the kitchen and found Juice standing barefoot at the counter wearing the same jeans from yesterday and an old hoodie you'd stolen from him years ago.
You stopped dead.
“That’s mine.”
He looked down at himself.
“I was cold.”
“You stole my hoodie.”
“You stole it first.”
You laughed despite yourself.
God, he looked better.
Still bruised. Still tired. But softer somehow. Less tightly wound.
He handed you coffee before you could ask.
Exactly how you liked it.
“You remembered.”
He shrugged like it was nothing.
But Juice remembered everything about people he cared about.
The problem was he never seemed to believe anybody would remember things about him.
You watched him carefully over the rim of your mug.
“You okay?”
His shoulders stiffened immediately.
“Yeah.”
Lie.
You let it go anyway.
He left around noon after promising he’d return your hoodie “eventually.”
You assumed that would be it.
One bad night.
One couch crash.
But then three days later he showed up again.
This time quieter.
No visible injuries.
Just shadows under his eyes.
“Can I stay over?”
“Yeah.”
And then again the next week.
Then twice in one week.
Then suddenly it became normal.
Juice would show up late.
You’d pretend not to notice how exhausted he looked.
You’d feed him.
Sometimes you’d watch dumb movies together until he fell asleep halfway through them, head tilted toward you on the couch.
Sometimes he’d sit on your tiny balcony smoking in silence while you sat beside him reading.
Sometimes he barely spoke at all.
But gradually you noticed something strange.
He slept here.
Actually slept.
At the clubhouse, even during the rare times you visited, Juice never stopped moving. Always buzzing. Always alert. Talking too fast. Smiling too quickly.
At your apartment he slept like someone drowning finally reaching air.
Deep.
Heavy.
Safe.
The realization lodged painfully under your ribs.
One rainy Thursday you came home from work and found him in your kitchen making pasta.
He looked up immediately.
“Hey.”
You blinked slowly.
“You have your own key now?”
“Uh.” He winced. “You said I could borrow it last week?”
“I did?”
“You were half asleep.”
That sounded horrifyingly possible.
You dropped your bag on the table and stared at him.
He was wearing sweatpants.
Your sweatpants.
“You’re stealing an alarming amount of my clothes.”
“They’re comfortable.”
“You own clothes.”
“Not like these.”
You rolled your eyes, but warmth spread through your chest anyway.
The apartment smelled like garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread.
Domestic.
Dangerously domestic.
“You cooked?”
“Wanted to.”
He looked nervous saying it.
Like he expected you to tell him he’d crossed a line.
Something about that nearly broke your heart.
“You didn’t have to.”
“I know.”
A pause.
Then quieter:
“I wanted to do something nice.”
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
“Okay,” you said softly. "Thank you."
He relaxed instantly.
You started noticing things after that.
Little things.
Juice replacing the flickering lightbulb in your bathroom without being asked.
Juice remembering when your work shifts changed.
Juice buying your favorite cereal because “you were almost out.”
Juice asleep on your couch with one hand curled loosely around the blanket you kept there for him.
Your blanket.
His side of the couch.
It happened so slowly you didn’t realize how attached you’d become until one night he didn’t show up.
You told yourself it was ridiculous.
He wasn’t your boyfriend.
Wasn’t your responsibility.
SAMCRO life was unpredictable.
Still, you checked your phone every fifteen minutes.
By midnight anxiety sat ugly in your stomach.
At one-thirty there was finally a knock at your door.
You yanked it open immediately.
Juice stood there soaked through from the rain.
And bleeding.
Your heart dropped.
“Oh my God.”
“It’s not bad.”
“That’s blood.”
“Mostly not mine.”
“JUICE.”
He flinched.
Not from your volume.
From the name.
Like he expected anger attached to it.
Your expression softened instantly.
“Come inside.”
He obeyed quietly.
Too quietly.
You sat him on the bathroom counter while you cleaned the cut above his eyebrow.
He hissed when antiseptic touched it.
“Sorry.”
“S’fine.”
“No it’s not.”
He went still.
You focused carefully on the bandage because suddenly looking him in the eye felt too intimate.
“You don’t have to act tough with me.”
A long silence.
Then:
“I don’t know how not to.”
That one sentence told you more about Juice Ortiz than anything else ever had.
You looked up finally.
His eyes looked exhausted.
Not physically.
Soul-deep exhausted.
Like he’d been carrying too much weight for too long.
Without thinking, you brushed your fingers lightly against his cheek beneath the bruise.
The reaction was immediate.
He froze.
Completely.
Not pulling away.
Not leaning closer.
Just… stunned.
Your breath caught.
Because nobody should react to gentle touch like that.
Nobody.
“Juice…”
His eyes shut briefly.
And for one horrible moment you thought he might cry.
But then he smiled instead.
Small. Crooked. False.
“You always patch people up this good?”
The subject change was obvious.
You let him have it.
For now.
Weeks passed.
Then months.
And somewhere during all of it, Juice stopped leaving.
Not officially.
There was no conversation.
No decision.
It just… happened.
A toothbrush appeared beside yours in the bathroom.
His hoodie got left draped over your chair permanently.
There were motorcycle parts on your kitchen table.
He started keeping beer in your fridge.
And every night, somehow, he ended up back on your couch.
Except eventually not even the couch.
That started after the nightmares.
You woke one night to a crash from the living room.
Your heart nearly stopped.
You ran out to find Juice crouched beside the couch breathing hard, eyes wild with panic.
The lamp had fallen over.
“Juice?”
He looked up sharply like he didn’t know where he was.
“It’s okay,” you said immediately.
His chest heaved.
“S-sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. Hey. Look at me.”
Slowly, he did.
“You’re safe.”
Something in his expression cracked.
Tiny.
Almost invisible.
But you saw it.
And suddenly he looked younger than you’d ever seen him.
Not childish.
Just worn down.
Like life had scraped him raw.
You sat carefully on the floor beside him.
“Bad dream?”
He laughed once without humor.
“Yeah.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
A beat.
Then quieter:
“I just… didn’t wanna be there.”
There.
Not here.
Your chest hurt.
Without really thinking about it, you reached for him.
“You can stay with me tonight.”
His eyes flicked toward you.
“You sure?”
“Obviously.”
He hesitated before following you into your bedroom.
Like he thought he shouldn’t.
Like he was waiting for permission to exist in your space.
You climbed under the blankets and patted the empty side carefully.
Juice stared at it for a long moment.
Then lay down stiffly on top of the covers.
Fully clothed.
Like he planned to bolt at any second.
You turned toward him slightly.
“You know you can relax, right?”
“Relaxing’s not really my thing.”
“I noticed.”
A tiny smile tugged briefly at his mouth.
Then faded.
The silence stretched.
Rain tapped softly against the windows.
Finally, barely audible:
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Why are you nice to me?”
The question hit like a punch.
You frowned immediately.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A real one.”
He wasn’t joking.
He genuinely didn’t understand.
Your heart twisted painfully.
“Juice…”
“No, seriously.” His voice stayed quiet. Careful. “I don’t get it.”
You stared at him in disbelief.
“You’re my friend.”
He looked away instantly.
Like that answer hurt.
“You know what I mean.”
And you did.
Oh, you did.
Why him specifically.
Why patience.
Why softness.
Why safety.
Because somewhere along the line Juice had learned affection was conditional.
Temporary.
Earned.
You swallowed hard.
“I’m nice to you because you deserve kindness.”
He actually flinched.
Then laughed softly like you’d said something ridiculous.
“That’s not true.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No,” he whispered. “It really isn’t.”
The room went painfully still.
You looked at him for a long moment before reaching across the space between you and taking his hand.
His breathing stopped.
Literally stopped.
Like nobody had ever held his hand gently before.
“You don’t have to earn being cared about,” you said quietly.
Juice stared at your joined hands with an expression so heartbreakingly fragile it made tears sting your eyes.
He didn’t answer.
But after a long time, he finally relaxed enough to fall asleep beside you.
Still holding your hand.
After that night he started sleeping in your bed more often.
Never assuming.
Always hesitant.
“You sure?”
Every single time.
Every time like he thought eventually your answer would change.
But it never did.
And slowly, impossibly slowly, Juice began unfolding around you.
Not all at once.
Just little pieces.
He laughed easier in your apartment.
Started singing quietly while cooking.
Started touching you absentmindedly.
A hand at your waist while passing behind you in the kitchen.
Your knees pressed together on the couch.
His head resting briefly against your shoulder during movies.
Tiny things.
But each one felt enormous.
One Sunday morning you woke tangled together accidentally.
At some point during the night Juice had rolled closer in his sleep until his face was buried against your neck, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist.
You went perfectly still.
Not because you minded.
Because you’d never seen him this relaxed.
Ever.
Sunlight spilled gold across the bed.
His breathing was deep and even.
Peaceful.
You realized suddenly with painful clarity that Juice only ever looked truly safe when he was asleep beside you.
God.
You were in love with him.
The realization should’ve terrified you.
Instead it just felt inevitable.
Then Juice stirred.
His eyes blinked open slowly.
And the second he realized how close you were, panic flashed across his face.
“Sorry— shit, sorry—”
“Hey.” You caught his wrist gently before he could pull away completely. “It’s okay.”
His entire body stayed tense.
“You sure?”
“You don’t have to apologize for touching me.”
He looked at you like that sentence was incomprehensible.
Your chest ached.
“You really don’t know what to do with softness, huh?”
His expression turned strangely vulnerable.
“No,” he admitted quietly.
You brushed your thumb lightly over his wrist.
“That’s okay.”
He stared at you for a very long time after that.
Like he wanted to say something.
Like he almost did.
But then he looked away first.
The first time you realized he hadn’t gone home in weeks happened by accident.
You were folding laundry while Juice messed with something on his bike outside.
One of the clubhouse hoodies had gotten mixed into the pile.
You picked it up automatically.
Something felt strange.
The pockets were empty.
No wallet.
No keys.
No cigarettes.
Nothing.
You frowned slightly.
Then glanced toward the bathroom.
His toothbrush.
Your dresser drawer with his shirts in it.
The sneakers by your door.
The charger plugged in beside your bed.
Your stomach tightened slowly.
When Juice came back upstairs thirty minutes later, sweaty and grease-stained, you were sitting on the couch waiting.
He stopped immediately.
“What?”
“How long has it been?”
“What?”
“Since you slept at the clubhouse.”
His face went blank.
Too blank.
“Uh…”
“Juice.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“A while.”
“How long?”
A pause.
Then:
“Maybe a month.”
Your eyes widened.
“A month?”
He shrugged immediately like it was nothing.
But you could see the tension building in his shoulders now.
“You didn’t notice.”
The words came out joking.
But underneath was something raw.
Something afraid.
Like maybe he’d overstayed.
Like maybe you’d throw him out now that you realized.
Your chest hurt instantly.
“Juice…”
“It’s okay if it’s weird.”
“No, hey.” You moved closer immediately. “No. That’s not what this is.”
He looked at you carefully.
“You can tell me to leave.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
The words came out too fast.
Too honest.
Juice froze.
And suddenly the air between you changed.
Thickened.
You swallowed hard.
“You know you’re allowed to be here, right?”
He stared at you silently.
“You don’t need permission every five seconds.”
His laugh came out brittle.
“Yeah. I kinda do.”
Your heart cracked clean open.
You stepped closer slowly.
“Did something happen at the clubhouse?”
His jaw tightened.
Club business.
Pain flashed behind his eyes so fast most people would’ve missed it.
You didn’t.
“Juice.”
He looked exhausted suddenly.
“I just…” His voice faltered. “I needed somewhere quiet.”
Not the full truth.
But true enough.
And somehow worse.
Because it meant your apartment had become refuge.
You reached up before you could overthink it and touched his face gently.
His eyes shut instantly.
Like relief physically hurt him.
“You have one,” you whispered.
His breathing turned uneven.
“You keep saying things like that.”
“Because they’re true.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
His eyes opened slowly.
"Because if you say things like that,” he whispered, “I start wanting them.”
The confession hung between you.
Heavy.
Terrifying.
You could hear your heartbeat.
“What if I want them too?”
Juice looked wrecked.
Actually wrecked.
Like hope was the cruelest thing anyone had ever handed him.
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“No.” He shook his head immediately. “No, you think you do now, but—”
“But what?”
“I’m not…” His voice cracked suddenly. “I’m not somebody people stay for.”
Silence.
Then very carefully, you asked:
“Who taught you that?”
He looked away immediately.
Answer enough.
You took his hand gently.
“I’m still here.”
His eyes burned red instantly.
He tried to laugh it off.
Failed miserably.
Then, to your complete shock, Juice whispered:
“Don’t.”
Your chest tightened.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t be this good to me.”
And there it was.
The truth.
He was terrified of needing you.
Because needing meant losing.
You stepped closer until barely inches separated you.
“Too late.”
He stared at you helplessly.
Then finally— finally— he broke.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just suddenly.
His face crumpled and he covered his eyes with one shaking hand like he was ashamed of it.
“Oh God,” he breathed raggedly. “Sorry.”
“No, no.” You grabbed him immediately. “Hey. Hey.”
The second your arms wrapped around him, Juice made the most heartbreaking sound you’d ever heard.
Not crying.
Not exactly.
More like someone collapsing after holding themselves upright too long.
He folded against you hard enough to nearly knock you backward.
You held him tighter automatically.
“It’s okay,” you whispered into his hair. “You’re okay.”
His hands clutched the back of your shirt desperately.
And you realized with sudden horror that nobody had probably held him through a breakdown before.
Nobody had let him fall apart safely.
So you stood there in your tiny apartment holding Juice Ortiz while he shook apart in your arms.
And when he finally whispered brokenly, “I’m trying so hard,” your own tears fell too.
“I know,” you whispered. “I know.”
After that, things changed.
Not instantly.
Juice still startled sometimes when you touched him unexpectedly.
Still apologized too much.
Still acted surprised every time you kissed his forehead absentmindedly or handed him coffee or waited up for him.
But something softer started growing between you.
Trust.
Real trust.
One night you found him asleep on the couch with the TV still on.
You smiled softly and reached for the remote.
Juice stirred immediately, panic flashing across his face before he focused on you.
“Oh.”
“It’s just me.”
His shoulders dropped.
That alone nearly destroyed you.
It’s just me.
And somehow that meant safe now.
You brushed a hand over his forehead gently.
“You coming to bed?”
The question slipped out naturally.
Like it belonged there.
Juice stared at you for a second.
Then something unbearably tender crossed his face.
“Yeah,” he said quietly.
He followed you into the bedroom.
And sometime during the night, half asleep, he wrapped himself around you like he finally believed you’d still be there in the morning.
The first time he said “I love you” happened accidentally.
Which honestly felt very Juice.
You were both cooking dinner.
Well.
You were cooking.
Juice was aggressively stealing ingredients and pretending he was helping.
“Stop eating the peppers.”
“I’m quality testing.”
“You’ve eaten six pieces.”
“And all six passed inspection.”
You snorted.
Then yelped when he stole another piece directly off the cutting board.
“Oh my God, you menace—”
He grinned.
Big. Bright. Beautiful.
The sight hit you square in the chest the way it always did now.
Because happy Juice still felt rare enough to treasure.
Without thinking, you smiled helplessly at him.
And Juice looked at you with so much unguarded affection it nearly stopped your heart.
“I love you,” he said automatically.
Silence.
Juice froze.
You froze.
His eyes widened in horror.
“Shit.”
Your pulse thundered.
Juice looked like he wanted the floor to swallow him whole.
“I didn’t— fuck, I mean—”
“You love me?”
He looked terrified.
Actually terrified.
Like you were about to destroy him.
And suddenly you understood:
He thought he’d ruined everything.
You crossed the kitchen in two seconds flat.
“Juice.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”
You kissed him.
Hard.
Immediate.
All the fear drained out of him in one stunned breath.
Then he kissed you back.
And it felt like everything.
Weeks of yearning.
Months of restraint.
All the tenderness between you finally breaking open.
His hands cupped your face carefully like he still couldn’t quite believe he was allowed.
You kissed him until breathing became difficult.
When you finally pulled apart, Juice looked dazed.
“You kissed me.”
“You said you love me.”
“Yeah, but—”
“I love you too.”
He went completely still.
You watched the exact second those words landed.
Like he genuinely didn’t know what to do with them.
“You…” His voice broke. “You do?”
You could’ve cried right there.
“Of course I do.”
Juice stared at you with devastating vulnerability.
Then suddenly hid his face against your shoulder.
You laughed softly through your own tears and wrapped your arms around him immediately.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The shaky breath he let out warmed your neck.
“Nobody’s ever…” He stopped.
You held him tighter.
“You don’t have to finish that sentence.”
But you understood anyway.
Nobody had ever loved him gently before.
Not like this.
Not safely.
You pressed a kiss into his hair.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His arms tightened around you hard enough to ache.
“Promise?”
The word came out so quiet it almost killed you.
You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes.
“I promise.”
And for the first time since you’d known him, Juice looked like he believed someone might actually stay.
Sitting on Juice's lap.
It starts because there's no where else to sit. It's a bit awkward at first and then over the course of the evening it becomes comfortable.
Eventually, over months, you start sitting on Juice's lap all the time, even when there are seats available. The Samcro boys give you guys so much shit.
Which wouldn't be a problem if only he wasn't so damn in love with you.
The first time you sat on Juice's lap, it was entirely accidental.
Which was probably why it ruined both your lives.
Friday nights at the SAMCRO clubhouse were chaos incarnate.
Music too loud. Beer spilling everywhere. Half the guys yelling over each other while some old rock song rattled the walls hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling beams. The scent of grease, whiskey, cigarettes, leather, and engine oil hung thick in the air like permanent atmosphere.
You’d only stopped by to drop off food.
That had been your first mistake.
Your second mistake had been staying.
“C’mon,” Jax had said, waving a beer in your direction. “You bring homemade food, you’re obligated to hang around.”
“Pretty sure that’s not a law.”
“It is here.”
And unfortunately, everyone in SAMCRO had decided they liked you.
So suddenly you were trapped between loud bikers playing cards and arguing over bullshit while someone shoved a drink into your hand.
The clubhouse was packed wall-to-wall that night.
Every chair occupied.
Every couch crowded.
You stood awkwardly near the bar trying not to look uncomfortable about having nowhere to sit.
That was when Juice looked up from where he sat in one of the armchairs near the pool table.
“Hey,” he called over the noise. “You can sit here.”
You blinked. “Where?”
He patted his thigh casually.
Your face heated instantly.
The guys around him immediately started making sounds like a pack of hyenas.
“Oooooh.”
“Ortiz got game.”
“Little quick there, brother.”
Juice looked horrified almost immediately after saying it.
“No—I mean—shit, not like that,” he stammered. “I just meant there’s no chairs and—fuck, that sounded weird.”
You laughed despite yourself.
Because he looked genuinely panicked.
And because Juice Ortiz was kind.
Dangerous, sure. A biker. A criminal. A man with tattoos and scars and a gun tucked into the back of his jeans.
But kind.
You’d noticed that immediately.
“You sure?” you asked.
He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
The room waited.
You hesitated only a second before carefully lowering yourself onto his lap.
The second your weight settled against him, Juice stopped breathing.
You felt it instantly.
How rigid he went.
How his hands hovered awkwardly at his sides like he had no idea where to put them.
The guys burst into immediate laughter.
“Oh, he’s SWEATIN’.”
“Juice about to pass out.”
“Someone get this man a cigarette.”
“Shut up,” Juice muttered, ears bright red.
You tried not to laugh as you adjusted carefully, hyperaware of the warmth of him beneath you. He was solid. Warm. One arm of the chair wrapped around both of you, forcing you closer than expected.
“This okay?” you asked softly.
Juice looked at you like you’d asked whether he wanted oxygen.
“Yeah,” he croaked.
It should’ve ended there.
One awkward moment.
One crowded night.
Instead, somehow, it became a thing.
The next week, the clubhouse was crowded again.
You walked in carrying takeout containers and immediately saw there were no open seats.
Juice looked up from the couch.
You looked at him.
He looked at his lap.
Everyone around him started grinning.
“Oh no,” Tig said immediately. “Not again.”
You laughed.
Juice looked simultaneously hopeful and terrified.
So you walked over and sat on his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The cheering was deafening.
Juice nearly choked on his beer.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered while everyone lost their minds around him.
But this time?
His arm settled around your waist automatically.
Like instinct.
Like it belonged there.
And honestly, that should’ve been your warning sign.
After that, it just… kept happening.
At first only when seats were full.
Then when there were technically seats available, but they were far away from Juice.
Then eventually because it felt strange not to.
Nobody ever acknowledged when the habit officially formed.
One day you just walked into the clubhouse, saw Juice sitting alone in a chair, and immediately crossed the room to climb into his lap without a word.
Like muscle memory.
Like home.
The silence that followed was catastrophic.
Every biker in the room stared.
Juice froze mid-sentence.
You blinked around at everyone. “What?”
Chibs grinned around a cigarette. “Nothin’. This is adorable.”
“It is NOT adorable,” Juice snapped instantly.
You tilted your head up at him. “You want me to move?”
His answer came so fast it almost overlapped your question.
“No.”
The room exploded.
“OH MY GOD.”
“He said it so fast!”
“Brother starving.”
Juice buried his face in his hands while you laughed hard enough your shoulders shook against his chest.
That became dangerous too.
Because Juice started associating your laughter with warmth.
With your body leaning into his.
With your head tucked beneath his chin while everyone around you blurred into background noise.
And God help him, he was already too far gone.
By month three, sitting in Juice’s lap had become completely normal to both of you.
Normal enough that you didn’t even think before doing it.
Normal enough that his hands automatically found your waist.
Normal enough that you leaned back against his chest during movie nights.
Normal enough that sometimes he’d absentmindedly rub circles into your hip while talking to the guys.
That one nearly killed him the first time he realized he was doing it.
You hadn’t seemed to mind though.
If anything, you’d leaned closer.
Which made everything so much worse.
Because Juice was hopelessly, painfully in love with you.
And you apparently had no idea.
“You gotta tell her eventually.”
Juice glanced up from cleaning a gun in the garage office.
Jax leaned against the doorway watching him with the exhausted expression of a man witnessing another man destroy himself slowly.
“Tell who what?”
Jax stared.
“Really?”
Juice went back to cleaning.
“There’s nothin’ to tell.”
Jax barked out a laugh. “Brother, she sits in your lap like she pays rent there.”
“That don’t mean anything.”
“She literally played with your hair for twenty minutes yesterday.”
Juice’s hands stopped moving.
Because yeah.
You had.
Absentmindedly.
While listening to Tig tell some insane story, your fingers had started brushing through the limited hair at the nape of Juice’s neck.
Juice had nearly fucking ascended.
“She’s affectionate with everybody,” he muttered weakly.
Jax looked unconvinced. “Not like that.”
Juice didn’t answer.
Because if he admitted the truth out loud, he might actually lose his mind.
The truth being:
Every time you sat on his lap, he had to actively remember how to function.
Every time you smiled at him, his stomach flipped.
Every time you curled against his chest during late nights at the clubhouse, he imagined what it would feel like if you were actually his.
And every single time another man flirted with you, something ugly and possessive twisted in his ribs.
He was in so deep it was embarrassing.
The worst part was how comfortable you were with him.
Trusting.
Careless in a way people only became when they felt safe.
You’d steal bites from his plate.
Wear his hoodies when you got cold.
Fall asleep against him during long nights at the clubhouse.
Once, during a movie marathon, you’d climbed into his lap half-awake and mumbled, “You’re comfy.”
Comfy.
Juice had stared at the ceiling for two straight hours afterward.
Because what the fuck was he supposed to do with that?
The breaking point came on a rainy Tuesday night.
Most of the guys were out handling club business, leaving the clubhouse quieter than usual.
You and Juice sat alone on the couch watching some terrible reality show while rain hammered against the windows.
As usual, you sat curled in his lap beneath a blanket.
At some point your fingers found his tattooed forearm, tracing patterns absentmindedly while you watched TV.
Juice wasn’t paying attention to the television at all.
He was paying attention to you.
To your legs draped over his.
To the scent of your shampoo.
To the warmth of your back against his chest.
To the fact that he was absolutely, catastrophically in love with you.
And then—
Without thinking—
You tilted your head back against his shoulder and kissed his jaw.
Soft.
Absentminded.
Affectionate.
Like it was natural.
Juice stopped breathing.
You froze too.
The room went dead silent except for the rain.
Slowly, you looked up at him.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Juice’s heart slammed violently against his ribs.
Because suddenly you looked panicked.
“I’m sorry,” you said quickly, starting to move. “I didn’t even think, I just—”
His arm tightened around your waist instinctively.
“Don’t move.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
Juice swallowed hard.
“You kissed me.”
Your face turned pink immediately. “I know.”
“Why?”
The question came out rougher than intended.
You stared at him for a long moment.
Then laughed nervously.
“Honestly?”
“Please.”
Your fingers tightened slightly against his arm.
“Because somewhere along the line,” you admitted softly, “this started feeling less like sitting in a friend’s lap and more like…” You trailed off.
Juice’s pulse thundered.
“More like what?”
Your eyes met his.
“Like being where I belong.”
Fuck.
Actually fuck.
Juice kissed you before he could think better of it.
One hand cupped your jaw while the other held your waist tight enough to keep you close but gentle enough not to scare you. His lips crashed against yours with months of restrained longing behind them.
You made the softest startled sound before immediately kissing him back.
And that—
That nearly destroyed him.
Because you kissed him like you’d wanted this too.
Like every lingering touch and every shared glance and every moment curled in his lap had been leading here.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing hard.
You stared at each other for a second.
Then burst into laughter simultaneously.
“We are so stupid,” you said.
Juice grinned helplessly. “Yeah.”
“How long have you been in love with me?”
His eyes widened. “Whoa, that’s a crazy sentence.”
“Juice.”
He groaned dramatically, dropping his forehead against your shoulder. “Since, like… the third lap sit.”
You laughed so hard you nearly fell off him.
“THE THIRD?”
“You played with my hair! That’s intimate!”
“It is not!”
“It IS for me!”
Still laughing, you kissed him again.
Softer this time.
Certain.
And when the clubhouse doors opened an hour later to reveal the rest of SAMCRO returning home, they found you exactly where everyone secretly knew you belonged:
Curled in Juice Ortiz’s lap.
Only now his mouth was swollen pink from kissing you.
Your fingers rested around his neck.
And the look on his face when he glanced at you—
Completely gone.
Tig took one look and groaned loudly.
“Oh, I am NEVER hearing the end of this.”
Happy smirked. “Called it months ago.”
Jax just shook his head. “Bout damn time.”
Juice flipped them off without even looking away from you.
You smiled against his mouth as he kissed you again.
And this time, when you settled deeper into his lap, nobody pretended it was because there weren’t enough seats anymore.
the first time Happy Lowman calls you sweetheart, you blush so hard you both think you're going to explode.
Nobody warned you that falling in love with Happy Lowman would feel like slowly handing your heartbeat to a loaded gun.
Not because he was cruel.
Happy wasn’t cruel to you.
That was almost the problem.
Everyone else in Charming looked at him and saw violence first. Saw the dead-eyed hitman with tattooed knuckles and a smile that usually meant someone was about to disappear into the desert.
You looked at him and saw the quieter things.
The way he always noticed when your gas tank was low and filled it without mentioning it. The way he stood slightly behind you in crowds like a wall nobody could get through. The way he brought you coffee exactly how you liked it after memorising your order one single time.
The way his hand always found the small of your back.
Protective.
Grounding.
Possessive in that terrifyingly gentle way that only Happy could manage.
And maybe that was why you were so completely screwed.
Because once Happy decided someone mattered to him, it became absolute.
There was no halfway with him.
No uncertainty.
No almost.
The trouble was that you and Happy weren’t technically together.
Not officially.
Not in words.
But everyone in SAMCRO looked at you like you already belonged to him.
Including Happy himself, apparently.
You just hadn’t realised how deep that went yet.
The clubhouse was chaos that night.
Music blasted loud enough to vibrate through the walls while prospects hauled beer crates inside. Tig was yelling at Juice over a card game. Chibs was smoking by the bar with half-lidded exhaustion after a run that had gone sideways somewhere near Stockton.
And Happy—
Happy was in one of his moods.
Quiet.
Brooding.
Dangerously still.
He sat at the edge of the bar nursing whiskey while blood dried across his knuckles from a fight earlier that evening.
Nobody bothered him.
Nobody except you.
You slipped onto the stool beside him and gently grabbed his wrist before he could lift the glass again.
His dark eyes flicked toward you immediately.
“What?”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I know.”
“You gonna let me clean it?”
Happy stared at you for a second.
Long enough that your stomach fluttered nervously.
Then he slid the whiskey aside without argument.
That alone made Chibs smirk from across the room.
Because Happy listened to approximately nobody.
Except you.
You guided him toward the bathroom at the back of the clubhouse where the noise became muffled behind closed walls.
The fluorescent light overhead buzzed softly.
Happy leaned against the sink while you dug through the first aid cabinet.
“You get the other guy worse?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“You start it?”
“No.”
“Finish it?”
His mouth twitched slightly.
“Yeah.”
You shook your head, unable to stop your smile.
“Psychopath.”
Happy watched you wet a cloth beneath warm water.
“You still here.”
“Unfortunately.”
He made that low rumbling sound again. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
God.
That sound did things to you.
You moved closer carefully, taking his hand in yours.
His fingers were massive compared to yours. Scarred. Rough. Tattooed.
Capable of terrifying things.
Yet he let you hold them with impossible gentleness.
You cleaned the split skin over his knuckles carefully while Happy watched your face instead of the injury.
You could feel his eyes on you.
Heavy.
Intent.
The air between you had been changing for weeks now.
Maybe months.
Lingering looks.
Hands brushing too long.
Happy showing up at your apartment late at night under weak excuses neither of you believed.
You’d fallen asleep against his chest on his couch more times than you could count.
Nothing explicit ever happened.
But everything felt intimate anyway.
Like the space between friendship and something far more dangerous had become paper-thin.
You dabbed antiseptic against his hand.
Happy hissed quietly.
“Oh, don’t be dramatic.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You wanna see dramatic?”
You snorted softly. “Not particularly.”
The corner of his mouth moved again.
Tiny.
Barely there.
But real.
Your heart stumbled.
It always did when you made Happy smile.
Because nobody else got to see those moments.
They belonged to you somehow.
The realization both thrilled and terrified you.
You wrapped gauze carefully around his knuckles before murmuring, “There.”
Happy looked down at the bandage.
Then at you.
Then back at the bandage.
“You’re good at this.”
“My dad was reckless.”
“Yeah?”
“Motorcycles. Bar fights. Stitches every other week.” You smiled faintly. “Guess I got practice.”
Happy’s expression shifted slightly at that.
Something thoughtful.
“What?”
“You got a type.”
You blinked.
Then laughed before you could stop yourself.
“Oh my god.”
His gaze stayed fixed on you.
“You think this is funny?”
“You’re jealous of my father?”
“No.”
“You sound jealous.”
“I’m not.”
The immediate response only made you grin wider.
Happy’s eyes narrowed more.
“You keep smiling at me like that, I’m gonna become a problem.”
Your pulse skipped.
Because his voice had changed.
Lower now.
Rougher.
The tiny bathroom suddenly felt much too small.
You swallowed hard. “You already are a problem.”
Something hot flashed behind his eyes.
The tension snapped taut instantly.
And because apparently your survival instincts were broken, you reached up and brushed your thumb lightly against the bruise along his jaw.
Happy froze.
Completely froze.
His breathing changed first.
Slower.
Heavier.
Like he forgot how to do it properly.
Your hand should’ve dropped immediately.
Instead your fingers lingered.
“You should put ice on this,” you murmured softly.
Happy stared at you like you’d just set fire to the room.
Then, very quietly:
“You worry too much, sweetheart.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Your brain stopped functioning.
Sweetheart.
He’d never called you that before.
Never anything like that.
Usually you got your name. Sometimes kid when he was teasing you. Once baby after you fell asleep against him during movie night and he thought you couldn’t hear him.
And judging by the way Happy’s eyes widened slightly afterward, he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
Heat exploded across your face instantly.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Happy stared at you.
You stared at Happy.
Neither of you moved.
Your blush got worse.
Painfully worse.
You could literally feel your face burning.
Happy looked horrified.
Not because he regretted it.
Because he could see exactly what it did to you.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“You called me sweetheart.”
“I know.”
Your voice came out embarrassingly small. “Happy—”
“You’re blushing.”
“You noticed?”
“You’re red as fuck.”
Mortification consumed you instantly.
You covered your face with both hands. “I’m gonna die.”
And then—
Then something incredible happened.
Happy laughed.
Not the small exhale he usually gave.
Not the quiet amused grunt.
An actual laugh.
Deep.
Warm.
Real.
You’d heard it maybe twice before.
The sound hit you directly in the chest.
“Oh, this is bad,” he murmured, still laughing softly.
You peeked through your fingers. “What?”
“You’re cute.”
Your entire body nearly short-circuited.
“Happy.”
“Look at you.”
“Stop talking immediately.”
He stepped closer instead.
Of course he did.
Towering over you now in the cramped bathroom, broad shoulders blocking the fluorescent light overhead.
His eyes stayed locked on your burning face with open fascination.
Like he couldn’t believe he’d done this to you.
“You like that?” he asked quietly.
You made the mistake of looking directly at him.
Big mistake.
Because suddenly he wasn’t teasing anymore.
Now he looked hungry.
Not sexually.
Not only sexually.
Something deeper.
More dangerous.
Like he’d just realized the effect he had on you and didn’t know what to do with the information.
Your heartbeat became violent.
“You know I do,” you admitted softly.
Happy went very still.
The air shifted.
Outside the bathroom, muffled music still pounded through the clubhouse walls, but inside everything narrowed down to the two of you breathing too close together.
His hand lifted slowly.
Carefully.
Like he was giving you time to pull away.
You didn’t.
His knuckles brushed your flushed cheek.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath.
“What?”
“You’re killing me.”
Your stomach flipped hard.
Happy looked genuinely affected by this.
By you.
The realization felt surreal.
“You called me sweetheart,” you repeated weakly.
“I know.”
“You can’t just do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because now I’m gonna think about it forever.”
That earned another soft laugh from him.
God, you loved that sound.
Happy’s thumb brushed slowly along your cheekbone.
“You got any idea,” he said quietly, “how hard it’s been not calling you worse?”
Your breath caught.
“Worse?”
“Baby. Honey. Mine.” His jaw flexed slightly. “Shit like that.”
You thought your soul briefly left your body.
Happy saw the exact moment your brain melted completely.
His eyes darkened immediately.
“That one got you too, huh?”
You covered your face again with a groan. “Please stop talking.”
“No.”
“You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Yeah.”
The honesty nearly killed you.
Happy gently pulled your hands away from your face.
“You know what the problem is?” he murmured.
“What?”
“You have no clue what you do to me.”
Your heart thudded painfully.
He stepped even closer.
Close enough that you could smell whiskey and smoke and leather.
Close enough that one slight movement would press you directly against his chest.
“I think about you constantly,” he admitted quietly. “And then you blush like this because I call you sweetheart and suddenly I’m losing my fucking mind.”
Your hands instinctively grabbed the front of his kutte.
Happy looked down at them briefly.
Then back at your face.
“Tell me to stop.”
You couldn’t.
That was the problem.
You couldn’t stop any of this even if you tried.
So instead you whispered, “Say it again.”
Happy’s eyes darkened instantly.
Dangerously.
“Sweetheart,” he said softly.
Your face burned all over again.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, sounding genuinely affected now. “You’re adorable.”
And before you could respond, Happy kissed you.
Hard enough to steal every coherent thought from your brain.
One massive hand cupped your jaw while the other settled against your waist, pulling you flush against him with unmistakable possession.
You melted immediately.
Happy kissed like he did everything else — intensely, completely, like restraint had never been an option to begin with.
The sound you made against his mouth seemed to wreck him further.
His grip tightened.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. “Sweetheart…”
There it was again.
And somehow it sounded even better now.
You laughed breathlessly into the kiss, still blushing so hard your cheeks hurt.
Happy rested his forehead against yours afterward, breathing unevenly.
“You’re still red.”
“Shut up.”
“No.”
You smiled helplessly.
Then his expression softened into something almost unbearably tender.
“You know you’re it for me, right?”
The words hit harder than the kiss did.
You stared at him.
Happy rarely spoke openly about feelings. Everything about him existed in actions instead.
But right now?
Right now he looked at you like he was handing over something fragile and dangerous all at once.
“You’re it for me too,” you whispered.
Something settled in him then.
Visible.
Immediate.
Like a man finally coming home after years of wandering.
Today, Sam accidentally touches a piece of wet food while doing the dishes. He shakes the feeling out of his head and hands before continuing through the chore.
Hiya sweets. So my thought is a little season 15 angst. Dean x Reader. Dean finds out about God manipulating their lives, and starts doubting if reader really cares about him or if they would have gotten together if God hadn't intervened. A little angst, a little fluff? K love you byeeee
⋆｡ ˚ not his to write
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ after learning god’s been shaping your lives, dean starts to doubt whether your love was ever really yours.
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( gn )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 2037 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ hurt / comfort
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ season 15 spoilers, god/chuck manipulation, existential crisis, relationship insecurity, dean’s self-worth issues, emotional argument, fear of being unloved
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
dean gets quiet once he learns the truth.
not the usual quiet, either. not the kind where he’s tired from a hunt and needs ten minutes with a beer before he can talk without biting someone’s head off. not the kind where the case got ugly, where the blood took too long to wash from his hands, where the drive back to the bunker stretched out under bad radio static and nobody knew how to make the car feel normal again.
this is different… this is dean sitting at the library table with his hands around a bottle he hasn’t taken a sip from in twenty minutes, staring at the label. this is dean flinching when sam says chuck’s name. this is dean looking at you from across the room and then looking away so fast your stomach twists before you can stop it.
you give him space at first. you hate giving him space. space, with dean, is a dangerous thing. space turns into walls. walls turn into locked doors. locked doors turn into dean making decisions alone because he convinces himself that pain counts as protection.
but you try anyway.
sam disappears somewhere down the hall, probably to read until his eyes burn or call eileen with that terrible softness he tries not to show too much around dean. the bunker settles into its late-night hum, pipes ticking behind concrete, old lamps throwing tired yellow light over books and weapons and half-empty cups of coffee.
you stand in the doorway for a long time before dean speaks.
“you should go to bed.” his voice is low. flat.
you fold your arms. “is that what you’re doing?”
he does not look at you. “eventually.”
“dean.”
his jaw tightens. the warning sign. the little shift in his face that means your voice got too close to something sore. you step into the room anyway.
“don’t do that” he says.
you stop beside the table. “do what?”
“do the thing.”
“the thing where i care about you?”
he laughs once, but there’s no humor in it. only something bitter and worn thin. “yeah. that.”
your chest goes cold. “look at me.”
he doesn’t. you wait. you’re good at waiting when you need to be, even when every part of you wants to reach across the table and drag his face up with both hands.
finally, after what feels like an eternity, dean looks at you. he looks awful. something underneath him has come loose. there’s a crack in his expression you don’t know how to patch, and the worst part’s that he looks embarrassed by it. ashamed to be this shaken. ashamed to need anything after finding out need itself might have been written into him by a cruel little man with a god complex and a writer’s room in his head.
“what’s going on?” you ask, softer now.
dean looks away again. “nothing.”
“don’t insult me.”
his mouth hardens. “i’m not.”
“you are. you think i don’t know when you’re spiraling?”
that gets him, but not enough to make him talk. enough to make his fingers tighten around the beer bottle until his knuckles pale.
you sit across from him. “say it.”
he shakes his head.
“dean.”
“what do you want me to say?” he snaps, sudden and sharp, and the sound of it cracks through the library. “that i’m having a bad night? that finding out every screwed-up thing in my life was some sick bastard’s entertainment doesn’t exactly make me feel great?”
“yes,” you say. “start there.”
he stares at you, breathing a little harder. “fine. i feel great. fantastic. i love knowing my mom burning on the ceiling was a plot point. love knowing sam’s pain was a season arc. love knowing every choice i fought for, every person i lost, every time i thought i was doing something right, chuck was sitting there getting off on it.”
his voice breaks on the last few words.
dean scrubs a hand over his mouth. “and now i keep thinking about you.”
something inside you tightens. “what about me?”
“all of it.” he gives you a look then. wrecked. angry at himself before he even answers. “you showing up when you did. staying when anybody with half a brain would’ve run. loving me.” the word comes out rough, almost resentful. “how am i supposed to know that was real?”
the room seems to tilt. you hear the heater click somewhere in the walls. hear the tiny shift of paper under your elbow. hear your own breath come in too slowly, because if you breathe the way you want to, you’ll start shouting before he finishes digging the grave he apparently plans to throw both of you into.
dean’s eyes drop to the table. “maybe chuck wrote that too,” he says. “maybe he needed me happy for a minute so it’d hurt worse later. maybe he wrote you into this because it made better television. maybe you and me were just—”
“don’t you fucking dare—” the word leaves you quiet.
dean stops.
you stand so abruptly the chair legs scrape against the floor. “do not finish that sentence.”
his face tightens. “i’m just saying—”
“i know what you’re saying.” your hands curl at your sides, shaking now from the effort of not throwing something. “you’re saying he gets to have that too.”
dean blinks.
“you’re saying he gets your childhood. your mother. sam. every awful thing you survived. fine. he took enough. he wrote enough. he poisoned enough.” your voice rises despite the way you try to hold it steady. “but now you’re sitting here trying to hand him me.”
“how dare you,” you say, and it comes out less polished than you meant. too honest. almost ugly with hurt. “seriously, dean, how dare you look me in the face and tell me loving you might be something he made me do.”
his jaw works, but no words come out.
“i chose you when you were unbearable,” you say, stepping around the table because distance suddenly feels insulting. “i chose you when you shut me out. i chose you after hunts where you came back mean because you were scared and didn’t know how to say it. i chose you in motel rooms with bad water pressure and diner booths at three in the morning and in that stupid car when you sang too loud on purpose because you knew i had a headache.”
his eyes flicker.
you keep going, because if you stop now, you might cry, and you’re too angry to cry first.
“i chose you when it was inconvenient. when it hurt. when i had every reason to walk away and could have. don’t you dare make that small. don’t you dare make me into some line in a script because you’re scared there’s no other reason i’d stay.”
that lands. you see it hit him, see the flinch he tries to bury under his usual hard stare. except there’s nothing usual about him right now. he looks younger, almost. not softer, exactly. exposed. standing there in the wreckage of a thought he probably carried alone for hours before you ever came into the room.
“i don’t know how to trust anything,” he says finally.
the anger in you stumbles.
dean’s voice is quieter now, scraped raw at the edges. “i look at you, and i want to believe it’s mine. that this is ours. but then i think about him watching, moving pieces around, putting people in the right place so i’d break the right way, and i can’t—” he stops, swallowing hard. “i can’t tell where his story ends and my life starts.”
your throat tightens. you move closer, slowly this time, until you’re standing in front of him. dean doesn’t reach for you. his hands stay braced on the table, like touching you without certainty would be another kind of sin.
“i can’t prove it,” you hate the truth of that. hate it. there’s no neat answer, no holy stamp you can press onto your heart to make it undeniable. chuck has ruined that, too. certainty. memory. trust in the shape of your own choices.
his eyes lift to yours.
“i can’t prove he didn’t shove us into the same room the first time,” you say. “i can’t prove he didn’t make the road bend or the hunt go bad or whatever else he does when he wants to feel clever. but he didn’t make me sit with you afterward. he didn’t make me learn how you take your coffee. he didn’t make me stay up when you couldn’t sleep, or get pissed when you threw yourself in front of something dangerous again, or love that stupid face you make when you’re trying not to smile.”
dean’s mouth trembles faintly.
“he didn’t make me angry at you right now,” you add, voice breaking a little. “that’s all mine.”
dean looks down.
“and i am angry,” you say, quieter. “because i love you. because you’re scared and you decided the safest thing to do was doubt me before i could disappoint you.”
his eyes shut. the silence after that is heavier than anything either of you has said.
you reach for him, then stop before your fingers touch his sleeve. for once, you let him see the hesitation. let him see that this hurt you too. that love isn’t endless softness, not with him, not with anyone. sometimes love is standing in a cold library at night, furious and scared, trying to pull the truth out from under god’s dirty fingerprints.
“i’m not asking you to be okay,” you say. “i’m not even asking you to believe me all at once. but don’t punish me for what he did.”
dean’s face crumples so briefly you almost miss it. then his hand catches yours. fast. desperate. rougher than he probably means. he holds onto your fingers without looking up, thumb pressed hard against your knuckles as if he needs the bones of you to argue with the thoughts in his head. “i’m sorry.”
you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “i know…”
he nods once, still staring at your joined hands. “i didn’t mean—”
“i know.”
and you do. that’s the awful part. you know him well enough to understand the wound and still be hurt by where he pointed it.
dean’s grip loosens, giving you the chance to pull away. instead, you step closer until your knees bump his, until he has to tilt his head to look at you. his eyes are red but dry, jaw tight with the kind of restraint that’s ruined him more than once. you lift your free hand and touch his face, careful at first, two fingers against the rough edge of his cheek.
he leans into it.
“you’re not a puppet to me,” you whisper. “you’re not a character. you’re not some doomed thing i was assigned to love.”
dean’s breath shakes.
“you’re my dean,” you say, and it sounds too simple for what you mean. too small for the size of him in your chest. “and i’m here because i want to be.”
his hand rises to your waist then, hesitant, almost asking. the first touch is careful. then firmer. he draws you in by inches, giving you time to refuse even now, even after everything. when your body meets his, his forehead drops to your shoulder, and something in him finally gives. just the slow, heavy exhale of a man who’s been holding himself together with both hands and is too tired to keep pretending he doesn’t need somewhere to put the broken parts.
you thread your fingers through his hair.
dean’s voice comes muffled against your shirt. “i don’t want him to have this.”
“then don’t give it to him.”
his arms tighten around you. for a while, neither of you moves. the bunker keeps humming. somewhere far away, the world remains terrible and watched and written over in ways you don’t know how to undo. but dean’s warm against you, breathing unevenly into the fabric at your shoulder, and his hand is splayed over your back as if he’s trying to memorize something chuck can’t narrate properly.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
Still thinking about a few months ago when someone asked Emily and TJ how they shot the Gravedigger scene when they got pulled out of the dirt after being buried alive and TJ goes “Well they dug a hole. We got in it. And they buried us” like they literally buried Emily and TJ alive for that scene
This isn’t anything new but I 1000000000% Temperance Brennan would be bisexual and the only reason she’s not is bc the writers were cowards
I think she’d have the opinion of “logically there’s no reason for women in the modern era to solely seek out relationships with men.“ and then go into a long rant abt not needing men for procreation, land, money, security, etc.
Rewatching bones is weird bc hodgins crazy conspiracies aren’t that crazy anymore, like hodgins will be like “yo the government isn’t helping people and are all rich assholes who say they want to help to stay rich whilst everyone else get poorer” and everyone around him will call him crazy. But I’m here watching from a third person perspective from the other room behind a glass wall and all I can do is bang on it and scream he was right but no one can hear bc it’s a fucking tv show.
Like no booth the government starting wars isn’t taboo anymore girly it’s fucking true they do it all the time.
***This is smut. Like, smut. Not vulgar, but not much of a backstory or different settings. Just you and Juice in your house and he’s pissed. So if that’s not your thing, ya know, skip this one. If it is then 🤘🏼😘😘***
“Fuck you Juice. Seriously.” “Watch your mouth.” “What are you, my dad?” “I saw you flirting with him.” “I wasn’t flirting with him!” “I know what I fucking saw!” “I don’t have time for this shit.” You hopped off the counter and turned around, taking a step but he grabbed your wrist. “Don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you.” You sneered and snatched your hand away from him before continuing to walk away. You hadn’t even left the kitchen when his hands grasped your waist firmly and spun you around again, this time shoving you against the wall and getting in your face. “What part of don’t walk away from me didn’t you understand.”
You had to admit, as annoyed and heated as you were at his accusations, Juice was really hot like this. He never got rough with you, he barely ever even raised his voice at you but now here he was breathing heavy, his nose pressed against yours. The look in his eyes pierced you, the usual smooth brown now almost black with anger. He held you to the wall and firmly grabbed your chin to look at him. “I don’t want you with him. I don’t want you near him. You’re mine, no one else’s.” You let out an exasperated sigh and shook your head out of his grasp, placing your hands on his chest and pushing him off of you forcefully. “For the last time, I’m not cheating on you! He’s a coworker. Now leave me the fuck alone.”
To say you were somewhat scared when you felt his hands squeeze around your waist and your feet leave the ground was an understatement. A loud gasp left your lips as he lifted you up like you were weightless and carried you to the bedroom. You fought against him but it didn’t seem to phase him, the anger and adrenaline coursing through his veins giving him a strength you hadn’t seen before. He threw you down onto the mattress and stood at the foot of the bed, pulling his own shirt off before getting started on undoing his belt.
“Take your clothes off.” You stayed looking up at him defiantly, not making a move to undress. “Make me.” You knew you were playing with fire but you couldn’t help it. This was a side of Juice that you had never seen before and you were already wet for him without him even really touching you. He growled at your remark and pulled his pants and boxers down before walking around the bed and grabbed you by your ankles, pulling you towards him. He grabbed the hem of your shirt, which was really his, and pulled it up over your head. You pushed at him with your hands and he grabbed them, pushing you down to the bed and holding your hands above your head. Settling on top of you, he bared all his weight down and grabbed both of your wrists in one of his hands, the other going down between both of your bodies.
His fingers grabbed hold on the band of your panties and yanked, the fabric ripping loudly. You gasped and your eyes widened, looking up at him. He was already looking at you and the look in his eyes caused a shiver to go down your spine. Juice grabbed onto himself and placed himself against you. You gasped loudly as he entered you and threw your head back but he grabbed you by the cheeks and pulled your face back down. “Look at me.” You looked back at him and bit your lip as he set a fast rough pace. “You’re not talking shit now are you?” You shook your head no and your eyes involuntarily slipped closed.
Juice let you keep your eyes closed as he thrusted and bit down harshly on the side of your neck. You whimpered at the painful pleasure that was more pain than pleasure and he worked his tongue against the spot, soothing it. You moved your hands around in his grasp but he wouldn’t let you go. “Juice baby, let me touch you.” He chuckled lightly and looked up at you through his eyelashes. “I don’t think so.” You pouted and struggled against him some more before giving up. You knew he was too strong
His pace picked up as he felt himself start to get close and you groaned, just wanting to grab onto his arms and feel the heat of his skin. “Juicy please. I want to touch you.” “Apologize.” “What?” “Apologize.” “For what?” “For flirting with that mother fucker at your job.” You narrowed your eyes and stayed quiet, refusing to apologize for something you didn’t do. Juice tilted his head and shrugged, knowing you’d give in sooner or later. It turned out to be sooner than later as he stuck his hand between your bodies again, this time rubbing you and giving you that extra bit of pleasure you needed.
“Fuck Juice, fine, I’m sorry. I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry I hugged him. I’m sorry, please just let my hands go.” Hearing you beg did something to him and he released your hands, knowing he needed to feel you touch him as much as you needed to touch him. You instantly placed one hand on his bicep and the other on the back of his head, holding him to you. “Thank you Baby.” It was merely seconds later that you both found your releases and he collapsed on top of you. You smoothed one hand along his head and the other scratched at his back lightly as you both laid there breathing heavily, coming down. You had been like that for minutes in silence when you heard Juices voice, all traces of anger gone.
“I didn’t mean to be such a dick. I just got scared. I though that maybe you liked him or something and that I was going to lose you. I thought that maybe you would want to be with him and have the life that he would give you and I freaked out. I didn’t mean to make you think I didn’t trust you.” You laughed lightly and grabbed onto his head, bringing him up to look at you. “I don’t want anyone else. Just you. You’re it. You don’t have to worry about losing me to someone else.” He nodded and smiled sweetly, putting his head back down on your chest and cuddling up to you before laughing to himself. “What?” “That was wild.”
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