#And I don't smoke or drink so lmao
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xiaohuayaos · 1 year ago
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I'd say yes even if he offered me half a pack of cigarettes and a warm can of beer as a betrothal present, tbh
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yukinyaminyato · 10 months ago
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real pic of me yesterday when i saw my crush starting to get up from his seat and i thought he was gonna leave:
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fishyfishyfishtimes · 3 months ago
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Daily fish fact #6 444 205
Fish!
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The fish like to have a little drink :) Sadly as they drink the water around them they also drink their own pee, and that is the curse that they will have to live with for the rest of their life
#fish #fishfact #fish facts #fishblr #biology #zoology
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🪼 clovergonads follow
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Tasseled wobbegong women >>>>>>>>>>>
🐸 i-eat-skin follow
bitch those are goosefish
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🐚 seashell-on-the-seashore follow
Say what you want about fishblr updates, but I think this format for reblubs is a wonderful improvement over the previous one. One of the only times staff did good.
🐚 seashell-on-the-seashore
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@featherstar53 If reblub chains got too long, new reblubs would start appearing as darker and darker until you couldnt see the text anymore. It mimicked how light disappears as you go deeper in the ocean but the sunken code this webbedsite runs on never set a cap for how dark it gets, so eventually you would have to copy ad paste the text on the reblubs onto somewhere to read them.
🐍 swamplamprey follow
It sounds fake but it's true! You can still find some older fishblr post screenshots with this effect:
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This even went for full abyssal mode users! In their case, the text would slowly turn from white to dark blue, effectively making it impossible to read against the black background.
🦞 fastest-claw-in-the-west follow
I think it would be super funny if they brought this back but for individual posts. Like the reblubs stay the same colour but the posts themselves get gradually and gradually darker until you can't see them anymore lol. It would be disastrous but also funny and it might finally stop some of you frys from being so addicted to this webbedsite
#im all for a bit of chaos lol #treasure trove: talking tag
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🌿 invertlike-behaviour follow
Okay for the record. My eyes are Red because I'm a COMMON ROACH! RUTILUS RUTILUS! It's not because I smoke seaweed!
🌿 invertlike-behaviour
Okay Yes I smoke seaweed all day. But the specific reason my eyes are red is Not That
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🦈 spiritually-placoderm follow
🫧 surgeonsturgeon follow
OP you forgot brackish water and the option for inhabiting both
🦈 spiritually-placoderm
Shut your inferior ass mouth up
🫧 surgeonsturgeon
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#(i couldnt find the actual gif i wanted to use but this weird tiger shark will have to do) #(not sure why his fins look like that)
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☀️ slenderfish follow
"ocean sunfish have over 40 parasite species" factoid actualy just statistical error. average ocean sunfish is infected with only one or two parasites. Parasites Georg, the mola who suffers from every ailment known to fish and has over 1 000 000 000 parasite species infesting his flesh and organs, is an outlier adn should not have been counted
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🪷 trout-about-you follow
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Selfieeeee :3 (ignore the two sea lampreys attached to my flesh)
🪲 toebiter follow
how did you take the picture you aren't holding your phone
🪷 trout-about-you
The sea lamprey on the left took it for me
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🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated
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FISH USED TO MIGRATE THOUSANDS OF MILES TO BREED. WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!!!!
IN MY DAY PUSSFISH LIKE THIS WOULD GET EATEN ALIVE BY REAL RIVER MONSTERS FOR BREAKFAST.
🐟 darting-action follow
these are Siamese fighting fish bruh.... They don't have migration as part of their life cycle lmao
🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated
OF COURSE THE YOUTH CAN'T PUNCTUATE THEIR SENTENCES PROPERLY. I SHOULDN'T EXPECT SO MUCH FROM THE SOFT FRY THEY ARE. ALWAYS GETTING RILED UP!
🔲 skip-hopper-deactivated
Ignore this guy, @darting-action. He's well known for saying offensive nonsense like this, I think he's bait and trying to get someone to bite.
🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated
YOU MUST BE ONE OF THOSE INBRED DOMESTIC SCUM OR HATCHED YESTERDAY SINCE YOU ENTIRELY LACK THICK SCALES. I SPEAK THE TRUTH AND ONLY THE TRUTH. IF YOU GET TRIGGERED THEN THAT'S NATURAL SELECTION, SON. YOU SHOULD FIGHT ME IN REAL LIFE.
🔲 walrus-tits-in-my-mouth-deactivated
You really dont know a thing about natural selection, do you? Bettas have flashy fins because they have to seem threatening to possible competitors. They don't migrate so they aren't built for that. They're built for living in ponds and marshes, low oxygen environments, and by cod, they are built for fighting territorial battles! You shouldn't underestimate a fish literally called fighting fish. They're very tough and hardy fish and can even send larger fish fleeing!
🔲 salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated
SIAMESE FLAILING PUSSFISH HAVE LADY FINS BECAUSE THEY'RE WEAK AND SOFT AND HAD HUMANS DECIDE WHO THEY BREED WITH FOR THEM. THEIR QUOTE UNQUOTE "FIGHTING PROWESS" SURE DIDN'T SAVE THEM FROM BEING PRISSY LITTLE PRINCESS FISHIES FOR LITTLE KIDS DID IT? THE INDUBIDABLE FACT IS THAT THEY'RE MUSKIE FOOD.
🔲 iknowthecrabbypattysecretformula-deactivated
Wait a minute... I recongize that picture on the right! That's from @betta-than-this 's OnlyFins! How did you get that picutre hmmm? Salmonidae? How on Ocean did you gain access huh?
🐠 betta-than-this follow
"Indubidable" is a pretty specific word to use. This you @salmonidae-supremacy-deactivated?
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🔲 iknowthecrabbypattysecretformula-deactivated
LMAOOOOOO GOTTEMMM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
🔲 aquarium-life-deactivated
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
🐟 darting-action
woag i never saw this entire chain before until it hit me on my dashboard. Why does this have so many notes
Thanks fishblr user walrus tits in my mouth for biology info i didn't know
🫖 burgle-the-turts follow
Woah woah woah we're just gonna ignore this guy using p*ssfish as an insult!!???? THE CATFISH SLUR????????? No one is going to bring this up!!!!!???????
🔲 tilapia11128-deactivated
does anyone in this thread smoke seaweed
🌊 herringageposts follow
date of origin: 28th of august, 2017
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🟧 sponsored
Suffering all alone, handsome?
No need to anymore.
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👄 pollywannacracker follow
Reblub with your favorite snack in the tags! I’ll go first: coral polyps! :}
🚬 shark-noir follow
@ninjalantern-999
#as for me #my fave is definitely my lower set of teeth when they shed #crumchy :D
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🩸 must-lunge follow
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA STUPID HUMAN DROPPED ITS ELECTRONIC CAMERA IN THE LAKE!!!!!!!! NEVER GETTING THAT BACK BUB!!!!!! I'M TELLING ALL MY ISOPOD AND MUSSEL FRIENDS AND THEY'RE GONNA LIVE INSIDE IT!!!!!
🧑 official-human-posts follow
ofishal human post
#ofishal human post #this post contains humans
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🦦 hellofromtheotterslide follow
Wait, how come this site is called fishblr and not something like oceanblr or aquablr? Wouldn't that be more inclusive?
👑 goldielocks follow
I believe the name "fishblr" pays homage to the meaning of the word where just about everything in the water was considered a fish. It's why we have words like "shellfish", "whalefish", "jellyfish", "starfish".
Personally aquablr would work really well, too. There's a sizeable amphibious userbase on here.
🦐 worldwideshrimp follow
You forgot whale shark! Those arent fish either but are called fish
👑 goldielocks
....Whale sharks are fish. They are sharks. It's in the name.
🦎 eye-of-newt follow
But I thought it was a whale named after sharks? WHALE shark! Why else would they put whale up first?
👑 goldielocks
A whale named after a shark would be called a shark whale. You can take one look at a whale shark and see that, with its gills and fish tail, it is a shark.
⚪️ number1-seacucumber-ass-enjoyer-77 follow
Wait, then what about baby whales? Are those whales named after babies?
👑 goldielocks
If you're talking about the actual whale babies, then yeah. If you mean the mormyrids, small aquatic animals that can sense electricity, then no, those are fish. Sometimes names are inaccurate to what the animal really is.
🌌 themanta1234 follow
If you think about it, fishblr is also inclusive to aquatic tetrapods since they are lobe-fins, and therefore fish :D It's a term that can include everyone on here, the perfect catchall!
🦑 abyssal-gigantism follow
Ewwww fuck that definition. If mammals hear about them being fish on some sort of """"technicality"""" then this webbedsite is gonna get flooded with those self-important idiots! "OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOOOOO LoOk At MeEeEeEeEEE i'M a MaMmAL!!11!!! I TAKE CARE of mah BAAABIEEEES!1111 I'm SUCH a good MAMAAA!!! All those OTHER STUPID HEARTLESS ANIMALS could NEVER do as I DO!!! I LOVE sweating into my BAABIEEEES' MOUTH1!1!1!111!!! I'm FLUFFY and AWSUM and ERRYBODDY LUUUVSSSSS MEE!!!!!!!!!!111!!!!!!! You should all LUV me TOO!!!!"
Is THAT how you want every fishblr post to look!!!!??????
🦛 drippohippo follow
😨
🪄 magicmanatee45 follow
DD:
🎼 humpbacked-musician-offishal follow
:'''((((
🐋 blainvilles-bitch follow
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🕶️ egg-laying-mammal-of-action follow
:///////////
🐢 greenXD follow
i think jellyfish shouldn't be classified as fish because they're clearly living spaghetti
🌜 foolish-idol follow
Great fucking post everyone. Hit the air bubblers
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🟩 ultrahyva-heihoi follow
Guys what the fuck kind of sponsors does fishblr have I just saw an ad for having parasites housed in me who are they advertising to 😭💀💀
#i swear the quality of this site keeps going down and down #if you see ads for parasites then report the shit out of em #fuck em my friend got early onset cataracts due to parasites
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😃 doweopenandcloseourmouthtoday follow
Yes! :) :O :) :O :) :O :) :O
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sil-te-plait-tue-moi · 1 year ago
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The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.
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PART 1 ★ PART 2
Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.
Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)
Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.
A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!
***
The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.
A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre. 
I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp. 
Seems like the sort of place for him.
Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?” 
Or somethin’ along those lines. 
For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?
Whatever.
If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark. 
If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in. 
With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well���he’s entitled to that choice. 
I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor. 
“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.
I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned. 
I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone. 
Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”
I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice. 
He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up. 
There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick. 
Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.
And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.
Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep. 
A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression. 
“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly. 
He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.
“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain. 
My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread. 
Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me. 
I sigh. I ask him.
My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose. 
Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it. 
There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.
He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be. 
It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.
The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.  
Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?
“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.  
“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”  
I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”
“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.  
White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.   
Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.
Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.
There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.
His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it. 
“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile. 
He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”
Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.
I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him. 
His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.
He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.
“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.
I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.
I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”
Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”
“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”
Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.
“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”
I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.
Christ.
Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?
“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.
Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.
He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.
I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”
The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.
“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.
I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?
He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.
The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.
“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”
While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.
I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”
Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.
“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”
Asshole.
I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”
He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”
“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.
He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”
I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.
He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.
“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”
“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.
I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.
I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”
God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else. 
Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me. 
I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”
He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?” 
Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.
“No,” I reply. 
“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”
Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.
“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.” 
He tilts his head away in dismissal. 
I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”
For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.
I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.  
He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest. 
“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”
“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.
“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.
He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight. 
Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too. 
“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”
In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.
He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”
“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?
I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”
He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?” 
I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”
And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits. 
A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!” 
“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.  
As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”
“You’re part of the people,” I argue.  
He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”
“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”  
He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices. 
“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.  
I thought that everything meant fuck-all?
For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate. 
Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow. 
My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.
I want – my breath trembles with it.
“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”
He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”
I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”
“I will.”
His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up. 
“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me. 
Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down. 
“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”
He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .  
My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work. 
When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.  
I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”
A pause. 
Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought. 
Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen;   Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night. 
I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes. 
When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.
Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter. 
I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger. 
Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.  
I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.
He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.
I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.  
“No,” he contradicts.
“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”  
He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”
“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it. 
I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.
He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.  
And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face. 
“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.
He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.
Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.
I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin. 
But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.  
“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”
“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”
I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.  
“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”
He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.
“I can feel you against my leg.” 
He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing. 
I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently. 
Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving. 
Give me strength. Give me strength. 
That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe. 
Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly. 
I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.
Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.
Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.
My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me. 
Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.
His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact. 
He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive. 
But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation. 
My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?” 
I can feel him swallow.
“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace. 
“Kiss me again, then.” 
And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth. 
I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second. 
The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.
Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid. 
This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own. 
A switch in his brain must flick on. 
It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt. 
I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable. 
He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt. 
“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.
My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return. 
“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?” 
He kisses the hollow of my neck. 
His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter. 
Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this. 
A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me. 
I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.
Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.  
Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”
I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.” 
I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”
How unlike him. 
A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.” 
His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton. 
I sigh, try not to squirm. 
“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing. 
I nod. “Yeah.” 
Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.
As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering. 
His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips. 
Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back. 
I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world. 
Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine. 
I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra. 
His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.
My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut. 
“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip. 
He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.
“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper. 
He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead. 
After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl. 
I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.
Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point. 
Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.
As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else. 
“Lie back, girl,” he tells me. 
My cunt flexes. 
I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.” 
Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.
“Said lie back, didn’t I?” 
Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager. 
“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter. 
I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.
“Can—?”
“Yes.” 
He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.  
“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.   
“Lie back.”  
He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.
I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.
Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.
Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth. 
Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger. 
Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit.  My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.
I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.
I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.
Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse. 
He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.
He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers. 
We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.
I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.
When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.
So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.
Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.
Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.
His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here. 
Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away. 
For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see. 
In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.
I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him. 
His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders. 
Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him. 
I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.
Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside. 
I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.
His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound. 
I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out. 
“It’s okay,” I reply. 
He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver. 
Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.
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red-doll-face · 12 days ago
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lowhonor arthur who's just obsessed with u. . . 😵‍💫
DOLLLYYY thank you for this wonderful request i was so excited to see a req from you in my inbox queen 😭😭😭 I LOVE YOU !!! 💖💖😊😊🥰🥰also thank you again for the one you wrote for me !! 🥹🥹 I tried really hard on this and im actually super proud of how it came out, I had my bf who is a lh arthur player weigh in on some dialogue sooooo i finally have a lh arthur committee to fall back on LMAO I hope you like it !! tysm for reading and any feedback makes me 😊😊😊 also made it a bit long as always w me ... Warnings: Arthur is a meanie , low honor arthur as a warning. like hes a jerk but what were we expecting?? however complete weenie for you like hes down bad. also sad arthur like he has his issues where he thinks he isnt a stud?? like i need a bucket of his nut rn sorryyyy
In Arthur's opinion, you only deserve joy and nothing less.
low honor Arthur Morgan x fem. reader
Do you have to be so goddamn distracting? He swears your giggle is the loudest of the girls, when they’re no doubt filling each other in about the latest camp affairs. He has to look over from where he was brushing his horse's glossy coat in the blazing sun. The grumpy shire gets annoyed at the loss of contact, turning to mouth at Arthur’s shoulder. Arthur's hand is squeezing the brush, as to make all the blood rush away from his knuckles. You sit there with Karen on the chairs outside the girl’s tent, whispering in her ear, before laughing again. The prettiest thing, your hair bouncing and your hand rising to your chest. Karen nudges your shoulder. And she turns to see him staring. The glare she sends his way isn’t all too unexpected. 
But then Karen whispers to you as well. Her eyes flick over to where he’s standing. He looks away before the inevitable. Your eyes on him, curious, searching over him. He hates how that idea makes him feel, being perceived by you. Arthur wonders what you think. Some sad sap eyeing a young lady such as you. He looks down at his dirty shirt, the smell of horse flesh and hair clinging to him. You probably think he’s repulsive to look at. His brows draw together, his jaw gets tight. You must think he’s horrible, like Karen does. Cruel and awful. You wouldn’t be wrong. And he knows he shouldn’t do any of the things he thinks about doing but his impulses can be hard to control. The anxiety makes him almost nauseous. Heat brewing, his chest feeling tighter than he’d like; than he’d ever admit to a living soul. But his journal later tonight is another thing. He stuffs the horse brush back into his saddle bag. Why couldn’t he just ignore you? Push you from his mind, keep you from having any sort of affect on him? He’s not too sure. 
Maybe it’s the way you catch his eye whenever you walk past, your skirt brushing against his leg. He knows you’re a real sweet thing. He loathed to see Ms. Grimshaw bring you to tears over your inability to perform to her standards. He had been all too eager to get some sort of odd revenge for you, being sure to dig in deep with remarks, his words feeling more barbed than usual. Being an attack dog he supposed, came all too easy. Not that you noticed particularly but it's more for his pride than anything else.  
When he turns, you’re still looking, tilting your head. The expression on your face falters when you see him looking, your cute little lips parting before you avert your eyes, not even bothering to keep your head from facing towards him. You look nervous too. He imagines it’s because you might think about him just as much as he does of you. That at night, you might think of your girlish fantasies, ones where he holds your hand or gives you a smile, meant just for your eyes. Nothing so depraved as his own visions. But he knows you most likely don't think much of him at all. He huffs, scratching at his beard. He needs a smoke and maybe a drink, just to take a bit of the weight off of his chest at just the thought of you. 
After dinner, you sit with Lenny. He tells you something that makes you laugh again. He seethes, it’s not him getting them from you but it’s still sends a shiver through him. He could swear he gets goosebumps. Your laugh is prettier than any of that droning music Dutch plays from his scratchy gramophone. Beautiful really. If he could keep your laugh to himself, he would. Would listen to it over and over. Would tell every joke he has. Hell, even the dirty ones. Instead, he’s listening to Bill ramble about how he doesn’t appreciate the folk around here thinking he’s as dumb as a donkey. 
“It ain’t for no reason people think you’re a dumbass, Bill. It’s because you are. Kinda smell like a donkey too,” Arthur drawls, his natural inclination to getting under people’s skin only spiking at the sight of you smiling at Lenny. Fuckin’ kid. Arthur’s got nothing against him, only that he’s making you laugh. In another life, maybe he had that kind of easy and casual energy you liked, relaxed and amusing even. But he doesn’t, as evidenced by Bill’s blustering. He had tuned the first half of it out (focused on your lips, the roundness of your cheeks) but Bill is trying to sputter out a response as half as scathing as his own. Bill’s angry look only makes Arthur give his arrogant smile. 
“And who asked you, Arthur?” The moron’s whiny voice only serves to annoy Arthur and cover up another one of your intoxicating giggles. Your joy was something to behold and Bill’s petulance is nothing special.
“You’re makin’ everyone dumber just by talkin’, why don’t you just shut your goddamn mouth?” Arthur shoots a nasty look at the other man until he turns red. John tells Bill to let it go. Arthur had pushed it too far but he doesn’t give even half a shit. Arthur dusts his thigh off before taking a sip from the bottle of whiskey gone warm in his palm. When you’re still talking to Lenny, he stands, forgetting the bottle on an errant crate. He approaches, trying to catch snippets of your conversation. 
“-how come you like that game so much? Doesn’t it hurt when you mess up?” 
“Well, I just don’t mess up and when I do, I take it on the chin. Don’t think I’d be any good otherwise,” 
Your light laugh at Lenny's words makes him boil inside. Your bright simper; looking up at Lenny while the younger man stands, straight and as tall as he can. Proud smile, as if he can tell he’s impressed you. It all crumbles when Arthur comes near enough to be noticed. A stiff greeting falls from Lenny’s mouth, you look over your shoulder. Unsure how to respond. Arthur clings to his control, avoiding the glance that he wants to take of you. His restraint holds fast when he wants it to. 
“Damn near cut your finger off the last time, wouldn’t be so sure,” he pokes at Lenny’s ego, goading him. Keeping his voice mellow enough as to be construed as playful but he can’t hide his harshness. Lenny doesn’t take his bait. 
“Whatever, Arthur. You ain’t exactly the expert, neither,” You look between the two, a small nervous look flickering in your gaze. Arthur smiles, unfazed by Lenny’s snappy return. He knows how intimidating he can be; can see how Lenny’s resolve breaks just a little. He’s got courage, a smart kid. Quick, too. But he’s too young to have the authority Arthur carries, maybe one day but not now. 
“Go on n’ play your games, you could always use more practice,” Lenny glares but looks at you. It only makes Arthur cross his arms over his chest. As if you need protection from him, should he taint you by standing too close. You nod, telling Lenny to have a good evening. In that sweet voice, so kind. Once Lenny is sure you think you’ll be fine, he has an exasperated sigh before he goes off. 
“Arthur…” Is the reluctant response you have. Being alone with him obviously makes you fidget, makes your fingers scrunch in the fabric of your skirts. He likes your tongue forming his name, you almost whisper it, he can hardly hear it over the chatter of the other people around you. What a brave girl, putting up with him all by yourself. 
“How-how are you?” you’re on the verge of making a frown but you hold your airy smile upwards. Afraid he’ll try to point out any flaw. You don’t understand why he does the things he does, his reputation proceeds him. But the issue is, Arthur doesn’t have any flaws to point out with you. You’re almost too good for this den of thieves you live amongst. Almost. If you were, then he wouldn't get to see you every day. Perhaps you were just another unfortunate person with nowhere else to go but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He’s always been greedy like that. He looked forward to waking up, if only to catch glimpses of you doing your chores or reading books in the sun. It takes him a bit too long to answer, adjusting his hat, his own nerves a bit pushed at his proximity to you. Just breathing the same air as you puts him in a better mood. He stares into your eyes, trying to evoke a reaction from you. They glimmer, warm fire light caressing the softness of you. 
“Alright, I guess,” whatever quickness his tongue has is diminished. Playing nice isn’t his strong suit. Fumbling through a decent conversation with you might be nice though. The more you let him stay around you without walking away with a huff like Lenny did, the better. He won’t admit your presence has him softening a little. “What’re you up to?” He’s only a little embarrassed at how stupid that question sounds. 
“Well, I was talking to Lenny but…”  your glance in the direction Lenny walked off to makes him tighten his fist. He puts his hands on his belt, leaning his weight on one leg. “Now, I’m talking to you,” When your glances brush over him, he can feel it as if you touched him, he can’t help the way his stomach drops a few inches lower. Get a hold of yourself, you damn fool.
He can tell you didn’t know quite what to say. Doesn’t matter, he could listen to just about anything you have to say to the placating rhythm of the evening, the chirp of crickets, the wind in the trees. 
“That so?” Idiot is his first thought. But the smile that breaks on your face; it's worth the humiliation curdling somewhere in him. Your shy nod, the shift in you, moved by him. He doesn't care if he’s assigning meaning where there isn’t any. He digs for more, looking for signs, imagined or not. Unconsciously, he drifts closer to where you sit on a rickety wooden chair.
“I think so. I don’t know, we don’t talk very often,” your voice is a precious sound. And so is the flutter of your eyelashes when you blink. Slow; now that you’ve let your guard down just a little. He watches intently, every movement you make.
“Damn shame, darlin’,” it is a shame. He figured he didn’t stand a chance but he can’t keep you from having a hold over him. Even when he isn’t here, his thoughts wander towards you. But now he looks for even a grain of affection in your eyes. He gathers more meaning from your words, the rising tone at the end of your sentence makes him think that you would like to talk to him more. He knows he’s deluding himself but he can kid himself just a little. His boot scrapes the dirt, ducking his eyes under the black brim of his hat. Just maybe, you’d engage him in more than an unnerved glance or a two word greeting.
At the name he calls you, your eyes widen just a bit, tilting your head, showing him your neck. Bad idea. He drinks in the sight. Is he disgusting for wanting to taste it? The skin of your neck, warm with your blood? The flattered and flustered raise of your fingers to your lips is exactly what he had wanted, he hadn’t known it but god, does it send satisfaction ringing throughout him; seeing the effect of him on you. 
“Have I been missing out on something, Arthur?” Your tone is playful, but still reserved. Coming out of your shell now that he is reining in whatever drives him to push other people away with his harshness and his affronting demeanor. Just barely. 
“Not really. Think it’s me; missin’ out on ya,” Lucky you, this is about as personable as Arthur can really get. But you seem to enjoy it. Your pretty smile and a hum that rivals the soothing nature of a cat’s purr; say so. He thinks of your contented murmur; how it would feel on his lips should you grace him with a kiss of yours. “Ain’t much for talkin’...” 
“That’s not what I hear,” It is perhaps out of your mouth before you can think on it. Impulsive, just like him.
“And what have you heard?” it comes out more serious than he wants it to. More threatening. But he forces his posture to relax. As difficult as that is. You don’t flinch too much at least. Just lean back slightly. 
“Well, I hear that…I’m not sure I should say..” The little reluctance you show is drawing him in. You're an angel, biting your thumb nail because of your nerves. Afraid to get someone in trouble. He crosses his arms over his chest again, leans against the nearest surface, a stationary wagon side. 
“Jus’ tell me what they said, girl,” the way you follow his somewhat gentle command is more alluring than he should find it. Most people followed his direction without much question but it is something special when you look up at him, when you do as he says. Does something funny to his head. Mixes things up, stirring up his insides like Pearson’s godforsaken stew. 
“They said-said you’re good with words. But you don’t always mean it. Those mean things you say,” you play with your hands, picking at the skin on your nails. 
“Oh, I mean it. A lot of the time anyway. Why, I say somethin’ mean to you, princess?” At first you think you’ve activated whatever deep seated need Arthur has to make people dislike him. Your worried and panicked expression puts pressure on his chest. He doesn’t ever want you to look at him like that, not for real. Anything outside his idea of play just wouldn’t do. All he wants is that relaxed gesture of happiness you showed him. You shake your head; overexcited, but he speaks before you can muster a frightened response. He hadn’t said anything too bad with you, of that he’s sure but it can't hurt; offering you comfort. Arthur Morgan and comforting don’t often go in the same sentence. Despite his prickly reputation he gives you an easy grin, trying to keep his pride from turning it into a crooked smirk. Something he thought you might like, as he imagined you would.
“Cause I’m sure I didn’t mean it. Not with you,” He loves how quiet you get, pacified by his words. And that smile comes back; makes you look just fine. 
thank you so much for reading!! i really am so grateful for the support i receive from this community. like i love yall smmmm !!🥺😭💖first time messing around in Arthur’s pov a lil so pls lmk any thots 🥰🥰🫶
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sabertoothwalrus · 8 months ago
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I'm going to think out loud about the dungeon meshi ages for a sec
I'm going to preface this by saying that this is based on my existing knowledge, and fact checking is difficult because there is A LOT of contentious research out there.
First of all, I think a lot of people come at this from a modern lens, forgetting the context that this is fantasy medieval era. this is fiction. on top of that, this is specifically Ryoko Kui's understanding of medieval era aging. plus fantasy. So before anyone comes at me with a bunch of 'ermmmm actualy's just consider that I don't really care and also it might not matter in this context lol
as far as the "age of maturity" assigned for each race, something I don't see many people talk about is that "teenagers" are a fairly recent concept. For a long time, you were either considered A Kid or Not A Kid. but this doesn't necessarily mean kids were more/less developed then, just our cultural expectations for certain age groups have changed.
Laios says the age of maturity for tallmen is 16. I don't think that means 16 year olds in the dungeon meshi universe are necessarily "more mature" than modern 16 year olds, but moreso that they have more responsibilities. However, things like medicine, smoking, drinking, sun exposure, physical activity, etc all affect age, so it's possible that developmentally they're closer to modern 18 year olds? Izutsumi is 17 (less than two weeks from turning 18, actually), and very much acts like a modern 17 year old.
The age of maturity for half-foots is 14. Chilchuck was 13 when he got married and had his first two children. Even though, at age 29, he's the equivalent of a modern 50 year old, I don't think he was That much more developed at 13 than a tallman. I think if half-foot 14 is equal to tallman 16, then Chilchuck was Pretty Damn Young for a parent LMAO. Even if you're generous and say tallman 16 is a modern 18, he still would've been younger than that.
The long-lived races are interesting. Marcille is obviously a unique case, and not a lot of this applies to her. We do know what Senshi was like as a minor (miner, lol), and he seemed like a modern 15ish, considering he was 36 and dwarf maturity is 40. I think it'd be really interesting to delve into how a culture functions with people being developmentally adolescent for soooooo long. Imagine middle school lasting 20 years. that would fucking suck. I suppose it makes sense why long-lived races are so patronizing.
Moving onto lifespans, I want to emphasize that they're average lifespans. Even in the manga, they say some half-foots live to 100, it's just rare. So it's less that a tallman 60 year old is "older" than a modern 60 year old, it's that it's easier to keep people alive for longer nowadays. Modern medicine is a BIG contributor. Dental health as well, considering how much your health is affected by your diet (and how much the action of chewing alone aids in digestion). Curious to know what the FUCK elven dentistry is like.
It also makes me wonder if half-foots would have a longer average lifespan if they weren't like, used for bait and treated so poorly, but half-foot 29 does seem to be middle-aged for half-foots. so who knows!
In that vein, I don't know if I can see Mithrun quite making it to 400 😬 like, his experience as a dungeon lord took a lot out of him quite literally, and he's doing exceptionally well despite it! I imagine he'd eventually start to develop a lot of heart problems if he doesn't have them already. Perhaps early-onset dementia. His memory seems still quite intact (he corrects Kabru on his story's accuracy) and he doesn't act like, lobotomized. He doesn't seem forgetful or confused, and he has a sense of humor/sarcasm still. It's mostly his task initiation that's been affected.
I almost want to say that mana affinity could affect long-lived races' lifespans, except dwarves have very poor tolerance for mana, so it's probably not that.
okay anyway I didn't really have a point to this post so I'm just gonna end my rambling here
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sorrowsofsilence · 1 month ago
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liminal • n.s
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Pairing: Noah Sebastian x fem!reader (oneshot)
Words: 7.5k
Warnings: Angst, Part Smut 18+ (fem!receiving), mean!noah, fixing(ish) an unhealthy relationship, alcohol / cigarettes
Prompt: he hates you. yet, he hates that he’s so obsessed with you.
Authors note: This is something I slowly worked on throughout my Taiwan practicum. I had planned for a hot sexy one-shot and instead, it turned out like this lmao (I think, despite how much fun I had, I was feeling angsty and sad) sooooo, here's this. Not my finest work IMO but it is something, to get the writing brain sparked again :-:
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THIS IS A FANFIC ABOUT REAL PEOPLE IN FICTIONAL SCENARIOS. I AM NOT IMPLYING THIS IS HOW THESE PEOPLE ARE IRL OR THAT THIS SITUATION WOULD HAPPEN. IT IS FOR FANFIC PURPOSES ONLY!
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Noah’s eyes narrowed, dark brown slits fixated on the smile planted on your face as the stranger next to you leaned into your ear.
You let out a laugh that echoed across the room, causing the brunette to become even more irritated. He leaned against the wall, refusing to look away from you.
He furrowed his brows as he placed a cigarette between his lips and took a drag, inhaling the smoke with a grimace, and a hand suddenly clapped him on the back, causing him to double over and cough.
Annoyed, he turned to see Folio with a drunken smile on his face like a jester, "You know, for someone who claims to despise her, you sure do stare at her a lot."
Noah let out a bitter laugh at his friend's comment, only briefly glancing at the drummer before returning his attention to you.
As you laughed again and leaned closer to the stranger, tilting your head with interest, Noah felt sick.
"Fuck off," he spat, taking another drag of his cigarette.
Folio chuckled beside him and swayed unsteadily, "I'm just saying, your actions show otherwise."
Noah scoffed and blew smoke through his teeth as he shook his head, "I want nothing to do with her. She's annoying." But deep down, he knew it was a lie.
In reality, he was obsessed with you. Every thought in his mind was consumed by thoughts of you. The coffee he had this morning? Your favorite kind. The movie he watched on the bus? One you had mentioned loving before. The song he couldn't stop listening to? The one that was playing when you two first met, over a year ago now.
Yet despite all this, you never showed any interest in him. In fact, you seemed to avoid him whenever possible.
And he knew he was the reason why.
Pulling his gaze from you, he flicked the cigarette away and tried to focus on the grungy bar wall before him- anything but your laughter. He hated the way it echoed through his mind, drowning out everything else around him. He hated how his heart stuttered when the sound reached his ears.
"You're pathetic, Noah," Folio slurred beside him, leaning heavily against the wall. He held an empty beer bottle loosely in his hand.
This comment should have provoked anger like most of Folio's words did, but he knew it was true.
“She’s done nothing to you, yet you treat her like shit.”
The brunette laughed bitterly, exhaling a plume of smoke before tossing the cigarette into the ashtray.
"Did I ask for your input, Folio?" Noah retorted, his voice laced with poisonous acidity, "No, I don't believe I did."
Pushing off the wall, he sidestepped Folio's swaying attempt to stop him and marched towards the bar in a few determined strides.
"Noah!" Folio called after him in a drunken daze, but Noah ignored him, instead focusing on blocking out the laughter ringing through the room.
And yet, even as he reached the bar and leaned against it, ordering another drink with an irritated grunt, Noah couldn't stop himself from darting one more glance in your direction. You were still chatting and laughing as if there weren't a care in the world.
Swirling the drink in hand, an acidic taste of bitter resentment washed over him as he gulped. He slammed back shots after shots, each stinging swallow seemed to fade away into insignificance when compared to the pain of seeing you so carefree and unattainable.
As his vision began to blur around the edges and his sense of balance teetered on the edge, Noah lost count.
He felt the familiar sting of alcohol in his throat and welcomed it, hoping that every shot he took would help him forget—but every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. He was stuck in an endless loop of self-loathing, alcohol, and you.
Noah’s hand trembled as he raised the shot glass for yet another round; the liquid sploshed over the rim, dribbling down his fist - it was the first sign of his escalating intoxication. He squinted at the mirrored wall before him, trying to form coherent words to order yet another round.
Then, he saw you or rather, your reflection. You had abandoned your comfortable spot next to the stranger and were now making your way towards him, pushing through the clusters of bodies in a determined fashion. Panic boiled with the alcohol in his veins. He quickly turned away from the mirror, pretending to study something at the end of the bar.
"Noah,” you stopped right beside him, and for a moment he thought he could smell you amidst the stench of alcohol, body sweat, and stale smoke. Your perfume was a faint note wafting through it all - a sweet scent that clashed with his surroundings and hurtled him even further into his spiral of self-loathing.
He didn't turn to face you, but he could sense your uneasy presence.
"Noah," you began again, this time softer, feeling the hostile coldness radiating from him.
"You’re drunk," you stated matter-of-factly, reaching out and pulling the shot glass from his alcohol-slicked hand. Overhead music thumped against his eardrums and he swallowed roughly, his jaw clenching as he finally turned to face you. Your expression was softer than he anticipated; sympathy and worry replacing the joy-filled laughter that had resonated within each corner of the bar minutes before.
"You don’t know what you’re talking about," He retorted bitterly, veering his attention away from your accusing gaze and towards his empty shot glass instead. He moved forward to reach for it once more but you were quicker, sliding the glass out of his reach and signalling to the bartender.
"No more for him tonight," you instructed, your voice steady but he could detect an underlying note of concern as your gaze alternated between him and the burly man behind the bar.
"Mind your own fucking business," he seethed, feeling a pang of anger ricocheting off his skull. Swiping his arm across the counter, Noah managed to snag another shot glass filled to the brim before throwing it back and wincing at the harsh liquid burning down his throat.
He could feel your disapproving stare on him; it was both satisfying and infuriating.
"Noah…" Your voice was pleading now. It was so unlike you, so gentle and empathetic that he nearly choked on his anguish.
"Didn’t you hear me?" He chastised bitterly, slamming the empty glass onto the counter, "Or are you just as deaf as you are ignorant?"
You winced, quickly replacing the dejection with a scowl. Yet, instead of responding, you merely sighed and reached into your pocket, pulling out a small wad of cash and tossing it onto the counter. Without another word, you grabbed his arm, your grip surprisingly firm in comparison to your soft voice.
He didn't resist you as you dragged him away from the bar and through the throng of loud, drunken patrons.
The cool outside air hit him when you pushed open the exit door, clearing his foggy mind a little. He pulled his arm from your grip and staggered away, leaning against the brick wall for support.
"Why do you care?" he spat angrily, turning his bleary gaze to you. Your eyes held that same softness he had seen at the bar, now accompanied by a sad frown.
He scowled, disgusted by the fabricated pity radiating off you.
"I don't," You replied in annoyance, before letting out a soft sigh, "I just couldn't stand watching you become another wasted drunk in that bar. And your photoshoots tomorrow so you’ll look like shit if you don’t stop.”
"It's my life, isn't it?" He spat back, his words slurred and barely intelligible.
He pushed away from the wall, trying to reestablish some distance between the two of you, “I don’t need you acting as my manager. I pay Matt for a reason.”
“It is your life,” You conceded, straightening up to your full height, “But as your photographer, I’m looking out for you.”
“Just as my photographer, huh?”
He echoed your words in a low voice, with cold mockery. But deep down, they stung. The silence that stretched between you two was filled with the noises of the city: far-off laughter, screeching tires, and the hollow echo of a lonely siren. He pushed his tangled locks out of his eyes and stared at you, a challenge in his gaze.
For a moment your eyes wavered, flickering over to him as if you were about to say something more. But you quickly turned away and gave a vague nod.
"Just as your photographer, Noah," you confirmed, your voice steady but he could see that your lips tightened.
His heart roared its protest but he gave you a dismissive wave.
“Fantastic,” he spat back with as much sarcasm he could muster, "Don't push yourself too hard for my sake."
"I won't," you shot back, shrugging off his bitterness as easily as if it were an old jacket. You turned away then, leaving him to stew in silence under the harsh glare of the streetlamp.
He watched your retreating figure with a burning intensity, all his regret and anger pooling into a bitter pit in his stomach. As he saw you disappear round the corner, he felt a pang of longing. Regret.
For once, he wished for you to look back, or better - to stay. But you didn't.
You never did.
Feeling a chill settling on him, Noah slid down onto the grimy pavement, pulling out the pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He lit one up slowly as if taking his time would somehow delay the sting of reality. The smoke curled upwards, disappearing into the cool night air — ephemeral, just like what was left of his dignity.
With a heavy sigh, Noah pulled the cigarette from his lips, gazing at the glowing ember as if it held the answers to his misery. Each puff was a silent, disgusting prayer vibrating out into the universe, swallowed up by the sky that never listened to his pleas.
Suddenly, he started laughing—a low, humourless sound that resonated off the empty street. How pathetic was he, hoping for answers in a goddamn cigarette ember?
The night was quiet, unresponsive to his breakdown. It was as cold and uncaring as he always thought you were, as indifferent as you proved yourself tonight.
As distant as the love he craved but never found reciprocated—that was how he felt about you.
But then footsteps echoed off the brick, getting closer and closer to him.
And suddenly you were there, clutching onto Noah’s jacket with a firm grip.
"Forgot your damn jacket, asshole," you muttered irritably, flinging the piece of clothing at him.
His reflexes weren't quick enough, so instead of catching the jacket, it ended up draped across his lap. In the silence that stretched, he thought he saw a flicker of hesitation in your eyes...or maybe it was pity.
He took another drag of the cigarette, then spat onto the ground before flicking the remaining butt onto the concrete.
"If you hate the taste, why do you keep smoking?"
"Why do you keep asking pointless fucking questions?" Noah snapped back, giving you a piercing stare.
“Why are you always such a fucking asshole?” You sighed, brows furrowing in anger. You knew now was not the time to ask questions but the word vomit spewed forth anyways.
"Maybe because you're always so fucking annoying," Noah countered venomously, his words carrying a warning of a fit of anger quick to unravel.
"Stop avoiding the question!" You exclaimed, looking frustrated, “You’ve been acting this way since we met! I’m sick and fucking tired of being treated like complete shit by you.”
"Great," He replied sarcastically, forcing himself to his feet, "Quit then. I didn't ask you to stick around."
The finality of his words echoed in the silence between them. They stung like hell, tearing through the icy air and hitting you like a train. There was no room for negotiation; it was a clear ultimatum.
"I…" You started, your voice barely even a whisper. The hurt was evident on your face but you quickly masked it with a hardened exterior.
“Maybe I will,” You shot back, meeting his gaze head-on.
You took a step back, distancing yourself from him. A wave of vulnerability washed over you but you kept your stance firm and determined, refusing to allow him to see your weakness. The dimly lit street blurred your vision, painting Noah inside thick shadows. But there in the gloom, you could still make out that cocky grin he always wore when he got under your skin.
"So quit!" he retorted with a shrug, crossing his arms over his chest.
His nonchalance hung in the air between you like a brutal slap to your face.
You tugged at your sleeves nervously and took one last look at him. The cold street light painted harsh shadows onto his callous features; the skin under his eyes looked darker than usual. For a moment, despite all his bravado and cruelty, you almost felt sorry for him.
"Fine," You finally uttered, each word like poison on your tongue. The venom in your voice surprised even yourself, but there was no turning back now, "I'm done. Fuck you, Noah."
Then you turned, just like before and walked away.
Only this time, something in Noah cracked. A stark realization that felt like an invisible punch straight to his gut - he was the only one responsible for pushing you away.
"No," He murmured hesitantly at first, watching your retreating as every step you took sent a flare of panic through his system.
"No!" This time his voice resonated through the empty street. The echo bounced off the barren walls as if mocking him in his misery. He stood up, chest heaving in drunken contemplation.
"No!" He shouted again, racing off after you through the maze of alleyways. The cool night air bit at his face, tugging at his hair and clothes in a desperate attempt to slow him down.
He didn't know why it mattered now. Why, when he'd already pushed you far beyond your limits, and vilified himself beyond redemption, he still felt a desperate need to make things right.
Or maybe, Noah realized as he sprinted full tilt towards the receding echo of your footsteps, it was because, despite everything, he cared. He cared more than he'd allowed himself to admit.
"Wait!" He shouted out hoarsely, pumping his legs as fast as they would carry him until finally, your silhouette came into view once more. You froze mid-step as if contemplating turning around or keep walking.
Seeing you hesitate gave him that glimmer of hope which fuelled his final sprint till he was standing in front of you, panting heavily from the exertion. His sharp eyes studied your figure in the dim lighting of a distant street lamp, his gaze intense and desperate.
“You were supposed to keep walking,” Noah rasped out after he managed to collect enough breath, his mind fighting his body as he stepped closer toward you.
“Why?” you asked, crossing your arms defensively across your chest, stepping backwards.
“Because…” His voice trailed off as he struggled to put his chaotic feelings into words. He looked away for a moment, gathering himself.
When he finally met your gaze again, there was an uncharacteristic vulnerability that had crept into his voice, “Because I can’t keep pushing you away.”
You blinked at him, processing his words. There was a long stretch of silence between you two as the cool nocturnal breeze gently rustled.
“And why is that? You’d have trouble sleeping at night without someone to torment?” The sarcasm in your voice was thick, but it hinted at something more - a sliver of hurt seeping through the cracks of your anger.
Noah shook his head, running a hand through his tangled hair, "You don’t get it, do you?" He growled, frustration edging into his voice.
"Get what?" You shot back, your gaze unwavering.
Noah shouted before turning away from you, pacing a couple of steps back and forth, “I just can’t stand the thought of you not being here. I need you.”
That revelation hung heavy in the air, wrapping around the both of you like a shroud. He needed you. After all that was said and done, that was his bare truth. His earlier bravado was nowhere to be found, just raw honesty.
You stared at him – really stared at him – for the first time in what felt like an eternity, taking in the sight of Noah: unkempt, haggard and vulnerable. It wasn't a sight you were used to seeing and it unsettled you.
"You need me," The words seemed absurd as they fell from your lips, incredulous.
A bitter laugh rose to your throat but died before it could pass your lips, "If you need me, you've got a fucked-up way of showing it."
"I told you," Noah snapped, agitation seeping into his tone, "I'm an asshole."
"An asshole that 'needs me'," you retorted with a roll of your eyes, “You’re messing with me.”
"No," Noah insisted, his gaze levelling with yours, "I'm not messing with you."
A moment's silence intercepted as he let the gravity of his admission sink in. The air between you was tense and fraught with a slew of complex emotions – shared longing, regret and frustration.
"Do you even understand what you're saying?" Your words echoed through the bare passageways, shattering the very core of silence lurking around them.
"I think so," he admitted hesitantly, "Believe it or not, I do."
"You 'think so'?" You repeated, frustration evident in your tone.
"No. Actually," Noah corrected himself, taking an unsteady step towards you; an abrupt hesitation weighing down his tangled words.
His eyes were pleading now, "I know so."
The sincerity in his voice took you by surprise; you squinted at him through the semi-darkness.
“You’ve treated me like absolute shit since we’ve met Noah. One year of you being rude, selfish, and just straight-up mean! And why? All because you want me?” You tried not to laugh, shaking your head as if to dismiss this absurd idea.
But why did your stomach flutter
"I don't get it either," Noah responded sharply, completely off balance with the turmoil of the conversation. He ran a hand through his hair once more, "I can't explain half the shit I do or say to you.”
You crossed your arms again as if shielding yourself from his words. But when you spoke, your voice was surprisingly soft and devoid of its usual flippant defence, "Then maybe you should try harder."
A silence fell between you two again, ringing loudly in your ears. You stared at each other for a while, a silent battleground where words were weapons and silence was an uncertain truce.
Slowly, hesitantly, Noah took a step toward you. His dark eyes bore into yours, the moonlight reflecting off them with an almost eerie intensity. For a moment, in that silent exchange, you saw him stripped of all his defences, vulnerable and bare.
“Yeah. I will try harder. Because the truth is, you drive me fucking nuts,” He whispered, standing inches from you now. His breath brushed your forehead as you stared up at him, hands hesitant to push against his chest.
But you did just that, feeling his racing heart beneath the cloth.
"You have consumed my mind. And there's nothing I can do about it. Even if I wanted to," Noah went on, his voice cracking with the brutal honesty of his confession.
Your eyes flitted up to meet- the sinking October sea radiant in the dark. “You do a brilliant job at hiding it,” you said, the venom in your words tainted by doubt.
Noah laughed again, but there was no mirth in his eyes; only a raw, shared pain and understanding that transcended your mutual resentment.
“I suppose,” he said, taking another step closer as you involuntarily stepped back against the cold brick. Your hands still pushed against his chest but faltered as he stepped closer, holding you against the wall.
Inexorably drawn to you despite your resistance – or perhaps because of it – Noah found himself looming over you, one arm braced against the wall next to your head boxing you in. The immediate proximity made every breath you drew quiver.
"Let me go," you warned, your eyes brimming with defiance and a hint of fear, your hands pushing him away without conviction. But Noah didn't move. He just hung there, inches away from you, a look of palpable desperation on his face.
"I can't..." Noah whispered, sounding more to himself than to you. His gaze flickered to your lips for a fleeting moment before locking with your startled eyes once more. It was in this moment that you saw him - truly saw him for the first time.
Behind the hostile exterior was a man who grappled with complexities just as you did. His struggle was reflected in his piercing gaze – both harshly real and terrifyingly vulnerable at the same time.
"Coward," you spat, voice trembling along with your heart. His stubborn refusal to move stirred a maelstrom inside of you. But even as the word floated between the two of you, your hands had stilled on his chest and somewhat relaxed, betraying your seemingly confident exterior.
"Maybe," he admitted, his gaze remaining deeply locked with yours. His hand came up, fingers brushing against your cheek in an unnerving tenderness that felt almost alien coming from him, "Or maybe I'm just scared."
"Scared of what?" You scoffed, trying - and failing - to keep the quiver out of your voice.
"Of losing you," He whispered honestly, dropping the hard shell built around him. The rawness in his tone was enough to catalyze the slow crumbling of walls around both your hearts.
His confession hung between you.
"You've never had me to begin with," you managed to retort eventually, your voice barely audible.
"And that is what scares me," Noah's response was immediate and sincere, "If I push you away first, you can’t hurt me."
"Your logic is flawed, Noah," you snorted, although the harshness lacked the conviction needed to drive him away.
Noah winced as if your words had physically struck him, "Isn't it?" he mockingly retorted, but his levity was inadequate to mask the vulnerability seeping through.
"You have no guarantee that I would hurt you," you countered stubbornly, "And even if I did..." you paused, suddenly uncertain. The idea that you could cause him pain was oddly upsetting.
"And even if you did?" Noah prodded gently.
"You'd survive," you finished reluctantly. Your gaze dropped from his face, focusing at some abstract point on his broad chest.
“It’s not about surviving. It’s about not understanding why it’s you that I want so badly. I don’t know how to handle this... intensity. I have never felt this way for anyone else before," His voice was barely audible, echoing the vulnerable tremor that had crept into his tone.
A moment of silence ensued as you absorbed the gravity of his confession. Noah's gaze remained locked on your face, watching as emotions flickered like ephemeral flames in your wide eyes. Somewhere between disbelief, anger and overwhelming sadness, you drowned in a frustration tinged with regret.
"Reducing me to an object of fear does not justify your cruel actions, Noah," you whispered, holding his gaze. Your hands clenched at your sides, urging every single nerve ending to maintain resistance against the man leaning dangerously close to you.
"Is that what this is?" Noah's features hardened at your accusation. Eyes narrowing, lips pressed into a thin line again. "Fear?"
"What else could it possibly be?" You shot back acerbically, jerking away from his touch - but he quickly caught your wrist, not in a punishing grasp but with an almost desperate hold.
“More than fear,” His voice barely a whisper, his eyes hollow, “It’s despair. It’s knowing that I would never be good enough for you - that you'll find someone who is.”
You stiffened at his words, unable to respond or look away from his penetrating gaze. You remembered every slight, every curt word he’d fired your way, wondering now if they were born of this terror he talked about.
"Noah," you murmured, feeling suddenly weak. He watched your every breath, waiting, his eyes searching yours for a sign of understanding.
“I hate feeling this way," he confessed with an overwhelming gravity in his tone. "It’s like...” Noah exhaled heavily as if the admission was physically draining him. "Like I'm in the middle of a lake... And just when I think I'm about to drown... I see you on shore, standing there... watching."
Your heart ached at his words, but you kept your expression neutral, aware that any break in semblance could send him retreating back into his shell.
For a while, an uncomfortable silence stretched between you two, broken only by the distant howl of the wind.
“Noah,” you said, meeting his gaze with newfound determination, “I can’t be held responsible for your fears.”
You could see him flinch, even though he tried to hide it, his gaze faltering from yours. “No… you’re right. You can’t. I’m to blame for letting this get out of hand.”
As you were about to sigh, Noah pressed his forehead against yours. The scent of stale cigarettes and alcohol filled your senses, and somehow, it was comforting.
“I need you,” he whispered, closing his eyes briefly before staring into your own.
You whispered his name as his lips brushed against yours; but you pushed his chest, turning your head away.
“You’re drunk.”
Your words snapped back to him, causing his shoulders to falter as he then clung to your body. Engulfing you into his chest, you wrapped your arms around him, your own chest heaving with the confession that lingered between you.
You’ve always found him irritably attractive. Even through his asshole demeanour, you wanted him to.
But not now. Not while he stood there, vulnerable.
“Let’s get back to the bus.”
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Things weren’t the same now, and the rest of the crew noticed.
The next morning Noah’s head pounded as he laid in his bunk. A symphony of aches in his body reminded him of the previous night's raw conversation with you. His mouth felt like a sandbox, grains of regret cramped on his tongue.
“What the hell happened last night?” a dishevelled Ruffilo slid from the bunk above Noah. His voice pierced through the pounding in Noah's head like a well-aimed knife.
Noah grunted, shielding his eyes from the intrusive morning light streaming from an open window.
“Don’t remember,” he muttered, his voice raspy from sleep and too much alcohol.
Nicholas scoffed, tugging on a t-shirt crumpled on the floor, "You expect anybody to believe that?"
“Not my problem,” Noah grumbled, rolling over to ignore further questioning.
The remainder of their ride was spent in an unusual silence disrupted intermittently by the rumble of the bus over bumpy roads and occasional small talks among band members.
Your mutual avoidance turned noticeable. You were unusually still, almost as if your vivacious spark had been snuffed out, an unusual calm that gave away your internal storm. Similarly, Noah wore an impenetrable outer shell, venturing out only for a smoke or a swig from his water bottle.
There was a thick blanket of tension cast over the bus, which twitched and palpitated with each stolen glance between you two. It was like everyone aboard the bus could quite literally feel the static charge crackling in the air.
"Is something wrong?" Jolly finally broke the silence, oblivious to the undercurrent. His loud question rang through the silent bus, making everyone flinch at the sudden noise.
Nothing was said for a moment as all eyes turned to you, then Noah. You wrapped your arms tighter around your body, staring out at the road unfurling before you. "Nothing's wrong," came your curt reply.
Jolly was about to retort when a sharp glare from Nicholas stopped him in his tracks.
As soon as the studio came into view from the window, you stood up quickly, packing up your camera into your bag, “I’ll meet you inside. Don’t forget your outfits.”
You didn’t wait for the bus to fully stop before jumping out, bag slung over your shoulder and cap shielding your eyes. You dashed towards the studio without a backward glance, leaving the rest behind in dazed silence.
As the dust settled, Noah watched you disappear into the distance, your retreating figure growing fainter with each passing moment till all he was left with was an overwhelming emptiness and the scent of you lingering in the air.
“Gonna go after her?” Ruffilo finally broke Noah’s trance, pulling him back to reality.
Noah glanced back at him. There was a strange glint in his eyes. He shook his head, his stoic expression not revealing what he truly felt. “Not now, Nick. Just...not now.” His voice betrayed him, a single shard of vulnerability slipping through his walls of defence.
“Very well,” Ruffilo finally conceded, albeit reluctantly.
With that, Noah found himself standing alone as others headed inside. His grip tightened on the strap of his backpack before he followed in, dreading your gaze.
He didn’t fear losing you anymore- he knew he was never yours to lose. But what haunted him was the constant pain in your eyes, caused by him.
The photoshoot continued swiftly as you guided the boys into various poses. Adjusting their hair and shirts, you hesitantly brushed Noah’s bangs away from his face.
He stiffened at your touch, his anxious gaze darting to meet yours. You wanted to reassure him, tell him you weren't disgusted by him, but your pride got in the way. Your hand pulled away, leaving an invisible trail of tension on his forehead.
The shoot dragged on, and despite their best efforts to act normal and keep the mood light, the crew could feel the tension between you two. Noah was quieter than he'd ever been, and his eyes followed you around the room. The glances he sent you were just a shadow of his usual provocative smirks.
The other guys in the band tried to fill the void left by Noah's silence with lame jokes and exaggerated laughter. You appreciated their efforts, but it wasn't enough to completely wash away the sour taste that Noah's confession had left.
"Time for solos," You announced tiredly, nodding at the boys to change outfits. The portraits went relatively quickly until you reached Noah.
“You guys don’t need to stay,” You nodded at Jolly, who whispered a quiet ‘thank god’ under his breath.
Once you were alone, the studio seemed much larger than it was before. The high ceiling echoed back Noah’s steps as he approached the designated section for the photoshoot.
“Stand there,” You ordered, pointing to a spot against a rustic backdrop that you had prepared earlier. You could see him swallow nervously, his Adam's apple bobbing conspicuously.
You shifted your focus back to your camera, busying yourself with the various settings. You couldn't deny, though, that your mind was filled with thoughts of him.
Just as you brought the camera up to your eye, Noah cleared his throat. "I just wanted to say..." He began awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck.
Your heart thumped loudly in your ears as you lowered the camera to look at him. His eyes were wary, but determined as they met yours.
“I’m sorry," he finally muttered.
You remained silent, studying him through the lens of your camera. He looked different somehow - less of the bold, arrogant frontman and more of a man carrying the weight of his actions.
"Thanks for saying that, but it's not enough," you replied, your voice steady despite the whirlwind of emotions within you. The charged stillness settled over both of you again like a shroud
Noah winced at your words, regret sharpening the usually soft curves of his face. As you snapped photos of him, capturing every painful oscillation of emotion on his hardened features, the air between you two thickened further.
“Fix your tie,” You mumbled, nodding at him as his hands fumbled with the fabric.
"There's nothing I can say, is there?" Noah said, his tone jittery as his hands fell to the sides.
Your heart clenched at his question. You wanted so desperately to reassure him, to let him know that things could be fixed, but doing so felt unfair - both to you and to him.
"Right now... No," you whispered finally, your voice barely audible. You sighed annoyed at his inability to fix the fabric, and strutted towards him, pulling the tie to the side gently.
You were inches from his body as you reached up, hands around his neck to fix the tie.
His body stiffened and he barely seemed to breathe, but he didn't move away or protest. For all his bluster and bravado, there was an inexplicably endearing quality to Noah in those moments of vulnerability.
Just as you were about done, your fingers grazed against his collarbone beneath his shirt. A sudden realization hit you; despite being so close physically, and emotionally you two were miles apart.
"There." You stepped back and met his eyes again, parrying the intensity of his gaze with your own cool neutrality.
“Thank you," he said, his voice barely a whisper. Yet you couldn’t let yourself back away just yet, “If there’s nothing I can say, can I show you?”
Your breath hitched as his eyes bore into yours, hands slowly reaching up to grip either side of your hip.
“Show me what?” You breathed, staring at his fixated gaze that now danced between your eyes and lips.
“Show you how much I care for you, deep down.”
His words hung in the air like a sharp winter wind, chilling you to the bone. But before you could reply, he dipped his head down, capturing your lips in a kiss. It was filled with desperation, whispering about his buried feelings in a way words never could.
You froze but didn’t pull back, his grip on your waist tightened, holding you with intense need.
His kiss was apologetic, passionate, and a plea for another chance all wrapped up in one. You found yourself surprised by how desperately you wanted to believe him, how badly you wanted this to be the answer
Instead of pulling away, you reached up, holding the collar of his shirt with clenched fists. You kissed him back, allowing your lips to move in sync with newfound heartache as he moulded into your body.
The surge of electricity that ran through your veins was enough to make your heart race. Noah's arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer to his firm body. He wanted to make this right, he wanted to show you that his apology was sincere.
His touch was tender but firm, filled with a longing that spoke volumes more than his heated whispers ever could. His lips on yours felt like a desperate plea for forgiveness and comprehension; it was harrowingly sweet
As the heat between both of you simmered down, your lips parted from his slowly. Your breaths mingled in the silence of the studio, his forehead gently resting against yours as neither of you made an effort to pull away.
"Noah," you murmured, hesitating before scrambling to find the words that had been replaced by a strange echo of warmth spreading through you
He only responded by taking the camera off of your neck, placing it gently on the ground as he took your hips again, pushing you backwards toward the couch.
He stopped only a few inches away from the worn leather, brown eyes meeting yours. He was searching your gaze for guidance, for a sign you had not rejected his overtures. Even in the hushed inevitability of the moment, it seemed Noah was capable of respecting your boundaries. It was a level of sensitivity you hadn't expected from him; from the man who had just recently been a source of anguish.
He must have found whatever reassurance he'd been seeking because he guided you back until the back of your knees collided with the low couch. You fell onto its cushions rather gracelessly, Noah following you closely. The firm press of his body against yours lulled the protests stirring at the back of your mind.
His lips found yours again, their warmth seeping through your defences as though they were melting snow. And, despite his desperately shaking hands, Noah somehow managed to be delicate with you – cautious even. His movements were slow and measured, as though he was etching a memory onto his mind – this moment, you, everything about this.
His hand journeyed the curve of your waist, and the small of your back, exploring your body with an intimacy that reflected his longing. It pondered hesitantly at the hem of your shirt, a silent request seeking permission. You nodded slightly against his kiss – affirmation and surrender.
Noah's fingers crept under your shirt, pressing into the small of your back with an intensity that quickened your breath. You gasped at the contact of skin on skin; it felt like fire, burning through your inhibitions and reservations.
In the wake of that touch, you found yourself reciprocating; fingers tracing his broad shoulders before venturing down to his toned arms, all the way to the base of his spine. As if driven by instinct, you pulled him closer to you.
His hand found its way to your cheek, sweeping away a loose strand of hair as he broke the kiss and looked at you with a vulnerability that made your heart flutter.
"I’ll be different this time forward, I swear," he murmured, his eyes riddled with hope and fear, "I'll make it right.
His declaration sent a jolt of hope coursing through your veins, and you found yourself reaching up to gently stroke his cheek. It wasn’t often you saw him like this - so raw, so open. The sight of him, so beautifully vulnerable under your touch, stole your breath away.
"I don't just want different Noah," you replied softly, fingers brushing against his jawline, "I want better. I need better."
His eyes hardened for a moment - not in anger, but in determination. His arms pulled you closer to him as if he was afraid you'd disappear. You let out a giggle at his quaint possessiveness and pressed your forehead against his.
“Better...” he murmured, committing the word to memory. His hand slipped from your waist to capture yours, weaving his fingers through yours so naturally that it took your breath away. His grip was steady and warm, a promise of what was to come. He kissed down your jaw, to the bottom of your ear. Following down the skin of your neck he stopped, just above your collarbone with a gentle bite and kiss.
“I can do better,” he vowed, “You deserve better.”
You peered down at him beneath thick lashes, seeing a flicker of the man you once knew.
There was no guarantee that he could deliver on his promises or that you'd be strong enough to withstand the hurt if he didn't, but in this instance, under the lights of your shared studio, you didn’t care.
You needed him.
“Prove it,” you replied, causing Noah’s cheeks to burn with desire as he lifted your shirt over your head, kissing down the skin towards your jeans.
"Noah," you breathed, squirming against his touch.
His hands trembling slightly, and Noah undid the button of your jeans, drawing them down your legs.
“Look at me,” he whispered, forcing himself to still as he levelled his gaze with yours. You saw flashes of insecurity flicker in the depths of his eyes before they were smothered by resolve, "I mean it, I'll be better."
Taking a deep breath, you squeezed his hand as if to anchor him—and yourself—in this moment.
"Show me," you dared again. Your voice sounded stronger than you felt, braver than you thought possible. And when he reverently kissed a path upward from your navel—each touch a promise and a plea—you realized that this was not just about words and apologies, this was about actions.
Your fingers tangled in his hair as he peppered soft kisses along your bare skin, every brush of his lips sending sparks skittering across your body. The intimacy was powerful, overwhelming in its tenderness.
Noah stopped at your ribcage, locking eyes with you as he observed the rise and fall of your chest, his breath hitching in awe at the vulnerabilities you were sharing. In the silence of the room, his thumb drew invisible circles at the dip of your hip bone, soothing and tranquil amid burning desires.
In contrast to Noah's tenderness was the fierce desire reflected in your eyes - it mirrored his hunger, stirring a fire within him he thought had been extinguished. Swallowing down his nerves, he continued to trail kisses up your torso, each one laced with an affection that was as profound as it was raw.
A hushed "Wait," escaped your mouth, catching him off guard. Seeing uncertainty cloud his eyes, you squeezed his hand reassuringly.
"This doesn't mean everything is forgiven, Noah. It means I'm giving you a chance."
The sombre tones of your voice sparked a flicker of something in his eyes—scared but hopeful.
"I know," he whispered, brushing your hair away gently from your face. "And thank you...for giving me this chance."
You nodded and reached up to trace a finger along his jawline, pulling him back closer to you. Your lips met once again in a dance familiar yet new; a single affirmation of trust and longing that extinguished any lingering hesitation.
His breath fanned along the fabric that coated your desire, leaving you nervous as his eyes devoured you.
Yet you nodded, allowing him to pull the fabric to the side, and gently glide a finger between the folds.
Your hips withered at his touch, fighting the urge to rut upward against his fingers in desperation for more.
"Noah," you whispered again, echoing through the silent studio.
The soft plea tugged at something in his chest. He was as eager as you, but he knew something like this had to be savoured. With that in mind, he deepened his ministrations, taking slow strokes, tormenting you with an agonizingly measured pace with his fingers that left you gasping for breath.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured against your skin while his fingers continued their dance, pushing in and out of your body.
Your fingers clung onto his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as his movements drove you to the edge. Yet there was still a resistance within you, a pull back from the precipice of surrender.
Seeing your turmoil reflected in your tightly shut eyes and furrowed eyebrows, Noah paused before latching his mouth against you, flicking his tongue in long, delicate stripes.
The sudden pleasure of his mouth made you arch your back with a sharp gasp, every lingering hint of resistance crumbling under the litany of sensations flooding your body. Your fingers tangled even more desperately in his hair, encouraging him, pleading without words.
His moans vibrated against your skin, and you dared to watch as he enjoyed every taste you offered him.
The sight caused you to shudder, allowing your body to release and shake around his mouth as you held him in place with your hand, fingers gripping along his scalp.
His whispered praises and adorations mingled with your own gasping cries; an unfinished symphony of pleasure and connection. You called his name, a plea and a prayer laced with ecstasy that reverberated through the studio.
Breathing heavily, you held him still as wave after wave of pleasure washed over you. Noah's teasing stopped his soft touch now providing comfort as he rode out the aftershocks with you.
When your trembling subsided, you carefully released him, moving your hand away from his head. He slowly kissed up your body, each one a silent thank you left in its wake until you found yourself locking eyes with Noah again
You sensed the eagerness in him, yet also restrained. He stared at you warily as if asking for permission, and while nervous butterflies fluttered in your stomach, you nodded.
"I can show you the world if you’ll let me,” He said softly, a promise twining itself around each word. His breath was hot against your skin, causing a shiver to run down your spine, exacerbating the butterflies in your belly into starlings.
"Show me," you whispered again, finally allowing yourself to fall, to let go of every single thread of resistance you'd clung to with desperation- ready to be pulled deeper into liminal space.
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tags:
@xxkittenkissesxx @deathblacksmoke @nyxisnotok @anameunmusical @sitkowski
@sammyjoeee @cookiesupplier @th4t-em0-k1d @dsireland86 @thefallennightmare
@whenthesummerdies @spicywhenspeaking @veronicaphoenix @calleyx13 @tosoundlessdarkistare
@somewhere-diamond @auratheopossumwitch @blackveilomens @skulliecadaver-blog @silentglassbreak
@darkmxgician @sprokat @thatchickwiththecamera @xserenax-13 @fadingangelwisp
@philomenie @into-the-grey @amelia-acero @rumoured-whispers @anything-more-than-human @blacksoul-2 @sweetwombatpizza
@fuck-me-muke @ferduttini @lacy1986
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toxicanonymity · 2 years ago
Note
Best friends dad Joel x innocent reader
Reader is sleeping over at her best friends house. Best friend ditches her for a party/bf which leaves her alone with Joel. Joel makes fun of her innocence and pressures her into drinking/having sex with him
Night Talks
2.8k words / best friend's dad!Joel x innocent!f!reader
NSFW 18+ / joel master list
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gif from @serenaxpedroo , ask from @subby-bottom
WARNINGS: NSFW 18+ big girthy legal age gap, it's 2008 so 41-19 lmao, first time marijuana use, light drinking, pressure, dubious consent, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, loss of virginity, depraved praise. reader can sit in joel's lap. haphazard editing.
-
"I know your parents are strict as hell, but you’re an adult." 
You feel uncool enough without Mr. Miller acting like you're such a square.  He takes “Cool Dad”  to the extreme.  Yeah, you're an adult, but you don't really party and you didn't feel like going. Yeah, your parents are strict. That's why you regret going to a commuter college. It's also why you didn't go home when Sarah left.  You didn't realize her hot dad was awake when you came down in your skimpy pajamas to get a drink of water.  Now your eyes are drifting to his biceps as you have this weird talk in the kitchen. But if you're looking at his biceps, at least you're not looking at his PJ pants. 
You feel defensive even though everything he's saying is true.  "I just don't like to party," you say. "Plus, they smoke weed."
He squints at you judgmentally.  "So? . . . What, you’ve never tried it?" 
You're not sure how to respond to that.  Mr. Miller is older and hot.  His judgment carries a lot of weight because of it.  You've seen him after a construction job before, sweating, arms bulging.  
"Damn, you're brainwashed as hell. . . ." He looks like he feels sorry for you.  "C'mon, let's have a beer. I've at least seen you with one of those before." It's flattering that he would notice, even though you probably didn’t finish it.
"I should probably go home"
He rolls his eyes and tilts his head as though to say "really?” Then he gets two beers out of the fridge and starts to open them.  “Let’s skip to the part where you take a sip and relax."
"Mr. Mill-"
"Oh. . ." he waves his hand dismissively. "Mr. Miller sounds creepy.  You can just call me daddy."  Your heart jumps to your throat.  Mr. Miller is creepy. 
Then he laughs. "Damn, the look on your face.  Nah, call me Joel.  Look," he hands you a Coors Light.  “Practically water."
You accept the beer. He takes a sip of his IPA, then teases, "We can watch somethin’ pg-13 if ya want.”
-
You watch Saturday Night Fever on DVD.  You think it's just gonna be dancing, but it's far saucier. He glances at you, watching your reaction to the most intense scenes.  You're embarrassed but try to ignore him.  After Joel goes to get a second beer, you’re startled when he sits down next to you on the sofa instead of back in the recliner where he was.  Your skittishness must show.  
“Relax,” he says and squeezes your knee.  His demeanor has changed. He has a whole different voice.    “I don’t bite. . .‘less you’re into it.  Can’t imagine a good girl like you though . . . Fuckin’ Miss America over here.”
Your cheeks burn.  “I’m not that good,” you protest. You're not sure why. 
“Yeah? Prove it,” he says and begins lightly stroking circles around your knee.  The challenge quickens your heart rate and sends a rush of blood to your loins before he continues, “let’s get high.” 
You're unsure if you're relieved or disappointed that's what he meant.  You resist, but he offers, “you don’t even have to smoke it.”
“What, brownies?”
“No, baby.”  The pet name makes you tingle. He reaches into the end table drawer and retrieves a small glass pipe and a lighter.  
“C’mere, I'll show ya.”  His free hand grabs yours and he leads you to the tiny bathroom.  You can't help but notice the way his soft pants hug his ass.  
-
He shuts the door behind you, then closes the toilet lid and sits down while you awkwardly stand there with your arms crossed.  You lean against the 6” of available wall space.  It’s a very, very small bathroom.   
His biceps stretch his t-shirt as he holds the pipe to his mouth and flicks the lighter on.  He moves the lighter around the weed in small circles and the glow spreads as he sucks the air through the pipe.  He closes his eyes and a sensual expression loads on his face as he inhales.  It’s a face of pleasure. His brow furrows and his eyes open.  He slowly exhales, politely pouting and pointing his lips away from you, but keeping his eyes in your direction,  shamelessly scanning your body. 
As the stench of the weed creeps into your nostrils, you reflexively reach for the exhaust fan switch on the wall and he says, “Nope. Can’t hotbox with the fan on.  That’s the whole point."
-
When the second-hand smoke starts to hit you, you feel a little woozy.  Good, but woozy.  You start to sit on the counter and he stops you.  “Sink’s not braced yet.”  
He pats his lap.  There’s nowhere else to sit unless you leave the bathroom, and you don’t want to.  So you sit on Mr. Miller's lap.  His pants are soft and his legs are warm.  You’re hesitant to put all your weight on him until he says, “Relax, I can handle it,” and he does have meaty thighs.  He strokes your bare thigh, making you wet and self conscious that you hadn’t shaved in a week.  
He looks around at the smoke in the bathroom.  “How’s it feel?” 
“Um, good,” you say.  He looks back and forth between your eyes and smiles.  
"Good, good. . ." 
You look at each other for what feels like a few minutes, playing chicken about who will finally talk next.  Then he asks, "ready for the next step?”
“Nah. . . I don't wanna smoke.”
“Don’t have to.  Just breathe out when I squeeze once."  He squeezes your thigh once to demonstrate.  "And breathe in when I squeeze twice."  He demonstrates again.  "And keep your mouth open."
You don't say anything, trying to envision what he's going to do. 
"You’re gonna love it.”
“Okay,” you say.  Why not? You’re feeling pretty relaxed. 
“Gotta face me though,” he says.  He nudges you to stand up, then he urges you back into his lap, but straddling him.  
You hesitate and resist a little. 
“Only live once baby”
-
You go ahead and straddle him, but you're very aware of how short, loose, and flowy your shorts are. You can feel the air between your legs. He takes a deep, horny breath as you settle in and his eyes darken.  
"God, you're hot," he mutters.  That's the moment you're certain he wants to fuck you.  You shyly look down and away.  
"I'm serious," he says.  
Then he spares you the need to respond, leaning back to make room between you for his muscular arms before he brings the pipe to his mouth.  He sucks in and holds the air in his mouth then turns and puts the pipe on the back of the toilet behind him.  When he faces you again, his large hands slide up both your thighs.  His chest expands as he inhales the smoke in his mouth, then he holds it in and squeezes your thighs once.  
You breathe out. He leans in, cradles your head  with one hand and opens his mouth, not exhaling yet, smoke curling between his lips, then squeezes your thigh twice.  As you begin to inhale, he blows the smoke right into your mouth. And he keeps his face close to yours as he watches you turn your head and exhale. 
“Attagirl,” he says and your heart flutters. 
Every part of you wants to kiss him right now, and it looks like he wants that, too.  He leans in a little.  
But the smoke burns, and you turn your head and cough. Joel pats then rubs your back.  "Damn, I shoulda gone slower."   When you stop coughing, your watery eyes meet his, and he cracks a smirk.  You're super high and very wet. He looks entranced by you. 
"Guess you're right," he murmurs.
"Hmm?"
"You're not that good a girl. . ." You feel conflicted hearing these words, until his hands return to your legs and he says, "Only one thing I like more than a bad girl." His hands slide all the way up your thighs and his eyes follow his hand.   His thumb easily nudges its way inside the inseam of your shorts - it happens so fast - and before you know it he lightly strokes the apex of your folds.  Your hips tilt into his touch and he strokes lower, feeling how wet you are.  With his other thumb he pulls the shorts to the side to see your pussy.  He inhales deeply through the nose, looking you in the eyes.  "Only thing better than a bad girl?  A good girl gone bad." 
His hands find your ass and pull you into his crotch where the stiffness of his warm length takes your breath away, and you softly gasp. 
“Yeahhh,” he says.  “You like that?”  
Yeah, you do, and he clearly knows you do.  But you’re super high and too embarrassed to say it.  
“Bet you're a virgin, too.”  
“I-"
“You don’t have to say it,” he whispers, to your relief.  Then he leans forward and his facial hair brushes your cheek as he brings his mouth to your ear and says, "Cause I know you don't wanna be." 
He leans back, pulling you into him harder and his arousal swells into you, making your walls twitch and your clit throb.
He wets his lips then wraps one arm around you and cradles your head with the other hand.  His lips press into yours and a wave of arousal ripples through your body.  Your nipples harden.  His tongue brushes yours and he grinds into you with a soft grunt into your mouth. You've never been more turned on. 
Your lips tear away from his as you literally swoon. He easily catches you as you slump to the side. 
"Whooaa, okay."  He holds you in one arm and reaches to open the door.  "Let's get you some fresh air."
-
He puts a hoodie of his on you and you go outside for a few minutes.  You're embarrassed.
"Sorry," you say, unsure what you're sorry for. 
"No, no, don't be sorry baby.  That was all me." He puts his arms loosely around you and you rest your head on him.  "Couldn't think straight cause you're so goddamn hot." 
You smile shyly into his shirt.  "I think I'm okay now."
"Good." He strokes the crown of your head with his whole palm. 
You ask, "Think Sarah will be back soon?"
"Doubt it.  Usually sneaks back in around dawn. Wanna watch another movie?"
"Um, sure."
"We can do whatever we want." 
-
It’s not long into the movie before things heat up again.  You’re at the end of the sofa and he has his arm around you.  He caresses you with that hand, starting with your arm, then your shoulder, then your collar bone.  Out of the corner of your eye, he adjusts himself.  “Lord almighty,” he says under his breath.  
“Why dontcha bring those pretty legs up here?”
“I haven’t shaved in-”
“Think I care?"  he urges your legs into his lap, pulls them all the way into his crotch, and presses them down on his solid wood with a soft grunt.  Your eyes go wide and you take a deep breath.  He stops pretending to watch the movie and eases your legs down flat on the sofa, scooting himself out from under them, getting on his side. 
"C'mere," he growls. He watches his fingers trail up your leg all the way to your breast as he lays down facing you, slightly on top of you.  His gaze remains fixed there as he slides his hand up your thin pajama shirt and palms a breast.  Your mouth falls open and he grinds his hard package against your hip.  Then he lifts your top up to see both your tits. "God damn," he says.  
He slides his hand into your shorts, brings his face to yours, and starts kissing you again, hard and slow, his tongue claiming your mouth, your lips softly accepting every movement of his while he gropes your dripping seam desperately and moans into your mouth.  His movements intensify, becoming more urgent as he gets between your legs.  Sweat is blotching his shirt.  He slides an arm under yours and a whiff of his armpit opens your legs. 
“Fuck yeah,” he breathes as your hips tilt for him.  He urgently tugs down your shorts, breathing heavily.  He expertly fingers you, making your toes curl.  He inserts one, then two thick digits.  Three is a stretch but not too bad.  “perfect,” he murmurs.  He fingers you for a minute, both of you getting hornier. 
-
Then he frees himself from his waistband and his thick arousal falls heavily against your slickened clit, sending a bolt of need to your chest. He drags it down and nestles his tip at your entrance, then his large hand lifts your thigh and you wrap your leg around him. He looks up at your face, reads your eyes and says in a low rumble, "yeah, you're ready for it. . . couldn't be more ready, could ya?" Maybe he’s right.  Maybe. 
He grunts as he begins to push into your tight, wet hole and you gasp at the stretch of his tip.  "C'mon now, you can do it baby."  He inhales deeply, then pushes further.  "Yeahh." It hurts, but the pain is nothing compared to the incredible feeling of being filled. He's pretty slow and gentle, but never asks if you're okay.  He pushes harder until about half his shaft is sheathed by your warmth.  "Perfect fuckin' pussy" he breathes. "Tight as hell. Wet 'n ready for this cock."
"C'mon, baby."  He retreats halfway before plunging to the hilt, parting your insides and bottoming out with a shudder.  There's an unfamiliar, primal look on his face that stirs something deep inside you.  He stays there, all the way inside for a moment as though trying not to come instantly at the feeling of you wrapped around him.  He pulls back again, all but the tip, then pushes forward, a little smoother but still a squeeze.  He does it again and groans "Yeeahh," he bottoms out.  His face makes him look like he's in pain.  
-
He lowers his chest over yours and the way he looks at you makes you feel like the most beautiful girl in the world.  He slowly backs out and fills you up again, saying "Good, that's it baby" as you tilt your hips.  He kisses you and his cock slowly recedes then pushes in again.  Your ample slick allows him to slowly pump in and out of you even with you being so tight.  
He kisses you aggressively, then plants his lips on your neck as he buries his length in you again and again.
Slower, then at a moderate pace. He kisses you.  He looks at you. "Hot as hell, baby." He gropes a breast.  Then his lips graze your throat as he fucks you. 
You’re looking over his shoulder with his face in your neck.  Never imagined this would happen tonight.  Or here, or with him, but he feels incredible.     He fills you up harder, then a little faster.  The way his back stretches his tight t-shirt is a vision.
“God damn." Your whole body is rocking with this power of his cock slamming into you.  "You’re a natural, baby." He thrusts hard with a grunt.  "Already takin’ my cock this good?” He brings his filthy mouth back to yours and keeps filling you with his thick cock. "Ohh yeah. . . " His breathing changes.  "wanna come in this tight pussy so fuckin bad" 
"You can't, I don't-"
It looks like it kills him. He mutters, "fuck," holds his breath,  then pulls out, "Ahhh," he releases the breath with a loud sigh and spills his cum on your bare stomach.  His anguished face, his cock in his hand, his cum shooting out onto your stomach, it’s the hottest scene.  You feel it searing into your mind.  
-
He tucks himself away, lies down at your side again, and starts fingering you, circling your clit.  “Look even hotter with my cum all over ya.” He’s making you feel things you thought only a toy could do, not even your own hand.   “C’mon, baby, come for me.”  It doesn’t take long before your back arches and you’re seeing stars, jolting into his big, veiny hand, his dark eyes watching you in a trance.  
As your orgasm fades, a smirk spreads across his face.  “Damn, didn’t think it’d be that easy.” 
The blood drains from your face. 
“No, no, makin’ you come, baby.  Makin’ you come.”
He cups your face reassuringly.  “You’re real damn hot, you know that? Fuck.”
-
Thank you so much for reading and interacting 🖤
This Joel evolves into the menace that is night walks!Joel.
I have a NEW dads' best friend!Joel x virgin!Reader series Left in Lincoln.
Night Walks : @tehweeana @blackvelveteen1339 @cutesyscreenname @ele-meno-p
All joel: @ethanhoewke @silkiers @eiviea @evyiione @xdaddysprincessxx @queerly-anxious @chernayawidow @ambassadortotrilliusprime @not-a-unique-snowflake-blog @jasminespringtime @romanarose @fandomsfallnomore @djarinxore @lokanda
please lmk if i missed you!
3K notes · View notes
cheyisagirlkisser · 2 months ago
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Hello I was wondering if you could do Jackson ellie x bestfreind reader and like they have had a crush on eachother for a while and have a sleepover where they smoke or drink maybe or play some type of game like truth or dare and find out they like eachother and get kinda freaky idk. Thank you!
EEE I am so excited for this one watch me cook on this request. This is a rlly good request and I wanna write something just as good!! Also I want to recommend you an ao3 fic with this EXACT plot it's tagged here actually my favorite Ellie fic ever.
Content: 4k words, bestfriend reader, Jackson setting, pent-up feelings, nipple-play (r! receiving), fingering (r! receiving), tribbing, Ellie puts a finger into your mouth how fun!, a lot of dialogue before the actual sex sorry but I loved writing Ellie to be funny, reader likes pink a lot (couldn't help myself) and is afab, reader and Ellie 18+, NOT PROOFREAD LMAO
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You're far from safe from liking people you shouldn't like.
That doesn't even cover the multitude of feelings! Like doesn't cover it. You're pretty sure you love Ellie.
Maybe in another lifetime, you and Ellie could've met and went on a date. You could've loved her freely. In this universe, she is your childhood best friend.
You know it could ruin the best thing that has ever happened to you if you tell her, or if she finds out in some way, but fuck; when she looks at you, it's like you forget how to breathe. You just wanna breathe her in, you want to share the same air and feel her lips on yours.
Ellie is unlike anyone you've ever known. She's sweet for you. She's impulsive to others, and honestly sometimes an asshole. That only makes you fall more and more in love for her. You didn't know it was possible to be attracted to someone's flaws, but you want every piece of her, even the bits that others in Jackson label as "annoying."
Ellie has always been there for you since you were just 15 and she moved to Jackson right by Joel's side. You just seemed to click. She was brash, foul-mouthed, and told ironically funny dad jokes. You were the type of person who liked having adventures and never shut up. Ellie always listened. She held you while you cried, let you borrow her book of puns, and volunteered to do patrols with you just so she could have fun adventures with you.
You couldn't ruin a good thing. You don't know what you would even do without Ellie in your life. You didn't wanna freak her out or make things weird. You feel like such a coward, but even thinking about Ellie distancing herself from you because of your stupid crush on her? It just makes your stomach churn with dread.
Little did you know Ellie was equally obsessed with you.
You're like a fucking ball of sunshine to the girl, always there laughing at the stupid things she says, defending her when she gets in trouble for something minor, and your smile should be considered warfare for how easily it could kill her. She tries to keep her feelings to herself, but it is so hard to when you look at her with bright eyes and the sweetest smile like you're trying to give her a toothache.
It's a recipe for a bomb, and it only takes one game to set it off.
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You're sitting criss-cross on your bed and Ellie is in your floor. It's a Saturday, which means both of you get to have a sleepover. No patrol, and no major chores to be done around Jackson.
Ellie just got back from a multiple day lasting patrol and she missed you so much while she was gone, it's not even funny. Seattle is beautiful, but boring when there isn't a sunshine girl in awe about how the verdure clings to the buildings. But at least now she is here, back in your bedroom which she loves so much.
Ellie's room is vastly different from yours. Well, her garage is. Her bedsheets are grey and minimalistic, and her make-shift kitchen is lined with posters. Her favorite is the one with the punk green-haired man holding a guitar. Her closet, however, it quite impressive. Her shelves are lined with comics and space movies, and her hangers are lined with flannels, of course.
Your bedroom, in contrast, has white bedsheets and a cozy pink blanket. You have a few raggedy plushies from scavenging around and your shelves are filled with lighter-colored clothing. White curtains decorate your windows and frilly pillowcases (that end up in the floor most of the time) compliment your bed. You have a full-length mirror in the corner of your room and a shelf of DVDs you usually just bring over to Ellie's garage, since she has a much nicer tv than you do. Ellie glances up at you from the floor, squiggling her eyebrows.
"I'm so fucking bored!" You groan, making Ellie laugh in the process.
"And how is that my problem?"
You flip her off and she clutches her stomach.
"Seriously, Ellie. I wanna actually do something and not just eat grilled cheeses and read your nerdy comics."
She scoffs.
"Excuse me? It's not my fault you have bad taste in literature."
You snort at that. "Starlight Savage and Raven Mouse are not literature."
"Oh, then what are they, huh?" She stands up, amusingly offended.
"Comics!"
Ellie grabs one of your pillows and pretends to suffocate you with it. You're laughing and trying to pry it off of your face.
"Hey, quit! You're actually gonna kill me!" You giggle, your voice muffled from the cushioning.
Ellie finally relents, laughing along with you.
"Better think twice before disrespecting Starlight Savage." She is wearing her signature shit-eating grin.
"Oh, whatever.. Hey!- You got me off topic." You groaned.
Ellie laughs at that. "And what was the topic?"
"I am bored out of my fucking mind," you complain, your voice rising in pitch to sound whiny, which she pretends to absolutely hate.
Really, she just hates that it makes her stomach clench when she hears your cute complains, and the tone of your whines only makes it worse.
"Okay, okay, fine. We can do something fun." She feigns reluctance, setting down on the bed beside you.
"Great!! So, what should we do?"
"Seriously? You don't even know what you wanna do and you gave me whiplash bitching about being bored?"
You scoff, jumping to your own defense. "I was tryin' to get you to come up with something," and then you add to complete your argument, "I wouldn't be bored if I knew what we could do."
Ellie sighs, and you smile because you know that means she has had enough of your bullshit and she just wants to throw in the towel.
"Fine. Well, we can play a game perhaps?"
You groan in protest at the suggestion. "You're a dirty cheater when it comes to Monopoly!"
Ellie only lets out a sheepish laugh at that, because she knows that you're being 100% truthful. "That is what makes the game fun!" When she sees your glare, she sighs once more. "Fine. How 'bout Truth or Dare?"
That sounds intriguing; the game begins.
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You and Ellie sit across from each other, and the game has been going on for around 10 minutes now. It's getting quite boring - always questions like "What's a secret you haven't told me?" or Ellie dares you to do something she knows you won't do, like lick the toilet bowl.
Then, she asks a question that brings the game onto another level.
"What's your favorite sex position?"
You stare at her, your jaw practically in your lap. You don't wanna talk sex positions with the girl you secretly wanna do sex positions with.
"What the fuck, Ellie?!"
She looks a bit guilty, but shrugs with a smirk that doesn't go unnoticed.
"What? I wanted to spice things up. C'mon, don't be a pussy."
You think it over, but finally, with a heated face, you say fuck it and give into her bullshit. "Missionary."
Ellie bursts out laughing.
You're sitting there not knowing what to do! She is laughing like a hyena at this point, tears in the corners of her eyes. She slaps her knee. What the fuck?!
"What's so funny?!"
Ellie just laughs, falling over and she is snorting like a pig now before she finally settles down. "It's just.." she tries to stifle a giggle, "that is the most boring thing you could've possibly said.”
You know that, but you're keen on defending your word. Ellie loves that about you, how you're always quick to stand up for yourself. "It's romantic!"
"Okay, okay," she shrugs. "Enlighten me on how missionary is more romantic than any other position that actually feels good."
You don't hesitate to list off the facts. "First of all, it does feel good! You just haven't tried the pillow method. Second of all, you can kiss your partner and actually talk to them." You sigh, getting a bit flustered (and turned on) by the conversation at hand. "Imagine fucking someone and getting to kiss all over their face while doing so, or on their neck or their tits. It's about the intimacy."
Ellie looks just as flustered as you now. She is silent for a moment before giving you the benefit of the doubt. "Okay, I guess you can rest your case now. But there is much more intimate positions than missionary, you know. You're just thinking vanilla ones like riding the strap-on, or from behind."
You raise an eyebrow at that. "Okay, I'll bite. What's more intimate than looking into someone's eyes while they cum?"
Ellie laughs at your vulgar question, pink tinting her freckled cheeks. "Tribbing." Her voice is more quiet, and that only makes you more aware of the slight tension.
You quickly brush it off with a laugh.
"Of course your gay ass would say that."
She grins and sits up at that, quick to defend herself. "Hey, you have no room to be talking, little miss 'my gay awakening is Rose from Titanic.'"
Your jaw drops and you look at her like she has said something crazy. "Hey, Rose is hot!"
She giggles. "Yeah, Sherlock, thanks for pointing out the obvious."
You roll your eyes. "Okay, okay. Can we get back to the game?"
She nods, and it continues.
As time passes, the questions grow more and more...uncomfortable to answer. You're still asking her the more casual things, but Ellie is daring you to do stupid, impossible stuff, or to answer questions like "what was your first time like?", "do you have a friends with benefits situation with anyone in Jackson?", and "if you could kiss anyone in Jackson, who would it be?" (which you brushed off jokingly by saying old man Eugene. She didn't press any further, only mocking you).
Then, she leans forward after you choose truth, and she whispers something you can't really brush off.
"Who do you like?"
You're fucked. If she asked "do you like someone?", you could answer without revealing who it is. She knows she has you trapped. Sneaky cunt.
You don't answer right away. Ellie is so close, your knees touching. The air in the room is insanely hot, and you want to leave your own house, you want to hide under your blankets or cover your face, but you can't.
Ellie doesn't wait for you to answer.
"I know you like someone, I can tell when my best friend is in love. Who is it?"
"That's way too personal, I.."
She scoffs, but it's not a rude sound. Just shocked, maybe slightly hurt. "You have always told me your crushes. Why won't you tell me now?"
You feel guilty now because she doesn't understand. She doesn't get why you won't tell her. She can't understand that it's because you like her. You want to scream it: I'm in love with you, Ellie! But those words won't be the next you utter.
"I just...I feel like this time it should be private." You know that your reasoning is weak, for once in your life, the defense is slipping and it's ugly. You internally wince.
She just stares in silence, not really meeting your eyes. It makes you panic, and then, then the words slip from your mouth seeing the hurt on Ellie's pretty face.
"It's you."
She stares at you like she didn't quite hear what you said, even though it was shaky, nevertheless loud and coherent.
"What...?"
"I..I'm in love with you, Ellie." You repeat yourself.
She leans into you. "Fuck.." Her breath hitches. "You better not be fucking around with me, I swear to-"
"No!", you shout loudly and quickly try to compose yourself. "I mean..I'm not joking. I like you. I hope this doesn't fuck with our friendship, or like.." You trail off, not wanting to think about what could happen now.
"I'm in love with you, too." There, now Ellie has gotten it out too.
Ellie didn't even fully understand why she asked you that. She knew she could've gotten her feelings hurt, that you could've liked someone else or that it would definitely mean you did like her, and then she had to be vulnerable and confess it back. Still, she was so exhausted, so fucking tired of pretending like hugs and casual touches were enough. They were never enough.
"Can I kiss you?" She doesn't even give you the proper time to react to her shared confession before she springs that onto you. You don't complain, only nodding quickly.
Her breath is warm against yours, and you can tell how shaky it is. You've never seen her so nervous, it makes your own stomach flutter with butterflies. Then, Ellie's grasping onto your face and smashing her lips against yours. Her mouth is warm, and the kiss doesn't even start out gentle. It's all devouring, all need and passon.
You quickly move into her lap, thighs on either sides of hers, and both of you are desperately pulling each other closer, finally sharing the same air. She tastes like everything natural, something so unique it can't be described but you immediately know you need more of it. Her tongue moves inside of your mouth, devouring you just like how she has been dreaming of for who knows how long, and when you're forced to pull away for a breath, her lips are sloppily trailing down your jaw to your throat, her hands grasping your hips to pull you closer.
"I've wanted you for so long, you know that?" Her voice is warm against your sensitive skin, and you think you could just burst with how it feels to be practically intertwined with her.
"Show me how it feels, Els.." You gasp and tilt your head back for more, but Ellie pulls away to look at you.
"How what feels?' She doesn't sound rude, only confused with her lips swollen and wet.
"The intimacy..the intimacy you talked about.." Oh, that.
She nods quickly, and her mouth is all over your shoulders, leaving soft pecks between words, "We can do that, but I wanna do something first..is that okay?"
"Yeah, go ahead."
With that, she pulls your shirt over your head and stares at you like she has never seen a pair of boobs before. Her eyes are wide and she takes you in before her.
"You're so pretty," she mumbles with conviction, kneading your tits through your bra. You can only moan when she sticks a hand into your bra and rubs her palm over your nipples, her other hand deftly undoing the clasp of the fabric.
That was the hottest thing you could do for a woman, Williams..
Her lips quickly find a nipple, pulling it into her mouth to swirl her tongue around the bud. Your fingers tug at her hair, begging for more. You need her closer. She reluctantly pulls her mouth off off of its new favorite place and leans back up to face you, planting an affectionate kiss on your cheek before smiling sheepishly.
"I'm gonna say something I want to do to you, but you can't laugh.."
That makes you already giggle, despite the heat building between your thighs. That is something you love about Ellie, the way she can make you laugh even when you aren't supposed to be.
"I'll try my best. What is it?" You ask, and she fiddles with her fingers nervously.
"I wanna use my fingers on you," she says it so quietly, voice nervous but filled with hunger before she quickly adds, "if you want me to. It's okay if you don't wanna go any further-"
"I want you to finger me, Els."
That was easier than she thought it would be.
She nods now, slowly unbuttoning your jeans and watching with an intense gaze as you hop off of her lap to shimmy them off. Now you're in nothing but a cotton pair of panties and you look so gorgeous.
Ellie has always found you to be beautiful. During patrols and on lookout, your hair had a shine to it that most people wouldn't care to think too much about, but Ellie always noticed it. Ellie always noticed the way your lips parted when you were zoned out, or how you walked like you always knew where you were going even on the paths that were mainly uncharted. You were so lovely-looking.
Now, nearly naked for her, she doesn't know if she can bare to blink even for a second. She is currently having a never-ending starting contest with your body, and she has to stop herself from pouncing on you. She wants to love you, not just fuck you.
Ellie is on her knees between your legs, hooking her fingers into the waistband of your underwear. Her eyes flicker over your body before looking to yours for confirmation.
"You sure you want this?"
"Please, Ellie. I want you." You know you sound desperate for her, but it can't be helped. You were soaked through your underwear, clit beating with need, and Ellie is just eyeing you like she wanted to devour you. She probably would, but she wants to save your clit for later.
She nods and slips your underwear down your legs, pulling them off of your ankles and throwing them behind her. The action made you giggle, but Ellie quickly squashed your outburst.
"Somethin' funny?" She asks, slipping a finger through your slick folds. You gasp and jolt.
"Hey, where the fuck is the warning, you cunt?"
She has to stifle her own laugh at your outburst, but she is growing tired of the cute giggles; if you laughed one more time, she'd be fucking you until you were limping-
"Sorry, pretty. I'm gettin' impatient." Her tone mkes you involuntarily clench. You rarely hear that tone, the serious one when she is either around someone she doesn't know and is keeping it professional or just not in the mood to joke. Now, you discover it's her horny tone, too.
You nod, tilting your head back to rest it on your frilly pillow. Finally, she slips two digits past your lips and you resist the urge to let a whorish whine slip past your lips. When she easily slides into your heat, you then can't resist.
Ellie's eyes are glued to your pussy like it's magic, watching your hips try to rise for more, feeling the way your walls tighten around her intrusion.
It's too much for her poor, fucked head to bare.
She is already as wrecked as you are. She wants to taunt you for the way you already look like you're going to cum from her barely brushing at your spongey g-spot, but she can't. She is probably in rougher shape right now.
"You feel so warm." It's all she can manage to get out, and she curls her fingers inside of you into upward, making you moan.
"I wanna cum, Els..please, more. Give me more." Ellie has never seen you this dumb for pleasure before, but who is she to deny you?
Her fingers aren't thrusting in and out or finger-banging you, just slowly sliding through your cunt, her fingertips stroking where you need them to. You feel so full, so complete. You hope she does this every single day from here on out.
It doesn't take long to get you into a state of complete bliss, and you haven't even climaxed yet. Your legs aren't clamping down, rather spreading wider as if you're begging for her to take you in the most obscene ways possible, fill you up with more than just her fingers. If only she you two were currently at her house, she has that unopened strap-on box... maybe for another day.
The knot that builds in your stomach, the temperature of it overheating your insides is about to snap. You're begging as if Ellie is teasing you or something. You're whining, and you look like you're about to start sobbing if she pauses her pace even for a nanosecond. She just wants to gives you everything, thinks you deserve the whole world, so she leans forward and intertwines her fingers with yours as her other fingers pump deep inside you, and you swear it's rearranging your guts. You wanna be wrecked so damn badly.
"You keep fluttering around me, gonna cum?" She asks, and you whine and nod.
Your orgasm soon hits you like a tsunami, once in a crash and then it simmers throughout you in waves. This is probably the hardest you have ever came. You gasp onto her hand tight, squeezing her fingers. You can't even speak or you'd be howling her name. It feels so euphoric and you wonder how it can get any better than this.
When you come down from the peak, she eases her fingers out of your tender insides and licks her ring finger clean. Then, she settles her hips between your legs, bringing her soaking middle finger to your lips.
"Open up."
You do so without question, tasting yourself on her digit before she swiftly pulls her finger away with a "pop!"
"I taste weird," you mumble and she rolls her eyes, mumbling a little "fuck you" before sitting up to strip out of her flannel.
You feel maybe a little nervous before. Something about the thought of feeling her in such an intimate way makes you feel even more fluttery inside. You've been with women before, you are far from a virgin, but you've never clashed clits before (omfg what). Most girls thought it was just a porn thing.
"You okay?" Ellie pauses, her flannel on the bed and a black t-shirt layer underneath it.
"Yeah," you mean it, "just a little nervous."
Her eyes soften, and she takes your hand and squeezes it. "I promise I'll be slow with you. I'm not gonna rush you into this, and if you want, we can always stop."
You feel more assured now, and you smile. "Okay."
When she finally strips out of her clothing, you take her in. She is breath-takingly beautiful. Her body is pale but covered in tan freckles, and her nipples are perky with arousal. Her shoulders and collarbone look so fucking kissable. You're still in a daze as she hooks a leg over yours, her warm cunt only an inch or two away from yours. She hovers.
"You ready?"
"I want you, so yes."
That makes her smile, and she slowly eases down onto you, her folds rubbing up against yours and both of your neglected clits finally getting the attention they deserve. Both of you are already moaning and Ellie leans down onto you, her tits brushing against yours as she kisses you deeply.
This kiss is slower than the first, less desperate but just as emotional. It's hungry and consumes you in a sensual way. Her hips grind against yours, her slick mixing with your soaked pussy to make you only whine into her mouth.
Now you understand how intimate this is. You feel so connected to Ellie in a way you hope you never get to feel with anyone else. You wanna always be this close. You think that even after this ends, you'll feel that tie to her body and heart, always leading you back to her.
When you both cum together, it's much different than what she gave you before. You can feel her tense up with you, hear her shaky breaths and moans, and you feel a warmth inside of you reminding you that she feels this way because of your pussy, because of her feelings for you. It's making you obsessive to feel this way.
When the high fades, she collapses on top you. You're both breathing heavily for a few minutes. Her breath is against your neck and it feels like a kiss. Your brain is thinking of something stupid now that the horniness is over.
"Isn't it obvious that I'm your girlfriend now?"
Ellie laughs and squeezes you tightly.
"Yeah. You're my girlfriend now, and I'm not letting you go."
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366 notes · View notes
olenvasynyt · 6 months ago
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Random Eris Vanserra headcanons!
Has insomnia. He thinks it runs in the family because Lucien also has the same problem.
Gets chronic migraines. Gets bad after smoking, drinking (but he still drinks) inhaling too much smoke (so bad for being the Autumn Court), and winnowing.
Snores, but only after he drinks a lot. His brothers used to put noise-canceling wards around his room after parties.
Was a virgin for a long time (maybe until he was in his 30s? but I also still don't know how the High Fae age). Claimed he was "focusing on his studies" but he was actually just anxious and suppressing gay thoughts.
Loves music: he learned to play the piano and the harp. He rarely plays either now due to being too busy
Has been taking dance lessons since he was little as another way to train his body for melee and sword training. Good for balance, foot work, strengthing muscles, and posture. Also another way for him to enjoy music and to enjoy the political intrigue of the court
Has a very high spice tolerance (I feel like you have to as a fire-wielder in Autumn lmao)
Keeps a diary and uses it for everything: jotting down notes, memories, etc. Writes it in the ancient High fae language
Grew up with a friend who had daemati powers, and the friend trained him how to shut his mind and resist daemati intruders
Loves to wear jewelry. Has a huge collection of rings, and he usually wears at least three rings on each hand.
Eris makes premium rabbit jerky for his dogs by hunting and drying the rabbit himself, and always keeps a bag of it on hand. Makes use of the entire rabbit by giving the scraps to his dogs and gives the pelt to the Forest House seamstress. He commissioned a rabbit fur coat for his mother, along with a matching hat and gloves.
He carries his sword around with him at all times. At night, he keeps it above his bed.
Has a secret cabin to get away from the Forest House (I swear every Eris stan I've talked to has this headcanon)
Beron berates anyone who lets dogs into Forest House bed chambers because "dogs aren't allowed to sleep in beds", so Eris keeps all of his hounds in the kennels but lets all of them go wild and cuddle pile in the bed at the secret cabin
287 notes · View notes
sundrop-writes · 5 months ago
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Heaven's Gate
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Daryl Dixon x Gender Neutral Reader
If there were any more left of me - I'd give it to you.
Summary:
Hope. Not the fragile, delicate thing that everyone mistakes it to be.
Hope is stubborn, and grows inside of you long before you ever realize its purpose there.
Hope can't be crushed by a thousand pound tank or torn apart as easily as concrete walls can. Hope is balanced on the backs of songbirds, it whistles quietly in the wind, and it brings you right where you need to be (even if you don't know it).
Daryl Dixon x GN!Reader. Strangers to Lovers/Lovers Reunited. Emotional Angst, Hurt and Comfort, Fluff. Set during Seasons 1-5.
Word Count: 24,200
The Walking Dead Masterlist | AO3 Link
Detailed warnings and author's notes below the cut.
...
Warnings: the reader character in this fic is completely gender neutral - there is no mentions of the reader's genitals, their clothing style, or their general appearance, and I did not use any gendered terms to refer to the reader whatsoever; a few times the term 'they' is used in conversation, but I tried to be clever and make it so that it could be referring to just the reader or the whole group, interpret it how you want; it is possibly implied that the reader is younger than Daryl, but it's never explicitly stated (when I was writing, this I had in mind that they do have an age gap but I didn't want to state so to leave it more open-ended) - the main focus is the reader being less experienced with survival skills and more 'citified', which is the case for a lot of the characters at the beginning of the apocalypse; there is a lot of TWD themes in the fic - death; canon typical violence, hunting and killing animals for food, killing other humans in order to survive, killing walkers, gun violence, mentions of food scarcity, the general emotional depression that comes with being surrounded by death and being on the brink of survival, mentions of Merle being racist and sexist (the fic does not contain him saying any slurs or performing any actions in alignment with this, it is a background element); there is mentions of canon plot points and this fic will spoil Seasons 2 through 5 if you are watching the show for the first time and haven't seen those episodes yet (I am looking at you, Star), mentions of 'fate' and 'good luck' as concepts; bird symbolism (that may not be accurate to the general recordings of these symbols and are just things I have learned from my personal life), mentions of religion - mentions of the reader praying to 'any god that will listen' (the reader is not religious to one specific religion, but believes in prayer) (yes all of the spiritual concepts in this fic come from my personal life lmao); mentions of canon injuries - Daryl being shot with his own crossbow and then being shot in the ear by Andrea; mentions of stitches for medical purposes; use of the term Y/N (I am nothing if not a traditionalist); mentions of alcohol/characters drinking (Beth and Daryl at the moonshine shack) - implications of genetic alcoholism and how it plays into Beth and Daryl's interactions with alcohol; passing mentions of Daryl smoking cigarettes; mentions of Daryl's abusive past (non-detailed); Daryl describes the reader as 'beautiful' in his personal narration; mention of reader having an abusive father (a father who is 'similar to Ed') (this is not described in detail); mentions of suicide (performed by a non-named character not during the time of the story) (also mentions of Daryl having suicidal ideations due to hopelessness when the prison falls); mentions of taking things off of dead bodies because those things are useful for survival; I think that's it.
A/N: I re-wrote the summary like four times cause I actually have no clue how to summarize the essence of the fic. But I hope this fits well. This is way more about the emotions than it is about what's actually happening in the fic. I am really proud of this fic and I hope that you guys like it.
...
Daryl Dixon was someone who came into your life quietly. 
When that original group first made camp at the quarry around Dale’s old RV outside of Atlanta, trying to escape the epic traffic jam and the chilling after effects of the hellish bombs that had been dropped on the city, everyone thought that it would only be temporary. Everyone thought that it would last a few days, at most. Everyone held onto the comforting delusion that it wouldn’t be long until the world got back up on its feet again. 
You certainly never thought that all of the people within that camp would become a second family to you - people you would die for, kill for if needed. 
When you first saw Daryl, he was trying to hold back his drunken brother Merle from getting into a fight with Shane. You didn’t think much of him then - perhaps you wondered why he stood up for someone so sour and surly, but you knew that the loyalty of blood related family meant too much to some people. That he was likely willing to do far too much for someone who would never return the same favors for him. (And you turned out to be right.) 
These days, you thought of Daryl Dixon with increasing frequency and a mixed bag of emotions that you struggled to carry. Bitter nostalgia being at the top of that list. 
When you woke up on this particular morning, you thought of him as you gathered your hunting gear. You heard his quiet, gravelly voice in your ear telling you to travel light, but reminding you that the items you should take would each be important and serve a planned purpose. The knife on your belt was heavy with memories of him, ached with the ghost of his touch. 
You thought of him as you tracked a buck’s steps through the dirt. You thought of him as you crept through the woods, feeling equal parts peaceful and dangerously pensive. You thought of him that night as you sat beside a gently crackling fire, the flames warming you only beside he had taught you how to start one. You thought of him as you eventually took down the deer - as you skinned it, gutted it, and portioned  exactly how he had taught you. 
Stepping under a stream of hot water after three long days out in the woods was one of the most satisfying feelings you could have ever conceptualized. The bottom of the tub quickly became muddy with a combination of blood rinsing off your skin (from when you had cleaned the deer), and the general dirt you had gathered on you from the hunting trip. You let the heat of the water relax your tired muscles, and tried your hardest not to let your mind wander back to something you couldn’t have. 
But you missed Daryl so damn much. 
It was strange to think that things had been so different not that long ago. 
… 
The quarry was an oddly beautiful place to be during one of the darkest times in your life. 
It was the definition of breathtaking - crystal blue waters, bright green grass, nothing but open space to let the sun shine down on you. None of that city stink from the piled-up, rotting corpses. This far away from Atlanta, it was easy to forget why you were all gathered here, camping out night after night. It was easy to forget that this was about survival and it wasn’t a simple summer vacation. 
Well, it was easy to forget when you weren’t actively staring down that city full of corpses. Which is something that you tried your best to do - forget. You tried to focus on the task in front of you, tried not to let yourself get too bogged down with dread at the idea of the end of the world. 
You knew that the others likely would have called you foolish because of it. But you had to keep your head up in order to keep going. It was how you survived. 
Currently, you were playing a game with the kids - a makeshift game of kickball with an inflatable beach ball that you had gotten for them during your last trip into the city. You were one of the only people that Glenn trusted to go with him. Mainly because you had lived in the city before everything had ‘gone to shit’ - before the bombs. So you knew it well, and you could have his back. 
When Carl accidentally kicked the ball past you, you rushed to get it, and you became slightly hesitant when you saw that it had landed at the feet of Daryl Dixon. He was in deep concentration, gutting and cleaning one of the many squirrels that he had recently caught, his fingers stained red with blood. You had never seen animal butchery in person before, and it did make you slightly squeamish. You had only spoken to him a handful of times, most of those conversations less than four words each, and he was one of the only people in the camp that you were still slightly weary of. 
His generally stoic nature and his brother - his mouthy, racist, sexist asshole of a brother - didn’t exactly make him approachable or friendly. Though you weren’t exactly sure if Daryl agreed with everything that his brother did and said, or if he just stood by the man because he was family. You still took caution, approaching him like you would approach a supposedly tame bear. Very carefully. 
“Sorry,” You quickly apologized for possibly disturbing him as you rushed to grab the ball, and he spared you only a harsh sideways glance as you picked it up. 
“Ain’t nothin’.” He shrugged, his words coming out as they always did, in a quiet grunt. 
Feeling an awkward lull come over you as his intrusive gaze continued to stare you down, you felt more words form in your mouth and spew out your lips before you could stop them. 
“I was just playing kickball with the kids,” You quickly explained, gesturing to the small grassy area about ten feet behind you where Carl and Sophia were standing, waiting for you. 
Daryl’s eyes strayed curiously there, clearly listening, and you continued. 
“I got them this ball when I went on that run with Glenn. And some other things, too. Coloring books, stickers, fake tattoos. Sophia insisted that I needed one,” You chuckled awkwardly, sticking out your hand to show Daryl the glittery blue tattoo of a butterfly that Sophia had put on you. 
He grunted, nodding in reply. 
You weren’t expecting him to speak any further, and it surprised you when he did. 
“‘s good.” He mumbled. “Makes ‘em happy.” 
In the back of his mind, he considered adding on some sentiment about ‘kids being kids’, getting to have fun during such a dark time - but he stopped short. He didn’t want to annoy you with the conversation that you were clearly only partaking in out of social nicety. Politeness that a world falling apart no longer needed. 
You nodded, flashing him a smile. “Yeah.” 
“Come on! Bring the ball back!” Carl shouted, distracting you from the interaction, causing you to walk away without another word. 
Daryl watched you playing with the kids for a few moments - laughing and running around with them, somehow so carefree in a world that was determined to fall apart. He wondered if you had always been like this, or if being around kids just brought that out in you. He wasn’t sure which reason made you better in his eyes - and he certainly wasn’t sure why he thought about it for so long. 
Why he thought about you for so long. 
He had to shake himself back to reality and go back to cleaning his kills. 
“Daryl!” 
You called out his name as you jogged up toward the stables, and he stopped in his tracks, waiting for you to catch up with him. 
“Daryl, hey.” You greeted him with a small smile. “Rick told me you’d be up here.” 
He grunted in reply. “Yeah. ‘m gonna take a horse out. Make better ground t’ look for the girl.” 
Your stomach clenched at him mentioning Sophia. 
The group was supposed to be headed out towards Fort Benning - supposed to be finding refuge at the hopefully safe military base. Instead, you were all setting up camp at the very reluctant Hershel Greene’s farm, not straying too far from where you had lost one of your own in the hopes of finding her. 
But that was why you had come to talk to Daryl in the first place. 
Sophia had become like a sister to you in the few short months that you had known her. And though everyone else kept telling you it was deeply unlikely, you were hopeful that she was alive - that she would be found. And you did believe that Daryl would be the one to find her. 
“How’s the trail?” You asked. “Do you think you know which way she headed? You - you can be honest with me.” 
You hesitated on the last part. But you did want his honesty more than anything. You knew that he was never one to sugar-coat things. Even if you hadn’t told him that, he would give you the truth. 
“Trail’s a little muddy.” He said, doling out that honesty. “‘m gon follow the river. It’s her biggest landmark out there, so she’ll probably be somewhere round it.” 
You smiled at him. And then, you remembered - 
“I brought you something.” You noted, reaching for the back pocket of your jeans. 
Daryl watched with quiet curiosity as you pulled out a piece of paper - when you showed it to him, he quickly realized that it was a half-used set of stickers. 
“These are some of the stickers that I got for Sophia,” You explained. “My mom always used to tell me that cardinals are good luck.” 
You peeled off a sticker of a bright red bird with a pointed head and a black pattern that resembled an eye mask - as much of a nature man as he was, Daryl was never one for bird watching. He didn’t care about identifying certain species of birds unless he could shoot and eat them. But he quickly reasoned that this must be the cardinal that you spoke of. 
“Give me your bow.” You said, shoving the rest of the sticker sheet into your back pocket again and holding out your hand expectantly. 
“I don’t need no luck.” He replied, voice full of snark. 
In a sense, he thought it was… sweet. You were trying to share some of that brightness with him that the kids got every single day. But he didn’t need you marking up his crossbow with a dumb little sticker. Especially because once Sophia was found, you wouldn’t give a shit to talk to him or be around him any more. 
“Just give it.” You replied - equally snarky, equally stubborn. 
Daryl sighed and tugged his bow’s strap over his head, presenting it to you. You placed the sticker on the bow’s handle, in one of the places where it wasn’t as worn down from him holding it. 
“There,” You said, giving it back to him with a smile. “Now you’re all set.” 
It was more for you than it was for him - a token of good faith and protection. The idea that you could do something to bring Sophia home when you felt so powerless. 
Daryl let out a harsh sound - somewhere between a laugh and a sarcastic snort as he walked away. “Thanks.” 
“You’re welcome,” You replied brightly, edging into a sarcasm of your own. 
He resisted the urge to flip you off, believing that you were too sensitive to take it as a joke. 
You watched him off for a while, seeing him disappear into the stables before you left to do your own chores. As you scrubbed at laundry, you sent a prayer to every god you could think of that your new little sister would be found alive. 
… 
Daryl felt like a dumbass. 
When Daryl was laying on the harsh, rocky ground after the horse had thrown him, with one of his own arrows digging into his side - he wanted to laugh at the fact that you had supposedly ‘blessed’ his bow with ‘good luck’. He had owned and used the bow for years previous, and not once had he ever been injured by it. You had it in your hands for all five seconds, and now - he had been thrown off a horse and shot by the damn thing. It was the definition of irony. 
While he laid on the ground, struggling for breath, bleeding from his wound, drifting in and out of consciousness - he spotted a flash of bright red above him. 
He managed to pry his eyes open long enough to properly focus on it, and - 
It was your damn bird. 
A bright red cardinal had landed in one of the trees above him, staring down at him in a seemingly taunting manner. 
‘My mom always used to tell me that cardinals are good luck.’ 
“Good… good luck… my ass.” Daryl huffed out, still spiteful even if he was exhausted and losing blood. Even if no one else was around to hear this verbal jab. 
His head lulled to the side, and before his eyes could drift closed as he truly succumbed to the blood loss, he spotted something else - a bright floral fabric, and some strings of yarn that definitely didn’t belong in the muddy creek bed. Once again, he forced himself to focus on it, pushing through the heaviness that threatened to overtake him. He realized in a heart-jolting moment that he had seen the object before. 
It was Sophia’s doll. 
He turned back to where the bird was still sitting on that branch above him. 
“Any… any chance you can lead me to the girl?” 
Perhaps it was the dizziness of his injury talking, but he could have sworn that the bird tiled its head at him - as though quizzically asking: ‘what girl?’
It was the spite that kept him conscious, the idea that he would get to laugh in your face when he got back and tell you how unlucky your ‘blessing’ had been. But it was his desire to find Sophia and bring her home that truly got him up on his feet again. 
… 
Your bird didn’t lead him to Sophia, but it did get him back to the farm before he completely collapsed from his injury - even if he was greeted by a bullet from Andrea, believing he was a Walker. 
Because of that bullet sharply colliding with his head, he didn’t remember to tell you about that bird finding him laying in the creek bed until much later. It didn’t come back to mind until the group had truly settled into the prison, after welcoming in the people from Woodbury when the ‘war’ with the Governor was seemingly over. He only thought about it that night when the two of you were up late on watch because he had seen another cardinal on one of his runs that day, and he was telling you how much the damn bird had annoyed him. 
Daryl wasn’t someone who believed in luck, but he knew that the story would entertain you nonetheless. And it did. 
In fact, it entertained you so much that it caused you to plant a confident hand on his shoulder and lean in for a kiss - sealing your mouth against his, trapping any noises of surprise in his throat as he stood frozen, pinned against the guard rail. 
He only truly had time to take in what had happened - to process that sweet, perfect kiss after you had chirped a ‘goodnight’ to him and left. You mentioned something about going on a morning run with Glenn and Sasha to scope out a place with more supplies, but his ears were still beating with blood and he barely heard you. 
He had to get used to it then - being yours. But he found that even though the hand-holding and the hugging could be a bit embarrassing at times - he liked it. He liked having someone taking care of him as much as he tried to take care of others. And though it was something he had desperately tried to deny because of your stubbornness and your sharp tongue - he liked you. He was beginning to love you in that dangerous way that was going to get him hurt. 
But he would deny that. And he would do anything to stop that from happening. 
And that was one of the most dangerous parts about it. 
… 
It wasn’t just you that he was willing to die in order to protect. Daryl had gotten dangerously attached to life at the prison. For the first time in his life, he felt as though he had a home. Family, friends. As soon as Hershel told them about the veterinary college, about a place where there might be medicine to combat this strange flu that had suddenly struck his home and the people in it - he knew he had to get a group together. 
Before he went outside to get the car ready, and make sure he had all the equipment inside it, he stopped by your cell. It would be rude not to say goodbye. 
His stomach dropped when he heard coughing. 
“Y/N-” He spoke your name in that alarming tone, concern so ripe in the single word as he pulled aside the curtain you had hung across your door for privacy. 
You cut him off before he could say anymore. 
“I know.” You said, your voice annoyed and slightly strained from the illness clearly running through your body. “I need to go into Cellblock A for quarantine. I’m - I’m on my way there now. I’m just gathering up some stuff. My sketchbook and some novels. I’m guessing it’ll be boring as shit in there,” 
Daryl nodded, and moved to step into your cell, wanting to place his hand on your forehead to check you for a fever. He wanted to know how bad it was - how much time he had to get back with the medicine. 
“Don’t come any closer.” You said abruptly, raising your hand to keep him back. “I don’t - don’t wanna get you sick too.” 
Hesitantly, he stayed where he was. 
He knew that you were right, and he knew that it was weak of him - but he found himself craving the affection that he previously found annoying. He had been hoping that you would hug him before he left. 
“‘m goin’ on a run.” He said. “Hershel told us ‘bout this old veterinary college - he said there’s medicine that could help.” 
“Medicine for dogs?” You heaved out a laugh, strained and full of crud in your lungs, collapsing to sit on the edge of your bunk. 
Daryl shrugged. 
“Apparently it’s the same as medicine for people.” Then, after a moment of you staring at him with uncertainty, he added on: “He gave us a list.” He assured you, patting his breast pocket, where that list was currently sitting. 
You nodded. Naturally, you trusted Daryl. You had to, after everything you had been through together. 
Then, you turned to the bag that you had been packing up and took out a sketchbook that looked familiar to Daryl - one that he often saw you doodling in. You flicked through a few of the pages and then ripped one out, presenting it to him with an extended arm. You covered your mouth and nose with your shirt, seemingly for the assurance that you wouldn’t breathe on him so that he could come and fetch this from you. 
He took one step closer and grabbed the paper, and you coughed into your shirt as he stepped back and inspected the drawing. He wasn’t surprised to see that it was a beautifully drawn sketch of a cardinal - shaded red with what he guessed were smudges of lipstick. He was almost sure that you had picked it up at one of the houses the group had stayed in during the long winter after they had to abandon the Greene farm. 
“For - for luck.” You told him between more coughs, letting your shirt down to smile at him. 
He knew by now not to attempt rejecting the symbol. He wouldn’t say that he believed in it - but he believed in you. And he wanted to have you with him. So he folded it up and tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt, right next to the list that Hershel had given him. 
“You’re a fool.” He griped, half-winded, only half meaning it. 
You smiled brightly at him, your face clearly tired from feeling so ill. 
“You love me.” You replied with utter certainty. 
He rolled his eyes. He didn’t want to point out that this was a growing problem. That it would pull his focus during the run for the medicine - that he would be distracted thinking about getting home and getting that medicine to you. 
“Now go on and get,” He told you, motioning toward Cellblock A. 
You gathered your things and got up, making a wide berth around Daryl as you walked down the stairs. 
“And I don’t wanna hear nothin’ about you bein’ heroic neither.” He called after you, shouting at your back. “You’re gonna go in there n get your ass t’ bed, ya hear me?” 
You knew it was his way of caring - wanting you to rest when you were sick. 
You turned back and gave him a big smile and blew him a kiss - something he often remarked upon as being ‘childish’. He hated that it caused a flutter in his stomach, and he couldn’t help that his form of affection in return was to flip you off. You loved it just as much. 
… 
That was the last time you spoke to him before the prison fell. But it wasn’t the last time that he spoke to you. 
When he got back, you were unconscious - you had to be bagged by Hershel to help you breathe, and the medicine helped you survive. Just barely. Daryl held your hand and begged you to live, and eventually he had to be distracted away from your unconscious body by Maggie so that he wouldn’t simply sit there the whole time and mourn. She reminded him that they all had jobs to do, and he made a few rounds of the prison, busying himself with chores to help everyone else get by so that he wouldn’t drive himself insane at your bedside. 
And that’s what he had been doing when the Governor rolled up with a thousand pound tank and shot their walls down. 
He knew that his love for you would come back to bite him in the ass one day. 
Daryl got out with Beth. 
He almost couldn’t stand her bright, big eyes staring at him, waiting for answers - her chirpy little voice, prodding at him, demanding that they ‘follow the trail’, telling him that they needed to go look for everyone else. Telling him that he was a tracker, that he could find them. As if it was his damn responsibility just because he had the skills to get it done. 
It was all too reminiscent of you, telling him that he could find Sophia. That it was a ‘when’, not an ‘if’. All too hopeful, all too damn certain. 
Perhaps that was what got him off his ass and doing what he did best - reading the dirt. 
“What’re you doin’?” He asked, staring at the girl curiously as she went to one of the bushes and rushed to pick berries from branches. Had she not gotten enough to eat that morning? 
“They’ll be hungry when we find them.” Beth told him confidently. 
Of course. That undefeatable streak of optimism. 
Daryl knew that blueberries weren’t your favorite - but he should have something to give you. He would be too busy tracking the footprints to properly hunt for squirrels or rabbits and clean them for you. So, he found himself pulling a large bandana from his back pocket and offering it to Beth - something to hold the berries in to keep them safe as an offering for you. 
“Here.” He grunted at her. 
Beth smiled at him. 
It was one of the last smiles she gave him for a long time. 
When they came across those bodies splayed out beside the tracks - any sense of hope was crushed inside of him. The picture you had gifted him was heavy inside his breast pocket, and he hated that tears threatened his eyes - even if he carefully looked them over to confirm it, and he knew that none of those bodies belonged to you. There was no trace of you there. 
It was just a cold reminder that even if the others had gotten out of the prison, they could be dead. They likely were dead. 
The days started to blur into each other, and Daryl couldn’t get you off his mind. 
One hazy evening, as he and Beth both stared into the fire with dead looks on their faces, he took the drawing out of his pocket and unfolded it. 
For good luck. 
He didn’t believe in luck - because it didn’t exist. The world was fucked. Nobody was lucky. You and your good luck were dead. 
He tossed the drawing into the fire, ready to burn it up along with anything he had ever felt for you. Only a moment later, when the corner of it had barely caught, just barely turning black, Beth snatched it out. She stomped on it with her boot, successfully saving it. 
“Don’t do that.” She hissed at him. 
Daryl snatched it from her, and crumbled it up, tossing it aside. He let out a harsh grunt, but refused to look at her. 
“That was from Y/N, wasn’t it?” She posed. 
He could feel her imposing stare as she waited for an answer. 
He didn’t give her one. 
Just because they had an unspoken agreement to help keep each other alive didn’t mean that he had to participate in stupid conversations with her. 
“You can’t burn up the past. You can’t burn your love for people just because you think they’re dead.” Beth sighed, tired and defiant. “You can’t burn up memories. We’re gonna find them. Y/N, and Maggie, and Michonne, and - and everyone. We’re all gonna be together again.” 
Daryl scoffed. “Yeah. Cause that’s gon’ happen.” 
Beth rolled her eyes, but didn’t speak any further on the subject. 
After she had fallen asleep - when the fire was dull, Daryl picked up the crumbled ball and smoothed it out again. The charred corner hadn’t even touched your bird. He felt like a fool doing it, just as much of a fool as he accused you of being, but he folded it neatly - well, as neatly as he could. And then put it back into his breast pocket again. 
But that was the thing - Daryl wished that he could. He wished he could burn up those memories. He wished that Beth was wrong. 
He wished that you would stop haunting him. Then he wouldn’t have to feel like this anymore. 
… 
When Daryl sat up in camp that night with his back to the trunk of a tree, he did not intend to fall asleep. He honestly did not think he was capable of doing so - even with the exhaustion so deep in his bones, he was used to going without sleep. He was used to trudging on much like the Walkers shambling around them - upright, puffing shallow breaths, but barely there, barely conscious. These days, he felt as though sleep was a luxury. 
As the fire died down, Beth turned over with her back to him, curling an elbow under her head, the only thing separating her from the dirt. She no longer bothered with the mockering of grunting out ‘night’ as an acknowledgement that she was trying to go to sleep (because she stopped saying ‘goodnight’, long ago, even at the prison, because those were few and far between). 
Daryl supposed that he was staying up to keep watch. They did have the cans and spare car parts scattered around on lines to make noise if any stray Walkers wandered near their camp. He knew that he slept light, and this would be more than enough noise to wake him if he did fall asleep. 
With his eyes locked on her back, he wondered if Beth slept at all these days, or if she simply laid down to fake it. Maybe so that she wouldn’t have to look at him anymore, even for a few hours. Sometimes, he would notice the grip on her knife beside her head go a bit laxer, and believe that this was a true sign that she had actually managed to drift into unconsciousness. Still, even if she wasn’t sleeping, he should keep watch. 
Daryl hadn’t intended to fall asleep. 
Daryl’s consciousness was jolted suddenly - his entire existence shaken by the feeling of someone - something grabbing his legs. When he looked down, he saw the blur of a snarling Walker crawling up his body. He panicked, his heart thudding hard inside his chest. Naturally, he reached for his crossbow beside him - grabbing, hands shaking, grasping at air. 
It was gone. It wasn’t there. What the hell? 
One of the cold hands grabbed his shirt, forcing him to look back down the length of his own body at the beast. When its head snapped up toward him, he was filled with a colder kind of shock. 
It was you. 
Though your once beautiful features had been tainted with rot, yellowing teeth, and your laughter filled eyes had turned sour and rotted like putrid eggs - he absolutely recognized that this was you. 
He sucked more gasping breaths, and reached for the knife on his belt, but - that was gone too. 
Then, somehow - you let out a dark, harrowing laugh. A laugh that shook everything he was, that somehow managed to echo through the trees and rattled the ground underneath him. An utter mockery of his entire existence. 
“This is all your fault, Daryl.” You spewed, your rotting mouth spilling out horrible, black blood. “You did this to me!” 
Then, in an utterly horrifying moment, you reached down and tore into him - your weak, dead hands easily ripping into his abdomen, and before his very eyes, you ripped out his guts so that you could consume him like a perfect, bloody feast. Just as you had in life, you dined on parts of him that he would never get back, stole his life force with no consideration as to how he would ever get it back. 
You didn’t care how he would survive without you. 
Daryl awoke with a start - the sound of the cans clanking at the edge of their small campsite forcing him back to reality with a harsh jolt. 
His fingers wrapped around his crossbow where it was seated between his knees within seconds. Before his sleep-sticky eyes were even fully open, he had the loaded end pointed at the source of the sound - a tired, messy-haired Beth, who was wandering back into camp with her hands full of something. 
“Told you not to go wonderin’ off.” Daryl barked at her easily, hating how his heart thumped in his chest with residual ‘fight or flight’ instincts, even though he knew that she was of no true threat to him - still partially spooked from the horrible dream that he would never tell anybody about, ever. 
He slumped back against the tree, keeping a careful eye on her as she came back to her place beside him, already spouting her surly argument against him. 
“I saw some berry bushes over there.” She whined quietly. “Daddy taught me what’s safe and-” 
“Don’t matter.” Daryl grunted in return, hating that he felt a sensitive pang inside of him at the mention of Hershel. “I told you: don’t go nowhere without me.” 
Beth let out a sharp sigh. “You’re such an asshole.” 
He was. 
Nonetheless, she silently slid some of the berries his way, carefully contained on the bandana that he had given her before for such berry-picking purposes - and nonetheless, he ate them. 
Later that day, when he was prowling the woods with Beth at his back, hoping to score something a bit more substantial for dinner - his eyes landed on the faded splotch of the cardinal sticker that you had put on his crossbow during his time spent looking for Sophia. His thumb traced it idly, and he knew that Beth was dying to ask about it, but held back. 
He knew then that he would never be able to escape your ghost. 
… 
Daryl wished that he could burn up the memories. He wished that you would get the hell out of his head. That if you were dead, every last trace of you would just die. 
He couldn’t stop thinking about the last time he had seen you - back in A block, after he had brought back the medicine. 
… 
He thought it was a victory - getting the meds back to the prison. He thought that it was simple. If he got to the veterinary college, got the meds that they needed, got the run group back in one piece - he thought it would be a win. He knew you. You were a fighter. You would hold on long enough for him to get back. He had to do all the guesswork. He had to keep everyone going on the road. 
If anything, he knew that you would be doing the exact opposite of what he had told you - you would be up and about, shuffling through the makeshift ward, feeding the people the hope that you grew and doled out so well. That was your job. He just had to do his. 
Maybe it was that stupid, foolish hope infecting him like the illness had infected you - but he truly thought that getting the medication and getting back would be the only complicated part. 
“Hey, Doc, how we doin’ in here?” Daryl asked, stepping to lean against the mouth of the cell that you had taken up temporary residence in.  
Of course, he was calling Hershel ‘doc’ with a joking air. The man loved to tell everyone now that he wasn’t actually a doctor - but few actually listened. They trusted his experience and the way he spoke with wise authority more than anything. 
Hershel used a stethoscope to listen to your lungs, and then looked up at Daryl, his face firm and unreadable. Daryl didn’t like it - but he was still being strung along like a fish on a hook by that foolish, bitter hope. 
“Y/N is doing a lot better than before.” He said, placing a gentle hand on your forehead, checking your temperature. “The meds have helped to take down the fever.” 
Daryl nodded. “Tha’s good.” 
Hershel gave him a serious look. “I like you a lot, Daryl. So I don’t intend to lie to you.” 
Daryl’s stomach clenched up - grabbed by a fist of nerves. 
You were alive. You were breathing - Daryl confirmed this, locking his eyes on the gentle up and down puff of your chest. What else could possibly be wrong? 
“Our friend here is showing remarkable signs of improvement, as is everyone who received the medication that you brought back. You have done a mighty service to these people, Daryl.”
Daryl knew this wasn’t simple praise for the work he had done. This was the sunshine before the storm - it was an omen. He could feel the ‘but’ coming before Hershel spoke it. 
“But,” 
Of course. There it was. 
“-I have to warn you.” Hershel sighed. “We had to perform CPR on Y/N for an extended period of time.” 
Daryl’s eyes cast over your face, fixated on your peaceful, unconscious form. His ears became fuzzy, filled with blood, and he could hardly focus on more of the older man’s words as he explained your condition. Explained how you had been deprived of oxygen for a few minutes - how you were at risk of brain death, and Hershel had no way of knowing what the state of your brain activity was without the proper equipment. If your brain wasn’t active enough, you would never wake up again. 
All they could do now was to sit and wait for you to wake up. If you were going to wake up at all. 
Hershel left Daryl alone with you, and he perched himself on the edge of your bed, his ass shuffled in tightly by the edge of your hip, struggling to find purchase on the edge of the small bunk. It was much like you had done to him after he had been haphazardly shot by Andrea. He took your hand in his, his eyes still focused on your unconscious face - at least you looked peaceful. 
With a large knot forming in his throat, he attempted to speak. 
Even though he was unsure if you could hear him - he couldn’t contain what he had to say. 
“You’re an asshole.” He mumbled out. Part of him was expecting to get a reaction out of you. To mock you into waking up. “I went through all that damn trouble to get those meds, and you gone n croaked on me while I was gone?” 
Your face didn’t even flinch. 
You were so damn still. 
For the first time since he had met you - not laughing, not smiling, not loudly voicing your chirpy, hopeful sentiments. So still. 
“Nah, that’s bullshit.” He growled out, his voice growing louder as his frustration grew inside of him - as he became more determined to wake you. “You’re gonna wake up. Wake up!” He shouted, his words echoing painfully off the walls. 
In the next cell over, Maggie heard this and became distracted from dabbing a wet cloth against Glenn’s forehead. He was still drifting in and out of consciousness, still too sick to fully take this in. But it caused Maggie to strain her ears, listening in on what happened next. 
“You’re gonna wake up. You’re gonna-” 
Daryl was startled when he found himself choking on his own words. He sucked in a sharp breath, and despite his best efforts, a sob rattled his chest, and a hot tear rolled down his face. 
“Why do I gotta to everythin’ around here? You set me off into the woods lookin’ for Sophia like it was my damn job. Make everythin’ my damn responsibility. I had to teach you everythin’. I had to teach you how to start a damn fire - what kind of simple asshole doesn’t know that?” 
He swallowed thickly. 
Truly, he wasn’t angry at you. 
It all came down to one thing. 
“Come on. Come - o-on. You know I can’t do this on my own.” He choked out, his face shrinking into a sob. “I can’t do this on my own.” 
He turned more toward you, laying himself down gently so that his face was pressed into your chest. He turned his head - laying his ear against your chest, listening carefully for your heart beat. It was there - thumping along steadily. 
Hershel had warned him that your breathing wasn’t the problem. Brain damage would keep you from waking up because your nervous system wouldn’t be active again. 
If you didn’t wake up, would you still turn into one of them? 
According to what Jenner had told them at the CDC, maybe not. 
Maybe you just be like this forever - stuck somewhere in the middle. Some hollow thing for Daryl to scream at that would never answer back. 
“You gotta wake up.” Daryl choked out. Knowing that only you would hear, he gathered up the bravery to speak out his next words. “I - I love you.” 
In the next cell over - Maggie heard all of it. She was holding Glenn’s hand, wondering what she would do if she were in Daryl’s shoes. She now had muddy tears in her eyes, listening to Daryl plead to you to wake up. Hearing Daryl - someone who had been so stony and tough in her eyes before - cry for the first time - it hit her hard. 
So it got her up; she kissed Glenn’s hand and told him that she would be back later, and he mumbled something incoherent back. 
“Daryl.” 
Maggie felt guilty when he jumped up - clearly alarmed by her presence at the opening of the cell, breaking his bubble of alone time with you. He began to frantically wipe at his face, obviously afraid to be vulnerable in front of her by showing his tears. After all that they had been through together - he still wasn’t willing to show this weakness in front of her. 
He only grunted in acknowledgment of her, staring hard at the floor instead of looking up at her. 
“These people need water. And they could probably use a good meal after all this.” Maggie told him. “I know you wanna stay with Y/N right now, but - come on, we all got jobs to do.” 
Daryl nodded. “Right. You’re right.” 
They did have jobs to do. But of course, the main reason she reminded him of the chores was to distract him. To keep him from going insane at your bedside, waiting for you to wake up. 
And that was the last he had seen of you before the Governor blasted a hole in A Block with the tank. 
When Daryl and Beth got to the moonshine shack, it truly came to a head. 
Daryl didn’t want to play the stupid game - he just wanted to drink in peace. He wanted to get shitfaced and hopefully pass out, actually. He wanted to have a good, booze-induced heavy sleep so that he could spend one night not plagued with spotty sleep and nightmares of your death - seeing your face painted in his mind as a nightmarish, growling dead thing. One night where he didn’t stay awake and stare at the back of Beth’s sleeping head because he couldn’t bear to close his own eyes. 
He didn’t want to play the game, but he did anyway. 
It got out of hand. 
Instead of trying to calm down, he rode the wave, leaning into the only existence he thought he knew - he turned back into the sputtering, bitter asshole that had once protected him so well. The hard shell that had kept him from getting his feelings hurt when the world had been cruel to him before. When Beth stabbed the Walker in the head, ending his game, he grew all too worried that she had figured him out - that she would try to get him to talk about his feelings. 
“What the hell did you do that for?” Daryl howled. “We was havin’ fun!” 
He knew it wasn’t true. Nothing about this was fun. 
“No, you were being a jackass!” Beth easily corrected him. 
She was far too much like you. Too direct. Never one to dance around the point instead of saying exactly what she meant. 
“If anyone found my dad-” 
Daryl was eager to cut off her additional reasoning, not wanting to think about it - he couldn’t add the mental image of a turned, dead-alive Hershel to his nightmare rotation as well. 
“Don’t!” He barked back, making her swallow up her words. “That ain’t remotely the same!” 
He had to convince himself of that fact. This random Walker pinned to a tree wasn’t family. At least - it wasn’t the same because it wasn’t his family. 
Beth gave him a tight-jawed look, staring him down with those large, knowing eyes. In that moment, he could hear your voice in his head, telling him exactly what she wanted to say. 
‘It’s someone’s family, Daryl. That Walker used to be someone. He used to belong to someone - he used to be important to someone. You need to consider that.’ 
Instead, Beth countered with something a bit more broad. 
“Killing them is not supposed to be fun.” 
She scolded him like a child, and he felt intensely small in that moment. He hated it. 
“What do you want from me, girl?” He warbled out, barely able to find his voice. 
He barely had anything left to give. 
He was a shit protector - as he had proven, unable to stop the prison walls from collapsing on top of you. Unable to hunt down the Governor - unable to keep him from rolling up to the gates with a fucking tank and blowing your house down. 
He was a terrible tracker - unable to find any of the people they had lost from the prison. He couldn’t provide anything for Beth that she couldn’t get for herself. She was more than capable. She was likely only with him now to stop him from going off into the woods and laying down to die. It was likely out of some mental obligation towards you, because she fully believed that you were still alive. 
He didn’t have anything left to give. 
After a moment of Daryl waiting with baited breath, she gave an answer. 
“I want you to stop acting like you don’t give a crap about anythin’.” She announced firmly. 
That would be difficult for him. Because currently, that was the only way he was surviving. He gave way too much of a crap about everything - and turning it all off was the only way he got through. 
“Like nothing we went through matters.” She added on. “Like none of the people we lost meant anything to you. It’s bullshit!” 
It was bullshit. 
“Is that what you think?” Daryl countered sourly. 
He cared too much about all of them. It all mattered too much. 
If he turned that switch back on - if he let himself care again - it would break him. 
“That’s what I know.” She whispered tightly near his face, all hot drunken breath. 
“You don’t know nothin’.” He spat back bitterly, absolutely assured of this fact. 
“I know you look at me and you just see another dead person.” Beth dueled on, determined to make her own point. “I’m not Michonne, I’m not Carl, I’m not Maggie, I’m not Glenn…. I’m not Y/N.” 
She knew that mentioning your name was sensitive, but she did it anyway, as if hoping to evoke some positive emotion out of Daryl. As if hoping to wake him from his dreary hopelessness. She hoped that mentioning you among the list of people that she still concretely believed to be alive would shake him, make him believe it too. 
She noticed that Daryl refused to make eye contact when she said it. 
When he didn’t say anything about it, she continued on. 
“I survived, and you don’t get it, cause I’m not like you or them - but, I made it.” 
She spoke passionately, determined about the point. If she had made it - someone who used to be so soft, someone who still needed to be protected - then why hadn’t everyone else made it? 
“And you don’t get to treat me like crap just because you’re afraid.” 
Somehow, among all that, one singular point stood out to Daryl. 
“I ain’t afraid of nothin’.” He grumbled back. 
To him, it was a horrid accusation. 
He had already lost everything that was important to him - what could fear possibly do to him now? 
Fear was the stupid, idiotic thing that had held him back in the first place. It had kept him from going after the Governor alongside Michonne. It had kept him tethered to the prison, stuck to your side watching you to make sure that you were safe. And look what it had gotten him. 
Nothing but ruin. Nothing but ashes. 
Beth looked contemplative for a moment, and Daryl hoped that she would finally just shut up. But then, like an unstoppable, sickly bile - the words came spilling from her lips. 
“I remember.” She announced. Before he could wonder what she was talking about, she continued on. “Back when you first came to the farm. The way you were - out combing the woods like a madman, looking for a little girl that wasn’t even yours. You never gave up hope, not once.” 
Daryl swallowed down his own words. 
He wasn’t some damn fool. He wouldn’t even begin to call it hope. He called it the truth - a little girl lost in the woods shouldn’t be hard to find. Like he had told Andrea at the time - it was the backwoods of Georgia, not the mountains of Tibet. It wasn’t the way that everyone else made it out to be. 
“Maggie told me that you cried when Y/N wouldn’t wake up.” 
Beth added on - to Daryl it felt like a mockery, a clever prodding at his vulnerability. But to her, it was just another observation. 
“That’s why you’re not out there, followin’ the trail. That’s why you’re not even botherin’ to look. You would spend months out there tryna find Y/N if you actually thought-” 
“Shut it.” Daryl grunted, cutting off her words. 
“You are afraid, Daryl.” Beth told him - and chills went through him as he realized that she had seen right through him. But like a prey animal staring down a predator, he kept stiff eye contact, trying his hardest not to let her know that he was weak. “You’re afraid of findin’ nothin’. And now you’re actin’ like it’s my damn fault.” 
When he didn’t speak up to make any apologies for this, she snidely added on:
“God forbid you ever let anybody get too close, right?” 
“Too close, huh?” Daryl reared back dully, gearing up for another fierce charge in the argument as things got all too personal. “You know all about that. You lost two boyfriends - you can’t even shed a tear. Your whole family’s gone, all you can do is go out lookin’ for hooch like some dumb college bitch!” 
He knew that he was being unjustly cruel to her - that on some level, he was taking it out on her just because he could. 
But he couldn’t let her talk anymore about him and his fucking feelings. Especially not about how he acted around you. God forbid that big precious four letter word came up. He needed to pull the knife out of himself and turn it around onto her. 
“Screw you! You don’t get it.” She easily snapped back. 
“No, you don’t get it!” He roared out, quickly growing tired of the seemingly pointless back and forth. “Everyone we know’s dead!” 
Beth looked icy shocked by the statement, but quickly argued against it. 
“You don’t know that!” She screeched bitterly at him. 
“Might as well be!” He yelled back. “Cause you ain’t never gonna see ‘em again!” 
Finally, they had come around to his entire reasoning - the whole fact as to why he had so faithfully given up. Even if they weren’t dead, he believed that he might as well operate on the assumption that they were. 
Of course - Beth was operating on the opposite mindset. Killing time, getting by, surviving until she believed that she would inevitably be reunited with her sister, and the other members of their newfound family. 
Beth let out a whimper as the truth of it hit her - as she fought past it. Battling internally as a small voice in the back of her mind said: ‘he might be right’. 
“Rick…” Daryl hesitated to list more people. Even now, he hesitated to say your name. “You ain’t never gonna see Maggie again!” 
It was a bitter personal attack, but he was putting on that hard outer shell - hoping to get Beth to become just as cold as he was. If she gave up, then she would leave him alone. She would stop trying to inject that stupid, putrid ‘hope’ into him. 
But of course, that infallible hope could not be stomped out of her. No matter what. 
“Daryl, just stop!” She begged quietly, and then - she reached out for him. Attempting to give him some comforting touch. 
The last time he had been touched by someone was when he had held your hand without you even knowing, staring at your unconscious face, waiting for you to wake up. Aside from that - a gentle pat on the shoulder from Hershel, assuring him that everything would be okay. 
But both you and Hershel were dead now. 
Daryl’s touch was a disease that he would not let Beth catch. 
He whipped away from her quickly, and turned to face the dead Walker that was still pinned to the tree. 
He used to belong to someone. 
That was how Daryl felt now. Used up and dead. Nothing but a past tense in someone else’s life. 
“The Governor rolled right up to our gates.” Daryl’s throat clenched tightly around the words. He could barely speak about it, but it was true. “Maybe if I… I wouldn’t’ve stopped lookin’. Maybe it’s cause I gave up? That’s on me!” 
He was supposed to keep you safe. He was supposed to keep everyone safe. 
He had failed. 
“Daryl-” Beth choked out, trying again - but she didn’t have anything to follow up. She couldn’t find anything to combat this particular chasm of self blame. 
“Your dad… maybe I coulda done somethin’.” He choked on a sob, and tears clouded his eyes now. 
It was his attempt at an apology. But he hadn’t even begun to forgive himself yet - so why the hell would Beth forgive him? 
Hershel’s death had been his fault. Your death had been his fault. 
The others… even if they were alive, their home was destroyed and now they were vulnerable to a cruel world. And it was all Daryl’s fault. 
Daryl finally broke down in sobs, and he didn’t have enough energy to fight off the touch when Beth leaned into him, hugging him from behind. 
He couldn’t muster up any more breath to better apologize to her for all he had done, but he hoped that it was implied. 
… 
Things were a bit more smoothed over later that night, when Beth was drunker and Daryl had sobered up some. 
“Is it always like this?” Beth sighed, staring out at the grass with a delighted smile. 
It didn’t take a genius to figure out what she meant. She was clutching a half-filled jar of the moonshine like it was precious, her eyes glassy - obviously no longer fearful of going blind because of the stuff. 
“You’re lucky.” Daryl remarked. “You’re a happy drunk.” 
Beth let out another contented sigh, and then after a moment, and another sip of the moonshine (which she was taking down without hesitation now), she spoke up again. 
“You’re wrong.” She told him calmly, seeming very confident in this fact. 
Daryl was tired of talking, but too curious not to reply. 
“Bout what?” He asked. 
“They’re not dead.” She told him. “They’re out there somewhere. All of them. And we’re gonna find them.” 
Daryl wanted to believe her. Some tiny part of him wanted to embrace this as truth. But at this point - it felt too much like fiction. Without his family standing in front of him, pure proof that they were alive and well - he couldn’t let himself partake in that paper thin hope. He couldn’t let himself get high on the hope only to come crashing down from that high in the worst way. He couldn’t let himself be hurt again. 
He only grunted in reply, staring at the worn floorboards of the porch, hoping the conversation would naturally frazzle out. 
Of course, Beth didn’t let that happen. 
“Come on,” She said in a nagging tone. “You don’t really believe that Y/N is dead, do you?” 
Daryl wasn’t sure what he believed. 
Before this, before the dead had risen up and walked the earth, he had spent his whole life focusing on truth. Concrete truth. 
For as long as he had been alive, that truth had been hopeless. His father had beaten him, his brother was an asshole, what little he knew of his mother was a drunken slur ultimately engulfed in flames. He had fended for himself most of his life. He never knew hope or optimism. He never spoke of luck or brightness or tipping the odds in his favor. 
Not until he met you. 
You laughed so genuinely; you sang the praises of looking on the bright side and blessing people with good luck. And he found that at times - he started to believe you. 
But having the Governor roll right up to their gates and blow apart their home wasn’t exactly conducive with everything you had been preaching. Having you sick and likely dead under a pile of concrete, unconscious and crushed without even knowing it wasn’t exactly in line with the ‘good luck’ that you supposedly had. 
Even if you didn’t know it, you had been feeding Daryl lies the whole time. And those lies had ruined him. 
Daryl couldn’t hold out hope that you or anybody else that he had known and loved from the prison were alive. 
“Don’t know.” Daryl grunted in reply. He kept his answer vague, not wanting to stir up another argument with Beth. 
“Yes, you do know.” Beth chuckled lightly in reply. 
Still ever the optimist. Still so damn certain. 
Daryl grunted again. Even if he didn’t agree with her, he wanted the day to end calmly, at the very least. 
“Can I see it again?” Beth asked, suddenly changing the subject. 
Again, this was a confusing little whip for Daryl - something that clearly only made sense to Beth in her own drunken mind. 
“What?” Daryl replied. 
“The picture.” Beth answered. “The one you tried to burn.” 
Daryl felt a pinch of guilt surge over him at the thought. Oddly enough, this was the one time he would be willing to admit that Beth was right - you can’t burn up memories. He was still glad to have a token of you with him, even if he would never get to see you again. 
“It was Y/N, wasn’t it? That drew it.” Beth added on, her words slurring slightly. She lifted the mason jar of booze to her lips again and Daryl was tempted to snatch it away from her. Something in the back of his mind reminded him that he wasn’t her chaperone - she was an adult, and if she wanted to get drunk enough to have a nasty hangover, then that was her choice to make. 
Instead, he found his hand drifting to his breast pocket and reaching to take the picture out. He presented it to Beth, who put down her drink to unfold it. She stared at the picture fondly under the brightness of the moonlight, tracing a finger over the slightly faded details. 
“You know… my daddy used to tell me that a cardinal is like an angel.” Beth said, recognizing the bird from her father’s teachings on the farm. “Someone - someone you loved who passed away, watching over you from heaven.” 
Daryl found this to be a nice thought. He could imagine Hershel’s voice in his head, saying something like this while pointing to the bird among the trees. 
“Y/N said they was good luck.” Daryl replied. 
It was the first time in a long time that he had gathered the courage to actually speak about you aloud, and he found a painful tugging in his chest because of it. 
Beth shrugged. “Same thing.” 
It was this thought that kept Daryl going for a long time. The idea that even if you were dead, you were watching over him somehow. He sure as hell didn’t believe that someone like Merle would be an angel - but you, you definitely were. And even if it was a waste of your eternal life, you would be determined to watch over Daryl - to make sure that he was safe, well-guided. 
You would make sure that he was lucky. 
That thought alone carried him through the long journey to D.C. 
It was something that lingered in his mind as the group hunkered down in a random barn - as he spotted something carved into one of the wooden beams holding the place up. Even though it wasn’t colored, he could have sworn that the long tail and pointed head of the silhouette indicated that the carving was meant to be cardinal. Of course. 
Who knows who had stayed in the barn before them - if it had been left there by a weary traveler, or even put there by someone who had used the barn before the Turn. But Daryl could have sworn that you - your ghost, your angelic hand - had led him to this very spot. 
It was a thought that gave him strength as he held the doors up - helped to keep them from caving in while the storm raged outside. 
Your luck, and your damn bird - you would keep him safe. 
When they reached Alexandria, and they were forced to give up their weapons - Daryl spotted your bird perched on the fence. Bright red, with its pointy head cocked sideways at him. All too knowing, staring at him like it wanted to say something. Just like it had been when he had fallen off the cliff out in the woods when he had been looking for Sophia. 
Oddly enough, it made him feel safe giving up his crossbow - perching his precious weapon on top of the fully loaded cart before the awkward, bespeckled woman wheeled it away. 
Rick was still weary of this new place after everything that had happened at Terminus, and Daryl understood. He followed Rick’s lead. Especially because he couldn’t tell Rick that he had a good feeling about this place because he saw a damn bird. Even if he was feeling such foolish things, he knew that he couldn’t speak them aloud. 
(He couldn’t speak them aloud to anybody but you. And well…) 
But even if it was just in spirit, he felt you there. He knew that it was the home you had chosen for them. 
So Daryl entered the strangely clean suburban home that Aaron had picked out for them and tried to imagine himself truly living there. He tried to think of Alexandria as his new home now. Because he knew that it’s what you would have wanted for him.  
… 
You were tired.  
You had just gotten back from a three day long hunting trip - three whole days out in the woods, killing small game while tracking a deer in order to shoot it and haul it home. 
For a while now, home had been a town called Alexandria. 
Well, you wouldn’t necessarily call it ‘home’. 
Alexandria was a great place to live, sure - but to you, home was a certain redneck bowman who often stank of cigarettes and dirt and had to be reminded to wash his hands before eating a meal. Home was the gentle grunt he gave you in response to a variety of questions, the scratch of his beard on your skin as he kissed you. 
You couldn’t think about him for too long - because you would get homesick. 
Since the prison had fallen, since you had escaped nothing more than debris and a crowd of Walkers - you had been moving from place to place, drifting. A lot of the time, you used the skills that Daryl had taught you during your time together in order to survive. 
When you found Alexandria, it felt like a dream. 
At first, you questioned why a shiny gee-golly boy in a blue rain jacket was trying so hard to ‘recruit’ you. You had to feel naturally suspicious of him and his stack of polaroids. But then you remembered what Daryl had said about bringing people back to the prison - bringing new people in wasn’t just about pity. There was strength in numbers. It became very clear to you very quickly that Alexandria needed fighters - they were bringing people as a tactic. 
You leaned into it. You proved to them what a good asset you were. You doubled down on using everything that Daryl had taught you in order to earn your place in the closed off community. 
You hunted and brought back game for the people there to eat, you used the skills Daryl had taught you to maintain the cars for runs and even fix-up ones that had been previously out of commission. You were widely liked by the members of the community, and Deanna often called on you for advice about dealing with Walkers. You had been on a few runs with their crews, but you preferred to stay close to town, to keep an eye on things. 
The hunt you had recently taken - three long days out in the woods. That had been for you. Something you had learned with Daryl was that hunting could be intensely peaceful. Maybe it was because it was time you spent with him - time when the two of you didn’t need words, just soaked in each other’s presence. Maybe you missed that too dearly. But you needed it to be just you and the trees, the focus on the craft that he had taught you. 
No closed-off bottle town politics. No smiling and nodding and pretending to care when the others complained about asinine things like the water from their showers going cold too quickly. Complained about being bored. To you, boredom was a blessing these days. 
No men sniffing around you, firing off increasingly poor attempts at flirting, believing that you were single even though you couldn’t tell them otherwise. It was difficult to explain to anyone in town that your heart belonged to someone that you hadn’t seen in a long time. Someone that you didn’t have the room to believe was dead. 
So after spending a few days in the woods, enjoying the peace alone, and bagging a deer and a few rabbits in the process, you came home. And currently you were in the shower, cleaning up - it was a blessing to even have a shower, to have perfectly functioning running water. A three day hunt could create a hell of a stink. 
Stepping under a stream of hot water after three long days out in the woods was one of the most satisfying feelings you could have ever conceptualized. The bottom of the tub quickly became muddy with a combination of blood from where you had cleaned the deer, and the general dirt you had gathered on your skin from the hunting trip. You let the heat of the water relax your tired muscles, and tried your hardest not to let your mind wander back to something you couldn’t have. 
When you got out of the shower, you felt wonderfully refreshed. You were still bone tired, and part of you did want to rush home and crash right into bed. But you had other things to do first. You had to check-in with Deanna, and go by the school before you could even think about going to bed. 
Olivia - ever kind and thinking ahead - had set out a change of clothes for you. She had seen you run upstairs to the bathroom covered up to your elbows in blood after you had asked her to stash the deer meat in the pantry’s freezer. 
You got dressed, and then went down to the pantry looking to make sure that she had taken the deer meat out of the plastic container that you had stored it in and put it into some plastic freezer bags to store it properly. She was squeamish around blood or raw meat - she had thrown up the one time that you had tried to teach her how to gut a rabbit, but you were hoping to wean her off those fears. 
Olivia was a nice girl. You knew that eventually, she would need to get her hands dirty in order to survive. It was a miracle that she had gone this long without doing so. When she told you that she still carried around a cellphone in her pocket - one that had long been dead and useless - you got stuck somewhere between paralytic shock and maniacal laughter. 
But it was just a mark of how untouched Alexandria was. How much they needed someone like you. 
“Olivia?” You called out gently when you hit the bottom stair. 
“In here!” She called back. She was in the armory rather than in the pantry - likely counting bullets to redo her inventory in order to avoid touching the bloody deer meat. 
You rolled your eyes at the thought of it and walked into the room, which was lined floor to ceiling with guns, the entire town’s supply. You were also casually pushing back against Deanna’s rule that nobody should be allowed to carry within town, but she had yet to truly hear you out on it. Your eyes fell upon a large cart that Olivia had parked in the middle, one that wasn’t usually there. It was filled to the brim with a variety of weapons. 
“What’s this?” You asked. 
“A new group came in yesterday, while you were gone.” She informed you, staring at the notebook she had in her hands - the one containing her inventory. “Deanna wanted me to make a list of their weapons. Well - the weapons they surrendered. I wouldn’t doubt if one of them is still hiding a knife in their shoe or something. They seem uber shifty and paranoid.” 
She said this with a dreary chuckle - the kind of nervous laughter that told you she was feeling weary of these people. 
A strange feeling came over you. A haze - tingling, from your head to your toes. A feeling almost as if you were about to faint - while at the same time, intense adrenaline was pumping through your whole body. You took a more careful look at the weapons gathered on the cart. 
A sword. One with the distinctive white leather sheath. A gun that you easily recognized as a Colt Python. A military knife with a knuckle guard… and perched right on top - a crossbow. The sight of which almost made your heart stop. 
“Maybe you could help me with this?” Olivia asked, motioning her pen toward the cart. “You know I don’t know the names of guns and stuff.” 
Clearly, she was trying to get out of bagging the deer meat - but that dropped off your priority list as you tried harder and harder to keep your hopes from swallowing you alive. 
“Sure.” You replied, knowing that it sounded terribly strained in your throat - joy and tears battling terribly inside of you. 
You gathered your breath, and forced your concrete legs to move. You stepped toward the cart, and timidly stroked a finger across one of the bolts that was strapped to the top of the crossbow. 
After a moment, you finally gathered the courage to ask the question. 
“So - can you tell me more about the group?” You asked, your throat clenching around the words, so damn dry all of a sudden. “Did you happen to catch any of their names?” 
“Come on,” Olivia sighed. “You know I’m no good with names.” 
Of course. 
The one time when you needed her to be paying attention, she hadn’t been. Where the hell was Aaron when you needed him? 
You could have been wrong. This could be nothing. It could be a coincidence. 
You wouldn’t let yourself get your hopes up - not until you knew. 
“Well - what were they like?” You asked. 
Olivia picked up one of the guns, inspecting it before she wrote down something in her notebook. It took her a moment too long to answer. You became dizzy with agitation, unconsciously holding your breath while you waited for something. Some proof. Something. 
“They were… strange.” She shrugged. “They reminded me of you when you first came here. But… you can tell they’ve been outside for longer.” 
That didn’t answer your question. So you moved on to another one. 
“How many of them was there?” You asked. 
“Maybe a dozen, I guess.” She answered easily. “It’s the biggest group Deanna has ever allowed in. I don’t know why, though. Aaron seems to really like them, but I didn’t get to talk to him much before he went home.” 
She wrote down something else, and then she continued - seemingly not noticing the way you were staring at her with an intense glare, hanging on her every word. 
You needed to know. 
“There was kids with them. A baby, and a young boy. A teenager, maybe? He was wearing this brown cowboy hat, that looked like a sheriff’s hat, kind of? I guess he got it off some cop.” 
‘My dad says that I get to wear the hat because I’m in the club.’ Carl’s small voice excitedly announced to you, pushing the too-big hat up over his eyes as it sagged down from how fast he had run toward you. 
‘What club?’ You countered curiously. 
‘People who have been shot and survived.’ 
‘Woah… okay. You probably shouldn’t go around saying that to people.’ You chuckled in return, trying to play off the casual morbidity. Knowing that ‘and survived’ was the important part. ‘Cool hat, though, kid.’ 
‘Thanks!’ 
As the memory from Hershel’s farm played over again in your mind - you remained frozen. Your voice was caught in your throat, seized by tears and shock - but all you could do was stand there as Olivia continued talking. 
“And their leader is this really grumpy guy. He kept… staring at me. His eyes were so cold… it was almost creepy. I could hardly see his face past his beard.” 
‘And, uh, I got this for you.’ Michonne chuckled, extending her arm out toward Rick, trying her hardest to gift him the electric shaver. ‘Your face is losing the war.’ 
The words evoked another memory from you - Michonne making jokes about Rick’s beard being overgrown, trying to get him to trim it down. Now, you couldn’t picture him without one when you tried to remember him. 
“Here, take this.” Olivia picked up the crossbow and put it in your hands. “Can you help me with the rest of these guns? I don’t know how to unload them. I need to take inventory of the ammo.” 
Your eyes were fixated on the crossbow in your hands - you ran your thumb over it. 
You had almost forgotten about it. 
Trying so hard to push down the memories, to forget - it had almost slipped your mind. The marking you had left on Daryl’s crossbow that made it so uniquely yours. The blessing of good luck you had marked him with when you had sent him to look for Sophia. 
The cardinal sticker that you had put on his bow. It was faded now, but it sure as hell was the one you had put there. 
In the back of your mind, you could still hear Daryl’s snarky voice snarling about how he didn’t need luck - but it had gotten him this far, hadn’t it? 
All at once, your nervous system shook, your body prickling up fiercely with goosebumps as the realization truly hit you. 
Daryl was here. 
Daryl was right here in Alexandria. 
He was alive. He was within arm’s reach. 
He was home. 
“Daryl.” You mumbled quietly, your voice still choking on it - it was a name you hadn’t spoken in so long. 
“What?” Olivia asked, turning around to look at you, clearly confused. 
“Daryl.” You spoke it louder. 
You looked to the door, and before you could take a moment to explain or even put down the bow - your legs were carrying you with a great urgency. 
He was close by - you were going to find him. 
“Daryl!” 
You screamed out this time, your voice echoing through the streets of Alexandria. Random people going about their day stared at you, but you didn’t care. You continued sprinting down the street, looking for that familiar face that you knew had to be close by. 
“Daryl! Rick! Michonne!” 
You screamed out the names of the people you knew would be with thim, and then your mind became fixated on him - on seeing his face again, on hearing him call you an asshole with a smile. Fueled only by joy, you pushed past your previous tiredness, determined to find him. Your cheeks began to hurt before you knew you were smiling and your legs pumped harder as you ran. 
“Daryl! Daryl!” 
You weren’t even sure where you were going, but you knew he would come to you - he would be there soon. 
You ended up at one of the last houses on the lot, rounding the corner when you finally spotted him. 
It was something you had pictured in your mind a thousand times. 
One of the quaint porches of Alexandria - so clean, so white, so picturesque - finally dirtied up by his presence. Olivia made you gut your kills in the back because she didn’t want it to disturb people, but Daryl didn’t know the rules, or just didn’t care. His hands were already covered in the blood of the possum that he was skinning - careful, meticulous, doing it right. His gaze focused downward in pure concentration - much like he had been on the day you had first properly spoken to him. 
Dressed in all black and still dirtied from the road - he was a sight for sore eyes. 
And he caused you to pull in a sharp, shattered breath as you began to cry outright now. Hot tears of relief, joy, love streaming down your face as you laid eyes on him for the first time in so long. 
His head snapped up at the sound of it, and his eyes widened beyond the splintering bangs that hung beyond his brows - hair longer than the last time you had seen him. His hands froze their movements, still hanging onto the half-skinned possum. You gripped tightly onto the crossbow, holding onto it tightly like an anchor, drifting at sea. 
You knew that look - his jaw gaped, his eyes swimming with intense emotion - shock, most of all. He was frozen. 
He was looking at you as though you were a ghost. 
In Daryl’s eyes, you might as well be. 
The last time he had seen you - you were dead. Or dying. 
It was all the same to him. 
He genuinely couldn’t believe that you were standing right there in front of him - alive, clean, beautiful as ever, holding his crossbow. It was like a dream. 
“I think I have something that belongs to you.” 
Hearing your voice again - it was oddly startlingly. You motioned toward the crossbow - his crossbow, that you were holding for some reason. 
His entire body was filled with concrete - he was frozen. 
“Daryl, is that possum so much more interesting than me, or are you gonna come on over here and give me a damn hug?” 
Yes.
That was what finally got him up - he tossed the possum aside because it would never be more important than you, and he rushed off the porch, rushing toward you. You dropped his crossbow in the grass and when he pounced on you, his arms encircling you for the first time in such a long time - you finally felt like you were home. He squeezed you in a bone-crushing way, and you squeezed him right back - feeling a strange kind of comfort from the smell of sweat and dirt and cigarette smoke coming off him. 
It was so Daryl. It was so real. 
You heard gentle sobs in your ear and you realized that he was crying too, so overwhelmed by the emotions of seeing you again and not too proud to hide his tears now. You didn’t notice and didn’t care that he was getting blood all over your clean shirt, gripping you so tightly with his possum-skinning hands. It was just another assurance that all of this was real and not another stupid daydream. 
“Goddammit.” He croaked out, his face shoved so tightly in the crook of your neck, soaking your skin with his tears. “I thought - I thought I lost you.” 
Pressed so close to his chest, you saw the yellowing corner of the paper sticking out of his breast pocket. You couldn’t help but to raise your fingers to fish it out of his pocket. 
“Why would you ever think that?” You sniffled weakly in return. “You had this for good luck.” You teased him lightly, pulling away slightly to wave the folded piece of paper in front of his face - both of you knowing exactly what it was. 
He let out a weak laugh in response. 
“You’re still a damn fool.” 
That was all he managed to reply before he put both hands on either side of your face and pulled you in for a kiss. It was unlike any other time he had kissed you before. This wasn’t chaste - it wasn’t a simple kiss signifying that he cared about you, that he was trying, but affection simply wasn’t his thing. 
This was gravity. 
This was passion, this was love. This was this kiss of a man who had nearly ended himself because he had realized in horror that his entire world had hinged on you. And now that he had you back, he wasn’t going to waste a single second treading around feelings, hung up on simple things like the fear of affection. This was a kiss from someone who needed to show you that you were his whole world, and now that he had you back, he would move mountains just to see you smile. 
It was a kiss that easily had you moaning into his mouth, made you dizzier than you already were, stole breath from your already weak lungs. 
He held you tight to his lips and he poured every single ounce of emotion into that kiss - telling you how sorry he was for all the time he had wasted, telling you how much he had missed you, and most importantly - telling you how much he loved you. 
“Daryl, please tell me that you’ve showered by-” 
The stunning moment was sorely interrupted by another voice, one you distinctly recognized as Carol. She opened the front door behind you and stuck her head out, ready to scold Daryl - but she promptly cut off her own words when she saw you. You pulled away from his lips at the sound of her voice and whipped around toward her, and instantly a smile cracked your face, broad and unbroken. 
She was staring at you with utter shock. 
“Carol.” You said her name warmly, greeting her as an old friend. 
You couldn’t help it - you jumped forward and embraced her in a hug. It was only then that she loosened from the shock and let her own arms fall around you, hugging you back, and she was able to speak again. 
“Y/N.” She said your name quietly in return. “What - what are you doing here?” 
“Um… returning Daryl’s crossbow.” You chuckled, motioning to the bow that you had dropped with numb arms before you had ascended the steps, rushing toward him. “But you know… I think I have something for you too.” 
Naturally, Carol looked confused - and you chose to show her what you meant rather than to explain. 
… 
You brought Carol and Daryl to a house in the complex that functioned as the school. They didn’t know that yet - and you asked them to wait outside as you rushed inside and boisterously disrupted the beginning of the afternoon class. 
The teacher began telling you off, but you didn’t care. 
Daryl and Carol were theorizing about what you were doing, half ready to go in after you when you stepped out the door with someone in tow. 
“What’s so important? We’re supposed to start reading King Lear today and I can’t miss-” 
Both of them looked up at the mousy voice and instantly recognized the streak of sandy blonde hair - a bit lighter now from exposure to the sun, topped on someone a bit taller than they remembered. 
“Sophia?” Carol gaped. 
A daughter she had said goodbye to in her mind, someone that she couldn’t keep hoping was alive. Somehow once again, standing right there in front of her, fully alive and well. Once again - all thanks to you. 
“Mom?” 
Sophia broke out of your grasp and ran from the door into her mother’s arms, and Carol quickly embraced the girl who was almost as tall as her now. Carol was unable to hold back her tears and you knew that it was a swelling of perfect emotion as they hugged each other so tightly. Daryl petted a gentle hand over Sophia’s hair as he looked at you fondly. 
You couldn’t imagine a more perfect day. 
Carol used a hand behind Sophia’s back to wipe some of her own tears from her cheeks, still not letting the girl go as she looked at you with a wet smile forming tightly across her face. 
“I should have known she’d be with you.” Carol choked out - her way of thanking you for taking care of her daughter. Clearly scolding herself for not keeping the faith alive that Sophia would be okay. 
“We’re BFFs.” You said, unable to hold back a smile. “Of course we’re gonna stick together.” 
… 
You thought back to the day you had first taken on the title of Sophia’s BFF. 
The two of you had been close since the group at the quarry had first formed. It was unfortunate, but Ed reminded you of your own father, and you found yourself gravitating toward Sophia because of that. A natural instinct kicking in that made you want to take care of her because you understood what she was going through. You knew that Carol had to take care of herself, had to keep her own head above water, and she said that she was always appreciative of your help. 
You knew that Sophia appreciated having you around, being treated with gentle caring and a certain kind of maturity that she needed from an older sibling that she didn’t have. You didn’t always treat her like a child - you talked to her like a person who needed to be listened to, who had her own feelings that needed to be heard. 
Especially after Ed’s death - when she was feeling conflicted about the partial relief of being freed from her father’s abuse but oddly missing him at that same time. You were more than happy to listen to her and give her honest advice. 
When she fled into the woods off the highway that day, Daryl had to physically hold you back to keep you from running into the tail end of the herd yourself. It would have been stupid for you to blindly run after her, especially considering that, at that point, you didn’t carry a knife or any other weapons on you regularly. You would have been running after Sophia with nothing but your bare hands and your best intentions. 
It would have ended up with you both dead, and in the end, you thanked Daryl for holding you back. 
Which was why you trusted Daryl greatly to find her. You trusted his skills and his abilities, and especially his judgment. And you silently cursed Andrea for almost shooting his head off and putting him out of commission in that search. Especially considering the fact that Shane and even Rick were clearly losing hope in ever finding Sophia alive, and it was clear that they were ready to call off any search efforts. They were ready to abandon the Greene farm and leave her out there to die. 
So after Daryl’s wounds had been treated, when he was resting in his tent, you decided that it was high time to get the search back on. Of course, you had to wait for Andrea to leave, after she had apologized to him and left him with one of Dale’s crappy books as entertainment - something you knew wouldn’t help him much, because he was far too much of a hands-on busy body to sit around and read. 
But you didn’t dwell too much on thinking about that. Instead, you stepped into the tent next without being invited, determined to get his advice so that you could pick up the search for Sophia where he had left off. 
Daryl’s eyes snapped open where he had been lightly dozing off and he glared at you - it wasn’t malice or true anger, instead, simply light annoyance. 
“Can’t get five minutes of damn peace ‘round here.” He grumbled out as you invited yourself fully into the tent and without speaking a word to him, came right in and sat down on the edge of his cot. 
He instinctively scooted away from you. He could have said that it was because you had aggravated soreness in his injured side where he was still stitched up. But truthfully, it was because he wasn’t used to having you (or anyone) this close. Though he also couldn’t deny that the simple warmth of your body - the gentle heat of your ass pressed up against his thigh from you having to sit so close on the small cot - it was nice. 
But he couldn’t think too much about that right now. 
You obviously weren’t as caught up on the simple act of closeness. You weren’t as mindful of being this close to another person. You were someone who thought nothing of hugs and other simple forms of affection - something that you did regularly with people you considered friends, like Glenn and Lori and Dale. 
Instead of thinking at all about how close you were sitting to Daryl, you dropped your bag at your feet and began rooting around inside of it, looking for something. A moment later, you pulled out a map, which you held in one hand and shoved tightly in Daryl’s face. 
“Show me where you found Sophia’s doll.” You ordered stiffly. 
Daryl grunted at you, chewing on one of his nails for a moment before he replied. 
“What good is that gon do?” He asked. 
You didn’t know how to track or follow a trail. You weren’t the outdoors type. If he sent you off looking for her, he’d probably have to go off into the woods looking for you next. 
You sighed and rolled your eyes. 
“Maggie is saddling one of the horses for me right now.” You explained. “You know that Shane has already given up, and Rick is about to.” 
You cleared your throat, trying to hide the quiver of potential tears. 
Daryl knew it wasn’t the kind of grief that everyone else held when talking about Sophia - you weren’t afraid that she was already dead and you would be combing the woods looking for a Walker to put down. You weren’t looking for closure. You were more terrified at the aspect of Shane and Rick giving up when someone you viewed as a little sister was still out there. You were afraid that she might be abandoned when she was still alive and had a chance to be rescued. 
“You’re not goin’ out there by yourself.” Daryl declared firmly. 
Predictably, he then tried to sit up - as if he would somehow accompany you in his severely injured state. But he didn’t make it very far off the cot before he let out a sharp wince of pain. Something he tried his hardest to conceal out of an ingrained toughness, so you knew that his pain had to be a lot worse than he was leading on. He fell back down instinctively and gripped a hand to his side, taking in sharp breaths as he tried to ignore the pain. 
“Well, you’re not going with me.” You griped sarcastically, motioning toward his injury. 
“Screw you.” Daryl replied, tossing up a middle finger - frustrated by his circumstances more than anything else. 
“Look, I’m gonna go whether you tell me where to pick up the trail or not.” You announced, firm and finite in your conviction. 
Of course. Stubborn. 
Daryl glared at you again. 
“And I’m not gonna drag your ass around with me,” You added on. “I just wanna know where you would search because before you got hurt, you were the best man for the job.” 
Daryl wanted to hate the snide, back-handed compliment - he wanted to hate your stubbornness and your inability to take ‘no’ for an answer. But he knew that you were going to keep to your word. You were going to do this with or without his help, and his help would be invaluable to someone like you. 
So, for some stupid reason, he folded to your will. 
(It would become a pattern so utterly predictable throughout your relationship. You were so direct and so stubborn that you learned how to play him like a fiddle.) 
“Gimme that damn map.” He grumbled out, finally folding to your infallible will. 
“Here, I have a pen. You can mark it down for me.” You announced brightly, giving him a chirpy smile as you got your own way. 
You reached back down to your bag, looking for the aforementioned pen, and Daryl bit his tongue. The fact that you even needed a marking on the map to remember what he was going to point out to you was a huge red flag for him - a sign of just how naive you were when it came to the woods, tracking, finding someone lost out there. 
He was already mentally preparing himself to go looking for you later. (He just hoped that this would be a good thing - that even if you got lost yourself, you would take some supplies to Sophia and help her survive a bit longer until he could get both of you back home.) 
He took the red pen that you handed to him and stiffly held the map, trying to ignore the gentle waft of floral soap coming off you as you leaned more into his personal space. More and more into his personal space, clearly trying to better pay attention to what he was showing you as he pointed to the landmarks on the piece of paper. 
“Found the doll down ‘round here.” He said, marking a small red X on the map. “I figured that she mighta dropped it when she was crossing the creek up somewhere here, and it washed downstream.” 
“Oh, okay.” You said. “So you think she’s on this side of the water?” You asked, pointing to a heading of your own. 
“Prolly.” Daryl nodded. “She gotta be close by the water cause it’s her only real landmark. You better stay close by the creek, got it? I don’t need to go in those damn woods lookin’ for your ass too if ya get lost.” 
“I’m not gonna get lost.” You sighed, snatching the map from him. 
“Make sure you don’t spend the whole time on the horse.” 
He added on, determined to give you good advice if you were determined to go out there. In the back of his mind, he was surprised that you knew how to ride a horse, but he didn’t bother to bring it up. Instead, he continued speaking about the topic at hand. 
“She’s little. It means she could be hidin’ somewhere down low. Caves, ditches, even down in the bushes. She could be passed out somewhere from the heat and you might not see her if you’re perched up high on that damn horse the whole time.” 
You nodded, soaking up all the information, determined to take advice from someone you knew was better versed in things like this than you were. 
“Anything else?” 
Daryl looked thoughtful for a moment. 
Then he reached off to the side for his own bag, holding in another pained wince as he stretched out his injured flesh. He batted away your hands as you went to help him, and his hands came back with a large knife - his hunting knife, sheathed in the cover that he often wore on his belt. You had never seen him without it, and you were surprised when he extended it out toward you - clearly wanting you to take the knife, even if only temporarily. 
“Daryl, that’s yours, I can’t-” 
“Shut up and take it.” He growled quietly. “This is gonna be better to you out there than any gun. And not just cause you’re a piss poor shot.” 
You rolled your eyes at the paper thin insult, but still hesitated to reach for the knife. 
“The woods are damn quiet, and if you run into a Walker, you gon need somethin’ quiet to take ‘em down.” He explained. And then, with a fair amount of cheek, he added on: “Come on. It’s for good luck.” 
You let out a sharp nasal sound that could have been mistaken for a laugh, and then you reached out and grabbed the knife, tucking the holster onto your belt. 
“Maybe I don’t need luck.” You stated, getting up and making your way toward the mouth of the tent. “If I run into a bunch of Walkers, I could just make a necklace out of ears. That would be very fashionable.” 
You winked at Daryl, and he flipped you off - though you knew he didn’t mean anything harsh by it, seeing as it was paired with a small smile that he was unable to hold back at your comment. 
“Asshole.” He mumbled under his breath. 
“I heard that!” 
(For some reason, this made him smile harder.) 
… 
Despite what Daryl believed, you were comfortable in the woods. 
You had spent a lot of your childhood camping - he likely would have called it ‘glamping’ (if he knew what that word was). Your family spent a lot of weekends in an RV, driving off to remote areas to go fishing or so that your father could go hunting. You spent a lot of time off in some cabin deep in the woods with no TV reception, playing around in the trees with a stick, making mud pies for fun. 
You knew the reason that you seemed so naive in Daryl’s eyes was because you spent all those childhood experiences very hands-off. Your father was a wicked control freak of a man who never let you touch anything, despite how many times you voiced wanting to learn. 
He insisted that your family have ‘happy’ family outings - he insisted that you get your ass in the boat while he was fishing, he insisted that you eat the game that he shot while out hunting, he insisted that you get out in nature because it was what he had done as a child. But he would never let you touch a fishing rod, he would never let you hold a gun to hunt or set a snare. He always told you it was because you were ‘too stupid’ and you would inevitably mess things up. 
So before Daryl had started teaching you the basics, you didn’t know how to read a map, you didn’t know how to start a fire, and you had been learning how to fix vehicles only because of Dale. Your mother was the one who insisted that you learn how to ride a horse because it was something she had learned during her childhood. (It had spawned a wicked argument between your parents that you didn’t want to think about.) 
But nonetheless, you felt comfortable by yourself in the quiet of the woods. It was a quiet you had come to enjoy throughout your childhood. 
It was why your ears immediately picked up on something - a particular noise - standing out from that quiet. The gentle thrashing of cicadas, the quiet bustle of leaves in the breeze, but then, something else. Crying. Distinctly - the sound of someone crying. 
You hopped off the horse that Maggie had given you and tied the saddle to a nearby tree, taking Daryl’s advice to get off and having a look on foot. 
And sure enough - you soon came to a small cliff, at the base of which there was a small rocky indenture that could have been considered a small cave. It was something that you might have passed by when perched so high on the horse. 
When you crouched down and got even lower on your hands and knees- 
“Sophia?” 
You almost couldn’t believe your luck. You had been riding for less than an hour, and fuck - there she was. 
She was curled up with her back to you, likely crying out of upset from being separated from her mother for so long, being scared and alone. Even covered in dirt - you recognized that blue tee shirt that she had been wearing when she had run off. And it’s not like there would be some other little girl hiding out in these woods. 
“Sophia.” You called her name a little firmer, in case she hadn’t heard you, or she was fatigued from the whole ordeal and needed a little extra jolt to awaken her attention toward you. It was then that her head turned and she gazed at you with two large teary eyes. 
“Y/N?” She hiccuped sorrowfully. “Wh-where’s my mom?” 
“Your mom is waiting for you,” You grinned at her, extending your arms out to invite her toward you - and she began crawling out to meet you. “Everybody set up camp at a farm just off the highway so we could look for you.” 
“I thought you were gonna leave me.” She sobbed, sitting upright and jumping into your arms - you couldn’t help but embrace her in a tight hug. 
Relief flooded your system, and though you knew that she was scared, hungry, and definitely dehydrated by now, you couldn’t be happier to have her in your arms - alive. To know that Carol would feel the same relief in such a short time. 
“Nobody was gonna leave you.” You assured her. 
You hated that it was a partial lie. But of course you weren’t going to tell her about Shane’s pessimism and Rick’s liability to fall for the ramblings of his best friend. They would all feel foolish when you rode back with her on the horse. And you would be happy to prove them wrong. 
Then, something else came to mind. 
“Are you hurt?” You asked, pulling away from the hug to inspect her. A secondary terror spiked your system. If she had been bitten - you didn’t know that you would be up to the task of ‘doing what needed to be done’ as Daryl had put it. 
“My ankle.” She said, motioning to her foot. Upon further examination, it was swollen so tightly that it looked more than painful, cartoonishly bulged over the edge of her shoe. The sight of it made you wince. “I fell down.” 
“Okay, well - one of the people at the farm is a doctor. So he’ll be able to fix you right up.” You smiled at her. “But you didn’t get scratched or - you didn’t get touched by any of the Walkers?” You asked, wanting to be sure. 
“I hid from them.” She assured you. “I was running away, and - and I got lost, and I couldn’t find my way back, and that’s when it got dark, and-” She broke into more sobs, and you reached out to hug her again. 
“It’s okay.” You assured her. “It’s okay, I’m gonna take you to your mom now.” 
“Look out!” Sophia screamed this in your ear suddenly, pointing a finger to something behind your back. 
Your heart thumped in your chest, panicked, and then, with an instinct you didn’t even know you had, you reached to the handle of the knife - Daryl’s knife on your belt. You pushed Sophia away, whipping around in order to jab the knife toward the danger. 
The first time you hit the Walker somewhere in the middle of its torso, and the second time you locked onto two disgusting yellow eyes - and you jabbed the knife right between them. Within seconds, all the movement in the Walker went limp, and it fell to the ground - and you let out a huff (not even fully knowing that you had been holding your breath) as you pulled the bloody knife out of its skull. 
“I got it.” You said, feeling victorious as you looked over your shoulder toward Sophia - who was shell-shocked and very tearful once again. “Let’s just… get on the horse and go back to the house, okay?” 
“There’s a horse?” 
You gave Sophia your canteen and she drank the entirety of the water during the ride back, and by the time the sun was setting, you were emerging from the trees with her sitting on the front of the saddle. 
On top of the RV, Dale and Andrea were having a dispute about who was supposed to be on watch. One especially heated after the debacle of Andrea accidentally shooting Daryl in the head. 
“Just give me - give me those! Give me those!” Andrea snapped, taking the binoculars from Dale. 
The man acquiesced to her fierce will, and he nodded, putting his hands up in surrender as he walked toward the edge of the RV to descend the ladder. 
Andrea put the binoculars to her face and looked out upon the fields, and what she saw shocked her more than the bloodied Daryl that she had mistaken as a lone Walker. 
“Oh my god.” Andrea gasped. 
“What?” Dale whipped back around, obviously thinking that something was wrong. “What? What?!” 
Andrea took down the binoculars and turned to Dale with a look of pure shock. 
“It’s Sophia.” 
… 
A short time later, everyone was gathered in the living room, an odd air of dread and tension having fallen over the group. It seemed that nobody else shared your joyous relief, as they were all anxious to hear it from Hershel’s mouth that Sophia was going to be fine. It was a case of waiting for the other shoe to drop, of course. 
It wasn’t long before Hershel came out of the downstairs bedroom to grace everyone with the news. 
“How’s she doin’?” Lori asked, practically trampling the man before he even had a chance to close the door behind himself. “Is she gonna be okay?” 
“Well - the girl is quite dehydrated after the adventure she’s been on,” He said, pressing that word, using it quite liberally. “But - after some IV fluids and rest, I don’t see any reason why she won’t make a full recovery.” 
Lori burst into tears. The previously silent room became a muddle of relieved sighs, delighted chatter, and more tears - and the joy you had somehow been suppressing exploded inside of you tenfold. As you looked around at everyone hugging and celebrating, you realized that there was just one person missing from the scene. 
The man who had made it possible to find her in the first place. 
You knew that Daryl should be resting because of his injuries - but what he should be doing, and what he usually did weren’t two things that often coincided. You wandered out the front door while everyone was distracted by the exchange of hugs and the general relief of the whole situation, and you weren’t surprised to find Daryl sitting in front of his tent, poking at a low-flamed fire with a long stick. 
You were slightly surprised to see him sitting up - but if you weren’t mistaken, his shirt was licked with blood on the side where his stitches would be underneath. So he was aggravating the wound and simply ignoring the consequences. Very predictable for him. 
“Hey.” You greeted him casually as you walked up. 
He didn’t bother to take his eyes off the flames, and after a quiet moment, he quietly spoke. 
“She okay?” He croaked out - his typical meditative speech. No more words than he needed. You liked that about him. 
“She’s great.” You answered. “You were right. She’s gonna eat a good meal and sleep in a warm bed tonight, and she’s gonna wake up next to her mother. She is gonna be more than fine.” 
If you weren’t mistaken, the small flinch at the side of his mouth - something that could have been taken for a tic in his cheek muscle - it was a genuine smile at the idea of Sophia actually being okay. A smile at something actually turning out well for the group. 
“And it’s all thanks to you.” You added on, taking the opportunity to give him genuine praise where it was due.  
Daryl shook his head. “Nah.” 
“Come on.” You sighed, crossing your arms. “You pointed to a place on the map, I went there, I found her. That’s all you.” 
Daryl rolled his eyes. “Maybe you’re just lucky.” 
You knew he was being snarky, but you couldn’t help leaning into it. 
“I am.” You grinned at him. 
He sighed harshly, shaking his head. He resisted the urge to argue, not wanting to ruin the general air of happiness at Sophia coming home alive. 
“But the knife did help.” You had to admit it - he had been right about forcing you to take it. You took it off your belt and extended it out back toward him, and he hesitated for a moment, perhaps wanting you to keep it for your own protection - and then he took it back. 
“Told ya it would.” He grumbled quietly. 
Before you could form some clever reply, you heard the front door of the house open once again, and you were surprised when Carol came marching toward you. You thought for certain that she would be attached to Sophia’s side after such an ordeal, but soon enough, she was sweeping you into a tearful hug. 
“Thank you.” She wept into your shoulder. “Thank you, thank you so much. You found my daughter - you brought her home.” 
“Oh. I…” You weren’t really sure how to respond. “It wasn’t all me. Daryl told me where to look. He was the one who followed the trail.” 
Again - you had to give him the credit where it was due. 
“Of course.” Carol nodded, pulling away from squeezing you and moving toward Daryl. 
He jumped up from his camping chair so fast that he knocked it over, nearly tripping over himself in an effort to escape her thankful affection. A tense silence fell over the three of you as he gripped at his side, and he stared her down with wide eyes like a deer caught in a hunter’s cross-hairs. 
“I got stitches.” He mumbled out, clearly looking for an excuse as to why he couldn’t be hugged in the same way. 
“Okay.” Carol replied meekly. “I still want to thank you for everything that you’ve done for my daughter.” 
“Yeah.” Daryl nodded. “Welcome.” 
Even if Daryl didn’t know it then, helping to bring Sophia home truly cemented his place in the group. If it wasn’t a truth in everyone’s eyes, it was you whispering it to them, hammering home the fact that he was more than worthy - not as some kind of politician, but because you truly believed in him. 
And while you spent time rooting for him, he became an iron clad wall behind you. He continued teaching you every single skill he could, imparting all of his knowledge. And while you had insisted on returning his knife to him, he realized that a bothersome nuisance was that you didn’t have a good knife of your own. 
And he needed to make sure that you got one. 
Things were always subtle with him. He never went out of his way to make it seem like he was intentionally being nice to you or giving you a gift. He always made it seem like it was a coincidence - a side effect of whatever else was happening at the time. If the two of you went hunting together, he was teaching you because it was practical, because he had to. 
If he picked a flower out of the ground and tucked it behind your ear, it was because he claimed you smelled bad and it would dampen ‘the stank comin’ off you’ - not because it was meant to be any kind of affectionate gesture. If he made sure that you got a little bit extra on your plate that night, it was because he didn’t like the particular kind of game he had picked up, or because he was giving you ‘the worst parts’. Not because he was trying to make sure that you ate more in order to stay healthy and keep from going hungry. 
So when he gifted you a hunting knife of your own, it was entirely by mistake, of course. 
You didn’t know that he had been on the lookout for one with the intention of giving it to you for weeks. He wanted you to be able to protect yourself, and to be able to gut and skin your own kills properly now that you were learning to hunt. And in order to do that, you needed a good knife of your own. 
It just so happened that he found the perfect one while the two of you were out on a formula run for Little Asskicker. The kid was only a few days old and had lungs like a professional opera singer, wailing loud enough to shake the prison walls every few hours, and she was going through enough formula to fill up a mac truck. At least, that’s what it seemed like. 
The stuff that Maggie and Daryl had gotten just after she had been born had only lasted about a week. So now, you were out with Daryl once again, raiding a small rest stop that the two of you had seen nearby while out on a hunt. 
So far, the trip had been pretty successful. 
After struggling to get through the heavily padlocked and gated front door, Daryl boosted you through a higher up back window - which left you impressed by his strength and slightly afraid to fall on the other side (and then grossed out by the state of the bathroom that you ended up in). You got the gate up from the inside and found the keys to the padlocks on the dead owner (sitting in his office chair with a bullet in his head beside a very typical scrawl on the wall about hopelessness that you tried to ignore). And soon, Daryl unlocked the chains and then the two of you were in. 
Turns out that the security had been a deterrent for other people, and the place was relatively untouched. The two of you made off like bandits. Medicine, bandages, canned food, bottled water, juice, and of course - plenty of baby formula. Daryl even found a spare car battery that would work for one of the vehicles, and a half full can of gas. 
You were celebrating your haul with a handful of jellybeans each, smiling to each other, when Daryl noticed something. The molding corpse of the owner, now nothing but dried out skin husking against the bones with tattered old clothes rotting on top - had a very nice leather knife holster on his belt. 
Some things really do withstand the test of time. 
He necked down the rest of his candy, and as he chewed, he stepped into the office and you cringed as he reached for the dead man. 
“What are you doing?” You asked. 
“Thas a nice knife.” He mumbled in return, causing an awful crunching sound as he peeled the holster off the corpse. 
You had to admire him - where everyone else saw decay, he saw possibilities. 
He took the knife out of the holster and admired it for a moment, and sure enough - it was a damn nice bowie knife. It would need to be sharpened, but things like this last a lifetime. It would be perfect for you. He took out his bandana and wiped it off a bit, getting off any of the decay or dead skin that the previous owner had gotten on it, and then, he turned to you. 
“Here.” He said, holding it out to you. “You need one.” 
You did have a knife on you - a small pocket knife that Maggie had lent you for the trip out. Though you knew it was a nice gesture in Daryl’s mind, you were slightly hesitant to take something that had come off a corpse. 
“No, I don’t-” You huffed, trying to deny it. 
Next, Daryl did something that entirely shocked you, causing any protests to easily die off in your throat. 
He stepped forward, crowding into your personal space with his tall, looming presence - hot, sweaty skin lurking on every inch of him, warm breath that lingered partially with cigarettes and the sugar he had just consumed becoming absolutely apparent under your nose. And then, he lifted up the edge of your shirt, causing sharp tingles all through your body when his knuckles brushed across the bare skin of your hip as he forcefully slatted the holster onto the edge of your pants. 
His eyes were sharply locked on your hip, refusing to look at you, busying himself with securing it and then straightening the fabric of your shirt behind it so that you would have easy access to it in case you needed it. But your gaze was hard locked on the side of his face, only inches from yours. And you knew that he could feel how thick the air had gotten between the two of you. That he hadn’t missed the tiny gasp you had let out the second his skin had brushed against yours. 
“Daryl-” You said his name quietly, a whispered prayer, and before you could wander any further into dangerous territory, he easily cut you off. 
“There.” He grunted out, stepping back, breaking off the tedious moment. “Now you got one.” 
Before things could swim any further into that murky territory, he moved back to the bags the two of you had packed full of supplies, forcefully busying himself with taking them out to secure onto his bike. 
That moment left you thinking about his hands for hours after, days after - and you still thought about that moment occasionally when you used the knife. 
Strangely enough, you didn’t work up the courage to kiss him for the first time until much later, still lingering with the belief that he might reject you, even after that heated moment. 
It wasn’t long before news got around to the rest of the group that you and Sophia were in Alexandria, alive and well. You were greeted with many tight hugs, excited chattering, and you were introduced to the new people who had helped the group along the way and seemed to have cemented themselves into the family now. 
Quickly the idea came about that everyone should gather for a big family dinner - much like the one that was held to celebrate Sophia coming out of the woods alive and well. 
Even though it was something that had peeved you earlier, ultimately you were glad that Olivia hadn’t put the deer meat in the freezer, because it meant that you were able to treat everyone to something fresh. On top of that, when you had first arrived in Alexandria, Aiden had gifted you a few bottles of wine with some cheeky line about ‘sharing’ them with you whenever you wanted, and they had been gathering dust in a cabinet somewhere - so you could think of no better occasion to open them. Soon, you were all sitting in the living room of the house that Rick and company had been sleeping in - sleeping bags and blankets cleaned up in favor of a jumble of mismatched tables and chairs thrown together to make a long dining table that would fit the entire group. 
Surrounding the table was the whole group - Rick, Michonne, and Carl who was holding sweet little Judith on his knee (someone you had been so excited to see again). Beth and her new friend Noah (who were not-so-subtly holding hands underneath the table). Maggie and Glenn (who had hugged you so tight upon seeing you and refused to let go for nearly a full minute), their new friends Abraham, Rosita, Tara, and Eugene. Sasha, Bob (who looked happier than ever somehow) and Tyreese. 
And to round out the table, Carol sitting close by to Sophia with an arm wrapped lovingly around her daughter. Daryl was sitting next to you with a hand so shamelessly on your thigh - something that he never would have done before that you absolutely loved. As you looked around, all you saw was family - even in the people you didn’t fully know yet. You knew from Glenn and Beth’s words that the new people were nothing but good - and that was more than good enough for you. 
Radiating through you was nothing but pure joy. You truly didn’t know how things could get any better than this. 
“Well, I would like to propose a toast to our host,” Abraham said, rising up out of his seat and raising the plastic cup that he had filled with wine toward you. 
“Technically, Rick is our host,” You reminded him, nodding toward the man who looked so odd when he was clean shaven. It felt so strange to see his naked face. 
“Hey, this has only been my house for a day.” Rick replied with a shrug. “You can take full credit for giving us the best damn welcome wagon ever. This is a pretty fine spread you managed to put together on such short notice.” 
“Well, in my book, anybody who brings such good grub and such prime booze is the host,” Abraham argued lightly, giving a grin. “Plus, you were crawling around in the woods and shot down this buck so we could eat it. That deserves a thanks.” 
“Well, you’re welcome.” You shrugged in return. 
Everyone else raised their glasses in a slightly disorganized chorus of ‘thanks’, and Abraham accepted this and sat back down. You felt almost too humble and too embarrassed to accept it. You didn’t think that providing food for your family was all too big of a deal. 
“Dude, I’m just happy to be eating something that’s not from a can.” Tara added on with a grin. 
“I’m just happy that we’re all together again,” Bob replied with a smile. 
“Cheesy.” Sasha scolded him lovingly, rolling her eyes. 
“Well, I’m not the only one deserving of thanks.” You shrugged, feeling a need to deflect some of that embarrassment. “Daryl taught me how to hunt.” You explained, giving him a pat on the thigh to affirm the credit in his direction. “I wouldn’t even know how to hold a knife properly if it wasn’t for him.” 
Carol smirked. “That’s always your story, isn’t it?” She mocked you gently. “‘Daryl showed me the map.’ ‘Daryl taught me how to build a fire without matches.’ ‘Daryl taught me how to hotwire a car.’” She said, performing a mocking imitation of your voice. 
Sophia let out a gentle laugh at this, having heard this plenty of times from you while on the road together. 
This time, you could see Daryl shrinking back into his seat slightly with embarrassment, his eyes purposefully fixated on his empty plate instead of looking at anybody else around the table. 
“Well, it’s true.” You replied. 
… 
You thought back to a time shortly after you and Sophia had escaped the prison alive. You had tried looking for the others, and found nothing but the stalled prison bus, surrounded by corpses. The two of you were tired, broken down, starving - luckily, you and Daryl kept some hunting supplies outside the fence for when the two of you went hunting, including the spare crossbow that he had fixed up to teach you with. 
So you had managed to snag a few squirrels and gut them just as night fell, and you started a fire with the flint and steel with minimal difficulty as he had taught you. 
“Daryl taught you all this stuff, huh?” Sophia wondered aloud as she watched you put the flayed squirrels, now skewered onto sticks, over the fire to be cooked. 
“Yeah.” You confirmed gently. “I’m certainly glad he did.” 
You didn’t let yourself wonder where Daryl was, if he was okay. You couldn’t imagine that someone like him would be easily taken down by Walkers, not with how you had seen him handle himself. Anybody could be blown apart by a thousand pound tank or smashed by falling concrete, even if they were as skilled and vigilant as him. 
But you refused to let yourself think about it. You refused to worry about going back to pick over ashes just to have some confirmation - because there wouldn’t be any. You had to believe he was alive, or not even think about him at all. 
You had to take care of Sophia. 
A rattle in the leaves behind you caught your attention, and you grabbed your crossbow without any hesitation. You whipped around and pointed it toward the source of the sound, and soon found yourself staring down a random man. He didn’t hesitate to walk closer to your makeshift campsite, clearly unafraid of you even with your weapon raised. 
He was obviously someone who had been outside a long time - his clothes dirty and tattered, his teeth rotting as he gave you a filthy smile. 
“What do we have here? Hmm?” He greeted you in an oddly calm way - perhaps his attempt at mocking kindness. 
A general sense of unease caused all of your hair to stand on end. 
“Sophia,” You called her name gently, getting her attention, and in a moment, she was at your back, standing behind you while you stayed guarded. 
“Y/N-” She said your name quietly, grasping at the back of your shirt. 
“It’s okay.” You assured her, keeping the man locked in your sights as he came to fully stand in the light of the fire that you had made. 
“Oh, it is okay.” The man chuckled. “I assure you that I don’t mean any harm.” 
He gave another filthy smile - not just dirty by the color of his teeth, but something deeply unsettling that made your stomach twist with disgust. 
“I’m only looking for a kind person to share the night with. Perhaps I can share the warmth of your fire, and we can make friends.” 
He peered around you then, and eyed Sophia heavily with a look that made you all too certain your next move. 
You pulled the trigger on your bow and shot him, the arrow landing perfectly in the hollow of his neck - he sputtered on his own blood for a moment, and then fell to the ground. You felt regretful that Sophia had to witness it, but you knew that sadly, during her time at the prison, she had seen similar or even worse things. 
Once you were sure that he was dead, you walked over to his corpse and pulled out the arrow, and stabbed him in the temple with it to make sure that he stayed down. And then, almost hearing Daryl’s voice in your ear telling you what to do next, you began looking over his corpse for anything useful. His backpack held a few cans of food, and the knife on his belt wasn’t too bad. You gave it to Sophia and reminded her to tuck her shirt behind it as her mother had instructed. 
After you dragged the body far enough away so that it wouldn’t be an eyesore, the two of you enjoyed some canned spinach alongside the squirrels for dinner. 
“He knows a lot of very practical stuff and I’m lucky that he’s taught me so much.” You added on, not even realizing how much praise dripped through your voice as you spoke about Daryl. “It’s a huge reason that me and Sophia survived out there for so long. I was able to get us food and fix vehicles for us to get along because of what Daryl taught me. Back at the beginning of all this, I would have been so helpless and… probably dead if I had gotten stranded out there by myself.” 
You felt Daryl’s eyes on you, thoughtfully fixed on the side of your face, and he gently squeezed your thigh. It warmed him to the core to know that he had given you a gift - that he had kept you and Sophia alive with the proxy of his knowledge and skills, even if he couldn’t be there to protect you and provide for you himself. In a way, he had kept you fed and safe all that time. 
It was so sweet that you felt a devilish temptation curling up in you. 
“And you know, him being cute is just a bonus.” You added on with a grin - knowing that it would tickle him with embarrassment that you had loudly, affectionately announced this in front of the group. 
And it worked. 
“Aw, shove it.” Daryl scoffed, reaching up to shove your shoulder. 
But you didn’t get very far away, didn’t get to fall off your chair completely before he took the hand off your thigh and wrapped that arm around your neck, pulling you close and smothering your cheek in a few beard-scratchy kisses, making you cringe and smile all at the same time. 
This was a brand new, openly affectionate side of Daryl that you had never seen before. He had missed you for so long and he certainly wasn’t wasting making up for lost time. 
Fuck, you really loved him. 
“You know, Dixon, I never woulda guessed that you off all people would be saddled up.” Andraham commented. 
“Yeah, you never mentioned Y/N before,” Rosita added on, clearly curious as to why Daryl had never mentioned you. 
Beth gave Daryl a very knowing look as he reached for his glass of wine and finished it off, and Daryl felt lucky when someone else spoke up before he could. 
“We all saw it coming. Him getting ‘saddled up’, that is.” Michonne added on with a smile. “Carl owes me a Baby Ruth, though.” 
“The over-under was two years,” Carl hissed quietly in reply. 
Rick glared at them, and any further discussion about this bet was silenced. 
“You never told us how you got out.” Glenn piped up, suddenly curious about this. “The prison was utter chaos, if I had known that someone else was alive in A-Block, I would have-” 
“It’s not your fault.” You pressed. “It’s actually a really crazy story.” 
“Well please - do tell.” Sasha said. 
… 
Chaos. Noise. 
Being woken from the deepest unconsciousness of your life, still coughing up ugly yellow mucus and nearly having large chunks of the concrete ceiling fall on top of you due to an apparent explosion - definitely not one of your best days. Your vision was a clumpy haze due to the sickness you were still battling and you had to forcefully, bloodily rip out the IV that Hershel had put in you in order to try and navigate through it all. You climbed over the fallen bits of the building, stumbling around with a dizzy, weak body to climb down what was left of the stairs and partially falling down to the ground floor. 
“He - hell - o?!” Your efforts to call out for help were damped by coughing and the general chaos around you - the sounds of more explosions and a hail of gunfire that you could barely form panic over because your head was pounding and you still felt so fucking ill. 
You needed to find Daryl. You needed to find somebody. 
The prison bus. That was the plan if things ever went wrong. 
You moved toward the exit and found that the main hallway was blocked by more debris, but a splintering path that you knew led toward the library wasn’t. Even in your hazy state, you remembered the fact that Carol had a very large trunk in the library filled with emergency supplies. Water, dry rations, and knives that she had been teaching the kids with. Even if you couldn’t get to the bus, you could get those supplies and get out on foot. The others would likely be camping somewhere along the highway when the bus eventually ran out of gas, so you could catch up to them - eventually. 
It was the best plan you could come up with on such short notice, so you stumbled your way toward the library, and as soon as you opened the door - another explosion rocked the building, causing one of the tall, unsecured bookshelves to come tumbling down on top of you. You ended up flat on your back with the large shelf crushing you, leaving you as perfect bait for Walkers that were likely being lured by all that noise outside. 
Though you were already weak from illness, you did try to move your arms - and you found out that only one of them wasn’t completely pinned down by the shelf. It was a completely futile effort to try and lift the thing off yourself. Between the weight on top of your lungs and the way the illness had weakened your system - you soon passed out. 
When you drifted back into consciousness, the noise had greatly lessened. There was the faint growling of Walkers - cordoned off unintentionally in some other area of the prison - but there were no more explosions, and no more gun fire. 
The first thing that caught your eye was something bright red. You focused your eyes to focus, and you quickly realized that it was a picture of a red cardinal. A hand-drawn sketch on the front of a book titled ‘Birds of North America’ that was on one of the other shelves. It was tipped perfectly into the line of your vision, as if meant for you to see. 
Before you could futilely try to lift the shelf off yourself again, you heard a voice. 
“Hello? Is anyone in here?” 
You quickly recognized who it was. 
“So-Sophia?” You called back, barking out another cough that strained your words. Luckily, she heard you. 
You were soon greeted by the sight of her legs rushing toward you. Though you had no clue how such a waifish girl would ever be able to lift the bookcase off you, you were at least relieved that you were no longer alone. 
“What happened?” She asked, kneeling down to speak to you. 
“Stupid thing fell on me.” You wheezed quietly. “I came in here looking for your mom’s stash. I’m guessing you had the same idea?” 
“Yeah.” She confirmed. “Can you get this thing off you?” 
“Yeah. I was just having a leisurely lie down underneath a bookshelf.” 
Sophia rolled her eyes at your sarcasm. 
“Guess I’ll just leave you here then.” She remarked, battling back with her own sarcasm, clearly having no intentions of doing so. 
“Well you might have to… I have no clue how you’re gonna lift this thing off me.” You admitted quietly, hating how defeated you sounded. 
“I think I have an idea.” 
You were curious what she meant, and you couldn’t quite see what she was doing as she stepped out of your eyeline and made some noise, shuffling around to grab something. Then she came back with a long wooden beam - a shelf she had broken off of one of the other fallen bookcases. She stacked up a few of the books, making a hinging point, and then stuck the beam underneath the bookcase and somehow - using all her bodyweight, she was able to push it off you for long enough for you to crawl out from underneath it. 
“Thanks, kid.” You smiled at her as you sucked in greedy breaths. 
“Glenn taught me that.” She smiled back. “He said it’s basic physics.” 
“I’ll remember to thank him when I see him.” You said. 
… 
Sitting at the dinner table, you then turned to Glenn. 
“That reminds me,” You said. “Thanks for that.” 
Glenn chuckled. “Happy to help.” 
“Okay, okay, I’ve just one question,” Rick piped up. “Why did you have a stash of weapons in the library, Carol?” 
Carol took a long sip of wine, pointedly avoiding the question. 
“Oh shit, he never found out about storytime, did he?” Carl chuckled, obviously directing this question toward Carol. 
“Storytime?” Rick echoed, eyeing his son heavily, clearly confused. 
You cut them off, not wanting to get Carol in trouble for her proactive teaching a bit too late. 
“Okay, let’s all just be happy that we’re together and that we’ve had a nice meal.” You said. “I’m not doing dishes. You guys have fun with that. Come on, Daryl, I’ve got somethin’ to show you.” You made your exit, getting up from the table and hoping he would follow - which he did, making way to push out his chair. 
“Is it your bare ass?” Abraham joked, clearly at least a bit drunk. 
“Abraham!” Rosita chastised him with a gentle smack. 
“What? I think it’s cute that Dixon’s all shacked up.” He replied with a chuckle. 
“You’re lucky he doesn’t punch your lights out for that one.” Tara remarked. 
“Nah, you’re safer with Y/N around.” Maggie commented. “He gets all soft when he’s around Y/N. It is cute.” 
“Oh, if you think this is cute just wait til I tell you about what they were like back at the prison.” Michonne added on. “He used to bring Y/N dead squirrels like a cat dropping dead mice at someone’s doorstep. I have no clue how such an odd form of flirting actually worked.” 
“Well, some people like dead squirrels, some people like toothpaste.” Rick replied. 
And that was the last of the conversation you heard before you closed the front door behind you, going off down the street with Daryl in tow to show him your place. 
When you took him up the porch of another manicured house and opened the door, he quietly croaked out: 
“This ‘ur place?” 
“Yeah.” 
You told him, shoving your boots off, not wanting to get dirt on the clean rugs inside. Daryl felt a bit strange taking his shoes off - knowing that his overly worn socks had holes in them, but still, he followed suit. He knew you wouldn’t judge him for something as petty as his socks having holes in them, after all. 
“This is where me and Sophia have been living. But there’s always room for one more. If you’re done snuggling up next to Rick on the living room floor,” You couldn’t let another opportune joke escape you, and Daryl rolled his eyes. 
“Asshole.” He gently scoffed. 
Though the two of you had never slept in the same bed together before. And he couldn’t help but to love the idea of being curled up next to you at night. He found that he also loved the idea of waking up next to you every morning - especially after going for so long without seeing your face. You walked up the stairs and he couldn’t help but to follow you, and he was surprised when you didn’t lead him to bed - but instead, went to the back of a hallway, and pulled down a latch. 
This unleashed some stairs that led to the attic, leading the two of you up even higher. He found himself shamelessly admiring the view of your ass as he followed you up the stairs, and when he emerged into the dark attic (only lit by a few strokes of moonlight coming in through the small window) - he was surprised by what he saw. He had to crouch down on his hands and knees to be comfortable, and he quickly adjusted to sit down on his ass as you had. 
It appeared that you had built a watchtower of sorts up here. 
There was a telescope set up in the small window, and off to one side, there was a cork board with a hand-drawn map of the surrounding area, a few notebooks sitting in the corner that you likely wrote down observances in. Posted on the cork board - there were names of all the residences in town, and you had written down certain traits beside each of them. Along with a hand drawn map of the town itself and names on the houses, indicating where everyone lived. 
“So you’re gettin’ paranoid?” Daryl joked. 
“No.” You scoffed. “Besides, you should know that a healthy level of paranoia is necessary these days.” 
It was in that moment that it truly hit Daryl - you had taught him to be hopeful, even if he hadn’t fully known it at the time. And he had taught you to be less naive, to be firmer in order to survive. The two of you were only alive, only able to have the privilege of being in each other’s presence now because you had accepted those pieces of the other person that kept you alive. 
“Ain’t that right.” He replied. “Why did you wanna show me?” 
You shrugged. “I thought you might like it.” 
Daryl couldn’t hold back his grin - one of the most genuine smiles you had ever seen come from him. He did like it. He liked that he had made a little fighter out of you. But at the same time, nothing had snubbed out the perfect spark that he had fallen in love with. Your smile, your laughter, the brightness in your eyes - somehow, it was all still the same. It made him love you even more somehow. 
“I guess I also wanted to thank you.” You added on. “I meant what I said before. You taught me so much - I would have been clueless without you. I would have starved to death and been blind, and lost and stupid without everything that you taught me.” You declared passionately. “You kept me fed and sheltered and warm, and I don’t know how much I could thank you for that.” 
Daryl began to get choked up, and he hated that for the second time that day, more tears swelled in his eyes. 
He knew that in a different way, you had kept him fed, sheltered, and warm too. You had kept his soul from dying out in those woods - you had kept his spirit fed on the idea of hope that he never would have conceived as something real before he had met you.
He couldn’t bring himself to put it into words. So instead, he found himself reaching out toward you. He put a firm hand under your jaw and guided you toward him; you easily fell limp to the touch and let yourself be guided toward his mouth once again. 
This was much less of a surprise than the earlier kiss. This was much warmer, like sinking into the hot shower had been earlier that day. Only this was much, much better. You let out a gentle moan as you let yourself feel it, simply enjoying the tingling sensation throughout your body, gripping into the lapels of his vest, crawling forward to sit in his lap as your mouth embraced his. 
After a moment, you pulled away. There was only one thing on your mind, one incomplete thread that you had been thinking about since you had lost him at the prison. 
“I love you too.” 
Daryl grunted in reply and pulled your mouth back to his. 
For once in his life, he didn’t feel like a fool for letting himself hope. 
That night, Daryl went to sleep in your bed. 
For the first time in far too long, he got to wake up knowing that you were alive and well - he had the privilege of being greeted by the sound of your even, calm breaths. You slept on his chest long after he awoke, and he let you. He was greedy and starved for your touch, soaking in the feeling of your warmth half on top of him, nosing over the top of your head to enjoy your natural scent mixed lightly with the smell of soap. 
As the sun rose over the walls of Alexandria, Daryl noticed a streak of red flash by and land on the roof of a house beside yours. Through the window, he saw it there perfectly - the red cardinal that you had gifted him with for luck, the symbol that had guided him all the way here, all the way back to you.  
He couldn’t help it, then - he grinned to himself. 
The next day, he found one of those picture frames that Aaron had gifted the group with that they largely had no use for, and he put your picture of the bird, still singed on one edge, inside of it. 
A while later, when the two of you were out on a run and he had a bit of time on his hands as you fell asleep - he edged a stick n poke tattoo into the skin of his forearm, outlining the bird as best he could with his very little artistic talent. When you saw it, you giggled - and he assured you that it was because he liked the look of it, most definitely not for luck. 
He didn’t need ‘luck’ anymore - not when he had you.
...
A/N: This is a stand-alone oneshot, and there will not be a follow up or a 'Part 2'. I have always intended for this to be a stand-alone story, so please do not ask for a follow up or a sequel in the comments. If you are going to comment, please comment about the material that has already been written. If you want to see more TWD fics from me, I have some posted on AO3 (which is linked in my pinned) but I don't currently have any of my other TWD fics posted on Tumblr. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoyed this!
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pinkaditty · 2 months ago
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Towa Otonashi x Reader
it's. self-indulgent. i don't have much of an excuse...
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a/n: so how'd i come up with this one? well. i was talking 2 my friend about cockwarming and id been seeing a lot of towa content lately, so it just suddenly appeared in my mind... why not stick the two together? i literally wrote this in one sitting 2day and i can honest 2 god say: i'm proud of it. i hope y'all enjoy it.
quick disclaimer that i write these under the assumption the tokyo debunker boys are at least 18 years old. they appear to be present at a university considering there are professors and a chancellor. not to mention the boys drink, smoke, gamble, and refer to themselves as adults.
summary: ur cockwarming towa essentially.
cw: cockwarming!!!!!!!!! slight dom!reader ish, sub!char, it's really just a little fun idea i had. MINORS DNI!!!!!!!!!!!!!! oh yea not proofread lmao
whippee porn under the cut!!!!!!!!
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Cockwarming with Towa is simultaneously frustrating and euphoric. 
When you first slide yourself onto him, shifting your uniform to make room, he sighs blissfully, a deep groan sprouting from his throat. The first thing he does is throw his arms around your midsection and bury his face in your chest, muffling his groans into your shirt as you finally take him all in. He rubs his cheek back and forth against your chest, humming contentedly. You lift your hands and run your fingers through his hair, gently scratching your nails against his scalp, to which he shivers and holds you closer, his length twitching within you. 
He may be rock hard, but he’s also a sucker for romance. Once he’s had enough of snuggling your chest, he’ll crane his neck upwards towards you to gently press a kiss on your lips, but only if you don’t playfully tease him and move away. Of course, with his arms around your midsection, you don’t get very far, so he will kiss you eventually. His hands will move from your midsection to your upper back, urgently pressing you closer to him. His kisses are gentle and unhurried, but open-mouthed, a clear sign of his excitement. Your cheeks, your nose, your ears, lips, your chin, your neck, your shoulder, and your chest are all littered with as many kisses as he can muster. His tongue gently swipes across your neck and chest and shoulder and ears, leaving you shivering at the feeling of cool air replacing the warmth of his lips. To tease him, you would shift your hips a little, pretending to accidentally lift them just a bit before settling back into place. This alone would send a sense of urgency through him. 
By this point, Towa’s face is a blotchy red, his lips are glistening wet with his own saliva and stuck in a mischievous pout, and his eyes have a sudden spark of hunger to them. He will tighten his grip around your midsection, urgently pressing his hips upwards into yours. There’s only so much more to push inside, but still, you can feel him swell, his tip pressing into the deepest parts of you. Only one loud moan escapes him before he curls his face into your chest again, muffling his noise. He’ll move his hands to your hips, pushing you down onto him with a bruising grip. He continues to curl his hips upwards, not thrusting, but holding that position. You’ll feel his length continue to twitch urgently, his hands switching between squeezing your hips and wrapping themselves around you, wanting to bring you closer. He’ll groan, partly out of pleasure and partly out of indignance, as though frustrated he can’t go any deeper. 
And finally, he’ll look up at you. He’s panting, and you can feel his breath puffing against your chest. His eyes are watery, like he’s close to tears. You will gently coo at him and stroke your nails against his scalp again as you card your fingers through his hair. He simply melts into you, a look of bliss crossing his face. You pull him away from you, gently, and he stares. His mouth is open in heavy pants, saliva dripping past his lips and onto his chin, his cheeks a deep cherry red, his eyes shining with pitiful tears. He’s asking, pleading, begging you, with that pouty look in his eyes. The longer you stare at him, the more you’ll watch him break down, his face crumpling into a desperate expression and his whines getting a little louder. It isn’t long til you feel something warm and liquidy spill within you. You’ll be able to tell it’s only precum, but it’ll amuse you nonetheless. 
He looks at you expectantly, hoping you’ll fall for his pathetic pleading. So? Will you let him thrust or not?
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a/n: going feral tbh this was... probably my best one yet. im in love with this one. i hop e you all enjoy!!!!!!
usual note ofc that i love likes, comments, and reblogs!!!!!!! please do tell me how much you like my writing!!!! it fills me with immense glee i swear i treasure every silly tagged rb i get
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tojjist · 1 year ago
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“At Least” S. Gojo
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☆ genre: angst to fluff (kinda)
☆ pairings: Gojo Satoru x f! reader
☆ summary: After Geto left, nothing has been the same. Especially not your relationship with Gojo Satoru. Once you decide to move to Kyoto for good, Gojo is less than pleased. But fate does not seem to want to let you go.
☆ cw: mentions of sex, depressed gojo, not spoiler free, hopping between timelines but like i added non-canon events, smoking, drinking, getting drunk, high school Gojo being a high school boy, cussing, mentions of drunk sex but it doesn’t happen, mentions character death (from the anime), gojo satoru (yes that's a trigger warning).
☆ wc : 5.6k
☆ a/n: this has been in the doing for so long? I've been waiting to have the chance to upload it for maybe a year now smh. Also was originally written for an irl of mine lmao
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“Oh my god,” you emphasize each word, pushing the wooden chair away with your knee. “Satoru, is it yours?”
His black pupils, lined with iris the color of morning skies, study your figure from behind the shaded glasses, pink lips quirking slightly upwards in approval of your attention.
“Nah, it's only staying with me for a week,” he stated, watching nervously as you strode over to him. “His owner is away for some business.”
Your attention remained fixed on the pet in Satoru's long, long arms. Your face lit up when a bark escaped the infant animal. “Can I hold it?”
Satoru watched over you carefully, pleading eyes coming in line with his blues. You make it hard to say anything other than an immediate yes, but he tries to stretch out the conversation to his best ability.
“It's 400 yen for 10 minutes,” he muttered, sarcasm dripping from his words. He earned a look of amusement from you; a small victory. He then braced himself for the next part. Satoru bent down, meeting you eye-to-eye, and noticed your breath catching in anticipation. “Or... you can shorten your skirt.”
Your face took no time to grow hot, not giving any verbal answer besides the blank expression you stare at him with. For a second, Gojo let himself think he's the victor of this little challenge he started in his head. But he soon came to realize how grave of a mistake he's made.
You're not flustered, you're angry.
“You're such a fucking pervert,” you fume, eyes glaring daggers. He dares not move, noticing the way your eyes flutter over his face.
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“You're truly unbelievable,” the shorter male chuckled, making sure he didn't bump into Satoru's now-bruised arm. “What were you even thinking?”
“I thought it was funny, y'know?” He huffed in response. Gojo's fingers ran through his own bright locks as he took a seat on the wood hung up by metal chains. "Besides, has she always been this strong? Physically, I mean."
Geto stared into the reddish sky of dusk, placing himself into a swing in turn and kicking the air so the swing would start moving. "I don't know. Girls are really full of surprises.”
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He never thought, not in a million years, things would come to this. Ever since Gojo's last encounter with Geto after he, well, changed... Gojo became unable to face anyone quite the same way he did before.
How did he get here? How did things escalate to this? Thinking about it, Geto had shown signs of a change in his heart and mind. It was Satoru's fault, was it not? He should have done better. He should have noticed. How could he not have? wasn't he the strongest? Wasn't that his job? How could he be so bad at everything?
How could he fail everyone like this?
“Gojo-San?”
Your feminine voice cut his train of thought. He almost forgot the situation he is now stuck in. He's been doing that a lot: losing himself in thought, mind almost immune to the outer world until he temporarily lost his sense of self. Nothing felt quite the same any more. It was like the world had lost its color.
“Sorry- What's up?” He turned to you. Gojo-san, you called him. When did you stop using his given name? What's with the '-san'? Gojo hadn't realized that losing one person was the first step, and now he found himself deep in the road of losing everyone.
And now he's stuck in the elevator with the girl he had liked for so long. He couldn't find it in himself to say anything to you, to push your buttons like he always did or joke around. When did the world become so heavy? He does not know.
“Are you okay? You seemed off.”
Your face is devoid of any genuine emotion, seemingly expressionless. But your voice is laced with concern. Gojo could only guess you didn't want him thinking you pity him or anything of such. But if that isn't the case, he wouldn't know. He's too tired to bother thinking about it.
“Yeah, yeah. I'm fine,” he smiled in assurance, “Just bothered by, well, this-” he threw his hand in the way of the control panel. The elevator doors have been stuck for almost twenty minutes now. How pleasant.
“uh huh,” you sigh, turning back around. How did you turn so cold?
When the silence stretches, you start a conversation, hesitant at first. “By the way, I got accepted as a helper in a nursery in Kyoto,” you mutter, gaze avoiding his own. “they're expecting me to start work right after spring break.”
Spring break?
Holy shit. It hit him like a truck. That’s barely a week and a half from now.
“Spring break? Why so soon?”
“That’s when the students file back in,” you mumble, fiddling with the watch placed around your wrist. You pause to read the time, then turn to meet his eyes. “I’m leaving in four days to get settled.”
“Oh…” His breath caught, “Train?”
What a stupid question. He knows. Satoru has never been unintelligent, especially in conversing. But now his unintelligence shines through as if it’s his only trait. He’s glad you don’t question it.
“Yeah, I have no other form of transport really.”
“Well, uh…” He hates himself. He hates himself for not doing anything. He hates himself for being so weak and  cowardly, for being unable to keep his friends around him, for shutting everyone he holds close out. But now, he especially hates himself for being unable to feel happy for you, or to congratulate you on the opportunity, “come visit us every once in a while, yeah?”
Your mouth remains shut, only staring at the tall man before your eyes. The silence stretches between the two of you once again, and you don’t find it in you to speak of how you feel.
“You.. you know you could have died, right? We all could have b-but you…” You trail off, thoughts splattered like a spilled pot of ink. Although you seemed unfazed, in your mind you were anything but. Haibara, Riko, and all the losses that trailed and every event that followed has been stressful and nerve-wrecking. And even in the quietness and silence of the general atmosphere, it has been nearly impossible to find peace within yourself.
“Well, I didn’t. What happened had passed. Can you change that? I doubt so. No point in ‘if’ and ‘could’ve’.”
Before you could respond,the lights flickered back on. You grow unsure if you’ve struck a nerve, but that wasn’t what you meant. Gojo’s response had nothing to do with what you said, you were sure he knew exactly what your words were meant for. Why is he so scared of confronting it?
You don’t know. You could never hope to know because you and Gojo Satoru live in different worlds, the man who was only Satoru some time ago. You were worlds apart, yet  Satoru loved to play pretend that he lived in the same world as you, even when he stuck out like a sore thumb. But he was no longer. Ever since Geto left… it’s safe to say everyone has been changing slowly, deforming from their previous lives and personalities. But Satoru flipped, like the head and tail of a coin, he got himself a new face. He turned into Gojo Satoru; the strongest. A soul unalive. A broken boy in an ever growing body. A stranger.
Two days later you find yourself still roaming the campus , searching so desperately for something. Anything. A reason to stay, perhaps? You don’t find it anyway. You have no attachment as this place holds nothing but misery. Or that’s what you told yourself over and over as you packed your things.
Your steps were graceful, walking so cautiously as if careful to not wake someone up. Your fingers find rest on the old, dusty door frame, pushing yourself into the room that hadn’t been used for a good month or so. The classroom looked the same as it always did. Except for the shadow that loomed over it; a gray shade that sent chills down your spine. Or maybe it’s just your imagination. 
Then you spot something rather out of place. You’re sure you’ve never seen it before and although you know it’s none of your business, the way it tugs at the strings of your curiosity is undeniable.
It’s red, poking out of what you’re sure is Gojo’s desk. The gloomy classroom was no fit for paper with a color so vibrant. 
Your heart skips a beat when you glimpse the seat next to Satoru’s. You do your best to avoid looking at Geto’s desk any further. You busy yourself with the task at hand, reaching out for the mysterious paper hidden in the wooden desk. Shivers run up your arm at the texture of the scrunched paper.
You attempt to straighten it to your best ability, strained by his hard work of crumbling it with obvious frustration. you can barely make out the letters of your name in the middle of the paper, outlined by a messy circle. How Gojo of him. A few lines stick out of the ‘circle’, one of them has the name of a steakhouse somewhere in Tokyo. Another has a date, reading somewhere along February. It’s near impossible to make out what the small combination of letters say, especially when Satoru’s handwriting is closer to symbols than a comprehensible language.
The thought of it was so funny it didn’t feel like him at all. Satoru never planned anything. Every breath he took was based on pure impulse. Never would it have occurred to you that he thinks through things, let alone brainstorm.
The thought makes you smile. But the realization that he never asked you out because he changed his mind or everything that happened getting in his way makes your stomach churn unpleasantly. 
You decide it’s probably for the best to never bring it up. It would only make matters worse for both of you. Life ran its course; who are you to try and change it?
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“I apologize, but my answer remains. I refuse to take part in this,” you spoke in an even tone. “I have a job and a life away from jujutsu. I’ve made it clear sorcery is not a part of my life anymore.”
"That’s completely understandable,” the old man argued, his voice hoarse with age. You’re pretty sure you hear anger further straining his voice, “but your technique is quite strong. That strength could be of great assistance if put to use.”
“Thank you, sir,” you dip your head, maintaining eye contact with the decaying man. “But I truly apologize. The decision is final.”
“If you ever do change your mind, please let us know. We’d be more than happy to hear it.”
You almost let a sigh of relief escape. Finally he gave up. You end up only nodding your head in response gratefully, retreating from the old man. As soon as you're safe and out of sight, you let your posture drop, eyes rolling back in annoyance. These guys are truly as relentless as ever.
You stopped upon a familiar scent catching in your nostrils. Lifting your head up, your eyes roam around, scanning the room for your friend.
“You look troubled,” Shoko approaches you, taking the cigarette out from between her teeth. “What’s with the face?”
“How is that man even alive,” you look at her, “he’s ancient.”
Your comment earns a light chuckle from the brunette. “I’m glad I never have to get caught up in this bullshit.”
“Blissed aren’t you,” you roll your eyes as you speak. “I shouldn’t have come in the first place, I knew they were going to do this.”
“It’s alright, you’re all done now. Here-” Your friend then lifts the cigarette up, putting it near your mouth. When you don’t show any resistance she, being the bad influence she has always been, proceeds to place it between your lips. You waste no time, making quick work of the drag you inhale, bringing the familiar cloud of toxic chemicals and tobacco into your lungs. Your expression relaxes, shifting into one of relief. Shoko scoffs playfully, muttering that you’re dramatic under her breath before she pulls her cigarette from you, taking in a drag.
“Satoru’s here, by the way,” Shoko didn’t need to look at you to guess the way your eyes snap towards her. She bites back a smile. “He’s calmed down. He’d even seem the same as long as you don’t squint too hard.”
“Good for him,” you mutter, trying to seem as unbothered and nonchalant as your accelerating heart rate would allow. You avoid looking at Shoko, trying to seem disinterested. You know she’d pretend you weren’t gawking at her the second she said his name.
“He’s trying, you know. He’s just as nervous as you are.”
“‘M not nervous,” you scoff, “For god’s sake. It’s been ten years already.”
Satoru is stressed. He's nervous, as Shoko put it. He’d spent so long trying to ignore the past, pretend the past wasn’t at all. He couldn’t confront it. He didn’t want to. Satoru knows what he’s done, he's aware that he hurt you the last time you two had interacted. And that was ten years ago. He even let you leave without so much as a goodbye. How could he look you in the eye and pretend nothing has ever happened?
Gojo didn’t want to face the consequences of what he’s done. More so what he hasn’t. So many things were left unsaid in the elevator that day. They’ve been hanging over Satoru ever since, weighing his heart down and wearing it out.
What if he’s met by another woman? Ten years change a lot as is. What if the eyes that meet his aren’t yours? What if he finds himself talking to a stranger that carries around your name and features? Of all the horrors Gojo Satoru had faced in his life, nothing caused dread to pool in the pit of his stomach like this thought does.
Shoko seems to find something beyond you interesting. You don’t bother to turn to see as the brunette has always been a little in her own head. She’s probably just dozed off.
“Hey, think you can hold this for me?” Shoko muttered once Gojo crossed her sight. She stands facing you, averting his gaze. “I’ll be right back, nature’s calling.”
From his distance, Gojo couldn’t make out what the two of you were saying. He watched as your shoulders shook, presumably in laughter. Shoko then made her away from you, barely sparing Satoru a glance.
Every step he took felt heavy, weights landing on his shoulders as he moved towards you. He watched smoke emerge from over your head. He didn’t know you smoked. And even though he’s not completely sure what you do for a living now, he’s not expecting any nursery to accept a smoker in their team.
His long strides finally arrived, opting to remain a step behind you. Close enough to make his presence known.
The aura was unmistakable, almost as if it could be physically sensed. You freeze in place, the cigarette remaining a few inches from your lips. Even after he changed his perfume to one a lot more manly and appealing, and clearly grew taller judging by the shadow he cast over you, his presence still had the same strength as it did before. If not stronger. Anyone else would say it’s intimidating. But you find surprising comfort in it.
“That’s going to kill you,” his hand  reached from over your head, making sure to not cause any unnecessary physical contact. His fingers slip the burning cigarette  from your grip. You find yourself unable to make a single move in response, only watching his actions unfold.
He took a step, moving closer, dimming the light from the roll by rubbing it against the metal bars, then throwing it off the balcony. “You’re too young to kill yourself like that.”
“That bitch Shoko set me up,” You hiss, regaining your composure. “Will you look who showed up. You’re killing the ecosystem by throwing waste like this, Gojo.”
Although you haven’t glanced his way yet, You were every bit sure his mouth was quirked in the same smug smirk he wore so much when you were younger. You could even hear it in his voice as he spoke, “You haven’t grown at all, have you?”
“Oh shut it,” you chuckle. “You’re still as immature as ever. How you could be a manchild at 27 is a wonder to me.”
27… It felt so weird to say it out loud. Weren’t you just 17 a few days ago?
“Oh, how you hurt me,” he says in exaggeration, his voice conveying anything but the hurt he claims to feel. “That isn’t very nice of you.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” You say. He laughs a little, you do too. But the silence that follows is not that of a joke. He knew what you’re referring to. Maybe he underestimated your last encounter’s effect on you.
The silence speaks for itself. It’s louder than any conversation you’ve had before. What now? What have we become? Is it of any use to try anymore? Neither of you had an answer to the question that began to surface with this interaction.
The questions remain hung in the air, dimming the atmosphere around you. Was this fate’s doing? Or his karma? Gojo has always been told he’s a god, but how could he be a higher form of life when he struggled so much to hold a conversation?
He’s about to speak again when you cut him off, muttering “here-” as you push your hand down the coat you wore. Your tongue pokes at the inside of your cheek as you search for the anonymous object.
You pull out a worn out paper, grown from what could have been a bright red to an orangish shade. His eyes study as you shove the paper in his  direction, eyes avoiding his gaze at all costs.
Seeing your bashful expression made him rather curious, the contents of the wrinkled paper piquing his interest. He hesitates before he pulls the paper from your hand, half-expecting you to bite him.
The letters were scribbles, almost like they’re straight out of some cult’s ritual,  that with the wrinkles of the worn out paper making reading it next to impossible. Still, he could make out just enough to realize what this paper is. His eyes widened behind the blindfold. It didn’t take much to remember this paper, trivial as it may be.
“You found this- how did you even…?” he trails off, confused.
“I guess I did,” You confirm. He’s unsure if you’re proud of yourself for your rather… interesting discovery. It’s bold of you to pull this out ten whole years later. But he can’t deny the relief he feels that at least this means you don’t completely hate him. For once, he’s truly at loss for words. 
But he wouldn’t let a perfect opportunity like this slide.
“Oh, so you’re in love with me? You’re so obsessed with me that you kept this for so many years, what a loyal fangirl.”
Before he knew it, a weight so crushing landed on his foot. He turned off his infinity around you as a sign of trust. But he soon came to regret his rather unsmart decision. Your foot stomped and crushed his toes. It makes him groan in pain, bending slightly forward.
“Tomorrow, at Narisawa in Minato city, 5:30. I’m leaving for Kyoto in 3 days. Don’t waste your chance again, Gojo Satoru. You’re not getting another one.”
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“I take it you’ve been in love with me ever since?” He leans forward, elbows on the table. “Say, did you fascinate about me?”
“Hmm..” you hum softly at his childish question, “only a little.” You show no signs of interest in his tactics as you sipped the wine in your hand. Undeniably, Gojo is taken aback by your lack of reaction. He hasn’t known you to be so reserved and smart at keeping him on edge. He couldn’t help finding your new behavior enticing.
Is there anything else you’d like to have?” You nodded your head towards the plates sitting on the table, some empty and some half-full. “Or do you wanna do something else before I go back to the hotel?”
“Hmm? Maybe I could join you at the hotel, actually. Surely it’ll be a lot less lonely with me around?”
You’re tempted by his offer, feeling the heat pooling in your stomach. He looked strikingly handsome today. Maybe you were just really lonely and touch starved, or maybe it’s the way his lips quirk as he teases you that makes your brain a little hazy, inappropriate thoughts floating through it and send jolts to your core. Yet, you set your mind on refusing his advances. You haven’t had a decent conversation since high school, for god's sake.
He keeps his eyes set on you, shining before him. You looked glamorous. He’d lie if he said there wasn’t a certain allure to  your matured looks. The years that flew by changed a lot of things about you two, but his breath still catches in his throat when your eyes meet his dreamy blues. The feelings rush back, memories clouding his train of thought. 
He’s sure he’s going to pay. He didn’t mind it at all, what a small price for getting to spend an evening with you. But you surprise him when you bring up that you had already put your card down, courtesy of having been the one to ask him out. Or maybe this was your way of telling him that you are in pretty good condition, living perfectly well without needing sorcery.
“How’s working as a jujutsu teacher?” you quip, smiling softly. “Utahime says you’ve got some interesting kids in your pack? Two special grades, too. You’re sure a favorite attraction for wonders.”
“You’re still in contact with her too?” he dodges talking about his students, not meeting your gaze. “That’s ironic. Weren’t we friends too?”
A hoarse chuckle emerges from him. But nothing about it leads back to amusement, as it was a joyless sound devoid of life. Almost as if he were mocking you. The dark lenses of the shades sitting on the bridge of his nose served as a shield. He curses himself for being so weak. He's almost thirty but somehow you’ve got him acting like he did when he was 17. 
“You didn’t try to contact me either,” you shrug, not willing to take the blame for your lack of contact. 
“You could have visited then. Even Yaga talked about you every once in a while,” he isn’t too happy and it’s showing.
“All good things, I hope-“
“Don’t change the subject,” he frowns, an uneasy edge outlining his words. “He was enough. You didn’t have to go ahead and leave too.”
“I had to move on, Gojo,” the name felt like a jab every time you used it. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it. This is how you drew your boundaries. Calling them by their last names gives you a false sense of satisfaction, convincing yourself that your sorcerer friends are past figures now. Mere acquaintances. 
“-I couldn’t remain hung there forever, I valued my mental health. You grew distant, the atmosphere was growing uneasy every day. I had to cut ties with Jujutsu before I couldn’t recognize myself anymore.”
“Yet you’re here now. Back to square one,” his playful tone was long gone, now replaced by an even, stern one. “Whether you moved away or called us by our last names. It’s a curse you can’t escape. you’ll always end up back in the palms or jujutsu.”
His words held some truth. You know that. But just as he refused to confront this past, you repulsed the idea of your reality. You truly want to believe that you could escape this part of yourself and live a normal life. You couldn’t come to terms with your inability. You held onto your hopes as if your sanity completely depended on it. Another thing that won’t change no matter how much you grew.
“I'll be okay as long as I refuse to interact with this world.”
Once you leave the restaurant, you find yourself wandering through the rich streets of Minato city. It felt as though the night was pulling you further into its welcoming embrace, with nothing rushing you.
“He was only thirteen,” you chuckle, arm linked in his. “It’s unbelievable how bold kids nowadays are.”
“I would’ve done the same thing, honestly,” he smirks, his gaze fixed on the stores around.
“Of course. You’ve got the brains of a thirteen year old.”
Satoru grins at your remark, pulling you into a clothes store. 
“What’s this?” you look around in confusion, noting a woman in a suit welcoming you. The place looked a little too fancy, judging by the display of the items and the lighting of the place.
“It’s a western brand,” Satoru answers. Looking over at him, you can’t help but smile a little. He looks good tonight. His fancy outfit gave the impression that he’s a model to strangers. “Louis Vuitton, I think,” He furrows his brows, trying to remember the name of the brand stores he’s been to with Nobara and Shoko.
“Prada, sir,” The lady in a suit corrected him. “Can I help you?”
“We’re just browsing, thank you.” It’s a phrase he heard from Kugisaki countless times whenever they wandered into a store. His response makes you chuckle, watching as the lady takes a few steps backwards politely.
You’re soon comfortable, searching through the expensive coats and bags. Satoru watched tenderly. Even though the ten years that passed with no contact whatsoever definitely propose a wall between you, he's glad you're able to feel free. You might nit on the same page, but you two can work with what you have.
You stride back to the “S” shaped velvet couch sat in the middle of the checker-carpet store, where Satoru sat. But he was nowhere to be seen.
You walk around in hesitance and confusion, completely aware of the lady walking always a few feet behind you. Surveillance, you guess.
You find him standing in front of the white counter, taking a black bag with the brand’s name printed onto it in golden letters from the man standing behind the counter in a white shirt with the brand's logo on it.
“Gojo,” you call him, confusion fused into your expression.
He extends his arm to you, trying to suppress any sourness at you calling him Gojo. “Let’s go?”
You nod, eyeing him suspiciously before you link your arm in his. You make sure to flash a grateful smile at the woman by the door as you walk past the reflective glass door.
You almost forgot how busy the world outside is. It felt as though the glass building of the store was sound proof. Now you have to adjust to the noise of the full streets again.
Satoru remains silent for the most part. It’s not awkward, rather just neither of you knew what to say. He expected you to ask about what he bought, which you have considered. You decide against it though as you feel it’s none of your business. You’re not too surprised anyway as Gojo has always been a wealthy man. He could buy the entire Prada chain with half of his monthly spending.
“What do you wanna do now?” He asks. “Wanna go somewhere else?”
You think about going to the club to give the night the best closure. But neither of you were dressed for it anyway. You contemplate your choices. Then you grin at him, and Satoru knows it’s best to fear what comes after
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You’re well aware that he has a high alcohol tolerance. While you would be wasted a few shots in. Yet you consumed so many drinks recklessly, thinking that maybe you could beat him in a drinking game.
That’s why he’s stuck to your side now, helping your sleeping body out of his car. Satoru is glad your hotel card was so easy to find in your purse, taking it out as he gets into the lobby.
A few people eye the man, glaring at him and at the way he held you in his arms. But he couldn’t bring himself to think too much about it. His mission is to get you to bed now.
“Satoruuu~” You whine, rubbing your face into the pillow once he sat you on the white bedding. “Stay with meeee”
And Satoru is nothing if not human. Despite what everyone else says. It’s proven now that he had come to face a human flaw like this. He is weak, and you are all but practically seducing him.
“Stop crying,” He mutters. He finds himself smiling sheepishly at the unlikely scenario he found himself in. Tucking you in bed, your face hot due to the drinks you had. He really should have stopped you. “I’ll stay the night, so sleep already.”
He convinced himself it’s for the best. He should watch over you for tonight. No funny business. Deep inside he knew he was just finding a reason— any reason to stay around you for a little longer, heart yearning for the lost years. But he ignored the pathetic feeling, convincing himself it’s for your sake instead.
“But I’m uncomfortableee,” you whine again, hands running down your body. “The dress...”
Did you have to make it so hard on him? Satoru is tempted to kiss you, eyebrows knitted in the space between, eyes looking around the room for any sort of aid.
This is probably a form of invading your privacy, but he sees no other choice. He’ll have to hold it together for tonight.
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“nngh..”
Your groan came with an impending headache. Your body moves against the rich covers of the bed, sunlight illuminating your physique.
He stopped in his tracks, feet bare against the gray carpet.
Your form is beautiful, one to compete with statues of goddesses. The rays of light complimented every inch of skin in all the right ways. Satoru had to physically shake his head to stop the flowing perverted thoughts in his head.
Your flinch when you catch him standing near the door, heart beating slightly faster. You thought that you’re alone. You don’t think much of it anyway, muttering a “holy shit” under your breath.
“Good morning,” he casually greets, brushing off the mutual shock, albeit for different reasons. “I made coffee, if you wanted some.”
“Oh... thank you,” you mutter, rubbing your eyes as you sit up straight. “Did you eat anything yet?”
“Not yet, no,”  he says, holding his overly sweet coffee in both palms. “Thought I’d wait until you woke up.”
“You’re a real sweetheart, Satoru,” you yawn. His name slipped past your lips before you could stop it. You busy yourself with stretching your arms. “What a doting housewife God has blessed me with”
His response is only a chuckle, rolling his eyes as he sighs on the edge of the bed. “Well, at least I wasn’t begging a man to spend the night with me”
“Huh?”
You couldn’t remember anything of the prior night. Nothing that occurred after you sat at the bar, specifically. But then you begin to realize, eyes widening at the revelation. You feel dreadfulness landing in the pit of your stomach a little too late. 
He’s shirtless, wearing only his suit pants. And even though you wouldn’t mind the sight any other day, the fact that you are in your pajamas isn’t helping at all.
“Did we...” You trail off, expression darkening. Your eyes meet his own, fear implanted in your pupils. You watch as his expression drifts from confusion to an awkward hesitance. Unsure how to break the news to you.
You don’t know what to expect, not realizing you’re holding your breath. 
“I-I’m sorry,” He sighs, gaze faltering as his eyes look away from you. Your eyes widen further, oxygen becoming hard to consume.
What have you done?
“But- don’t worry. You know I’m not some asshole...” if anything, he sounded chivalrous. “I-I’ll be accountable for my mistake. When do you want to hold the wedding?”
You gasp, face feeling hot. “You piece of shit-“ You groan as your foot reaches him, forcefully pushing him off the bed. “As if!”
He breaks into a fit of laughter, the sound full of genuine delight. “I can’t believe you fell for it,” He manages between the laughter.
“Fuck you, Satoru,” you mutter, a smile of relief breaking across your face. “I can’t believe you pulled something so childish.”
“Why are you so down?” He climbed back onto the bed, reclaiming his spot on the edge. “Are you disappointed? You know it’s never too late to just as-“
“Fuck off,” Your heart is pounding as you send him another kick, less forceful this time. “Say one more word about it and I’ll make sure you don’t make it out of this room in one piece.”
He laughs, asking you to pass his coffee. You reach for his coffee from the bedside table. Your fingers lift the glass mug to your lips, sipping at the hot beverage before handing it to him.
Your face scrunches up at the horrible taste. Too much sugar. Too much milk. It’s a lot worse than you might think.
“Your coffee should be criminal,” you push the mug his way, frowning. Satoru hums in response. 
There’s no awkwardness between the two of you, and he can’t help but cherish it. He feels content, enough to sit a little closer, at least.
Enough to lean in towards you, mouth closing over yours in an ever awaited kiss, at least.
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sharksnshakes · 6 months ago
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Hi I'm doing this on anon bcs I'm embarassed of how fast i'm asking this lmao butttttttt
...will you write a part two to the tim drake x reader?
PLS I BEG
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You have a crush on Tim... and to your surprise, getting his attention won't be nearly as hard as you thought. But he keeps reminding you of Red Robin? That can't be right.
AN; part one can be found here. not sure where i'm going with this yet BUT expect a part three. and maybe something else with kon. in my titans era
Wordcount; 1.1k
TW; some cursing, mentions of drinking, making out (you'll see)
As luck would have it, you're at the same hole-in-the-wall bar the next weekend. Red Robin sighting aside, cheap drinks are cheap drinks, and now you're crowded around a rickety table with the same friends as last time. Plus Tim.
A week's worth of deliberation has lead you to the conclusion that you have honest to God romantic feelings for him. Sure, Red Robin turned your head, but chances are slim to none that you'll ever see the dark haired vigilante again. Even if you did, you know nothing about his personal life! You don't even know his name! How could a relationship possibly work out?
You're doubling down your efforts, which is why you're wedged up against Tim's side, nursing a cool drink in your hands and refusing to feel bashful about the outfit you've got on tonight. Tim never goes out, ergo, he's only ever seen you in the baggy sweats and oversized tees you show up to lecture in. It's the perfect opportunity for you to dress up and flaunt your assets. If it worked on Robin, it'll work on Tim.
Right?
"Havin' fun?" You ask, glancing over at him.
Tim looks out of place, to put it mildly. He is the heir to Wayne Enterprises, after all, and you love him dearly, but his vintage sneakers and expensive-smelling cologne don't exactly fit in with the sweaty crowd of coeds.
"I think so?"
You smother a laugh. "Hey, at least you're not holed up in your apartment cramming for another test."
Tim frowns gently. "Yeah. You're right."
It feels like his comment holds some second meaning that's flying right over your head. You'd ask him about it, but before you get the chance, one of your mutual friends is grabbing you both by the wrists and dragging you into the makeshift dance floor.
After about fifteen minutes of bouncing and singing and laughing, the fragrant smoke and crush of bodies start to get to you. The music's pounding. The air is heavy. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the uncomfortable, oppressive feeling away.
"Hey." Tim appears at your side. He's got a steadying hand on your shoulder and his lips are practically on your ear. "Y'okay?"
If you weren't short of breath before, you definitely are now.
"Need some air," you shout back, fighting to be heard over the speakers. "I'll be back in a minute."
Tim's hand stays on your shoulder. "Let me come with you."
You want to tell him he doesn't have to. This is his first night out in ages, and the last thing you want to do is throw a wrench in it by dragging him outside; when you look at his face, though, there's genuine concern and care in his eyes. You nod.
"Lead the way," Tim shouts, and you reach for his hand as you push through the crowd. His fingers wrap firmly around yours, steady but not overbearing, and a horde of butterflies descend on your stomach.
Tim doesn't drop your hand until you're outside, sucking in the nighttime air. It's sticky and humid outside, a thunderstorm can be heard in the distance, but it's heavenly compared to inside.
You pace up and down the alleyway for a moment. Just like last week, there's nobody out here but you and the dumpster. And Tim.
Involuntarily, you glance up at the rooftops that loom above.
"I saw Red Robin here last week," you say absentmindedly, turning back to look at Tim.
"Oh really?" He clears his throat, following your gaze. "Was he, like... up there?"
"You don't seem particularly excited."
"Well, I mean... it's just Red Robin?"
You gape at him. "Just Red Robin? Tim, he's cool as fuck."
"He's literally just another Robin. There's been, what, like... five?"
"Three," you correct, walking back over to Tim, "And he's literally a superhero."
"Sidekick."
You laugh out loud. "What, you got beef with him?"
"No," Tim protests, a flush crawling up his cheeks. "He's just no Batman, is all."
"He's not supposed to be Batman. That's his whole thing. He's Robin, and he's cool as fuck," you reply, leaving no room for argument. You lean against the brick wall, gazing up at the clouded sky. "...Think he's out there somewhere?"
"Maybe."
You glance at Tim, but he's already staring at you.
"You look... really pretty tonight," he murmurs.
Your cheeks prickle with heat. "Thanks. You, ah, look good too."
At that moment, it hits you that you're alone with Tim Drake Wayne, the guy you're pining over, and that he's just called you pretty. A smile tugs as your lips. Red Robin hit on you in this very alleyway, and now Tim is hitting on you, too, and your confidence surges.
"Um, actually," you say, looking at Tim, "There's something I've been meaning to tell you--"
BANG!
A gasp dies in your throat as a couple stumbles through the back door. They're attached at the lips and deserving of an NC-17 rating. Your shock is quickly replaced with amusement (and, albeit, a healthy level of disgust) and you laugh in shock, your heart still pounding in your throat. The door rattles on its hinges, freshly scraped up from being slammed against the wall.
"Holy shit," you exhale. Only then do you notice that Tim pushed you behind him: an arm is protectively flung out in front of you, the other hand is pulling something out of his pocket. His thumb and forefinger are pinched around a small, sharp-looking object--it's black, it glints in the light, you don't know what it is. He stuffs it back into his jeans, huffing out a sigh of relief.
"Hey, you okay?" Tim asks, turning back around to face you.
"Fine." You nod. "Startled... but, uh, fine."
"Good," he says, eyes still tracking the couple. "Anyways. You were saying?"
There's a muffled moan from the other end of the alley.
"Another time," you say, grabbing Tim and pulling him inside before either of you see more than you want to.
As you rejoin the group, you wonder distantly what he was holding. A knife, maybe? But Tim's dead last on your list of people who'd walk around Gotham carrying a weapon. Then again, his net worth is staggeringly high, so maybe he does carry something...?
If you didn't know better, you'd say he acted like a vigilante.
You're not sure what to think.
But the bar's loud music leaves no room for thought, and you push your musings to the back of your mind. You're having fun with your friends, Tim called you pretty, and you just had the shit scared out of you by strangers--tonight's been eventful as is, so it looks like your detective work will just have to wait.
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cheriecoke · 1 year ago
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♰ sent to destroy — dazai osamu
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.𖥔 ݁ ˖🕸️🕷.𖥔 ݁ ˖ KINKTOBER NO. 5 - fallen angel!dazai
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he promises he's not the devil, but he steals your soul with just a kiss.
contents. fem!reader, nsfw minors dni, takes place in 1920s for fun ig, actress!reader, alcohol, one mention of suicidal ideation and prostitution by reader, blasphemy, sacrilege, pls don't read this if ur religious & will get offended LMAO, angel fucking (& he has wings), bondage (thru powers), unprotected sex, cunnilingus, corruption kink, possessive sex, softish dazai, mm idk what else — 6.1k
note: i didn't edit this as thoroughly as i normally do so plss ignore any mistakes and i'll love you forever
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the speakeasy fills with a thin veil of smoke, coating the room with an intoxicating mix of alcohol and nicotine. it’s a lewd place, full of degenerates and failed actresses like yourself, a crowd of people who don’t belong, but try their best to find a way to keep living. 
it’s a place where women pick up their clients, leading them to the hotel around the corner for a night they certainly won’t be paid enough for. it’s where people drown their miseries in alcohol and hope they won’t wake up in the morning. 
it is, regrettably, the only place you can afford. 
you sit alone at one of the tables, hands shaky from nerves as you smoke another cigarette, contributing just as much to the cloud that suffocates the small room. 
hoards of people make their way downtown for a sip of alcohol, the drink that has so ridiculously been banned, but you are no exception, no angel amongst the sinful devils. 
someone plays a saxophone at the front of the bar, spinning into a graceful melody of jazz that sings out to you, lulls you into an embrace that warms your core. it soothes the anxiety that has lingered with you throughout the day, the reminder that your life is tailspinning. 
you’d failed at landing yet another role, and the acting career you’d packed your bags and moved out for was plummeting. who would accept you now, now that your hopes and dreams had been for naught, now that you’d created a shameful woman of yourself and your family?
the answer was clear; but you were too stubborn too accept it, too desperate to believe that you could be up in the glimmering lights, the brightest silver star the world had ever seen. 
you lean back in your chair, stamping out the cigarette with a sigh as you stand to collect another drink. there’s not much left in your pockets, but you’ve made it work before, and you’ll keep making it work now, scrounging up coins for the relief that came with forgetting. 
the only consolation is the line of women that stand alongside you at the bar, as dejected and miserable as yourself. all of you have been labeled the failures of your families, the ones that bet on a shot in the dark. none of you expected that the road would be easy, certainly not with the way the industry is hasty to pick up only the most beautiful faces… but your ambitions had led you to believe that you, of all people, had had a chance. 
you know your beauty is endless, a sight to be admired, but even that had not been enough to secure your spot in the limelight. 
you thank the bartender as he hands you a drink, and slump back to your table, waiting for the effects of the alcohol to kick in. yet, when you stand at the edge of the table, peer at the chair you’d once been seated in, there is already a man there. 
he gazes at you with a crooked smile, eyes amused as he regards your beaten-down state.
you’ve seen him before—made every attempt not to see him again. you know what they say about him. he’s a wizard, he’s the devil, he’s a god that steals the body of a mortal, waiting to destroy the earth. all bad things, certainly, and with the way your life’s been going, you’d be a fool to get mixed up with someone like him.
still…you know of the things he’s done for people. that miracles have happened for those brave enough to ask for them. 
perhaps, you’re in need of a miracle. 
the dark-haired man leans forward, eyebrows raised as you gawk at him from the other side of the table. “no need to look so frightened,” he says, gesturing towards the other chair. “sit.” 
“i don’t want any company,” you say, straightening, pulling your drink closer to your chest. “i came here to be alone.”
his eyes flash, predatory, as if seeing down through the depths of your soul, to the very desire that lingers within. all of your dreams, your ambitions, and your loneliness are displayed to him, a flashing banner that alerts him easily of everything that’s ever been wrong with you. 
“is that so?” he asks, leaning forward, his voice deepening amongst the chaos of the speakeasy. “then, why have you been staring at me all evening?” 
you can’t help the flush that rushes to your cheek, the heat that covers your entire body. with the crowd of men and women alike that are constantly at his arm, you’d hardly thought he’d notice you.
and though you know what they say about him, he is undeniably beautiful; you’re drawn to him. there is a dark and heavenly beauty about him, something that you fear is too angelic to be of this world. his eyes glimmer almost like diamonds in the candlelit room, skin so flawless that it is nearly luminescent. 
it’s no wonder, really, that you haven’t been able to peel your eyes off of him.
you circle around his question, instead, and set your drink down on the table, lured in either by a false sense of safety, or the confidence of his grin. “i know what you are,” you say, swallowing back the fear that devils often prey on. 
he smiles, indulging you, a lifelong game he has surely played. “and what is that, my dear?” 
the mocking tone sends a cold wave down your spine, even though the sweet name seems to warm you. “i don’t believe i should say it out loud.” you’re not sure what kind of consequence that will bring you. perhaps you do not need to make a deal with him for your soul to be damned, straight to the fiery pits; maybe this conversation is enough, and already, you are on the long list of sinners that will be sent to burn.
“because you believe i am the devil? a demon sent to prey upon you and your soul, drag you down to hell once the contract you’ve made is over?” 
you say nothing, but your silence speaks loudly. 
he sighs, leans back in the chair and looks at you from under thick lashes. “i have no interest in the dealings of those fifty, lesser beings. i find that i can bargain for more enjoyable ventures.” two dark eyes trace over you, swallow you whole as he grazes your curves with his irises, the shape of your breasts under the tightness of your dress, the style shorter to match the current fashions. “so, i think we both may have something the other is interested in. please,” he gestures once more to the seat in front of him, addressing you by your first name—one you never even had to tell him. “sit.” 
nervous, you take the chair, wondering why you aren’t running away, screaming at everyone that there is a monster in your midst, a being that hunts the weak to lure them away from their misery. no wonder he has made himself a frequent customer at this place—there are people drowning in sorrows. one deal with him, and they will wake up in the morning, drowning in riches instead. 
“what do you want from me?” you ask, letting your hands fall to your sides. 
“so eager to get to the best part of my bargain, silly girl. have some patience.” he takes a sip of his own drink, pinning you with his gaze, even above the rim. you squirm under the intensity, but you, even now, can’t look away. “i know you’re struggling to find work. you’ve been here for years, and made pennies to live off of.” he reaches across the table, spins a lock of hair around his finger as he sighs dramatically. “such a shame, really. they must fear the power of your perfection if they refuse to let you shine brighter than the rest of the dull creatures that they call starlets.” 
your heart drops, stutters within the delicate bones of your skeleton before starting again, as you remember that this is how the devil would act, luring you in with sweetly poisoned words full of deceit. “they are talented—”
“they are nothing,” he snarls, banging his fist on the table so loudly that you jump, hands shaking against the beaded skirt of your dress. “you may claim to believe in your own talents, your appearance, but it is all a lie, a facade that you maintain to protect yourself. you are the one holding yourself back, and unless you let me help you, you’ll get nowhere.”
you feel tears burn. “you mean to lure me away from the path of god—”
his eyes narrow. “i mean to free the human race from the chains that religion has bound on them. there is nothing for you in the afterlife but an existence of slavery. one to a malicious devil who only wishes to torment, or one to a god who doesn’t love you.” 
it confuses you, the way he speaks of these beings as if he is not on the side of heaven or hell. as if there could be another option. it seems surreal, a secret that you should not have been told; since the day you were born, you have learned of the path of righteousness, the will of god. 
that is the only way you can obtain a life of peace… yet, there is a creature before you, claiming to offer you a third path, one that doesn’t have you bowing down for a god that won’t answer your prayers. 
it may be foolish, the work of the devil, but you are willing to listen. you are already lured in by this graceful creature with a charming smile and a quick tongue, and you don’t know if it will take much more for you to succumb to him completely. 
already, you have lost your way—you would do anything to escape your unhappiness.
“what is it you’re after, then?” you ask, your voice softer, weaker than you anticipated. 
he laughs, and lets his head tilt sideways, studies you before answering. “my father has cast me out of heaven; i plan to build my own religion of followers, tearing them away from that idiot of a being they call their god. because i am much stronger, much wiser, and the only way that they can find peace after their death is by trusting that i will give it to them.” 
you swallow, twining your fingers together, and think. “you’re… an angel?” 
he waves his hand. “a fallen one.”
there are things about the world that you do not understand, but you know that god has not once help you when you were drowning without a savior. he did not guide a helping a hand when you contemplated dragging a knife across your wrists, and yet, here is something, someone wanting to save you from just that. how is it that god can be more benevolent than those he casts out, when you have seen nothing but the opposite?
“you want me to join you, then?” you ask, drawing your eyebrows together. “if i join you, you’ll give me what i desire?”
“well… that is usually the bargain i offer. however,” he hums, eyes flashing as they scour your body. he looks at you hungrily, like he has never seen a being like yourself. “it has been a while since i’ve seen a human as beautiful as you.” 
you swallow, blinking at him with wide eyes as you grow hot all over. this would not be the first time you’ve sold your body for fame, but never has it been with a man as stunning as the angel before you. “you mean… if i fuck you, you’ll give me whatever i want?” 
he sniffs, repulsed by your suggestion. “always so lewd, you mortals.”
your eyebrows knit together. “but you said—”
“i don’t want you for one night. i want you forever. i want you to swear your body over to me for the rest of your life, let me use it as i wish, bear my children.” he traces your features, grazes a thumb over your jaw, your lip. his eyes are hard, and you swallow, wondering why your stomach flips. “you are meant to be mine.” he smiles, and though you can see the mischief within it, for some reason, there is also softness there as he crosses his arms over the counter. “but if you aren’t interested, then the deal is off the table. i have no need for someone who doesn’t want me in return.” 
you blink back at him, observing the seriousness of his expression, the softness lurking within the pools of his deep brown eyes. perhaps he is a vengeful angel… but he is offering you a life that is much more promising than the one you have now. would it really be so bad to give yourself to him, to spend the rest of your life in his arms, when he promises to give you everything you’ve ever wished for?
“i—” you hesitate, unsure how to even begin to answer the question, when you didn’t quite understand what it was that he needed from you.  
“i’ll give you some time to think about it. after all, it is a decision that will affect the rest of your life.” he stands to his feet, and it is then that you notice there are some eyes on you, the women he typically has hanging off of him watching your interaction with bated breath. “when you have an answer, just call for me. i’ll be there.” 
“wait,” you say, turning in your chair to face him. “i don’t even know your name.” 
“you can call me osamu.” he smiles and winks at you, tucking his jacket closer as he begins to walk away. “we’ll be in touch."
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three weeks pass before you see him again. 
you’d decided quickly what you would say to him, and after two weeks worth of auditions that led to nothing, drinking without a friend in the world, alone to rot in your bedroom, you’d made up your mind.
osamu’s proposal, now, after everything you’d suffered, seemed too good to be true. how long had you wished for a companion, for money, for a steady job—and now, these were all things he promised to provide you, if only you’d stand by his side. 
you’d called to him at the start of the week, said a prayer to any angel named osamu that was out there—but no one came. 
night after night, you said the same prayer, wondering, if perhaps, you’d been made a fool of. that everything he had said was a lie, and you, truly, were doomed to live an unhappy life. maybe, he was mocking you for your misfortunes, for your weak heart. 
though, on the twenty-first day after your discussion, you awaken to a figure standing in the corner of your room, watching you with hawklike eyes, the shadow of a wingspan shaped out behind him. 
you gasp, nearly letting out a scream as you scramble to a seated position in your bed, bringing the sheets up to your chest. the man is nothing more than a silhouette, so dark in the moonlight, but you know, without seeing his face, that he is the one you’ve been searching for.
“osamu,” you say, trying to quell the fear that has made a home in your chest. you gawk at him as he uncrosses his arms, sauntering over like he owns the place, like he’s been here before, knows the shape of your body, even under the sheets you hide within. “you heard my prayers.” 
“i apologize for not coming faster,” he smiles in the darkness, teeth glimmering under beams of starlight. his face becomes visible then, and it steals your breath away—he is more stunning than you remember, skin nearly glowing, golden. “you were beginning to sound desperate.” osamu watches as your breathing evens out, your eyes flicking over his features. “is that still the case?” 
he is a sight to behold sitting before you, the very essence of power seeping off of him in waves. a creature crafted from the hands of god, shaped to be the very thing that would protect the weaker creations. 
osamu’s skin, his hair, every inch of him is without flaws, while you are but a sinful human girl who succumbs to each of her urges. 
“i want—” you stop, realizing that you’re not sure what you want. to be an actress, yes, a famous starlet that is cherished by the masses. but, when you look at osamu, the soft, plump shape of his lips, the lean limbs that hide under his tailored coat, you wonder if fame, security, comfort—perhaps, those aren’t the only things you desire from this exchange. “i accept—”
“you sound uncertain,” he interrupts, eyebrows drawing together in a scowl. “you called me here, begged me to come steal you away, and now, you change your mind?”
“no!” you say, scrambling to grab his wrist as he starts to stand from the bed, his eyes flashing as you reach for him on all fours. “i’m not changing my mind. i want to be famous, i want to be yours.” you swallow, choking out the word as it turns your cheeks warm, the heat making its way up from your toes. 
it hit you harder that you anticipated, the taste of belonging to another. you aren’t sure if its because you’ve craved the connection for so long that it’s twisting your insides, turning you into something desperate, or if, already, you feel an invisible string tying you and this stranger together. 
“but?” osamu asks, still seeming like he’s about to flee, his eyes hard, blinking back at you. there is something about you that he wants, but he won’t take it, not unless you crave him just as much. it muddles your mind, confuses you—he could have anyone, could take anything. yet— 
“but why do you want me?” you ask, releasing him to curl your fingers around the blanket. “i don’t understand.” 
osamu balks, then laughs, his eyes crinkling as he regards you with some sort of gentleness. “perhaps i have always loved humans a little too much, much more than i should, at least.” he curls a piece of your hair around his finger, hums to himself. “innocent creatures that my father cursed with misery, blaming their own sinfulness against them.” osamu licks his lips, hungry as dark eyes cover your face. “but it’s not entirely your fault that you must bear the torment of generations. just as it is not my fault that i was born with a lust for something much more delicate than the creatures of heaven.” 
he strokes your cheek, fingers grazing you like you are nothing more than a piece of glass, that you might shatter under the force of his power. perhaps you would—with too much, he might break you, turn you into a pile of ash with a snap of his finger.  
“but there are millions of us to choose from,” you say, sweating under the blanket as your heart pounds in your chest. the breadth of his power becomes more obvious with every passing second, and yet, you crave  a taste of it. “what makes me so special?”
he wraps a large palm around your jaw, thumb pulling at your lower lip. the tip of it dips into your mouth as you watch him with wide eyes, frozen, but not from fear. “i was meant to be your guardian angel, to be the guide that leads you away from the devil until your dying breath.” he moves closer, dipping his head towards your lips, brown irises never leaving your own. “and yet, the moment i laid eyes on you, i had already broken the first rule.” 
you stumble over your syllables, whispering them breathlessly. “and what’s that?” 
osamu smiles, muttering the words against your mouth, his voice ghosting over your skin. “angels are wired to protect those that we are assigned to,” he says, swiping his tongue against your lip, just barely kissing you, the sounds low and breathy. “we’re not supposed to want to fuck them.” a finger drags slowly, sensuously up your arm, and you can’t move, can’t do anything but watch as he pushes you, sinks you slowly into the bed. “i have never wanted anything as badly as i want you.”
you breath, in and out, slow, as the heat settles in your stomach, a burning pool of need churning there. it’s been so long—so long—since anyone has touched you in a way that is kind, has wanted to please you, instead of steal from you. “all that, just for me?” you ask cheekily, though you’re still not sure that he is telling the truth. 
maybe he is the devil, but you no longer care. his voice is so sweet with praise and affirmation, bleeding into the softness of your heart. 
he shrugs. “perhaps i was always meant to fall.” your head hits the pillow. you aren’t sure when he got you pinned on the bed. osamu looms over you with wide, burning eyes, licking his lips with an ache he doesn’t bother to hide. 
“osamu,” you shudder, grabbing his bicep to steady yourself. it is too much, suddenly, all at once. you are filled with need for him, clawing at his skin as he commands complete control over you with nothing but his words. “i—”
your sentence is stolen away by a kiss, one that burns from your mouth all the way down to your toes. it twists something within you, turns you into a monstrous being that you had not realized you were, longing so recklessly to be touched. 
his hands roam over your body, touch featherlight as he removes your dress, drags it slowly off your body, eyes grazing over every inch of your skin like he wants to devour your whole.
he makes a low sound in the back of his throat, fingers lightly dipping down your chest, between the swell of your breast to your ribcage. “how cruel of our father to keep us from such divine creatures,” he says, leaning down to kiss up your stomach, lick the skin around your breasts. “perhaps we are the ones that are truly being punished.”
you writhe under him, hands curling in his hair as his own dips between your thighs. grabbing his scalp hard, you yank him back up to your lips, and your eyes meet, both dark and dangerous as you brush your nose against his own. “you are punishing me right now.” 
“is that so?” he laughs, eyes flashing with humor. “such a greedy, impatient little thing.” osamu slips out of his coat, his shirt, revealing the tent that has already grown in his slacks. they are the next to go, and his golden skin is revealed, the perfection of every line and angle of his body heavenly and refined. he leans down to whisper in your ear, breath ghosting the shell of it. “act like such a princess, but i know you want to be fucked until you can’t form a single thought, don’t you?” he says, and the coolness of his voice has you squeezing his shoulders, gasping out his name.
your skin burns, your chest burns, an ache gathering and settling deep in your stomach. your cunt throbs as you look at the angel before you, and he kisses down your neck, bites a hard bruise into your collarbone. 
you whimper, wondering why you ever questioned going with him, when he could make you feel this good from nothing more than his hands on your skin. 
“such pretty fucking tits.” he swirls his tongue around your hardened nipple, teasing the bud as you cry out loudly in the silent room. far too loudly for the thin walls, the cheap apartment. yet, you wonder if you care that your neighbors can hear the noises that come with your pleasure. 
“that’s it,” he purrs, kissing down your stomach before his lips reach your hipbone, smiling into the sensitive skin there. “so quiet before… thought i was doing something wrong.” 
“n-no,” you say, chest rising quickly as you watch him hover above your soaked cunt with anticipation. “feels good.” 
osamu smiles, spreads your legs farther, so your dripping, aching hole is on display, embarrassingly, every inch of you vulnerable to him. “look at you,” he says, eyes hazy as he holds you tight, digs his fingers in your skin. “so fucking perfect. bet you taste as good as you look.” 
there isn’t a moment for you to say a word—his head is already between your thighs, kissing your clit before sweeping his tongue through your folds, gathering up the wetness. a moan leaves his lips, and the vibration sends a wave of need through you as you squeeze his hair, force him back down on your cunt, nose dragging against your clit. “osamu, please.”
“ah, ah, ah,” he stops, licking his lips that are moist from your juices as his head lifts from between your thighs. a dark smile stretches across his features, calculating and cruel. “where are your manners, sweetheart? i don’t want you to cum too quickly.” 
you’re not sure what he means until you feel your hands pinned to the bed by an invisible force, the power of the angelic creature before you, finally obvious. you can’t move, can’t even writhe against him, even as you try to thrust your hips forward, gain any sort of relief from the position. 
he laughs at you, so pitiful at your desperation to be touched. “much better,” he says, and returns to lap at your cunt, tongue already stretching you as his fingers graze your thigh. 
“s-samu,” you say, feeling the heavy pressure build down in your stomach. “want,” your cheeks grow hot, and you’re tingling with a need to touch him, but you can’t move. his pace is too steady, too slow. you’ve never wanted to scream more. “want your fingers. please, please.” 
“please? such a good girl.” osamu grins against your pussy. the sound of his tongue slurping at your arousal is loud in the darkened space, and you clench around him, burning with need and shame. “you taste so good, too. better than any of the fucking shit in heaven. fuck.” he slips a finger in then, working at your clenching hole as his tongue curls around your clit, rubbing at the sensitive bud. 
your words leave you in a cry, every muscle in your body aching. “please, i want to move. let me touch you, i want to, i—”
“i’m not letting you go that easy,” osamu says, and he pulls his mouth away, his face glistening, soaked. his fingers curl into you and you squeeze your eyes tight as he reaches deeper, to the second knuckle. “you’re so fucking worked up. bet you could cum at the sound of my voice alone.” 
“i wanna, please, i’m so close—"
he laughs, looking up at you from under dark lashes. “already?” the sound is mocking, nothing about it soft as he kisses your inner thigh. he sees the desperation in your irises as you can do nothing but stare, unable to twitch a single muscle. “gonna cum all over my face?” he asks, and he’s back between your legs, tongue diving into you. “make a mess on me, sweetheart, wanna see that pretty face of yours when you cum.” 
you don’t think you’ve every felt like this before, basked in the moonlight as the angelic man soaks his face with your desire, smiling at the sight of you so sinful. your heart hammers in your chest as you remember what you’ve promised him—that you would be his forever and, perhaps, this is what forever entails. 
breathy moans leave you, and with each thrust of his tongue, you’re left with less words on your lips, less thoughts in your mind. “feels so good, you’re so good, osamu,” you babble, over and over. 
osamu reaches the deep spot inside of you, and you squeeze him, clenching as you come on his fingers, cry out in the space of black room, nothing but the stars to guide you. you’re not sure you’ve ever come this fast before, not without the help of your own hands, but osamu just continues to lap at your cunt, drinking the juices and making lewd noises of pleasure at the taste of you. “mm,” he hums, “so fucking perfect.”
he fists his cock, already hard as his tongue swirls inside of you, and you lose any train of thought, too focused on the way he’s making you feel. 
osamu is hard, leaking before he shifts onto his knees, rubbing his cock between your folds, gathering slick at the tip. “want my cock, baby? such a pretty thing deserves it, don’t you think?”
you nod, muttering syllables you don’t even understand. osamu teases you, drags his cock against your hole as he kisses your lips. 
“use your words, sweetheart,” he smiles. his soaked fingers leave patterns of your own slick on your stomach. 
you groan, eyelashes wet. “want your cock, ‘samu, please, wanna be stuffed so full,” you babble, and you can’t do anything but lay there, even though you want to touch him, want so badly to shift your hips into him. “please, osamu, please,” 
he makes a noise in the back of his throat, grinning as he plays with your nipple, lining himself against your dripping hole. “so fucking sweet for me, anyone would think you were the angel, wouldn’t they?” osamu asks, and then he sinks into you, slow, eyes careful as he searches for any pain in your features. 
you blink up at him, making a soft noise as you writhe under your skin. “b-big,” you say, feeling him stretch your walls as he sinks further. 
though his eyes are careful, he doesn’t bother to stop, each second dragging as he inches further into you. he laces his fingers with yours on the bed, grinning as dark hair falls into his eyes. “i think you can take it, can’t you? you’ve been sogood for me already.” 
sucked into the coolness of his gaze, you don’t realize that he’s released you from whatever spell you’ve been trapped under, kept helpless on the bed. you gasp as he sinks into you completely, aching from a mix of discomfort and the deep need with you. 
“too much,” you say, but he sinks further, deeper, and your walls clench around him, bringing a heavy groan out of both of you. “fuck, please, let me move, i—” 
“i’m not stopping you,” he kisses you hard, sloppy as his saliva drags across your lips. there’s a possessiveness in the way he fucks you, dragging his mouth across your own, claiming you as his. “you take it so fucking well, angel, slipping right into this soaked pussy.”
his words take a moment to reach your disoriented mind, and when you try to move, you can, your hands flying to his shoulders to bring him closer. your whimpers are loud in the hollow room, and osamu loves the sound of you, drinking each little whisper in like a heavenly elixir. 
“you’re so pretty,” he says, kissing across your forehead as you arch into him. “making you feel good, hm? so fucking innocent, and i’m ruining you.” 
“mmm,” you force the sound out as osamu thrusts into you, hard against the mattress, his hips moving in a steady, fast rhythm. hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat, his brown eyes even darker in the midnight hour. 
your fingers graze across his back, between his shoulder blades, and though your touch is featherlight, he freezes, stops immediately with a loud groan as he clamps his teeth down on your shoulder. 
you breath in sync, your chests rising and falling together. “osamu?” you ask, staring up at him, his eyes pinched together tightly as he grits his teeth. 
“sensitive,” he says, and his voice is hoarse. “fuck, i’ll cum on the spot if you touch me there.” 
you blink, your haziness clearing as you let your hands fall to your sides. it takes you a moment to realize why he would curl away from your touch there, why he would—
“your wings?” you ask, and he drags his gaze back up to your’s, nodding, before dropping his head onto your collarbone. he exhales into your neck, resuming a slow, steady pace inside you. though, you place a hand on his chest, feel his erratic heartbeat. “can i see?” 
“you don’t want to.” 
you pinch your eyebrows together, but he shifts his hips, forces a cry out of you as you collapse back down against the mattress. “i do,” you argue, but he’s fucking you mercilessly, sensuous sounds echoing in the room as he attempts to distract you. “i want to.” 
he’s about to deny your request, but you let out another soft please, batting your eyelashes so sweetly. your cheeks are flushed from the heat in the room, and, for some reason, he relents, bowing his head in some sort of remorse. slowly, his wings span out across the room. 
you lose your breath for a moment as you stare at them, muddled from the feeling of him inside and the beautiful sight before you. the wings are thick, black and feathery, spanning the length of the room, casting a dark shadow over you. they’re strong and unwavering, with a sheen that could be seen only on a raven, the light turning the shades from a deep purple to green. 
“oh,” you can’t mutter anything else as he drags his tip against the sensitive spot inside you. “oh, they’re so beautiful. fuck, osamu, i can’t—”
you can’t stop yourself from touching them, dragging a gentle touch against one of the feathers. osamu cries out, groans into your mouth as your walls clench around him, sweat dripping between you as your chest presses against his own.
“shit,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “oh, i’m so close. gonna make me come, aren’t you, baby? squeezing me so fucking tight, touching me like that.” 
his eyes are hazy, and, somehow, for some reason, he’s let you have control of the situation. he kisses your face, treats you with a gentleness you didn’t think he was capable of, his lips so warm against your skin. 
the dark, heavy wings cage you in, falling over the two of you, and you run your fingers against them once more as you feel another orgasm creep upon you. your clit rubs against him, and your slick drips between the two of you, down your thighs as your breath catches in your throat. 
for a moment, you revel in the feeling of him deep inside you, and you close your eyes, his feathered wings so soft under your palm, letting your pleasure overtake you.
though that is short-lived as osamu pinches your jaw.
“hey,” he says gruffly, “look at me. want to see those pretty eyes of yours when you cum.” and though his eyes are soft, delicate from the way you’re stroking his wings, he sounds so mean, so possessive. “gonna fuck all my cum inside you, cause you’re mine now.”
your fingers curl around the feathers, hard as you tug him down towards you. osamu moans deep into your mouth when you clench around him, your orgasm rolling over you again as you scream his name into the blackness of the room. 
“such a good girl f’me, fuck, i—” he doesn’t finish his sentence, already filling your soaked pussy with his cum. it seeps deep inside of you, coating your walls white until he pulls out, lets his seed drip between the two of you. 
osamu presses his fingers across your face, dragging the delicate touch around your jaw, your chin as you breath heavily, still awestruck by the creature before you. you’re exhausted, sleepy, eyes hazy as you regard him with stuttered breath. 
but he doesn’t let you go, kissing you over and over again with flushed lips. “i know you can give me one more,” he says in a low voice, humming against your throat. “my perfect mortal girl. just one more, and i’ll give you whatever you want, got it, pretty?” 
your body aches, sensitive and spent, but you don’t object when he slips another finger into, kissing you hard as he lets you touch his raven wingspan. 
you’d always wanted to be an actress, anyways. 
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tags: @hannzai @cha0thicpisces @kissesmellow21 @sukiischaotic @hinata7346
KINKTOBER 2023 MASTERLIST
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lanawinterscigarettes · 2 months ago
Text
Off Limits (poly Non-Judging Breakfast Club x gn reader)
Summary: your partners aren't too thrilled when Vanessa gets you alone at a party you're attending
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Warnings: Vanessa is a little obsessed with the reader (and plots to break them up with their partners to be with them), the reader briefly smokes a cigarette, they/them pronouns used to refer to the reader in a gender neutral manner, jealousy/slightly possessive behavior, suggestive stuff at the end
A/N: this was a request for a jealous njbc that kind of got off track and spiraled into something else so that's why I'm not responding to the ask with this lmao, I plan on writing something different for that
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Everyone in the Upper East Side knew who you belonged to, from the prep school kids to their parents to the tabloids. Even Gossip Girl herself posted the occasional blast about catching you in the arms of one of your many lovers, something the drama-hungry scavengers of the city greedily ate up as though it were their last meal.
Most people knew better than to mess with you because of this, not wanting to deal with the wrath of your partners by making you upset, even if it was by accident. Anyone who did would immediately find themselves in hot water with no one to help fish them out.
Of course, Vanessa Abrams was not most people. She was from Brooklyn. She was edgy, she was cool, she was the manic pixie dream girl from hell who could be either your sweet dream or your worst nightmare. Or something like that. It seemed as though that's how she saw herself, at least.
Obviously you'd be willing to make an exception for her, right? I mean, Blair definitely hated her, and Chuck automatically disliked anyone Blair did out of principle, and she did kind of go out with Nate at one point, but still. At least Serena was somewhat friendly, and that had to stand for something.
Plus, you were good friends with Dan, even though your partners weren't all too thrilled about it. She didn't know for sure that you'd fooled around with him, but there was always a slight chance of that happening, and if it could happen with him then maybe it could happen with her, too.
Was she obsessed with you? No, of course not... Okay, maybe a little. You were certainly much nicer than anyone else on the Upper East Side, even with the slight bit of snark you always portrayed whenever you had to be around someone you didn't like. Still, it was better than nothing.
She figured the best way to spend some time with you would be at some kind of fancy event the Upper East Side was famous for throwing, where hopefully your partners would be distracted long enough for her to get you alone. Dan was obviously invited as your best friend, which meant she felt like it was okay for her to tag along. (It was not.)
"Dan, it's so great to see you!" She heard your cheerful voice ring out the moment they'd stepped inside, you pulling him in for a warm and friendly hug before turning your attention to her. "Oh, I didn't know you'd be bringing Vanessa."
You seemed a bit apprehensive at her presence, but that was probably just because you knew the trouble it would stir up by her being there. Dan looked nervous for the same reason.
"Uh, yeah. I mentioned it earlier and she said that she wanted to come so I figured what's the harm, right?" He let out an awkward laugh while rubbing the back of his neck, fully aware that bringing her might not have been his best decision.
"Well, I have to go check on a few things, but it was so nice seeing you both. Enjoy yourselves, okay?" You gave the two a bright smile before disappearing off into the crowd of people.
"I'm gonna go get us a drink. Stay here and don't get into any trouble," Dan said a moment or so later, leaving her by herself. That was fine, as she didn't expect him to stay with her for very long. Now all she needed to do was find you again.
Vanessa searched the sea of people, spotting you over by one of the tables with Blair and Dan. The brunette had her arm linked with yours, a subtle reminder to everyone there you were already taken. Blair glanced over in Vanessa's direction, her eyes narrowing as they caught the sight of her. It appeared as though Queen B wasn't too happy to see her.
That was fine, everything was fine, Vanessa quietly reassured herself as she looked away, trying to make it seem like she wasn't staring just now. She'd just have to catch up with you a little later when you were alone.
Dan returned after another moment or so with their drinks, handing her a glass as he surveyed the people there. "I swear I was just talking with a guy who's new car cost more money upfront than it would be to put a down payment on a house," he mused with a shake of his head.
She merely shrugged and took a sip of her cocktail before replying. "Welcome to the Upper East Side."
No sooner had she said that did Serena appear with Nate. "Hey, Dan! Blair told us you were here," the blonde greeted, seeming just as bubbly as she usually did (though the alcohol that was certainly in her system probably helped with that).
"Yeah, we showed up a few minutes ago," he explained while Vanessa just sort of stood there awkwardly, averting her gaze as she tried to avoid making direct eye contact with Nate. You know, her ex.
"I was surprised to see you here. I didn't think you liked these kind of events, Vanessa," Nate spoke up suddenly, causing her face to heat up as she realized they must've known she wasn't just there to socialize.
"I just thought I'd try to get out of my comfort zone a little," she lied while doing her best to keep it cool, not wanting to seem nervous. Despite that, Nate could clearly see right through her facade, even if Serena couldn't.
"Well, I hope you have fun," Serena replied with another cheery grin before tugging her boyfriend away from them, most likely off to either make out or get another drink.
Vanessa excused herself to go to the bathroom shortly after, needing some fresh air. God, she had to get a grip. There's no way her plan of seducing you would work properly if she kept stressing herself out over it.
She was fixing her hair in the mirror when the sound of voices began to carry from down the nearby hall, which prompted her to hide in one of the stalls so she could eavesdrop in on the conversation.
"I'm telling you, she's not just here because she wants to 'socialize'," the voice of Blair spoke, her heels clacking furiously again the marble flooring as she entered the bathroom. "She's here for a reason, and I'm going to find out what it is."
"Okay, B, don't you think that maybe you're being a little bit paranoid?" Serena's voice said next, her walking sounding much more relaxed and at ease compared to the brunette that came in before her. "Maybe she really just does want to have some fun here, did you ever think about that?"
Blair scoffed at the suggestion. "If she wants to have fun, she can do it in her own city, away from here. Brooklyn is much more her speed, anyway." It was quiet for a moment, as if she was trying to either collect her thoughts or check how she looked in the mirror, most likely both. "Besides, she's been staring all night. At us. That's not just for no reason, I'm certain of it."
"Okay, why don't you take a deep breath and try to relax, alright? Let's get you another drink,maybe that'll help you calm down some," Serena said while attempting to keep her best friend/girlfriend reigned in. "Come on, I'll go with you."
The other woman responded with a grumble of "fine" before allowing herself to be led out of the bathroom, the sound of their retreating footsteps like music to Vanessa's ears. She couldn't stay much longer, she knew that much. Not when they were already starting to catch onto her plan so soon.
Once she was certain they were really gone, she exited the stall and left the bathroom, hoping her disappearance hadn't been noticed as that would only add onto their suspicions. She thought she was in the clear to slip back into the party where she could act as if she'd been there all along when she bumped into someone, quite literally.
"Oh- excuse me," she apologized, her green eyes widening the moment she noticed that it was you.
"No worries!" You simply laughed it off, the appearance of your dazzling pearly whites sending a shiver down her spine, in a good way. "I was just about to head out onto one of the balconies for a cigarette break, perhaps you'd like to join me?"
Her heart stuttered in her chest at that. You wanted to be alone with her? On the balcony, of all places? That could only mean one of two things: you were either going to kiss her, or attempt to push her off. Still, it was a risk she was willing to take.
"Y- Yeah, sure! I'd love to," she replied with a grin of her own, quickly following after you out onto one of the many balconies there. Maybe things would work out tonight after all.
Unbeknownst to her, however, Georgina Sparks of all people happened to be watching the whole thing from a distance. If there was one thing that girl loved, it was stirring up trouble, and what better way to do it than by telling the four people who practically ran the Upper East Side that their precious little darling had slipped away with one of their biggest enemies?
"Hello Blair, Chuck," she purred out when approaching them, a Chesire cat-like grin on her face.
Both of them had visibly displeased looks on their faces at her sudden appearance. "Don't you have anyone else you can bother?" Blair grumbled with an eye roll.
Georgina just ignored her. "Where's Nate and Serena? They should be present to hear this, too."
"Hear what?" The Golden Boy himself questioned while approaching, Serena clinging onto him as they made their way over. She was already tipsy, by the looks of it. Big surprise there.
"Well, it's really none of my business-" she began in an innocent tone, purposely acting coy just to irritate them further. "-but I would've thought the four of you would want to pay better attention to your shared pet."
That certainly got their attention, as they knew full well she was referring to you. A shared look passed between them before Chuck spoke up. "What are you talking about?" He demanded, already not liking where this was going.
Georgina, on the other hand, was thrilled by how on edge they were already. "I mean, hanging out with the Humphreys is one thing, but Vanessa Abrams of all people? I thought you had them on a tighter leash than that."
Their reaction was exactly what she hoped it would be. Chuck's jaw was clenched so tightly he looked ready to crack a tooth, Nate's brow was furrowed in confusion, and Serena's jaw was dropped in disbelief. The only one who didn't seem entirely shocked by this new information was Blair, whose eyes were narrowed in the oncomings of rage.
"I knew we couldn't trust her," she hissed out, giving Serena a pointed look that had the blonde shutting her mouth instantly. "Where are they?" She demanded while turning her attention back towards Georgina, who looked far too pleased at their anger.
"Probably still out on the balcony where I saw them disappear off to a moment ago," she stated with a shrug, picking up a drink from off a nearby waiter's tray and taking a sip.
That worried the four more than anything else. Vanessa could be fairly crafty when she wanted to be, and you were far too nice to realize when someone was trying to use you.
Meanwhile, you were indeed still out on the balcony just like Georgina had said, casually smoking a cigarette while Vanessa debated just how to move the topic of conversation away from small talk and towards "Would you like to have sex with me?"
"So-" she began before cutting herself off, not quite sure what exactly she'd planned to say after that. Before she could try to speak again, however, you beat her to it.
"I'm glad Dan has you as a friend," you said sincerely, glancing over at her while you spoke. "I mean, sure, he's friends with me, but it's good that there's someone in his life who isn't from the Upper East Side that he can relate to."
That was probably one of the last things she expected you to say, but it was pretty on brand for you so she decided to just roll with it. "R- Right, I definitely agree with you there." God, why couldn't she get a grip and stop being so nervous?
It probably had something to do with how she knew at any given moment your partners could burst out onto the balcony and snatch you away from her again. She was a bit surprised it hadn't been done already, in all honesty.
"You know, I think you two would make a really cute couple," you added while tilting your head slightly in her direction, carefully making sure to blow out the smoke from your cigarette away from her. You were always so considerate like that, but your words made her brow furrow a bit in confusion.
Did you really think they'd make a cute couple, her and Dan? Or were you just trying to be nice? Or were you somehow aware of the massive crush she had on you, and this was your way of trying to let her down easy?
"Actually-" she began hesitantly, knowing if she was going to try to win you over it would be now or never. Of course it was just then that the doors to the balcony opened, revealing Nate of all people.
"Hey," he greeted with a sort of strained politeness that immediately let her know she'd been found out. Crap. "Blair's looking for you." It was a thinly veiled way of him saying "she's about to blow her top if you're not in her presence without the next five minutes".
Judging from the look on your face, you seemed a bit concerned but not surprised as you put out your cigarette on the railing, clearly used to this happening. "It was nice seeing you, Vanessa. Think about what I said with you and Dan," you politely bid her farewell as Nate led you back inside.
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"Spotted: Vanessa Abrams seen alone out on the balcony with a toy that already belongs to the Upper East Side's most elite. Haven't you heard, V? They won their prize fair and square, and they don't intend on sharing anytime soon. If it's company that you're after, perhaps Lonely Boy would be a much better suited companion. At least he doesn't have a pack of vicious bloodhounds sniffing after him wherever he goes. Maybe next time you'll think twice about going after someone who's clearly off limits, to you and everyone else. If the object of your attraction wouldn't be shared with their fellow socialites, what makes you think a nobody from Brooklyn would ever have a chance? Just something to think about once you're officially excommunicated from the Manhattan crowd, which is bound to happen any time now from the looks of it. You know you love me. XOXO, Gossip Girl."
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Vanessa knew she'd never get another opportunity to be alone with you like she had, especially after the most recent blast put out by Gossip Girl. None of your partners seemed intent on leaving your side from that point on, one of them always having an arm wrapped protectively around your waist whenever she saw you together, just like Nate had when he took you back into the party and away from her.
She didn't miss the hushed whispers and judgmental glances thrown her way by the other party goers, no doubt questioning the audacity she must've had in thinking she'd somehow manage to snatch you up just by getting you alone. Even Dan looked uncomfortable, not even bothering to say goodbye to you when he left. It was all her fault, and she knew it.
The last thing she saw of you before she left the party was your flustered expression from the many kisses being placed on your neck by Serena, Chuck's hand resting on the small of your back as Nate and Blair also stood close by. Despite being "off limits" as Gossip Girl had said, she really did think she'd somehow be special enough to be an exception to that rule. She wasn't, and if anything only caused it to be enforced even more.
Once again, she'd lost, but was that really a surprise? You certainly didn't think so, and while part of you felt bad for her you also thought she should've known better than to go after you of all people when literally anyone else was up for grabs.
Next time you invited Dan to a party, you'd have to specify that plus ones weren't allowed. You already had enough drama in your life without someone else adding onto it just because they had a little crush on you.
Right now, however, that wasn't your biggest concern as you were far too focused on the after party your partners were clearing intent on having in the limo on the way home. Safe to say your neck was going to be covered in hickeys and your legs were going to be shaking from aftershocks of pleasure by the time they were through with you.
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End notes: sorry for the slight vanessa bashing I couldn't help myself (and if some of the descriptions of her made you cringe then good because that's the point lmao)
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