#Just come out with it and admit what you really want to say.

[syoddeye]

sliding scale

You're in need of a handyman. He has needs of his own. cw: discussion of kids/pregnancy, john price inserting himself into your life, heavily implied breeding kink, unsettling and smutless (my brand)

You win the jackpot. Okay. Not the jackpot, but you're hit by a respectable windfall. It's like a cheesy movie you'd watch around the holidays: A distant relative dies, you receive a very serious letter, and suddenly, your account isn't as sad as it once was.

So, you do the impossible. The unthinkable. You buy a house.

An old, well-loved house from an elderly couple.

The day you close, they tell you about raising their kids in the house and mention the names etched on the door frame. When you arrive home that evening, the empty house feels grand and hollow, but there they are, just where they said. Names climbing upward in uneven increments, faded with time, but legible. You trace your finger along the marks, imagining small hands and the measuring tape, the years slipping by. It makes you smile, despite yourself.

You've never wanted kids, not really, but the thought of this, people leaving bits of themselves behind—it makes you mushy. You figure, once the dust settles, you'll let rooms to friends, maybe friends of friends. Start a fun little commune of sorts, a collective of people coming and going.

The first night, you drink nonalcoholic wine straight from the bottle and lie on your mattress on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. There's no furniture yet, just your overnight bag and the smell of fresh paint from a patch you tested on the living room wall. You fall asleep smiling. The house needs a lot of work, but you're not worried. Some TLC and elbow grease can go a long way.

Over the next few weeks, you move in and start working. Anything is possible with the power of YouTube tutorials and the local tool library.

You start in the primary bedroom and bathroom, learning to tile, install flooring, and connect plumbing for the perfect vanity and sink you found at a thrift store. It feels good to learn how things fit together and see the fruits of your labor. At night, you sleep in one of the old kid's rooms. The wallpaper is covered in rockets and planets. A couple of glow-in-the-dark stars cling to the ceiling.

The bathroom comes together wonderfully, and you feel invincible.

But then you get to the kitchen.

After an outlet zaps you, you decide you may be in over your head. That there really is a limit to what one person can do on their own. You start looking up local contractors, but everything is out of your budget. You've been doing all the work yourself for a reason. Then, after digging for ages, you find a promising lead: John Price - Handyman - Sliding Scale.

On the phone, John seems normal. Charming. Funny. He tells you he's impressed you bought a house on your own. (You've heard that a lot lately, and while it feels patronizing, you let it go. You did jump up a band upon inheriting your chunk of Great Uncle Leroy's money.) He agrees to come by and see what he can do.

You have to admit he makes a good impression when he shows up. He's punctual, polite, and looks the part. Broad chest, thick arms, big hands resting on his hips as he surveys the kitchen. After only a few minutes, he says he'll take the job. No hesitation.

You explain your tight budget and that you'll work alongside him when you're not at your day job. You show him the money you've set aside, expecting him to back out, but he just shakes his head and nudges the folder back across the table.

"Said I'd do it. Don't you fret, darl."

You vet him afterward, just to be sure. His references check out. The reviews are solid. He appears to know a little about everything. You text him to confirm, formally offering the job, and he accepts.

On the first day, you let him in and immediately have to avert your eyes. You didn't realize a toolbelt could look like that on someone. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing his forearms, and the way he moves—confident, purposeful—makes you grateful you're heading out to work. You tell him when you'll be back and leave quickly, gripping the steering wheel tighter than usual thinking about the hunk of man in your house.

When you return, the kitchen looks different, unfinished, but vastly improved. John's already fixed things you didn't think could be fixed. Over lunch, he even scoped out other problems around the house: a crack in the basement wall, a loose board on the stairs, and spots where the flooring must be replaced. He gushes about the house, praising its character, the way it's held up over time.

John's face grows serious, and stares down his nose when he finally asks, "You're not gonna ask me to paint over the wood or rip out the built-in hutch, are ya?"

His relief over your answer is palpable: No. That's why you bought the house in the first place. You describe what you love about it: the glass doorknobs, the dining room archway, and transom windows above the doors. He nods. He knows exactly what you mean.

Before he leaves for the day, he stops at the doorframe and points to the tallest name etched into the wood. You explain it belonged to the previous owners, a family with seven kids.

"Seven," he repeats, eyebrows raised.

"Right? Can you believe that? Seven!" You laugh. Frankly, anything more than two sounds insane. 

But John doesn't laugh. He stares at the names for a moment, his jaw tight. "Yeah. Difficult to imagine."

After he leaves, you scold yourself. You don't really know John. You've known him for all of a day. What if he came from a big family? Or what if he doesn't speak to his family anymore, if things are complicated with his parents? You feel awful, and the guilt channels itself into stress-baking.

The next morning, when he shows up, there's a platter of breakfast pasties waiting on the counter. He hesitates, looks almost bashful, until you insist. He takes a bite, then another, and looks at you with genuine astonishment. He says if you leave food like this every morning, he'll knock his rate down even further.

It makes sense, financially speaking, so you agree. You start making breakfast for two, and in return, he keeps the repairs affordable. The ritual becomes routine: John shows up every weekday morning, you eat together, he gets to work, and you leave. You look forward to seeing him. Hearing his voice rumble out good mornings and goodnights.

For two weeks, you come home to find steady progress on the kitchen. You help him out for an hour or two in the evenings, and by the time it's nearly finished, you've started discussing other parts of the house.

You mention the two smallest children's rooms aren't really usable for tenants. You show him your plans to knock down the wall between them and create a library or office space.

But this time, John doesn't agree.

"First I'm hearing of this," He leans back in his chair at your table. His arms cross over his chest, legs spreading wide. Even sitting, you see what he's doing. Trying to take a posture that carries authority, to cow you. "Tenants? What about a family?"

You try to steer the conversation back to your plans, to the picture you've sketched. "I'm not planning on having one. So, like I was saying—"

"Why buy a house this big, then? Why spend all this time fixin' it up if you're not planning to honor its legacy?"

The tone of his voice shifts completely, with no trace of the easy, flirty banter that's been your norm for weeks. His words drip with disdain. His brow knits together. Nostrils flaring. He looks genuinely upset. Mystified that you're not going to fill the house with your…your brood.

It's as if your refusal to have children is an affront to him personally. 

It sends a chill down your spine. Instantly, your image of him—this dependable, good-humored man—cracks apart. You glance past him, searching for the right words, and focus on the kitchen instead. The cabinets, the fixtures, the paint. All of it bears his mark now, and it leaves a sour taste in your mouth.

The realization settles like a stone in your stomach. You can't keep working with him. Not if your plans for the house, your house, are going to be a problem.

You tell him as much, as gently as possible.

His anger bleeds out of him quickly, melting into embarrassment and shame. His shoulders drop, and he folds into himself in a way that seems almost impossible for someone his size. "Don't know what came over me, darl."

He packs up his tools while apologizing again, both for his outburst and for the unfinished work, and gives you the spare key you lent to him for emergencies. Before he leaves, he asks you not to write a review, not even a positive one, and you agree. Things had been good until now. You don't want to ruin him over this. People have bad days.

With the kitchen functional and nothing too big left on your plate, you cut your losses and decide to finish the work alone.

Progress is slow on your own, of course. One pair of hands, only so many hours after work to chip away at the list after work. Still, time moves faster than you expect. You push through exhaustion, head often swimming, and work late into the evenings. One night, you finish patching the floor and tackle the basement's cracked wall. Only when you get down there, it's already done. Smoothed over perfectly.

You tell yourself John must've fixed it before everything went south. But then you notice other things. Several odd jobs from your list are already complete.

Squeaky door hinges turn silent. The dings and nail holes in the walls, spackled over. The second toilet that kept running starts working correctly. It's partly a relief, like the house is taking care of itself, but also deeply unsettling. You don't remember doing it, you've never sleepwalked or slept-repair in your life, even in your overtired state, and you're still too sore over your falling out to text John and ask if he did it all.

Instead, you decide to take a break. A few days off work, a proper rest. Let the house settle, let yourself breathe. Nothing happens. No floating tools. No ghosts. It's like the house is waiting for you to look away.

Paranoia sets in. You order cameras—indoor and outdoor, enough to cover every angle.

The day they arrive, you barely make it through the door before tearing open the box. But something stops you. Your eyes catch on a strange wooden box sitting on the dining table. It's a shadowbox.

Inside the box is the slat from the front doorframe, the one with the heights and names of the seven kids who grew up here. It's been cut out, perfectly, and framed like an artifact.

Your stomach drops. You scramble to the doorframe and run your hands over it, frantic. The patchwork is seamless, so clean it's like the names never existed.

Then you notice the boots. Tucked in and lined up next to your own pairs. The extra jacket hanging on the hooks.

A shadow falls over you.

You freeze, heart in your throat, and slowly turn with eyes the size of dinner plates. Towering above you, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fists planted on his hips, is John. Grinning.

"Work alright today?" He bends down and pulls you to your feet by your wrist, wrapping you up in an embrace and welcoming you home. He sways slightly with you, like you're dancing, his chest rising and falling against yours. He looks at you with a clear fondness and affection, but there's something off, like a splintering foundation. Stable until you look too close.

You try to push yourself away, palms flat against his chest, but he doesn't let go. "What are—What are you doing here? What are—Why did you do that?" You glance again toward where the measurements used to be.

He chuckles, soft and unbothered, a wistfulness threaded in his words. "Well, we're gonna need the room for our little ones, yeah? Oh, we'll have seven or more, dependin' on what takes. Sliding scale and all that."

At your stunned, horrified silence, he slots a hand into the back pocket of your jeans. He gives your cheek a little squeeze and starts steering you toward the kitchen. The one he built for you.

"C'mon. Lemme tell you all about my plans for us."

[toxycodone]

mouthwashing characters and their icks

ship. tulpar crew x reader

content. sfwish, just annoying things about our faves, some are romantic and some are general.

Captain Curly

Wildly empathetic. Like to a point where it’s annoying. Like yes, you get it. It’s sad to see an animal on the side of the road. But this is the second dog this week and it’s bit him twice. (He also falls for like. Fake homeless scams. Omg.)

I think he had an era where he had a cat that fucking hated him and never ever left under the guest room bed and terrorized his guests but he didn’t have the heart to get rid of it. 💀

He always ends up playing devil’s advocate without trying. Like when you’re complaining about someone at work or some bitch who cut you off in traffic, Curly’s like “maybe they had a bad day!” or something.

He just…never lets you just wallow in your misery when you need to. When he starts with his “look on the bright side!” stuff it makes your eyes roll back into your skull.

Is soooooo fucking conflict avoidant he’d rather just take shit on the chin then ever speak his mind about things with you. It gets so bad bc he’s bottling all this crap up and getting kinda catty. Because he won’t just grow up and tell you what his problem is.

Comes home in his dirty ass shoes and tracks mud all over the house. I mean he’ll swiffer it up like the housewife he is but it’s annoying.

Doesn’t clean his hands before touching your phone (or his own) before eating,. U get a greasy screen.

Jimmy is an asshole to you and Curly just goes “now now, Jim…” It won’t be until Jimmy does something like. Really bad. That Curly decides to put his foot down and enforce boundaries with that man. You witness this dude literally use your man as a doormat way too often.

If you make him choose. He would probably choose Jim unless push really came to shove…..

GIRLS FLIRT WITH HIM IN PUBLIC AND HES TOO ‘AWKWARD’ TO SAY “I’m taken…” so he just flaunts in the attention. In reality he just…likes the attention but doesn’t want to admit it to himself. (He’s loyal don’t get me wrong but this is annoying)

Thinks big romantic public gestures are cute. Whether that is an ick or not is up to you.

Jimmy

GOES THROUGH YOUR PHONE WHEN YOU’RE ASLEEP OR IN THE BATHROOM. And when you catch him he’s doesn’t even bother to make a good excuses “just wanted to check something.” Okay??? What?? If you go through his phone he will legit tackle you for it back (he isn’t even cheating he’s just pathetically bitchless and friendless. His last text was to his dealer and bro didn’t even respond.)

Will leave your important messages on read. It’s like he has read receipts on just to spite you.

Aggressively questions you out of the blue on who you know and hang out with as if it isn’t the same fucking people each time.

Really horny when he’s drunk and tries to seduce you but has terrible whiskey dick.

Terrible morning breath. Rank. Disgusting. Also all his clothes have the faint scent of stale cigarette smoke. Along with his carpet. And furniture. His walls are probably off-white too.

World’s dirtiest bathroom it’s literally so gross. He leaves his stubble in/around the sink after shaving with an electric razor real fast before work.

Has probably kissed you and then asked you what you last ate with a grimace ����

Your friends hate him. Your family hates him. Your landlord hates him. And he hates them back.

You’ve had to bail him out of jail before. The officer on duty just gives you a pitied look when he sees you walk in and say you’re bailing him of all people out.

Pretty sure he has threatened to kill himself if you leave him multiple times but lashes out at you when you’re sweet to him at the most random times.

Anya

Stealing this from @l1v1ngd3dgrrl but Anya has the DUMBEST. LAUGH. Like she has a cutesy laugh until she’s finally not thinking and she laugh so hard she snorts. So loud.

Refuses to file down her nails so she accidentally scratches you all the time.

Definitely has an ex she’s still friends with that makes you lowkey question what is going on between them bc they’re obviously still into her and she doesn’t see it.

She silently judges and you can see it on her face when she has something to say but then she goes “it’s nothing!!!” And refuses to say it. (However, this does make her the best gossiper and she can be a total mean girl and tear apart bitches you hate on secret.)

Lowkey tries to psychoanalyze you when you’re venting to her like girl. I am not your homework.

Thinks it’s her responsibility to “fix you” for some reason. Takes you being depressed, angry, etc a little too personally.

Never watches the movies or shows you recommend you have sit her down and watch it w her. And she will. Be distracted by stuff on her phone.

Avid Mitski fan. And Nora Jones. Just an air of sad girl and longing to her that goes soooo crazy.

Big fan of ugly sweaters and tacky matching outfits….but has the audacity to make comments on your style.

Daisuke

“This one’s for you!” *Misses*. In public. In front of your friends. Need I say more.

Uses your hair products in the shower and your soap and your nice shaving oil without asking. :/

This is moreso in the beginning of the relationship but. I see this persisting that he’s constantly looking to you for approval for things. Has a really difficult time making decisions on his own, too. He’s looking to you for guidance on stuff,

Unironically thinks Dutch ovening you is funny.

Your friends all think he’s mid and although he’s sweet. You’re way outta his league. You’re dating down.

Has more skin care products than he can ever use. He’s a total product junkie.

GACHA GAME WHALE. Has definitely borrowed money for a ten pull in genshin 💔

Has cried out of frustration over Fortnite before (he was in a bad place. Okay.)

Cannot keep a job for the life of him. The only solid career he lands is like. Bobarista. But goddamn he’s good at it.

Has. Forgotten your anniversary/birthday/etc. before. and probably almost threw up out of guilt.

Swansea

Does the dad cold start every morning. Hacking. Coughing. Spitting up in the sink. It’s gross.

When he takes a shit he’s stuck in the bathroom for like half an hour at least. It’s always oddly humid and gross if you go in after him.

Chews with his mouth open.

Walks around shirtless only in underwear and will proudly fart whenever he needs to and it’s loud as fuck.

His kids lowkey hate him tbh. 💀 they have a better relationship as adults but man. Rocky fucking childhood.

Nothing ever really makes him satisfied or truly happy so you’re stuck in this weird limbo on if he actually gives a shit about you or not.

Rolls his eyes at you. When you can plainly sees he has suuuuch an attitude problem it’s crazy.

Definitely has asked for a manager in your presence over something minuscule (you wanted to die)

[woso-dreamzzz]

Leaving VIII

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: You win Olympic gold

Alexia will be the first to admit that she doesn't understand tennis.

She gets it from an objective stand point like how she gets football. Two teams (two opponents) meet on the pitch (the court) and kick the ball around (hit the ball over the net) to score a goal (get a point).

The scoring for tennis confuses her as does the terminology.

She doesn't get the words they use like ace and deuce and double fault.

She kind of thinks a double fault is like a foul but she still can't understand how because you're not tackling anyone.

Either way, Alexia doesn't understand tennis but this is a final and even though she's got her own quarter final today, she's still travelled to Paris to watch you.

You're against Zheng.

She knocked out Iga but now she's against you.

You've played her once before in at the United Cup and she'd knocked you out as well.

This was revenge though.

You serve hard and fast or, at least Alexia presumes you do.

You're wearing your Barcelona cap and your gold Nike shoes and you look like an absolutely beast on the pitch (the court). You hit the ball viciously, catching Zheng off guard completely with the force of your shots.

"Has she got somewhere to be today?" Eli says, a little laugh escaping her as you breeze through the first set.

Alexia frowns. "No? I don't think so. I think her only plans are to go back to bed."

Alba laughs. "It was a joke, Ale. Mama thinks Y/n has somewhere else to be which is why she's getting through the set so fast."

"Wait, is she going too quickly?"

Alba sighs. "You've been to countless tennis matches, Alexia. How do you not understand it yet?"

"They're complicated!"

"She literally hits the ball over the net!"

You seem anxious to get the match started up again, wiping off what little sweat you've produced and drinking half of your water. You don't even reach for your energy gel or anything of the like.

You're up on the court as soon as you can be, bouncing around on your feet, kicking up some of the clay dust underfoot.

Zheng serves next but that's all she really ends up doing because, yet again, you dominate.

Alexia can feel the atmosphere swell from the audience and gets the funny feeling that she's missing something again.

Her head ping pongs around trying to keep the ball in sight.

There's an uproar in the crowd as Zheng swings.

And misses.

Alba's on her feet, fist pumped up in the air and a cry of triumph out of her mouth.

Eli's got her hands covering her mouth in shock.

Just lower down, Alexia can see your training partner and coaching team celebrating.

You're grinning. You kiss your racket before turning to face your family.

You bow, the exact same pose and the exact same way Alexia did at Camp Nou and at the Champion's League final.

You come up, grinning before bursting into tears.

You move to your coaching team first, being drawn into a hug by everyone including Iga.

"Should I start getting worried about my space as number one?" She teases but all you can do is let out a wet little laugh.

You make your way up to your family next.

Alexia gets to you first.

She may not understand tennis but she knows a winner when she sees one.

She gets to you before anyone else, tugging you into a hug.

You've always been smaller than Alexia. That was to be expected but you'd shot up around puberty, growing like a weed.

She's glad that you're still smaller than her though, still small enough the she can easily hold your face in her hands and kiss your forehead.

You smile at her, sniffling.

"I won."

"Yes."

Your smile widens. "You didn't even realise."

"What?! Yes I did!"

"Don't lie. I saw you. You thought we were meant to go for another set."

"What's a set?"

Laughter overtakes your tears, bubbling out of your throat at the clueless look on your sister's face.

"No, seriously, what's a set? Is it like the two different halves?"

"Don't worry about it, Ale."

"No, wait, I want to know! Did you already have halftime? The match went kind of quick. Surely you should have had halftime before it finished?"

You're properly laughing now and behind Alexia, you think Alba and Eli are laughing too.

"Does it really matter?" You tease," I just won Olympic gold."

"No, I guess not."

There's silence between the two of you for a moment before you shriek.

Alexia lifts you like you weigh nothing, like you're just that little kid again with a scraped knee and pigtails.

Like you're not the Olympic tennis champion.

[feitanii-ll]

“ GUMI’S HOME!! “.

Pt. 1 Pt. 2 Pt. 3 …

✮ pairing: gojo satoru x reader (romantically). and megumi fushiguro x reader (platonically)

✮ synopsis: in which,, megumi comes to the realization over the years that he in fact does have a family. Or, raising megumi w satoru.

✮ contains: heavyyy flufff, long-term relationship w gojo, young megumi growing up :(, reader and gojo are the same age and get marrieddd. NOT LORE ACCURATE (kinda). ONLY SLIGHT SEASON TWO SPOILERS. crack-fix type dialogue. Megumi and Satoru scuffle. Not a lot of reader until the end. Uhhh, slight cursing. Centered around megumi’s POV!!

September, 2007

Upon first meeting Satoru Gojo, Megumi could confirm (with much confidence) that the man was truly an odd ball.

Like a snake, he slithered his way in with that cocky attitude. A stupid, smug grin and a bravado that made the little boy cringe. Crouching down before him to try and get on his level. Just who the hell did he think he was?

“You’re… fushiguro’s kid, yes? Man, you look just like him. It’s almost uncanny.” the silver haired male gets too close for comfort, thoroughly observing the boy as he mentally points out the similarities between him and his father. “It’s a shame you zen’ins are a bunch of deadbeats—“

“Do you, like, need something–?“ megumi butts in, voice sounding irritated in a way that says he ready to ditch this conversation completely, but curious as to what the hell he could possibly want from him. And just what the hell did “his” clan have to do with him? As if they even knew he existed.

“Well, yeah, actually. Fushiguro is—“

“—something Important.” He emphasizes just before he could finish his sentence.

“Just, about your dad— we aren’t on the best of terms. I ki—“

“Don’t care,” the ravenette huffs, and the sorcerer is surprised at just how much emotion is in such a tiny body. Or, lack there of.

“You.. don’t care?” The male pouts, hands dropping to his sides.

“Haven’t seen him in years. Nor do I remember his face, or what the hell he has going on. Why would I?”

Satoru’s lips purse, and his eyebrows raise in shocked amusement.

“Really. I’ll admit, I’m a little baffled,” he cackles in a way that has the boy frowning in disgust. “You’re stronger than I thought, then. Both physically, and mentally. I’m sure you see that within yourself, too, don’t you, Megumi?”

Megumi stares blankly, and the older boy takes it as a silent agreement.

“Well then! I guess I don’t have anything to say, after all.” With a slap to his knees, satoru stands up from his crouched position, his height shading the smaller boy from the sun. Megumi can now truly see him— the silvery stands of hair, pale skin, and though protected by the expensive branded sunglasses adorning his face, the uncanny, borderline disturbing radiant color of his eyes.

A blue too vibrant to look away from. It was far from comforting, really.

“I’ll be seeing you around, Megumi!” Satoru laughs, and because he has no damn sense of decorum, ruffles megumi’s hair, much to his dismay. “You stay outta trouble, ya hear?” He beams, a huge contrast to the disturbing news he was just about to break to the kid.

“Uh huh,” he hums, watching as he steps off. When out of sight, he scoffs.

“What a dummy..”

He doesn’t leave the area until the voice of his sister beckoning him over rings out through the alley from atop of the balcony. He takes a good look at where the sorcerer just was before slowly feuding his way back home, backpack straps clenched within his tiny fists.

──────

For a boy his age, Megumi is, for the most part, an emotionally intelligent, levelheaded kid. Other than a short temper, he’s always been good at simply ignoring the things that tick him off for the sake of his sanity.

But this? A grown man screaming out in the middle of a crowded street in front of a billion strangers? A very noticeably grown man, and a very obvious frightened looking child as the lanky weirdo sprints towards him, ignoring the cries and disgruntled curses of disagreement from the innocent people in which he shoves.

“Megumiiiii! Megumiii—!”

“Oh, no… no no no no no,” Megumi’s eyes widen, shaking his head to himself while simultaneously backing away slowly.

The calls of his name grow closer, and just as he turns on his heel to book it out of there, he’s tugged by the book-bag by an unnecessarily strong grip, and pulled backwards.

“Megumi, there ya are!”

A yelp escapes the boy as he’s lifted into the air, kicking his feet as he’s held like nothing, hanging by the armpits of his bag.

“Don’t ya know it’s dangerous to be walking home on your own like this? You could get kidnapped. Or worse, what if you get squished by car!?” Satoru gasps dramatically, arm extended out in front of him as he angles his hand so that the boy is facing him.

“Nothing—“ Megumi grunts, small feet kicking at the man’s torso to no avail, “is worse than this!”

“You make me sound like a monster.” Satoru whines in faux sadness.

“You might as well be!” By this time, the other patrons seem to dismiss the little scuffle as just a boy throwing a tantrum. For the most part, they aren’t wrong.

“Come on, I just wanted to check in on ya!”

“I’ll scream.” The boy deadpans, tiny fists shaking my his sides.

Satoru, pauses, the cocky smile on his face dropping slightly as a small bead of nervous sweat trickles down his temple.

“You won’t—“

“HELP! I DONT KNOW THIS MA— umpfff”

Satorus eyes widen as he clamps a large, sweaty hand over megumi’s mouth.

“Shhhhh shhh, alright, damn, kid!” He sets the boy back down on the floor, but still keeps his mouth clamped as he crouches down to his level. After touching down, Megumi goes quiet, but his silent rage is loud and clear as he glares and crosses his arms.

“Listen, I’ll make it up to ya with a an ice cream cone, huh? How ‘bout that? Actually, whatever dessert ya want, it’s yours! How’s that sound??” He questions desperately. After a beat, the boy nods, making the older man sigh in relief.

“Alright… now I’m gonna let ya go— fuck!”

With a gasp, Satoru pulls his hand back and clutches it to his chest. He glances down at his hand to see a curved row of lines engraved between his index and thumb, and he looks back up to see Megumi, spitting onto the pavement dramatically and wiping at his mouth as if he’d just consumed the worst thing imaginable.

After looking between him and the kid for a little bit out of pure disbelief, Satoru scoffs, “You little shit, you bit me!”

“You kidnapped me!” Megumi rebuttals, whipping around as he wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

“I was having a conversation with you,” the sorcerer stands to his full height, cradling his hand as he rubs the stinging spot with pouty lips and furrowed eyebrows. “You’re just like your father!”

“Shut up, crazy! I wanna go where you wanna take me so that we can get this over with. I need to get back home. I’ve got homework—“

“After you bit me? Hell no—!”

“I’ll tell the cops!” Megumi points and accusatory finger, and Satoru is genuinely shocked at just how… difficult he was.

“Fine! C’mon..” he mumbles, now sulking as he basically lets the boy lead him to whatever dessert shop he desired.

For the first time, Satoru felt… defeated. Beat by a child, no less.

──────

That same day, Satoru finds out that megumi’s favorite dessert is mochi ice cream. At least, it’s what he can assume after being demanded to order 10 pieces, all various flavors, before eating them before the frost can even melt.

The duo sit in a red-leathered booth within a quiet dessert shop. The golden rays of sun spill through the large window pane, painting the walls and floors of the shop a rich shade of orange. The sunset meaning that he’d soon have to be taking Megumi home. Within this time, the two take the time to learn about one another. Satoru is surprised when Megumi actually seems interested and asks questions! Albeit, very rudely.

“So, are you like… homeless?”

“Nope!” Satoru purses his lips,

“Then why are you always around on the street?”

“Maybe I just like going outside?” His silver brows dip down in annoyance.

“Don’t you have friends?”

“Yes.”

“That didn’t sound convincing.”

“I do!” He shouts, to which the boy stares blankly.

“… I do” Satoru persists

“I don’t know why you’re still trying to convince me.” Megumi shrugs.

“Because—!”

The light bickering continues to flow through the area, though to Megumi, it’s honestly the most amusement he’s had in what seemed like a while. Long over due.

“There’s my best friends Suguru, and Shoko— I’m like, super cool with all my teachers,” The man lists off with his fingers, looking away in thought.

“And most of all, my amazing, beautiful girlfriend!”

“Oh—“ a shaky chuckle rings out between them. Escaping megumi’s lips.

Satoru whips his head towards the boy, not knowing whether to be shocked or offended at the blatant laugh at his statement. On one hand, he’s happy he finally got to break that tough exterior of the little man. On the other, he doesn’t believe he’s got a partner. Doesn’t believe he’s got you.

“Something funny?” Satoru grins, crossing his arms and leaning back against the seat.

“There’s no way you have a girlfriend,” Megumi mumbles, shoving the last piece of mochi into his chubby cheeks. “Who the hell would date you?”

“Her, thank you very much!” He sits up, pouting. “And I sure do have a girlfriend. Soon to be wife, actually!”

“How muush ju pay ‘er?” The boy mumbles with a full mouth, still not believing a word he says.

“Nothing!” He gasps, offended. “I’ll have you know, her and I are very much in love. I’m sure you’ll meet her one day.” He huffs, confident.

Megumi shrugs, swallowing and wiping his mouth with his sleeve. A bad habit, Satoru notices.

“Whatever. Can we leave, now?”

“Sure,” Satoru goes to move, but pauses. “Aht aht, wait. Before I forgettt,” he rummages through his pockets before slipping out a pen and swiping a napkin from the holder before scribbling something down.

“Boom! That’s my number, and home address. In case of emergency.” He slides the napkin across the table. And though Megumi silently judges the sloppy writing, he simply sighs and pockets it.

“Sure, thanks.” He mumbles, and the two slip out the the booth, Satoru ruffling his hair just as they walk out the shop.

Satoru was.. weird. But he wasn’t bad. Megumi glanced up to Satoru, who looks as if he doesn’t have a care in the world as he he walks the boy home. Lost in his own stupid world. What was the end goal here? To be a babysitter? An older brother?

‘And the stupid address. Like I’d ever need that stupid thing.’ He thinks to himself

──────

2 days after

Right now, Megumi hates that the world is seemingly out to test his already thin patience. Of all of the beautifully sunny days this week, this had to be the one day in which it’s pouring raining.

And the weather wouldn’t usually bother the boy, if when he had gotten home, he had actually felt his home key in his pockets. He pats his shorts frantically, eyes widening when he can’t seem to locate them. His frustration grows as the weather grows heavier, rain pouring just slightly harder.

“Don’t tell me…” he groan to himself, simultaneously pounding in the front door with one hand as the other searches for his keys.

“Tsumiki!” He shouts, but to no avail. “Hell… I forgot she’s out the house.”

Feeling hopeless, Megumi slips his hands into his pocket and kicks at a rock, groaning. Only then does he feel… something, in his pocket. He furrows his brow, pulling out the item and pausing.

The napkin.

──────

Everything in megumi’s being is dreading knocking on this damn door. A fairly large, but simple house with a wooden patio. It’s kind of.. out of the way, which he finds surprising, knowing how dramatic the male is.

He sighs, double- checking the napkin again before sighing. He wipes his wet face, now sheltered from the pouring rain as he stand in the patio. With a hesitant hand, he knocks three times.

He almost thinks he didn’t knock loud enough as there wasn’t any sign of movement for a while, until he sees the light just to the side of him turn on through the window. Then, the soft padding of footsteps. A pause. And then suddenly, the door creaks open.

And before he can be displeased by the face of Satoru Gojo, his annoyance disappears when the sight of a woman appears instead. Confused, shocked, and curious as to what he’s probably doing here.

“Oh… sorry. Must have the wrong house.”

The lady stares at him with pinched brows, as if trying to put pieces together as to who he was. He pushes his lips into a thin line and begins to turn on his foot before the voice cuts him off.

“Are.. are you Megumi?” The woman asks, as the boy turns, surprised. How..?

“Uhm, yeah—“

To his shock, the lady straightens up, in an odd excitement. “Oh my goodness! Megumi! Come come, it’s pouring out here! What are you doing out here in this weather? Honey—!”

He watches as you turn your head over your shoulder and call out for… for your husband? Boyfriend? Wife? He didn’t know.. his brain was trying to piece together where all this excitement was coming from from this stranger. And… if this was Gojo’s home, then—

As if on cue, there’s a heavier thumping from behind the woman. He watches as she smiles, but Megumi’s expression is the exact opposite as the face of that… monster, pops up over the woman’s shoulder.

Immediately, Satorus face is etched with excitement, and he smiles.

“Megumi!? Whatcha doing here, kid? Come inside!” He chuckles, and as if he’s in auto pilot, tiny feet shuffle their way through the door. He can’t even take in the beautifully places decor. The house plants, the smell of fresh clothes and lemon. The in-taste furniture— no way this was his home.

“You.. you live here..?”

He glances between Satoru and the woman, and drops his mouth in shock when he approaches her, wrapping his arms around her middle and pressing a kind kiss to her cheek, to which he smile. Grins, actually.

“We, live here, actually.”

Megumi doesn’t like that tone…

“Is this..?”

“Megumi, this is y/n. My girlfriend of three years.”

You laugh at the shock on the kids face, shaking your head. “Hopefully he hasn’t been giving you any trouble, Megumi. I only knew you from how much he talks about you, it’s good to finally meet you. Will you be staying?”

For the first time, Megumi felt defeated. And as he looks at Satoru a stupid, smug face— he begrudging responds to your kind offer.

“Yes… please, if you don’t mind.”

[your-reference-here]

Okay, I know I already reblogged this, but my brain has been absolutely gnawing on this AU's possibilities so I had to write some of my ideas down.

Boq is definitely the DM. He seems like the kind of guy who would have gotten into the game back home and then brought it to Shiz. He tries for weeks to get Galinda to play, but it's not until he mentions it to Nessa, who then mentions it to Elphaba, who THEN mentions it to Galinda that a game comes together. Fiyero tags along too because he's curious...or at least that's what he says. It's not until they actually arrive at their session zero character creation that he rolls up with a fully prepared character sheet and they all realize "oh this guy knows this game."

Here's what I think everyone decides to play:

Galinda = College of Glamour Bard. I put this in my original reblog and I'm sticking with that. The whole subclass just feels like it was made for her.

Elphaba = Wild Magic Sorcerer. I was torn on whether Wild Magic or Divine Soul would be her subclass, but thinking it over more I've decided to say fuck it, give her the Wild Magic Sorcerer build because it fits thematically and because its shenanigans are fun. In universe, my excuse is Boq suggested choosing options that they could relate to as a first time player, so there you go.

Nessa = Order Domain Cleric. In my head, Boq mentions that cleric is his favorite class, so Nessa decides to explore those options. Something about the Order Domain just speaks to her...maybe it's the desire for some control over her own life, maybe it's a dark foreshadow of who she will become later. But who's looking into it that deeply?

Fiyero = Cavalier Fighter. He just wants to kick ass on a horse. It's also a nice way to uphold a "knight in shining armor" appearance for his peers. Galinda loves it, while Elphaba just rolls her eyes and calls him out for being a horse boy.

The first game is a simple fetch quest that quickly goes off the rails. This isn't unusual as far as D&D goes, but it does escalate to a loud enough volume that the crew gets kicked out of the library and has to find another spot to play. This could be a number of places, but I like to think Doctor Dillamond is kind enough to allow them access to his classroom, mostly to keep them all out of trouble and because of his soft spot for Elphaba (he's happy to see her making friends and joining in whatever this strange social club is). His only request is that whatever mess they make is cleaned up before the first class the following day. It's very close once or twice.

Now, in terms of how our cast actually are as players...

Galinda is the confused enthusiast who has no idea what she's doing but is going to do everything with an air of exaggerated flair. This results in her being the unintentional button pusher/trap trigger-er/the one the party is constantly yelling "NO!" at a second too late. Somehow, she always manages to pull through whatever mess she is in or has gotten the entire party in, mostly because she's able to gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss everyone else, including the DM, on a whim.

Elphaba is a born rules lawyer who comes to the game having memorized all her spells and abilities, only to find herself consistently exasperated by Galinda's choices and/or fighting with Fiyero who knows the game so well that he's found countless loopholes to exploit. She does end up having fun but hoo boy does she come close to magically throwing a book at someone's head on multiple occasions.

Fiyero is just vibing and, though he won't admit it out loud, is genuinely having a good time with these people and it's the happiest he's been in a long time.

Nessa is the only one trying to keep the party on track with the plot for Boq's sake, who is beginning to question bringing this particular group of people together.

UPDATE: I just saw the spellbook again in the artwork and was like "shit that's really a wizard thing to have a spellbook" and then I remembered the beauty of the multi-class, so my solution is that Elphaba decides to multi-class later on into a School of Transmutation Wizard.

dnd au request

[leighsartworks216]

It's Nothing

Sylus x AFAB!Reader

Inspired by my late as fuck period and joking with my friend that I was the next virgin mary. Not proofread cuz I want to post it but I'm tired of looking at it

Warnings: pregnancy scare, menstruation, period fic, anxiety, overthinking, lack of communication, communication, silly, cuddling, kissing, swearing

Word Count: 1,450

Main Masterlist

First Love and Deepspace Masterlist

Second Love and Deepspace Masterlist

AO3

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"Sweetie? What has you so distracted lately?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all! I was just, uh- thinking about work, that's all!"

"You're a terrible liar. Tell me what's wrong."

"It's-" You falter, searching desperately for an excuse and coming up woefully empty "It's really nothing, Sy. I'll tell you at some point, just..."

"... Just not right now." He sighs, but nods, dismissing the subject. A frown lingers on his face as he turns back to the movie. "I trust you, sweetie," he says after a long pause, when it seemed the topic had been dropped completely.

The guilt sinks down into your stomach, but you bite your tongue and cuddle further into his side. The rest of the night remains tense.

You want to tell him. Admit what's on your mind. Finally release this stress from your body. But you can't! Because... what if he leaves you? And maybe you're just being paranoid for nothing - but you can't take that risk, not with Sylus, of all people.

Your period is over a week late. That's not terribly unusual, but it is suspicious given the fact you've stopped using protection in the bedroom. Well, not necessarily stopped, since you're on birth control, but things get heated and he's finished inside of you without a condom. So... what if your birth control didn't do its job 100%? You know there’s a small percentage of it failing, so what if this time is the time it chooses to be ineffective?

Dr. Zayne is the only person you've told about your fears, when you went in for a checkup and nervously asked if he could run a pregnancy test for you. You're not sure if being your childhood friend made the next line of questioning about your sex life more or less awkward. You do know that that test came back negative... But Zayne said after the fact that it could be too early to tell.

So all you can really do now is wait until you do or don't get your period again.

You know it bothers Sylus a lot, your secrecy. You two have both progressed so far in learning how to trust each other, even with the stupid things. This just... doesn't feel like one of those stupid things. You've only just put a name to the relationship, you don't want to ruin that now when things are so new and nice.

So you hold it in. You try your damndest to put it on the back burner and show him as best you can that everything is fine and that you still love and trust him.

You wake up with your body's internal clock. With the N109 Zone being so dark, knowing when day is is a bit tricky. But, Sylus is asleep beside you, laying on his stomach with his face buried in his pillow. He doesn't have a shirt on. A wide expanse of tan skin and rippling muscle is left exposed as the blankets all pool around his hips.

You smile to yourself, albeit a bit mournfully. You're glad he's still sleeping beside you, even if you've both been a bit rocky lately. It's all your fault - you know. You'll make it up to him somehow. You have to.

Slowly, as quietly as you can, you slip out of bed and creep to the bathroom...

"Sy!" You see him startle out of sleep, hand already wrapped around the gun under his pillow as he sits up, searching for the danger.

"What is it?" he asks sharply. You run and jump onto the bed, landing partially on top of him. He tosses the gun onto his nightstand and lifts you by the waist to reposition you into his lap as he sits up properly. "What's got you so excited?"

"I'm not pregnant!"

He blinks up at you with a frown. You grab his shoulders like an excited kid, looking at him expectantly. He feels like he’s skipped several chapters into a book and the plot twist reveal isn’t making any sense. "What are you talking about, sweetie?"

You're practically vibrating in his lap with energy. It's the most light he's seen in your eyes for the last week and a half. It's... relieving. "I'm not pregnant! We haven't been as careful with protection lately and then my period was supposed to come, but it didn't, so I had a pregnancy test done, but Zayne said it could be too early to tell when it came back negative, so I've been waiting and waiting to know if I really am and-! And I'm not! I'm bleeding again, Sylus! I'm not pregnant!"

He shakes his head, brow pinched with a pained expression. "That's the 'nothing' you've been distracted by all week?"

"Um..." You grin sheepishly. "Yeah?"

He takes a moment, eyes closed and lips drawn into a frown. That guilt that settled in your stomach during your movie night returns, doubled in intensity. You got over-worried and kept secrets from your boyfriend, when you could have just told him from the start how weird it was that your period is late and how worried you are about what it could mean.

"Sy...?"

"Mmm."

"Are you mad at me?"

He finally opens his eyes. The expression eases slightly as he shakes his head with a sigh. "Have the cramps hit yet?"

You shake your head. "Um, no?"

Suddenly, his arms are wrapped around you and your world tilts on its axis. A heavy weight settles above you. Sylus's nose presses against your neck. "Good. Let's stay here for when they do."

You try to wriggle loose. He tightens his hold around you and nips at your skin sharply. You jolt, but it stops your struggling. “Why do we have to stay here for my cramps?”

“Because, sweetie,” he sighs. You’d think he’s annoyed, if it weren’t for the way he runs his nose along the column of your throat and eases his weight fully onto your body. “When your cramps start, you’re going to want a heating pad and a massage. And since you hate my massages-“

“I do not!”

“-it’s better if I just lay here and provide all the heat you desire.”

His logic isn’t faulty… And, honestly, having him so close to you again, without the barrier you built between you both, is really, really nice. So, you relent. You wrap your arms around his neck and begin playing with his hair. He lets out a contented hum, pressing a kiss to your pulse.

“So… you’re not mad at me?” you ask again.

“No, I’m not mad. I was… worried. Suddenly you were pulling away from me with no explanation and no warning. I thought…” You gently pull on his hair to remove his face from your neck. He follows with no resistance, resting his chin on your chest as he looks up at you with such serious eyes, tinged with sleepiness and lingering concern. “I thought you didn’t trust me anymore.”

You frown at the admission. For over a week, he thought you were pulling away because you didn’t trust him… “I guess I didn’t help any, keeping my worries a secret…” He doesn’t agree, but you see a slight quirk in his brow. “I’m sorry, Sy. I didn’t… I just… This is so new. I was worried that if I was pregnant, you’d be upset or leave me or something.”

He scoffs. “I’m not so easily scared off, kitten.”

“And I know that now.” You lean forward and press a lingering kiss to his forehead. His eyes flutter shut, furrow in his brow relaxing. When you pull away, they open to look at you once again. “I promise, from now on, I won’t keep secrets like that from you anymore. You’ll be the first to know if I’m worried about anything.”

He grins slightly. “Thank you, sweetie. I promise to be just as honest with you.”

He lifts himself up just enough to capture your lips. Your mouths move together in a languid dance, sealing the deal you two have just made. It lasts several minutes. Neither of you really ever want it to end, but Sylus needs his sleep and you’re going to need all his love and care when your uterus decides to rain hellfire on you to make up for lost time. He pulls away slowly, trails light kisses down your jaw, and tucks himself back into your neck.

Everything feels so much more secure now. Despite all your fears, the relationship has grown stronger. And you know, you’re both going to be okay.

-

Bonus:

“Is the thought of having my kids that terrible?”

“You know that’s not why I was worried, you asshole.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @huen1ngk41 @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry

[bachissidehoe]

in which you're Reo's princess, and Nagi's his treasure. (w.c. 1049)

At first, you found it strange the way Nagi Seishiro would so casually throw his arm around your shoulder and hold you close to his chest. You were Reo’s girlfriend, after all. The girlfriend of his best friend.

“What are you playing?”

He sighed. “It would be a hassle to explain. You can watch though.”

And you did. You sat next to him on the couch, forcing your gaze past his toned muscles and shaggy, tangled hair to watch his little mobile game.

“Come here. It’s hard to play when you’re leaning on my arm.”

And he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you into his side so he could access his screen better. Apparently, this position made him more mobile.

You were flushed. You didn’t think something like this would be allowed. You were nestled into the gorgeous, soft body of your boyfriend’s best friend.

“Oh cute! My princess and my treasure.”

That’s all Reo had said when he saw you. It surprised you, to say the least.

But it’s not like you were complaining. Where lying on Reo’s chest was warm, Nagi’s was cool. Where Reo was obvious with his praise, Nagi was nonchalant. You found yourself wanting the affection of both of them, in a weird way.

And it started to be less surprising when Nagi asked to hold you. In fact, you started to hope he would.

“Your thighs are soft, like pillows. I need a nap.”

And Nagi collapsed, right there on your thighs, letting his eyes flutter shut. So calm.

“Aren’t they?” Reo agreed from the opposite couch, encouraging the physicality.

What the two didn’t notice was how you shifted in your seat, affected by the warm breaths that dusted your inner thighs. It wouldn’t be comfortable for the snowy haired boy to sleep in a puddle, so you held on for dear life, your hands clenched around the fabric of the couch rather than tangled in his messy hair.

You hadn’t realized the effect Nagi Seishiro really had on you. How his subtle, casual affection had trained you to become a secret mess for him. For your boyfriend’s best friend.

But Reo- your smart, charismatic, beautiful boyfriend- he had realized. In fact, he’d been encouraging this for a reason.

“You’re bothered, aren’t you princess?”

For a moment you thought you may be in trouble. It’s wrong to get turned on by your boyfriend’s best friend. But the look on Reo’s face, the devious smirk, said otherwise.

So you nodded.

“How cute.” He moved to hover over you, Nagi still restful on your thighs. “My princess and my treasure get along so well.”

It became pretty obvious what your boyfriend wanted after that. You just didn't realize how you didn't notice it before. The way he looked at Nagi. The way he encouraged you two. He wanted Nagi just as badly as you did.

The burning growing between your thighs wasn't enough for just Reo to satisfy anymore. And he knew that.

"Princess, hm? That what you want me to call her too, Reo?" Nagi mumbled, his groggy eyes opening just enough to look up at your flushed face.

"You should." Reo pulled Nagi upward by his shirt, removing him from the comfortable spot he created on your thighs.

Nagi complained the whole way up, of course, he was never one to enjoy being forced out of a cozy position.

"You should also let her ride you." Reo smirked, bringing Nagi's face close to his, nearly touching his lips.

You gulped.

But Nagi Seishiro was less than nervous, the nonchalant type of person he was. He only glanced back at you, not struggling at all under your boyfriend's tight hold on his shirt.

"Yeah fine." Nagi agreed.

It was hard for you to tell whether Nagi really wanted to fuck you, whether he was interested in you at all or if he wanted to shut Reo up. But as it turned out, Nagi Seishiro was stubborn and ruthless. He wanted you just as badly, his cock constantly straining against his shorts whenever you were close to him, wanting any excuse to stuff his face into your pretty thighs. But he'd never admit it.

Not until you were bouncing on his thick cock, mouth hung open and hands relentlessly tugging on his hair. Right there on that couch. With your wet cunt soaking him, your movements squeezing juices into a messy coating for Nagi's bare thighs.

That's when Nagi Seishiro decided to be honest. "Fuck, I needed you. Fuck~ yes I need~ ah-"

And Reo couldn't have been happier about the beautiful scene he created. "You don't mind, hm? Can't expect me to just watch." He lined up behind you, letting his familiar, flushed tip plunge into the depths of your unused hole, forcing you to lean forward onto Nagi's chest.

"I'll get ya both off. Fuck~" Reo spat, his thrusts creating the friction both you and Nagi so desperately craved, your heavy breaths mixing into each other in the small space between you.

And you kissed him, because you couldn't help it. Your sloppy, drooly lips pressed to Nagi's in a desperate display of hunger.

As it turned out, Reo had been thinking about this for a long time. Longer than you had. Longer than the stubborn Nagi Seishiro had.

He rocked his hips in perfect rhythm, your cunt sliding and squeezing around Nagi's perfect cock while your ass was lubed and stuffed by your pretty boyfriend.

Reo was right about getting you both off, too. It took him practically no time, with your clit rubbing against Nagi's skin and the friction forcing Nagi's tip into your g-spot over and over again, it wasn't difficult. But that didn't matter to Reo, he never specified how many times he expected to get you two off. And it became clear very quickly that once wasn't enough for him.

He'd been holding back his desires for too long, he deserved to see you shaking, tears streaming down your face, cum dripping from all your holes. He deserved to see Nagi fucked out, hair sticking to his forehead, arms wrapped around you and lips attached to your bruised neck.

Your boyfriend deserved that much. After how long you made him wait to fuck his princess and his treasure.

[the-witty-pen-name]

The Love Triangle From Hell (3)

Steve Harrington x F!Reader / Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Synopsis: Following PART TWO, Steve feels even more distant from his friends- especially you; Eddie reflects on memories he has of you two; Nancy and Jonathan work together for the paper; Robin does her best to navigate what being friends with you and Steve looks like; you seek comfort in one of the only ways you know how- calling Eddie

Series Masterlist

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: messy messy feelings; unrequited love; cursing; arguments; crying; angst angst angsty angst; allusions to violence; miscommunication; jealousy; kissing; implications of smut; horniness

A/N: You guys are literally the absolute best. I am having the best time writing this- I'm so inspired by all of you. The love you have shown this fic so far has me overwhelmed. Thank you for your kind words, you have helped me work through some serious writer's block. Your comments and reblogs are keeping me going fr

This is unedited; please let me know what you think and if I missed anything I should include as a warning.

This series with be 18+ in later chapters MINORS DNI

His hands are tangled in your hair and he’s pulling you in close for another searing kiss. He can’t catch his breath, but he’s just so desperate to stay close to you like this. Your lips are so soft against his and your mouth is so inviting as you yank him closer. You whimper against his lips and it makes him shiver. He feels weak in the knees as you feel so pliable to his touch. You melt into his embrace and sigh happily as his lips trail down your neck. 

“Want you,” you moan softly, tugging his hair. He groans at the sensation. “Need you so bad.” 

“‘M gonna take care of you,” he promises, bringing his lips back to yours. 

“Love you,” you moan.

Before he finds out  if he says it back, his alarm goes off and he’s brought back to his reality. He groans disappointedly, covering his ears with his pillow- desperate for a couple more minutes with dream you. There’s a bang at his door. 

“Steve! Turn that shit off!” Eddie calls from the other side of the door. He’s yelling but his tone is playful. Steve hits his alarm off and drudges out of bed finally. Eddie has coffee made and Steve forgets anything is wrong at the moment. 

“Did she say anything last night?” Steve asks groggily as he pours himself a cup. 

“Um, not really,” Eddie replies, taking a moment to think about it. “I mean, yes but not about anything that we don’t know already. She’s conflicted, she doesn’t know what to think or feel. She just wants time.” 

“Okay,” Steve replies, leaning up against the counter. He takes a sip of his coffee. He needs to get to work. He can talk about this with Robin when he gets there. 

When you called Eddie, you didn’t expect Steve to answer. You thought maybe he’d say something- you wanted him too. But he didn’t. You couldn’t read him anymore.

Eddie was thrilled to hear your voice. He’d missed you, and he’d missed talking to you. He wanted that piece back as soon as he could get it. He reveled in the way his name sounded coming from you. 

“I’m so sorry,” you apologize, “I didn’t mean to upset Steve- I heard the way he dropped the phone down…” 

“It’s okay sweetheart,” he says compassionately. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

He’s met with a sad feeling of silence. 

“I’m happy you called,” he says gently. He hopes the sentiment makes you feel better. 

“I’ve missed you,” you admit, and Eddie feels like his heart might swell out of his chest. 

“It’s hard when the two people who you talk about everything with are the people you want to talk about,” you joke, and he laughs with you. 

“You can talk shit about me,” he teases and he hears you groan. He bites his lip, holding back a smile. 

“How are you doing?” You ask, changing the subject. 

“Much better now,” he flirts. 

“How are you doing, really?” You ask again, your voice sounding more fragile. 

“I meant, honestly- not great. But not worse than anyone else is doing right now.” 

“Yeah…” 

“I miss you a lot too,” he admits. He runs a hand through his hair, and it reminds him of how amazing it felt the last time you played with his hair. He’s craving that touch so badly. 

When you both were in high school, Eddie went out of his way to make sure you always had a seat at the table. He’d notice as you stood with your cafeteria tray, waiting for Steve to realize there was no open seat for you at his table. He’d wave obnoxiously to catch your eye and he’d smile at the way you’d get shy from the attention. He’d point at the empty seat next to him, and he’d grin as your eyes light up in realization you had a spot. You’d shuffle through the crowd and take your seat next to him. You’d take a seat and ruffle his hair in your hands. 

Eddie was always a creature of habit. As much as he exudes chaos, he actually thrives in having a routine. Don’t get him wrong- it’s never been a good routine… but it’s routine nonetheless. In high school it was a lot of the same. Tuesdays, Corroded Coffin played at The Hideout. He would get home way too late and never get in bed until close to 3am. Wednesday mornings, he’d sleep through his alarm and stroll into first period consistently 10ish minutes late. Thursdays he prepped for Hellfire, and then of course, the piece the resistance was Friday. Hellfire. An epic campaign that would run several hours and ensure the most recent shit week had been worth it to make it to that moment. 

He remembers that he was paralyzed when the group proposed to postpone Hellfire one time his first senior year. It snaps him out of his thoughts, as he was so wrapped up in you- and how close you were sitting. Eddie knew that hypothetically, it shouldn’t matter if the date changes. However, he couldn’t wrap his head around change. He hated it- still does. A disruption from his status quo throws off his entire week and it will take him too long to mentally recover. He knew that he came off as a hard ass, but he prefers it than trying to explain his mind to his friends. He had felt  his jaw tighten as he tried to rationalize with himself that it can be okay to switch it up. He unclenched his fists once he realized that he was making his knuckles white unintentionally. 

“Uh yeah, no problem. Saturday’s fine,” he was able to manage through gritted teeth. He relaxed when he could look past himself and see his friends smile, thanking him and happily chatting about the campaign. He smiled when he observed that his decision made everyone happy. That for him outweighed the internal struggle. 

He didn’t really listen to the reason everyone wanted to reschedule, but he picked up on after the fact that everyone is talking about the Snow Ball. He couldn’t help but recoil back into himself as his friends talked about their plans to go- who they’re asking, what suit they’re getting, what songs would play, and whatever. He couldn’t have cared less. Unless… 

His eyes wandered to sneak a glance at you. He wondered if you had plans- maybe you're hoping someone asks you. Maybe, he’s lucky and you were hoping that someone would be him. He wondered if you had a date. Maybe you already had been asked. It’s not like you had been aware of the way Eddie’s felt about you- unrequited feelings that tugged on his focus constantly since he’s known you. You caught his eye and offered him a shy smile and he could crumble. 

Eddie immediately averted his gaze, and focused his attention back on his friends. He ignored the way his face suddenly became so warm and he ignored the butterflies that were swarming around in his stomach. He couldn’t allow himself to dwell on these feelings- he knew that there’s no way you feel the same. Who could possibly like him? 

He felt a pressure when the freshman looked at him, one of them having asked Eddie about his own plans. Eddie sees the way the kids look up to him, they idolize him. He knows they think he’s cool. He can’t let that go just yet, he loved it too much. He needed it. He wanted to have them hang on to this version of him for as long as they’d believe in it. 

So, despite his usual distaste in school sanctioned functions, he did not want to allow the kids to think he couldn’t score a date. He could only blame society so much before they realized it’s actually his own fear of putting himself out there that cramped his dating life more than anything else. He then resolves that he needs a date to this dance. He tells himself that it’s for the freshman, to keep up the cool facade or whatever. But in actuality, he just wanted to ask you because he wants to ask you out. It’s his perfect window of opportunity. 

“Oh, I hadn’t thought about it, honestly,” you said, when one of the freshmen asked you if you had plans. “I’d been so busy with the play, I haven’t had a chance.” Eddie watched as you glanced over to Steve’s table. “Steve and I usually would go to this kinda thing,” you said quickly, and Eddie could see your apprehension despite your best attempt to hide it. “We’ll probably go as friends again.” 

He said nothing. 

A few days later, you called Eddie and he could immediately tell you’re upset. You’re doing your best to hold it together but he can tell you’re almost at your breaking point. 

“Hey,” you say, your voice straining as you try not to cry. “I know this is totally not your thing, but I’m kind of in a bind.” 

“What can I do?” He asked, sitting up straight on his bed. He was getting ready to locate his shoes or his keys- thinking you’re in trouble somewhere. He’ddrop anything to come get you. 

“I know you’d probably rather do literally anything else, but um, I have two tickets to the Snow Ball and I already bought a dress…” 

“I thought you’d be going with Steve?” He asked. You sniffled. 

“Um, yeah I kind of just assumed he’d take me. I didn’t realize that he asked out Nancy Wheeler,” you choked back tears. “I mean it’s not like that,” you lied, maybe not to Eddie but more to yourself, “we’re just friends. But I still thought He and I would be going together like as friends again- you know? But, uh, yeah- he is taking like a real date.” 

“I know you’d hate it, and I will make it up to you. But, I already bought the tickets and I can’t get my money back. It’s like not a date or anything, just like a friend thing…” 

“I’d be happy to take you,” he replied, sincerely. He can tell you were expecting him to fight you on it. When would you catch on that he’s willing to do anything for you? 

“Eddie, thank you so much,” you sniffled, still trying your best to keep it cool. “I owe you one,” your voice cracks and you hang up quickly before he gets a chance to say anything. 

Eddie didn’t really understand back then why you were even friends with Steve to begin with. Eddie thought Steve, frankly, was a total douchebag. However, once he actually got to know Steve- it was a different story. He couldn’t resent Steve. He loved him like a brother now. And once Eddie got to know the Steve you’ve always known, your feelings for him made sense. But at the same time, Eddie held his tongue for all the things Steve did or didn’t do for so long. Steve was good guy at his core, Eddie understood. But his actions didn’t reflect that in Eddie’s eyes. But it wasn’t his place to tell you that. It didn’t seem right. You’d known Steve so much longer than him. 

Nancy and Jonathan invited you and Robin to go with them to watch Lucas’ basketball game. You were excited to get out of your little apartment and support Lucas. Jonathan was photographing it for The Hawkins Post. Jonathan paced up and down the court side to get photos, and you sat up in the bleachers with Nancy and Robin. You were never one to go to school things really, but it was Lucas’s senior year and it was a big game- of course you were going to be there. 

“It feels weird, Steve not being here,” Nancy whispers to you and you nod in agreement. 

“Yeah, everything just feels weird right now,” you agree. “You and Jonathan are okay?” 

“We’re good. We’re doing good, um, still working through stuff but we’re going to just work through it.” 

“That’s good.” 

“Robin?” Nancy asks, and Robin turns her head to pay attention. “How’s things with Vicky?” 

Robin’s face turns tomato red. “Fine,” she mumbles, happily. “I’m gonna hang out with her tomorrow.” You elbow her teasingly, making her blush redden. 

“How’s it feeling? Being the best at all of this out of us?” You tease. 

“I don’t know,” she’s so embarrassed, it’s so sweet. “We both just like each other- it’s not that complicated. She’s so great.” 

The three of you turn your attention back to the game at the sound of the whistle. You clapped and cheered the loudest whenever Lucas had the ball. He tried to plead with the lot of you to tone it down, casting weary looks in your direction. You couldn’t help yourselves. You felt so proud of him. 

You decide to take a walk to the concession stands and get some snacks for everyone. You order four sodas and two large popcorns- one for Jonathan and Nancy and one for you and Robin. You fish the cash out of the front pocket of your jeans, and hand it to the kid working the window. You thank him, and balance it all in your hands to navigate carefully back to the stands. 

You see a familiar face coming down the hallway, sprinting. For a moment, you can’t help the smile that forms across the expanse of your face until you remember what’s been going on. Your face falls, and you feel so stupid for being excited to see him when it hits you again all at once. 

You don’t think Steve knew you’d all be here, because he looks just as surprised to see you. He stops and his sneakers squeak across the polished gym floor. He looks at you with an expression of pure panic. He totally didn’t think you’d be here. And you’re surprised he came alone- but of course he did, he’s Steve. Of course, he’s going to show up to every game for Lucas. You shouldn’t expect any less. It still takes you back. 

“Can I help with those?” he asked, gesturing for you to pass some stuff to him. You nod, and tilt so he can take some of the things from your grasp. 

“Where are you sitting?” He asks, and you nod your head towards Robin and Nancy. His face deflates. “Ah, okay.” He walks over with you, and he passes the items in his hand off to Robin. He moves aside so you can walk back into your spot. 

“Thanks, Steve,” you offer him a soft smile, appreciating the effort despite the circumstances.

“Yeah of course,” he mutters, backing away, lingering for a moment because the seat that’s usually there for him between you and Robin isn’t there. He quickly pulls himself out of his thoughts and just heads over to the next row of bleachers, finding a seat next to a couple of his old basketball teammates that are here for their little brothers. 

Steve can’t even focus on the game,  he keeps trying to steal glances of you from his peripheral vision. He wants to know what Robin said that made you laugh like that, and he wished he could have heard your laugh- but you’re too far away from him. He watches as your jaw drops at something Nancy tells you, and he watches how you cheer so happily for Lucas. He wants to know if this is bothering you the way it’s bothering him. You look like you’re keeping it together and he wants to know if that could truly be the case. 

Even when you’re carrying so much hurt, you give off such a radiance that Steve and he’s sure everyone else is just drawn into. Your pretty smile and your bright eyes are all he can think about- he only knows when to cheer when he feels the people around him move. He smiles when you stand up and pose, pointing to Lucas- then Lucas matches it, giving it back to you. He watches as you both share that moment of just pure joy, and his heart aches. He doesn’t know if he could ever make you that happy. 

When the game was over, you looked to see if you could find Steve but there was no sign of him. You all invited Lucas to go out for celebratory pizza for his big win, but he wanted to go with his teammates. The plan fizzled pretty much after that. Robin wanted to get home so she could call Vicky and Jonathan and Nancy wanted to head home so Jonathan could start developing his photos. When you and Robin are walking out, you see a familiar van. 

“I’ll bum a ride from Nancy,” Robin assures you, pushing you in Eddie’s direction. She waves to Eddie from a distance and then jogs to catch up with Nancy and Jonathan. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask with a smile. He pushes himself off of the hood of his van and walks over to you, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. 

“I thought you might be here,” he quips. “Plus, I had to poke my head in- Sinclair is some big shot apparently?” he jokes, “I had to check out for a few minutes.”

“He’s really great,” you agree. 

“Was Steve here?” Eddie asks. 

“Yeah I saw him. He didn’t really stay either- I mean he stayed for the game, but we didn’t talk really.” You shrug. 

“Well,” he says, trying to optimistically change the subject, “Do you wanna get out of here? I could give you a ride home or we could get food or something- or even just drive around and not talk. I’m not picky.” 

He looks so beautiful like this, you observe. The sky is pitch black but the lights in the parking lot illuminate him perfectly with a soft glow. His hair is wonderfully messy and his smile is making it hard for you to breathe. Has he always looked like this? You wonder, astonished as it hits you all at once. He’s gorgeous. Your eyes linger, taking in every little detail you’ve overlooked before. He waves his hand in front of your face to snap you out of your trance. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” he tisks. 

“Looking at you like what?”

“Like you’re trying to jump my bones,” he chuckles. Your face warms, and suddenly you realize how long you must have been staring. 

“Ha, right,” you joke sarcastically, or at least, trying to joke sarcastically. You walk past him and get into the passenger side of the van and try your best to compose yourself in the few seconds it takes for him to follow suit. 

“Okay, sweetheart,” he says, turning over the ignition, “where to?”

“Can we just drive around like we used to?” you ask- the circumstances of tonight making you feel so nostalgic. 

“Of course we can,” he hums, passing you the case of his cassettes- a familiar and welcomed sight for your tired eyes. 

You watch Eddie as he drives, and observe the way the muscles in his arms flex ever so subtly as he turns the wheel. You watch his ringed fingers tap across the top of the steering wheel and you can’t help it the way your mind wanders. You’re so wrapped up in the way his hair sways so effortlessly and the movement of his jaw as he sings, you don’t even notice that Steve was leaving the gym just in time to see you both drive away. 

After a little while of aimless driving, and hitting up the drive thru, Eddie ends up parking at Lover’s Lake when neither of you are ready to go home just yet. 

“Eddie?” You ask absentmindedly, finishing off the milkshake he got you. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” he replies, also finishing his, but with an obnoxiously loud suck of his straw- determined to get every last sip. 

“Why do you like me?” you ask, cringing almost immediately. You think you sound like a middle schooler or something- you’re so embarrassed. His eyes widen for a brief second, contemplating his answer. He tosses the empty cup into the back. 

“First off,” he criticizes teasingly, “I did not say I liked you- I’m in love with you. Get your facts straight, ma’am.” 

“My apologies,” you giggle, holding your hands up in defeat.

“I mean- I love everything about you; always have,” he starts. “You’re sweet and kind. I think you’re beautiful. I think you’re incredible, and sometimes I can’t figure out why you wanted to ever be friends with me in the first place.”

“Eddie?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Would you kiss me?” 

Eddie’s a goner when you’re looking at him with those doe eyes. More than anything he wants to lunge across and close the space between you. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. It takes every fiber of his being to hold himself back..

“I don’t know if I can kiss you without knowing if I could ever kiss you again,” He whispers, but it doesn’t stop him from leaning in towards you. His hand lifts to hold your cheek and suddenly he’s so close. Closer than the two of you have ever been. His lips are tantalizingly close to yours when his forehead touches yours. A huge bang on the side of the van scares you both away from each other. 

“Give her time, my ass, Munson! Get the fuck out here! Get your fucking hands off my girl!”

Taglist:

@sunshinepeachx @downbear @fanlifeaamt @exploding-bonbon @losingmygrasponreality @skiddypiddy @andvys @djodirt @moonlightsolo @kyga01 @sheisjoeschateau @melaninjhs

[becertainlust]

doctor!law who always maintains his stoic professionalism with every patient—except when it comes to you. He insists it’s “just routine” that he visits you so frequently, ensuring your health is progressing as it should.

Morning rounds start with him pulling up a chair beside your bed, his amber eyes scanning your chart with precision. But even as his hands work with practiced ease, the way his thumb lingers on the edge of the clipboard suggests something more. His voice is low but gentle, asking how you slept, what you ate, and how you’re feeling, as though he’s committing every detail to memory.

At night, long after visiting hours have ended, his familiar silhouette appears in the doorway of your hospital room. He claims he’s just finishing his notes or double-checking the evening staff’s updates. Yet, somehow, he always ends up seated beside you, shoulders relaxing as you talk about your day. You notice the faint smirk tugging at his lips when you tease him about working too hard.

The truth is, Law tells himself he’s just being thorough. That it’s his job to ensure his patients feel cared for. But deep down, he knows no one else has ever drawn him in quite like you—no other voice has ever made him want to stay so desperately beyond his hours.

doctor!law who doesn’t do sentiment. At least, that’s what he claims, his sharp gaze and sharper tongue scaring off most patients from ever trying to get too familiar. But when it comes to you, it’s different—not that he’d ever admit it.

“You’ve been sitting around too much,” he says one afternoon, his voice cutting through the soft hum of your hospital room. “Come on.”

Before you can protest, he’s helping you to your feet with that infuriating air of calm authority. You don’t miss the way his hand lingers a moment longer than necessary, steadying you like he’s worried you might topple over.

“I didn’t ask for a walk,” you mutter as he leads you down the hall.

He doesn’t even look at you, his pace deliberate but not rushed. “And I didn’t ask for a stubborn patient, but here we are.”

The courtyard is quiet, bathed in golden afternoon light. Law doesn’t bother making small talk as you stroll—he’s never been one for unnecessary chatter. But his sharp eyes track every step you take, scanning you for even the slightest sign of discomfort.

“Stop pushing yourself,” he orders when you quicken your pace, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“You’re such a control freak,” you tease, trying to coax a reaction out of him.

His lips twitch, the faintest hint of amusement breaking through his usual scowl. “Someone has to keep you in line.”

Despite his gruff demeanor, there’s a strange comfort in his presence. He doesn’t fill the silence with platitudes or false cheer—he just is, his calm steadiness grounding you in a way nothing else can.

When the walk ends, and he’s escorting you back to your room, he slows, his voice softer now. “If you feel worse later, tell me. Don’t wait until morning rounds.”

“Do you always go this far for your patients?” you ask, half-joking.

He gives you a sidelong glance, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “No,” he says simply. “I don’t.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving you wondering if you imagined the faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he walked away.

doctor!law who doesn’t entertain nonsense. That’s the image he maintains in the hospital’s halls and the workers’ lounge. The moment someone brings up the whispers about him and his favorite patient, he scoffs, eyes narrowing as if the very idea irritates him.

“Ridiculous,” he mutters, flipping a page in the medical journal he’s not really reading.

But when no one’s looking, his ears strain to catch the next part of the conversation.

“Did you see how he was walking with them in the courtyard yesterday? They looked so comfortable together,” one nurse says, voice filled with barely contained glee.

Another one chimes in, “Right? And the way he always stays late in their room? If that’s not a crush, I don’t know what is.”

Law’s fingers tighten around the edges of his book, his lips pressing into a thin line. Anyone watching would think he’s annoyed—but the faint flush creeping up his neck tells a different story.

“I’m sure they’re just being professional,” someone offers cautiously, only for another nurse to laugh. “Oh, please. That man has never gone out of his way for anyone like he does for them. He practically lives in their room.”

Law clears his throat loudly, snapping the room’s attention back to him. “If you have time to gossip, you have time to work,” he says, his tone sharp enough to cut through the air.

The nurses scatter, muttering apologies, and he goes back to pretending to read. But later, when he’s alone, he catches himself smirking faintly, replaying the words in his head.

He tells himself it’s absurd, that people are just reading too much into things. Yet, when he sees you later that evening and you joke about the “rumors,” he doesn’t deny them outright.

Instead, he leans against the doorframe of your room, arms crossed, a teasing glint in his amber eyes. “Apparently, I’m the topic of the day in the lounge. Care to explain why everyone thinks I’m obsessed with you?”

You raise a brow, smirking. “Maybe because you kind of are?”

He scoffs, though the tips of his ears turn red. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. If I’m here, it’s because you’re clearly a magnet for trouble. Someone has to keep you in check.”

But when he catches a glimpse of your smile and hears your laughter, he thinks, Maybe they’re not entirely wrong.

[livinghalfway]

Younger Years Pt. 4

Masterlist

Summary: Damian gets temp de-aged to 6yrs old; cue him asking where his twin is. This is how everyone finds out about Danny's existence Word Count: 2088

Explaining to them what Talia had said did not make the situation any better. While her information had been helpful it wasn’t nearly enough to calm the storm that raged in them. If anything caused the winds to roar even stronger. They had to know what happened in that room, and the only one that knew was currently 6 years old. Which meant everyone would just have to wait; something this family was never good at especially when it came to personal matters. 

“Talia doesn’t know what really happened to Danyal. Ra’s could have just lied to her, and made Damian swear to never tell her the truth. We all know how much he idolized that man. It would have been easy for Ra’s to convince him it was for the best.” Tim suggests as he types hurriedly at the computer. 

“If Talia thought for a second that he had done something like that it would have come to light by now.” Bruce counters, “Ra’s would still have needed help getting Danyal out of Nanda Parbat, and one of them would have most definitely let it slip to Talia if he had done that.” 

“Which is why Ra’s would have everyone involved killed before they could have done so.” 

“Tim-”

“Crazier things have happened Bruce; multiple people in this family have come back. Why not Danyal?” Tim looks away from the screen for but a second as he interrupts Bruce before focusing back on the screen. A clear sign that he doesn’t want to continue talking about this. 

Bruce leaves Tim to continue his investigation; a part of him hoping that Tim is right. He could never admit that though. It would just be that much more crushing if proven wrong. So he turns attention to Dick, who is still near the med bay ready to rush in if need be.  

“Chum, why don’t you take a rest? Damian is perfectly fine right now, and you look like you need a break.” 

He knew that the reveal of Danyal’s death would hit Dick partially hard as someone who was very protective of his younger siblings. It wouldn’t matter to him that Danyal died before he even knew of his existence. Bruce expected Dick to be consumed with sadness right now. He wasn’t though he was overcome with fury. 

“A rest Bruce? We all just found out that Damian’s twin is dead; that Ra’s did something to make sure Damian wouldn’t tell anyone. And you want me to take a rest?” Dick eyes burned into him as he spoke. “I’ll take a rest once I know what that psychotic old man did.” 

Bruce knows Dick well enough to read between the lines of what his son is saying. He’s angry at Ra’s, yes, but Dick’s angry at himself too. He’s probably wondering why Damian never felt comfortable enough to mention such a big part of himself to them. 

“And we’ll make sure Damian knows that whatever Ra’s said or did was wrong, but you look exhausted right now. At least let me bring a chair over here for you to sit in.” Bruce calmly states to his eldest son. 

It looks like his words haven’t calmed Dick in the slightest, but before he can speak up again a chair is being pulled up next to Dick by Jason. “Jesus Christ Dick, just sit down already. And that’s me agreeing with B on something so you should know that it's not just the old man saying some b.s.” 

It doesn’t take much for Jason to force Dick to take a seat; one hard shoulder shove and he was collapsing into the chair. After which Jason pulls his own chair up next to him. “I’m gonna need you to put an end to this little pity party in the corner, Dickiebird.” 

“I’m allowed to be upset, Jason. We just found out that our brother is dead, and I should have been able to do something. 

“You think I don’t get that? The only difference between us right now though is that I was there; I could have done something to save the kid if I had known.” 

“Jaylad-” 

“No Bruce, if Dick here wants to blame himself for not doing something then he can blame me too.” Jason gives Dick an annoyed look then turns his head towards Bruce, “You’re free to get out of here old man. Can’t believe I’m the one that’s gotta talk some sense into Dick here.” 

He really doesn’t want to leave this conversation where it’s currently at, but when Dick gives him a nod he knows that he should withdraw. Bruce does make a mental note to ask about how the discussion went later; for now though he’ll do as they want.

So for now he moves on to check on his final son, Duke, before doing so though Bruce stops by his office once more for a moment to just sit and think. Once there it doesn’t take long before he is reaching into the bottom drawer where he keeps a bottle of whiskey hidden away. When he doesn’t feel it though Bruce knows that Alfred must have taken it. 

Of course Alfred knew he had it; that man knows everything that goes on here. 

It’s for the best that it’s gone anyhow he doesn’t need to be repeating past habits from when he lost Jason. That’s the last thing this family needs right now; not when there are still so many questions that need answers. 

In the end it’s Duke who seeks him out first. A mere 10 minutes goes by where Bruce is sitting in silence before a few light knocks echo against the walls around him. After announcing that the person knocking entrance Duke almost hesitantly approaches him. His habit of always tapping his fingers on whatever he was holding a dead give away for how nervous his son must be feeling right now. 

“Hey B,” Duke started, “everyone seems to be going through it right now huh?”

“It would appear so. What about you chum? How are you doing with all this?”

“I’m … not fine, but I know that that’s ok; I don’t think anyone wouldn’t be somewhat affected by the recent news. I actually wanted to talk to you about something else though if that’s ok.” 

Bruce takes a quick steady breath preparing himself for whatever this conversation may bring. “Of course, what did you want to talk about?”

“About what’s going to happen afterwards; when we find out the truth from Damian. Because- If Danyal is … dead then I think asking Damian about who Danyal was as a person, and setting up a memorial of sorts might help everyone with their grief.” 

“That,” his throat feels tight, “that sounds like a wonderful idea, Duke. I’m sure Damian- everyone would appreciate having a setup for Danyal in the manor.” 

Duke seems satisfied with his answer, and with a small smile makes his way out of the office. Before he leaves though he says one last thing, “I’d also make time to call Cass and Steph to give them an update on this before they get home.” 

After that the silence once more takes control of the room while Bruce thinks about the what if’s and the could have been. 

He’s not sure what the future holds for them now, but Bruce does know that whatever comes they’ll deal with it; together. That means he can’t keep sitting here in sorrow; he can’t fall apart again. 

“It’s time to get to work,” is his last thought as he leaves to make his way back to the cave. 

-

The rest of the day seems to go by in a blur, and not in a good way. Damian spits fire anytime anyone steps into his room. He has only willingly allowed Alfred inside to deliver food to him, and even that was met with cautious anger. 

At the very least Damian isn’t trying to escape; some piece of evidence they showed him must have convinced him that what they were saying was the truth. That conclusion is a double edge sword though as now Damian for sure knows that Danyal is gone. Why else would his brother not be here?

Red Hood and Red Robin are the only ones that go on patrol when the time comes. Dick refuses to leave his station at the med bay door knowing that Damian could be transferring back to himself any time now, and Bruce doesn’t want to leave him by himself if that does happen tonight. The two don’t talk much while alone in the cave, but Dick does allow Bruce to momentarily take his place at the door while he takes a moment to refresh himself. 

While it doesn’t actually happen that night the family is definitely in for a surprise when they check in on Damian the next morning, and find the now normal 14 year old boy asleep on the bed. 

Everyone had to hold Dick back so that he wouldn’t wake him up, and in the end it was Alfred who finally managed to convince him to let Damian rest without interruptions. Unfortunately for the sleeping child though this only gives the rest of the family more time to think about what they’re going to ask, and heaven knows he already has a lot to answer for.

-

Damian feels himself slowly waking; his body feels stiff and slow when he attempts to sit up, but otherwise fine. He knows he must be in the med bay since the last thing he remembers was being on patrol with Nightwing and encountering a blinding light. 

When enough of his strength finally returns to him he cracks his eyes open to see his father and brothers all looking at him with varying degrees of concern. Whatever happened must have been a lot bigger than he had originally thought if they are all here with him.  

Slowly he rubs a hand across his face and groans out to everyone in the room, “What happened?” 

No one says anything for a few beats. In fact they all seem to avoid meeting his eyes entirely. Eventually though his father clears his throat before speaking in a voice far too soft and gentle, “Well chum, you got hit with a spell while on patrol. It- It reverted you back to your 6 year old self.”

Oh. 

Oh no. 

That was probably the worst thing he could have been told right now as Damian thinks back to what he was like at that age; to who had been by his side since birth. There is absolutely no way that his long gone other half wasn’t mentioned, or brought up in however long he was in his younger state. 

“I’m frankly surprised to see you all still standing. I was very dedicated to the league at that age.” He’s not going to admit to anything just in case he is wrong though. Danyal is not someone who Damian is ready to speak about. His twin, his brother, and his biggest regret; he’ll never forgive himself for being so brainwashed by Ra’s that he allowed Danyal’s death that day. That he was prepared to do it himself because the older man said it was for the best. 

“You did manage to break Jason's nose!” Duke lightly chuckles as the mentioned man throws a glare, but otherwise remains silent. Followed by more deafening silence from everyone else. 

Dick is the one that finally brings up the elephant in the room, “Dami … who’s Danyal?”

Why did he have to be right about them knowing? Ready or not it seems the truth about Danyal was coming to light it seems. “Danyal was my twin; the other half- the better half of me. I understand that now.”

His eldest brother gently grabs his hand, and holds it in a firm embrace of comfort. He’ll allow it for now. “And what happened to him?” 

Damian can’t keep his past hidden anymore, and Danyal deserves to have his story told. “When we were 10 Gran- Ra’s took Danyal and I away from our studies early one afternoon. He said that he had a couple lessons of his own that he wanted to teach us personally.” 

For one it was a life lesson, and for the other a death sentence. 

… 4 years ago …

“Damian, Danyal, come. You two are about to learn what it truly means to be an Al Ghul.”

[ellecdc]

grovelling under an old oak tree

prompt from @redeyesthicthighs: I have been thinking about our girl Vix & craving some good ol’ hurt/comfort with a touch of groveling from one of the boys... I feel like we tend to see Sirius or James be the ones to step wrong and then have to fix it but… I know we are all obsessed with Remus and he truly is an angel (I KNOW! YOU KNOW I KNOW!) but how do you think he would grovel?

poly!marauders x vixen!reader who Remus needs to apologize to [1.3k words]

CW: fem!reader, Remus yelled at her/told her off off screen, Remus-centric, begging for forgiveness, hurt/comfort and fluff

“Sirius, I think you ought to at least pretend to be a little less happy about how upset your girlfriend is right now.” Remus scolded instead of acknowledging the fact that he was currently in the wrong.

Sirius simply snorted at him. “Of course I’m not happy about my girlfriend being upset, Moony. I’m just thoroughly enjoying the fact that it’s not my fault.”

”It doesn’t hurt that Moony was the arse this time.” James added rather unhelpfully. 

“I wasn’t an-” Remus started as he stood straighter, cutting himself off and taking a steadying breath. He really was sort of an arse. It was the day after a full, Remus was feeling particularly sorry for himself - his hip seemingly giving him more problems today than it had in months - and you had been your normal, vibrant, effervescent self. 

The way Remus spoke to you probably had you thinking that was a crime worthy of Azkaban. 

You’d taken off - of course you had - because who would want to stick around to be spoken to like that?

It probably hadn’t helped matters that the other two boys were so thoroughly shocked by Remus’ outburst that neither of them thought to say anything to you, and Remus himself was too simultaneously proud and full of self loathing to retract his earlier sentiments.

The last thing any of them had seen from their dormitory window was a small red fox bolting into the forest. 

“I was an arse.” Remus admitted in defeat.

”Fuck yeah you were!” Sirius cheered, earning him a high-five from James as though the two of them had been watching a quidditch match and not Remus simply pull on a jacket, hat, and scarf to go out in search of you. 

“I need you to enjoy this a little less, please.” Remus sighed.

”No can do, Moonbeam; I’ll be riding this high all week. Can you imagine!? I wonder what it would be like to have Remus grovelling at our feet, eh Jamie?”

“Fuck off. The difference between the two of you and Vix is that you’d actually… deserve it...” He joked, though the atmosphere immediately fell flat when he remembered that he had, indeed, been an arse to you. And what’s more, you didn’t deserve it in the least. 

“Fuck; I was an arse.” Remus reiterated.

”Do you want us to help, Rem?” James finally asked, clearly taking pity on Remus who, in his defence, was not at all used to being in the dog house. 

“No… no. I- I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.” Remus decided; whether he was convincing himself or his boyfriend’s, he wasn’t sure as he ventured out of his dormitory in search of his girlfriend. 

…

He supposed that, all things considered, he should be thankful for the mixture of rain and snow that was currently falling from the sky. If nothing else, it served to leave a definitive trail of paw prints in the soft ground leading Remus to where you’d gone and hidden.

From him.

You were hiding from him.  

Fuck, he was an arse. 

There was a small hole in the earth under a tangle of roots beneath a grand old oak where your paw prints came to a decided halt. 

“Dovey?” He tried carefully; he heard an exhale and a shuffle. “Sweetheart? I’m sorry…” 

He received no response. 

Remus didn’t think he was in a position to ask anything of you; not to hear him out, not to come out and talk to him, not even to come back inside so he’d - at the very least - sleep knowing you were indoors and warm. 

So, screaming hip be damned, he lowered himself to the ground, the layers he was wearing doing nothing to protect him from the biting cold of the muddy ground as it seeped into his front. 

He wondered for a moment if he should feel embarrassed should a passerby notice a student prostrate beneath the trunk of an old oak tree, but he decided pleading for your forgiveness outweighed any potential embarrassment. 

“Vix, I’m sorry, love.” He pressed earnestly; a small white muzzle appearing near the entrance of your burrow. “I didn’t mean it.” 

You let out a huff and moved to turn your face back away from him. Yes you did, you seemed to argue.

”I didn’t, sweetheart. But I shouldn’t have said it, and that doesn’t excuse that I still did.” 

You kept your face turned away from him. 

“Dovey, I-” Remus paused and bit in a breath, using his elbows to pull him that much closer to your burrow and streak that much more mud up his front. “Pads and Prongs…they saved me. But…but you- you brought light back into my life, and you manage to do that even on my darkest days.” 

He waited a few beats before he continued. “Even when I don’t deserve it.”

One of your back legs twitched as though you were itching to move but actively fought against it. 

“Even when it’s the pain that’s talking, and not me. Even when I know it’s the pain talking for me and I let it anyway. Even when all I want to do is sit and wallow and feel sorry for myself you-” He felt embarrassingly close to tears. “You never fail to share what little light you might have to offer; to me, to Sirius and James, to everyone around you. It’s one of the things I love most about you, and I berated you for it.” 

More silence.

”I’m sorry.” 

He didn’t push. He simply laid on his stomach beneath an old oak tree in the Forbidden Forest under the light of the waning moon as he watched your fur fall and rise in time with your breathing whilst you refused to look at him. The only movement other than the infinitesimal twitching of your legs and ears. 

“Okay, that’s alright.” He sighed after an unknown stretch of time, turning his head to rest his cheek against his folded arms. “I’ll be here, okay? Whenever you’re ready.” 

Remus’ blinks became sticky with the moisture gathering along his eyelashes between the cold and the sleet quickly soaking him through the top of his jacket, leaving him damp on all sides. 

He was just about resigned to spending the entire night out here, perhaps being found by a rather smug Sirius or slightly less smug but no less pleased James covered in a thick layer of frost not unlike the heather bushes lining much of the landscape come morning when he felt a wet, warm nudge to his cheek.

He peeled his eyes open to see a small red fox standing above him with a curious tilt to its head.

“I’m fine to wait out here if that’s what you need, dove.” He assured you, shifting his head to look at you though never lifting it from his arms. “Don’t worry on my account.”

Your ears twitched again - towards something deep in the forest behind you - but you kept your eyes dutifully on him before pressing another boop to his cheek. 

“Ready to go inside?” He asked, daring to prop himself up on his elbows. A definitive yipping sound told him yes, you were. 

Remus finally moved to stand, hip cracking audibly though he kept his face painfully neutral so as not to have you feeling inadvertently guilty. Remus thought he probably deserved to spend more time on the cold wet ground for the way he spoke to you.

“Hope this doesn’t mean you’ve gone and forgiven me yet, Vix.” He declared sternly, bending slightly to pick you up when you stood on your hind legs to press gentle paws into his thigh. “I have much more grovelling to do.”

You made a fox-like laughing sound before shoving your nose into his neck, nuzzling closer to him in as much of a hug as a fox could manage. 

“And if Sirius or James ever spoke to you that way, I’d expect you to leave them begging for days.”

[futfemfantasies]

A wedding to remember ~ Steph Catley x reader

Weddings in vineyards are always beautiful but it's something about the venue under the Australian sunset that makes it stand out. With fairy lights decorating the trees and rustic vibes from the wooden tables, Emily and Kat designed it perfectly. You watch the newlyweds have their first dance, a glass of champagne in hand, when you notice a familiar brunette join your other Matilda's teammates across the dance floor.

Steph has been in your life since you were teenagers. Growing closer when on camps together and sharing moments on and off the pitch. Between you both there has always been an unspoken connection that neither person wants to acknowledge. For many years now, there has been one complication for your friendship to progress further - Dean. You told yourself over and over again that there was no chance anything could happen. But Steph got engaged to Dean and you couldn't stand to see it so you move clubs to protect your feelings. Every camp for the national team you'd try to hide your feelings but many of your Matilda's teammates caught on quickly. Every time Steph glances your way, it becomes harder for you to keep those feelings settled.

The sun started to move behind the horizon and more people moved to the dance floor. You decided to stay back and watch, not really in a dancing mood. You heard heels click behind you and you felt a hand on your shoulder. You turned around and saw the woman taking over your thoughts since you arrived.

“Hey stranger,” She said softly.

“Hey,” you replied, trying not to appear nervous.

Steph smiled small, but warm. “You've been hiding over here all night.”

“Just enjoying the view.” you said, gesturing to the many trees in the vineyard.

Steph nodded, looking at the sunset and dimly lit trees before facing you again. “You've been radio silent lately, is everything okay?”

“Just a lot on my mind I guess.” you hesitated. Steph studied you, her expression unreadable.

“You know you can talk to me about anything?”

“I know.” you whisper before going to see your other Matilda's teammate.

Emily insisted that all the Matilda's are to go on the dance floor at least once during the night. Ellie dragged you on there, declaring you needed to ‘loosen up’. After pushing through the crowd, one of your favorite songs comes on. As you dance around with Ellie, she gives you a slight nod to look behind you. Steph was there with her hand outstretched, silently asking you to dance as the music got slower. You hesitate for a millisecond before taking Steph's hand. Time seemed to slow as Steph guided you to the middle of the dance floor. You placed your hand on her waist, trying to ignore all the feelings inside. Neither of you spoke for a while, just gently swaying with the soft melody, until Steph broke the silence.

“Dean and I broke up.” she said, voice quiet but steady.

You stopped in your tracks, looking Steph in the eyes. “what?”

“It's been coming for a while,” Steph admitted. “We both knew it wasn't working anymore,” Before you could respond she continued.

“I've been thinking a lot about what I want - about what makes me happy,” Her eyes met yours, hands tighten around your waist. “and it's you.”

Your breath hitched, as the weight of her words started to settle in. “Steph…”

“Follow me.”

Steph untangles from you and pushes her way through the crowd. You follow behind like a lost puppy until you get a little bit away from the reception. Steph pulls you in her arms and you search her face for any hint of doubt. There was only honesty and Hope.

“I've wanted to say this for so long,” you admit, as your voice trembled. “but I didn't think I could.”

Steph hold your face in one of her hands as she smiled, “well, now you can.”

With that, the distance between you became non-existent. the music Fading Into the background and all you can focus on is her. you both lean in and the wedding slowly forgotten as you two were caught up in each other.

The kiss under the stars changes everything. For the first time, the barriers between you and Steph crumble. As you pull back, your foreheads resting together, Steph smiles—a real, unforgettable smile that feels like home.

“We can’t keep this just for tonight,” she says softly.

You nod, your heart pounding. “I don’t want to.”

The rest of the wedding fades into a blur. You and Steph spend the next few days together, slipping away from the chaos to steal quiet moments just for yourselves. Long walks along the beach, lazy afternoons in the sun, and late-night conversations filled with laughter and shared memories remind you both of what you’ve always had—and what you could have.

As the offseason looms, you both return to Europe, reluctant to leave the bubble you’ve created but excited to see what the future holds. Steph heads back to London, while you return to Barcelona, the distance between you feeling more manageable now than ever before.

The transfer window is in full swing, and rumors are flying about player moves. You’ve kept your decision close to your chest, wanting to surprise Steph when the time is right. The deal with Arsenal has been finalised, and the announcement is just days away.

With the help of Caitlin and Katie, you arrange to meet Steph at one of your favorite coffee spots in London. She’s already seated at a corner table when you arrive, her face lighting up the moment she sees you.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon,” she says, standing to hug you.

You grin, nerves bubbling under the surface. “I have a surprise.”

“Oh?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as you both sit.

You slide an Arsenal scarf out of your bag and place it on the table between you. Steph stares at it for a moment, her eyes widening as realisation dawns.

“No way,” she says, her voice filled with disbelief and excitement.

“Way,” you reply, unable to keep the grin off your face. “The transfer is all finalised. I’m joining Arsenal next season.”

Steph laughs, leaning back in her chair as she takes it all in. “You’re serious?”

“Completely,” you say. “Thought it was time for a change—and maybe time to be closer to you.”

Her smile softens, and she reaches across the table to take your hand. “You have no idea how happy this makes me.”

For the first time in a long time, everything felt right.

[divinedelusional]

how rafe would treat his gf on her period

rafe cameron x fem reader

word count: 796

warnings: menstruation, mentions of toxic relationship and period sex

a/n: yeah this is how rafe treats his girl on her period but also how he would be like in a relationship throughout the seasons? i got carried away, sorry not sorry

s1 rafe: sooo i feel like fratboy!rafe genuinely doesn't give a fuck, i don't even know if he would be capable of being in a relationship. i see him being involved with a girl but only for sex and he would only know she's on her period bc she would just text him that they can't meet today bc of it and he'd be like "uh huh cool" and would go jerk off

s2 rafe: here i think situation would be slightly different. i think our psycho bby could acc develop feelings for a girl, it would mostly be just sex but he could start falling for someone. so i think he'd fight a battle in his mind if he should come over to the girl's house and be there for her on her period or to completely neglect her. it's just he doesn't have a clue what to do and tbh he's occupied with other shit, he uses sex with her to forget. i think it's very similar to s1 rafe but with guilt and feelings creeping in (and obvious denial for this emotions)

s3 rafe: so okay we all know the shift from curtain bangs psycho rafey to buzz cut man of the house rafe who looked like he's getting his shit together. of course that means he's different when it comes to relationships. he still deals with a lot, but he finds you. and he kinda sees you as this light. a small light who he has to be very careful with so it won't go out. he is attentive to you. treats you right, but with some sort of distance and you don't blame him. he doesn't spend every day with you, he didn't even ask you to be his girlfriend yet, didn't make it official but he will and somehow you know it. when you're on your period you become quiet. you don't text him, but he finds out as he had a feeling that he should drop by your house. he finds you on your couch with a heating bag and cookies. you told him you weren't feeling well and he ordered you hot soup and made a quick run to pharmacy for some medicine. he still was clueless and thought you caught a cold. "rafe im not sick im just on my period" "oh" it's not like he avoids you, no. he visits you everday for the next four days but doesn't stay for long, always excusing himself with some meeting or business. you know he means the best for you but wish that he's going to be able to let you in soon. you're really patient with him, but start having doubts.

s4 rafe: is now fully committed to you. you talked to him how you really felt about this relationship. that you really cared and wanted to give him as much time as he needed, but also you couldn't waste it anymore waiting for him. and rafe realized that nobody else would have such patience for him. he was thinking about you a lot and he admitted to himself that you were the one. he made your relationship official and two months later you were living together. he was spoiling you, really. taking you on dates, buying you gifts and most importantly giving you his time. getting to know you, observing your daily habits, remembering stuff you said. your likes and dislikes. no wonder he became pussy whipped. and started to feel like he knows you better than yourself.

that's why when it's that time of the month you don't have to say anything. rafe knows. just by the way you whine when you wake up, he knows if you'd be able to get out of bed and get on with your day or you'd want to stay in bed cuddling, because he's your personal heater, makes back pain go away. gives you massages. cuddles with you all morning untill your stomach start to signal that it's time for some food. oh and he doesn't care about his schedule. he could clear it off, cancel the meetings, but he doesn't bother. his girl is the most important, his business associates don't even deserve a phone call on a day his girl is in pain. also he's not opposed to period sex at. all. orgasm is a great way to reduce cramps, so if that works for you and you want him to help you, he is the happiest to do so. if you're not comfortable with having sex these days he totally understands. wouldn't even thought of forcing you to do something, on your period or not. when he discovered that he has so much love in him, his only interest is to give it to you♡

dividers by: @bernardsbendystraws

tagging: @sugaraanddiesel @cherrylipglossss hope they'll enjoy it and @cameronsprincess bc maybe it will put a smile on her face♡

[janiehellion]

Revved Up

ONESHOT

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Learning to ride a motorcycle should’ve been simple. After all, you knew your way around bikes better than anyone in Alexandria—except Daryl Dixon. But one crash and one pissed-off redneck later, and you're stuck with him giving you a hands-on crash course in focus and control.

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: DARYL DIXON X FEM!READER

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT / LANGUAGE / MINOR INJURIES / VAGINAL FINGERING / CUNNILINGUS / SEMI-PUBLIC / ROUGH SEX / PAIN PLAY / MARKING

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 14.441

ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ: S05E13—ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ & S05E14—ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅ

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ's ɴᴏᴛᴇ: My first oneshot of 2025—and my longest yet! Sorry, not sorry, for the length; Daryl Dixon refused to stop until the lesson was fully drilled in. Hope it's worth the ride.

MASTERLIST & REQUEST GUIDELINES

You couldn't take your eyes off of him.

Out of everyone from the new group in Alexandria, he was the one who made the least effort to fit in. He was quiet and always looked ready to leave, like this wasn't a place to call home. He preferred to keep his distance, doing his own thing around the community, and that made him even more interesting to you.

Daryl Dixon was certainly different from the rest.

The first time you caught him working on the motorcycle and the parts he got from Aaron, in Aaron's and Eric's garage, something caught your attention. It wasn't just the way he moved, though the way his hands worked on the machine was something you couldn't ignore. No, it was more than that, and it pulled you in.

And for you?

The sound of metal and the smell of oil were all too familiar. You'd grown up around motorcycles and spent hours watching your old man work on his Harley Davidson most of the time, until you decided to become a mechanic after school, especially for motorcycles. That knowledge was something you didn't share with many others in Alexandria, but when you saw Daryl putting that motorcycle together piece by piece, you figured it might be a good way to start a conversation, if nothing else.

Sure, he kept to himself mostly, spending more time with his crossbow than with humans. But it made him stand out in a place where most people were getting used to living 'normally' again. And you didn't want anything normal. You wanted real.

That's what led you to the garage.

Daryl, of course, was bent over the motorcycle he'd been working on for some time now.

As you walked closer, you pretended to inspect his work. "What is this, a '92 Honda? Nice setup. Yamaha front end, though? Bit of a Frankenstein's monster, huh?"

That got his attention. "The hell ya know 'bout bikes?"

You shrugged, smirking at him. "What, do you think just 'cause I live in Alexandria, I can't tell a carburetor from a walker? Oh, please."

He hadn't spoken to you much since he arrived, but then again, Daryl didn't talk to anyone much. But you? You barely ever got a grunt in your direction since he'd been here.

"Looks like it's finally coming together," you started, trying to sound bored. It was a shitty way to break the ice, but small talk wasn't your thing after all.

Daryl didn't even look up. Grease covered his hands, and his current expression made him look like he'd rather punch you than say hello.

"Yeah, maybe if ya'd stop annoyin' my ass," he murmured, tightening a bolt.

"I'm only annoying the bike," you snorted. "And I'm making sure it doesn't fall apart the second you ride it out of the community."

That earned you a glare. A quick one. And you held his stare for that moment, refusing to look away.

"So yer always this annoyin'?" He shot back, wiping his hands on a rag and finally standing up to his full height.

"You tell me. So what is it? This… special kind of build?" You asked, gesturing to the motorcycle. You had to admit, it did look quite nice.

His eyes narrowed, and he seemed to be a little surprised about your curiosity. "Do ya really know bikes?"

You shrugged, playing it cool. "Enough to know that this isn't a normal setup, but that's just personal taste, you know?"

"It'll work."

"Sure, until it doesn't," you continued with a smirk. "But hey, it's your funeral. Or someone else's if that thing gives out mid-run."

He grunted, clearly not in the mood to admit you might have a point.

"Still, not bad for what you had to work with. Must've been a pain in the ass to track down some of the other parts," you moved closer, getting a better look at the setup. "But I heard Aaron's been helping you out. He's good with scavenging stuff. Though, I bet he didn't know half of what you needed."

That got a grunt of agreement from Daryl. "He ain't bad. Jus' don't need anyone watchin' when I'm workin'."

"Noted." You raised your hands, but you didn't back off. Instead, you crouched next to the machine, inspecting the details up close. You could feel Daryl's eyes on you, probably wondering what the hell you were doing.

After a moment of silence, you looked up at him again. "You ever really gonna take this thing out, or are you just building it for the hell of it?"

Daryl looked over to the garage door as if he was thinking whether or not to answer. Finally, he sighed. "Gonna use it. Aaron wants me on the road, recruitin' and all. Need somethin' fast."

"Yeah? And what if you end up with a flat tire out there? Wait, that might not even be a problem, since it kind of looks like you're building yourself a time machine there," you answered, standing up. "But you're gonna need more than just duct tape and spit to get this thing running."

Daryl's eyes narrowed again. "Told ya I know what I'm doin'," he snapped, his hand tightening around the wrench like he was itching to throw it at you.

But you weren't about to be ignored that easily. "You've really got some interesting mismatched parts here. Yamaha forks on a Honda… Look, I'm just saying that you might wanna check the suspension before you ride outta here. Unless you're aiming to get launched off it."

"Gonna manage."

You snorted. "Sure, you will. But hey, if you ever feel like teaching someone else how to ride, I wouldn't mind learning. I mean, someone's gotta be around to save your ass when that thing tries to kill you."

Daryl shot you a look, his jaw clenching slightly, but this time, he just stared at you like you were the most confusing person he'd ever seen.

"Ya wanna learn how to ride?" His voice sounded annoyed, like the idea was somehow offensive to him, but there was also some slight disbelief to be heard as if he wasn't sure why you'd ask him of all people. "Ain't got time for that. Got 'nough problems without babysittin'."

"Come on," you pressed further. "What's the harm? Or is the asshole routine just for me? Besides, if you ever crash, I promise I'll write you some kinda eulogy. Something about how you died doing what you loved—which is looking perpetually pissed off."

You could've sworn you saw the slightest smirk, but Daryl quickly busied himself with the motorcycle, like he hadn't shown you might really have a point with your tips.

Keeping your voice casual, you stepped back. "Let me know if you change your mind," you continued, brushing off your knees. "Might be fun."

With that, you gave him one last smirk and turned around, leaving him to think about whatever he thought of you.

You spent the next couple of days trying not to think about Daryl Dixon, which was about as easy as trying not to notice a walker biting your arm. But despite your best efforts to act like it was no big deal, the thought of riding that motorcycle—and more specifically, him teaching you—kept making its way into your head.

Daryl didn't say anything about your offer for those few days, too. Hell, he didn't say much of anything, really. He'd pass by you in Alexandria, his crossbow by his side, always looking like someone just spit in his drink. But you had gotten used to the silent treatment by now, so you didn't let it get to you... much.

Indeed, it didn't take long to figure out that convincing Daryl Dixon to teach you how to ride a motorcycle was like trying to herd cats—but grumpy, feral ones… with knives.

It was late afternoon when you found yourself near the garage again, and you hadn't planned on seeing him, but let's face it, you were intrigued. And there he was—still working on the motorcycle and still looking like it personally insulted him.

However, the thing looked all patched together with scavenged pieces and maybe a little bit of wishful thinking. It had a certain look to it, like it wanted to run off into the wild and never come back.

Daryl didn't even move. He didn't look your way. He just kept wrenching something near the seat before he glared at you like you'd asked him to solve a math problem.

"Thought I'd come by and bless you with my knowledge once more," you announced, smirking as you leaned against the workbench.

Daryl only rolled his eyes—actually rolled them—like he couldn't believe he had to put up with you again. "Ain't nobody asked for that."

"Yeah, well, nobody asked for that bike to look like it's held together with a plea and a prayer, but here we are," you shot back, leaning forward slightly. "'Livin' on a Prayer,' in fact."

He grunted, shoving the wrench into the toolbox with force. "The hell do ya know 'bout motorcycles, anyway?"

"I do know motorcycles! I told you, didn't I? And that thing," you pointed to the machine, "is one bad pothole away from turning into scrap metal."

Daryl scoffed, clearly not a fan of having his work criticized, especially by someone who, in his eyes, hadn't earned the right to say something about it. "It'll hold. 'S a good bike."

"Sure, sure," you said, grinning at him. "But if you're so confident, why don't you accept my offer? Teach me how to ride. Let's see if this thing here can handle it."

He stared at you for a long moment, like he was thinking about his options. You could practically see the gears running in his head—whether to shut you down and tell you to piss off or give in just to prove you wrong.

"Ya serious 'bout this?"

"Dead serious," you said, holding his stare. "What? Are you afraid?"

His nostrils flared in the way they did when he seemed to be two seconds from snapping at you, but instead, he just turned back to his work. "Ya wanna learn? Fine. But don't come cryin' to me when ya hurt yer ass."

"Oh, don't worry, Dixon. If I hurt my ass, I'll make sure you hurt yours, too," you said, biting back a laugh as you straightened up. "But I swear, this thing's gonna be your mid-life crisis. What's next, leather pants and chaps?"

He showed you one of those stares again—half-annoyed, half-confused—like he wasn't sure if he should bother responding or pretend you didn't exist.

"Ya done?"

"Done? I'm here to save you from yourself, Daryl. You keep this up, and in a week, you're gonna be having a mullet and wearing a crop top."

He stared at you like you'd grown an extra head. "What the hell're ya talkin' 'bout?"

"Mid-life crisis, Daryl. First, it's the bike. Then, it's questionable fashion choices. Next thing you know, you're coming back from a run with a Corvette and crying over Bon Jovi ballads. I'm just here to make sure it won't happen."

"Ain't havin' no damn crisis."

You smirked. "Uh-huh. That's what they all say. Just remember, I offered to help. I can't wait to see you when you're rocking those chaps and a bandana."

"So, ya still wanna learn to ride or not?" His voice sounded definitely pissed off.

You raised your eyebrows, as if in shock. "Oh my, was that an offer in return? From you? I'm touched, really. Let me just—" You pretended to wipe a tear away from your eye and sob. "This moment's very special to me."

"Shut up," he grumbled, but his voice gave way that he almost sounded amused.

"I'm just saying, this is progress," you said. "Next thing I know, we'll be exchanging friendship bracelets."

Daryl didn't respond right away, but you thought you had seen enjoyment, maybe? Or irritation. It was hard to tell with him. Either way, he was back on his feet now, pulling the motorcycle upright and kicking the stand back. Soon enough, the familiar sound of the engine made its way through the garage, and damn if it didn't make your pulse race just a little.

"Get on."

His sudden words made you blink at him in surprise. "Wait, like… right now? Where's the foreplay, Dixon? At least buy me a drink first."

"Nah, when I'm dead. Yeah, right now," he snapped, unable to believe you were even asking.

"Okay, okay," you mumbled, swinging your leg over the motorcycle with as much confidence as you could have at that moment. The seat seemed normal, but it still felt bigger than you expected.

Daryl stepped beside you, his arms crossed as he watched you. "Ya know how to start?"

"Of course I do," you said, reaching for the handlebars.

You were halfway through fumbling with the throttle at first when Daryl's hand shot out, grabbing your wrist. "That ain't how ya do it," he growled as he leaned in. "First lesson: This here's the throttle—"

"Yeah, yeah, I know what a throttle is," you interrupted, waving him off. "I'm not a complete idiot. I could turn this thing into scrap and piece it back together if you wanted me to, so..."

His eyes narrowed. "Then maybe shut up and listen."

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. You couldn't help it—pissing him off was just too easy.

"Clutch on the left, throttle on the right," he continued, his fingers tapping the handlebars. "Brake's here. Don't yank it like an idiot." He then gave the machine a once-over. "Ya pull the clutch, twist the throttle slowly. Too much, and yer gonna stall it."

"Okay, understood. Show me."

Daryl let out a frustrated sigh but soon moved behind you, reaching around to grip the handlebars. His strong chest pressed against your back, and you immediately forgot how to breathe.

"Ya gotta ease into it," he instructed while his fingers guided yours on the throttle.

"Uh-huh, yeah, sure, ease into it," you mumbled, trying to sound unimpressed. "And what happens if I don't ease into it? The whole thing explodes?"

"Nah. Ya gonna wipe out an' eat dirt," he shot back, his lips showing a bit of a smirk. "But maybe ya'll learn faster that way."

"Yeah, well, I've eaten worse," you answered, glancing over your shoulder at him. "Besides, I doubt you've ever taught anyone how to ride before. What if you're just a terrible teacher?"

He huffed against your neck. "Ain't teachin' ya much. Now, idle it forward."

You followed his instructions, twisting the throttle just enough to get the engine purring beneath you. The vibration went through your legs, and despite yourself, you had to admit it felt very, very good.

"Okay, now what?" You asked, trying to sound bored even though the adrenaline was starting to kick in.

"Now ya balance," Daryl said, his voice neutral like this was the most obvious thing in the world. "Try not to fall over." You could feel his eyes on you, judging every movement you made. "Quit messin' 'round. Friction Zone is how ya idle forward."

You shot him a look but did as he said, trying not to stall the motorcycle. For a second, you wobbled, and you swore you heard Daryl whisper something—probably betting on how soon you'd crash.

But you didn't. You steadied yourself. It was a weird feeling—kind of thrilling, kind of terrifying.

"Well, look at that," you said, showing him a grin. "Didn't fall over. Guess you're not the worst teacher after all."

"Jus' keep 'em hands on the bars," he instructed, his voice rather patient—well, as patient as Daryl ever got.

You did as he said, gripping the handlebars harder, trying not to think about how close you were to him. His smell wasn't exactly unpleasant. In fact, it was kind of… intoxicating.

Not that you'd ever admit that to him out loud.

"Fine, so what's next? Do I just rev it up and hope for the best?"

Daryl snorted, clearly unimpressed with you being unable to wait. "Ya listen, or yer gonna end up on yer ass."

"You know, Daryl, I don't usually take threats during lessons, but I'll make an exception for you."

His grip tightened on the handlebars, and you thought he might just leave you there. But he didn't. "Don't jerk the damn throttle, woman, or yer gonna take off too fast."

"Throttle, got it. Don't jerk it off. Guess I'll save that one for later." You wiggled your eyebrows, even though he couldn't see it.

Daryl stiffened, grumbling something you didn't quite catch, though it definitely wasn't a compliment.

"C'mon now, twist it—slowly," he ordered.

You followed his lead, the motorcycle easing forward just a bit as you worked the throttle.

"There ya go," Daryl said, his voice sounding a bit less harsh now that you weren't about to play around. "Gotta ease into it."

"Wow, who knew you could be so supportive?" You teased. "Almost makes me think you care."

He grunted. "Jus' don't wanna pick yer ass up off the ground."

"Got it, got it. Now, let's see if I can actually ride this thing without killing myself."

Daryl's hand moved to the clutch, his fingers touching yours as he guided you through the motions. You weren't sure if it was the machine or him, but your heart was beating much faster than usual. Maybe it was both. Either way, you were in for one hell of a ride.

His hand was warm, calloused, and—despite everything—comforting as he guided you out of the garage.

"Okay, slow down a bit, but not too much," he instructed, his voice almost a growl. The way he said it made you shiver, but you refused to let it show. You could be cool about this, right?

"Or I could just go full throttle and see how far I can fly through the streets of Alexandria," you laughed back.

"Real funny," he answered, rolling his eyes. "Jus' don't fuck up. Y'ain't flyin' nowhere. Ya gotta keep it steady."

"Right, no jerking off," you said, moving your head to the side just enough to glance at him. "That's usually my motto, you know, but I can make an exception for you regarding that as well."

"Focus. Don't push it," he warned. "Ya gotta keep yer focus on the bike, not me."

"Really? I thought you were my main distraction." You leaned back a little. "Sure, I'll focus. But I'm also pretty good at multitasking." As you worked the throttle again, you felt a rush of adrenaline. "So, what happens if I actually do fall? You gonna come to my rescue?"

Daryl didn't answer immediately. Instead, he loosened his grip on the handlebars, his body tense next to you. "Ya get back up. Everyone falls. 'S what ya do afterward that matters."

"Profound," you smirked. "You should start writing poetry! 'When life knocks you down, just get back on your bike.' Classic wisdom."

"Shut up and drive."

The motorcycle moved as you used the throttle too hard, and you fought to regain control, laughing nervously. "Shit! Maybe I should have listened to that part about not jerking it!"

He sighed, not bothering to hide his amusement this time. "Ya keep talkin', and ya might jus' convince me to kick ya off myself."

"Promises, promises," you smirked, adrenaline rushing through you, making everything feel a bit more exciting.

He grumbled something again—probably another insult—but he didn't try to stop you. Your movements weren't exactly smooth, but it was a start.

"You're a terrible teacher, by the way," you soon said, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye.

"Good," Daryl answered. "Means ya won't ask me to do this shit again."

You were just getting into the rhythm, feeling the motorcycle beneath you and getting the hang of it, when you heard the sound of footsteps getting closer behind you.

"Hey! What's going on here?" Aaron's voice destroyed the moment, and you felt Daryl tense near you.

"Shit," he groaned, practically gritting his teeth. You tried to process what was happening as you got off the seat, the way Daryl's body stiffened and the smirk faded from your lips.

"Oh, nothing, just a little driving lesson," you announced, trying to keep going despite the sudden stop. "Motto: 'Try Not to Die, but If You Do, It Ain't My Problem.'"

Aaron laughed, walking closer to you both. "So, it's finally finished?" He looked at the machine, inspecting the mix of parts that somehow came together into something that resembled a proper motorcycle.

"Jus' 'bout," Daryl replied dryly.

Aaron raised an eyebrow, looking from you to Daryl, who was already stepping away from him and you.

"That's great. Looks like you're making some great progress," Aaron continued, stepping closer.

"Ain't needin' ya to worry 'bout that," Daryl grumbled, the annoyance in his voice unmistakable. "Lesson's over."

"Wait, what? You can't just—"

"Don't push it," he snapped, shooting you a look that said he was done. "Ya wanna learn, ya have to find someone else."

You blinked, stunned as he walked away with the motorcycle by his side. "Daryl, stop!"

"Forget 'bout it," he called back, almost like his voice belonged to a different person. "Y'ain't ready."

Your frustration boiled over, and you turned to Aaron, arms crossed. "Thanks for ruining my lesson, by the way. Just what I needed today—more interruptions."

Aaron frowned, glancing between you and Daryl again as he watched him walk away. "What did you expect? He's still new here. Trying to keep his distance from the rest of us."

"Yeah, well, he doesn't need to be an asshole about it," you snapped. "I was getting somewhere!"

"You have to understand that the whole group has been through a lot. Daryl's not always going to be open with people," he explained, but it didn't help your mood.

"I get that, but I was just trying to learn something! Guess it's my fault for thinking he could actually teach me without being a complete asshole about it."

"Maybe give it some time?" Aaron suggested, his voice softer now, sounding more sympathetic. "He'll come around."

"Maybe," you sighed, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "But just when I thought I could finally get him to smile and to talk, you pull this."

Aaron's expression was by now somewhere between concern and curiosity as you huffed, glaring at Daryl walking away.

"Really, Aaron…" You continued, throwing your hands in the air. "You couldn't have waited five goddamn minutes longer to come and ruin my day? You see me finally making some progress, and you think, 'Oh, hey! The perfect time to interrupt!'"

Aaron raised his hands defensively. "Hey, I didn't mean to ruin anything. I didn't know you two were having... whatever that was."

"Whatever that was?" You repeated, your voice rising. "It was a goddamn driving lesson! Or, at least, it was supposed to be before you came along with your good intentions and your bad timing!"

Aaron frowned, the tone in his voice still kind, but he wasn't backing down. "Look, I was just checking in because I heard the sound of the engine. I thought Daryl wanted to head out, and I only wanted to see if he's done with his work on the bike. I didn't realize you were both so busy."

"Busy?" You let out a loud laugh, shaking your head. "You know what? Forget it. Next time I'm about to get Daryl Dixon to do something other than grunt or skin dead animals on the porch, I'll write you a goddamn note so you don't fuck it up. Now he's all pissed off and stomping away with my only chance at learning how to ride a damn bike and not kill myself."

"I doubt he's mad at you," Aaron responded. "Daryl's complicated. Like the rest of the group. They're still very new here. And you were the same when I found you and brought you here. But you're probably closer to getting through to him than anyone else."

You snorted. "Yeah, sure. 'Cause nothing says 'bonding' and 'getting to know each other' like storming off with his damn Franken-bike in a hurry. Really fucking touching."

Aaron smiled, squeezing your shoulder. "Just think about it."

You exhaled loudly, putting your hands on your hips. "Sounds like it's from a fortune cookie. Thanks for nothing."

With that, Aaron simply walked off, leaving you alone.

Soon, some days had passed since your lesson with Daryl. Days that quickly turned annoying when you realized he was avoiding you like you were the last slice of cold pizza at a party.

It felt weird.

Like, ridiculously weird.

And it didn't help that every time you tried to casually walk into the garage or catch him before he went on a supply run, he was either nowhere to be found or suddenly too busy to talk. You even half-expected to see a 'Do Not Disturb' sign near the bike.

It wasn't like you were stalking him—okay, maybe a little—but it was hard to stop thinking about him.

"Should I ask for him? Should I knock on the garage door? Maybe he's just sleeping? Or dead?" You laughed at the last thought. With Daryl, it wasn't a real possibility.

Finally, you sighed and decided to call it a day. "Alright, Daryl Dixon, you win," you said to yourself, kicking the dirt as you turned to leave.

But just as you made it halfway down the street, you heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps, followed by a clink of metal that made your heart race. You turned, and there he was—finally. Daryl Dixon, leaning against the side of the garage, arms crossed, his eyes hidden behind his hair, and with a cigarette in one hand.

Oh no, you're not getting away this time.

"Been hiding from me, huh?" You asked as soon as you reached him. "Gonna run off again? Or maybe you've just been too busy?" You faked a yawn, your eyes narrowing. "Or hiding from the bike lesson, maybe?"

Daryl simply scoffed, the only sign of life you got out of him as you stood a few inches from him. His eyes looked down, clearly not thrilled to see you standing there, but you didn't give a damn.

You put your hands on your hips, pretending to inspect him like he was the most boring human in Alexandria. "Hey… You did promise, you know? I didn't just imagine that part now, did I?"

"Dunno what yer talkin' 'bout."

You raised an eyebrow, your smile growing wider. "Oh? Sure feels like it. Guess you finally realized you're not as good of a teacher as you think."

Daryl sighed, sounding not only frustrated but... pissed off? Maybe both?

"Don't need to explain shit to ya," he grumbled in return.

You grinned, shrugging. "Well, if you're busy doing... whatever it is you do when you're not being an asshole, I guess I'll just go back to trying to learn from someone else." You turned to leave, but not without looking back over your shoulder again. "Don't worry. I won't ask you to teach me again."

That got him. He pushed himself off the garage, taking a few steps closer.

"You promised, Daryl. Or is that just another thing you like to say and not follow through with? You were gonna teach me. Not that I care; I'm sure I'll learn from someone else... unless you finally stop being an ass," you taunted, still looking over your shoulder at him.

Daryl's hand shot out before you could get too far, catching your arm in a grip that could've cracked a tree in half if he wanted it to. He was definitely pissed.

With a growl, he yanked you back toward him. "Fine. I'll teach ya. But not here. Not in Alexandria." He released your arm. "Meet me by the gates. Tomorrow, at dawn."

Without waiting for a response, Daryl walked back inside, leaving you standing there with a grin.

The next morning, you woke up early, a little earlier than you'd planned, but that was the least of your problems. There was a knot in your stomach that you couldn't get rid of, not even with a few stretches or by putting on your clothes.

This wasn't just another run. It wasn't just another 'do this or die trying' kinda deal. No, this was different. And for some reason, you were extremely nervous. What was he gonna do? What was he thinking?

You threw on your jacket, tied your boots like they were the last thing you'd ever do, and then... you hesitated.

What the hell was wrong with you?

With a deep breath, you forced yourself out the door and towards the gates of Alexandria. When you finally made it, you saw him. There he was—Daryl Dixon, standing there like he was waiting for the bus, except minus the whole 'bus' part. The motorcycle was leaned up against the walls, and he was staring straight ahead as if you were the last person he wanted to see right now.

"Well, damn. You did show up. Thought maybe you'd hide behind that attitude of yours for another day," you said, taking your time to walk up to him, not quite giving a damn whether he was ready for you or not.

But Daryl didn't even acknowledge you. He just flicked his cigarette away and gave you a look that could probably kill.

He then grunted, clearly not amused. "Ain't here to talk."

You looked at him, smirking a little. "Oh, I thought we were here to talk. 'Cause last time I checked, you were too busy to teach me anything useful. Guess you did promise, isn't that right?" You continued and raised an eyebrow. "So... what's the deal, huh? You just gonna stand there, or are we gonna start this driving lesson?"

He was still giving you that dead-eyed stare like you just asked him to swallow down rusty nails. The way Daryl was looking at you, all calm but irritated at the same time—it made everything weirder. But now, you had no choice. You had to get on that machine if you wanted to learn.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped closer to him after he took the motorcycle and got onto it himself. "Get on."

You hesitated before swinging your leg over it as well, the movement too awkward to be smooth. There was no denying it—there was a whole lot of you that wasn't exactly eager to be pressed up against him.

You bit your lip but tried to keep your cool. "Alright, I'm on."

Daryl didn't answer. He just started the engine, his hands gripping the handlebars, and that was when you had to settle into place—right behind him. You were close now—way too close—and that knot in your stomach was only tightening itself. You couldn't help it. You had to steady yourself, right? And as much as you hated to admit it, you found yourself sliding your hands down, almost instinctively. But... it wasn't enough.

And it wasn't fair. Nothing about this was fair. The way he was so broad, strong, and so very close made it impossible to think straight. Your palms were sweating, and it wasn't because you were nervous about falling off. It was him. Just him. And God, it was infuriating, letting your thoughts run wild.

Why does he have to smell so good? Why can't he just be an asshole and not… this?

Your hands moved. Lower.

You didn't mean to, but... there you were. Your fingers grabbed his hips, right there in front of you and so, so very close. He was warm, so warm, and you couldn't not notice it, even if you tried. But you weren't even trying.

Oh, no. Don't. Don't do it. Not now...

But your hands stayed right there. Resting on his hips. You couldn't help it.

God, he feels good. Warm. Strong. Hell, if I slide even lower, maybe I can make him feel me, too. What if I just—

You quickly cut your thoughts off, but the temptation was there. It was stupid. It's Daryl, you reminded yourself, though it didn't make the racing of your heart in your chest any less intense.

"Quit it. Jus' hold on," he suddenly said, still keeping his focus on the road in front of you.

You snapped out of it, blinking as though you were just pulled back from the edge of a cliff.

"Me?" You shot back, trying to sound as neutral as possible, hoping he didn't feel the way your heart was pounding. "You're the one acting like you've got a stick up your ass. Don't act like I'm the problem here."

Daryl didn't respond—again. His hands tightened on the handlebars, and you felt him move slightly on the motorcycle. You wondered if he could feel the way you were still pressed against him, too. If he noticed, he didn't give any sign, but hell, you weren't sure whether that was calming you down or just making everything worse.

Your hands were still grabbing his hips. Still low. Still in the danger zone. And every second you stayed on that seat that close behind him, the more you realized just how close you were to crossing a line you couldn't uncross, too.

Just stop touching him like that. For God's sake, control yourself...

But it was too late, wasn't it? Your hands were already doing what they wanted, sliding ever so slightly as Daryl revved the engine beneath you. And as the machine roared further and you felt the vibration between your legs, you couldn't deny it—you were holding on tight...

And shit, you hated yourself for it, but you couldn't think straight.

Your hands—those traitorous, slightly trembling hands—started to move further without you even trying. At first, you could feel the hardness of his muscles under his shirt. You didn't mean to, but your fingers couldn't resist anymore.

What the hell is wrong with me?

You kept telling yourself you weren't like this, but the warmth of his body in front of you, the vibrations of the motorcycle—the whole situation—it was clearly messing with your head.

And then your fingers touched the waistband of his pants. Your mind started spiraling.

Fuck, stop it.

But your hands were moving still, just a little further, and before you could catch yourself, you were dangerously close to slipping one whole hand past the button of his pants.

Why does this feel so fucking good? So right? No! This is so wrong!

You knew you shouldn't be doing this. You were driving yourself crazy just being this close to him. You should pull away and act like nothing happened. But the thought of him—of the way he looked, the way he smelled—it was too much.

Should I really keep going? You wondered, heart racing. What if I just slide my hand inside and just feel him?

The idea was so sudden it made your stomach growl, but you couldn't stop imagining it. The way he'd react—if he'd stop the motorcycle and throw you off, or if he'd just let you have your way.

But your hand froze at the button of his pants, resting there, barely touching it. You hated how much you wanted to go further, how much you needed to.

Pull back. Move your hand away. Stop thinking about how strong he is.

The way his muscles moved under your fingers, how he wasn't even saying one thing to stop you. Did he want this? Did he feel it too? You hated how much you wanted to find out.

But Daryl kept driving, focusing on the surroundings and possible dangers as you left Alexandria.

Why isn't he stopping me?

He was tense, but that was it. No words, no warnings. And that drove you wild.

Maybe he wants this as much as I do.

Your mind was on fire now, and you wanted him so badly, it felt like your whole body was about to explode. And the weirdest part? You weren't sure you even cared anymore if this was wrong.

If you don't stop me, I swear I'll—

You didn't finish that thought, and as soon as Daryl pulled off the road and into a clearing surrounded by trees, the motorcycle came to a stop.

"This'll do," he said, getting off it and motioning for you to follow.

You stumbled off, your legs still shaky from holding yourself together.

Right now, you wanted to hate him. To scream at him. But the truth was, you were more pissed at yourself. You were supposed to be learning how to ride a motorcycle, not imagining what it would feel like to be all over him and…

No. Stop it. Get your shit together.

"Alright, what's next?" You asked, doing your best to sound casual even as your heart was still racing. "You gonna teach me how not to eat dirt or just let me ride it?"

Daryl glared at you, one eyebrow raised like you were the one making this complicated. "Jus' pay attention."

You snorted, shaking your head. "Sure, 'cause that's been working out for me so far." You crossed your arms, a little too aware of how your body felt like it was overheating.

Stop thinking about him, stop thinking about him...

He was already gesturing to the motorcycle again, explaining the controls all over. "Clutch, brake, throttle—all that stuff."

You nodded, doing your best to stay focused despite how goddamn awkward you felt.

Focus; you can do this.

You glanced at him and caught the way his hands moved around near you, the way his fingers got hold of the throttle like he was born to do this.

"Ya won't wreck it if ya listen."

You scoffed, trying to hide your nerves. "Yeah… 'if,' but okay."

Daryl took a step closer, the space between you suddenly feeling way too small. "Stop makin' jokes, and start payin' some real attention."

You could feel how he stared you down, even without looking into his eyes, and before you could stop yourself, you were blushing—hard.

Shit, shit, shit.

He then smirked, only a little, and you wanted to punch him for it. Or kiss him. You weren't sure. Either way, you tugged at the collar of your shirt like it was too tight, but there was no escaping it.

Daryl was watching you, though his smirk was already gone again. "Jus' sit down on it. Let's see if ya can at least do that alone while out here, without fallin' over."

You had to swallow hard.

Just get on, just get on, and don't think about him.

Your mind was screaming at you to stop acting like you wanted to crawl all over him, but your body was betraying you.

And Daryl for sure wasn't even trying to make it easier, and all you could do was grit your teeth and pray you didn't lose it.

The first time you tried to balance the motorcycle, you almost tipped it over, but Daryl quickly got a hold of it—and you—before you really ate dirt.

"Goddamn it," he groaned, yanking you upright and keeping the motorcycle steady. "Yer fightin' the damn thing instead o' drivin' it. Quit makin' it harder for yerself."

You shot him a glare but didn't respond, figuring it was easier to just get the lesson over with. This time, he stepped in behind you, hands landing on your waist like he was holding onto a ticking time bomb. His grip tightened just enough to make you aware of his presence, but you weren't going to let him throw you off balance.

"Ease up on the damn clutch," he grumbled. "Slowly. Ya ain't in a damn hurry."

By the third or fourth try, you were starting to get the hang of it. You made it a few feet without the motorcycle wobbling like it had been possessed. You didn't even stall it this time.

"Look at me!" You grinned over your shoulder at him all triumphant as you stopped at a treeline. "I'm basically a stunt double at this point! Wanna try jumping flaming buses next?"

Daryl shot you that look again. The one that made you want to throw something at him. "Nah, yer bein' an amateur stunt double wantin' to set yerself on fire… 'cause ya can't keep yer hands to yerself."

You ignored him.

You had it now. You totally had it.

But who needed to play it safe when you could push this lesson to the limit and prove yourself?

You twisted the throttle again but felt a sudden rush of speed. "Shit!" You screamed from far away. "Fuck!"

"What the hell are ya doin'?!" Daryl shouted before you were hurtling forward at fast speed, your stomach dropping as it made everything around you blurry in sight. You had no idea how to stop in the heat of the moment without throwing yourself off it, and that realization hit you hard. You were in panic mode now, and trying to steer only made it worse.

"Daryl? A little help here, please!" You screamed, gripping the handlebars as your hands shook.

"Hold on!" Daryl yelled, but his warning was already too late. The front wheel hit something—a big rock? A tree stump? You didn't even see it. All you knew was that the motorcycle lurched like a wild animal wanting to throw you off its back.

For a moment, you were sure you were about to die. But Daryl wasn't about to let that happen. He lunged forward, grabbing you and yanking you off the seat just before it tipped completely and threw you off.

You and Daryl went down, both of you slamming into the ground hard. You landed on top of him—completely on top of him, with your thighs pressed against his hips and your upper body crashing against his chest.

You knew you fucked up, but his expression only made it worse. The slight pain in your body was nothing compared to the humiliation you felt. All you could do was catch your breath and stare at him.

And Daryl was flat-out pissed. His face was full of rage, and he was breathing hard from the crash. He shoved you off him, his hands on your shoulders as he stood up.

"What the hell were ya thinkin'!?" His eyes were practically burning holes through you. "I told ya to slow the hell down and focus! Ya don't listen for shit!"

You didn't want to admit that he was right, that you'd been very reckless. "Well, maybe you should've taught me how to actually ride instead of standing there like a statue and just barking orders!"

Daryl's hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

He wasn't just angry.

He was livid.

You were both breathing fast now, adrenaline still running through your veins. "And maybe I'm just a fast learner, okay?" You continued.

Daryl looked at you like he was about to rip you in half. "Yer not a fast learner; yer a damn idiot! And now I gotta drag yer dumb ass back!"

He grabbed the motorcycle and swung his leg over it with a grunt. "Get the fuck on," he growled in frustration.

You glared at him for a moment, but you weren't about to argue. You had to get home. You had no choice but to follow him.

Throwing your leg over the seat, you settled behind him. You couldn't even look up now. Every time you did, your stomach hurt in a way that made no sense. The anger, the shame—it was all so degrading. You wanted to argue. You really did. But you were too embarrassed, and your body was too sore to keep up any fight.

Daryl started the engine, and the motorcycle roared to life under you. As he sped down the road, you couldn't help but notice how tense his body still was. Every muscle in his back seemed to be stiff. And he didn't say a word anymore. Not a single word as you rode back toward Alexandria in silence.

His hands gripped the handlebars with such force, you swore the motorcycle might crack in half under the pressure if he kept it up.

You were pissed as well. Pissed at yourself for fucking up and pissed at him for making you feel all... this. You hated that you couldn't read him, hated how he could just shut everything out like that, and especially for making you feel something you didn't want to feel.

Once back at Alexandria, the garage door had barely been shut when Daryl's frustration exploded. He was still breathing hard from the ride, and he hadn't pushed you away since you'd now gotten back, but the way he was glaring at you said enough.

He took a step toward you, pushing you back a little. "Crashed my damn bike…"

"I didn't wreck it, Daryl," you argued. "It's fine!"

"Fine?" He repeated. "That's what ya call near splittin' yer skull open?"

"I didn't crash on purpose!" You shot back, the frustration boiling over. "I'm not dumb!"

He let out a mean laugh, his eyes narrowing. "Coulda fooled me, dumbass!"

"You're the one all trembling here, not me!" You crossed your arms, trying to hold onto whatever bit of defiance was left. "It was an accident, Daryl," you continued, glaring right back at him. "It's not like I'm trying to be your damn stunt double!"

He scoffed, not buying your excuse. "Bullshit. Ya were pushin' it, tryin' to prove somethin', weren't ya? Ya coulda gotten yerself killed!"

Maybe he was right; maybe you had been showing off, but why bother with giving him the satisfaction and letting him know that it was the truth?

"What's your problem, Dixon? It isn't like I destroyed the damn thing," you scoffed.

He shot you a glare. "Problem is, ya don't think. Out there, one screw-up ain't jus' a scratch—it's the difference 'tween comin' back or not comin' back at all!"

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, please! Spare me the PSA! It isn't like I don't know how this shit works! We're all one wrong turn away from dead anyway! What's the big deal?"

"The big deal," he growled, "is ya don't get to pull that shit with my bike!"

His finger shot out, pointing toward the side of the motorcycle. "Look at this," he growled. "Ya see that?"

You glanced where he was pointing and shrugged. "What, a couple of scratches? Boo-fucking-hoo! Rub some dirt with your spit on it; it'll be fine!"

"Couple o' scratches?" His voice rose, and he bent down to run a hand along the damaged part. "Ya know how I worked on this, ain't that right? To get it runnin' smooth?"

He crouched, looking at the machine like he was inspecting a wounded animal. "Look."

"What?"

"Look," he snarled once more, pointing his finger at the gas tank.

Reluctantly, you stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. The scratches weren't as bad as you'd expected—some scuffed paint and a tiny dent, hardly catastrophic.

"Oh no," you pretended to be shocked and threw your hands up. "It's ruined! Better put it out of its misery!"

Daryl turned around, staring at you in disbelief and anger. "That funny to ya?"

"A little," you shot back, trying to ignore the way your heart pounded. "Newsflash, Dixon! This is a hunk of metal. It'll survive!"

His jaw clenched, and he stood up so fast you stumbled back. "Ain't the damn point," he snapped, stepping closer.

"Then what is the point?" You demanded in return.

"The point is," he growled, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, "ya don't listen. Yer always so goddamn dumb, thinkin' ya know better—"

"I do know better!" You interrupted him. "I could rebuild this bike with my eyes closed! Hell, I could build you a new one from… a scratch!"

Daryl's hands dropped to his sides, his breathing fast as he stared at you. His eyes looked down to your arms, and you followed his line of sight, realizing for the first time that you were trembling.

His eyes softened, just for a second. "Ya hurt?"

"No," you lied, crossing your arms to hide the shaking.

Daryl huffed, and his frustration was boiling over again. "Bullshit."

He moved toward you, closing the space between you as he grabbed you by the arm. You flinched but didn't pull away. His grip tightened, pulling you back toward the motorcycle you'd nearly wrecked.

"Get on," he growled, holding you still.

You froze, glaring at him. "Excuse me?"

"Get on the fuckin' bike," he repeated, his eyes narrowing.

You shook your head. "You're out of your damn mind."

But you didn't fight it when he shoved you over to the seat, guiding you like you were weighing nothing at all. You hadn't expected this—his touch and his obvious anger.

But it wasn't just the crash. No. It was the way his eyes looked at you—like he was waiting for you to back down, to beg for mercy even.

"What?" You scoffed. "You're pissed 'cause I fucked up your bike? Is that it? So fucking ridiculous!"

"'S part of it," he answered, and before you could respond, his hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him.

And you weren't sure what you expected from him, but you didn't expect the force of his lips on yours.

His kiss was aggressive. It wasn't tender. It wasn't gentle. It was all teeth and tongue and the feel of his stubble against your skin.

You tried to pull back, pushing at his chest. "What the hell—!"

"Shut the fuck up."

You barely had time to react before he was pushing you against the motorcycle, and his hands found their way under your shirt. It was almost too much to bear—the roughness of his touch. It had no place here, not with you two practically being strangers in this world, but somehow it made sense.

And no, you didn't pull away. Not now.

"Daryl—" You cut yourself off when his hand slid down to your waistband, tugging at your pants, a movement that was fast and urgent. Your breath hitched, a gasp escaping your throat.

He didn't respond, not in words anyway, as he lowered himself to his knees in front of you, his hands on your thighs, forcing you to stay still.

He wanted you—had wanted you, maybe for longer than he'd ever care to admit.

You gasped again when he pulled your pants down roughly, his hands moving along your hips before dragging them down your legs. You knew his hands were capable—he could gut a deer in under a minute, rebuild a bike from scratch—but this? This was a whole different level of skill, and you weren't sure whether to be impressed or terrified by how quickly he had you undone.

But you didn't have time to process it before Daryl was standing again, his face dangerously close to yours, eyes burning with a fire that made you blush.

God, his eyes.

They weren't just looking at you—they were staring you down.

Before you could say anything else, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to your hips and pushing himself closer until there was no space between your bodies.

And then, his fingers slipped beneath your panties, and he slid two of them into you. Without warning.

You cried out at the suddenness of it, at the overwhelming feeling, but you didn't stop him.

"Still think I'm tremblin'?" He asked as he moved them inside you with a pace that made your head spin. You couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

Sure, he was frustrated—but now it was all coming out, only in a way that you'd never expected. You didn't know what this was—what this would be afterward—but damn if it didn't feel like the only thing that mattered right now.

As his breath turned quicker against your neck, the urgency of his fingers quickened, too. Until he pulled them out of you. The moment he removed his hand, licking his fingers clean, you almost cursed aloud, the emptiness threatening to drive you mad.

He didn't give you time to say anything, didn't even let you think about it, because in the next moment, his hands were yanking your shirt up over your head, and your bra was gone just as fast.

But the way he studied you, every inch of you—like he was savoring the moment as if you were a piece of art he needed to drink in—made everything feel too much. Too much to take. Too much to bear. But also too good to stop.

You couldn't protest, couldn't do anything but let him have his way, and your eyes squeezed shut as you fought to hold it together.

Without a word, Daryl kneeled back down onto the ground again, his hands moving to your thighs, pushing them apart for him.

"Open yer eyes," he ordered, but you didn't. You just couldn't. But you could feel him there, right between your legs, and the anticipation was nearly killing you.

No, you couldn't do anything but obey as his hand was pulling your panties down and his other hand's thumb stroked across your clit, but something else caught his attention. A bruise on your thigh started to slowly form itself from when you'd crashed.

And then, without a word, he leaned forward, his lips pressing hard against the bruise. His teeth bit into the skin, and then he sucked on it with a hunger that had nothing to do with the motorcycle and the crash.

You gasped loudly, eyes opening wide as the sharp sting of his bite was followed by the slow, deep suck of his mouth.

His lips left the bruise for a moment, but it wasn't gone long. His tongue licked over the edges of it, then his teeth, scraping some more, making your legs shiver with lust and a little bit of pain.

As his fingers moved toward and away from your wet pussy, to brush over the scratches on one leg from the crash, you could feel the pressure of his touch as he traced over each one. He didn't care about the discomfort it caused, didn't care about the marks—they were his to play with.

A growl left his throat as he scratched them a little harder, just a little deeper, making you whimper.

You didn't even realize you were staring at him until his blue eyes looked up into yours, a silent claim that went deeper than anything else.

"Ain't lettin' ya look away," he warned as his hands gripped your thighs again, forcing your trembling legs to stay open for him.

And God, they were.

His touch was everything you didn't know you needed as he slipped his fingers back into you—simply all-consuming. His thumb stroked your clit yet again, and you were sure you were going to lose it way too fast.

And the way he kept looking at you—like he was daring you to look away…

But you didn't. Not once.

The pressure was building, that sweet, unbearable pressure, until it felt like you were going to burst into flames.

Indeed, it was pure fire.

"Eyes on me," he growled. "Don't ya look away."

His fingers found their rhythm, slow but deep, making you moan out loud, trying your hardest to keep your eyes open and on him.

"Yeah, 's it," he growled. "Focus."

You nodded wildly, the feeling overtaking everything, your body desperate for more. Every bit of your skin was burning, and you hated how badly you needed this.

"Daryl… I," you gasped, your hands holding on for dear life on the motorcycle seat, trying to stay upright but close to losing the battle with every pump. "I can't—fuck!"

"Can't what? Focus? Ain't nothin' new," he answered, his thumb still on your clit while his fingers were thrusting away. "Can't handle it? Ya jus' gotta focus. Keep yer eyes on me."

You were close, so fucking close already, but he wasn't letting up.

His fingers moved so roughly inside of you, pressing against your G-spot, which soon made you feel certain this was it—this was the moment.

Your legs were shaking hard, your breath coming in quick, desperate moans. "Fuck… fuck…" You whimpered, fingers tightening on the seat behind you.

But then he stopped. Just stopped.

The sudden loss of his fingers was like being thrown into a room full of walkers. You groaned, your hips bucking in a desperate attempt to go after what was just within reach, but he pulled his hand away completely, leaving you trembling and half-crazed.

"What the fuck, Daryl!" You cried out loud as you glared down at him, but Daryl only had the audacity to smirk, licking his fingers off once more like you hadn't been about to shatter into pieces.

"Keep still and shut up," he growled, and before you could scream at him, his head was between your legs.

Your words turned into a choked cry as his tongue moved over your clit, the feeling of his stubble against your inner thighs making you squirm.

It wasn't fair. You were already so close, your body trembling so hard it hurt, but now he was dragging it out, taking his sweet-ass time, licking and sucking like he had all damn day.

"Fuck—fucking hell, Daryl," you hissed, hands grabbing his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against you. The vibrations shot straight through you, making your thighs clench around his head, but he didn't stop—he didn't even flinch.

"Thought ya were so good at takin' risks," he taunted, his lips brushing against your clit as he spoke.

And with that, he sucked on it so hard you nearly screamed, the feeling of it being just on the edge of pain, but God, it was perfect. You were so damn close again, and this time, you needed it.

If he pulled away now, you swore you'd kill him.

"Please," you whimpered, your hips grinding against his mouth in a way that should've embarrassed you. "Daryl, fuck, don't you dare stop again—"

His grip tightened on your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as his tongue pushed you further and further until there was nowhere left to go but over the edge.

But it wasn't just his mouth—oh no. His hands were keeping you in place, his fingers pressing into your skin like he was claiming you, and maybe he was. You didn't care. You just wanted more.

"Fuck—Daryl, I'm—" Your voice broke, too far gone to even finish the sentence.

He pulled back just enough to growl, "What? Yer what?" His voice was rough and way too sarcastic for a man who was driving you insane.

"Stop it and finish me!" You snapped, your hands pulling at his hair like it would somehow speed him up.

He laughed—actually laughed—and that sound went straight through you. But before you could cuss him out for being an 'insufferable bastard,' his fingers were back on you, two sliding inside so easily you swore you saw stars.

Your breath hitched, and then he added a third.

"Fuck—holy shit!" You gasped, your thighs trembling as he stretched you wide. The feeling was nearly too much, but it was just right, and when his fingers started pumping in and out, so deep and hard, you couldn't do anything but ride it out.

He looked up at you then, his blue eyes searching for yours. You wanted to look away, to hide from the way he was watching you like he was saving every second of this to memory, but you didn't. He wouldn't let you.

"Eyes on me," he growled. "Don't ya fuckin' look away."

You didn't think you could blush any harder—you didn't think you had the energy left for it—but then his other hand moved, his thumb pressing into the bruise on your thigh, just hard enough to make you wince.

"Shit—Daryl, that hurts!" You hissed at him, but his grip tightened, keeping you still.

"Good," he growled, looking at you. "Should hurt."

His fingers inside your pussy were picking up speed, driving you mad with how good they felt.

"Ya think I'm jus' gonna let ya off easy after crashin' my bike?"

He pressed harder into the bruise, making you whimper from the pain that somehow only made everything hotter.

"Nah. Yer gonna feel this. Remember this."

You hated how much it turned you on—the sting of his thumb on your bruise along with the pumping of his fingers inside you and the way his mouth was so close to your clit again.

"Please—fuck—please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore. You just needed something—anything—to finally push you over the edge.

"C'mon," he growled against you, not stopping. "C'mon, woman. Fuckin' let go. Let me fuckin' have it."

And that was it. That was all it took.

Everything inside you exploded so intensely you moaned out loud, your whole body arching as the orgasm ripped through you.

"Fuck—fuck, Daryl!"

You tried to keep your legs from giving out, but they were done, trembling so hard you had no choice but to lean fully against the motorcycle once more, trying to hold yourself steady. But Daryl didn't stop. His mouth stayed on you, his tongue again working your clit, dragging out every last bit of your orgasm until you were shaking all over, whimpering and sobbing from the overstimulation.

Only then did he pull his fingers out in a way that made sure you'd feel everything.

But before you could catch your breath, his hands were on you again, gripping your thighs like they belonged to him. Without a word, he hoisted your legs up, wrapping them around his neck. The sudden movement made you yelp, but he didn't care—not one bit.

"What the fuck are you—"

"Shut up," he growled, his voice ragged as he shifted you off the motorcycle and onto his shoulders like you weighed nothing. "Focus."

The cold floor hit your back as he lowered you down, your body shivering against it. He moved near you, his hands gripping your thighs to keep them spread wide as he settled between them again, his face just inches from where you were still dripping for him.

You barely had time to process the new position before his tongue was back on you, licking slow and deep, making you moan aloud through the garage. All you could do was writhe and shake beneath him, your hands searching for anything to grab and hold onto—his hair, his shoulders, the cold floor—trying to keep still as he worked you over.

But then, just when you thought he'd keep going until you couldn't take anymore, he moved, his mouth leaving your pussy as he started to lick and kiss—hot, wet, and sloppy—all over you.

And he didn't move fast. He took his time, crawling up your body like he was deciding which part of you he should tease next. You felt his breath across your skin, so warm yet unsteady, while his hands worked on keeping you exactly where he wanted you—legs spread wide, no room to close yourself off, no room to argue.

His hands? Oh, you knew those hands could kill you if they wanted to, but the way he traced the edges of the scratches on your thigh? Fuck, it was worse. Slow. On purpose. Just enough pressure to remind you it was there. A reminder you didn't need, but apparently, he thought you needed.

The tip of his thumb ran over them once, twice, then pressed down harder. You flinched—it was pure instinct—but his other hand clamped down on your leg, pinning you to the floor. His thumb didn't move, didn't give you a break. If anything, he pressed harder, and you hissed through your teeth. He groaned, low and deep, like your slight discomfort was exactly what he wanted.

Daryl soon leaned down and kissed them. He kissed them like he was apologizing. Then his teeth grazed over the same scratches, and you realized he wasn't sorry for it at all. His tongue followed, licking slowly and wetly over the stinging feeling of them, and your back arched itself off the floor.

By the time he moved up to the bruise on your hips, his fingers found it first, pressing into your flesh like he was testing it, seeing how much it was hurting you. You flinched again, but this time, his response was immediate—a growl coming out of his throat as his fingers dug in deeper.

"Daryl," you started, but your voice cracked, and you knew that he wasn't listening anyway. His mouth replaced his fingers, and the first kiss of his lips made your head snap up.

Not soft, not tender—he sucked on the bruise as if he wanted to drag the pain out of you, to make you feel every sting of it.

He kept going, his mouth kissing up your ribs, licking, biting, sucking, finding every bruise that was forming itself, every scratch, and making sure you knew he'd found them.

"Fuckin' hell…" He whispered as his mouth moved higher, pressing kisses to your chest, in between your tits, before his tongue licked over one nipple.

You gasped as he sucked it into his mouth, one of his hands moving to tease the other, pinching and rolling it between his fingers.

"Daryl, please! Please… just—"

He didn't let up. He crawled higher over you, his body pinning you down, his mouth moving up to your collarbone, where his tongue licked over it next.

By the time he reached your neck, you were a mess, your hands now clawing at his shoulders, desperate for him to give you more, to stop teasing. And he knew it.

But he wasn't done. His teeth found your neck, and he bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, your thighs instantly squeezing around his hips.

"Goddamn," he growled as his mouth finally reached yours. "Look atcha… all wrecked."

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, rough and hungry, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every part of you.

And fuck, you didn't care.

Daryl left no room for argument—not that you had any strength left to argue.

His hands were everywhere at once, sliding over your thighs, your hips, your waist. You moaned into his mouth as his fingers moved back down between your legs, slipping through the wetness he'd left behind when he dragged his fingers through your wet folds, and his smirk certainly showed that he was satisfied with himself.

He wasn't asking for permission, no, but he wasn't rushing either. And he was now giving you the chance to stop him without saying a word.

When you didn't push him away, he leaned back just enough to look at you. His blue eyes seemed darker now, his pupils all wide, searching for something, waiting.

Your hands slid up his strong back, trembling slightly but steadying themselves as they reached his shoulders. You gave him a small but quick nod as you took a shaky breath.

That was all he needed.

With a growl, Daryl's hands gripped your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach fast but not harshly. Before you could even process it all, he pressed himself down against your ass.

"Don't move," he whispered.

You weren't planning to.

He grabbed your hips again, pulling you back just enough to hold them upward. You felt his cock pressing against your ass, still in his pants but unmistakably hard as he grunted and pushed it against you, his hands only holding on harder.

The deep and loud groan he made? You couldn't help but push back against him.

You barely had time to listen to the sound of his zipper before he was back, his cock sliding between your thighs, teasing, the wetness of your pussy making it too easy for him to glide against you.

Your fingers were clawing at the floor as you tried to push back, but his hands held you in place.

His hips rocked forward, and the tip of his cock pressed into your pussy. You tensed, your breath stopping at the sheer size of it, but he didn't push in—not completely. He was letting you feel every inch of how big he was.

When he did push inside, it was enough to stretch you wide open, and with one slow thrust, he sank into you, filling you up. Still, Daryl didn't move right away. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, as he gave you a moment to adjust and made sure you were okay.

Then, he finally started to move.

Slow at first, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again, each movement so controlled.

But it didn't take long for him to move faster.

Harder.

Deeper.

And you couldn't do anything but take it as he pinned you down.

"Daryl—" you moaned, but he cut you off with a growl, his arm sliding down around you, pulling your hips higher to give him better access.

"Don't talk," he ordered, trying not to lose himself. "Jus' take it."

And you did. God, you did.

The garage felt almost suffocating now, and all you could smell was the scent of sweat and sex. The only sounds to be heard were your fast-breathing moans of yourself and his feral grunts as Daryl moved behind you. Every thrust was deep, driving you forward just to pull you back again with a growl, his grip on your hips leaving marks you'd wear for days.

Your hands still searched for any kind of hold against the floor, trying to ground yourself as the intensity of it all threatened to break you apart. His cock stretched you in a way that still bordered on too much, each thrust rougher than the last, and yet you couldn't get enough of it—of him.

"Fuck," Daryl grunted, his voice sounding as if the word was being dragged out from deep inside him.

You couldn't respond to him, not with the way he filled you so completely, your body trembling under his control. But he didn't need any words in return from you. His hand slid from your hip, moving along your ass and up your spine, before he put his arm around your shoulders to keep you steady.

"Don't lose focus now," he growled, leaning over you, his chest brushing against your back. His stubble grazed along your shoulder as he pressed his mouth down, his lips rough, almost punishing. He bit down hard, his teeth sinking into your skin just enough to leave another mark.

You cried out, clenching around him involuntarily. "Daryl—"

"Shut up," he said, cutting you off with another bite to your shoulder, this one softer than the last. His teeth were still on the mark he'd made, right before his tongue soothed it, leaving you shivering.

Daryl's pace quickened, each thrust making your overstimulated body shudder.

"Goddamn, look atcha," he grumbled, his voice full of lust. "Really fuckin' wrecked, ain't ya?"

You whimpered in response, your head falling forward and almost hitting the floor, but your body was still being held on tight by his grip.

"Ya like that?"

You nodded.

"C'mon," he growled, his hand tightening around your chest to keep you steady as his thrusts grew erratic. "Stay with me, woman. Focus. Fuckin' focus."

You didn't have a choice. His arm around your chest and his cock buried so deep inside you made it impossible to think about anything else. And the pressure was building again, unavoidable, and you knew he could feel it—the way your pussy clenched around him, desperate to feel him come, too.

And he didn't slow down. He didn't ease the pace or give you any room to breathe. Instead, he buried his face against you again, his lips sucking on your neck, his tongue following to taste the sweat of your skin.

"Shit," he hissed, his voice all muffled against your neck. "Goddamn, ya feel so fuckin' good."

His hips thrust forward, harder and faster, and you could feel him getting close, his movements losing their rhythm as his breathing turned ragged.

"Fuck—fuck," he groaned, his arm moving from your chest to hold your hip again, his hand grabbing you roughly as his thrusts went deeper. "Gonna—fuck, I'm—"

He didn't finish the sentence. With a loud groan that was almost sounding more animal than man, he pulled out, his hand gripping his cock as he came all over your back with force.

You stayed there momentarily, still on the cold floor of the garage, as you tried to piece yourself back together. Your legs felt like jelly, trembling so badly you weren't even sure they'd hold you if you tried to stand up.

Daryl soon moved off behind you, his heavy breathing just as loud and uneven as yours as he leaned against the motorcycle for balance. His cum was feeling all warm across your back, but you didn't have the energy to care—not yet.

Finally, he straightened himself, pulling his pants back up and putting his softening cock away. You heard the sound of his footsteps next to you as he walked around the garage, and for a second, you thought he was going to leave you there, fucked and half-naked in the garage.

But not long after, he was back, something soft and slightly damp rubbing over your skin.

"Hold still," he grunted. "Gotta clean ya up."

You flinched, moving your head to see what he was doing. Daryl had an old, torn rag in one hand, smudged with a little bit of dry oil, but it was enough to do the job. His other hand pressed against your shoulder, holding you still as he wiped away the mess of his cum he'd left behind.

"You could've at least grabbed a clean one," you grumbled, but there wasn't any real annoyance in your voice.

When he was done, he tossed the rag aside. "Yer alright?"

You smirked, despite the ache in your legs. "What, worried I might've cracked under all that control?"

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he just grunted before crouching in front of you. His hands found your arms as he helped you up, his strength the only thing keeping you from falling right back to the floor.

"Easy," he mumbled, sliding one arm around your waist to steady you. "Ain't wantin' to pick yer ass up again if ya fall."

"Not my fault," you answered, your legs wobbling as you tried to find your balance. "You're the one who—"

"Don't even start," he cut you off quickly, but definitely with amusement. "Ya got no one to blame but yer damn self."

His arm stayed around you as you took a few shaky steps with him by your side as if you had to learn how to walk again, your knees still threatening to buckle. You hated how he looked at you right now, showing you a smirk as he watched you struggle.

"Shut up," you grumbled, leaning against him more than you wanted to admit.

"Ain't said nothin'," he smirked, but the way his hand tightened on your waist betrayed his satisfaction.

Once you were steady enough to stand on your own, he let go, his hands falling to his sides. As you reached for your clothes, putting them on with clumsy, trembling fingers, Daryl leaned against the motorcycle again, watching you with that same gaze he'd had earlier, his blue eyes tracking every movement of your body.

"So? Ya still reckless?" He suddenly asked, as if to taunt you.

You glared at him as you put on your bra and shirt. "Excuse me?"

"Crashin' my bike," he continued, crossing his arms over his chest. "Then gettin' all riled up when ya can't handle shit."

Feeling your cheeks turn red, the heat was spreading all over your face as you turned to zip up your pants. "Maybe if you weren't such a goddamn caveman, my attention would've—"

"Caveman, huh?" Daryl stepped closer, the space closing between you until you could feel the presence of him behind your back. One hand came up, his fingers brushing lightly over the bruise on your thigh from earlier, the touch rather gentle.

"Caveman kept ya focused now, didn't he?" He continued, his lips all close near your ear. "Got yer attention real good."

You hated how easily your body responded to him even now, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"Next time," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "ya might think twice 'bout tryin' to show off."

His fingers then pressed into the bruise just enough to make you wince, reminding you of the lesson he'd drilled into you—literally.

"Control," he said, stepping back again. "Might save yer damn ass next time."

You turned to face the motorcycle with a scowl as you adjusted your clothes, looking around for your jacket. "Are you done lecturing me, or should I grab a notepad?"

"Nah. Jus' get yer shit together," he answered. "We're headin' out again tomorrow. Yer ridin' bitch till ya prove ya can handle it."

Laughing at that, your words were coming out faster than your still-wobbly legs could even move. "Riding bitch, huh?" You repeated as you turned to face him. "Next time you're teaching me to drive, I'll be riding something, alright—but it sure as shit won't be the bike."

It was a bold answer, considering your legs still felt like they'd been switched for spaghetti, but you weren't about to let him see you back down.

Daryl's lips twitched, that small smirk coming back as he closed the distance between you in a few quick movements. One hand shot out, gripping your chin and tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

"Keep talkin'," he grumbled, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "See where it gets ya."

You grinned, biting his thumb just enough to make him hiss. "I think it gets me exactly where I want to be," you responded, voice all daring, even as your pulse kicked up a notch all over. "Don't you think?"

Daryl's silence was answer enough, and for a moment, you thought he might snap again, dragging you into another round right there on the spot. But for now, and for once, you decided to savor and enjoy your little victory. Of course, it didn't last long.

You weren't sure who moved first, but before you knew it, you were pulling him down by his collar, your lips crashing onto his like they had something to prove.

The kiss was all grunts and stubbornness, his teeth biting at your lip as you ran your fingers through his messy hair. You didn't even notice when his hands found your waist, pulling you closer until there wasn't an inch of space between your bodies.

"Y'ain't got any sense o' self-control," he mumbled against your mouth, but he didn't stop kissing you, one hand sliding up to grab the back of your neck.

You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, smirking up at him. "And you've got too much of it," you shot back.

You knew this would've gone on longer—should've gone on longer—but the sound of the side door from the garage to the house opening stopped you both in place like a couple of kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

"Daryl?" Aaron's voice was to be heard, and you felt the blood freeze in your veins. "Are you both back already?"

Daryl let out a growl, his forehead slowly dropping to yours like he was trying to collect himself before turning to look toward the unwanted interruption.

Aaron stood in the doorway, his eyes looking between the two of you, taking in the sheer awkwardness of it all. His eyebrows shot up, and he blinked like he was trying to reset his brain back to factory settings.

"Oh…" Aaron said after a moment, his voice sounding a little bit higher than usual. "I just—uh—saw the garage door was closed from the outside when I came back. Thought you were done with, uh, teaching? I just wanted to get—"

Daryl cleared his throat, stepping back from you but not bothering to hide his irritation. "'M still teachin'."

Aaron's mouth opened like he was about to ask something else, but you jumped in before he could make things even worse. "Yeah, exactly," you said, smiling at him before you looked back at Daryl. "He's teachin' me how to… focus."

The words had barely left your mouth before Daryl shot you a look. Still, he couldn't resist adding, "And 'bout… control."

Aaron stood there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish in urgent need of water. Finally, he managed to let out a quiet, "Still teaching, huh?" His voice was full of disbelief. "About control and focus?"

You crossed your arms, smirking. "Of course! And let me tell you, Daryl's got a real hands-on approach." Daryl gave you a warning look, but you ignored him. "Next time, maybe we'll move on to, I dunno, accelerating!"

"Yeah," Daryl answered flatly, his tone as casual as if Aaron had walked in on him fixing the motorcycle, not having had you taken against it. "Focusin' on the road ahead. Controllin' the bike while… ridin' it."

Aaron arched only one eyebrow this time. "Right," he said, dragging the word out like it was hurting him. "Well, maybe teach her outside of Alexandria next time instead of Eric's and my garage?"

You snorted. "Oh, we can, for sure. But Daryl's really good at teaching me how to focus on what's in front of me," you said sweetly. "It's the control part I keep getting stuck on."

Aaron let out a short, strangled laugh, already backing toward the door. "Yeah, okay! Don't let me interrupt your lesson." His face went red, and he backed up so fast he nearly tripped. "I mean, it sounds, uh... productive. I'll just—yeah." He gestured around awkwardly as he was about to hurry back inside the house.

When he left, you could've sworn he whispered something that sounded suspiciously like, "What the hell is wrong with all these people?" before he closed the door behind him.

The second the door clicked shut, you leaned against the workbench, your eyes moving to the motorcycle that had started this whole situation, after all. It stood there innocently enough, like it hadn't been witness to your absolute lack of keeping control. Stepping forward, you traced your fingers along one of the scratches on its gas tank.

"Looks like Frankenstein's bike's seen some rough handling, thanks to me," you said before your eyes moved back onto Daryl, who was watching you like an animal sizing up its next meal. "Guess it'll get used to bein' ridden hard."

Eyes looking up, you were daring him to take the bait. "Think you'll leave some scratches on me next time?"

His muscles were flexing like he was seconds from pulling you back to him. "Keep talkin', woman, and I jus' might."

You grinned, stepping away from the motorcycle and grabbing your jacket, which was on the floor near the workbench. "Guess I'll just have to wait and see, huh?" You put the jacket on, taking your time on purpose to let him stew in his frustration.

Just as you reached the garage door and opened it, you turned back toward Daryl, who'd started to talk, watching you lean your shoulder against the frame. "Yer walkin' funny, woman."

You stopped, moving your head up with a glare. "If I walk funny, I'm tellin' everyone it's 'cause of the bike." You made sure to add a smirk. "I'm going to say it was a wild ride—not a crash."

As you pushed yourself off the frame and stepped outside onto the streets of Alexandria, your grin was as wide as ever. "Thank you for the thorough lesson, Dixon."

But before the garage could even close behind you, something soft and slightly damp was flying past your head, landing on the ground in front of you.

"Jesus, was that—?" You started to laugh, realizing exactly what he'd thrown after you. "Oh, come on! Did you seriously throw that at me? Gross!"

Daryl leaned against the motorcycle, his smirk not obvious, but it was there. "Missed, didn't I?" He didn't flinch, didn't apologize. "Didn't miss on purpose."

"That's disgusting," you called back and laughed, unable to help yourself. "And I'm not picking that up!"

"Didn't ask ya to," he answered, pushing himself off the machine and taking a few steps closer to the street. "But yer might come back in here 'n pick up somethin' else."

"Not a chance," you snorted, shaking your head while you stumbled a little bit. "Better luck next time. Or… tomorrow."

"Fuckin' reckless…" Daryl growled, but with amusement in his voice as he watched you disappear ever so slowly. But he didn't move, not yet. "Jus' get yer damn ass back here!"

You were already down the street and smirking to yourself as you tried to walk and just waved him off, making it clear that it was all for show as you held up both middle fingers, trying to make it seem like you were stumbling away with your body intact.

And, of course, you were—kind of.

Either way, Daryl knew that next time, the only thing you'd be riding was him, and you'd make sure he would be the one struggling to keep focus and control.

[ikkyfics]

Colors That Speak

Remus Lupin x f!reader

Summary: “Now it’s my turn.” “What?” You look up, surprised, but he’s already grabbing a blue pen from the table. “It’s not fair if I can’t return the favor.” His tone is mischievous, but the expression in his eyes is so gentle that you can only nod in agreement. When he begins to draw on your arm, something shifts. His touch is gentle, his fingers holding your wrist with a tenderness that makes your heart stumble. He starts with a small star, the line hesitant, but to you, it feels like art.

Warnings: fluffy

A/N: I needed to do something stupidly cute

Masterlist

It’s a lazy afternoon at Hogwarts, the kind where the sun hides behind soft clouds, and the air seems to beg for calm moments. You’re sitting in a quiet corner of the library, your colored pens carefully arranged on the table. Your Muggle aunt’s gift has become your little treasure, and you run your fingers over them with a satisfied smile.

“You really like those pens, don’t you?” Remus is sitting next to you, his voice carrying a lightness that always warms your heart. He gives a sideways smile, his brown eyes watching the scene with an amused gleam.

“I love them,” you admit, holding a pink pen between your fingers. “My aunt gave them to me last Christmas. These things are magical, even without real magic. I love stuff like this.” You feel your cheeks heat up as you realize you’re talking more than you should.

Remus rests his chin on his hand, watching you with a look that seems a little dreamy. “I think that’s... very you. Little, simple things that make your eyes sparkle.”

You lower your gaze, trying to hold back the smile tugging at the corner of your lips. There’s something between you two. Something soft, like the wind passing through leaves, but always present. You feel it in the little things: the way he always sits close to you, the conversations that flow with a comforting ease. And maybe, just maybe, you want it to be more.

Without thinking much, you twirl the pen between your fingers. “Can I try it on you?” The words come out quickly, and you regret them almost instantly, your heart racing.

“Try it on me?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused, but there’s no trace of rejection.

“Yeah. I mean... just a doodle. On the arm. Nothing serious.” You’re nervous now, but try to keep your tone casual. He chuckles softly, and the idea that he’s finding you amusing only makes your cheeks burn more.

“Alright. Go ahead.” He extends his arm, the sleeve of his sweater slipping up slightly to reveal his pale forearm, marked with subtle scars that you know well.

Carefully, you draw a cute bow with the pink pen. He watches each of your movements, which only increases your insecurity.

“It’s not that bad,” he comments, a playful smile on his lips. “Now it’s my turn.”

“What?” You look up, surprised, but he’s already grabbing a blue pen from the table.

“It’s not fair if I can’t return the favor.” His tone is mischievous, but the expression in his eyes is so gentle that you can only nod in agreement.

When he begins to draw on your arm, something shifts. His touch is gentle, his fingers holding your wrist with a tenderness that makes your heart stumble. He starts with a small star, the line hesitant, but to you, it feels like art.

“It’s looking nice,” you say, trying to sound casual, but your voice comes out soft. He laughs again, that sound like a ray of sunshine on a cold day.

“Not as nice as yours,” he replies, without looking up.

The world seems to shrink until it’s just the two of you, your arms marked with childish, colorful drawings. When it’s your turn again, you decide to take a risk. With a nervous smile, you sketch a small heart right on his wrist. The red ink seems vibrant against his skin.

Remus looks at the drawing, his honey-brown eyes lingering just a little longer than necessary. When he finally looks up at you, there’s something there. Something that makes your stomach flip with a mix of nervousness and anticipation.

“A heart, huh?” He gives a sideways smile, and you realize you’re holding your breath.

“It’s just... I thought it would be cute,” you murmur, looking at the pens on the table as if they’ll save you.

He holds your wrist firmly, but still with the same gentleness that makes your chest tighten. “Well, I guess I have to return the favor now, right?”

The words seem to echo in the small space between you, and you feel the warmth of his touch spreading through your body. Remus is close enough for you to notice the little details—the way his eyes sparkle under the soft library light, the slight crinkle at the end of his sweater sleeve, and how the corner of his mouth curves into a restrained smile.

He holds your wrist carefully, his fingers firm yet gentle, as if you were something precious he’s afraid to hurt. Time seems to slow down as he looks at the colorful drawings you made on his arm—the red heart right above his wrist—and you almost feel the light tension in the air, that which is always present when you’re alone together.

Before you can say anything, he tilts his head slightly, taking your arm with him. He moves his thumb lightly over your skin, almost as if he’s considering something, and then, without warning, he leans in and plants a soft kiss right on your wrist.

It’s a brief touch, but the feeling lingers. The warmth of his lips seems to spread through your skin like an electric current, and you freeze, feeling your heart race so fast it echoes in your ears. Your breath catches, and you’re sure your face is completely flushed.

When he lifts his eyes to meet yours again, there’s something different in his gaze. A quiet intensity that makes your stomach flip, as if every thought you tried to suppress is now laid bare in the soft glow of his eyes.

“Reciprocated,” he murmurs, his voice low and almost husky, as if it’s a secret shared only between the two of you.

You try to say something, but the words seem stuck in your throat. Your fingers tremble slightly. It’s almost funny how something so simple—so innocent—can carry so much weight. You feel his eyes on you, watching every movement, every breath.

“Are you okay?” he asks, a hint of concern in his voice, but his smile stays—shy and genuine. “Your heart is beating so fast, I think I can hear it.”

"I-I'm fine!" you reply too quickly, almost choking on the words. His soft laugh is like music, and you feel ridiculously happy that you made him smile.

He slowly lets go of your arm, but you almost wish he wouldn't. Still, the spot where he kissed seems to burn, as though his touch has marked you in a way no marker ever could.

"I didn't know you were so talented with markers," he comments, looking back at the drawings you made on each other, clearly trying to ease the tension hanging in the air.

"Neither did I know you had talent for this," you respond, your voice a little more confident this time, though your heart is still running a marathon.

He tilts his head, feigning a thoughtful expression. "I think you bring out a side of me I didn't even know existed."

It's something simple, but the way he says it makes you feel a different kind of warmth. There's something so genuine about Remus that it sometimes feels overwhelming. He doesn’t need grand gestures to make you feel special; it’s the little things – the way he holds your gaze a second longer, the careful tone in his voice, the smile that always seems reserved just for you.

Silence falls between you again, but this time, it isn’t uncomfortable. It's a kind of silence filled with unspoken things, but understood. You grab another marker and start drawing a simple butterfly on his forearm, each stroke trying to hide how much your hand is shaking.

"A butterfly?" he asks, watching as you work.

"They're cute," you murmur, not looking up.

He chuckles lightly but doesn’t respond. When you finish, he looks at the drawing with a sweet smile that makes your chest tighten. Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he grabs a new marker and begins to draw something on your arm. You watch in silence, feeling every movement of the marker’s tip on your skin, but what really takes your breath away is the touch of his fingers, firm yet delicate, igniting every part of you.

He works with concentration, his forehead slightly furrowed, his tongue almost slipping out from his lips as he draws careful lines on your forearm. Every move seems deliberate, like he’s drawing something that truly matters.

"Can I ask what it is?" you dare, your voice soft, almost fearing to break the moment.

"No," he answers with a mischievous smile. "Not yet."

The air between you is light, but there's something more there, something you can’t name. When he finally pulls back, you look down at what he made.

It’s a sun. Simple and delicate, but full of details that show how much care he put into it. The rays seem to stretch in every direction, made in shades of yellow and orange you didn’t even know were in the set of markers. The center is filled with a soft touch of gold that almost shines under the light.

"A sun?" you ask, your voice almost cracking.

"A sun," he confirms, his eyes locked on yours, and there's something in his tone – something that makes your heart beat faster.

"Why?" you ask, the heat rising in your face before he even answers.

"Because that’s what you are," he says, as natural as breathing. "The way you light up everything around you, even when you don’t realize it. It’s hard not to notice."

Your breath stops for a moment. His words fall on you with an unexpected weight, but not in a bad way. It’s more like a warm blanket on a cold night, something that wraps around you and makes you feel safe.

You try to say something, but all you can do is stare at the drawing and the reflection of his words in your mind. The sun. He thinks you’re a sun.

Remus slowly lets go of your arm, as though hesitating to break the contact, but the warmth of his touch lingers. He grabs another marker and, in an unexpected move, extends his hand to you.

"Now it's your turn," he says, his voice soft but full of expectation.

"My turn?" you ask, surprise clearly showing on your face.

"Yeah," he replies, rolling up the sleeve of his shirt to his elbow. "You drew a heart, but... I think it deserves more space, don’t you think?"

The suggestion is so simple and so Remus that you almost laugh. But the idea of drawing something on him makes your heart race again, a mixture of nervousness and excitement. With a slightly trembling hand, you pick a lilac marker.

His eyes are fixed on you as you begin to trace lines on his forearm, the marker gliding over his skin. Despite trying to stay focused on the drawing, you can’t help but notice the details of him – the texture of his skin beneath the marker’s tip, the small freckles that look like a starry map, and how still he is, almost contained, as if this moment is too important to interrupt.

When you’re done, you pull back and look at what you made. It’s a small, delicate lilac flower, with petals curving outward as if opening towards the sun he drew on you.

Remus lowers his gaze to the drawing, a soft smile forming on his lips. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just traces the outline of the flower with his finger, as if he’s committing it to memory.

"You don’t need to say anything," you murmur, feeling the warmth rise in your face.

"No," he finally says, his voice so soft it’s almost a whisper. "But I think I need to."

You raise your eyes to meet his, and what you see on his face makes your heart stop for an instant. There’s something there – something you can’t put into words, but that makes your breathing slow, the world around you fading away.

"It’s beautiful," he continues, his gaze fixed on the drawing. "And... I think it’s the most beautiful thing anyone has ever given me."

The simplicity in his voice disarms you completely. You try to respond, but the words don’t come. Instead, you just smile shyly as he extends his arm, placing the lilac flower beside the sun on your forearm.

"The colors match," he says, a touch of humor in his voice, but there’s something more behind it – something that makes you realize he’s not just talking about the colors.

"Yeah, they do," you agree, your voice almost failing.

The silence between you is filled with something that doesn’t need to be said. He looks at you again, and there’s a glimmer in his eyes that makes you wonder if he feels the same way you do.

When he finally breaks the eye contact, you think the moment is over, but then he speaks, softly:

"I think they’ve always matched."

Your heart skips a beat, but before you can respond, Remus asks, "Can I draw more someday?" The tone almost hesitant, as if the idea of not having another chance is too much to bear.

You smile, feeling your heart melt. "Only if I can draw on you too."

He laughs, and the sound is so genuine that you feel like you can hear happiness in it. "Deal."

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

thinking about Lucanis again (always). and how so much of his narrative boils down to the theme of "control". and of course also about how this applies to the Rook x Lucanis relationship.

like the first scenes with him in the game are, in theory, about freeing him from the Ossuary (although he seems to have an escape attempt already in progress at the time, they certainly weren't just letting him keep those knives on him for enrichment purposes, Rook just provided an opening/distraction he could take advantage of and crucially Rook has A Way Out of the whole place not just a cell). but ACTUALLY the purpose it to put him right into a new contract for Us, one set up by his own grandmother and first talon no less, and the person he has the MOST trouble saying no to. He's escaped torture and the Venatori for sure but he still isn't free, which I think is part of what leads to Spite's confusion/the Inner Demons plotline. He agrees to the contract but you can tell it's in many parts out of a sense of duty/mourning vs something he actively wants to do for himself. And then the FIRST real heartfelt conversation you have with him, where he tells you "even before I was captured, my life was not really my own. So much had been determined for me." But he's chaffaing at that! He thinks "to live truly is to live fully" and so directly tells you he doesn't think he's lived a life true to himself. He's been constantly smothered by the weight of expectations around him, even though he longs for more.

And then once you get him to the Lighthouse you see how this Big lack of control in his life comes out as all these smaller frustrations. He's terrified of sleeping and downing 11 cups of coffee per hour because sleeping means he will lose control to Spite, even though Spite is shown to flee rather than fight when he feels threatened, and once calmed down, is more drawn to just benign curiosity/mischief than anything actively malicious. Like if Lucanis loses control and sleeps for a few hours he is not going to wake up surrounded by bloodshed, he's going to wake up to a belly full of candle wax because he wouldn't like Spite taste one while they were awake. Which is the other half of this--he constantly denying Spite's impulses for reasons that in some ways make sense (HE doesn't want to eat candles), but not in a way that's actually satisfying to either of them (why not just take a bite, chew for a bit, and spit it out so Spite knows they kind of suck actually?). But he CAN say no to Spite and so he does. Over and over. Spite's one of the few people he can deny things without feeling bad about it, because it's HIS body he doesn't like that has to share now (<- this is what he thinks about it at first anyway, but he's wrong, it's both of theirs and it's useless to try to hold those kind of boundaries forever. but the "no its mine" spiteful instinct is very beautifully ironic and reflective of them both and their early relationship).

And personally I think this is where his fear of his own desires and intimacy is coming from, at the root. I don't think he's afraid of the concept of being in a romance or having feelings (even if they're unusual and rare for him, this is by no means incompatible with him being demi) but I DO think he is afraid of the kind of power it gives people over you. Getting something you want means there's something else that can be taken away. Admitting your desire means the other person has the opportunity to deny that. The more you have, the more you have to lose, and he has lost again and again and again in his life--his parents, his childhood to the crows, his independence, even his future--he doesn't aspire to be first Talon but he knows the rumors. He knows his grandmother wanted it for him, not Illario. His life path has been laid out for him by others and up to this point he has simply been going along with it anyway, even though it bothers him. He COULD argue and fight Caterina and push for Illario who actually wants the job to be First Talon instead, but from The Wigmaker Job we know he doesn't. He just ignores it and pretends maybe it won't happen, without him having to do any of the work. Which is why in the end Illario is the one who has to make a move about it (and even warns Lucanis of this!!!!). Lucanis KNOWS all this makes him a target but is neither taking charge or getting off of the train tracks, just closes his eyes.

And I think THIS context is what makes the almost kiss scene in the pantry make more sense to me. Rather than being afraid of having feelings (and then NEVER addressing this in game with a Rook who pursues him anyway) or not knowing how to finish what he's started via crow seduction training, it's more like this is a pivotal moment where he can actively choose to step off the planned path of be given a job -> kill the gods -> enact revenge -> go home. even if he doesn't at that point realize that a relationship with Rook could be something that lasts long-term, the very act of doing something just for himself is what's foreign and scary and hard. It's that first step off the tracks, and even if he were to keep walking in the same direction, it means he's making a choice about it. he's accepting that one way or another it IS in his power to go along with everyone else's plans or not. Hence the hesitation, and drawing back, and needing to clear his head.

And then the rest of Rook's role in his narrative IS about giving him more and more control for himself. Inner Demons, dealing with Illario, his questlines move less towards revenge and more towards just... not being locked into one fate. Which of course Caterina comes back and immediately tries to overturn by declaring him First Talon after all, even though she and him and everyone else knows she's not ACTUALLY ready to give up her rule/decision making power yet. Which in a way is maddening because cmon I did all this work here so this sad man could have some agency in his own life just to watch him get sucked right back in (which, at least we get many directions to headcanon from here), but there's no denying that THIS version of Lucanis at least is actually going in with his eyes open now. THIS Lucanis has had a taste of life outside the Crows, and seen the politics and power dynamics in other places/organizations, and finally has emotional ties to the big picture state of the world now, both in relationship and friendship paths with Rook. He's not just hyper focused on each contract as it's given to him now, he's looking at the whole thing.

Anyway of course the beautiful culmination of all this within the romance is the lighthouse scene with Rook, where he finally is willing to let himself be vulnerable (emotionally and physically), and fall asleep without fear of what Spite's going to do in the meanwhile. He also (depending on dialogue choice) finally talks about his feelings directly with you for the first time instead of in roundabout ways (the dessert being "not enough" is it really the dessert you mean, Lucanis. is it.). Even though he is STILL reluctant to verbally admit his feelings or let Rook share their own at this point, I think that's more a narrative choice about saving those last emotional dialogue options for the big final battle. but it is another point where he does have to stop just following along and ACTIVELY choose that yes, yes sometimes loving is worth the risk of losing it. Even if someone takes it away from you later, even if you don't survive it, sometimes the love alone makes it worth it.

I have like another 5000 words I could add into about how Spite ties into all this, about how having the demon in him is something he both fears AND how it forces him to acknowledge that actually yes he DOES share the same base feelings/instincts Spite does in terms of not wanting to be told what to do. And how this in a way is part of what gives him permission to act on it since he can no longer just shove it down out of sight. but this post is long enough already so i'm just going to take the rest of this and gnaw on it all day like a chew toy I guess.

anyway. AHG. it is kind of frustrating that the culmination of his arc seems to be "and then he got the job he never wanted anyway" but I do think at least all this prepares him for it in a way Caterina actively failed to actually do on her own. He NEEDED that step away from his straightforward path. Whether he stays first talon or not, and with or without rook as a romantic partner, he's finally been able to explore ideas outside the expectations of others.