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ceilidho · 4 months ago

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BIRD DOG | Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

A few times a year, Simon goes home to an empty apartment in a shithole city and counts down the days until he can leave. This time, there's someone waiting for him when he comes home.

Convenient. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

Or: the live-in masseuse au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Masseuse Reader, Forced Cohabitation, Strangers to Roommates to Lovers, Porn with Feelings

The mangled hand of fate lets him go but seldomly.

He does, though, get a few weeks off a year. Bids farewell to his captain (the barest hint of a nod after leaving each other on the runway, chopper blades spinning faster and faster, the other man headed back out, his duties never finished; the world can never let them both rest at the same time) and then he’s gone, bags long packed and truck loaded the night before last. He drives a long, circuitous route after leaving the military base, the mask only shed when the paranoid prickle in his head finally abates.

It never quite goes away though.

And then comes the drive back, the road long and the drudgery endless. One hand on the wheel, the other hanging out of the side of the truck, a cigarette pinched between two knuckles. Occasionally, he takes a drag.

This is the part he always hates. The drive back. Roads winding through quiet towns and over hills, blue disappearing into black, streetlights piercing the darkness and demarcating the beginning and end of civilization. Manchester is a long drive north. He stops once for a piss by the side of the road and then carries on.

It’s a wonder they let him go at all. He is violence forthright; setting him free does no one any good. It’s hardly even a reward for him, more of just a pretense of normalcy. A week to stretch his legs, so to speak. If he were anything other than human, maybe they’d force him to stay on base indefinitely, secured and contained behind barbed wire fences and reinforced concrete walls.

But a few times a year, they play this game and send him off into the world.

There’s an apartment in Manchester that he’s rented for as long as he can remember. A shithole flat in a shithole borough, and though Simon’s squirreled away enough money to buy a place of his own, the thought of owning anything makes his skin crawl. It’s not in his blood, he thinks. He’d sooner live in a shack in the woods, no fixed address or way to find him. Even his flat in Manchester is rented under a different name, and he pays his landlord in cash for the year.

It’s dark when he reaches the city, the sky soot black and patchy with clouds. Moon nowhere in sight. Nothing beautiful ever visits Manchester.

But there’s a light on in the window when he pulls up in front of his place.

Odd.

Would’ve remembered if he left the light on the last time he was in town months ago; filament would’ve blown out in at least that time as well. Still, there’s a light on in the living room window and a new curtain pulled across to keep anyone from looking in.

Simon stares at the light while he leans outside against the truck and finishes his cigarette. Stubs it out under his boot when it’s down to the filter and locks the car door behind him. Violence already itches under his skin, knuckles tingling like they know what’s coming if he opens that door and finds some junkie living in his flat. It’ll be worse if he finds out that his scumbag landlord moved someone else in after picking up on him being gone nearly half the year.

His key still works though. Fancy that.

He finds you like that, sitting up from a nap on his couch, sweater slouched down a shoulder and groggily blinking open big doe eyes that widen when you notice him in the doorway, fear making you freeze up.

You’re a pretty little thing; a pleasant surprise to find something like you sitting on his couch. It quells the violence simmering in his belly because it awakens another appetite instead. Like a meal delivered right to his door. He was already planning on ordering takeaway.

He drops the duffel bag by his feet, propping the door open with it. “You lost, bird?”

Terror leaves you mute. He can only imagine; he must seem like something straight from a horror movie—defenceless girl waking up to the dead-eyed stare of a giant dressed in all black watching her sleep and blocking her only way out. That’s not completely true; there’s a backdoor through the kitchen that leads into a laneway behind the house, but the door sticks in the winter, not easy to open in a hurry.

He has as much right to ask as you do to run at the sight of him though, considering it is his fuckin’ flat.

You can’t seem to choke out a single word. Scared stiff, likely, heart slamming against your chest while the worst scenarios possible play out in your mind. Simon nearly rolls his eyes.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” he grumbles, finally kicking his bag out of the way so the door can shut behind him. “Cat got your tongue or somethin’?”

The sound of the door slamming shut must finally snap you out of it because you scramble off the couch, nearly tripping over the arm when you run for the back. Screaming too, just to piss him off extra. His back already aches something fierce from the long drive—he wasn’t expecting a headache on top of everything else.

“Heeeeeeeeelp! Heeeeelp!”

Your screams are borderline deafening, almost more aggravating than finding someone living in his flat in the first place.

You scramble down the hall, so terrified that you go for the first open door, slamming it shut behind you. His eyes follow the shape of your bare legs and the way the muscles in your ass move as you run.

“I’m c-calling the police!” you yell from behind the bathroom door.

When Simon looks back down the hall, he notices your phone on the floor, bright side up. Must have dropped out of your pocket when you bolted like a scared cat.

“No, you’re not,” he says blandly, staring at the door. There’s a pause on the other side like you just noticed your missing phone, then a bleat of panic. “Don’t try going out the window either—thing’s been sealed shut since the nineties.”

On the other side of the door, the window rattles in its frame for a good few seconds before you give up on trying to escape that way. There’s a pause while you consider your options. Simon waits patiently on the other side of the door, his temper slowly but surely getting the better of him the longer he goes without a shower and a beer, locked out of his own bathroom.

What a bloody headache.

He pounds a fist against the door, bracing his feet in case you try to open it and scurry out around him before he’s had a chance to have a chat. “Gonna come out now?”

“Get out of my house!” you shriek instead of being polite.

Figures. He should’ve known his landlord would pull some shit like this. “How long’ve you been living here, bird?”

“I have a knife!”

Pretty thing that likes to lie. There’s not a shot you have anything better than a hair dryer or nail clippers in there.

“Better get away from the door ‘cause I’m kickin’ it in,” he announces, taking a step back to give himself some distance and waiting a few seconds for you to realize that he’s dead serious before you start screaming at the top of your lungs again.

Got quite a set on you. That doesn’t matter much to him though. The door caves in after only a few good kicks, the frame splitting right up through the lock when it finally gives, and the two halves—the door itself nearly snapped in half—banging against the wall when it ricochets open.

You’re trembling between the toilet and the wall when Simon walks in, knees practically knocking together. The crotch of your shorts are wet and there’s a small puddle under you; must’ve pissed yourself in fear, and he’d almost pity you if you weren’t squatting in his flat.

The closer he gets to you, the harder you wail. Full on bawling now, snot and drool dribbling down your face, and Christ, he sure picked a bad time to grow a heart. He’s not immune to a pretty girl in distress, much as he wishes he could be.

He kneels in front of you, purposefully blocking your only way out, before knocking his knuckles under your chin, huffing out a breath when you flinch. “Ain’t gonna hurt you, bird. You’re just in my flat, is all.”

“Your flat?” you repeat in disbelief. “This is my flat. I pay rent!”

“Got a lease then?” he asks, and though your eyes are still bloodshot and your nose is still leaking, you nod.

“Yes.”

“Show me then,” he orders.

And you do when he steps back to give you some space, scampering shamefully to your—his—bedroom to rifle through the dresser until you pull out a handful of papers that look suspiciously like a lease. He skims it with a growing tick in his eye. It looks like one because it is one.

“See?” you mumble. He ignores the attitude in favour of reading until the end, where he finds his landlord’s name, the blotchy signature underneath it unmistakable.

“Bullshit,” he grunts through his teeth.

“It’s not. You can call him and ask! Where’s yours?”

His copy of the lease is tucked away in a drawer in the kitchen, buried under loose rubber bands, old batteries, and takeout menus from restaurants that went under years ago. When he returns with it and holds it up to your nose, you frown.

“Oh. I guess that explains some things.”

“Explains some things, huh? The clothes didn’t tip you off?” Simon asks, referring to the sweatpants and shirts still lining the dresser shelves. Your lips tighten.

“I thought the previous tenant skipped town and left his clothes. I was gonna throw them out eventually.”

“Good thing you didn’t.” His voice is thick with sardonicism.

It’s an interesting standoff to say the least. You, standing there in your soiled sleep shorts with tear-streaked cheeks, and him still decked out in his military gear and boots tracking dirt across the flat. You sway on your feet, the adrenaline crash likely intense. He catches you when you sway too close to him and you flinch when his hand clamps down over your shoulder, a new wave of adrenaline coursing through you.

“I’m fine,” you snap, taking a step away.

For fuck’s sake. His mood darkens at the continued hostility. It’s not like you’re the one who came home to a strange man squatting in your flat—if anyone has a right to be hostile, it’s him.

Skittering back into the bedroom, you shut the door behind you, likely to change into another pair of shorts. Simon’s mood festers the longer he waits for you to come out. The last string of his patience nearly snaps when you finally creep back out into the living room, the sour expression on your face pissing him off even more.

“I’m gonna call Tom,” you mutter, picking your phone off the coffee table.

“Go ahead.” He doesn’t bring up that it won’t change a thing. Not his problem if you’re so green behind the ears that you think your landlord will drop everything to answer a call, especially after dinner.

No one answers when you ring, just as he thought. He plops down on the couch and rests a foot on the coffee table, ignoring the way you pace back and forth waiting for your landlord to pick up.

“No answer?” Simon asks rhetorically.

“Aren’t you gonna try?” you ask.

“Yeah. Tomorrow. When ‘e’ll actually pick up.”

“Well, what are we supposed to do then? I’m not getting a hotel room for the night.”

“Me neither, birdie.”

He meets your stare with one of his own. It doesn’t take long for you to give in.

There’s a pullout bed in the couch that you offer to take and he lets you because he is, at the end of the day, a selfish prick who won’t give up a week of decent sleep for anybody. Not when his back and neck have been acting up for the past month and keeping him from getting more than three hours at a time.

The ache behind his eyebrow throbs as Simon sits on the edge of the bed. A slow exhale.

Tomorrow can’t come quick enough.

In the morning, Simon rings his landlord and listens silently as the fuckhead blubbers on the other end of the phone about late payments and eviction notices.

“This ain’t a charity, y’know,” the other man sniffs. “I gotta pay my bills too.”

He lets the man make excuse after excuse and accuse him of this and that until he finally goes silent when he notices Simon hasn’t said a word in minutes. At which point, Simon icily reminds him of what he does for a living and the fact that he paid him for the year in full just a few months back.

Not much to be done after that. There’s silence on the other end before his landlord tries to hem and haw his way out of it. He offers Simon one of his other properties currently sitting vacant on the other side of town, but that’s not the answer that Simon is looking for.

“If anyone’s moving out, it ain’t me,” Simon growls into the phone.

The wounded look that you shoot at him rubs him the wrong way.

His landlord’s still rambling on about moving costs and lawyer fees when Simon hangs up, no longer in the mood to try and talk things out.

He doesn’t really understand the legalities here, but he knows he can’t just toss you out on your ass when you’ve also got a lease, same as him.

“I have every right to be here,” you start up the second he hangs up the phone, not letting him get a word in edgewise, shoulders rolled back like you’re trying to be assertive. “I’ll take it to court if I have to.”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” Simon scrubs a hand down his face.

“I’m serious. Rent is expensive and this is the only place close enough to where I work that doesn’t cost an arm and a leg—and I don’t have the money to hire a lawyer to get my money back—”

“I’m not gonna kick you out,” he finally snaps, fed up with your caterwauling.

You pause, hope warring with disbelief. “You’re not?”

He gives a curt shake of his head. “Too much of a headache. I’m only…in town for a week anyway.”

“Oh. ‘Til when?”

“‘Til whenever I’m back.” Purposefully cryptic. He gives you a flat look when you open your mouth to pry some more.

You reconsider, chewing your bottom lip until a better question occurs to you. “Are you in town a lot? Because I’m not sure how else we could make this work. I could sleep at my cousin’s until you leave?”

“Your cousin live around here?”

You hesitate. “No.”

“Then that ain’t gonna work, is it?”

“At least I’m trying,” you hiss, and Simon has to tamp down the amusement that swirls in his chest at the sight of your shoulders puffing up. “I’m not ripping up my lease and if you’re not either, then we have to figure out something unless you feel like taking this to court.”

While Simon wouldn’t usually take kindly to being threatened, his annoyance never quite develops into anything more substantial.

“Just keep outta my way and I’ll keep outta yours,” he says.

“Fine.”

The agreement you come to is that when he’s in town—seldom and erratic—he’ll take the bedroom and you’ll sleep on the couch, a fair compromise since you have the flat to yourself the rest of the year.

He doesn’t explain himself, of course. Doesn’t explain why he’s allowing this instead of dragging you to court kicking and screaming. It’s no one’s business but his why he chooses not to go down that road.

He tells himself that it’s easier this way; that it’s easier just to run your lease out and spare himself the legal mess. It’s not like he’ll even be around most of the time anyway.

What he carefully side steps, even in his own mind, is the sharp displeasure that accompanies the thought of forcing you out of his flat and onto the streets.

Cohabitation is—

Easy wouldn’t be the right word. He certainly doesn’t make it easy on you, leaving his dirty dishes in the sink and his half-empty beer cans in the shower caddy, his cum drying on the wall over the tub spout. You try to do the same by leaving your dirty laundry on the communal furniture, but it doesn’t have the same effect.

It’s interesting, at least. It’s not as though he’s never lived with anyone before—his memories of his early years in the service are littered with bunkmates packed into every corner of the room, and learning to sleep everywhere from moving caravans to while standing in formation, always surrounded by other people—but he’s paid his dues. Barring deployment, he thought he’d earned the luxury of his privacy.

But it’s not all bad; it’s been years since he had fun like this.

You try your best to annoy him in return, but you don’t realize that you’re playing chicken with a man who’s been buried alive. There isn’t much someone like you could do to break him.

Living with another person doesn’t soften him up one bit. There’s a time for change and it’s not off the back of a four-month covert operation, his nerves still razor sharp and ability to sleep practically nonexistent. He gets precious few weeks to himself and he isn’t going to waste them trying to get in the habit of smoking on the porch instead of in his own living room.

“I’m a masseuse.”

“Oh yeah?” Simon grunts, barely listening. There’s a match on the telly and a beer in his other hand—a perfect afternoon, if only you’d just stop yapping in his ear for five fuckin’ minutes.

“Yes, and I can’t show up to work reeking like a chimney,” you explain, scooching closer to him on the couch while being careful to leave some distance between the two of you. For all your posturing, you’re still timid around him, like a kitten hissing and spitting around a much bigger cat.

“What’s that got to do with me?” he asks rhetorically, not in the slightest interested in how it pertains to him. He takes another drag from the cigarette dangling between his index and middle finger, ashing it over the side of the couch.

“It means I’d prefer if you didn’t smoke in the flat,” you say, hissing the last few words.

He takes another drag, turning to look at you before exhaling right in your face. “That’s a shame.”

You cough and squawk, and he fights down a grin.

For the most part, he leaves you to your own devices, intent only on enjoying his time off. He fixes the bathroom door at least, which you begrudgingly thank him for.

A week and a bit, Simon reminds himself when you come in through the front door chirping into your phone, your voice effectively drowning out the TV on in the background. When you spot him staring at you from the couch, you go quiet as a mouse and slink off to the bathroom, locking the (newly installed) door behind you. He supposes it’s the only place where you feel any semblance of privacy since his bedroom is off limits until he leaves. It does leave him without a bathroom though.

Pissing in the alleyway behind the flat half an hour later, he scowls into the darkness and reminds himself that he has no one to blame but himself for this mess.

When his leave comes to an end, Simon doesn’t bother to give you a heads up. You’ll realize it in a couple of days when you notice his absence around the flat, the siege finally lifted. He supposes you’ll be grateful for his departure and grateful not to make you feign politeness.

Duffel bag packed away in the car, he leaves with the bed still unmade. Knows that’ll ruffle your feathers later on when you come home, but it’s his parting gift. His reminder to you to enjoy the couple months reprieve his job allows you.

And then the road slips away under him and he’s gone.

The months away are just complex rearrangements of the same thing. Each time it drives his soul deeper into the gully, buffeted by katabatic winds.

His daily life on base is split into brackets of time. Wake up, go to the gym, work, clock out, see the captain for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat. Each day blending into the next. Back where he belongs, under the thumb of a system that he’s long sold his body and freedom to, and sent out God knows where to do God knows what.

Then, again the rooster crows at first light and he lifts himself out of bed.

When he’s deployed, everything changes while everything stays the same. He doesn’t have the same freedom of movement as he does on base, but in truth very little changes from one deployment to the next if you zoom out enough. Limited time to sleep on the chopper before it touches down, body tensed for what’s to come, and then he’s off, his objectives clear.

Driving a knife into a neck to the hilt and pulling it out one inch at a time. It’s the one he knows how to do, and he does it well. He doesn’t have to like what he does; he doesn’t even have to think about it so long as it gets done.

Ghost exhales and slips the mask back on.

In [redacted city] in [redacted country], he sets his scope up in the window of a building across from one where his target is slated to be in twelve hours and then he waits. Flexes his fingers when they go numb and ignores the thirst clawing up his throat. Four hours later, his elbows ache something fierce from digging into the ground for hours on end, a sharp pain shooting up his arms, but Ghost pays it no mind. Mind over matter.

Amidst the hours of laying there and waiting for his target to come into frame, his mind doesn’t wander. That’s a luxury for a different time—when the job is done and his target is executed.

At the very edges of his consciousness though, something flickers. The skin around his eyes pinches as he pushes the half-formed thought away.

Then his target walks into the room and everything else disappears.

You’re still there when he returns months later on another government ordered leave. Same petulant frown and wobbly lower lip when he walks in through the front door, dripping wet from the rain outside. When he tosses his duffel bag onto the couch, you scowl, nudging the bag onto the floor with your foot.

“You could’ve rang,” you mumble, pulling the throw from the back of the couch over your lap to hide your bare legs. Pity to be deprived of a nice view, but Simon doesn’t take it to heart.

“Didn’t think you’d still be ‘ere,” he grunts instead, shrugging out of his jacket and shaking it dry, suppressing a smirk when you start squawking about getting water all over the floor.

That’s partly a lie, though not one he’ll ever admit to. Simon figured there might be a chance you’d be gone, but in the time since he last saw you, he’s done enough digging around online to know that you weren’t kidding about the lack of affordable flats in the area. There’s hardly a unit nearby that isn’t going for double what he pays, some even more.

“Well, guess I’m sleeping out here tonight,” you grumble. You’re on your tiptoes in the doorway to the living room now, the throw wrapped around you like a security blanket.

He doesn’t answer that. No point getting your hopes up when he has no intention of giving up the bed.

In another life, he might be enough of a gentleman to let you sleep in the bedroom while he takes the couch, but in this one, his back is ravaged by sciatica and his dominant hand and wrist twinge with the beginning of carpal tunnel syndrome. Most nights, it’s a miracle if he can get five uninterrupted hours.

So no, he won’t be giving up the bed.

But Simon toys with the thought of dragging you in with him. It’s been awhile since he had a woman, so long that the memory is fuzzy when he dredges it up, and though his hand does the job when the itch grows severe, he’s no monk. He could pull you in with little effort, sweet talk you until your knickers are around your ankles and your legs are in the air, hot cunt steaming when your legs part and he sinks his cock in deep. Wouldn’t take more than a half dozen thrusts before he busted, pretty pussy painted with his cum.

In the doorway, you eye him dubiously, scrunched nose expressing your discontent.

It’s an idea, at least.

He still leaves his dishes in the sink and wakes to you pounding on the bedroom door, whining about having to scrub his plates with a pot scraper, but time and distance have mellowed any hostility in you. You treat him less like a stranger intruding on your space and more like a roommate you’ve grown to tolerate despite his many faults.

The oddest thing is opening the fridge up to more than just a six-pack, a stick of butter, and three half-empty bottles of mustard. Fresh produce and meat spill from the shelves now, leftovers packed in tupperware and neatly labelled. He eats like a king now, takeout relegated to the days when you don’t feel like cooking. On those days, Simon heads down to the chippie a few streets away and gets enough for the both of you before heading back to eat on the couch with you.

He still gets a kick out of leaving his cigarette butts in cups strewn around the flat for you to find.

“So what do you do anyway?” you ask out of the blue.

“What’s it matter?” Simon grunts from beside you. He has to slow his usual gait to keep pace with you—which is irritating as all fuck—but you didn’t leave him much choice when you insisted on going to the store well after dark.

“I’m just making conversation. You always get so squirrely when I ask—what are you, some kind of secret agent?”

He’d roll his eyes if he had any less self-control.

“No way. No way. You are?” you gasp, suddenly glued to his side, hands scrambling for purchase on his bicep and shoulder.

Simon stares down at your hands clutching his arm, unconsciously tucking his bicep between your tits. “Best to not ask questions, bird.”

You pout. He ignores the impulse to lean down and sink his canines into that plump bottom lip.

His nose itches because the world is changing.

He used to catalogue his time off base in much the same way. Wake up, workout, tinker with the junk pilfered from estate sales and scrap yards he’s frequented over the years, then head to the pub for a drink. Wash, rinse, repeat.

That’s changed since you came into his life. Aside from when you’re out working, you unbalance his schedule. Upset his routines. The structure propping up his entire existence gets taken down in an instant when you open your mouth and ask him to the market with you, giving him no choice but to slam the door shut behind him and drive you there.

Each day comes with its new flavour, a new bite to it.

“You’re not eating takeout again?” you ask him, aghast when you come home from work to find takeout containers all over the coffee table

“Always a fuckin’ lecture with you, huh?” Simon grumbles into his curry. Shovels another forkful into his mouth.

Just as he expected though, you don’t let it go. He was a fool to think you would. It’s not so bad at first when all you do is cook for him—with the life he’s lived, he’s never been one to turn down a home cooked meal, so he accepts the proffered food happily—but it’s another thing entirely when you rope him into it.

He’s already pissed off when you wrangle him into the kitchen under the guise of needing his help—absurd after your subterfuge from the day before, his expectation being that you were happy to do all the cooking yourself, not force him to debase himself by chopping up all the vegetables and meat while being ordered around like a line cook.

What really ticks him off though is that—

he grumbles to himself as he chops the mushrooms into thin slices

—you keep getting away with it.

The worst is when you catch the tremor in his hand at the breakfast table, quick eyes picking up on the subtle quiver instantly.

“Something wrong with your wrist?” you ask. Always prying into his business.

Simon closes his hand into a fist. “It’s nothing.”

You frown. “Doesn’t look like ‘nothing’.”

“Well, it is.”

“Can you relax your grip? I just want to see that again.”

How he lets you talk him into massaging his wrist is beyond him. Then you press your thumbs into the meat of his palm and rub in smooth, circular motions, and his brain goes offline for half a second. The relief hits him like a cudgel to the head; knocks him upside.

“Jesus fuck, bird,” Simon groans. His knee bangs against the leg of the table.

“Feels a bit better, huh?” you ask, the corner of your mouth quirking up in a crooked, teasing smile.

And fuck if it doesn’t feel a thousand times better by the time you’re done. He snaps when your thumbs dig in too deep at his wrist and pain radiates up his arm, but all you do is laugh it off, smiling to yourself when you press down on a tender point on his wrist and his jaw goes slack.

Sometimes, he wishes he could study you like a bug. Pin your arms and legs down to get a closer look. Kneel over you and pin your shins down with his to keep you from squirming away, then tuck his fingers into the inside of your cheeks to pull them open.

But he keeps his hands to himself. Just barely.

He doesn’t stay long this time, called back from his katabasis before the week’s even up, Price’s voice urgent over the phone. His duffel bag is packed before the call is even over, boots laced up and mask folded neatly in his pocket for when he leaves the city limits.

“You’re leaving?” you ask when you notice, and if Simon were less of a realist, he might think you sounded upset.

“Need me to take out the trash?” he asks, his answer implicit. Yes, he’s leaving. Even if it weren’t for his job, he’s not the staying type; those kinds of decisions are out of his hands anyway, and even if it were up to him, he’d be long gone by now. Adrift; across the pond or somewhere down in the Balkans, far enough away that you couldn’t find him even if you wanted to.

That’s what he tells himself. Whether he believes it anymore is another question.

You’re quiet for a second. “Sure. Thank you.”

Simon nods. Nothing more to say. The ache in his gut could be anything else.

He lifts a hand on his way out, ruffles your hair once before he’s gone.

Rain soaks him down to his britches but still he stands in it without complaint, watching some of the privates unload a delivery truck parked outside of the commissary. Even the mundane parts of his job are his to attend to and he does so with little complaint.

When they finish around eighteen-hundred hours, he signs out for the day and heads to Price’s office for a drink. It’s so routine it’s practically part of his DNA.

Price already has both glasses poured when Ghost arrives, two fingers each, and it goes down smooth when he rolls the mask up over his nose to take a sip.

“Got out the pricey stuff just for me?” Ghost asks. He can tell by the taste and from the bottle sitting on the shelf behind Price, label facing outward.

“What else am I saving it for?” Price asks rhetorically. “I’m not letting the good stuff go to waste.”

Ghost hums. It’s still raining buckets outside. He watches as it hits the windowpane behind Price’s desk, almost transfixed.

“Got time for a drink before you’re out on Friday?”

He shakes his head. “No time. Gotta be out by six.”

“Six?” Price repeats, a mite surprised. “Why? Something waiting for you back home?”

Ghost doesn’t answer.

Price lifts an eyebrow. “Well, spit it out.”

He shrugs. “Nothing to tell.”

“So there’s no one back in Manchester?”

“Didn’t say that.”

Price’s lips twitch into a grin under his mustache, eyes faintly amused. “Heard.”

Truth be told, he has started to think of you as someone waiting back home. Maybe not for him, but waiting all the same. Why else would you be back in his flat in Manchester in his bed if not to wait for him to come back?

It almost makes him itchy to leave. He can tamp down the urge when the situation calls for it, but it sits right under his skin most days. If he thinks about it for too long, his focus goes razor sharp and the edges of his vision go blurry.

In the present moment, he brings the glass to his lips and tips his head back, letting it pour down his throat.

He has some nascent idea of where this is going.

As always, you’re curled up on the couch watching TV when he walks through the front door, on the verge of sleep. When your eyes land on him, you blink away the sleep and smile so brightly that his chest aches. “Simon!”

In nearly forty years, no one has ever said his name like that. Brimming with brightness and warmth. Like for once someone has longed for him in his absence.

All he can do is stare at you for a time. It should make his skin crawl, and it does, to an extent. He should be out the door already—lease broken, all his shit in the back of his truck, ties cut, and so many kilometers between you and him that he has no choice but to forget your face.

Instead, he kicks the door shut behind him and ruffles your hair when he passes on his way to the bathroom to piss and scrub a towel over his face.

It must be a form of self-punishment. That’s the only explanation for why he comes back every single time when he has more than enough money to fuck off down south for a week instead—he could be spending his leave in Costa Brava or sipping rakija in Kotor, but he chooses to come back to this hovel with its bleak weather and seedy underbelly every single time. What other urge would drive him to abuse himself like this other than masochism?

Any attempt to answer that is swiftly dismissed.

One day. One day is all he manages after promising to keep himself in check this time around. He manages to get through that first day largely because of the physical distance he puts between the two of you, playing chess with a couple old men in the park, rock doves pecking at the birdseed scattered under the wrought iron tables and benches.

His restraint breaks when he catches you dozing off in front of the television, socked feet tucked under your thighs and head balanced precariously on your fist, elbow resting on the arm of the couch.

He sits down beside you and his lip twitches when your head bobs, slumber briefly breached when the cushion under you dips with his weight.

“C’mere, girl,” Simon grunts, pulling you onto his lap.

You go somewhat willingly, only putting up a little bit of a fuss. Grumbling to keep up appearances. But that melts away the second he tucks your head into the crook of his neck, body going lax and fingers burrowing into the fabric of his shirt at his belly, gathering it together in your fist.

Christ, Simon thinks, dropping his head back on the couch. What am I doing?

Even he doesn’t know these days, but his chest aches in a way it never has before. He makes a mental note to see a doctor when he’s back on base.

His back aches too, but you pick up on that rather quickly, hounding him when you recognize the stiffness in his back for what it is. It takes you days to wear him down enough to agree to a massage, but eventually you do. He regrets it the second the words leave his mouth, leery at the thought of putting himself in such a vulnerable position.

You lock him out of the bedroom while you set up your table and do all the little things that you need to do in order to set the mood. His nose wrinkles when the smell of incense hits him.

“You can strip down to your comfort level,” you explain after letting him back into the room, patting the bed as if he doesn’t know where to lie down. “Then get under the blanket and let me know when you’re ready.”

He cocks a brow. “You trying to get me naked, bird?”

“Simon,” you sigh, a touch exasperated, hands on your hips to emphasize your weariness.

His belt clinks as he unlatches it. “Don’t worry, birdie, just gimme a second to get these off.”

A frustrated growl and then the door slams shut behind you when you bolt out of the room.

He spares you the indignity of having to repeat yourself, sliding under the towel and barking at you to come back in when he’s stripped bare and covered. You slip back in quietly and flit over to the dresser to press play on your music.

The first touch of your hands against his bare back almost makes him flinch. All his regret comes rushing back and he very nearly calls it off, and then you press the heels of your palms into the meat of his shoulders and the bottom falls out from under him. Then you drag them down the length of his back and he very nearly bites his tongue clean off.

Simon doesn’t bother muffling his noises when you dig your hands into his back to work out the plethora of knots, huffing and groaning like he’s balls deep. When you get to his shoulders though, he has to fight to stay put,

“Oh, your back is really messed up,” you note, a bit breathlessly.

He doesn’t acknowledge your words, too intent on not vocalizing his pain. Not even a grunt passes his lips.

You work years of hard labour and soreness out of his muscles, leaving behind a new man. The oil coating your palms makes your hands glide across his back.

He must fall asleep at some point because he wakes to the sound of television in the other room. Groggy at first, cotton mouthed and sleep drunk, and when Simon stumbles into the living room, you’re sitting on the couch with your knees drawn into your chest.

“Oh hi,” you say when you notice him standing there. “Sleep well?”

Speech still beyond him, all he can do is nod and plant himself on the couch beside you. Shirtless still. Simon only notices it himself when he tips his head to look over at you and finds that you won’t meet his eyes, gaze steadfast on the TV.

“Shoulda ‘ad you do that when you moved in,” he says.

“I could give you another one before you leave,” you reply, still not looking over at him. He bets that if he brushed his knuckles over your cheeks, they’d be hot to the touch. “Just tell me when.”

Maybe he will. What use is there in depriving himself of life’s little pleasures when his soul bears all of life’s bruises?

He reaches over to pinch your cheek, grinning when you yowl. Just as warm as he thought.

One thing Simon doesn’t take for granted anymore are his scarce moments of privacy. No stranger to a little exhibitionism (barracks walls and tent flaps hardly muffle sound, and he’s learned over the years that men will tolerate anything if it means they can rub one out in peace), he still appreciates the time he gets to himself to take care of things.

He’s only just finished tugging one out, his jeans buttoned back up and his hand still wet with his spend, when you walk in the front door.

You start up the second the door slams shut behind you, steam practically billowing out of your ears. “Well, thanks a lot—one of my regulars just gave me shit because she said I smelt like an ashtray and she couldn’t ‘properly relax’ for the whole hour—”

Afterglow proper scotched, Simon sits there and lets you cuss him out until the pounding behind his eyebrow becomes unbearable.

You go quiet when he rises to his feet, unused to him actually reacting to your whinging. Sometimes you don’t realize how accustomed to him you’ve become—how ingrained he’s become in your everyday life. What continues to elude you for no good reason is that you live with a stranger, and a strange man at that. It would piss him off if it were anyone other than him.

Practically chest to chest now, you nearly go cross eyed staring up at him. Jaw unhinged and mouth dangling loose, just the slightest gap between your lips like you forgot to close them. He lets you size him up for a second before lifting his hand to your mouth and slowly but firmly shoving his cum-covered fingers into your mouth.

Dumbstruck, all you can do is stare up at him with his cum-slicked fingers in your mouth, holding them there for a few more seconds and whimpering when he drags them out and then feeds them slowly back in. You even go a little glassy-eyed.

When he finally pulls his fingers out and lets his arm drop to his side, you sway on your feet a little, at a loss for words. There’s a creamy sheen on your bottom lip that disappears when you suck it into your mouth on instinct, eyes going wide when you recognize the taste on your tongue.

“Thanks for cleaning that up, birdie.” And then he reaches down to zip his fly up, smug when your eyes flit down to his crotch.

The stakes are different now than what they were all those months ago. It can’t be a carefree cohabitation when he’s playing for keeps. Whatever that means.

But his time is cut short again, the world catching up to him and yanking him back. And when Simon goes this time, he can’t help but drag his feet on his way out.

You’re looking good. A comment made in passing, Price’s face barely twitching through it, but Ghost catches it and he lets it sit for a moment before responding.

“Yeah?” he grunts, looking away. The recruits round the part of the track closest to where they stand, panting through their seventh lap.

“Put on a bit of weight since you left,” Price notes.

“Calling me fat, sir?”

He rolls his eyes, huffing out an exasperated breath. “Give it a rest, you fuckin’ muppet. I said you look good.”

Price isn’t wrong though. He both looks and feels different. With increasing regularity, he watches the clock and counts the days down until he’s released from his duties again. His want has him circling like a bird of prey.

All his life, he’s had to live in the moment, concerned only with the immediate, tangible present because that’s all that life let him have. And though it’s been decades since he’s needed to be in survival mode, those instincts have never quite left him.

The shock to his system has left him forward-thinking for once. A girl in his house and food in his fridge; his body feeling better than it has in years—he’s still lucky if he gets more than five uninterrupted hours of sleep, but his expectations are different when he’s not at home. Even the concept of home is foreign, like a language he’s just starting to learn.

The future isn’t some nebulous concept out of his reach but a real place that he gets to walk into.

Desire tips him like a scale. There may not be any coming back from this.

Love shows him no mercy, so he doesn’t show you any either.

Months pass before Simon’s leave comes around again, and when it finally does, he’s already packed and signed out before his last day on base is even up. He says his goodbyes to Price on his way out and the other man visibly suppresses a smile, eyeing the bag clutched tight in his hand.

“Give her my best,” is all he says before getting back to the paperwork in front of him. Simon leaves without another word.

Then the long drive back. A skein of birds in flight follow him for part of the journey. A train running parallel to the throughway follows him for the rest. Tree boughs bend under the weight of the last snowfall.

Then he blinks and when his eyes open, he’s home.

You’re still sitting on that blasted couch when Simon opens the front door, pretty as a peach in August, and his name rings like a bell off your tongue when you say it, summoning him to you. It’s not his fault that his urges prevail, that he has no choice but to throw his bag down onto the carpeted floor and stomp over to you, lifting you up by the collar of your housecoat and dragging you into a scorching hot kiss.

“Mmf,” you squeak against his lips, eyes flying open.

It’s messy and frenzied, spit dripping down your chin and his tongue halfway down your throat. No finesse or skill to speak of, only an incessant buzzing at the back of his head that only quiets when you give a helpless little moan, an instant balm to his suffering.

Simon pulls back for a moment to let you breathe. “That’s my welcome ‘ome?” he murmurs. His lips brush against yours when he speaks.

“W-welcome home?” you repeat, flustered, your lip catching against his. He sucks it between his when it does, cock throbbing in his pants when you gasp, hot breath billowing into his mouth and making his head spin.

This is nothing like being high on pain meds or three sheets to the win. It pulses through him and makes his cock chub up, forcing him to shove a hand down between his legs to readjust himself. That gets you good when you notice.

He kisses hungry and mean, ever greedy for your mouth, fitting his hand over the back of your head and angling you how he likes. Holding the delicate cradle of your skull in his palm and knowing that he could crack it if he squeezed his fingers hard enough. The thought sends a rush right through him, his violent underbelly scratched in just the right way.

“W-where’s this coming from?” you gasp when Simon pulls back. You look thoroughly flustered, but he ignores you to hook a finger in your mouth and wrench it open.

“Open,” he grunts, giving your inner cheek a sharp tug.

You go cross-eyed when he spits in your mouth, the glob of spit landing right on your tongue, and your affronted little gasp hits him like an arrow shot straight through his heart. He’s considerate enough to seal it in with a kiss, making sure not to let you waste a drop. Tongue pushing in right after to lick it up, growling at you to suck it when you only nervously kiss back.

His patience isn’t infinite though and kissing barely wets his appetite. It’s not enough to plumb the depths of his hunger when there’s something uglier down there waiting with its jaws wide open.

He twists you around and bends you over the back of the couch, rucking your housecoat up to your waist. Your knickers get ripped clean off, tearing at the seams, and your ensuing shriek nourishes the hunger simmering low in his belly. Appetite never satiated, belly never full.

He likes that you didn’t expect him back so soon. Fuzzy, unshaved legs and holey socks; pimple patches on your face and nothing under your robe. The lazy domesticity appeals to him in a way he never would’ve expected.

Then his fingers split the seam of your pussy and the runoff of his appreciation cascades down the slopes of his shoulders and his back. Slick drips from your winking hole, gathering together into a tight bulb before a single drop drips onto the couch beneath you.

“Fuck—now there’s somethin’ to come ‘ome to,” Simon grunts, and then drags his tongue between your dew-slicked lips.

His enjoyment was a foregone conclusion when he imagined this back in his quarters in the barracks, cock in hand, but the reality of having his mouth on your pussy exceeds his expectations a thousandfold. It’s all soft, pillowy skin and sweet nectar. He gorges himself on it, an almost pathological need to be tongue-deep in your cunt.

“Wet little gash just sucks ‘em right in…” he murmurs, plunging two fingers into your hole slowly. The soft flesh of your hole bulges around his fingers when they sink in all the way to the knuckle.

“Fuck—don’t call it that,” you bleat, so pathetic that he’s smitten.

“Shouldn’ta wagged it at me if ya didn’t want me to touch it,” Simon teases, then crooks his fingers just so and your leg spasms.

He keeps you stuffed full until your legs shake, on the verge of coming, and then he rips them out.

You practically scream in frustration, twisting to look at him from over your shoulder. “What’s wrong with you?”

“Somethin’ wrong, birdie?” He smirks when you arch your back, pushing your ass back in his face.

“I want to come, Simon,” you whine, wagging your ass in his face again. Just his luck that a little slut like you dropped into his life.

“Alright,” he sighs, mock aggrieved. “Lemme see if I can ‘elp with that.”

Ungrateful little thing, he thinks when he turns you over onto your back and heaves you up into the air.

“Simon—” you keen his name when he has you pinned up against the wall, his arms scooped under your thighs to hold you in place.

He plunges into that warm little honeypot between your legs in slow, measured strokes at first, savouring each punctured whimper and hiccup that drops from your lips. Each flex of his hips brings him that much closer to heaven and that much closer to hell.

“Didn’t think you could just barge in without consequences, did ya?” Simon asks rhetorically, voice gone brassy and tiger-stripped, thick in his chest. “Been sleeping in my bed for nearly a year, ‘aven’t ya? Ain’t I owed this?”

He means it too.

“You’re—so full of it,” you retort, hiccuping through your words.

Your arms hang limp around his neck, fingers twined at his nape and nails scratching at his hairline. The low ache in his back is barely a deterrent—he’d hold you up all night if it took that long to make you come. A distant voice at the back of his head reminds him that he’ll suffer for it in the morning, but he shakes that thought away.

He chases the beads of sweat snaking down your chest and tits with his tongue, straightening back up only when that nearly makes you lose your grip around his neck and topple out of his arms.

“Hey,” you pout when Simon chuckles, digging your nails into his back in retribution for laughing at you. It has the opposite effect though, the pain stoking his pleasure and sending a shiver down his back, his next thrust so rough that you bounce in his arms.

Your skin smells like sweat and musk this close, so heady that his head spins. It registers dimly at the back of his mind that he’s still dressed while you’re fully nude, housecoat and knickers in a pile on the floor in front of the couch, but he can’t pull away now, not with the need to come pressing into him on all sides, dick hard enough to split diamonds.

He stares down between your legs where his cock splits you again and again, a ring of white cream at the base. He could paint that little snatch white with his cum or stuff it deep inside, both options appealing to his baser instincts. It’ll be a coin flip in the end.

When the ache in his back grows too significant to ignore, he lifts you up off the wall and drops you down on his cock, burying himself to the hilt before carrying you to the open door to the bedroom.

“Sorry, pet,” Simon murmurs when he feels you clench around the thickest part of his cock, whispering a little oh fuck to yourself under your breath. He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel. “Back’s shit. Mind taking over for me?”

The mattress squeaks under his weight when he sits down on the end. You blink up at him. “You want me on top?”

He nods and hums his assent, digging his fingers into the muscle and flesh of your ass and kneading. “Yeah, bird. Still wanna see all the pretty bits though.”

The pretty bits being the globes of your ass facing him while you ride his dick, his hands pulling apart your cheeks to watch you take it inch by inch, thighs quivering with the strain.

Your thighs are stretched out on either side of him, pretty calves resting perpendicular to his chest and toes curled into the mattress. He eyes those with some interest before your pussy distracts him again. There’s no angle that isn’t nice to look at, but this has got to be his favourite so far, tight bud between your cheeks clenching every time you drop down onto his dick. It’s easy to ignore the ache in his shoulder with a view this nice.

“Fuck, birdie,” Simon murmurs, dragging his hand over your ass and then swatting it, grunting when that makes you clench up around him, inner walls squeezing his length and nearly milking him dry. “Coulda been doing this the whole time.”

You laugh a bit breathlessly. “No—you were way too annoying.”

Smack. You yelp when he backhands your ass and your shoulders go stiff, spine a taut line with your impending orgasm. Simon can feel it like a knot in his throat, pussy so hot that it nearly burns him alive.

“Shit,” you gasp, hands on his legs the only thing keeping you upright. You nearly rip out the hair on his thighs when you curl them into fists.

His hands glide up and down your sides, touching wherever he wants. It’s his God given right after housing you for so long, and though Simon clings belligerently to that belief, like the foundation of his existence is built on quid pro quo, on doing nothing for others unless there’s something in it for him, there’s something else that burrows underneath that maxim. Something far truer and more terrifying, and if he were to look it dead on, it would bring him to his knees.

Simon grunts, lungs pummelled when you squeeze around his length, tight as a vice.

Good thing you’ve got him on his back instead.

In the end, it’s not up to him whether he comes in you or not. When his cockhead bumps against your cervix and he feels teardrops land on his thighs, your shoulders shaking with the force of your sobs, the spigot loosens and his stomach aches with how hard he comes. His heels dig into the mattress, hips lifting up, trying to cram more and more of his cock into your cunt, tendons straining against his neck.

“Take it, bird,” Simon snarls, teeth grinding together, his voice sounding wrecked even to him. “Take it nice ‘n deep, fuck—wanna see it leak from your hole when I pull ya off—”

Your nails sink into his thighs, cutting him off.

He does too, when you flop down beside him onto the bed and he tucks you under his arm, spreading your legs so he can push his cum back into your cunt, fingers pearly white with your mixed juices.

“Oh God,” you whisper, squeezing your thighs together around his hand until he’s forced to wrench them open again, hovering over you this time, the cudgel dangling between his legs already thickening up again.

And that’s how he spends his week, in a suspended state of euphoria, no sense of time passing. It doesn’t matter where it goes as long as you crawl into bed with him at the end of the day, eyes sparkling with delight.

The leaving is tougher than it’s ever been, claws scoring right through his chest when Simon tips your chin up and leans down to slot his lips over yours. He’s not made for this sentimental bullshit, but it finds him either way.

His chest burns on the drive back to base, acid reflux a bitch as always.

The next time his landlord calls, he comes bearing good news.

“I’ll cut you a deal on the first month to make up for the…mix up,” he starts begrudgingly. “But don’t worry—the girl’ll be out of your hair by the end of the month. Gonna tell her today that I can’t renew her lease.”

Simon hangs up without saying a word, swathed in anger. Nearly crushes the phone in his grip when his landlord calls back a second later. He ignores that call too.

If he were a different man, if this was a different world—

No one ever knows when their world is about to change until it does.

But even if his walls have grown barbed wires in the years that he’s been alone, there’s always a way to dig out from under.

The return home is different this time around, the wind under his sails all but lifting him into the air.

A year to the date almost. Another month and time will wrap back around on itself, the seasons changing the same way they have for all thirty-seven years of his life. When fate lets him go this time, Simon heads over to Price’s office before taking off for the week, carving out time for one last drink before he hits the road. Over a whiskey and kretek, he tells Price his plan and only just keeps from rolling his eyes when Price barks a laugh, clapping his hands together.

“Never thought I’d see the day,” he chuckles, shaking his head.

“Shut up.”

“It’s a big step, Simon. I’m proud of you.”

Simon rolls his eyes, pleased despite himself. “Stuff it, old man.”

And then he’s gone again, following the same winding road back, with one stop along the way this time. He stays overnight at a local inn after signing the paperwork, too exhausted to keep driving. Too much on his mind anyway.

It means nothing to him that people do this sort of thing all the time. He has survived the locust years of his life and come out the other side. That should be enough to give himself some grace when he tosses and turns all night, back pain flaring up and immobilizing him for an hour. Only when the first rays of dawn pierce through the threadbare curtains does it finally abate, and he heads out after his morning piss, ignoring the cramp in his belly on the drive over.

You greet him at the door when you hear his car pull up, standing under the door frame while he gets out and rounds the car, bare toes curling at the cold air. And any effort to tamp it down now is in vain, his chest filling with something unspeakable and unsaid.

“Put your shoes on,” Simon instructs, coming over just to pull you in for a kiss before nudging you back into the flat, shutting the door behind him.

“Why?” you ask, lifting a brow. “Wanna go for coffee or something like that?”

“Something like that. Why aren’t you putting your shoes on?”

Herded into the truck after getting dressed, you badger him with question after question the whole drive over while Simon keeps his mouth shut, focusing on the road in front of him. It’s not a long drive at least, but your incessant questions make it last an eternity.

Until he pulls up in front of a house with a short gravel walkway and a garden in desperate need of attention, milkvetch growing near the front step. The outdoor sconces are new though, and though Simon already has a few things in mind to fix up around the house, it’s got good bones. Leagues nicer than the place you just left.

“Are we picking someone up?” you ask when he puts the car in park, confused. You stare at the door as if waiting for it to open.

Simon doesn’t respond.

You look over at him and he takes one of your hands, holding it palm-side up and covering it with his own ugly mitt. You feel something cold drop from his hand into yours and he curls your fingers into a fist to hold it.

“No.”

When his hand moves away, you uncurl your fingers to find a key. It means so little and so much all at once. If he could say it with words, it wouldn’t be the same so there’s no point in trying.

“It’s ours?” you ask.

“Yeah.”

There’s a watery sheen over your eyes when you look up, and your lip wobbles. And in a way different than ever before, his chest grows tight, the ache in his heart a fresh and welcome pain.

#ceil writing #cod x reader #ghost x reader #ghost/reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you

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tinysunshine · 5 months ago

Text

━━━ ✧˖° 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍

‎ ‎ [ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

kinks: protective daryl, reader is extremely girly and feminine, fingering, very light dom/sub, fucking on a motorcycle, daryl sucks his fingers, pet names, oral sex, cum swallowing, slightly rough sex, some dirty talk, true love

warnings and triggers: age difference, reader is a former sex worker, trauma bonding, violence, death, slut shaming, bullying

word count: 13.4k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe.

you’re known as the princess of your group - soft, feminine, a girly girl who doesn’t want to get her hands dirty. despite the cruel new world you’re living in, you still hold on to whatever remnants of beauty you can find, hoping for a better tomorrow.

daryl is the opposite of everything you stand for. he’s hardened, rugged, ruthless - he’ll do whatever it takes to survive. despite your differences, you find yourselves drawn to each other in ways nobody, not even you two, can really understand. you bring softness to his strength, and in daryl you find a friend, a lover, a protector.

he’s everything you find warm and safe in this cold, scary world. you cling to him, and the best part?

daryl clings back.

“Cookies?”

The look Daryl gives you actually makes you crack a smile, and it’s a nice feeling. It’s been a long time since you smiled, now that you think about it - but it’s not like you’re keeping score.

Because if you were - you’d probably be able to count the amount of grins that’ve graced your face in the last eight months on one hand. Life has been brutal to everyone this year.

“I know it sounds weird,” you explain, crossing your legs on the rock you’re sitting on. Daryl’s supposed to be keeping watch of the camp while Rick and a few other men from the group make a run into the neighboring town for supplies. The plan was, because even the smallest things need well thought out plans in this world, that the women and children of the camp would rest, and if Daryl saw any walkers, he’d wake everyone up.

Sort of dumb, in theory, with how fast things happen when walkers are added to the equation, but it’s all this group has got.

Plans and Rick’s hope.

You’re supposed to be resting too, since yesterday was a travel day - long and exhausting. But you can’t sleep. You’ve got a headache, you’re hungry, and your sleeping bag is still a little damp from your water bottle, the plastic gone thin from having been dropped too many times, breaking while you drove from your last destination. Your tent is cold and you’re sharing it with a single woman who has a child, and their crying is really starting to bum you out.

So you decided to join Daryl keeping watch. He’s perched on a little ledge that overlooks the rest of the camp, able to see anything coming or going before anyone on the ground can. You’re not great with a gun, but since the world went to shit, you can handle yourself pretty well.

You want to help protect the camp and everyone in it, especially since you asked Rick to pick up another reusable water bottle for you while he was in town. The look on his face was so priceless it actually made you a little sad.

“Doesn’t just sound weird,” Daryl replies, shifting to get more comfortable on the grassy ground. There’s another rock for him to sit on, but it’s something you’ve noticed about him - Daryl always chooses to sit close to the ground, even if there’s a proper place for him to sit. “It is weird,” he grumbles the last part, busying himself with chucking a rock a few feet away while a squirrel scampers up a tree. He curses under his breath, no doubt pissed at himself for not securing another meal.

You’re distracting him. You should feel bad, but you don’t.

Before walkers and the end of the world as you knew it, you used to be so concerned with manners. Worried about what others thought about you more than you worried about your own well being. You’re not like that anymore. It’s a dark, although funny thought - that it took something as drastic as an apocalypse to finally rid you of your people pleasing habit.

There’s a crunching sound a few yards away that has the both of you tensing up, frozen while you listen for the sound of growling, but it never comes. Daryl visibly relaxes after a minute, which is your cue to start talking again. He just listens, although from the angle you’re sitting at, you swear you see him roll his eyes.

“You ever think about how weird it is, the stuff we miss?” You ask, but you already know he’s not going to reply. Daryl rarely replies, but you know he’s listening. You don’t have any real proof that he is - but what else would he be doing while you chat his ear off? He can stand up for himself, doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do - if he didn’t want you talking to him, he’d tell you to fuck off.

It’s a small victory you hold close to your heart - the fact that he just puts up with you. You continue. “I mean, everyone always says they miss things like hot showers, electricity, or whatever. I do, but I guess it’s not the thing I miss the most. For me, it’s cookies. But not bakery cookies. The kind of cookies you get from the store, the cheap ones. When you flatten the cookie dough yourself, and no matter what, always burn them or undercook them,” as you talk about it, you can taste the ghost of cookies past on your tongue. It waters a little, your mouth, which goes to show you just how hungry you are.

All you eat these days are protein bars and uncooked cans of whatever food the group can find. Sometimes, with your eyes closed and your breath held, you’ll try bits of squirrel or owl or whatever other animal Daryl hunts and shares with the group, but even the thought makes you nauseated. You never knew you’d be able to have preferences when the other choice is starving to death, but the difficult human spirit prevails, you suppose.

Daryl glances at you, and although it’s pretty dark, the moon shines light enough that you can see his expression. You’d expect his face to be mean, aggravated - tired. Listening to a young woman ramble about baking cookies while his body is on high alert to protect an entire fucking camp - but instead, Daryl’s expression is soft. He lets you continue, although his reaction does remind you that you’re also on guard. But aren’t you always?

The gun strapped to your hip and the knife in the pocket of your boot feel extra heavy at the reminder.

You clear your throat, trying to keep your voice low. God forbid a fucking walker kills you or anyone else in this group because you couldn’t shut up about cookies.

“Maybe it’s stupid, you know? I just,” you look down, playing with the zipper on your jacket. Suddenly, you feel really embarrassed. On the spot. Daryl probably thinks you’re a fucking idiot. Your face heats up.

But it’s not just the cookies. You leave out the part where the cookies remind you of your parents. How your mom, when she was alive, used to make them for you after a rough day. That those cookies were the staple of every sleepover you’ve ever had with your best friends. How those cookies were -

“It ain’t,” Daryl’s voice takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him, brows furrowed. You catch his eyes for only a second, before he looks away quickly, pretending to be occupied by something on the dirty ground. “It ain’t stupid,” he finishes.

You wonder that night, after Rick and the others come back to relieve you and Daryl of your duty, while you’re laid up in your sleeping bag that hardly protects you from the cold - what does Daryl miss? Sure, out of everyone in the group, he’s most equipped at living this kind of life. Knows how to hunt, can stomach raw fucking meat, isn’t scared of anything, or so he says. What reminds him of home? What thoughts comfort him?

Surely, whatever those thoughts are, they’re not as dumb as store bought cookie dough.

But what Daryl said stuck with you. Not stupid. You fall asleep, albeit with one eye open, feeling a little less cold.

Because for a moment, Daryl’s understanding?

It made the world feel a little less broken.

────

“Gross,” you mutter, blood slashing on your face. You just shot a walker in the head, and your ears are ringing from the loud noise of the gun. You’ll never get used to firing that thing. How loud it is, the way your hand shakes even minutes after you pull the trigger.

Daryl comes from behind you, and he lets out a laugh. It’s low, short - if you weren’t trained to hear the noise, you’d miss it. Because really - it’s like you’ve literally trained yourself to look for little cues that Daryl is having a good time. Or, since you doubt anyone these days is having a good time, at least that he’s alright. That he’s not annoyed at you for hanging around him or talking to him or irritated at your presence in general.

“Blood on your face grosses you out, but you’ll pick through walker guts for a bottle of nail polish,” he shakes his head, but it's not like he’s judging. In fact, Daryl actually seems a little…fond? He’s teasing you, and normally the reputation you have in this group as a girl that’s afraid to get her hands dirty, too girly to do anything for yourself - it stings.

But not when it comes from Daryl. You can tell he’s teasing, and you roll your eyes playfully.

“Didn’t dig in walker guts for that nail polish,” you remind him, even as he walks past you to lead the way. You glance at his back, the angel wings on his leather vest, and will yourself to stop the heat rushing to your face and the arousal pooling in your belly at how fucking strong he is. Big arms, muscles that look like he should be on the cover of a body building magazine instead of in these creepy woods with a crossbow. You gulp. “There was a little blood in the nail polish section when we did a run the other day. I cleaned it off the bottle I wanted. No biggie.”

Daryl scoffs, and you smile. “Yer crazy, girl,” he replies, and at that you look down at your nails. Baby pink, the same color you always used to choose when you’d get your nails done back at home. You could shiver with pleasure, just from thinking about the feeling of warm water on your hands, someone paying special attention to your cuticles - lotion, that you don't have to share with every other woman at the camp. The polish you’re wearing, painted just two days ago, is chipped and stained red with walker blood, but it’s better than nothing.

Makes you feel a little more human. A little more like a woman. A little more like yourself.

Now, if only you could find some hairspray and a razor.

You’ve been joining Daryl whenever he lets you - or, more truthfully, whenever Rick tells Daryl it’s okay for you to join him. Rick still doesn’t believe that you know what you’re doing, thinks of you as a liability, but you’re determined to prove yourself. You got to go on a run the other day, and today, Daryl went to check out the perimeter of the grassy hill the group is currently camping in, and you volunteered to go with him.

“You sure?” Rick had asked when the plan was originally made, looking at Daryl with squinted eyes. He pretended like you didn’t exist, even as you were standing right next to him. Daryl nodded. “S’okay with me. I’ll look out for her. Bring yer gun,” he told you, and you nodded, skipping after him down the trail.

Around Daryl, and maybe this is why you like him so much - it’s easy to feel like a woman. Easy to feel safe, too. Daryl just knows what he’s doing, and he’s so strong, big, can handle so much. Being around him feels good, but you know it’s all just a farce.

You’re not safe and neither is Daryl, a fact that becomes even clearer when you almost trip on a dead body by a stream you’re both passing on the way back to camp, alerting a walker that was only a few yards away. Daryl was able to kill him with an arrow, but it was a close call.

One minute, laughing and talking. The next, like you’re begging death to open the door after ringing his doorbell a few too many times.

You walk back to camp in silence, walker blood splattered on the both of you. When you get back, it’s nearly dark, and you help a few of the other women finish some laundry and keep an eye on a few restless kids. Life sucks in this world as an adult - but you can’t imagine living like this as a kid. Although, you think, watching them throw dirt at each other and believe the food their mothers are giving them really tastes just like chicken nuggets, maybe being so clueless is for the best.

After dinner, on your way to your tent, you see Rick and Daryl talking. You try to listen in, pretending that you’re just getting your sleeping bag ready for bed, but you don’t hear anything of importance. Meaning, you don’t hear either of them bring up your name. You feel like a highschooler, desperate for friends, eager to belong - hoping your crush notices you.

Because that’s what this is with Daryl, isn’t it? You’ve got a crush on him. Butterflies, wanting his attention, looking for excuses to be around him. It’s pathetic but a little beautiful, you admit - that even in a situation like this, where death surrounds every person, no matter who they are - there’s room in the human spirit for a little love.

A crush, you think again, fixing your nails in your tent. You can almost convince yourself that life isn’t so horrible, just for a minute, until the woman you share your tent with comes in for bed and complains that the smell of the polish is too strong and makes it hard for her to sleep.

Okay, bitch, you say in your head. It’s not like the walker guts and dead bodies beyond our tent smell any better. You bite your tongue and walk out of the tent, making your way to the empty clearing a little ways away from the tents. It’s so quiet, there’s no way you wouldn’t hear a walker if one was to come around you, but you have a knife on you just in case. No gun, since the noise would just draw more to you.

You think these things through. You just wish Rick, and the rest of the group, would see that too.

It’s dark, except for the moon and the stars shining pretty above you. Maybe the little fact you read online years ago about the environment is true - people are the cause of everything bad and all the pollution. A little more than half a year into the apocalypse, and there’s no smog clogging up the skies. It’s a gorgeous night.

You sit with your hands flat on the ground, waiting for your nails to dry. You get a good few minutes of silence, until the noise of footsteps has you nearly jumping out of your boots, reaching for your knife, only to realize that it’s not a walker, but Daryl coming to plop down next to you.

“Gosh, Daryl. You scared me,” you complain, letting out a whine. He doesn’t say anything, just sits next to you on the ground, although he moves so his back is facing your back. Makes sense, so you're both safe from all angles. Daryl always thinks about little things like that.

He’s quiet for long enough that you start to think of something to fill the silence. “Damnit,” you mutter, letting out a huff. “I ruined my nails.”

“Oh, quit it,” Daryl replies. “Whatcha doin’ out here all by yerself? You got a death wish, girl?” You’re mortified that Daryl is scolding you like you’re a kid, like you’re an idiot, and coming from him it just hurts even more.

You’ve always had an even temper, but in this new world, you lose it more often than you used to. It’s probably just the way life is now - the stress, the hunger, the cold and the dirt and the sweat and the lack of anything that used to bring anyone joy. It makes everyone crazy.

“Yeah, well - ‘m sure your buddy Rick hopes a walker gets to me. Know he was talking shit about me earlier.” You sniffle, but you’re not crying yet - it just really hurts, that you feel like such dead weight at this camp. You’ve never really been insecure, but you feel like nobody likes you. Nobody understands you. And yeah, surviving is more important than being miss popular with a group of people in the apocalypse, but everyone’s always talking about this group being family. Does that include you? It doesn’t feel like it these days.

Daryl is silent, as you expected. Normally you don’t mind the company, even if it’s a mute one, but tonight you’re feeling on edge. Until Daryl speaks. “Rick ain’t my friend. No one wants you to die, kid. Yer too much,” he mutters, and then you stand up, aggravated and not wanting to take it out on him.

You begin to walk away when Daryl reaches out and grabs your ankle to stop you. “Daryl,” you warn, as if you’d do anything to retaliate even if he pulled you on the ground with him. But you keep up the hard ass attitude - it feels good, you admit, being difficult for once. You don’t get to be anything but accommodating at camp.

“Rick and I were sayin’ how valuable you are to the group. How much you’ve grown,” he explains, and you roll your eyes, make a show of stomping away, knowing, loving that Daryl is right on your heels. Because there’s no reason for him to stay in that clearing - he’s not on watch tonight. He was only hanging around there for you.

Despite acting like Rick’s comment meant nothing to you, on the inside, as you walk to your tent, you fight a smile. So Rick has noticed your effort. That’s all you wanted, except -

You realize that maybe approval you wanted so badly never needed to come from Rick -

Because the approval from Daryl feels pretty damn good.

────

Daryl fixes you with a look that makes you burst out laughing.

You’ve only been at this spot in the woods for a few weeks, but so far, quality of life among the camp has improved. Almost a year in this new world, and this is the first time anyone’s ever slept with both eyes closed since before people turned into the living dead. There’s a river nearby perfect for fishing, and tonight at the campfire, you had your first taste of - what did Daryl call it?

Sushi.

“Just so you know,” you say, crossing a leg over the other on the little log you’re sitting on. The sun is going down, and the sky is a pretty shade of pink and even a little purple. You wonder if nature has always been this beautiful - you’d always just been too preoccupied to see it. You put a tiny piece of the fish Daryl caught and cooked into your mouth, surprised at the taste. You don’t have to fake your reaction. It’s not bad at all - but you wouldn’t necessarily say it’s good. Tastes better than another can of old spaghetti rings though, that’s for sure.

Still, you can’t help teasing. You finish your original statement. “Sushi tastes much better than this.”

Daryl smiles, just slightly. And not the fake kind of smile he does when he’s just trying to be polite. Like when an elderly man from the group tells a joke no one else laughs at, or when the strap of your last bra broke and you started crying until Rick promised, cheeks red, that he’d look for your size on the next run.

Right now, it seems like Daryl’s actually having a good time.

The thought makes you smile.

“Thank you,” you tell Daryl, and you swear you see him blush. “It's better than sushi, really.”

“Yeah,” Daryl says, nodding. He’s grown uncomfortable with the compliments already. “It’s the best yer gonna get.” Others from the group join you around the campfire, and then Daryl takes off, but not before giving you one last lingering gaze. He has small eyes, you’ve noticed - a little hooded, but so beautiful. He’s incredibly handsome, in a unique way. A pretty, no, beautiful man. His stare burns you, warms you up even with the chill in the air.

It’s only later, when the rest of the group clears off and you and Daryl are alone again, that he speaks. He’s sharpening a knife, leaning on the side of a camper van for support, and you’re at a makeshift sink (bucket) washing the dishes. It was your least favorite chore before this new world, and it’s still your least favorite after.

But, if you let your mind go there - something about the dynamic between Daryl cooking dinner and you cleaning the dishes up has you -

No. You’ve got to stop acting so juvenile.

On one hand, this little crush you have on Daryl is something positive that gets you through the day. Waiting to talk to him, excited to be around him - it shines light on a dark, terrible reality. On the other hand, getting attached to anyone at this camp is a bad idea. You just lost someone else a few days ago.

The reality, that death really is lurking everywhere - that something could happen to you, or Daryl…it makes your palms sweat and your breathing become erratic. The reality of this new world is just so scary and cruel.

You’re done with the dishes and you dry your hands on an old flannel that the camp uses as a dish towel. You feel Daryl watching you, and you like it.

“What are you looking at?” You tease, pushing some hair away from your face. “There a walker behind me or something?

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t look at no walker like that,” he grumbles, but then he must realize what he said - what it really means. You’re so excited you’re almost vibrating, wondering, realizing now - that maybe this crush isn’t one sided. But you still try to play it cool, even as Daryl shakes his head, says, “Wasn’t lookin’ at nuthin.’”

You don’t know what to say to that. You begin to walk away, excited to spend the rest of the night in your tent going over this interaction until you fall asleep, but what Daryl says next stops you in your tracks. You freeze.

“Gotta get you a bra on the nex’ run,” he says, and your knees feel weak. “Those things almos’ poked me in the eye. You cold or sumthin’?’”

You fast walk to your tent, nearly crying from embarrassment - but your entire body is dizzy with excitement. It’s adrenaline, but not the same kind you get when you’re running or kill a walker and make it out alive - a different kind, one you haven’t felt since maybe even before the walkers. It lights you up inside, makes it hard to breathe - and the funniest part?

Daryl has no idea your nipples are hard because you’re aroused - all from watching him sharpen a knife. What can you say? A man who can handle a weapon like that can surely handle…other things.

────

The fire crackles as you sit back, the warmth from the flames doing little to ease the chill in your bones. It’s freezing outside, but you’re under a warm blanket, and if you delude yourself enough you can almost convince yourself that this is just a toasty evening with friends and not a risky fire that could very well lead walkers directly to the camp.

But there’s nothing the group can do - it’s simply too cold to go without a fire tonight. Even Daryl, king of having his arms always showing, is in a jacket tonight. Which sucks, because you really love looking at his arms…but this is survival.

There’s hushed conversation while Rick tells a story, a few pairs to the side chattering, and you feel left out until you notice that Daryl isn’t talking to anyone either. He’s just looking at the ground, then the fire, gaze flickering to you every few minutes.

And you only notice that because your eyes can’t stay off of him. You can’t help it - it’s like you’re always looking for him. There’s something about that man, as dumb as it sounds, that makes him feel like your own security blanket. Even seeing him from across the camp, just a glimpse, can settle your nerves like nothing else.

Suddenly, a voice from next to you tries to get your attention. It’s Derek, a decent looking guy about your age - but he’s pretty useless, as far as skills go. He accompanies the rest of the men for runs into town, can kill a walker if necessary, but he’s selfish and all about himself. Won’t even take watch at night, says it interferes with his sleep. You can’t stand him.

You try to avoid his gaze and pretend to be busy, picking at your cuticles and hoping he leaves you alone, but no such luck.

“Look at you, princess,” he teases, and you cringe so hard you wonder if it’s visible. It’s embarrassing, being referred to like that - so what, that you like the color pink and happen to be attractive? You’re not hurting anyone. The clothes you’re wearing, the pink clips you have to hold your hair back, the floral printed pillow case - those were all things you had before the world went to shit.

You didn’t know the apocalypse had a dress code.

You’re sick of being teased. Of being reduced to this overly feminine character - as if you don’t keep watch just as much as the men. As if you don’t kill walkers when they get close to the camp, while the other women hide. As if you don’t cook, and clean, and -

Derek is still talking.

You sneak a glance across the campfire at Daryl, who holds your gaze for a minute before dropping it. You look back down too, play with your fingers on your lap. You’d go to your tent right now if you weren’t scared about the safety of falling asleep with no one actively on watch.

“So, what’d you all do before this?” Derek asks, leaning forward. He’s asking the group, but he’s looking at you, which means - you’re supposed to go first?

You wonder if this has anything to do with what you told Cindy, someone you used to share a tent with before she found room in another one. There’s not much to do these days when you’re not cooking or cleaning or hunting or moving - lots of time to sit and talk. The apocalypse is so much more boring than you ever anticipated. You shared a lot about your past with her, but surely she wouldn’t gossip about you to the others in the camp?

You thought girl code was still a thing, even in these trying times.

Everyone is silent, waiting for your answer. Even Daryl and Rick seem interested, which makes you feel even worse. You wanted to fit in, not be the center of attention.

You shift uncomfortably, before clearing your throat. You can feel Cindy’s eyes on you, sitting just a few people down. “Nothing special. Just,” you pause and shrug, unsure of what to say. “Whatever I had to. To survive.”

Back then, surviving was all about money, and ever since your parents died when you were a teenager, money is the one thing you never had enough of. One thing you did have though, is your beauty. So you used it, to get the things you needed, and sometimes a little more - but it all boiled down to one thing, just like it does now - to survive.

That’s all life is about, really? Take away the frills, the fun - people just want to stay alive, no matter how rough things get.

So - you had a boyfriend to pay your rent. A man that loved to take you shopping. A lonely guy who paid off your car. You’ve never lived in luxury, but you always made it. Always got by. Had the things you needed and a little bit more. Always -

“Yeah, well, we all knew you were a whore.”

The words leave Derek’s mouth and you’re frozen. Speechless - and that never happens to you. You’re so shocked at what he said that your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and it’s only then that you realize the bottle of hard liquor on his lap.

You glare at Cindy, who quickly gets up and runs to her tent, more scared of you than walkers apparently - good, you think, because she’s such a bitch for talking about you behind your back. You try to be cool about it, to laugh it off like Derek is so wrong it doesn’t even deserve a reaction, but you’re so embarrassed you feel your chest aching.

Has everyone known about your history the entire time you’ve been at camp? You shared those stories with Cindy in the beginning, one of the first nights you arrived, desperate for some comfort. Is that why everyone treats you so differently from the rest? Is that why you’re the black sheep of a fucking camp formed during the apocalypse?

Does Daryl know?

You’re ready to defend yourself, but you don’t get to. Because Daryl is around the fire so fast you don’t even have time to blink, grabbing Derek by the collar of his shirt and pounding his fists into his face.

The sound of knuckles against bone is excruciating, makes you want to hurl - but you don’t tell him to stop. You’re frozen, and anyway, Derek deserves it, doesn’t he?

It’s Rick, and a few other men that pull Daryl off of Derek, who’s sporting an eye so swollen it won’t shut and a busted lip, a cheek that’ll be purple for the next few weeks for sure. “Whore,” he spits, still able to talk, even as someone drags him away. “Man, shut up already,” one of the guys says to him, but nobody eases the sting of what he says.

Daryl wipes sweat from his brow while Rick walks off to talk to Derek, but he can’t get a word in with the shit the other man is spewing. “Fucking whore,” he keeps grumbling. “There’s no money to milk from men anymore, is there? Bet you put out for that fish Dixon caught for you. Did you do the same for that new bra? Or that water bottle Rick brought back for you? Almost died you know, getting that shit for you, maybe you can thank me with,” Rick kicks him in the ribs before he can finish and tells him to shut up in that leader voice of his.

You run off, now that the rest of the group has scattered, but you hear Daryl yell out, “Yeah, man, you should’ve died,” with a string of curse words. “All you fuckin’ people looking’ at her. Yer all whores in your own way. Useless too,” he continues, but you don’t hear it because you get into your tent and zip it up.

Great. All this drama, and now nobody is ever going to fucking like you now. You’ll be the black sheep forever, won’t you? It’s a harsh wake up call, and you’re thankful you’re alone. Your tentmate must’ve taken her daughter out to be with the other kids, away from the rowdiness at the fucking campfire. You sniffle, and climb into your sleeping bag.

A minute later, before you’ve even had time to process what’s happening, Daryl enters the tent. He’s so big, it’s hard for him to fit, but he manages - cursing and crouching in a way that would make you laugh if this wasn’t such a depressing situation.

He sits next to your sleeping bag. Knees bent, arms around his legs. He just sort of watches you. You look anywhere but his face, but you notice his knuckles are bloody red and torn, all because of you.

“Didn’t have to defend me,’ you say, instead of thank you. “I wasn’t a whore, so,” but Daryl cuts you off.

“Don’t matter what you were. He shouldn’t talk to you like that. Little prick deserves his ass kicked anyway. Can’t even shoot straight,” it’s like this moment is as uncomfortable for him as it is for you. You share a look, but you look away first, afraid of the intensity. You’ve never had someone stand up for you before - not like this. What are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do?

You say nothing at all. A few more minutes go by, with your vision blurry as you stare at Daryl’s knuckles and he stares at the hole that shows the grassy ground in the bottom of your tent. Finally, he sighs, annoyed, and even though you’re not talking you’re still worried he’s going to leave. He’s your teddy bear after all, right? Your security blanket. Maybe you’re selfish - but you don't want him to go.

And he doesn’t. Instead, Daryl adjusts his position so he can reach into his pocket and pull something out. It’s bright pink, satin looking - you wonder if he’s going to hand you a pair of racy panties just to seal the deal that he thinks you’re a slut. A whore.

But is he wrong? The look of the muscles in his arm, at his sheer size - at the smell of him, so masculine and woodsy in this little tent it almost makes you dizzy with want.

After what just happened, how can you be thinking about sex? Maybe you are a slut. A whore. You’ve done things for money before, but -

Daryl hands the piece of pink satin to you. “S’posed to be a ribbon,” he says, shrugging. He’s embarrassed you realize, and it’s cute. “Found it on a toy, er, teddy bear, thought you might like it. If you don’t, I,” but you cut him off, scoot closer to him as you tie it around your wrist.

“Thank you, Daryl,” you say softly, sweetly - and it feels so natural to lean in and press your lips against his cheek. His body is warm, and when you grip his bicep every cell in your body is on fire with desire. He must’ve taken his jacket off after the fight. If it could even be called that, with the way Daryl jumped Derek. Fights are usually a two way street.

Your heart swells, at the fact that he protected you. Thought about you on a run. Saw something and thought of you. Men have bought you things before, of course - but never something personal like this. Never something you didn’t have to ask for beforehand, for nothing in return.

Daryl, he - he gives you feelings so fuzzy and pure in your chest that you almost forget you’re sleeping just a few feet away from a forest of dead bodies.

He doesn’t wipe his cheek when you pull away after the kiss, which is a step in the right direction. You’ve seen Daryl lose his shit over the intimacy of a simple thank you hug with someone else from camp before.

You feel special.

“Was nothin,’” he says, before pausing. He looks at you, then away again, wringing his hands before continuing. “Don’t feel any typa way about doin’ what you had to do to survive, ya hear me? I know what it’s like to do what you hav’to to live, ya know? That fucker. He doesn't have a clue about makin’ it on your own. How tough it can be. Don’ listen to the shit he’s got to say. Don’t listen to none of these people,” he won’t look at you, but you look at him, the side profile of his face so handsome you want to reach out and touch him. But you refrain.

Instead, you squeeze his arm, bicep tan and bulging. You lick your bottom lip. “Daryl,” you interrupt him and he looks at you, gaze on your eyes, then your lips, then to the pretty ribbon tied around your wrist. He visibly swallows, before looking back at your eyes. His eyes are blue, pretty. Too pretty for a man as rugged as him, but what’s the saying?

A person who is good on the inside - their beauty shines through. You think that’s true about Daryl. At this moment, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man as beautiful as him. You breathe him in, going crazy over his pheromones - his smell. You can feel your body getting aroused at his closeness, and he’s not even doing anything sexual.

“Next time,” you say, teasing tone in your voice, “Can you bring the whole bear?”

────

“Look at us,” you say, trying not to skip beside Daryl. A mood this good feels eerie in this new world, but you can’t help the way you feel.

Daryl asked you to join him for a walk, and ever since that night when he gave you the ribbon in your tent - you’ve been closer than ever. You wear the ribbon around your wrist every single day, except for right now, when you’re wearing it to hold some of your hair back.

You’re not sure what’s going on with you and Daryl, but there’s a freedom about it that fills you with joy. Helps you exhale easier in this crazy, cruel world - because he’s safe, and you like being around him, and he obviously likes you too, right? Or he wouldn’t ask you to go for a walk every single day, wouldn’t pay special attention to you during meals, making sure you’re eating enough -

And he really wouldn’t have kissed you against a tree during his watch last week if he had any bad feelings towards you.

Things at the camp are complicated, because that stunt Derek pulled separated the group. There’s people that hate you, because they’re really mad at Daryl - but nobody can be actually mad at Daryl, since he does so much for the entire group. Catches animals for food, is one of the strongest men besides Rick. You’re not exactly his girl, not even close, but you know that the only reason you haven’t been used as walker bait is because of Daryl’s status at the camp.

When he kissed you, just a few weeks after that night in the tent - it was so much softer than you imagined. Because, yeah - you imagined what it would be like to kiss Daryl Dixon. Ever since you met him, really. He’s so tough, so crass, such a force. It’s always been an opinion of yours, that the toughest people really just need some softness. You wonder now, when he smiles shyly at you as you walk past a stream, if you’re that softness for him these days.

“Look at us, what, girlie?” He asks, and you stifle a giggle, trying to remain serious for the bit of the joke. You brush your hand against his as you walk, wondering when he’ll grab it. Wondering when, if, he’ll ever claim you. But you’re trying not to rush things. It’s easy to get worried about time, when every single day is life and death - but there's something kind of beautiful about just going with the flow of what feels good.

Living in the present, which is literally all you have now. All anyone has. And right now, your goal in the present, is to make Daryl laugh.

“You’ve got your bow,” you say, gesturing to his weapon, “And I’ve got mine.” You flip your hair, showing off the pink, satin ribbon holding your hair away from your face. Daryl chuckles and shakes his head, but it only lasts for a second.

Your face heats, pleased with yourself for making him laugh, and then your breath hitches when he grabs hold of your hand.

“Yer sumthin’ else, girl,” he says fondly, and you walk into an area dense with trees before he nudges you against the trunk of one.

You don’t know what life was like for Daryl before walkers took over the population. You’re not sure if he had a lot, or a little, experience with women before this all happened. In fact, you don’t know a lot about Daryl at all. He’s closed off, he’s a little mean sometimes, too tough for his own good -

But god, the way he kisses.

Hesitant, like he’s scared to take something he didn’t earn. You want to tell him that every single part of you, he has earned. You’ve known him for more time than your longest relationship. You’ve seen each other filthy, desperate, depraved. Covered in blood, covered in guts - starving, dirty, depressed. For a man that hardly talks, Daryl somehow knows you better than any man, maybe even any other person, ever has.

He stood up for you. He tries to take care of you. He’s a good friend, he’s -

When he slips a hand to your hip and drops his crossbow on the ground, squeezes at your skin in a way that’s so possessive it makes your breath hitch, you literally let out a cry. Against your lips, Daryl murmurs, “Quiet, ‘less you wanna have a threesum with a walker.” His tongue tastes like cigarettes, a little bit like the apple juice one of the kids at the camp wanted him to try, because he’s a good sport, even if his resting bitch face might suggest otherwise.

There’s something about him ordering you around that does it for you. You let him take charge of the kiss, but you grab his roaming hand and move it to your breast. He squeezes, but in your new bra, you don’t feel the friction you’re so desperately craving from him rubbing over your nipples. You want more, and you whine, trying not to be greedy but it’s just so damn hard.

Against the tree, Daryl slips a leg between yours, and you shamelessly bend down to try to rub your aching core against it. “Daryl,” you whine, and he laughs, pulling away to look at you, his hair that’s getting longer plastered against his forehead with sweat. Everything about him is overwhelming. His smell, intense, his lips, delicious, his strength and size, so fucking hot you just want to curl up in the pocket of his shirt and stay safe forever.

Because you don’t have a doubt in your mind - Daryl would keep you safe. You wonder, why you wasted your time with finance guys and entrepreneurs and men who’d never gotten their hands dirty, back when life was normal. Daryl, with calloused fingertips and his thick accent, a country boy through and through - he pleases you, makes you happier than anyone you’ve ever met before.

Yeah, even in the apocalypse, you can find the romance. You kiss Daryl deeper.

He moves his hand down from your breast to slip it into your pants, and he lets out a low noise in his throat at the feeling of your wetness already. Just from kissing him. You’re not ashamed - it’s been a long time since anyone touched your pussy like this, a long time since you even touched it yourself. There’s just no time alone, and you share a tent, and -

“Yer soakin,’” Daryl comments, and your entire body flushes with humiliation. But the good kind. You nod. “For you,” you whisper, and he leans his forehead against yours before capturing your lips in his again.

Just as you expected, Darly is good with his fingers. He positions one of your legs over his hip so he has better access to finger you, rough hands, the calloused pads of his thumb dragging over your clit, so swollen after so long without cumming. It’s not going to take long, you know, to completely fucking burst. You want it so bad, to come apart on his fingers, to show him just how good you can be. He’s knuckle deep inside of you while still also putting pressure on your clit when you let out a screech, thankful you opened your eyes in time to see the walker coming from behind Daryl.

You push him off of you until he curses and tries to pick up his crossbow, fingers still slick with your pussy, but you beat him to it. You grab the knife out of your boot, even though your body feels like jelly, and you slam it into the walker’s forehead as hard as you can. You huff and puff, because it takes a lot out of you, and when the walker is on the ground you slam your boot into its face a few too many times until the bottom of your shoe is covered with walker brains.

“He’s dead,” Daryl says behind you. “Don’ waste yer energy.” You roll your eyes, wiping sweat from your face with a bandana you had in your pocket.

“I know. That’s for him ruining my orgasm,” you say out loud, and behind you, Daryl lets out a low whistle. You’re really humiliated now, but what are the chances? A fucking walker trying to eat Daryl while you’re trying to get him to eat you? Some fucking luck.

There’s still blood splattering on your face, and you turn to Daryl, wiping it with your sleeve. “Doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,” you say sheepishly, unsure of how to read his bland expression. But just because a walker interrupted, doesn’t mean you don’t want to continue your little fingering session. Just in case, shame out the window, you reach for him. Daryl backs away slightly.

“Slow down,” he says, pulling away from you. “Don’ wanna fuck you in the forest,” and you understand, but also - where else can you have sex? Everyone’s always watching each other. When else can you get some time alone?

Daryl looks down at the bulge in his pants, and you reach down and grope him, like some kind of horny harlot. Maybe you are. He watches you, the color of your nails, your tiny hand - and he lets out a groan himself.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says, leaving you speechless and wet in the middle of the woods. He starts to walk away, but his head is turned to you and his eyes never leave you. You know it’s because he’s making sure you’re safe, watching over you, even with his dick chubbing up in his pants. He tugs his weapon up to rest on his shoulder.

If that’s not a man, you don’t know what is.

“Daryl,” you start to say, following him, about to beg him for something more, but he just throws an arm around your shoulders and tugs you along. You use the opportunity with his hand on your shoulder to tie the ribbon around his wrist, a small mark of your ownership. You wonder what he’ll say about that, if he’ll be mad -

He just squeezes your shoulder. “Not tryna deny you. I want you. Me and the little guy,” he looks down to his cock in his pants, obviously referring to that. “Yer just too pretty to do somethin’ like that in the woods. My tent, tonight?” You know that his tent mate is keeping watch tonight, so you’ll be alone for a good amount of time. Enough time to - you shiver just thinking about it.

You nod eagerly.

“You sure you’re not just disgusted at what I just did?” You phrase it like a joke, gently rubbing your lips on the healing cuts of his knuckles, but you’re serious. Maybe seeing a woman behave greedy, wanting, desperate - violent - maybe it was a huge turn off.

Daryl shakes his head and tugs you closer, presses his lips to the top of your head. “Nah,” he assures, looking back down to the bulge in his pants. It’s even more noticeable than before. He takes the hand he used to finger you and sucks the digits, covered in your slick, into his mouth. The muscles in your cunt clench, at the way his cheekbones look, the level of lust in his eyes aimed at you.

“That was fuckin’ sexy,” he assures, popping his fingers out of his mouth.

────

At dinner that night, which is squirrel - so you settle for half a protein bar and a bruised apple, Rick sits down beside you. You’re eating away from everyone else, because Daryl’s helping someone with something like he always is, but it’s alright because you’re in your own world, thinking about what’s to come later tonight with him.

You’re in a trance, remembering the way he scratched at your scalp fondly when he walked you to your tent and watched you bend down to get inside. “Don’t sprain yer wrist before tonight,” he joked, insinuating you’d be finishing yourself off. He went off with a wink, leaving you reeling - because since when did Daryl Dixon joke around?

You’ve been riding on a high for the rest of the night.

Rick sitting beside you takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him and swallow the bit of stale protein bar you’ve been chewing for probably ten minutes, quirking an eyebrow at him. He’s so serious, it’s annoying.

Don’t get it wrong - you like Rick. Appreciate everything he’s done, does for the camp - he’s just so intense, but he’s handsome in his own right too. Not your normal type, but then again - neither is Daryl. You just don’t understand a man like Rick, and he doesn’t get you. But he’s the best thing this group has, because he has everyone's interest at heart. Even someone like Daryl, well -

He puts himself, and you by extension now, maybe - first. It’s not a bad thing, in fact, you find both sides of the coin admirable in their own way.

“What’s up, Rick?” You finally ask. He looks down to his hands, before nodding behind you, and you turn and look at what he’s referring to - it’s Daryl, looking angrily at Derek, who’s by the fire drunkenly talking shit about everything while people try to calm him down. You sigh.

“You and Daryl,” Rick says, and you’re not sure what to say to that - statement? Accusation? You just nod. “What about us?” You ask, and you really don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not sure why whatever you’re doing with Daryl is any of Rick, or anyone’s, business?

You expect a lecture. Something about needing to earn your keep, to stop distracting him, to make things right with Derek. Instead, Rick just pats you on the back, literally.

“You’re good for him,” he says, before awkwardly walking off when someone calls his name. No doubt for a crisis that could easily be solved without his help. You feel sorta bad for Rick - people are so stressed, so traumatized in this new world, that they don’t want to use their brains at all. They put all their problems, no matter how small, on Rick, and that’s gotta be hard.

You want to call out some sort of acknowledgement for all he does as he walks away, but Daryl begins walking towards you before you get the chance. You’re still looking towards Rick. “You checkin’ the boss out?” Daryl jokes, with something like possessiveness or jealousy in his tone. It burns you in the best way possible - that Daryl might worry about something like that.

What can you say? You’ve always thought a possessive man was hot.

Daryl plops down beside you. You’re sitting on a log, but he’s on the ground. Typical Daryl behavior. He wraps a hand around your ankle - and suddenly you’re very glad you got a chance to shave with the razor you stole from someone’s pile of toiletries after the last run.

“That all yer eatin?’” He asks, referring to the empty wrapper in your hand. You shake your head and show off your sorry apple, but Daryl just shakes his head and scoffs. “Tha’s not enough. You can’t be picky about,” but he stops when he sees the expression on your face.

You’ve talked to him about this before. He didn’t reply, but you know he was listening. Food - it’s the only thing you can be a little picky about. Everything else, you don't have any choice over. Where the camp goes, who you share a tent with. Food and now, this thing with Daryl - that’s all the power you have. Daryl nods, like he gets it but doesn’t like it, and then changes the subject.

“Are you cold?” You ask, and Daryl laughs. As kind as he is to you, you know that he’s uncomfortable when you, or anyone, tries to show any kind of care for him. He nods his chin towards the ratty blanket you’re using. “You gon’ share with me, girlie?” You shake your head, a grin spreading across your face.

“No,” you say, tossing the blanket, the apple, and the wrapper into a duffle bag next to the log you’re sitting on. “Just thought I could warm you up in your tent.” Daryl looks like a deer caught in headlights as he peaks over your shoulder to where the rest of the group is getting ready for bed, his tent mate grabbing a gun before heading to the area where he’ll keep watch while everyone sleeps.

Daryl nods. “Yer dirty,” he grumbles, standing up, but he runs his hands up and down his bare arms like he’s feigning being cold. “C’mon then. You gunna warm me up or what?”

────

The first time Daryl fucked you, he went slow. Took his time, opening you up with his thick fingers, even though you didn’t need the extra time. You were aching, wet - desperate for him to shove his cock inside of you, because you’d been thinking about it for too long. Too much kissing, humping, friction between the two of you - all you wanted, could imagine, was how his cock would feel against your throbbing center.

When he finally thrusted inside of you, stretched you out and began to fuck into you, he didn’t let himself go like you always imagined. Insecurely, you narrowed your eyes, even as your back arched off of his sleeping bag. “When’s the last time?” You asked, referring to the last time he had sex. Daryl just let out a shaky laugh and calmed your fears with a thrust that made your toes curl and a moan escape your lips.

“Long enough, pretty girl,” he assured, all while you huffed in brat and dug your nails into his shoulders. “Jus’ wanna enjoy it. We’ve finally got the time.” And Daryl was right, but really, when is he ever wrong?

The first time you had sex you got to enjoy going slow. But the rest of the times after that - and there’s been a lot now, it’s always a quickie. A rush, because shit hit the fan at your current camp soon after the first night together. The entire group had to move, you lost people to walkers (though not Derek, unfortunately), and now getting off with Daryl only happens in quick spurts whenever you’re alone.

In a way, the drama surrounding the camp has made the two of you closer.

When the entire group has to drive down a walker infested highway, normally you’d be in a camper van with the other women and children, but Daryl has your back.

“You’re ridin’ with me,” he says, shooting Rick a look before anyone can object. As he walks off, he purposely bumps his shoulder into Derek, who scoffs and does the same to you. Daryl doesn’t notice, but Rick does, and he tells Derek off before Daryl can do anything drastic like beat his ass again.

“Hey,” he warns, shoving Derek away from you. “Watch it,” Derek grumbles, glaring at you before hopping into the back of a truck with a few of the other men. “What?” He asks mockingly, because you’re frozen, watching him in a trance while Daryl starts up his bike.

Derek just can’t leave you alone - he picks on you every single chance he gets. “You got Rick standing up for you now too, huh?” He says, shaking his head in disgust. “You let him fuck you too?”

It’s not his words that hurt so much, but it’s the fact that he’s saying them at all. You’ve never done anything to Derek, have only been nice, yet he looks at you like a target and it hurts so bad your eyes threaten to spill tears. Thankfully, Daryl comes for you, and you get on the back of his bike with ease.

“You okay?” He asks, even though it’s hard to hear with the sound of the rumble from the motorcycle. You nod, and press your face into his back. Daryl takes off down the highway, leading the way while Rick follows behind, and you selfishly let yourself doze off against him. You trust Daryl, more than you’ve ever trusted another man - and that’s a lot of pressure.

Trusting anyone these days means you’re putting your life in their hands. It’s exhausting. When you tell the women at camp you’ll watch their kids while they go to the restroom, or go for a walk - essentially what you’re saying is you’ll protect their kids if shit was going south. Even just the thought, being responsible for someone else - it makes your chest heave.

Your arms are tight around Daryl as he drives. You’re not sure how long you’re on the road for when the motorcycle stops, but you know you’re much farther ahead then the rest of the group. In another life, you imagine Daryl happy and free - driving to a city, or another town on a brand new motorcycle. Maybe working in a shop. You feel a pang of sadness, that he’ll never get that.

He deserves so much more than this shit. You all do.

Except maybe Derek.

And Cindy. Fuck that bitch.

Daryl stops the bike and you get off, stretching your legs.

“You good, dolly?” He asks, and you wrinkle your nose at the nickname. You’re pretending not to like it, when in reality, it makes you tingle all over. You nod.

“You go fast,” you say, and he laughs, steps off of the bike and walks to an empty field off to the side of the highway. “‘S the only way to go. Stay here,” he orders, before walking off. He grumbles something about taking a piss and you stifle a laugh, pretending to salute him. You see his hand twitch, like he wants to jokingly flip you off, but he stops himself.

Something about that, that he won’t play rough with you, has your knees feeling wobbly. You feel like you can breathe, without the rest of the group breathing down your back, insulting you, accusing you of doing sexual things just to be treated like a human being. You try not to think about it, because you want to have a decent day and don’t want Derek to be the cause of tears when you’ve been through worse circumstances without crying. It’s hard though.

You walk around the motorcycle, eyes on the ground. You catch a glimpse of your shoelace, pink against the black of your boot, because you used the ribbon for added flair when you gave your shoelace to someone at the camp who needed a belt.

Daryl saw you, and promised you that night with his cock buried deep in your throat, “I’ll get you some more ribbons, pretty girl,” he assured, while you gagged and spit dribbled down your chin. “Too hard to hold your hair back when yer suckin’ me off like a pro.”

That comment should’ve stung, but you know Daryl didn’t mean it like that. In fact, it was so hot that you did your best, until he spilled down your throat and you licked the mess you made off of his cock and balls and thighs.

You’re lost in your thoughts, busy giving your pussy a heartbeat when you notice a little gold, bullet shaped thing on the ground. You’re not sure what it is, but if it is a bullet, you know having extra is always good. You reach down to grab it, only then realizing that it's a lipstick.

You pop open the lid. It’s a pretty pink color, and while it’s used - you can’t even remember the last time you wore makeup. You wipe the top layer off before dabbing some with your finger and putting it on, trying to check yourself out in the mirror of the motorcycle when Daryl comes back.

“The fuck are they?” He asks, zipping his pants up. He’s so, so, so - crass sometimes that it’s endearing. You shrug, and that’s when he notices the lipstick you’re wearing. His eyes are hooded, heavy with tiredness, and it makes him look all the more handsome. “There a makeup store aroun’ here I shud know about?” He teases, and you shake your head and hold up the lipstick tube.

“Found this. How’s it look?” Daryl just nods, looking at you with a strange expression. You’re not sure what he’s thinking, until he tugs you closer to him by the wrist and tentatively presses his lips against yours.

“Don’ care about the gloss,” he comments, and you resist the urge to explain it’s not gloss, it’s lipstick. “But I don’ call you pretty girl for no reason. Always pretty,” he says shyly, and Daryl is a perfect guy, but he never opens up. Hardly ever says how he feels, or what he thinks - but he’s being clear now. That he wants you, verbally, even though his actions in everything he do is always proving that to you.

It’s crazy, the feeling of happiness bubbling in your chest, all thanks to Daryl Dixon. On the fucking highway filled with walkers probably silent in their cars, with flat tires and blood stains and ramsacked belongings, you stand on your tip toes and nudge the toe of your boots against his, grabbing hold of his handsome face and peppering kisses all over. You leave pink lipstick marks, but he doesn’t know that yet - and it makes you giggle.

Putting your mark all over Daryl - you’ve never been possessive, but wow does it feel good. When you finally pull away, Daryl looks at you like you’re crazy. Then he takes a look down the highway to make sure nobody’s coming, before bending you over the front of his motorcycle.

“Grab the handlebars,” he orders, a hand on your back before roughly pulling your pants down your ass. It’s risky, knowing that the rest of the camp could drive up at any minute, but who really cares? They already think so low of you. They already -

Your eyes shut as Daryl shoves his half hard cock inside of you, and your walls clamp down around him, so tight you feel him growing. It happened so fast he wasn’t even fully hard, but now he is, small thrusts so the both of you can get used to the feeling. Your hands are cramping where they grip the bars of his bike, so tight, until it almost starts to tip. Daryl has an idea.

He pulls out, cock in hand with his fucking pants not even pulled all the way down, and he sits himself over his bike like normal. “Take em’ off,” he says, nodding towards your pants, and you obey, stripping them off until it takes too long because of your boots and Daryl just hauls you over to him.

You almost trip as he lifts you onto the bike, bent over the handlebars, eyes on the road, before he slips his cock into you. It’s like you’re sitting on his lap, and he reaches around you, fully supporting your body while rubbing your clit.

“Can you move?” He asks roughly, and you whine, trying to go up and down on his cock but it’s too hard at the angle. Daryl presses a kiss to your head, moves some of your hair back while he takes hold of your hips and ruts you back and forth over his dick. You know he’s strong, but feeling it first hand is something else entirely. It’s like you’re a doll with the way he easily controls your body, dick so thick it feels like he’s stretching your pussy into the perfect mold just for him.

“Don’ worry,” he assures, letting out a breath of pleasure right by your ear. “I got ya. Only time yer quiet ‘s when you got my cock in you, huh?”

He’s not wrong. You wish you could see his face, but this position, your back to his front, is pretty hot too.

It’s only a minute later, when his hand slips while you try to pull your body up to do some of the work, that he nearly pinches your clit and it’s the pain that sends you over the edge. You cum, that easily against him, and you cry out his name just as you both hear the sound of an engine in the distance. Daryl curses, throws his head back at the feel of your tight pussy squeezing him, and quite literally picks you up off his cock and puts you on your feet.

“Knees,” he says quickly, and you obey, because of course you do, even though the gravel of the road is a little painful on your knees. He grabs you by your hair, and forces your mouth onto his cock where he spills his load down your throat. You swallow it down and kitten lick the head of his cock clean after, admiring the pink lipstick marks all over his perfect dick as he quickly zips tucks his dick in his pants and zips up, but not before helping you get your pants back up too.

“If we live another day,” Daryl says, helping you straighten out your pants when the other cars pull up. He snaps the band of your panties, white cotton and floral print, against your skin while the rest of the group gets out of the cars to have a meeting over some bullshit, you’re sure. “I’ll return the favor,” he finishes.

You don’t know if he’s joking or not, but you pull up his arm and cuddle into his side as he stands up, his tongue on your mind even though you just came all over his cock. You wish you could’ve had time to ride your orgasm out, but you’ll take what you can get.

Rick nods to Daryl as he gets out of his truck. He looks between the two of you, and for the first time, maybe ever, - you see him smirk a little.

“‘S your color, man,” he says, closing the car door. Daryl is confused, and takes a look at himself in the rearview mirror of his motorcycle, notices all the kiss marks and another first happens -

Daryl Dixon blushes red.

────

“I wanna come,” you say, resisting the urge to literally stomp your foot as Rick and Daryl and a few other men head out on a run.

It’s not like you actually want to go, but you can’t bear the thought of Daryl leaving without you. You know he can take care of himself, but the thought of him not returning - it literally makes you feel sick. You tug on the sleeves of your sweater while Daryl loads a bag of guns into the back of Rick’s truck, the other men exchanging glances that you know are them hoping Rick puts you in your place.

Ever since people caught on about you and Daryl, they’ve kept their mouths shut in regards to you. Which is good. You’re still ignored, like before - but at least you’ve got a little respect. You cross your arms as Rick and Daryl walk towards you.

“It’s dangerous out there,” Rick says, as if you’re an idiot who’s head has been buried in the sand for the past year. He sighs. “Look - we need you here. This is your role,” he looks like he wants to continue, but Daryl places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a look that Rick knows means let me handle this.

But you already know what Daryl is going to say to you, and you don’t want to fucking hear it. “I want to come, Daryl,” you say, trying not to whine. “I’m good with a gun, and since Derek can’t go,” you lower your voice, but Derek must’ve been slinking around. He pops up next to you, and Daryl tenses.

“You,” Daryl warns, mood gone sour just from Derek’s presence. “Fuck off.”

Derek laughs, but he’s obviously pissed. He can’t go on anymore runs, at least not for a while - he’s too scared, after a walker almost bit him the last time.

It’s only when you tense up, that Daryl realizes the other reason you don’t want to be left alone.

You don’t want to be alone with Derek. Yes, there’s other women at the camp and a few other men, but Derek is a scary, loose cannon. He’s the last person you want to be around right now. Daryl’s jaw locks, and he looks between the two of you, at the way you’re uncomfortable. Someone in Rick’s truck blares the horn, and he turns around, stressed out, not knowing what to do.

“Fuck face,” Daryl grumbles, running a hand down his face. He’s addressing Derek with a glare. He walks closer to him, chest to chest almost, backing Derek almost onto his ass. Derek can pretend to be tough all he wants - but he’s a bitch in comparison to a man like Daryl.

“Stay away from her. Don’t even look at her. If I come back and you so much as,” but Derek smirks. “If,” he emphasizes, until Daryl literally shoves him. Rick calls his name, and Daryl backs off.

You end up dropping whatever you’re saying, hating the position you’re putting Daryl in - like you’re a kid who has to have your way. Daryl is just trying to help the group, he has responsibilities - you don’t need to make his job harder than it is, so you wave him off. “I’ll be fine, Daryl. Just - come back safe.” You kiss his cheek and then he’s off.

You go to your tent to avoid Derek when the men going on the run are gone, but as you walk away you hear him speaking to you. “What’re you doing with that white trash? You might’ve been a whore, but you’re no trailer trash. You wouldn’t be with him if this was any other world.”

You stop in your tracks. “Don’t talk about Daryl like that,” you say softly, but firmly. For all Daryl does for everyone - you can’t believe Derek has the fucking nerve to talk shit. You want to flip him off, but he walks closer to you, and you freeze. You’re more scared of this man than a fucking walker, and your stomach flips with anxiety at his nearness.

“I worked in finance,” he says, like it matters. You actually have to stifle a laugh, confused at why his past matters - he’s so worthless that this is all he has to brag about? He thinks you care? Is he trying to relate to you, by putting Daryl down? He’s an idiot.

You smile sweetly, as if that’s anything to brag about. All the finance guys you knew in the city before all of this - they were horrible people. Of course that’s what Derek used to do.

“Trust me, Derek,” you say, hoping it stings. “I know.”

You walk away again, but just as you do, he grabs you by the arm. You try to pull your arm out of his grasp, but he won’t let you go. He tugs you closer to him, and you wish anyone cared about you enough to help you.

“Let go of me,” you spit, but Derek just shakes his head.

“You’re such a stupid bitch, you know that? Acting too good for any of us, treating all of us like shit. But you put out for fucking Dixon - let all of us hear you letting him fuck you in his tent and the woods. We saw you on your knees that day on the highway. I mean, it’s not a secret you’re a slut, but it’s another thing to see it. And now Rick is defending you? That why you were talking to him the other day for dinner? Offering yourself up for more rations or something? You’re sick,” Derek rants and raves, bruising your arm with his grip.

“Let me go,” you say, trying not to show how scared you are. “Or I’ll fucking scream.”

Derek actually laughs, shaking his head. You’re disturbed to know that he’s been watching you? Following you and Daryl? Because the both of you know - you only ever fooled around with Daryl when nobody could listen and see unless they were trying to. You wouldn’t do that, and neither would Daryl.

“If I’m such a stupid slut, that must make you pretty bad, huh? That I won’t even put out for you,” you hate that you even say those words, like you’d ever consider having sex with this man, but you want to hurt him. To get him to see that he's wrong about you - you want him to leave you alone.

“You fucking bitch,” Derek says, pushing you to the ground.

You let out a cry. You should’ve never told Daryl and Rick you’d be okay, you should’ve -

Suddenly Derek is off of you. You’re frozen for a second, before you hear screaming and someone calling out your name.

You’re in shock as someone helps you up. You know it’s Rick, because you notice his watch. “Damnit,” he curses, and you register the sound of Daryl’s voice. You look around for him, and when you find him, you see Derek on the ground, an arrow in his head.

He’s dead - for now. That fast. Until he turns into a walker.

Daryl walks to you, pulls you into his arms. “What happened?” He asks, and you’re worried he’s going to blame you, because you provoked him, and you stupidly left your weapons in your tent. You’re worried he’s going to think differently of you, that Rick will be mad that Derek is dead, and all these worries start swirling in your head until you can’t be strong anymore. You start crying so loud that you know you’ll be responsible for any walkers coming into camp tonight.

Rick starts to talk, but Daryl, for the first time ever, shuts him down harshly. “No, man. I ain’t sorry. He had it coming,” he says sharply, and Rick just swallows, holds his hands up like he agrees.

“Jus’ was gonna say to finish the job,” and you know he means, kill the fucker before he turns.

But you don't want Daryl to do it.

No, this is a job you can do.

Wordlessly, you pull yourself out of Daryl’s arms and walk towards Derek’s corpse. Everyone at the camp has gathered around now, too little too fucking late, but Rick tries to stop you from getting closer. You smack his hand away, and hold your palm out. It takes a minute, until Daryl finally orders Rick to give you what you want.

Rick hesitantly places a gun in your hand - and you shoot Derek in the head.

────

You’ve never killed someone who hasn’t turned yet. Derek was the first.

What scares you the most, is how little you care.

After what happened, you told Daryl everything that Derek said. You learned that night, from both Rick and Daryl, that the reason Derek was so horrible is because he wanted you - and how scary is that? What if he hurt you in another way once he had you on the ground? You’re lucky Rick forgot his gun and backpack on the run, that they had to turn around and come back to camp - the reason they got to you in time.

Rick assured you that you did the right thing. Which felt good, coming from the moral compass of the group. Everyone else was kind too, apologetic - you guess Derek scared more people into submission than you thought.

But Daryl was just pissed. More angry than you’d ever seen him. Throwing shit, breaking stuff - burning Derek the minute he dragged him a far enough distance from camp. Derek never even got a chance to turn.

Daryl threatened to leave the group with just you. It seemed like a good idea at first, until the reality that two people can’t survive on their own. No matter how resourceful, strong, and brave Daryl is.

But that meant a lot, that Daryl was trying - but the important thing is to survive.

The last few weeks, you’ve kept your head down. You clean, you help cook, you even take a few bites of whatever Daryl cooks because he pretty much forces you to - and because, secretly, you like how proud of you he looks when you try something new.

You just wish the world was different. But Daryl’s been amazing.

Rick’s been kind too. Everyone has, and maybe -

The sound of the zipper on your tent takes you out of your thoughts. You’re braiding your hair since you just washed it, but it’s proving to be a difficult task. You’re thankful for the distraction.

It’s Daryl.

“I already ate,” you tell him, worried that he’s bringing you some rodent that’s badly cooked. But you’re trying to be nice - he’s the only good thing in your world these days, so you soften your words. “Come inside and cuddle.”

Daryl squeezes inside the tent, and he leans on his side by your sleeping bag, just watching you. His head balanced on his hand, propped up on his elbow.

“Have somethin’ for you,” he says, not waiting for you to reply. In his hand is something wrapped in a tissue and you wonder what it is. He places it on your lap, and you look at him, excited but also a little upset.

“I told you to stop risking your life to get me things,” you scold, because everytime Daryl goes on a run, he finds things for you. Ribbons, hair clips, a pink toothbrush the other day. Lip gloss and lipstick (he knows the difference now), a pair of socks with little bows on them that are a size too big but still your favorite. He’s always saying how cute you are, how he thinks about you whenever he sees something pink.

It’s the best compliment ever.

You look to the other end of your sleeping bag, where a teddy bear Daryl found for you on a run a few weeks ago faces you both. It’s missing an eye, has the ribbon, the first gift he ever gave to you tied around its neck, and you love it so much that you sleep with it every night.

It’s definitely seen better days, and you don’t really know where he found it, but it’s so special to you - partly because Daryl gave it to you, and partly because it’s a little part of him that’s always with you. Part teddy bear, part security blanket - just like him.

It’s also a little scraggly. Sort of rough, dirty - but cuddly just the same. Kind of like Daryl. You move it a little closer.

Daryl groans in frustration and you almost roll your eyes at the dramatics. “Hush, lady, y’know I can take care of myself. ‘S nothing,” he nods to the thing on your lap, and you sigh and open the tissue.

It’s a cookie.

Your brows furrow, and you look at Daryl, all confused. “What,” you start, and he shrugs, sitting up. He rubs a hand down his face.

“Remembered what you said, about the cookies,” he’s sheepish, as if this isn’t the sweetest thing in the world. You gulp, trying not to cry at how touched you are, but you can’t help it. Tears brim at your waterline, and you wipe your eyes.

“Oh,” he scolds, letting out a huff. “Don’ cry. I just remembered what you said, is all. It’s probably not good anymore, but you’re my girl, and I want,” you smile even as tears run down your face.

“Your girl,” you hold that close to your heart, and Daryl nods, avoiding eye contact. You don’t care. You throw yourself into his arms.

His hug is warm, strong, and you feel the stress leave your body as he kisses your temple. He was listening, all those times you were talking.

Daryl Dixon, you think, the man that you are.

Your silence must be unexpected. He pulls away, watches your thumb brush over the most likely stale cookie he probably found on a run. You’re not really gonna eat it - but it’s the thought that counts.

“You talked about what ya miss, from before. But when I look back,” pretty blue eyes look at you. He cups your chin, presses his lips against yours.

You make a note to ask for chapstick for the both of you on the next run.

“Don’ cry, c’mon. You’re makin me soft,” he complains, even as he holds you closer. You want tell him that you can’t make him something he already is, but what he says next throws the sass right out of you. “When I look back, before I knew you,” he finishes shyly, “I just miss you, ya know?”

Daryl says that he’s not romantic, but he’s the most romantic man you've ever met. He’s a good person. He’s kind, and thoughtful, and even though he’s vague sometimes, too quiet for his own good - you know what he means.

You can’t believe there was a time you didn’t know - a time you didn’t love - this man. He’s everything to you.

And maybe, yeah - this world is hell. There’s death and decay and too much sadness to catch a break, but there’s one good thing in all of it. One thing so important to the both of you, that gives a little bit of meaning to this shitty, shitty world.

You found each other. You have each other.

You sniffle and nod, holding the cookie close, but Daryl even closer.

“Yeah,” you say, kissing his cheek softly. You feel him relax at your touch. “I’ve always missed you too, Daryl.”

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thepencilnerd · 3 months ago

Text

Edge of the Dark

pairing: Jack Abbot x doctor!Reader summary: What starts as quiet pining after too many long shifts becomes something heavier, messier, softer—until the only place it all makes sense is in the dark. warnings: references to trauma and PTSD, mentions of deaths in hospital setting, emotionally charged scenes genre: slow burn, fluff, humor, angst, hurt/mostly comfort, soft intimacy, one (1) very touch-starved man, communication struggles, messy feelings, healing is not linear, implied but not explicit smut word count: ~13.5k (i apologize in advance ;-; pls check out ao3 if you prefer chapters) a/n: this started as a soft character exploration and very quickly became a mega-doc of deep intimacy, trauma-informed gentleness, and jack abbot being so touch-starved it hurts. dedicated to anyone who’s ever longed for someone who just gets it 💛 p.s. check out my other abbot fic if you're interested ^-^

You weren’t sure why you lingered.

Everyone had peeled off after a few beers in the park, laughter trailing behind them like fading campfire smoke. Someone had packed up the empties. Someone else made a joke about early rounds. There were half-hearted goodbyes and the sound of sneakers on gravel.

But two people hadn’t moved.

Jack Abbot was still sitting on the bench, legs stretched out in front of him, head tilted just enough that the sharp line of his jaw caught the low amber light from a distant streetlamp.

You stood a few feet away, hovering, unsure if he wanted to be alone or just didn’t know how to leave.

The countless night shifts you'd shared blurred like smeared ink, all sharp moments and dull exhaustion. You’d been colleagues long enough to know the shape of each other’s presence—Jack’s clipped tone when things were spiraling, your tendency to narrate while suturing. Passing conversations, brief exchanges in stolen moments of calm—that was the extent of it. You knew each other’s habits on shift, the shorthand of chaos, the rhythm of crisis. But outside the job, you were closer to strangers than friends. The Dr. Jack Abbot you knew began and ended in the ER.

It had always been in fragments. Glimpses across trauma rooms. A muttered "Nice work" after a tricky intubation. The occasional shared note on a chart. Maybe a nod in the break room if you happened to breathe at the same time. You knew each other's rhythms, but not the stories behind them. It was small talk in the eye of a hurricane—the kind that comes fast and leaves no room for anything deeper. The calm before the storm, never after.

“You okay?” Your voice came out soft, not wanting to startle him in case he was occupied with his thoughts.

He didn’t look at you right away. Just blinked, slow, eyes boring holes into the concrete path laid before him. "Didn’t want to go home yet." Then, after a beat, his gaze shifted to you. "You coming back in a few hours?"

You huffed a small laugh, more air than sound. "Probably. Not like I’ll get more than a couple hours of sleep anyway." The beer left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue as you took another sip.

His mouth curved—almost a smile, almost something more. "Yeah. That’s what I said to Robby."

You saw the tired warmth in his eyes. Not gone, just tucked away.

"Wasn't this supposed to be your day off?" you asked, tipping your head slightly. "You could take tomorrow off to comp."

He snorted under his breath. "I could. Probably won't."

"Of course not," you said, lips quirking. "That would be too easy."

"No sleep for the wicked," he muttered dryly, but there was no edge to it. Just familiarity settling between you like an old coat.

A quiet settled over the bench. Neither of you spoke. You breathed together, the kind of silence that asked nothing, demanded nothing. Just the hush of night stretching between two people with too much in their heads and not enough rest in their bones.

Then, unexpectedly, he asked, "Do you think squirrels ever get drunk from fermented berries?"

You blinked. "What?" It was impossible to hold back the frown of confusion that dashed across your face.

He shrugged, barely hiding a grin. "I read about it once. They get all wobbly and fall out of trees."

A laugh burst out of you—sudden, warm, real. "Dr. Abbot, are you drunk right now?"

"Little buzzed," he admitted, yet his body gave no indication that he was anything but sober. "But I stand by the question. Seems like something we should investigate. For science."

You laughed again, softer this time. The kind that lingered behind your teeth.

"Call me Jack."

When you looked up, you saw that he was still staring at you. That smile still tugged at the edge of his mouth. There was a flicker of something in his expression—a moment of uncertainty, then decision.

"You can just call me Jack," he repeated, voice quieter now. "We're off the clock."

A grin crept its way onto your face. "Jack." You said it slowly, like you were trying the word on for size. It felt strange in your mouth—new, unfamiliar—but right. The syllable rolled off your tongue and settled into the space between you like something warm.

He ducked his head slightly, like he wasn’t sure what to do with your smile.

The quiet returned, but this time it was lighter, looser. He leaned down to fasten his prosthetic back in place with practiced ease, then stood up to give his sore muscles another good stretch. When he looked over at you again, it was with a steadier kind of presence—solid, grounded.

"You want some company on the walk home?"

Warmth flooded your face. Maybe it was the alcohol hitting. Or the worry of being a burden. You hesitated, then gave him an apologetic look. "I mean—thank you, really—but you don’t have to. I live across the river, by Point State Park. It’s kind of out of the way."

Jack tipped his chin up, brows furrowing in thought. "Downtown? I'm on Fifth and Market Street. That’s like, what—two blocks over?"

"Seriously?" Jack Abbot lived a five-minute walk south from you?

The thought settled over you with a strange warmth. All this time, the space between your lives had been measured in blocks.

He nodded, stuffing his hands into his pockets and slinging on his backpack, the fabric rustling faintly. "Yeah. No bother at all, it's on my way."

You both stood there a moment longer as the wind shifted, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic from Liberty Avenue and the low splash of water against the Mon Wharf. Somewhere nearby, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

"Weird we’ve never run into each other," you murmured, more to yourself than anything. But of course, he heard you.

Jack’s gaze flicked toward you, and something like a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "Guess we weren’t looking," he said.

The rest of the walk was quiet, but not empty. Your footsteps echoed in unison against the cracked sidewalk, and somewhere between street lamps and concrete cracks, you stopped feeling like strangers. The dim lights left long shadows that pooled around your feet, soft and flickering. Neither of you seemed in a rush to break the silence.

Maybe it was the late hour, or the leftover buzz from the beers, or maybe it was something else entirely, but the dark didn’t feel heavy the way it sometimes did—especially after shifts like this. It was a kind of refuge. A quiet shelter for two people too used to holding their breath. It felt... safe. Like a shared language being spoken in a place you both understood.

A few night shifts passed. Things had quieted down after the mass casualty event—at least by ER standards—but the chaos never really left. Working emergency meant the moments of calm were usually just precursors to the next wave. You were supposed to be off by seven, but paperwork ran long, a consult ran over, a med student went rogue with an IO drill, and before you knew it, it was 9 am.

After unpinning your badge and stuffing it into your pocket, you pushed through the main hospital doors and winced against the pale morning light. Everything felt too sharp, too loud, and the backs of your eyes throbbed from hours of fluorescent lighting. Fatigue settled deep in your muscles, a familiar dull ache that pulsed with each step. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to your scrubs, mixed with the bitter trace of stale coffee.

You were busy rubbing your eyes, trying to relieve the soreness that bloomed behind them like a dull migraine, and didn’t see the figure standing just to the side of the door.

You walked straight into him—headfirst.

“Jesus—sorry,” you muttered, taking a step back.

And there he was: Jack Abbot, leaning against the bike rack just outside the lobby entrance. His eyes tracked the sliding doors like he’d been waiting for something—or someone. In one hand, he held a steaming paper cup. Not coffee, you realized when the scent hit you, but tea. And in the other, he had a second cup tucked against his ribs.

He looked up when he saw you, and for a second, he didn’t say anything. Just smiled, small and tired and real.

"Dr. Abbot." You blinked, caught completely off guard.

"Jack," he corrected gently, with a crooked smirk that didn’t quite cover the hint of nerves underneath. "Off the clock, remember?"

A soft scoff escaped you—more acknowledgment than answer. As you shifted your weight, the soreness settled into your legs. "Wait—why are you still here? Your caseload was pretty light today. Should’ve been out hours ago."

Jack shrugged, eyes steady on yours. "Had a few things to wrap up. Figured I’d wait around. Misery loves company."

You blinked again, slower this time. That quiet, steady warmth in your chest flared—not dramatic, just there. Present. Unspoken.

He extended the cup toward you like it was no big deal. You took it, the warmth of the paper seeping into your fingers, grounding you more than you expected.

"Didn’t know how you took it," Jack said. "Figured tea was safer than coffee at this hour."

You nodded, still adjusting to the strange intimacy of being thought about. "Good guess."

He glanced at his own cup, then added with a small smirk, "The barista recommended some new hipster blend—uh, something like... lavender cloudburst? Cloud... bloom? I don't know. It sounded ridiculous, but it smelled okay, so."

You snorted into your first sip. "Lavender cloudburst? That a seasonal storm warning or a tea?"

Jack laughed under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. "Honestly couldn’t tell you. I just nodded like I knew what I was doing."

And something about the way he said it—offhand, dry, and a little self-deprecating—made the morning feel a little softer. Like he wasn’t just waiting to see you. He was trying to figure out how to stay a little longer.

The first sip tasted like a warm hug. “It’s good,” you hummed. Jack would be remiss if he didn’t notice the way your cheeks flushed pink, or how you smiled to yourself.

So the two of you just started walking.

There was no plan. No particular destination in mind. Just the rhythmic scuff of your shoes on the pavement, the warm cups in hand, and the soft hum of a city waking up around you. The silence between you wasn’t awkward, just cautious—guarded, maybe, but not unwilling. As you passed by a row of restaurants, he made a quiet comment about the coffee shop that always burned their bagels. You mentioned the skeleton in OR storage someone dressed up in scrubs last Halloween, prompted by some graffiti on the brick wall of an alley. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

Jack shoved one hand in his pocket, the other still cradling his now-empty cup. “I still think cloudburst sounds like a shampoo brand.”

You grinned, stealing a sideways glance at him. “I don’t know, I feel like it could also be a very niche indie band.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and breathy. “That tracks. ‘Cloudburst’s playing the Thunderbird next weekend.’”

“Opening for Citrus Lobotomy,” you deadpanned.

Jack nearly choked on his last sip of tea.

The moment passed like that—small, stupid jokes nestled between shared exhaustion and something else neither of you were quite ready to name. But in those fragments, in those glances and tentative laughs, there was a kind of knowing. Not everything had to be said outright. Some things could just exist—quietly, gently—between the spaces of who you were behind hospital doors and who you were when the work was finally done.

The next shift came hard and fast.

A critical trauma rolled in just past midnight—a middle-aged veteran, found unconscious, head trauma, unstable vitals, military tattoo still visible on his forearm beneath the dried blood. Jack was leading the case, and even from across the trauma bay, you could see it happen—the second he recognized the tattoo, something in him shut down.

He didn’t freeze. Didn’t panic. He just... went quiet. Tighter around the eyes. Sharper, more mechanical. As if he’d stepped out of his body and left the rest behind to finish the job.

The team moved like clockwork, but the rhythm never felt right. The patient coded again. Then again. Jack ordered another round of epi, demanded more blood—his voice tight, almost brittle. That sharp clench of his jaw said everything he didn’t. He wanted this one to make it. He needed to.

Even as the monitor flatlined, its sharp tone cutting through the noise like a blade, he kept going.

“Start another line,” he said. “Hang another unit. Push another dose.”

No one moved.

You stepped in, heart sinking. “Dr. Abbot… he’s gone.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look at you. “One more round. Just—try again.”

The team hesitated. Eyes darted to you.

You stepped closer, voice soft but firm. “Jack—” you said his name like a lifeline, not a reprimand. “I’m so sorry.”

That stopped him. Just like that, his breath caught. Shoulders sagged. The echo of the monitor still rang behind you, constant and cold.

He finally looked at the man on the table.

“Time of death, 02:12.”

His hands didn’t shake until they were empty.

Then he peeled off his gloves and threw them hard into the garbage can, the snap of latex punctuating the silence like a slap. Without a word, he turned and stormed out of the trauma bay, footsteps clipped and angry, leaving the others standing frozen in his wake.

It wasn’t until hours later—when the adrenaline faded and the grief crawled back in like smoke under a door—that you found him again.

He was on the roof.

Just standing there.

Like the sky could carry the weight no one else could hold.

As if standing beneath that wide, empty stretch might quiet the scream still lodged in his chest. He didn’t turn around when you stepped onto the roof, but his posture shifted almost imperceptibly. He recognized your footsteps.

"What are you doing up here?"

The words came from him, low and rough, and it surprised you more than it should have.

You paused, taking careful steps toward him. Slow enough not to startle, deliberate enough to be noticed. "I should be asking you that."

He let out a soft breath that might’ve been a laugh—or maybe just exhaustion given form. For a while, neither of you spoke. The wind pulled at your scrub top, cool and insistent, but not enough to chase you back inside.

“You ever have one of those cases that just—sticks?” he asked eventually, eyes still locked on the city below.

“Most of them,” you admitted quietly. “Some louder than others.”

Jack nodded, slow. “Yeah. Thought I was past that one.”

You didn’t ask what he meant. You knew better than to press. Just like he didn’t ask why you were really up there, either.

There was a pause. Not empty—just cautious.

“I get it,” you murmured. “Some things don’t stay buried. No matter how deep you try to shove them down.”

That earned a glance from him, fleeting but sharp. “Didn’t know you had things like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your gaze steady on the skyline. “That’s the point, right?”

Another breath. A half-step toward understanding. But the walls stayed up—for now. Just not as high as they’d been.

You glanced at him, his face half in shadow. "It’s not weak to let someone stand beside you. Doesn’t make the weight go away, but it’s easier to keep moving when you’re not the only one holding it."

His shoulders twitched, just slightly. Like something in him heard you—and wanted to believe it.

You nudged the toe of your shoe against a loose bit of gravel, sensing the way Jack had pulled back into himself. The lines of his shoulders had gone stiff again, his expression harder to read. So you leaned into what you knew—a little humor, a little distance cloaked in something lighter.

“If you jump on Robby’s shift, he’ll probably make you supervise the med students who can't do proper chest compressions.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. But something close. Something that cracked the silence just enough to let the air in again. “God, I'd hate to be his patient."

Then, in one fluid motion, he swung a leg through the railing and stepped carefully onto solid ground beside you. The metal creaked beneath his weight, but he moved like he’d done it a hundred times before. That brief flicker of distance, of something fragile straining at the edges, passed between you both in silence.

Neither of you said anything more. You simply turned together, wordlessly, and started heading back inside.

A shift change here, a coffee break there—moments that lingered a little longer than they used to. Small talk slipped into quieter pauses that neither of you rushed to fill. Glances held for just a beat too long, then quickly looked away.

You noticed things. Not all at once. But enough.

Jack’s habit of reorganizing the cart after every code. The way he checked in on the new interns when he thought no one was watching. The moments he paused before signing out, like he wasn’t ready to meet daybreak.

And sometimes, you’d catch him watching you—not with intent, but with familiarity. As if the shape of you in a room had become something he expected. Something steady.

Nothing was said. Nothing had to be.

Whatever it was, it was moving. Slowly. Quietly.

The kind of shift that only feels seismic once you look back at where you started.

One morning, after another long stretch of back-to-back shifts, the two of you walked out together without planning to. No words, no coordination. Just parallel exhaustion and matching paces.

The city was waking up—soft blue sky, the whir of early buses, the smell of something vaguely sweet coming from a bakery down the block.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “You walking all the way?”

“Figured I’d try and get some sleep,” you said, then hesitated. “Actually… there’s a diner a few blocks from here. Nothing fancy. But their pancakes don’t suck.”

He glanced over, one brow raised. “Is that your way of saying you want breakfast?”

“I’m saying I’m hungry,” you replied, a touch too casual. “And you look like you could use something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Jack didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long second, then nodded once.

“Alright,” he said. “Lead the way.”

And that was it.

No declarations. No turning point anyone else might notice. Just two people, shoulder to shoulder, walking in the same direction a little longer than they needed to.

The diner wasn’t much—formica tables, cracked vinyl booths, a waitress who refilled your bland coffee without asking. But it was warm, and quiet, and smelled like real butter.

You sat across from Jack in a booth near the window, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around mismatched mugs. He didn’t talk much at first, just stirred his coffee like he was waiting for it to tell him something.

Eventually, the silence gave way.

“I think I’ve eaten here twice this week,” you said, gesturing to the laminated menu. “Mostly because I don’t trust myself near a stove after night shift.”

Jack cracked a tired smile. “Last time I tried to make eggs, I nearly set off the sprinklers.”

“That would’ve been one hell of a consult excuse.”

He chuckled—quiet, genuine. The kind of laugh that felt rare on him. “Pretty sure the med students already think I live at the hospital. That would've just confirmed it.”

Conversation meandered from there. Things you both noticed. The weird habits of certain attendings. The one resident who used peanut butter as a mnemonic device. None of it deep, but all of it honest.

Somewhere between pancakes and too many refills, something eased.

Jack looked up mid-sip, met your eyes, and didn’t look away.

“You’re easy to sit with,” he said simply.

You didn’t answer right away.

Just smiled. “You are too.”

One thing about Jack was that he never shied away from eye contact. Maybe it was the military in him—or maybe it was just how he kept people honest. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and when it landed on you, it stayed.

You felt it then, like a spotlight cutting through the dim diner lighting. That intensity, paired with the softness of the moment, made your stomach dip. You ducked your head, suddenly interested in your coffee, and took a sip just to busy your hands.

Jack didn’t miss it. “You feeling okay?"

You scoffed. “It’s just warm in here.”

“Mmm,” he said, clearly unconvinced. “Must be the pancakes.”

You coughed lightly, the sound awkward and deliberate, then reached for the safety of a subject less charged. “So,” you began, “what’s the worst advice you ever got from a senior resident?”

Jack blinked, then let out a quiet laugh. “That’s easy. ‘If the family looks confused, just talk faster.’”

You winced, grinning. “Oof. Classic.”

He leaned back in the booth. “What about you?”

“Oh, mine told me to bring donuts to chart review so the attending would go easy on me.”

Jack tilted his head. “Did it work?”

“Well,” you said, “the donuts got eaten. My SOAP note still got ripped apart. So, no.”

He chuckled. “Justice, then.”

He stirred his coffee once more, then set the spoon down with more care than necessary. His voice dropped, softer, but not fragile. Testing the waters.

"You ever think about leaving it? The ER, I mean."

The question caught you off guard—not because it was heavy, but because it was him asking. You blinked at him, surprised to see something flicker behind his eyes. Not restlessness exactly. Just... ache.

"Sometimes," you admitted. "When it gets too loud. When I catch myself counting the days instead of the people."

Jack nodded, but his gaze locked on you. Steady. Intense. Like he was memorizing something. It took everything out of you not to shy away.

"I used to think if I left, everything I’d seen would catch up to me all at once. Like the noise would follow me anyway."

You let that hang in the air between you. It wasn’t a confession. But it was close.

"Maybe it would. But maybe there’d be room to breathe, too..." you trailed off, breaking eye contact.

Jack didn’t respond, didn’t look away. Simply looked into you with the hopes of finding an answer for himself.

Eventually, the food was picked at more than eaten, the check paid, and the last of the coffee drained. When you finally stepped outside, the air hit cooler than expected—brisk against your skin, a contrast to the warmth left behind in the diner. The sky had brightened while you weren’t looking, soft light catching the edges of buildings, traffic picking up in a faint buzz. It was the kind of morning that made everything feel suspended—just a little bit longer—before the real world returned.

The walk back was quieter than before. Not tense, just full. Tired footsteps on uneven sidewalks. The distant chirp of birds. Your shoulders brushing once. Maybe twice.

When you finally reached your building, you paused on the steps. Jack lingered just behind you, hands in his jacket pockets, gaze drifting toward the street.

"Thanks for breakfast," you said.

He nodded. "Yeah. Of course."

A beat passed. Then two.

You could’ve invited him up. He could’ve asked if you wanted some tea. But neither of you took the step forward, opting rather to stand still.

Not yet.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice low.

“You too.”

And just like that, he turned and walked off into the quiet.

Another hard shift. One of those nights that stuck to your skin, bitter and unshakable. You’d both lost a patient that day. Different codes, same outcome. Same weight. Same painful echo of loss that clung to the insides of your chest like smoke. No one cried. No one yelled. But it was there—the tension around Jack’s mouth, the clenching of his jaw; the way your hands wouldn’t stop flexing, nails digging into your palms to ground yourself. In the stillness. In the quiet. In everything that hurt.

You lingered near the bike racks, not really speaking. The space between you was thick, not tense—but full. Too full.

It was late, or early, depending on how you looked at it. The kind of hour where the streets felt hollow and fluorescent light still hummed behind your eyes. No one had moved to say goodbye.

You shifted your weight, glanced at him. Jack stood a few feet away, jaw tight, eyes somewhere distant.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I could make tea." Not loud. Not casual. Just—offered.

You weren’t sure what possessed you to say it. Maybe it was the way he was looking at the ground. Or the way the silence between you had started to feel like lead. Either way, the moment it left your mouth, something inside you winced.

He looked at you then. Really looked. And after a long pause, nodded. “Alright.”

So you walked the blocks together, shoulder to shoulder beneath the hum of a waking city. The stroll was quiet—neither of you said much after the offer. When you reached the front steps of your building, your fingers froze in front of the intercom box. Hovered there. Hesitated. You weren’t even sure why—he was just standing there, quiet and steady beside you—but still, something in your chest fluttered. Then you looked at him.

“The code’s 645,” you murmured, like it meant nothing. Like it hadn’t just made your stomach flip.

He didn’t say anything. Just nodded. The beeping of the box felt louder than it should’ve, too sharp against the quiet. But then the lock clicked, and the door swung open, and he followed you inside like he belonged there.

And then the two of you walked inside together.

Up the narrow staircase, your footsteps were slow, measured. The kind of tired that lived in your bones. He kept close but didn’t crowd, hand brushing the rail, eyes skimming the hallway like he didn’t quite know where to look.

When you opened the door to unit 104, you suddenly remembered what your place looked like—barebones, mostly. Lived-in, but not curated. A pair of shoes kicked off by the entryway, two mismatched mugs and a bowl in the sink, a pile of jackets strewn over the chair you'd found in a yard sale.

The floors creaked as he stepped inside. You winced, suddenly self-conscious.

"Sorry about the mess..." you muttered. You didn’t know what you expected—a judgment, maybe. A raised eyebrow. Something.

Instead, Jack looked around once, taking it in slowly. Then nodded.

“It fits.”

Something in his tone—low, sure, completely unfazed, like it was exactly what he'd imagined—made your stomach flip again. You exhaled quietly, tension easing in your shoulders.

"Make yourself at home."

Jack nodded again, then bent to untie his trainers. He stepped out of them carefully, placed them neatly by the door, and gave the space one more quiet scan before making his way to the living room.

The couch creaked softly as he sat, hands resting loosely on his knees, like he wasn’t sure whether to stay upright or lean back. From the kitchen, you stole a glance—watching him settle in, or at least try to. You didn’t want to bombard him with questions or hover like a bad host, but the quiet stretched long, and something in you itched to fill it.

You busied yourself with boiling water, fussing with mugs, tea bags, sugar that wasn’t there. Trying to make it feel like something warm was waiting in the silence. Trying to give him space, even as a dozen things bubbled just beneath your skin.

“Chamomile okay?” you finally asked, the words light but uncertain.

Jack didn’t look up. But he nodded. “Yeah. That’s good.” You turned back to the counter, heart thudding louder than the kettle.

Meanwhile, Jack sat in near silence, but his eyes moved slowly around the room. Not searching. Just... seeing.

There were paintings on the walls—mostly landscapes, one abstract piece with colors he couldn’t name. Based on the array of prints to fingerpainted masterpieces, he guessed you'd painted some of them, but they all felt chosen. Anchored. Real.

A trailing pothos hung from a shelf above the radiator, green and overgrown, even though the pot looked like it had seen better days. It was lush despite the odds—thriving in a quiet, accidental kind of way.

Outside on the balcony ledge, he spotted a few tiny trinkets: a mushroom clay figure with a lopsided smile, a second plant—shorter, spikier, the kind that probably didn’t need much water but still looked stubbornly alive. A moss green glazed pot, clearly handmade. All memories, maybe. All pieces of you he’d never seen before. Pieces of someone he was only beginning to know. He took them in slowly, carefully. Not wanting to miss a single thing.

The sound of footsteps pulled him out of his thoughts. Two mugs clinking gently. You stepped into the living room and offered him one without fanfare, just a quiet sort of steadiness that made the space feel warmer. He took the tea with a small nod, thanking you. You didn’t sit beside him. You settled on the loveseat diagonal from the couch—close, but not too close. Enough to see him without watching. Enough space to let him breathe.

He noticed.

Your fingers curled around your mug. The steam gave you something to look at. Jack’s expression didn’t shift much, but you knew he could read you like an open book. Probably already had.

“You’ve got a lovely place,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking to a print on the wall—one slightly crooked, like it had been bumped and never fixed. “Exactly how I imagined, honestly.”

You arched a brow, skeptical. “Messy and uneven?”

Jack let out a quiet laugh. “I was going to say warm. But yeah, sure. Bonus points for the haunted radiator.”

The way he said it—calm, a little awkward, like he was trying to make you feel comfortable—landed somewhere between a compliment and a peace offering.

He took another sip of tea. “It just… feels like you.”

The words startled something in you. You didn’t know what to say—not right away. Your smile came small, a little crooked, the kind you didn’t have to fake but weren’t sure how to hold for long. “Thank you,” you said softly, fingers tightening around your mug like it might keep you grounded. The heat had gone tepid, but the gesture still lingered.

Jack looked like he might say something else, then didn’t. His fingers tapped once, twice, against the side of his mug before he exhaled through his nose—a small, thoughtful sound.

“My therapist once told me that vulnerability’s like walking into a room naked and hoping someone brought a blanket,” he said, dryly. “I told him I’d rather stay in the hallway.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, surprised. “Mine said it was like standing on a beach during high tide. Sooner or later, the water reaches you—whether you're ready or not.”

Jack’s mouth quirked, amused. “That’s poetic.”

You shrugged, sipping your tea. “She’s a big fan of metaphors. And tide charts, apparently.”

He smiled into his mug. “Makes sense. You’re the kind of person who would still be standing there when it comes in.”

You tilted your head. “And you?”

He considered that. “Probably pacing the rocks. Waiting for someone to say it’s okay to sit down.”

A quiet stretched between you, but this one felt earned—less about what wasn’t said and more about what had been.

An hour passed like that. Not all silence, not all speech. Just the easy drift of soft conversation and shared space. Small talk filled the cracks when it needed to—his comment about the plant that seemed to be plotting something in the corner, your half-hearted explanation for the random stack of books next to the radiator. Every now and then, something deeper would peek through the surface.

“Ever think about just… disappearing?” you asked once, offhanded and a little too real.

Jack didn’t hesitate. “Yeah. But then I’d miss pancakes. And Mexican food.”

You laughed, and he smiled like he hadn’t meant to say something so honest.

It wasn’t much. But it was enough. A rhythm, slow and shy. Words passed like notes through a crack in the door—careful, but curious. Neither of you rushed it. Neither of you left.

And then the storm hit.

The rain droplets started slow, just a whisper on the window. But it built fast—wind shaking the glass, thunder cracking overhead like a warning. You turned toward it, heart sinking a little. Jack did too, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Jesus," you murmured, already reaching for your phone. As if by divine timing, the emergency alert confirmed it: flash flood advisory until late evening. Admin had passed coverage onto the day shift. Robby wouldn't be happy about that. You made a mental note to make fun of him about it tomorrow. "Doesn’t look like it’s letting up anytime soon..."

You glanced at Jack, who was still holding his mug like he wasn’t sure if he should move.

“You're welcome to stay—if you want,” you quickly clarified, trying to sound casual. “Only if you want to. Until it clears.”

His eyes flicked toward the window again, then to you. “You sure?”

“I mean, unless you want to risk get struck by lightning or swept into a storm drain.”

That earned the smallest laugh. “Tempting.”

You smiled, nervous. “Spare towel and blankets are in the linen closet. Couch pulls out. I think. Haven’t tried.”

Jack nodded slowly, setting his mug down. “I’m not picky.”

You busied yourself with clearing a spot, the nervous kind of motion that said you cared too much and didn’t know where to put it.

Jack watched you for a moment longer than he should’ve, then started helping—quiet, careful, hands brushing yours once as he reached for the extra pillow.

Neither of you commented on it. But your face burned.

And when the storm didn’t stop, neither of you rushed it.

Instead, the hours slipped by, slow and soft. At some point, Jack asked if he could shower—voice low, like he didn’t want to intrude. You pointed him toward the bathroom and handed him a spare towel, trying not to overthink the fact that his fingers grazed yours when he took it.

While he was in there, you busied yourself with making something passable for dinner. Rice. Egg drop soup. A couple frozen dumplings your mother had sent you dressed up with scallions and sesame oil. When Jack returned, hair damp, sleeves pushed up, you nearly dropped the plate. It wasn’t fair—how effortlessly good he looked like that. A little disheveled, a little too comfortable in a stranger’s home, and yet somehow perfectly at ease in your space. It was just a flash of thought—sharp, traitorous, warm—and then you buried it fast, turning back to the stovetop like it hadn’t happened at all.

You were still hovering by the stove, trying not to let the dumplings stick when you heard his footsteps. When he stepped beside you without a word and reached for a second plate, something in your brain short-circuited.

"Smells good," he said simply, voice low—and he somehow still smelled faintly of cologne, softened by the unmistakable citrus-floral mix of your body wash. It wasn’t fair. The scent tugged at something in your chest you didn’t want to name.

You blinked rapidly, buffering. "Thanks. Uh—it’s not much. Just... whatever I had."

He glanced at the pan, then to you. “You always downplay a five-course meal like this?”

Your mouth opened to protest, but then he smiled—quiet and warm and maybe a little teasing.

It took effort not to stare. Not to say something stupid about how stupidly good he looked. You shoved the thought down, hard, and went back to plating the food.

He helped without asking, falling into step beside you like he’d always been there. And when you both sat down at the low table, he smiled at the spread like it meant more than it should’ve.

Neither of you talked much while eating. But the air between you felt settled. Comfortable.

At some point between the second bite and the last spoonful of rice, Jack glanced up from his bowl and said, "This is good. Really good. I haven’t had a homemade meal in... a long time."

You were pleasantly surprised. And relieved. "Oh. Thanks. I’m just glad it turned out edible."

He shook his head slowly, eyes still on you. "If this were my last meal, I think I’d die happy."

Your face flooded with warmth instantly. It was stupid, really, the way a single line—soft, almost offhand—landed like that. You ducked your head, smiling into your bowl, trying to play it off.

You scoffed. "It's warm in here."

Jack tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly, amused. "You okay?"

“Mmm,” he murmured, clearly unconvinced. But he let it go.

Still, the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

You cleared your throat. "You're welcome anytime you'd like, by the way. For food. Or tea. Or... just to not be alone."

That earned a look from him—surprised, quiet, but soft in a way that made your chest ache.

And you didn’t dare look at him for a full minute after that.

When you stood to rinse your dishes, Jack took your bowl from your hands before you could protest and turned toward the sink. You opened your mouth but he was already running water, already rinsing with careful, practiced motions. So you just stood there in the soft hush of your kitchen, warmed by tea and stormlight, trying not to let your heart do anything foolish.

By the time the dishes were rinsed and left on the drying rack, the storm had only worsened—sheets of rain chasing themselves down the windows, thunder rolling deep and constant.

You found yourselves in the living room again, this time without urgency, without pretense—just quiet familiarity laced with something softer. And so, without discussing it, without making it a thing, you handed him the extra blanket and turned off all but one lamp.

Neither of you moved toward sleep just yet.

You were sitting by the balcony window, knees pulled up, mug long since emptied, staring out at the storm as it lashed the glass in sheets. The sound had become something rhythmic, almost meditative. Still, your arms were bare, and the goosebumps that peppered your forearms betrayed the chill creeping in.

Jack didn’t say anything—just stood quietly from the couch and returned with the throw blanket from your armrest. Without a word, he draped it over your shoulders.

You startled slightly, looking up at him. But he didn’t comment. Just gave you a small nod, then sat down beside you on the floor, his back against the corner of the balcony doorframe, gaze following yours out into the storm. The blanket settled around both of you like a quiet pact.

After a while, Jack’s voice cut through it, barely louder than the storm. “You afraid of the dark?”

You glanced at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the rain trailing down the window. “Used to be,” you said. “Not so much anymore. You?”

He was quiet for a beat.

“I used to think the dark was hiding me,” he said once. Voice quiet, like he was talking to the floor, or maybe the memory of a version of himself he didn’t recognize anymore. “But I think it’s just the only place I don’t have to pretend. Where I don’t have to act like I’m whole.”

Your heart cracked. Not from pity, but from the aching intimacy of honesty.

Then he looked at you—really looked at you. Eyes steady, searching, too much all at once. You forgot how to breathe for a second. "My therapist thinks I find comfort in the darkness."

There was something about the way he fit into the storm, the way the shadows curved around him without asking for anything back. You wondered if it was always like this for him—calmer in the chaos, more himself in the dark. Maybe that was the tradeoff.

Some people thrived in the day. Others feared being blinded by the light.

Jack, you were starting to realize, functioned best where things broke open. In the adrenaline. In the noise. Not because he liked it, necessarily—but because he knew it. He understood its language. The stillness of normalcy? That was harder. Quieter in a way that didn’t feel safe. Unstructured. Unknown.

A genius in crisis. A ghost in calm.

But you saw it.

And you said, softly, "Maybe the dark doesn’t ask us to be anything. That’s why it feels like home sometimes. You don’t have to be good. Or okay. Or whole. You just get to be." That made him look at you again—slow, like he didn’t want to miss it. Maybe no one had ever said it that way before.

The air felt different after that—still heavy, still quiet, but warmer somehow. Jack broke it with a low breath, barely a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "So... do all your philosophical monologues come with tea and thunder, or did I just get the deluxe package?"

You let out a soft laugh, the tension in your shoulders easing by degrees. "Only the Abbot special."

He bumped your knee gently with his. "Lucky me."

You didn’t say anything else, just leaned back against the wall beside him.

Eventually, you both got up. Brushed teeth side by side, a little awkward, a little shy. You both stood in front of the couch, staring at it like it had personally wronged you. You reached for the handle. Jack braced the backrest. Nothing moved.

"This can’t be that complicated," you muttered.

"Two MDs, one brain cell," Jack deadpanned, and you snorted.

It took a few grunts, an accidental elbow, and a very questionable click—but eventually, the thing unfolded.

He took the couch. You turned off the last lamp.

"Goodnight," you murmured in the dark.

"Goodnight," he echoed, softer.

And for once, the quiet didn’t press. It held.

Weeks passed. Jack came over a handful of times. He accompanied you home after work, shoulders brushing as you walked the familiar path back in comfortable quiet. You learned the rhythm of him in your space. The way he moved through your kitchen like he didn’t want to disturb it. The way he always put his shoes by the door, lined up neatly like they belonged there.

Then one day, it changed. He texted you, right before your shift ended: You free after? My place this time.

You stared at the screen longer than necessary. Then typed back: Yeah. I’d like that.

He met you outside the hospital that night, both of you bone-tired from a brutal shift, scrub jackets zipped high against the wind. You hadn’t been to Jack’s place before. Weren’t even sure what you expected. Your nerves had started bubbling to the surface the moment you saw him—automatic, familiar. Like your brain was bracing for rejection and disappointment before he even said a word.

You tried to keep it casual, but old habits died hard. Vulnerability always felt like standing on the edge of something steep, and your first instinct was to retreat. To make sure no one thought you needed anything at all. The second you saw him, the words spilled out in a rush—fast, nervous, unfiltered.

"Jack, you don’t have to...make this a thing. You don’t owe me anything just because you’ve been crashing at my place. I didn’t mean for it to feel like you had to invite me back or—"

He cut you off before you could spiral further.

“Hey.” Just that—firm but quiet. A grounding thread. His hands settled on your arms, near your elbows, steadying you with a grip that was firm but careful—like he knew exactly how to hold someone without hurting them. His fingers were warm, his palms calloused in places that told stories he’d never say out loud. His forearms, bare beneath rolled sleeves, flexed with restrained strength. And God, you hated that it made your brain short-circuit for a second.

Of course Jack Abbot would comfort you and make you feral in the same breath.

Then he looked at you—really looked. “I invited you because I wanted you there. Not because I owe you. Not because I’m keeping score. Not because I'm expecting anything from you.”

The wind pulled at your sleeves. The heat rose to your cheeks before you could stop it.

Jack softened. Offered the faintest smile. “I want you here. But only if you want to be.”

You let out a breath. “Okay,” you said. Soft. Certain, even through the nerves. You smiled, more to yourself than to him. Jack’s gaze lingered on that smile—quietly, like he was memorizing it. His shoulders loosened, just barely, like your answer had unlocked something he hadn’t realized he was holding onto.

Be vulnerable, you told yourself. Open up. Allow yourself to have this.

True to his word, it really was just two blocks from your place. His building was newer, more modern. Clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of entryway that labeled itself clearly as an apartment complex. Yours, by comparison, screamed haunted brick building with a temperamental boiler system and a very committed resident poltergeist.

You were still standing beside him when he keyed open the front door, the keypad beeping softly under his fingers.

"5050," he said.

You tipped your head, confused. "Sorry?"

He looked at you briefly, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but didn’t take it back either. “Door code.”

Something in your chest fluttered. It echoed the first night you’d given him yours—unthinking, unfiltered, just a quiet offering. This felt the same. An unspoken invitation. You’re welcome here. Any time you want. Any time you need.

"Thanks, Jack." You could see a flicker of something behind his eyes.

The elevator up was quiet.

Jack watched the floor numbers tick by like he was counting in his head. You stared at your reflection in the brushed metal ceiling, the fluorescent lighting doing no one any favors. Totally not worried about the death trap you were currently in. Definitely not calculating which corner you'd curl into if the whole thing dropped.

When the doors opened, the hallway was mercifully empty, carpeted, quiet. You followed him down to the end, your steps softened by the hush of the building. Unit J24.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open, and stepped aside so you could walk in first.

You did—and paused.

It was... barren. Not in a sterile way, but in the sense that it looked like he’d just moved in a few days ago and hadn’t had the energy—or maybe the need—to settle. The walls were bare and painted a dark blue-grey. A matching couch and a dim floor lamp in the living room. A fridge in the kitchen humming like it was trying to fill the silence. No art. No rugs. Not a photo or magnet in sight.

And yet—somehow—it felt entirely Jack. Sparse. Quiet. Intentional. A place built for someone who didn’t like to linger but was trying to learn how. You stepped in further, slower now. A kind of reverence in your movement, even if you didn’t realize it yet.

Because even in the stillness, even in the emptiness—he’d let you in.

Jack took off his shoes and opened up a closet by the door. You mirrored his motions, suddenly aware of every move you made like a spotlight landed on you.

"Make yourself at home," he said, voice casual but low.

You walked over to the couch and sat down, your movements slow, careful. Even the cushions felt new—firm, unsunken, like no one had ever really used them. It squeaked a little beneath you, unfamiliar in its resistance.

You ran your hand lightly over the fabric, then looked around again, taking everything in. "Did you paint the walls?"

Jack gave a short huff of a laugh from the kitchen. “Had to fight tooth and nail with my landlord to get that approved. Said it was too dark. Too dramatic.”

He reappeared in the doorway with two mugs in hand. “Guess I told on myself.” He handed you the lighter green one, taking the black chipped one for himself.

You took it carefully, fingers brushing his for a moment. “Thanks.”

The warmth seeped into your palms immediately, grounding. The scent rising from the cup was oddly familiar—floral, slightly citrusy, like something soft wrapped in memory. You took a cautious sip. Your brows lifted. “Wait… is this the Lavender cloudburst... cloudbloom?”

Jack gave you a sheepish glance, rubbing the back of his neck. “It is. I picked up a bag couple of days ago. Figured if I was going to be vulnerable and dramatic, I might as well commit to the theme.”

You snorted. He smiled into his own cup, quiet.

What he didn’t say: that he’d stared at the bag in the store longer than any sane person should, wondering if buying tea with you in mind meant anything. That he bought it a while back, hoping one day he'd get to share it with you. Wondering if letting himself hope was already a mistake. But saying it felt too big. Too much.

Jack’s eyes drifted to you—not the tea, not the room, but you. The way your shoulders were ever-so-slightly raised, tension tucked beneath the soft lines of your posture. The way your eyes moved around the room, drinking in every corner, every shadow, like you were searching for something you couldn’t name.

He didn’t say anything. Just watched.

And maybe you felt it—that quiet kind of watching. The kind that wasn’t about staring, but about seeing. Really seeing.

You took another sip, slower this time. The warmth helped. So did the silence.

Small talk came easier than it had before. Not loud, not hurried. Just quiet questions and softer replies. The kind of conversation that made space instead of filling it.

Jack tilted his head slightly. “You always look at rooms like you’re cataloguing them.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Do I?”

“Yeah.” He smiled softly into his mug. “Like you’re trying to figure out what’s missing.”

You considered that for a second. “Maybe I am.”

A pause, then—“And?”

Your gaze swept the room one last time, then landed back on him. “Nothing. This apartment feels like you.”

You expected him to nod or laugh it off, maybe deflect with a joke. But instead, he just looked at you—still, soft, like your words had pressed into some quiet corner of him he didn’t know was waiting. The moment lingered.

And he gave the slightest nod, the kind that said he heard you—really heard you—even if he didn’t quite know how to respond. The ice between you didn’t crack so much as it thawed, slow and patient, like neither of you were in a rush to get to spring. But it was melting, all the same.

Jack set his mug down on the coffee table, fingertips lingering against the ceramic a second longer than necessary. “I don’t usually do this,” he said finally. “The… letting people in thing.”

His honesty caught you off guard—so sudden, so unguarded, it tugged something loose in your chest. You nodded, heart caught somewhere behind your ribs. “I know.”

He gave you a sideways glance, prompting you to continue. You sipped your tea, eyes fixed on the rim of your cup. “I see how carefully you move through the world.”

“Thank you,” you added after a beat—genuine, quiet.

He didn’t say anything back, and the two of you left it at that.

Silence again, but it felt different now. Less like distance. More like the space between two people inching closer. Jack leaned back slightly, stretching one leg out in front of him, the other bent at the knee. “You scare me a little,” he admitted.

That got a chuckle out of you.

“Not in a bad way,” he added quickly. “Just… in the way it feels when something actually matters.”

You set your mug down too, hands suddenly unsure of what to do. “You scare me too.”

Jack stared at you then—longer than he probably meant to. You felt it immediately, the heat rising in your chest under the weight of it, his gaze almost reverent, almost like he wanted to say something else but didn’t trust it to come out right.

So you cleared your throat and tried to steer the tension elsewhere. “Not as much as you scare the med students,” you quipped, lips twitching into a crooked smile.

Jack huffed out a low laugh, the edge of his mouth pulling up. “I sure as hell hope not.”

You let the moment linger for a beat longer, then glanced at the clock over his shoulder. “I should probably get back to my place,” you said gently. “Catch a couple hours of sleep before the next shift.”

Jack didn’t protest. Didn’t push. But something in his eyes softened—brief, quiet. “Thanks for the tea,” you added, standing slowly, reluctant but steady. “And for… this.”

He nodded once. “Anytime.” The way the word fell from his lips nearly made you buckle, its sincerity and weight almost begging you to stay. "Let me walk you back."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. “You don’t have to, I don’t want to be a bother.”

Jack was already reaching for his jacket, eyes steady on you. “You’re never a bother.” His voice was quiet, but certain.

You stood there for a moment, hesitating, the edge of your nervousness still humming faintly beneath your skin. Jack grabbed his keys, adjusted his jacket, and the two of you headed downstairs. The cool air greeted you with a soft nip. Neither of you spoke at first. The afternoon light was soft and golden, stretching long shadows across the pavement. Your footsteps synced without effort, an easy rhythm between you. Shoulders brushed once. Then again. But neither of you moved away.

Not much was said on the walk back. But it didn’t need to be. When your building came into view, Jack slowed just a little, as if to make the last stretch last longer.

“See you in a few hours?” The question came out hopeful but was the only one you were ever certain about when it came to Jack.

He gave a small nod. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

The ER was humming, a low-level chaos simmering just below the surface. Pages overhead, fluorescent lights too bright, the constant shuffle of stretchers and nurses and med students trying not to get in the way.

You and Jack found yourselves working a case together. A bad one. Blunt trauma, no pulse, field intubation, half a dozen procedures already started before the gurney even made it past curtain three. But the two of you moved in sync.

Same breath. Same rhythm. You knew where he was going before he got there. He didn’t have to ask for what he needed—you were already handing it to him.

Shen and Ellis exchanged a look from across the room, like they’d noticed something neither of you had said out loud.

“You two always like this?” Ellis asked under her breath as she passed by.

Jack didn’t look up. “Like what?”

Ellis just raised a brow and kept walking.

The case stabilized. Barely. But the moment stayed with you. In the rhythm. In the way your hands brushed when you reached for the same gauze. In the silence afterward that didn’t feel like distance. Just... breath.

You didn’t say anything when Jack handed you a fresh pair of gloves with one hand and bumped your elbow with the other.

But you smiled.

Days bled into nights and nights into shifts, but something about the rhythm stuck. Not just in the trauma bay, but outside of it too. You didn’t plan it. Neither did he. But one night—after a particularly brutal Friday shift that bled well past weekend sunrise, all adrenaline and sharp edges—you both found yourselves back at your place in the evening.

You didn’t talk much. You didn’t need to.

Jack sank onto the couch with a low sigh, exhaustion settling into his bones. You brought him a blanket without asking, set a cup of tea beside him with a familiarity neither of you acknowledged aloud.

That night, he stayed. Not because he was too tired to leave. But because he didn’t want to. Because something about the quiet between you felt safer than anything waiting for him outside.

You were both sitting on the couch, talking—soft, slow, tired talk that came easier than it used to. The kind of conversation that filled the space without demanding anything. At some point, your head had tipped, resting against his shoulder mid-sentence, eyes fluttering closed with the weight of the day. Jack didn’t move. Didn’t even breathe too deep, afraid to disturb the way your warmth settled so naturally into his side.

Jack stayed beside you, feeling the soft rhythm of your breath rising and falling. His prosthetic was off, his guard lowered, and in that moment, he looked more like himself than he ever did in daylight. A part of him ached—subtle, quiet, but insistent. He hadn't realized how much he missed this. Not just touch, but presence. Yours. The kind of proximity that didn’t demand anything. The kind he didn’t have to earn.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, your arm brushing his knee. Jack froze. Then, carefully—almost reverently—he reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and pulled it gently over your shoulders. His fingers lingered at the edge, just for a second. Just long enough to feel the warmth of your skin through the fabric. Just long enough to remind himself this was real.

And then he leaned back, settled in again beside you.

Close. But not too close.

Present.

The morning light broke through the blinds.

You stirred.

His voice was gravel-soft. "Hey."

You blinked sleep from your eyes. Sat up. Found him still there, legs stretched out, back to the wall.

“You stayed,” you said.

He nodded.

Then, quietly, like it mattered more than anything:

“Didn’t want to be anywhere else.”

You smiled. Just a little.

He smiled back. Tired. Honest.

The first time you stayed at Jack's place was memorable for all the wrong reasons.

Everything was fine—quiet, even—until late evening. Jack had a spare room, insisted you take it. You didn’t argue. The bed was firm, the sheets clean, the door left cracked open just a little.

You don’t remember falling asleep. You only remember the panic. The way it clutched at your chest like a vice, your lungs refusing to cooperate, your limbs kicking, flailing against an invisible force. You were screaming, you think. Crying, definitely. The dream was too much. Too close. The kind that reached down your throat and stayed.

Then—hands. Shaking your shoulders. Jack’s voice.

“Hey. Hey—wake up. It’s not real. You’re okay.”

You blinked awake, heart slamming against your ribs. Jack was already on the bed with you, hair a mess, eyes wide and terrified—but only for you. His hands were still on your arms, steady but gentle. Grounding.

Then one hand rose to cradle your cheek, cool fingers brushing the heat of your skin. Your face burned hot beneath the sweat and panic, and his touch was steady, careful, as if anchoring you back to the room. He brushed your hair out of your face, strands damp and stuck to your forehead, and tucked them back behind your ear. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just the quiet care of someone trying to reach you without pushing too far.

You tried to speak but couldn’t. Just choked on a sob.

“I’ve got you,” he said. “You’re here. You’re safe.”

And you believed him.

Then, without hesitation, Jack brought you into his arms—tucked you against his chest and held you tightly, like you might disappear with the breeze. There was nothing hesitant about it, no second-guessing. Just the instinctive kind of closeness that came from someone who knew what it meant to need and be needed. He held you like a lifeline, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other firm across your back, steadying you both.

Eventually, your breathing slowed. The shaking stopped. Jack stayed close, his hand brushing yours, his body warm and steady like an anchor. He didn’t leave that night. Didn’t go back to his room. Just pulled the blanket over both of you and stayed, watching the slow return of calm to your chest like it was the most important thing in the world.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered eventually, voice hoarse from the crying.

Jack’s gaze didn’t waver. He reached out, cupping your cheek again with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said firmly. Not unkind—never unkind. Just certain, like the truth of it had been carved into him long before this moment.

Jack and Robby greeted each other on the roof, half-drained thermoses in hand. Jack looked tired, but not in the usual way. Something about the edges of him felt… softened. Less on-edge. Lighter, one might say. Robby noticed.

“You’ve been less of a bastard lately,” he said around a mouthful of protein bar.

Jack raised a brow. “That a compliment?”

Robby grinned. “An observation. Maybe both.”

Jack shook his head, amused. But Robby kept watching him. Tipped his chin slightly. “You seem happier, brother. In a weird, not-you kind of way.”

Jack huffed a breath through his nose. Didn’t respond right away.

Then, Robby’s voice dropped just enough. “You find someone?”

Jack’s grip tightened slightly around his cup. He looked down at the liquid swirling at the bottom. He didn’t smile, not fully. But his silence said enough.

Robby nodded once, then looked away. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Thought so.”

"I didn’t say anything."

Robby snorted. “You didn’t have to. You’ve got that look.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “What look?”

“The kind that says you finally let yourself come up for air.”

Jack stared at him for a second, then looked down at his cup again, lips twitching like he was fighting back a smile. Robby elbowed him lightly.

“Do I know her?” he asked, voice easy, teasing.

Jack gave a one-shouldered shrug, noncommittal. “Maybe.”

Robby narrowed his eyes. “Is it Shen?”

Jack scoffed. “Absolutely not.”

Robby laughed, loud and satisfied. “Had to check.” Then, after a beat, he said more quietly, “I’m glad, you know. That you found someone.”

Jack looked up, brows drawn. Robby shrugged, this time more sincere than teasing. “Don’t let go of it. Whatever it is. People like us... we don’t get that kind of thing often.”

Jack let the words hang in the air a moment, then gave a half-scoff, half-smile. “You getting sentimental on me, old man?”

Robby rolled his eyes. “Shut up.”

But Jack’s smile faded into something gentler. Quieter. “I haven’t felt this... human in a while.”

Robby didn’t say anything to that. Just nodded, then bumped Jack’s shoulder with his own. Then he stretched his arms overhead, cracking his back with a groan. “Alright, lovebird. Let’s go pretend we’re functioning adults again.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but the smile lingered.

They turned back toward the stairwell, the sky above them soft with early light.

It all unraveled around hour 10.

A belligerent trauma case brought in after being struck by a drunk driver. Jack’s shoulders tensed when he saw the dog tags. Everyone knew vets were the ones that got to him the most. His jaw was set tight the whole time, his voice sharp, movements clipped. You’d worked with him long enough to see when he started slipping into autopilot: efficient, precise, but cold. Closed off.

He ordered a test you'd already confirmed had been done. When you gently reminded him, Jack didn’t even look at you—just waved you off with a sharp, impatient flick of his wrist. Then, louder—sharper—he snapped at Ellis. "Move faster, for fuck's sake."

His voice had that clipped edge to it now, the kind that made people tense. Made the room feel smaller. Ellis blinked but didn’t respond, just picked up the pace, brows furrowed. Shen gave you a quiet glance over the patient’s shoulder, something that looked almost like sympathy. Both of them looked to you after that—uncertain, searching for a signal or some kind of anchor. You saw it in their eyes: the silent question. What’s going on with Jack?

When you reached across the gurney to adjust the central line tubing, Jack barked, "Back off."

You froze. “Dr. Abbot,” you said, soft but firm. “It’s already in.”

His eyes snapped to yours, and for a split second, they looked wild—distant, haunted. “Then why are you still reaching for it?” he said, low and biting.

The air went still. Ellis looked up from the med tray, blinking. Shen awkwardly shifted his weight, silently assuring you that you'd done nothing wrong. The nurse closest to Jack turned her focus sharply to the vitals monitor.

You excused yourself and stepped out. Said nothing.

He didn’t notice. Or maybe he did. But he didn’t look back.

The patient coded minutes later.

And though the team moved in perfect sync—compressions, meds, lines—Jack was silent afterward, hands flexing at his sides, eyes on the floor.

You didn’t speak when the shift ended.

A few nights later, he was at your door.

You opened it only halfway, unsure what to expect. The narrow gap between the door and the frame felt like the only armor you had—an effort to shelter yourself physically from the hurt you couldn’t name.

Jack stood there, exhausted. Worn thin. Still in scrubs, jacket over one shoulder. His face was hollowed out, cheeks drawn tight, and his eyes—god, his eyes—were wide and tired in that distinct, glassy way. Like he wasn’t sure if you’d close the door or let him stay. Like he already expected you would slam it in his face and say you never wanted to see him again.

“I shouldn’t have—” he started, then stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. “I took it out on you. I’m sorry.”

You swallowed, but the words wouldn't come out. You were still upset. Still stewing. Not at the apology—never that. But at how quickly things between you could tilt. At how much it had hurt in the moment, to be dismissed like that. And how much it mattered that it was him.

His voice was quiet, but steady. “You were right. I wasn’t hearing you. And you didn’t deserve any of that.”

There was a beat of silence.

"I panicked,” he said, like it surprised even him. “Not just today. The patient—he reminded me of people I served with. The ones who didn’t make it back. The ones who did and never got better. I saw him and... I just lost it. Couldn’t separate the past from right now. And then I looked at you and—” he cut himself off, shaking his head.

“Being this close to something good... it scares the hell out of me. I don’t want to mess this up."

Your heart thudded, painful and full.

“Then talk to me,” you said, voice thick with exhaustion. The familiar ache began to flood your throat. “Tell me how you feel. Something. Anything. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s on your mind, Jack. I have my own shit to deal with, and I get it if you’re not ready to talk about it yet, but—”

Your hand came up to your face, pressing against your forehead. “Maybe we should just talk tomorrow,” you muttered, already taking a step back to close the door. It was a clear attempt at avoidance, and Jack saw right through it.

“I think about you more than I should,” he said, voice low and rough. He stepped closer. Breath shallow. His eyes searched yours—frantic, pleading, like he was trying to gather the courage to jump off something high. “When I’m running on fumes. When I’m trying not to feel anything. And then I see you and it all rushes back in like I’ve been underwater too long."

At this, you pulled the door open slightly to show that you were willing to at least listen. Jack was looking at the ground—something completely unlike him. He always met people’s eyes, always held his gaze steady. But not now. Now, he looked like he might fold in on himself if you so much as breathed wrong. He exhaled a short breath, relieved but not off the hook just yet.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered. “But I know what I feel when I’m around you. And it’s the only thing that’s made me feel like myself in a long time.”

He hesitated, just for a second, searching your face like he was waiting for permission. For rejection. For anything at all. You reached out first—tentative, your fingers lifting to his cheek. Jack froze at the contact, like his body had forgotten what it meant to be touched so gently. It was instinct, habit. But then he exhaled and leaned into your hand, eyes fluttering shut, like he couldn’t bear the weight of being seen and touched at once.

You studied him for a long moment, taking him in—how hard he was trying, how raw he looked under the dim light. Your thumb brushed beneath his eye, brushing softly along the curve of his cheekbone. When you pulled your hand away, Jack caught it gently and brought it back, pressing your palm against his cheek. He squeezed his eyes shut like it hurt to be touched, like it cracked something open he wasn’t ready to see. Then—slowly—he leaned into it, like he didn’t know how to ask for comfort but couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it either.

Your breath caught. He was still holding your hand to his face like it anchored him to the ground.

You shifted slightly, unsure what to say. But you didn’t move away.

His hand slid down to catch yours fully, fingers interlacing with yours.

“I’m not good at this,” he said finally, voice rough and eyes locked onto you. “But I want to try. With you.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but what came out was a jumble of word salad instead.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you said, voice trembling. “I’m not—I'm not the kind of person who’s built for this. I fuck things up. I shut down. I push people away. And you…” Your voice cracked. You turned your face slightly, not pulling away, but not quite steady either. “You deserve better than—”

Jack pulled you into a bruising hug, arms wrapping tightly around you like he could hold the pain in place. One hand rose to cradle the back of your head, pulling you into his chest.

You were shaking. Tears, uninvited, welled in your eyes and slipped down before you could stop them.

“Fuck perfect,” he whispered softly against your temple. “I need real. I need you.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still resting against the side of your head. His gaze was glassy but steady, breathing shallow like the weight of what he’d just said was still settling in his chest.

You blinked through your tears, mouth parted, searching his face for hesitation—but there was none.

He leaned in again, slower this time.

And then—finally—he kissed you.

It started hesitant—like he was afraid to get it wrong. Or he didn’t know if you’d still be there once he crossed that line. But when your hand gripped the front of his jacket, pulling him in closer, it changed. The kiss deepened, slow but certain. His hands framed your face. One of your hands curled into the fabric at his waist, the other resting against his chest, feeling the quickened beat beneath your palm.

You stumbled backward as you pulled him inside, refusing to let go, your mouth still pressed to his like contact alone might keep you from unraveling. Jack followed without question, stepping inside as the door clicked shut on its own. He barely had time to register the space before your back hit the door with a soft thud, his mouth still moving against yours. You reached blindly to twist the lock, and when you did, he made a low sound—relief or hunger, you couldn’t tell.

He kicked off his shoes without looking, quick and efficient, like some part of him needed to shed the outside world as fast as possible just to be here, just to feel this. You jumped. He caught you. Your legs wrapped around his waist like muscle memory, hands threading through his hair, and Jack carried you down the hall like you weighed nothing. He didn't have to ask which door. He knew.

And when he laid you down on the bed, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t careless.

It was everything that had been building—finally, finally let loose.

It was all nerves and heat and breathlessness—everything held back finally finding its release.

When you pulled away just a little, foreheads touching, neither of you said anything at first. But Jack’s hands didn’t leave your waist. He just breathed—one breath, then another—before he whispered, “Are you sure?”

You frowned.

“This,” he clarified, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t want to take advantage of you. If you’re not okay. If this is too much.”

Your hand came up again, brushing his cheek. “I’m sure.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, finally meeting them, and he asked softly, “Are you?”

You nodded, steadier this time. “Yes. Are you?”

Jack didn’t hesitate. “I’ve never been more sure about a damn thing in my life.”

And when you kissed him again, it wasn’t heat that came first—but a sense of comfort. Feeling safe.

Then came the warmth. The kind that started deep in your belly and coursed in your body and through your fingertips. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingertips skating across skin like you were trying to memorize every inch. Jack's breath hitched, and he kissed you harder—desperate, aching. His hands were everywhere: your waist, your back, your jaw, grounding you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

Clothes came off in pieces, scattered in the dark. Moonlight filtered in through the blinds, painting soft stripes across the bed through the blinds. It was the first time you saw all of him—truly saw him. The curve of his back, the line of his shoulders and muscles, the scars that marked the map of his body. You’d switched spots somewhere between kisses and breathless moans—Jack now lying on the bed, you straddling his hips, hovering just above him.

You reached out without thinking, fingertips ghosting over one of the thicker ones that carved down his side. Jack stilled. When you looked up at him, his eyes on yours—soft, wary, like he didn’t quite know how to breathe through the moment.

So you made your way down, gently, and kissed the scar. Then another. And another. Reverent. Wordless. He watched you the whole time, eyes glinting in the dim light, like he couldn't believe you were real.

When your lips met a sensitive spot by his hip, Jack’s breath caught. His hand found yours again, grounding him, keeping him here. Your name on his lips wasn’t just want—it was pure devotion. Every touch was careful, every kiss threaded with something deeper than just desire. You weren’t just wanted. You were known.

He worshipped you with his hands, his mouth, his body—slow, thorough, patient. The kind of touch that asked for nothing but offered everything. His palms mapped your skin like he’d been waiting to learn it, reverent in every pass, every pause. His lips lingered over every place you sighed, every place you arched, until you forgot where his body ended and yours began. It was messy and sacred and quiet and burning all at once—like he didn’t just want you, he needed you.

And you let him. You met him there—every movement, every breath—like your bodies already knew the rhythm. When it built, when it crested, it wasn’t just release. It was recognition. A return. Home.

After the air cooled and the adrenaline had faded, he didn’t pull away. His hand stayed at your back, palm warm and steady where it pressed gently against your spine. You shifted only slightly, your leg draped over his, and your forehead found the crook of his neck. He smelled like your sheets and skin and the barest trace of sweat and his cologne.

He exhaled into the hush of the room, chest rising and falling in rhythm with yours. His fingers traced lazy, absent-minded lines along your side, like he was still trying to memorize you even now.

You were both quiet, not because there was nothing to say, but because for once, there was nothing you needed to.

He kissed your lips—soft, lingering—then trailed down to your neck, his nose brushing your skin as he breathed you in. He paused, lips resting at the hollow of your throat. Then he kissed the top of your head. Just once.

And that was enough.

The two of you stayed like that for a while, basking in the afterglow. You stared at him, letting yourself really look—at the way the moonlight softened his features, at how peaceful he looked with his eyes half-lidded and his chest rising and falling against yours. Jack couldn’t seem to help himself. His fingers played with yours—tracing the length of each one like they were new, like they were a language he was still learning. He toyed with the edge of your palm, pressed his thumb against your knuckle, curled his pinky with yours. A man starved for contact who had finally found somewhere to rest.

When he finally looked up, you met him with a smile.

"What now?" you asked softly, voice quiet in the hush between you. It wasn’t fear, not quite. Just a small seed of worry still gnawing at your ribs.

Jack studied your face like he already knew what you meant. He let out a soft breath. His hand moved carefully, brushing a stray hair from your face before cupping your cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

"Now," he said, "I keep showing up. I keep choosing this. You. Every day."

Your lips pressed together in a shy smile, trying to hold back the sudden sting behind your eyes. You shook your head slowly, swallowing the emotion that threatened to rise.

He tilted his head a little, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Are you sick of me yet?"

You huffed a laugh, shaking your head. "Not even close."

His fingers tightened gently around yours.

"Good," Jack murmured. "Because I’m not letting you go."

And just like that, the quiet turned soft. For once, hope felt like something you could hold.

You fell asleep with his arm draped over your waist, your fingers still tangled in the fabric of his shirt. His breaths were deep and even, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that calmed your own. Neither of you had nightmares that night. No thrashing. No waking in a cold sweat. Just quiet. Any time you shifted, he instinctively pulled you closer. You drifted together into sleep, breaths falling in sync—slow, steady, safe.

And for the first time, the dark didn’t feel so heavy.

thank you for reading 💛

<3 - <3 - <3 - <3

#the pitt #the pitt hbo #the pitt fanfiction #the pitt imagine #the pitt x reader #jack abbot #the pitt spoilers #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot x reader #shawn hatosy #dr. abbot x reader #dr abbot #dr abbot x reader #dr abbott #jack abbott #dr. abbott

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himasgod · 1 month ago

Note

HEAR ME OUT. Sebek/Malleus/Silver bring the girl home/dormitory. Lilia: *draws out a huge photo album with the most embarrassing pictures* so when he was 3 he accidentally knocked over his potty.... *long paternal recounting of the boy's childhood*.

DIASOMNIA X READER

Where Lilia shows you embarrasing photos of the boys as children

Where Silver, Malleus and Sebek invite you to Lilia's house to formally introduce you as his partner… but Lilia is faster at taking out the photo album

You’re honored (and slightly terrified) to be invited to Malleus’s castle. It’s all cal until a familiar giggle echoes down the corridor.

“Oh~ what’s this? Malleus brought someone special~?”

Malleus doesn’t even flinch. He smiles, polite as ever. “Yes. I hoped you would meet her, Lilia.”

“Excellent!” Lilia spins into the lounge, dragging a wheeled cart stacked with five albums. “Let me share the legend of Briar Valley's Heir: Baby Dragon Malleus.”

Malleus sighs softly. “Do we need to—”

“Oh hush. This is important heritage. Now, look here, lady—this was Malleus when he got curious about human inventions. He once tried to sit in a refrigerator because he thought it was a portal to a cold realm. He was twenty. Just a toddler in fae's age. And his little horns were growing and he was getting stuck in a lot of places, so…”

You stare at the photo. Malleus is curled up inside a fridge like an overgrown cat, the door unable to shut.

“I was… investigating dimensional storage,” he explains calmly.

"He once asked some frogs if they would crown him. Some frogs! He told me "If I am the future king of these lands, all the animals will be under my rule." SOME FROGS!! In the end, we gave him a coronation with toy frogs. He got so angry that the real frogs were struck by lightning-"

You cover your mouth, snorting.

Malleus looks at you, utterly unbothered. “I have always embraced whimsy.”

Lilia beams. “Best boy.”

You barely make it through the front door before you hear it.

“Oh~ Sebek, my boy! You brought someone home~?”

Sebek instantly stiffens beside you. “Master Lilia!”

Lilia floats into view with the speed of someone who’s been waiting for this moment since forever. He claps gleefully, disappearing into a side room and returning with a massive album covered in glittery frog stickers.

“Oh, you’re gonna love this,” he says sweetly, flipping it open.

“This one’s Sebek when he was five. He was trying to prove how brave he was—stood on the edge of the pond in the backyard and shouted, ‘I fear NOTHING!’ and then fell straight in. Cried for twenty minutes because his favorite boots got soggy.”

Sebek looks like he’s going to combust. “L-lilia, PLEASE!”

“Oh, and here’s one where he’s yelling at a squirrel for ‘mocking the young heir Lord Malleus’!”

You try not to laugh, really, you do.

But Sebek’s bright red face and Lilia’s absolute joy at recounting every high-volume disaster of his childhood?

Impossible.

“I think it’s sweet,” you say, smiling at Sebek.

Sebek hides behind his hands. “Please… don’t listen to any more of his lies…”

Lilia smirked searching for another photo “I never lie. I only... embellish lovingly.”

Silver brings you with that serene air of a man who thinks everything will go peacefully.

He is wrong.

The moment the door opens, Lilia peeks around the corner, eyes gleaming.

“Oh my~ you brought a guest, Silver~?”

Silver nods. “I wanted you to meet her.”

“WONDERFUL!” Lilia yells. “SIT DOWN. I HAVE STORIES.”

Silver gives you a look that says, you can still run.

But you sit.

He sighs and accepts his fate.

Lilia slams a pink binder onto the table.

“This boy—this sweet baby—once slept through his own birthday party. We made a lovely picnic in the woods. He woke up the next morning and asked why there were balloons.”

Silver groans quietly. “You said you wouldn’t tell people that…”

“And here’s a photo of him as a toddler hugging a tree because he thought it was a ‘very patient person’.”

You gasp. “That’s… kind of adorable.”

Silver: 🧍🏻‍♂️“…”

“And this one—he was ten, and he fell asleep mid-sentence. He said, ‘Father, I wish to go out and explore the wooorrr—’” Lilia pantomimes a faceplant. “Straight into the soup bowl.”

You’re cackling by this point, while Silver tries not to die of secondhand embarrassment.

“He still does that sometimes,” Lilia says fondly.

Silver mumbles, “I can hear you.”

#malleus x reader #malleus x yuu #malleus draconia x reader #malleus draconia x yuu #sebek x reader #sebek x yuu #sebek zigvolt x reader #sebek zigvolt x yuu #malleus draconia x you #sebek zigvolt x you #silver vanrouge x reader #silver x reader #silver x yuu #silver vanrouge x yuu #silver x you #twisted x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twisted scenario

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nightingale-prompts · 10 months ago

Text

Nightwing gets a sidekick introducing: "Batboy"

Continuation of this post: "Danny has Bat wings"

|Next|

Dick tries to tell himself that he's better then Bruce. He's not going around taking young orphaned boys with unique abilities willy-nilly. No, he very careful. Besides this is first- well second sidekick.

He's doing a public service anyways. You can't have a kid with giant bat wings just falling from buildings. If Nightwing hadn't stepped in to stop those goons trying to catch the kid and sell him then who knows what would have happened. What if they tried to cut off his wings and turn the boy into a bloody trophy for the Bats?

There are many villains in Bludhaven who'd take the boy out or take him in. Dick already had a sinking feeling that Heartless would try his hand at killing the kid after all he targets the weak and helpless like a coward.

It was easy enough to convince the boy to be his friend. Dick did have natural charm and charisma after all. All it took was a meal from batburger and a fruit cup to get the kid to open up.

Danny (apparently his family gave him a normal name) didn't live with his family anymore due to ideological differences. That difference was that they thought he shouldn't exist anymore and wanted to turn him into an experiment. Poor kid didn't even get to finish his freshman year of school before he had to leave. He was a small town vigilante for a few months before the incident.

Dick saw an opportunity but was subtle about it. He invited the kid to live with him until he got his education. Its also totally ethical because the kid was a vigilante already.

Everything kind of went by quickly. Dick had done everything possible to hide Danny until he could come up with a plan of how to tell everyone.

True Dick didn't "need" a sidekick but come on, look at him! He's a boy with bat wings! Dick could put a little cowl on him and dress him up like Batman. I mean he's not a dog but it would be funny. The irony there, the bird-themed hero now had a bat-themed sidekick. That is the universe's way of sending a message.

After training Danny Dick learned that the kid had an endless supply of energy and ADHD that rivaled his own at that age. The kid also couldn't fly, it was actually closer to gliding which was still useful but he kind of looked like a flying squirrel when he jumped off ledges.

The term issue with taking Danny in was that Dick was still a Wayne and while he could hide the kid while he was swinging through Bludhaven, Dick Grayson could not.

Danny could hide his wings like they weren't even there whenever he wanted to look human. Which was a start, next he needed a new identity. One that wouldn't tip anyone off.

Dick needed to pull some strings without alerting Barbara or Tim. A new name was forged: "Daniel Nightingale" (Dick patted himself on the back for that one).

With that Dick was ready to let Danny out in the field. For the most part, Danny was as reliable as any Robin if not a bit crazy. Danny was way too charming for his own good but also completely feral. The public adored the domino-masked kid in his green and black costume. Danny didn't wear a cape because of his wings so he used them as a cloak.

When citizens saw them in public they'd offer the kid fruit cups and candies just to get close enough to see his wings. The people of Bludhaven were also excited to have their own version of Robin since Gotham had so many. Also, the kid was so marketable. Look at the way his wings flapped when he was excited.

Danny's or more specifically "Batboy's" presence would not go unnoticed.

Well, this can't end well.

Welp. Dick should have expected this. He couldn't even be upset. He doesn't regret anything that he's done.

Danny was still in bed, actually it was a hammock which was more comfortable for a bat. Dick wondered if he could sleep upside down. The kid was comfortable here and probably better off here than in Gotham. Once the adoption goes public however things will get complicated. Danny may end up Bludhaven's sweetheart or outcast. He'll probably end up fine...probably.

#dc x dp prompt #dpxdc #dp x dc prompt #dc x dp #danny fenton #dick grayson #nightwing #danny phantom #barbara gordon #damian wayne #batman

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kalims · 1 year ago

Text

⭒ㅤwith a disney princess

premise. surely there's been a mistake, cause there's no way someone out of place like you ended up at nrc, right? (spoiler alert: months later and they will fight whoever might drag you to rsa)

featuring. dorm leaders (from diasomnia to heartslabyul)

content. at best this might imply a female reader, given they're based of a 'princess' but I tried to take the gender vague and focused mainly on the qualities of them! mc has hair in the rapunzel part lol

note. no beta we die lol. I worked on this by group so i honestly don't remember if I accidentally gendered mc. I absolutely love idias part lmaoooo

malleus (aurora)

ooh intimidating x soft couple.

you look way out of place in somewhere like nrc of all places, given your mother is the infamous sleeping beauty (infamous, in the college’s standards that is.) your kindness is easily taken advantage of, even if you do realize it there is always forgiveness spared for the undeserving.

said kindness was extended to the quiet malleus.

surprise no surprise. he’s impeccably drawn to the sparkling aura you seem to exclude. malleus feels as though there are traces of familiar magic always hovering around you, like its embowed into your very being. a blessing would be a better word for it.

well, he’s just curious but if he were to ever ask he’d be met with the confirmation that you were, indeed blessed by the same three fairies your mother was blessed by (minus the curse… ironically he’s quite similar to the same lady that your mother loved and looked up to.)

he’s just fascinated. something as glittery as you, shiny like gold would’ve been whisked away to his nice tower, homey. he’d tell you. almost as if making its image seem heavenly. (lowkey highkey getting your consent for kidnapping)

animals always seem to flock around you everywhere you go, they sneak around to reach you. in your dorm, during lunch, even in class. there’s either a bird on your shoulder or a squirrel making itself comfortable atop your head. its a curious sight, critters don’t really like him much.

in short they run away, humans or animals alike are both afraid of his presence it seems.

so he’s incredibly still when you nudge an adorably round bird in his palm, peering at it with cautious eyes. tense as a statue lest it flies away.

cue staring contest.

he felt incredibly accomplished that day, and immersed him in the role of making this creature like him. leaving seeds, offering it the most sought off food from the valley, literally conjuring a small home for it. everything.

HE’S SO HAPPY.

malleus often asks of you to sing, perhaps its the blessing talking but its the most unique form of sound he’d ever heard in his life, the more he sings the more he wants to imbue his very being with the loveliness of your song.

always following you around like a lost puppy (lizard?) any evil that actually wants to take advantage of your unfortunate naive desire for peace and kindness is scared away. although malleus would never want your interactions to be reduced entirely because of him, he only starts looking like a demon one he figures out their motive is less than fitting for you.

“yeah, the ingredients were to complicated for me to remember—”

“oh! perhaps i can help you?”

spots the demon behind you (just your lovely giant staring them to their grave.)

“you know what i actually got it— sorry for wasting your time.” you watch them, confused as they dip.

you look to him, as though to ask what just happened but he merely casts you an oblivious glance and shrugs.

favorite past time → coddling you in his dragon form.

he was doubtful whether he should pull through in actually showing it to you, since you were already such an angel towards him. would it be a stretch if he let a selfish desire get in the way? perhaps you’d get scared if you see how large he is there—or if he’s—

idia (rapunzel)

okay that amazed smile on you was totally worth it.

wow your hair is fire.

he should have never made a comment about it in the first place because now you’re completely confused about his reference, were you living in like… in isolation? a cave? you’re a little less worse than the scarabia’s dorm leader when it comes to being oblivious.

just two idiots miscommunicating, he atleast is trying to make an effort to explain that he doesn’t mean it literally but his wording is so bad that you get absolutely nothing from what he is trying to infer.

okay your hair though.

“why is that person stuck in that square!?”

good thing ortho was near cause you almost charged towards a television and judging by the, pan!? in your grip you definitely would have smashed the screen trying to be righteous and rescue the character.

okay then. 1. don’t let you near electronics, specifically when its playing something.

you are a literal danger to his society. shivers

you’re always asking something like “what are those glowing balls on the ceiling?” those are lights… “why is that thing speaking?!” that’s a speaker… “why is it on fire?” oh that’s his hair, he doesn’t really know either it was just like that.

it does feel a little nice to get asked like that and he’d know the answer (its literally the most common knowledge ever but whtv)

EPIC! idia is now trying to figure out how resistant your hair is. its literally like, the most OP shield there is!

at first he had some reservations. like, used a knife once and was flabbergasted when it came back in half. your hair didn’t even move an inch. then he got motivated and tried a sharper sword, longer, and larger of course. he let ortho handle it cause he probably would have stabbed himself.

“wtf.”

flinches cause the half of the sharp end came completely off and stabbed right beside his head onto the wall.

what are the limits of it?! had some doubts before using one of the tech he came up with, it could literally cut through a diamond and he isn’t sure if its entirely safe but you’re all for it cause you were always curious whether your hair could even get cut in the first place.

anyway you’re way too happy to be near a lazer that could obliterate you and its kinda infecting him. yikes.

less than happy cause the lazer literally got reflected by your hair and hit itself so it’s just gone.

on the bright side he can use you as a scapegoat (in a good way)

alright. 2. don’t enrage you unless he wants to experience getting hit by a pan really hard.

wow. he felt that for days.

maybe its the hit or he’s just feeling a little woozy whenever you’re around.

definitely the pan.

vil (mulan)

bold x shy couple

pretty x pretty defender

he’s used to people heeding his suggestions but damn, are you a stubborn one.

not only have you not listened to his propositions for becoming a more refined person (cause the way you held yourself was too.. much for him to ignore, and it bothered him for a long time until he decided to help you.) but he can respect you, he supposes. not a lot of people can stay true to themselves.

it seems like epel, the boy himself has taking a liking to you. no wonder he’s been becoming more rebellious lately.

vil would never stoop so low to purposely direct someone advice that would change their entire self, decimate their unique traits. but all he told you was out of the goodness of his heart, if you’d be less clumsy of your ways your reputation would be better for the long run.

not being respected amongst nrc is never a good thing.

still, you’re still headstrong. never too overconfident, nor cocky. just a humble soul, that’s rare so he tends to stick by you if he ever wanted an honest opinion cause people just tell him what he wants to nowadays. vil never enjoyed the biased remarks.

more often than not he enjoys making your already pretty face, prettier than it is.

finds out you’re no bark and all bite, he never even knew you could take down someone who has an advantage over you in physical terms. come on, its savanaclaw. apparently the guy had spared him an unsavory comment and (apparently, in your defense. only told him a few words, got attacked so it was self defense.)

it came a surprise to him. seeing as you’re generally relaxed in nature, your military prowess a mystery to most since you seemed content with resorting matters with peace. though you seem to lack more restraint when it comes to your close relationships.

vil scolding you in the infirmary (you don’t have a scratch, and the guy whose pride you handed back to is in some corner lamenting cause he can hear you guys.) and you just taking it.

contrary to how you first treated to each other. you seem to be more prone to his opinions, or suggestions the more you progress with each other. he admits maybe he was too outright in his manner of speaking the first time, but it only highlights the change you’d gone through with each other.

you’re the perfect doll, in a way. not in a demeaning way or anything but its so satisfying to him to use products on your face just for the sole reason that you sit so still. his absolute favorite past time is skin care together even if you mostly just follow his lead.

you and epel must be kindred spirits, once he was on his way to retire to the indoors of pomefiore. seeing as it started raining, heavy so it meant it would stay for a while. and then paused when he spotted you both sharing words.

and planting apple seeds in the rain? both of you are stained with the rain, some dirt and mud alike. and vil had never looked so mortified. so just cause you don’t protest when he cares for you doesn’t mean you’re bothered by getting dirty he guesses.

“you both… clean yourselves up, i’ll brew medicine lest you fall under the weather.” ← disappointed sigh.

kalim (jasmine)

ended up waiting for you both to finish under the covers and ushered you both to baths.

you have a tiger!

just living char x their absolute biggest stan

wow you have a tiger.

did he mention you have a tiger?

majority of nrc knows not to mess with you haha, if it’s not obvious already with the seemingly lax tiger that behaves like some sort of overgrown cat following you around and growls at someone when you aren’t looking.

then you always raise a brow at the people who tell you otherwise. “bab doesn’t bite.”

kalim is lowkey highkey their biggest fan, i mean. jamil is having the worst year of his life dragging kalim away wherever you seem to be because the first apparent instinct of the boy is to try to pet the tiger cause it’s ‘cute’.

at some point jamil had to investigate your routine throughout the day, what you do, where you go at specific times like after classes conclude to make sure kalim doesn’t cross path with you.

well, not necessarily you but rather your… tiger. which is hard, honestly. you seem to visit scarabia a lot for a reason unknown. jamil would be suspicious you’d be planning something but all you really do is stay out on the balcony with your companion.

but alas, fate would have it otherwise.

“hi,” kalim blurts before he could remember his friend’s warning. you turn, along with your… also friend who watches him closely. you blurt out a greeting back, seeing as it’s courtesy, you seem to be amused at his fascinated eyes staring at your tiger.

“want a pet?” you offer, bab making sounds of protest.

jamil almost had a heart attack seeing the two of you attached by the hip, only calming down a few weeks later. seeing as your companion wouldn’t pose as much danger as he assumed, seeing as the tiger’s protectiveness started extending to the ray of sunshine.

rich couple ig. everyone overhears your conversations and doubles over. “i had a small statue of gold made for bab, for you.” and then a; “oh, thanks. but we already have a lot at home. hmm…”

actually it’s not really the manner of being attached, more like two following you. kalim, and then your cutie pie tiger.

your reserved nature in particular greatly contrasts kalim, yapper x listener i guess. although the object of his interest was initially because of bab, he might as well be another overgrown cat of yours cause he seems to love touch.

its concerning cause bab themselves felt challenged for your affection and when they spotted kalim’s head nestled on your lap they ‘accidentally’ kick him off.

in a way you seemed untouchable, pet included. you don’t seem to mind kalim much, people might even go as far as to say you enjoy his company. occasionally the vice of his dorm as well, the three of you have this sort of aura that screams ‘don’t approach’

said aura is in the form of a very big cat.

azul (ariel)

one time you admitted to having not much friends and three heads turned towards you. face twisted incredulously.

he doesn’t know why but you looked like you went through ten stages of grief (3 more cause the 7 definitely wasn’t enough.) when you took a glance at him, during the time you were looking around, you almost went past him, actually. but then doubled back immediately.

that’s concerning.

morally suspicious (devil in disguise) x angel

azul often asks your opinions out of habit, he himself isn’t even sure when it started but he considers you a factor in decisions. though he does prefer to keep you out certain… endeavors of his away entirely, no need to concern your innocence in his doings.

as such he often uses the twins to steer you away from trouble cause you seem to have no sense for it whatsoever, whenever there’s a fight brewing instead of walking off you stride closer. curious to whatever was happening.

and, you believe too easily apparently.

jade had held you by your shoulders and directed you away from the fight before the dispute reached you and inevitably dragged you in. “why are they fighting?”

he replied. “ah, well. they inhaled an unpleasant shroom and got affected.” your mortified face spoke you believed him. human culture! you thought.

your brain should be inspected honestly. floyd told him all about the pile of stuff you had “found” in your dorm, ranging from innocent collectibles to items that brought the question of whether or not they were really yours but you didn’t really claim otherwise, just that you found em’ so no more questioning.

azul doesn’t even wanna know why you started staring at mushrooms like they were a mortal enemy of all living forms. speaking of, the three of them didn’t even consider that you could be from the sea as well. seeing as, well. you have two feet, even if they have the same.

besides the fact you’re too clumsy for your own good you sure had no fear when you leapt overboard during a field trip cause a trinket that caught your eye fell and gave the entirety of the attendants a heart attack. floyd had patted him on the back and wishes him condolences.

also the shock of the century when you emerged, pretty tail and all. holding it the trinket up like you just found it the most fascinating thing on the globe.

since then underwater dates were a thing. which took a lot of prompting honestly, you didn’t know he was a merman either, curiously asking him what kind he was. in nature, you were persistent. like a need to sate your questions so he eventually relented.

even then, it took a while before he let you see the form. ← to his fluster you seemed engrossed in this form of his. swimming around him and asking questions.

now azul also have a small pile of items hidden in a box beneath his bed, all from you. which, upon being opened would be mistaken for unused items since its literally random stuff, and a concerning favor towards forks.

oh yeah. sometimes the tweels crash your date.

you could be in his office, going about your business. chilling on his couch and playing with one of your treasures and be completely unaware of the ominous discussion ongoing within the three about anemones? contracts?

“what are you guys talking about?”

“hairstyles for azul.”

“what—”

“ooh. i can brush his hair so you can style it!” pulls out a fork.

leona (belle)

“oh my sevens, WAIT—”

i was having a crisis trying to think of a dynamic so why not just, beauty x beast.

leona is less than pleased to admit he doesn’t like you much. or atleast, he used to. it was clear his feelings of you was reciprocated, based on the uninterested side glances you cast him. your type, well liked, pristine, proper, and informed reminds him all to well of what mold he was forced into. though it never really fit.

you on the other hand, just dislike him in general. more pointedly as to how he acted, too self righteous in your opinion. he sure spends a lot of time moping about how he could have been king when he’s acting like he’d be a terrible one. you’d say it to his face but even you aren’t too crude.

if you’re both looking at the bright side though, you’d probably prefer each other’s company above others. you’re quiet, perfect for napping around. he’s surprisingly true to himself, his morals aren’t too bad either.

as such, to your disdain he now naps in the library. which you had titled your own space, but he didn’t really just care.

relatively you’re a lot more cool headed than he is, you told him concerns about his laziness which he weaved through. after opening up with each other… well you know how it goes.

okay, fine. you no longer berate leona for napping at the public space, quickly shut up when he threatened you. “i’m gonna tell you the real reason ‘m here nowadays if you don’t calm down. and it ain’t the peace i’m here for.” he eyes you, and you shut up after that.

leona doesn’t know if he should be amused or annoyed at the fact that you stand up to whatever he says. ‘that’s rude,’ this. ‘are you out of your mind?’ that. at some point where he doesn’t wanna admit, leona had disliked seeing you upset (particularly towards him) that he started listening.

at others is a different story though. he will gladly watch you shut down someone else.

sometimes he makes weird remarks, like. “throw an egg at them, who knows might hatch into a chick and give them the company they’ve been lacking.” ← just bullies random people while you defend them. “what? don’t be stupid, eggs that are sold don’t hatch into chicks.”

you often lament in his arms, regretting ever coming near his sleeping frame cause next thing you know you’re subjected to prison, and you had accidentally dropped the book you were reading so even if you try to reach for it he’s pulling you back.

will reach for it if you ask tho lol.

just one look from you has him suddenly behaved tbh.

bothers your productive time by crashing it with his opposite word of productive idk im to lazy to check. more often than not tramples over your things, but always looks dead to life when you end up scolding him heavily.

also kicks out the animals that gravitate towards you for some reason, got jealous of a bird nestled in your hair once cause apparently you paid too much attention to it.

apparently told ruggie to fetch books for you when you’re running out, at that point you might actually milk the nrc library with how fast you burn through them.

“you’re not even from here, what do—”

“actually. originally from times before, they—”

riddle (cinderella)

got lectured about history, eugh.

easy to fluster x enthusiastic and sweet

how are you so nice.

you’ve got most of the population of nrc enamored with your natural charm alone, though some do tend to mock you. unfortunately they aren’t wrong, you really do fit in more at a different school like rsa with your personality.

i mean you fit the bill, kind, pretty, talks to animals.

good for you though. cause riddle would prefer a behaved student than a troublesome one anyway so he would definitely dig you lmao.

speaking of. he definitely goes to you whenever the hedgehogs are lost in the maze, or the flamingos just don't wanna step out the farther spot from the pond, somehow they love you in whatever you do.

as in, you spoke to the hedgehogs with a lower tone. almost like a coo, and he almost tells you to stop because that's the universal worse tone to talk to hedgehogs until... it nuzzles into you?!

flabbergasted, he can only watch.

sevens... you're just so pleasant to be around he could die.

at some point it felt like you were the epitome of being kind. riddle understand that the virtue was just embedded into you, letting others berate you for whatever... he even thought you were too kind for a place like nrc where the complete opposite traits are admired.

you are, but only to those who deserve it. riddle had the pleasure to spot you nitpicking a crude student and they looked like they were gonna burst into tears.

so... you knew what to say almost always. when troubled, he'd learn that it's best to talk to you cause you'd know what to say to ease his worries, when you're treated wrongly? sevens.. you also know what to say.

but, in a putting whoever in their place way?

(idk man I'm just rambling at this point lmao idk how to write a cinderella reader.)

riddle has grown accustomed to random critters breaking in the door. well, he was used to animals in the first place. or atleast thought he was when he opened a door in the dorm and almost yelled at the sight of a group of mice looking like they were having conspiracies.

a few weeks after that he knocked on doors before opening them.

was also very disturbed when you announced they were your friends.

I don't know. I feel like he'd lowkey be the type to write your name in a heart on the back of his notebook and straighten his face like: 'what in the world am I doing' but not erasing it anyways.

over time, your little 'friends' got used to him, and vice versa. at the very least he isn't screaming at their sudden visits, be it flying through the window or just popping out of something they climbed on.

who's screaming though are his dorm members, and he's found humors in the encounters.

"ah, thank you, myrcella." he nods gingerly, toward the very tiny white mice who seems to twirl around, touched by the thanks. the little thing was nice enough to carry the pen he'd been using to scribble down the main definitions he'd been copying from the textbook.

in the middle of reaching for a glass of water the door opens, riddle watches one of his residents striding in rambling. probably about to be exposed to the sight of a group of mice sleeping on top of each other atop a cushion he'd personally placed for them.

and maybe the birds. whom seemed comfortable by his small collection of plants.

"dorm leader, octavinelle stude—GAHHHH—"

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