#and so good at pretending to keep it together | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

janiehellion · 2 days ago

Text

Revved Up

ONESHOT

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

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ: DARYL DIXON X FEM!READER

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

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 14.441

ꜱᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ: S05E13—ꜰᴏʀɢᴇᴛ & S05E14—ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅ

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

MASTERLIST & REQUEST GUIDELINES

You couldn't take your eyes off of him.

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

Daryl Dixon was certainly different from the rest.

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

And for you?

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

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

That's what led you to the garage.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"It'll work."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gonna manage."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ya serious 'bout this?"

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

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

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

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

"Ya done?"

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

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

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

"Ain't havin' no damn crisis."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Get on."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay, understood. Show me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Shut up and drive."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Jus' 'bout," Daryl replied dryly.

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

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

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

"Wait, what? You can't just—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It felt weird.

Like, ridiculously weird.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dunno what yer talkin' 'bout."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell was wrong with you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your hands moved. Lower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What the hell is wrong with me?

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

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

Fuck, stop it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why isn't he stopping me?

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

Maybe he wants this as much as I do.

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

If you don't stop me, I swear I'll—

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

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

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

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

No. Stop it. Get your shit together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Focus; you can do this.

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

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

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

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

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

Shit, shit, shit.

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

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

You had to swallow hard.

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

Your mind was screaming at you to stop acting like you wanted to crawl all over him, but your body was betraying you.

And Daryl for sure wasn't even trying to make it easier, and all you could do was grit your teeth and pray you didn't lose it.

The first time you tried to balance the motorcycle, you almost tipped it over, but Daryl quickly got a hold of it—and you—before you really ate dirt.

"Goddamn it," he groaned, yanking you upright and keeping the motorcycle steady. "Yer fightin' the damn thing instead o' drivin' it. Quit makin' it harder for yerself."

You shot him a glare but didn't respond, figuring it was easier to just get the lesson over with. This time, he stepped in behind you, hands landing on your waist like he was holding onto a ticking time bomb. His grip tightened just enough to make you aware of his presence, but you weren't going to let him throw you off balance.

"Ease up on the damn clutch," he grumbled. "Slowly. Ya ain't in a damn hurry."

By the third or fourth try, you were starting to get the hang of it. You made it a few feet without the motorcycle wobbling like it had been possessed. You didn't even stall it this time.

"Look at me!" You grinned over your shoulder at him all triumphant as you stopped at a treeline. "I'm basically a stunt double at this point! Wanna try jumping flaming buses next?"

Daryl shot you that look again. The one that made you want to throw something at him. "Nah, yer bein' an amateur stunt double wantin' to set yerself on fire… 'cause ya can't keep yer hands to yerself."

You ignored him.

You had it now. You totally had it.

But who needed to play it safe when you could push this lesson to the limit and prove yourself?

You twisted the throttle again but felt a sudden rush of speed. "Shit!" You screamed from far away. "Fuck!"

"What the hell are ya doin'?!" Daryl shouted before you were hurtling forward at fast speed, your stomach dropping as it made everything around you blurry in sight. You had no idea how to stop in the heat of the moment without throwing yourself off it, and that realization hit you hard. You were in panic mode now, and trying to steer only made it worse.

"Daryl? A little help here, please!" You screamed, gripping the handlebars as your hands shook.

"Hold on!" Daryl yelled, but his warning was already too late. The front wheel hit something—a big rock? A tree stump? You didn't even see it. All you knew was that the motorcycle lurched like a wild animal wanting to throw you off its back.

For a moment, you were sure you were about to die. But Daryl wasn't about to let that happen. He lunged forward, grabbing you and yanking you off the seat just before it tipped completely and threw you off.

You and Daryl went down, both of you slamming into the ground hard. You landed on top of him—completely on top of him, with your thighs pressed against his hips and your upper body crashing against his chest.

You knew you fucked up, but his expression only made it worse. The slight pain in your body was nothing compared to the humiliation you felt. All you could do was catch your breath and stare at him.

And Daryl was flat-out pissed. His face was full of rage, and he was breathing hard from the crash. He shoved you off him, his hands on your shoulders as he stood up.

"What the hell were ya thinkin'!?" His eyes were practically burning holes through you. "I told ya to slow the hell down and focus! Ya don't listen for shit!"

You didn't want to admit that he was right, that you'd been very reckless. "Well, maybe you should've taught me how to actually ride instead of standing there like a statue and just barking orders!"

Daryl's hands were clenched into fists at his sides.

He wasn't just angry.

He was livid.

You were both breathing fast now, adrenaline still running through your veins. "And maybe I'm just a fast learner, okay?" You continued.

Daryl looked at you like he was about to rip you in half. "Yer not a fast learner; yer a damn idiot! And now I gotta drag yer dumb ass back!"

He grabbed the motorcycle and swung his leg over it with a grunt. "Get the fuck on," he growled in frustration.

You glared at him for a moment, but you weren't about to argue. You had to get home. You had no choice but to follow him.

Throwing your leg over the seat, you settled behind him. You couldn't even look up now. Every time you did, your stomach hurt in a way that made no sense. The anger, the shame—it was all so degrading. You wanted to argue. You really did. But you were too embarrassed, and your body was too sore to keep up any fight.

Daryl started the engine, and the motorcycle roared to life under you. As he sped down the road, you couldn't help but notice how tense his body still was. Every muscle in his back seemed to be stiff. And he didn't say a word anymore. Not a single word as you rode back toward Alexandria in silence.

His hands gripped the handlebars with such force, you swore the motorcycle might crack in half under the pressure if he kept it up.

You were pissed as well. Pissed at yourself for fucking up and pissed at him for making you feel all... this. You hated that you couldn't read him, hated how he could just shut everything out like that, and especially for making you feel something you didn't want to feel.

Once back at Alexandria, the garage door had barely been shut when Daryl's frustration exploded. He was still breathing hard from the ride, and he hadn't pushed you away since you'd now gotten back, but the way he was glaring at you said enough.

He took a step toward you, pushing you back a little. "Crashed my damn bike…"

"I didn't wreck it, Daryl," you argued. "It's fine!"

"Fine?" He repeated. "That's what ya call near splittin' yer skull open?"

"I didn't crash on purpose!" You shot back, the frustration boiling over. "I'm not dumb!"

He let out a mean laugh, his eyes narrowing. "Coulda fooled me, dumbass!"

"You're the one all trembling here, not me!" You crossed your arms, trying to hold onto whatever bit of defiance was left. "It was an accident, Daryl," you continued, glaring right back at him. "It's not like I'm trying to be your damn stunt double!"

He scoffed, not buying your excuse. "Bullshit. Ya were pushin' it, tryin' to prove somethin', weren't ya? Ya coulda gotten yerself killed!"

Maybe he was right; maybe you had been showing off, but why bother with giving him the satisfaction and letting him know that it was the truth?

"What's your problem, Dixon? It isn't like I destroyed the damn thing," you scoffed.

He shot you a glare. "Problem is, ya don't think. Out there, one screw-up ain't jus' a scratch—it's the difference 'tween comin' back or not comin' back at all!"

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, please! Spare me the PSA! It isn't like I don't know how this shit works! We're all one wrong turn away from dead anyway! What's the big deal?"

"The big deal," he growled, "is ya don't get to pull that shit with my bike!"

His finger shot out, pointing toward the side of the motorcycle. "Look at this," he growled. "Ya see that?"

You glanced where he was pointing and shrugged. "What, a couple of scratches? Boo-fucking-hoo! Rub some dirt with your spit on it; it'll be fine!"

"Couple o' scratches?" His voice rose, and he bent down to run a hand along the damaged part. "Ya know how I worked on this, ain't that right? To get it runnin' smooth?"

He crouched, looking at the machine like he was inspecting a wounded animal. "Look."

"What?"

"Look," he snarled once more, pointing his finger at the gas tank.

Reluctantly, you stepped closer, peering over his shoulder. The scratches weren't as bad as you'd expected—some scuffed paint and a tiny dent, hardly catastrophic.

"Oh no," you pretended to be shocked and threw your hands up. "It's ruined! Better put it out of its misery!"

Daryl turned around, staring at you in disbelief and anger. "That funny to ya?"

"A little," you shot back, trying to ignore the way your heart pounded. "Newsflash, Dixon! This is a hunk of metal. It'll survive!"

His jaw clenched, and he stood up so fast you stumbled back. "Ain't the damn point," he snapped, stepping closer.

"Then what is the point?" You demanded in return.

"The point is," he growled, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous register, "ya don't listen. Yer always so goddamn dumb, thinkin' ya know better—"

"I do know better!" You interrupted him. "I could rebuild this bike with my eyes closed! Hell, I could build you a new one from… a scratch!"

Daryl's hands dropped to his sides, his breathing fast as he stared at you. His eyes looked down to your arms, and you followed his line of sight, realizing for the first time that you were trembling.

His eyes softened, just for a second. "Ya hurt?"

"No," you lied, crossing your arms to hide the shaking.

Daryl huffed, and his frustration was boiling over again. "Bullshit."

He moved toward you, closing the space between you as he grabbed you by the arm. You flinched but didn't pull away. His grip tightened, pulling you back toward the motorcycle you'd nearly wrecked.

"Get on," he growled, holding you still.

You froze, glaring at him. "Excuse me?"

"Get on the fuckin' bike," he repeated, his eyes narrowing.

You shook your head. "You're out of your damn mind."

But you didn't fight it when he shoved you over to the seat, guiding you like you were weighing nothing at all. You hadn't expected this—his touch and his obvious anger.

But it wasn't just the crash. No. It was the way his eyes looked at you—like he was waiting for you to back down, to beg for mercy even.

"What?" You scoffed. "You're pissed 'cause I fucked up your bike? Is that it? So fucking ridiculous!"

"'S part of it," he answered, and before you could respond, his hand gripped your chin, forcing you to look at him.

And you weren't sure what you expected from him, but you didn't expect the force of his lips on yours.

His kiss was aggressive. It wasn't tender. It wasn't gentle. It was all teeth and tongue and the feel of his stubble against your skin.

You tried to pull back, pushing at his chest. "What the hell—!"

"Shut the fuck up."

You barely had time to react before he was pushing you against the motorcycle, and his hands found their way under your shirt. It was almost too much to bear—the roughness of his touch. It had no place here, not with you two practically being strangers in this world, but somehow it made sense.

And no, you didn't pull away. Not now.

"Daryl—" You cut yourself off when his hand slid down to your waistband, tugging at your pants, a movement that was fast and urgent. Your breath hitched, a gasp escaping your throat.

He didn't respond, not in words anyway, as he lowered himself to his knees in front of you, his hands on your thighs, forcing you to stay still.

He wanted you—had wanted you, maybe for longer than he'd ever care to admit.

You gasped again when he pulled your pants down roughly, his hands moving along your hips before dragging them down your legs. You knew his hands were capable—he could gut a deer in under a minute, rebuild a bike from scratch—but this? This was a whole different level of skill, and you weren't sure whether to be impressed or terrified by how quickly he had you undone.

But you didn't have time to process it before Daryl was standing again, his face dangerously close to yours, eyes burning with a fire that made you blush.

God, his eyes.

They weren't just looking at you—they were staring you down.

Before you could say anything else, he kissed you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to your hips and pushing himself closer until there was no space between your bodies.

And then, his fingers slipped beneath your panties, and he slid two of them into you. Without warning.

You cried out at the suddenness of it, at the overwhelming feeling, but you didn't stop him.

"Still think I'm tremblin'?" He asked as he moved them inside you with a pace that made your head spin. You couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.

Sure, he was frustrated—but now it was all coming out, only in a way that you'd never expected. You didn't know what this was—what this would be afterward—but damn if it didn't feel like the only thing that mattered right now.

As his breath turned quicker against your neck, the urgency of his fingers quickened, too. Until he pulled them out of you. The moment he removed his hand, licking his fingers clean, you almost cursed aloud, the emptiness threatening to drive you mad.

He didn't give you time to say anything, didn't even let you think about it, because in the next moment, his hands were yanking your shirt up over your head, and your bra was gone just as fast.

But the way he studied you, every inch of you—like he was savoring the moment as if you were a piece of art he needed to drink in—made everything feel too much. Too much to take. Too much to bear. But also too good to stop.

You couldn't protest, couldn't do anything but let him have his way, and your eyes squeezed shut as you fought to hold it together.

Without a word, Daryl kneeled back down onto the ground again, his hands moving to your thighs, pushing them apart for him.

"Open yer eyes," he ordered, but you didn't. You just couldn't. But you could feel him there, right between your legs, and the anticipation was nearly killing you.

No, you couldn't do anything but obey as his hand was pulling your panties down and his other hand's thumb stroked across your clit, but something else caught his attention. A bruise on your thigh started to slowly form itself from when you'd crashed.

And then, without a word, he leaned forward, his lips pressing hard against the bruise. His teeth bit into the skin, and then he sucked on it with a hunger that had nothing to do with the motorcycle and the crash.

You gasped loudly, eyes opening wide as the sharp sting of his bite was followed by the slow, deep suck of his mouth.

His lips left the bruise for a moment, but it wasn't gone long. His tongue licked over the edges of it, then his teeth, scraping some more, making your legs shiver with lust and a little bit of pain.

As his fingers moved toward and away from your wet pussy, to brush over the scratches on one leg from the crash, you could feel the pressure of his touch as he traced over each one. He didn't care about the discomfort it caused, didn't care about the marks—they were his to play with.

A growl left his throat as he scratched them a little harder, just a little deeper, making you whimper.

You didn't even realize you were staring at him until his blue eyes looked up into yours, a silent claim that went deeper than anything else.

"Ain't lettin' ya look away," he warned as his hands gripped your thighs again, forcing your trembling legs to stay open for him.

And God, they were.

His touch was everything you didn't know you needed as he slipped his fingers back into you—simply all-consuming. His thumb stroked your clit yet again, and you were sure you were going to lose it way too fast.

And the way he kept looking at you—like he was daring you to look away…

But you didn't. Not once.

The pressure was building, that sweet, unbearable pressure, until it felt like you were going to burst into flames.

Indeed, it was pure fire.

"Eyes on me," he growled. "Don't ya look away."

His fingers found their rhythm, slow but deep, making you moan out loud, trying your hardest to keep your eyes open and on him.

"Yeah, 's it," he growled. "Focus."

You nodded wildly, the feeling overtaking everything, your body desperate for more. Every bit of your skin was burning, and you hated how badly you needed this.

"Daryl… I," you gasped, your hands holding on for dear life on the motorcycle seat, trying to stay upright but close to losing the battle with every pump. "I can't—fuck!"

"Can't what? Focus? Ain't nothin' new," he answered, his thumb still on your clit while his fingers were thrusting away. "Can't handle it? Ya jus' gotta focus. Keep yer eyes on me."

You were close, so fucking close already, but he wasn't letting up.

His fingers moved so roughly inside of you, pressing against your G-spot, which soon made you feel certain this was it—this was the moment.

Your legs were shaking hard, your breath coming in quick, desperate moans. "Fuck… fuck…" You whimpered, fingers tightening on the seat behind you.

But then he stopped. Just stopped.

The sudden loss of his fingers was like being thrown into a room full of walkers. You groaned, your hips bucking in a desperate attempt to go after what was just within reach, but he pulled his hand away completely, leaving you trembling and half-crazed.

"What the fuck, Daryl!" You cried out loud as you glared down at him, but Daryl only had the audacity to smirk, licking his fingers off once more like you hadn't been about to shatter into pieces.

"Keep still and shut up," he growled, and before you could scream at him, his head was between your legs.

Your words turned into a choked cry as his tongue moved over your clit, the feeling of his stubble against your inner thighs making you squirm.

It wasn't fair. You were already so close, your body trembling so hard it hurt, but now he was dragging it out, taking his sweet-ass time, licking and sucking like he had all damn day.

"Fuck—fucking hell, Daryl," you hissed, hands grabbing his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan against you. The vibrations shot straight through you, making your thighs clench around his head, but he didn't stop—he didn't even flinch.

"Thought ya were so good at takin' risks," he taunted, his lips brushing against your clit as he spoke.

And with that, he sucked on it so hard you nearly screamed, the feeling of it being just on the edge of pain, but God, it was perfect. You were so damn close again, and this time, you needed it.

If he pulled away now, you swore you'd kill him.

"Please," you whimpered, your hips grinding against his mouth in a way that should've embarrassed you. "Daryl, fuck, don't you dare stop again—"

His grip tightened on your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wanted you as his tongue pushed you further and further until there was nowhere left to go but over the edge.

But it wasn't just his mouth—oh no. His hands were keeping you in place, his fingers pressing into your skin like he was claiming you, and maybe he was. You didn't care. You just wanted more.

"Fuck—Daryl, I'm—" Your voice broke, too far gone to even finish the sentence.

He pulled back just enough to growl, "What? Yer what?" His voice was rough and way too sarcastic for a man who was driving you insane.

"Stop it and finish me!" You snapped, your hands pulling at his hair like it would somehow speed him up.

He laughed—actually laughed—and that sound went straight through you. But before you could cuss him out for being an 'insufferable bastard,' his fingers were back on you, two sliding inside so easily you swore you saw stars.

Your breath hitched, and then he added a third.

"Fuck—holy shit!" You gasped, your thighs trembling as he stretched you wide. The feeling was nearly too much, but it was just right, and when his fingers started pumping in and out, so deep and hard, you couldn't do anything but ride it out.

He looked up at you then, his blue eyes searching for yours. You wanted to look away, to hide from the way he was watching you like he was saving every second of this to memory, but you didn't. He wouldn't let you.

"Eyes on me," he growled. "Don't ya fuckin' look away."

You didn't think you could blush any harder—you didn't think you had the energy left for it—but then his other hand moved, his thumb pressing into the bruise on your thigh, just hard enough to make you wince.

"Shit—Daryl, that hurts!" You hissed at him, but his grip tightened, keeping you still.

"Good," he growled, looking at you. "Should hurt."

His fingers inside your pussy were picking up speed, driving you mad with how good they felt.

"Ya think I'm jus' gonna let ya off easy after crashin' my bike?"

He pressed harder into the bruise, making you whimper from the pain that somehow only made everything hotter.

"Nah. Yer gonna feel this. Remember this."

You hated how much it turned you on—the sting of his thumb on your bruise along with the pumping of his fingers inside you and the way his mouth was so close to your clit again.

"Please—fuck—please," you begged, not even sure what you were asking for anymore. You just needed something—anything—to finally push you over the edge.

"C'mon," he growled against you, not stopping. "C'mon, woman. Fuckin' let go. Let me fuckin' have it."

And that was it. That was all it took.

Everything inside you exploded so intensely you moaned out loud, your whole body arching as the orgasm ripped through you.

"Fuck—fuck, Daryl!"

You tried to keep your legs from giving out, but they were done, trembling so hard you had no choice but to lean fully against the motorcycle once more, trying to hold yourself steady. But Daryl didn't stop. His mouth stayed on you, his tongue again working your clit, dragging out every last bit of your orgasm until you were shaking all over, whimpering and sobbing from the overstimulation.

Only then did he pull his fingers out in a way that made sure you'd feel everything.

But before you could catch your breath, his hands were on you again, gripping your thighs like they belonged to him. Without a word, he hoisted your legs up, wrapping them around his neck. The sudden movement made you yelp, but he didn't care—not one bit.

"What the fuck are you—"

"Shut up," he growled, his voice ragged as he shifted you off the motorcycle and onto his shoulders like you weighed nothing. "Focus."

The cold floor hit your back as he lowered you down, your body shivering against it. He moved near you, his hands gripping your thighs to keep them spread wide as he settled between them again, his face just inches from where you were still dripping for him.

You barely had time to process the new position before his tongue was back on you, licking slow and deep, making you moan aloud through the garage. All you could do was writhe and shake beneath him, your hands searching for anything to grab and hold onto—his hair, his shoulders, the cold floor—trying to keep still as he worked you over.

But then, just when you thought he'd keep going until you couldn't take anymore, he moved, his mouth leaving your pussy as he started to lick and kiss—hot, wet, and sloppy—all over you.

And he didn't move fast. He took his time, crawling up your body like he was deciding which part of you he should tease next. You felt his breath across your skin, so warm yet unsteady, while his hands worked on keeping you exactly where he wanted you—legs spread wide, no room to close yourself off, no room to argue.

His hands? Oh, you knew those hands could kill you if they wanted to, but the way he traced the edges of the scratches on your thigh? Fuck, it was worse. Slow. On purpose. Just enough pressure to remind you it was there. A reminder you didn't need, but apparently, he thought you needed.

The tip of his thumb ran over them once, twice, then pressed down harder. You flinched—it was pure instinct—but his other hand clamped down on your leg, pinning you to the floor. His thumb didn't move, didn't give you a break. If anything, he pressed harder, and you hissed through your teeth. He groaned, low and deep, like your slight discomfort was exactly what he wanted.

Daryl soon leaned down and kissed them. He kissed them like he was apologizing. Then his teeth grazed over the same scratches, and you realized he wasn't sorry for it at all. His tongue followed, licking slowly and wetly over the stinging feeling of them, and your back arched itself off the floor.

By the time he moved up to the bruise on your hips, his fingers found it first, pressing into your flesh like he was testing it, seeing how much it was hurting you. You flinched again, but this time, his response was immediate—a growl coming out of his throat as his fingers dug in deeper.

"Daryl," you started, but your voice cracked, and you knew that he wasn't listening anyway. His mouth replaced his fingers, and the first kiss of his lips made your head snap up.

Not soft, not tender—he sucked on the bruise as if he wanted to drag the pain out of you, to make you feel every sting of it.

He kept going, his mouth kissing up your ribs, licking, biting, sucking, finding every bruise that was forming itself, every scratch, and making sure you knew he'd found them.

"Fuckin' hell…" He whispered as his mouth moved higher, pressing kisses to your chest, in between your tits, before his tongue licked over one nipple.

You gasped as he sucked it into his mouth, one of his hands moving to tease the other, pinching and rolling it between his fingers.

"Daryl, please! Please… just—"

He didn't let up. He crawled higher over you, his body pinning you down, his mouth moving up to your collarbone, where his tongue licked over it next.

By the time he reached your neck, you were a mess, your hands now clawing at his shoulders, desperate for him to give you more, to stop teasing. And he knew it.

But he wasn't done. His teeth found your neck, and he bit down, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to leave a mark, your thighs instantly squeezing around his hips.

"Goddamn," he growled as his mouth finally reached yours. "Look atcha… all wrecked."

Before you could respond, his lips were on yours, rough and hungry, his tongue pushing into your mouth like he needed to taste every part of you.

And fuck, you didn't care.

Daryl left no room for argument—not that you had any strength left to argue.

His hands were everywhere at once, sliding over your thighs, your hips, your waist. You moaned into his mouth as his fingers moved back down between your legs, slipping through the wetness he'd left behind when he dragged his fingers through your wet folds, and his smirk certainly showed that he was satisfied with himself.

He wasn't asking for permission, no, but he wasn't rushing either. And he was now giving you the chance to stop him without saying a word.

When you didn't push him away, he leaned back just enough to look at you. His blue eyes seemed darker now, his pupils all wide, searching for something, waiting.

Your hands slid up his strong back, trembling slightly but steadying themselves as they reached his shoulders. You gave him a small but quick nod as you took a shaky breath.

That was all he needed.

With a growl, Daryl's hands gripped your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach fast but not harshly. Before you could even process it all, he pressed himself down against your ass.

"Don't move," he whispered.

You weren't planning to.

He grabbed your hips again, pulling you back just enough to hold them upward. You felt his cock pressing against your ass, still in his pants but unmistakably hard as he grunted and pushed it against you, his hands only holding on harder.

The deep and loud groan he made? You couldn't help but push back against him.

You barely had time to listen to the sound of his zipper before he was back, his cock sliding between your thighs, teasing, the wetness of your pussy making it too easy for him to glide against you.

Your fingers were clawing at the floor as you tried to push back, but his hands held you in place.

His hips rocked forward, and the tip of his cock pressed into your pussy. You tensed, your breath stopping at the sheer size of it, but he didn't push in—not completely. He was letting you feel every inch of how big he was.

When he did push inside, it was enough to stretch you wide open, and with one slow thrust, he sank into you, filling you up. Still, Daryl didn't move right away. He stayed there, buried to the hilt, as he gave you a moment to adjust and made sure you were okay.

Then, he finally started to move.

Slow at first, his hips pulling back before thrusting forward again, each movement so controlled.

But it didn't take long for him to move faster.

Harder.

Deeper.

And you couldn't do anything but take it as he pinned you down.

"Daryl—" you moaned, but he cut you off with a growl, his arm sliding down around you, pulling your hips higher to give him better access.

"Don't talk," he ordered, trying not to lose himself. "Jus' take it."

And you did. God, you did.

The garage felt almost suffocating now, and all you could smell was the scent of sweat and sex. The only sounds to be heard were your fast-breathing moans of yourself and his feral grunts as Daryl moved behind you. Every thrust was deep, driving you forward just to pull you back again with a growl, his grip on your hips leaving marks you'd wear for days.

Your hands still searched for any kind of hold against the floor, trying to ground yourself as the intensity of it all threatened to break you apart. His cock stretched you in a way that still bordered on too much, each thrust rougher than the last, and yet you couldn't get enough of it—of him.

"Fuck," Daryl grunted, his voice sounding as if the word was being dragged out from deep inside him.

You couldn't respond to him, not with the way he filled you so completely, your body trembling under his control. But he didn't need any words in return from you. His hand slid from your hip, moving along your ass and up your spine, before he put his arm around your shoulders to keep you steady.

"Don't lose focus now," he growled, leaning over you, his chest brushing against your back. His stubble grazed along your shoulder as he pressed his mouth down, his lips rough, almost punishing. He bit down hard, his teeth sinking into your skin just enough to leave another mark.

You cried out, clenching around him involuntarily. "Daryl—"

"Shut up," he said, cutting you off with another bite to your shoulder, this one softer than the last. His teeth were still on the mark he'd made, right before his tongue soothed it, leaving you shivering.

Daryl's pace quickened, each thrust making your overstimulated body shudder.

"Goddamn, look atcha," he grumbled, his voice full of lust. "Really fuckin' wrecked, ain't ya?"

You whimpered in response, your head falling forward and almost hitting the floor, but your body was still being held on tight by his grip.

"Ya like that?"

You nodded.

"C'mon," he growled, his hand tightening around your chest to keep you steady as his thrusts grew erratic. "Stay with me, woman. Focus. Fuckin' focus."

You didn't have a choice. His arm around your chest and his cock buried so deep inside you made it impossible to think about anything else. And the pressure was building again, unavoidable, and you knew he could feel it—the way your pussy clenched around him, desperate to feel him come, too.

And he didn't slow down. He didn't ease the pace or give you any room to breathe. Instead, he buried his face against you again, his lips sucking on your neck, his tongue following to taste the sweat of your skin.

"Shit," he hissed, his voice all muffled against your neck. "Goddamn, ya feel so fuckin' good."

His hips thrust forward, harder and faster, and you could feel him getting close, his movements losing their rhythm as his breathing turned ragged.

"Fuck—fuck," he groaned, his arm moving from your chest to hold your hip again, his hand grabbing you roughly as his thrusts went deeper. "Gonna—fuck, I'm—"

He didn't finish the sentence. With a loud groan that was almost sounding more animal than man, he pulled out, his hand gripping his cock as he came all over your back with force.

You stayed there momentarily, still on the cold floor of the garage, as you tried to piece yourself back together. Your legs felt like jelly, trembling so badly you weren't even sure they'd hold you if you tried to stand up.

Daryl soon moved off behind you, his heavy breathing just as loud and uneven as yours as he leaned against the motorcycle for balance. His cum was feeling all warm across your back, but you didn't have the energy to care—not yet.

Finally, he straightened himself, pulling his pants back up and putting his softening cock away. You heard the sound of his footsteps next to you as he walked around the garage, and for a second, you thought he was going to leave you there, fucked and half-naked in the garage.

But not long after, he was back, something soft and slightly damp rubbing over your skin.

"Hold still," he grunted. "Gotta clean ya up."

You flinched, moving your head to see what he was doing. Daryl had an old, torn rag in one hand, smudged with a little bit of dry oil, but it was enough to do the job. His other hand pressed against your shoulder, holding you still as he wiped away the mess of his cum he'd left behind.

"You could've at least grabbed a clean one," you grumbled, but there wasn't any real annoyance in your voice.

When he was done, he tossed the rag aside. "Yer alright?"

You smirked, despite the ache in your legs. "What, worried I might've cracked under all that control?"

For a moment, he looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he just grunted before crouching in front of you. His hands found your arms as he helped you up, his strength the only thing keeping you from falling right back to the floor.

"Easy," he mumbled, sliding one arm around your waist to steady you. "Ain't wantin' to pick yer ass up again if ya fall."

"Not my fault," you answered, your legs wobbling as you tried to find your balance. "You're the one who—"

"Don't even start," he cut you off quickly, but definitely with amusement. "Ya got no one to blame but yer damn self."

His arm stayed around you as you took a few shaky steps with him by your side as if you had to learn how to walk again, your knees still threatening to buckle. You hated how he looked at you right now, showing you a smirk as he watched you struggle.

"Shut up," you grumbled, leaning against him more than you wanted to admit.

"Ain't said nothin'," he smirked, but the way his hand tightened on your waist betrayed his satisfaction.

Once you were steady enough to stand on your own, he let go, his hands falling to his sides. As you reached for your clothes, putting them on with clumsy, trembling fingers, Daryl leaned against the motorcycle again, watching you with that same gaze he'd had earlier, his blue eyes tracking every movement of your body.

"So? Ya still reckless?" He suddenly asked, as if to taunt you.

You glared at him as you put on your bra and shirt. "Excuse me?"

"Crashin' my bike," he continued, crossing his arms over his chest. "Then gettin' all riled up when ya can't handle shit."

Feeling your cheeks turn red, the heat was spreading all over your face as you turned to zip up your pants. "Maybe if you weren't such a goddamn caveman, my attention would've—"

"Caveman, huh?" Daryl stepped closer, the space closing between you until you could feel the presence of him behind your back. One hand came up, his fingers brushing lightly over the bruise on your thigh from earlier, the touch rather gentle.

"Caveman kept ya focused now, didn't he?" He continued, his lips all close near your ear. "Got yer attention real good."

You hated how easily your body responded to him even now, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

"Next time," he said, his voice dropping slightly, "ya might think twice 'bout tryin' to show off."

His fingers then pressed into the bruise just enough to make you wince, reminding you of the lesson he'd drilled into you—literally.

"Control," he said, stepping back again. "Might save yer damn ass next time."

You turned to face the motorcycle with a scowl as you adjusted your clothes, looking around for your jacket. "Are you done lecturing me, or should I grab a notepad?"

"Nah. Jus' get yer shit together," he answered. "We're headin' out again tomorrow. Yer ridin' bitch till ya prove ya can handle it."

Laughing at that, your words were coming out faster than your still-wobbly legs could even move. "Riding bitch, huh?" You repeated as you turned to face him. "Next time you're teaching me to drive, I'll be riding something, alright—but it sure as shit won't be the bike."

It was a bold answer, considering your legs still felt like they'd been switched for spaghetti, but you weren't about to let him see you back down.

Daryl's lips twitched, that small smirk coming back as he closed the distance between you in a few quick movements. One hand shot out, gripping your chin and tilting your head up to meet his gaze.

"Keep talkin'," he grumbled, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. "See where it gets ya."

You grinned, biting his thumb just enough to make him hiss. "I think it gets me exactly where I want to be," you responded, voice all daring, even as your pulse kicked up a notch all over. "Don't you think?"

Daryl's silence was answer enough, and for a moment, you thought he might snap again, dragging you into another round right there on the spot. But for now, and for once, you decided to savor and enjoy your little victory. Of course, it didn't last long.

You weren't sure who moved first, but before you knew it, you were pulling him down by his collar, your lips crashing onto his like they had something to prove.

The kiss was all grunts and stubbornness, his teeth biting at your lip as you ran your fingers through his messy hair. You didn't even notice when his hands found your waist, pulling you closer until there wasn't an inch of space between your bodies.

"Y'ain't got any sense o' self-control," he mumbled against your mouth, but he didn't stop kissing you, one hand sliding up to grab the back of your neck.

You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath, smirking up at him. "And you've got too much of it," you shot back.

You knew this would've gone on longer—should've gone on longer—but the sound of the side door from the garage to the house opening stopped you both in place like a couple of kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

"Daryl?" Aaron's voice was to be heard, and you felt the blood freeze in your veins. "Are you both back already?"

Daryl let out a growl, his forehead slowly dropping to yours like he was trying to collect himself before turning to look toward the unwanted interruption.

Aaron stood in the doorway, his eyes looking between the two of you, taking in the sheer awkwardness of it all. His eyebrows shot up, and he blinked like he was trying to reset his brain back to factory settings.

"Oh…" Aaron said after a moment, his voice sounding a little bit higher than usual. "I just—uh—saw the garage door was closed from the outside when I came back. Thought you were done with, uh, teaching? I just wanted to get—"

Daryl cleared his throat, stepping back from you but not bothering to hide his irritation. "'M still teachin'."

Aaron's mouth opened like he was about to ask something else, but you jumped in before he could make things even worse. "Yeah, exactly," you said, smiling at him before you looked back at Daryl. "He's teachin' me how to… focus."

The words had barely left your mouth before Daryl shot you a look. Still, he couldn't resist adding, "And 'bout… control."

Aaron stood there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish in urgent need of water. Finally, he managed to let out a quiet, "Still teaching, huh?" His voice was full of disbelief. "About control and focus?"

You crossed your arms, smirking. "Of course! And let me tell you, Daryl's got a real hands-on approach." Daryl gave you a warning look, but you ignored him. "Next time, maybe we'll move on to, I dunno, accelerating!"

"Yeah," Daryl answered flatly, his tone as casual as if Aaron had walked in on him fixing the motorcycle, not having had you taken against it. "Focusin' on the road ahead. Controllin' the bike while… ridin' it."

Aaron arched only one eyebrow this time. "Right," he said, dragging the word out like it was hurting him. "Well, maybe teach her outside of Alexandria next time instead of Eric's and my garage?"

You snorted. "Oh, we can, for sure. But Daryl's really good at teaching me how to focus on what's in front of me," you said sweetly. "It's the control part I keep getting stuck on."

Aaron let out a short, strangled laugh, already backing toward the door. "Yeah, okay! Don't let me interrupt your lesson." His face went red, and he backed up so fast he nearly tripped. "I mean, it sounds, uh... productive. I'll just—yeah." He gestured around awkwardly as he was about to hurry back inside the house.

When he left, you could've sworn he whispered something that sounded suspiciously like, "What the hell is wrong with all these people?" before he closed the door behind him.

The second the door clicked shut, you leaned against the workbench, your eyes moving to the motorcycle that had started this whole situation, after all. It stood there innocently enough, like it hadn't been witness to your absolute lack of keeping control. Stepping forward, you traced your fingers along one of the scratches on its gas tank.

"Looks like Frankenstein's bike's seen some rough handling, thanks to me," you said before your eyes moved back onto Daryl, who was watching you like an animal sizing up its next meal. "Guess it'll get used to bein' ridden hard."

Eyes looking up, you were daring him to take the bait. "Think you'll leave some scratches on me next time?"

His muscles were flexing like he was seconds from pulling you back to him. "Keep talkin', woman, and I jus' might."

You grinned, stepping away from the motorcycle and grabbing your jacket, which was on the floor near the workbench. "Guess I'll just have to wait and see, huh?" You put the jacket on, taking your time on purpose to let him stew in his frustration.

Just as you reached the garage door and opened it, you turned back toward Daryl, who'd started to talk, watching you lean your shoulder against the frame. "Yer walkin' funny, woman."

You stopped, moving your head up with a glare. "If I walk funny, I'm tellin' everyone it's 'cause of the bike." You made sure to add a smirk. "I'm going to say it was a wild ride—not a crash."

As you pushed yourself off the frame and stepped outside onto the streets of Alexandria, your grin was as wide as ever. "Thank you for the thorough lesson, Dixon."

But before the garage could even close behind you, something soft and slightly damp was flying past your head, landing on the ground in front of you.

"Jesus, was that—?" You started to laugh, realizing exactly what he'd thrown after you. "Oh, come on! Did you seriously throw that at me? Gross!"

Daryl leaned against the motorcycle, his smirk not obvious, but it was there. "Missed, didn't I?" He didn't flinch, didn't apologize. "Didn't miss on purpose."

"That's disgusting," you called back and laughed, unable to help yourself. "And I'm not picking that up!"

"Didn't ask ya to," he answered, pushing himself off the machine and taking a few steps closer to the street. "But yer might come back in here 'n pick up somethin' else."

"Not a chance," you snorted, shaking your head while you stumbled a little bit. "Better luck next time. Or… tomorrow."

"Fuckin' reckless…" Daryl growled, but with amusement in his voice as he watched you disappear ever so slowly. But he didn't move, not yet. "Jus' get yer damn ass back here!"

You were already down the street and smirking to yourself as you tried to walk and just waved him off, making it clear that it was all for show as you held up both middle fingers, trying to make it seem like you were stumbling away with your body intact.

And, of course, you were—kind of.

Either way, Daryl knew that next time, the only thing you'd be riding was him, and you'd make sure he would be the one struggling to keep focus and control.

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eggyrocks · 1 day ago

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DRUNK WALK HOME

chapter seven: introductions

masterlist

"and i don't want your pity, i just want somebody near me / guess i'm a coward, i just want to feel alright," nobody by mitski

It’s Tuesday, and Akaashi’s studying, sitting at the university coffee shop with his notes splayed across a table, an empty seat across from him.

He can’t focus. He couldn’t focus at his apartment, he couldn’t focus at the library, and he can’t focus here. Noises keep making his head turn, and he keeps thinking that he sees her out of the corner of his eye, and each time it tenses him up, makes his adrenaline spike.

He keeps rereading the same sentence over and over, and going to drink from a coffee that’s been empty for about twenty minutes now. He’s not retaining any information, each word he reads turning into dust on his head.

It’s making his head split. And as much as Akaashi does not want to admit it, the thought creeps into the back of his mind that she’s right: he is obsessed. It makes his grip on his pen a bit tighter. He tries, but he can’t stop thinking about her. Everything he does, she’s in the back of his mind. He wonders what she’d say to him if she could see him, what she’d do. He wonders what she’s thinking about, and if she’s thinking about him.

He wonders if she would’ve been his friend, if he had given her the chance.

This is what he’s thinking about instead of his studies, and it’s driving him insane. He grinds his teeth together, and tries to force himself to understand the content in front of him.

A heavy leather purse drops down on top of the table, and he jumps. Akaashi looks up, and sees an older woman there, taking a seat in the empty chair across from him. She stares directly at Akaashi as she does so. She looks familiar. This scowl she has on her face feels like one Akaashi knows.

“I’m sitting here,” she says, matter-of-factly, crossing her arms over her chest and leaning back in her seat. “There’s no other place to sit, and I’m waiting for my kid to show up. She’s late, go fucking figure.”

Akaashi tries not to let it show how immediately uncomfortable he feels. “Um, okay. That’s fine with me,” he says stiffly, nodding his head.

She has wrinkles around her eyes and heavy frown lines around her mouth. “What’s your name?” she demands.

“Akaashi Keiji, ma’am,” he answers, because he feels like he has to. Like he’ll get in some kind of trouble if he doesn’t.

“You look like a smart kid,” she comments, eyes briefly tracing over his collection of books and notes. “You get good grades?”

“My grades are decent, yes.”

She snorts. “That’s a humble way of saying yes. You look smart, studying here. Wish my kid was smart like you. But she’s a fucking dumbass.”

His discomfort makes him squirm. Akaashi doesn’t know what to say, so he settles on, “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You got a girlfriend, Akaashi?” she asks bluntly.

“Um, no,” he says, and for some reason his face gets hot. “No I don’t.”

“Do you want one? My daughter’s dumb as rocks but she’s at least pretty. Gets it from me,” she says, and grins proudly.

Akaashi looks over his shoulder, like he’s looking for someone to save him from this conversation. The last thing he wants is to date this random woman’s random daughter, especially if they’re anything alike. “Oh, well, I’m just trying to focus on my studies now.”

“Well if you change your mind, let me know. Maybe you’d be a good influence on her,” she says, and then perks up in her chair, looking over Akaashi’s head. “Look, here she comes now.”

Akaashi turns, and he sees her. For a moment, he tries to pretend that he doesn’t see her, and instead looks for the woman’s daughter, before it dawns on him.

It makes sense, once Akaashi realizes. They look alike. The way the frown is the same. The way they spit out words is the same. Akaashi feels something that is akin to satisfaction.

She must see her mother sitting there, speaking with Akaashi, and feel dread, because this awful expression works its way across her face once she sees the two of them together. Her mouth screws up, her fists ball by her side, and she takes quick, urgent steps towards the table in the middle of the cafe. “Mom?” she questions, voice half horrified and half enraged. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m talking to this nice boy, Akaashi,” her mother responds, leaning back in her chair as if she has no intention of leaving, and is in fact just getting comfortable. Smugness blossoms in Akaashi’s chest, and he can’t help but smirk.

She is deliberately not looking back at Akaashi. She has her head turned to face just her mother, shoulders tensed. “Yeah, I can see that. Why are you talking to him?”

“Because I want to,” her mother replies, and then turns back to face Akaashi. “Akaashi, you know this scrub?”

“No, I don’t know him, Mom,” she rushes to lie.

“Actually, we do know each other,” Akaashi corrects her, voice level and cool. “I’m her writing tutor. All students on academic probation have to see a tutor twice a week.”

It’s then that she finally turns to face Akaashi, and it’s not what he was expecting. He was expecting more of her rage, twisted up anger and some kind of rude remark. But instead, she looks horrified, eyes wide and jaw slightly dropped. It makes him shift. He’s never seen her look like that.

“Akaashi,” she whispers, and he thinks it might be the first time she’s said his name since their reintroduction. It makes his spine straighten out.

“Academic probation, huh? What a deadbeat kid you are,” her mother spits out, voice low and harsh. She stands, grabbing her heavy bag and swinging it over her shoulder. “Let’s go,” she commands of her kid.

And, in a move that Akaashi doesn’t expect, she obeys without another word. Her head hangs and her shoulders slump, and she follows her mother out the cafe. Neither one of them say another word to Akaashi.

Akaashi sits there for a moment, left with the impression that he’s done something wrong, just then.

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wolvietxt · 1 day ago

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𝓬harade.

pairing : bucky barnes x fem!reader warnings : jealousy, friends to lovers, fake dating, fluff, kiss, light angst, mentions of bucky’s past (like once), possessiveness summary : you ask bucky to come with you to a charity gala, just to get tony off of your back. it’s beneficial to him too (he doesn’t have to be alone) but will the lines between fake and real blur? wc : 3.4k

bucky wasn’t sure when it started - this... thing between the two of you. he wasn’t even sure he could call it a thing, but something about you had a way of wrapping around him, unbalancing the careful walls he’d constructed to keep himself steady.

maybe it was the way you’d walked into the avengers tower three years ago, all bright smiles and teasing remarks, treating him like he was more than just a shadow from the past. or maybe it was how you never gave him space to brood for too long, always pulling him into group movie nights or challenging him to spar in the gym when you sensed he needed a distraction. whatever it was, bucky found himself gravitating toward you more than he liked to admit.

and now, sitting on one of the plush couches in the tower’s common area, staring at the team calendar where “charity gala” was written in bold, mocking letters, bucky was painfully aware of you.

“you’re glaring at that thing like it owes you money,” you teased, dropping onto the couch next to him. your knee brushed against his, and he hoped you didn’t notice the way his shoulders tensed at the contact.

he grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “it’s so stupid.”

“you say that about every event,” you replied, leaning back like you belonged there, like you belonged anywhere. “maybe this one will be fun.”

bucky gave you a look. “fancy clothes, fake smiles, and rich people talking about how generous they are? yeah… sounds like a blast.”

you giggled, and he felt the sound settle somewhere deep in his chest. “maybe you just need the right date,” you said, half-joking. “you know, someone to make it bearable.”

he snorted. “and who’s that supposed to be? steve? sam?”

“i was thinking me, actually,” you said, a glimmer of mischief in your eyes.

bucky’s brain short-circuited for a moment. he stared at you, waiting for the punchline, but it never came.

“hear me out,” you said, panicking a little at the blank expression on his face. leaning forward now, your expression more serious. “i’ve been trying to dodge tony’s matchmaking attempts for weeks, and you hate going to these things alone. right? we can fake it - just for the night. pretend we’re together. that way, we both get through it in one piece.”

his first instinct was to say no. it wasn’t a good idea. it wasn’t smart to pretend, to blur the lines that were already starting to feel too thin. but then he thought about the alternative: going alone, standing on the edges of conversations, enduring pitying glances. and there you were, offering him an easy out. offering to stand beside him, even if it was just pretend.

“fine,” he said finally. “but don’t blame me if this blows up in your face.”

“oh please,” you said, grinning now. “if anything blows up, it’ll be because you can’t act to save your life.”

he rolled his eyes, but a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

by the time the night of the gala rolled around, bucky was questioning every decision that had led him to this moment. he’d been uncomfortable in suits before, but this tux felt particularly suffocating. the mirror in his room didn’t help, either; no matter how many times he adjusted his tie, he still felt like a kid playing dress-up.

“hey,” your voice cut through his spiraling thoughts, and he turned to see you standing in the doorway.

for a moment, he forgot how to breathe. your dress was sleek and elegant, the color complementing your skin in a way that made you look effortlessly radiant. but it wasn’t just the dress - it was the way you carried yourself, the way your eyes lit up when you saw him.

“wow,” you said, stepping closer. “you clean up real nice.”

he scratched the back of his neck, suddenly self-conscious. “you don’t look so bad yourself.”

you smirked. “aww, don’t get too sappy on me now, barnes.”

he huffed a laugh, but the nervous energy in his chest didn’t dissipate. he hoped you couldn’t tell, but out of the corner of his eye he thought he saw your smile falter.

when you arrived at the gala, the room was already bustling with people. chandeliers cast a warm glow over the space, and the soft hum of classical music filled the air.

you slipped your arm through his, leaning in closer than necessary. “smile, bucky. we’re supposed to look like we’re having fun.”

he shot you a look but forced his lips into a semblance of his grin. “if you say so.”

you both made your way through the crowd, greeting familiar faces and dodging small talk whenever possible. bucky was doing fine - or at least pretending he was - until someone approached you.

“y/n,” the man said, his smile wide and just a little too polished. “been a while.”

bucky’s eyes narrowed as you returned the greeting, your tone polite but distant. the guy’s attention lingered on you, his gaze sweeping over you in a way that made bucky’s jaw tighten.

“so, who’s your friend?” the man asked, finally acknowledging bucky.

“this is bucky,” you said, squeezing his arm slightly. “he’s my date.”

the man raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised. “didn’t know you were seeing someone.”

“it’s recent,” you said smoothly, glancing at bucky. “but it’s going well.”

bucky didn’t miss the way the guy’s smile faltered, and for the first time that night, he felt a flicker of satisfaction. he slipped an arm around your waist, pulling you a fraction closer.

“yep,” he said, his tone even. “real well.”

after a few more pleasantries, the man finally walked away, leaving the two of you alone again.

“he didn’t seem happy to see me with someone,” bucky muttered.

“jealousy isn't a good look on him,” you said, but there was a hint of something in your voice - something he couldn’t quite place.

you glanced up at him, your expression softening. “thanks for stepping in back there. i know this whole thing isn’t exactly your scene.”

he shrugged, but his grip on your waist didn’t loosen. “it’s not so bad.”

as the night went on, the lines between what was real and what was pretend started to blur. the way you laughed at his dry remarks, the way your hand lingered on his arm - it all felt too natural, too easy.

and maybe that’s what scared him most of all.

bucky wasn’t sure when the room started to feel smaller, the air heavier. maybe it was the way you kept pulling him into conversations with people whose names he’d already forgotten, your laughter bright and unguarded as you charmed the crowd. or maybe it was the lingering gazes from a few too many admirers who clearly didn’t get the memo about you being taken - even if it was fake.

“you okay?” your voice broke through his thoughts, quiet and meant only for him. you’d leaned in close, your hand brushing his arm. the warmth of your touch grounded him, even as the irritation simmering beneath his skin refused to fade.

“fine,” he muttered, forcing a tight smile. “just... crowds.”

you frowned, your brow furrowing in concern. “we can leave anytime, you know. i don’t mind.”

“we’re not leaving just because i’m uncomfortable,” he replied, his tone sharper than he intended.

your eyes softened, the corner of your mouth twitching like you wanted to argue but decided against it. “okay. but let me know if you change your mind.”

he nodded, looking away before the guilt could settle too deeply. you didn’t deserve his moodiness, not when you were trying so damn hard to make this night bearable for him.

the tipping point came about an hour later.

you’d drifted away to grab drinks while bucky stayed near the edge of the room, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he scanned the crowd. he wasn’t keeping tabs on you - at least, that’s what he told himself - but when he spotted you talking to someone near the bar, his chest tightened.

the guy was tall, with an easy smile and a smug air about him that bucky instantly disliked. he leaned a little too close to you, his hand brushing your arm as he said something that made you laugh - a laugh bucky didn’t like hearing from someone else.

bucky’s jaw clenched. he didn’t have a claim to you, not really, but the sight still ignited something possessive and raw. before he realized what he was doing, he was striding across the room.

“everything okay here?” his voice came out rougher than he intended as he positioned himself at your side, his broad frame cutting off the guy’s view of you.

your eyes widened slightly in surprise, but you recovered quickly, flashing him a smile. “bucky. we were just talking about the gala.”

“right,” bucky said flatly, his gaze locked on the guy, who had the audacity to look amused.

“well,” the man said, taking a step back, “i’ll leave you two to it. nice meeting you, y/n.”

bucky didn’t relax until the guy disappeared into the crowd.

“jealous much?” you teased, though your tone was light.

“he was flirting with you,” bucky muttered, his arms crossing over his chest.

“so? it’s not like I’m actually your - ” you stopped yourself, your cheeks flushing slightly as the words hung between you.

“not my what?” he pressed, his voice quieter now, edged with something you couldn’t quite place.

you glanced away, fiddling with the stem of your glass. “nothing. forget it.”

but he couldn’t. the way your voice had faltered, the way your teasing confidence had momentarily slipped - it stuck with him, unsettling in a way he wasn’t ready to unpack.

later, the two of you found a quieter corner of the venue, the noise of the crowd fading into the background. you’d kicked off your heels, perching on the edge of a low bench with your legs tucked beneath you. bucky sat beside you, his tie loosened and his jacket draped over the back of his chair.

“sorry if i made things weird earlier,” he said after a long stretch of silence.

you glanced at him, your expression unreadable. “you didn’t.”

he sighed, running a hand through his hair. “i just... i don’t like seeing people treat you like that.”

“like what?”

“like you’re something they can just... have,” he said, his voice rough. “you deserve better than that.”

your gaze softened, a small smile tugging at your lips. “you’re sweet, you know that?”

“don’t tell anyone,” he muttered, earning a quiet laugh from you.

for a moment, the weight between you seemed to lift, replaced by something lighter. but then your laughter faded, and your smile turned wistful.

“sometimes i wonder if this is all i’m good for,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “being the girl people want to flirt with at parties. the fun one, the easygoing one. it’s like... no one really takes me seriously,” your voice getting quieter and quieter as you spoke.

bucky’s chest ached at your words, the vulnerability in your tone cutting deeper than he expected. without thinking, he reached for your hand, his calloused fingers brushing against yours.

“you’re more than that,” he said firmly. “you’re smart, and strong, and... you make people feel like they matter. you make me feel like i matter.”

your eyes met his, wide and searching, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.

“bucky...” you started, your voice unsteady.

“look, i know this was supposed to be fake,” he said, his words tumbling out in a rush. “but i don’t think i’m pretending anymore.”

you stared at him, your expression unreadable, and for a terrifying second, he thought he’d ruined everything. but then you leaned closer, your free hand resting lightly on his cheek.

“finally,” you smiled, your voice barely above a whisper.

and then, before he could overthink it, you closed the distance, your lips brushing softly against his. it wasn’t a grand, sweeping kiss - just a gentle meeting of mouths, tentative and full of unspoken promises.

when you pulled back, your cheeks were flushed, but there was a smile in your eyes.

“guess we’re both bad at pretending,” you said softly.

“damn right,” he replied, his lips twitching into a small, lopsided grin.

and for the first time that night, the air between you felt light again, the tension replaced by something warm and new.

the drive back to your place was quieter than usual. not tense, exactly - more like the air was holding its breath, waiting for one of you to shatter the silence. you fiddled with the strap of your clutch, glancing at bucky out of the corner of your eye. his hands were steady on the wheel, his jaw tight, but his gaze flicked toward you every few seconds like he was making sure you were still there.

you finally broke the silence. “you don’t have to walk me up, you know.”

“didn’t ask if i had to,” he replied, his voice low and steady.

you couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at your lips. even now, with your head spinning from the events of the evening, he had a way of grounding you, steady and unshakable.

when he parked outside your building, he killed the engine and rounded the car before you even had a chance to unbuckle. ever the gentleman - or at least, his gruff version of one.

the elevator ride up to your apartment was quiet, the tension from earlier creeping back in. when the doors slid open, you led the way, fumbling with your keys as you tried to ignore the warmth of his presence behind you.

“you sure you’re okay?” he asked as you pushed the door open.

“yeah,” you said quickly, stepping inside. “just... long night.”

he hesitated in the doorway, his broad frame filling the space like he wasn’t quite ready to leave. you turned to face him, your lips parting to say something - what, you weren’t sure - but the words stuck in your throat.

his eyes were darker in the soft light of your apartment, the usual cool blues tinged with something deeper, something unreadable.

“you want me to go?” he asked, his voice quieter now, rougher around the edges.

you shook your head before you could stop yourself. “no. i mean... stay. if you want.”

you weren’t sure when it happened - when the air between you shifted again, from awkward and unspoken to charged with something electric. maybe it was the way he hovered near the kitchen while you made tea, his shoulders tense like he didn’t know where to put himself. or maybe it was the quiet gratitude in his voice when you handed him a cup, your fingers brushing for half a second too long.

“you don’t have to stay,” you said again, softer this time. “i know this whole thing has been... a lot.”

he snorted, taking a sip of his tea. “you think i can’t handle a few idiots and bad wine?”

“i think you can handle anything,” you replied, the words slipping out before you could overthink them.

he looked at you then, really looked at you, and the weight of his gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

“you shouldn’t say stuff like that,” he said quietly, his tone unreadable.

“why not?”

“because,” he said, setting his cup down on the counter, “i’m trying real hard not to cross a line here.”

your heart skipped a beat. “what line?”

he let out a sharp exhale, running a hand through his hair. “the one where i stop pretending this is fake and start wanting things i’m not supposed to want.”

“bucky...” his name came out softer than you intended, barely more than a whisper.

he took a step closer, his boots heavy against the hardwood floor. “tell me to go,” he said, his voice low and rough. “because if you don’t, i’m not sure i can keep pretending.”

but you didn’t tell him to go. instead, you closed the space between you, your hand finding his like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“i don’t want to pretend either,” you admitted, your voice shaking with the weight of the words.

he stared at you for a long moment, like he was searching for something in your expression. then, without another word, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you again.

the kiss was nothing like the one at the gala - nothing tentative or unsure about it. this was heat and certainty, his lips moving against yours like he’d been holding back for far too long. his hands framed your face, his thumbs brushing against your cheekbones as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss.

you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. the world narrowed to just the two of you, the quiet hum of the city outside your window fading into nothingness.

when he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.

“you sure about this?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

you nodded, your hands sliding up to rest on his chest. “are you?”

he let out a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating beneath your palms. “fuck yeah.”

you giggled, leaning up to press another kiss to his lips, softer this time, like you had all the time in the world. and for once, it felt like maybe you did.

later, you found yourselves tangled on the couch, your legs draped across his lap as his arm rested along the back of the cushions. the tea you’d made had gone cold on the coffee table, forgotten in the haze of everything that had happened.

“so,” you said, breaking the comfortable silence. “what happens now?”

he glanced at you, one brow quirking in that way that always made your heart do stupid little flips. “what do you mean?”

“i mean... this,” you said, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “us.”

he shrugged, the corner of his mouth twitching into a small smile. “guess we figure it out.”

“that’s it? no grand plan?”

“plans don’t usually work out for me,” he said simply, his tone light but laced with something heavier.

you reached for his hand, lacing your fingers through his. “then we’ll take it one step at a time.”

he squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “sounds good to me.”

the night stretched on, the city quieting outside as the minutes slipped by. you weren’t sure when you drifted off, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm wrapped around you like he was afraid you’d disappear. but when you woke up to the first rays of morning light filtering through the window, he was still there, his breathing slow and steady beneath you.

for the first time in a long time, everything felt exactly as it should.

ᰔ bucky barnes : @v3lv3tf0x, @dugiioh, @whxtewolf, @lemoanaid

@yvespecially, @hhiggs, @darlingsoulbeautifulthoughts, @seasonofthenerd, @superlegend216

@withasideofmeg, @pvndomi, @flamin-hot-cheetos, @hazydespair

@aoi_targaryen, @person-005, @corvuscattus, @uncertified-doc

taglist form linked in pinned post :3

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magical-reid · 3 days ago

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The Fine Line Between Pretending and Falling

Pairing: Fred Weasley x Ravenclaw! Reader

Word Count: 1.6 K

Prompt: 31: “You said you wouldn’t fall in love with me.” “I lied.”

Summary: When Ravenclaw Y/N enlists Fred to be her fake boyfriend to fend off a persistent admirer, she expects an elaborate but ultimately harmless plan. But Fred’s penchant for theatrics—and the growing feelings between them—turn what should have been a simple ruse into something much more complicated.

The problem started with Jeremy Tuttle.

For weeks, you’d tried to politely decline his advances, endure his overly enthusiastic conversations, and sidestep his relentless invitations to study together. It was exhausting, and no amount of subtle rejection seemed to deter him.

Desperate for a solution, you turned to Fred Weasley, a master of mischief and persuasion, to play the role of your fake boyfriend. His easy charm and love for theatrics made him the perfect candidate—or so you thought. What you didn’t realize was how quickly Fred would take the reins, blurring the lines between pretense and reality.

Blurred Lines

What you hadn’t anticipated was how much you’d enjoy Fred’s company. He made you laugh, even when you were determined to stay annoyed with him, and he had a way of noticing things others overlooked.

One evening, as you sat in the library revising for your Charms exam, Fred appeared beside you with a box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.

“I figured you might need a snack,” he said, sliding the box across the table. “And don’t worry—I picked out the good ones. No earwax, I promise.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Fred.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching you with a soft grin. “What kind of fake boyfriend would I be if I didn’t?”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly turned your attention back to your notes, willing the flutter in your chest to settle.

The Great Hall Incident

The plan was going well—or so you thought. By the fourth day, Fred had ramped up his efforts, wrapping his arm around you in the corridors, and occasionally whispering something teasing that made you blush.

But everything came to a head one morning in the Great Hall. You were seated at the Ravenclaw table, buttering toast, when Fred sauntered over from the Gryffindor side, earning curious looks from the other students.

“Good morning, love,” he greeted, dropping a quick kiss on the top of your head before sliding onto the bench beside you.

You blinked at him, startled. “Fred, what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer, instead reaching for a piece of toast from your plate and biting into it with a grin.

The answer came a moment later when you spotted Jeremy entering the hall. Fred must have noticed him first.

Before you could say anything, Fred leaned in and, without warning, kissed you square on the lips.

Gasps rippled through the Great Hall as heads turned toward the spectacle.

Your heart raced as Fred pulled back, his smirk firmly in place. “Just making sure everyone knows you’re taken,” he said, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

Your cheeks burned, but before you could respond, you caught sight of Jeremy standing frozen in the doorway, his face a mixture of shock and embarrassment.

Fred glanced in his direction and gave a small, satisfied nod before returning his attention to you. “Toast’s a bit dry, don’t you think?”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” Fred said, entirely unbothered, “you keep me around.”

The Quidditch Sweater

A week later, you found yourself seated in the Ravenclaw stands during a Gryffindor Quidditch match. It was cold, and Fred had insisted you wear his Gryffindor sweater for “authenticity.”

“You know, to really sell the whole boyfriend thing,” he’d said with a wink as he handed it to you that morning.

Now, as you watched the game, his red-and-gold sweater hung loosely on you, the scent of broomstick polish and something distinctly Fred lingering on the fabric. You felt more self-conscious than you ever had, especially when a few of your Ravenclaw friends raised eyebrows at your outfit.

When Fred scored a spectacular goal, he looped around the pitch, searching the stands until his eyes landed on you. His grin widened, and he gave an exaggerated bow in midair before flying off again.

“Ridiculous,” you muttered under your breath, though you couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips.

After Gryffindor’s inevitable victory, Fred made a show of flying over to you, landing just beyond the stands and jogging up the steps with his broom in hand.

“Thought you’d like a personal victory lap,” he teased, pulling you into a quick hug.

The sweater hung even looser now, but as Fred ruffled your hair with an affectionate grin, you realized you didn’t care who noticed anymore.

The Gryffindor Common Room

It was late one evening when you found yourself in the Gryffindor common room, sitting beside Fred on the worn couch near the fire. You weren’t sure how he had talked you into staying, but the warmth of the flames and the easy laughter of the Gryffindors around you made it hard to leave.

George, however, wasn’t letting it go unnoticed.

“You know,” he said, leaning against the arm of a nearby chair, “you don’t need to fool anyone here. We all know the ‘fake boyfriend’ routine is for show.”

Fred raised an eyebrow. “And what makes you think we’re not just this madly in love, dear brother?”

George smirked. “Because you’re sitting here with hearts in your eyes, and she’s the one keeping you grounded. It’s almost nauseating.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re insufferable.”

George grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

Fred threw a cushion at his brother, who dodged it with practiced ease, but you couldn’t help but laugh.

“You know, we could always move this to the Ravenclaw common room,” you teased Fred, leaning against his shoulder.

Fred shook his head, feigning horror. “Too quiet. Not enough chaos for my taste.”

Hogsmeade

When the next Hogsmeade weekend arrived, Fred didn’t even wait for you to ask—he showed up outside the Ravenclaw tower with his hand already extended.

“Shall we?” he said, grinning.

The walk to the village was filled with light banter, Fred making exaggerated gestures every time a group of students passed by to ensure they noticed the two of you holding hands.

At Honeydukes, he bought your favorite sweets, stuffing the bag into your hands with a mock-serious expression. “A boyfriend’s duty,” he said solemnly.

By the time you reached The Three Broomsticks, the whispers around Hogwarts had reached a fever pitch. You could feel the curious stares as Fred guided you to a table, but you found yourself caring less and less.

When the two of you finally returned to the castle, your cheeks were flushed from the cold—and from Fred’s endless teasing.

“You know,” you said as you climbed the stairs back to your common room, “you’re enjoying this way too much.”

Fred leaned closer, his grin softer than usual. “Maybe I am,” he admitted, his voice quiet.

Your breath hitched, but before you could respond, he kissed your forehead, lingering just a moment longer than necessary.

“Goodnight, love,” he said, leaving you standing there, your heart racing as he disappeared down the corridor.

Not Pretending Anymore

The next evening, as you sat together in the library, Fred broke the comfortable silence between you.

“You know,” he said, his voice unusually serious, “this whole fake boyfriend thing was supposed to be fun. But…”

You glanced at him, your quill hovering over the parchment. “But?”

Fred hesitated, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t think I’m pretending anymore.”

His words hit you like a bludger, your heart pounding as you struggled to find the right response.

“Fred…”

He smiled faintly, his usual bravado gone. “I’ve never felt this way before, and it scares me. But the idea of not trying? That scares me even more.”

“You said you wouldn’t fall in love with me,” you whispered, your voice trembling.

“I lied.”

Fred’s hand found yours, his fingers brushing against your own before curling around them. “So, what happens now?”

You swallowed, your voice soft but steady. “Now, we stop pretending.”

And as his lips met yours in the quiet of the library, the rest of the world seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of you and the undeniable truth between you.

#fred weasley imagine #fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x reader fake dating #fred weasley #fred weasely x y/n #fred wealsey fic #fred weasley reader insert #fred weasley x you #fred weasley x y/n #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #hogwarts imagine #hogwarts reader insert #reader insert #fluff #fake dating #ravenclaw reader #ravenclaw #magical-Reid

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ruvviks · 4 hours ago

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He did not care. His reputation preceded him; the bruising of his knuckles as dark as the rims underneath his eyes, everyone knew Vitali Dobrynin was a fighter first and a fixer second. All to protect, all out of love- but no one cared about that. They only ever saw what was on show.

taglist (opt in/out)

@nistarot, @deadrlngers, @euryalex, @ordinarymaine, @mojaves;

@shellibisshe, @dickytwister, @mnwlk, @rindemption, @ncytiri;

@calenhads, @noirapocalypto, @florbelles, @radioactiveshitstorm, @strafethesesinners;

@fashionablyfyrdraaca, @radioactive-synth, @katsigian, @estevnys, @devilbrakers;

@aezyrraesh, @carlosoliveiraa, @adelaidedrubman, @fromgotham, @wardenevka

#cp2077 #edit:vitali #nuclearocs #nuclearedits #oc scrapbook #it's been years since i've done anything like this and also the first time doing it digitally so uhhh. poses cutely #HAPPY WITH IT THOUGH. gets his vibes across well. i threw it together in less than 30 minutes because the vision was so strong #tried to focus on him as a sun-coded character but in a destructive way... his inner conflict surrounding like #wanting to be / do good vs how it translates to his actions. and that compared to what everyone else sees #the struggle of carrying around so much anger and not being able to express it in the way you want because everyone is looking at you #if you step out of line you'll forever be the bad guy etc etc. poor decisions in the heat of the moment leading to ruin #he can't go home again because he believes he fucked it up for himself and now he pretends and pretends and pretends #trying to keep it all in. until it explodes out of him. repeating all his past mistakes. and the cycle restarts

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inhuman-obey-me · 3 days ago

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Congratulations on the 100k likes!🩵 And happy new year!

Can I ask for 65 with Solomon?

Really love your writing, keep up!

Thank you so much!! ;//u//;

Solomon + 65 | "Rain" - Unprocessed

He shouldn't want this. He shouldn't want you.

For centuries, Solomon has led a rather solitary life. Being the most renowned sorcerer throughout history was a rather isolating existence, one that had garnered him a great level of notoriety in some circles. The Sorcerer's Society begrudgingly worked with him (after having once thrown him out completely), the witches preferred to stay acquaintances and business partners, and the demons … well, most of his demons didn't particularly care for him, for obvious reasons.

He's done more than his fair share of unsavory deeds in his quest for power, in his mission to show that humans could hold their own against angels and demons alike. He had not meant to become immortal, but what better way to utilize his eternal life than to safeguard the human realm in a way only he could? It was a burden he ultimately placed on himself, one that Solomon believed only he was able to carry. So he must do it alone.

Then you arrived.

It happened so quickly, a whirlwind of events that led you to becoming his apprentice — his first apprentice in a very, very long time. You started to spend great lengths of time together, filled with laughs and debates and companionship. He's not sure when exactly it was that you had wormed so deeply into his heart that now it ached anytime you were no longer near.

Solomon watches you now from a distance. The town is bustling on this rainy evening, and he can see you perfectly framed by one of Cafe Lament's windows. The candles and lights surrounding you awash you in a captivating halo-like glow, making you feel even further from his reach. With a wry chuckle, he turns away.

"Solomon!"

He hadn't made it very far before he hears your voice, his heart skipping a beat. He musters his usual smile as he turns towards you, but is caught by surprise as you throw your arms around him.

"Where have you been? I swear it's been so hard to get a hold of you lately." You squeeze him for a moment before pulling back to examine his face. "Is everything okay?"

"Ah, yes, just … been busy with some research projects, that's all." Solomon finds himself wanting to sink into your embrace, his conflicting emotions battling in his chest. No, he shouldn't want this. You deserved better than him.

"Is that all?" You question, eyes narrowing. "Something is on your mind, I can tell."

You had become awfully good at reading him, despite his constant attempts to hide behind his well-crafted mask. But how could he tell you? That he had become dependent on your warmth? That you were too good for him? That he was scared of losing you one day whether to his secrets or to your mortal life, leaving him all alone again?

"It's nothing, really. Just tired." His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing away droplets of water on your skin from the light rain. "Sorry if I made you worry."

"Hm." You don't seem entirely convinced, but to his relief, you accept it. "Well then, guess I'll just have to help you get some rest."

Before he can answer, your lips find his in a slow, languid kiss. He sighs into it, his arms coming to hold you close as he gives in. As the world fades away, so do his concerns — right now, all he wants is to feel you in his arms and pretend like you were the only two humans left in the universe. In this moment, at least, he'd allow himself this selfishness.

#admittedly my writing is a bit rusty because it's been a bit #but hopefully you still enjoy this slightly angsty solomon haha #obey me #obey me!#obey me swd #obey me shall we date #omswd #obey me nightbringer #obey me nb #omnb #obey me solomon #om solomon #obey me solomon x mc #obey me solomon x reader #obey me fic #writings #the all encompassing [mod] cosmos #100k tears celebration

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burningembers91 · 1 day ago

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Family Unit - Park Gyeong-Seok x Fem!Reader

Follow up piece to:

Loving You From Afar The Shape of You

Synopsis: You and Park Gyeong-Seok decide to take the next step in your relationship

You could feel Na-Yeon’s gaze on you, could hear her quietly giggling as she stood by your side of the bed. You sleepily opened one eye, then the other, smiling as you saw her waiting for you to wake up. The Disney Princess pyjamas you’d bought her were baggy on her thin little frame, but she looked so cute in them. “Good morning,” you whispered, pulling back the duvet so she could crawl into bed next to you. This had become your new morning routine; Na-Yeon would wake you up at the crack of dawn, you’d snuggle in bed, try to get a few more minutes of sleep, and then you’d get up and get ready for the day. On the days you didn’t work, you usually took Na-Yeon into her room to play, to give Gyeong-Seok space to sleep. He was a light sleeper though, and always heard you get up. sometimes he’d pretend to stay asleep though, just to give you and his daughter more time to bond.

You hadn’t left his apartment since the night you discovered the drawings. For six blissful weeks, you’d spent every day and night here, only returning home to fetch a new bagful of clothes or to do a load of laundry. You’d go to work during the day, while he stayed home with Na-Yeon. In the evening, he would head off to teach his night class (which he could now proudly say was a permanent job), and you would look after Na-Yeon. You didn’t get to spend much time together, your catch ups usually consisting of soft, sleep-hazed sex when Gyeong-Seok returned from work, followed by some whispered conversation before you fell asleep. Every moment you had together was precious, and you cherished every second.

You laid in bed with your eyes closed, listening as Na-Yeon chatted away. She never ran out of things to say, laughing and giggling. You weren’t always entirely sure what she was talking about, but it always made you smile.

Gyeong-Seok stirred next to you, yawning loudly as his arm came round to scoop you and his daughter into a hug. He loved his new family; and for the first time in years, he felt lighter than air. Na-Yeon was still sick, but he didn’t have to deal with the burden alone anymore. You’d slotted in so perfectly, treating his daughter like your own. Nothing was too much for you, and Gyeong-Seok didn’t think he’d ever be able to repay you for your kindness. You were still sleeping on the broken sofa bed, the springs digging into your backs each night. If you were uncomfortable, you never complained. His first paycheck from his new job would be arriving soon. Na-Yeon’s treatment would again take up most of the money he earned, but he was desperate to get a more comfortable bed for you to sleep on. He’d thought about asking you to move in permanently, to see if you could get a place together so you could have a proper bedroom, like a proper couple. He hated having to sneak around his own living room like a teenager, having whispered conversations with you so you didn’t take his daughter. He worried it was too soon though; life was so perfect at the moment, and he didn’t want to ruin it by moving too quickly.

The three of you lay there bed together, you and Gyeong-Seok listening to Na-Yeon babble away. His arms pulled you in closer, his lips pressing a tender kiss on your earlobe. He wished he could freeze time, wished he could bottle this moment and keep it forever. But you’d need to get up soon to get ready for work, and his daughter would need her breakfast.

“I need to do some laundry tonight,” you said, after you’d showered and gotten ready for work. “I’ll take Na-Yeon back to mine tonight, maybe get us a pizza as a little treat.” Gyeong-Seok looked at you over the rim of his coffee mug, eyes alight as he took in your silk shirt and burgundy pencil skirt. It still utterly baffled him that you loved him; that a poor, scruffy painter could be lucky enough to find someone like you. “I hate having to constantly go back and forth,” you sighed, taking a seat next to him at the kitchen table. “I’ve been thinking actually…” You smiled slyly, pulling something from your bag. “This place has just come up, in the same building we’re in now. It’s a 2-bed place, and it even has a small balcony. I was thinking, if we put our money together, we could just about afford it.”

You sat waiting for his answer, chewing the inside of your cheek nervously as you watched him look over the apartment. You knew it was hasty, but you’d never been more sure of anything in your life. Your little family unit needed a bigger place to grow. The apartment overlooked the playground, and you already knew you’d be out there with Na-Yeon each day. Money would be tight, but you’d make it work, and once Na-Yeon was better things would be easier. “I really like it,” he smiled, “are you sure you want to do this?” He didn’t want you to feel like you had to move in with him, like you had to somehow make life easier for him. “Of course I want to,” you smiled, leaning forward for a kiss. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Later that day, Gyeong-Seok arranged a viewing, and two weeks later you had the keys. The first thing he did was throw away the old sofa bed, before proudly placing the bed from your apartment in your new room together. You finally had your own space, somewhere where you could be a proper couple. As the three of you sat down for dinner that night, surrounded by moving boxes and bubble wrap, Gyeong-Seok was sure he’d never been happier.

#squid game #squid game 2 #squid game x reader #squid game fanfic #squid game x you #squid game season 2 #park gyeong seok x you #park gyeong seok x reader #park gyeong seok #lee jin uk

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trustmypoison · 6 hours ago

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SVT in a long-distance relationship

Requested? Yes!

Request: ‘hi! i love all of your writing! Would you be willing to write a fic about SVT in a long distance relationship? thank you!!‘

It’s physically painful to be separated from his phone - Jun, Hoshi, Vernon

You guys have a never-ending text conversation that really doesn’t have good mornings or good nights included at this point. There’s no point in it when you guys were already talking, you know? On bad days when he really misses you, he hands his phone over with a deep sigh when he can’t take it with him. Like, does he want to perform? Of course! But some nights, he’s counting down the minutes until the show is over, and he can pick up the conversation again with a simple ‘I’m back.’ Really doesn’t mind the physical distance so much as long as you’re just a message or phone call away.

A total expert at FaceTime dates - Jeonghan, Wonwoo, DK, Chan

Complete with a recurring calendar invite every week and everything so neither of you schedule over it. You guys usually eat together, even if one of you is having breakfast and the other is having dinner. The distance doesn’t feel so bad when you guys can just simply carry each other from room to room and keep up the conversation for hours on end. And when you don’t feel like cooking for yourself on one of those FaceTime dates? You don’t know how he does it because he doesn’t even break conversation or seem distracted, but takeout just shows up at your door. When you lightly scold and thank him for it, he pretends like he doesn’t know what you’re talking about.

Constantly sending gifts to you in the mail - Seungcheol, Woozi, Seungkwan

Regular communication? Most certainly. But the little silver lining in a long distance relationship for him would be packing up a little care package every couple weeks or so. Tangible objects mean a lot to him when it comes to you, so he gives you a constant stream of them. Sometimes, it’s just snacks or little trinkets. But sometimes, it’s extravagant gifts that make your jaw drop and scold him for the expense. He sort of lives for the random text that he can sneak to read during a busy day when you say, ‘Not again!!’ Shortly followed by a ‘Thank you, I love it.’ And naturally, he loves your little care packages, too. If one of his members tries to get a hold of it before he can, he can and will fight for it because you made it, and it’s his.

Just gets on a plane the moment he has some free time - Joshua, Mingyu, Minghao

The constant phone calls and texts, regular FaceTime dates, and gifts in the mail are great and bring him a lot of comfort when he needs them. But nothing beats having some time off to just jump on a plane and go see you. He doesn’t really care if you have to go about your business because it’s a surprise, and you can’t take time off. He’ll wait patiently at your home while you have to be out and do things for you while you’re gone. And when you’re finally home, expect him to be glued to you. The ‘goodbye for now’ might be hard when he has to go back home, but it’s well worth it.

#seventeen #svt #seventeen x reader #svt x reader #seventeen reactions #svt reactions #seungcheol #jeongan #joshua #jun #hoshi #wonwoo #woozi #dk #mingyu #minghao #seungkwan #vernon #dino

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acevity · 5 hours ago

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PUNCHING WALLS RN !!! THIS IS SO GOOD !!!!

this was supposed to be day 3 (hurt/comfort) of abstragedy week

but im like 2 days left but who cares

Inspired by "picking up the pieces" by @acevity ! Love your art! more versions under the cut

#THIS IS SO SIIIIIICK #abstragedy #HUGOGH !!!!!!!!!!!!!!#god. head in hands. this is so good im staring at it excitedly.#precisely the vibe i was going for #stripped of humanity and yet still finding reminders of it in the people trapped with you #the only hope you can bear to grasp because you have no choice #shes tangled around you and holding you together in a way thats so undeniable in its inevitabiluty #as long as theres zoovle therr will be gangle collecting their pieces and keeping them together #just like as long as theres a gangle theres a zooble to hear her out and let her unravel in their arms after a long day of pretending #grr grr grr im obsessed with this #favorite #tadc

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saioratral · 2 days ago

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PARING: yuuta okkotsu x f!reader

PROMPT: stories- not a reality SYNOPSIS: giving my readers a reality check of who they are following

WARNING: insecurities and the biggest warning, me NOTE: i make a pretty good plot, netflix should be knocking on my door. wrote this to fuel my favourite emotion: depression <33 genuinely dont give two fucks if anyone reads this. i dont need comfort messages/asks or the 'don't say that about yourself ☹️' bullshit- im not asking for that + it's not gonna change how i see myself

the room didn’t even feel like a room to anyone who stepped inside. clothes messily placed on her chair, but she didn’t mind. her gaze was locked on the computer screen, her fingers moving across the keyboard as though they knew the layout better than her textbooks

she typed again, her imaginary life with yuuta. the little cottage by the river, ducks swimming by- according to her notes. her fictional self is her favourite self. she loves writing about her muse, yuuta being her escape from her heavy thoughts

but behind the screen, she was just a mess. she covers her insecurities with flattering words. how could she be pretty when the world only saw the mess of her real self? her online persona was a carefully constructed lie, a shield to keep others from seeing the truth. after all, why should she look ugly to them? she didn’t want to scare anyone away

little miss perfect, pretending to be smart for others. that’s all she’s good at anyways, people would remember her at least, use her and not discard her when they got bored. "grow a spine," they told her every day. but she didn’t. she carried no opinions, just a deep need to fit in

what she wanted, more than anything, was to be loved. to have friends, to be someone’s favorite girl, like the main character of a shoujo anime

she imagines herself in yuuta's arms, feeling his comfort, his imaginary embrace making her feel wanted. together, they watch the sunset from the window, the soft glow of the fading light making life seem perfect. next, they’re in the kitchen, she sits on the counter while yuuta mixes batter for her favorite cake. he let her taste it, but only if she kissed him in return

the scene shifts. now, they were in a fancy, high rise building for dinner. she’s wearing a pink dress, hair tied up with a matching ribbon. she’s so pretty in his eyes, the candle light dinner gets better and better and soon they are on their way home. yuuta’s jacket draped over her shoulders as they walked beneath the streetlights, stumbling upon an empty playground

she sits on the swings, pushing herself back and forth, a wide grin on her face. yuuta sits on the swing beside her, holding her heels in his hand as he watches her joy. he really does love her smile, she looks so beautiful in his heart eyes- of course she would be. she’s the writer. it was her world. she decides what happened next

call her a pick me, call her lazy, call her ungrateful, call her selfish, call her ugly, call her boring, call her cringe, make fun of her taste- she’s just a girl sitting in her room, writing silly fics about her yuuta for a mere 2 digit following of strangers

© saioratral 2024-25 -- do not repost, translate, alter, etc on any platform without permission. Any characters used in my work do not belong to me, they are created by their original creator. all images used are from pinterest

#this is more like a self-ship...?#i havent thought of a tag yet #idk if this is relatable but i just am tired of bottling everything in me + good plot if you ask me #like writer x muse or smth #yuta okkotsu #jujutsu kaisen x reader #okkotsu yuuta x reader #yuta x reader #yuta okkotsu x reader #yuta okkotsu x you #yuuta okkotsu x reader #jjk x reader #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #yuuta okkotsu #jujutsu yuta #okkotsu yuuta #ᡣsaioratral⋆˙୧⍤⃝

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malk1ns · 2 days ago

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january 7 vs blue jackets, 4-3 S/O loss

geno misses his first game in over two seasons. cue a five-alarm meltdown on tumblr and twitter lmao.

this fic contains mpreg. i wouldn't call it a dystopia exactly, but it's also not not a dystopia. it's not a breeding program, but it's not not a breeding program. you get it.

When Jarry lets in the second goal on the shootout and the Blue Jackets pour off the bench to celebrate, Zhenya slams his hand on the arm of the couch he and Tommer are watching from in the lounge and curses.

Tommer frowns at him. “Take it easy,” he says, glancing at the door. “We just barely got them to leave. If they hear you freaking out, they’ll make you go back to the exam room.”

Zhenya grumbles, but subsides. Tommer’s right. The medical staff had been loath to let Zhenya leave their sight, even though all he wanted to do was sit on a couch and watch the Penguins play. It had taken Tommer popping up from his meeting with the trainers and promising to stay with him before they left him alone.

Zhenya’s been taking pregnancy tests on a daily basis for the last two weeks, Sid hovering over his shoulder as they waited out the 15-minute timer. And every day, they’d both let out a breath when no second line showed up—Sid in disappointment, and Zhenya in…also disappointment, but not entirely.

Until this afternoon. Zhenya went to morning skate like normal, then came home and let Sid fuss at him before their nap. His alarm went off, he groaned and stumbled into the bathroom, he peed on a stick.

This time, though, as the countdown on his phone ticked over to five minutes left, a second faint line appeared.

“Holy shit,” Sid had said, hand sneaking around Zhenya’s torso to rest low on his belly. “Baby, look.”

They were later than normal to the arena for the game. Zhenya insisted on taking three more tests, watching each one pop positive as he swallowed back nausea.

He’s pregnant. The doctors confirmed it when they got to the rink; Sid must have called ahead, because they were waiting for them just inside the doors, whisking Zhenya away and shooing Sid off when he tried to follow. The blood test was conclusive, and Zhenya stared down at the printout in stunned silence.

He managed to avoid that particular clause in his contract for almost twenty years. He’d played his hardest, given this team and this city everything he had, and when his agent broached the topic in the off-season he put it off, changing the subject and dedicating himself to training so the team wouldn’t push the issue. If he’s playing well, after all, they’d rather keep him on the ice.

That changed with his last extension. Expectations were made clear, and even a regime change hadn’t altered them.

Zhenya hasn’t exactly made his case for anything different this year, he knows that. He’s been distracted, worn down by the extra media and public scrutiny once it leaked that he and Sid were trying. Everywhere he goes, he gets stopped by people asking how it’s going, if he has good news to share.

And there’s Sid.

In years past, Sid helped Zhenya track his cycle so they could avoid his most fertile days and extend Zhenya’s playing time. This year, though, he’d come back from the offseason, taken Zhenya to bed, and essentially not let him leave.

The attention is nice. What started back in 2006 as an arranged thing for the future of the organization turned quickly into something real, something permanent, and Zhenya will never be upset about being on the receiving end of Sidney Crosby’s considerable focus. It’s the why that’s making him uneasy.

Sid had always been different. Circumstances outside their control brought them together, but he made an effort to get to know Zhenya as a person, and the feelings that developed grew naturally, like a regular relationship. This season, though, he’s been different, fixated on the idea of getting Zhenya pregnant with an alarming level of enthusiasm. It’s infiltrated his dirty talk even, and while Zhenya won’t pretend it’s not hot in the moment, it’s been making him feel a little off, a little claustrophobic.

Technically, Zhenya can still play, for a few more weeks at least. He could probably force the issue, kick up a fuss and threaten to tell the union that the Penguins are violating his right to play while he’s still eligible. He thinks about Sid, though, the way Sid handed him into the car this afternoon like he was made of glass, and his stomach twists.

He’s a hockey player. His whole life has been structured around playing games, and getting ready to play games, and rehabbing from injuries so he can get ready to play games again. He doesn’t know how to take an extended break with no defined date of return.

But Sid’s been on overdrive all season, protective and overbearing. He’s only going to get worse now that it’s caught and Zhenya’s finally carrying his child.

It’s probably easier if Zhenya just goes along with it, lets himself get put on IR and focuses on growing this baby.

After all, if he does a good job with this one, if it’s strong and healthy, they might not push him into trying for a second one right away. He and Sid can focus on being parents and Zhenya can get back into game shape, maybe even get one more crack at the postseason before he retires.

Sid fell in love with Zhenya’s hockey first, after all. He’ll want Zhenya to be able to play again.

Zhenya catches himself rubbing fretfully at his lower stomach, and his mouth twists.

#sidgeno #hockey rpf #my writing #my fic #24-25 series

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ghostgirl-22 · 17 hours ago

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thoughts on forcefem! art?

Oh god. No. Because he loves it. Acts all annoyed but the flush gives him away. When Patrick walks in on him in the bath and insists on helping him shave his long legs (“gotta be aerodynamic,” Patrick agrees just to get his hands on him). Patrick asks if he can dress him up when they’re done, pretty please!! It’s just silly, and he’s bored, please.

“This is stupid but fine,” Art says like he isn’t already half aroused by the way Patrick helped him lather up with shaving cream. Famous last words.

Patrick knows how to do make up and everything. As the youngest his sisters used him as a guinea pig. He’s even got the perfect little skirt, his ex left it and stole his favorite hoodie and basketball shorts he might as well get some wear out of it.

It’s so fucking short on Art, barely hides his cock. Arts legs are so long. Patrick doesn’t have any panties, but he’s got a pair of sheer tights from the same girl. Gets on his knees to roll them up over Arts baby smooth calves. Trying to ignore the obvious rush of blood to Art’s cock and the way it’s swelling up.

Ignoring also the tiny little breaths that come from Art as he rolls them up over his thighs, over his dick. Or the way he steps forward just a little… a silent plea for Patrick to suck him off.

“Not yet,” Patrick whispers, calls him pretty girl and gets to his feet. He makes Art sit on the toilet seat and straddles him. Using Tashi’s old mascara she left in his hotel room he presses Arts bangs back and lengthens those already long eyelashes. Blue eyes going glassy and dilating just from being this close. And with Tashis tinted lip gloss, another trinket she forgot to pick up…(or maybe Patrick snuck away) he paints Arts lips a shimmery shade of pink. Kissing him every minute just to taste it. Sticky delicate kisses.

“Fuck,” Art shivers, squirming under Patrick’s weight. Especially when Patrick keeps calling him “princess” and “angel” and teasing his titties. Giving them little sucking kisses too and then blowing on them till his nipples are taut and hard.

Arts so fucking eager now. Patrick can feel him. God. he can feel him. Nowhere to hide in that little baby skirt and no panties. Patrick’s pretending he’s not equally as hard, maybe harder.

“You’re my good girl aren’t you,” Patrick whispers, standing up. He can hear the door outside. Art’s college roommate’s home. An English major, steps away from writing Art a sonnet to declare his love. “Wanna show your roommate what we did? Ask him if you look pretty?”

Art flushes more. “No, Patrick please,” he whimpers.

“Come on baby, you’re always talking about your roomie. How funny he is? You don’t think he’d like you like this? Pretty princess?”

“Patrick,” Art breathes.

Patrick chews his cheeks, his body is heated from the inside out. He knows he did it but he feels like he’s going insane looking at Art like this. Pretty isn’t really enough. Patrick can feel his heart pounding in his dick. “You don’t think he wants to fuck you just like this?” Patrick continues rambling. He’s steps away from Art. Plays with one of his nipples just to watch him squirm a little more. “You don’t think he wants to suck on your tits. Kiss your cunt.”

Art hitches his breath and looks down, toeing the ground, knees knocking together. Damp blonde curls falling into his eyes. There’s already a tear in the tights. He’s got his hands intertwined, just in front of his cock, trying to hide the way it’s lifting the skirt upwards, nearly exposing everything. The blush is spreading to his collarbone. His nipples are red, sticky and erect from Patrick’s kisses. His tight little tummy rising and falling with his anxious breaths.

God. Patrick doesn’t want to fucking share him. “Think you can be quiet?” He asks softly.

Art nods, eyes dilated, shimmery wet lips parted.

“Promise?” Patrick asks again.

“Mmhm.”

And Patrick rips at the tights because he’s lost patience and fucks him up against the bathroom sink with just a few pumps of liquid hand-soap as lube. Arts coming all over the skirt, spilling it in the sink in no time. He looks so pretty and debauched when Patrick’s done, eyes glassy, flushed all over, mascara smudged, lip gloss smeared, sticky kisses all over his throat. He’s grabbing at Patrick, kissing him wet. Patrick almost shoves the skirt up and does it again.

#how could it be planned?#he just happened to have a skirt and tights and all of Tashi’s make up with him when he arrived at Arts dorm #yup #that’s his story and he’s sticking to it #challengers fic #challengers smut #artrick smut #art donaldson smut #patrick zweig smut #sorry for spamming #thanks for indulging me

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jenanigans1207 · 2 days ago

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1/5/25: Reputation

If there’s one thing Dean Winchester knows, it’s that he has a reputation.

Whether he’s known as the Righteous Man, the Michael Sword, the man who both started and ended the apocalypse, the man who, for all intents and purposes, killed God— he couldn’t go damn near anywhere where people hadn’t heard of him. He was the perfect killer, he was ruthless, bloodthirsty, unforgivable. He was determined, stubborn, reckless. Everywhere he went, his name was whispered in shadows, stories of things he did and did not do circulating around him.

Even Sam thought of Dean as his Big Brother— role model, protector, unwavering supporter. And while Sam’s opinion of him was wholly good, it still came with a sort of mold that Dean felt like he had to fit into.

The only person who didn’t put any expectation on him, the only one who didn’t have any sort of preconceived notion of who he was or what he was supposed to be or do was Cas. To Cas, Dean was just.. Dean. He wasn’t anything more spectacular or more despicable than that— he was just his completely unguarded self, whether he wanted to be or not.

If someone were to ask another hunter about Dean, they would probably tell some dramatic story of something he did. If they were to ask some monster about Dean, they’d talk about how he probably murdered everyone they ever loved. If they were to ask Sam about Dean, Sam would gush about what a great brother he was, how reliable he was, how he always came through when it mattered. But if someone were to ask Cas about Dean, well.

Cas would probably talk about how Dean’s favorite shade of blue is the sky at exactly 5:37 in the morning when the sun is just barely starting to rise, the black fading away to bring in the start of a new day. Cas would talk about how everyone thinks Dean’s favorite food is pie, but his consumption of burgers would certainly suggest otherwise. Cas would talk about Dean’s music choices and his movie choices and how you wouldn’t expect one if you only knew the other. He wouldn’t think to say a goddamn thing about Dean’s anger issues, trust issues— issues. Just, issues.

Even though they met strictly because of the fact that Dean was both the Righteous Man and the Michael Sword, Cas never thought of him as those things. And sometimes Dean likes to sit there and blame it on the fact that Cas not only saw but cradled his literal soul— that Cas found him when he was at his worst and his weakest and literally put him back together piece by piece. He likes to think that Cas looks past all his bluster and bullshit because he has seen the real color of Dean’s soul.

And while Dean knows that’s at least partly true, he also knows that isn’t the only thing. Because the rest of the truth comes from the fact that Cas simply cares. And that’s not to say that Sam doesn’t care— of course he does— but Sam has Dean put firmly in this box in his head and so when he looks at Dean, that’s what he sees. But Cas always wants to know more, wants to keep learning about Dean. It’s almost like he purposefully doesn’t box Dean into some category in his head because he wants to be able to expand it at will, to shift and alter the perception as he learns more about Dean. Cas wants so badly to know everything about Dean that he spends all his time pretending that he knows nothing, so he pays attention to every detail.

“Hey,” Dean turns his head to the side, glancing over to where Cas is perched on the bed next to him, reading some encyclopedia that is equally giant and boring, trying to gain information for the case they’re about to head out on.

True to everything Dean has known about Cas from the moment they met, Cas immediately and without hesitation abandons what he had been doing to look up. “Yes, Dean?”

Dean meets his blue eyes and then glances away because it’s too much, somehow, even though it never feels like enough. He glances over Cas’s shoulder to stare at one of the guns he has hung on his wall. He briefly considers turning back to stare at the same water stain on his ceiling that he’d been looking at while mulling over these thoughts, but he doesn’t want to turn away from Cas. “I just—” He pauses for a moment, takes in a deep breath, and then forces himself to meet Cas’s gaze directly. “I don’t know if I’ve ever said thanks, And you deserve to hear that.”

Cas looks equal parts touched and confused with a hint of confusion there, too. “For what?”

And Dean knows there isn’t really a way to encompass everything he’s thankful for. He knows there aren’t words to truly express the depth of the impact Cas has had both on Dean’s life and on Dean himself. Dean doesn’t know how to tell him that Cas is the only place he feels like he can be himself, the only place where he feels like the bare bones of who he is matters and is enough. So instead, he lets out a shaky exhale and murmurs, “Everything.”

And in that way Cas always does, he seems to understand exactly what Dean means. It’s as if he can hear the multitudes of feelings and unspoken words hidden in those syllables, like he can feel the weight of what Dean’s feeling. And maybe that’s their profound bond, connecting them in a way that isn’t physical. Or maybe that’s just because Cas sees Dean and understands Dean at his most fundamental level. Maybe it’s because Cas loves him in a way that is as fierce as Dean loves him in return.

Cas just smiles and kisses him.

#lmao by day 5 I was already behind #but I’m catching back up!#supernatural #spn #destiel #daily Destiel Drabble #daily Drabble #deancas

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sequinsmile-x · 2 days ago

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One Last Souvenir From My Trip to Your Shores - Part 2

“Come on, Derek, it’s my job and Aaron knows that. And it’s not the first time I’ve had to flirt with an unsub. It’s not like I’m going to sleep with the guy.”

He scoffs and shakes his head, putting the coffee pot down with more force than necessary, “It wouldn’t be the first time you did that either.”

A thoughtless and unkind comment from someone she's always considered a friend makes Emily feel like she's right back at the start.

-x-

Hi besties,

Thank you so SO much for the love for chapter 1, I'm genuinely a little blown away.

It almost makes me anxious to post chapter 2 haha, so I hope you enjoy this <3

I can't believe I ever thought this wouldn't be 11k words overall haha

As always, let me know what you think <3

-x-

Warnings: None

Words: 5.5k

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

She looks as tired as she feels.

It’s the first thing she thinks when she looks in the mirror. Her makeup is smudged underneath her eyes, and she curses whoever marketed her mascara as waterproof. Her chin trembles when she sees the tracks of her tears on her cheeks and she shakes her head at herself, desperate to no longer be upset, but it’s futile and another tear slips down, following the trail left behind by the ones that had gone before it.

“Damn it,” she says, blowing out a shaky breath, “Get it together, Emily.”

She removes her makeup and then splashes water onto her face and pats it dry, blowing out a slow breath as she looks at herself in the mirror again, her red-rimmed eyes and slightly blotchy skin standing out in her bathroom's slightly too bright light.

“That’s as good as it’s going to get,” she murmurs to herself as she drops the towel onto the countertop, and a smile spreads across her face when it lands next to some of Aaron’s things that lived there permanently. He had a razor here, a toothbrush and a bottle of his cologne. She’d never tell him that on the rare occasion when she slept separately from him she’d wear it. That she’d spray herself and her clothes and close her eyes and pretend he was right there with her.

His bathroom looked similar, items she’d taken there and left in amongst his and spread across all the surfaces. The first night she stayed, Aaron presented her with a toothbrush to keep in his bathroom, and it now sat in the holder next to his and Jack’s. It made her feel like part of a family for the first time in a long time, maybe for the first time ever, and it made her smile whenever she saw them all lined up, or when she accidentally picked up Jack’s watermelon flavoured toothpaste. It was messier than her bathroom, a microcosm of Aaron and Jack’s life - items the little boy always left out that she or Aaron would put away - and it felt like a taster of a life that she was leading up to. Practice for something she so desperately wanted and knew she was on the cusp of having.

She sighs and steps out of the bathroom, but stops when she hears voices. For a split second, she thinks Aaron might actually be telling off the poor college kid who delivered the pizza, but then she realises she recognises the second voice. She feels anxiety pool in her gut again, any comfort Aaron had given her extinguished by Derek’s voice.

“I just want to speak to her,” he says, more irritation in his tone than she thinks he deserves to feel. She steps into the hallway and sees Aaron blocking Derek’s view of the apartment, his skin paper white as it’s drawn over his knuckles as he holds the door tight.

“I think you’ve said enough,” he says, his voice clipped, and she doesn’t have to look at his face to know Derek’s likely on the receiving end of a stern expression that had made hardened criminals crumble.

She knows if she said that she wanted Derek to leave he’d close the door in his face without question, and he’d tell him to leave and that would be it. She’s tempted, unsure if she wants to talk to him before she’s had a chance to figure out what she wants to say, the wounds caused by his careless words still fresh and wide open. But she knows this conversation will be hard whenever she has it, and she wanted to get it over with, to try and move forward from whatever the last few days had been. To try and start chipping away at the heavy weight in the pit of her stomach that had been planted there by Derek just a few days ago.

“Aaron,” she says before she can change her mind, her lips pressed together as he turns to look at her, “You can let him in.”

He stares at her, and they have a silent exchange, a conversation with no words because they’d never really needed them. He looks at her, seeking out any tiny semblance of doubt on her face and she nods at him, lets him know she’s sure and he nods back, a short, sharp thing that she knows means he’ll support her no matter what. He opens the door and lets Derek step past him, and he comes face to face with the pizza delivery guy who seems confused by the tension he’s walked into. Aaron passes him the money and takes the pizza without comment, closing the door behind him before anything can be said. He places their dinner, which he’s sure will go cold before they can eat it, on the closest surface he can find, and makes his way to Emily’s side.

Some of the tension dissipates from her shoulders the moment he’s next to her, and she crosses her arms over her chest, clearing her throat as she waits for Derek to speak. He doesn’t, as if he hadn’t expected to get this far at all, and Aaron sighs, his hand on Emily’s back to get her attention.

“Why don’t we all go sit down?”

She nods and lets herself be led to the living room, warmth spreading through her from where Aaron’s hand is pressed against her back. He taps her spine three times with his thumb, and she steps away so she can hold his hand, the press of her palm against his her way of returning the sentiment she doesn’t want to share in front of Derek. It’s only when they are all sitting down, when Aaron takes his place by her side, sitting close enough that their thighs press together, and Derek sits on the couch opposite them that she realises this is the first time Derek had ever been to this place.

He’d never visited, and had never asked to either, and it makes sadness swell in her gut, a feeling that’s extinguished as she remembers what Aaron had told her about what he’d said in her old apartment. How he stood in her home, the place she’d cooked for him and where he’d drunk her expensive liquor, and he’d torn her character apart. He sits opposite them and just stares, and she’s suddenly very aware of the fact she and Aaron are dressed so casually, one of his t-shirts loose on her frame. It’s a version of them that was usually only for them and Jack and she hates that Derek is seeing it. It makes her feel exposed, like she’s on display for him to see, and she tightens her grip on Aaron’s hand.

“I thought you wanted to speak to me,” Emily eventually says, her voice more steady than she feels and she thanks a god she isn’t sure she believes in anymore for the way she’d been brought up, for the fact she could hold herself together even when it felt like she was slowly ripping apart at the seams.

Derek sighs, his arms across his chest as he looks back and forth between the two of them, “Can we talk alone?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Aaron says without thinking, an automatic response he can’t hold back as the desire to protect her almost burns him from the inside out. He looks at her so he can gauge what she wants, because they both know he’d leave if she asked him to, but she nods ever so slightly and keeps her grip tight on his hand, her blunt nails digging into his skin.

“Anything you want to say to me you can say in front of him.”

Derek laughs, it’s nervous and unlike him, and he looks between the two of them again, “What, you can’t speak to me without your guard dog?”

She knows it’s an attempt at a joke, that he’s trying to lighten the mood he’d created in the first place, and it just makes her angrier. She knows it does the same for Aaron because she can feel how his shoulders get tenser, his body almost wider with it as he prepares to be exactly what Derek is comparing him to.

“Derek,” she says warningly, “He’s staying. What did you want to say?”

He leans forward, his elbows on his knees as he clasps his hands in front of him, and he blows out a breath, “I’m sorry.”

She chuckles humourlessly, “Is that it? Because we have pizza to eat and it’s been a long day-”

“Emily, come on-”

“No,” she says sharply, “You can’t come here and say you’re sorry and think that’s it. You can’t call me a whore and expect to-”

“Whoa,” he says, cutting her off and shaking his head, “I never said that.”

She clenches her teeth, fed up with being told by people, men, that she’d misinterpreted things, that she’s overreacting to something she hasn’t even begun to react to yet.

“Then what did you mean by it?” She asks, staring at him, finding no joy in how he shrinks in front of her, how he becomes visibly smaller as he grapples for an explanation they all know he doesn’t have, “That’s what I thought. You should go, this was pointless-”

“I didn’t mean to say it.”

She scoffs and shakes her head, “Then what did you mean to say? Or did you just mean to think it?” She asks, her sadness once again overtaking her anger, the two emotions racing each other around her bloodstream in a way that makes her fidget. Aaron places his hand on her knee and it grounds her, reminds her she’s not facing this or anything else alone anymore.

“When you were arrested for murder, I barely knew you and I believed you were innocent without question and I did not judge you or your actions. Why couldn’t you do the same for me when you stood in my home and talked about things you do not understand that happened before I knew you?”

Derek connects the dots quickly, figures out the chain of command of how everything he’d said in anger to Dave had made its way back to Emily, and looks sharply at Aaron, “You told her.”

“She deserved to know,” Aaron says firmly, all of his focus on keeping his cool. Emily could hold her own, he knew that, but his desire to protect her was thrumming under his skin, making him all but vibrate on the couch.

“What gives you the right-”

“I asked him,” she says, cutting over Derek again, barely able to bring herself to let him finish a sentence, “I asked him and he told me.” She sighs sadly, the one thing she’d been thinking on repeat since he’d broken her heart finally slipping free, “I thought you were my friend.”

Aaron tightens his hold on her hand, unable to stop himself because the crack in her voice reverberates through his heart, and he’s worried if he didn’t do something he’d tell Derek to leave. He runs his thumb back and forth over the pulse in her wrist, tracing the evidence that she’d survived the very worst things that had happened to her.

Derek’s face falls, the first crack in his facade, and he sinks back against the couch, “I am your friend, Em.”

“I think we have very different ideas about how we should treat our friends, Derek. I have spent months…” she trails off and swallows thickly as her voice starts to shake. She turns her head to face Aaron, her eyes shining as he looks at her and her jaw tight as she tries to keep herself together. It’s another silent conversation, a squeeze of her hand and a look in his eyes that she knows means are you okay, and she smiles, something that’s lost in the tight way her lips are pressed together and she nods, her expression firm again when she turns back to look at Derek, her voice more steady this time, “I have spent months trying to earn back your trust, trying to prove myself to you again and all this time you’ve been…what? Judging me for things you’ll never have to understand,” she licks her lower lip and takes a deep breath, “I had a relationship with Ian. I had sex with him,” she shrugs when he closes his eyes, his jaw tight with anger, “Why does that have anything to do with you?”

He sighs, “It doesn’t, not really, but-”

“There is no but Derek. It has nothing to do with you, and neither does my relationship with Aaron, which is something else you seem to have an opinion on.”

Derek’s jaw tightens again, his eyes flicking to Aaron, staring him down as he spits out his response, “He faked your death.”

His attitude towards Aaron makes her angrier, something she wouldn’t have thought was possible as it briefly stamps out any sadness that was lingering in her throat. Aaron stiffens next to her, his shoulders so tight she’s surprised his t-shirt doesn’t rip, that he doesn’t turn into the superhero Jack always compared him to right in front of her and defend her honour. She knows he wants to. If she hinted even for a second that she wanted his help he’d jump in and protect her, but he doesn’t, because she didn’t want or need him to fight her battles. She needed him to help pick up the pieces after. To remind her where all of them went and help her move forward. It was the part of all of this that she’d been missing before him. The support behind the scenes that she’d always told herself she didn’t need because she didn’t know what it felt like to have.

“And you faked your cousin’s,” she says cooly, unaware until she’s said it that his hypocrisy over Aaron and JJ’s actions to protect her had upset her, the response out and in the air around them before she’d realised it had escaped the place she’d buried it. A flash of guilt licks through her chest, burning her from the inside out as his face falls. She shakes it off, remembering that no matter what she’d made him feel, it was not even a degree of how he’d made her feel.

“I did that to protect my family.”

Aaron chuckles humourlessly, his self-control slipping for a moment as everything he’d turned inwards for months breaks free, “And why do you think I did what I did? For fun? Because I wanted to bury another woman I…”

He drifts off, his jaw tight as he holds back everything that feels too personal to share with anyone other than Emily. He’d known he’d loved her for a lot longer than they’d been together, but he’d only found the name for it when he was faced with losing her, when he was carrying a coffin he knew she wasn’t in. It was a moment of awful clarity, every moment he’d ever had with her on a grim showreel in his head that he couldn’t stop seeing. He told himself that when he got her back, the idea of if too painful to accept, he’d do something about it.

In the end, he hadn’t been able to, frozen in fear that she would never feel the same way for him. She’d taken the leap, like she so often did, and he’d held her hand and jumped with her.

She’d always been the bravest person he knew.

“He was protecting me too,” she says, her hold on Aaron’s hand now so tight her skin is bone white where it’s stretched over her knuckles, “As our friend you should be happy for us,” she says, and Derek shakes his head, dropping his gaze to the floor, “I mean it, Derek. I won’t accept you talking crap about the man I love or our relationship.”

He looks up, his brows furrowed, “You love him?”

She scoffs, “Yes,” she says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world because it feels like the most obvious thing in the world.

“And I love her too,” Aaron adds, the gentle words at odds with the stern expression on his face. He usually smiled when he said it, his expression soft and his dimples carved out deep in his cheeks. She turns to look at him and smiles at him, something in her chest easing when he smiles back.

“Did you love him?”

She presses her lips together at Derek’s question and watches as Aaron’s face falls too, the brief flash of him, of her Aaron replaced by Hotch as they both turn to look at him. She clears her throat.

“Ian?” She asks, and Derek nods. She smiles wryly, “Please don't tell me you're equating love to sex, I've seen you go home with enough one-night stands to know you don't believe they are the same thing.”

He chuckles humourlessly, “That isn’t an answer.”

She has to wrap her other hand around Aaron’s, sandwiching it between the two of hers to remind him to stay quiet, his anger thick and palpable in the air like a cheap cologne. She’s angry herself because Derek thinks he’s won, that he’s tripped her up with his frustratingly black-and-white thinking. He was still so sure after all these years, after all they’d seen and done, that there were clear answers to everything. She’d lived in the grey area for years. Had existed on the edges of what was right and wrong, and she wonders if that’s part of her that Derek would simply just never understand.

“And I don't have one that's simple,” she says, “Or one that I think you'll find satisfactory.”

The room falls into silence and Derek leans forward, his fingers pressed against his temples as he tries to gather himself, “I am sorry that I upset you. No matter what…no matter what I may think or have said, I never wanted to upset you.”

She presses her lips together, “Okay.”

He frowns, “Okay? Is that it?”

She nods, “You apologised, I’m not ready to forgive you.”

He chokes on a humourless laugh, “Em-”

“No,” she says, cutting over him, “You didn’t just upset me, Derek. You…you’ve changed the way I think about our friendship. And that’s going to take a long time for me to come to terms with,” she swallows thickly, pushing down emotions she won’t let herself feel until he’s gone, her eyes burning with tears, “It’s going to be a long time before I trust you again.”

He sighs and shrugs in defeat, “Then where does this leave us?”

“Where we are right now I guess,” she replies, “I didn’t bring us to this point. You did. And it isn’t my responsibility to try and make you feel better about it.”

They fall into silence again, and Emily realises she has nothing left to say, that she’s done trying to defend herself when she’s done nothing wrong. The ball was in Derek’s court now, and she hoped he’d eventually see her side of it all. He nods, his shoulders slumping a little, as he stands.

“I should go.” He says, his smile tight. Emily stands too, and so does Aaron, his hand on her lower back as they move as one to show him out. He hesitates at the door and turns to look at her, his gaze drifting over both of them, over how close they are. As if he’s seeing them and their relationship as it is for the first time and not the way he’d assumed it to be, “Will we ever get back to where we were?”

She shrugs, “I doubt we’ll sit in one of the SUVs on a stake out and make fun of Aaron for being a hardass ever again,” she scrunches her nose up and looks over her shoulder at Aaron, “No offence, honey.”

He squeezes her hip, a smile Emily knows Derek has likely never seen before flashes across his face, “None taken. I am a hardass.”

She presses her lips together and turns back to Derek, “We’ll get…somewhere. I’m sure.”

It’s all she can offer him. It’s all she wants to offer him because she doesn’t know how she’ll feel tomorrow or in a week. She doubted the heartache would go away any time soon, and she didn’t know when she’d be able to look at him again and not think of the hurtful thing he’d said. Of the way he’d looked at her when he said it. Of the way he’d made her feel like she was worth nothing.

It had been a long time since someone she loved looked at her like that and she cared that they had.

Derek nods, and he forces a tight smile as he leaves, the apartment falling into silence after the door closes behind him. Aaron moves his hands to her shoulders, his thumbs pressed into her back as he tries to ease some of the tension there.

“Sweetheart-” He’s cut off when she turns in his arms, her face buried in his neck and her hands grasping at his back, his t-shirt tight in her fists. He feels the burn of her tears against his skin and he kisses the top of her head, “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you,” he kisses her hairline and pulls back just enough to see her face, “Let’s go sit down, okay?”

She nods but doesn’t pull away from him. She lets him lead her towards the couch, her sniffles and the occasional sharp intake of breath the only sounds in the apartment. As soon as she’s sitting down he moves to pull away but she stops him, her blunt nails digging into his arm as she furrows her brow.

“I’ll be less than a minute, okay,” he says, squeezing her forearm before she nods and he tilts his head towards the bathroom, “I’ll barely leave your sight.”

She watches as he goes, her vision blurred by the tears she’d held back throughout the painful back and forth with Derek. She hears the faucet in the bathroom briefly go on and off, and then Aaron walks back towards her, a damp washcloth in his hand. He sits next to her and turns towards her, his knee knocking against her thigh, and he gently wipes her cheeks with the washcloth. He touches her as if she’s made of something precious, his love and care for her soft as he dabs away the tears someone else had caused, each one immediately replaced. It doesn’t phase him and he carries on, diligent in the task he had set himself as they sit in silence, his knee pressed against her thigh as he gives her the silence she needs to figure out what she wants to do next.

“I’m sorry.” She eventually chokes out, her voice ragged and throat tight.

“What for?” He asks, his smile reassuring and entirely hers when she finally looks at him. She tries to smile too and it shakes, the laugh that escapes her close to hysterical.

“I feel like all I’ve done this evening is cry.”

“You never have to apologise for that. I love you, and part of that is looking after you when you’re sad or hurt.” He leans forward and kisses her cheek, tasting the salt of her skin as she leans into him, curling against his side as if she’d been waiting for him to initiate contact. He drops the washcloth onto the side table for now and wraps his arms around her, never wanting her to doubt that he’d always be there ready and waiting for her when she needed him.

“It’s been a long time since someone I care about has been able to hurt me like that,” she says, her voice shaking, “He should call and give my mother some tips, she’s lost her edge in recent years.”

He knows what she’s doing, knows that humour is a shield she’d used her whole life, and he squeezes her thigh, “Sweetheart.”

She heaves in a breath, the press of it sticking to each of her ribs as it shudders in her lungs, and she nods as she blows it back out.

“Sorry,” she says, smiling sadly when he raises an eyebrow at her again, “It’s just..having to think about Ian this much…” she blows out another shaky breath and her chin trembles, “It’s never easy.”

He hears what she hasn’t said, what she doesn’t need to say, and he tucks some of her hair behind her ear, his knuckles soft against her cheek afterwards as he wipes away her tears, “Like I said you earlier, none of that matters to me. None of it. The only thing that matters to me is you.”

“I know,” she says, cupping his cheek, running her thumb back and forth over his jaw, “Thank you,” she smiles sadly and he almost tells her she doesn’t have to thank him, but she carries on, speaking as if she wasn’t aware she was talking outloud. “Sometimes it feels like I haven’t moved forward at all since I came back.”

For a moment he wishes he had shouted at Derek, that he’d let him know exactly what he thought of him and all the things he’d said about Emily, but he knows it wouldn’t have helped. The last thing Emily needed, or wanted, was two men fighting over her honour like she was a prize to be won.

“Recovery isn’t linear, Em. And you have moved forward. And I won’t let Derek, or anyone, take that from you.”

She smiles despite the vice around her heart, “Even me?”

He leans in to kiss her lower lip, “Especially you.”

She rests her forehead against his and cups the back of his head to hold him in place, “You’re a good man, Aaron Hotchner. The best. And I won’t let anyone, including you, take that from you.” She swallows thickly and blows out a breath, and it makes her sadness skip across his face, the melancholy in it enough to break his heart, “Where do I go from here, Aaron? How do I go to work on Monday knowing my partner, my friend, thinks those things about me?”

“Well, I’ve got it on good authority that your boss has a soft spot for you,” he says, running his fingers through her hair, “So he can make sure you don’t get partnered with him for a while.”

She pulls back to look at him, “I can’t ask you to do that.”

“You aren’t asking me I’m happy to do it for you if it makes your life even a little bit easier,” he rubs a soothing circle on her back, “And I have a feeling Derek won’t try and argue it either.” He says, and she bites the inside of her cheek, sure that she should just put up with it, but Aaron carries on, “There are some benefits to being the boss, sweetheart. And it’s not just the office with a front row view of your desk,” he pauses as she laughs, the sound easing something in his chest, the melody of it filling the space around his heart, “I can do this for you.”

She’s nodding before she even knows she’s going to agree, and she leans in to stamp her lips against his, “Okay. Thank you.”

“You have got to stop thanking me for looking after you,” he says softly, winking at her when she fails to hide a smile, “I like doing it.”

She settles against him, drawing warmth and comfort from the safety of his arms. She’s not sure how long they sit there in silence. How long he trails his fingers up and down her arm, the calluses on his thumb catching on an old scar he’d heard her get years ago when she was thrown against a mirror by a long-dead monster. It feels like he’s trying to heal her bit by bit, that the soft press of his rough skin against hers is undoing everything that ever came before him, and on some level, she thinks he is. He’s providing everything she never knew how to ask for, everything she still didn’t know how to ask for, and she never wanted him to stop.

“We never ate the pizza,” she says eventually, the sound of his belly rumbling breaking through the silence they had fallen into. She scrunches her nose up, “It’s probably stone cold by now.”

“You’re not a fan of cold pizza?” He asks, and she grimaces and shakes her head.

“It reminds me too much of college and bad decisions.”

He chuckles, “We can order another one.”

“I need to find my phone,” she says, making no attempt to move, far too comfortable pressed against him, and he smiles as he pulls his phone from his sweatpants.

“Here,” he says as he hands it to her, “Order what you want. You can even get one of those disgusting dessert pizzas you like.”

She rolls her eyes at him, “They aren’t disgusting. They are just glorified cookies.”

“Then they shouldn’t call them pizzas.”

She presses her lips together to try and contain a smile, the beautiful and simple domesticity of it all almost misplaced after the day she’d had. But she thinks maybe that’s the point - that she could have a terrible awful day and still have this to come to, that she no longer had to sit in the darkness by herself.

She smiles as she unlocks his phone and is met by his wallpaper. It’s a picture of the two of them and Jack, the little boy in her arms and both of them in Aaron’s, all standing together in the park with wide smiles on their faces. Aaron had been taking photos of her and Jack, and a stranger offered to take one of all three of them, her smile kind as she told them they were a beautiful family. None of them had corrected her, because thats what they were. A family. Or at least the building blocks of one. She’d make fun of him for it, gently tease him and call him sentimental, if she didn’t have the same picture set as her wallpaper too.

She frowns curiously at an email she can see on his screen, a dispatch notification from a homeware store she knows isn’t cheap, and she turns her head to look at him, tilting the phone so he can see it too.

“What did you order?”

“Oh,” he says, clearing his throat, his dimples standing out as his cheeks flush with embarrassment, “I bought new pillows. You said mine hurt your neck, so I ordered new ones.”

She stares at him for a moment, her mouth hanging open as she huffs out a laugh, “When? We only got back from the case this afternoon and you haven’t been home yet?”

He tugs her closer, his lips against her temple as he hides a smirk against her skin, “There’s this amazing thing called the internet, I don’t know if you’ve heard of it. They should arrive tomorrow - I bought the same ones you have.”

She pulls back to look at him, his phone in a loose grip in her hand, and she presses her lips together, entirely unsure what to say in response. “Those are expensive, Aaron.”

He shrugs like the price of them hadn’t occurred to him, “You and your comfort when you’re at my place are worth it.”

She kisses him because it’s the only thing she can think of doing, and she rests her forehead against him, her nose knocking against his, “I love you.”

He furrows his brow, “Because of the pillows?”

“No,” she replies, rolling her eyes at him, “Well, yes. But not just because of the pillows,” she says, “Because of everything,” she runs her fingers through his hair, “I love you because you’re you.”

He smiles and kisses her, his lips catching the corner of hers, “I love you because you’re you too,” he looks at her, his eyes searching hers and finding the lingering sadness left behind by the last few days and the lack of a resolution that she so desperately wanted, “Everything will be okay, sweetheart. It might take some time. But it will be okay.”

She nods and rests her head against his chest, her forehead pressed against his neck as she tries to get as close to him as she can, his warmth and the safety that always came with it giving her all the things she’d never had before.

A home. Reassurance. And the love she’d spent a lifetime chasing,

“I know,” she says, turning her head to kiss him, her lips catching his jaw, “How could it not be? I have you.”

-x-

NB: I know some of you were hoping for an Aaron/Derek altercation, but it didn't feel right for Aaron's character and also it's absolutely not what Emily needs. She needs her man to be a supportive king!!

As always, let me know what you think <3

Until next time,

SequinSmile x

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