#birdie-writes

[birrdies]

'SUNBLEACHED' (1.6k words) Our collaboration piece for the Flowers in the Desert zine! writing by me (birrdies) art by @fishbloc

Sunflowers. 

Over the flat, endless plain they stretch as far as Scar can see. Roots and leaves branch like veins and arteries through the soil on the verge of something alive. The sunflowers face the limitless blue above— no beginning or end— the stretch so vast that time itself feels as inconsequential as a marble rolling around in his hand. 

Scar doesn’t understand it.

One second his feet had been on the stone where Pearl had fallen, where lightning had struck with finality, and the next he’s up to his waist in sunflowers. Each golden petal stands on edge. As if they know something he doesn’t. He reaches out to touch one of these petals; they tickle the pads of his fingers. Shy, pretty things. 

It’s quiet here and Scar isn’t sure if it’s a silence he finds comforting or damning. He thinks he should be afraid, but how can he be? It’s warm here. The earth smells of freshly fallen rain beneath his feet, despite not a single cloud in the sky above. The fresh, dewey scent that soothes him, almost convinces him that this is a good place to be. 

“You’re here,” a voice says behind him.

There, enveloped by the countless sunflowers, is Grian. His hair is pale, sunbleached, and his cheeks are pink. Everything about him has been touched by the light in some way, down to the faded red poncho draping his shoulders and the speckling of freckles across his nose bridge. 

He’s drowning in it— this light. He’s made of it. And Scar’s eyes fall to find the sunflowers around him withering and decaying quickly. The yellow petals curl and desiccate into gray husks, breaking off their buds and fluttering to the ground. They’re dying. Not by lack of sunlight, Scar realizes, but by an excess of it. Burnt to a crisp. 

And like the sun, his skin blisters. The skin of his hands and the redness slathering them have no beginning or end. Gashes and swelling bruises and split knuckles. The blood never clots, a constant red drip falling from the fingers held limp at his sides. A quiet drip, drip, drip the only sound across the windless field. Not even so much as the sound of a breath. Just that blood.  “Grian,” Scar says. “I’m here.”

He doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why Grian’s here either. But he’s grateful he is. Their nightmare— or, had it been a dream?— ended long ago, the desert gone and buried several games past. The Grian in front of him now isn’t the Grian he’d fought with moments ago. This Grian was younger. More afraid. More capable of burning. 

“Where… where is here, exactly?” Scar asks.

Grian curls those bleeding fingers into the nearest living sunflower. As if he’s unsure whether he wants to caress it or yank it from the ground, roots and all. His face is twisted, it’s always twisted when Scar’s around. But he yearns for the days when that twist had been of wicked delight, the way green-lit eyes exploded into starbursts at the sight of their mutual destruction. 

“You won,” Grian says simply, taking a sunflower by the stem and starting to pluck the petals. One by one. “Congratulations.”

Scar falters. A victory. A bolt of lightning striking the earth, the loud thud of a gavel. It’s over Scar, he hears, a constant echo in the back of his mind. You won. Grian’s anger burns. A second petal falls.  “You’re upset.” Scar will do anything to make it stop, to untie the knot tied between Grian’s eyebrows, to take those cracked, bleeding hands in his own and mend them until the skin is whole again. To take away the pain, the regret, the guilt. 

Grian never left the desert, no matter how much he wanted to. And Scar could never go back. No matter how often he wished he could.

“This is your dream, Scar.” Grian turns his face away. “It’s been a long time coming— a victory.”

“I don’t feel like I’ve won anything,” Scar says honestly. A victory implies the heavy yet welcome weight of a crown, the fleeting yet intoxicating rush of excitement. But all Scar feels is the emptiness in his chest, the air around his crownless head. Blood on his hands that he can’t see, but knows is there all the same. The same way it stains Grian’s. 

Grian plucks a third petal. He barks a cruel laugh, but it sounds more like he’s about to cry. “How do you think I felt?”  Scar frowns. “It’s still about the desert? After all this time?” 

Grian plucks another petal. Four. It flutters to the ground to join the others, yellow petals torn and crumpled, slowly turning gray. The edge of his mouth tugs into a knife-like smile.

“I’m sorry,” he says. It’s all he can manage, though he doesn’t mean it. Nothing can make him regret that day, knelt in a cool pond with the weight of a diamond blade against the junction of his neck. The hand he used to hold onto it, digging it into his own skin— asking for it. “You deserved to win.”

“I deserved this? To be alone?” Grian throws his arms out to the sides, to the endless curvature of sunflowers drowning the both of them. Nothing to shield them from the unrelenting sun above. “Because that’s what winning means. You’re alone, Scar.” 

Scar’s heart plummets into his stomach. “You’re here.” 

“Am I?” A fifth petal. “Or do you just want me to be?” 

Scar stares at Grian, uncaring if the scalding brightness gives him sunspots, or if the pain of looking at the spoils of his own choices burns him up from the inside. You won, Scar, his voice echoes again and again in Scar’s mind, a scratched record. His fists curl up at his sides, into the black cloak sewn with lilacs and poppies along the hem. 

Is that what this is? A cruel illusion to make him realize what it truly means to be the man at the edge of the world, to be the last man standing? If this is victory— Scar grits his teeth and twists his fists into his cloak— then he doesn’t want it. He’s never wanted it. It was never about winning, it was about— 

“About what, exactly?” Grian snaps, plucking the through straight from his mind just as he does with a sixth petal. “Is it about this? Sunflowers? You can’t hide behind them forever. Not here. Not from me. Not from yourself.” 

“Stop it.”

Grian’s in front of him now, bloodied hands shoving him by his shoulders. Scar stumbles back and barely keeps himself upright. This isn’t right. This isn’t Grian— not the one he knows, not the one he needs. 

“Why aren’t you angry, Scar?” Another push. “After everything that’s happened to you. All the people that have betrayed you. All the times I left you behind.”

Scar grapples for self control, to reign in the flash of anger burning the back of his throat. “What are you trying to prove?” 

“Stop lying. For once in your life, look me in the eye and tell me you’re angry.” Grian yanks a sunflower from the ground and shoves it, decaying leaves and all, against Scar’s chest. “Tell me these are just a sham.” 

It’s on the tip of his tongue: the truth. A terrifying, bitter thing that burns crawling up the back of his throat. Because it betrays everything he’s worked so hard to build, the masks he’s sported like second skins, the confidence which he flaunts like a shield. Without it, what does he have left? He’s stripped clean, Grier’s hands against his chest burning like sweltering charcoal. Sunflower petals slip between his fingers. 

He opens his mouth to let it up, to tell the truth, and then—

The sky above him changes. Only slightly. If he had blinked he would’ve missed it. But clear as day he sees them overhead: clouds. Slowly rolling across a blue sky.  And he’s on his back, blinking spots from his eyes as breath rushes into his lungs. The air tastes fresh, crisp, like seawater. Eyes fluttering, he tries to remember what he’d just been about to say.  “Scar?” 

Eclipsing the sun beating down on him overhead, a head peers down at him. Dark, wide eyes, a slanted mouth. A sporting of freckles across dusty cheeks. 

Something knotted unravels in Scar’s chest. “Grian.” Grian’s lips wobble into an uneasy smile. He wipes sweat from his brow, and Scar catches a glimpse of his hands: dirty, packed with mud, but bloodless. “Whatcha doing down there, pal?”  Scar’s arms lie limp at his sides. He’s not sure he could move even if he tried. If he wanted to. Something about this peace is fragile, uncertain. As if simply breathing the wrong way will make the world shatter in two and send him back to that place. One wrong move and he’ll be alone again. 

“Dunno,” Scar says breathlessly. Stalks of wheat tickle his arms as the wind kicks up, ghosting over his body. A sunflower stands over him, waving in the breeze. “Appreciating the view. Clouds. They’re nice.”

“Come on.” A hand reaches out to him. “Stop trampling my wheat.” Scar has to stare at it to remember that it’s not covered in blood. That it’s just dirt from a long day tending to wheat and sunflowers. That the Grian smiling down at him is the real one. Not the one made to torment him. 

Scar reaches for that hand, allowing their palms to slot together. Grian’s skin is callused and warm. He’s there. He’s real. Scar isn’t alone.

[starmocha]

Little Dino [Sylus + Daughter ★ 2555 words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] Sylus has a little dinosaur problem. A/N: OK another crow dad and his baby birdie ficlet because they bring me joy 🥹 istg I am working on those wips I promised on my tumblr. But…birb dad and birb baby… 🥺

“Mr. Sylus, we have new intel about that night on the 4th.”

“Mmhmm,” Sylus absently answered the person on speakerphone as he leaned back against the desk in his study. His eyes keenly followed the quick movements of the little green dinosaur who walked in uninvited to his study carrying an armful of plushies and setting them on his couch in a neat order: Smiley Dino and Sunny Dino. He watched as she scurried out the room for a few minutes, her long tail swaying back and forth.

He suppressed a chuckle. It seemed his daughter was really enjoying the dinosaur onesie her mother had gotten for her recently. She had insisted on wearing only this outfit for the last week. Sylus turned his attention back to his phone call.

“Now, you were saying there was a mole at the auction?”

“Yes, sir, we believe it to be…”

Sylus discreetly eyed his study door when he saw it pushed further open and his little dinosaur-daughter walked in with another armful of plushies. She scampered over to the couch and set them neatly next to the ones already sitting. The little girl then tried to climb up the couch before she paused half-way, seemingly remembering something. She slid back down to the floor with a soft “oof” and turned around, running pass Sylus.

Before she passed him completely, Sylus subtly stepped on her tail, making the toddler paused, confused. She turned around, her mouth opening wide in shock at the sight of her tail caught under her father’s foot. The little girl grabbed her tail and started tugging helplessly, but her efforts were in vain as it remained trapped under this sudden obstacle. She looked up at her father, and Sylus pretended he was looking elsewhere, appearing as if he was entirely preoccupied with his call.

“Yes, yes, we can do a meetup later this week,” Sylus answered as he kept an eye on his daughter from his peripheral vision. He casually crossed his arms over his chest and hummed softly. “Now there is this protocore incident I have been meaning to have you look into…”

The little girl pouted from the lack of attention and continued trying to tug her tail free. She looked up helplessly, shocked that her father still didn’t notice her. She gave another quick feeble tug.

Sylus remained feigning obliviousness. He almost lost his composure when he caught sight of his daughter’s angry pout and the little glare directed at him. She really did look like her mother in this moment, Sylus couldn’t help but thought with delight.

“Mr. Sylus, we can arrange a meeting on—”

“Daddy! My tail!”

There was an awkward pause in the room after the sudden outburst.

“Um…Mr. Sylus…”

“Oh, dear,” Sylus said with mock-worry, “I seem to have a little dinosaur problem in my study right now…”

“Uhhh…I’ll call you back later, sir.”

The line immediately went dead. Sylus chuckled and redirected his entire attention to the angry little girl at his feet. He tsked softly.

“Now what do we have here?”

“Tail! My tail, Daddy!” The little girl continued fruitlessly tugging her tail to emphasize her point, but Sylus seemed to press his foot down even harder.

“I see that,” he said, feigning astonishment, “That is quite a problem, isn’t it, baby?”

The little toddler continued to glare at her father.

“My, my, that is such a ferocious look,” Sylus teased, smirking. Just like her mother…

An idea seemed to pop into the little girl’s head. She mustered up her scariest voice and then with her little hands held up to claw, she let out a loud, “Rawr!”

“Oh, dear, I am very frightened,” Sylus said, barely able to hide his amusement, “Whatever will I do…if only I have Miss Hunter here to protect me…but alas, she is currently prioritizing Linkon City over her husband…”

The girl sulked when she realized her scare tactic didn’t work. She stepped closer and started to push her whole weight against Sylus’ leg, grunting and whining as she tried to free her captured tail. Sylus started laughing when his daughter began to beat his leg with her little fists.

“Alright, alright, enough of the love taps. I’ll move my foot, baby,” he said, lifting his leg, but before the little girl could run off, Sylus used his Evol to lift her into the air. He manipulated his Evol to carry her closer to him until the toddler was floating face-to-face with her father. He smiled at her adorable angry glare.

“Do I get a kiss before Miss Dino runs off?”

“No!” she crossed her arms stubbornly.

Sylus laughed, shaking his head in amusement. “Is this little birdie angry at me now?”

“Daddy, I’m not a birdie today!” she said defiantly, “I’m a dinosaur! Rawr!”

He laughed again. “Pardon me,” he said, “Then Miss Dino, may I request a kiss before you run off?”

She continued to pout. Sylus took this opportunity to suddenly take her into his arms, tickling her and kissing her cheek without mercy until she was laughing and gasping for breath.

“Daddy! Daddy! Not fair!”

“Mmhmm,” Sylus agreed, planting another long kiss on his daughter’s cheek, “Daddy never plays fair.”

He shifted her in his arms and motioned to his cheek with his finger. “Now kiss.”

He smiled as his daughter reluctantly kissed him.

“Try again, Little Miss,” he said, tickling her again and chuckling alongside her helpless giggles.

This time his daughter smiled and kissed his cheek more sincerely.

“Good girl,” he said, pecking her cheek again before setting her back down to the floor. He gave her bottom a quick playful swat, sighing in feigned exasperation. “Now, what is this little dino doing to my study?”

“We’re keeping Daddy company!”

“‘We’?”

“Uh huh.” His daughter smiled cheekily and pointed at the couch with the array of colorful plushies sitting on it. “Me, Smiley Dino, Sunny Dino, Azure Dino, and Grape Dino!”

“What happened to Grumpy Crow and his friends?”

“Time-out!”

Sylus pretended to look startled by the firm exclamation. “And what crime did they commit to warrant such punishment?”

The little girl huffed angrily. “They were mean to Smiley Dino!”

Without missing a beat, Sylus gasped. “And how were they mean?”

“They said Smiley Dino couldn’t join their group,” the girl answered her father.

“Well, that is truly awful,” Sylus said sincerely, kneeling down to his daughter’s height. He patted her head. “And you put them in time-out, baby?”

She nodded her head furiously. “Smiley Dino was very sad, Daddy…”

“I’m sure he was,” Sylus answered back solemnly, “But you know, baby, perhaps your plushies need to learn to play along together?”

The girl looked down, her hands clasped behind her back as she shuffled her feet reluctantly. “But they don’t want to be friends, Daddy…”

Sylus smiled and gave his daughter’s cheek a playful pinch. She giggled and swatted at his hand until he let go. “Come on, my little dino, let’s go and have a chat with your plushies.”

He picked her up and as he carried her out of his study, Sylus also used his Evol to pick up the dino plushies. Swirls of energy wrapped around each waiting plushie, lifting them into the air to follow after the father-daughter duo. Sylus smiled when he heard his daughter giggling delightfully, catching sight of her waving happily over his shoulder at the line of dino plushies floating behind them.

When they arrived at the little toddler’s bedroom, Sylus was unprepared for the sight of a jail made of pillows incarcerating four crow plushies in the middle of the large bedroom. As he walked closer, he huffed in amusement at seeing the four crow plushies tossed haphazardly inside the jail.

“Well, this jail looks comfier than the one I was in…”

“Huh?” The little girl turned to face her father with a look of utter bewilderment.

Sylus shook his head, chuckling more to himself. “Never mind, baby.”

“Daddy, down, down!” the little girl cried out, wriggling in his arms.

Sylus chuckled again and lowered her down to the floor. “Alright, alright. Impatient little dino today, aren’t you?”

Sylus also motioned with his finger to bring the dino plushies over and they surrounded the pillow jail. He smiled as his daughter looked up, her eyes wide with delight at seeing her plushies floating in the air before they gently descended. She immediately picked up Smiley Dino and hugged him tightly in her little arms.

“Now, is there a reason the crows and dinosaurs don’t get along?” Sylus asked as he knelt down to his daughter’s level. He watched as she furrowed her brows in contemplation.

“Because…because…they said Smiley Dino has a weird face…”

“Well, that is mean,” Sylus quipped. “Do you think he has a weird face?”

She shook her head furiously. “Smiley Dino is very cute!”

Sylus chuckled at her excited exclamation. “Very cute,” he agreed and gave his daughter’s cheek a gentle stroke, “But not as cute as my little dino right here.”

She puffed up her cheeks at him, seemingly annoyed. She hugged her plushie tighter. “Daddy, you’re making Smiley Dino sad, too!”

“I am just speaking the truth,” he answered affably, “Do you think I am like Grumpy Crow?”

Without a single of second of hesitation, she nodded her head.

“Well, maybe I am,” Sylus continued with a smile. He picked up the Grumpy Crow plushie, turning it around to scrutinize. “Perhaps Grumpy Crow and his friends didn’t mean to make Smiley Dino sad.”

The toddler looked at her father confused, and Sylus elaborated further: “Maybe the crows aren’t very good with their words…”

He held the crow plushie close to the dino plushie in his daughter’s arms. “Maybe he meant to say Smiley Dino has a very unique face. He’s special.”

“Daddy, is that…good?” the little girl asked tentatively.

Sylus nodded. “It can be good.” Sylus paused and raised the crow plushie close to his ear, appearing to be listening intently. His expression switched between different emotions, seemingly contemplative one second and then intrigued the next. “Ah, I see. Yes, yes, this is a big misunderstanding…”

“Daddy? What is it?” The girl walked over and tugged at her father’s sleeve. She pouted when he started laughing for seemingly no reason.

“Oh, Grumpy Crow was just telling me they didn’t mean to make Smiley Dino sad,” Sylus explained, continuing, “They also want to be friends with the dinos.”

“They do?” The girl’s eyes widened in astonishment.

“They do, baby,” he answered. He held the crow plushie out to his daughter. “Look, Grumpy Crow wants to apologize and be friends with Smiley Dino.”

The girl slowly smiled and held her dino plushie out. The two plushies ‘hugged’ before the little girl took them both into her arms to snuggle. She looked at her father with bright eyes and a toothy grin. “Daddy, they’re friends now!”

“Splendid,” he answered, “Now you have twice the number of friends to play with, right?”

She nodded happily, and gave each plushie a friendly kiss on the head.

Sylus suddenly noticed something peculiar. In the corner of his daughter’s room, there was a little canopy reading nook. Child-sized bookcases lined the wall filled with different children’s books and underneath the canopy was a soft white fur rug with different sized throw pillows surrounding the area. He noticed a few plushies were also strewn about on the rug.

“Wait, what’s this?” Sylus stood up and walked over to the reading area, picking up one of the peculiar plushies laying on the rug.

“Happy Snowman!” his daughter declared, dropping her two plushies and running over excitedly. “Mommy gave him to me.”

“Did…did she win it for you?”

“I dunno, Daddy,” his daughter answered him with a little innocent shrug. She then excitedly picked up two different plushies and held them up to her father proudly. “Look, Daddy, this is Artsy Birb and Bunbun!”

“They are…cute,” Sylus answered, tone stiff, though thankfully the little three-year-old didn’t seem to notice. Sylus knelt down to his daughter’s height again and smiled forcibly. In as even a tone as he could muster, he spoke, “Baby, why don’t you let Daddy hold onto these plushies for a while?”

His daughter tilted her head, confused, making the hood of her dinosaur onesie drooped to cover her face. Sylus fixed her hood and gave her a reassuring smile as he continued in the same tone as earlier, “Daddy is just borrowing them for a bit. I’ll give them back later…after I speak with Mommy…”

The little girl gave her father a toothy grin and nodded, not particularly caring either way. Sylus answered with another smile and with a wave of his hand, he made the three plushies disappear. He suddenly blinked in confusion when his daughter turned around and ran over to her bookshelf and picked up a seemingly random book, though it seemed to be quite a bit thicker than the other ones on the shelves.

“Daddy, story please!”

Sylus chuckled and nodded. “Yes, Miss Dino,” he answered courteously. He settled down in the reading nook, laying casually on his side with one elbow propped up and his head resting in his hand. Sylus smiled as his daughter scurried over and also settled down, handing him the book.

Sylus blinked in confusion before reading aloud the title of the book he was handed: “Analysis of Firearms Maintenance and Its Practical Applications…” He peered down at his daughter’s smiling face. He huffed in baffled amusement, asking, “Baby, did you take this from my bookshelf?”

She nodded her head eagerly and Sylus laughed. He leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Mischievous little dino, aren’t you?” He rubbed his nose against her cheek, causing her to giggle harder. “I didn’t realize I was raising a little klepto-dino.”

“Oh! Daddy, Daddy, my plushies…”

Sylus smiled. He motioned with his hand, and swirls of energy wrapped around the crow and dino plushies, lifting them into the air. The plushies all floated over, circling around the reading nook area briefly before one by one, they were gently lowered to surround both father and daughter. Sylus motioned for the Grumpy Crow and Smiley Dino plushies closer and his daughter happily grabbed both to snuggle.

“Happy now?”

The girl nodded, beaming brightly as her hood fell to cover her face again. She giggled and lifted the hood off before she cuddled closer to her father. She pointed excitedly at the book Sylus was holding. “Daddy, the book, the book!”

“Bossy little dino…” He leaned down and kissed the top of her head. “Alright, page one…”

As he calmly read the book, his deep, soothing voice seemed to lull the little girl to sleep. After a few minutes, she turned away from the book, yawning, and clung to Sylus’ shirt, her small fingers absently rubbing the fabric for comfort. Sylus pulled her closer and he rested his head on a pillow as he continued to read aloud several more pages. Soon, though, the book was laid facedown, forgotten, as Sylus also found himself drifting off to sleep.

Soft, even breathing filled the room, and dreams of playful little dinosaurs and crows filled a little girl’s head as she slept peacefully, safe in her father’s protective embrace and surrounded by her cherished plushies.

[queenkinqs]

okkk real housewives of the guardians of the globe

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Chapter 33

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; mentions of hurting an infant; mentions of injuries; mentions of descriptions of breastfeeding; descriptions of postpartum changes; sexual situations; fingering; oral (m receiving)

A/N: This chapter is dedicated to the amazing @dixons-sunshine. Happy belated birthday, my love. I’m sorry that it had to be this chapter I dedicated because I am just not confident of it. I never am, if I’m being honest, and most of you know that. It’s just taken so long to update and I’ve even had to ask folks about things I’ve included previously or not included because I can’t remember. I just hope that it was worth the wait even if it’s not top tier.

“Daryl.” Every raging emotion wreaking havoc inside your chest was belied by the calm in which you said his name. Another close call, too close for a baby only a couple of days into the world. Birdie was with Hershel. She was safe. She would be fine. “Daryl.” You took a step toward him, the wind from the window clawing at his clothing and hair. 

No one else was moving or speaking. If you couldn’t see them in your peripheral, you’d have sworn you were alone on that landing with the archer. Daryl remained utterly unmoving, only the heaving of his shoulders indicating that he was even real. Another step, but then you found you couldn’t will your feet to stop moving until you reached him. 

Even in his current state, you knew he would never hurt you. Even if he would, he needed a tether, needed to be brought back from the razor-sharp edge of his anger before it sliced him too deeply. Without another thought, you slid your arms beneath his and molded yourself to his back, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades.

“It’s okay.” You soothed while your fingertips gently massaged into his chest in an attempt to ground him. “They’re gone.” You felt the moment he came back to himself, the minute jerk of his body against yours, the sharp inhale.

“Y/N.” He whispered, barely audible over the biting wind. “Birdie?” His voice cracked.

“She’s okay. She’s with Hershel.” You squeezed a little tighter, anticipating his next question. “I’m alright, Daryl. Everyone’s alright.” His shoulders dropped, breaths slowing to something at least approaching normal. 

You held on until his fingers were prying yours away. When he turned, the rage had faded from those blue pools, replaced with an anguish that made your heart ache. He had murdered people—with good reason, utterly justifiable—and he was in a fierce battle with the guilt that accompanied the actions. It wasn’t the first time he had taken a life, but it was the first time he had done so with such violence, blinded by an anger that it had him quaking so hard that he might have just shaken apart.

“I—” His eyes flickered upward, somewhere over your shoulder and reminded you that you weren’t alone. The others were likely staring, only adding to the archer’s discomfort and shame. Twisting an arm behind your back, you jerked your wrist in a dismissive gesture and heard the shuffling of feet mere seconds later. When his head dropped onto your shoulder, he sighed, the trembling subsided, and you held him.

“You did what was necessary to protect us.” After a moment, he nodded against your skin.

“Need to see ‘er.” His voice was muffled but no less distressed. Turning your face into his hair, you pressed a kiss to his hair.

“Let’s get you cleaned up first, okay?”

You had led Daryl to an isolated spot in the warehouse, grabbing his bag from where he had discarded it upon entry. He let you strip him of his poncho and vest, work the buttons open and slide his shirt from his shoulders. The blood and grime that covered him was more than that of the people he had slain. He had fought his way to you—to Birdie—throughout the wilderness, slathered in brain matter and dark liquid. You didn't ask him about the journey. If he wanted you to know, he would tell you. 

The water was cold, the saturated fabric leaving gooseflesh in its wake. His face was first, blue eyes focused on you as you worked. You paused beside his mouth and traced your thumb across his bottom lip. Heavy lids fluttered shut, opening a moment later to reveal a darkness that was perilously close to unbridled desire. Something you could handle later. He made no move to act upon it, Hershel’s strict orders to abstain likely circling in his head just as it was your own. There were other ways to bring him that sort of comfort.

“Y’alright?” He asked, lifting a hand but dropping it a heartbeat later. He could have had walker blood on his fingers, smart enough to resist touching the bruising cut on your forehead. 

“Mhm.” You nodded. He was clearly unconvinced. “I’ll let Hershel check it. Promise.”

Moving on, you cleaned his chest, tilting your head when your hand paused just above a weeping slice in his skin, just below his ribs. “Daryl, were you hit?” You swallowed hard, awaiting his answer regardless of the minor severity of the wound. The skin around it was dirty but free of the darkened blood of walkers. There was little likelihood that he was infected. 

“S’just a graze.” He sniffed hard and averted his eyes. It would need stitched and he knew it, but it wasn’t unusual for him to downplay an injury. Exchanging the flannel square for a fresh one, you mopped away the fresh blood, raising a skeptical brow while staring at him from beneath your lashes. “It’ll keep for now.” Pursing your lips, you mulled it over, narrowing your eyes at the deep injury before you settled upon allowing his deterrence to stand. It continued to ooze, but you moved on regardless. He was still watching you, you could feel his gaze as you carried on with your ministrations. “I love ya.”

Your hand stilled, your breath hitching. It was so sudden and full of conviction, and no doubt brought upon by the traumatic events. That made it no less true. Your free hand came to rest on his cheek, thumb stroking beneath his eye. “I love you, too.” With a tight smile, you leaned forward and granted a chaste kiss, nuzzling your nose against his before continuing to wipe at his chest and stomach, his scars prominent on chilled skin. 

“Wan’cha to be a Dixon for real.” And that did more than make your breath stutter. It stopped it altogether. 

“What?” You managed, sitting straighter. His eyes squinted, full of determination.

“Already made ya a mama. S’ass backwards, but I—y’know what I mean.” Ducking his head, he looked away, cheeks flushed. “S’okay if ya don’t wanna. Ain’t gonna be mad or nothin’.”

You had to refrain from smacking his shoulder. How could he even begin to think you wouldn’t want to be his wife? Then you were forced to remember the examples of love he’d been given growing up, the seeds of uncertainty and inconfidence that had been planted so deeply inside of him and allowed to take root. 

“Of course I’d want it.” You finally replied, likely leaving the silence to fester too long, enough to fill him with a doubt you’d need to strive to correct. “Daryl, is this what you really want?” 

“Would’na asked if it weren’t.” He answered without hesitation, his gaze snapping up to meet yours. There was such a lack of confidence in his eyes. He was far outside his comfort zone, holding on by the skin of his teeth. 

“You didn’t really ask.” You chuckled, needlessly running the cloth down his jaw again. While some would have found the proposal lackluster, to you—it was perfect. So Daryl that you were warmed inside and butterflies had stirred to life deep within your stomach. 

“What? Y’want the one knee an’ ring?” 

“No.” You leaned in for a gentle kiss. He returned it, though his eyes remained open and his brow remained drawn. “The answer is yes, but if you change your mind—”

“Won’t.”

“But if you do—”

“Won’t.”

“Okay, okay.” You held up your palms, surrendering, while the fabric hung from between two fingers on your right hand. “Yes, but we wait a while before we tell anyone, before anything is official.”

“Ain’t really no way to make it official anymore beyond decidin’.” 

He had you there. A wedding would simply be a formality. There were no documents to sign, no certificates. Nothing beyond the vows you’d make and the last name you chose to carry. 

“Still.” I wanna give you an out. He could walk away regardless, at any time after the decision. He could change his mind without attorneys and legal systems. Regardless, you needed him to know that you weren’t trapping him. “Please.”

He was observing you stoically, an obvious refusal on the tip of his tongue. After a moment, he grunted. “Fine.” You kissed him again, a simple peck even as he scowled. 

“Thank you.” 

You continued to clean his skin, eyes flitting over to the steadily seeping wound. Hershel would need to disinfect and stitch it, or you could if he truly preferred. Your partner was likely to be particular with such a small injury. 

Your financè. 

That realization brought upon an unbidden smile, one that Daryl clearly caught and returned with a twitch of his lips. Yet another happiness in such a cruel world. 

Daryl was sitting cross-legged, Birdie’s bottom perched where his legs intersected. Supporting her head with overlapped hands, he was tenderly swaying her, her eyes heavy and attempting to close. She was so obviously milk drunk, having nursed for the second time before you passed her over to her father again. Perhaps it was her desperate cries much earlier in the night that had triggered your milk production or maybe it was simply timing. Either way, you were finding the postpartum cramps less and less painful each time she nursed. 

There was something serene about the archer’s expression, a gratuitous relief with a hint of awe. The latter was almost always present when he looked at his daughter. Smiling softly, you dug through your bag for a fresh sweater and bra, the ones you wore being saturated with breast milk. Lori wasn’t kidding. Your nipples were fountains. 

“I’m gonna go change.” You informed Daryl while grabbing a couple of bra pads. Pushing to your feet, you winced, pinching one eye closed when your head pulsed. Hershel had said it was a mild concussion. Unsurprising. 

“Y/N.” Daryl’s tone was teetering somewhere between a warning and concern. 

“I’m okay.”

He squinted at you, still swaying little Birdie while his eyes dropped to Carol. He jerked his chin toward you and received a nod in return. You slouched in defeat, a chuckle sounding from behind you before her petite hands steered you by your shoulders toward a nearby office. 

Once the door closed, Carol leaned against it, arms wrapped around herself and head turned to afford you some privacy. To your surprise, you appreciated it. Before giving birth, you wouldn’t have cared in the slightest, but pregnancy had altered your body in such a way that you felt foreignly self conscious. Your stomach was soft but still swollen, stretch marks littered across the once smooth skin. It wasn’t until you had removed your sweater and bra, however, that you noticed yet another difference. 

“Jesus, my tits are huge.” You professed, wide eyes studying the way your nipples leaked in the absence of your daughter. 

“It happens.” The other woman responded without missing a beat. “You’ll likely need to pump in between feedings, though we have no way to keep the milk frozen until it’s needed.” 

You bounced on the balls of your feet and watched the mounds of your chest jiggle up and down. “Almost seems like a waste.” 

Carol hummed. “Sometimes it’s necessary. Becoming engorged can be painful. And don’t get me started on clogged milk ducts.”

“What’s that?” You fastened the bra, trying to quickly stuff pads into the cups before the liquid could drench the fabric. 

“I don’t really know how to explain it but the milk won’t come out. There’s usually some swelling, like a knot. It’s painful.” When she no longer heard you moving, she chanced sliding her eyes toward you. Your face surely reflected the fearful anxiousness you were feeling inside. “It’s okay, honey. It’s pretty easily treated.” 

You nodded with a hard swallow. “Anything else I should dread?” Slipping your arms into your sweater, you pulled it over your head and smoothed it in place. 

“Certainly not something to dread, but I noticed Daryl brought back a pump when he got all those supplies.” You remained still and silent. “I’ll show you how to use it. You can pump some milk into a bottle. It’ll allow for Daryl to feed her too.”

That erased any and all negative emotion, replacing it with the mental image of your partner—Birdie nestled in the crook of his elbow—holding a bottle for your little one to get what she needed while he watched her with those wonderstruck eyes. “I guess that wouldn’t be so bad.” You downplayed. Carol saw right through it. 

She smiled, that soft reassuring upturn of her lips that somehow always set your mind at ease. One hand on the doorknob, she reached out for you with the opposite one. “No, it wouldn’t. Now come on before he loses his mind and comes looking for you.”

“We’ve been gone five minutes.” You reasoned. The woman shot you a look. Daryl could sometimes be a little overprotective, it said. Lips pursed, you nodded. “Fair point.”

The warehouse was cold. The old files from the office burned too quickly—Daryl had warned as much—with a smell that had everyone coughing and the archer standing far away with your baby to shield her from the smoke. 

“Told ya.” He had stated matter-of-factly, a large finger gently holding the pacifier in place while Birdie sucked away at it. 

Sleeping bags and blankets were passed around, those who were willing were sleeping in pairs to stave off hyperthermia. You laid on your side, facing Daryl with Birdie swaddled between your bodies. A sleeping bag was zipped around you and your daughter, her little form pressed nearer to you than her father—even though he laid close to ensure his body heat kept the baby warm. Another blanket was draped across the three of you. 

You listened to the dwindling sounds of the walkers outside, their attention drawn elsewhere with the lack of noise within the warehouse. Your eyes were on Daryl’s face. He was actually sleeping, having knocked out almost immediately. He had to be exhausted from the hike to get to you and then the bloodbath that had followed his arrival. 

Glenn was keeping watch, but you still flinched at every groan of the building, every howl of the winter wind outside. The image of little Birdie screaming on that cold floor, a gun aimed at her—it was seared into the back of your eyelids. You couldn’t close your eyes without seeing it, without hearing her. All it would have taken was one twitch of a finger and your innocent baby girl would have—

“Hey.” 

Your eyes snapped open, blurry, unfocused, a familiar blue distorted and moving until your vision settled onto Daryl’s gaze. His brow was drawn inward, mouth set in a thin line. His shoulder shifted just before you felt the rough pads of his fingers against your cheek. His hand cupped your face, calloused skin in such brave contrast to the tender touch. You raised your head just enough to lean into his palm. 

“She’s right here.” He whispered, reading your mind—or more likely, your eyes. “Ain’t gonna let nobody take ‘er from ya, y’hear me?” His eyes were shining but the tears never fell. “From me.” He added, his voice cracking as his bottom lip trembled. With the silence stretching, his touch lingering, you pulled your arm from within the sleeping bag to place your hand over his. 

“I know you won’t.”

He squinted for the briefest of moments, as if studying you, before he turned his hand, squeezed your fingers, and pulled away. 

“Get some sleep.” His hand lowered to brush over Birdie’s hair before retreating entirely. “Gonna be wakin’ up hungry soon.” 

You smiled softly as his eyes closed, knowing that he’d get up with you when Birdie woke up to nurse. How had the powers that be seen fit to grant you Daryl Dixon as the father of your baby? As the man who wanted to spend his life with you? What had you done to deserve such a perfect little family at the end of the world? 

Letting your own eyes close, you saw not the fearful image of your Birdie so cold and scared, but Daryl feeding his daughter her first bottle without a single hint of apprehension in his loving gaze. 

It was cold. 

What in the world had possessed you to try and wipe down while there was no fire to warm the water? Oh. Right. You were still bleeding from the birth and a woman could only take so much before feeling she was a walking brick of iron. 

Using the office, you had placed one of your shirts across the top of the door to cover as much of the glass as you could before undressing to take care of business. Urinating in an empty trashcan felt awkward but it was a you gotta do what you gotta do type situation. Stripped bare, you shivered as you wiped down, removing the sweat and dirt of the last few days before focusing on the main area of concern. 

Using a clean scrap of fabric, you dipped it into the bowl, counting down from three before swiping it through your folds, over your groin and inner thighs. It was a little surprising to feel a twinge of relief when the cold touched the warm, abused area. Carol had told you that healing would be slower with the inability to manage a healthy diet and maintain a sleeping schedule. Not that you didn’t believe her, but the heat you could feel through the cloth, the soreness that remained, only confirmed her words. 

Feeling like a new woman, you tossed the cloth into the bowl and reached for your clothes, your head snapping up when you heard the turn of the knob. Grabbing your sweater, you covered your pubic area while an arm hugged around your chest to shield at least your nipples from the intruder. 

Daryl slid through the barely open door with his head down, lip tucked between his teeth. He was in a button-up, his poncho and vest missing until they could be cleaned. He closed the door quickly and offered you his back, clearing his throat. His arm came up to display two pads for your bra between his fingers.

“Ya, uh—ya forgot these.” 

Amused, you dropped your arm and tossed the sweater onto the desk. “You can turn around, Daryl.” The instant regret slammed into you like a freight train. Yes, he had seen your body before—before you had given birth. He hadn’t seen the soft curve of skin on your belly with its marks and wrinkles. When he actually began to turn, you panicked, flailing and grabbing the sweater up again to cover your abdomen.

Luckily, Daryl’s eyes were immediately drawn to your breasts. 

He only stared for a moment before noticeably swallowing and ducking his head, his cheeks flaring. You would have found it cute if you weren’t currently battling the nausea that accompanied the tight anxiety in your chest. Daryl cleared his throat. 

“They, uh—they look—shit.”

Thankful for the distraction of your fuller chest, you smiled nervously. “It’s the milk. They won’t be like this forever.” He only hummed, apparently finding the spot where the wall met the ceiling fascinating. You gulped and absently wondered how quickly you’d want to take back your next words. “You can touch them if you want.”

The look he gave you was downright comical, as if you had just asked him to do your taxes. 

“Better, uh—yeah, better not.”

While your first thought was to assume rejection, it was quickly tramped down. You knew him better than that. The slight flex of his fingers, pressing in and out of the pads he carried, folding them to nearly a point of unusable. The way he trembled with keeping his eyes on your face. The redness to his cheeks that traveled all the way to his ears. 

“And why’s that?” You sauntered toward him, the sweater still covering your stomach. You knew you’d need to drop it if you were going to do what you planned. When he didn’t answer, you continued forward, pressing yourself against him, backing him up against the door. “Why’s that, Daryl?”

His throat worked around words he was struggling to articulate, but the hardness that was now pressing against the back of the hand over your stomach spoke for him. “Hershel said—I ain’t gonna risk hurtin’ ya.”

With an inward sigh, a reluctance you didn’t allow to reflect on your features, you relieved him of the bra pads, tossing both them and the sweater to the top of the desk behind you. Keeping your body close to his—enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin—you hoped you could hide your imperfections. Keep him occupied with the one thing pregnancy and giving birth had gifted you. 

Wrapping your fingers around one of his wrists, you lifted his hand to your lips, wasting no time in drawing his middle finger into the warm wetness of your mouth. Daryl groaned, a drawn out, deep vibration that you could feel just as much as you heard. With your other hand, you guided his palm to your breast. It was awkward at first, his fingers stiff, his hand unmoving. It wasn’t until you hollowed your cheeks and pulled against his finger that you felt him squeeze. 

Your breasts were sensitive, nipples even more so, but the dull pain only sparked your desire into a simmering heat between your legs. Finding it didn’t immediately cause discomfort, you pressed onward, releasing his digit before seeking out his mouth. His other hand came to rest on your hip, kneading the supple flesh there, nearly dousing your arousal with a downpour of anxiety. 

He eagerly licked into your mouth, chasing your tongue, which you granted him with equal fervor, insecurities forgotten. His hand massaged your chest, milk leaking out between his fingers and giving him pause. He pulled away, breaths heavy from the kiss, staring at his hand curiously. Even with all the blood in his body maintaining his erection, he still managed to have enough to redden his face. 

“What?” You asked, your hands bracketing his neck, thumbs stroking his jaw. 

“S’just—I’m—”

“Curious?” You supplied. You couldn’t fault him when you found yourself wondering the same thing: what did the milk taste like? Pulling your lip between your teeth, your gaze shifted to his hand. Moving slowly, deliberately, you took hold of his wrist and bowed your head, releasing your lip in favor of presenting your tongue. 

You could feel Daryl’s eyes on you as you took the first taste, straightening before you swallowed. 

“It’s—sweet.” You proclaimed quietly. When he made no attempt at moving, you gently tugged his wrist to position his hand just in front of his mouth. “It’s okay, Daryl.”

“S’Birdie’s. Feels—ain’t it wrong?”

Shaking your head, your free hand slid up to his cheek. “No. Not at all.” Of course, he wasn’t convinced. Daryl Dixon was nothing if not suspicious. “You’re not stealing from her by being curious.” His eyes flickered back and forth between you and the milk, the flashlight’s beam resulting in a slick shine across his knuckles. With a pragmatic hesitance, he flicked his tongue over the skin.

“Huh.” He grunted, lowering his hand to your waist. “S’pretty, uh—amazing whatcha do for ‘er.” You were unsure whether or not he had stopped blushing since he had entered the room. He must have realized it as well, what with the way he swiftly hid his face against your shoulder. 

“It’s just biology.” You shrugged. Daryl hummed, his lips then attached to your neck, sucking a bruise before soothing it with his tongue. Your knees nearly buckled, forcing him to hold your weight with an arm around the small of your back. Continuing his expedition across your skin, you focused on the pulse within the apex of your thighs.

With both hands now obtaining a tight hold on your waist, he pulled you fully against him in an almost rough, possessive manner, your hips slapping hard into his. 

“Shit.” He hissed in your ear, his stubble scratching deliciously against your cheek. “Wanna touch ya.”

With a smirk, you pulled back your hips—even as he weakly tried to hold you still—and slammed them against his again, only just biting back a grimace at the cramp that radiated throughout your lower abdomen. “Then touch me.” His fingertips clasped your flesh. It was an almost painful display of restraint. Daryl pressed his back against the door, letting his head thump on the shirt-covered glass. 

“Y’know what Hershel said.” 

“I’m aware.” You tilted your head almost thoughtfully, letting your eyes follow your hand as it smoothed over his clothed chest and stomach, across his belt buckle, and finally came to rest against the bulge in his jeans. You caressed the area in short, slow circles before grabbing it firmly. “He said no intercourse.”

“Mhm.” His response was strained, the tendons pulled taut in his neck, his fingers maintaining a bruising hold on your hips. 

“There’s still outercourse.” You suggested, back to massaging him through the denim. 

“Huh?”

Maybe he really didn’t know, or maybe he was close to cumming in his pants. Either way, his head was pressed into the door and his eyes were closed, right eyebrow ticking rhythmically. “You know. I could give you head. You could—” you allowed the word to drag out while you used your free hand to station his between your legs. When his fingertips brushed your swollen clit, you stopped him from descending further. “Touch me there.”

Daryl was nearly panting. “Ain’t—ain’tcha still—”

“You afraid of a little blood?” You challenged boldly. When his eyes opened, the only blue that remained was a thin ring around dilated pupils. 

“Nah.” His mouth was on yours in an instant, his fingers—abandoned by your guiding hand—now rubbing delicious circles over your clit. You were sore and the pull and give of the flesh at his whim did result in some discomfort, but holy shit, it felt too good to let that be a hindering factor.  

“Oh, god.” You tilted back your head and opened the expanse of your throat for his mouth, your fingers sliding up his arm, across his shoulder, and up to his hair, twisting the digits in the slightly longer strands. Your hips were already rolling, grinding your clit down onto his fingers. “I’m—”

“Already?” Came the chuckle against your collarbone. You groaned, tugging his hair roughly. Your orgasm was building quickly, faster than you had anticipated, definitely faster than you wanted. 

“Shut up and don’t stop.”

Your hand twisted loose when Daryl spun you, your back connecting with his broad chest, his fingers never missing a stroke. Even as your skin grew hotter and your breaths faster, the sudden shame of your body being on full display was quickly working against you. 

“Wait. Wait, wait, stop.” You managed, whining when you felt the immediate absence of his hand. 

“Well, which is it?” The archer asked breathlessly. 

Folding inward, you crossed your arms over your stomach, your back still to Daryl. You were desperate to keep yourself shielded, terrified to witness his repulsion, to risk the grand step the two of you had taken. If he saw you now, what you hadn’t had a chance to correct—was it something you could even fix? Firm? Tighten?—then he wouldn’t want you anymore. Wait. Were you insinuating that Daryl was shallow? Hadn’t this been a conversation before?

“Ya think any louder an’ them walkers are gonna come back.” 

“Sorry, I just—” You could feel his body heat against your back just before his arms wound around you, a palm flat against your sternum gently guiding you to straighten. Your hands remained on your stomach. “I don’t look like—”

“Told ya before that shit don’t matter to me.” His hand remained against your chest as he stepped to the side and maneuvered you back against the door. He was silent as he pulled your hands away from your body, unyielding when you tried to keep them in place. 

“Daryl, it’s—”

“Hush.” His tone was stern, not unkind. Large hands took hold of your waist, his thumbs brushing up and down over the soft swell of your stomach. You watched his face as he took in the state of your midsection, his expression tender. “Ain’t understandin’ why you’re so worried ‘bout it.” 

Your throat worked to allow you to swallow. Why were you worried? Where was the confidence of the woman that had seduced the man in front of you in the woods all those months ago? 

“Because—I don’t know.”

“Ya don’t know.” He repeated quietly. When his lips met yours, you weren’t expecting it. The kiss was unhurried, a warm ember in the cold, cold room. His hands never stopped moving, caressing your stomach, the curves of your breasts, your hips. Yet they always returned to your abdomen, gliding outwards to your sides and back again, feeling the stretched skin manipulate beneath his hands. He never stopped kissing you, mouth moving over your own in slow repetition, his tongue gliding over your bottom lip before dipping inside for the quickest taste. When he pulled away, it was by mere centimeters, his forehead against yours. He was once again breathless. “Ain’t nothin’ wrong with ya, y’hear me?”

There was a moment of hesitance, a split second need to argue your prerogative. In the end, under his steady gaze, the pale glow of the candle making his blue irises dance, you conceded with a nod. 

“You’re perfect.” He whispered, nuzzling his cheek against your temple. The absolute softheartedness that man could display was unparalleled. 

His right hand drifted down, leaving a tingle across your skin in its wake. He cupped your mound and used his ring and index fingers to part your folds, the heat of his middle digit warming your sensitive nub. With a kiss to your jaw, he pulled back, the intensity of his gaze begging one question:

Do you want this? 

“Please.” Your voice came out deep with desire, a rekindled hunger for his touch that you weren’t sure could even be sated that night but you’d take what you could get. 

Your hips jolted at the first touch, a delicate stroke before he moved away only to repeat the action. As he worked you toward orgasm, your hands smoothed over his chest and over his shoulders, your arms winding around his neck to pull him back to you, mouths crashing together. This kiss was fiery, setting your lips and tongue ablaze until you were being consumed by him. 

Daryl used his hold on your waist to tilt your hips out and up, nearly forcing you to stand on the tips of your toes. It hardly mattered, you were too lost in the electricity spiderwebbing from the single finger, the current charging up into the pit of your stomach where it coiled tighter and tighter. 

“Oh god, Daryl.” Each syllable played out against his mouth, his own breathing labored. For the briefest of moments, you wondered if he might cum just from touching you, from watching you make the climb toward the precipice. You could feel yourself—stiff and swollen—pulsing beneath his touch, begging for release that he had no viable reason to deny you. 

“Just let go for me.” He whispered in turn, deep and raspy, his lips massaging yours. “I gotcha.”

That quiet reassurance was enough to snap the flaming cable within you, sending wave after wave of pleasure from where his finger massaged. Your eyes rolled back, your attempts at crying out muffled by his mouth slotting over yours. His hand left your hip to slide around to the small of your back, holding you steady through each surge of ecstasy until you were nothing but pliable limbs and twitching hips. 

Between your legs—as well as Daryl’s hand—would surely be a mess of your desire and blood, but cleaning up was merely an afterthought behind the last waves of your orgasm, the warmth of his body, the strength of his muscles holding you in place, and the soft kisses he was peppering to the skin above your pulse. You were truly loathe to have him anywhere but right where he was. 

With a hum, you pushed against his chest and caught his wrist when he tried to move further away than you were willing to allow. “Let’s get cleaned up, hmm?” You pulled him behind you, guiding him to the desk. He didn’t object when you used a fresh scrap of fabric to wash his hand and yet another to clean yourself. You had barely placed the cloth into the bowl of water before he was cupping your chin, bringing your face closer to his. 

“Ain’t ever gotta worry ‘bout what’cha look like. Not with me. Not ever.” You opened your mouth, not even really sure what you were intending to say, but you achieved nothing more than a content sigh against his lips when he closed the distance between you. His thumb was tracing the line of your jaw, back and forth, when he pulled back and used the light hold on your chin to tilt your face down and kiss your forehead. 

You were left blinking away tears while he traipsed to the door. “Wait.” He turned to regard you with an arched brow, his eyes following your movements as you sauntered toward him with a newfound confidence for which you had every intention of thanking him. Splayed fingers on his chest pushed him flush against the door before both hands began working at his belt. “Your turn.”

“Y’ain’t gotta—fuck.” 

Your hand had already slipped into his jeans, past his underwear, and begun to stroke him. He was still half hard, making it easy to bring him to a state of fully aroused. “I wish we could.” You teased in a sultry tone, your lips against his neck. 

He was tense beneath your mouth, stressed and more than a little riled up, something you hoped to remedy. Dropping to your knees, you didn’t allow him time to think, even a second to protest, before freeing him only to draw his cock into your mouth. 

The sound he made was dangerously close to a whimper. His right hand came to rest on the back of your head, heavy but immobile. With half of his length weighing on your tongue, you swirled the muscle around his shaft, placing pressure on the vein running beneath while pushing your head forward to draw him fully inside. Your nose met the skin above the base, the impulse to gag strong and forcing you to pull back while still keeping him engulfed within the wet heat of your mouth. 

“Jesus fuck.” His fingers curled into your hair, hand trembling in denial of the need to guide you. The wet sounds of debauchery filled the small office as you repeated the action, slowly edging him toward an orgasm that—if the already present twitch and pulse of his cock was any indication—wouldn’t take long to achieve. 

With fluid and deliberate movements, your hand slipped beneath his shirt and slid over his stomach—his muscles twitching—and up to his chest. When your nails scraped downward, he moaned, low and deep. His hips jerked on reflex, causing you to gag which only ended in the same reaction. Your hand stopped when you felt the raised skin of a scar, fingers straightening so that your touch was gentle over marks left gifted out of anger and malice. You had long ago vowed to never grant those areas anything less than tenderness. 

Lifting your hand away from his skin, you used both to grip his denim clad thighs and slid them around to squeeze his buttocks, using that hold to push him toward you and draw him back, directing him to use your mouth for his pleasure. 

And still he didn’t. 

You should have known he wouldn’t, always afraid of hurting you, of pushing you past your limits. Had your mouth not been full of him, you would have smiled. Instead, you kept one hand on his ass while the other wrapped around what you could not easily take. Your lips chased your fingers back and forth, your head bobbing. 

“Y/N.” He growled from above, his grip in your hair tightening enough to make your scalp sing. Still, he merely held on while his other hand joined the first. Between wet slurps and quiet grunts, the room was filled with filth and sin and the scent of sweat and sex. 

Daryl was hanging on by a thread. 

Your efforts doubled, your cheeks hollowed and pace quickened. His breaths were heavy, near wheezing, with barely contained moans, his head pressed back into the door, eyes tightly closed and lips minisculary parted. 

“M’—m’gonna—”

You hummed around him, the only warning you received before he spilled against the back of your throat was the tensing of his muscles beneath your hand. A string of expletives left his mouth in a rush of breath, his body bowing over you while he finally allowed his hands a purpose of holding you in place while his hips thrust to prolong the intense waves of pleasure. 

As he came back to himself, he quickly released you, watching you pull yourself off of him with a hard swallow and deep inhale. Daryl was trembling, his knees slightly bent. Sensing he was barely maintaining his footing, you rose and wiggled your arms around his torso, providing him support while simultaneously laying your head against his chest to hear his heart gallop. 

After a moment, you felt his cheek rest against your temple, a deep breath shuddering beneath your cheek. 

“You’re tryin’ to kill me.”

“Nah,” you laughed. “If I wanted to kill you, I’d use a knife.” He straightened, forcing you to pull back and look at him. He was sweating while you were growing colder in your bare state, your chilled hands tucking him away and doing up his pants. 

He opened his mouth, likely a retort on his tongue, when there came a knock on the door. Dear god, had someone heard?

“Someone’s getting cranky out here.” Carol’s voice was quiet, amused, and close to the door. 

Daryl gulped, his eyes wide before he settled into stoicism and jerked his chin toward the desk. “Finish up, I got ‘er.”

You offered him a nod and stepped back enough for him to open the door and slip out. You grabbed your sweater and went back to the door, listening for what you could possibly hear on the other side. 

“Can’t let’cha mama an’ ol’ man have a break, kid?” Daryl asked quietly, still close to the door. You could hear Birdie’s little squeaks as she likely settled into her father’s arms.

“She wants to be an only child for at least a year, Daryl.” Carol’s voice was further away. 

“Th’fuck? How’d—” The archer exclaimed. 

“I hear everything. I mean everything.”

Your face reddened and you stepped away from the door, knowing full well that a teasing was awaiting upon your return. Pulling on your bra, you situated the pads and then continued to dress. The mess of cloths and water were dumped into the trashcan. With an indignant pout, you reached for the doorknob. 

“I swear that woman has a built in sex alert system.” You grumbled on your way out, closing the door behind you.

[rielzero]

Is bird!! Just arrived.

.. I forgot what pm Seymour s tumblr account is.

Anyway BIRD!!

[witchymommy27]

This might be something I’ll regret posting on to the endless space that is the interwebs, but….society convincing men that moaning isn’t acceptable or manly enough or that women don’t find it attractive is one of the worst lies.

That’s my Ted talk. Yes I am on the green devils lettuce.

[withahappyrefrain]

I wish you would write a fic where … Venus is in the Navy and there’s where she and Jake meet each other (she doesn’t need to be a pilot but I’m dying to see how it would be if she were a fellow Navy personnel)

k bye love you

Fe the way this has been marinating in my brain! This an amazing idea I love it!

"This is so fucking stupid," Jake muttered as his squad gathered together. It was only the fourth time he had complained about it today, but fourth time’s the charm, right? 

Even if he was silent (rare but possible), the annoyance practically radiated off of him. Gone was that signature smirk and in its place his lips were drawn in a thin line, eyes narrowed as he kept his arms firmly crossed over his broad chest. 

"You realize that this has nothing to do with whether they think we're good or not, right?" Natasha asked, rolling her eyes. 

"And see, that's where you're wrong because it absolutely does. If they thought we were good enough, they wouldn't think we needed training from them," Jake explained, his voice coated in a vexing tone. 

"It's their whole job, you do realize that? Right?" Reuben asked, shaking his head. The whole squad had gathered outside the doors, wanting to come in together before the first meeting. What they didn’t think about was that it meant being forced to hear Jake. 

Most of the squad was fine with the Star Warriors coming in to help with training. Some were even excited. 

And then there was Jake. 

Jake who could only shake his head as he clenched his fists and rolled his eyes, "I don't care whether it's their job or not. It's the fact they think we seriously need training that's insulting."

"Well, I'm excited to meet them!" Bob piped in, hoping to break the tension, "I've heard great things about the Star Warriors."

"Yeah, really great things," Bradley said a bit too gleefully, ignoring the death glare from Jake, "Did you know on the Star Warriors is Venom, the only other pilot-"

"Knock it off Bradshaw,” Jake snapped, his tone sharp. 

"of this generation that has an airstrike kill? Therefore, breaking our beloved Bagman's record and making him eternally jealous?"

"I am not jealous!" Jake snapped, "Besides I read the report. It was all pure luck, not much skill, if any."

Sure, it hurt a little, truly a miniscule amount, when Jake learned he was no longer the only one who had achieved such a rare accomplishment. But after reading the report, he knew he was still the better pilot.

No jealousy at all. That would be ridiculous to hold against a person he’s never met, never even seen before. 

"So you're jealous," Phoenix smirked, "Well I'm excited because it has the highest number of women in a Navy squad and frankly this place needs more women.”

"If you tell anyone I said this, I'll deny it. But," Bradley's voice dropped to a whisper, "Mav had a fling with the Captain of the squad back in the day."

Everyone gasped, well, everyone except Jake.

"There's no way Mav was able to pull Penny Benjamin!" Natasha whispered, "Dude, I had her picture on my wall when I was a kid!"

It was purely because Captain Penny Benjamin was an idol for all girls who wanted to join the Navy. Being one of the first female pilots to fly in a combat mission will do that. Nothing to do with her looks. 

Maybe a little. 

“It was before she enlisted. But yeah, that's why he told us to all be on our best behavior,” Bradley explained, reveling in the fact he could contribute to the hot gossip for once.  

Mickey snorted, “He has been looking like he's about to shit his pants at any moment.” 

Javy looked over his shoulder just in case the short instructor was looming by, “You think he still wants her?”

“Considering he’s been trying to follow Cyclone’s orders for the last couple days? I’d say so,” Bradley smirked. 

“We should get in there before they take the front tables,” Jake said, crossing his arms. That,  combined with the small pout on his face made Jake resemble a child that had been told there was no more cake. 

At least that’s how Bob saw it. Not that he would say it out loud (yet). 

As the squad went inside, they stopped when they noticed the front four tables had a piece of paper on them, each saying ‘RESERVED’ in bold letters. 

“He reserved the front tables for them?” Jake whispered, not even bothering to hide the disgust in his voice. 

“Oh, he wants her bad,” Mickey chuckled as he took a seat next to Reuben. 

“You think?” Bob muttered as he got out his paper and pad. He didn’t mind the seating change because it gave him a better chance to observe. An act of subtlety that Jake would probably never learn. 

“Careful Seresin, there’s steam coming out of your ears,” Bradley whispered as he sat down at the table across from Jake and Javy. 

“It’s just some tables, don’t worry,” Javy assured his best friend, internally praying that Jake would be able to keep his cool for once. Today, of all days, was not the time nor place for Jake to lose his temper, or worse, push others to do so. 

Jake sneered, ignoring Bradley’s comment as he got out his notebook. Checking his watch, he already felt better- this supposedly ‘amazing’ squad was five minutes late. 

Maverick said something about issues with parking. 

“Typical,” Jake muttered. This supposedly ‘elite’ squad couldn’t figure out parking?

“Maybe they could have parked if your car didn't take up three spaces,” Bradley remarked, as if he could read Jake’s mind.

“My car is not that big,” Jake defended. Some called his Jeep Wrangler an ‘eyesore’. Jake didn’t think his colleagues had any right to judge his car, Bradshaw in particular. 

Natasha rolled her eyes, “Your parking is heinous. How many spots did you take up today, Seresin?”

“One!” Jake rolled his eyes, “And a half.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing!”

The sound of the door opening saved Jake from further scrutiny. There in the doorway stood Penny Benjamin and her supposedly elite crew. He saw the captain of his squad straighten up, clearly hoping to add a few inches to his height. 

There were many women, more than one usually sees in a Navy squadron. That alone was enough to turn one’s head. 

But one  in particular stood out to Jake. 

She was right behind Penny, standing tall as she walked into the room. She was striking with her amber eyes and dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. There was an air of confidence about her; she had no trouble standing tall in the front of a room full of strangers. 

“Thank you for your patience. My squad and I are honored that we get to work with you,” Penny Benjamin smiled as she addressed the group, “We've heard many great things about this squad.” 

“And we've heard many wonderful things about yours,” Maverick said. Jake fought the urge to roll his eyes, not wanting to stop looking at this  mystery girl. Her plush lips had formed into a tight smile as her eyes continued to scan the room. The dark green of her flight suit was striking against her sun kissed skin. 

When they landed on Jake, he was ready with a bold wink and a dazzling smile. Laying on the Texan charm, as he always did. 

She rolled her eyes, whispering something to the blonde haired woman next to her. 

Huh. That usually did the trick. 

Jake wasn’t nervous. He liked that she remained strong. It spoke volumes of her focus. 

Oh fuck, she smiled. 

Whatever the woman next to her whispered, it made his dream girl’s eyes light up. Her cheeks rounded as a grin overtook her face. It was one, if not the, most beautiful sight Jake had ever seen. And he had seen sunsets and sunrises all over the globe. 

Shit, he was nervous. He shifted in his seat, looking down at his boots. His face felt warm, was he blushing? She didn’t even smile at him and he was blushing. 

Fuck. 

“I’ll let my team introduce themselves. This way we can all be some sort of name basis, be it callsigns or our government names,” Penny explained, earning a chuckle from Pete that Jake would normally gag at. Instead, he remained poised, eyes remaining on the beautiful woman that was standing next to Penny.  

The first woman to step forward had long blonde hair swept into a ponytail and eyes bluer than the sky. She was striking and normally what Jake would go for. But today was proving to be different. 

“Lieutenant Camellia Garcia. Callsign Cielo,” She said with a sweet smile, her eyes remaining on Mickey. 

He returned the smile, ignoring the playful nudge Reuben was giving him. 

“Wait, is that your wife?!” Javy blurted out, earning a giggle from Penny’s squad, along with Natasha, Bob, and Reuben. It was known Mickey’s wife was also in the military, though he didn’t make her area widely known. 

“No, they just have the same last name for funsies,” Natasha commented, forcing Bob to stifle a laugh. Bradley continued to look bewildered (not that Nora minded). 

“Yes, we do have a pair of lovebirds together. But after Penny and I discussed it extensively, we realized it shouldn’t be a problem,” Pete explained. 

Camellia turned her head to face the smaller Captain, “It was never a problem Captain.” 

“That’s my Cielo,” Mickey muttered under his breath, making zero attempts to hide how pleased he was. 

A woman with military issued glasses was next to step forward. Her doe eyes had been scanning the room while Penny spoke, always alert.  “Lieutenant Nora Anderson, weapon systems officer. Callsign Birdie.”

Bradley’s ears perked up upon hearing her callsign. Immediately, he straightened up, leaning forward as his eyes remained intensely on her. He might as well have cartoon hearts in his eyes. 

Birdie definitely noticed, looking away immediately after locking eyes with the mustached pilot, a red flush overtaking her face.  

Amateurs, Jake thought. After that brief moment, he regained his composure, arms crossed as he moved his toothpick around with his mouth. You never make it obvious. 

He was very obvious. 

After Birdie, a woman with curly hair stepped forward. With her shining hazel eyes and bright smile, the only word that could best describe her was adorable. 

“Lieutenant Maeve Castellanos. Callsign Athena.” 

Great, now Bob was staring. Fucking Bob, Baby on Board, of all people, with his cheeks bright red and blue eyes having turned into the living embodiment of hearts. 

They were all falling one by one. Soon Jake would be the only one standing strong. He could only shake his head at his coworkers before diverting his attention back to the Goddess that was next to Penny. 

Finally, she stepped up. She smiled confidently as her eyes scanned the room before speaking in a self assured tone, “Lieutenant Commander Danica Morales. Callsign Venom.”

Oh. 

As Penny’s crew moved to sit down, Jake’s coworkers turned to him, expecting an annoyed look plastered on his face. 

Instead, his eyes seemed to be…shining? Rather than a scowl, his lips had formed into what could best be described as Jake’s signature ‘shit eating grin’. 

“Huh.” Was all he let out. It wasn’t one of confusion, if anything it reeked of satisfaction, which was odd considering how irritated he was 15 minutes ago. 

“Do you have something you’d like to add, Lieutenant Seresin?” Penny asked, much to everyone’s dismay- Pete’s particularly. 

Jake straightened up, leaning forward over the table, resembling someone who was about to sweet talk a bartender rather than a Captain. 

“I’m just honored to be working with you all, particularly Lieutenant Commander Morales. You know, it’s not every day the best meets the best.” 

If looks could kill, Jake would already be dead. Not just from Danica, but from the eyebrow raises and baffled looks from the rest of his squad.  If it bothered Jake, hell, if he even noticed, he wasn’t letting on. He simply smirked, eyes remaining on who he once described as his rival. 

“However, I do have to say something,” He began. 

“Please don’t,” Bob muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose to prepare himself for whatever bullshit was about to flow out of his coworker’s mouth. 

“They made a mistake with your call sign. Venom doesn’t suit you,” he explained as if it was obvious. 

Maeve scoffed, “Clearly you’ve never heard her over comms.”  

Bob now owed Nat ten bucks after claiming there wasn’t a girl on Penny’s squad for him. 

Jake ignored the comment, continuing to talk much to everyone’s dismay, “It should have been Venus. After your beauty.” 

The room was so silent, you could hear a pin drop. 

Danica tilted her head to the side in an attempt to comprehend Jake’s words. Whereas the 45 degree angle tilt seemed to help her cat, Rugelach, understand things, it did not when it came to understanding Jake fucking Seresin. 

“Is he….” Nora turned to Maeve, absolutely bewildered, “....on something?”

Maeve rolled her eyes, “Unfortunately no, he had to pass a drug test to be here.”

Nora’s eyes widened, “So he’s….he just said that sober?”

“Welcome to the club, it doesn’t get better,” Bob muttered. Maeve gave him an apologetic smile, making the bespectacled WOS blush, eliciting an amused smirk from Natasha. The moment was a great reprieve from the fuckery that was their blonde teammate. 

Bradley leaned over, “If you want Nora, I can give you the rundown on Seresin after this briefing.” He could barely hide his excitement as a blushing Nora timidly nodded her head. If Danica hadn't been twitching over Jake's words, she would have given her WSO a knowing wink and nudge. 

Camellia turned to her husband in disbelief, “Does he do this often?”

Mickey shook his head, “This is new for all of us Cielo.” His words brought little comfort. 

Penny turned to Pete, lips drawn in a thin line as she contemplated filing a sexual harassment charge. If looks could kill, Jake would have died by Pete Mitchell if Danica hadn’t already killed him with her glare. 

“You….” Danica started, closing her eyes for a brief moment to prepare herself, “You’re honored to work with me?”

Jake smiled, showing off his bright veneers teeth, “Of course. How could I not be?” 

“Even though my achievement was just, in your words, pure luck?” 

The echo of his past words caused the smile to drop from Jake’s face, his brow knitting together in confusion, “I’m sorry darlin’, I don’t understand-”

“That’s what you’ve been telling everyone. That it was all pure luck, no skill,” her lips curled into a confident smirk, eyes narrowing as she continued to stare at Jake, “Word gets around Lieutenant Seresin, especially with a mouth as big as yours.”

With that, she simply turned around, ignoring the once cocky pilot who now had a gob-smacked look on his face. 

As well as a raging erection, but she didn’t need to know that. 

Jake couldn’t tell you what the rest of the briefing was about. What he did know was that Danica Seresin had a beautiful ring to it. 

---------------------------------------------------------------

@gretagerwigsmuse @blue-aconite @princessphilly @mxgyver @wildbornsiren @perfectprettypisces @percyjackson1d @cinderellasmissingshoes @imdreaminghere @idontcare-11 @rae-gar-targaryen @satans-firstborn @the-aspiring-fanfic-writer

[birrdies]

you awake?

some art for a boat boys au im working on… its hard to describe what exactly it is, but its based on the show ‘WAYNE’ if any of you have seen it.

Joel lost count of the days once they passed D.C. He should’ve kept a book or something—hell, he could’ve found a sharpie and scrawled some tallies on his palm— but it was hard track of time when all you really wanted was to outrun it. But as the sun set, slivers of a dreary dusk streaming in the windows, Joel was trapped in it. But this time, he didn’t mind so much.

Etho’s head was a dead weight on his shoulder. The rumble of the car engine kept lulling the both of them to sleep, but Joel fought. Just in case. Just to count the breaths against his collarbone. Those, he could count. Passing days didn’t matter anymore— this did. Here and now, the road ahead of them, did.

[starmocha]

Rock-a-Bye [Sylus + Daughter ★ 1122 words ★ Masterlist ★ Series Index ★ AO3] Sylus has a stubborn little birdie who won’t go to sleep. A/N: God, I was not prepared for this man to sing “Rock-a-Bye Baby.” My womb and I have not been the same since then.

Sylus sat behind his desk, going over some new intel he had received that night. The door to his office was opened ajar, the hallway dimmed light filtered in. As his eyes skimmed the documents, his deep voice rumbled softly, “Mephisto is in here with me, so who is that little birdie lurking outside my office?”

He smirked when he heard a tiny startled gasp. He looked up just in time to catch a small shadow quickly backing up against the wall to hide.

“Baby,” his voice called out, “come into Daddy’s office.”

He waited, seeing the hesitation from the person outside, and after nearly a minute, he watched his office door opened further, a little girl in a pink nightgown walked into his office looking guilty.

“It is eleven, why are you not in bed, baby?”

“How…did Daddy know it was me?”

Sylus tilted his head in amusement at the little girl’s question, his eyes drifting over to the mechanical crow in his office. His daughter noticed and she instantly stomped her foot. The little girl gave a pout and then she turned and glared at the mechanical bird perched near her father’s desk.

“Mephie tattled on me!”

The mechanical crow looked startled before it lowered its head in shame, giving a sad coo.

Sylus had a hard time hiding his amusement, chuckling at his daughter’s angry pout. “Don’t be mad at Mephisto, baby,” he said calmly, “Look, his feelings are hurt.”

Instantly, the little girl looked guilty for her outburst. She walked over to near Sylus’ desk and reached up on her tippy toes to stroke the crow’s feathers. Her voice was very small and remorseful, “I’m sorry, Mephie…”

Mephisto gave a cheerful caw, earning not only a smile from the little toddler but also her father.

Sylus reached over and patted his daughter’s head gently, smoothing out her hair. “Now, baby, do you want to tell me why you are still awake at this hour? I thought Luke and Kieran had put you to bed.”

“They did…” she responded, looking down at the white kitty cat slippers she was wearing. She shuffled her feet guiltily, and then confessed, “I miss Mommy…”

Sylus’ expression softened, empathizing deeply with the little three-year-old girl. He leaned back in his chair and patted his lap, gesturing for his daughter to come closer. Delighted, the little girl immediately scampered over and raised her arms, waiting for her father to lift her up. Sylus easily picked her up, settling her comfortably on his lap. He smiled when she snuggled closer to him.

“I know you miss Mommy, baby,” he started gently, “but Mommy is away on a mission right now. Didn’t she video chat with you and said good night earlier?”

“It’s not the same,” his daughter replied with a pout, crossing her arms stubbornly. She looked up at her father with wide, pleading eyes, “I want to stay up with Daddy.”

Sylus sighed and shook his head. “Daddy has business to take care of tonight.”

“I can be as quiet as a mouse, Daddy!”

Sylus chuckled and stroked her cheek affectionately, pleased when he heard her sweet little giggles. “I know you can, my little birdie,” he said, but shook his head again, “But this type of business is for grownups only.”

“Okay…” The little girl looked down sadly, her legs idly kicking back and forth as she stared at her kitty slippers.

Sylus stroked her hair to comfort her. “Come on, baby,” he said, “it’s well past your bedtime.”

“What about Daddy’s bedtime?”

“Daddy’s bedtime is in the morning,” Sylus answered curtly, carefully lifting his daughter into his arms as he stood up. She clung to him as he carried her out of his office. Cheekily, she waved at Mephisto as she was taken away. The mechanical crow cooed softly.

“Daddy?”

“What is it, baby?”

“Can’t I stay up with you?”

Before Sylus could respond, he caught sight of Luke and Kieran searching from room to room down the hallways. He stopped, and cleared his throat, alerting the twins.

“Did you two lose a little birdie?” He paused, and added with an exasperated sigh, “Again?”

“Uh, listen, Boss,” Luke started, panicking, “It wasn’t our fault!”

Kieran instantly agreed, “Yeah, we tucked her in real good. We even stood outside the door for ten minutes to make sure she didn’t sneak out again!”

“And yet she escaped. Again.”

“Boss—”

The little girl giggled. “Sorry, Lukey, Kier-Kier…”

Kieran sighed and crossed his arms. “Little Miss, you are lucky you are so adorable.”

Luke interjected, “Don’t worry, Boss, we’ll make sure she’ll go to bed this time—”

“Forget it,” Sylus cut in, already walking past the two. “I’ll tuck her in myself.”

The twins sighed and waved weakly at the smiley, waving girl.

As Sylus approached his daughter’s bedroom, he felt her squirming in his arms. He paused and looked down. “Is this little birdie trying to fly away?”

“Maybe…”

Sylus shook his head and opened the bedroom door. Inside the large room, there were countless toys and books, much too excessive for a little three-year-old girl to have, but money meant absolutely nothing to Sylus when it came to his daughter’s happiness. Sylus walked to the middle of the room where there was a large canopy bed with sheer pink curtains and fairy lights strewn about waiting for its little owner to return. As Sylus tucked his daughter into her bed, he noticed her sulking again. “Baby, it’s almost midnight. You should have been asleep four hours ago.”

“Can I have a song, Daddy?”

“Trying to strike a deal, are you?”

The girl gave her best pout and puppy dog eyes.

“Deal accepted,” Sylus answered, sitting down on his daughter’s bed. He smiled as she snuggled up to him. “You might be the only person around this place who appreciate my singing.”

Sylus smiled when he saw his daughter yawning. Despite her stubbornness the whole night, it wouldn’t take much to finally lull her to sleep. His large hand gently held onto her little hand, stroking it tenderly as his deep voice sung softly, “Rock-a-bye baby on the treetop…”

He watched as sleepy little eyes drifted close as he sang her a lullaby. When he had finished, his daughter was already sound asleep, cuddled up close to him, breathing softly. Sylus took a glance at a clock in his daughter’s bedroom.

He was already running late to the meeting.

The meeting could wait, Sylus decided. After all, the people waiting for him to arrive needed him, not the other way around. He settled more comfortably in bed next to his sleeping daughter, his deep humming the only sound heard in the large bedroom.

[bloodybellycomb]

out of the ashes of the 2023 writers strike, another beautiful, completely unintentional, homoerotic phoenix will arise and it will fly into the sky of a male-dominated tv show and this majestic creature will consume the minds of multitudes of impressionable youths

and those glorious, dedicated legions will write profoundly holy and depraved scriptures, the likes of which the world has never seen and soon, these sinful acolytes will rejoice as they discover how salvation can only be found on the lips of your damnation.

This is the legacy of a writers strike; it's splendorous; its awe-inspiring. It will even be proclaimed that this unfathomable power is almost...supernatural.

[hokusu]

Hawks being given so many balloons on his birthday he stops flying and just floats through the sky throughout the day, only lazily rippling his wings to redirect himself when he starts drifting too off course.

And when Dabi asks how the supposed fastest hero arrives so late, it's suppose to come off mocking and threatening, because Dabi doesn't wait for Hawks, it's the other way around.

Yet even too his own ears he sounds... almost jealous.

Because Hawks shrugs sheepishly and hands him a balloon out of the hundreds hanging off his wings.

And it feels suddenly unfair that the world seems to know it's Hawks birthday but he didn't.

No one else is allowed to compete for Hawks' attention more than him.

[zomb-rabbit]

For Marble Hornets - I was wondering if you could do Tim + Brain, with a S/O that’s on the shorter side but is strong as hell! Like the cute little S/O can just easily lift up them or just casually could handle crazy hard physical activities.

@klerns-birdie aaa i hope this is okay !! i didn't mean for this to take as long as it did, thank you for being so patient with me <3 totally let me know if you want me to change anything in here :))

· · ·

📹🚬 Tim Wright / Brian Thomas x fem! tiny but mighty reader :]

Tim ;

honestly it catches him by surprise every time

he knows you're strong, don't get me wrong, but he forgets just HOW strong

if you two ever moved, or even just moved into the same room in the house, he'd end up standing in the hallways watching you manage to take your entire large desk through the corridor without a problem with wide eyes

tbh does double takes when he gets to see you flexing in any way, especially if it's your back

he does still offer to help you carry things though, he wants to help out even if he knows you could be carrying 3x whatever it is he's offering to hold 😭

Brian ;

LOVES IT

he thinks it's the cutest thing honestly

like absolutely you're a badass that can do whatever you put your mind to it seems like

but you're so LITTLE next to him he cannot take it seriously

he finds it a little funny whenever he comes into the living room or the bedroom when you're vacuuming/sweeping under the larger furniture and you're just casually holding up this huge ass object that's about twice the size of you

if there's ever a moment where you're flexing (on purpose or you're just lifting something heavier) i feel like he's the type of guy to hype you up with some kind of cheesy flirting

[jade-muffins]

One of the biggest frustrations of being a Birdie fan (as a slightly above beginner artist) and wanting to create content for him is trying to draw his WEIRD ASS HAIR

Like- sir did you go to the barber and ask for the French Fry cut /affectionate

If anyone has an easier way of drawing it please do share

[withahappyrefrain]

for those smutty prompts you reblogged ☺️ 29, which also goes pretty well with 7 too 💁🏼‍♀️

They do and they fit Birdie and Roo very well!

Warnings: Bradley's hands, reader has a nickname (no appearance described), smut, mentions of insecurities, did I mention Bradley's hands?

You should've noticed it earlier. Any other time when you weren't at your job, when you didn't have to be a professional.

But when Bradley went to give one of your students a high five, the stark juxtaposition of his hand compared to an eight year old's was astounding.

They were huge.

You wanted to entwine your hand with his, to feel his calloused fingertips. You wanted to feel them all over your body, particularly your throat.

But you were at your job. He was here to talk about his job for Career Day, filling in for a last minute cancellation.

So instead, you cleared your throat, "Let's give a big thank you to Mr. Bradshaw for coming in!"

Your professionalism nearly faltered when his hand laid itself on your shoulder, giving you a gentle squeeze.

"I'll see you later?" Bradley whispered, brown eyes full of hope.

One could see your quiet nod as a way to not draw attention to the interaction.

But you knew the truth. It was to keep yourself from saying something highly inappropriate in front of twenty third graders.

After your illy-timed revelation, it felt like the universe was doing everything within it's power to draw attention to Bradley's hands.

When you came home, you found Bradley in your kitchen, long fingers splayed out across one of your cabinets as his other hand worked to tighten a screw. His brows were knitted together in concentration, the tip of his pink tongue sticking out between his teeth as he focused.

His sweet brown eyes lit up when he saw you at the doorway of the kitchen.

"You'd think for how much your landlord charges, they'd have the decency to make sure all the screws are on tight."

It was such a sweet gesture. You hadn't mentioned it at all, meaning he must have noticed it himself. He took the time to grab his toolbox, bring it over here, and begin fixing it himself.

And all you could do was stare at his hands.

"Birdie? You okay?" His question broke you out of your trance.

"Oh yeah! Thanks Roo," you quickly kissed his warm cheek before excusing yourself to change.

This was bad. It was too early in the relationship to say something. You two had only slept together a handful of times. You still fucked in missionary there was no way you could ask him to choke you.

And what if he wasn't into that? What if he thought it was weird? Wouldn't be the first guy. But the difference now was that you really liked Bradley. You could see a future with him and he felt the same way.

The last thing you needed was to make him run for the hills.

So when you went into the kitchen after changing, you focused on reheating leftovers. Not the way Bradley was playing with Ladybug in the living room, those God damn hands scratching the dog's belly much to her delight.

This plan was going pretty well, until you felt large palms skimming across your bare thighs, a broad chest pressed against your back.

"Are those new?" Bradley asked, referring to the soft lounge shorts you had on.

"Uh yeah. They were on sale so I decided to treat myself," you quietly explained. God, his hands covered so much of your flesh. The way they gently kneaded the soft muscle of your thighs was heavenly combined with the hairs of his mustache brushing against your neck.

"D-do you like them?" Your voice was shaky, though it was an honest question. Okay, maybe you were trying to distract yourself again because thinking of the least attractive thing wasn't taking your mind off the way his fingers had slipped underneath the hem of your shorts.

Usually thinking of the way Stephen King wrote female characters always did trick. At least it did until Bradley Bradshaw came along.

"Love 'em. Love when you show off your thighs," he rasps in your ear.

"Really?" It was never a body part you noticed. In fact, you tried not to think about your thighs and the stretch marks that danced along the skin there or how much space they took up when you sat down.

Bradley nods before placing a soft kiss on your cheek, "Yeah. Don't get me wrong, I love everything about you Birdie."

His declaration makes your heart flutter.

"Guess I've always been a thigh guy? But yeah, your's are pretty damn amazing." You don't have to turn around, the small chuckle he lets out at the end indicates he's flustered.

When you turn around, you're met with rosy cheeks and bashful eyes. Bradley ducks his head into the crook of your neck, placing small kisses along your jawline.

His admission makes you feel at ease, your worries melting away. Your hands find his, several of your fingers wrapping around only one of his.

"I...I like your hands. A lot," you admit.

Bradley's mouth stills, "Really?"

You giggle, "Yeah. Like how big they are. Like how they feel when I hold them."

His mouth moves upward, now against the shell of your ear, "Saw you looking at them earlier. Is that all you were thinking about? Holding them?"

You could say yes and Bradley will drop it. He's had his suspicions about you, that there was more than you lead on when it came to the bedroom. Little things here and there have led him to believe it, as well as that you needed someone to open that door for you.

"I...." You took a deep breath, "I like how your fingers feel inside of me. And....I want to know how they'd feel around my throat."

The groan Bradley let out was gutteral, causing your thighs to clench.

"Jesus fucking Christ Birdie." For a brief moment, anxiety raced through your mind. You had messed up, had gone too far.

But then Bradley's mouth crashed against yours, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs as he picked you up. While the sudden show of strength made your head spin, it was feeling his erection that made you wonder why you worried in the first place.

Once you were placed on the counter, Bradley's hands trailed up your body, squeezing and kneading your soft flesh. His fingers reminded you that you had opted to go braless when you changed, the deft digits paying particularly close attention to your breasts.

All you could do was hold on, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. Before you could even mark up that pretty neck of his, Bradley's hand found yours. His fingers spanned the entirety of your throat.

The grip he had on your neck forced you to look up, allowing Bradley's lips to crash against yours. It was dizzying, how small he made you feel.

Then his hand pressed against your throat and you were a goner. Broken moans filled your kitchen, your hips rutting against Bradley's in a feeble attempt to get more of him.

His other hand slipped past the waistband of your shorts, your body arching into his when his fingers skimmed the thin fabric of your panties.

You loved his touch. You were pretty sure you loved him too but that was a future you problem.

And all too soon, it was gone- his hand around your throat, the other rubbing your clothed core.

If it weren't for the cloud of anxiety beginning to form in your brain, you may have been able to say something witty, like taking it back to the bedroom. But that would require your brain to not jump to the worst conclusion, such as Bradley realizing how weird it was to be obsessed with hands.

Before you could say anything, Bradley dropped to his knees, now at eye level with your lap.

His long fingers trailed up your legs, leaving goosebumps in their wake. They finally stopped at the waistband of your shorts.

Shit.

Yes, you knew Bradley was coming over. God, you even had the chance to change into something more appealing than the plain underwear that could only be described as 'granny panties'. And yet, it completely slipped your mind that perhaps you and Bradley would be doing something more intimate this evening.

Alright, that was a lie. You had been hoping that would be the case, but expecting it would be rude.

So you went to apologize, like you always did. Apologize for not being sexy enough, thoughtful enough, not considerate enough-

Bradley's mouth silenced you as soon as it latched onto one of your bare thighs. Your fingers found his sun kissed hair, clinging onto the roots to stay somewhat stable, which was extremely difficult considering the attention Bradley was giving to your thighs.

You thought he would give them a kiss or two, maybe a bite and then move on.

Instead, Bradley had developed an unpredictable pattern when it came to your thighs. A bite here, sometimes followed by his tongue lapping over the mark, other times his lips pressing open mouthed kisses over your skin.

It was nice. Borderline unusual, considering those you dated in the past hardly spent anytime on one specific body part. Was he doing this because of your unappealing underwear?

No. Bradley said he liked-no-loved your thighs. And Bradley Bradshaw actually meant what he said.

The seed of doubt that had tried to grow in your mind withered away with each kiss, with each love bite and mark he placed on your thighs. With every action done by his stupidly talented mouth, worries about what you were wearing faded away.

Instead, you could just enjoy the insanely attractive man who was in between your legs.

God, he was so fucking hot. In such a short time, he had mastered your body, knowing the perfect amount of pressure when he sunk his teeth into your skin. His fingers gripped your soft flesh, hard enough to leave hand-shaped bruises but soft enough to still be pleasurable.

Tension melted off your body. Your head lolled back, mind focused on how enjoyable it was-

Oh.

This is what it was supposed to be like all along, wasn't it?

"Birdie? You okay baby?" When you opened your eyes, Bradley was at eye level with you.

You could only let out a confused huh.

"You stopped making those cute noises." He thought those were cute? You had been trying to hold back, not wanting to be too loud.

Maybe you should be louder.

"Yeah, sorry, I was just enjoying myself," you said sheepishly.

Bradley shook his head, "Nothing you have to apologize for."

When you looked up, he was giving you that earnest smile that made your heart flutter.

It's that exact smile that gives you the courage to learn forward and kiss him, trying to pour as much passion as one can with one simple action.

Your body arches into his, fingers weaving through those soft curls.

One of Bradley's hands snaked down your body, going past the waistband of your panties. A jolt of electricity went up your spine upon feeling his fingers brush against your soaked core.

When his fingers traced over your entrance, you didn't hold back.

Which was great for Bradley, as the desperate moan you let out made his cock twitch.

Of course his fingers were quick and talented, considering his job. You just never considered how it would translate to the bedroom (or kitchen in this case). The first time he thrusted his fingers inside of you, you thought it was a fluke. It had been ages since someone had touched you, which explained why you came so quickly.

But now? You knew better.

Your small kitchen was quickly filled with the sounds of your moans and heavy breathing. Each time his fingers stroked that one spot, you saw stars behinds your eyelids.

How did he find it so quickly?

When his thumb reached up to draw circles on your clit, all you could say was his name over and over again.

Your head felt like cotton, but in a good way. Maybe he could feel the heat radiating off of your body, but for once you didn't care. A particularly hard yank of his locks earned you a low, guttural growl from Bradley, making your walls clench around his fingers.

His free hand quickly found the sides of your neck, squeezing just enough to make a broken wail fall from your lips.

You were fucking gorgeous like this, ears teary from pleasure, lips parted. Bradley had a strong feeling there was more than what you had initially shown him. But that strong wall of reservation had broken down over time. Seeing you like this was nearly enough to make him cum right then and there.

"Br-Bradley," you barely got out, as he changed the angle of his hand, his fingers now able to thrust deeper inside you. Fuck, were you hearing yourself? Did he make you that wet?

It was absolutely certain.

"Yeah?" His voice was smooth like honeyed wine, "You gonna come for Mrs. Bradshaw?"

Fuck.

All at once it hit you like a tidal wave. Your hips jerked erratically, desperate to get as much of his fingers as possible, trying to ride out the wave as much as possible.

Thank god he didn't stop. You were addicted to the pure bliss that was running through your veins. No worries, seeds of doubt miles away. All you could focus on was the gorgeous man in front of you who was making you see stars.

You could process what he said later.

For now, you just rode it out.

"So fucking pretty like this," He rasped in your ear, fingers continuing their ministrations, "Y'know that?" All you could do was weakly nod, sensitivity beginning to overtake your body as you were pulled back to that pleasurable edge.

"Yeah, you're my pretty girl. All mine." The declaration made your head spin.

"A-All yours-Bradley!"

This time when you came, your hands clutched the soft fabric of his shirt, clinging onto him for dear life. Second orgasms were really a thing? You always thought that your inability to experience it in the past indicated that something was wrong with you.

You were beginning to learn the problem wasn't always you.

When he pulled out, his arms wrapped around your back, pulling you in for a hug. Bradley quietly rocked you back and forth, pressing soft kisses to your temple.

"You good Birdie girl?" He asked, the smile evident in his voice.

You nodded, a dozy grin appearing on your face, "Yeah I just-wow. Never came twice before. Thought it was a myth or something."

"I think you've just been with shit people," Bradley stated, feeling comfortable enough to finally address it.

"I think you're right," your arms around his waist and your head settled against his chest.

"I-sorry about what I said earlier," Bradley muttered.

Oh yeah. That was something to talk about.

"The Mrs. Bradshaw thing?" you asked.

Heat rushed to Bradley's cheeks as he rubbed a hand against the back of his neck, "Yeah....I'm sorry if that weirded you out. You were just really pretty-I mean you're always pretty-"

"It's not the first time you've called me that." You felt calm talking about it. Part of that was seeing Bradley visibly nervous.

You did what you would have wanted someone to do. You take his hands into yours, giving them a gentle squeeze as you looked up at him with a soft smile.

"I mean it. I don't mind at all. It was actually....sweet but also kinda hot," you admitted, feeling heat rise to your face.

Bradley raised an eyebrow, "Oh really?"

You playfully rolled your eyes, "Oh God are you going to use this against me?"

"Absolutely I am." Before you could even protest, Bradley had already picked you up.

"C'mon Mrs. Bradshaw, I'm far from done with you."

[keigosstarlight]

More Hawks Headcanons💖

Because my last Hawks headcanons post got some attention, I decided to do some more 🥰

This one will have NSFW headcanons, and I'll try to put those under a read more.

SFW

I wasn't sure to put this in NSFW or SFW due to the fact that a lot of the "his wings being sensitive" headcanons are NSFW, but I feel like this is safe enough.

His wings aren't as sensitive as fanon writes. He's been seen letting people touch his wings. (Manga panel below.)

I think, if anything, it's more like touching his arm. Context matters a lot. So, an unexpected flirtatious touch will undoubtedly be different than a fan touching them.

(Sidenote: I'm unsure if his wings being written this way is an actual thing people believe of Hawks, or if it is simply for fanfic works, but at the end of the day, it isn't that serious.)

Hawks survives on coffee. There's just no argument. He's a top hero, so how much sleep can he get? And he's seen drinking cans of coffee in canon, so my headcanon is that he is 75% coffee.

Has a fish tank?? I dont know. I feel like he would really enjoy going home and watching some fish swim around. It relaxes him. He hires someone to care for the tank when he's too busy, though.

Bird man needs big bed for wings. He will sprawl them out. Prepare for him to starfish.

NSFW and CW under the read more!

NSFW

Cw: bruising; praise kink; not just descriptions. I'm using quotes. Prepare for smut. (F!reader - "girl" used in praise.)

This man absolutely loves being on top so he can throw your legs over his shoulders. He loves how your face contorts when he's able to get deeper than you expect. However, after patrol, he is undoubtedly exhausted. Hawks is zooming throughout the city all day, running on nothing but coffee and fumes. You might have to ride him if you want it done, but that's okay because the way he gazes up at you so adoring while his hands grip your hips and he pants praises makes your legs shaking worth it.

He's a mixture of soft and rough. He'll lovingly whisper in your ear how beautiful you sound when he fucks you, but God damn, he's pounding you to oblivion and he isn't stopping until you're begging for mercy.

"You sound so beautiful when I fuck you like this, such a good girl for me. God, listen to you."

"Use your words for me, baby. Moaning and squirming isn't telling me what you want."

All while one of his hands is gently caressing your face and the other, you're sure, is making bruises on your hip.

He does enjoy doggy style because of the amount of control it gives him, but not seeing your face makes him have to savor the noises and he wants *all* of you. He wants to see how much he's pleasuring you and be able to lean down and give you kisses as he desperately tries to keep moving his hips.

[birrdies]

Hey everybody,

Guess who needs surgery :’)) Thanks to medical bills galore, I’m opening writing commissions to anyone who might be interested. Please read full post before sending me a message!

You can visit my page on AO3 for examples of my work or the tag #birdie-writes on my blog. A previous fic of mine, timesickness, was specifically a commission piece!

Rules, Pricing, Etc. included below the cut.

✦ 500 to 1,000 words = $10

✦ 1,000 to 2,000 words = $20

✦ 2,000 to 3,000 words = $30

✦ 3,000 to 4,000 words = $40

✦ 4,000 to 5,000 words = $50

✦ 5,000 to 6,000 words = $70

✦ 6,000 to 7,000 words = $90

✦ 7,000 to 8,000 words = $110

✦ 8,000 to 9,000 words = $130

✦ anything greatly exceeding 10,000 will be $160+

✦ these prices are flexible and may be subject to change based on extenuating circumstances; if it is too expensive I will be willing to work with you and find something that works for us both.

Commission Rules:

1. I will not write any NSFW content.

2. I will write shipping.

3. Life Series and/or Hermitcraft only, please. (Exceptions may be made for OCs or something similar, if you have questions you can always ask.)

4. Message me via tumblr messenger (BEFORE YOU SEND ANYTHING ON KOFI) if you are interested and then we can figure out next steps from there.

5. Please have prepared: characters, pairings (if applicable), tropes, or other specific details you may request for the story

6. Depending on the length of the fic, timely turnaround may widely vary. I do work 40 hours a week on top of everything, so responses may be slow. I appreciate your patience.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you! And if there’s any questions you have that I did not answer here feel free to drop them in my inbox or messages.