#cleaned up some of the grime in post and then just tried to lean into it

[littlenimart]

tojoctober day 3 - safe

[theapollochronicles]

𝐁𝐢𝐠 𝐉𝐞𝐭 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞 | 𝐂𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐲𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐧

“She said, "Hello, mister, pleased to meet ya"

I wanna hold her, I wanna kiss her

She smelled of daisies, she smelled of daisies

She'd drive me crazy, she'd drive me crazy,”

pairing: caitlyn kiramman x female!zaunite!reader

summary: you’re a filthy blooded zaunite and she’s a pure blooded piltie. both of you are worlds apart.

warnings: unimplied post-sex morning after, mild cussing, mild smoking, angst, some fluff (if you squint).

The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of sheets as Caitlyn shifted in her sleep. You lay beside her for a while longer, watching the soft rise and fall of her chest in the muted light of morning. She looked peaceful, far from the stern Enforcer you’d come to know, far from the one who might have arrested you had circumstances been different.

You pulled yourself from the bed carefully, mindful not to disturb her. Your boots sat neatly by the door where Caitlyn had asked you to leave them last night—a futile attempt to keep her immaculate floors from the grime of Zaun. Padding across the carpeted floor, you grabbed your coat, shrugging it on as you slipped onto the balcony attached to her bedroom.

The morning air bit at your skin, crisp and clean in a way that only Piltover air could be. You leaned against the railing and pulled a cigarette from your coat pocket, lighting it with a practiced flick. The first drag hit your lungs like an old friend, grounding you in the reality you tried to forget whenever you were here.

You blew out the smoke, watching it curl upward and disappear into the sky that always seemed too bright, too clean. Piltover. A city of progress, as they called it, but all you could think about was the soot-streaked faces back home in Zaun, the ones who never saw sunlight like this.

And Caitlyn. You looked back toward her sleeping form through the glass doors, her dark hair spilling over the pillow, her features soft in repose. She didn’t belong in your world, just as you didn’t belong in hers. An Enforcer and a Zaunite. The irony wasn’t lost on you, not when you knew the Chem Barons you worked for—the ones Silco led—had spilled blood in the streets she swore to protect.

You exhaled another plume of smoke and shook your head. What the hell were you doing? Every time you woke up in her bed, it felt more dangerous, more impossible. The gap between your worlds didn’t just feel wide—it felt insurmountable.

But you couldn’t stay away.

The sound of the door sliding open caught your attention. You turned to see Caitlyn, a blanket draped over her shoulders, her expression a mix of sleepiness and quiet concern.

“You’re up early,” she murmured, stepping out onto the balcony. Her voice was soft, but it carried that steadiness you admired so much.

“Didn’t want to wake you,” you replied, flicking the ash from your cigarette.

Caitlyn’s eyes flicked to the cigarette before returning to you. She didn’t scold you for it—she never did. Instead, she leaned on the railing beside you, her presence grounding in a way the smoke could never be.

“You know,” she began, her gaze sweeping over the city below, “you don’t have to leave so early every time.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “And let your parents find out you’ve been sneaking a filthy ass Zaunite into your room? Don’t think so.”

Caitlyn’s lips quirked up in a faint smile, but her eyes betrayed her. There was worry there, the kind that always made your chest ache.

“We don’t have to keep doing this,” she said softly, the words hanging in the air between you.

Your grip tightened on the railing, the cigarette burning low between your fingers. “Don’t say that, Cait.”

“It’s the truth,” she pressed. “You work for Silco. I’m an Enforcer. If anyone found out—”

“They won’t.”

“But they could.”

You turned to face her, the raw vulnerability in her expression cutting deeper than you wanted to admit. “What do you want me to say? That I’ll leave Silco? That I’ll run away with you? That I’ll become someone else?” You shook your head. “That’s not who I am, Caitlyn. You know that.”

Her eyes searched yours, and for a moment, you thought she might argue. But instead, she sighed, her shoulders sagging under the weight of all the things left unsaid.

“I just… I don’t want to lose you,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

You reached out, cupping her cheek with a hand that felt far too rough against her soft skin. “You won’t,” you promised, though you weren’t sure if it was a lie or not.

She leaned into your touch, her eyes closing briefly as if she could hold onto this moment forever. But the sun was rising higher, and you both knew what that meant.

With a reluctant sigh, you dropped your hand and turned back to the railing, taking one last drag of your cigarette before snuffing it out against the stone.

“I should go,” you said, your voice quiet.

Caitlyn didn’t argue, but as you stepped back inside to gather your things, you could feel her gaze on you, heavy with all the things neither of you dared to say.

You paused at the door, glancing back at her one last time. “Be careful out there, Cait.”

“You too,” she replied, her voice laced with a tenderness that made your chest ache.

And with that, you slipped out the door, leaving behind the warmth of her room for the cold, unforgiving reality of the world outside.

Zaun had a way of swallowing you whole. The air down here was thick with smog, the streets pulsed with danger, and the shadows stretched longer than they ever did in Piltover. It was the kind of place that reminded you why you couldn’t afford to dream of something better.

You were back at The Last Drop, leaning against the bar with your hood up, the cigarette smoke here less a choice and more a byproduct of existing. Silco was somewhere upstairs, likely finalizing deals that would send more Shimmer to the surface. Jinx flitted around the floor, unpredictable as ever, but you’d learned not to react too much to her antics.

This was your life. This was where you belonged. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

But you still felt her. Caitlyn. Her presence lingered in the back of your mind like a phantom—her soft voice, the way she’d smiled at you that morning despite everything that made her world and yours incompatible.

“Thinking about someone?” Sevika’s voice broke through your thoughts, low and rough as she slid onto the stool beside you.

You scoffed, brushing her off. “None of your business.”

“Uh-huh.” She leaned in, her grin predatory. “Careful, kid. You start acting like you’ve got something to lose, and you’ll end up dead in a gutter.”

Her words hit harder than they should have, but you didn’t let it show. Instead, you flicked your empty glass toward the bartender and stood. “Don’t worry about me, Sevika. I know what I’m doing.”

She chuckled as you walked away, but the sound grated on you. Did you know what you were doing? The line between loyalty to Silco and your longing for Caitlyn felt thinner every day, and you were already stumbling over it.

The sting of seeing her again was as sharp as it was inevitable. You hadn’t planned on crossing paths, but Zaun and Piltover’s borders were ever-blurred, and tonight seemed determined to remind you of that fact.

It was on the bridge, that tenuous, fraying connection between the cities. You were running an errand for Silco—simple enough, nothing worth worrying about—when the flash of blue caught your eye.

Caitlyn.

She was speaking to an officer, her expression tense but composed. Even in her uniform, she stood out, her polished demeanor clashing with the grime of the bridge. You should’ve turned around, but something rooted you in place.

She caught your eye.

Her body stiffened almost imperceptibly, and for a moment, the world around you both seemed to fade into nothing. You didn’t dare move, but the weight of her gaze was suffocating. There was something in her eyes—relief, longing, and that same damn worry she’d carried the last time you were together.

“Officer Kiramman.” The other Enforcer’s voice broke whatever spell had settled over you.

Caitlyn nodded curtly, her professionalism snapping back into place. She glanced at you again, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face, but she turned and walked away, disappearing into the streets of Piltover.

Later that night, you couldn’t sleep. Her face kept flashing in your mind, the fleeting glance you’d shared on the bridge. The way she’d looked at you—like she wanted to reach out but couldn’t, like the invisible chasm between you had grown wider than either of you could bear.

The ache in your chest felt heavier than usual. You reached for the flask you kept by your bed and took a long swig, hoping the burn would drown out the thoughts. It didn’t.

The night stretched on, and when sleep finally claimed you, it came with the weight of dreams you’d rather forget—dreams of Caitlyn’s laughter, of her hands tracing the scars you tried to hide, of a world where you weren’t on opposite sides of a war neither of you could stop.

You found her again—or maybe she found you. It was in a forgotten corner of Zaun, where the pipes groaned and the air smelled of rust and decay. She wasn’t in her uniform this time, but her posture was still rigid, her presence too clean, too sharp for a place like this.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said, voice low but steady.

Caitlyn crossed her arms, her jaw tight. “Neither should you.”

A dry laugh escaped you. “This is my home, Kiramman. What’s your excuse?”

She hesitated, her eyes scanning your face like she was searching for something. “You were on the bridge,” she said finally, her voice softer now.

“And you were in my city,” you replied, stepping closer despite the voice in your head screaming to stop.

The air between you was heavy, thick with the weight of words left unsaid. Finally, Caitlyn broke the silence.

“I hate this,” she admitted, her voice cracking just enough to twist the knife already lodged in your chest. “I hate that I can’t stop thinking about you. I hate that we’re…”

“Worlds apart?” you finished for her, your voice quieter than hers.

She nodded, her eyes glistening. “I don’t know how to do this. How to… be with you.”

You swallowed hard, the raw vulnerability in her voice making it hard to breathe. “Maybe we can’t,” you said, hating the words even as you spoke them. “Maybe that’s the truth we keep trying to ignore.”

Her face crumpled, and you had to look away before you lost whatever strength you had left.

“But I don’t want to stop,” she whispered, so quiet you almost didn’t hear it.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, you let yourself dream again. You stepped closer, your hands finding hers despite the voice in your head screaming at you to stop.

“I don’t either,” you admitted, your voice raw. “But what are we supposed to do, Cait? We can’t keep pretending this will work.”

“Then tell me how to stop,” she said, her voice breaking. “Because I can’t. I don’t know how to stop wanting you.”

You didn’t have an answer. All you could do was pull her into your arms, holding onto her like she was the only solid thing in your crumbling world.

Neither of you said anything else. There was nothing left to say.

A/n: this was not requested but i wanted to see how i’d write for the arcane show. how’d i do? requests are open for those wanting to request anything!!

[whoevenheckinknows]

The People You Love (DickJay Week 2025 Day 7)

Fandom: Batman All Media Types Rating: M Warnings: No Warnings Apply Relationship: Dick Grayson x Jason Todd Characters: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne (Mentioned), Alfred Pennyworth (Briefly) Tags: DickJay week 2025, Dickjay week day 7, wingfic, I've wanted you since you were robin, 5+1 things, wing grooming, minor character death, it's Jason so he gets better but still, no beta we die like jason Todd, idk how to tag this, Do not post to other sites, Cross-Posted on my other socials, POV Third Person

Summary: Grooming is a special thing for people with wings. Usually, only close family and significant others are allowed to touch someone's wings.

Which is why Dick is shocked and honored every time he's allowed to even get close to Jason's wings.

***

Also known as 5 times Dick helps Jason groom his wings +1 time he realizes Jason is trying to groom him.

AN: Totally didn't almost forget to post this.

Rated M for Dick getting very horny for Jason towards the end (as is his right)

Also idk how wings work.

Long end-note so I'm not gonna ramble here. Hope y'all enjoy.

Sex Worker Jason Todd|Animal Traits/Features/Kemonomimi/Wingfic/Animal Shifters AU | Incest Kink |Undercover as a Couple | "I've wanted you since you were Robin."

~~~

1.

When Dick first hears about the kid who stole his name and outfit, he's angry. Of course he is! Those are his, a memorial to his life before as a part of the "Flying Graysons: Wingless Fliers". His anger doesn't give him much time to think about what he's going to say to the new kid before he makes his way to the Manor for a confrontation. This means it comes as just as much of a shock to him as everyone else when the first thing he says upon seeing the boy is: "What the hell is wrong with your wings?"

Ignoring Alfred and Bruce's exclamations at his unprompted question, Dick chooses to instead inspect the boy (Jason, he had been introduced as Jason) closer.

Now, Dick can't say he's an expert on wings. He doesn't have any of his own, and neither do Bruce or Alfred. In fact, very few people in his life nowadays have wings. But when he was younger, traveling in the circus had introduced him to a lot of people from different places. And so, it was inevitable that he met quite a few winged people. One in particular, though, sticks out in his mind.

She was a member of the circus, a part of the found family he grew up with. Dick was mesmerized by the large wings on her back, so she took him under her wing (ha!) to teach him all about them. How to preen and clean them. How to learn which feathers to fix and which ones to prune out. What the difference between grooming a family member vs a partner was. Dick will always treasure the nights he sat leaning against his Aunt and running his fingers through the soft down feathers of her wings, helping realign any bent feathers he saw as he did so. Meanwhile she would speak, telling him all about the beauties and struggles of living with wings in a mostly wingless world.

So yes, Dick may not be an expert on wings. But he knows enough to know that the wings in front of him are not properly cared for. Likely never have been.

Dick watches Jason bristle, his face forming a scowl as his wings puff up behind him. He knows Jason is likely trying to intimidate him, but the effect is lost in the grime and tangled feathers of what are, frankly, way too small wings.

"What would you know?" Jason snarls.

"I know enough to know that those wings are in need of some intense TLC." Dick responds. He turns towards the other two people in the room. "Alfred, I'm surprised you haven't tried to do anything to help fix them."

"Master Jason is rather protective of his wings. I merely wish to not overstep."

"Yeah! 'Sides, Alfie don't have wings. He wouldn't know how to care for 'em properly."

"And you do?"

Jason's wordless snarl confirms Dick's growing fear. All of his anger over having Robin taken from him is thrown out the window in the face of this winged child who was never taught how to care for them. (Is this how Bruce feels when he sees orphaned children? Should Dick be worried he's picking up Bruce's habit?) Dick needs to tread this carefully. It's as Alfred said, winged people are very protective of their wings.

"If you want," Dick starts slowly, his hands up in a placating gesture as he does. "I could show you how to take care of them."

"And how exactly do you know? 'T's not like you have any." The snarl is gone, but his wings are still puffed up behind him defensively.

"One of my Aunts in the circus had wings. She taught me all about how to care for them." When he sees that Jason is still puffed up he adds. "I don't even have to touch them. I can just direct you on how to do it."

At first, his words don't seem to affect Jason. But slowly, Dick watches his wings start to flatten and he knows he has him. With a scowl on his face, Jason responds, "Fine. But if you lay a hand on them, you're dead. Ya' hear me?"

Dick lets a small smile grace his face. "Loud and clear!"

***

The first thing Dick teaches him is how to wash them properly. A regular shower can only do so much to get between the feathers, as Jason is clearly aware of. He makes Jason get a shower anyway, and waits in his bedroom while he finishes up. He comes out of the connected bathroom with one towel around his waist and another around his shoulders. He grabs the one around his shoulder and moves to bring it to his wings.

"No no no" Dick cries. He moves to bring his hand between the towel and Jason's wings, but stops short at the glare sent his way.

"What did I say 'bout touching?" he snaps.

"Sorry sorry. But do not use a towel for your wings."

"How the hell else am I s'posed to dry 'em? Magic?"

Dick takes a deep breath before setting to work. He tells Jason exactly what he has to do to dry, clean and fix his wings. Dick doesn't have access to proper cleaning supplies, but after promising Jason he'll pick some up for him, he grabs a bag of sand that they use for weights in the cave to use as a substitute for cleaning dust. It's a start.

Dick has to stop himself multiple times from reaching out to try and show Jason how to do something. Every time, he gets a glare from the younger, sometimes even before Dick's processed his hands starting to move. He pulls back every time.

Instead Dick watches from the side as little by little, the wings before him slowly transform. Dirt disappears. Broken feathers are removed. Tangles are combed through. Already small wings grow even smaller as Dick realizes how much of their mass was an illusion caused by improper care. Dick has never seen such small wings. Just as he has never seen such a bright color for wings. Before, the wings had looked to be brown, made darker by the mud caked on top. But soon it becomes apparent that they are a bright, fiery red.

They are the most beautiful wings Dick has ever seen.

~~~

2.

Dick expects that to be all. Despite not blowing up at the kid like he originally thought he would, he still isn't happy that Bruce gave Robin away. Arguments with Bruce and residual anger keep Dick out of the Manor, and so Dick doesn't spend a lot of time bonding with his new 'brother'. That isn't to say they're on bad terms. Jason isn't a bad kid once you get past his rough edges. He's smart, caring, and loyal, and Dick is only a little disappointed in himself for not taking more time out of his life to grow close with him.

All that considered, Dick knows he's definitely not close enough with Jason to be able to help him groom. Grooming is a special thing, for only those closest to you. Partners and close family. (And is Dick really family if Bruce never adopted him like he did Jason?) Jason still doesn't even let Alfred help him, although that is probably not for a lack of closeness but rather Alfred's lack of knowledge on the process. He prefers to just preen himself in the privacy of his own room. So Dick knows he definitely won't be allowed to help.

So Dick leaves it be. He doesn't mention it again after that first time, and spends what little time he does spend with Jason bonding with him. Watching movies when they're in the Manor. Volunteering to patrol together. Things like that.

It's during one of these latter occurrences that it happens. The two are patrolling together, on a slow night. They're playing tag across the rooftops, and Dick is it. He's following behind Robin, jumping from rooftop to rooftop in pursuit of the other. He takes the moment to observe the younger boy as they run.

He's grown in the few years he's been living with Bruce, although he will never be able to get rid of the effects of childhood malnourishment. And Dick knows that underneath his Robin uniform, underneath the Bat-Tech that helps keep them hidden, his wings face the same effects. Small, so small, that there is no possible chance of Jason being able to one day fly. Dick knows it's just one of the many reasons Jason loves being Robin.

Robin really is magic. He lets me fly even with broken wings!"

Jason's laugh ahead of him snaps him out of his thoughts. "You're gettin' slow, old man!"

"Oy! Who you calling old you gremlin?" Dick lets out his own laugh as he redoubles his efforts in catching him. It only takes him another 5 minutes before he corners the boy. Dick watches as Jason turns around and takes stock of his situation, trying to plan his escape.

Dick doesn't give him a chance. He rushes at the other vigilante and tackles him to the ground. He pins his arms above his head and leans closer.

"Tag you're it." His voice comes out as a breathy whisper. That last burst of speed really took it out of him. Jason really knows how to give him a challenge, huh?

Jason's face turns almost as bright as his wings, and his mask does very little to hide it. It takes Dick a minute to realize why. In leaning closer, the two's noses almost touch. That combined with Dick basically straddling the poor kid beneath him makes for quite the image. Dick fights back his own blush as he sits straight, careful to avoid any… sensitive areas.

He stands up and holds out his hand. "Sorry for the rough tackle Little Wing. Maybe we should take a break?"

"I told you to stop calling me that." Jason mumbles, crossing his arms as he continues laying on the concrete, face still slightly pink.

"Aw, Little Wing, you know I don't mean it like that."

"Still…"

Any other response is cut off by a scream and the two become Nightwing and Robin once more. Robin ignores Nightwing's still outstretched hand. If Nightwing were anyone else, he would have missed the well hidden flinch as the other pushes himself up. He doesn't have time to comment though, before Robin is grappling away towards whatever commotion they heard.

***

The scream ends up being a simple mugging. It doesn't take long to take down the perpetrator between the two of them. Unfortunately, they aren't able to do it before the man shoves Robin into a wall harshly. The boy lets out a small noise of pain. Nightwing takes the mugger down shortly after that, but Robin stays near the wall for the rest of the fight. After securing the attacker and checking on the victim, Nightwing makes his way over to Robin.

"You alright? That sounded like it hurt."

"I'm fine!" Nightwing almost flinches at the venom in Robin's voice. What had he done to earn the boy's ire?

"Maybe we should head in for the night…"

"I said I'm fine!" Before Nightwing can reply again, Robin pulls out his grapple, and Nightwing watches him conceal another flinch as he flies away. Nightwing lets out a sigh before following behind.

As he lands on the nearby roof, he sees Robin right away. The other is reaching behind himself, adjusting the wing concealer on his back. Nightwing thinks back on why it could be bothering him.

Shit. When he tackled him.

"Ok here's what's gonna happen." Nightwing starts. He holds his hand up before Robin can interrupt him. "We are going to stop at the safehouse nearby, and check on your back. If it's as fine as you say, we'll continue patrol. If not, we stop for the night. Ok? Let's go."

Nightwing pulls his grapple back out, leaving Robin with no choice but to do the same. They make their way over the rooftops for about five minutes before landing on a fire escape and disabling the security on one of the windows. Nightwing makes Robin go first, watching him to make sure he can make it through with minimal pain.

In the privacy of their safehouse, they are Dick and Jason once more.

Jason takes the top of his Robin costume off, leaving the bottom undisturbed. He then takes off the binder-like contraption holding his wings close to his back. He flinches as he does so. Dick resists the urge to reach out and help, but he knows getting close to Jason's wings will cause more harm than good.

Jason unfurls his wings slowly, trying to mitigate the pain as much as possible. Dick can't help but once again admire how beautiful those wings are as he does so.

"Ok, let's see what we have here." Dick circles around Jason, keeping enough distance between them for Jason to know he won't touch his wings. He takes in the bright red feathers, making note of quite a few that are bent and broken.

"Well, the good news is, you're not dying!" Dick jokes to lighten the mood. Jason rolls his eyes. "The bad news is there are quite a few feathers that need fixing or pruning. Luckily, you should be able to reach them all yourself. So I'll leave you over here to do that and…"

"Wait!" Jason interrupts him, reaching out towards him. Dick looks at him questioningly. Jason's face goes red, even as he tries his best to hide by ducking his head. "Can you help me?"

Dick stares at him, dumbfound. He continues in a rush before Dick can even think of a response. "It's just. When that mugger threw me into the wall, it hurt my arm. And like, it'll hurt if I try and reach behind me. Ya know?"

Dick knows its a lie. He watched Jason get thrown into that wall. He knows he landed nowhere near his arm and his wings took the brunt of the landing. What Dick doesn't know is why Jason is lying about it. Why is he making excuses for Dick to touch his wings?

"Are you sure that's what you want?" Dick asks slowly.

"I wouldn't ask otherwise! 'Sides, you're just helping me with my wings. S'not like its a big deal."

Dick stares at him again, wordless. Does Jason really not know? Dick thought Jason had done research after Dick first showed him how to care for his wings. Why else would he refuse to let anyone else help him? Was Jason really just that protective of his wings that he wouldn't let anyone touch them even without knowing the significance of the action?

"Do you… really not know what your asking?"

"What are you talking 'bout, Dickhead?"

Dick takes a deep breath. "Grooming is a very personal thing, Little Wing. Usually, someone's closest family are the only ones allowed to get close enough to their wings to touch them."

And their significant other His mind whispers to him. He's not sure where the thought comes from. He ignores it in favor of watching Jason's reaction.

Jason's face falls at Dick's words. "Are ya sayin' you don't see me as family?" He whispers.

"No no, that's not what I mean at all, Jay. You're my little brother. I would love to help! It's you I'm worried about. I don't want to do anything that could make you uncomfortable, especially if you don't know the meaning of it."

"Then there's no issue. I asked you to help, doesn't matter if I knew or not. And I meant it. So ya gonna help me or not?"

Dick smiles softly as he starts making his way closer to his brother. "I would be honored."

It takes them a while to find a comfy position for Dick to be able to reach what he needs easily, but once they do Dick begins. They're silent for a while as Dick carefully runs his fingers through the feathers in front of him. They're even more beautiful up close. The feeling of the soft down feathers on his fingers makes Dick want to coo. He holds himself back, knowing this moment is too precious, too momentous, to ruin for something so stupid.

Jason is the one to break the silence. "They used to think they could touch 'em whenever they wanted." He mumbles.

"Who did?"

"Everyone. 'Ts why I'm so protective of 'em. When I was on the streets, people would come up and try to touch 'em without even askin' first. Or they thought they could try to nab me and either sell or use me. It's part of why I stopped bothering to keep the dirt off of 'em. People are less likely to touch dirty brown wings than bright red ones."

Dick's heart breaks for his little brother. He gently fixes a troublesome feather as he tries to think of a response.

"I won't let any of them touch you again. I promise." He feels Jason move a little closer to him as he says the words.

"You're the only one I'll let touch my wings, Dickie." Dick feels warm at the words, and doesn't know how to interpret the feeling. He settles for finishing up the final feather and pulling Jason into a hug, carefully avoiding the newly groomed wings.

"I'll help you whenever you want, Jay. All you have to do is ask."

Jason cuddles in closer to him. "Thanks Dickie."

"No problem."

***

Dick is never able to follow up on that offer.

A few months later, Dick is unaware of a missed phone call while on a mission with the Titans.

A few months later he learns that a woman named Sheila Haywood had bright red wings.

~~~

3

"Hey Dickie! You promised you'd help me groom if I ever asked, right? Come help me."

"Dickface! Some of my feathers are crooked, could you fix 'em for me?"

"Big Brother, come on! My wings are right here. Don't you want to touch them?"

"I want you to groom me as more than a brother."

Dick only tried once. As soon as his hands went through the illusion, the resulting breakdown dissuaded him from ever trying again.

~~~

4

When the Red Hood first comes to Gotham, he's seen with large black wings. No one actually sees him fly with them though. It seems he prefers the good old fashioned grappling gun like the rest of Gotham's vigilante population. The fact that he has them at all should've helped the investigation into who he is. But no, that's not what ends up happening.

From what Dick hears, it goes like this. Batman, Joker, and Red Hood exist in a room together. Red Hood's wings are hidden for once, and Batman tries to figure out why that's the case. When Hood finally brings them out of hiding, they are no longer black. They are bright red.

Jason takes his helmet off and forces Bruce to choose. Him or Joker?

Bruce chooses to disarm him with a batarang to the hand.

From then on, Red Hood can be seen with bright red wings. He still doesn't use them to fly, and Dick has to wonder why. Clearly, just as it healed the stunted growth in the rest of his body, the pit caused Jason's wings to grow bigger and stronger than before. They are clearly capable of carrying his weight. Dick would think that the other would be ecstatic to be able to fly properly. Yet he hasn't used them once.

It's only later Dick learns why.

Later, being one night on patrol when Nightwing is investigating a noise complaint near an abandoned warehouse on the edge of Crime Alley. Apparently, loud crashes and grunts of pain have been reported around the same time every night for the past week and a half. Batman wants Nightwing to check it out to make sure it isn't the start of a fighting ring or something similar, despite the fact that it's skirting on the edge of Hood's territory.

Nightwing makes his way to the roof of the warehouse, looking in from the skylight. He can't see anything yet from where he's watching. He's about to move in to perch on the rafters inside when he sees something fly straight into a pile of empty crates below.

He lands silently on the rafters. A body is crumpled next to the pile of crates, and he can only assume that's the thing he saw. He scans the rest of the warehouse to see what threw them, but there is nothing around that could have done it. He hears a noise of frustration and turns back to the body.

Whoever it is is now standing up, black wings puffed up behind them. The wings look like they've seen better days, and getting smashed into a bunch of crates likely isn't helping.

Nightwing watches as the person climbs on top of the crates they just crashed into. He has to wonder what they're planning to do up there.

He holds back a shout of surprise when the person jumps off of the crate, wings outstretched. What the hell are they thinking? They won't be able to do anything with their wings in that condition!

Nightwing's just starting to get an idea of what's happening, when the person glides straight into another pile of crates nearby. It's as the voice lets out an aggravated shout of "Motherfucker!'" that the last piece of the puzzle clicks.

Dick makes his way down to the ground, not bothering to hide his presence. Jason, of course, notices him right away.

"What the fuck do you want, Dickhead?"

"Well, I was investigating a noise complaint, on the off chance it's a fighting ring. Turns out, it's just a little bird learning to fly."

"Oh, fuck off."

"Seriously though, Jay, what do you think you're doing, trying to fly like that?" Dick puts his hands on his hips to show his disapproval.

"What? What's wrong with what I'm doing? This is how birds learn, ain't it? Jumping out of the nest and all that shit?"

"Well first of all, their wings don't look like a tornado ran through them." Dick chuckles as he takes a step forward, arm outreached to right a feather on the now obviously dyed wings. "Here, let me just-"

"Don't fucking touch them," Jason snarls as he steps back, straight into the crates behind him. For a moment Dick is brought back to when they first met, and in front of him is now a scared little kid protecting his wings when everyone else took advantage of them.

Dick puts his hands up instantly and takes a step back.

"Sorry. I shouldn't of assumed. I'll just let you-"

"Wait." And just like that, Dick sees yet another version of his little brother, one shyly asking him for help, arm grasping out to stop Dick from leaving him.

"Just… fucking help me fix these shitty feathers. While you do that, you can tell me just what it is I'm supposedly doing wrong."

Dick can see what Jason is trying to hide beneath those words. An olive branch, an offer to start what they hadn't been able to before Jason died. He smiles.

"Sure, Little Wing."

"They're not so little anymore, Dickwing."

Dick laughs as he fixes a feather. "I've told you before, that's not what I mean. You'll always be my little brother, big wings or not."

Dick ignores the pang in his heart at those words, choosing to not think about the implications.

"Whatever." Jason grumbles. "Just tell me what I'm doing wrong already dammit."

Dick laughs again. It's just so easy to laugh when he's with Jason. It's nice.

~~~

5.

Things don't get better overnight, but as time goes on they get easier. Dick still hasn't helped preen Jason's wings again, but it's not because of any bad blood. They're both just busy. They're vigilantes, they don't have time to get together just so Dick can help straighten a few of Jason's feathers. As much as Dick would love to be able to do just that.

Instead, they start small. Mostly, it's shared meals on rooftops during patrol. Dick cherishes these moments. Observing the people below while enjoying each other's company. Sharing jokes that cause Jason to lightly shove Dick for how stupid they are. Watching Jason with awe as the moonlight hits his face just right while he's laughing at said stupid jokes.

You know. Normal brotherly things.

Ok, so Dick might slowly be coming to terms with the fact that he sees Jason as more than just a brother. Coming to terms with the fact that apparently this isn't a new development. But that's fine. It doesn't change anything. Besides, he's fine with what they have now. There was a time that Dick thought he'd never have Jason in his life ever again, so he knows not to take what they have for granted.

And so, he sits here now and watches as Jason talks animatedly about one thing or another, and treasures the fact that he's able to see the other so lively.

"-and then this Karen-ass bitch turns to me and says… Dickwing are you even listening to me?"

Dick snaps out of his staring. "Of course I am!"

"You sure? Cause my eyes are up here." That's when Dick realizes that he's spent the last five minutes staring at Jason's chest. Its not Dick's fault Jason's tits are huge!

Dick tries to think of a reasonable excuse. Well his wings are right there, and there is a question that's been on his mind…

"Fine. I was just thinking. What's with the black wings?" Of course, they're red right now. It's Red Hood's whole brand now that he's revealed them. But before the reveal, he must have spent so much time and money dyeing them.

"Isn't it obvious? Didn't want Bruce realizing right away who I was, but I still wanted the intimidation factor. The red is too identifiable. I've only met one other person with red wings, and she's currently 6 feet under where she belongs. Though nowadays when I'm in civies I usually just go wingless. Helluva lot easier than dyeing them just to go grocery shopping."

Dick laughs, but his brain is stuck on something else he said. "That reminds me, how did you not realize your wings didn't come from Willis or Catherine?"

Jason shrugs. ""Never asked. Figured with Willis having rusty brown wings that it was just a mutation that made em brighter or somethin'."

Dick nods. It makes sense.

The two sit in silence for a minute before Jason speaks up. "Speaking of. There's this one feather that's been bothering the heck outta me. Would you…help after we're done tonight."

Dick's shocked by the request, but he doesn't let it show. "Of course, Little Wing!"

***

The end of patrol can't come soon enough. But eventually, the two make their way to one of Jason's safehouses.

"I'm gonna grab a shower real quick. Might as well force you to do the whole shebang so I don't have to later."

Dick laughs outwardly in response, but on the inside he's screaming. This won't just be a simple preen to fix a few feathers and be on his way. Jason is actively asking him to spend the time thoroughly grooming him. His heart swells at the thought that his Little Wing trusts him this much.

While Jason showers, Dick takes a look around the safehouse. It looks lived in, likely one Jason uses often in comparison to others. The bookshelf in the main area is nearly full, and he can see bookmarks sticking out of some of them. There's clean dishes in the drying rack, and fresh fruit on the counter.

Dick pulls off the outer layers of his Nightwing uniform and plops onto the sofa, making himself comfortable. Of course, for him this means resting his legs where a head should go and hanging his head over the edge. He scrolls on his phone like this until he hears a chuckle from right in front of him.

"I shouldn't be surprised to find you like this, Dickhead." Dick looks over the top of his phone (or would it be the bottom, being upside down?) and freezes. His vision is filled with bare thighs, barely concealed under the towel that's wrapped around Jason's waist. In fact, not much else is covered by it. In fact, if Dick slides his head just a little bit lower, he would get quite the view. And if Dick reaches his arm out just far enough, he could easily grasp the very edge and rip that towel right off…

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." Jason smirks as he says it.

God, can I?, Dick absolutely does not respond.

Instead, he pulls his legs forward towards his chest to roll off the couch and get back onto his feet. The feat causes him to land facing away from Jason, so he turns around to respond. However, the roll also caused Dick to be even closer to Jason. Now he stands almost chest to chest with the other man. Dick's chest, which is covered only by the undershirt he wore under the layers of his uniform. And Jason's chest, which is covered by nothing but drops of water from his recent shower.

Dick is proud to say he does not yelp at the realization, but it is a damn near thing. He takes a few steps backwards, almost crumbling when the backs of his knees hit the sofa. Jason raises an eyebrow at that.

"You good, Dickie?"

"Yup, yup. All good here. You ready to start? Got everything we need?"

Jason lifts his hand, which Dick only now realizes has a bag in its grip. He places it on the ground in front of the couch. "Got everything right here. Scoot over and let me sit, will ya."

He pushes past Dick to sit on the other side of the couch, angled so that his wings face out. It gives Dick a moment to collect himself before grabbing the bag to ruffle through it. What he sees makes his heart melt a little.

Everything in the bag is the same exact brands as the ones Dick first bought all of those years ago, after that first time he helped.

"Wow. These bring back memories." He sees Jason tense in front of him, but he can't see his face to know what he's thinking.

"Yeah well, it's what I know, and it works. Why fix it if it ain't broken." He sounds embarrassed.

"Aw, its okay to be sentimental, Little Wing." Dick teases.

"Shut it, Dickwing, and get to work."

Dick laughs. "Sir yes sir."

It's quiet for a while as Dick works. Dick takes his time, admiring the feathers for the first time up close since before Jason died. Sure, there was that one time in the warehouse, but that didn't last long, and they were dyed at the time. But now, with no products whatsoever, Dick can properly see how they have changed since the pit. They're bigger, obviously, and somehow even softer than before. Dick could probably spend hours running his fingers through them if he was allowed.

"You know." Jason mumbles quietly, almost as if he doesn't want Dick to actually hear him. "You're still the only person I let touch my wings."

Dick doesn't know how to respond. Sure, he knew Jason was protective of his wings, so he's not surprised by this. But why is he bringing it up? It's hard for Dick to make out how Jason feels about his statement when he can't see his face, but he can only imagine.

"Aw, Jay." He coos teasingly. He continues, despite the pain his next words bring him. "One day you'll find a nice girl to settle down with, and you won't have to ask your big brother to help you groom anymore."

Jason turns around at that, and Dick barely manages to avoid pulling out the feather he was grasping when he does so.

"What the hell are you talking about Dick?"

"Oh? Maybe a nice boy instead? I didn't mean to assume. I mean I myself don't really have a preference either way-" Jason cuts him off.

"No I mean why would I let someone else touch my wings. Ain't that shit for family or whatever?"

Oh .

"Well you see, when a mommy and a daddy love each other very much…"

Jason shoves him off the sofa at that. "I'm serious. You're the one who told me grooming was for family and shit."

Dick holds his hands up placatingly. "Well, yeah. But I guess it's more accurate to say the people you love, you know? Like, after you outgrow your family or whatever, who else would you let do it? For most people, it's their significant other."

Jason looks thoughtful as Dick speaks, but he can't really decipher just what those thoughts are. Dick decides that this is probably a good moment for him to finish up and head out. He's made things pretty awkward at this point.

He stands up and starts walking over to the window they came in. "Well, I'm just about finished here. I'll get out of your hair now. See you later, Jay."

"Hold up." Jason calls, and Dick hears him stand up as he does. Dick turns back around and has to hold back a blush at the reminder that Jason is still in only a towel. It gets harder to hide as Jason stares him in the eyes intensely, as if looking for something. Dick doesn't know what he's looking for, nor if he finds it, but he continues speaking before Dick can think too much into it. "I won't outgrow you, Dick. That, I can promise."

Dick can't deny he flees quickly after he hears those words, a furious blush on his face the entire way home.

~~~

+1

It starts like this.

Jason offers to brush Dick's hair back when it starts getting longer. Dick thinks nothing of it, simply thanks him when he's done.

After that, it's Jason straightening Dick's outfit before they enter a gala together. Nothing too weird, Dick has a habit of dressing quick and crooked.

But then it's Jason tending to wounds that normally wouldn't even get a bandage. Or finding out Jason is the one to sponge bath Dick the one time he was injured and unconscious in the Medbay. Had volunteered to do so even.

That last one is the thing that causes Dick to crack. He needs to find out what's going on.

The next time they patrol together, Dick offers to go back to a safehouse to check out their wounds. It's a rough night and they both have plenty. So it isn't too weird of a request.

When they both get to the nearest safehouse, Dick climbs in the window after Jason, locking it behind himself.

They both start taking off the outer layers of their uniforms in order to get a closer look at their injuries. Luckily, there isn't anything too bad. The two spend a few minutes sitting on the couch in silence tending to themselves. It's as Dick is about to rub some bruise cream onto his back that Jason grabs his hand.

"Here, let me." He says, pouring some on his hand and turning Dick so he can slowly rub it in. Dick melts into the touch, almost forgetting what he was here to do. Jason spends a bit longer than expected rubbing what doesn't feel like that big of a bruise. When he finally goes to move away Dick grabs his hands.

"Alright. What's going on?"

"What the fuck are you talking about, Dickface? I'm literally just helping you with your injuries."

"Yeah. But why? We both know I'm more than flexible enough to reach my back easily. And all the other times we do this, where you dress wounds that no one else would've batted an eye at."

"Well sorry for making sure you take care of yourself." He snatches his hands back, only to cross them over his chest indignantly.

"Sure, but what about the other things. Fixing my clothes. Brushing my hair. Things like that. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost say you were-"

He cuts himself off, his mouth falling open as his eyes widen in realization. He stares at Jason in shock, and watches as a small flash of fear appears and disappears just as quickly in the other's eyes.

"Almost say I was what." Dick knows Jason tries to make it sound defiant, but it comes out so small that knows he's right in his assumption.

"You're grooming me." It's not a question, but Jason responds as if it were.

"Of course not. Why the hell would I do that?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out. I don't have wings, so why would you feel the need to?" Dick takes a moment to think about it. Sure, if it was a parent to a wingless child, they may use grooming as a source of comfort for the child. Or as a bonding experience between two younger siblings. But they're both adults. They have other ways to bond as siblings. Things they do regularly.

So why is Jason doing this? And why now?

Dick's breath catches as he realizes something. When did this all start? It was not long after the last time Dick helped preen Jason's feathers.

"I won't outgrow you, Dickie. That, I can promise."

Hope fills his chest.

"The last time we talked about this." Dick starts carefully and he sees Jason tense. He continues. "I told you it's not just for family."

Jason remains silent, simply staring at him.

"It's for significant others as well."

Nothing. Dick needs him to say something.

"Jay…" Dick places a hand on Jason's arm. "Why did you start grooming me after I told you that?"

"You were raised by a detective just like I was. I don't think you need me to help you figure it out."

"I need to hear you say it. Please, Jason."

Jason searches his eyes and sighs at what he sees. His posture is still defensive as he speaks. "I don't want you to touch my wings because you're family, Dickie. I don't think I thought of it like that. Even before I knew what it all meant."

Dick wants to jump for joy, cartwheel around the room, anything to display the rush of emotions in his chest at Jason's words. But he doesn't want to scare the other off, not when he looks so tense, like any moment he can turn around and flee.

Instead, he moves his hand from Jason's arm to his cheek, cupping it softly. "You're not the only one, Jay. I think… No, I know I've wanted you since you were Robin."

And with that, he leans in.

***

If Dick thought Jason's wings were soft before, he couldn't have imagined the feel of Jason wrapping him up in them.

End Note: What is it with me putting Jason in just a towel only for Dick to not jump his bones? Boy, you missin your chance here.

This is my longest ever completed work, and I'm kinda proud of that.

So that's the end of JayDick Week (the official week, anyway). And I gotta say this was such an experience. This was my first time participating in any event like this and I had such a great time. I haven't had such motivation to write in actual years.

This fic was actually the first one I wrote for this event. Something about the prompt just grabbed me by the throat and forced me to work on it non-stop. But reading it back before posting, it's interesting to see just how much the consistent writing practice affected my writing. When my friend helped me with day 3, she pointed out some problems with my writing that I never really knew how to fix before. She helped me, and I feel like my writing has gotten better just for that. When I first wrote this I was so proud, but now I can see a lot of room for improvement. I've lightly edited this to add some grammatical changes, but I don't wanna completely change it because it's just so interesting to see the before and after of the week.

I have so many ideas for the DC fandom, and a bunch of other DC events, and I cant wait to see how much my writing grows as I continue to practice more than I ever have before, even when getting my college degree (and what does that tell you about the American education system, that I'm learning more about writing via gay smut than college specifically for writing)

Thank you all so much for reading and commenting throughout the week

And as always: If there's any errors, feel free to say in the comments. Or if you just want to talk.

Come talk to me elsewhere

AO3 Tumblr Twitter Bluesky

[starwarsmum]

Day 3! Today's prompt is Head Over Feet

@maribat-calendar-events

Marinette packed the last box in her room and glanced around. The room felt larger than before, the bed neatly made and the desk empty. The bookshelf was bare of trinkets and novels, freshly dusted and gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. 

“You know, when I said I wanted Nino to move in I didn't mean you had to move out,” Alya said, leaning against the door jamb. Marinette smiled at her and came over to give her best friend a hug.

“I do know that, but I also know that a two bed apartment with three people is a squeeze. I was thinking about moving to America anyway, this is just a good time to do it. So really, I should be thanking you both for the push.”

“Sure, if that's what you're telling yourself,” Alya snorted, hugging her back tightly. “You promise to call if you need anything, day or night? I don't want you worrying about the time difference if you need something.”

“I promise.”

_ _ _

Stepping off the plane in New Jersey, Marinette felt a whisper of change in the air. As she'd come into her powers as Guardian, she had noticed that her instincts had honed and, more frequently now, she could anticipate when something big was going to happen. She assumed it was her link to Fluff making her more attuned to the future.

It didn't feel like a bad change, but it was something she would be on the lookout for. Normally, when she felt this particular whisper, it meant that she should take an opportunity. It gave her a flutter in her stomach, an anticipation that made her twitch a little as she grabbed her luggage and made her way over to the taxi rank.

She looked at the sparse few taxis and let her instinct pull her over to one that looked a little beat up. It was surprisingly clean inside, and the man driving it was devilishly handsome with dark hair and a strong build. He smiled at her and asked where she needed to go, not once leering at her or making her feel uncomfortable.

“I'm actually headed into Gotham,” she said, putting her luggage in the seat next to her as she slid in. “I'm staying in the fashion district…” she rattled off the address and he nodded along. Before long he had pulled away and was chattering easily as they made their way to Gotham.

He pulled up in front of the apartment building and she frowned slightly. She could just about see the resemblance to the photos she had viewed online, but there was at least a decade’s worth of dirt and grime built up on it all. The cabbie chuckled when he saw her face.

“Look a little different to what you were expecting?”

“Yes, but I'm locked into the contract for at least six months so it'll have to do,” she said, paying him and tipping generously. He tried to protest but she leveled a glare at him until he relented. “Thank you, I hope you have a lovely night.”

Using the key that had been posted to her, and the code she had been emailed the day before, she got into her new apartment and breathed a sigh of relief. It was cleaner inside than out, the walls a little dingy but the floors were clear of dirt. The room's were bare, ready for her to furnish as she wanted but there were appliances in the kitchen.

She was glad she’d known it wouldn't have a bed and pulled a yoga mat, pillow, and blanket out of her suitcase. She could probably get a solid six hours of sleep if she crashed then, and then she could go find a coffee shop and somewhere to get some furniture delivered.

As she lay down, Tikki curled up in the crook of her neck and they went to sleep.

_ _ _

Tim sat on top of the Wayne Enterprises building as he worked on some of his patrol logs. He had his ear on comms but if he could get the paperwork done while he waited to be needed he could just go to bed when his shift ended. 

“Yo, Robin, I think the guys we've been waiting for are ready to get in the cab,” Dick's voice crackled into life in his ear and he sighed before giving two clicks to let him know he was on his way. It didn't take long for him to land on the outer edges of Gotham, following the only road that would lead from the New Jersey airport. 

Dick's voice carried on, generic questions about what they were doing in town, whether they needed advice on where to stay…it wouldn't have worked for anyone else, but something about Dick just disarmed people. 

As soon as they left the cab - barely bothering to pay for the ride, until the last guy to exit seemed to realise it might cause problems to short change and Gotham cabbie - Tim took over surveilling the trio of men, following them to a warehouse. Once he was sure that this was their base, he slipped in and planted a recording device with a direct link to his tablet.

“Okay, I'm all done with that, I'll send you the link to the videos and audio once they start rolling in.”

“Thanks Robin,” Dick said easily and Tim grinned even though he couldn't be seen. “I didn't tell you about the woman I picked up at the airport yet! She gave me an insane tip after I dropped her off in the fashion district.”

“Wait, a woman travelling alone in the middle of the night just…got in your cab? Did she have a death wish or something, we made that cab look sketchy as hell!”

“I know, right? She was super confident too, gave me her actual address and everything. She was moving to town, I hope she doesn't end up doing something stupid. She was kind of cute and that doesn't always go down well in Gotham.”

“Do I need to warn Oracle that you've got wandering eyes?” Tim said in an amused voice.

“Hey, absolutely not! I'm head over heels for my one true love,” Dick said hotly, making Tim snigger. “I was thinking more like cute for you. You haven't been on all that many dates since you and Wonder Girl finally called it quits and I know it can get lonely up at the manor.”

“Well thanks, but no thanks. I'm doing just fine and I don't think dating a ditzy girl who thinks traveling at night in Gotham is a smart way to spend time is really my type.”

[slippinmickeys]

Proof of Life

(AU, MSR)

TW: This is an AU idea I’ve been playing with for years, and while this does not take place there, in light of the recent atrocities in the Middle East, the situations presented herein may cause discomfort for some readers. I’m posting a trigger warning for those who may want to stay away. There are mentions of violence in this work, though nothing graphic. I’m using an archive warning on AO3 out of an abundance of caution. Please take care of yourselves and each other.

1. When she’s shoved into the hotel room, it is on a scorching dump of adrenaline; dry-throat, sphincter-clenching, pure terror. She’s sure this is It. But the door closes behind her before she’s finished stumbling forward, and no one has followed her in.

The relief she feels is short-lived, as she looks up to see a man sitting on the floor opposite her, legs out straight, head propped lazily against the wall behind him, days worth of beard stubble growing unevenly over his jaw. He is holding a mid-century Nikon, which he slowly raises with one arm. A squint through the viewfinder. Click.

Ten floors down, on the street below, there is the rapid insect-chitter of gunfire. He doesn’t so much as flinch, but does lower his camera.

“Cable is out and room service hasn’t showed in over a week,” he says in an American accent. “The service here is terrible.”

Her producer Murray, who also acted as her translator, is dead. Mikey was shoved into a different van, along with his camera and the soft-sided bag of cables and equipment. That communication won’t be a struggle with what she now assumes is her new cell mate feels like a holy deliverance.

Before she can formulate a response, he introduces himself.

“Name’s Mulder,” he says, the distant fireworks-like concussion of an explosion punctuating his statement and rattling the room’s single window.

“Dana Scully,” she says, feeling an odd compulsion to cross the room and offer the man a handshake.

“Scully,” he repeats, her surname rolling off his tongue like honey out of a jar. “Welcome to the Hilton.”

2. He’d let her take the bed, which was pretty chivalrous, all things considered.

It was a queen, and had been shoved up against the wall on the far corner of the room, leaving a soft rectangle of plush, clean carpet upon which Mulder slept, surrounded by flattened, trodden paths of grime. The headboard was still affixed to the wall where the bed had previously sat, giving the room a tilting, off-kilter feel. As Scully exits the bathroom in the morning, she nearly stumbles from the vertigo.

There is still a trickle of water from the bathroom sink, and the toilet tank takes about an hour to properly fill, but Mulder informs her that he has yet had reason to use the slop bucket the militants have helpfully left just inside the door. She imagines the small relief she feels now will likely grow bigger as the days pass.

“Morning,” Mulder says, stretching elaborately, the soiled henley he’s wearing lifting up enough to show a few inches of lean muscle sprinkled with dark hair.

“Morning,” she greets him, wandering over to the window to peer out at the gray, post-dawn light. To the west, part of the city is burning, a dull orange glow on the horizon.

After a moment, she feels a gentle hand on her arm.

“I’d stay away from the window,” Mulder says, and when she turns to him, she discovers that he’s tall, far taller than she is, and his hazel eyes are soft as he leads her away from the square of flat light. “There are snipers all over the city.”

She swallows, nods at him, and he gives her a soft smile as he turns to head into the bathroom for his own morning ablutions. She lowers herself to the bed, and looks to the shoes she kicked off before crawling under the covers. There is a spatter of blood covering the canvas upper of her left shoe, all that remains of Murray Underwood. She tries to feel something other than numbness, but nothing comes to the surface.

When Mulder comes out of the bathroom, he asks if she’s hungry, and produces a slender yellow box of crackers from somewhere in the room, pulling out a cellophane-wrapped column of pale disks dotted with black seeds that he hands over when she says she’s famished.

She has finished the sleeve before she thinks to offer him one, but he smiles and says he’s fine.

3. It has been three days since she was shoved unceremoniously into room 1055 and they have not seen so much as another human other than those darting between buildings on the war torn street below.

She has learned that Mulder is a freelance photojournalist from Massachusetts who has photographed conflicts everywhere from Burma to the Congo and that he was taken two days before she and her crew were ambushed and taken hostage themselves.

He does not have an apartment or permanent mailing address, traveling from conflict to conflict with only a backpack and his camera, and is far more comfortable with the disturbing noises outside the hotel than Scully ever will be, no matter how much she fancies herself a war reporter.

He has just gotten her to laugh for the first time since her arrival when the door to their room bursts open and three militants carrying assault rifles trample in, all three of them shouting words Scully can’t understand, their guns up as if they are about to shoot.

Mulder, who had been sitting on the bed next to her, is already up, spitting out words in rapid-fire French and positioning himself in between the gunmen and Scully. The militants either don’t understand him or don’t care and through a haze of adrenal tinnitus she can finally make out one thing they’re saying:

“CNN! CNN!”

She raises her hand meekly.

“I’m CNN,” she says, and the men shove Mulder aside and grab her by both arms, pulling her from the bed and shoving her up against the wall.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” Mulder says, making a move to intervene, only to be cold-cocked by the butt of the third man’s rifle right in the face. He staggers to the side before he too is grabbed by the arms and shoved up against the wall next to Scully. All three men swing up their rifles and Scully is certain they’re about to be executed when a fourth man appears, dressed in an actual military uniform and shoves a newspaper into Scully’s hand, gripping her arm in annoyance when she turns it to stare at the headline, which is printed in a language she doesn’t understand.

The man barks something at her and yanks on her arms again, so that she’s holding the paper in front of her like a con holding up a booking ID in a mugshot. He whips up a beat-up disposable camera and takes a picture, the little flash blinding her.

By the time her vision clears, the room is once again empty but for she and Mulder and they are both breathing hard in the silence. Mulder is the first one to find his voice.

“Don’t worry,” he says, putting a hand on her arm. “They’re clearly after a ransom. They’ll keep us alive. Are you okay?” She turns to him dumbly, still holding the newspaper.

The sight of blood knocks her back into the present.

“Jesus, Mulder, you’re bleeding.”

There is a rivulet of blood running down his face from a laceration at his temple. He raises up a hand and touches it to the stream, looking down at the crimson smudge with a wince.

“I’ll be alright,” he says.

“Let me see,” she says, trying to get a closer look, but he gently swats her hand away.

“I’ll be fine.”

“That likely needs stitches,” she says, and he makes a face. She sighs. “I’m doctor, Mulder. Please let me take a look. Sit on the bed.”

He finally relents, lowering himself to sit and giving her a look askance. “I thought you were a reporter for CNN.”

“I contain multitudes,” she says, stepping in close and tilting his chin up with her finger.

He hasn’t showered in days, hasn’t done more than a few hasty washcloth seam cleans, she knows, but the smell of him up close, the smell of his skin – sun-warmed and woodsy – is so familiar to her that she has to blink a few times before she can refocus on the task at hand.

“It needs stitches,” she proclaims after a moment, saying it in a crisp, no-nonsense way that brooks no argument.

“It’s too bad we don’t have access to-”

“I saw a sewing kit in the bathroom,” she interrupts, and she can see the moment he resigns himself to her ministrations.

He complains loudly as she splashes the cut with the small bottle of complementary Listerine, but remains silent as she sutures his wound closed, leaning in close to bite off the thread when she finishes. As she pulls back, she can see a thought flit across his face, but he merely thanks her softly when she’s done and then stands to go clean up in the bathroom.

That night, she invites him to share the bed, and they sleep on opposite edges, though in the morning their fingers are only inches away from each other and her feet have found their way under the warm meat of his leg.

4. It was inevitable really, she says to herself; forced proximity, the bonding of shared peril, two healthy middle-aged sex drives… And it’s not like there’s anything else to do. She thinks of Ethan, probably losing his mind with worry back in the newsroom, but can only muster a finite amount of regret. After two weeks of carefully skirting around the issue, she pressed her body into Mulder’s side one night and it was as if a floodgate had opened, and they were all teeth and tongues and hands everywhere; the most lustful and sensual sex she has ever had in her life.

They have not been disturbed since the Proof of Life incident, other than food of some sort or another being shoved through a cracked door every few days, and so they have taken to not wearing much — their clothes mainly hanging up over the shower curtain in the bathroom, perpetually drying from their feeble attempts to wash them with a credit card-sized, ever-shrinking flat of generic soap that they also must use on their bodies.

Mulder is a generous lover, and affectionate, and now that he has carte blanche to touch her, it seems like it’s all he wants to do. If they’re not lazing away, curled up together in bed, he’ll find a reason to touch her arm, her back, tapping her with the back of his finger to get her attention. She has come to crave his touch, the physical manifestation of a pair-bond that grips them both so tightly it feels sometimes like a vice around her heart.

5. The fighting has moved to a different part of the city from where they are, and the sounds of the chaos seem almost a far-away afterthought. She is standing in the window, something she finally feels safe doing, when she hears a telltale click.

She turns to find Mulder propped up in the bed, bare chested, his beat-up Nikon held up to his eye. He reaches forward with his other hand to adjust the focus, and takes another snap.

Scully smiles at him shyly and he returns her grin.

“The light is perfect,” he says with bedroom eyes, using his thumb to advance the film. He has already gone through three rolls since she arrived, every picture he’s taken since day five all featuring her as the subject.

“You’re beautiful,” he says.

She reaches up self-consciously to touch her hair. They are long-since out of shampoo, and it hangs in limp, greasy clumps. She is more embarrassed by this than by the state of her undress; she is not wearing a stitch of clothing.

“Something tells me this isn’t the kind of picture Newsweek generally pays you for.”

“Fuck Newsweek,” he says. “You belong in the Louvre.”

She shakes her head at him as a sound they have not heard in a while begins to build from outside the building. They both pause and cock their heads, attuned now to the odd sounds of a city under siege. From the distance comes the deep tucka-tucka-tucka of a helicopter. They share a look.

The militants who control this part of the city do not have a helicopter amongst their resources, and now that the sound is getting closer, they can tell there’s more than one approaching.

Without a word they both make their way to the bathroom and quickly don their stiff clothing.

“Shoes too,” Mulder says, as Scully puts her arms through her slippery jacket — it still has a large patch on the back that says “PRESS.”

The helicopters are almost on top of them now, and they can hear shouts from the hallway outside their room and the muffled thump thump thump of boots running in both directions.

“Into the tub,” Mulder instructs, and she sees the sense in this, nodding at him, her pulse beating quick as a rabbit’s beneath her skin. “I’ll get in first, you lay flat on top of me, okay?”

“Should we grab the mattress?” Scully asks, thinking they could pull it on top of themselves like she’d seen covering tornado-stricken parts of the Midwest.

“I don’t think there’s time,” Mulder says, his Adam’s apple bobbing as a spate of gunfire erupts from several floors above them.

He lowers himself in and she scrambles in after him, pressing her face into his chest and listening to the tight thump of his heart. The tub isn’t really big enough for both of them — Mulder couldn’t even fit his long legs all the way inside of it — but she feels safer than she has in months, with Mulder’s arms wrapped around her tightly, and his voice softly mumbling words of comfort into her ear.

There is an awful CRACK! from very close to their room and then an eruption of noise and chaos as the door to their room is blown apart, shards of wood from it blowing into the bathroom. Her ears are ringing and voices are shouting, but all she can focus on is Mulder’s arms around her and the soft steady sound of his voice in her ear saying “I love you. I love you so much,” over and over and over.

And then Mulder’s camera bag is sliding off of her legs (because of course he’d brought it into the tub with them) as strong arms lift her up and out of the tub and the next thing she knows, she is being frogmarched between two black-clad militants up an emergency stairwell and all the while she is calling desperately for Mulder but her voice or his is eaten up by noise and confusion.

In a further burst of sound and light, she is pushed through a door and onto the roof of the hotel where two muscular helicopters sit, blades spinning, surrounded by operatives crouched and bristling with all the sophisticated military might of a first world nation. She pulls up short in surprise.

“Ma’am! Ma’am!” It takes her a moment to register that the voice was coming from one of the soldiers holding her arms. She swings her head toward him, dumbfounded.

“Ma’am,” he goes on, having to shout above the cacophony of the rotor wash. “I’m with the United States Navy. We’re here to rescue you. I need you to board the aircraft immediately!”

Scully nods and then lets herself be swept along with the tide of soldiers surrounding her up and into the Blackhawk, where she is deposited onto a bench, buckled in, and handed a pair of bright orange foam earplugs which she is instructed to insert into her ear canals post haste.

Before she can think to ask a question, her chopper is airborne, tilting itself and veering south and the last sight she has of Mulder, for months and months, is the back of his body being hoisted into the other helicopter, his arms wrapped around his old camera bag as they’d been wrapped around her body not five minutes before.

[jhilsara]

I Can See You

Pt. 1/ Pt. 2/ Pt. 3/ Pt. 4/ Pt. 5/pt. 6/Pt. 7/Pt. 8/Pt. 9/ Pt. 10/

Pt. 11/ Pt.12/Pt.13/Pt. 14/Pt.15/Pt.16/Pt.17/END

Mariana Jimenez-Watson or MJ works in a normal pub living life paycheck to paycheck. Nothing exciting happens to her except the occasional drunk getting thrown out. She's 24 working away and finds a wrench thrown into her very boring life. His name is Hobie and she thinks maybe, a little excitement isn't awful. In fact she might start to crave some change for once.

Small moments of Hobie meeting his world's MJ. AKA I made an MJ variant and I think she's neat.

Chapter 6

It’s late, or early. She isn’t really certain. She is more than sure she's exhausted.

MJ is dragging her feet trying to get home at three in the morning. She’s ready to pass out after the shift she'd had at the pub. It had been a long night and it doesn't help that she's been on edge at work since some creepy man had tried to attack her. Not the highlight of her time working as a bartender.

The police did eventually show up and apprehend the man. Andy and Lars had stayed behind to call him in and also explain what happened. Her lead manager that had been dismissive of MJ's worries was promptly fired after. The owner apparently was not made aware of any of her concerns. Lars also wasn't alone as the bouncer anymore. The owner had hired two security posts for every night now, hoping to dissuade another incident.  

MJ's therapist had more than enough to unpack with her that month. She did feel leaps better after the owner profusely apologized about the lead manager ignoring her worries. That made her feel more supported.

Truly after her long shift, she just wants to go home. She was making plans to herself to put on her big hoodie and crawl into her warm bed after the hottest shower. Maybe even have a little snack. 

She slides her key into the door and is almost drooling at the thought of her soft, plushy bed. She shuffles in and trips over something in the entryway. She looks down and almost screams when she sees Hobie leaning against her wall and bleeding out on her floor. It looks like a crime scene with the lights off.

She throws her bag on the ground and turns on her light. She squats down in front of him checking his pulse making sure he’s alive. She moves to grab his face, holding it gently to make him look at her. His face was dirty, caked in blood and grime. Blood dripping down his forehead and lips. 

“Hey, hey, Hobie. I need you to look at me right now.” She pleads, voice a little pitched.

He barely peels his eyes open, he’s looking at her, but not really. More like he’s looking through her. He grunts in response. His eyes are blurry and she doesn't think he knows where he even is. 

“How long have you been here?” She asks moving his hand to look at the wound he’s been clutching at his side. There’s a decent pool of blood underneath him that looks to have been sitting there for a while.

“Couple a minutes, an hour… I don’t know…” He murmurs, his head lolling off to the side. His eyes start closing again, clearly a losing fight to stay awake. Which she needs him awake because she has no idea if he has a concussion. 

“Hey, nu-uh, you can’t do that right now. I need you to be present with me okay? I don’t know where you’re hurt.” She whispers to him. She holds his head back up, forcing him to look at her. Her brows furrowed in concern.

He nods his head, struggling to keep his eyes open. He's only half listening to her, but he is doing as she asks. 

Since finding out Hobie was Spider-Man he had started a habit of using her home like a 24/7 clinic. The first time he rolled into her home she yelled at him as he tumbled face first into her rug. She had to learn how to clean and dress wounds on the spot. She chastised him all the way through it. He scared the living daylights out of her and on top of that he just sat there laughing like it wasn't a big deal.

This though, this is the worst she’s seen him. There's so much blood and he doesn't look okay at all. His eyes can't focus on her and the distant look in his eyes scares her.

She moves to grab her medical kit, “What happened?” she prods trying to figure out what trouble he got into. 

“Not a big deal,” He tries to shrug but hisses in pain, “just got nicked by the Goblin is all.” He replies slurring his words together.

She bends down next to him and gives a disappointed look. “It is a big deal if you’re bleeding out on my floor.” She tells him with a slight scoff. “Can you take your shirt off or do I need to cut it?” she asks him digging around for her safety scissors.

He gives a soft chuckle but does as he’s told. His top clings to his skin and it's sticky where his bloods dried. He groans in pain as he peels the dried blood off of him with his top. “We should go on a date before I strip for ya.” He teases.

She rolls her eyes, “If you’re coherent enough to joke I should be meaner to you.” She mumbles to herself.

She grabs some alcohol to clean up his injury with from her medical kit. She soaks up a soft hand towel to start cleaning around his wounds.

“Oh come on, ya love it.” He says reaching for her hand so she’ll look up at him.

Her fierce gaze flashes to him and his face falters a bit. She knows she's being harsh, but she's never seen him so beat up. It scares her. Maybe it's because she childishly believes he's invincible. This is a hard moment as she realizes he can get hurt.

“What I would love right now, is for you to shut up so I can clean you up enough for you to take a shower without bleedin’ all over my bathroom.” She states giving him a pointed look. 

He nods his head silently and lets her work.

She cleans the area surrounding his wound, he’s mostly stopped bleeding but it’s a nasty gash. Once it’s clean she can disinfect. She looks closer at his wound and assesses his face too. He’s got a few good scraps along his brow bone and one of his piercings definitely looks like it’s caused some damage. Almost like his eyebrow piercing ripped out.

She quietly continues to work, ignoring Hobie’s grunts and hisses of pain as she cleans his face. Her brow furrowed in concentration. She's afraid if she pauses and looks him in the eye she won't be able to finish. She wants to scream at him to be more careful, but she also just wants to hold him tightly and protect him.

“Anywhere else that was bleedin’?” she asks him softly.

He shakes his head no. She pats his thigh reassuringly. “Go take a shower and let me know when you’re done. I need to bandage you but you need a shower first.” She tells him.

He groans but lets her help him stand up. “Don’t leave a mess in there alright?” she teases him lightly.

“No promises, I’m pretty grimy.” He jokes as he shuts the bathroom door.

She smiles and turns to grab the discarded pieces of his suit. She throws them in her washer and waits to run it when she can grab the rest of it from the bathroom. She moves to set up the couch for him to sleep on.

There’s no way she was letting him go back this late after just dressing his injuries. She grabs her spare sheets and blankets, preparing the couch for him. She throws one of her pillows down for him as well.

She hears the bathroom door creak after a while and turns to see him poking his head out. He already looks a lot better. Relief washes over her and she relaxes a bit. She grabs the medical kit again and goes to wrap him up.

Hobie leans his weight against her bathroom counter. He's just in a towel wrapped lazily around his waist.

She takes a deep breath and adjusts her eyes up. She forgot to give him clothes. Her face is burning but she tries to refocus on bandaging him.

“You look better already.” She comments. She grabs the gauze and bandages to wrap him. She’s so close to him, eye level with his broad chest. She should be used to it by now but her ears are burning. She can feel his eyes on her, and he gives a halfhearted chuckle.

“I feel better that’s for sure.” He murmurs.

She starts to wrap him, eyes trying to keep focused on her task, and not lower to where the towel is barely hanging on his hips. She's definitely not looking over his toned body. She can keep her eyes focused, this is not the time to be checking him out. 

She’s so intentional with every motion. She’s slow and deliberate, making sure she treats his wounds correctly.

She doesn’t notice him move until she feels him brush her hair off her shoulders. The action has her taking a shuddering breath. She looks up at him questioningly.

His own face is in scrunched up in thought. He keeps her hair between his fingers as he looks lost in his own head.

She finishes wrapping his chest before looking back up at him. She gently uses her hand to make him turn to look at her.

“So serious, what’s rattling around in that brain?” She tries to joke, but it falls into more of a genuine question. Her voice quiet.

He looks at her face and meets her question with silence. Contemplating his own response. He stares at her and he’s doing that thing again. He’s looking at her in a way that feels like he’s peeling back layers of her soul, exposing herself to him. She feels barren and unguarded, it scares her.

“Nothin’. Just thinkin’. Brain got all rattle remember?” He says softly tapping his brow. He immediately regrets it, hissing as he hits his own injury.

She gives a soft giggle and lets it slide for the moment. She reaches up, “Let me bandage that, your piercing got pretty fucked right there.” She tells him focusing her attention on that.

He hums in agreement. His hands coming down to grip the counter edge. His grips is so tight it leaves small cracks along her counter. Clearly trying to hide how much he's been hurting tonight. He's a good patient in that he never complains, but sometimes she wished she did. Maybe he just has a high pain tolerance or maybe he just doesn't want her to worry. She'd worry regardless though.

At the end of the day, she'd still rather him crawl into her window every night regardless of his injuries. At least she'd know he was alive. See his chest rise and fall as he breathes.

When she’s done she looks at him, his eyes have just been burning holes into her. She flushes for a moment, she was so lost in thought she didn't notice him staring. Their faces are so close, too close. She swallows hard and takes a step back, “I’ll uh, I’ll grab some spare clothes you’ve left here before… I can just throw your suit in the wash.” She tells him softly, her face burning.

She turns to go into her room, grabbing his clothes and returning to shove them in his hands. He hands over his own dirtied and blood-stained suit to her.

“Thanks Mariana.” He tells her softly pulling her into him with a one armed hugged. For someone so injured, his grip was still strong. 

A chill runs down her spine at him using her name, “It’s no big deal.” She mutters returning the embrace.

She moves away to close the bathroom door and she leans against it. Her head hitting the door as she looks up trying to control her rapidly beating heart.

He can’t keep looking at her with those big brown eyes that crack her open. If he does she might have to acknowledge the fact she’s starting to like him.

She doesn’t think she can handle those far too big feelings right now. So, she shoves them down, under the surface. She can’t think about him like that.

[maylovesfiction]

I'm late to the party, but where I live it's still the 8th august. Happy birthday to our favorite and beloved clown! Here's something short I wrote. Not particularly for his birthday, but I couldn't NOT post on his birthday.

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Buggy had never seen himself getting married, but at that moment when he saw her walking down the stairs of the ship the thought of tying himself to her for life was suddenly quite the pleasant thought. She looked absolutely stunning. The hair she had fought so hard to tame into a ponytail was now a mess. Single strands of hair sticking to her face, the rest just falling wildly without a care for the scrunchy that was still, but only loosely dangling in her hair. Speaking of her face, her beautiful face was glistening with sweat. A few smears of oil and grime were scattered on her exposed forearms and across her cheeks. She looked grumpy and he suspected it had to do with the stain of bird poop on her shirt on top of her left shoulder. Or maybe it was the rip in the right leg of her pants. No, it had to be the blood stains on her new shoes. It didn’t matter, Buggy knew right then and there that he loved her and that she was a special kind of woman. She could pack a punch if she needed to and hell did she just prove that. Buggy was impressed how good she handled herself in the skirmish.

Sure, he liked to see her in nice clothes and she was the only person across the seas that he was not stingy with. He’d buy her every jewelry she’d want, except she rarely wanted those luxuries. She usually was down to earth, a very grounded and practical person, she didn’t need or want the fancy lifestyle. Maybe that was what attracted him the most. Although he made sure to surprise her with some nice trinkets and beautiful jewelry every now and then. 

It wasn’t lust what he felt at that moment, well, at least not only lust… but it went so much deeper.

As she approached him, still with that scowl on her face, he could only marvel at her sight. The way she walked, the way her brows were furrowed, the way she crossed her arms in front of her chest as she reached him, everything about her was appealing. She started talking to him, but he couldn’t focus on her words. Buggy just watched her lips as they moved. Her lips were slightly chapped. Probably because of the spontaneous attack of the marines during the hot hours of the day so she was not able to drink enough water. Buggy didn’t mind, it made him want to kiss her even more. He knew she would be mad at him for not listening, but right at that moment he could just stare.

Secretly Buggy was a bit scared. He was scared the day was going to come that another man found her and tried taking his most valuable treasure away. For the first time Buggy understood what the damned strawhat had told him in Orange Town. Treasure didn’t have to be gold and jewelry and riches only. His most precious treasure was the woman standing right in front of him. Overwhelmed by feelings he couldn’t bear to feel at that moment, he leaned forward, interrupting her rant and pressing his lips onto hers. 

When their lips parted the scowl on her face had vanished. “What was that for?” she asked softly. “Mhm… I’m just glad you’re fine. You’re very precious to me, you know that, right?” She looked at him surprised from this rare occurrence of Buggy expressing his feelings so openly. Buggy cleared his throat, blinking a sudden wetness in his eyes away “Let’s get us both a drink and then we'll get you cleaned up. I’ll help you. How does that sound?” he asked as he put his arm around her and guided her towards his quarters. "That sounds perfect" was the answer.

It would take him some time to be truly open and honest with her, to truly confess how much he enjoyed seeing her ‘messy look’, to even just confess how much she truly meant to him. To be comfortable with showing her his vulnerability, to ask her to marry him, to openly tell her he loved her. But Buggy knew she’d understand that he needed time, he somehow knew she’d wait for him to be ready and that was a truly comforting knowledge.

[akechiguro]

to see you again.

oneshot | shuichi saihara x kokichi ouma

alternate universe - postgame, simulation

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Synopsis | Shuichi Saihara and Kokichi Ouma meet again after the events of the 53rd season of Danganronpa.

Word Count | 3.0k.

Author’s Note | i don’t usually write in first person so this is a change of speed ^^ this is also from january so it’s pretty old, i feel bad for not posting :,D

also posted on ao3! (with minor changes)

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I still remember our last conversation. It rings like a fucking melody in my ears every time I go to sleep and I hate it. Every time the ear worm starts replaying in my head, it makes me forget about her, she’s the reason I even put myself out there and yet I find myself thinking about his and I’s last conversation rather than hers and mine.

“But, y’know…I…wasn’t boring, right?”

He wasn’t. He never was. He kept me on my feet like a real detective and pushed my limits so far over the edge I was sure I’d come crashing down at some point, but I didn’t. In a way, he saved me from doing that— or did she? Both of them? It doesn’t matter. One way or the other, I’m a better man because of them. Better, sure, but whipped out of my damn mind because of that little scumbag who preferred to play the devil’s advocate in serious situations rather than actually being of some real use.

I thought— no— I knew he died. Investigated his own death with my own eyes, forced another one of my best friends to his execution because of it, and found myself becoming a sobbing mess all over again. Not just for him, but her as well, even if she was some number of months between the two cases. I wasted too much of my time crying over someone I swore up and down I hated. Was it for nothing?

It had to have been. He’s sitting right in front of me right now.

There’s an awkward silence to the room, an unresolved tension lingering in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife. His hair is still the same shade of purple, if not a bit darker, maybe a little longer, and he looks taller since we last talked. Ironic. The outfit is near unrecognizable— the strangest feeling of deja vu, and yet, neither of us can remember where we’d seen each other in these clothes.

“So,” he started, taking the liberty of starting our conversation. God knows I can’t. Not after everything I’ve seen, argued for, cried over. He leaned his head against his hand with that certain admiration in his eye I could never quite figure out during the game. I’m glad he’s casual. It helped me calm down a little bit.

“So?” I retort shakily. My hands are trembling, fiddling with the hem of my school uniform’s jacket. I know I said Kaede helped me grow as a person, be more confident, but for some reason I can’t meet his eye.

“How’d you do? You know, after I was gone?” He asked. His tone is more…calm? It’s different from the game’s, whatever persona he took on. He doesn’t seem like a malicious person anymore. Or at least, not acting like he is. But he doesn’t seem totally different, either.

“What do you mean?” I mumbled, and I felt like an idiot. You know what he meant. How’d we figure out it was Kaito, who survived and how we did it, stuff like that. I clenched my teeth and averted my gaze to a wall— plain white with a bit of grime. Well, can’t expect every room in this facility to be squeaky clean.

Kokichi laughed, softly, a strange unfamiliarity striking right through my ears. It’s nothing like how it was in the game. It’s intriguing. “You know what I mean! How did you figure out my plan and all that? Who was the mastermind you and Kaede tried so hard to uncover? I want all the details!”

I blinked. “Oh, uh— right. Well, it took, uh…a lot of probing, I guess, to figure out it was Kaito in the exisal and not you,” I started, gazing off in a random direction to gather my thoughts. “I…well, neither Maki or I could really handle the aftermath of that. For two different reasons, I think,” I chuckled nervously, and this caught his attention.

“Two different reasons? Maki was affected? I didn’t think she cared about anybody!” He laughed again and my heart started beating faster. Why did I have to catch feelings for someone who purposefully made themself out to be a bad person in a game of life and death?

“Yeah, believe it or not,” I smiled, catching his eyes for no longer than a second before deciding the painting behind him was a lot more interesting. Some sort of wave, I think the picture was. “She had a crush on him I guess, ended up threatening Monokuma and all that. Kaito didn’t actually die in his execution, either, it was his sickness that ended up killing him. Had he not had it…” I trailed off, feeling my features soften, “…he would’ve survived with the rest of us. Maki, Himiko, and I.”

“Woah, woah. Slow down,” Kokichi grinned. “Himiko survived with you but not Kiibo? What, did he kill Tsumugi or something? And an execution failed?”

“Yep. His execution failed and that, uh…really pissed off Monokuma,” I smiled. Enough time has passed where names don’t make me flinch anymore, they don’t send my lunch up my throat like they used to. “…You’re not far off from your theory about Kiibo, though. I guess Miu installed lasers and stuff inside of him and he ended up destroying the End Wall so we could escape. The final trial was a redo of the first one, and we figured out Kaede’s plan…”

No. You swore you wouldn’t cry to him when you found out this opportunity was something that could happen. Stay strong.

“…Kaede’s plan failed. Her shot put ball missed,” I explained, voice shaking with each new word. “It was Tsumugi who actually killed him, and who ended up being the mastermind. It…it wasn’t an easy trial,” I laughed bitterly, staring down at the table. I know Kaede is still alive. I know it was a simulation. But that means Tsumugi also lives; the one who orchestrated all of their deaths, left a far deeper cut in my core than any murder attempt ever could, is still walking and breathing. Something about that made it worse.

Kokichi fell back in his chair with a look of shock. “Dang. So how did her and Kiibo end up dead while you, Maki, and Himiko didn’t? Wouldn’t Kiibo’s lasers have killed you, too?”

“Nope. He destroyed the Ultimate Academy while breaking the End Wall, and a piece of rubble ended up falling on Tsumugi. Kiibo, he…he made sure we were safe and protected before self-destructing.”

“So a robot did have some humanity after all,” Kokichi giggled, crossing his arms on the table and letting his head follow. He still looked just as childish as he did in the simulation, yet there was more of a sense of…maturity, maybe? Was that the word? I don’t know. When it comes to him, it feels like no words even come close to describing him.

There’s awkward tension in the air again. There’s so much I wanna tell him and yet none of it is coming out. So much I wanna ask; why put on such an…interesting front? Why sacrifice himself the way he did, especially with the show he’d put on just before his death? Was everything he’d told me about hating me true?

I can’t get anything to come out. I’m just staring at him like an idiot, or maybe admiring, I can’t really tell, myself. I think he notices, too, because he seems totally comfortable in the silence. At least he seems like he does. If I’m not in tune with my own emotions, then I don’t think I ever will be with Kokichi’s, even outside of the game.

“You’re still insecure, aren’t you?” He asks suddenly.

I blinked. “What?”

“I can see it in your eyes, y’know. I may not have the same confidence I did in the game, but I can still read you like a book, Shuichi,” he smiled, something soft in his gaze while he stared at me. Maybe even sincerity. I fully believe him, too. Even the tone of his voice is softer, meeker, and his eyes don’t hold the same mischief and judgment they used to. Is this the real him? What he truly feels? No, not that— he’s not done anything out of emotion. He’s just…talking. And yet somehow my assumption seems correct. “I thought you got over your emo phase,”

I want to counter that. But he’s right. I guess I don’t really have the same confidence I had in Danganronpa, either. “I, uh…I thought I did, at least. Why bring that up?”

“I dunno. You look like you wanna say something.”

“Oh,” I breathed, mentally beating myself up. At the very least I thought I was better at speaking my mind. Well- this meeting should’ve made it obvious to myself that I’m not. “I guess I’m kind of just wondering…how to word this…why? Why were you the way you were? You seem so…” I trailed off, not letting myself finish that. That’s not the only thing I want to ask. Not why I contacted Danganronpa asking for this meeting. But it’s all I can get out right now.

He laughed. “You’re not the first to ask, y’know? I thought my favorite might be more original, but you’re asking such a boring question.”

So others got to him before I did…somehow that’s not surprising. “You’re surprised? I thought you could read me like a book,” I smirked, “I thought you of all people should know why I’m the most interested,”

“Fine, you’re right,” He smiled, adjusting so his cheek laid against a fist. “Welp! I don’t have a good answer to that. I wanted to be the antagonist. Nagito was my favorite in all 52 seasons I saw before applying to Danganronpa,” He laughed.

“Is that…it?” I asked, mentally cringing. That came out rude.

“Yep.”

“I don’t…really believe you,”

He barked out a laugh. It’s the most familiar thing he’s done this whole time. “Wow! A whole couple months after we last talked and you still don’t fully trust me?” He’s weirdly amused, I noticed. Was his in-game personality the real thing? No— somehow this feels like an act.

I shook my head quickly, flustered. “No, no! It’s not that! It’s just, well- it’s not just your attitude I was referring to. You seemed to have it out for me specifically. And Kaito and Miu, I guess, though I can probably assume for them…”

He hums, leaning back in his chair. His arms rested comfortably behind his head, the darkness of his uniform making his hair pop to a lighter purple than it actually is. “Yeah, those two are idiots. I’m surprised Kaito lasted so long,” he giggled quietly to himself, “but as for you…I don’t really wanna tell you that.”

“Huh?” Now that actually surprised me.

“I didn’t hate you or anything if that’s the answer you’re after,” he continued, averting his gaze elsewhere, “but the exact reason..eh,”

I can’t complain, that is the answer I was after. But now I’m just more curious. “Is there a, uh…a reason you can’t tell me the reason?”

Kokichi shrugged. “Nope! Maybe I’m lying though, huh?” He smiled. That itself was a lie. I could tell, somehow.

Another moment of awkward silence.

“Well, what did you think of me?” He asked, adjusting his position back to resting his head on his arms again. Could he always not sit still for this long? Or had I just never noticed in the game?

“Do you not know?” I asked, cautiously. “I…I told you that you’ll always be alone. I- I don’t mean it now, in fact I wanted to apologize for that-“

“Don’t worry about it, Shumai,” He laughed. “It was easy to hate me in the game, y’know? I hated myself!”

“Er…” I glanced down, picking at my nail beds.

“Oh, not to traumadump or whatever the word is,” Kokichi shook his head quickly, “I already knew, actually. I just wanted to hear it come from your own mouth.”

“But I still want to apologize! That was- that was rude of me. What you did was horrible, but it was still uncalled for on my part.” Plenty of people had murdered in the game. Too many, far too many. Was I justified to say that to someone who, more or less, did what he did in self defense?

“But is that all you felt about me?” Kokichi asked, the same cautious tone I’d used earlier. Like he’d said it accidentally, almost.

It kinda shocked me, to hear him ask that. He’s right. That’s not all. It’s the safe answer, the one I’d assumed everyone else had told him. But should I even admit to that other feeling? The one still eating at me, the one I can’t get out of my head no matter how hard I try? He can’t feel the same. Not him.

I took a second to think of a response, holding unsteady eye contact. It was Kokichi who’s eyes darted away momentarily, only to return with the same hesitation. “…No. It’s..it’s not.”

Why not come clean? What are the chances I ever see him again after this? We both will become just another face in the crowd, going about our school lives as though we hadn’t gone through someone so horribly traumatic.

I don’t think Kokichi was expecting my response. His eyes widened slightly, the micro movements of his mouth and eyebrows revealing to me a sort of surprise. I know I’m not a detective anymore, but I’m still attentive. He definitely wasn’t expecting it.

He licked his lips, ever so slightly. They’d gone dry. “What’s that other feeling, then?” He leaned forward, slightly, his eyes falling somewhere else. Lower to my face. The tension’s changed.

My breath caught in my throat, mimicking his actions. “I’m…sure you can guess.” I mumbled, meeting his eyes again. I feel like I’m running a fever, I feel lightheaded, this is a horrible idea…I shouldn’t have said that, I should’ve lied, I should’ve…

…His hand sliding gently over mine, his body to lean further across the table… Should I?

What other chance would I get?

I stood, cupping his face gently and closing the distance. His skin is just as smooth as I remember it being, so strangely soft, yet I can still feel the bones in his cheeks. He’s thin, sure, but it doesn’t seem too unhealthy. His lips are chapped, dry, almost uncomfortable. He chews at his lips, a nervous habit. It’s more endearing than I should think of it being.

He’s quick to kiss back. He tugged at my uniform’s collar, almost needily- hungrily?- like he’d been waiting for this. None of this explains anything that happened in the game. I think it just raises more questions, if anything. But my mind’s too fogged and my face is too hot to think of anything else but our proximity.

It’s only when he starts to fidget with the buttons on my jacket that I pull away, and I can think of absolutely nothing except how much I’m going to regret that. Not because I don’t like Kokichi, honestly, it’s the opposite. I refused it for so long that I think I’m actually in love with him. But I thought it earlier; what are the chances I’m going to see him again after this? I don’t think I can handle a long distance relationship, but I don’t think I’m ever going to get over him. No, no, I don’t think, I know I’m never gonna get over him.

He looked nervous, hand lingering on my clothes for a moment longer before he brought them to his chest nervously. He looked so out of character from what I remembered of him in the game…that Kokichi would probably keep going. This one looks like he’s on the brink of tears. “Pausing for air, or..?” He asked, trying to laugh it off.

I shook my head. “We can’t do this, Kokichi.”

“Why not? You kissed me!” He’s getting defensive. I should’ve seen this coming.

“I know! I know, that was…my mistake. It’s not that I don’t want this,” I started, grabbing his hand and slinking my fingers through his, “I…I’ve been denying how much I’ve wanted to do that for entirely too long. But it’s…I don’t know where you live. We don’t go to the same school, hell, we might not even live in the same part of Japan. I don’t…want to commit to something I can’t maintain.”

He looks defeated, for far longer than I would’ve liked. I feel horrible. But quickly perks up. “Well, where do you live?”

“Huh?”

“You can’t just kiss me and then go on this whole rant about why we can’t be together and then expect me not to ask where you live!” He smiled. “Where you from?”

“Oh.” I take a second to think. Are we even allowed to tell each other that? Fuck, of course we are- why wouldn’t we be? “Uh, Okinawa. I wear…probably too many layers for how warm it is compared to the rest of Japan,”

He smiled. A lot brighter than I would’ve imagined. “And you’re not lying?”

“No! Why would I?”

“I’m from there, too! No way that’s a coincidence!” He giggled like a child, freeing his hand to wrap them around mine. “I don’t live with my parents, they’re from Aichi. Just my older brother. But it’s crazy lucky I do, right?”

I stood there, dumbfounded. I was worrying for nothing? “So…so that means—“

“If you break my heart, Shumai, DICE is a real organization. They’ll kick your ass!” He laughed, dropping my hands to grab me in a hug. It’s so unfamiliar. In game Kokichi…no, I need to stop thinking about him.

“Y-yeah..! Yeah, I’m sure Kaede or Kaito will have your head in seconds if you, uh..break mine, too.” I laughed, awkwardly returning the action.

I still don’t know a lot about Kokichi. I don’t know about his family or how his school is or even if this version of him is the real one. There’s still so much I need to learn about him, that he needs to learn about me, but somehow, I know it’s going to be easier with us. I don’t think I’ll ever forget our last conversation as characters in a television show. The game, I think, forever changed who we are as people. But it’ll work out. We’ll be okay.

We’re gonna be great.

[evenmorecrows]

Other Half - 1.1k ( Day 1: Soulmates )

V and Johnny learn that the whole 'soulmates' thing wasn't as bullshit as they had started to believe.

a little something i wanted to write for @silverv-week! the v in this isn't my own v, i just kinda made up a guy for this. here's what i imagine their soulmark to look like :3

V trudged his way into his H10 apartment exhausted and covered in blood, guts, and street grime. His clothes stuck to his skin repulsively, and thank god he was nose-blind to Night City, because he could only imagine how much he reeked.

“The hell are you standing around for? Take a goddamn shower before I take one for you.” Johnny materializes, leaning against the wall connecting the main room and the bathroom, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. For a guy perpetually covered in dirt, V could tell he was just as disgusted with the current state of V’s-- Their? Body.

“Yeah, yeah, thanks mom.” He grumbled, willing himself to the bathroom instead of dropping off into his bed.

He always felt a little weird, getting undressed with Johnny in his head, cheeks burned at the idea of him watching, because, whether he showed himself or not, he always was watching. Neither of them had much of a choice in that. Johnny always felt blissfully absent during moments like this, though, and V appreciates the effort nonetheless. The first time he’d had to strip post-everything, he’d expected Johnny to pop out and mock him, tease him relentlessly, something along those lines. When none of those things happened; when, in fact, nothing at all happened, no Johnny, no comments- he felt like a bit of a douche. Back then, it was fear he felt at the idea; invasion, like he had thought about Johnny’s presence in his head as a whole. Now? He’s not so sure.

He tries not to think about it.

The water’s barely lukewarm, he’s lucky it’s not ice cold. As it stands, he finds it actually kind of refreshing. He runs through washing himself systematically, scrubbing soap through his hair, over his back, across his chest, the draining water mixing black, brown and red. His eyes glaze over his wrist as he cleans his right arm, making it up to his shoulder before a sudden compulsion stops him, has him looking back.

His mark looks loosely like a humanoid split in the middle. One half has a weird, jagged extension to the head, a few small disconnected dots around the protrusion, the other has a withered, wobbly look. It’s small, barely noticeable, only slightly darker than his skintone, and a lot of people in his life have wondered if it really was just a birthmark, not a soulmark. He’s always wondered himself.

Looking at it feels right, resonates through him. From the moment he was born, to the moment he dies, his most steadfast companion. He goes to run his finger over it when he catches sight of his other arm-

He blinks. That’s not…

Johnny’s mind and his blending, snapping apart only through the discrepancy of his organic arm.

His eyes go wide as he realizes why, and he feels it dawn over Johnny as well.

He’s a snot-nosed kid with greasy, black hair falling into his face as he holds his wrist, rubbing at the mark, wondering what it means, who it links him to. Wondering if he’ll meet them when he finally gets out of this shithole of a city, back when he thought he could escape it.

He blinks.

He’s a Heywood gutter punk, worn down tennis shoe heels scraping against cracked sidewalks, chasing and being chased by other kids, other Heywood rats, just like him. They laugh together and steal together and get their asses beat together. Two of them have matching soulmarks, they say they’ll be together forever, even if everyone else goes their own ways. He remembers how whenever anyone new joins, they all compare marks, everyone eager to find their pair, giddy at the prospect. Later on, in his mid-20s, long after they’d all gone their separate ways, he’d be the only one without his soulmate. He’d also be the only one to make it to 26.

He blinks.

He’s in some bar’s back room, Alt in his lap. Their marks don’t match, of course. His doesn’t seem to match with fuckin’ anyone. Doesn’t matter, he tells himself. Whole soulmates thing is bullshit anyway, what the hell’s some mark supposed to do? Why the hell would he go along with gonk shit like that when he could live his own life, carve his own path? He wouldn’t have gotten nearly this far if he spent all his life on his ass waiting for his “one true match” to come along. It’s kiddy idealistic shit, is what it is, and he refuses to waste any time on it. He figures he’ll die before he finds his match, and right now, he tells himself, he couldn’t give a shit.

He blinks.

He’s sitting on a bench, running his hand over his face. Another date, another guy who used him for a quick fuck then kicked him out because their marks don’t match. This one didn’t even wait ‘till morning, gave him the boot almost immediately. What a shame, he’d really been looking forward to an awkward breakfast. He’s so fucking tired of it, of trying to put himself out there, make deeper connections than just being fuckbuddies, and what the hell does he get for it? Rejection at every turn. He’s stopped even looking for his soulmate; no one he’s ever known has ever seen a soulmark like his. He’s unique. Yippee. Maybe he doesn’t even have a soulmark, that’d be a cruel twist of fate. Maybe it really is just a regular-ass birthmark he’s been placing so much importance on. He heaves a deep sigh, hoping it dispels some of the weight in his heart. At this point, he wonders what kind of deus ex machina it would take for him to find his soulmate, if he even has one. For right then, though, he decides to throw dating to the wind- hell, Night City to the wind too, while he’s at it. Maybe a little trip would get him out of this funk.

He blinks- no, shakes his head, landing back in the present. Johnny appears in front of him, wearing the same expression of shock in the wake of that revelation as V imagines he himself has on. All this time, and they were-

“No fucking shit…” Johnny murmurs, at a loss for anything else. “You- you?” V stammers, “There’s- seriously? All this time I’ve been waiting around and it ends up being the guy in my head. Fucking-- preem.”

“Yeah, well,” Johnny huffs at him, “This guy in your head didn’t sign up for this shit either. Could be saying the same thing.”

V runs his hands through his hair, tugging a bit at the roots, grumbling, “We can’t even like- makeout dramatically like they do in the shows, because we’re the same guy.”

Johnny raises an eyebrow. “Would you want to?”

“Huh? Makeout? I mean… We’re soulmates, apparently, and you’re not…” Heat rises to his face. “You’re not unattractive. So yeah, if it were an option, I’d like to at least, y’know. Try it out.”

“’Not unattractive’? Yeesh, tough crowd.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “As for the making out thing, though…” He smirks, “I’m sure we could figure something out.”

[thora-jane]

Twin-Way Mirror (pt vi)

(a/n): Hey everyone. My mental health's getting a little bit better. These past few weeks I've had some depression/anxiety episodes but I think I might be on the better end of it now? I will say that the stories I post may be more spread out over time (I had a lot of this already written before I made the tumblr account, and I haven't had the time/energy to write more of the story. So like...idk thank you for your patience and understanding? anyway, I hope you enjoy this :)

Summary: Thanks to the Weasleys, you start to recover from the attack at the world cup

Word Count: 2,229

Warnings: mentions of blood and injuries, reader has a bit of a ptsd attack, also things get a little bit spicy but nothing nsfw.

TAGS!: @aliiiyyaaah @superblyspeedydragon @bamboozledflamplant

***

Someone was moving you. Everything was spinning. Mudblood. Mood. Blood. Mud and blood filled your mouth, swirling with bile and spit. Spit. Something smelled terrible, you smelled terrible. Reeking.

You felt a hand on your cheek. The pain stabbed across your face like a knife.

You bolted upright.

And screamed.

“Hey, hey hey hey it’s alright,” you heard George’s (or was it Fred’s?) voice through your ragged and panicked breaths, his hand placed gently on your back, “(y/n), we’re safe now, we’ve made it home.”

You finally looked around, you were on the couch in the burrow’s living room.

“Home?” You asked. You looked up, George was rubbing your back and Fred was sitting on the arm of the seat, eyes flitting back and forth between looking at you and down at his hands with what appeared to be shame. You looked back at the rest of the room, where the others had managed to find room standing and watching you, Harry and Ron stone-faced, Ginny with her jaw clenched, Hermione appeared to be on the brink of tears, Mr. Weasley looked awfully serious, and Mrs. Weasely was holding her muddied and bloodied hand to her chest, a damp rag in the hand at her side and fear on her face.

You felt your face gingerly, most of the caked on mud and blood had been smudged off, except for the grime around the large bruised and scarred lump on your face.

“Yeah, home,” George nodded again with a smile, “How are you feeling?”

You held your head in your hands, “Who was that?” You felt your eyes well up as you sat up more and looked down at the rest of your body, you were still covered in mud, and there appeared to be a boot print right in the middle of your shirt.

“Death Eaters,” Harry piped up from the back, “Voldemort’s followers. They stormed the campgrounds and-” He stopped, looking at you, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have…” His voice trailed off, and it took you a second to realize you were crying, the salty tears stinging the wound on your face.

“Oh it’s alright Harry,” you interrupted yourself with a shaky breath, “I don’t mind, keep talking-”

But Mrs. Weasley interrupted you, “Alright everyone, I think it’s best we give her some space. I’ll come back in a bit to help clean you up more, sweetie. Get some rest.”

The others filed out of the room quietly, but Fred and Geroge stayed beside you in silence, after a moment you sighed and bit back a smile. “I don’t suppose I look any better than either of you now, eh?” You chuckled, but it came out more like a twisted sob. George’s arm wrapped around your shoulder as he pulled you into a gentle sideways hug, “I wouldn’t say that. Why, look at Freddy over there, you could hardly believe we shared the same womb! He’s hideous!” He chuckled softly, squeezing your shoulder. You let out a wince at the pressure and he frowned, turning to you, “you’re in pretty bad shape, (y/n), but I doubt it will last. Is there anything we could do to help?

You looked back down at your crusted and soiled shirt, “A change of clothes would be helpful. And cleaning up doesn’t sound like the worst idea either.” you smiled, or at least offered what you could manage of a smile without hurting your face, “I’ll go get my clothes-” You started trying to get off the couch with a long and pained groan. Everything hurt, your stomach, your legs, your hand. And Merlin, you could barely move your wrist without tears pricking at the corner of your eyes.

George seemed to catch on, and he carefully eased you back onto the couch, “I’ll go get you a change of clothes. Stay here, alright?” he stroked the back of your head for a moment before getting up and leaving.

You and Fred sat in silence for a moment before nuding him with your foot, “Oi, I don’t think I’ve seen you this quiet since...well, I can’t remember.”

“(y/n)...I’m so sorry this happened.” He said, looking up at you hesitantly.

“Hey, it’s alright. We’re both here now, yeah?” you shifted in your spot on the couch, leaning forward as you tried to maintain eye contact, but he only looked away again.

“No, no (y/n) it’s not alright. I shouldn’t have let you out of my reach. I shouldn’t have let the crowd separate us, I should have forced my way back sooner-” his voice was dead serious, something that you hadn’t thought was possible before now.

“I don’t want you blaming yourself for this,” your voice was a little uneasy, you could feel it as you tried to keep your breathing steady, “Because I’m fine now. We’re home, you heard your brother-”

“No, but (y/n) you’re not fine!” he snapped, standing up and gesturing to your body in one big sweep of his arm, “They were going to kill you! And whose fault would that have been? It wouldn’t have been yours I can tell you that!”

“Freddie,” George’s voice was stern as he returned to the room, a change of clothes in hand, “Go get some things to clean up. What’s done is done and we can only start moving forward. I don’t think either of you are in a state to start pointing fingers,” He walked towards you on the couch as Fred went off to the kitchen, his hands balled into fists.

George knelt down beside you, brushing the hair from your forehead and dabbing at your lingering tears with the edge of his sleeve. “How are you feeling?” he asked, holding his hand under your chin carefully and examining your face.

“A bit banged up, surprisingly,” you quipped. You paused, looking down at the clothes in his hand, “So...should I change?” You looked back up at him, a bit embarrassed by your current lack of mobility.

“Oh! Yeah,” he agreed with a bit of a start, “You can’t quite be up and about right now, huh?” He glanced around the room before snatching the blanket off the back of the couch and holding it up in front of him as a curtain between you two, “I swear on Fred’s life I’m not going to move this until you say you’re done, and I will scream bloody murder if anyone walks in,” He delcared in what you assumed was a mock-stoic voice from the other side of the blanket.

You began to peel off your muddied pants and slide your sore legs into the new pair. It wasn’t until after you had them on that you realized how this unfamiliar stripey pair fit quite loose, “These aren’t mine?” you mumbled to yourself, and from the other side of the blanket you could hear George clear his throat.

“I uh...couldn’t figure out how to open your trunk so I..grabbed a pair of my pajamas. I promise they’re clean. I can get you yours later it was just...short notice and I didn’t want to be a bother-”

“It’s alright,” you assured him as you started to lift your shirt over your head, “At least they're clean- OW!” you felt a screaming pain stab it’s way through your wrist after you had managed to get one arm out of your sleeve.

“Are you ok?” His voice was nervous, and you saw the blanket shift beside your head-

“Oi!” You almost shouted, “Watch the blanket!”

“Sorry! Sorry,” you heard him mumble as the blanket lifted up a little bit, “I guess we’ll call it even from this morning.”

You had managed to carefully wrangle your way out of your shirt and pull one of the sleeves of George’s shirt before it dawned on you, “Oh Merlin, did you see me? Just now?” Your stomach twisted as you shrugged on the second sleeve and looked at the open front of the shirt, “Damn buttons.”

“If it’s any comfort, I only saw your shoulder. And I looked away as soon as I saw-” He stammered out nervously, as you gave the buttons down your front a calculated stare.

“Just...never bring this up again, yeah?” You muttered mostly to yourself before your first attempt at buttoning up your shirt. But your try was unsuccessful, pain twisting the muscles and bone in your wrist as your right hand went to try and help the button through the hole. You let out a faint gasp of pain, and from the other side of the blanket you heard George shift his stance awkwardly.

“Do you need any help?” he piped up from his side.

You paused, sighing as you carefully moved the shirt to cover your front without buttoning it, “If I must. But if you try to pull something then so help me Godric the second I get my wand back you’re dead.” He let the blanket fall to the floor and his hands flew up to his face, squinting through his fingers. It was clear he was trying to lighten the mood as he perched himself on the edge of the couch. You chuckled at his efforts and reached for one of his hands with your good one, placing his fingertips on the buttons of his shirt, “You don’t have to do it with your eyes closed, dimwit.”

George smirked, opening his eyes slightly and making it clear he was staring directly at the buttons he was fastening, “Y’know, I don’t usually do this for folks,” he smiled looking back up at you with a dramatic wink. His eyes stayed latched to yours as he worked his way up the trail of buttons, making a point to not stare at your chest.

“Oh? This isn’t a regular occurrence between you and your roommates? You don’t sit in a circle helping each other tie your ties each morning? You don’t fix Fred’s hair and make sure Lee’s robes are nice and straight?”

George laughed, “Keeping Lee’s robes straight is Fred’s job.”

“Well someone ought to tell him he’s not doing a very good job of it, Lee’s robes wouldn’t stay smooth unless he used a charm,” you sighed, a weak smile lingering on your face.

“Oh! That reminds me,” George reached into his pocket and pulled out your wand, “managed to get it out without a scratch!” He tucked it into your messed-up hair and smiled, “Good as new!” His hand lingered on the side of your face, carefully touching the area around the swollen and bruised gash for just a moment, “You don’t look that bad, really. A little roughed up but give it some soap, water, magic, and time, you’ll be back to your wonderfully-faced self,” his voice was encouraging, but your thoughts had drifted off to elsewhere.

“Oh my god, you took on a Death Eater.” You blurted out, eyes widening, “Are you ok? Did he get you at all? Are you alright?” Your hand reached for his face, there was a scratch just below his cheek bone but other than that and a few smudges of mud he appeared fine,

“I’m alright, (y/n), really,” he patted your hand.

“Oi, I got you out of there too, y’know.” Fred interrupted from the doorway, “Where’s the worry for me?”

“Oh my god, Fred!” Your voice was startled as you scrambled off the couch and stumbled across the floor over to him. He had just barely managed to set down the bowl of water and sponge before you practically collapsed in his arms, “are you alright? What on earth were you two thinking? Running into danger like that? You could have gotten yourselves killed!” You winced at the pain pulsing through your body, but you only hugged Fred tighter. After a second you let out a muffled sob into his chest and you could feel his arms wrap around you, patting your back.

“But it’s alright,” you heard him whisper, “You said it yourself, we’re home,” He placed a kiss on the top of your head, and you could feel another body hug you from behind.

“We’re here, (y/n). Now c’mon, it’s late and you should get some sleep,” You felt George lean down and kiss your cheek before helping you shuffle back to the couch and wipe the last bit of mud from your face.

***

You woke up the next morning feeling sore, but minimal agony in comparison to the night before. As you opened your eyes, you realized you were face-to-chest with one of the twins. You figured the two of you had slept on the couch the night before. As you poked your head out from behind his shoulder, you saw the other twin asleep in the chair. Neither of the boys had changed their clothes from yesterday, and you looked down to see the large gold “G” against a green sweater, with its sleeves wrapped around your waist, pulling you close.

“Mmm, (y/n), are you up?” George murmured, his eyes not opening.

You smiled softly at his warm embrace, “No George, go back to sleep,” you whispered, laying down again with your head against his shoulder.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he nodded, barely awake as he pulled you closer and nuzzled his face into your hair with a sleepy sigh.

[drabbles-mc]

Sacred

Juice Ortiz x F!Reader

Prompt: “Soaping together is sacred to us. Washing each other’s shoulders. You can fuck anyone—but with whom can you sit in water?” (From This Post)

Warnings: language (kind of), angst, mentions of blood/bruises/injuries

Word Count: 2.4k

A/N: A sad fic for my favorite sad boy?? You betcha. In the midst of all of my Mayans feels I got randomly hit with this idea so I had to run with it. I’ve been meaning to write more stuff for Juice because I just...love him so much. In my head this is taking place around S4-ish when shit really starts to spiral for our boy. Enjoy! xo

The knocking on your door was incessant, and so hard that you thought whoever was on the other side of the door was more intent on breaking in than getting your attention. You pulled your robe tighter around yourself as you walked to the door, calling out that you were coming and to stop banging already. You took a deep breath before unlocking and pulling the door open.

“What the fu—” you stopped yourself short when you saw Juice standing in front of you.

He was bruised and bloody, tears spilling over onto his cheeks before he was even able to try and get any words out. It was difficult to choose where to look first. His face was covered in cuts, his neck wrapped in bruises, blood stained all over his shirt. On top of all of that, you had never seen his eyes filled with so much sadness before.

“Juan,” your voice was a whisper, unsure of what to say or do. You hadn’t heard from him in a few days, which wasn’t super unusual, but he’d never come back to you looking so defeated before.

“H-hey,” he forced out.

You motioned for him to come inside, “Come in, please,” you shut and locked the door behind the both of you, trying to get your mind to stop reeling for a second.

He looked so small standing in the middle of your living room, trembling under the cover of his black hoodie and baggy camo cargo pants. You took a small step towards him and he flinched away from you slightly, causing you to pause. As much as you wanted to pull him into a hug, to hold him as close as possible, you had no idea what was going on inside his head. He was so shaken up.

“You’re safe here, you know,” you said after a minute of distant silence, “No one is going to hurt you here.”

The tension dropped out of his shoulders as the tears began to stream down his face. He buried his face into the palms of his hands and you couldn’t stop yourself as you stepped in to pull him into a hug. He leaned against you, sobbing as his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, clinging to you like a life preserver.

You gently ran your hand up and down the back of his head, “It’s gonna be alright. You’re going to be okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he choked out as he buried his face into the crook of your neck, “I didn’t want to bring this all to you, but I can’t be alone and I can’t talk to them and I just…” he trailed off as he took a deep breath, soaking up your warmth and scent.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry about,” you whispered as you pressed a kiss to his temple, “I’m glad you’re here—I’m glad you came to me instead of trying to get through this alone.”

He pulled back from you, wiping the tears off of his face as he tried, unsuccessfully, to get his breathing to return to normal. It hurt you to look at him in the state that he was in. The man you’d fallen in love with, who was filled with so much laughter and light and love was not the man who was standing in front of you in that moment. You loved him nonetheless, but you wondered what had happened that drained all of the light out of him, taken away the infectious smile that you’d loved since the moment you saw him.

He saw the look in your eyes and it made his heart feel heavier, if that was even possible. You were his safe place to land and the last thing that he wanted to do was make you upset or hurt you. There was nothing that he could say, though, that would erase the worries from your mind. The truth would shatter you, and he wasn’t a good enough liar to try, not that he wanted to lie to you anyway.

Once he caught a glimpse of the tears started to gather at the edges of your eyes, he felt something suck the air out of his lungs. He never wanted to be the reason that you looked like that. Not knowing what else to do, in a desperate attempt to feel something besides the crushing sadness taking over his mind, he cupped your face and pulled you into a rough kiss.

It caught you off-guard, and for a few moments you let yourself lean into it. You felt the desperation bleeding from his lips onto yours. His fingers traced along your jaw and neck and with each stroke you could feel how lost he was. His tongue ran along the inside of your lip before meeting yours, your hands resting lightly against his chest as he pushed himself up against you.

His hands slid down and you felt him beginning to pull at the belt of your robe. You pushed against his chest, pulling out of your kiss. He looked down at you, eyes dark and brimming with tears. You reached up and gently thumbed the tears away as you took a deep breath. Enticing as it was, the last thing Juice needed to be doing was losing himself in you.

“I love you,” his tone was pleading as he took in every detail of your face, fingers gliding across your skin as if to make sure you were really there in front of him.

“I love you too,” you reassured him as you placed your hands over his, stilling his movements, “Let’s clean you up, okay?”

There was a moment of hesitation but he nodded, letting you gently tug him towards the bathroom. Truthfully, you’d already showered for the evening but that fact seemed inconsequential as the two of you stood in your small bathroom. You leaned and turned the faucet on, stopping the drain so the tub would fill. You poured some of your good, scented body wash directly under the faucet so it would start to foam and bubble.

When you turned back to Juice you could see the confusion on his face. The two of you had showered together on numerous occasions, but realistically that never happened for hygiene purposes. He’d never taken a bath with you before, and you wondered when the last time he’d taken one in general was. You figured he could use the care and the intimacy of it all, though.

You stepped over to him, slowly unzipping his hoodie, “Let me take care of you.”

His entire body relaxed at your statement, and you heard him let out a breath he hadn’t even noticed that he was holding. With a small smile you pushed the hoodie down off of his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor. You took the bottom hem of his t-shirt and lifted it, allowing him to pull it off the rest of the way. You saw the bruises and small cuts on his chest and stomach, trying not to focus on them too much as Juice took off his boots and socks before slipping out of his pants and boxers. You untied your robe, letting it fall to the floor with the rest of the clothes before pushing your underwear down your legs as well.

The apprehension was still there on Juice’s face and you took him by the hand and pulled him towards the tub. You stepped in first, gesturing for him to do the same, and turning the faucet off after he was in the water with you. Once he was mostly submerged in the hot water, you saw the nervousness disappear, the tension starting to leave his body.

Without a word, you scooted closer to him and motioned for him to turn so that his back was to you. He did, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his forehead against them. You took your washcloth and started to wipe away the sweat and dirt from his back and shoulders. You were gentle with cleaning the back of his neck, knowing that those bruises and gashes were still fresh. That was a conversation for later. You let the warm water run down the back of his head and onto his body and heard him let out a quiet sigh of contentment. Pressing a kiss onto his shoulder, you asked him to turn around and face you.

He did as you asked, and you could see the exhaustion in his eyes, but along with it there was a little bit of relief. You’d always been a sanctuary for him. You offered up a smile, “Let me sit on your lap?”

It was the first smile you’d seen from him all night as he nodded, resituating himself so you could straddle him on his lap. He leaned back against the back of the tub and the wall behind it, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment as he took in everything in the present moment, rather than letting his thoughts spiral out into everything that had happened before.

You took the washcloth and started to wipe off his chest, the blood running down his skin and tinging the water red around the two of you. He opened his eyes and saw it, body stiffening as he took it in.

You gently tilted his chin up and forced him to look at you and shook your head, “Don’t worry about it. You’re okay.”

He took a deep breath and nodded, eyes focused on you as you carefully wiped away the blood and grime of a tumultuous past few days. The water trickled down over his tattoos, and you were glad to see them return to their unblemished state, no longer stained with blood. You paused for a moment before wiping his neck, silently asking for permission to do so. He gave you the slightest nod as tears gathered in his eyes again. He tilted his head back against the tile, eyes shut tight as you cleansed his wounds. You felt his breathing start to get ragged as he bit back tears but you didn’t comment on it—if he needed to get it out you weren’t going to stop him.

Blood, dried and fresh, washed away from the bruises around his neck and it took all of your strength to not cry. The bathwater became stained but you paid it no mind as you focused on the man in front of you. His eyes were still closed as he started to run his hands up and down your back, his calloused fingers gliding over your soft skin.

“Lean forward for me, baby,” you whispered, “Let me get the cuts on your face.”

Doing as you asked, he peeled himself off the back of the tub. The gashes that littered his face were fresh—whatever fight he’d gotten into must’ve happened earlier in the day. You didn’t ask, though. You noticed his bottom lip starting to quiver as you wiped off his sliced-up cheekbone, and you knew it wasn’t because the cut hurt. Leaning in, you kissed him softly on the lips. His hands traveled up your back until they rested between your shoulder blades, keeping your lips pressed to his.

You pulled away, hand resting on the cheek that wasn’t cut, “I’m almost done, then we can go to bed if you want, okay?”

He nodded, “Okay,” he let you tilt his head to get a better angle for cleaning, “Thank you.”

“Anything you need, I’m here,” you didn’t take your eyes off of the cut above his eyes that you were cleaning out.

“Thank you for taking care of me. I…I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you.”

“Lucky for you,” you kissed his forehead, “You don’t need to worry about that.”

Even once you were done, Juice made it clear that he was in no rush to get out of the tub. The two of you stayed in until the water started to turn cold. Neither of you said much of anything, opting to just hold each other as the water coated you in a warm, slightly red-stained blanket. Juice’s eyes roamed all over you as you gently caressed his arms, shoulders, and chest. You pressed your forehead against his, taking a deep breath as you closed your eyes. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close so that your chest was flush against his, and that was how you stayed until it finally got too chilly to stay in the tub anymore.

You grabbed towels for the both of you and let the water drain. The discolored bathwater slipped away down the drain and so did the insecurities that Juice had stepped into that room with. Whatever demons were waiting for him outside the walls of your house had no place within it. You left the clothes in a pile on the floor—they were tomorrow’s problem.

The two of you tossed your towels aside once you were in the bedroom, each getting in on your own side of the bed to meet in the middle. He pulled you in close, hands on your hips as he rested his face in the crook of your neck. You rested your hand on the back of his head, taking a deep breath as you let your eyes close. He tangled his legs up with yours and despite the heaviness of the night, you smiled. You gently raked your nails along his mohawk and pressed featherlight kisses along the side of his head.

As you laid tangled up together, skin to skin, the only thing you could think about was the fact that you wished you could take away the darkness that was inside his head. You felt his breathing and heartbeat start to even out and it brought you some comfort.

“I love you,” he mumbled against your neck.

“I love you too,” you whispered in his ear, “so much.”

He wrapped his arms tighter around you, giving you a light squeeze. You took a deep breath, relaxing into the feeling of knowing that at least for tonight, he was safe. Each time he nuzzled into you, you felt yourself ease, your fingers dancing up and down his back. You reached over and turned off the lamp next to your bed once you heard him starting to snore quietly. It was one more night you’d gotten through together, getting you each ready for whatever the next day held for you.

[hattiepins]

Expectations

Zeke Yeager/Reader 18+ Chapter 1/??? Warnings: Alcohol mentions, explicit content a/n: I haven’t posted fic to tumblr in literal years so here’s me christening my new AOT blog with some Zekefucking. This fic will eventually have an actual plot, and I have it mapped out, but for now it’s just smut so have fun with it. I’m also on ao3 w the same @ if you prefer that layout better.

Zeke Yeager was an incredibly imposing man. The warriors were an intimidating group to anyone who had heard of them, but there was something special about him. 

You had “met” several years ago, at work cleaning the imposing Marleyan government building that served as the warrior headquarters in Liberio. Most of the year it was filled with children hopeful that if they worked hard enough, dedicated their hearts firmly enough, and bought into the belief that they too could bring honor to their homeland, they could be worthy of inheriting a titan.

You liked children, and though it hurt to see them pushed into the grim roles they took up at the compound, you would occasionally share excited chats with them in the halls, rooms, or courtyards of the massive complex. You’d scrub the floors of the messes left behind by their muddy boots, or the walls of the grime that accumulated every week, and the candidates, being the chatty little kids that they were, would update you on their days. Who beat who in what race, how fast so and so could disassemble then reassemble a rifle. On a good day of work you were given a run down of everything. 

On special days, though, the Marleyan warriors themselves would show up. A woman with unruly dark hair, a tall and disheveled scruffy man, and a blonde with a slicked back undercut all would often pass you by.

But Zeke Yeager? He always stood out to you the most. Anyone who could spare enough pocket change for a paper would know of the great feats of the beast titan and the man who held it. There had never been quite anything like him before in history, and his accomplishments on the warfront were praised as the ace up Marley’s sleeve in many battles. 

In reality though, Zeke bore no resemblance to his titan, with there being no visual similarity between the terrifying monster printed on the front page of every news story and the warrior who controlled it. 

He was tall, with a laid back posture that stood in stark contrast to his own mythic status. A legend among Eldians, and a fearsome specimen among all men, with his steely grey eyes and furrowed brow. He always looked as if he had something weighing on his mind whenever you spotted him, be it alone, or with his comrades.

You would absentmindedly toy with the hem at the edge of your own grey armband every time your eyes glanced over their red ones, not envying their lives as warriors but wondering what it must be like, being honorary Marleyans. 

None of them ever noticed your presence, and why should they? You were the cleaning girl, a part of the scenery. 

So then it comes as quite the shock when, tonight, as you head to the pub around the corner from the compound, Zeke Yeager recognizes you. 

The place isn’t anything fancy, but it’s halfway between work and the run-down tenement you can afford to rent on a maid’s salary. You go here on your days off, when you want more than anything to just relax, have a drink, and listen to the gramophone at the bar play music that you’d never get to hear otherwise. It’s a surprise enough to even see Zeke here, but the way he reacts to seeing you has your heart seize up a bit in your chest. 

He waves you over with his hand clutching his drink, calling your name with a voice just loud enough to be heard over the scratchy, poorly recorded music of the wax cylinder recording, his face plastered with a smug expression.

You blink slowly, as if closing your eyes will somehow remove him from the table in front of you and confirm that just a few sips of your drink have led to full on hallucinations. But you do not move. 

Catching onto your nervousness, Zeke raises the glass of warm swill this poorly stocked Eldian pub calls drinks, swirling the liquid inside as he motions towards your general direction.

“Come on now, that’s your first drink of the night in your hands. I know you aren’t far gone enough to not recognize the sound of your own name.” 

The volume of his voice is louder than you would like. A necessity, you know, for him to be heard over the sound of the gramophone, but still embarrassing.

You gesture stupidly at yourself with your pointer finger, and he nods, brows raised and mouth smiling with pursed lips as if he’s trying to stifle a laugh at your blatant confusion. 

He, in turn, gestures for you to take a seat next to him at the small booth he holds for himself in the corner. 

“You’re the cleaning girl, right?” He says. 

And for as awkward as that introduction is, it doesn’t stop you from joining him.

“How did you know- where did you learn  my name?” You drum your fingers against the base of your drink, still slightly nervous. 

“I’m observant.” He takes a sip of his own drink. 

“That, and you’re more well known than you’d think. The Grice boys talk about you sometimes. The younger one, Falco, is pretty damn fond of you, actually. Says you’re a good listener. Likes talking to you. His brother’s the one set to inherit my titan.”

You stare at him, a little shocked to hear that the candidates even remember you beyond simple hallway chatter, let alone that a warrior has actually taken note of your reputation with the children. 

“Falco’s a good kid. Colt too.” Your lips quirk up into a small smile, thinking about the two blond boys, always polite and courteous. They even bothered to get to know you by name, and always seem to ask about your day before telling you about their own.

“You’re quite the conversationalist for someone who the government pays to mop floors and dust shelves all day.”

You tense up, and suddenly, for a moment, a sense of sudden clarity and fear grips you. Is this an interrogation? Does Zeke Yeager think you’re a spy because you’re too chatty with the candidates? You knew this felt off, there’s no way that he’d invite you here just to ta-

“If I’m honest, I noticed you first because I was shocked that a pretty face like yours would be working scrubbing dirt. Didn’t put a name to said face until Colt started bringing you up almost just as often as his little brother. But I’m a good listener.”

He smiles, repeating your name with a soft smile as if testing out the sound of it.

“It’s a pretty name. Suits you. I try and keep things professional at the compound. Lots of eyes and ears. Granted there’s definitely a few in this place right now, but we don’t have to worry about them.”

You lift your head with a start, eyes scanning the bar, all a sea of patrons with worn clothes and grey armbands. None of them stand out as being particularly unique. None accept the man with the red around his arm seated across from you. He sticks out like a vibrant wine stain against white cotton, and though the patrons know better than to stare, you catch them sneaking “coincidental” glances his way. 

Their eyes rest on him, then flicker away to observe the much less interesting rest of the bar as if it’s merely chance that they managed to get caught looking.

You let your gaze wander over all the faces in the crowd, trying to see who he might be referring to. To see who could be watching. 

“Shit, could you be a little less obvious, sweetheart?”

The sudden affectionate name has your heart  flutter in your chest in a way you absolutely were not expecting, and as you turn your gaze back to him, an embarrassed flush creeping its way across your cheeks, you see his smirk grow. He’s smug, but you suppose he has all the reason in the world to be, with all his accomplishments.

Zeke, you thankfully come to realize as your conversation progresses, is not here to report you to the higher ups for something or another, nor does it seem that anyone in the bar is particularly interested in your chatter. 

You do, however, find that Zeke Yeager is not only a very powerful presence, but that he’s very handsome. It was something you didn’t particularly notice at the compound, mostly because you tried to avoid being in the way of your superiors in the warrior unit, but also because the stories you’d heard of the beast titan’s strength painted the man as a brute. 

Instead, you find yourself enthralled by him. He has beautiful hair, and his beard is kept very nicely trimmed. The way his grey eyes light up when he learns you two share a similar taste in novels has your breath catching in your throat. 

You list off your recent reads, only to find that he’s also read most everything on the list. He says he’s an avid reader, especially when they ship him out. It helps him keep his mind off of the fighting to think of smaller problems than wars.

“I couldn’t put it down.” 

You find yourself raving about your latest literary obsession. 

“The way the whole town just watched her descent into madness was so painful to read, but I wanted to know why they hated her in the first place so badly.”

You have long since finished your drink, but the conversation with Zeke ensures that you absolutely do not want any more. The last thing you want to do is slur your speech in a conversation about your shared interests, and especially not when those interests are shared by a very handsome man. 

“The reveal of how her daughter was framed had me glued to every word. And the ending!” He leans back in his seat, like he’s processing it all over again just speaking about it. 

“Lighting the whole town on fire… they say revenge is a dish best served cold, but reading about her walking through the burning streets…”

“Brilliant.”

His smile is captivating.

You remind yourself that this man is an honorary Marleyan, and you are just a regular Eldian who is lucky enough to have enough pocket change at the end of the month to even buy those novels. 

But for as much as Zeke insists that you are well known at the compound for being a great conversationalist, you find that the same compliments the Grice boys have paid to you apply tenfold to him. You don’t want to stop talking. 

When the bar closes, you don’t say your goodbyes and head home. Instead, you find yourself continuing your conversation in the streets of Liberio, walking the cobblestone roads at what must be at least two in the morning. Your conversation never has a single slow moment. 

You don’t think the slightly intimidated feeling you get while next to him will ever fully subside. He is, after all, much larger than you, and you feel dwarfed by him as you walk side by side, looking up at his handsome face. You’ve switched conversation topics through nearly a dozen different novels now, and your ideas bounce off one another perfectly. 

He mutters how your theory about a plot twist and it’s possible connection to the yet unreleased next book in the series might be one of the best ideas he’s heard, and his little smile while he does so is captivating. 

“You’d serve better as a critic than a cleaner, you know.” He says with a laugh. 

And you smile, because for a moment, by Zeke’s side, you almost forget it’s Liberio’s streets that you’re walking, and that you can’t hope to aim too high. All that exists for now is the two of you, and the words you share. 

As you walk under the lamplight through deserted streets, you take notice of the way he scratches his ear when he’s thinking, but more specifically your eyes fixate on his hands themselves. They’re big, and you purse your lips imagining how little your hands would be in his. He admittedly dresses like an old man, and while his wardrobe is nothing fancy, it doesn’t hide his impressive stature. 

His broad shoulders and military status imply an impressive body under the loose fitting coat he wears, and you feel like a repressed schoolgirl just looking at the exposed skin of his neck and how the muscles there tense when you bring up some narrative choice or another that you both didn’t enjoy. Your cheeks flush as you watch him take a drag of his cigarette, holding it between two thick fingers. 

He seems to take notice of your stares, but says nothing to discourage you. In return, you catch him eyeing you a few times too, but unlike you, he doesn’t get flustered when you notice him clearly staring. 

It’s still fairly chilly out, and your warm coat doesn’t do your body any favors, but that doesn’t stop his glances. 

When the two of you cross a bridge, you find yourself staring up at the moon and how it’s surface reflects on the wide river below. Zeke leans over the rail, taking yet another drag of his cigarette, and you cautiously reach out a hand to his. He makes no move to shift away from you as you lock your arm in his. 

You continue your walk like that, the feeling of closeness making you far more flustered than you should be. It’s only proper for a man to escort a lady by the hand when it’s so late. But you’re no lady, you’re a maid. And Zeke’s glances are growing far from proper, even as the topic remains firmly on literature. 

When he invites you up to his apartment to see his books, you both know you won’t be doing any actual reading. But you let him lead you through the streets and up countless flights of stairs regardless. 

He turns the key in the lock, and you enter, following his lead in kicking off your boots and hanging up your coat by a hook on the wall. You barely have time to take in how nicely furnished the home of an honorary Marleyan is before he has you pressed against the door, closing it shut with the weight of both of your bodies against it.

You gasp at the impact, and run your fingers through his soft blond locks as he presses his lips to yours in an open mouthed and greedy kiss. His lips are soft, and his breath is hot against you as he pulls away.

“Do you want to-?”

“Yes. God, yes.” You pull at his coat, hoping he’ll get the message, and he does. 

He shrugs it off, and then his lips are against yours again. Your touch traces down along his back, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt until it comes untucked from his pants and you can slide your hands underneath it, feeling the warmth of his skin. 

He fumbles with the buttons of your own blouse, before tearing it off of your shoulders as he unfastens the last one, and you can hear his breath catch in his throat as his hands move to touch you. 

His mouth parts from yours to get an eyeful of your body, his fingers trace the edge of your bra, watching how your chest heaves against the constraints of the lacey garment with every breath. He groans, the sound guttural in his throat, and fuck, you need him. He brings his lips to your neck, kissing and biting his way down to your collarbone.

“Can we please get this thing off?” His thumbs hook at the straps of your bra. 

“Marley’s greatest warrior can’t figure out how to unhook a bra?” You smile as you reach for the clasps. 

“Bigger things on the mind right now, sweetheart.” His tongue runs against a spot at the base of your neck that his teeth just bit at, soothing the skin.

“Oh?” You drop your bra to the ground, and he is quick to grab a handful of your breasts, teasing lightly over your nipples. You moan as he slides his hands down your torso, stopping as he gets a handful of your ass, kneading at it with a grin. 

“You enjoying yourself there?”

He hums as he presses you further against him and lifts. You let out a startled whimper, your legs wrapping around his hips and hiking up your long skirt in the process. He lifts his head from your neck and looks down at you, hunger in his grey eyes. 

“Trying to figure out if I can even get you to the bedroom, or if I’m gonna have to fuck you right here against the wall.”

Zeke grinds his hips against yours, and through your soaked panties you can feel him strain against his trousers. He’s so horny it hurts, and he hisses at the little bit of contact, bucking against you. 

“Fuck, baby, need you to decide.”

“B-bed.” You wrap your arms tighter around him and wiggle your hips just enough to get more of that delicious friction. Zeke doesn’t have to be told twice as he carries you to his bedroom and practically throws you into his mattress. It’s soft as a cloud, and you feel yourself sink into it, pulling your skirt from your hips, letting it fall in a pool at the edge of the bed. 

Still situated at the side of Zeke’s massive king size bed, you spread your legs, your stockings and your panties all that’s left on you. You circle your clit through the fabric, and watch as his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, his eyes fixed on your clothed pussy like a hungry animal. He makes quick work of his own clothes, undoing the buttons of his shirt and stepping out of his trousers, stripping to his boxers. 

Your cheeks flush as you take in the sight of his bare chest. He’s toned in the way only a warrior could be, and there’s a small dusting of blonde hair that trails from his bellybutton to somewhere below his waistband. He towers over you, imposing and arousing at the same time. He looks like a marble statue, beautiful and powerful and perfect. You can see the outline of his bulge against the grey fabric of his underclothes, and he palms himself lazily, his eyes clouded with lust behind his glasses. 

“Anyone ever tell you it’s rude to stare?”

You scoff. “Could say the same thing to you.”

He smirks, and you want nothing more than to kiss him. For a moment it looks like he’s about to do just that. Instead, he sinks to his knees between your legs.

“What are you-?”

“Gotta get you ready for me first, babygirl.” He says, hooking his fingers under your panties and pulling them down, letting you kick them off your legs. 

“Are you joking? I’m already soaking, you don’t-“

You’re cut off by the feeling of his hot breath against you.

He runs his fingers against your folds, and you bite your lip before he shoves two thick fingers inside. The noises you make as he hooks them inside you have him painfully hard and straining against his boxers, but he knows what he wants. He pulls his fingers from you, earning him a whimper.

“Fine. I can be transparent here.” He groans as he kisses at your inner thigh. “Just wanna bury my face in your cunt, nothing else to it.”

You whimper as his lips circle your clit, the burn of his beard between your thighs coupled with the feeling of his hot breath against you has him having to hold your hips in place to keep your squirming down.

“Z-Zeke, I-”

“Hm?” He releases your clit from his lips but licks slow stripes up between your folds now. 

“Too much.”

He teases the tip of his tongue against your hole, his moans the only response. You feel his grip on your hips tighten as he pushes it inside of you. His mouth works against you, making you grind against his face. 

“Fuck, baby, you taste so good…”

He’s a madman as he devours your cunt, and you have full confidence that Zeke could make you cum with just his tongue. Instead, he opts to do otherwise, spurred on by the delicious sounds you’re making. You cry out as he circles his lips back around your clit and plunges two thick fingers inside of you. 

You can barely think as he curls them into you, fucking his fingers into your weeping cunt while his tongue laps at your clit. 

“I’m- I can’t-”

“You can.” He adds a third finger, and the stretch is so food, so filling, as he watches you fall apart. “Good girl, my pretty little slut, come on.” 

His tongue never ceases for long, even as he speaks. “Come for me.”

You’re falling apart under his touch, cries and moans spilling out of your mouth as you cum into his. You clamp your thighs down around his head as he keeps fucking his fingers into you, running his tongue desperately against your little bud as you writhe beneath him, only stopping when he feels he’s had his fill of your taste. 

He lifts himself up and pushes you further into the bed, letting your head rest on the pillows as he leans on his side next to you.

“You’re a quiet little thing whenever I pass you in the compound. Never knew you could be that loud.”

You’re panting, still coming down from your orgasm.

“Never been fucked in the compound.”

“We can change that.”

Your pussy clenches around nothing and you whine. “Can we start with here first?”

His beard is wet with your slick as he grips your jaw and pulls you in for a kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and you moan as you tug at the waistband of his boxers. 

You remove your lips from his to look down at the shape of him, still straining against the fabric. 

“Zeke, please…”

He sits up on his knees at the end of the bed, hovering over you, thumbs toying at the elastic. 

“Yeah? You want me to fuck you?”

Your little nod is all he needs, pulling his boxers off. You watch as his hard cock springs free of confinement and slaps itself against his stomach. It’s big, and you’re practically drooling at the sight. He crawls over you, lining himself up with your hole, rubbing the tip over your clit. He smirks, watching how you whine and writhe at his teasing. 

“You have to beg for it, sweetheart. Let me know how much you want it.”

He fists his cock, leaking precum all over your slit as he drags the head up and down your folds. 

“Fuck, Zeke, please fuck me. Need you so bad, just please...”

He grips your hips hard, lines himself up with your hole, and bottoms out in one quick thrust. 

You moan and he curses under his breath. It’s so much, all at once. The stretch is much more than his fingers prepared you for, and it’s overwhelming, even with how wet you are. It’s a little painful, but it hurts so good. 

“F-fuck, move, fuck me, please. Please, please, please, please.”

He pants into your shoulder as he follows your request. Zeke grabs both of your wrists in one hand and pins them above your head, kissing and sucking at your neck, leaving little purple marks. 

“So pretty like this, letting me fill you up so good. Gonna leave my mark everywhere I can on you. You gonna come to work with your neck all marked up from me? Huh?”

You pant and grind your hips against his as he pistons in and out of you. “Y-yes.”

“Gonna advertise to every soldier there that you’re mine? My little whore? You like being fucked like this?” He pulls back out all the way, only to thrust back in at just the right angle that has you seeing stars.

“Yes!”

“You know how long I’ve thought about this? Wanted to just p-pull you into a supply closet and fuck you til you forgot your own name, ‘cuz hell, I didn’t even know it back then, but now…”

He traces his hand down to your clit, and starts to rub circles against it.

“You’re perfect, you know that? F-Fuck... Perfect for me. Fit me so good, god, you’re so tight.”

“Zeke, s’too good, I’m gonna-”

“I know, baby, I know. Me too. Come for me, it’s ok.”

He captures your lips in a hungry kiss, and the closeness is not enough and too much all at once. You can’t tell where he begins and you end and suddenly your orgasm is washing over you in waves as you scream his name. Your arms struggle against his grip and he relents as you cream around his cock. You grab at his back, nails sinking hard into the skin, and you swear he’s letting off steam as your fingers scratch down his back in ecstasy. 

Zeke fucks you through it, thumb still playing with your clit as he hammers into you, hips snapping against yours at a rhythm much less even than before.

“Beautiful. So fucking beautiful with my name on your lips and my cock in your cunt.”

You whine, still barely coherent and too fuckdrunk to think as he pounds you hard enough to make the bedframe creak and the headboard slam against the wall. 

“G-good girl, you like being a good little-fuck- good little cocksleeve for me?”

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck.” 

You’re so overstimulated it hurts. He keeps hitting just the right spot, and while he’s still toying with your sensitive nub, you can tell he can barely hold his focus. He removes his fingers from you and buries his head in your shoulder. His beard is rough against your skin as he lets out a few last thrusts into your cunt, his grip on your hips enough to bruise. 

Zeke pulls out and fists himself a few more times, panting before he empties his load on top of you, white ropes of cum shooting out of him as he finishes onto your stomach. Zeke collapses, panting, by your side. He pulls you against him and kisses the top of your head.

You practically purr at the affectionate gesture, and lean into his touch. 

He sighs, removes his glasses, and carefully places them on the bedside table, relaxing into the comfort of the bed. 

His eyes are closed, and as you snuggle closer to him, you can feel his heartbeat slowly start to return to normal along with your own. 

“I think now’s the time I should ask where your bathroom is so I can clean off?” You breathe out, tracing figure eights lazily against the muscles of his chest. 

He lets out a tired laugh. “You’re not at work. No cleaning right now. You can afford to be a little messy for a while.”

You hum, unwilling to admit you’re fine either way. You guiltily realize you enjoy the feeling of his cum on your skin, and, instead of admitting that embarrassing thought, you kiss him again. 

You whisper against his jaw. “I should go home soon, just-”

He claims your lips in his again to shut you up. “Stay.”

You lay by his side on the same pillow, faces inches from eachother. 

That night, you stay. You fall asleep in his arms, and everything somehow feels right. He feels right. 

You hate going home to your shitty apartment after that. And Zeke hates seeing you go. 

Every week you repeat it all like routine. 

Zeke is always there at the pub. You always end up in an endless conversation before following him home, and leaving the next morning to prepare for your afternoon shift. 

It only takes one month of this torture for him to ask you to move in.

“Would make it easier. Better than me pretending it’s a coincidence I’m there almost every time you have a day off.” He mutters into your shoulder, as he holds you close. 

It’s the easiest decision you’ve ever made. 

You laugh at how his beard tickles your skin, pressing yourself further into him, to which he responds by wrapping an arm around you tighter and smiling that smug grin against your skin as you card your fingers through his blond locks and whisper “I figured it wasn’t a coincidence by the third time it happened.”

He kisses you, and cradles your cheek in the palm of his hand. For what feels like the hundredth and the first time, you drift off to sleep in his arms.

You never return to your old apartment, even to grab your things. Zeke has the same books as you, and his bed always was nicer. He buys you much better clothes to make up for what little loss of wardrobe you went through. 

You can’t aim too high in Liberio. But with him, you feel like you’ve started over on a clean slate. 

And for a time, though you never put a name on it, Zeke Yeager is yours.

[jodiereedus22]

Mirage

A/N: Here I am, posting! I don't even want to know how long its been since I posted anything, I am so sorry, motivati9on has been hard to com by. but I have a piece for you now! thank you @crossbowking for the amazing support and I want to thank @fxlminare she got me motivated to do this piece, she is amazing!!!! 

I hope you enjoy!!! <3

Word Count: 2165

You awoke suddenly to the sound of your alarm going off, you rubbed your tired eyes as you rolled over to switch it off.

You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling, for some reason you were confused, and you didn’t know why - maybe you had a dream last night and couldn't remember it.

You shrugged it off, turning your head to the side, seeing a soundly sleeping Daryl. His chest rising and falling gently, his hair draped over his face making his closed eyes hard to see, you smiled to yourself, the alarm clock had always been for you, Daryl could sleep through anything.

You gently got out of bed, putting on a robe and headed downstairs, you had a lot to get ready for today – but first, it was time to get breakfast started.

You started with the bacon, then some eggs, then got started on the pancake batter when you heard footsteps behind you and suddenly a pair of hands wrapped around your waist, placing kisses on your neck.

“Hmm, somethin’ smells good,” Daryl said in a sleepy gruff voice, you groaned as he kissed your neck some more, holding you more tightly.

“Why did I wake up to a cold bed?” Daryl asked, whispering in your ear as you tried to concentrate on cooking the breakfast.

“Well someone has to get up around here, or nothing would get done,” you joked, laughing as Daryl went over the top kissing you more.

“Eww, that’s gross!”

“Do you have to do that over breakfast?” Your son said as he and your daughter walk into the kitchen.

“Lucas, Mia, you want us to stop? Go set the table,” you bribed your kids as you laughed, and Daryl let go of you to help.

You finished cooking the breakfast and served it up. Sitting and eating, laughing with your family.

You took a moment to look at your families smiling faces, realising how lucky you were to have such a perfect family.

As everyone finished up their food you got to cleaning as everyone else went to go get ready, giving your children kisses as they headed up the stairs.

Daryl came down first, dressed in a blue button-down shirt that hugged his broad shoulders, black jeans and nice black shoes.

“Looking good Mr Dixon,” you admired, your eyes travelling up and down his body as you bit your lip in approval.

Even after all his time and 2 children together, Daryl getting embarrassed was always the sweetest and endearing thing, as he looked at you with a blush upon his cheeks.

You walked up to him and kissed him on the cheek.

“I'm gonna get ready. Will you get everything into the car? Everything is in the fridge.”

Just then Mia and Lucas came bounding down the stairs.

“Well look at you both, all dressed up and clean,” you smiled walking up to them, placing a kiss on both their foreheads.

“Can you both help daddy put everything in the car while mummy gets ready please?” you asked as they got to helping Daryl load the car.

You headed to your room to get ready, you put on a simple floral dress that landed just above your knees, you put on some flat sandals knowing you were going to have to play with the kids at some point. You put on some simple light makeup, knowing anymore would make you melt in the Georgian heat.

Coming down the stairs you could see the hustle and bustle of everyone getting everything in the car, popping in and out of the house, picking up random items to pack into the car when Daryl stopped dead in his tracks, staring directly at you.

Daryl stood there in silence, in awe at your beauty as a blush came across your cheeks at the look in his eyes.

“You look pretty mommy,” Mia exclaimed coming up to you, wrapping her arms around your middle giving you a nice big hug.

“Thank you sweetheart,” you thanked her, hugging her back and leaning down to place a kiss on the top of her head.

“You really do Mrs Dixon,” Daryl walked towards you, the same look of awe in his eyes as he took you into his arms. You placed your arms around his neck, your hands playing with the hair on the nape of his neck, smiling and staring back into his beautiful Georgian blue eyes.

“Oh really?” you teased.

“Really,” Daryl leaned down and captured your lips with his, closing your eyes, getting lost in his kiss, Daryl’s kisses, no matter the reason for them, were always perfect, they were a balm for your soul.

You got interrupted by Lucas making disgusted noises behind you.

You and Daryl looked at each other with smirks on your faces, finding your sons embarrassment amusing.

“Alright. Come on. Let’s get going?” you called out to everyone as you call clambered into the car.

The journey was short, sharing laughs and admiring the countryside, you were there in no time.

As soon as you stopped the kids jumped out of the car, heading to the garden where they could hear the other kids having fun, as you went to the trunk to grab all the food to take inside.

“Here, take this, give it to Rick,” you handed him a bottle of wine, knowing he was eager to see his best friend.

He took the bottle of wine, placing a kiss on your cheek as he made his way into the party.

You and Daryl had been friends with Rick Grimes for a very long time, and every year he hosted a BBQ for everyone with his wife Lori who was now pregnant, and their son Carl.

Carol always came with her daughter Sophia. Maggie and Glenn came with Maggie’s sister Beth and their father Hershel. T-Dog and Andrea also joined.

Everyone had a great time at these, everyone brought food and drink, some brought things for the kids to play with, it was a great catch-up session for adults and a fun time for the kids.

You made multiple trips from the car to the kitchen until everything you brought was set up. you then made your way outside to greet with everyone, finding Daryl with Rick you walked over to join them.

Standing next to Daryl he placed an arm around your waist as you looked around the party seeing your kids playing with Carl and Sophia, being so close in age, it was always lovely to see them having such fun together.

You did your rounds, catching up with everyone, having a laugh, sharing food, drinks and stories, enjoying yourself.

You thought to yourself how lucky you were to have such an amazing family in Daryl and your kids, but also an amazing extended family in everyone else who was at the party.

With the party in full swing, you went inside the house to grab some more food, looking out the window onto the beautiful fields and trees that surrounded Ricks house, when you saw a figure from afar, he was walking funny, like he was drunk. It filled you with a sense of dread, but you had no idea why when gunfire in the house drew your attention in panic.

Running in the house, you saw all the kids sitting on the couch.

“What are you doing? You asked, slightly panicked.

“Watching a movie,” Carl answered. You looked at the tv to see them watching some kind of zombie movie with guns going off every minute.

“Come on guys, its summer, go out and play,” you said with a sigh of relief, your dread dissipating slightly.

“You can watch it another day,” you said as you walked up the tv set and turned it off, herding the kids back outside to play.

But that man outside, stumbling around, still set you on edge.

You went back to the window to see where he was, but he was nowhere to be found, it's like he had just vanished in thin air, considering the space around Ricks house is fairly open.

You took a minute to pause, taking in a breath, you decided to shake it off and go back into the party and enjoy yourself.

So, you tried to do just that, you carried on your afternoon with everyone but in the back of your mind there was still this creeping feeling, it felt like you were being buried alive, the weight slowly getting heavier on your chest.

You tried to concentrate on the here and now and what was happening around you, knowing there was no rational reason for you to be feeling this way when Daryl calling your name pulled you out of your thoughts.

You turned your head from the group of people you had spaced out on, having a glance around the party trying to pinpoint Daryl, when you saw him talking to Carol.

You broke away from your little group and headed in Daryl's direction.

“Did you call me?” you asked Daryl as you reached him and Carol.

“No, why?” Daryl answered, causing you to furrow your brow.

“Ya a’right?” Daryl asked placing a hand on your arm in a gentle, loving way.

“Yh, I'm just … I’m,” you stuttered not knowing what to say, confused at the chain of events, confused at your feelings.

You started walking backwards away from Daryl when a wave of heat came over you, starting to make you panic.

You turned away from everyone for a minute, trying to catch your breath.

When you turned back around everyone was staring at you. Everyone was silent, no one said anything as they stood motionless, staring without blinking in a disturbing manner.

You then realised they weren’t wearing the same clothes, they were dirty, covered in blood, holding weapons. Rick looked as though he had a colt python, glancing over at Daryl as he held a crossbow.

The more you looked the more familiar it felt, but it still didn’t make any sense. It didn’t fit.

You tried to blink away the feeling, taking a second to close your eyes, steading yourself, but when you opened your eyes it was like nothing has happened and just like that the party went on, all back in their own clothes, no weapons in sight.

The confusion sent you dizzy, the colour drained from your face. What was happening?

“(Y/N) … (Y/N),” you heard Daryl calling out your name, but as you looked over to him, his lips weren’t moving.

“(Y/N), (Y/N)! Wake up!” you heard Daryl again when a huge wave of dizziness came over you as you stumbled backwards.

Your body started falling to the floor, but you never felt yourself meet the floor instead you found yourself sitting up, gasping for breath in a bed that you recognised and a face you recognised as Daryl's, but you weren’t in a lovely clean, bright house.

You were in the prison, you remember now, everything came flooding back. You had gotten ill; you must have fallen unconscious.

“Hey, hey, you’re back, you’re okay,” Daryl reassured you, placing a gentle hand on your cheek.

“Yh, I'm fine, it’s just, I had the weirdest dream,” you told Daryl.

Even though you were still alive, and Daryl was right by your side, you couldn’t help the feeling of disappointment that your dream wasn’t real. Remembering the world how it was now, the dead rising, the hunger, the death, you would have given anything for your dream to be real.

Daryl climbed in bed with you as you told him all about your dream in as much detail as you remembered.

“Two kids huh?” Daryl asked, raising an eyebrow with a grin.

“Yh, Mia and Lucas. It’s so weird to talk about them, they’re not real, they don’t exist. But they felt so real,” you said with sadness in your voice.

“Hey,” Daryl got your attention, placing a finger on your chin to turn you towards him.

“Just because it ain’t real now, don’t mean it won’t be one day,” Daryl revealed, making you smile.

“You think so?”

“Yh, in the future, maybe we’ll find a better place than this. It could happen,” Daryl revealed.

This was a complete surprise to you. You knew Daryl's past, you knew his childhood, children were something you thought Daryl would never be able to bring himself to have - out of fear he’d turn into his father.

“You want kids?” you asked surprised.

“I didn’t’ think I did, ‘til I met ya,” Daryl confessed.

“I love you so much Daryl,” you told him, snuggling deeper into him, enjoying his warmth, his scent.

“I love ya too (Y/N),” Daryl reciprocated, holding you tight in his arms, placing a kiss on the top of your head as you both drifted into a peaceful deep sleep, both dreaming of the future you hoped one day you could both have together.

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[autumnslance]

Seems we get a brief breather between parts 1 and 2 of 5.5, so Aeryn's snagging her man so they can take care of one another post infiltration and combat. Just two adventurers cleaning up together. The rating actually remains in "older T" levels. You'll see why.

Below the cut on Tumblr for those who prefer this medium: ----

After the hearty dinner their colleagues set out, the senior Scions dispersed. Y’shtola, Urianger, and G’raha vanished to the library to discuss the Hydaelyn theories. Tataru offered to show Estinien his new room with the twins opting to tag along, for better or worse. Aeryn snagged Thancred’s coat before he could leave the dining area. He raised a brow and glanced about as she tugged gently, encouraging him to follow her. No one seemed to pay them much mind, so he did not fight being drawn along.

“Have a plan?” Thancred asked as they headed down the hall leading to the various senior Scions’ rooms.

Aeryn shrugged. “Nothing specific. Mostly I’ve missed you and we seem to have a moment.”

He drew her into an embrace, backwards against his chest. They both still smelled of levin-burnt sand and grimy sweat, tinged with the coppery tang of blood. But her viola hairpiece was also mingled in, familiar and comforting, and he let out a deep sigh he felt he’d been holding for weeks. “I’ve missed you as well.” He leaned closer to her ear to murmur, “I’ve perhaps been thinking of the various ways I intend to show just how much I’ve missed you once we’ve cleaned up.”

She giggled and he could see her expected blush as she leaned into the embrace before stepping away. “Sounds as if you think to get dirty again .”

He grinned. “It’s certainly been a thought, if you’re amenable.” Thancred paused as they came to her door. “I need to stow my gear and check on a certain rodent, lest we be interrupted by squeaky indignation later.”

“Come in when you’ve cleaned up and seen to your other girlfriend,” she teased, giving him a wink before turning away.

“On second thought,” he said, overwhelmed by the idea of Aeryn vanishing behind the door. “I’ll risk nutkin wrath and come in now.”

“You know you’re asking for it,” Aeryn said, keeping her door open for him.

Thancred shrugged, propping his gunblade on the stand by the entrance as he stepped inside. “We played and I lavished all sorts of affection on the little tyrant when Urianger and I were here naught but two days ago, it’ll be fine.” Maybe. His pet had been rather clingy since Thancred had awoken to his body after his time on the First.

Thoughts of the nutkin scattered as soon as the door locked, allowing them to fall against each other, Aeryn’s hands gripping his lapels, his hands in her hair and on the small of her back, pulling them into a long kiss and gods he had been needing that. They had had no time to themselves, not even a brief stolen moment, since his return from Garlemald. The closest they had come was leaning on each other for a brief nap on the airship returning from Paglth’an to Ul’dah.

But now here she was; solid, warm, soft in all the right places, and as tense as she normally was after such adventures—and when worried for a friend. They broke the kiss, both sighing with content as their foreheads rested against each other.

“You’re tense,” she murmured, pushing his coat off.

“Was about to say the same of you.” He let her remove it to hang by the doorframe. It needed a good wash and repairs after fighting through Paglth’an, not to mention a few weeks scouting in Garlemald; there hadn’t been time for proper maintenance the brief times he had returned to the Stones over the last few days. He dropped his gloves behind her so he could slide his palms over her form until he found the buttons and fastens for her own coat, hanging it next to his once he had it off her.

Aeryn started unhooking his belts and harnesses. He thought of protesting, but the weight of his gear was suddenly noticeable as his ammunition, daggers, the holster he kept healing potions and unguents, and various other pouches of practical supplies, were hung on hooks or placed on the nearby desk.

Thancred fought the urge to lean on the wall to turn to her, doing the same with her sword belt, supply pouches, the tie she wore with that coat. He was about to unbutton her shirt, but she was unhooking his armor, and he helped remove his chest piece, feeling lighter—and weary and aching, now that it wasn’t holding him up.

“You’ve a lot of bruising,” Aeryn said, already working on removing his undershirt as she frowned, noting every wince and flinch he made as her fingers traced over him. 

“Well, I was holding off magitek and dragons.” He tried to make it sound light, but he thought he sounded more snippy due to his tiredness. He forced his tone to sound gentler. “It’s after effects, really; Urianger saw to the worst of it already.”

Aeryn muttered the familiar incantation, the electric taste of wintry pine and icy mountain lakes accompanying her spell. The aching faded further, his remaining minor injuries progressing to a nearly healed stage. It was an improvement, and he told her so before kissing her again. His hands took advantage of the distraction to remove her blouse, watching her wince and flinch now as Thancred checked over her shoulders and arms, across her back and midsection, frowning at her cuts and bruises in turn. He tried reminding himself that some had been unavoidable, even with him standing between her and their enemies.

“Would that I could return the favor.” He bit down on the old frustration as she cast for herself under his gaze.

“It’s all ri—ight!” Aeryn yelped as he picked her up and turned to deposit her on her nearby desk, then knelt.

“Allow me to help with this instead,” Thancred said, finding the hidden fasteners on her tall boots before pulling them off. She sighed and flexed her toes, socks sweat-stained, perhaps blood stained too, given some of the discoloration. He pulled off her socks and began massaging her left foot, grinning as she released a small relieved moan and slumped a bit. All the flipping around she did couldn’t have been easy on her long, perfect legs, he often thought, working his way from her toes to her calf before moving on to her right foot.

“You’ll have to let me do the same for you. I know those greaves are heavy.”

“I’m fine,” he said automatically, knowing it was pointless to argue. Honestly, he was looking forward to it. He left a kiss just below her knee before he stood with a wince.

Aeryn slid off the desk, a hand on his chest, herding him to sit next to make good on that promise. Thancred sighed and allowed it, feeling better with his boots and socks off and grumbling relief as she massaged his limbs, checking his feet as he had hers.

“I could fall asleep like this,” he murmured. She finished her work and kissed the tip of his nose.

“Not before you get a bath,” Aeryn admonished. “Or shower, if you prefer; the reservoir’s heated and ready to go either way.”

“First things first.” Thancred stretched as he stood. He gestured at the vanity in her wash area. “Sit and pass me your hairbrush.”

Over the next several minutes he carefully, section by section, brushed out her fine locks, removing bands and pins and undoing the braids. Why she put it in such a complicated style was beyond him—though he had to admit it stayed more or less in place, and she seemed able to style it swiftly. Aeryn meanwhile enjoyed the attention, only hissing and flinching the few times he hit an unavoidable snag. Smoothed out, her hair fell past her shoulder blades. He drew his fingers through the black strands for the sheer pleasure of it.

“Want to wash it too?” She half-joked.

“Would be my pleasure. We have to finish getting you undressed first, though.”

“As if you’ve ever had problems with that,” Aeryn teased—even as he undid her brassiere.

“No idea what you mean,” Thancred said, leaving a kiss on the round of her shoulder while his fingers danced down her sides and then front to undo her pants.

Once they were both divested of their remaining clothing, he took her hand like a gentleman and helped her step into the tub. She fiddled with the levers on the shower head, making sure the water wasn’t too hot when it poured forth, rinsing away the grime and grit. They took turns washing each others’ hair and scrubbing backs and limbs. After the magical healing, there were still bruises on them both, but they looked days old instead of—gods, was it truly the same day? The sun had risen over the plains after all night fighting, then returning to Ul’dah, and finally home where it was evening again.

It had been a long handful of days.

Aeryn “mrf’d” as he rubbed her shoulders and back, the soap washed off but much of her tension remaining. He didn’t realize he was just as bad until she did the same for him, scrubbing his neck, shoulders, and back, continuing to massage as the warm water rained down. He forced himself to relax, or tried to at least. The temptation to fill the tub and lounge together was strong, but Thancred feared in their weary states they might fall asleep. Not that that would be a problem for Aeryn, given the Kojin blessing. He really ought to look into that for himself; it could be extremely useful.

They shut off the shower just as the crystal reservoir was running out and the water started to chill. Aeryn was quicker, snagging the biggest of the towels—which she wrapped around him, rubbing vigorously. “Gotcha.”

“My only complaint is you are the one dripping everywhere,” Thancred said, grabbing another towel. “All that hair first, then the rest of you.” He wrapped up her hair as she tucked his towel around his waist like a makeshift skirt, forcing him to find a third towel to wrap her in. It also put him in the perfect position to scoop her up, eliciting another surprised sound and giggle.

“I can walk, you know,” Aeryn said, nuzzling his neck. “And I know you’re tired.”

“Not too tired to spoil you what little you allow.” He carried her across the room and around the partition to her bed. He set her among the many pillows and blankets she kept there, pulling away the towels and dropping them to the side to be worried about later as he settled in beside her.

“Shouldn’t we be under the covers?” She feigned innocence as his hands roamed over her body. “And turn off the lights?”

“This would be part of the ‘get dirty again’ plan from earlier.”

“Ah, right; thought you’d forgotten.”

“As if I could.” Thancred denied further rejoinders with another kiss, this one hungrier than the others. Aeryn responded with an equal fervor, pressing closer to him with a shiver as his fingers found sensitive spots along her spine and sides.

He was enjoying her quiet little noises and how she writhed, and he nearly had her to where she would make those sweet, whimpery begging sounds as he prolonged their mutual pleasure, when Aeryn stilled, blinking past him. “...Thancred…”

He heard the scrabbling and had barely enough time to brace himself before four tiny sharp-clawed feet landed on his upper back accompanied by angry chittering, and he wondered how such a small creature could knock the wind out of him like that.

Aeryn was no help, the traitor, laughing while the nutkin continued its scolding. “I warned you!” she got out between giggles.

“How in the seven hells did it even get in here, I know I locked that door,” Thancred growled, wrangling the beast off his back, though it refused to be held, scrambling over his arms, chest, and shoulders, until Aeryn cooed and clicked for it.

“You’re the infiltration expert, I’m sure you’ll figure it out eventually,” she said as the nutkin bounced over to her, still chittering indignantly but accepting a cuddle and pets.

“Argh,” was Thancred’s only response, dropping on the mattress, arms splayed. A moment later there was another sharp weight on his chest and more chattering, this less angry and more inquisitive and needy. He scritched the nutkin, begrudgingly pleased with how it chirred and nuzzled him. “One would think you neglected entirely, to be so demanding,” he admonished. He went unheeded beyond a fluffy tail bomfed against his ribs a few times in response to his voice.

Aeryn giggled again and settled alongside him, adding her own tribute pets. “You weren’t kidding earlier when you called this critter a tyrant.”

“Perhaps if fed it’ll allow us to return to our own business,” he grumbled.

“There’s a tin container in the cabinet on my desk for such occasions, since we spent plenty of time together while you were gone. You could get the lights while you’re at it.”

Thancred sighed theatrically, eliciting another round of giggles from Aeryn. He sat up with one hand cupped under the nutkin, who chattered and scrabbled up his arm to his shoulder as he crossed the room, its nails prickling Thancred’s bare skin.

There was, in fact, a tin and food and water dishes in the right-hand cabinet in the desk, the nutkin bounding in gleeful expectation upon the oak surface. “You know what you’re after, little fiend,” Thancred said, adding a few treats to hopefully keep his pet occupied and too full to bounce around much more. He brushed his hand over the soft grey fur while the nutkin dug in, chirring with content as it ate. “Lesson learned; see to you first always. Now no more interruptions, hear me?”

The nutkin paid no further attention, focused on its dinner and the snacks for storing in one of its many stashes around the Rising Stones. There was probably at least one here in Aeryn’s chamber.

Thancred left his fuzzy companion on the desk as he turned out the lights, grabbing extra water glasses while he was up, the room familiar enough that once his vision adjusted it was no trouble to cross the darkened space.

Aeryn had slid under the sheets in the meantime and was starting to doze off by the time he set the water on the nightstand and laid beside her. “Sleepy?” He tried very hard not to be too disappointed; it had been a long, hard few days, and honestly sleeping in her bed and being used as her pillow was itself a heavenly feeling he had missed over the past few weeks, and all else could wait until they were better rested in the morning…

The placement of her hand scattered those thoughts. “A bit, after everything,” she said. “But I’m certain you can wake me up again. We had a plan, remember?”

“Indeed,” he said, pulling her close once more. With any luck the nutkin was finally satisfied, as it hadn’t been the only one missing Thancred.

[morganaspendragonss]

i’ll call you home

inspired by this post by @officereyes

ao3

Growing up, TK had always believed that his dad was invincible. All kids do, he supposes, but his dad had been special. His dad was a superhero.

Looking at him now, TK’s hit with just how vulnerable he truly is.

It’s not that he’s never realised before; Owen wasn’t as good as he thought at hiding the side effects from the cancer treatment. TK had heard him throwing up into the toilet at all hours, had seen the tired, drawn look on his face when he thought no one else was around. He’d let him keep up the charade at the time, not wanting to cause his dad any more unnecessary stress, but he wonders now if he’d made a mistake.

He has to refrain from checking his watch again, knowing it’ll only have been five minutes or so since the last time. But every minute his dad doesn’t wake up only increases his worry, and he briefly feels guilty for those days Owen must have spent by TK’s bedside when he was shot.

“Come on, Dad,” he mutters, leg bouncing with pent up anxiety. The medics in the tent are giving him the side eye, but none of them have said anything - yet. TK knows he ought to be helping with the clean-up; now that the out-of-state teams have left, it’s all hands on deck for the Texas crews, but the 126 are covering for him and he thinks the chief is cutting him a bit of slack anyway. 

Not that TK could focus on work at the moment even if he tried.

TK sighs and scrubs his hands over his face, not caring about the ash and grime he must be smearing everywhere. He’s exhausted. He can probably count on one hand the number of hours he’s slept this past week, and now that the adrenaline is fading from his body, he knows it’s only a matter of time before he crashes. 

In truth, the only things keeping him awake right now are the fear of missing his dad waking up and the promise of a bed when he gets back home to Carlos.

His phone pings in his pocket and he pulls it out, smiling when he sees the texts from his boyfriend.

Hope your dad gets better soon. Glad to hear you’re okay.

Do you know when you’ll be coming back?

TK grimaces. He wants nothing more than to be back. He and Carlos have facetimed a couple of times and they’ve kept up a steady text stream, but it’s not the same. He misses him so damn much.

Not sure, he types. Clean up might take a while but we hope they’ll clear us soon. Miss you x

A groan from the bed pulls his attention away from his phone. His dad’s head rolls on the pillow, his eyes slowly blinking open. TK leans forward, gripping his dad’s hand tightly.

“Dad? Dad, you’re okay, it’s okay. I’m here.”

Owen frowns, blinking a few more times before his gaze focuses on TK. “TK -” He coughs harshly, and TK grabs a water bottle, holding it gently to his lips. His dad pouts at the implication that he can’t do it himself, but TK just sends him a warning look. It feels weird, and he doesn’t miss the irony of the situation; normally, he would be the one pouting and protesting.

“What’s happening?” his dad asks once the coughing has abated. “The fire?”

“Everything’s okay,” TK replies. “There was some rain overnight; we were able to get it under control while you were out. The crews from other states are shipping out.”

“The 118, have they gone yet?”

TK frowns. “I-I don’t- I don’t know.”

Owen begins to push himself up. “I’ve got to go find out, I need to talk to Hen.”

TK gently shoves him back down, rising from his seat. “You’re not going anywhere. I’ll go. The others will want to know you’re awake anyway.” He sighs and attempts a smile. “Please, Dad.”

Owen hesitates a second before relenting, lying back down on the bed. “Thank you, son.”

TK nods then leaves the tent, sighing deeply the second he steps outside. There’s a weight off his shoulders now that his dad’s awake and he feels lighter than he has since he first heard the news. 

It’s enough to energise him to work, so they can get home.

*

A day and a half later, they’re on the road back to Austin. Most of the crew - save Judd, who volunteered to drive the three and a half hour journey - are already asleep, but TK has something he needs to do first.

“TK?”

He smiles as he hears Carlos’s voice through his phone, leaning his head against the truck window and closing his eyes. “Hey.”

“What’s up?” Carlos asks. “Everything okay?”

TK nods, futile though the gesture is. “Yeah. We’re, uh, we’re actually leaving San Angelo now. Should be back at the station in a few hours.” He stifles a yawn, shaking his head in an attempt to stay awake.

“I’ll meet you there.”

“You don’t have to -”

“I want to.” Carlos laughs. “And TK?”

“Hmm?”

“Get some rest. You’re falling asleep.”

“How do you know?” TK protests, despite the fact that Carlos is, actually, correct. “You can’t see me.”

“Call it intuition,” Carlos says drily. “I’ll see you soon.”

“See you.” TK smiles and cuts the call, shoving his phone back in his pocket before he can drop it. He shifts in his seat, sighing deeply as he gets comfortable, and finally gives in to the pull of sleep.

He’s snoring in thirty seconds flat.

[ajbwasntwriting]

Daughter!Reader x Negan, Reader x Daryl: Chapter 4. Bow Boy

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After way too many chapters the reader will now meet our favorite archer. 

I’ll only post more chapters if previous chapters get a good reaction so if you enjoy this please heart it, reblog it, and/or reply to it. Interaction inspires.

 if you wish to be added to the tag list please dm me. All chapters can be found under the tag AJ’s Negan’s Daughter AU

In the weeks that followed you had become adept at moving through the dead. You had set up a little place closer in the city for yourself, complete with a crappy veggie garden on the roof of an apartment complex for yourself. Only Tomatoes, Onions, and Lettuce seemed to grow up there but it was better than nothing. You had built up a steady collection of books, turning one of the abandoned apartments into a library. You treated the zombie books as if they were comedy. ‘If only they knew’ you’d think looking at your wardrobe which consisted of some comfortable pieces to lounge around your hideout in and a bucket of cloths stewing in guts for when you went out. It proved beneficial to leave the home smelling freshly dead.

You were trying to build up a collection of canned food, meant to get you through the winter, but it wasn’t enough and with your last crop failing you knew it was back to foraging for at least the next three months. You had an old calendar broken up and spread across your floor. If you could fit seven cans on each page then you’d be fine...but seven cans was all you had, not including the dog food. The only good thing is that food was the only thing you had a hard time coming up with.

You were wandering through the streets again in your walker gear, your bag empty, aside from some old seed mix you took from the pet store. The snow had begun to fall making being discrete more difficult as the dead would often get stuck or fall over, which wasn’t an option for you. ‘Maybe when it gets heavy I can wear my normal clothes.’ you thought.

It was no use, the sun was setting, and traveling deeper into town would prove a fruitless effort if you got caught by the dead. You backtracked to a bank. The doors were broken and bloodied and ripped sleeping bags lined the ground, but what you came here for was the boards on the windows. You ripped some filling from a sleeping bag, shoving it into your ruck-sack, and moved to the windows.

You got the first board down but the click of a gun stopped your movements. “Turn around. Slowly” a man with a southern accent spoke. You did as he said, turning around with your hands raised. To say you were surprised would be an understatement. Before you stood Rick Grimes, along with a man with a crossbow and a woman with dark hair pulled into a tight pony, pointing a familiar rifle at you.

“Hey...Rick was it?” you nodded to the woman “Glad to see you got some use out of that rifle.” It took a moment for it to dawn on Rick who you were, at which he couldn’t contain his chuckle at your overly friendly attitude.

“I didn’t recognise you with all that filth on your face, then again I never got your name.”

“I have reasons to prefer it that way,” you smiled at him.

“Look, can you leave those blanks? We need to camp here for the night.” He asked, not putting his gun down, but you didn’t judge.

“I need the wood,”

“Let’s just kill her” the man spoke up, stepping closer then visually wincing. You looked him over quickly and noticed his leg was bleeding badly.

“Your hurt,” you spoke, locking eyes with the man. After a glance over the rest of them, it seemed they had been through a war. Maybe that’s why they decided to stay “I can help with that if you let me. I have a safe house not too far from here.” you said, nodding to the man behind Rick. “In return you guys just gotta help me carry up some planks to make a fire.”

“No” the woman behind Rick spoke.

“Yes,” Rick interjected. He turned to his group, his back to you which seemed to make them trail their weapons on your head. You took a step back for their sake. “If she says she can patch Daryl up then she can.”

“Why do you trust her?” the woman asked, not taking her eyes or aim off of you for a second.

“It’s a long story,” he whispered “But we’re cold and exposed out here. So I say we take her up on the offer.”

“Can I go back to getting my wood now?” you interrupted them. “It’s getting late and it’s hard to navigate in the dark”

“Yeah,” Rick said, turning back to you. You turned and started pulling the planks off the windows, now with Rick’s help. The other two took a moment to join you too, pulling a couple planks off the wall. Between yourself and Rick you had a few days worth of wood, while the woman was busy helping the second man who was limping. You lead them down to an old red-brick building, leading them to the entrance to the basement.

“It’s ten flours up,” you said, unlocking the gate and motioning the group to go down. “You’ll sleep like babies after.” Once inside the planks were offloaded onto you to carry the second man up the floors. Once on your floor, you dropped the planks onto the ground, finding an oil-lamp in the moonlight and turning it on. The group looked even more exhausted now. You held out the lamp to Rick and nodded to the door to your left. “My bed’s in there. Get him laid out. I’ll be on the roof.” he took the lamp from you. You grabbed two planks and walked past them “Don’t take my food there’s not enough” you called as you passed them.

You opened up the roof, finding what was left of your garden, some plastic boxes collecting snow, and a fire pit you had jerry-rigged out of a sheet of metal, an old lamp, and a punch of wire hangers twirled to suspend a pot that had filled with snow. You grabbed the hatchet you had found from it’s space by the door and got the filling from your bag and started a fire using a lighter. As it burned you went back to the entrance way to the roof, where you kept the bucket of guts for your walker gear and a small cupboard with clean clothes in it and some pieces of cloth. By the time you had peeled off the layers, the snow had turned to water. You poured some out into a neighbouring pot full of snow, cooling it.

As you were washing the gunk off your skin and out of your hair you heard the door open. It was the woman. “I’m so sorry” she yelped, closing the door.

“What is it?” you yelled just before she closed it again.

“We were wondering what was taking you” she answered. “You didn’t mention you were bathing.” you wiped the blood from your arms, your skin reacting to the sudden heat and cold.

“There’s a pot on the stove in my kitchen. Can you bring it up?” you called. She replied positively before fully closing the door. By the time she came back you were fully clean and redressed in some red pants, a black shirt, a yellow hoodie, and a pair of slip-on shoes you’d designated as your house shoes. She held the pot from behind the door, you walked over and opened the door, finding her with her eyes closed. “I’m dressed,” you said, taking the pot. You got some snow from the bins and emptied the last of the water into the new pot. You picked it up.

“I’m Tara, by the way” she spoke up as you walked back towards her.

“I didn’t ask” you replied, walking past her “close the door” you were down one flight of stairs with her behind you when you stopped short, looking over your shoulder. “Sorry, it’s just...safer to not exchange names.” Tara nodded at you

“No, I get it.” she smiled at you meekly. The two of you continued down the stairs. “How do you know Rick?”

“I tried to kill him,” you said plainly, pushing your door open to see Rick and the other man, now sitting on the couch. “I thought I told you the bed.” You said, putting the pot of hot water on the coffee table. “Where’s the wound?”

“His calf,” Rick replied, watching you walk into the kitchen. You threw open one of the presses and to the shock of the other three, it was over flowing with medical supplies. You grabbed a familiar first-aid kid, a bottle of antibiotics, some bandage, and gauze.

“Great. Take off your pants.” You unintentionally slammed the doors closed “Or just roll up the leg of your jeans. Either way, I need a look at it.” The man bent over and rolled up the jean leg.

“Where did you find all that stuff?” Rick asked. You picked up the man’s leg and placed it on the coffee table, shoving the pant leg up.

“Around” you replied as you cleaned the matted blood from the wound. It was a rather deep cut and it didn’t look good. “You’re gonna need stitches, and I’m gonna have to open it up more.”

“The hell you mean open it up more!” The man shouted

“To make sure it’s clean, numb-nuts. How’d you get this?”

“We jumped out of an office window” Tara spoke up. “Daryl got caught on the fire escape.” Now that made you laugh. That fragile-looking man, that baby-faced girl, and this rough-looking redneck is the one that gets hurt.

“Old steal.” you signed dramatically “I gotta clean it properly.” you spoke, opening the first aid kit to show it full of medical tools. Mainly single-use tweezers and scissors. You took some scissors and cut up some gauze, “It’s gonna hurt. Need a towel to bite on?” you asked, using a pair of tweezers to pick up the gaze and soak it in the steaming water.

“Fuck you” Daryl cursed. You positioned your free hand over the wound, pushing it open slightly, causing him to wince.

“As you wish” you cut back before focusing on cleaning the wound. He took it like a champ and you had him bandaged in no time. You dumped the water out the window when you were done. You laughed to yourself as it hit a walker and he grumbled up at you. You didn’t pay attention to their conversation until they pulled you into it.

“How many walkers have you killed?” Rick called over to you. You closed the window and walked back into the sitting room of the apartment,

“Why?”

“Please just answer the question,” Rick spoke quietly. You leaned against a hall and took a deep breath

“I don’t know... a lot”

“How many people have you killed?” he asked. You thought on it a moment and remembered the lady you sent a walker on back at Sanctuary

“One”

“Why?”

“She tried to kill me first”

The three of them looked amongst themselves as if reading each other’s minds. “We have a place-”

“No” you stopped Rick, knowing what was coming next. “I am not going to your camp, and you're not staying here. Tomorrow morning you will leave, and I will stay,” you spoke firmly

“It’s not a camp,” Tara spoke up from where she was sitting on the couch next to Daryl. “It’s a community. We have walls.”

“I’m not going” you spoke slowly, making sure every word was heard. You pushed off the wall and walked past the living area towards your bedroom. “Next door is my library. There’s another bed and a couch. Just don’t take my shit.” you closed the door and locked it for good measure. ‘They’ll take my supplies’ you thought as you crawled into bed, pulling the blankets as closely around you as possible, ‘but they won’t take me’.

The following morning you woke to see your patient out cold on your couch, with his friends on the floor covered in the blankets from the library. It was still dark out, as expected in the winter season, but you still wanted them gone. You walked past him to your door, remembering you’d left your bag on the roof. Everything up there was still in its place too.

Back in your apartment, you prepared a wonderful breakfast; half a can of soup, and some seed mix in a bowl. It tasted like crap but you knew it would fill you for the next while. “Thought you said there was no food” Daryl piped up from the couch. You turned your back to him.

“Not enough for more people” you retorted, slurping down your cold soupy-seedy mix.

“How long have you been out here?” He asked.

“Some time” you said through gulps

“Where were you before this?”

“Someplace else” you snapped, scraping the last of the mix into your mouth. Silence fell for a moment.

“Why did you help us?” he asked. You looked down into the old metal sink as if it had the answers. You used to do the same with the neck of a vodka bottle at sanctuary. They never had the answers. ‘Old soldiers don’t forget their training?’ you thought

“I don’t know” is what you said.

The other two woke not long after. Rick looked at your cabinet than at you before approaching you. Before he could speak you opened it up and pulled out two changes of bandages. “For Daryl,” you said, “Now get out.”

Three days later you were coming back to your home from another run, finding some clothes and chocolate powder but no food. With the seeds, you could stretch your rations to another week but it was still tight. That was when you saw a small pile of cans in front of your door. Eight in total. Soups, peas, beans, apple sauce. Among the cans, you found a small note. ‘From Alexandria’ it read. You thought of the ramifications that might have to your security and how that they’ll probably pay a price for not having enough food for your father this week, then one of the tins read /FAVOURITE SOUP/ and your stomach won over, demanding you to start a fire this minute and warm that can of delicious right up!

You were grateful for the first time. Alarmed the second time. Tired of it by the third time. They would come every week with cans and tins of food. When you expected the next delivery ‘from Alexandra’ you stayed home, sitting on the floor watching the door. The sun had been up a while and you were certain they weren’t coming when you heard heavy steps, followed by the sound of tin knocking off each other. You opened the door quickly, startling the delivery man in the process.

“Howdy, Bow Boy” you spoke to Daryl who had the bow pointed at your face. “What’re you doing?” Daryl slid his crossbow back into place.

“ugh...Feeding ya?” he said, a little embarrassed about getting caught. “I figured you’d be out, scavenging.”

“I usually am but some homeless-looking guy keeps bringing me food” you smiled sarcastically.

“Well he sounds like a gentleman,” he said, picking up the cans and offering one to you.

“Why are you doing this?” you asked, closing your eyes in annoyance.

“You need it,” he spoke plainly. You pushed your door open and motioned for him to follow.

“Put the cans on the coffee table” you said, going to your medical supplies and pulling some things out and placing them on the counter. “I am not taking any more charity. We are going to trade.” He looked over what you were pulling out.

“Are you sure?” he asked. You nodded sternly.

“You ain’t leaving me short, so I ain’t gonna leave you short. That’s the terms.” you held out your hand to him. “Deal?”

You parted with a lot of medical supplies, some soaps, two blankets, and a box of cutlery. You would have given him more but he couldn’t fit any more in his bag. You’d just have to find him better stuff next time.

Riding into the Sanctuary on his bike, Daryl was greeted by some saviours. He emptied his bag, claiming to have found the pieces. Everyone was overjoyed at the supplies and the fresh blankets went to Rodney and his new-born. Heading back to his quarters he was approached by Lauren. “Daryl! Daryl, it happened again. Some asshole robbed some of our cans”

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