#he wanted this as a wall paper so I drew it for her
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#fiona and cake#adventure time#simon petrikov#fiona and cake spoilers#my art#digital art#this episode had me and my gf screaming and pointing at the screen#he wanted this as a wall paper so I drew it for her#tw eyestrain#maybe? it's pretty bright#rhyol1te_
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⋆˚✿˖° rafe and pogue!sweetheart!reader reevaluate their living situation now that she’s carrying a little baby in her tummy.
warnings: babydaddy!rafe, pregnancy, soooo much fluff, crying (mostly happy tears! no worries), rafe is so reassuring :(
a/n: introducing rafe’s condo to my blog.. but tanneyhill will forever be my go-to :( also just a reminder: pogue!sweetheart!reader is only pregnant in this fic alone. meaning any other works i create with her are not correlated with this one UNLESS stated so <3 you could keep up with this little universe under the second tag of this post: ‘₊˚⊹♡ pogue!sweetheart!reader & babydaddy!rafe’
“why do you look so sad, baby?” rafe joined you outside, bringing you a cold glass of water as he urged you to sit down on his lap. you were growing teary-eyed again, your gaze falling on the pink and white camper in front of you. taking a small sip, rafe held onto the glass for you while you wiped at your tear stained cheeks. “it’s just,” you sniffled, “i know we can’t raise a baby here, but this little thing— it’s all i’ve ever known..” you rested your head on his shoulder, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your thigh. rafe studied you for a moment, stroking the side of your face.
“i’ve been meaning to talk about that actually,” rafe cleared his throat, “what if we didn’t go house hunting?” his words drew your attention, a hum falling from your lips. “and stay here? i would love that,” you shook your head, “but i know it’s for the best. we barely fit in there ourselves.” rafe laughed. “yeah, i know.. someone is always bumping their head when we have sex.” your cheeks heated as you slapped his arm playfully. “well to be fair, it was just me in there before you came along,” you sighed, “i can’t even imagine that now.” you pecked his cheek.
“at first, i thought maybe we could check out some houses on figure eight..” your eyes widened, your lips parting to reject his suggestion. “but,” rafe interjected, “i know that’s not really your scene.” he reassured you. “so i want to propose something else,” both of you looked at each other, “i’ve been working on this blueprint, m’thinking we just get our house built out here. you could design the kitchen however you want, whatever would be best for you and your baking, we can put the nursery together, do the whole thing y’know. go the whole nine yards.” you swallowed thickly, tears pricking your eyes.
“you have a blueprint?” you smiled, your vision becoming blurry as rafe nodded. “yeah, you wanna see?” you whispered a ‘yes, please!’ before he guided you inside. he reached for a spot you couldn’t reach in your cabinet, unraveling the blueprint in question. “see, right here? i thought you’d like the kitchen to have big window facing the backyard, oh, and right here!” he pointed a finger, “we could have shelves built into the walls for the baby’s room, we could even have a reading nook for bedtime stories..” your heart felt so full right now, you swore it could burst at the seams.
“what’s this empty space right here in the backyard?” you held up the paper, pointing to a spot where a little white heart was drawn. “..that would be where your camper goes.” your head shot in his direction, your eyebrows knitting in confusion. “what do you mean?” you put the blueprint down, turning around while he caged you between his arms. “i think we should build the house just right out front, you don’t have to move anything, relocate the camper, none of that. i could start getting the brush cleared out as soon as next week.” you blinked, your brain trying its best to piece everything together.
“you thought of all of this in the two weeks since we found out?” your hands snaked up his chest until your arms wrapped around his neck. rafe embraced you, his eyes shutting at the sweet scent of your perfume. “i told you, you have nothing to worry about, sweetheart. i’m taking care of everything.” you breathed him in, both of you rocking softly as the wind chimes sung outside in the light breeze. you two stayed in a comfortable silence, the image of watching the sunset together on the porch of your own house with a baby on your hip flooded both of your minds.
“it’s perfect.” you looked up at him, smiling when he pecked the tip of your nose. “the three of us, huh?” rafe loved the way that sounded rolling off of his tongue. “mhmm,” you let out a shaky breath, “the three of us.”
#❤︎₊ ⊹ works#₊˚⊹♡ rafe#₊˚⊹♡ babydaddy!rafe#₊˚⊹♡ pogue!sweetheart!reader#₊˚⊹♡ pogue!sweetheart!reader & babydaddy!rafe#outer banks#outer banks smut#outer banks fanfiction#outer banks imagine#rafe outer banks#obx#rafe obx#obx smut#obx fanfiction#obx imagine#obx x reader#rafe cameron#rafe cameron smut#rafe cameron fanfiction#rafe cameron x reader#rafe cameron x y/n#rafe cameron blurb#rafe cameron imagine#rafe cameron x you#rafe fluff#rafe x you#rafe fanfiction#rafe smut#rafe x reader#rafe imagine
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Deer Demon Child Headcanons
Requested
Alastor & Child Reader
Warnings? ⚠
⚠ implied death, mention of blood, mention of cannibalism, weapons-gun ⚠
It was a surprise to everyone that a child wandered into the hotel.
A little deer demon.
That's you
Climbed up one of the bar stools and stared the cat man down until he finally noticed them.
"Uh..hey? Kid."
"I want juice!", you pointed at a bottle behind him that was on the shelf.
"That's not juice."
While distracting you with magic tricks and cards games, Husk called Charlie to let her know that a new guest had arrived.
The Princess ran to get to the lobby and rushed over to the bar.
"Hi! Welcome to the Hazbin Hotel!", Charlie sings out before noticing the little deer. "Oh."
Everyone is called into the lobby.
"Ok!", Charlie claps her hands together and introduces you to the group. "Everyone, be nice and say hi."
Later on you are asked by Vaggie and Charlie how you got to the "red place."
Mostly everyone left and it was only you three. Four.
"Before I woke up here I was with my moma.", you said while coloring your drawing. "Dad had a shiney toy in his drawer and showed it to me a lot of times. It made fun clicking noises. I wanted to play with it, so I took it out."
As you were explaining you drew out the shape of a gun.
"I wanted to show Moma but she looked scared. And when I tried to make the clicky noise it came out different. It made a bang and then Moma fell."
You drew your mother covered in red.
"I tried to wake her up but she wouldn't get up. I got sad and started crying."
You didn't notice Charlie and Vaggie looking sad.
"Then Dad came home and started screaming at me and took the toy away. And then everything went dark for a while."
Picking up your paper, you showed the girls your drawings.
"And then I woke up to the red sky!"
Charlie hugged you after and said that she'll make sure you go to Heaven.
Oof sad backstory.
Husk literally growls at Alastor everytime he mentions venison for dinner.
Alastor has joked to others that he'll eat you but stopped once he grew fond of you.
"Little fawn.", he smiles as he greets you. "Would you like gingerbread cookies?"
To be honest, everyone is worried that Alastor might kill you. But surprise, surprise! They are shocked when he takes care of you instead.
You're the favorite hotel guest.
Anyone that tries anything will be taken care of.
Charlie did a talent show day and you sang, surprising everyone with your angelic like voice.
You're a curious little deer and the hotel guests and staff find you in odd places.
Once Angel found you upsidedown behind the couch that was against the wall.
"What are ya doing back there?", he asked after pulling you out.
"Niffty said there was treasure!", you smiled.
Alastor finds it adorable that you go to him when someone you don't know/scary person is in the hotel.
Sir Pentious is told to put all of his weapons away.
Everyone dubs you as Alastor's child. Even the Radio Demon himself.
Vaggie threatens Alastor after he jokes that you'll be a cannibal like him.
Of course he'd never do that but its funny to see Vagatha's and Husker's pissed off faces.
Alastor keeps up with the human news and learns that your father went to prison. So the Radio Demon waits for the man to fall.
Art will be provided. (Later)
~Seline, the person.
Part 2
Art
Taglist@
@ducky-died-inside @scary-noodlesblog @c4rved-pumpk1n @stolas-thebirb @naelys-the-aster @biromanticboba @kiraisastay @faioula16 @pooplyface1423 @lbcreations-blog @+?
ML for Alastor🎙
#gn reader#x reader#alastor and child reader#child reader#platonic#alastor#alastor hazbin hotel#hazbin alastor#hazbin hotel alastor#alastor the radio demon#the radio demon#fanfic#deer demon reader#little baby#fawn reader#hazbin hotel husk#hazbin hotel charlie#hazbin hotel niffty#hazbin hotel vaggie#hazbin hotel angel dust#hazbin hotel pentious#hazbin hotel fanfiction#hazbin hotel#alastor & reader#hazbin hotel x reader
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☆ trophy wife!
synopsis: you and oliver aiku were married — had been for what felt like ages now. everyone knew it: the media, his fans, his teammates — everyone. but what they didn't know was that... it was a marriage of convenience and that you were nothing more than a trophy wife. but then, why — after three years of ignoring you — was oliver aiku backing you into the wall and telling you he needed you? pairing: afab!reader x oliver aiku [aged up.] wc: 5.7k cw: NOT PROOFREAD. dual pov. loads of mutual pining. idiots to lovers pairing. both of them are pretty pathetic, i swear. marriage of convenience trope. i'll write smut if anyone wants it mwuah mwuah. m.list
.࣪ ִֶ☾. part 01: through her eyes.
30th of june, 2:33 a.m. incident: AITA for freaking out when my husband tried to kiss me on his birthday?
you were well-prepared. you knew what was to come. there was absolutely nothing that could throw you off - other than this.
"a-aiku..?" your breath hitched, eyes widening as the man backed you into the same room you both has chastely slept in for the past 3 years.
the lights were off, the city right outside your window was buzzing, and you swore you felt like you were losing you mind as aiku drew out his long steps towards you.
thump! the back of your knees made contact with the wooden frame of the bed.
having nowhere to hide anymore, you stared at him — all but going insane, "hey."
"need you."
"aiku, listen—" you tried again, words laden with apprehension, eyes jittery as if one look away from him and he'd disappear, "you're drunk."
"no." his heterochrome eyes fell to your red-hued face, and he brought up a thumb up to swipe up at your bottom lip. as the tip of his finger made contact with the soft pout, he almost hissed, "'m not."
"you are." you repeated, deflecting his hand with a careful hit, "you're drunk."
but the man persisted, annoyingly again bringing up his hand up to your cheek and planting it there. his voice was soft, the question so innocent, "so what?"
"you'd—" your eyes met his, lips wobbling as he bent towards you all so greedily slow, "you'd regret... this."
"so what?"
so... what?
how could he ask you that knowing very well that he was breaking rule number 04 of your agreement?
━━━━━━━☆⭒⭒☆━
three years ago, you and your husband spent your entire wedding night setting down rules.
you clad in a white dress that had wrinkled by the time the filtered sunlight had streamed through your window, and him in an expensive suit he didn't give a shit about — his heterochrome eyes had met yours in a careful dance.
"i know you didn't want this. me neither." your legal husband sighed, a broad hand sifting through his dual toned hair as regret interwove into his low decibles, "and i know i cannot make it any better but—"
he sled the piece of paper that you both had spent hours perfecting towards you. the white sheet against the mahogany table, such a striking contrast — and, there was fine-print with two blanks for yours and his signs at the very bottom.
"so this is... final?" dragging the sheet towards yourself with your index, your gaze ran across the rules that you both had thought would make this 'marriage' thing work.
"hm." he nodded, "technically, this is a legally binding document."
your eyes shifted over the words, taking in the phrases you were to consider your holy commands from now on.
there were four simple rules, to be specific:
1. don't interfere in each other's sex lives. 2. don't get caught up in any scandals. be careful. have affairs in private. 3. pretend to be the most perfect couple on camera. no matter what it takes — lies, pr, more lies. whatever. 4. kiss, kiss, don't fall in love!
your brows knitted together, a frown across your painted lips as you read the sheet again and again, and then, once more for good measure. "you want me to be nothing more than a trophy wife, right..?"
"yes," the ex-captain huffed, looking from you to the sheet he had co-authored, "and i promise to be nothing more than your legal husband."
"I'll do my part, you do yours." oliver gave you a re-assuring smile, the kind that made your stomach coil inwards at it's polite implications, "and none of us fall in love with the other."
hopefully.
━━━━━━━☆⭒⭒☆━
being the only daughter of a high-ranking national sports committee member, the starstruck fans and fame-hungry reporters had chalked up your and aiku's pairing to the fates.
"the pro-player and the daughter of the sports committee member," they had discussed in loud whispers, "no wonder they're getting married. so romantic!"
"he was such a womanizer before he met her, you know? who knows what he's like now? probably the same." one school-girl probably had scoffed on the subway, and another had retorted, "that's because it's true love, idiot. people change for love."
"how did they never get caught, though?" others had asked, "it's like their marriage came out of the blue. but well, i guess — when it's fate, then, it's fate!"
well, what they all didn't know was that 'fate' was your father and aiku signing a bunch of paperwork in an office a few days before your wedding ceremony, binding you both to this twisted relationship. not so romantic now, is it?
but eitherways, both of you did your part diligently — that's how this had worked out for so long. this arrangement had worked more than well enough for the past three years.
during his matches, you were dressed in his jersey, his number, cheering his — no, yours — family name as loud as you could. after the same match, aiku would come running upto you and hug you till you felt his tensed muscle slacken against yours like he wanted to hug you. you didn't quite miss the way he whispered against you, "sorry for making you do this, ma."
in the interviews afterwards, he would call you his lucky charm. he would laugh, the sweat beads trailing down the planes of his handsome, perspired face, "what can i say? it's probably my girl that makes my game."
'his' girl? right.
when on a pre-planned date night, he would catch your smaller palms in his, and hover his lips over your skin — fooling the world into believing his lips ever touched yours. next morning, you'd find your faces plastered in the morning tabloids.
oliver aiku was such a good actor, it was sickening.
during every red carpet, you and him were dressed in complimentary suits and dresses, smiling up at each other as if you weren't stuck in whatever the fuck this relationship was.
and when the interviewers would ask him one fine evening, "mr. oliver, you're presenting the award this time, we've heard."
"hah, yes but have you seen my wife yet?" he would gush expertly — somehow even turning his nose and ear tips appear red on command, a pro liar. "i am afraid i wouldn't be able to remember my lines on the stage if i look at her."
and you would look on from the side-line, amazed, because how could that man lie so easily? lie to everyone — the media, his friends, to himself? how could this man tell the cameras you were the very thing he adored, and then go home just to fall asleep after a simple goodnight?
most importantly, how could you ever trust such a big liar? a liar who could even make you believe for a fleeting second that he loved you (even though, according to rule number #4, that was prohibited.)
how, oh how, did oliver aiku make you feel so utterly stupid? how did he even fool you into thinking he may love you?
━━━━━━━☆⭒⭒☆━
3rd of december, 1:06 a.m. incident: my husband comes back from a long night.
"aiku..?" a soft sigh of his name tumbled past your lips, your eyes narrowing at the figure standing at your shared bedroom door in the middle of the night.
it was one in the morning, and you were sure under that once-crisp linen shirt lay foreign lipstick stains and faint whispers of feminine perfume. it was normal — this was normal — your husband getting home late at night after being with another woman. this was normal. and according to rule number 01, you weren't supposed to care about it.
and yet, your mouth grew drier as the same husband walked into the room in the dark — agile footing easily navigating through the learned pathways.
"aiku?" you tried again, this time a bit louder as you sat up on your shared bed. the fabric shifted under your hips, your eyes trying to trace out his outline in the comfortable darkness.
at the sudden sound, the man jumped. flicking on a light with a quick click of his finger, he stared at you all wide-eyed, "you're still up..?"
you nodded and the man cocked an eyebrow, nimble fingers undoing the buttons of his shirt, "why so late?"
well, who was supposed to tell aiku that it was the third anniversary of your 'marriage' — or rather, the contract? who was supposed to tell him that you had stupidly cooked a meal and thought you two could celebrate this utterly dogshit arrangement of yours? who was supposed to tell him? definitely not you.
after all — according to rule number 03 — you didn't need to behave like the perfect wife when the cameras weren't rolling. and according to rule number 04 — no falling in love.
so instead, you pressed your lips into a thin line, "jus' couldn't sleep." forcing your lips into a smile, you asked, "you were out late. had fun tonight..?"
aiku shrugged, "eh, nothing special."
and despite rule number 01 still in effect, you bit out a meek, "jessica?"
you had heard the name slip past his lips once late night and immediately associated the name with a beautiful, striking woman — a woman aiku could possibly love. not you.
"nah..." aiku hesitated for just a second, and some selfish part within you wondered if he was about to lie just to keep your heart. if he was about to say 'i saw nobody' just to make you feel like you meant something to him — but the man crushed whatever hope you had under his boot, turning it to ash and soot. "it was crystal, actually."
crystal..?
pulling his closet door open, he didn't even bother turning to look at you, "'m gonna shower and then sleep, kay? you should go to bed."
crystal...?
"yeah, right." at his casual demeanour, at his absolute nonchalance at whichever woman he was currently seeing — you brought your knees up to your chest, a disgusting pang in your ribcage that traveled down your spine and to your toes, "well, i made some pasta if you're hungry."
"oh?" shimmying off his shirt, you watched your husband flex his well-trained muscles involuntarily as he searched for another shirt in his closet, "you cooked? something special tonight, ma?"
"no."
aiku glanced back, the muscles in his shoulders shifting at the action, his eyes narrowing just a little bit, "sure?"
"mhm." you nodded, trying to take your position back on your usual side of the bed, "anyways, eat up if you get hungry. i'm... off to bed. goodnight."
"g'nite."
this was normal.
and according to the rules you both had set, oliver wasn't breaking any. then, why did you have that death grip on your sheets as you heard him close the door to the shower? why did you still cling onto the name 'crystal' like it was your very last thought before death?
23rd of december, 6:54 p.m. incident: my husband's busy (again.)
"'m not sure if green is my colour." you confessed as you gawked up your own reflection in the humongous fitting room.
"oh no! you worry too much, madam." the manager of the clothing studio grinned, fanning a hand at you as if it would make your worries disappear, "you look phenomenal!"
still looking at your reflection in the mirror, your brain tried to scramble helplessly for any excuse for you to not go to the charity ball tomorrow. flimsily searching for your salvation, your eyes drifted to the man seated on the sofa behind you — busy sifting through his phone, unbothered to your very presence.
he didn't care for you — he never did — but maybe, he could validate that green wasn't your colour. maybe he could give you an excuse to not go to that charity ball... because it hurt to see your husband pretend he loved you in front of the cameras, it hurt to know that he could love you that way if he wanted to and he just didn't want you.
biting down whatever traces of self-esteem left within your system, you called out for him, "does this look... okay?"
at the mention of his name, he lifted his gaze from his phone to you. taking in your figure once, twice — he nodded satisfied, "yeah, you look good, ma. don't worry."
a soft ping! of his notifications drew his gaze back to his phone screen. your fist tightened, nails digging into the soft skin as you went back to being ignored. there goes your excuse to skip tomorrow night.
it would always be some event — a charity ball, a reunion, a sports meet, a fucking conference or whatever — and you had to doll up just to smile up at him. it didn't matter if you didn't feel like going, or if it was a pain, or if that shade of green didn't go well on you.
it didn't matter, as stated by rule number 03.
"—and not to mention that green is really mr. oliver's colour." the same manager prattled on, cashmere words as she tried to persuade you.
your eyes still bore against the man as if the staring at him would be enough for him to understand your grievances and bail you out from this hell. but ofcourse, oliver aiku was only the perfect husband on camera.
the woman concluded with a well-practiced, corporate smile, "—and you both have to match, right?"
ofcourse, you both had to fucking match — courtesy of rule number 03 yet again.
even after moments of heating staring, your husband was more busy on his phone than you.
"i guess if he likes it." you finally shrugged, losing your resolve to the 2v1 match going on in the fitting room right now, "we'd take this, then."
"wonderful choice, madam!" and with that the woman clapped, happily guiding you to a private room so that you could take the dress off.
as you followed her, you looked back at oliver once more — as if you'd catch him staring or something equivalently stupid. instead, the man stayed engrossed on his phone — furiously typing.
probably texting jessica, or crystal, or whoever was interesting enough for oliver aiku to fuck into rented hotel sheets — whoever it was that wasn't you.
9th of january, 7.23 p.m. incident: WAG duties.
here you were, sitting in the same spot in the VIP seating area as you had for three years.
his jersey number proudly flashing on your back, you brought your hands up to your mouth to cheer and clap as oliver defended yet another goal, "go, baby! you're doing so well!"
you knew the camera was on you — it was half of the time. the audience ate up every crumb of your relationship online. so, you just smiled, clapping proudly.
honestly, it wasn't hard to fake the genuine enthusiasm every time he skillfully stole the ball from the opposing team — you were proud of him. after all, three years of being someone's greatest supporter eventually becomes a habit, not a chore.
"didn't you get super lucky with oliver?" someone next to you mumbled.
snapping your head towards the sound of the voice, you saw a pretty redhead — oh, chigiri hyoma's sister.
you frequently ran into the woman on and off the field, and had struck up some semblance of friendship with her.
"hah, nice seeing you here, koyuki." you hoped that the laugh didn't sound as strained as if felt in the back of your throat. chasing the pathetic laugh with a practiced smile, "sure did get lucky, but why do you ask?"
"ah, nothing." the redhead grinned, a teasing lilt to her carefree voice, "just that it's been three years and aiku still tries to catch a glimpse of you whenever he defends. if that isn't love, i don't know what is."
love? love?? LOVE???
"oh?" eyebrows bunching together, perhaps you were taken aback with what a good actor oliver was. you were always so caught up in giving the right reactions for the camera, that maybe you didn't see how well he played his side of the loverman role.
but even as koyuki pointed it out, you were too hesitant to actually check for yourself. what if she was wrong? what if you actually saw him looking at you? what if you fell for the elaborate act like a fool yet again..?
so, still focused on the woman in front of you, you spluttered out a pathetic script, "i mea—mean, yeah he just absolutely spoils me."
"i can see that." the woman laughed, "but you're always there to support him too, so I'm sure you spoil him back just as much."
"m-yeah..?"
you spoiled him? no, obviously not. because that wasn't mentioned in any of the rules, was it?
at the stutter in your words, koyuki jutted her bottom lip out, a sorry expression on her face, "oh come on now, don't give all the credit for your marriage to aiku. it takes two to make it work."
"hah," you nodded, coughing up yet another laugh to mask your half-baked lies, "yeah, i guess it does—"
"—i just really, really hope," the redhead cut you off, clasping her nimble fingers together, "that someday I can find a love as adorable as yours."
and at her words, you couldn't help the slight waver in your smile, couldn't help as your eyes drained themselves of any tangible emotion, "o-of course, you will. don't you worry."
"a love as pure as yours"? funny. cause you were yet to find that kind of love three years down the line.
━━━━━━━☆⭒⭒☆━
࣪ ִֶָ☾. part 02: through his eyes.
3rd of december, 1:03 a.m. incident: shit, my wife's still up.
oliver aiku had made the genius decision to avoid you the entire day before, even going out of his way to make sure he didn't step inside your shared apartment before the clock struck twelve.
a simple man may question his actions and ask 'why?' and the answer was as simple as it came: oliver aiku knew it was your — technically, his too — anniversary.
oliver had woken up by the reminder on his phone that read "anniversary.", he had driven and got you a bouquet of flowers, he had even contemplated asking you out for dinner. and then, he had chickened the fuck out. oliver aiku had chickened out for the third time in the row.
see, the first year, he avoided doing anything because it was the first year. the next year, it felt even more awkward cause he hadn't even wished you on the first anniversary so why on the second? he had planned for the third, and that... also went to shit.
truth be told, oliver didn't want to seem like the fool who was holding onto a fake relationship by remembering or bringing up pointless things like this. cause that was just pathetic, right?
so, of course, he did the smartest thing a man could do — avoided you like you were the fucking plague. even if it meant sitting the entire night away in his car and waiting for the perfect time to return back home.
"aiku?" at your sudden chirp, oliver almost felt a wayward shiver run down his spine. flipping on the switch with a practiced flick, he found you sitting up in your shared bed, "you're still... up?"
and though oliver knew there was no way you knew he had been waiting in his car, his heart genuinely caught up a wicked pace. trying to distract himself — and perhaps, you — he undid the buttons of his shirt, "why so late?"
as you gave him a smile, the man knew something was off. shit.
you spoke so softly, looking so beautiful even in the absolute middle of the night, "jus' couldn't sleep... you were out late, have fun tonight?"
"eh," aiku tried his best to appear nonchalant, trying to be truthful amid the chaos of his mind, "nothing special."
he hoped, he stupidly hoped that you'd say goodnight and go to sleep. instead, you further enquired, "jessica?"
and despite being a sharp man who could lie to god while looking in his eyes, aiku turned his back to you — scared he may fumble in front of you that he hadn't seen another woman for the past three years. he started softly, "nah..."
opening the door to his closet, he tried to think of another name — any name. oh, what was that thing sendou was talking about a few days ago? crystal chandeliers? crystal? cry—
"—stal, actually." the pro-player lied through his teeth. rummaging through his closet, he tried to distract you, "'m gonna shower and then sleep, kay? you should go to bed."
"yeah, right." and oliver aiku almost confessed all his sins just at that 'right'. but instead of further grilling him, you just said, "well, i made some pasta if you're hungry."
"oh?" peeling the familiar shirt off of his body, for a moment, the man believed that you knew what yesterday was. but how could you? you had never been more than what he had asked of you — you had never been more than a contract, a trophy wife.
eitherways, he asked — to confirm. "you cooked? something special tonight, ma?"
but your answer was swift. a straight, sweet blow: "no."
and despite the answer, oliver allowed himself to glance back just this once, "sure?"
"mhm. anyways, eat up if you feel hungry." you nodded, shifting to go to sleep, "I'm off to bed. goodnight."
oliver turned his face back to the closet door, mumbling out, "g'nite."
as the man closed the door to the shower, he clenched his fist and unclenched it. what was he even so frustrated about? he had set the rules with you, didn't he? and you weren't breaking any of them.
you were the most perfect trophy wife, after all, weren't you?
23rd of december, 6:54 p.m. incident: my wife's dad sucks.
oliver aiku was sure he could rip his hair out right now.
aiku: listen, she has nothing to do with it. aiku: i said i don't feel like taking her to the charity ball. dad 2: Why not? Did she say she doesn't wanna go? aiku: for the last time, i said i don't wanna take her. dad 2: Did she do something to trouble you Mr. Oliver?
jesus fucking christ. oliver aiku could really rip his hair out right now.
as dense as he'd like to believe he was as behaving like an actual husband, aiku could still see that you truly did not want to go to that stupid charity ball. the entire ride to the fitting, you had been sitting far too still in your seat — asking him questions like, "is it important for me to go?"
you never asked for anything from him.
each game, you showed up. each event, you dressed to the nines and put on that painfully pretty yet fake smile. each day, you put up with him. and however bad of a husband aiku may be, he didn't want to discomfort his own wife for the sake of some stupid rule, or the sake of that old man who happened to be your dad.
you distant voice kissed his ears, "'m not sure if this shade of green is my colour."
your statement was followed by some candied prattle by the saleswoman, but aiku was too busy re-reading your father's heinous texts to actually look up and check for himself.
dad 2: If she has inconvenienced you in any such way, please let me know.
"—aiku?" and the soft sigh of his name past your heavenly lips, oliver's gaze immediately shot up. you met his eyes in the reflection of the mirror, "does this look okay?"
'okay'? you were beautiful beyond words.
hair hastily tied up, makeup not yet glam enough, dress not fitted to your measurements, only held up by clips — and yet, aiku almost lost his breath when looking at you.
thumb still hovering over the virtual keyboard, he took in your figure once, twice and nodded — all but dazed, "yeah, you look good, ma. don't worry."
he was about to say something more when another stupid ping! brought his attention back to his phone.
dad 2: Or you can reprimand her yourself, if you'd like. We have no objections to it.
'reprimand'?? what the actual fuck did that old geezer mean by that?
aiku felt his fingers gliding furiously across the keyboard, words nothing if not laced with the absolute venom in his system — because nobody talked about his wife like that.
aiku: listen here. aiku: i don't need your input on how to treat my own fucking wife. so, if i hear one more word out of you, just know that i will make you regret it. aiku: that's all. take care, dad.
aiku shut his phone, tearing his gaze away from the screen to where you were standing only to find you already gone.
he was late, like always.
9th of january, 7.23 p.m. incident: scatterbrained on the field.
oliver aiku knew nothing more than the adrenaline rushing through his veins, the blood that roared in his eardrum, the thoughts that bolted through his brain, the overhead lightings that blinded him when he jumped up to defend the incoming attack — oliver aiku knew nothing more than the ball and the field in front of him.
atleast that's what he had always felt when he played. keyword: had.
but lately, his brain was scattered — thoughts a jumbled incoherent tune that only sung to rhythms of your name. every time he closed his eyes, every strained breath, every involuntary flex of his muscles — you were there. you were there in the very fiber of his being.
so, ofcourse, when he defended yet another goal and the ball was expertly deflected off-field, he didn't care about the cheers of his name, didn't care about the teammates that whooped and ran to their spots, didn't care about anyone or anything that wasn't you.
lifting his gaze straight at the VIP box, his eyes frantically searched for you. and there you were — wearing the jersey that he had brought for you, smiling so wide as you clapped and aiku swore for a second, he froze.
no, ofcourse, his body kept moving — muscled thighs sprinting across the field like it was second-nature and eyes scanning for constant threats, oliver aiku was still in the game physically. but mentally? my god, weren't you the prettiest thing he had laid his eyes on?
stealing scarce glances away from the soccer ball, the man found you talking to a familiar redhead. you laughed at something she said, and oliver felt a feverish pang run it's course through his chest. did you ever smile at him like that? or at all, for that matter? did he—
"—AIKU. WHERE'S YOUR FUCKING FOCUS?" his teammate yelled, and the ex-captain's gaze tore back into the field instantly. his teammate ran across the field, chasing the opposing team as they brought the ball into oliver's side of the court, "AIKU, DEFEND. FOCUS."
focus..? focus?? what was that?
because even as the man shielded the defense line with his hulking body and fast-paced thoughts, he couldn't help but steal a glance at your still-conversing self.
what was a fucking match when compared to his wife, anyways?
30th of june, 2.23 a.m. incident: AITA for kissing my wife on my birthday?
oliver aiku was about to lie through his fucking teeth, and it was about to be as pathetic as he could get. but fuck it, how many more years of heartache should he have to endure without giving it a shot?
"a-aiku..?" your voice was so soft, that aiku couldn't help but walk onwards, backing you into the room even despite his clenched fist and trembling calves.
a soft thump! indicated the back of your legs hitting the bed — or wait, was that the sound of his heart dropping into his stomach..?
another soft hiss past your lips, "hey..?"
"need you."
frankly, aiku himself didn't know what the fuck he was on about. thank god, you cut him off.
"—aiku, listen." your eyes were frenzied, and aiku swore he saw your gulping harshly in the darkness, "you're drunk."
he was not... but he was pretending.
oliver aiku had come up with the most perfect plan. he would pretend to be drunk on his birthday and kiss you. if you slapped him, or threatened to divorce him, he could always blame the alcohol.
"no." he purposefully slurred, using his hazed state to bring up a careful thumb to your bottom lip. under his soft swipe, your lips wobbled and aiku felt his knees almost give up whole. keeping up the act, he pathetically worded, "'m not."
"you are." you pushed his hand away and aiku found himself yearning for your touch — even if was to push him away. you repeated, "you're drunk."
you sounded so scared, and aiku almost forgot his well-rehearsed script. as he stared at you, he started considering that perhaps this wasn't the smartest of ideas. but well, he didn't come this far to only come this far, so, instead he brought up the hand to your cheeks daringly.
you didn't slap his hand away, or flinch. so, he softly planted his calloused hand against your soft cheek and bet his sanity on a losing match, "so what?"
okay... maybe he did come this far only to come this far.
"you'd—" your words fell down in sordid syllables, and he took the soft parting of your lips as an invitation to bend forward. your eyes widened at his action but fuck it. here goes nothing. yolo or whatever. "you'd regret... this."
"so what?"
and he truly meant it. if kissing you once meant he would have to give up his sanity — oliver aiku was ready to trade. he was ready to go ahead and trade everything unholy and sinful he was for you. he was ready.
drawing closer, your warm breath fanned against his face and the man couldn't hold back physically. bringing up another hand to your waist, kneading the skin under the luxurious silk dress you had wore for his party, the man delved in to devour you.
his lips against yours in a lewd dance, and oliver almost fucking gasped from how sweet you were. despite dreaming on and on about this exact scene, he could have never assumed how fucking sweet you'd be. how he'd be able to taste the flavour of your gloss, how he'd be able to sync up his ragged breathing to yours, and how instead of pushing him or kicking him in the family jewels — you'd kiss back.
࣪ ִֶָ☾. part 03: through their eyes.
wrapping your shaking hands around oliver's neck, you found yourself pressing your body against his muscled ones. tongue against his, eyes clenched shut at the taste of whiskey in your mouth and his large palm on your skin.
the man pressed against you harder, his body heat almost setting you ablaze — and you let him, pressing against him with just as much fervour.
"a-aiku..." your serrated words got lodged in the back of your throat as the man kissed down your jaw— his actions so primal, unrelenting. you gasped at the soft nip of his teeth against the column of your throat — the action so dangerously intimate. straining, you repeated his name, "aiku...?"
"keep sayin' my name." his heterochrome eyes flicked up to yours, and the man lost all cognitive senses to come back and kiss you on the lips again. his actions were rough ��� depraved. and even when his lungs ached for oxygen, he used up the last in his body to utter out, "say my name."
"mmph— aiku..!" your kiss-bitten lips against his, the strings of saliva between you two. you repeated, chanting the word like a mantra, "aiku, aiku, a-aiku—"
"—fuck." his broad palm pulled up your dress, bunching up the fabric at your waist to expose your naked thigh.
what was happening? all you could feel and touch and know happened to be oliver aiku.
were you actually kissing him? was he actually kissing you? or was this another stupid plan of his... were there paps to catch this and post about it tomorrow?
at the absurd thought, you pushed him away.
the man looked far-gone. his pupils blown wide, cherry-red lips swollen, and spit drabbling down his jaw — in fact, oliver looked at you as if you had committed blasphemy. his words wobbled, "w-what?"
"why are you kissing me?" and you're sure you meant it genuinely, but the words came out so horrified. wiping your lips frantically, your unsteady gaze scanned the room, "why...? i-is there someone in the room?"
"huh?!" oliver's jaw slacked open at your question. were you drunk? he spluttered, "what..?"
"why are y-you... kissing me, aiku?" you asked, words tattered and confidence lost, "have you lost your mind?"
"i—" he stepped back, horrified he may have done something wrong. his tongue felt thick in his mouth, voice uneven, "di-should i not have kissed you?"
"the rules." your eyes widened, "we... you're not supposed to kiss me."
"but i just did."
"that's what i'm asking," your voice shot up a note, gaze growing hazy at the implications of him toying with your heart yet again, "why did you?"
"we are married." and you swore, you heard the tiniest twinge of disappointment woven into his fact-like statement.
"we are pretending to be married." you bit back, eyes clenching shut at his flimsy excuse.
"s-still married."
"still pretending." your eyes shot opened, the whites now tinted red, you spit, "i'm just your trophy wife, right?"
and at the phrase, aiku sifted his palms through his already tousled hair. eyes frantic, words maddened, "what... what if i don't want that anymore? what if i-i... want you."
what? how drunk was he?
"i want you." he repeated, and you couldn't decide whether the phrase was a curse or a blessing. he stepped closer, if that was even physically possible — hysterical, "i want you."
he wanted... you?
the same man that had ignored you for the past three year wanted you?
a/n: my fucking god, I LOVEEEE pathetic men hahaha. no smut in this one guys cause i was too consumed writing the mutual pining. tagging: @heartbingers @moodswing101 @isabellalovesyou @adollsdarkdiary [just tagging the people on my last oliver post.]
#blue lock#bllk#blue lock smut#bllk smut#oliver aiku#oliver aiku smut#aiku smut#oliver smut#oliver aiku x reader#oliver aiku x reader smut#bllk x reader smut#bllk x reader
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~ Scarred For Half A Life ~
DP Phan Fic.
[“You want to see a danger? You should see me in a crown.”]
So uh—this is a scene I have in mind for my story. Because of the song, yes!
I mean, I already wrote it down, to add later on into the story! And I was really enthusiastic about it, so I drew Danny with a crown. An ugly crown (because it’s made out of paper). [sketch lurking at the bottom]
If you want you can read and follow it! But—BEWARE!
———————
Genre: Angst / Hurt And Comfort (and a little Horror)
AU — OOC
Trigger Warning: Emotional Distress — Violence — Graphic Content
Rating: M
———————
Summary:
Danny had been captured by the GiW once again, or so he thinks. Leaving him feeling utterly helpless—vulnerable. There was nothing he could do. What will happen to him? And why again? (Summary might change as the story goes on)
———————
So, this is a piece of that potential chapter:
“Wait! Don’t move. I want to take a picture!” Jazz exclaimed, her voice brimming with excitement as she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone.
Danny groaned, rolling his eyes. “Seriously? A picture? What are you, my dad?”
Jazz ignored his protest, already angling the camera toward him. “Come on, Danny, it’s your birthday. Let me have this.”
He sighed, slouching slightly. “Fine, but make it quick. And don’t expect me to smile like an idiot.”
Jazz smirked. “Oh, don’t worry. You’re already an idiot. The crown just completes the look.”
Danny couldn’t help the small grin tugging at his lips as she snapped the photo, capturing him sitting there with the gold paper crown tilted slightly on his head, a mixture of amusement and irritation in his glowing green eyes.
“There,” Jazz said triumphantly, glancing at the picture on her phone. “Perfect. I’m definitely keeping this one.”
———————
And a piece of the scene with the song in my head that plays in the background:
“Phantom,” she said icily, her voice like a blade. “You’re not my son. You’re a danger. I was merciful letting you stay this long.”
That was it. That was the final crack that shattered the fragile restraint Danny had been holding onto. His aura flared violently, glowing with an intense, cold light that filled the room, making the shadows dance erratically on the walls.
“You wanna see a danger?” Danny growled, his voice dropping into something almost inhuman, vibrating with power as his feet lifted off the ground. His white hair swirled beneath the gold paper crown, caught in an invisible wind as the room seemed to grow colder by the second.
Danny’s arms hung by his sides, his fists clenching tightly. A brilliant green energy began to materialize, steam curling off his fingers like fire, licking up his forearms in tendrils of raw power.
“You should see me in a crown.”
A burst of cold ectoplasmic energy erupted from Danny’s palms, shooting straight toward Maddie with icy precision. She dove to the side, flipping the table over in one swift motion to shield herself. Plates shattered, the pancakes splattered across the walls, and the dining room filled with a deafening roar of energy.
———————
As for my own commentary about my DP drawing…
I hate drawing hands, and I don’t like to draw shoes. Maybe because I just can’t!! I’m not good at drawing mouths either, or I was just having a bad day at drawing. And we are definitely not going to talk about the nose. I have zero idea what went wrong with coloring/painting, and I couldn’t fix it at that moment. Maybe I was hurrying it, don’t care. I wanted it out of my head! And I really wanted to share this, because I like it for once, something of my own. As for the style, still searching my own, trying things out, so at the moment, I have no idea what I’m doing. Might redo it later.
#danny fenton#danny phantom#danny phantom fanart#dp fanart#phandom#digital art#digital illustration#procreate#fanfic#digital drawing#crown#you should see me in a crown#fanfiction#angst#depressing shit#hurt/comfort
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Career day
GIF not mine, comment, like and reblog!
Masterlist
You were in the middle of a meeting when your assistant knocked on the door and gave you a note that your daughter’s kindergarten teacher was on the phone. Checking the time, you frowned, it was exactly pick-up time, meaning your husband still had half an hour to be considered late and if she was sick it was close enough for a parent to arrive that she wouldn’t call to update you about it.
You apologized to the present in the room and exited to take the call.
Thanking her before hanging up, you turned to your assistant, “Could you please clear the rest of my schedule? I have to pick up my daughter from the hospital after this meeting.”
Nodding, “Is she alright?”
“She is, her father won’t be for long.”
Stepping out of the elevator you marched straight to the glass-walled office. You saw your daughter sitting in the conference room, at the head of the table with the team surrounding her and the department head making a drink in the kitchenette, his back facing you. She was her dad’s spitting image, brunette, with light blue eyes and, a gorgeous bright smile, as opposed to him though, her smile rarely left her face, whereas he had a permanent scowl.
“Mommy!” The young girl called excitedly which made House turn sharply and grimace.
You entered the office and embraced your daughter who ran to you. You kissed her temple and told her to go wait in the adjacent office.
You stood up and crossed your arms, “You didn’t think her teacher would call me when a strange man comes to pick her up?”
He sat down at the table next to the blond doctor, “Chase isn’t a stranger. Wilson was busy so I couldn’t ask him.”
“Smartass, you’re her father, you are the one supposed to pick her up!”
Sighing, you shook your head before you went to your daughter. You grabbed her backpack and took her hand in yours. You were about to leave when he called after you, “That’s it?”
You turned to him, “I’m not in the mood to argue in front of your team.” You stated before you walked out.
You drove home with your kid in the back seat, you looked in the rearview mirror and smiled at your daughter.
She was staring out the window humming some tune from a cartoon her dad showed and you disapproved.
You were in the midst of making dinner when you heard the front door open and your daughter run to greet her father. You smiled slightly but lowered your head to hide it.
House walked into the kitchen, and opened the fridge to grab a bottle of water before he leaned against the doorway, “Are you still mad at me?”
You put your hand in the air to indicate a little bit before turning to take the food out of the oven and taking it to the table.
You both sat down in your usual seats, you and him across each other and your daughter between you, sitting at the head of the table.
She gave a piece of paper to House, who paused eating and asked “What is this?” With a mouthful.
“I have a career day tomorrow, I want you to come.”
Swallowing hard, he put down his fork and sat back in his chair.
“Don’t you want your mom to come?”
She shook her head animatedly, “Mommy’s job is boooring.” She replied stressing the o and making you chuckle.
He drew in a long breath, “No, now eat your dinner.” He stated as a matter of fact and continued eating.
She lowered her head before mumbling she was full and rushing to her bedroom.
“Greg!”
Ignoring you, he picked up the plates and took them to the sink.
You stood up and followed him, putting your hands on your hips as you watched him place the plates in the dishwasher.
He turned to face you and leaned against the counter.
You pointed your finger at him, “You need to start acting like her parent. You don’t pick her up, you spend endless hours at work. I love you and I love being married to you, but if you don’t start being a father to that girl, we’re done.” You warned and left him standing staring after you.
You entered your daughter’s room and sat down on the edge of her bed, stroking her hair and kissing her temple.
“Maybe Uncle James would like to come to career day, he’s a doctor too. I can call him now, he’d be so honored if you ask him. ”
She sniffed and shook her head, “I’m tired.”
Nodding, you kissed her forehead softly and wished her good night.
You shut the door quietly behind you, looking towards the living room, you saw him sitting on the couch, legs up on the table and a glass of bourbon in his hand. You sat down to him, took his glass, and downed it before dropping your head back on the backrest.
“She doesn’t need the kids picking on her for having a crippled dad.”
You turned your head to look at him, “She needs her dad to act like he gives a damn.”
He took the empty glass from you and picked the bottle from the coffee table and poured another finger.
“She doesn’t care about your leg, she idolizes you.“
And it was true, your daughter was convinced that House could do nothing wrong, he was her hero, ever since she was a baby, she was a daddy’s girl.
“She shouldn’t.” He whispered and drank his drink.
You sat up and rubbed his back, “But she does. So please, don’t screw up.”
You leaned to kiss the corner of his lips before you went to bed, he puckered his lips to kiss you back but didn’t turn his head, distracted by his thoughts.
The next morning you got up to make a quick breakfast and wake your daughter up, your husband stayed in bed which wasn’t unusual for him since he never went to work before ten am.
You helped her pick her clothes and get ready, brushed her hair, and braided it.
“I called Uncle James, he’s so thrilled.”
She sighed and nodded, making your heart clench.
You walked together to the kitchen to see House eating a bowl of cereal, wearing a suit.
You raised your eyebrows in surprise at seeing him awake but didn’t get the opportunity to question it before a knock was heard on the door.
House beckoned the little girl toward him with a quick hand movement while you went to open the door.
Wilson hugged you as he entered, he walked straight to the kitchen in search of the girl he considered a niece.
House pushed his bowl with the half-eaten cereal to his daughter and handed her the spoon before he stood up to greet his friend.
“Good Wilson, you’re right on time to drive us.”
“Us?”
Holding onto his thigh, House limped a few steps towards the two of you, “You’re taking the car, you don’t like it when I drive her on the bike and I definitely can’t walk with her to school; bum leg.” he stated and pointed to his leg as if you didn’t know about it.
Wilson sighed and moved to take a seat next to your daughter. You crossed your arms across your chest, eyebrows raised and lips in a straight line.
He closed the gap between you, kissed your cheek, and murmured in your ear, “Relax, I’m not going to screw this up.”
You grasped his bicep before he got the chance to pull back.
“Wilson stays in the class with you and makes sure you don’t get into trouble.”
He nodded, “Deal.”
Smiling you kissed his lips before you called, “Daddy is doing career day!”
Cheering, she jumped off the chair and ran to hug him.
You looked at Wilson who was smiling at the sight before looking at you, you signaled with your pointer and middle fingers in a V turned at you then at House in a watch him gesture.
He dropped his smile and nodded.
Upon reaching the classroom, the kids took their seats, House and Wilson sat in the back with the rest of the parents.
House leaned to whisper to his friend, “This is your last chance to steal my identity.”
“You don’t think your daughter will notice?”
The teacher called his name and with a frown at Wilson, he made his way to the front of the class.
Tapping his cane anxiously before centering it in front of his body, “I’m Dr. Gregory House. I’m the head of the diagnostic department at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital and most proudly,” he paused his introduction to look fondly at his daughter, “I’m this ankle biter’s dad.”
#imagine#greg house#gregory house#gregory house x reader#house md#house md x reader#house md fanfiction#greg house imagine#x reader#greg house x reader#house imagine#house x reader#house md imagine#gregory house imagine#greg house fanfiction#gregory house fanfiction#parental Greg house#hugh laurie#hugh laurie x reader
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Lesson Learned
Pairing: Soldier Boy (Ben) x F. Reader
Summary: There’s only so much teasing Ben is willing to take. He has no choice but to punish you.
AN: Here we go! lol. This is the highly requested Part 2 to This One’s For You, over in the BMD-verse!
Word Count: 2.2K
Tags/Warnings: 18+ only! Smut, edging, teasing, fluff, and feels.
💚 Break Me Down Masterlist
You gasped, your nails raking through his hair. Your grip threatened to rip out a few strands as you panted into his neck.
“Ben, please…for God’s sake…”
“Please what?” he said. There was grit in his voice when he spoke into your ear, but he was all too controlled. Taunting.
Asshole.
He was relentless, dragging his fingers inside your quivering pussy, rubbing his thumb around your clit, but almost never where you wanted him. Your thighs were shaking on either side of his frame as he had you naked on your back, writhing in the middle of your shared bed. You’d sucked him off until his spine rattled and his eyes nearly crossed, swallowing up as much as you could of what he had to give.
Still, he wasn’t satisfied.
“I’m sorry!” you burst in frustration, but you also had to stifle your laughter. Your husband narrowed his eyes at you, spying the hint of your smile.
“How come I don’t fucking believe you?” said Ben. With his elbow digging into the bed beside your shoulder, his occupied fingers curled inside you, finally brushing against the sensitive ridge of your inner walls. It drew a faltering moan from your lips.
“What exactly are you sorry for?” he demanded. He bowed his head and laid a biting kiss along your throat. “Use your fucking words.”
You exhaled roughly, gripping his hair tight again. Now that he couldn’t see your face, you could allow yourself to grin in amusement.
Three Days Ago…
Ben was tired and more irritable than usual when he stepped into the Flatiron Building. The night before had been a battle of wills between him and his infant daughter, who’d been finnicky, having a hard time going back to sleep. He’d done his best to help her get back to sleep, since you had been dead to the world and unable to leave the bed (or so you’d seemed).
Now, he took the elevator up to the right floor and used his key to get into the office suite, where Butcher and the rest of your delinquent friends were already dicking around.
Some horrible French rap was playing on the Bluetooth speaker. Kimiko was flicking tiny pieces of paper across the dining table, into a “goal” made by Hughie’s hands. Frenchie wore a “Kiss the Cook” apron as he pulled a fresh batch of croissants out of the oven in the kitchenette, while M.M. swept the excess flour stains off the counter.
Annie was trying to get Butcher to smoke his cigarette out on the balcony.
“Really, you had fucking cancer. You’d think you’d try a little harder to take care of yourself,” she said. Butcher gave her a wan smile, and blew a coil of smoke upward between them.
“Nice,” she said flatly.
But all that stopped when Ben strode into the room. They stared at him, each starting to smile, no matter how much some of them tried to hide it (like Kimiko, with a hand over her mouth).
“What the fuck’re you staring at?” Ben snapped. “We got a job, right?”
Butcher cleared his throat and recovered first. He dabbed his cigarette on an ashtray on the dining table and grabbed an iPad to give to the supe.
“Yeah, got us an escapee. Our little slumlord, Sapphire,” he said.
Ben frowned. Sapphire was the supe who nearly vaporized you a couple of years ago, after they broke up her drug ring. While he read the file documenting detailing her escape and what the CIA knew of her whereabouts so far, Hughie shared a look with Kimiko and Annie before he spoke.
“So, uh, how’s Lila doing?”
Ben shot him a look through furrowed brows.
“Fine. She’s with her mother,” he replied. Hughie predictably asked about you, and again, Ben said you were fine at home with the baby.
“Lila’s almost a year old, right?” Hughie asked. “Aw man, that’s gotta be a fun age, right? I mean, fun, but challenging. All the crying, the diaper changing. Getting her to sleep through the night must be tough.”
Ben’s attention piqued at that, and not in a good way. His dark suspicion grew when his gaze flicked up to Hughie’s dumb fucking face, and then the rest of them, with their dumbass smiles. Biting her lip to stop herself from smiling, Annie pressed a button on her phone.
All of a sudden, Ben heard his own voice playing from the speaker.
“H-Hey there, Delilah, what’s it like in New York City?”
“Now ain’t that a lovely warble,” Butcher remarked. Ben shot him a warning glare, but the Brit raised his hands in amused surrender. He crossed his arms and continued to smoke as he watched the scene unfold.
Ben tossed the iPad onto the kitchen counter and strode over to Annie with menacing steps, intending to put an end to this bullshit. She grinned and tossed her phone over to Kimiko, and Ben glowered, changing directions.
“I'm a thousand miles away, but girl, tonight you look so pretty. Yes, you do. Time Square can’t shine as bright as you…I swear it’s true.”
Kimiko’s eyes widened at the angry supe heading toward her. She tossed the phone to Frenchie next. The phone bounced between his flour-stained hands as he yelped in surprise.
“Oh, shit,” he uttered, when Ben began stomping his way.
“Hey there, Delilah, don't you worry about the distance. I'm right there if you get lonely. Give this song another listen…”
“A voice like warm butter,” Frenchie praised. He quickly tried to move from side to side to evade his attacker. “You should be proud, Monsiuer Grincheux! A man soothing his baby is a beautiful thing.”
“Shut your fucking cockhole,” Ben gritted out, but he still reached out when the phone sailed under his arm��only to land in M.M.’s hands. He froze with widened eyes, not wanting to be in the game. But it was too late, for him and Ben.
“Hey there, Delilah, here’s to you,” his voice sang, more quietly, more tender, deep and baritone. “This one’s for you…”
A brief pause. And then—
“What the fuck’re you doing?”
M.M. managed to pause the video. A beat of utter silence, and then...
Everyone burst out into laughter. Hughie started it; he was damn near folded in half, leaning heavily on his girlfriend as he wiped a tear out of his eye. M.M. tossed the phone back to Frenchie, whose entire frame was shaking with restrained glee.
Ben’s jaw worked as he contemplated how exactly he was going to kill every one of these cocksucking morons.
And then you. Because how else had they gotten that video? You had to have sent it somehow before he got ahold of you last night.
“All right, enough!” he bellowed.
The entire room fell silent.
“First of all, erase that shit right now, or it’s coming out your ass,” he barked, pointing at Frenchie. The other man jolted and did as he was told.
“As for the rest of you, I better not hear another fucking word about this, or so help me Christ, I’m gonna do some barbecuing.”
About three days later, Sapphire had been caught and re-imprisoned, and Ben returned home. He found you in the living room. He was taciturn to your happy smile when you welcomed him with a hug around his waist, though your smile fell after he didn’t respond to your kiss.
He slowly lowered his gaze down to you, and you knew.
Biting your lip, you soothed a hand along his cheek. “So, how’d it go?”
“Fine,” he said, but little else.
In fact, Ben didn’t speak to you for most of the evening. You tried cooking him a good hot meal, but he barely said two words to you. The only thing he did, before he was even showered and changed, was venture into the nursery to lay a gentle hand on his daughter’s head as she slept, over her downy brown hair. He bent down to press a kiss to her forehead.
After that, he strode past you in the doorway and slammed the door shut in the bathroom.
Aw shit. Despite yourself, you couldn’t help chortling with laughter. You should’ve known he’d be a great big man child about this.
So you decided to call your mom and see if she could take Lila for the night.
You had some damage control to do.
Now…
He'd brought you to the edge of your pleasure three times before he withdrew his mouth or his hand from your body, not letting you touch yourself, not letting you come—driving you to the point of frustrated tears.
You grabbed his head with both hands and guided him to look you in the eyes.
“Baby, please. Stop torturing me,” you pleaded. You used every tool in your arsenal to make him break, giving him soft, tearful eyes. You leaned up and pressed gentle kisses to his cheek, his chin, the corner of his mouth, and finally his lips.
“I need you,” you whispered, drawing him into deeper, messier kisses. Part of him started to falter. He briefly closed his eyes and breathed into your kiss.
But then, he stubbornly broke from you with a frown.
“Nice try. You’re not getting off that easy,” he said. “Now say it. Why the fuck are you sorry?”
You huffed in aggravation, but you twined your arms around his neck and brushed slightly sweaty strands of his hair away from his forehead.
“I’m sorry for embarrassing you,” you said, even though your mouth began to curve upward. “It was a sweet thing you did, and I’m glad I captured it. But I am sorry that sharing that moment with our friends bothers you so much.”
“First of all, they’re your idiot friends,” he said. You wanted to interject on that one, but you knew he wasn’t in the mood, and you didn’t want to fight with him for real.
“Second of all,” he began…but he didn’t have any more words after that. They were caught between his irritation, and his unwillingness to even voice what it was he felt. Eventually, he found them.
“There’s some shit that needs to stay between us,” he said.
You smiled, but you mercifully drew him down for another slow kiss.
“Okay, okay. I hear you. It’s not that big a deal though. You love your family, and look! Your macho-ness is still very much intact,” you said, gesturing at his very much hard cock pressing against your thigh. “Now are you gonna fuck me like a man, or do I need to find a vibrator that will?”
At that Ben looked down at you with a raise of his brows. His lips twitched, mostly at your audacity. Shaking his head, he slid a hand behind your neck and drew you in for a kiss, fueled by passion and frustration in equal measure.
You wrapped your thighs around his hips, urging him closer. His straining length pressed against your center, the wet tip slipping against your glistening folds. He groaned at the sensation.
“Please,” you repeated, licking into his mouth for a sensuous kiss.
The once-iron grip on his restraint finally broke. Ben slid a hand between you to hold himself to your entrance. With one smooth thrust, his cock buried deep inside you. Your moan of relief echoed his own. If nothing else good came out of this situation, you two hadn’t had the time or the energy to go at it like this in a long time.
He grabbed your thigh and angled you higher, so he could sink in at an even better angle as he began to rut into you.
With all of his earlier edging and teasing, you were already so close. Your inner walls fluttered around him, welcoming him home and gripping him tight. All it took was a few well-placed swipes of his thumb over your clit to have you tumbling over the edge—a delicious cresting of pleasure that made you arch off the bed, biting your nails into his shoulders, a cry caught in your throat.
Ben fucked you through your release, all while chasing his own. His grip on your hip tightened as his thrusts grew ragged, his own breathing shallow and rough, until his balls tightened and his body locked up on him. He spent himself inside you, coating your inner walls until he had nothing left.
He just barely managed to keep himself from smothering you as his body relaxed. You still welcomed his weight on you, soothing your hands up and down his back while you both caught your breath. Your thighs slipped from his hips, your feet meeting bed and sliding out a little.
Ben brushed your sweaty hair away from your face. Looking down on you now, his face gentled from its hardened angles and furrowed brows. You smiled lazily.
“Still mad at me?” you teased.
Ben resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he let out a rough exhale through his nose.
“Something tells me you didn’t learn your lesson,” he said, somewhat incredulous, and yet, amused.
Your smile was undoubtedly cheeky, even as you leaned up to give him a sweeter kiss.
“Sure did, baby,” you said against his lips. And another kiss. “Lesson learned, I promise.”
He really did roll his eyes this time.
AN: 😂 Ben just can't win, can he?
Translation: Monsiuer Grincheux - "Mr. Grumpy" in French
Keep Reading in the BMD-verse:
Coming up next, Ben has his Adventures in Babysitting moment in Green:
Summary: Ben spends the day alone with his daughter, to varying degrees of success. When you get home, it prompts a serious conversation.
▶️ Keep Reading: Green
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To Kiss or To Kill. | Daryl Dixon |
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Masterlist
Summary: You and Daryl's relationship did not start kind. It did not begin as a friendship that turned sour over a quarrel. It began with fists and insults and continued this way until unforeseen circumstances leave you discovering that maybe Daryl and you were cut from the same cloth.
Warnings: rivals to lovers trope, daddy issues, language, descriptions of fights + bodily injuries, brief mentioning of homophobia, attempted SA, Reader is mentioned to be bisexual.
Word Count: aprox. 10k
Era: Prison to Alexandria
A/n: This is not my proudest work and I definitely think I could've done better with the material but I hope it can still be enjoyed!
Song recommendations: Ultraviolence - Lana Del Ray, Daylight - David Kushner , Sun Bleached Flies - Ethel Cain
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A lemon is sour from the start and rots with age.
The relationship you shared with Daryl could be described as said lemon.
It was nearing the end of summer. And though this meant the end of scorching heat, the winter proved to be a difficult season for survival. This morning at the prison had begun like any other. Daryl, Maggie, and Glenn we’re set out on a run to find any supplies necessary for the growing community. With all the new folk after the fall of the Governor only a few weeks before, it put more pressure on the group in their endless searches.
The town in which the prison resided did not hold many options when it came to scavenging but there was one place not yet explored. Pike County High School, the only high school in the small town of Zebulon, Georgia. Daryl thought the plan was futile. What was he to find in a high school besides dusty textbooks and inappropriate drawings in the bathroom stalls?
But none the less, Rick sent the trio on their way with a list of items in hand.
The school was as Daryl expected. Papers were thrown about the floors. Windows were broken leaving glass shards to crunch underneath their boots. Desks and chairs were thrown about. And worst of all, there was an eeriness that loomed the chaotic halls. But there was something else hanging in the air, stillness.
Maggie banged her gun on the rusted lockers and waited for any walkers to make themselves known. But the silence that followed was so loud you could practically hear the wind gliding through the shattered windows. Daryl took it a step further and threw a chair down the hall, creating a loud clattering noise as it collided with the wall. Yet still, nothing.
"Alright," Glenn muttered, his uneasiness just as high as the others. "Let's get what we need and get the hell out." Glenn pulled the list from his pocket, "Daryl find the nurse's office, take whatever you find no matter how unimportant it seems. Rick asked us to find some good books for the kids." Glenn passed the list over to a very unamused Daryl.
"Guess I ain't smart enough to find some books."
Daryl walked the halls of the school, crossbow in hand, keeping his ears peeled for any movements that weren’t his own. The silence unsettled Daryl for two reasons. There could be someone residing here which would make sense with the absence of walkers. But he could not shake the thought that there were once children who roamed these halls. Kids who were Carl’s age now. Kids who were planning who they wanted to be, and what they wanted their lives to be. But now their dreams were just as grim as these empty halls.
He spotted it as his gaze wandered from the walls to the floor.
Droplets of deep red stained the tile, varying in size and opacity. Daryl dragged his fingers along the droplets, smearing the coagulated blood. The blood was not as dry as Daryl had hoped.
Daryl drew his bow closer to himself, resting his finger on the trigger, and slowing his steps as he followed the trail of crimson dots. They led him exactly where he needed to be, the nurse's office.
The wood door creaked open, the natural light from the windows lighting the room. The scene worsened in the room. There were now blood smears staining the floors, cabinets swung open and drawers left agape. Someone had obviously barged in in a hassle, with desperate need to help themselves.
What concerned Daryl was the adjoined room to the far left, he could not see into the area unless he approached it directly. Keeping his bow up, he proceeded. Just as the tip of his bow peeked its way around the corner, it was knocked from his hands with a single blow.
Daryl had not known what knocked his bow from his grasp but he sure as hell felt the hit to his jaw.
The punch you had thrown sent a throbbing through your right hand, and the tendons in your arm fizzled with the sudden force. The man reacted quickly, grabbing you by both arms and pulling you away from the wall you had been hidden behind.
You ripped an arm from his grasp quick enough to unsheathe the blade on your thigh. The struggle continued, both of you equally pulling at the other in an attempt for dominance while simultaneously avoiding the cut of the blade. Random objects clattered to the ground in the tussle, including an old coffee mug falling and shattering.
The wound you had acquired on your leg was not helpful in this situation. Had your adrenaline not been so high, you would have dropped long ago. While you struggled to keep yourself standing, Daryl was simply shocked at the brute force of the woman in his grasp.
You paused for a moment, your grip on your knife tightening until your knuckles turned white. Just then you were able to look at him. Daryl saw the determination in your eyes. And though there was determination, there also seemed to be a pleading.
But with one forceful shove, you fell back, your leg buckling under you and your head hitting a cabinet.
A painful gasp left you, feeling the poorly done stitches rip your wound open again. Dropping your knife, your shaking hands grasped at the wound on your thigh as you pulled your back up against the cabinets. Your chest heaved with a mixture of adrenaline and pain. The skin on your thigh seared hot, every nerve around the wound throbbing.
Had you been paying attention, you would’ve noticed the man grip up his bow that was now aimed at you. It gave him time to examine you. You did not look dirty and unkept as other survivors had. Your hair was pulled back into a messy braid at the back of your head. Clothes black, all the way down to your boots. Holsters for weapons hung from your hips and thighs. And a pair of dog tags dangled around your neck.
“Daryl!” Maggie and Glenn came rambling through the door, weapons drawn. Daryl held a hand up to them, signaling that he was fine. The school was not one of great size, it did not surprise Daryl that they’d heard the tussle.
With the arrival of two new faces, you made an attempt to grab the blade you’d drop. But Daryl was quick and kicked the blade away leaving your hand to smack against the tile floor. Now left with no weaponry and not even a stable body to defend yourself, you’d figured you’d start begging to them or praying to God.
“I-I just want to leave. I’m-“ The sudden sharp tingle in your thigh cut your words short. You clenched your jaw tight and shut your eyes waiting for the muscle spasm to pass. “You’re not going anywhere on that leg.” Maggie holstered her gun and met you on the floor. There was a hesitation to her but in her heart she knew leaving you would be a death sentence. “My daddy can help you.”
“Maggie…”
“Glenn.” Maggie’s tone was stern, sending her husband a threatening glare.
While Maggie began to ask you questions, she motioned for the two men to scavenge the room. “What’s your name?”
“Y/n…”
Maggie pulled a handkerchief from her back pocket, scooting even closer to you. She motioned for you to lift your leg, “I’m Maggie. That’s Glenn and then Daryl.” She slipped the fabric beneath it, tying it in a tight knot around your wound. You winced at this, resisting the urge to pull her hands off of you.
“How many walkers have you killed?” Your eyebrows furrowed at the question. Had you known you were meant to keep track, you would’ve started long ago. “I don’t…know…a lot?” Your words were stuttered and shaken considering the pain you felt. You saw the man you had just fought glance at you from the corner of his eye. You began to debate if you should feel guilt for attacking him.
“That’s okay,” Maggie gave you a kind smile, “How many people have you killed?” She watched your face falter and your eyes shift to the ground then back to her. “Eight, I think.” Maggie gently nodded, her tone becoming slightly more serious “Why?”
“I’ve been alone for a long time.”
Maggie’s eyes met yours and for a moment, while you held each other's gaze, there was an understanding. An understanding that only another woman could begin to fathom.
Your arrival at the prison was nothing short of chaotic. The run starting as three and returning as four, though a possibility, was not expected.
A man with a beard pulled Daryl aside beginning to hound him with questions, Maggie supported you as you stood while Glenn ran off shouting the name Hershel. Much of everything after that was blurry. You could remember the man with the white beard mainly due to his kindness and gentle touch while he took care of your wounds. And you remembered the name Rick being tossed about in conversation.
"Let her rest." Hershel patted Glenn on the shoulder, muttering him a thank you for his help.
You lay flat on your back, your head and leg propped up with a pillow. You could not say it was the comfiest bed you'd ever laid in. You weren't even sure it was cozier than where you slept the night before. You fought the tiredness away, unsure of falling asleep in an unfamiliar community. But the medicine Hershel gave you made you drowsy. And soon every muscle felt heavy and your eyelids heavier.
You were unsure of how long you'd slept, only being startled awakened by the clank of metal. Rick noticed his mistake immediately pulling his hand away from the door of the cell, now standing with a guilty look on his face. "I'm sorry. I forget how loud these things are." You took a deep breath in an attempt to calm your beating heart. Rick entered the cell, opening the foldable chair Hershel had previously been sitting on.
"Was gonna drop these off for when ya woke up." Rick held up a glass of water and some type of protein bar. You adjusted yourself into a more proper sitting position, sending Rick a nod. As your mind awoke you became very conscious of your lack of pants, pulling the blanket farther up your waist. You were grateful that Ricks seemed to avert his eyes.
"I'm Rick.” His accent was noticeable.
“Y/n.” Just like your own.
“Maggie and Daryl told me a little bit about you but I wanted to speak with you directly.”
Rick held a certain type of authority to him. He spoke to you politely while still holding himself with dominance. A certain awkwardness became present when Rick spent a tad bit too long racking his brain for a question. “M’sorry about attacking, uhm… Daryl.” You decided to cut the awkwardness yourself.
To your surprise, Rick chuckled at your apology. “Please don’t apologize.” He looked at you, still with a smile on your face. “You were doing what you thought was right.” Rick shifted in the metal chair, resting his elbows atop his knees. "Did you serve?" Rick pointed to your neck, "Is that how you learned to fight?" You instinctively reached for the dog tags hanging from their chain.
"No no, they were my dads." You rubbed the smooth metal anxiously, feeling the indents of the letters and numbers imprinted. "I was an only child, only daughter at that, so my dad was rather protective of me... He had me in every boxing or self-defense class he could afford." A chuckle followed your words, reminiscing on the memory. Rick could understand your father's need to protect, having two children of his own.
"Rick." A gruff voice interrupted your conversation. The man named Daryl took up the doorway. When his eyes met yours, he seemed to falter under your gaze. He nudged his head in the opposite direction, asking for Rick to come with him. "Alright." Rick stood from the chair with an exasperated sigh, "Imma leave this right here for ya." Rick placed the water and protein bar on the chair in his place.
On his way out, he turned to you, "Maggie's gonna bring you up some clean clothes and help you get washed up. That alright?" His kind, yet tired, eyes sought an answer. You nodded and muttered a quiet thank you in return.
Your time in the prison since then could only be described as isolating. The injury on your leg kept you mostly restrained to the bed in your newly appointed cell. So, most of your time was spent with Maggie, Hershel, and occasionally Rick coming and going. Maggie cared for you in any way she could, nourishing you with food and assisting you in showering and changing. She had seemed to take a liking to you, as you did her, and you assumed you could now call her a friend.
However, there was another you don't think you could call much of anything.
Maggie helped you outside to the courtyard after you’d expressed that you were going mad looking at the same four walls. She’d left you with the book of Little Women, a blank leather journal, and a blue ink pen. “Holler if you need me, okay?” Maggie gently patted your shoulder before departing to meet Glenn only a few yards away.
Being outside after your imprisonment for the last 5 days, revived something in you. The heat from the sun's rays provided warmth on your skin but the cool breeze prevented you from overheating. You could not remember the last time you'd been outdoors without your head on a swivel or without the fear of being someone's dinner.
You could not focus on your book or your journal with the people who walked about the courtyard throwing glances your way. Everyone had heard about, the girl with the leg injury, with time. Random passers-by flashed you smiles, small waves, or even shy hello’s all of which you felt inclined to return.
“Y/n?” Though the voice was familiar, it did not stop the annoyance of having to put your pen down once again. You looked to the man, “Hi Rick.” Rick gleamed with a smile on his face “I’m glad to see you out here.”
Rick took it upon himself to take a seat at the table across from you making it obvious he desired to continue this conversation.
"Were you able to think about what we talked about?" Rick came by yesterday evening with a proposition for you. He invited you to join in with the group of people who went on runs for the community. Once you were fully healed, of course.
The only downside to this was who your main run partner was to be, Daryl. Rick saw something between you that you weren’t quite sure you saw yourself.
Daryl felt a wave of awkwardness standing behind Rick as he spoke to you. The same awkwardness he felt only a few days before standing in that doorway. Daryl knew of Rick's plans having been talked to about it only a few hours before.
He felt no need for a run partner. He was perfectly fine going about on his own but Rick thought the opposite.
What if something happens to you?
What if you get stuck somewhere?
We can’t afford to send search parties out for you.
All valid arguments from Rick. But Daryl had no desire to hear any of it. His stubbornness made him deaf.
Daryl could very clearly see you now. Whatever dirt and grime washed away revealed a remarkable woman. Your hair appeared soft and your dark eyes almost sparkled with the sun. He could see the definition of muscles on your biceps, highlighted by the short sleeves of your shirt. How you composed yourself screamed confidence as if you knew you were too pretty for a world so ugly.
And it infuriated him.
“Yeah, I uh...I wanna help any way I can.” Rick seemed pleased with your answer though the person behind him did not. You shifted in your seat, feeling Daryl’s eyes burn into you. In an attempt to redeem yourself, you spoke again, “If there’s anything I can do now, I want to.” Rick nodded at this, “We’ll find ya something.”
You could hear Daryl scoff from behind Rick. And though you tried to ignore it, you could not help the sour look you gave him in return. Daryl saw this as an invitation to continue his pronounced distaste.
“Don’t need someone who can’t walk holding me down.”
"Don't need someone who couldn't fight a girl holding me down."
Your response was quick-witted and more degrading to Daryl's masculinity than his insult to your injury. If you weren't mistaken, Daryl's eye twitched.
Rick stood from his seat to begin their exit, knowing the lengths of Daryl's temper. "You ain't nothing I couldn't handle." The chuckle you responded with and the glint of excitement in your eyes at the looming argument tested Daryl even more. "Sure, Daryl."
It was the first time you'd ever spoken his name to him. And he never stopped thinking of it for days to come. The way it rolled off your tongue and sounded with that southern twang. It left him restless at night and irritable during the day.
When your leg had healed and you'd grown tired of cleaning the library or serving daily meals, your first outing with Daryl was set. And it started just as rocky as it ended.
"Ya get bit, I ain't gonna hesitate to put a bullet in yer head."
"Why wait? I'm standing right here."
You remained quiet after that, not wanting to push the tension even more. But even the simplest of questions left Daryl huffing and puffing. It started with you asking how his morning was going. And it ended with you asking why he was such a prick.
It was a silent ride home.
You'd like to think you'd tried to find his good side in those beginning days but you soon began to question if such a thing even existed. Any time you were kind to him, he retaliated with anger. It brought out a certain type of frustration in you that you didn’t know was possible.
Within your time at the prison, you'd made yourself an esteemed part of the community. You used your [now useless] degree in agriculture to help build the gardens and begin the planting of any seeds you could find. Rick took a heavy trust in you and appointed you a seat on the prison council. And you'd shown your skills in scavenging, even when you had Daryl breathing down your neck.
It was difficult to pinpoint exactly when this whole charade started. Perhaps it had started in the nurse's office, in the courtyard, or on your first run together. But it did not matter where it began because there was one thing for sure, there seemed to be no end.
You both had a hold over another, in a way no one else did.
Daryl hated your confidence because he lacked his own. He hated that you were quick to go toe to toe with him. Because many others were too scared. He despised that you were so smart, a college graduate. And he especially hated when you spoke so highly of your father. Because he didn’t have a father to talk about at all.
But there was always a ting of something in all of his hate. Jealousy.
You hated his ego. You hated the fact that he contradicted everything you said. You hated when he called you names. Princess, he’d say or, miss college graduate. You hated that he never even tried to get to know you; to know that you weren’t this pretentious brat he painted you to be. Despite being with each other on a regular basis, there was a lacking of personal connection.
Neither of you truly knew the other. Where did he grow up? Has he ever broken any bones? What was his favorite candy as a child? When did he have his first drink?
Daryl pondered the same of you. Who taught you to braid your hair? You spoke of your father but never your mother, what happened to her? Why the dog tags? Have you ever loved another?
It was a day familiar to all the others. Your hot morning tea whirled about in your mug, your feet gliding gently around the grounds of the growing garden. After all your laborious hours in the Georgia heat, it was gratifying to see the various plants take bloom. Knowing there'd soon be a garden big enough to feed the community gave you satisfaction and perhaps a sliver of peace.
"You comin' or what?"
And there goes another blissful morning pissed down the drain.
Your long braid fell from your shoulder to your back when you looked at the disgruntled man. "We might need to find you a new mattress." You made your way to him, shoving your mug into his chest, "You can't ever seem to find a good side to wake up on." He scoffed, involuntarily taking your mug. The two of you, along with Michonne and Glenn, were set out on yet another run. Not one of great importance nor would it take that long of time but nonetheless it was still time spent around him.
Daryl followed behind you as you continued your way back to the prison, mug still in hand. "Michonne and Glenn are waitin' while yer staring at some fuckin' bushes." It was your turn to scoff, "They're not bushes. It's food. And a lot of fucking work."
Oh, Daryl knew how much work it had taken from you.
In the weeks he'd spent out in the gardens, his eyes worked more than his hands. He couldn't not look. You wore a tank top every day with the same black gardening gloves and dog tags dangling from your neck. The muscles in your biceps were always highlighted from the hours of digging. The blistering sun always had you drenched in sweat leaving your skin constantly glossy. Words couldn't describe the way he felt when it was dripping down your neck and into the crevice of your breast.
He was outraged for the entire three weeks.
"Whatever."
The mug in his hand became very apparent to him. "When the hell ya give me this?" He now strode beside you, approaching the car at the gates. You smiled to yourself, "A while ago."
Daryl would have preferred to ride his bike to avoid being trapped in such a confined space with you. But it was, “A waste of gas” as Rick would say.
You weren’t exactly sure what Daryl had done. But he had particularly did you in today. So greatly that you almost walked home. Glenn had to beg you to come back. Perhaps it was the way he glared at you that threw you over the edge. So cold and hostile. Or the way he stepped all over your feet, cutting you off mid-sentence, always thinking that he was right. You were simply always wrong.
This particular run would change the trajectory of your relationship forever.
You and Daryl had split in the strip mall, deciding to cover more ground separately. The strip was usually overrun with a hoard of walkers but as of late, they seemed to be diminishing one at a time. It had become clear enough to begin digging at the stores it held. Some random clothing stores, liquor shops, a CVS pharmacy, and dead restaurants.
You were rummaging about the pharmacy, most of it already picked through.
Examining the bottle of prenatal vitamins in your hand for Maggie, you heard footsteps. Thinking it was Daryl you spoke. "It's not like these expiration dates even matter anymore." Blind to your danger, you turned to face him.
Before you were given time to react to the two strange men, you were grabbed by the back of your neck, pulling at the nape of your hair, a blade held to the side of your throat. The bottle dropped from your hand, clattering to the floor. You grasped the man's arm attempting to keep the blade from your skin but you'd failed; cuts appeared on the delicate skin.
"Stay." The other man reached for your gun belt, unholstering your weapon and keeping it for himself. You kept your calm but your eyes widened with fear. "Scream and you'll die." The short man with the knife moved it away from your throat, his hand freeing your neck. The other man, who had taken your gun, now had it pointed at you.
It was loaded. You knew because you were the one who'd loaded it that very morning.
"Ya can't just come into the place we've worked so hard to clean up and start taking things...we need some form of payment."
"I have my bag." You offered hoping they would merely steal your things and go. Slowly, not taking your eyes off them, you moved your pack off your back. "There's food and ammo and other supplies." Your bag was snatched from your hands with haste. "Thank you." It wasn't genuine, just taunting.
"But that's not what we want." Their eyes looked at you more hungry than any walker. Once you realize what they meant, tears begin to blur your vision. You could feel them begin to come closer to you. Feeling helpless and too stunned to cry out for Daryl, you weren't sure if you should start fighting or begging.
Daryl heard your continuous screeches from down the way, dropping his bag of clothing. "Y/n!" His feet carried him to you swiftly. You cried his name shoving one man off of you from your pinned spot against the shelves. It was foolish of Daryl to begin shooting so wildly.
Luckily you moved to the floor in avoidance of the bullets, covering your head and blocking your ears.
You kept yourself crouched on the ground, deaf to what was happening around you. Until a hand grabbed your bicep and hoisted you from the ground, "Come on, we gotta go." For once you were relieved to see Daryl.
But you wouldn't be for long.
"We shouldn't have split up!" Daryl shouted. He was walking too fast for you to keep up, as he did at times. You trailed behind him stumbling your way over the branches and leaves in an attempt to make it back to the road with his bike. "You always got stupid fuckin' ideas!" Daryl's adrenaline was still pumping, too ignorant to think of you. He muttered to himself, “Course there was people, walkers don’t just clear out by themselves.”
He marched onto the blacktop.
"Ya talk big game just to not do nothing to help yourself." Daryl was angrily throwing the green brush off his bike, removing it from its hidden spot in the treeline. "Always talkin' 'bout yer daddy and what he did for ya." Daryl said this more to himself but it didn’t fail to reach your ears.
"Well, where was he now yuh?" Daryl turned around to face you, his chest heaving. Only to catch you in the midst of buttoning your pants. Guilt dreaded him.
You didn't care to hear his insults. And you had no desire to get on that bike and be so close to him right now.
"I.." Words couldn't find themselves in your mouth. All you could focus on was the way everything felt frozen yet moving at an intense speed at the same time. Daryl saw the way you struggled with yourself.
There was a twisting pain within your chest as your panic only grew. "Y/n." Daryl put his frustrations aside, the situation becoming clear to him now. He swallowed down his pride and reached a hand out to you. Before his fingertips could even graise the fabric of your shirt, you took a step back. "No." You spoke gently, looking out to the woods instead of to Daryl; all you could fathom now was the desire to escape.
"Y/n," Daryl repeated more soft, "We gotta go home."
"I don't want to." You turned back to him abruptly. He could see the tears irritating your eyes. Where your hands lay across your chest, you could feel your rapid heart.
"Why not?" Daryl couldn't understand why you wouldn't want to go home. It was safe, it was comfortable. Two things you desperately need right now.
"I can't, I…I can't get on the bike right now." Your frustration with yourself was growing.
Why couldn't you just get on the bike?
Why couldn't you breathe?
Why didn't you listen to Daryl and not split up?
Why was Daryl being so kind to you suddenly? Was it pity? You hated pity.
"Alright." Daryl watched the tears begin to roll down your cheeks. "We can walk, it's alright." There was no way of making it back to the prison on foot before sundown. Daryl knew this. But it was a sacrifice he was willing to make for you.
Daryl gripped the handles on his bike, walking the heavy machine down the road with you in tow. You were seemingly able to calm yourself down. The only thing remaining now was shame. You were embarrassed that Daryl had seen you so vulnerable. And you were even more embarrassed that he had to save you.
All the countless years felt wasted. All that time spent in the ring or on some thin gym mats. All those tireless nights where your father wouldn’t allow you to rest until you got one more. It was a phrase all too familiar.
You knew Daryl was annoyed having to walk, his huffs and buffs gave it away. The sun was beginning to set. "Daryl we can drive." You tried to persuade for the third time. "S'fine."
"Daryl, it's getting dark."
"S'fine!" He shouted back frustrated with the disappearing sun. You stopped in your tracks. "I know somewhere we can sleep."
You could hear the soft sounds of the water flowing down the river bed. The moon allowed a glow onto the water, gleaming with the current. Crickets and cicadas chirped in the night air like music to your ears. Despite the struggles of being in the wilderness alone, nights like this made you miss it.
"What ya doin' over there?" Daryl asked sitting a few feet behind you at the fire. "Nothing."
You pushed yourself from the ground, making your way back to him. Daryl bitterly smoked his cigarette. You didn't need to ask to know why he was so irritated, you could already imagine. Perhaps catching the fish for dinner was what did it. Or the hundreds of pounds of metal he walked for miles. Or maybe he actually was mad about having to save you. Or the simple fact that he was stuck out here with you.
You couldn't pick one.
No words were spoken, just the sounds of the wilderness and the crackling of the fire. It allowed you to think.
You began to wonder if you'd ever actually hated him. Because how could you hate someone you'd grown such an attachment to? How could you hate the person you screamed out for in your time of need? There were countless days where he'd anger you so much you thought you might actually strangle him. But somehow you always went right back. You always met him at the gates or stumbled upon him at breakfast.
Staring off into the fire you began to accept that you all along had been trying [and presumably failing] to win him over. "You okay?" Your eyes looked from the fire to him. His cigarette no longer present, "M'fine." You replied.
Daryl would be lying if he said he wasn't worried about you. Just because he didn't care for you at times, didn't mean he doesn't care about you. "It happened a couple times out on the road. I could handle it then...I just..." You shifted where you sat, "Got surprised today was all." To hear this wasn't the first time but a time of many, gutted Daryl.
You had become more afraid of encountering a man than a walker.
Daryl was never angry with you. He was more angry with himself, unable to protect you from finding yourself in such a situation.
"Wasn't yer fault. M'sorry." Shockingly, Daryl's guilt overshined his ego.
You let out a deep sigh looking back out towards the water. You knew his apology was sincere but you couldn't find the courage to acknowledge it. "I was just thinking about how I miss it out here sometimes. The sounds, the views, the peace."
Your confidence and sharp tongue did not seem present at this moment. Looking back to him, he seemed completely entranced by this newfound gentle side of you. "But that's only one percent of it, isn't it?" Daryl never took his eyes off yours, the fire casting an orange glow within them. "Yeah."
The other ninety - nine percent was the actual survival. All the bloody fights. The permanent anxiety. The sleepless nights due to fear. The painful emptiness of your stomach. The constant blisters on your ankles [that never healed] from running or walking. And the unbearable hopelessness.
"Were ya always alone?" Daryl had always been curious. You shook your head, "No." He nodded his head and looked away, leaving it at that. He had no desire to make your night even more miserable by talking about the ones you'd lost.
"It was just me and my brother for awhile."
"Meryl?"
Daryl furrowed his eyebrows knowing he'd never mentioned him before.
"Maggie's talked about him briefly."
"All nice things?" Daryl asked sarcastically.
"Not really." Your attempt to stifle your laugh was a failure, the smile lingering. But this did not anger Daryl the way you thought it would. Instead, he had his own small smile, scoffing and shaking his head. "He wasn't the best at times...but he was my brother ya know?"
You nodded muttering a, yeah.
Daryl flicked the butt of his cigarette into the dying fire. Knowing this was the first and potentially last time you'd ever speak to another so tenderly again, you continued.
"I was an only child. My mom died in childbirth when I was eight…so I never got siblings."
"M'sorry."
"Don't." You didn't say it to be cruel. You grew up hearing sympathy after sympathy, you did not need anymore. "I was never alone though. I had my Dad. And my aunt and uncles helped take care of me so I was surrounded by my cousins all the time...I guess I did have siblings in a way." A nauseating wave of nostalgia rose in your throat, silencing you for a mere second.
"My mom died when I was young too. 'Cept my Dad was just some drunk asshole, didn't care 'bout nobody but himself." Daryl couldn't deny his slight envy towards you. You grew up with a father who cared for you and your safety. It made him wonder how you'd ended up alone in the end.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't need yer apologies Y/n."
"I know."
The fire was no more. Only red hot embers burning on the rocky gravel. And it made you think that perhaps it was symbolic that the fire was slowly diminishing as your conversation grew more gentle.
A few minutes of silence had passed before either of you spoke again. "Look at us, talking to each other, treating each other like human beings for once." You joked with a laugh in an effort to replace the depressing mood.
You actually heard Daryl chuckle even though he lowered his head in an attempt to hide it. His eyes glanced at you, your own cheeky smile dimpling your cheeks. If this is what having a personal connection with Daryl was, it was dangerous.
Why did it take so long?
Was what you wanted to scream at him.
I could've loved you if you'd just given me a chance.
"Maybe we have more in common than we ever allowed."
Daryl broke eye contact with you, staring down at the glowing embers, chewing on his bottom lip. And he did the only thing he ever learned how to do when he felt something. "Night Y/n."
You didn't know why you expected anything different.
"Goodnight Daryl."
Daryl took his vest off, rolling it up and using it as a makeshift pillow. He turned away from you, his back tauntling in your face.
You stayed up a little while after, too overwhelmed by thoughts to rest. Unbeknownst to you, Daryl could not rest either. In fact, he did not sleep that entire night, only allowing himself ten-minute naps here and there. The only sense of relaxation he felt was when he'd check over his shoulder and see you in blissful sleep. As if nothing and no one had ever touched you.
When Rick asked what'd happened, Daryl lied. Saying you'd been outrun by a hoard and had to crash somewhere safe for the night. The days continued on, and what happened that day was not spoken of again. But there had come an understanding that Daryl and you were indeed, more in-common than ever allowed.
Patrick approached Daryl and you at breakfast as you mapped the run for the next morning. "H-hi!" Patrick greeted sheepishly, giving a small wave to the table. Maggie and Glenn greeted him first. Then you, pulling your attention away from the map on the table to him; giving a polite smile and nod. "Hey Patrick, everything okay?" Rick asked from where he sat beside Daryl. "Yeah..." Patrick was nervous on his feet, awkwardly pushing his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose. "I wanted to ask Daryl and Y/n if I could join them out there?"
There was suddenly a stiffness in the air. Glances were exchanged between the lot of you. "Patrick I-" Rick scratched his beard awkwardly, finding a response for the boy. Patricks's confidence plummeted. He had spent hours building up the courage to ask, only to be met with stiff glances.
"How old are you Patrick?" It was an odd question for you to ask but it did not come without reason. "Uhmm fifteen."
You rose from your seat making your way over to him as gently as your feet would allow. Come, you spoke gently reaching an arm out to him.
Patrick began to walk with you.
"I was younger than you when my father began to enroll me in fighting classes…a short time after my mother died.”
Pausing your words, you continued your stroll until you stopped just before hitting the grass. "He told me that you could never be too young to be prepared for what the world was to through at you...What does that mean to a little girl who only wanted to play with her Barbies?"
Patrick listened to you intentively, entranced by the way you spoke.
Looking out to the green gardens, you seemed lost in thought for a second. "I don't think your question is outrageous. I just don't think you're prepared." Patrick seemed to understand this answer more, nodding his head.
You knew the day would come when the prison folk grew tired of looking at the same walls and more curious about the world beyond. Especially the children. You'd seen the group of kids over by the fences, close enough to look at the walkers but far enough away for safety. It was often that they were scolded by the adults.
"I know I’m not a fighter. I’m not like you or Daryl or even Carl. But I just wanna…” Patrick paused, “be brave for once.”
You couldn't help but smile at the innocence of the boy.
"You can't go out there knowing nothing Patrick." He had finally begun to accept defeat but the long face and disappointed eyes tugged at your sympathy.
"I can teach you. Just as my father taught me." Patrick's eyes lit up with hope. "Th-thank you Y/n." He gleamed with excitement, reaching a hand out to shake yours. You were truly at a loss of words with no choice but to shake it in return.
You'd spent day after day out in the field with Patrick. You taught him how to block blows, how to hold and use daggers, and much more. He was skittish and shaky most days but he was trying. In place of your days with Patrick, you were skipping your usual days with Daryl. You truly hadn't thought he'd mind much. If anything, you assumed he'd be happy to finally have a break from you.
"I feel like this wouldn't hurt that bad." Patrick commented. Carl was punching the book Patrick held, having begun to invite himself to the practices. Thick index books were the closest thing you'd find to a punching bag. You chuckled, "It hurts more than you'd expect."
Daryl approached the three of you. You could hear his footsteps. You’d recognize them even in the dead of night. They were gentler than normal as if he wished to not disturb. "It hurts more if you have rings on." Patrick looked at you curiously, "Did you used to wear rings Y/n?" You nodded happily. "All the time.”
You turned to finally face Daryl. "Hey." You greeted, taking the last few steps to meet him. "Hi." Daryl looked about, chewing on his bottom lip. "You ain't been showing up for runs." It almost, almost, sounded as if this upset him. "I've been here," you motioned to the young boys, "You know that."
Daryl nodded.
Of course he knew. He saw you every day, always wanting to come over and join but never allowing himself to.
"You really serious 'bout all this?" Daryl nudged his head to Patrick and Carl. You let out a deep sigh. You asked yourself the same question. Was this serious? Did you really plan on taking a kid outside the gates? There was a chance this was all for nothing at all. But what you did know was that it kept your mind at peace and your days busy.
"I don't know. I thought we could at least take him down to the river. It's nice down there, it's not far, would get him outta here for a few hours."
The river.
"Alright."
"Alright."
You sat alone at dinner that night, needing quiet time after hanging out with teenage boys for the majority of your day. You poked about your rice and veggies, still working on the copy of Little Women. "Hey." Daryl greeted. The day was growing late, the sun beginning to disappear from beneath the trees; he'd presumably just gotten back.
"Hi." You looked from your page, secretly happy he was giving you an excuse to put it down. Daryl's eyes looked anywhere but your own. "I-uh...got something for ya." Daryl dug into his front pocket, grabbing the handful of metal. He placed the rings on the table, making their own clattering noise together as they fell.
You seemed bewildered at this. "What...uh." Daryl chewed nervously on his thumb. He'd searched through this town and the next to find them for you, rummaging through old antique stores and dusty jewelry boxes. Picking out the ones he thought you’d like; which could mean nothing at all. “You didn't have to."
"S'fine." You nodded, the smile finally creeping it’s way to your features. "Thank you, Daryl." You were flattered. Flattered to think that for once, he'd actually listened to you. "Do you wanna go get dinner and come sit?" You offered.
"Yeah, I'd like that."
A certain closeness was growing. The arguments slowly became banter. And the war of dominance diminished. You began to work together as partners, mapping runs and brainstorming improvements for the prison. Instead of using your skills against each other, you’d began to find the perfect balance between.
Daryl joined you most days with Patrick. He found that he had no desire to go beyond the gates unless you were in tow.
There were moments when sheer frustration retook hold of you. But never did it reach the lengths as before. It came with reason, with a pleading, instead of merely arguing of who was right and who was wrong.
You turned the rings on your fingers about as you walked to the dining area outside. Daryl was a ways away, smoking his morning cigarette. “Morning.” You greeted, crossing your arms and taking your spot beside him. “Morning.”
The end of summer was near, mornings were chillier than usual but days still hot from the sun. There was a curtain of peace over this particular morning. The smell of Daryl’s cigarette filled your nose along with the morning dew. His presence comforted you. “I think it was around this time last year when you guys picked me up.”
Daryl blew the smoke from his lips, “Yeah, biggest mistake ever.” He joked. This earned a laugh from you. Daryl watched the joy on your face; it scrunched your eyes and accentuated the apples of your cheeks. “Yeah, I bet.”
He couldn’t take his eyes from you and a heaviness weighed within his chest. Because he knew, just as you did, that it was not only friendship lingering. It was more.
“I think I’m gonna go out, make sure the path to the river is clear.” Daryl knew what this insinuated. “We’re taking him out today?” Daryl had begun to hope that all of your time with Patrick was nothing, that it was merely something to fill up the days. “It feels like a peaceful day…” You could hear the uncertainty in his voice. “Besides, Patrick’s not been feeling good, I doubt he’ll even want to go. It’s the effort that means something to him.”
Hmm, Daryl hummed. You nudged your elbow into him, “Keep an eye on him for me, okay?” Daryl hummed in response again. “D…” You nudged him again as if needing a more reassuring answer for your verbal contract. The nickname perked his ears and heated his cheeks. Looking to you, he nodded.
You gave him a thankful smile. “Be safe!” Daryl shouted to you as you began on your way.
Arriving back to the prison you could feel within your gut that something was wrong. The sympathetic eyes that Michonne greeted you with solidified this.
Daryl recognized your footsteps entering the cell block.
“What's happened?" Daryl rushed to stand in front of you, blocking your path. It was eerily silent. “Come on.” Daryl placed his hands on your shoulders trying to turn you away. You shoved his hands from you, slipping past him.
"Y/n.” Daryl could not stop you from continuing on. Your expression was stuck in a state of confusion and shock as your feet guided about the chaotic cell block. It smelled of metallic blood and bitterly sour. Almost as though you'd stuck your nose in a gaping infected wound. When you'd turned your head to glance into a cell, you saw him.
Patrick lay still on the ground, an arrow lodged in his skull. An airy gasp left you, clutching your hands to your chest. It was as if you couldn't take your eyes away. Your eyes still not yet communicating to your brain what you were looking at. But when it did, the only thing you could seem to focus on was the arrow. An arrow.
Daryl watched the realization settle on your features when you turned to him. For once, Daryl felt a sense of fear. And it only worsened when you began towards him.
It was as quick as a breath. You unsheathed the dagger on your hip and aimed it at him.
"Y/n no!"
Daryl caught your wrists, the blade mere inches from his right eye. Though he stopped the blade, your brute force did not stop him from being shoved into the closest wall.
"I told you to look out for him!" You yelled through your glassy eyes.
He had no words for you, pure guilt blocking any defense or insult.
"I had to." You scoffed at this, "I can't trust you to do anything."
"Y/n it's not his fault. It was an accident." Rick reasoned with you.
With his back pressed against the wall, he had fully submitted himself to your wrath. His guilt would let you kill him now if you'd like. His hands around your wrist did not hurt nor squeeze to withhold your strength, they began to merely rest there.
Your rapid breathing began to slow to deep inhales and exhales, ones that moved your entire chest. Your eyes remained steady on his, the world drowning out around you.
While his eyes showed remorse, yours burned with anger; eyebrows furrowed, hot tears slipping down your cheeks.
With one forceful shove, you ripped your arms from Daryl's grasp, his back bumping the cement wall. The dagger made a clattering noise to the floor, having been lost from your grasp in the process. You stood there for a moment looking to Daryl as if waiting for something.
"M'sorry."
His apology only seemed to anger you, your face once again turning hateful. You took a few steps back before making your exit.
When time came to take care of the ones lost, you helped dig their graves; in defiance of everyone telling you not to. Your hands covered in splinters from the blistering wood of the shovel’s handle. The once thriving and growing prison become melancholy, a heavy cloud of sorrow always above.
You and Daryl had not spoken for days. You'd ditched any planned runs that had been scheduled. But without fail, Daryl waited every morning for you, on the off chance you'd join him again. And when you never did, he kept an eye on you from afar.
You had become quiet and distant. He seemed to only find you chatting with Maggie or Glenn and on the off chance, Rick. You were on fence duty every day presumably taking out every bit of anger on those poor dead bastards.
You'd been out there day after day, nothing but water in your system, running off of pure spite and grief. You'd be out there till your adrenaline wore off and your body gave up on itself from exhaustion. If Daryl wasn't mistaken he had spotted you crying on some days; but that bloody pipe never left your hands.
You had begun to wake up earlier than Daryl, always managing to slip away from him just in time. You ignored him at every meal and walked by him as if he was a ghost.
Daryl couldn't deny the itch of missing you. He longed for you to look at him again, to smile at him and call him names. He began to even miss when you yelled at him, as cruel and loud as you could be.
Daryl couldn't continue on like this. You were torturing him.
He had awoken particularly early this day, ensuring he was in the kitchen long before you; knowing you never skipped your morning tea.
Exhaustion was all you could feel. Your body raged against your decisions every day. Your arms were sore, hands red and raw from gripping the damn pipe so hard. But you could not allow yourself to be around him. You couldn't stand to be trapped in those cells, indulged with pity.
Wrapping the strap of the fingerless gloves around your wrist, you wandered into the kitchen. Glancing up, you saw him, stopping your steps. The kitchen was dark on this early morning, the sun not yet fully risen.
Every thought Daryl had vanished from his mind. Every speech he'd rehearsed or apology left him in an instant. He hadn't known seeing you face to face, alone, would leave him so breathless. Daryl could see your exhaustion even in the dim light. Your usually neat braid had been done in haste, it was sloppy and hairs fell messily into your face. The constant emotional distress dragged on your features.
"I had to see ya."
You crossed your arms over your chest, closing yourself off from him. "So you just waited for me here." Your tone was venom to him. Daryl swallowed sharply, second-guessing his actions. "Ya get yer tea every mornin'." It would be flattering to think he'd memorized your everyday routine if it was any other time. But you couldn't find that now.
"Was gonna go out..."
He wasn't. Daryl would only go if you were in tow.
You scoffed at him. Had he truly gone through all this effort just to ask you to join him on a sleazy run?
Your attitude hurt Daryl more than he'd like to admit. "Just wanted to see if ya wanted to come with me?"
You knew why he actually was here. Scratching the skin on your arm nervously, you said, "No Daryl."
“Why the hell not?” Your mouth dropped agape. Astonished at his mere audacity. “Why not?” You repeated back. Daryl looked at you blankly. Should he apologize? Or should he begin his stubbornness rant about all the ways it wasn't his fault? You shook your head, "You're pathetic."
The fire was lit once again.
You'd insulted his ego and his efforts to meet you here. But most of all, you'd insulted any feelings he'd developed for you.
Daryl's face switched from hurt to a hateful glare in a second. You didn’t care to continue on with him, turning and disappearing into the hallway. Daryl’s anger took hold of him as he rushed after you. “M’pathetic?” He followed after you, stomping like a child.
You ignored him, continuing on, letting the door slam in his face when you exited outside. Daryl following suit in your path did not falter. Carol and Rick turned their attention to the commotion.
Daryl and you spewed insults at each other. You'd reached down in yourself, past the grief and guilt, and pulled any degrading thing you could manage to say to him. And he did the same. No words you said could possibly cut him as deeply as his actions cut you.
"I shoulda left ya out there!"
"Yeah I wish you fucking would've..." You took a step closer to him. "But you couldn't because you fucking needed me."
"I don't need you."
"You fucking need me." You repeated.
"Yeah? Then you need me!"
"I don't fucking need you! I never needed you."
Daryl lowered his tone, narrowing his eyes. He was mere inches from your face, your foreheads almost touching. “Ya didn't need me out there, hm?" He watched your furrowed eyebrows falter. Daryl knew he was crossing a line but couldn't find it in his heart to stop. "Where was yer daddy that day, yuh?"
Your glassy eyes looked up at him attempting to form your own degrading insult. "What? Say it, come on say it Y/n." He egged you on.
You only think about yourself, just like your father.
But you refrained, swallowing your words along with your tears. "Fuck you." Daryl watched you walk away, wiping at your face. "Fuck you!" Regret dreaded him. He watched as you continued on, your body shaking from a mixture of adrenaline and tears. He could have run after you then, apologies spewing from his mouth but his stubbornness kept him still.
The prison fell that same day.
Amid chaos and destruction, Daryl could only find himself to look for you. And when he finally accepted defeat, he could only pray that you'd made it out.
You had fled on your own. Fighting your way through to return to the comfort of the wilderness. After a few strenuous days on your own again, you'd found Carol and Tyreese; joining them with the girls. The blisters on your feet had returned as did the heaviness deep in your chest.
You thought about him more than you'd like to admit. And Carol did her part in reminding you of him on the daily. You'd begun to dwell on how you'd treated him in those final days. You’d denied yourself the comfort of his company. You urned for him to be gentle to you once again. To speak to you so deeply and sincerely as he had before. To comfort you amidst your grief. All the draining nights of crying yourself to dehydration, you desired for him to be there.
You’d never been hugged by Daryl but in your mind, his touch would’ve healed a thousand gaping wounds.
"I regret it deeply now." You'd say to Carol.
"I'm sure he feels the same." She'd respond.
A longing for your life to return as it was among those prison walls struck you down every hour of every day. The wish to go back to that morning and accept his offer. To take his hand and go beyond the walls. Maybe one more day together would’ve fixed everything. And you wouldn’t be left with the guilt of leaving things off on a bad note; never to see him again.
The smoke rose above the tree line, only making you more anxious. With Tyreese and Judith safely at the cabin, [or so you thought], you kept guard at the road. Keeping an eye for anyone making an escape.
Kill them if they weren’t one of us. Carol instructed.
But the sound of gunfire made you unsure of anyone’s survival. Fuck, you muttered to yourself out of frustration. You glanced constantly down the road and amongst the trees, hoping for a familiar face.
You turned your last surviving ring anxiously about your finger. A rustle in the woods grabbed your attention. You gripped your gun closely in your hands, stepping towards the tree line. When it was deemed clear, you continued on, your boots crunching on the leaves.
Your ears perked at a sudden snap of a twig. Whipping your body around, you pointed your gun.
Daryl aimed his bow to you, the tip of your weapons mere inches from the other. Your breath caught in your throat. His eyes were tired, his face bruised. But you couldn't say you looked any better.
Both your fingers lingered over your triggers, though neither of you would shoot. Daryl lowered his bow. Looking at you with teary eyes. You lowered your own weapon, looking to him with the same unsure gaze. There seemed to be a mutual understanding that neither of you had the energy to fight. Daryl wanted to reach out to you but the looming fear of rejection didn’t allow him. "Y/n?" Maggie snapped you from your daze. “Maggie?” You rushed to embrace her, discarding Daryl.
The weeks spent on the road proved to be difficult. Everyone grew more hopeless by the day and this hopelessness only grew when it became loss after loss. There was no time to heal from one loss before having to mourn another. First Bob, then Tyreese, and then Beth. You’d glued yourself to Maggie after Beth just as she did for you after Patrick.
Daryl mourned Beth in private. You wanted to be there for him, to provide him a shoulder to cry on. But he’d shut you out, just as you’d done to him. And besides, you never even tried, too focused on Maggie to consider it more than a thought.
You and Daryl had become strangers once again. There was no room for forgiveness, no time to spew apologies to each other, and no space to coddle each other through the pain.
Alexandria came to the suffering group, shining a new light of hope and a more secure future.
But this meant you could not hide from him anymore nor him you. The known could no longer be left unspoken.
You’d slipped away from the main house to the house next door that belonged to the group but was yet to be used. Daryl was first to notice your absence, asking where you’d gone so late. When he was told, the urge to follow after arose.
The front door was left unlocked, allowing Daryl entry. “Y/n?” The house was dimly lit, an amber glow looming from across the room. Daryl saw your figure sitting on the couch in front of the fireplace. A liquor bottle sat atop the coffee table reading, Honey Whiskey, along with an empty glass seemingly for him. The other was in your hand, resting on your thigh. He couldn't help but think how perfectly you the liquor was; bitter yet soothing and sweet.
Daryl didn't know what told him to sit beside you but he did not resist the urge.
Nothing was said, the both of you staring off into the gas-lit flames. Your eyes studied the fake logs that were engulfed by flames, comparing it to how real wood burns. Daryl craved for you to speak to him. He didn't care if it was hurtful. Any words, cruel or no, were better than this silence. "Y/n..."
"I forgive you." Daryl went still. You hadn't given him time to breathe.
"What?"
Just then you turned, your freshly cleaned hair falling over your shoulder. The fire cast a glow on your features; highlighting the bridge of your nose and emoting a sparkle within your eyes.
“I said I forgive you.” It was the gentlest tone you’d ever spoken to him in, almost a whisper.
“I don’t think I had reason to be angry in the first place. I was just trying to blame someone that wasn’t myself.” You reached forward, popping the cap from the bottle and pouring Daryl a glass. You handed it to him, along with a slight smile. It tugged at his heart.
“M’sorry…bout what I said that day. 'Bout your Dad...Wasn’t right.” Daryl swirled the liquor about his glass, wondering where you’d found it. You took a deep breath before speaking on, “My daddy disowned me.”
The dog tags around your neck suddenly felt as though they weighed fifty pounds. It was a burden you carried around your neck every day, hoping the weight would be lifted lighter if you just spoke highly. "Why?" Daryl couldn't help but ask. You hesitated, your mouth gaping but no words following. "Because I loved a woman." You flashed Daryl an insecure smile, unsure of how he'd react. "I lost her about a month before you guys picked me up. That's why I was alone."
Daryl felt a whirlwind of emotions hit him at once.
How many times had he thrown your father in your face like some jealous brat?
“I think I resented ya a lot. Thinking ya had a father that rolled out the red carpet for you." Daryl had found his own courage in a now empty cup. You took note of this, pouring more for him. "I know, D."
"M'sorry."
"I know that too."
After that, a soft silence fills the room. The two of you sit peacefully, content with the weight slowly lifting from the shoulders of your friendship. But there was another topic to relive before you could truly sweep up all of the choked-off fragments and furnish them with conclusions.
“Patrick uh…”
“Ya don’t gotta talk about that Y/n.”
“No, I need to.”
The liquor wasn’t persuading you to talk nor to act a certain way, you’d barely drank any.
A deep sigh left you and you rested your back against the couch. “Patrick talked about his parents a lot. He said that his mom wanted him to be brave…That’s why he wanted to go out, he said that he felt like a coward. He’d always been safe in Woodbury then the prison.” Your words were quick and shaken.
Daryl listened attentively, taking sips of the whiskey in hopes it would calm his mind. “He thought that if he went out, even once, he would be brave… like us.” You motioned to you and Daryl. A smile rose on your face. “He also just really wanted to impress you, he was so excited when you started joining us in the mornings.” You took a sip from your own cup finding strength in the liquid.
“I know you always thought it was silly but…Patrick reminded me a lot of my cousin. He was my best friend until my aunt moved to a different state. I promised to keep in touch but I started college, got distracted, and only saw him on holidays.”
Your words trailed as if unsure of what was to be said.
“Until he jumped off a fucking overpass.” You could feel Daryl’s sympathetic eyes looking at you. “In his note, he said he knew he was a coward but he couldn’t be here anymore.” Your lip began to quiver but you quickly covered it with a swig of liquor. Daryl was left to think while you choked your tears down.
"They were brave." Daryl said in hopes it would relieve some of your guilt.
You placed your glass on the table beside the couch. "And dead they are." The tears could no longer be drowned in whiskey. You covered your face with your hands. Your body trembled violently, sobs racking your chest. Daryl put down his own glass. “C’mere…c’mere please.”
Daryl scooted closer to you, grasping for you to meet him halfway. You met him gladly.
You gripped your arms around him tighter, resting your head on his shoulder. A deep sigh of relief left both of you, melting into the other's embrace. “You’ve never hugged me before." You commented with sadness, your words mumbling against the fabric of his shirt; now wet with tears. "I know. M’sorry.” He could hold you all night if need be, to make up for all the nights he hadn’t.
He smelled of pine from the soap he'd used to wash. But the familiar scent of motor oil and cigarette smoke could never be washed from his skin. At first, it annoyed you. You'd complain that the oil gave you headaches and scold him about his unhealthy habit. But now, no four walls of any house could provide you the safety and comfort of Daryl's broad figure.
You pulled away from him but your hands did not leave him. They dragged down from his back to rest comfortably in his own. Your soft skin caressed his calloused hands. Your forehead rested against his. He did not remove himself from you but merely looked down, avoiding your gaze. "Ya been drinking a lot Y/n, ain't in the right mindset right now." You shook your head, "No Daryl...”
Your nose bumped his own as you scooped your head down, capturing his lips in yours. You taste of the bitterly sweet liquor, your lips still slightly damp from the tears that fell only moments ago. He resists before giving in to his longest desires. It made his nerves feel fuzzy. “I love you.” Your words mumbled against his lips.
The kiss turned from gentle to desirable in time, lips moving in sync together. His hands moved to either side of your face, ensuring to keep you close. You began to lay back, hoping Daryl would follow. He was quick too, ensuring his body weight did not crush you.
Needing a moment to breathe, you parted from him. Your back relaxed against the plush couch all your tense muscles turning to putty beneath him. Daryl's head fell to your chest. He felt your own heartbeat, just as quick as his own. "Love ya too."
Daryl's hands freely wondered you. He gripped your thighs, feeling the jagged scar on your thigh through the thin pajama pants; remembering the day you met. "I fell down a hill." Daryl stopped his lingering hands, "What?" There was a ting of a smile on your face. His eyes sparkled with admiration. "I was fighting a walker and I fell downhill. I think I got stabbed by a tree branch or my own knife, I never knew." You admitted shamefully. Daryl dropped his head to your chest again, chuckling.
His laughter sent vibrations through you, triggering a laugh of your own. You bring your hand to the back of his head, stroking his messy brown hair. “Why don’t you stay here with me tonight?” Daryl lifted his head, the fire dimly lighting the right side of his face. He nodded.
"I'd like that."
#daryl dixon fanfiction#the walking dead#daryl dixon fanfic#daryl dixon x female reader#daryl x reader#daryl x y/n#the walking dead daryl#daryl dixon series#daryl x you#twd#daryl dixon x reader#daryl dixon#daryl dixon twd#daryl fanfiction#daryl x female reader#daryl dixon / reader#daryl dixon angst
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[Image description: A series of images depicting a song-based comic about Stanley and Stanford Pines from Gravity Falls.
Image 1: The top panel shows Stan, a grey-haired older man in a suit, breaking out of handcuffs in an interrogation room. Lyrics to the left read "They tried the handcuffs, but they won't lock."
The bottom panel shows Ford, a similar man with less grey in his hair, wearing a sweater and jacket. He has a shock collar on that emits blue electricity. Lyrics to the right read "electrical courses, but they won't shock."
Image 2: The top panel shows Ford holding a gun, looking behind him and running. There is a "Wanted" poster of him, on the wall beside him. Lyrics to the left read "You pulled the fire alarm."
The bottom panel shows Stan holding a suitcase of money, looking behind him and running. Behind him is a police car with its lights on, and a cop laying on the sidewalk. Lyrics to the right read "You tried punching a cop."
At the bottom of the image, six busts of Stan and Ford show them aging over thirty years. Lyrics above them read "You're just too tired to stop."
Image 3: An all-black background. White text shows the lyrics "You old pine box." Below is a white outline of a coffin.
Image 4: The left panel shows Stan in a basement, looking down at a journal with his head in his hands. The top of his head is breaking open, and flower pot shards drift away. A plant with a few leaves grows out of his head. Lyrics atop the panel read "You old pine box, with your head full of rocks, sharp like a cracked flower pot."
The right panel shows Ford at a cooking fire, drawing plans for a weapon called a "quantum destabilizer" as he glances suspiciously behind him. Eyeballs with bat wings fly out of an open portion of his head. Lyrics atop the panel read "You old paper head, on your skull full of bats, there's no percentage in that."
Image 5: The top panel shows a younger Ford in the foreground clutching a journal. Behind him, Fiddleford, a man wearing circle glasses and a cultist robe, is walking away from Ford. Further back is Caryn Pines, a dark-haired woman reaching out to Ford. In the very back is Filbrick Pines, a man with sunglasses and a mustache. Lyrics to the right read "They called relations, but they declined. They called the fanclub, but they'd resigned."
The bottom panel shows a younger Stan in the foreground with a grim look on his face. He is walking away from a crashed car on fire in the background. Lyrics to the left read "Left your car in a field and some questions behind."
Image 6: A night view of the second stories of some buildings. In the middle building, Caryn is leaning outside the right-hand window. She has grey in her hair, and is smoking a cigarette and looking up at the stars. Text in the sky reads "Your mom thinks you're out of your mind."
End ID.]
Song: They Might Be Giants - Old Pine Box. Again, I recommend reading with the song playing!
Another year, another Gravity Falls lyric comic, because I am always in my feelings about it!! I could froth at the mouth for ages about Stan and Ford being more similar than they might think - self-isolating, determined, desperate - but instead I drew this.
This is another one I had cooking in the back of my head for, probably, years, because my brain makes so many connections between TMBG songs and GF. I hope you like it!!
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One step at a time. | N.R
Natasha x Fem!Reader
Summary: Natasha and the team help you cope with the loss of your leg.
Warnings: Detailed description of loss/Grief and mental health issues
Word count: 3,9k
A/n: Had something in mind..✨
The Tower was already buzzing with activity. It was rare for everyone to be together, but when they were, the Tower seemed to vibrate with energy. At the center of it all was you, the bright and lively soul who illuminated even the darkest corners of the team.
You had a way about you that drew people in. Your infectious laughter could lift the heaviest spirits, and your smile seemed to spread warmth. Your optimism and unwavering positivity were like a beacon, guiding your teammates through their toughest times. Everyone admired you, but no one more so than Natasha Romanoff.
Natasha was always the stoic warrior, rarely showing her emotions. But you had effortlessly broken down those walls. With your steadfast support and genuine kindness, you became Natasha’s closest confidante and, although she would never say it out loud, the anchor of her heart.
This morning was no exception. You bounced into the common room, your eyes sparkling with excitement. "Good morning, everyone!" you called out, your voice like a melody echoing down the hall.
Tony, tinkering with a new gadget, looked up and grinned. "Well, if it isn’t our sunshine," he teased, causing the rest of the team to laugh.
You made your way to the kitchen, where Steve was pouring himself a cup of coffee. "Morning, Cap," you said cheerfully, reaching for a cup for yourself. "What’s on the agenda today?"
Steve smiled, appreciating your tireless positivity. "Just a meeting in a bit. But first, breakfast. You know the drill."
As you were about to sit down with the others at the table, Natasha came in from her morning training. The moment she saw you, her expression softened. "Hey," she greeted, kissing you on the cheek.
You beamed at her. "Nat! I was just getting some coffee. Want some?" Natasha nodded, a rare smile tugging at her lips. "Thanks, I could use it."
Days in the Tower were often filled with training sessions, meetings, and occasional sparring matches. You had a knack for brightening even the most mundane activities. You organized movie nights, cooked meals for the team, and always found time to lend an ear. Your favorite spot was the rooftop garden, where you often pulled Natasha to relax and enjoy the view.
One evening, as you lay in the garden, you asked Natasha, "Do you ever wonder if we make a difference?" Your eyes reflected the sparkling stars. Natasha was surprised by the question. "Of course we do," she replied firmly. "Every life we save, every fight we win, it all counts."
You smiled, a small, wistful smile. "I know. Sometimes it just feels like there’s so much darkness. It’s nice to have a reminder that there’s still light." In that moment, Natasha realized how much you meant to her. She placed a hand on your shoulder. "You are that light. Never forget that."
Your laughter snapped Natasha out of her thoughts. She watched as you interacted with the team, your eyes full of warmth and kindness. Moments like these filled Natasha’s heart with emotions she had long buried. She felt a protective urge towards you, a desire to shield you from the harsh realities of the world.
"Nat, you’re awfully quiet this morning," Clint, ever the observant Hawkeye, gently teased. "What’s on your mind?" Natasha offered a rare, genuine smile. "Just enjoying the moment," she replied, her gaze meeting yours again, making her heart swell with joy.
The mission seemed straightforward on paper: infiltrate an old HYDRA facility, gather intel, and get out. They had done it a hundred times. But as they moved through the dark, abandoned corridors, an eerie feeling spread.
"Stay alert," Steve's voice crackled through their earpieces. "Something doesn’t feel right." Eager to help, you moved up with Natasha. "I’ve got your back." you said, flashing a confident smile. "Just stay close to me," Natasha responded, her protective instincts kicking in.
They advanced cautiously, each step echoing through the silence. Tony’s scanners were active, searching for hidden threats. Suddenly, a blip on the radar caught his attention. "We’ve got movement," he announced. "Southwest corner, two floors down."
Steve gave the signal to move in. They split into pairs, covering each other's backs as they navigated the labyrinthine building. You and Natasha moved with practiced precision, your trust in each other evident in your fluid movements.
"How many are we dealing with?" you asked, scanning the shadows. "Looks like a small group," Tony replied. "Shouldn't be a big deal."
"Famous last words," Natasha muttered, making you laugh. As they reached the designated area, the building began to tremble. The walls shook, and the ceiling cracked. "It’s a trap!" Tony shouted, but it was too late. The structure collapsed around them.
"Y/N, Watch out!" Natasha called as debris began to fall. They dodged the larger pieces, but in the chaos, you were separated from the group. You called out, your voice filled with fear but still hopeful. "Nat! Tony! Where are you?"
A beam crashed down in front of you, blocking your path. You turned to find another exit, but it was too late. A massive steel beam, loosened by the collapsing structure, fell toward you. You tried to dodge, but it struck your left leg, pinning you to the ground.
Pain shot through your body, intense and unrelenting. You screamed, a sound that echoed through the collapsing building. The team heard your cry and fought through the rubble to reach you.
Natasha found you first. Her heart sank at the sight of you, trapped under the beam, blood pooling around you. "Hey, I’m here," she called, her voice trembling with uncharacteristic emotion.
"I-It hurts so much," you gasped, tears streaming down your face. "I can’t move.."
"It’s going to be okay. We’ll get you out of here. Just stay with me, okay, detka?" Natasha said, her voice calm despite the panic she felt inside.
The rest of the team arrived, and together they managed to lift the beam just enough to pull you free. They rushed you back to the Tower, the urgency of the situation weighing heavily on them.
In the medical wing, the doctors took over immediately, wheeling you into surgery. The team waited outside, the air thick with tension and worry. Natasha paced back and forth, unable to sit still, her mind filled with fear and guilt.
Hours seemed to stretch into eternity. Finally, the doors to the OR opened and Dr. Cho approached the worried group. Natasha stepped forward. "How is she?" she asked, her voice barely steady.
Cho sighed, pulling down her mask. "She’s stable, but the damage to her leg was severe. We did everything we could, but we couldn’t save it. We had to amputate above the knee."
The words hit Natasha like a punch to the gut. She nodded slowly, trying to process the information. "Can I see her?"
"She’s still unconscious," Cho said gently. "But you can be there when she wakes up." Natasha nodded again and followed Cho to your room. She sat by your bed, holding your hand and whispering comforting words. When you finally began to stir, Natasha’s heart pounded in her chest.
Your eyes fluttered open, and you looked around groggily. "Nat?" you murmured, your voice weak. "I’m here, Y/N," Natasha said softly, squeezing your hand. "I’m right here."
You smiled weakly, your eyes beginning to clear. But then you noticed the expression on Natasha’s face, a mix of relief and something else you couldn’t quite place. "What’s wrong? I’m okay, I’m here.." you asked, a hint of fear creeping into your voice.
Natasha struggled to find the words, her throat tight with emotion. Before she could speak, Cho stepped in, her face serious as she chose her words carefully. "Your leg was severely damaged by the beam... Y/N, we did everything we could to save it, but… it wasn’t enough."
"What do you mean?" Your eyes widened, your breath catching. "I’m so sorry. We had to amputate your leg above the knee." Your face went pale, your voice trembling. "My leg… it’s gone?"
Cho nodded, her eyes full of compassion. "Yes. I know it’s incredibly hard to hear. I’m truly sorry."
The room fell into silence. You continued to stare at her, your mind overwhelmed by the news. "W-What..?" you whispered, shaking your head. "No.. I.. I can feel it, that-" throwing off the blanket, your eyes widening in disbelief at the empty space where your leg used to be.
You tried to move it, but it wasn’t there. The realization hit you like a tidal wave. You said nothing, just stared at the empty space, your hands trembling.
Natasha leaned closer, her voice full of empathy. "I’m so sorry, Y/N. We’re here for you. I'm here for you.“
But you were in shock, unable to fully grasp the reality of your situation. Tears streamed down your face as you struggled to cope with your loss. Natasha stayed by your side, holding your hand and offering what comfort she could, knowing this was just the beginning of a long and difficult journey for both of you.
The days in the medical wing were a whirlwind of pain, medication, and the constant hum of machines. You lay in bed, your eyes often vacant as you stared at the sterile white ceiling. Your once bright smile was gone, replaced by a hollow expression that pained everyone who visited.
Natasha was a constant presence by your side. She held your hand, whispered comforting words, and even tried to coax a faint smile from you. But you were distant, your light dimmed by the weight of your loss.
One afternoon, Steve and Tony visited you, bringing a bouquet of colorful flowers. "Hey, sunshine," Tony greeted, his usual confidence tempered by concern. "We brought you something to brighten up this place."
You glanced at the flowers and managed a small nod. "Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely more than a whisper.
Steve sat on the edge of your bed, his eyes full of empathy. "How are you holding up?" You forced a smile, but it didn’t reach your eyes. "I’m okay, Steve. Just... tired."
They all knew you weren’t okay. The vibrant, happy Y/N they all loved was disappearing, and it broke their hearts to see you like this.
As the days turned into weeks, the team visited you regularly. Clint brought your favorite snacks, books to keep your mind occupied. But despite their efforts, you remained distant, a shadow of your former self.
One evening, as Natasha sat by your bed, she gently brushed a strand of hair from your face. "You know, it’s okay to not be okay," she said softly.
Your eyes filled with tears. "I don’t know how to be myself anymore," you admitted, your voice breaking. "Everything feels different. I feel different."
Natasha’s heart ached for you. She leaned in closer, resting her forehead against yours. "We’ll find a new normal, Y/N. Together. You’re still you, and you still mean the world to us."
Finally, the day came when you were discharged from the medical wing. The team gathered to bring you home, their faces a mix of relief and concern. As they helped you into the wheelchair, Natasha knelt beside you. "Ready to go home?" she asked, trying to sound hopeful.
You nodded, but the sadness in your eyes was unmistakable. "Yes. Let’s go."
Back at the Tower, the atmosphere was subdued. You moved through the halls with a quiet distance, no longer organizing movie nights or cooking meals. Most of your time was spent in your room, avoiding the rooftop garden you once loved.
The team watched helplessly as you withdrew further. Your laughter, once a joyful sound that echoed through the Tower, was now a distant memory. You no longer greeted anyone with your usual cheerfulness, and the light in your eyes had gone out.
Natasha was the most affected. She missed the Y/N who pulled her to the garden to watch the sunset, who made her laugh with silly jokes, who had become her rock. She tried to reach you, to break through the wall you had built around yourself, but it was like trying to catch smoke with her hands.
One morning, Cho informed Natasha that it was time to remove your bandages. "It’s common for patients to need emotional support when they see their stump for the first time," she explained gently. "It would be helpful if you could be there for her."
Natasha nodded, understanding the gravity of the moment. She entered your room, finding you standing by the window. "Hey," she said softly, closing the door behind her.
You turned around, surprise flickering across your face. "What are you doing here?"
"I thought I’d sit with you while Cho removes the bandages," Natasha replied, trying to sound casual.
"I don’t need you," you said, your voice rising with frustration. "I can do this on my own."
Natasha shook her head, her expression determined. "I’m staying, Y/N. No arguments."
You glared at her, but Natasha’s resolve didn’t waver. Finally, you sighed in resignation. "Fine. Do what you want."
Cho entered and began the careful process of removing the bandages. You kept your eyes fixed on the ceiling, determined not to look. Natasha held your hand, offering silent comfort.
As the last layer of bandage was removed, you caught a glimpse of your stump out of the corner of your eye. Your breath caught, and you turned your head, unable to avoid it any longer. The sight of your leg..or what was left of it, triggered a wave of nausea and despair.
You tried to hold back your tears, biting your lip until it bled. But the emotional dam broke, and you began to sob uncontrollably. "I-Ican’t do this... I can’t live like.. t-this..."
Natasha pulled you into a tight embrace, her own tears falling silently. "You can, Y/N. And you will. We’ll get through this together, I promise."
You clung to her, your sobs shaking your entire body. Cho, seeing the emotional toll, finished quickly and quietly left the room. The team, waiting just outside, could hear your cries, their own hearts breaking for their friend. They knew they couldn’t fix this for you, but they would be there every step of the way, offering support as best they could.
The days that followed were some of the hardest you had ever faced. You were engulfed by a whirlwind of emotions, grief, anger, and a deep sense of loss. The team continued to give you space, but they were never far away, always ready to offer support.
Natasha stayed close, offering a steady presence that you found both comforting and frustrating. It was a delicate balance, and Natasha navigated it with patience and love.
One morning, you woke up to find Tony standing at your door, a wide grin on his face. "Good morning, sunshine. Mind if I come in?"
You sighed and sat up in bed. "What is it, Tony? If it’s more flowers or breakfast in bed, I might scream." Tony laughed. "No flowers. But I have a surprise for you. Something I’ve been working on."
You raised an eyebrow. "I’m not really in the mood for surprises, Tony."
"Trust me, you’ll want to see this," Tony insisted, stepping aside to reveal a sleek, high-tech case. Curiosity piqued, you watched as Tony opened the case to reveal a prosthetic leg, crafted with meticulous precision and advanced technology. It was sleek and metallic, with intricate designs hinting at its capabilities.
"Is that...?" Your voice trailed off, your eyes wide with disbelief.
"Yes," Tony said, his grin widening. "I built it especially for you. It’s got the latest tech. It’s strong, lightweight, and it’s going to help you get back on your feet, well literally."
You stared at the prosthetic, emotions swirling inside you. "Tony, I don’t know what to say."
"How about we start by trying it on?" Tony suggested gently. "Natasha and I will be with you every step of the way." With a mix of apprehension and skepticism, you nodded. "Okay."
The process of fitting the prosthetic was meticulous. Tony and a team of specialists worked carefully to ensure it was comfortable and secure. Natasha stayed by your side, offering silent comfort.
As they adjusted the straps and made final tweaks, a wave of fear washed over you. What if it didn’t work? What if you could never walk properly again?
"Are you ready to try it out?" Tony asked, his tone encouraging.
You took a deep breath and nodded. With the help of Natasha and Tony, you stood up cautiously, feeling the weight of the prosthetic beneath you. It felt foreign, unfamiliar, but it also felt like a new beginning.
"Take it slow," Natasha advised, holding your hand firmly. You took your first tentative steps. It was awkward and shaky, and you nearly stumbled. Frustration and anger bubbled up inside you. "This is impossible," you muttered, your voice tinged with defeat.
"You’re doing great," Tony reassured you. "Just keep going, one step at a time."
You continued, each step harder than the last. The prosthetic felt unnatural, and your movements were jerky and uneven. After a few laps around the room, you stopped, breathless and frustrated.
"I can’t do this," you said, tears of anger and disappointment streaming down your face. "I can’t walk properly. This is useless!"
Natasha stepped in, her eyes flashing with determination and frustration. She cupped your face in her hands, forcing you to look at her. "Now listen to me, Y/N," Natasha said firmly, her voice both angry and urgent. "I know this is hard. I know it’s tougher than anything you’ve ever faced. But you have to keep going! I can’t stand to see you suffering like this!"
You stared at her, shocked by the intensity in her voice.
Natasha continued, her grip gentle but unyielding. "You keep talking down to yourself. But you need to channel that anger where it belongs. At us. At me! We couldn’t get you out of that building in time. I couldn’t get you out in time, be mad at us, but stop tearing yourself apart."
You felt a surge of emotions, anger, determination, and something else, something stronger. You nodded slowly, your tears falling faster. "Okay, Nat. Okay."
The following days were filled with intense training. Tony and the team set up a rehabilitation room, equipped with everything you needed to regain your strength and mobility. Natasha was there for every session, encouraging you and celebrating every small victory.
The training was grueling. You had to learn how to balance again, how to walk with the prosthetic, and how to cope with the physical and emotional challenges. There were moments of intense frustration and doubt when you wanted to throw the prosthetic across the room.
One afternoon, after a particularly hard session, you sat on the floor, sweat dripping from your forehead. "This is so hard," you said, your voice tinged with exhaustion and defeat.
"I know," Natasha replied, sitting next to you. "But you’re doing amazing. Look how far you’ve come." You looked at the prosthetic, your eyes filled with determination and a glimmer of hope. "I just want to feel normal again."
"You will," Natasha assured you. "Step by step."
As the weeks went by, your progress was slow but steady. You became more comfortable with the prosthetic, moving with increasing confidence and grace. The team watched with pride, their admiration for your strength and resilience growing with each passing day.
One evening, after a successful training session, Tony gathered everyone in the common room. "I think we need to celebrate," he announced, holding up a bottle of champagne.
You laughed, the sound bright and clear. "What are we celebrating?"
"Your incredible progress," Tony replied, popping the cork. "To Y/N, the strongest person I know." The team raised their glasses and toasted to you and the journey ahead. You looked around at your family, your heart filled with gratitude and hope.
But despite your progress, you often doubted your worth, especially in your relationship with Natasha.
One night, as you lay in bed together, you couldn’t shake the feelings of inadequacy that gnawed at you. Natasha lay next to you, reading a book, while you stared at the ceiling, lost in thought.
"Natasha," you began hesitantly, your voice barely more than a whisper. Natasha looked up, concern immediately etched on her face. "What’s wrong?"
You took a deep breath, trying to gather your courage. "Do you still find me... attractive?" Natasha frowned in confusion. "Of course I do. Why would you even ask that?"
You turned away, your eyes filling with tears. "I’m not the same person I was before the accident. What if you don’t want me anymore?"
Natasha set her book aside and moved closer, gently turning you to face her. "Y/N, look at me," she said softly. "You’re still the same person I fell in love with. Your strength, your kindness, your spirit..None of that has changed."
You shook your head, your voice trembling. "But my body has changed. I don’t feel like myself anymore. I’m afraid you see me differently."
Natasha cupped your face in her hands, her eyes filled with unwavering love. "Your body may be different, but that doesn’t change how I feel about you. You’re beautiful, Y/N, in every way that matters. I love you for who you are, not just for your appearance."
Your tears flowed freely, and you clung to Natasha, your fears slowly dissolving in the warmth of her embrace. "I’m sorry for doubting you," you whispered. "It’s just... sometimes it’s hard."
"I understand," Natasha said gently. "But you’re not alone in this. We’ll get through it together, remember?"
Months had passed since your accident, and your hard work in physical therapy had paid off. With the unwavering support of your team, you had regained your strength and confidence. One morning, you woke up with a renewed sense of purpose. You strapped on your prosthetic and joined the team in the kitchen.
"Morning, Y/N!" Tony greeted you with a broad grin. The entire team was gathered, and Steve stepped forward with a small black box.
"We have something for you," Steve said, handing you the box. You opened it to find a sleek, high-tech communication device. "Is this...?"
"Welcome back to the team," Tony announced. "We’ve got a little mission for you, if you’re ready." You felt a surge of emotions. "I’m ready."
The team briefed you on the mission: a simple reconnaissance at an industrial complex. As they flew to the site, Natasha held your hand, offering silent comfort. Upon arrival, they split into pairs, you and Natasha working together.
As you navigated the complex, you felt a mix of excitement and nervousness. You encountered a group of armed men, and your training kicked in. With Natasha by your side, you quickly overwhelmed the threat.
"You did it," Natasha said, pride shining in her eyes. "We did it," you replied, feeling a deep sense of fulfillment.
Back in the Quinjet, the team congratulated you. "Welcome back, Y/N," Steve said, clapping you on the shoulder.
You looked around at your teammates, feeling deep gratitude. "I missed this. Thank you all for believing in me." Tony grinned. "We never doubted you for a second."
As you flew back to the Tower, you felt at peace. You had faced your fears and overcome your challenges, stronger than ever before. With the support of your team and Natasha's love, you knew you were ready for whatever the future held.
#natasha x reader#natasha romanoff#natasha romanov x reader#nat x reader#natasha romonova#the avengers#natasha#natasha romanoff x reader
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“WHEN YOU’RE LOST IN THE DARKNESS, LOOK FOR THE LIGHT — dick grayson.
PAIRING dick grayson 𝒙 fem!reader SYNOPSIS he was completely frustrating. him with his cheeky grins and perfect teeth. maybe that’s why it didn’t anger you when he took an interest in you WORD COUNT 5.6k WARNINGS / TAGS artist!reader, cursing, mention of reader’s hair, unedited NOTES yes the title is inspired by tlou & yes i compared dick to a blue jay. i decided to mix 2 different reqs ( req 1 & req 2 ) because they worked well together for me soo i hope it’s okay! © ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified
IN ART, WHAT WE WANT IS THE CERTAINTY THAT ONE SPARK OF ORIGINAL GENIUS SHALL NOT BE EXTINGUISHED.
Said Mary Cassatt, and her words had echoed in your mind for as long as you could remember. There was something comforting in the idea that creativity—pure, untouched, and entirely your own—could endure even such cruel punishment as darkness. Darkness was a language you understood well, especially living in Gotham, where shadows devoured the city inch by inch until there was nothing but colorless void. The darkness wrapped itself around you, slowly seeping in to claim your soul as well, like the chill of a cold winter night creeping into your bones.
But even in a city this unfair, you believed there was still some beacon of light. Hidden, of course, but not extinct.
And so, you painted. You drew. You created. Every stroke of your brush and pencil felt infinite. Art was the closest thing you felt to immortality, and you clung to that belief like a child did to innocence.
Your small apartment was more than just a simple place where you lived. Every inch of the space bore a trace of you and of your determination to carve something special into the world. The walls, once peeling and beige, were now alive with color. A breath of life you granted the old home. It wasn’t much, your apartment, but it was yours.
The darkness couldn’t quite reach you there, and the light found you within your search for it.
It was late past midnight when you met him. The hour of the night was silent despite the fact you were living on one of the most dangerous streets of Gotham. Silent, but far from safe. The full moon hung high in the sky, its pale light struggling to pierce through the dark clouds that blanketed the whole night. Every so often, the moonlight would break free and shimmered a silver beam that barely softened the shadows.
You sat curled up on your old, beaten couch in your living room, aching legs tucked beneath you. The thrifted mustard-yellow couch sat beneath a gallery wall you’d arranged with so much focus you were unmistakably proud of the piece. The light from the fairy lights strung above the paintings softened the sharp edges of your apartment.
The pencil between your fingers moved along the paper with practiced movements of an artist as you clutched the sketchbook close to you with your free hand. You brought the drawing of a blue jay to life. Its small, delicate body was perched on the middle of the page, its head tilted slightly to the side as if caught mid-movement. The blue jay’s wings began to take a lively form beneath your hands.
You loved sketching birds—the way they had an open opinion of freedom in their feathers, how they could fly away from the weight of everything below on earth.
The quiet was broken by a dull thump.
Your pencil stilled, the sharp tip pressing into the delicate beak of the blue jay as you tilted your head towards the sound. It came again, heavier this time, right outside on the fire escape under your living room window. Living in Gotham meant you knew better than to ignore suspicious and strange sounds, especially at this hour.
Setting the sketchbook down on the coffee table, you slid off the couch with a pounding heart and bare feet padding softly against the wooden floor. The window was already cracked open, letting in a cold breeze of night air. It prickled at your skin and sent a wave of goosebumps down your spine.
You moved with an intention to investigate, your hand gripping the window frame when you leaned forward slightly to catch a glimpse of the intruder. Before you could fully stick your head through the opening, something shifted — a flash of movement so sudden that you instinctively took a step back to avoid bumping your head. Then, just as quickly, a figure shot up from the darkness surrounding your fire escape and you watched as his top half leaned against the window frame with effortless grace.
Anyone could recognize the symbol gracing his chest.
Nightwing was on your fire escape, practically with one of his halves in your apartment.
You blinked at him, startled at the unexpected visit from Gotham's (wait, wasn’t he supposed to be in Blüdhaven?) acrobatic vigilante. He stared back without shame. His face was partially illuminated by the soft glow of your fairy lights and his forehead, plus the top of his eyes, were hidden beneath the dark strands of his hair. Damp with sweat and light spray of rain. The black domino mask was doing little to hide the attractiveness of his handsome face, although it did not tell you his identity. Or the color of his eyes. The white lenses didn’t show any signs of life, it would be almost unsettling if it wasn’t for the other features of his face.
His jaw was sharp, the bone ready to cut through glass, and his lips held a shadowy grin in them. His chest heaved as if he’d just ran a marathon, or in his case, as if he’d just been in a chase. And his suit—a sleek, midnight black with that striking blue emblem—was marred by faint fabric tears and streaks of grime.
When he spoke up after a minute of analyzing you, his voice was breathless but warm, like he hadn’t just scared the life out of you by his entrance. “Hey. Sorry about the dramatics. Mind if I, uh, come in?” He glanced over his shoulder briefly, as though checking to see if someone had followed him.
You swallowed the lump that formed in the back of your throat, fingers still gripping onto the windowsill. You were pretty sure the surprise and disbelief etched into your face could be completely seen. “What? You’re joking, right?” those small words stumbled past your lips in a sharper tone than you intended. “You can’t just—“ gesturing vaguely to the fire escape he was standing on, you trailed off for him to finish the sentence himself.
But instead of an answer, Nightwing simply offered a grin, all perfect teeth. It was the kind that felt like it was meant to disarm you and melt you into a puddle at his feet. A swooning, pretty puddle.
“Technically, I can. But I’d prefer not to freeze out here while we debate it.”
Your reply to his cheeky comment died in your throat the moment you heard it—an angry bellow from somewhere below, followed by the unmistakable sound of boots thumping against the wet pavement. The voices were low and animalistic, only growing louder by seconds. Whoever they were, it didn’t take a genius to figure out who they were looking for.
Shooting him a pointed look with one of your eyebrows raised, you realized it was useless as he was already halfway through the window, ducking inside easily. He didn’t so much as flinch when his heavy boots hit the floor with a faint thud. You could only watch the trail of dirt and grime he was leaving behind himself. The sounds from outside faded into muffled whispers when he closed the window, and effectively scanned the room with a quick glance.
“You really have a way of making an entrance,” you mumbled under your breath as you gave him space and moved back towards the sofa. The sarcasm wasn’t meant to reach his ears but with the way one corner of his lips tugged up, you knew he heard every single word. Did this guy have super hearing?
The faintest glint of amusement danced on his features, despite the lack of emotion in his hidden eyes. You could tell by the way his eyebrows furrowed and his lips quirked up. “It’s part of the job description,” he replied to your remark casually, as if crashing into strangers’ apartments was just another Tuesday for him.
With a sigh, you shook your head and leaned back against the arm of the couch, watching him move around the living room. He didn’t sit, didn’t relax, didn’t even pause long enough to breathe out the weight of his situation. Instead, his gaze grazed over everything in clear sight — your paintings on the wall, the cluttered coffee table and its content, the pencils scattered across your notepad.
He was strange.
“What are you doing?”
“Just checking,” his response came quickly, he was probably distracted by the hand brushing against the edge of the window frame as he double-checked the latch.
You watched him carefully and tried to not let his presence throw you off. There was something unbelievable about seeing him there, in the heart of your apartment of all places, where every inch of the space was yours. Technically, he was in your territory now.
“Don’t worry,” Nightwing added with humor etching his voice when you didn’t say anything. “I’ll be gone before you know it.”
“Take your time,” the dripping sarcasm got out the exact same reaction from him just like before, and you watched as he smirked at you, the corner of his mouth tugging upward in a way that told you he was far too used to getting under people’s skin. Cheeky bastard.
This inspection of his lasted for a few more minutes before his pacing slowed down and his masked eyes landed on your beaten couch. The faint amusement in his features shifted, softening into something more thoughtful as he approached you. You stiffened when he got close enough. The light scent of cologne hit your nose from the proximity.
Gloved hand reached for your notepad, and you watched him again when he started tracing the soft pencil lines of your sketches. You seemed to watch him a lot tonight, but you didn’t dare to interrupt him. He was still a stranger and you lived alone. The vigilante could take you down without breaking a sweat, no comment.
The blue jays stared back at him from the page with their wings outstretched mid-flight, the faint smudge of pencil giving them a sense of movement, like they could lift off the paper and fly toward their freedom at any moment.
“You drew these?” the question slipped before he could think of it and the raw quietness of his tone surprised you.
You hesitated before you gave him the answer. “Yeah, I did. What, are you secretly an art critic, too?”
His lips twitched, but his eyes stayed on the sketches. “Blue jays,” the murmur was more to himself than to you. “They’re nice.”
“Nice?” you echoed back at him, a small smile ghosting your lips upon hearing his praise. “That’s your verdict? Nice?”
This time, his wide grin returned as he glanced at you from your artwork. You decided on the spot that you liked this look on him. He could be all sharp edges and rough words, but the genuine smiles and clever remarks were a part of him, too. “Hey, I don’t know the first thing about art. But they’re good. Really good. Why blue jays though?”
You shrugged your shoulders, crossing your arms around yourself tightly. His clear interest in your work made you feel strangely exposed. “They’re . . . free. They can leave whenever they want, fly away from everything. I guess I like the idea of that.”
Nightwing was quiet for a moment, his masked gaze flicking back to the page like he was seeing something more between the colors and lines you’d drawn. He really was strange. “Makes sense,” he said finally. “They’re tough, too. Survivors.”
For a man who’d just come crashing through your window, being chased by a bunch of angry goons, he suddenly seemed relaxed. The birds meant more to him than he was letting on.
“Guess that explains why you like them.”
“What, you think I’m a blue jay now?”
A smirk made its way to your lips, and you felt a slight hint of satisfaction brewing inside you. You finally got him. “You said it yourself. Tough. Survivors. Seems fitting.”
It was a strange image, seeing someone who carried so much weight on his shoulders standing here, in your little apartment, admiring a simple sketch of a bird. Most people assumed he was a machine under the suit, someone who did their job because it had to be done. But you saw the life in his smile and heard the feelings in his voice. Red flooded his system like any other human being possessed. A beating heart and marred skin. He was human, even under all that armor.
“Well,” you cleared your throat, effectively breaking the silence that followed your cheeky remark. “I’m glad my art could distract you from the mad mob outside.”
That earned you a genuine laugh, low and rich. You noted he had a nice laugh. Everything about him was nice, though. Maybe it was because it was the first time seeing him from up close or maybe it was simply that he got your attention.
⋆.˚ 𓅆 . . .
The next few days were rather busy. You had more work on your shoulders and your family kept pressing about your upcoming visit (spoiler alert; you didn’t really plan on visiting them). Your family members lived far from Gotham, which you were particularly glad for. One boring and busy day went after the other, and so did you with your life. You weren’t going to admit it, but you missed the sudden excitement the cocky vigilante brought with him. It was something new, something that wasn’t boring.
The wind carried a chill that nipped at the exposed skin of your face, numbing your cheeks in the process. The streets of Gotham were alive despite the coldness the new day brought with itself—the city never really stopped, even when it probably should have. Your tea sat untouched beside your half-eaten croissant, warm steam curling lazily above the porcelain cup, while your hand moved steadily across the pages of your sketchbook.
You were drawing another blue jay. This one was perched on a thin branch, its head cocked slightly with ruffled feathers as if caught in the same breeze that howled right now. The pencil lines of your drawing were sharper this time, more confident, though you weren’t sure why.
Maybe it was because you couldn’t stop thinking about them—the blue jays.
It wasn’t like this hadn’t happened before, your thoughts fixating on a subject, but this time it felt different. Ever since that night, when Nightwing had stood in the heart of your living room and held your sketch like it was something worth admiring, you’d been thinking about them more and more often. Birds had always represented freedom to you. A fleeting kind of beauty, one that wouldn’t last long. But now they carried something else. Something more.
You found yourself replaying his words in your mind while you shaded the curve of the blue jay’s wing, your pencil working instinctively as the low conversations and local sounds of the café faded into a hushed whisper. The bird began to take shape, its tiny body beaming with life.
The next thing you knew, the chair you were sitting on rocked slightly and your bag was violently jerked from the edge of the table.
It took you a second to process what had happened. One second, your purse was there, sitting by your side, and the next, it was gone. Snatched by a blur of unidentified movement. Your heart skipped an uncomfortable beat as you whipped your head towards the stranger, catching sight of the thief bolting through the crowded street.
Panic started to settle in. Your bag. Gone. It was gone. Everything was in there—your money, your keys, your ID. The grip of your fingers on the pencil in your grasp tightened while adrenaline surged through your veins. Without having any second thoughts, you shot to your feet. The chair scraped loudly against the floor and you bolted after him.
“Hey! Stop!”
The thief was already halfway down the block when you finally pushed past the crowd with alarming speed. Your boots moved without any more thinking. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he was quick on his feet, his figure darting between pedestrians who shouted in surprise and yelped in confusion when he pushed into them to clear his path. Your lungs burned as you tried to push against your limits and keep up with him. The strap of your bag was swinging wildly in his grip.
“Stop!” you shouted again, although you doubted he would listen. He wouldn’t. People around turned to look at the chaos, but no one made a move to help. It was Gotham, after all — everyone looked after their own self.
The thief rounded a corner, successfully disappearing into an alley, and you felt a pinch of dread forming in your stomach. You didn’t know this part of the city well, and the narrow alleyway clothed in shadows sent a wave of goosebumps down your spine. Hesitation brewed in you for a moment before you made up your mind. Fuck it. You didn’t care that chasing him was reckless. You didn’t care that you had no plan for what you’d do if you actually managed to catch up to him. All you knew was that he had your bag—your life—and you weren’t about to let him get away with it.
Whoosh!
You barely registered the sound at first. Your focus was entirely on your thief, the dark shade of his jacket disappearing deeper and deeper, just beyond your reach. The puffs of air left your lips in a sharp shape and the cold air didn’t help much. But you didn’t stop running. You couldn’t stop.
Then, out of nowhere, a dark blur descended from above, landing right in your path.
“Whoa, hold it!”
The familiar drawl of his voice ringed in your ears before you saw him. You skidded to a halt, nearly losing your balance as his figure stepped into the sight. His arms were outstretched to block your way, and you felt a sudden burst of frustration upon his appearance. After all, you still had a bad guy to catch.
“Move,” moving to the side, you tried to sidestep him and start your chase again. Key word—tried. He shifted smoothly, following your movements like a mirror.
“Not happening,” he interrupted you firmly. “You can’t go running after some guy who might be armed. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”
“I don’t care. He has my purse—my money, my keys, everything! I have to—“
“You have to stay here,” Nightwing cut you off again, and you pushed the urge to strangle him away. His presence was infuriating, even though you could see every muscle in his jawline tightening and tensing. He was holding back, that much was evident.
“I don’t need your help.”
His hands shot out the moment you tried to brush past him again, gloves catching your biceps in a firm hold. It wasn’t painful, nor would leave any marks in the form of bruising, but he held you in a grounding manner. Almost as if he wanted to calm you down.
“Yes, you do,” the glint of seriousness in his gaze made you halt in your argument. He meant every single word. “Look, I get it. You’re pissed, you’re scared, and you feel like you have to do something. But this guy could have a knife, or worse, and you’re completely unarmed. He’s probably long gone by now, too. I’ll track him down and get your stuff. That’s a promise, Blue.”
You swallowed hard as the fire that fueled your intentions died a little bit. He was right, even though you didn’t want to admit it.
“Fine, but you better catch him.”
A small, reassuring nod and a gentle squeeze was all you received from the masked vigilante before he released you and took off after the thief. A moment later, you realized he gave you a nickname.
Blue.
⋆.˚ 𓅆 . . .
The thick steam from your earlier shower still lingered in the bathroom, curling faintly in the air and clinging along the tiles and the edges of the mirror as you massaged moisturizer into your skin like you did every night. It was a routine by now. One you were excited to participate in. Your favorite playlist hummed softly from the phone propped up on the counter near the sink, the melody blending with the occasional rustle of the city outside your window.
Gotham was quiet tonight. No sirens. No shouts. Just silence.
You signed and leaned against the counter as you let the coolness of the white cream soothe your skin. The events of this day were rather . . . unpleasant. Your purse was gone, and the thought of all the things you’d lost still made your chest ache. Your keys, your ID, even your favorite pen you always kept in the front pocket—all gone, snatched in a moment. But at least you were safe. Nightwing had made sure you didn’t dive head first into what could have been a disaster.
You couldn’t stop thinking about him, either. The way he’d swooped in like some kind of a movie hero. For a man who lived his life surrounded by constant danger, he’d had this unmistakably calmness about him, like no problem was big enough to not handle.
Reaching for a soft towel, you patted your face dry with it when you finished the last step of your nighttime routine. A moment of realization hit you like a ton of bricks.
Your sketchbook.
Your heart sank deeply in your chest, and you froze, gripping the towel tightly. You’d left it at the café. It must’ve been sitting there on the table, untouched, while you chased after that thief like a reckless idiot. You would be lucky if you found it where you’d left it lying as there was a possibility of a tired barista throwing it away.
That notepad wasn’t just another notebook to you. It held weeks, months, of drawings—ideas, experiments, half-finished sketches that no one but you had seen. And the blue jays he praised . . .
The day’s exhaustion weighed heavily on your tense shoulders as you finally made your way to your bedroom. You switched off the light in the hallway, plunging your apartment into darkness save for the faint glow of moonlight spilling through the cracks in the blinds.
A dark shadow caught your eyes the second you stepped into the room and your heart nearly leaped out of your chest. There, casually perched on your windowsill was Nightwing, dressed in shadows.
His grin was the first thing you recognized on him, the wide stretch of his lips almost haunting in the darkness. His teeth appeared almost sharp, like canines of a predator. But he wasn’t here to hunt tonight. One gloved hand held your bag, dangling it from his fingers as if presenting you a beloved prize.
“Miss me, Blue?”
“Are you insane?” hissing, your palm resting against your beating heart. “You can’t just show up like that!”
A delighted laugh rumbled deep in his chest as he stepped inside like he didn’t invade your personal space and almost gave you a heart attack. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
He tossed your stolen (now found) bag on your bed with a flick of his wrist. It took you a moment to process what you were seeing but when you did, your panic gave away to stunned disbelief. “You got it back?”
“Of course. I promised you.”
The smug look on his face softened after those words left his throat. You crossed the room in quick steps, rushing to get your hand on your belongings. Once it was in your hold, you rummaged through the inside. Everything was still there—your keys, your wallet, even the blue pen you favored so much. Relief flooded your system and you finally felt your shoulders relaxing. It was all returned.
You glanced at him from the bag, suddenly feeling somehow embarrassed. “I—I don’t even know what to say.”
“How about ‘thank you, Nightwing, for saving the day’? That would do,” the arch of his eyebrows told you he was enjoying this, if only a little. Smug bastard.
Rolling your eyes, you felt your lips tugging into a smile anyway. “Thank you for getting me my bag back. Happy?”
“It’s exactly what I wanted but yeah, very.”
A minute of silence stretched between you, one that wasn’t entirely comfortable but during that time, you studied him. He was leaning against the edge of your bed, just shy away from your side.
“You’ve been drawing them a lot, huh?”
“What?”
“The blue jays,” Nightwing gestured towards your desk with his free hand, the other behind his back. He looked strange, amusing even, but you didn’t dare to point it out. You followed his movements, eyes sliding toward your desk full of stray papers. He was right, the wooden space was filled with your recent works, and among them were multiple pieces of those blue birds. “You were working on them that night. At the café, too.”
Your lips parted slightly to voice your confusion, but the words didn’t come. He had noticed? And kept track of it? You didn’t know if you should feel creeped out or honored.
You didn’t get to react much before he perked up. “Oh, almost forgot,” pulling the occupied hand from behind his back, you noticed he held a small book in it.
Not just any book, though. Your sketchbook.
“You went back for it?” the disbelief dripped from the tone of your voice as you reached for the notepad. Your fingertips brushed against his gloves when you did so, and a spark of light crossed through you at the faint touch.
“Figured you’d want it back,” he tried to act nonchalant, shrugging his shoulders without a care in the world, but even if you knew him for such a short period of time, you could tell he was just acting. The subtle tone of his voice betrayed him, along with the rosy dust painting his cheeks. Your thumb traced the broken spine of the notepad. The thought of him chasing down your thief, retrieving your stolen stuff, and then returning for your more personal thing left you speechless. He didn’t have to, but he did—again.
He was so close to you now that the faint scent of rain and city clung to him, mixing with his natural fragrance. You could inhale it all while you saw everything, too—the sharp line of the bone in his jaw, the slight furrow of his brows like he was constantly deep in his mind, and even the way the moonlight caught on the pink dusting the top of his ears.
His pose shifted lightly, in a way that made the space between the two of you feel almost nonexistent. Your instinct told you to move, but your feet didn’t move.
“You’re . . . really something, you know that?”
Your heart beat against the bones protecting your ribs so loud you swore he could hear it. The white lenses of his black mask flickered all over your face, almost like he wanted to memorize every delicate detail, like he wanted to count every lash on your eye individually.
“You barely know me.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, “but I think I’m starting to.”
No response made its way past your lips. It died at the base of your throat, and no one could rip it out of you.
His hand reached out in your peripheral vision, slowly, like he was giving you an option to stop him whenever you felt like. There was no force between you, just purity of the actions. When you didn’t stop him, he moved bolder and louder, long fingers tracing the curve of your cheek before brushing against the damp strands of your hair. He pushed it back behind your ear, his touch lingering even there.
You could feel his breath mingling with yours, becoming one.
And then, just as you felt the unmistakable pull towards him, Nightwing pulled away. He took a step back like he remembered who he was.
“Take care of that,” he nodded towards your hold that clutched your sketchbook.
You opened your to say something, anything because what the fuck was he doing when he jumped out of the bedroom window, leaving behind the what ifs if he stayed with you.
⋆.˚ 𓅆 . . .
The rooftop had become your favorite spot to disappear from your responsibilities. The view was magnificent with how the city stretched out in every direction and you could see everything. The chaos was muted up here, replaced by singing of the birds and occasional flutter of wings. This place was comforting.
You sat cross-legged on the concrete with your sketchbook propped in your lap, pencil in hand and mind open to new ideas. But the paper brewed alive with yet another drawing of a blue jay. Something about them had rooted itself in your head.
Pausing in your work to glance up at the sky, you were greeted by the most remarkable sight. Caught by the horizon where the sun dipped lower, brushing its streaks across the rooftop in a golden orange. The light breeze tugged at your hair, and you reached up to tuck it behind your ear. You managed to smudge a piece of graphite along your cheek upon the gesture. Your sketch was coming along slowly today; your mind kept wandering off and you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being watched.
Which you were correct about.
“Nice view,” a familiar voice drawled.
You flinched upon the sound, nearly dropping the tools on your knees as you whipped your head toward the source. There he was, perched on the edge of the rooftop, the sunset behind him painting him like some sort of an angel. Nightwing.
“Seriously? Do you ever not sneak up on people?”
The cheeky smirk made its usual appearance on his lips when he hopped down from his spot, taking slow steps towards you. It was impossible to stay annoyed at him, with that face and easy charisma. “Where’s the fun in that?”
With a roll of your eyes, you couldn’t help but smile a little. “What are you even doing here?”
“Patrolling,” he replied casually to your question, just like he did the night he came to return your bag. Trying to act all nonchalant, but deep down he cares. You know that. He’s acting again. You could tell by the experience and by the tone of his voice. It suggested otherwise from his answer. His masked eyes shifted to your knees, noting the open book. “Another blue jay?”
“I’m trying to capture the way they look when flying. It’s harder than it seems.”
You watched him while he watched your drawings. The vigilante crouched down beside you, his knee bumping against yours softly, almost as in unsaid greeting. He was saying hello while you responded hi back. “You’re getting better.”
Silence draped over the two of you after that sentence left his throat, this one much more comfortable than the one you experienced the week before in your apartment. His elbows were resting on his knees, which bumped into yours from time to time in a silent gesture. Your eyes found the white lenses behind the domino mask.
“You’re not gonna disappear this time, are you?”
“No.”
Your sketchbook lay forgotten in your lap as you gazed into the void of his eyes. You couldn’t read the emotion in them but you somehow could tell every single feeling brewing inside him. It was written across his face, open like a book.
“You’re staring,” you whispered.
“So are you,” his reply was quick, like he knew exactly what to say the moment you spoke up.
A faintest tug at your lips brought the corners up in a smile, but it faltered the moment he leaned in, taking up your personal space inch by inch. He was moving slowly, giving you the opportunity to pull away, to reject him and his touch if you wanted to. But you didn’t.
His palm hovered near the curve of your cheekbone close enough to feel the warmth seeping through the glove. He cocked his head slightly to the side, as if silently asking you a question he was too caught up in to say aloud.
“You’ve got graphite on your cheek.”
“Do I?”
He brushed his thumb across the smudge, wiping it away. He didn’t pull away once your skin was clean.
You noticed the way his eyes briefly dropped to your lips before flicking back to meet yours, searching for an answer he so desperately wanted to hear.
If you didn’t want this, he’d pull back. You knew he would.
But you didn’t want him to.
Leaning in, you closed the little distance between you, and that was all the answer he needed. His lips met yours firmly, pressing against yours like a puzzle, like they belonged there. Your hands gripped at him, fingers moving to the base of his neck to grab a handful of his black hair and pulling slightly to deliver a message.
Although the darkness around you enveloped you, clothing the day in dark, you felt a spark of light every time his lips pressed against yours more urgently, licking and biting his way inside to get a taste of you. You felt it when his gloved hands tangled in your hair, tugging you impossibly close to make you his.
His forehead came to rest against yours when you eventually had to pull away for a fresh breath of air, both his and your breaths uneven.
“Tell me I’m not gonna regret this.”
“You won’t.” That was a promise.
Because when you’re lost in the darkness, you should look for the light.
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Don't Leave- Prologue
Sevika x Reader
MDI!! +18
You were Sevika's most loyal pet.
Warnings for whole story: (I will avoid giving too much detail of the plot of the fic, read at your own risk.) SMUT, Sexual descriptions, age gap, ANGST, SLOOOOW BURN (years literaly pass, kidnapping, aggression, Toxic relationship, aggression, cheating (situationship type), Sevika does not even like (or respect) the reader, Reader is delusional. Sevika hasn't lost her arm (yet), manipulation, reader might be described as curvy. More warnings be added later. SLOW WRITER! (sorry)
English is not my first language. I struggle a lot with punctuation and grammar. This will take multiple parts, and its set before the first events of Arcane. Its technically an x reader, but I will avoid using (Y/N) the best I can. There is an age gap in this story, the reader is also a bit weird and obsessive.
Sevika made her way through the crowd, her steel-toed boots making loud thumps as she marched along the wood and metal floors of the Last Drop. She headed to the ornate doorway of the top floor. The men guarding the entrance knew better than to attempt to block her path. The door swung open and banged against the wall, slammed shut just as loud. Silco did not even need to glance up to see who it was, he called her up after all.
“You asked to see me, boss?”
"Have you been taking good care of your pets, Sevika?" Silco questioned as he reviewed their latest shimmer supply record.
She nearly rolled her eyes at his question. "My men know their place— they do as I say, no questions asked. They don’t need pampering."
"You must already know how vital loyalty is for someone of your position. Particularly the ones you are affiliated with." The man poured himself a glass of liquor. “So then? How have you been treating your pets?”
The woman slumped down on a wooden coffee table, not bothering with the fancy velvet settee. "What exactly are you getting at?”
"Certain rumors are spreading around," Silco picked up his drink, swirled the golden-hued beverage, and leaned back in his seat. "In regards to Sheriff Grayson."
Sevika scowled as she heard the Piltie’s name. “What type of rumors?” She drew a cigarette from her vest and dug into her back pocket for her lighter.
"Insiders say Sheriff Grayson is going around digging for dirt."
Sevika blew a cloud of smoke out her nostrils, the burn alleviated the itch in her lungs. “Thought the Piltie had no interest in ‘fixing’ Zaun.”
"The sheriff does have a deal with Vander.” Silco dropped the papers on the table, no longer interested in revising them. “But things can change fairly quickly."
“You think she will start meddling with our business?”
"She might," Silco said, circling his chair to look at his large window. "There are numerous sightings, all late in the night. She visits one person in particular.”
“And you want me to deal with them?”
Sevika could tell Silco was more amused than enraged. Especially by the stupidly obnoxious way he swirled the liquid in his glass. Strange, considering that the possibility of the Sheriff suddenly placing importance on their business was a big reason for stress.
“Sources claim that the sheriff has been visiting a little seamstress.”
Sevika froze for a moment. So this was it? This was the reason why you've been avoiding her for months? Her jaw clenched in anger. Of course. Of course, Grayson would be targeting her... she pushed her thoughts aside, focusing on what was important.
“Blue building, three stories high, store front at the bottom, sound familiar?”
"Yes, I know the place.” She answered, gripping the cigar in her thick fingers and drawing it away from her lips.
Silco turned his chair to face her once again.
"The sheriff has been going in late at night, and leaving before sunrise.
The girl was a..... plaything of yours,” He arched his thinning brow. “right?"
Sevika averted her eyes. She despised being questioned. “I never claimed her as my own, just.. entertainment. A distraction.”
Silco leaned back in his chair, his eye never leaving Sevika’s face. "And, don't you think it's odd that the Sheriff is visiting your ‘distraction’, night after night?" his voice both serious and amused.
No, you wouldn’t. You were an attention-seeking hog, but you were too obsessed, too devoted to her for something like that. But then again... you had stopped attending to her needs. After ‘that night’ you had not shown up at the Last Drop to see her. Or tried to seduce her, shown at her doorstep for some fun, or showed your face anywhere she frequented.
“Are you implying she’s a snitch? For Grayson? My brat?”
Silco chuckled, taking another sip of his drink. "I’m not implying anything, Sevika. I’m merely stating the facts. Grayson has been spotted entering that little seamstress shop, night after night. And I find it awfully convenient that your little pet happens to be involved."
Sevika clenched her jaw, her irritation and anger growing with every word Silco spoke. "Bullshit," she hissed. "She would never.”
But a small, nagging doubt crept into her mind. It had been months since you stopped seeing her. Could it be that you were working with Grayson? Betraying her? No, there was no way. Was there?
Sevika took a long drag from her cigarette, calming her nerves before she spoke again. "Even if Grayson has been visiting that shop, it doesn’t prove anything," Sevika said, her tone stern. “There's no proof that they are involved."
"We don't, but we don't have any proof she is not either," Silco said, looking at how his glass gleamed with the moonlight. "I was going to let two of my men give her a visit for answers, but I doubt you'd appreciate me bruising one of your apples."
Sevika grimaced at the thought of you being roughened up by some ruffians. "No. Nobody touches her. I'll handle this myself." She snuffed out, her cigar on one of Silco's trinket plates.
Sevika stood up from her seat, determined to find out the truth. She needed to know if you were truly working with Grayson and if you had sold her out. She headed towards the door, her mind set on confronting the little seamstress she had spent most nights with for the last 3 years. Her hand grasped the door's brass knob.
"Take better care of your pets, Sevika," Silco said, "She was so loyal just months ago."
Sevika paused in the doorway, her hand on the handle. Silco's words dug deep, reminding her of the once loyal girl who used to attend to her needs.
"You think I don't know that Silco?" she said, her voice low and laced with irritation. "Just... let me handle this." She walked out and slammed the door behind her.
#sevika x reader#sevika arcane#sevika#Arcane#sevika x reader smut#sevika x reader angst#sevika x y/n#sevika x you#young silco#arcane silco#wlw#arcane fanfic#sevika fanfic#wlw angst#lesbian#Gar fic fic
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paper kiss
written for ‘mistletoe’ wc: 982 # | steddie | rated: t | cw: no warnings apply | tags: pre-relationship, pining, fluff, werewolf steve, human eddie
@steddieholidaydrabbles
Steve had a problem.
Call in the troops, all hands on deck, cannot afford to fail level of problem.
Except he couldn’t exactly go around blabbing this issue to the entire party. Dustin alone would blab in five seconds, and he’d never hear the end of it for as long as he lived.
How was he supposed to admit the simultaneously best and worst idea he’d ever had to kiss Eddie for the first time?
Eddie had never the opportunity for the romantic nonsense, even if he rolled his eyes or stuck out his tongue at any sight of it. Eddie’s walls were covered in thorns and bristles from years of needing to bite first what usually came to harm him.
Steve, on the other hand, was highly practiced in romantic nonsense.
So, clearly: Christmas time equaled mistletoe.
Genius in its simplicity.
Idiotic in that it was fatal.
Because now he was basically supernaturally allergic to the stuff.
You get bit by one demodog and you had severe drawbacks, go figure.
It was hard enough trying not to stick his nose in Eddie’s collarbone—scenting, Robin called it. He didn’t want to know what the hell she was reading—and envelop himself in Eddie's forest, smoky scent while leaving his own behind. Even though he was literally the only person in Hawkins who could smell the difference, getting bit had come with all these other weird instincts.
Somehow, dealing with the transformation every full moon was easier than navigating daily life when every slight against the kids, against Robin, against Eddie had his claws and fangs bursting out with an inhuman snarl.
That he needed nearly two and half times more calories than ever just to not feel like he was going to pass out by midday.
When every time he looked at Eddie, he wanted so intensely his jaw hurt until they were close enough Steve could catch his scent. Close enough to always know he was okay because Steve was close enough to get to him.
Steve sighed, tapping his fingers on the counter.
“I’m just going to buy some.”
Robin leaned into his eyeline, a fearsome frown on her face, and jabbed her finger into his chest. “You’ll die, dingus.”
“Only if I directly inhale it.”
She flicked him. “Why is it important?”
Eddie wasn’t at the house, yet. He had chauffeur duty for the impeding Christmas-ification of Steve’s house—tinsel, garlands, lights, the whole nine yards—and the plan had led to Steve’s badly wonderful idea.
The kids would be so distracted decorating/devastating his house, Steve could easily pull Eddie aside for a private moment.
And they had both been too much shit. Eddie was worth more than a plain old kiss.
The kids entered the house in a whirlwind, shouting and laying out boxes and shopping bags to tear into without so much as a hello. Steve chuckled to himself.
He smelled Eddie before he saw him, and raised his head. His dark curls were dotted with melting snow, cheeks pinkened by the cold. Eddie stared intently at them, with something hidden in his hands.
Robin dismissed herself, hissing quietly at him before she darted off, “Just do it.”
Eddie didn’t watch her leave, slowly stepping into the kitchen until Steve met him halfway. Steve still couldn’t see what he was holding, Eddie’s fingers curled around something small.
Steve breathed in his fresh scent—pine forest and smoke—the tension in his shoulders fading.
“Um, I had this, sort of…thing. An idea,” Eddie started quietly.
“Do I get to hear it?”
Eddie started to roll his eyes, and then stopped himself. Like he was trying not to fall into old habits. Strange.
This idea had to be something special.
“So, I really want to kiss you.”
Steve’s heart pounded so loud in his ears, he hardly processed that Eddie had kept speaking, his enclosed hands moving in their usual way. Drew Steve’s attention all the more to what he was hiding.
“I thought, Christmas, mistletoe. Perfect opportunity.” Steve bit his lip to keep from smiling, since Eddie had gone onto the inevitable conclusion. “And then I remembered that would probably kill you before we ever got to enjoy it.”
Steve clicked his tongue. “Yeah.”
“So, instead, I made this.” Eddie opened his hands, and extended out what looked like a small plant with oval leaves and red berries.
Hesitantly, Steve reached for it. Eddie wasn’t about to poison him, but Steve wasn’t sure what to expect as he grabbed with two fingers at the nearest leaf. The thing crinkled as Steve lifted it.
“Paper,” he said with a soft smile.
He held the faux-mistletoe in one hand, examining it with the other. Stems of green oval leaves, tiny red berried and tied together at the top with a white ribbon. It was soft and slightly fuzzy like construction paper, and Steve faintly smelled Eddie’s pine forest all over it.
“And safe,” Eddie said.
All this to overcome Steve’s werewolf allergy. Because they both wanted to kiss.
For some reason, particularly under mistletoe.
Steve looked at Eddie, his eyes wide and waiting. He chuckled. “We have made this so complicated.”
Eddie arched a brow.
“You transform into a hairy beast every full moon and I really want you to hold me down and lick me all over the rest of the month. Let’s just say our lives haven’t been simple for a while.” He stepped close, plucking the mistletoe from Steve’s hand to run it over his lips.
He flicked his eyes toward Steve over the paper leaves, playful and heated. A pleased growl rumbled through Steve’s chest, and Eddie’s eyes just gleamed. They had moved close enough that all one of them had to do was drift that much closer.
“Are you going to kiss the mistletoe?” Steve asked, peering at Eddie’s mouth and imagining the taste of pine and smoke. “Or me?”
#steddie#steve harrington x eddie munson#steddie fic#steddie microfic#steddie drabble#werewolf steve#fluff#pining#mistletoe#pre relationship#if you've seen that one doctor who episode#you know where i got the allergy idea from
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Warmer
Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Cregan Stark Couple - Cregan X Reader Reader - Y/n Targaryen Rating - 18+ Word Count - 1485
Cregan sat up in bed against his headboard, reading over some paperwork from the stone masons about the extensive repairs needed to the east tower. The thick furs were wrapped tightly around his bed, not just for warmth, but also to keep out the relentless chill that seeped in through the ancient stone walls. Outside, the snow continued to fall, creating a mesmerising pattern against the castle windows, while inside, his crackling fire lit stacked high with seasoned oak logs, casting a warm glow and filling the chamber with a comforting, smoky scent that lingered long into the night.
Footsteps beyond his door drew his attention from his papers, and as he glanced up a gentle tap came from his door.
“Come.” He barked to whomever was disturbing him at this hour,
The heavy wooden door creaked open slowly, to reveal the Princess Y/n. She sheepishly slipped inside her body shivering, her hair pulled back into a messy braid, her silk slip doing very little to conceal her from his eyes or the cold.
Y/n was Cregan’s betrothal, part of the pact of Ice and Fire between Cregan and Jacaerys. Jace would wed Sara Snow Cregan’s halfsister, and Cregan in turn would wed Y/n forever binding the houses together for the coming war. He and Y/n had yet to marry agreeing it was best to wait until the war was over, as Cregan didn’t wish to run off days after their wedding and leave her as a foreigner to run Winterfell alone as its lady, and he also feared if he ran off days after the bedding… he may leave her to suffer the early months of pregnancy alone… and he would miss so much time to enjoy his wife.
“My princess, what makes you wonder the halls so late?” He asked,
“I- I couldn’t sleep,” she admitted, “I-I- I’m so cold, and my fire won’t stay lit, and I-” she trembled,
“It’s alright my princess,” He reassured, “It can be an adjustment for anyone not of the north.” He said, “Come here, you can share my room tonight I’ll make sure you’re warm.” He cooed patting his bed invitingly,
She nodded and quickly came over climbing into his bed, he slightly smiled and tucked the covers and furs around her shivering body.
“There, if you get cold you're welcome to come as close as you need to,” he told her,
She nodded once more and Cregan returned to his papers, slowly but surely Y/n crept closer and closer to Cregan desperate for the heat his body exhumed every time she moved a little closer Cregan’s smile grew a little wider, until she was bundled up against him, her legs around his thigh, her arms around his torso, her head pressed against his peck, and his own arm softly over her back,
“You’ll get used to the cold soon enough my princess,” he cooed pressing a tender kiss to her forehead,
“And if I don’t?” she asked,
“Then I’ll be here to keep you warm for the rest of our lives,” he whispered, “Come on, try and get some sleep sweet girl.”
She nodded looking up at him for a moment or two, “Cregan?”
“Yes Y/n?”
She gently moved herself forward and softly pushed her lips to his own,
Cregan's lips brushed against Y/n's, the kiss a gentle exploration of her mouth. It was a soft, tentative touch, but one that spoke volumes about his intentions. As he kissed her, his hands drifted down to her waist, holding her close. The kiss deepened, becoming more insistent, and Y/n felt herself melting into it.
She wrapped her arms around Cregan's neck, pulling him closer as their tongues danced together. The world around them melted away, leaving only the two of them, lost in the sensation of each other's touch. Slowly Y/n pulled back, her eyes met his for a moment, as she scanned every bit of his face. Before she spoke words he hadn't expected "Cregan?" Y/n's voice was barely above a whisper,
He searched her eyes, trying to read the emotion behind her words, but found only a hint of uncertainty. “Yes?”
"... I want us to have sex..."
Cregan's eyes locked onto Y/n's, his gaze burning with a fierce intensity. He didn't speak, didn't move, just drinking in the raw emotion emanating from her. For a moment, they just stared at each other, the air thick with anticipation. Then, without breaking eye contact, Cregan reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair behind Y/n's ear. His fingers trailed down her cheek, sending shivers down her spine. Slowly, he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “As do I.” he cooed, “We have waited… long enough,”
she smiled and pulled him back into a kiss now with a new passionate energy. Their lips crashed together, the kiss explosive and intense.
Cregan's arms wrapped around Y/n, pulling her close as he devoured her mouth. She tasted sweet, like honey, and he couldn't get enough of her. As they kissed, Cregan's hands roamed over Y/n's body, tracing the curves of her waist and hips.
She tightened her grip and pulled him down with her so she laid down on the furs,
Cregan's hands moved swiftly, undoing the laces of Y/n's slip and letting it fall to the floor. He broke free from the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck. She lay beneath him, a vision of loveliness in the flickering firelight, her skin glowing with a soft, golden light. As he gazed upon her, Cregan's desire surged anew. He leaned in, his tongue dancing across her nipples, making them pebble with delight.
Y/n arched her back, her hands threading through his hair as she urged him on.
With a growl of pleasure, Cregan spread her thighs wide, his fingers delving into the warmth between them. He stroked her gently, feeling her tension build with each passing moment. His fingers danced across her sensitive flesh, coaxing forth a symphony of sounds from Y/n's lips.
She writhed beneath him, her hips rising to meet his touch, begging for more.
Cregan obliged, his movements becoming bolder, more insistent, as he built the tension between them to a fever pitch. As he worked his magic, the air around them grew heavy with anticipation, the very atmosphere seeming to vibrate with the promise of what was to come.
Y/n's breathing quickened, her chest heaving with each ragged gasp, her eyes flashing with a fierce inner light.
And then, in a flash of movement, Cregan shifted position, his body aligning perfectly with Y/n's. He slid deep inside her, feeling the warmth and wetness envelop him like a velvet glove. As he moved within her, Cregan's strokes became slower, more deliberate, each one building a sense of urgency and release.
Y/n's eyes locked onto his, her gaze burning with a fierce intensity as she met his thrusts, her body rising to meet his in perfect synchrony. The world around them melted away, leaving only the two of them, lost in the rhythm of their lovemaking. With each passing moment, the tension between them grew thicker, heavier, until it seemed almost palpable.
Cregan's breath caught in his throat as he felt himself on the cusp and he knew that he had to give in to it. Without warning, he slammed deep inside Y/n, holding still for a moment as she cried out in shock and pleasure.
And then, in a rush of sensation that left him breathless, everything gave way the dam burst, the floodgates opened and Cregan was swept up in a tide of pure, unadulterated ecstasy.
As the waves of pleasure washed over him, Cregan felt Y/n's body tense around him, her muscles clenching in a desperate bid to hold on to the sensation. But it was too late and now all that remained was to ride the torrent to its conclusion. With a final, shuddering cry, Y/n's body went limp beneath him, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist as she drew him deeper into her depths.
Cregan's own orgasm hit him like a sledgehammer, sending him crashing down onto Y/n's trembling form. He buried his face in her neck, his teeth sinking deep into the tender flesh as he rode out the storm, his entire being consumed by the sheer, unadulterated joy of it all. When finally he emerged from the wreckage, gasping for air like a man who'd been drowning in a sea of pleasure, Cregan found himself lying atop Y/n's supine form, his chest heaving with exertion.
The fire had burned low, casting flickering shadows across the walls of the room but even in the dim light, he could see the look of wonder still etched on Y/n's face, a look that spoke volumes about the depth of their connection.
"thank you Cregan, I feel much warmer now" she nodded
“I'm glad,” He cooed, “I am more then happy to warm you up whenever you are needed my princess,” He growled pulling her into another deep kiss,
#hotd fanfiction#hotd fandom#hotd season 2#hotd fanfic#hotd#hotd smut#house of targaryen#house targaryen#house of the dragon#house of the dragon season 2#house of the dragon x reader#house of the dragon fanfic#house stark#cregan stark#cregan x reader#hotd cregan#cregan fanfiction#creganstark#lord cregan stark
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Make a list of every single shenanigan teenage reader and Gojo have done
Doesn't have to be detailed I just want to know what these losers did to make Yaga so mad
• broke a vending machine because gojo kept trying to pull the drink reader wanted out of the machine with cursed energy instead of letting her pay for it
• accidentally bleached everyone’s clothes when it was readers turn to do laundry because gojo swore he “knew a secret”
• broke a tv remote when wrestling over it because gojo kept turning the volume up to 1000% when reader was trying to sleep
• set the oven on fire when trying to bake a cake for suguru’s birthday and then gojo “accidentally” pointed the fire extinguisher at reader instead of the oven and ruined her clothes
• picked the locks to the gym so reader could show gojo how to take the basketball hoops off of the wall
• spent a whole day scaring people by gojo teleporting them both around into peoples rooms for “practice”
• stole a car in the middle of the night just for fun
• when everyone was gone one weekend the two of them just went around everyone’s dorms and replaced the framed photos of their families with pictures of gojo
• developed a dance routine except the “dance routine” involved them tackling each other in the classroom and getting suspended from class for three days
• when reader found out that gojo was using his six eyes to cheat a look at his christmas presents and pulled his hair until he was crying from his pretty blue eyes
• sneaking away from group outings at popular districts to go and get dessert approximately 17 times
• sneaking out in the middle of night to get gas station food and inevitably getting caught each time because of the barriers around jujutsu high approximately 26 times (yaga but a deadbolt on the outside of gojo’s room to lock him in but then he learned how to teleport)
• “forgetting” to complete their chores and spend their time beating each other at video games instead
• hiding all of the food in the kitchen in suguru’s dorm and replacing it with empty bottles of suguru’s fancy hair conditioner that they’d both been collecting for up to six months
• pretending that the other died for multiple hours at least once each (everyone believed it)
• throwing everyone a surprise birthday party (so it wasn’t a surprise after the 3rd time) but timing it so that yaga would only show up after everyone was gone and the classroom was a mess
• changing the newspaper out with fake versions to mess with yaga (this is readers personal favorite. also includes more pictures of gojo)
• endless prank phone calls
• literally endless (suguru eventually stole satoru’s phone but they would just use readers instead and shoko threatened to stab them both where “no one would realize it wasn’t an accident”)
• kept messing with nanami’s coffee in the mornings until eventually he got a thermos with a lid instead of a mug
• reader picked haibaras lock and they drew on his face (he thought it was funny though ((includes chibi gojo))
• reader got geto to start collecting fly heads and he assisted the two of them in letting them go in the common room right before yaga came back from lunch
• stealing the files yaga had on the gojo clan
• using shokos medical books that she “studies” to make paper airplanes to see whose would fly the furthest
• gojo replacing readers sheets with digimon ones (she kept them)
• making six voo doo dolls of yaga and leaving them around campus (you know how he feels about stuffed animals)
• reader hiding all of gojo’s candy in the library where he would never find it (yaga sat him down the next day and accused him of using school space as his own personal pantry and got banished to the library for several sparring lessons)
• sparring so late at night that suguru would inevitably send a curse to bite satoru
#i could think of more but#geez#gojo x reader#a typical family#gojo satoru x reader#gojo satoru#gojo satoru x you#gojo satoru x y/n#gojo x you#satoru gojo x reader#jjk gojo
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Gotham does not want to lose one of Her children again. She's already gone to the trouble of bringing him back to life (a challenge to be sure, it took her months, but worth it for him, for them) and She was not about to let this... this... woman take him from Her again.
(She would not kill the woman, for the sake of the boy--tiny still and not yet fully Hers---the boy who was Her child's child and who would one day, she knew (because time was not linear, not to Her), also be one of Hers. For his sake, his mother would live.)
So, at the border of Gotham City (a purely political line; her true influence spread several miles more, and Her children would never be fully out of Her reach), Talia al Ghul steps over the city limits without so much as a thought, but Jason Todd--catatonic and being led by Talia's hand around his wrist--is stopped, as though he ran into a solid wall.
They are, for now, unobserved, and Talia tries thing after thing to get him through, getting more and more frustrated. Up until this point, she has not harmed Jason, but the moment she goes to grab his arm hard enough to bruise, a bubble pops up around him and she is thrown back. While the 'wall' at the city limits could not be seen, this bubble shimmers in unnamable colors. (Jason's eyes dart from place to place, following patterns and movements only he, so far, can see.)
Talia doesn't stop trying, but they now start to attract a crowd. Maybe Talia wasn't being as careful anymore, maybe her plan had depended on having been gone by now, or maybe Gotham drew some of Her people to this spectacle.
They watch, for a while, and a few even try to step through the bubble. It is fairly clear that the woman was trying to take the boy somewhere and that the boy was in no state to even realize what was happening. So, a few try to step in, but they also cannot pass through the bubble.
This is when Tim Drake comes along. I don't know when, exactly, Jason's resurrection falls in the timeline, so maybe he already has a plan, maybe he's already started to put it into play, but today, for once, he is doing something entirely mundane. Maybe he's on his way to school, or to the skate-park, or to a friend's house, but it has nothing to do with the local vigilantes.
Tim, the obsessive little stalker that he is, recognizes Jason immediately. A true Gothamite, he takes no more than a second to wonder about the resurrection before accepting it and moving on. Talia al Ghul he doesn't recognize, but he's fairly certain he would recognize anyone who should be taking Jason anywhere. Which means this woman shouldn't be. So Tim decides he's going to take Jason home to his dad. That should fix Batman.
Having decided that, Tim tucks his skateboard under his arm and walks toward Jason. He passes through the bubble like it isn't even there, and comes to a stop mere inches from the boy who would soon be his brother. (Bruce Wayne, elsewhere, gets an itch that would, were he in a better state of mind, have him starting to prepare the adoption papers.)
Despite not having been thrown into a Lazarus Pit, Jason is still taller than Tim, though by less here than he would be in other universes. So Tim is looking up at him. Jason's eyes drift to somewhere just over Tim's shoulder, but when Tim looks behind him, there's nothing there, so he figures that's just Jason acknowledging his presence as best he can at the moment.
"Hi, Jason. I can take you to your dad, if you want. Bruce?"
(Tim's planning to take him to Bruce whether or not he wants to go. It might be a little harder if Jason objects, but Tim has calculated, and it is the best plan for everyone. Still, it is polite to ask.)
At Bruce's name, Jason makes a soft humming noise and his eyes drift to Tim's forehead. Tim decides that's a yes.
Tim hooks the arm that's not carrying the skateboard through Jason's arm, and turns in the direction of Wayne Manor. (Talia, furious now, starts after them, but Gotham locks her into a bubble now, and moves it until it's outside the city limits. She can try all she wants, but Gotham is not going to let her back in.)
Probably, the citizens watching should stop the preteen? young teen? from wandering off with the older boy. Anywhere else in the world, someone would have tried. But this is Gotham. And these are Gothamites.
It was obvious to everyone that this was Gotham's doing. They had all gotten a sense for Her, one that Outsiders really didn't understand and Gothamites couldn't explain, but understood perfectly. This whole incident was clearly Her doing, and if She let that boy into the bubble, then She was perfectly happy to let him take the older one.
And none of them were going to argue with Gotham. To them, to every Gothamite, She was the highest authority. Over the law, over parents, over those pesky little things called morals. (Those who believed in a god would be hard-pressed to decide who they would obey if it came down to a decision between God and Gotham. It went against most of their religions to put anything above their god, but they were Gothamites.)
In any case, Gotham had let the boys through, and they weren't going to argue.
In fact, Tim was not the only one who could have gotten through. The criteria to get through the bubble were, in this case, that you had to be one of Her favorite children and you had to mean Jason no harm. So Steph could also have gotten through, though she had not yet put on a cape and wouldn't have tried. Dick could also have, or Bruce, or Alfred, or Barbara, but none of them were there and Gotham thought it would probably go smoothest with Tim being the one to find Jason.
(Some of the Rogues probably also could have. Not the Joker or Bane, but if the Riddler or Harley or Ivy were having one of their less murderous days, they could have done it. They probably would even have returned him to Bruce.)
But right now, Tim is leading Jason toward home (Jason's home, and soon Tim's too) and the Gothamites watch them go. Talia rages outside the city and Bruce and Alfred sit at the manor, unknowing that everything is about to change. Dick and Barbara still go about their usual lives, a light haze of grief about them that will soon explode into so many more infinitely complicated emotions.
Here we leave them, but Gotham doesn't, and She never will. She is happy to have them together, though, and will work on getting the rest of them gathered. But she's prevented one from being stolen, and that's a day well spent.
#batman#batfam#gotham city#gotham#gothamites#jason todd#talia al ghul#tim drake#bruce wayne#jason and tim#gotham city is sentient#batman au#catatonic jason todd#bruce and jason#fanfic#long fic#or at least long for tumblr#this just came to me about thrity minutes ago and has been edited not at all. so..... I hope you like it?
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