#he's one of the few that leans close to the single trait edge I get it

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

on that previous post's tags note, the fact that anyone would look at a Tellius character and reduce them to a single trait with no other characterization is absolutely bonkers to me. the fact that anyone can play a Tellius game and walk out being like "wow that character had nothing to them except this one aspect about them" is completely bonkers to me... but even more so when it's a very recurring character with a very massive range of personality and traits across each conversation.

[haruhey]

Mission Impossible

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Word count: 33k

Fluff | Smut

Rosita embarks on mission impossible, and it results in Daryl almost getting into a fistfight at a bonfire.

or

Jealous Daryl. Protective Daryl. Lowkey possessive Daryl (my toxic trait is that I love this trope). What more could you want?

He wonders, for a second, if you forgot about him.

Though, Daryl hasn’t put himself in a position to be noticed by you quite yet. He’s standing by the doorway as he watches you take care of your day-to-day monotonies; admiring you, that’s what Rick would call it - makin’ eyes if Merle was here - and maybe they’re right, but he can’t tear his gaze away.

Pen between fingers, your tongue flicks out to wet your lips, eyebrows attempting to meet as you scrunch them confused. You’re not writing anything, he notices, and your non-dominant hand rises from the edge of the textbook to trace along the sentence you’re seemingly trying to comprehend. It’s simple, the movements are nothing groundbreaking - nothing particularly eye-catching - but it’s moments like these when Daryl feels a particular dull gnaw of longing.

He can’t call it a longing of his old life - not when all he remembers is drifting, an asshole redneck with an even bigger asshole for a brother - but of the old world, he guesses. One of them, at least. A kinder one to both you and him.  

One where he met you and wooed you through Black Sabbath concerts. Or one where you’re both younger - where he’d try and help you through your exams even though he’s about as dumb as a bag of rocks if you’d showed him just a page of whatever you were studying. Just… one where Daryl didn’t have to visit you every few days about some stitches threatening to pop off his skin or about how a fractured rib is healing up.

Shaking the thoughts away, he runs a hand through his hair and takes a step forward. Then another and another, clunky boots not making a single noise as he closes the gap between your doorway and your desk. He raises an eyebrow when you don’t seem to acknowledge him though he’s standing just a few inches from you, and he bites the inside of his bottom lip when he hears you sigh.

“Everythin’ okay?”

His voice breaks your concentration and your head lifts rather abruptly to him, the usual blankness of his expression morphing into an upwards tug of his lips when yours breaks out into a smile. Ever since Carol told him that you only smile like that when you see him, Daryl can’t stop wondering if she’s right. It makes his heart scramble for balance, but he never finds it - can never find it when he’s around you - and he doesn’t even really know if he wants to.

“Every word in here’s like fifteen letters long.”

Putting down your pen, you lean back and rub at your eyes, the action much too cute for his poor heart to take, and he thinks he may crumble into the ground if he keeps looking. Though, his eyes stick onto you, months of stolen glances forming a habit he can’t quite break yet. When he knows you can’t see him - when he knows you’re not going to catch him staring - he can’t help but to.

Daryl swallows as he watches you move, the shirt you have tucked into those shorts he’d scavenged for you pulling taut over the swell of your chest as you bring your arms up straight over your head and lean back. Your swivel chair squeaks underneath the new movement, and he’s thankful for the cricks and cracks of your joints since they cover the slight choke on his spit - the one that he tries to hide with a clearing of his throat.

Only when you turn yourself to face him does he finally speak, broken out of his admiration by the curious slope of your brows. He doesn’t show up without a reason - even if that reason ends up simply being just a desire to ‘keep ya company’ - and you wait for him to say something, only for your patience to be rewarded by an upturn of his lips.

“Almost like they’re doctors or somethin’.”

Scoffing at his poor attempt at a joke, you uncross your legs, hands falling between your thighs to grip at the slight cushion of your chair and scoot yourself back. The action is so innocent - just a readjustment after struggling to understand that slightly ripped textbook - but he can’t help the way his jaw tenses, teeth grinding into each other so hard he thinks he might bite through his own skull.

The action is innocent, but the feelings stirring in him are anything but.

There aren’t many times where he feels younger than he actually is - not when his back hurts every time he comes back from recruitments and he’s picking up on the grays sprouting from his beard - but Jesus fucking Christ does he feel like a teenager around you. His body’s reacting like he’d never seen skin before, and he loathes the lack of control.

Never in his life had he met someone who keeps him up at night with a racing heart, but then again, he’d never met anyone like you until the dead started rising. Daryl’s got a long list of regrets behind him, but meeting you has never been one of them - not ever.

“Is the only reason you came here to remind me that I do not, in fact, have a medical license?”

Biting his bottom lip, he fights down his excitement as he tries to properly phrase the slight pain he feels each time he inhales. He hasn’t seen you as a patient in just under a week - more importantly, hasn’t felt you touch all over his damn his chest in just under a week - and he’d be hard-pressed to admit he missed the care of your steady hands even though his skin rises in goosebumps every time he thinks about it.

“Forgettin’ that damn linebacker from a few days ago?”

Daryl speaks then, a piss poor attempt at pretending he wasn’t being distracted by his brain’s insistence to relive old memories, and he’s not sure if you catch it - it’s hard for him to slip anything by you, - though, your expression doesn’t expose anything besides the rise of your brows, widening the whites of your eyes as a look of realization washes over you.

Shit, you did forget.

And by the looks of it, you felt bad.

“Crap- yeah, sorry, I didn’t mean to. Just give me a second.”

Lopsided, an apologetic smile worms way onto your face as you rise to a stand, tucking stray strands of hair behind your ears as you beeline towards the bed in your office. You should be honoured, you’d said to him after Rosita exposed the fact you’d only let him sleep on it when he needed to stay overnight in the infirmary. Since then, there’s always an odd sense of joy that takes over his body when he lets himself dwell on that fact.

Just for him.

The bed that smells like you - whose blankets wrap him up in a warmth that feels like your sunshine and rainbows - is just for him.

“Nah, there’s a lot’a people to look after, I get it. Don’t gotta go apologizin’ for nothin’.”

Daryl’s voice carries through the room as he watches you pull the sheets flat for him to sit, and he gets to work unbuttoning his shirt. It’s nearly routine by now, but God knows it hasn't always been. Weeks - months, maybe - of meeting you in that tiny cell block had passed before he finally worked up the courage to show you every mile of scarred tissue and all the memories he’d like to erase. He’d never trusted anyone like that before.

Hershel had been necessity - damn arrow through his side and a tumble down that cliff nearly making him bleed out - but you were different.

You, well, you were choice.

And it’s only been you, Daryl supposes, who he’d let himself be bare with. All that uncertainty - the doubt of how you would view him afterwards - had shattered useless when he heard your soft ‘I’m sorry someone did this to you’. It rushed warmth through him, the overflow of what felt like genuine care coating every crevice of his body and making him buzz alight.

He’d never been cared for.

At least, not in the way you seemed to.

It was such a foreign feeling, but he’d basked in it like a plant beneath sunlight. In that moment, it was like Daryl could feel his defenses break - like he could hear pieces of his meticulously built walls chip off and fall to the ground when he was with you. No sooner had his protection of mortar and brick morphed into a sandcastle, and no sooner had a tidal wave of you knocked him over.

Sudden - the realization of what he had been feeling hit him all at once.

He’d never been in love before, but no matter how much he tried to deny it - no matter how many times he tried to ignore the flutter in his stomach each time he saw you, or suppress the smile that always seemed to want to make an appearance when he heard your voice - Daryl could never distract himself from how nice you made him feel.

He’d given his heart to you a long time ago, and he can’t blame anyone but himself for the fact you don’t know it yet.

“Is there something on my face?”

Wiping at the corners of your mouth, your tongue peeks out to catch at whatever he’s been staring at. Daryl’s gaze pushes you to the border of self-consciousness though you know a couple of crumbs lining your lips or an angry pimple is barely the worst situation he’d ever seen you in. It doesn’t hold a candle to when walker blood covered every inch of you as you’d fought the breached hoard, and it certainly doesn’t come near the time you were so damn exhausted and sore that he had to hold your hair back as you threw up into a stack of burnt walkers since you couldn’t keep your arms up for more than 10 seconds.

You’d expected him to give you shit for it, honestly, but all he does when you bring it up is laugh.

Who said the apocalypse couldn’t be fun?

There’s an image in your head that pops up whenever you picture him then - so vivid and unlike any other memory catalogued between the folds of your brain. Daryl’s sitting just next to you on the log of a thick fallen tree a few miles out from the walls, vest worn open against dark blue flannel, and his head is thrown back, the mop of hickory falling against his grin-risen cheekbones from the angle.

An insufferable, deep and lovely chuckle breaks forth from his chest, blossoming into a full-body laughter which shakes his shoulders with the force. You bite down your own smile as you smack him lightly against the bicep, the dull impact against his muscle only making his amusement double.

In that memory, he’s so carefree.

You barely ever get to see him like that, and fuck does it makes your heart murmur in want, but that’s Daryl Dixon you’re thinking of. Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you let the familiar feeling of want settle in your chest, a stark and physical reminder that it’s Daryl Dixon you want.

Always aiming for the unattainable - especially when the unattainable is a selfless, loyal, and really goddamn cute man with broad shoulders and blue eyes that make you feel safe.

“Jus’ thinkin’.”

He pulls his shirt off just after he speaks, dropping the fabric onto the chair you’d set out for his crossbow and exposing the blue and brown splotches covering his thick torso. The slightest pang of pain strikes when his arms stretch over his head and he lets out a small grunt beneath his breath. You hear it though he probably tried to suppress the sound, and you pull your lips into a line with the desire to comfort him.

You know he’s capable - he’d told you through gritted teeth about how he’d gotten that asshole into a headlock before Rick told the guy to scram with a point of his Colt Python - but you can’t help the want you feel to wrap him in a tight hug like you did when he first came back all battered and exhausted.

“I didn’t know you were so open to trying new things.”

Scoffing, Daryl sends you a glare, insincerity lining his features before the corner of his lip twitches upwards, registering the small grin on your face. Four long strides take him to the other side of the bed, and he sits down, legs swung over the edge of the mattress and turned away from you to you and the door. It’s not huge, the smattering of bruises, but it lines in a concentric spot along his spine.

Your hand reaches out almost immediately, searching for the broken skin you’d slathered in ointment just a few days ago and prodding at the skin. They didn’t need them - they were nowhere near the normal amount of blood you’re so used to seeing on him after an unsuccessful run, if you remembered correctly - but you’d done it anyway. It meant less pain and faster healing for him, but you know he’d call it a waste of resources if he knew.

So it’ll just be your little secret for the time being.

“I’m real adventurous.”

Daryl’s mouth moves before his brain can filter it out, years being in his brother’s company doing nothing for the lewd undertone of his words, but your steady hands don’t still. There’s no light smack to his shoulder like he’s so used to receiving when he teases you, and he realizes you didn’t catch it.

It always surprises him how naive you are sometimes despite being one of the smartest people he knows. Months of watching you interact with the Woodbury people and even a few days with the slime that was Merle around girls had shown him how many jokes went over your head. Just a simple smile and nod from you was all they got. Hell, sometimes you wouldn’t even smile. And if it landed? They’d be lucky to receive anything less than a glare from him and a disgusted grimace from you.

A few more prods on his skin earn a couple mumbled complaints, but you keep your steady hand until you’re satisfied. Daryl wouldn’t mind, though, if you kept touching him, the skate of your dull fingernails on his back lending another thought for him to mull over. He’s not easily flustered - you couldn’t be when you had a brother like the one he had - but you've no sooner moved around the bed to face his front, and he’s no sooner wishing he didn’t wear such light coloured jeans.

“Does it still hurt?”

A smile threatens to creep forth, and you bite the inside of your lip to keep it down after you speak, a rush of familiar accomplishment brought forth by how much the swelling has gone down, and he imitates your action to stop himself from dwelling on how nice you look and how nice you sound and how nice you smell. Fuck, he shouldn’t be letting himself think these things - should wait until he’s alone so he’s not steadily boiling over, at least - but the sun shines into the room just right and it’s making you glow.

It’s just about making him lose his goddamn mind, too, because you really do you look like an angel, and he’s starting to wonder if God has outlined you himself with his steady hand. Sure, he’s not religious - couldn’t call himself that even on a good day - but he wouldn’t be surprised if you’d sprouted white wings and a damn halo across your head.

Stop, Daryl tells himself, and starts thinking of walkers instead just to stop himself from wanting to rest his hand on your neck and pull you down to kiss him. He’s down bad - real fucking bad - and his resolve only crumbles when your eyes drag up his body, his tongue fumbling to respond when he meets your gaze. Shit, were your eyes always this pretty?

“N-nah - feels fine. Can barely tell you’ve been a bullshittin’ doctor this whole time.”

Though it’s barely a moment’s hesitation, Daryl can hear himself stutter and he swallows hard - the sound of his distraction imperceptible to everyone in the room but him, ringing stark like black paint on a canvas. Well, imperceptible to ‘everyone’ as in imperceptible to you.

And thank God it’s just the two of you, both for the fact that if it was Rick or Carol they definitely would have clocked the messy look in his eye or the rose blush rising across his cheeks, and for the selfish fact that only he can see the smile that curves at your lips.

“I have a long list of satisfied patients. One where you appear many, many times.”

Scoffing, he stretches out his back and arches forwards, his lips forming a response as the ribs he’d fractured - at least, Daryl’s pretty sure he heard you say they’re fractured, but then again, he’d been so distracted by your fingertips along his skin that it made your voice sound underwater - result in a nearly inconsequential throb of pain. They don’t hurt as much as they did before, and it’s a surprise to him that that linebacker didn’t shatter all his damn bones.

Wins are few and far between for him, so he should probably count that as a win, shouldn’t he? Optimism, and all that.

Before he can even open his mouth in response, the doorknob jangles open and he feels the warmth of your two palms on his shoulders pushing him down onto the mattress beneath him, the air knocked out of his chest after he takes a second to process what just happened. He can’t, though. Daryl’s mouth hangs open the second he sees you between his legs, bent over him and holding him down to the bed like a manifestation of one of his tucked away fantasies.

Fuck, fuck, what the fuck?

“Hey, I brought over the...”

The snap of your neck upwards to the voice looks almost painful with your speed, but he only recognizes an apology and a rush of panic in your eyes when he hears Rosita from the doorway just behind him. He doesn’t move - doesn’t want to move because the slope of your jaw and curve of your neck is making him lose his goddamn mind - but neither do you, and a heat builds in his stomach, replacing the initial shock with swirls of red-hot feeling.

Rosita’s words die on her tongue as she takes in the scene in front of her. Daryl’s shirtless - obviously shirtless - and it looks like she caught you in the middle of doing something particularly enjoyable, only catching the urgency in your look.

You and Daryl are together? It might have flown under the radar - with how personal and private the two of you are, it’s more than possible nobody’s picked up on it - and all she can think about is how she’s going to tell Abraham, then Carol, then Maggie, then Michonne, then Glenn, then Rick. She’ll even tell Carl if he wants to know.

Fucking finally.

“... okay then.”

Smirking, she balls up the fabric in her hand and throws it towards you, watching it land in a clump next to Daryl’s torso and turns, shutting the door behind her so loud the sound reverberates through your bones.

A moment passes.

Then another.

Then your eyes meet his and you hop back from him like he’d burnt you, scrambling for a response as he stays on the bed, reeling from the last few seconds of what he could only consider was God smiling down at him or something.

“Sorry, I- I didn’t know she would come in. I didn't mean to- I didn’t want her to see your back ‘cause I didn’t know if you were okay with her seeing it and- “

Kicking up back into his sit, Daryl runs his fingers through his hair before waving your apology off, the corner of his mouth pulled up as if he was going to laugh even though he knows full well that his mind is still fuzzy from being underneath you. It was unexpected, sure, but unwelcome? He could call it that only because Rosita had walked in.

“Ya gotta stop apologizin’ for somethin’ that ain’t your fault.”

He watches as you bite your bottom-lip - watches as it curls into half a smile when you recognize his sincerity - and he hears your voice soon after, your figure nearing him with the few steps needed to close the distance as you tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Just… I thought she would at least knock.”

Sighing, you take the black clump into your hands and turn away from him, walking around the mattress to get to that half-broken stool that can really only hold his crossbow. It’s ugly - a muddy, muddy orange that makes Daryl want to throw it out whenever he sees it - but you defend it like it’s your favourite thing in the world and it’s oddly endearing. Even if he searches for spray paint each time he leaves the walls.

“Must’a been important.”

You scoff and the sound intrigues him, one of his eyebrows quirking up like the lift of one of his knees. The bed squeaks underneath his attempt to face you, and you turn back to him before tossing him his shirt, nearly hitting him in his face. Daryl catches it, though, and pushes his head through the hole, punching his arms out on either side and glaring at you when he hears a small huff of laughter escape you.

Still, it’s nice to hear that sound. Even if it’s directed at his odd way of putting on a shirt.

“It’s, uh, it’s not really that important. Kinda stupid, honestly.”

Unfolding the fabric in front of you, you shake it once then twice to straighten it out, and he can’t keep that look of insincere annoyance on his face because that dress - if he can even call it that - makes his throat dry.

Holy shit.

It’s barely anything and he hates the fact his brain immediately starts forming images of you in it - hates the fact he knows you’d look so fucking good in it and the fact he knows he’s going to be in for even longer nights.

“She’s been trying to get me to wear this ever since she found it in her closet, but this is… God, could you even imagine me in it?”

He can.

He is.

But you don’t need to know that.

Clearing his throat, Daryl works to shake the thoughts from his head. From the sound of your voice, it’s not lost on him that he’s probably never going to see you wear it, and he’s fighting his own brain real damn hard to give you the respect you deserve, but he knows they’re not going to disappear. They’re just going to be tucked away like money in a piggy bank. At least until he smashes the pink porcelain to pieces, seeking selfish indulgence before the familiar sense of shame settles in his bones again. He can’t keep doing that to you, but he can’t stop.

“Thought you were gonna wear the one that makes ya look like a pilgrim tonight.”

He mentally pats himself on the back when he manages to string together a cohesive sentence, and he watches as you make your way to your desk. Holding out the dress, you study it as if considering putting it on, and he finds himself stuttering his breath for your answer as you pull your legs up into that stupid position he’d begged you to stop calling ‘criss-cross-applesauce’.

“Hopefully, I’m not gonna wear either of them if I can convince Rick I’m not really important to meet.”

Humming, Daryl turns away from you and drops his foot back to the ground before bending down, undoing his laces with quick tugs. He knows he should probably get going - let you slave over whatever the hell he’d walked in on you slaving over - but the bed is so comfy, and maybe he just wants to talk to you a little longer.

“Can’t be that bad.”

His phrasing catches your attention, and you look over at him, sitting against the headboard with his legs kicked up onto the ratty blanket you’d laid out if he didn’t kick his dirt-covered shoes off.

‘Can’t be that bad’?

Did Daryl Dixon say a social gathering can’t be that bad?

“You gonna go?”

You can’t help but study him as you wait for him to answer you. Can’t help but look for something - anything - to figure out whether or not he’s bullshitting you.

But it never comes.

“Sure as hell considerin’ it.”

It’s genuine. Everything he’s saying is genuine, and you’re glued to every little movement of his being like you’re looking for signs that some alien has started to live in his body and taken him over inside-out. Who is this man, and what the hell has he done with the Daryl you know?

A smirk blooms across his lips then, and he folds his arms behind his head, closing his eyes before he peeks one open with a lazy roll of his neck towards you. It makes your heart stutter, how handsome he looks, and your focus is stolen to just watching his mouth form each word that tumbles out.

“‘Cause Carol’s gon’ cook somethin’ worth talkin’ ‘bout, y’know. And I don’t wanna miss whatever she’s gon’ do wit’ that deer I damn near broke my spine carryin’ back.”

Oh.

There he is.

That sounds like him, and the words are so familiar that you’re sure they’re regurgitations of how you’d convinced him to go to those welcome parties at the prison. Standards for meals in the apocalypse are low - half the shit in the pantry is expired and, God forbid, someone uses something other than salt for seasoning - but Carol must be a fucking magician with what she can cook with a can of lentils and apparently sheer force of will.

No wonder he’s considering it.

“‘Sides, it could be fun.”

Raising an eyebrow, your grin lifts to one side and you crumple the dress against your chest, spreading your legs to slide down the back of the chair until it hits comfort. You’d had plans - get deeper into the meat of the textbook and hopefully read more than two pages a day - but now that Daryl’s here, it would just be plain stupid to ask him to leave. Plus, he looks kind of cute when he’s fidgeting with his fingers.

“That linebacker hit your head too, or something? When have you ever thought anything with people could even be remotely fun?”

He hums then, lip pulling into a line as he contemplates his answer. It's not a lie, the fact he’s set his sights on eating that deer, but it’s not necessarily the whole truth. Daryl knows full well he could just leave his house for a few minutes and ask Carol for a slice, but Jesus fucking Christ has he found himself determined to see how you’d look in that dress.

Who knows how long it might take before there’ll even be a chance like this again? He’s always been an opportunist, and if there was a time to change his tune, it sure as hell can’t be now.

“Won’t be bad if ya come with me.”

Shit, that was not subtle at all and he knows it, biting the inside of his cheek as he waits for you to respond. He’s expecting a flat-out ‘no’, honestly, but when it never comes, he finds himself holding his breath as your grip tightens around the garment. Contemplating. You’re contemplating an answer and blood nearly rushes into his mouth with how hard his teeth dig into his own flesh.

You could go. Honestly, you probably should go to help support whatever community bullshit Rick and Maggie are trying to make happen, but…

But what?

There’s nothing holding you back from going. There’s no reason not to, and you already know at least six people - no, seven now, if you tack on what you can only assume is Daryl joking around with you - that will already be there. Plus, when was the last time you’d been to a gathering? It might be nice.

It might be fun.

“I’ll be off in an hour.”

The second he hears your words - phrased more like a suggestion to him than anything - he feels a tingle of anticipation race through him. Holy shit, greenlight. Clearing his throat, he stretches out the cricks in his neck and kicks off the bed, toeing on his shoes before leaning down and tying them.

He’d only intended to see you for a little bit - plans of hanging out at his place during the bonfire now replaced by hopefully seeing you in that dress at the bonfire - and he would stay if he could, but there are traps that need to be checked. It’s a shitty excuse he’s concocted to get the hell out of the infirmary, sure, but Daryl has to figure out a reason to leave other than trying to keep his thoughts from how you’d look in that dress and how you’d looked bent over him. They’ll loom over him the whole damn day if he doesn’t do anything about it.

“I’ll drop by an’ pick y’up, if ya want. Y’gon’ be here?”

He speaks as he walks over to that rickety old stool, listening to your chair squeaking as you turn to follow his movement. You’d mentioned the fact you needed to oil it for a few days now, but you’d never got around to it. ‘Life gets busy’, you’d said to him, and he gets it. Maybe he should drop by with some of the oil he keeps for his motorcycle sometime soon and get rid of that god awful squeak himself.

“Nah, my house. I'm gonna have to change into something nice.”

Daryl bites back his smile, swinging his crossbow over his shoulder before turning his head and taking you in for one last look. You’ve straightened up from your slouch, sat cross-legged on the armless swivel chair and dress in a pile just on your desk, knuckles pressed underneath your cheekbone as you lean your weight on your arm. The squish of your cheeks makes his lips pull into a line to keep his expression schooled, and he gives you a small wave before he leaves.

“Wear somethin’ fun.”

He hears you scoff before he turns the doorknob, an ‘I’ll try’ coming from you, and he can’t help but pray to God you would think of wearing that dress as he walks through the infirmary. But then again, if you did wear it, he’d have a hard time thinking of anything except you. Not that he hasn’t been struggling with that since he’d realized how he felt months ago in the damn prison.

Rosita gives him a smirk when he makes eye-contact with her as she reorganizes the medicine shelf, but he shrugs her look off, fighting the blush threatening to spread from his cheeks. She didn’t knock, and Daryl knows he should be at least a little angry at her for making you think you’d been responsible for putting him in an uncomfortable position, but he can’t help but be a little thankful of what happened.

You bent over him, the curve of your jaw, the rise of your collarbones, the drop of your neckline - it’s seared into his brain, and he swears as he fumbles the front doorknob, suddenly remembering the imaginations of you wearing that skimpy thing. Maybe he’s stupid, but up until a couple minutes ago, he’d forgotten shit like that even still existed.

Now he has an hour to think about it, and he keeps his eyes on the ground as he beelines to his house.

An hour.

He just hopes you never find out what he’ll be doing for that hour.

- - -

“You going to the bonfire tonight?”

Scrunching your nose, a contemplating hum escapes from you before you swivel around, the sight of Rosita leaning against the doorframe and a smirk plastered on her face greeting you. She likes to say that she's been waiting ages to talk you into going, if you remember correctly - it's really only been a couple days, but in the current world, that does feel like ages - and part of you wonders if she might be annoyed that all her efforts pale in comparison to some light teasing remarks from Daryl.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe you are weak for him.

And maybe you can’t find it in yourself to feel anything but pleasant at the thought.

“I wish I had more of a choice.”

Her expression doesn't change - your face betrays the annoyance and dejection in your voice, and it's written so obvious across your features that she's surprised anyone can believe you when you're lying. The only person she knows that manages to be blind and deaf and completely clueless when it comes to you is the last person she’d expected. Glenn, sure. Maybe even Maggie or Rick, but Daryl? He's the most observant man she's ever met, and he can read almost anything like a book.

Except, apparently, you.

The only thing he couldn't seem to read was that infuriatingly sweet expression of yearning on your face when he was around. Everyone else could see it - even Carl could - so why the fuck couldn't he? Well, actually, based on what she'd seen a few minutes ago, that wasn’t the case anymore. Unless you’d somehow mustered enough courage to put on your big boy pants and confessed to him.

“But Daryl just wants to go for the food, so that’s all I’m staying for, too.”

Rosita’s far too familiar with the small smile you get when you say his name, and the almost triumphant memory of getting that visual confirmation of your relationship with him jumps forward in her brain.

Finally.

“You’re going with him?”

She’s been on the brink of shoving your heads together so you two would stop the stupid pining shit she’s had to witness for weeks now, and catching you in that less than innocent position with him gave her all she needs to rub it in Abe’s face that one of you finally mustered enough courage to confess. She'll get the specifics soon enough, but right now, she can't help but pry, asking another question right after your nod. God, she can't wait to tell Carol - can't wait to tell everyone that the resident lovesick puppies have finally gotten together.

“Leaving with him?”

Again, you nod, and her smile only widens.

“Will you guys need some condoms?”

The drop of your jaw is almost comical and your eyebrows slant to meet, a sputter of air escaping you at how off-guard her comment catches you.

“Rosita! Shut up!”

She laughs and you’re pretty sure your face is starting to burn into that same overheat that stubbornly shows up when she talks about Daryl like this. He’s such a private person - so much so that you’re not even sure he’s into doing that - and the way she's speaking is so loud and brash and heavy-handed you can only be glad he’s nowhere near the infirmary to hear her.

“Is that a ‘we’ll get them ourselves’ shut up or a ‘he pulls out, so we use the protection of God’ shut up?”

You’re not a prude - at least you don’t think you are - but your thoughts get the better of you at her suggestion. Your mind whirls into overdrive as the images start coming, and you swear Rosita is getting some sick pleasure from how your throat moves to swallow the spit gathering in your mouth. The only thing you can do is scream at yourself to stop.

Stop thinking of the condom in use.

Stop thinking of the condom in use with Daryl.

“Ros- I am going to commit so many acts of violence against you.”

Groaning, you sink into your chair before you speak again, legs spread and the back of your hand against your forehead, sneaking a glance at her from underneath your thumb. You recognize the look immediately, and God do you wish you’d never told her about your crush on Daryl. Then again, it was your own damn fault for overestimating how much liquor you could hold. Especially after not touching a drop for months. Rookie mistake.

“It’s a ‘Daryl doesn’t like me like that so please shut up’ shut up.”

Her smile doesn’t drop, and you close your eyes just so you don’t need to see her anymore.

“You guys don’t have sex?”

You not giving an answer isn’t out of the realm of possibilities, when she thinks about it more. Daryl’s never really dropped any hints that he wants to do anything except make those stupid heart-eyes that make her want to throw up - and considering how private you are, you’d probably never let anything like that slide. You’re pretty tight-lipped when you want to be. At least, when she thinks of all the times Glenn and Tara, and even Rick sometimes spill like overfilled bowls, you’re tight-lipped.

She reminds herself to invite you over for whisky sometime soon. She’s gotta get the details somehow.

“Well, no. You kinda have to be in a relationship with someone for that.”

An odd silence falls after you speak, and you peek an eye open, watching one of her brows rise up to wrinkle her forehead. A beat, then another, and then her face scrunches inwards in a squint.

“No fucking way.”

The sound that escapes you is what you can only consider a scoff, and what the hell can you even say to that? Instead, your hands fall back onto your lap and you stare dead into her eyes, waiting for her to give you something other than the feeling of being studied.

“Holy shit, you’re serious.”

She looks at you with a contort of incredulity, and before you can even open your mouth - seriously, what the hell can you even say to her? - her hands shoot up into the air from the crossing at her chest and her voice’s pitch nearly matches the height of her hands.

“Months! How much longer can you possibly go? Getting either of you to confess is like Mission fucking Impossible, oh my God.”

Your mouth rounds in the beginning of a sentence, finally catching a window where your brain can form some kind of response, but it doesn’t seem to matter because she cuts you off. From what you can see on her face, a genuine curiosity overtakes her exasperation, and you readjust your seating, pulling down the legs of your shorts from where they’re ridden up and preparing to finally answer something she’s asked.

“What did I walk into, then?”

Hm.

Shrugging, you pull your lips into a line while you take barely a second to contemplate your answer. It’s not like you need the time, though. You’re not about to spill all the scars on his back and all the shitty stories about his childhood his voice would carry through reminiscing night shifts and spontaneous stargazings. He trusts you with the past he so desperately wants to forget, and if Daryl wants anyone to know about it other than you, it wouldn’t be right for the words to come from anyone but him.

You’ve shed a lot to cope with the world, but holding on to some shred of human decency is a lot easier than people make it out to be.

“He just doesn’t like it when people see him without a shirt on.”

It’s that fine balance between flippancy and assertion that makes her take the answer at face value. She doesn’t care, honestly - maybe just a little curious since the whole ‘Daryl only ever lets you check on him’ isn’t just his pure adoration for you that she and Denise had chalked it up to - but she doesn’t push it anymore. Besides, it doesn’t seem like either of you have any particular problem with whatever system you two have agreed on.

“I bet you love seeing him like that.”

Sighing, you scrunch your eyes closed and send a sharp, insincere glare that immediately clears the space separating the two of you. All she does is smile and tilt her head as if awaiting a resounding ‘yes’ that she unsurprisingly never ends up getting. You and Rosita click - have clicked since saving her ass from one of the rifled-up Terminus people, and you cherish her as maybe one of your closest friends - but when it comes to the romance department, she might as well be a magnet pointing the same direction as you.

“I have an idea.”

Oh?

Hearing four words is enough to have you raising an eyebrow as you look over at her. You’re no stranger to her ‘ideas’ - especially when Daryl’s been involved in the conversation - and you can only be thankful that Maggie or Carol aren’t here to egg her on. Rosita’s so fucking bold sometimes it both scares you and impresses you, and she looks back at you expectantly. Watching you shrug as she waits for you to say anything in response.

“You're gonna tell me it anyways.”

She hums in agreement and takes a step towards you, catching her lip in what you can only assume is pure excitement before she takes another, and then another. Her straight trajectory deviating slightly to pick up the garment lying on your desk just to the right, but she returns headfirst to you no sooner, that same triumphant smile on her face that you remember from the first time she’d brought it to you.

“Wear the dress.”

Scoffing, you reach out to grab it out of her hands only for her to lift it past your fingertips and let it hang downwards, showing you the laces that are supposed to crisscross and frame your shoulder blades. Tara has mentioned how it was ‘an underratedly sexy part of the body’, but Rosita was too busy sticking her beer-coated tongue down Abe’s throat for you to think she’d remember.

“Rosita, I-”

You make out a couple of syllables before she’s holding up the garment to you as if you’d never seen it before - maybe the only reason you’d even gotten to speak is because she’d had to turn it around in her hands and slip her fingers between the layers of fabric to readjust the bra padding - but you can’t bring yourself to be mad at her because she’s so enthusiastically trying to make you feel better about your stupid little crush that it’s honestly kind of funny.

“Dude, I’m serious! He’ll love it!”

After finishing her readjustment, she lifts the dress back up and holds it out in front of you, tilting her head to the side and squinting as if truly studying the way you’d look in it. Honestly, the dress isn’t hideous - you’d seen people wear stuff like that in the clubs you’d celebrated your 21st and all your friends’ 21sts in, or when Halloween rolled around and sorority girls would wear it with red horns to call themselves demons - but it’s just not for you. Or maybe you’d just never let it be.

“I don’t know…”

You’re not the greatest liar - the world had gone to shit, and you can really only do it decently enough to have stayed alive from unfriendly run-ins - so it doesn’t take a genius to catch the margin of consideration that you’re taking. Your eyes are along the hems now, along the cut-outs and the thin little pieces of string that are supposed to frame your back, and she’s not even sure whether or not you’re even trying to hide it at this point.

“He’s gonna feel the same way looking at you that you feel looking at him. Think about it.”

Rosita can’t be too sure, though, tapping her pointer finger on her temple as if her suggestion might be the pinnacle of human invention. The last time she’d trusted you to put on your big boy pants, she nearly smacked you when you’d told her about the - platonic - date she’d spent so long more or less planning for the two of you. If Carol was telling the truth, apparently Daryl spent the next few hours walking around with a stupid little love-drunk smile on his face.

A smile. Rosita’s never seen him smile before.

And sure, maybe she’s naïve in thinking it’s only a matter of time until one of you confesses, but she’s damn well going to try her best to expedite the process.

“Daryl won't even know what hit him when you show up in this thing. Then maybe you'll need the protection of God to keep him away from you.”

Taking a breath, a noise sputters out of you at how off-guard the latter half of her monologue takes you, a suggestivity so stark it might as well be painted in red in the air. There’s a part of you that blooms in butterflies at the thought - at the thought that Daryl might be looking at you and wanting you - and he did say something about wearing something fun.

This could be fun.

“Fine.”

You’re sure someone would think you’d given Rosita the last hot shower with how she celebrates, clenching her fists and shaking them in victory, smiling wide at the prospect of one of her plans finally getting to see the light of day. You can’t blame her, though, most of her ideas land her a smack on the shoulder and not even a second of consideration. It’s not her fault you’ve been saying no to anything remotely suggesting you confess your stupid little crush.

Not even a second passes before she’s throwing the dress into your lap and yelling out to Denise that you ‘said yes!’, her grip at your wrist pulling you up before your survival instinct kicks in, your feet planting themselves into the ground beneath you. Rosita glances over at you, tugging you once more with a tilt of her head before she speaks, dragging you with steps on combat boots not too dissimilar from yours.

“We need to make you hot, dude. Every second counts.”

She yells a goodbye to Denise who waves back over a student copy of some pediatrics textbook, and you let Rosita drag you out of the infirmary, holding the flimsy piece of fabric against your chest as she beelines towards your house.

“You’re acting as if we don’t have a job to do.”

Narrowly missing an ill-placed mailbox, Rosita lets go of your hand and waves off your concern before twisting your doorknob open and ushering you in. Half of her urgency is in the fact she’d caught glimpse of Daryl helping out the people hoisting up that new piece of the wall - if you had seen him, she would have had to talk you into ignoring the desire to break off from her to talk to him - and half her urgency is in the fact she’s got no clue how to tie the thin laces to make him finally want to do something. If she has to spend another week watching the way he looks at you, she’s gonna lock you guys in a room and not let you out until you kiss.

“Denise said it was fine! Besides, your shift ended like, half an hour ago.”

Scoffing, you pull out your hair from your ponytail as you kick off your shoes, turning your head to tell her that she ‘got on half an hour ago’ as she locks your front door. The second you turn back towards the staircase, you hear her scoff a ’so?’ and you shake your head. You can’t really blame her for jumping ship, though. Unlike an actual hospital, there’s no steady stream of patients, and you’ve skipped your shift to hunt with Daryl more often than you would like to admit.

Rounding the corner, you push into your room and throw the dress onto your bed, pulling open your underwear drawer and balling a pair of underwear in your fist before Rosita can make the last step of the stairs. You stuff the cotton into your pocket just as she clears the doorway and she picks up the pile of arrows stacked meticulously on your stool, moving it painstakingly slowly onto the desk in front of it before sitting down.

“Don’t go through my stuff.”

She just nods as she fiddles with the broken handle of one of your storage shelves. It’s not that you have anything you particularly valuable - well, you do have that polaroid Carl took of you and Daryl back at the prison when he thought you two were ‘k-i-s-s-i-n-g’ tucked between the pages of the novel you were more-or-less ambling your way through, and you’re pretty sure Daryl would kill you if anyone other than the three of you involved knew about it - but it’s more of a general human decency thing than anything else.

10 minutes is usually the longest you shower, but today you might have pushed it to 15 since the water pressure felt fucking good on the knots in your back and shoulders. You step out of the shower and wipe your body dry before slipping on a henley you’re pretty sure you stole from Tara - then again, it could be Denise’s, but that’s besides the point since neither of them have asked for it back. Your hair is your next victim, threading your fingers through some of the stubborn knots as you dry it haphazardly on your way to your room.

You can still remember the first shower you took after the prison fell, and it feels so long ago even though it’s only been a few weeks. It all felt weird, you guess - the hot water, the air conditioning, and even just the abundance of suburbia was too odd to just settle into.

It’s still weird, in a way, and maybe that’s why you and Daryl take almost every opportunity to just avoid it. The… stability of it all. You’re thankful to live here, that’s for damn sure - you could’ve become religious the second you saw the walls and the showers - but that pervasive little part of you that thinks Alexandria is too good to be true just keeps growing.

There were lots of things like that were too good to be true. And you’d gotten hurt in your own stupid naïveté holding out for hope.

Jesus, way to bum yourself out.

“So… project makeover?”

Pressing your lips together, you mentally shake the thoughts from your head and nod, walking over to your closet. There’s not much in there - everything you wear is piled up on just one shelf, the other ones taken up by miscellaneous knick-knacks you’ve swiped from runs - but you manage to find a nice looking bra hidden between the layers of turtlenecks you’ve hoarded for the colder seasons.

It’s not a surprise to you it’s unfamiliar - there are a lot of things you’ve never worn before because it’s just not practical when you have to hunt in the mornings and pick pebbles off the knees of clumsy children in the afternoon - but what better day to try out the adventure than now? Before you can grab the dress from your bed, though, Rosita taps at your arm and holds out her hand as if waiting for you to drop something onto her palm.

You’ve got nothing in your hands - nothing of particular interest at least - and you just look back at her, tilting your head to the side in a prompt before you turn back around to pull open your sock drawer, hearing her explanation from behind you. Wow, all you have left are the long socks you wear underneath your sweatpants. Maybe you’ll just have to wear the ones you’d taken off to shower.

“It’s a padded backless dress.”

You have no trouble catching the subtext - ’you won’t need a bra, so don’t bother’ - and you raise one of your eyebrows, biting the inside of your lip as you think about your options.

According to her, there’s no need since it’s padded.

According to her, the hooks will just get in the way of the dress’ aesthetic appeal. Plus, the dress looks tight, so all the band’s going to do is lump up the fabric.

Y'know what? Sure.

Scrunching your nose, you loop the straps to hang on her outstretched fingers, and finally turn away into your bathroom again. You hear the jangling of your drawers being pulled open, and you bite down a smile when she responds with ‘why do you have, like, no socks’ at your joking warning of ‘I said ‘no going through my stuff.’’

The dress is hard to put on. Plain and simple. Well, no, that phrasing is wrong because you wish it was plain and simple. Instead, the straps that aren’t undone - they’re for your arms, you think? - are convoluted as all hell, and you think you might have broken a seam or two trying to push your hand through one of the holes.

But you manage.

Eventually.

Henley in your grip, you make your way back to your bedroom, the skirt of the dress fluttering behind you with each step. From what you caught of your reflection - to be fair, though, most of the time you were too busy trying to figure out how to keep the dress against your chest - Rosita was right in saying the padding would do just fine without that extra layer, and even though it’s pretty form fitting, there’s not a panty line in sight. Even the cut-outs look like they belong, and honestly? You don’t even really mind that the dress itself is a little on the shorter side.

“Wow, okay, who knew you looked like that underneath all the stuff you usually wear.”

Her words make you nerves act up despite yourself. It’s just a compliment on your looks, but those have been so far and in between you’d forgotten how stuff like that sounded.

“Oh, um, thanks. Yeah. I, uh- you probably have to fix the knots in my dress, though.”

The apocalypse makes you stop sweating stuff that doesn’t equate directly to the base level of survival, and you haven’t thought about the way you look in months, so why does this whole thing - this whole ‘looking good’ thing - start feeling so important so suddenly?

You look fine.

You look good.

Will Daryl think that, too?

Fuck. That’s why.

“Hell yeah let’s get into it then.”

You’re not sure how long she’s tugging the strings loose and tightening them again, much less the time she’s spent undoing them and doing them again. They’ll probably look better than what you can do, but then again, that’s a low bar to surpass since all the knots you know have been learned second-hand from her and Daryl. She’s probably putting them in the convoluted bows she’d learned from some dude named Tad, but if she wants to dress you like a pretty little present, you’ll let her.

And honestly, it feels kind of nice to be doted on.

Biting the inside of your cheek, you reach for the comb lying just a few inches from and work out the tangles in your hair as you try not to think too hard about how Daryl might react to this you. He’s seen you in dresses before, sure, but they’re winter jackets compared to this one. Especially the one stuffed into your closet on that first day you’d all made your ways through its walls.

Yeah, he’s in for a surprise.

It’s odd, the mixture of excitement and dread that settles into you on the realization that you're actually wearing this. God, the excitement feels almost like a kid getting a new toy and waiting for school to show everyone. But the dread? The dread is equally juvenile.

Nobody cares what you look like - much less Daryl, who’s probably seen you at the worst - and maybe that’s the problem.

Daryl doesn’t care what you look like, but you want him to. You want him to blush when he sees you - you want him to get so flustered that he stumbles over his words - and you want him to look at you and realize that all he wants to do is hold your hand and cup your cheek and kiss you.

“Right?”

You hum in agreement, not having listened to anything Rosita has said in the past couple of minutes, and you’re not sure she notices until she lets out a small huff of… semi-annoyance, maybe?

Turns out it’s a sound of accomplishment because then you feel her take a step back - can hear the squeak of your mattress as she takes a seat on you bed - and you turn your head around just enough to see a satisfied smile on her face, even though you would have heard it in the lilt of her words.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?”

Oh-

“No, I’m just thinking. Like, regular thinking. Not about him.”

After letting out a noise of disbelief, Rosita lies down, the bottom half of her body hanging off the bed and she stares at the little star stickers on your ceiling. She’ll never understand why you’d chosen to stay in the only room that screamed it was for kids - especially when Rick’s house had an extra room and Judith’s been falling asleep in your arms a lot more often in the past few days - but it wasn’t the first time you’d taken something solely because nobody else wanted it.

After all, how else did you end up becoming the closest thing Alexandria’s had to a paediatrician? You couldn’t pay Denise enough for her to agree on digging pebbles from the skin of those little demons even though she’d told them last visit to ‘be more careful’.

“You gonna piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining, too?

You put your comb down, a light scoff taking up the momentary silence, and pull out a drawer, the tiny trinkets of cat figurines and little houses tinking against each other as you dig through to find a hair tie.

Shit, where the fuck did you put your stash?

“Look, you look great, okay? Your boobs look great.”

Her phrasing makes you chuckle, and you roll your eyes, about to say something before a familiar one-two-three pattern raps at the door. That saccharine mixture of excitement and dread flares up again, and your body turns almost comically, pushing up and off the stool to grab a pair of clean socks without thinking twice.

Racing down the stairs, you try not to slip on the nearly frictionless contact of cotton and furnished hardwood on your way to the door. Daryl’s here - he’s here - and you can’t help the anticipation rising as you twist open the doorknob.

“Hey, sorry for bein’ early. I jus’ thought…”

But his words die in the middle of his throat when he trails his eyes up your body. It takes a second for him to recuperate - to remember what he wanted to say and that checking you out should be reserved to when he knows you’re not staring right at him - and he pulls together all the willpower he has to rip his attention from you and finish his sentence.

“There’d, uh, be less people. An’ we could, uh, bail earlier since Carol’s usin’ the grill now.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck he’s a mess, and he turns his head away from you so his hair covers the majority of his face. He doesn’t need you seeing how hard he’s clenching his jaw to make the blush on his cheeks disappear, nor does he need the sight of those cut-outs to burn themselves into his memory. They do it on their own accord, he swears.

But then you bend over, pulling on those combat boots he thinks look too damn good on you for no reason, and his eyes get drawn back by the movement of your loose hair. He’s never really seen your shoulders before - never seen those thin black knotted straps against you or how your shoulder blades flutter up beneath your skin as you tie the laces - and it’s driving him crazy like he’s a teenager who’s never touched a girl before.

“Hell yeah, let’s go!”

Clearing his throat, he follows you when you skip past him, pulling the door shut after you’d left it just a little open, a small smile threatening to form on his lips when he sees the grin on yours. He’s spent the last hour thinking about how you’d look in this dress, and it’s even more obvious to him than before that he’s really in it deep when not even his own imagination - it’s a runner when he lets it be - can’t hold a candle to what he’s seeing.

Just… God, you’re pretty.

“Oh, uh, thank you, Daryl. You’re pretty too.”

Shit, shit, shit did he say that out loud?

“Fuck, I- fuck- I’m sorry.”

Swallowing, he averts his eyes as you turn around to face him, sensing that infuriatingly cute rise of your brow and playful smile playing at your lips which makes him redden twofold. He wants to shrink into himself and disappear, but his stupid tongue keeps forming words and he can hear himself speak before he can even think twice about what’s escaping him.

“I mean, ya do look nice - like, pretty, I mean - but I just- I ain’t thinkin’ of ya like that.”

Though you’re blushing too, he doesn’t register that as he keeps his vision to the ground, too scared of what might greet him if he gives into the urge to look at you. There’s an amusement to you that he can sense - maybe even a satisfaction - and there’s an odd pleasure mixed in with the humiliation he’s feeling.

He knows you like teasing him - hell, Daryl likes teasing you more than he’d care to admit - but he can’t help but think you might be doing it for other reasons. Maybe you want to see him blush because you think it’s cute or because you have that little voice in you, too, that entertains the thought that he’s blushing because he thinks you’re serious - that he’s entertaining that same thought like you do.

“Like what?”

Like how he wants to take your hand in his and press kisses against each round of your knuckles. Or how he wants to wrap his hands around your waist and pull you sweet into a kiss that makes you forget your own name. Or how he wants to slip a hand into that stupidly distracting backless and grab a palmful of your ass and press up against you while wrapped up in your arms. Or how he wants you to let him bury his head in your chest and between your thighs and to let him draw splotches down your neck with his lips.

Fuck, stop thinking about all that shit.

“Like nothin’. Shut up.”

He hears you laugh and it’s like all his thoughts are wiped from him - at least, they’re all wiped for now, no doubt waiting for another late night to flare up again - and Daryl finally regains enough courage to look you in the eye. The second he does, a grin spreads across your cheeks and he wants to cry with how happy you look.

You don’t just look pretty, you look beautiful.

His heart pounds at the thought, and he misses the sound of Carol yelling for him. You catch it, though, and stare back at him. It’s not like him - he could pick up on the sound of a walker at double the distance she’s at right now - but nobody but him knows he’s too busy feeding his addiction to you to notice anyone else.

So you wait for him to react - to turn towards her and wave or nod or something - but it doesn’t come on the next step, or the next, or the next.

Then something washes over you - a confidence you’ve never felt before, brought on by the happy buzz of his attention - and you grab his hand, the juvenile rush of adrenaline shooting through you. For a second, he stutters, the warmth and feel of your hands making Daryl’s whole body short-circuit, but it’s just the shock he needs to get out of his haze.

He matches your steps soon enough, catching up to you even though he’d put on his unbroken nice jeans under Carol’s suggestion. God, he should’ve never told her about the fact he was going with you - well, he never told her specifically, but she’s a damn witch when it comes to reading people - because she’d dressed him up like she’d been waiting her whole life to.

“Hey there, lovebirds.”

Rolling his eyes at Carol, he lets go of your hand immediately, shoving his into his pockets and toeing at the dirt beneath his boots. He doesn’t look at you - the implication of the word lovebirds playing tricks on both his and your mind, conjuring up thoughts he’d already had too many fucking times today and making the two of you just flustered enough - but he wants to. You look too good not to want to.

“Wha’d'ya want?”

He prepares for another teasing remark - prepares to scoff at the smile that widens her lips and maybe even grab your hand to find a spot underneath a tree just to get away from her desire to embarrass him - but Rick calls your name before Carol can even say anything.

“Sorry, I didn’t think he’d… Just, uh, find a seat and I’ll meet you after I’m done, okay?”

Your touch at his shoulder as you speak makes him warm from the inside, and honestly, you could say anything and he’d nod along like a damn lovesick puppy. This instance is no exception, and for the first time since you’d held his hand, his eyes meet yours as he pulls his lips into a tight line.

A smile.

At least, the most he could muster up with all the people beginning to take up the field around him.

You’ve got too much power over him - then again, he’s known that since that first night you’d both spent stargazing in the prison field - and as you walk away, he’s stuck staring. The backless cut-out of your dress, the sway of your hips, the amount of leg he can see and how those damn socks cut mid-calf; he can’t do anything but stare.

Yeah, you’re fucking beautiful.

Scoffing, Carol reaches her tongs over to flip the slab of meat cooking on the grill, and she bites down a chuckle. How much longer did she have to wait until he picks up the courage to confess? The more time drags on, the more possible it is that Carl might get a girlfriend before him.

“Y’know what phrase pops into my mind when you have that look on your face? ‘Hate to see her go, but love to watch her leave.’”

Daryl’s whole being goes rigid at that, quick glares being thrown in every direction in case he needs to shut up any poor soul who had caught him. Thank God your back is to him - well, of course it is since that’s what he’s been fucking staring at - because shit, was he really that obvious? Or was Carol just being Carol and tapping into that scarily observant side of herself?

“I’m gon’ tell all them Alexandrians ya pissed in the stew.”

A little tilt of her head accompanies the chuckle bubbling up from her throat, and Carol reaches for the bowls next to her, ladling out two portions of said stew and throwing in your favourite spoon that Daryl had made a point to tell her about. It’s an ugly thing - probably made for a child with the airplane wings that sprout from the otherwise inconspicuous stainless steel - but he’d beamed with pride when he’d brought it back from a run. If you were anyone else, he probably wouldn’t have made the effort to care, much less remember, but he’d lamented over the loss when the prison fell.

You don’t hide your childish enjoyments, and at first he’d hated it - why the fuck did he have to ‘stop and smell the roses’ when you’d accompany him on hunts? Why did you lose your absolute shit over some dinosaur shaped handheld fan and beam so bright the whole day when you showed it to everyone? - but you were so warm and your smile was so breathtaking that the excitement painted on your face melted away his annoyance like ice cream in a Georgian summer. He’d do anything if it meant seeing that look on your face.

Raising an eyebrow, he takes the bowls from her hands and peers into them, jokingly studying the steaming liquid as if she really had let loose in it. Another spoon - one that’s ‘considerably less cool’, you’d probably say - gets dropped in the other when Carol manages to calm the fire burning high underneath a slab of meat.

“This a threat?”

Only then does she notice the false distrust slathered over his expression, and she rolls her eyes, plating two huge slices of venison.

“Might be if you don’t tell her how nice she looks today.”

Memories of just moments ago flare up like an unwanted rash, and he has to suppress a groan, staring off into the distance and onto you at her suggestion. You do look fucking nice, and he wished he’d told tell you when his mind wasn’t drunk off devouring the way you looked and embarrassed himself.

“Would do it if I didn’t already.”

Oh, that takes Carol by surprise and she can’t help but grin at that. It’s a step - a tiny step, sure - for Daryl’s courage when it comes to you, but it’s gotten to a point where she’d rather pat him on the back for even doing something than push him towards discomfort.

“Wow, you’re manning up, huh?”

Daryl bumps her shoulder with his and scoffs, eyes off you and taking a deep pull of the stew in order to cover up how flustered he’s getting thinking about how exactly the compliment tumbled out of his mouth.

A line for food starts forming after a few more exchanges - ‘called her pretty’, ‘‘pretty’, and not ‘nice’?’, ‘kinda jus’ slipped out’, cue a wide grin from Carol - and the real implications of going to a social gathering start settling in him. Jesus Christ, there’s people now. So many people. It makes him want to fold into himself.

Glancing over, he’s surprised to see you looking at him from so far away, and he bites down a wave of satisfaction when a disappointed expression rides over the guy you're talking to’s face. You’ve said something - Daryl watches your lips move, and even though he tries his damndest, he can’t read them - but it doesn’t matter in the end because you’re gone from that guy before Daryl can even think about finding a spot to sit down.

It mustn’t have been a thrilling conversation considering how readily you get the fuck out of there, and a dull throb of jealousy threatens to take over when he catches the guy’s stare trail up your legs. He has no authority to feel like this - you’re not his, and he’d rather jump into a pit of walkers than tell you what you should be doing - but God fucking damn it is that feeling persistent.

It’s persistent enough that he nearly drops the carefully stacked bowls, recovering only a second later after half-stumbling over some stupid rock that has no business sticking out so much. Some stew spills out onto the grass, some onto the skin exposed from his unbuttoned sleeves, and he has to hold himself back from shaking his arm to rid the quick flash liquid heat. It’s not particularly hot, it's just the surprise that gets him.

He swears beneath his breath as the temperature settles, and he shakes the bangs from his face before he turns in your direction. Looking for you in a crowd - the action is so familiar to him that he seeks it out without a second thought.

“Nice recovery. D’you use to be a busboy or something?”

Your voice shocks him, and he nearly recoils from the weight of your words, an embarrassment so heavy ripping down his throat when he realizes how stupid he must have looked stumbling over his feet. Jesus Christ, when the fuck did you get so close? And how the fuck did he miss you?

Swallowing, he holds out your bowl, nudging it into your hands before turning around and slumping into a sit against a tree. Your skirt sways in the Virginian breeze, and you press your free hand down to keep the fabric against your thighs before you let out a dejected huff and decide to take a seat next to him, resting your head against the bark and nearly lolled over onto his shoulder as you carefully cross your legs.

“A place’d have to be real desperate to hire someone wit’ a mug like mine.”

Daryl’s fingers play at the corner of his bowl, his right hand coming up to wipe at his chin in a nervous tick he’s never quite grown out of when he notices how close your face is to him. Your lip quirks up at his words, and you pull away, turning to look at him and pretending to study each curve and slope of his face before a smile breaks.

“Weren’t you blonde as a kid? Girls like that. Plus you give off bad boy vibes. I think a place would be smart to hire you.”

There’s a dry chuckle that wants to worm its way out from Daryl’s throat, and he’s helpless to it, feeling it rock his shoulders against the bark behind him. Shaking his head, he looks over at you, raising an eyebrow, attempting to decipher that look on your face - attempting to figure out whether or not you’re joking about him being attractive because there’s no way in hell someone like you would think he could be - but your smile is so genuine it makes him want to melt.

It’s moments like these when he wants to just fucking tell you how much you mean to him - where he wants to pull you into his lap and push his chin up against that curve of your neck and press a kiss against your cheek - but the feeling always ends in a scorching disappointment, and it settles in now. It makes him angry at himself because God fucking damn it why can’t he just confess?

Pulling his foot closer, he rests the hand holding his bowl on his bent knee and runs his free fingers through his hair, scoffing back a response that has more amusement lacing it than he’d expected.

“Bad boy? ‘Cause I ride a motorcycle? You’re ridiculous.”

Daryl hears you laugh lightly from next to him, and he shakes his swept back bangs back into his face to stop the smile from its stubborn battle onto it. There are so many people around. There are many people staring at him - or you, or the tree, or not even because maybe his nerves are making him irrational - and he clenches his jaw. When are people going to stop looking at him like some animal? Just because he’s never really shown up to anything like this and never really talked to them doesn’t mean he’s some alien.

Noticing the tensing of his shoulders, you nudge him, the sharp part of your elbow digging into his ribs, and he’s broken out of that cloud of gray you can feel looming over him. You used to think he was the hardest person to read - with him responding to your questions in grunts most of the time, and the fact he’d had a permanent scowl on his face for the first two weeks of talking to each other, how could you not? - but now, you’d have to be blind to think he’s anything but an open book. Or, a slightly ajar book.

“They’re always starin’ like I pissed in their cereal or somethin’.”

You pull your eyes off Daryl long enough to take a quick scan of the open field - there are families sat on blankets taking the opportunity to imitate picnics from before the world fell, women and men seated on huge wooden patio benches swapping stories over bottles of beer, children playing tag as they all run across the slightly uneven ground - but you catch a couple of people looking over to where the both of you are sitting.

There’s only about 3 or 4 people standing there, but staring is staring, and staring is uncomfortable no matter how many people are doing it.

“They’ve probably never seen you cleaned up so nicely before.”

But you can’t blame them because Daryl looks fucking good and you would be staring too if he wasn’t sitting so close to you that it would make you feel weird above all else. Stupid tight jeans. Stupid freshly showered hair that falls onto his face just right. Stupid unbuttoned flannel sleeves showing his biceps that he just can’t button because he’s really that muscular.

Pressing your thighs together, you tear your eyes from him, refusing to let your mind wander. Don’t think about how nice his hair would feel between your fingers, or how nice his body would feel on top of yours - or under it. Just stop.

God, when will the suffering end?

“Carol pointed a hose at me when I left ya. Wasn’t gon’ let her spray me down in the yard like no damn mutt.”

You remind yourself to try and find another one of those chocolate bars Carol likes when you realize it’s her handiwork that makes you want to push yourself onto his lap. Of course it was Carol. When you had zoned out and stared at Daryl when he first wore that dark blue flannel, it was on that one morning watch with her.

You fiddle with the spoon sitting in the bowl on your lap, and your eyes meet the group of women chatting behind decorative glasses that remind you of family gatherings. They’re looking in your direction, taking only a second of glance at you before you realize their attention isn’t surprise at Daryl, but desire for him. There’s that look in their eyes - that unmistakable glint you’d held your drunk friends back from acting on at bars and nightclubs - and you shift in your seat, scooting closer to him. Reaching out, you pull his attention using one of his undone flannel sleeves, and open your mouth to speak.

“There’re some girls looking at you.”

Turning to face you, he follows your line of sight and sees the group you’re talking about. The second his eyes connect with one of theirs, they avert their glances, and he watches your head turn from looking at them, back to him, then back to them.

“I think they were checking you out, Daryl.”

A noise breaks from his throat and he catches himself wanting to laugh. He nearly does, honestly, when he sees that you’re serious. Averting his eyes, he shoves a spoon-torn piece of venison into his mouth, and misses the fact one of the women searches him out. You catch her, though - especially the way that looks sparks back up like flint - and you gnaw at your lip, her look dissipating the second she realizes it’s just you.

Then something settles in you, twisting in your chest and wringing out a tightening in your jaw, rearing its green head from behind your usual indifference. Fuck, what the hell is going on? You grip harsher at the edge of your bowl, staring down at the black fabric hugging your thighs, and the thought that you’d been stupid to wear this - that the compliment he’d given you was just courtesy - rips through your mind.

They’re beautiful, those women.

How could you compare to them?

Daryl looks over at you after wiping his mouth, expecting to see you already dug into the stew as well, but instead you’re just staring into it, that frustratingly cute look of concentration and thinking that you usually have when you’re trying to figure something out. He highly doubts you have much interest in what’s in the stew - you’re not touching your precious novelty spoon, after all - and though almost every inch of your face is familiar to him, there’s something off that he can’t quite pinpoint.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

Humming, you look over at him and shake your head as a quiet ‘nothing’s wrong’ is breathed out of you. Taking your spoon between your fingers, you fidget with it, nails dragging across the wings protruding from the spoon, and Daryl notices the unsurety like a moth to a flame. It’s almost like you don’t even want to say what you’re planning to, but before he can say anything, you beat him to it.

“They’re pretty aren’t they?”

He furrows his eyebrows at that, his eyes flicking over to the women you’re talking about and he shrugs. He doesn’t care, really. He’s never cared about the way someone looked if they weren’t you, but for the first time in months, you misread his actions. Jealousy blinds you for a second - the flare of it foreign as it makes you misinterpret his shrug of indifference for a mask of his interest - and you tilt your head in their direction, trying to ease an encouraging smile onto your face no matter how fake it may be.

“Why don’t you go talk to them?”

If his brows could furrow any more, his face would crumple inwards on himself. Why doesn’t he-?

Because they’re not you, that’s why. But he guesses he hasn’t been obvious enough about that.

“I ain’t interested in ‘em. You know that.”

Daryl doesn’t lie to you. He never does, and your blind faith - your blind hope - binds you to your belief in him. It’s like a weight is lifted from your chest, and you let out a small relieved exhale, biting the inside of your cheek to suppress it as much as you can. You realize he’s studying you when his eyes don’t leave your face, and in an effort to deflect his attention, you bump his shoulder with yours, a lopsided smile spreading on your features that knocks his breath out cold.

A pleasant wave of wordlessness washes over the two of you for a while, only the sounds of your airplane spoon scraping dull against the dark wood of your bowl and plate along with the mingling people taking up what could’ve been silence. It’s more peaceful than anything - sitting out in the setting sun with Daryl? There aren’t many opportunities for that anymore - and when you glance over at him, his eyes are closed, lips pouted as he tries his hardest to doze off, and God, he’s so pretty.

You tear yourself from him to keep from staring, chewing almost mechanically on the venison in your mouth, and you catch the group of women looking back at Daryl. The slight jealousy returns, sure, but it seems slightly quelled - calmed by the replaying reassurance in his voice. To the left of them is the new group of people that had joined under a week ago, though, it feels odd to call them ‘new’ considering they’d just gotten back from a run for Alexandria. If Rick keeps throwing newcomers into the ring so quickly, he might have to have more of these bonfires to keep them from revolting.

One of them nods towards you, tipping his beer in your direction, and it takes a second for you to register the fact it’s even for you. Common courtesy drives you to wave back in acknowledgment, and after another second of looking at him, you realize it’s that completely boring some-type of engineer Rick had introduced you to earlier. No, wait, he wasn’t an engineer, was he? Jesus, you can’t even remember his name let alone his previous career field, only that you had jumped at the first opportunity to leave that God-forsaken droll he’d considered a conversation.

Averting your eyes, you take another sip of your stew before you hear Daryl shift slightly next to you. You look over, fully expecting him to question you about that man - it’s only fair after what you’d asked him with the whole thing about his interest in those women - but he’s still on his stubborn quest of taking just one damn nap.

His mouth parts only slightly to breathe, and you watch his chest rise and fall. Three buttons at the top are unbuttoned, giving you a full view of the stretch of his collarbones and that little bit of the slight inwards dent of his pecs, and you bite the inside of your lip when he shifts again, the fabric of the flannel moving downwards in accordance. It doesn’t help that his arms are folded over, either. Daryl’s already large biceps are straining against the inside of his sleeves and displaying to you - almost tempting you with - each curve of him.

He’d make you feel so damn safe in his arms, you just know it.

As if he can sense you, he stirs awake - he wasn’t ever sleeping, to be fair, so maybe it’s more of a ‘stops trying to take a nap’ - and a grunt drags your stare up to his face, the cerulean of him meeting you head-on.

“Need somethin’?”

Eyes widening, you shake your head, still-damp hair thankfully falling into your face to cool the heat of your rising blush. Jesus, you’ve never been so distracted by him before, and it’s not like anything about him’s changed. It’s just him that’s distracting.

“No, uh, you just have something on your face.”

It’s not a lie - he does have a small speck of potato underneath his stupidly attractive cheekbone from how voraciously he eats - but you’re nervous deep down that he’ll realize it wasn’t that you were staring at.

Though, you start to regret telling him because he darts his tongue out, licking determinedly at the corner of his mouth, and it makes you think of other uses for that pink muscle. A lump forms in your throat, and when you catch those women watching him so intently, your body moves on its own accord to free you from your own thoughts. Reaching over, you thumb at the piece of potato, wiping it off his face and onto the red rag lying across his upper thigh, stuffed in his pockets.

To say Daryl freezes would be an understatement. No, he doesn’t just freeze, he feels like his whole body’s dipped into absolute zero, but his mind is hazy and short-circuiting almost pathetically from your actions. He can still feel the slight warmth of your hand on his face and on his thighs, and he has to clench his jaw to keep it from falling open. Did you just-

What the hell just happened?

He blinks once, then twice, then three times in rapid succession to have his brain boot back into working order, and he swallows the spit trapped in his throat. It was so simple, your touch, and it lasted less than a few seconds, but damn it he wishes you would have touched him for longer.

You hear him gulp - it’s almost comical how loud it is - but you’re still reeling from that you just did, too. Has jealousy made you bold? You keep yourself from looking at him, and a tenseness settles in the air around the two of you. He shifts against the tree, you shove a piece of venison in your mouth, and before Daryl can open his mouth to break the tension of silence, you can hear both your names being called by Maggie and Glenn.

Framed by the sunset, they close the distance between the four of you, Maggie waving and you waving back. It’s only then when he finally builds enough courage to glance over at you, the smile on your face so warm it melts him from his sub-zero freeze.

Daryl’s not good at emotion, but he knows he shouldn’t mind that the couple - who are his friends - are here talking to you. Well, and him, but all Glenn is getting about the run in a few days is a couple of grunts of agreement as he only vaguely hears what Glenn’s saying. His brain is much too focused on the still lingering buzz he feels from you.

God, he’s pathetic, isn’t he? With him biting his lip to stop that pleasant buzz from the memory, and the fact his brain is running a mile a minute creating reasons why you’d want to touch him like that - maybe even why you’d want to do it again.

No, he needs to stop thinking about it. You just care about him, that’s all. That’s it.

Before Daryl realizes, Glenn has stopped trying to talk to him, and instead chimes into whatever conversation you’re having with Maggie. He envies Glenn to a degree, he supposes. What, with Glenn’s stupid ability to hold the woman he loves in his arms and the fact he can go back to her after a long day instead of just imagining or wishing he could.

Grunting, Daryl shifts in his seat and your head whips around to him, an ingrained habit from being his choice run partner, and he sputters when your hair hits him in his face. Eyes widening slightly, you pull your hair to one side, interrupting Carl’s entrance into the four - three, actually, since Daryl isn’t contributing much, or at all - person conversation with an apology.

“Tryna kill me?”

Daryl’s under-the-breath barely reaches your ears - with the two of you sitting on the ground, too, there’s even less of a chance that the other three can hear him - and you bite back a smile at the ease that settles in his voice.

“I’d miss you too much to.”

Scoffing, he can’t help the warmth flooding his chest with how genuine you sound. The off-handed, sickeningly sweet of your remark mixed with the image of you threading your fingers through your hair when you turn back away from him makes him remember something, and he reaches into his jean’s pocket then, fishing out an old - well-loved, your voice in his head states - scrunchie.

You’d left it at his house just a few days ago when you’d stayed the night - ‘I only got one bed, an’ it ain’t right for me to let ya sleep on the couch’ to which you’d argued, but crashed the second your head hit his pillow - and he’d meant to give it back when he found it, but he’d left it on his workbench. Just to look at that little token of you.

Tapping your shoulder, he holds it out, nudging the light blue imitation satin to you when Carl gets into a debate with Glenn over some history of a character in the comic books they both read until the spines want to crumple. You take it from him, your fingertips brushing against his for just a second, and he watches as you tie your hair up, a sarcastic remark about how nerdy they both are escaping your lips and he can’t help the clench of his heart at how beautiful you look in the setting sun.

Half an hour passes with easy conversation - even Daryl’s pitching in an amusing remark or two every now and then - and Carol brings more food for the few of you. Between your stupid tangents of long-forgotten movies, you’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts, and your cheeks threaten to split from how wide you’re smiling. Jesus, this is nice. So fucking nice.

Though, Maggie’s bladder pulls her attention, and you accompany her when she leaves to use the bathroom, your house being the closest to the tree you and Daryl have now staked claim over. Your throat dries up at the thought of the water it knows is just in the canteen in your kitchen, and you can only imagine how thirsty Daryl might be after scarfing down almost all his food in the matter of a few minutes. He still has to work on the huge chunk of bread Carol gave him, too.

You’re almost at your door when an unfamiliar voice calls your names, and by habit alone, you turn your head to face the sound, head reels back when they touch the bare skin of your shoulder. Does personal space not mean any-

Oh, it’s him - boring engineer dude with a penchant for talking your ear off about modifications to the filtration system that you and Eugene have already made.

Eyes flicking from the hand on your shoulder to the hand holding a cup of what looks like liquor, you take a step back from him, shaking his unwelcome touch from your body. Men you don’t know put you on edge - especially in this world - and men with alcohol? There’s no way in hell you’re letting your guard down.

Maggie looks back at you when she realizes you’re not right behind her, and pauses in the middle of turning your doorknob. Raising a brow, she questions you without words, and you recognize the concern immediately. She’s offering an out - a ‘just give me a sign and I’m making it an emergency’ - but you wave her off, letting her enter your house while you choose the diplomacy of entertaining his slightly tipsy rambling. The conversation seems innocent enough, save for the obvious show that he’s trying to impress you with his apparent ‘love for nature’, and you wait patiently for a lull to make your escape.

It should come soon.

Please come soon.

Just a few yards away, Daryl’s about to break his goddamn metal spoon in half, already having bent it slightly as it acquiesces to his tight grip and overheated skin, and he tears chunks off the bread in his hands. Shifting in his seat, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, clearing his throat and nearly choking on whatever the hell Carol had put in this stew that tastes like nothing but his own bitter jealousy at this point.

You’re talking to someone - that same fucking someone who had checked you out when you’d walked away from your conversation with him - and that prick is laughing. His body is bent backwards with the force of it, his arms crossed over one another with a quarter-filled cup of liquor in his hands, and Daryl can’t help but notice the way he leans forwards to flash that stupid, polished smile at you. He remembers meeting people like that in the old world, and he remembers the way they treated him, too.

What a fucking asshole.

Popping the last piece of venison into his mouth, he pulls his rag out of his pocket, the memory of your thumb against his cheek surging forward to replace his seething thought with something much more pleasant. He bites the inside of his lips - pulls his legs to his chest - and just glares in the direction of the guy talking to you.

‘You’re doing that thing you always do’, you’d probably tell him, and, shit, what was that thing again?

Oh right, brooding.

He’d told you it’s just the face he was born with, but there was something so nice about knowing you’d paid enough attention to him to find patterns.

At least, he broods until you make a motion to leave, watching the small wave you give to that prick - a small wave that’s so different than the huge waves you’d made for him after leaving his house - and Daryl clenches his jaw, an odd sense of pride making him push himself up from the tree trunk and away from whatever the hell Abraham and Rosita had entered the conversation to talk about so he can get to you.

A turn of your body makes your skirt flutter around your thighs, and as much as Daryl wishes he could say his eyes get drawn to your ass by the movement only, he knows he’d be lying to himself. But then something happens - an unfamiliar hand stretches into the frame of his pinpointed focus - and a flash of anger rockets through him.

Did someone just-

Turning his attention, he follows the length of the arm, that flash rising to an incessant burning throb when he realizes the hand belongs to that fucking asshole making a move to grab you. To make things worse, judging by the way he turns to shamelessly talk to the other men standing around him after doing it, he doesn’t seem to think anything about that is wrong.

Daryl can feel his blood pressure skyrocketing as his steps gain traction, the stupid jeans he’s wearing digging into his calves, and Jesus fucking Christ is he overheating.

“Hey! Did you jus’ try an’ touch ‘er?”

The douchebag’s arms are folded over his chest like he has no care in the world - the sight causing so many of those patient warnings about anger control you’d spoken to him over stitches to spiral in Daryl’s head - but as he smiles and looks in the direction of your house, the tightening of Daryl’s sleeves around his built biceps pale in comparison to the fact he almost rips the skin in his palms from how hard he’s clenching his fists at his sides.

“Hell yeah I did. You see her? Got her ass hanging out of that dress and bruises all over her knees.”

That first sentence already stings - the casualness of it makes Daryl think he could bite through his own bottom jaw then still have the strength to lunge at the drunk, sorry excuse of a man after it - and all he can think about is how that fucking asshole has some fucking nerve speaking those words about you with a tone like that. He was right - what a fucking jerk.

“You think a woman like that does shit outside these walls? Those bruises are from something else, trust me. And showing them off like that?”

Daryl hears him scoff - watches him rub his free hand through his beard and throw his head back - and the anger trapped in his veins boils and boils and boils at the insinuations of those words and the laughter from the limp-dick posse behind him. The goddamn fucking audacity of this prick to even think that you-

“She’s just begging for it, don’t you think?”

Oh.

Oh.

A long time ago, you were nothing to Daryl - just a pretty girl with a voice that made him act like a mutt to a dog-whistle - but now you’re nearly everything to him. Every smile makes his heart hurt, every laugh makes his chest well up with something warm and pleasant, and hearing someone talk about you like the way he’s hearing now makes him want to commit acts of incredible violence on whoever’s mouth is moving.

Daryl’s never liked locker room bullshit - not about anyone - and you’re no exception.

No, not about you.

Especially not about you.

Fuck anger control. Fuck diplomacy. Fuck everything but giving this bastard what he deserves.

“The only thing ya know is how to be a goddamn asshole. Best learn how to shut the hell up and keep your hands to your damn self if ya know what’s good for ya.”

It’s more mumbled out than anything, Daryl’s own sheer willpower keeping his hands from making contact with the asshole’s jaw, and he surprises himself with the fact he doesn’t jump straight into something like he would before the world fell.

“Fuck’s your problem, man? It’s not like I’m looking for a wife or anything. You can have a turn after I’m done with her.”

You can have a turn after I’m done with her?

Does this bastard not have an ounce of regret? Of shame? Of decency? To say that about you as if you’re just some- some-

You’re too good for the beer-breathed man in front of him - for everyone in this hellhole - and the day he lets someone run their mouth about you is a day where Daryl has already died. Not about you.

“Don’t talk about ‘er like that, you fuckin’ asshole! She ain’t never gon’ fall into bed with ya. Y’ain’t worth a second’a her goddamn time.”

The aggression in Daryl’s voice is too obvious to miss, and as he shifts his weight from one tattered work boot to the other, he doesn’t even notice that his words surprise the man in front of him or that there’s a small crowd watching behind their decorative glass cups. Daryl doesn’t notice because he’s already counting the steps it’ll take to close the distance. It’s only three - two if he lunges on the last step - and that fact gets more and more persistent when that prick speaks again.

“Yeah? Well it doesn’t look like you’re worth it either. Girls like that need a man to fuck ‘em right. Not some pussy-whipped little boy who wants to kiss the ground they wal-”

Turns out Daryl could make it with one good lunge.

His fist collides with the asshole’s jaw in milliseconds, the pivot of his torso making his button-up shirt tighten around his ribs when he takes the fucker down in a tackle, but he can’t register anything except the anger thrumming through every inch of his skin. A bar fight - that’s the closest thing Daryl can relate this to as his veins purely burst through his skin from boiling over - and he’s got a number of them under his belt.

“Don’t,”

A warm rush of blood covers Daryl’s knuckles when he happily takes a swing at the aquiline nose, but he doesn’t mind. No, he likes it - it makes him feel satisfied - and maybe he should be scared that he does. But still, he takes another.

“Ever,”

Unsurprisingly, there’s a commotion now - doors are being flung open as people race to catch a look or to get away and a crowd much bigger than the one before surrounding him - but he’s seeing so much red you’d think he’s the one taking a beating. Fisting the collar of the man underneath him, Daryl pulls him close, real close so the asshole can really, really take in his next few words, and he’s deaf to the sound of your door squeaking open.

“Talk about no one like that again, y’hear?”

You round the corner then, canteen slung over your chest and sprinting towards the mass of people and eyes absent of the horror and fear on everyone else’s since you don’t know what's going on. All you know is this - this drunken, macho-man cheering frat boy bullshit - reminds you of those fights Daryl used to get into when you were all still at the prison. Keyword, ‘used to’ because he’s better than that.

Weaving through the crowd, you finally make it to the center at the same time Abraham does, and your face falls when you recognize the shag of brown hair and the undone sleeves of that dark flannel.

Damn it. Scratch off ‘used to’.

Nobody wants to get involved - Daryl’s always been scary to them, even more so now that the muscles of his biceps almost tear through the poor seams of fabric lining his arms - and their fear of him grows.

He could be half-God - he’s built more like it than anyone else you’ve seen - and the sight shines like a vision from the coliseums.

You run forward without a second thought, the skirt of your dress flitting in the breeze generated from your sprint, and you hook your arm underneath Daryl’s elbow when he raises it for another strike. He turns his head then, a sharp twist of his neck bearing the weight of a glare that makes everybody stutter their breath, but his actions stop the second his eyes land on you.

And on your face? You should be pissed - it should be written all over you - but instead there’s nothing. Not a wrinkle of anger on your forehead, and it shocks him still.

The fucker gets a good punch in then - a sharp crack across his jaw sends Daryl almost flying out of your hold - but you pull him away before he can retaliate, the lull of action causing the man underneath him to pause, too. You can feel the heat radiating off Daryl as he gets up, fire threatening to burn everyone in his pure emotion, and though both he and you both know he could easily break free from you, he steadies himself, gathering the blood rushing to his mouth before turning away from you and spitting onto the ground.

His head lifts after that, eyes meeting yours from beneath the shaggy bangs fallen against his face, and he sheds his vest. Holding it, his hand juts out for you to take it, and you just look at him, trying to gauge what the hell you’d just walked - ran - into as everyone just stares back and forth between the man on the ground and the two of you. It can’t have been for no reason. Daryl’s stopped doing shit for no reason a long time ago.

“Put this on.”

Scrunching your brows, you bite back your questioning as you take the leather from him, following his quick steps as he shoves his way through the crowd. It’s not like it takes much work, anyways. They part for him like the sea did for Moses, just less reverential in sight.

“Daryl- are- are you okay?”

“Doin’ Georgia fuckin’ peachy.”

But there’s blood on his knuckles - there’s blood on his cheek from where he’d wiped it away when it had rushed from his nose - and you reach out for him, a tightening in your chest rising from your need to make sure he’s okay.

“Let me look at-“

Before you can finish your sentence, he stops and grabs you instead, his warm grasp loose around your wrist before he lets go. There’s a seriousness in his eyes - a determination but in a way that’s much more different than the one laced with violence you’d seen just moments ago - and when he speaks, that rough Southern drawl imitates the look.

“Punch me. Right arm.”

What?

When you don’t swing immediately, he squares himself straight at you, nodding at his arms which are lifted into those cupped palms you used to strike when you’d first asked him to teach you to fight.

“C’mon, right arm.”

It only takes a second for you to react - only takes a second for you to put one foot behind the other, to pivot your torso in that familiar 90° torsion and then to strike - and damn it, it feels weird. It feels stupid because Daryl’s never second-guessed your competence even though you had so many times before.

“Now left.”

Again?

He doesn’t move - shoulders wide and square - and you’re vaguely aware of the commotion going on behind you. It’s odd, though. Daryl’s looking in their direction as he watches you, but it’s almost like he’s purposely unaware of it.

And maybe he is. Maybe he doesn’t want to see it. Not when it makes his blood boil. He doesn’t want to see anyone - anything - that isn’t you.

“I said left.”

Jesus fucking-

You can’t help the rush of impatience washing through you, but you swing at him anyways. The quickest option to getting that goddamn blood off his hands and checking if he’s torn open any of his skin is if you entertain whatever this is, and God, what is this?

Nodding to himself, he takes a step towards you, wrapping your wrists in his hands and he pulls you closer, leaning in so his face is just inches from yours.

“Don’t let anyone disrespect ya, y’understand?”

Why is he looking at you like that? Like you’re the only thing that matters to him? Your heart rate picks up, the cerulean of him stealing your breath as it holds your gaze, and your impatience melts away with the concern painted in them.

“D-Daryl-“

His grip only tightens, and a heat begins coating your cheeks - begins clouding your brain and making you forget about everything except how nice he smells and how nice he looks - and you stare back, wide-eyed.

“An’ if they keep botherin’ ya - keep- keep callin’ ya names an’ sayin’ shit to ya - come get me so I can knock their teeth into their throats. It don’t matter where I am, alright? Come and get me an’- an’ I’ll make sure they get what they deserve.”

He doesn’t seem to notice your fluster - he never does when he’s the reason why - and you’re so caught up in digesting his words all you do is blink. One, two, then three, but Daryl’s urgency is cutting his patience short.

“D’y’understand?”

Nodding, you urge yourself to speak - the first syllable of his name forming on your tongue - but a nod doesn’t satisfy him. Not when the bastard who’d tried to lay a hand on you is going to be around. Maybe not around you, but he’ll still be around, and that sets Daryl on edge.

“Do you understand?”

Only when he actually hears you does he let go, and it shocks you, how quickly he drops your hands. A moment passes - your mouth hung open like one of those terrifying angler fish because what the actual fuck is going on with Daryl? - before you realize he’s turned away from you, grumbling a swear and using his long legs to cut the distance to his house.

His strides are your light jog, and a million questions run through your head as you try to catch up to him. You still haven’t figured out why he’d thrown those punches - why he made sure you still could - or why he’d made such a big deal about being the one you come to when someone disrespects you.

God, you really can’t have a peaceful dinner, can you?

Daryl pulls his front door open just as you catch up to him, and you follow him down the basement stairs by habit alone. He’s silent the whole way down - honestly, from the second you’d shucked off your shoes at the doorway, you hadn’t expected anything different - but what you didn’t expect was to see him pacing in front of his couch, the slightly-cleaner-of-blood heels of his palms pressed against his forehead.

He’s never been this angry before - this furious before - in the whole time you’ve known him. Even when that mousey-faced asshole swung at Glenn, you’ve never seen him boiled over in so much red it could be narrowly mistaken for bloodlust.

“What the hell is going on with you, Daryl?”

Your voice shocks him out of a spiral, and even though he tries, he can’t even string together an answer. He can’t string together an answer because what’s he supposed to say?

“I- fuck- I-“

‘I saw somebody tryna slap your ass and heard him talkin’ ‘bout you like you were just some thing to fuck an’ it made me see red ‘cause I love you so fuckin’ much I can’t think properly sometimes.’? No, that won’t work, he knows that, so he stands there, clenching his eyes in frustration, and seethes at his fumbling tongue and trembling hands.

You close the distance then, gliding your socked feet along his furnished wood floor instead of lifting them to take steps, and you reach for his shoulder. Daryl stiffens when he feels you, not from the tension already in his body, but from how gently you touch him, and when he opens his eyes, his chest clenches in a way that’s all too familiar to him.

“Let me look at you.”

Jesus, you’re too good for him - what, with the small smile on your face and the care in your eyes and your goddamn patience that makes him want to throw up because damn it you’re too good for everyone - and he lets you do just that. He can never deny you. Not when you’re looking at him like that, or when you sound like that.

So he follows as you guide him into his bedroom. He follows when you ask for him to sit down on the stool at his workbench, and he watches you as you manoeuvre your way through his house as if it were your own. It could be, he supposes. There’s nothing he has that isn’t yours. At least, there’s nothing he has that he wouldn’t give you in a heartbeat.

There’s still a simmer of anger in him, he can’t deny that, but as you hold his hand in yours, his body between your legs as you sit between a bowl of warm water and a couple of spare motorcycle parts on his workbench, it shrinks and shrinks and shrinks until he can’t think of anything but the way you hadn’t left him.

You weren’t scared of him now, even though every goddamn person there had avoided him like he was the walker virus personified. You weren’t scared of him then, either - even though he’d pushed you away, grumbling and swearing and hating that you were every single thing he wanted - and it feels much too familiar to be in this situation.

But it’s been so long. It’s been so damn long since he’d seen red like that. Daryl was better than that - was better than those fucking anger issues that ran so boldly in the Dixon genes - or, at least he tried to be.

You definitely thought he was. But when he notices your wrists are red - that he can’t even really remember grabbing your arm and leaving that asshole’s blood on your skin - it settles in him that maybe he isn’t. That maybe he’ll never be, and that maybe he’ll never be what you deserve.

“Son’uv’a bitch.”

You retract the towel from him thinking you’d hurt him, draping it across the lip of the bowl of hot water, and you pull his hand close to your face, examining it and trying to figure out where the broken skin is. You can only assume it’s pure luck that he hasn’t sprained anything with the force of which he was swinging at the dude’s face, but it looks like none of the blood on Daryl’s knuckles are his own.

“Sorry. Jus’- jus’- sorry.”

Nodding, you bite the inside of your cheek and finish in silence, only stopping when his familiar work-calloused hands are in yours. You should pull away - should let go of him - but instead, you hold him like he had you, running your thumbs into his palms.

“Are you gonna tell me what happened, Daryl?”

Why… why are you looking at him like that?

You’re making it hard for him to think when you do that.

You make it hard for him to think when you’re just you.

Shifting, he swallows hard, clenching his jaw as that anger rears its head again. Is he seething? He could be from just the memory of that prick and he hates it. He hates that he wants to tell you everything.

“That- that- that asshole was talkin’ like- like you- like-“

Daryl pulls himself off his seat, the warmth of his hands escaping yours so they can return to those spots on his forehead he might be indenting with how hard his frustration is making him press into his own skull, and when he doesn’t speak again, you urge him on with your own words.

“Like what?”

Looking over, he sees you there, sitting so pretty on his workbench, your palms pressing the fabric of your dress down between your thighs to cover yourself, and it makes the rush of that asshole’s words twist his stomach until he feels sick.

Yeah, he’s seething.

“Like you were some piece’a meat, d’ya get it? Like you were beggin’ for it! He- he said you got them bruises in your knees from suckin’ dick and- fuck.”

The truth rushes out without much thought - a boiling over that just drowns his desire to do anything but tell you everything - and his paces get faster, so does the blood rushing through his veins, and his breathing? It’s hard to miss when his chest expands and heaves every time.

And yeah, the words hurt - they do more than sting like they did when you’d first heard them come from college boys and disrespectful coworkers - but it doesn’t matter when Daryl looks like he might pop a vein or two or seven. You can handle yourself, and you can handle that asshole when you see him again. He doesn’t need to be fighting your fights for you, and he sure as hell doesn’t need to be this angry for you.

But in an odd way, you like his attention - like the fact he’d be so furious at someone for saying stuff like that to you - even though you tell him to ‘calm down’. Even though you’re sure he’d do this for anyone he considered a friend.

“Calm down? Ya want me to ‘calm down’?”

You’re not sure what you’d expected - Daryl’s never exactly been the type to just drop something - but there’s still that edge in his voice and it catches you off guard. Usually, he’s more level-headed than this. Usually, he doesn’t run shit into the ground.

“Y’ain’t hearin’ me or nothin’? That asshole was talkin’ ‘bout fuckin’ ya like you were some toy that he’d pass around to whatever other prick wanted ya!”

Usually, he doesn’t explode at you.

At least, not when you don’t deserve it, and right now? You know you don’t.

Swallowing, you swing your legs, contemplating whether or not you should hop off and approach him. His voice is loud and gravelly and when he looks at you, you can understand why those Alexandrians had stayed stuck in their shoes when the fight broke out. Maybe once upon a time you’d cower like them until the aggression in his expression shrank away, but you’re much different than the person you were even a month ago, let alone the person you were when you’d first met him.

“Look, I appreciate you defending me,“

So you hop off, sliding off slowly as you speak, your voice coming out steady. There’s no condescension in it - no superiority, and certainly none of whatever you’d used with misbehaving children that he’d heard one too many times when you were talking to Carl as the kid begged you not to tell Rick about something he did - and it doesn’t shatter when he mumbles a ‘well it sure don’t sound like it’ underneath his breath. He knows you hear it from the way one of your eyebrows quirks upwards, but you keep talking as you take a step towards him.

“I appreciate you defending me, but I don’t need you getting into these pointless fights.”

Pointless?

Pointless?

He could make a list of things in this world that are pointless, and this wouldn’t even show up.

“It wasn’t fuckin’ pointless!”

You bite your lip at that, watching him as he runs his fingers through his hair and you close the distance between the two of you. When you reach out to him - when one of your hands touches his shoulder and he realizes he’s been standing still the whole time as if waiting for your touch - he hates that he thinks of how good you are. It’s not the point, he knows, but God fucking damn it, everyone he’s ever blown up in front of before had never been this patient.

Merle would give it right back to him - would probably throw a punch or two while he’s at it, and so would his old man - but you, why are you so patient? Why aren’t you yelling at him? Why haven’t you called him a barbarian like he’d overheard one of the older women call him just under half an hour ago? And why is that just making him angrier?

You should be fuming. If not at him, then at that bastard.

“Y’just gon’ let some asshole say all that shit? You expect me to let ‘im?”

His words are gritted out as he turns away, and you pray for his poor TMJ with how hard he’s still clenching his jaw as your hand drops from his shoulders. He barely registers it - not when he’s running so hot the addition of your heat feels like nothing - but you do. Taking a deep breath, you step around to face him, crossing your arms against your chest and planting your feet firmly against his floor.

“I expect you to know when and when not to trade haymakers with somebody. And one of those when not to’s is when it’s about me.”

Even though he’s looking for it, Daryl can’t hear the little tingle of frustration escaping in your voice, and his mouth opens before he can even think again. It’s so fucking stupid, his anger, and he knows you don’t know what you mean to him - you don’t know he’s consumed by you, that he would do anything for you - so why isn’t his anger dissipating?

“And I’m tellin’ ya I don’t fuckin’ care. He deserved it, an’ if he puts a finger on ya, I’m cuttin’ it off.”

There’s more poison in his words - more intention than you could ever imagine barreling through the empty air to get to your ears - and he pinches at the bridge of his nose, clenching his eyes so tight he starts seeing static.

“Are you hearing anything I’m saying to you?”

That little tingle rises into a flare as you speak, and even though you know you’re wrong in thinking it - there’s so much more evidence to show you you’re wrong - you can’t help but think that maybe he hasn’t changed from that angry man you’d had to deal with months ago. You can’t help but think that maybe all you’ve been doing is trying to speak reason to a wall.

“‘Course I am. I jus’ ain’t gon’ listen.”

It’s the way he says it that gets you - the way he shrugs your hand off when you reach for him and the way he turns to look towards the door as if to really, truly show you his disregard - and it seems like the end for the patience that has overstayed and persisted much longer than you could have imagined.

“Jesus, Daryl, you’re so f-“

In this moment, despite your friendship - of watching him bite his tongue at meetings and parties and when the kids at the prison got brave enough to overload him with questions - you can’t help but think you’re right.

So you reach out again, pulling focus from the way he’s glaring at the doorframe to make his exit, and this time your movement is so quick you don’t realize you’ve done it until his collar is between your fingers and one of his undone buttons is pressing up against your palm. It shocks him still - the scratch of your nails against the bare skin of his chest sends a jolt through him that makes him freeze - and there seems to be a lot of unpredictable shit happening today because the next thing he sees is how fucking close you’ve pulled his face down to yours and how much indignation is in your voice.

“You’re so stubborn. Do I need to spell it out for you? I’m not your responsibility. I’m not your girlfriend, Daryl, and I’m not yours to wrap up in your stupid vest and keep safe from every man out there looking to get their dick wet!”

His mouth opens, then it closes, then it really fucking opens. Secrets don’t exist between the two of you - they haven’t for quite some time - and those months of admiring you in silence - of loving every damn inch of you even though you don’t look at him twice - takes its toll and he’s speaking before he even has the chance to consider what he’s saying.

You’re too close to him. You’re too close to him and you’re wearing that dress and his vest and fuck it’s making it hard for him to think.

“Well- well, maybe I want ya to be!”

It takes a second - a single second, maybe even half - for his words to worm their way into your brain, and you loosen your grip on his collar, your throat closing as you stare at him, wide-eyed. At the loss of you, he grunts and inches back up to his full height only for the realization of his words to dawn on him, washing away the anger of just a few moments ago in an absolute zero freeze.

A confession.

Wait, a confession?

Oh fuck. Oh no.

Scratch hard. You make it impossible.

“Shit- fuck- I- nevermind. Jus’- jus’ forget about it.”

Grabbing your wrists, he pulls you off him and without thinking - he’s starting to believe that he doesn’t do much of that anymore - he makes a break towards the door.

He’s not sure what he’ll do if he gets out - he still needs to scale the stairs, and, shit, did he lock the door? - but he feels like he might suffocate if he stays in the four walls of his bedroom. God, there’s no fucking air in here and he’s so damn hot with embarrassment he must be sweating and his fucking pants have been cutting off his circulation for the last hour.

But you’re faster - you always have been, swift like a goddamn rabbit, he swears - and the door slams shut with an audible boom when you slide between him and it.

“What did you say?”

Daryl doesn’t lie to you.

He never lies to you.

So he says nothing.

It’s a damn better option than digging a bigger hole for himself.

“What did you say?”

You approach him then, one step turning into two then into three, a demand in your voice that makes his stomach drop and chokes thorns around his throat. It’s a flurry of emotions that settles in his body as he backs up to keep the distance between you and him constant. Embarrassment, curiosity, and anticipation mixes together in him like a haphazard bartender mixing a cocktail, and Daryl swallows hard - hard enough that you can hear the bob of his Adam’s apple before he speaks.

“I- uh, really think I should get goin’.”

Clearing his throat, he tries to sidestep around you only for you to sidestep as well. No, actually, you don’t just sidestep. You reach your hand out against his collar, too, but this is different. It’s not a tight grip. Instead, you let your fingers hang loose at the first done button at the top, and this time, it doesn’t make him freeze.

It does the opposite.

It feeds a fire in him - not the red, though, but something just as wholly consuming - because you’re not leaving him. You’re not leaving him like he’d been so sure you would. You hadn’t laughed off his confession like he’s sure you’d laughed off ones from others, and his body’s reacting like you’re already his.

Fuck, fuck, you’re not.

But… but maybe you could be.

The single thought makes his head swim.

“This is your house, Daryl.”

He can’t even remember what he said to even get that as a response from you, and when his back hits the wall behind him, he realizes there’s no way to get out of whatever this is. Not when you’re looking up at him - something he can’t recognize in your eyes and your skin against his - and when he looks down back at you, he can see the low dip of your dress’ neckline.

There’s really nothing else to do, is there?

“Ya heard what I said.”

So he braves it, doubling down on his statement as he pulls at the hem of his shirt because damn it he wants to grab your waist to bring you closer in this tension. He's tired of hiding his feelings. He’s tired of pretending he doesn’t want to hold your hand and kiss you and sleep next to you and fucking cuddle you and shit every time he sees you.

Daryl’s tired of pretending he doesn’t want you to be - how did you phrase it? - his to wrap up in his stupid vest and keep safe from every man out there looking to get their dick wet.

“I did.”

Nodding, a small smile spreads across your face and it feels like the breath is knocked out of his lungs as he tries to force a response out.

“So why’re you…”

His voice trails off when you let go of his shirt only to grab at the spot he’s been fiddling with this whole time. Looking down at his hands, you bite your lip before you speak, holding the fabric as you rock back onto your heels. It’s like whiplash, how damn cute you are with your face barely a foot away from him, and he’s not sure if it was even your intention to have his body overload the way that it did.

“I wanna hear you say it again.”

The grin that spreads on your face makes him want to cry with how genuine it is. There's no more anger lining his insides - how could there be when you’re staring up at him like that? - and in you, the frustration has long since subsided with the knowledge of why he’d been acting the way he had been.

Daryl Dixon likes you - Daryl Dixon wants you to be his - and the guy was an asshole, anyways, wasn’t he?

Taking his hands in yours, you can see the pink coat his cheeks when you slot your fingers between his. You watch his Adam’s apple bob - you feel his work-calloused fingers stiffen before they hesitantly find their home with you and wrap around yours - and you bring them underneath his vest. Without hesitation, he lets them rest at your hips, and it’s almost alarming how right it feels to the both of you to have him there.

“‘Cause I wanna be yours, too, Daryl.”

God, those four words. Those four words come out of you so simply - ‘I wanna be yours,’ so matter-of-fact - that he nearly melts into the wall behind him, probably only tethered to Earth by how you worm two of your fidgeting fingers into his empty belt loops. You watch the tension sag from his shoulders, and his eyes are starting to form those puppy eyes that shouldn’t look so good on his rough, sculpted face.

“Don’t- don’t say that.”

But despite what he’s saying, his hands don’t drop from you. No, they grip you tighter, as if you’d really go if he let go.

“Why not?”

He doesn’t give you an answer - only hangs his head down as if he’s trying to search for a proper answer - but his reason why clicks in your head just a second after.

“You think I don’t mean it?”

Daryl doesn’t look up when you say it, either, but you can tell by the way he winces at your words that you’re right.

A giggle threatens to bubble up from your chest when you think about how ridiculous this must be. You’re both adults - both much too old to be ambling your ways through crushes - but you’re both standing in front of each other painted over in flustered heat as if everything you’d needed to say hasn’t already been said.

You fight it down, though, and you hook a finger underneath his chin. When his eyes finally meet yours, you take a deep breath to steady a rush of tears threatening to make it past your eyelids. His blues are so warm. They’re so welcoming for you - they feel so safe - and suddenly, they feel so much like home it chokes you up.

“I mean it, Daryl. I mean it, and you’re all I’ve ever wanted since that first night we snuck out of our cells together and went stargazing in the prison’s field.”

That was months ago.

That was too many fucking months ago, and it dawns on him then, how long you’ve spent doing the same things he had. Had you lost sleep thinking about him, too? Does he live so deep in your heart that you hurt when he’s away from you, too? Does he worm his way into your thoughts without your intention, too? And do those thoughts of him… do those thoughts of him keep you company on lonely nights, too? God, it makes something spark in the base of his chest - a desire, a hunger, a gnawing need.

“So please, say it again. I- I want to hear you say it again.”

Your voice - shit, your voice that’s always so comforting and nice and kind - morphs into kindling that feeds his spark until it roars alive. It consumes him, and Daryl’s helpless to it.

“I want ya to be mine, alright? Not that bastard’s - not nobody else’s. I want ya to be mine.”

Throwing all caution to the wind, he bunches the fabric in his hand to avoid bruising your hips when he pulls you flush against him, and he surges his neck towards you to press a kiss onto you. It’s so feverish - it’s chapped lips against chapped lips, his tongue against yours - and he feels the vibrations of your surprised squeal travel all the way down to the base of his neck before he pulls away almost as quickly as he’d pushed forward.

“Sorry- shit- sorry- I- this- this wasn’t how I pictured kissin’ ya for the first time.”

And It really wasn't. He’d run through so many scenarios in his head on how to have it perfect, yet none of them ended up like this. What happened to the flowers he was going to get you? The meal he was going to cook? The lake he was going to bring you to?

What happened to soft? To sweet?

Daryl’s grip loosens and he tilts his head back, a dull thump against the wall behind him sounding across the room as he clenches his eyes shut to suppress a small groan from escaping. That might not have been what he’d intended to have happen, but it felt fucking good and he can’t help but imagine doing it more.

Staring up at him, it takes a second for you to even process everything that’s happened, taking a deep breath to soothe the pressure at your lungs. Your whole body is tingling from him - you can feel it from the apples of your cheeks down all the way to the slight shake in your leg - and you want more. You’ve spent so long daydreaming about how he would feel against you, but it’s nothing compared to reality.

Your hands move on their own accord as he looks back down at you. They trail up his chest until they rest at his neck that’s stretched so fucking perfectly you find yourself wanting to press your lips onto him, and you bite the inside of your cheek before speaking.

“You can try again, I- I don’t mind.”

It’s dangerous to say something like that to him because even though the first half had rushed out - even though you’d tripped over the second - his hands are trembling. Maybe from the anticipation in your words - the intention in them words is making him rush - but maybe it’s from the remnants of his anger. Either way, they both manifest in the same effect.

“Are you- are ya sure?”

Nodding, you shift your weight, rising onto the tips of your toes as if to offer yourself to him, and God does it work.

“I’m sure, Daryl. Kiss me again.”

So he does.

He’s pretty sure he’d be the biggest damn idiot to turn you down.

This time, though, he’s gentler than you expect, the warmth of one of his work-calloused palms covering the whole of one of your cheeks as his chest wells up in so much affection he might crumble to his knees. He watches you close your eyes as you melt into his touch, and slowly, as if to give you enough time to leave if you’d wanted to, he leans in, pressing a kiss much more befitting against your lips.

“How was that?”

He speaks after pulling away, interrupting your pleasant buzz of him with a voice that runs rough along the grooves of your brain, and you hum happily, playing with the hair at the base of his neck before pressing forward and catching his lips in another. This feels nice. This feels good. So fucking good.

The next time you pull away, there’s a smile on Daryl’s face that makes it feel like his cheeks might split open with the effort of keeping his face in one piece, and it only widens when you dig your face into the slope of his neck. He’s hugged you before, yeah, but emotions had been so high then - the relief of seeing each other alive fueling the action - that he’d never really, truly gotten to enjoy the feeling of you pressed up against him. You’re so warm on this summer day, but he fits you like he was made for you, and it couldn’t be more perfect.

“Hey Daryl?”

From between you and the wall, just above your right ear, you hear him hum in response and you worm your hands back to wrap at his waist, fiddling with the hem once more as you look up at him.

“You said you wanted me to be yours, right?”

He hums again. Truly, he only does it because he’s not sure if he can trust his voice not to shake or break from the thoughts starting to run their way through his head, and waits for you to finish. You’re leading into something - he knows because you have that lilt to your voice that always comes before you ask him to do something you’re not sure he’ll want to do - but there hasn’t been a time where he hadn’t done what you’d asked of him.

“Show me, then.”

And this time’s no different.

Daryl swallows down the rush of saliva, your voice making his knees weaken like the first time his butterflies flew south, and he can’t believe what the hell is going on. Today had been a flurry - your body over his in that damn infirmary bed, your body in that dress, that fucking asshole making moves on you, then his confession, now this? - and it feels like he’s been floating since his back first touched the wall.

“Are- are ya sure?”

Your nod is immediate - maybe too quick as you press a chaste kiss onto his jawbone - but it fuels him, any modicum of uncertainty that he could even sense from you melting away when you speak again.

“Make me yours.”

Your voice is smoke and honey - everything he wants to suffocate in - and he reacts in a millisecond too, making the speed at which you’d nodded look as if it was a snail’s pace. Grabbing your waist, he spins the two of you around, pushing your back up to the dull eggshell of his wall in a smooth motion, and you can barely catch your breath before he locks his mouth over yours. He steals your ability to think with every movement of him, and when he slides his tongue over the seam of your lips, you’re helpless to do anything but open for him.

Make me yours, your words seem to echo forever in his head, and those three words pull him into a feeling he’s never had before. You’re - God - you’re like the damn nicotine you get on his ass for, and he seeks more of you like the way his brother might have sought another high from the scrawny tweaker that dealt to him.

His hands are getting even more eager - even more feverish - when he presses a leg between yours and you part your thighs for him, and even though his kneecap is bruised from that goddamn run he was on three days ago, he puts even more weight onto it because that’s the only way he can dip his neck down closer to you. You match him, movement after movement, your fists bunched into his shirt, and a confidence so foreign to you runs through your veins.

In a second, he can feel you fighting the plastic holding the cotton together, and he groans into you, your nails scratching against his chest and making wet hot heat wash over him. Daryl pulls his hands off you then, helping your shaking fingers take off those stubborn buttons attempting to keep him from you. There’s no time for him to be insecure - there’s no need to be when he already knows you don’t care about the scarred tissue littering his back or the ones littering his chest - and he’s determined not to waste time when he’s been dreaming about this day since the goddamn prison and you’d begged him to make you his.

When the plaid spreads open to expose his thick torso, he all but shucks it off, and you can’t help but think about how good his skin feels underneath your hands. It’s not like the touches you’d share on the green leather of medical desks or the one inch thick mattresses in the cells back at the prison. No, it’s different. It’s an intensity matched only by the way he looks at you before he leans down again, missing your lips and instead lavishing your jaw and neck with his attention.

“You hundred percent sure ya still want this, sunshine? Tell me to stop and I will. Promise.”

He’s mumbling into your neck, but that’s all he’s doing. There’s no more pressure between your legs from him, and his hands are no longer holding you down onto him though you’re sure you need it from the way you weaken at his endearment. He wants you to be sure - he’s always cared for you more than he’s ever thought to care for himself - but you almost hurt thinking about stopping now.

It’s almost comical, how fast the mood has shifted from when you’d both burst into his house, Daryl fuming with anger, and maybe you should have taken each step slower - if it was anyone else, maybe you would have - but months and months of pining after him in the solitude of your own mind is so close to coming to an end and you’re desperate for it to. To know that he does too, it’s intoxicating and only feeds that desperation.

“No. Don’t stop. I don’t want you to stop.”

You need him - crave him like nothing you’ve ever craved before - and that need is something you can’t properly articulate. If you felt less for him, maybe you could, but you’ve long since stepped over that threshold. Even if it had hurt to watch him, day after day and month after month, looking at you with those blue eyes that never seemed to waver from just friendship, you’d never once wanted to go back.

But now, you don’t even need to think about it. Now, you know you mean something to him that nobody’s ever meant before. Now, you’ve offered your heart to him, and in exchange, he’s given you his.

“I love you, Daryl.”

Your voice shocks you with how broken it sounds, and you feel him still. His whole body goes rigid for a second before he all but explodes into a quick succession of actions, set off by a groan that pulls at a feeling buried deeply in you.

“Say it again.”

He’s tearing at his vest now - his precious, precious vest that had survived everything the two of you had gone through and then some - and he presses his leg up to you so determinedly he rubs against something devastating.

The dress is short enough that you’d hadn’t had a chance to wear any safety underneath it, and when a sound escapes you - a sound that makes Daryl do a fucking double-take and makes his heart palpitate - he realizes just how little fabric is separating the two of you. The realization is sending him in a spiral, and he throws in a grind to his leg-shaking press, the whole bottom half of him suffocating the second he hears you say it again with that breathy mewl you’d let out.

You’re going to be the damn death of him, but he doesn’t care. Not in this fervour.

“God, don’t even know how long I spent lovin’ ya too.”

You pull the vest off then, your body reacting to the swell of your heart from his words, and you launch it somewhere to the right, Daryl immediately turning on your dress. It’s pretty - so fucking pretty he’d sat for an hour just thinking about it and maybe doing something else you don’t have to know about - but it’s in the way. It’s in the way and he wants to be patient, but the two of you are burning on a short wick and he wants to feel you as long as he can.

It’s in the way, but he can’t get it off.

“Shit, who did this damn dress?”

Tugging at the knots, his voice gets further from your ear as he tries in vain to get his adrenaline-trembling fingers to overpower the stupid string, but it’s not working and all he can hear is your laugh. It almost feels misplaced with the burning fervour rising heavy in the air - all the other times he’d heard it, he’d get that insistent warm of his cheeks and that sense of juvenile satisfaction if he was the cause of it - and it definitely makes a surge of affection launch forward.

Even if your lips are kiss swollen and your neck is starting to brandish him, Daryl can’t help but let himself sink into the familiar saccharine of how fucking cute you are. You’re everything wrapped up in one person, and he’s still in limbo with the knowledge you’d want to be his.

There’s a nudge at his chest, his body only moving because he’d been so caught up thinking about you to do anything else but obey the movement of yours, and soon, he’s crossed the length of his bedroom. The back of his legs hit his mattress, and he lets out a small grunt when he lands. It’s quickly morphed into a small chuckle when you mask him with a surprised yelp, the noise brought forth as his hands wrap around your waist and he brings you down in his fall with him.

It’s not much dissimilar to the fiasco just this morning - the view is the same, and it makes those same butterflies swarm through him - except this time, he’s not blushing from embarassment underneath you and yelling at himself to keep his hands to himself and his mind to himself. Instead, Daryl’s hands rest at your hips until you pull off him, one of your palms lying flush against his bare chest as you take just a few steps away from the bed.

There’s palpable anticipation hanging in the air around the two of you, and he wants to get up and chase your body heat again, but that hold you’d had on him - that hold that had kept his back flush against the mattress just a few seconds ago - it’s enough to have him biting his bottom lip until his flesh goes white. That hold meant business, and he sits up on jittering nerves, waiting to see what you’re going to do next.

You flash him a smile then, mischievous and playful like the ones the two of you would share when you’d sneak out together or cheat to get out of a game night - it had only happened a handful of times, though, and nobody had caught either of you yet, so neither of you really felt that bad - and his jeans feel a little too tight when you turn around after that, pulling your hair out from your scrunchie and placing it onto his workbench. The expanse of your skin exposed through thin pieces of black cotton make him fucking heat, and he admires each slope and curve of you.

“Just watch me. Look at me.”

Your fingers tug the first loop free, and you can feel his stare on you, white-hot heat lashing through your skin as he burns holes through you. It weighs heavy like the anchor of an old-timey merchant ship, and you’re thankful you can’t see him because you’re sure if you turned around, his intensity would pull you under - would drown you.

Look at you? Jesus fucking Christ you’re making it hard to do anything but look at you.

It’s so quiet you can hear him breathing as your hands travel further and further down, the upper half of your back exposed to the silent room, and if the heaviness of his breaths is even the slightest bit helpful in judging his state of self-control, you’re happy that you’d spent enough time with Rosita to be able to undo her go-to knots since Daryl might have pulled the straps so hard they’d have torn. It would be a shame, really, to say goodbye to this dress, which is a far cry from the way you’d felt about it just this morning.

It would be a shame to lose this dress because the way he’d reacted to it - is reacting to it, since you can hear the clinking of his belt and the clinking of his jean’s zipper - is making you feel so wanted that all you can think about is Daryl, Daryl, Daryl.

When the last knot is undone, you hold the front of the dress up to your chest with your left arm and turn back around to face him, the black straps falling down from the sides of your dress like they were limp angel wings or something. You could be - with how much he wants to get on his knees in front of you and worship you like you were some holy creature, you damn well could be - but his feelings that come from you consume him, and there’s nowhere left in him for anything holy. Not when you’re in his bedroom with him.

Daryl’s staring up at you now, belt and zipper undone since he’d been straining hard against jeans that were already a size too small that he’d felt like he might actually suffocate if he didn’t do anything to help himself, and his skin is flushed pink. You were right not to look back at him, because his eyes - his eyes that are the perfect shade of blue and always make you feel safe even though you never really are - can’t seem to hide his anticipation, and stare right back into yours, blown black with libertine desire.

For a moment, you’re lost from your sense of reality - lost in his eyes like the first time he’d tried to teach you how to shoot his crossbow - but when you regain it, the sweetest little boyish smile spreads on his face. If you take away the fact he’s shirtless and the fact you’re just about to be, the scene could almost be considered adorable with the genuine joy that’s painted across both your faces just seconds after another pang of want had shot through you both.

“C’mere.”

His voice is lower than it usually is when he tilts his head as a request, gravelled through but somehow so fucking smooth and you drink him down like a glass of expensive champagne, taking step after step as you make sure to sway your hips a little more than usual until you’re standing between his legs and his neck is craned up to look at you. You swipe back his bangs with your right hand, and your heart swells ten times with the look of adoration in his eyes, leaning down to press a kiss onto him because holy shit you can do that now.

When you drag yourself away from him, barely a second’s contact between your chapped lips and his, you feel Daryl’s hand grasp at the back of your neck, goosebumps rushing down your spine when he pulls you back down for another. It’s intoxicating, and your mouth moves with his until neither of you can breathe anymore.

“Hate this dress, y’know that?”

There’s no seriousness in his voice and you hum lightly as you look down at him, admiring every inch of his face from his rounded nose to the cut of his cheekbones to the stubble he must have trimmed recently. He seems to be doing the same to you because one of his hands swipes an unruly piece of your fallen bangs behind your ears, and one hand is half playing with the hem of said dress and half just touching your bare thigh because your skin feels perfect against his.

“Ya look too damn good in it.”

That same small smile spreads across his face, but the innocent affection in it morphs into almost lascivious when he speaks again. his fingers travelling from your ear down to the arm holding your dress in place.

“Would look better on the floor, though, don’t ya think?”

Daryl quirks an eyebrow up when your hand slides out from underneath his and he realizes you’ve let him hold it against you. You’ve let him decide what he wants to do with it. Well, you give him the illusion that he’s deciding what to do with the piece of fabric because just by doing that, he knows you want it gone just as much as he does. But still, you give him that teasing permission, leaning down so he can feel your breath against his cheek.

“I don’t know… why don’t you find out?”

His body reacts immediately, dropping one of his hands from your chest and letting your dress submit to gravity as it rubs up against him with the close proximity. The hand playing at your hem slides up to dip underneath the little skirt part that covers your ass, and he slides the dress off as you press kisses to his neck. He gorges himself on the feeling of you, taking in each and every swell of flesh with the intention of memorizing every curve of your body with touch alone. You’re pressed up flush against him, and even though he’d spoken about wanting to see you, the heat of his body never once leaves you.

Stepping out of your garment, he takes the opportunity to hook an arm beneath one of your thighs, pulling it across and over his lap so your shin rests against his mattress, and the repetition of those movements are so fluid and comfortable that being sat across his lap couldn’t have felt more right. It’s so intense - everything from his bare chest against yours, to the way he’s holding you so close to him as if he can’t stand being more than a few inches away from you, to the fact you can feel him pressing up heavy against you. It’s so intense that your body seeks a relief to the tension he’s responsible for in the only way it knows how.

Grinding down on him, your hands drop to the sides of his waist, your fingernails digging into the flesh in a dull pain that makes his cock throb against you. He groans, his swear mixing with the purely devastating way you sigh his name, and his hands travel up from your legs, skating over your underwear to grab at your hips. It’s almost possessive, the way he spreads his fingers - one of his large hands could cover your whole back if he wanted it to - and it does things to the both of you when he does.

You indulge in it, satiating your gnaw of lust with the warm flush of his palm, and you watch his face twist with harsh pleasure as you pull away. Not far - just enough to let him really, really see you - and he swallows down the rush of saliva.

“You’re gon’ kill me.”

There’s so much of you he hasn’t seen before - so much of you he’s never felt before - and slowly, it’s becoming familiar territory. That thought alone makes him shiver. He takes in the sight of your chest, the swells of your flesh down to the black cotton that cuts across your hip, separating you from him. Your skin isn’t as smooth as it once probably was, scarred tissue marking gunshots and all the other different wounds that this shitty world had marred you in, but you’re beautiful all the same.

What did he do to deserve you?

“You’re gonna kill me, too.”

Smiling, you bite your bottom lip as you speak, and you can hear a small 'shut up’ rumble through him, only making your expression widen. He’s too bashful for his own good - compliments stay in his system for weeks, especially if they were from you - and he wraps his hands around your waist, lifting his hips up before he twists his body in one quick, fluid motion in order to keep you from noticing the pink on his cheek, hoping your back hitting his mattress is a sufficient distraction.

“You’re so handsome.”

Again?

His face is beet red now, and he buries his nose into your neck, feeling your chest rise and fall when you laugh and he realizes that there’s no way you don’t know how hard he’s blushing. Pressing a kiss against your skin, he pulls away finally, meeting your eyes head-on, and his heart wells up in affection when he sees the adoration in your eyes. You mean it - you think he’s handsome - and damn it, it makes him feel on top of the world. Your words echo through his head and he can’t help the two words that rush from him.

“You’re perfect.”

Daryl says it like a fact - like it’s his own scripture, reverent in holy belief - and he looks at you the same way, too. It makes your body burn for him, and you slide up and up along his bedsheets until you’re fully on his mattress, eyes on his as an invitation for him to follow. And he does, spurred on by how fucking good you look on the dull gray he barely gets any sleep in, and he scales the length that separates you from him, walking on his knees so he can keep his hands on you.

Then he’s almost frenetic in his movement, quick tugs unrolling your ankle socks, and his palm sliding against your shin. His hands inch towards your underwear, and his pulse is quickening a mile a minute, but he pauses and you watch him swallow, eyes flicking between his hands and your eyes.

“Can- can I?”

Daryl’s voice is breaking through him with his sheer force of will, a vicious want for you choking him out, and it only grows when you nod, giving him a breathy ‘yes’ as you lift your hips up to him. He wastes no time in hooking his fingers at your waistband, and he pulls your underwear off as if it had done something horrible to him, flinging it off somewhere to join his vest.

You’re bare for him now, the sight of your whole body lighting something magnificently devastating in him, and when you sit up to paw at his waistband, the heat of your fingers making his cock throb as you brush up against it. The touch is so fleeting, but it’s enough for him to groan and for the hands at your thighs to tighten - for the sound to fill your ears and for the sound to spur you onto your knees in front of him - and you indulge in it, pressing your palm against his open fly and biting your bottom lip.

You’d only intended to touch him like this until you got all the way around his hips - only intended to palm at him over his clothes for a little while longer - but when you slide your hand across his jeans, the sharp edge of something cuts up against you, dulled down by the denim covering it. It’s not the red bandana rag thing because that’s in his other pocket, and it’s certainly not his lighter because that’s stuffed into the vest which was haphazardly thrown across his room. Curiosity overtakes you then, and you reach in, amusement lining your features when you realize what it is.

“Did you plan on getting lucky today, Daryl?”

He’s much too lost in his pleasure to realize what you’re doing until you speak, and his eyes - which were screwed shut to try and shut up the choked moan trying to fight its way through his throat - pop open in panic when the haze in his brain clears up enough to register your words.

All your movements have stopped, a playful little smirk on that pretty face of yours only making him feel more embarrassed when you hold up that piece of holographic gold plastic he’d intended to put back in the infirmary hours ago. He stutters through an answer - ‘it ain’t what it- I swear I didn’t-‘ rushing out of him - and the warmth of his rough hands leave your body to fist at the sheets underneath you because damn it he might break you if he gripped you that hard.

“This- it was already in my pants when I got ‘em an’ I thought we could’a stopped at the infirmary before leavin’ the party, an’ I was gon’ tell ya, but then I saw ya wearin’ that damn dress an’ I couldn’t think an’ then you were talkin’ to me an’ shit and then that asshole-“

Biting your lip, your teeth hide a quickly widening smile and your hands swipe his bangs from his face once you put the condom just beside the pillow you’re lying on. Daryl’s so damn cute when he rambles like this, and he cuts himself off when he feels your fingers through his hair, relief washing through him when he realizes you don’t think he’s using you just to use what’s in your hand. Realistically, he’s not sure if you’ve ever thought of him as someone who’d just chase something physical, but you’ve met his brother, and he’s told you stories of his old man, so it really isn’t a huge stretch.

“Wish I had the balls to plan for somethin’ like this. Then I wouldn’t’a spent months tellin’ myself Hell'd freeze over ‘fore you’d ever think ‘bout me like I wanted ya to.”

He’s staring down at you now, one corner of his lips pulled up to one side, and you run your thumb along his cheekbone, tugging him down to press a kiss onto that infuriatingly attractive expression. The strength of you surprises him, and he braces himself on either side of you with his large biceps, feeling the shift in the mattress beneath him as you pull your knees out from under you and rest yourself back onto your back.

This whole situation could be funny, maybe, and it shouldn’t be doing things to you - certainly not his flushed face or the humiliation beginning to ebb away from his eyes - but it is, and it only serves as a reminder of what you want to be doing when his body is over yours.

“I think about you a lot, Daryl. Especially like this.”

He’s so large as he frames your sight, and when you think of man, you think just of him. When you think of man, it’s his broad shoulders and thick muscles that swell through your thoughts - his violence-born scars and painful tattoos and his eyes that burn and burn and burn - and the near whimper as he hears your words surprises you. Daryl Dixon, a man that scares and intimidates, has whimpered for you. It makes a wet hot heat lick through you.

You never knew it could sound so good.

“Christ, you’re really gon’ kill me, huh?”

Chuckling, your hands finally return to the waistband of his jeans, and he lifts off the bed, stepping out of the strangling denim in a second. He groans then, half from the way his cock only has to fight his boxers now and half from the way lower half can fucking breathe, and you can see him now, a bulge in the fitted dark gray fabric. It’s like a double-formed attack - the sight and the sound of him - and you press your thighs together to keep yourself together and to get some pressure where you need it.

He notices - God, does he notice - and he can’t stop his hands coming down onto your knees, pulling your legs apart and burning you in his stare as you fall open for him. Anticipation makes you clench around nothing, and he’s biting the inside of his bottom lip so hard it might bleed. You’re staring at him, your heart pumping and pumping and pumping, and when his tongue darts out and he’s staring apex of your thighs, it’s over for you.

“Daryl- Daryl, please.”

Your voice is a goddamn drug to him, and his body springs into action like all the other times you’d called for him. He knows what you’re pleading for - he’s begging for it too, in his own way - and he descends, lips searing onto the bruises as if they were a balm to heal your skin back into that shade he knows as you.

“Been imaginin’ this. Been thinkin’ ‘bout this”

He speaks between his kisses, and you’re fisting at his bedsheets already, trying to keep yourself from begging. Hands on your thighs, the weight of him gets heavier as he presses down on them, holding you open as his mouth trails up and up and up. Sure, he’s never really done this before, and his hands are shaking slightly from the nerves, but damn it, he wants to be good for you. More than anything.

So he just fucking goes for it. It’s his lips first, what Daryl spoils you with, quick kisses inching closer to your wet warmth before he spreads you with his thumbs and presses one right up against you. It catches you off guard, a shock of pleasure sent from the way his tongue applies sloppy pressure before his lips close in a suck, and you shut your eyes, barely registering the noise that escapes you.

It’s a throaty thing, smoothing out into a soft little moan that makes him rut into the mattress, and God, it sounds good to him. He tightens his fingers around your thighs then, an approving groan of his own running more than auditorily through your body, and your hips buck up to him, almost making his mouth slip from you. But he’s determined, getting your hips back down in a second by sliding his hands up until his thumbs are snug in the dip of your pelvis, and even the pressure he applies there makes your head swim.

You’ve never been this sensitive before - his teeth graze against you, and you’re fighting your body’s desire to cry out his name - but it escapes, and you can feel a wash of embarrassment cleanse through your wanton desire. It paints you in a heat that’s almost burning, and your eyes snap open, searching for his in hopes that maybe they’ll tell you he hadn’t heard it. They don’t, though. In fact, they do the opposite, and his stare lights up, throwing kindling into the fire that’s already burning you.

He’s heard you - it doesn’t take a genius to realize that when you can feel a small smirk form on his face - and he flattens his tongue once more just to feel you clench around nothing. It’s feeding his ego, knowing he’s responsible for your sounds, and you don’t realize how much he’s enjoying it until you press the back of your hand against your mouth to stop another pathetic moan from escaping you.

Dissatisfied, Daryl furrows his brows and pulls off you, a line of his spit still connecting him to you, and he slides a hand up, trailing wet kisses up to just below your ribs and cupping at your chest before pulling your hand away from your mouth with a sort tug to your elbow. Why would you hide your sounds from him? Why would you ever think he doesn’t want to hear those noises when he vibrates for them? He rests all his weight on a bent arm next to you as he climbs up, and he revels in the press of his chest against your lower stomach.

“Wanna hear ya, sunshine. Wanna hear ya, y’understand?”

You look down at him then, your blood buzzing in your ears as you nod, but he doesn’t move back down to your trembling thighs, not even when you look at him and his eyes are wide with a hunger as he stares up at the spread of your hair against his pillow.

“D’ya understand?”

It looks like he wants to descend on you then - old fantasies and mirages making him want to devour you and consume you from the inside out - and you bite your lip so hard you might bleed when you see an intensity in him that you’ve only ever seen him fight with.

“Mmhmm, yeah- yes.”

Daryl just watches you - just nips underneath the swell of your flesh until you mumble through your answer - and he slides his hands up your neck until he can pull your lip free himself. He’s sloppy with it, running on the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and his finger slips past your lips, barely even realizing it before your tongue swipes along his thumb. Then your mouth closes around him, your cheeks hollowing as you suck and he grinds into your thigh, unable to keep himself from imagining how you might feel if you got on your knees for him.

“Fu- fuck- holy shit.”

He pulls his thumb from you then, eyes blown wide with surprise, but instead of shying away from him, you give him a fucking look through your hooded eyes that makes his brain short-circuit. How the fuck can someone look so good? God, you’re making him feel so much - you’re making him feel things he never thought he could in this short amount of time - and he can still taste you when he swallows his rush of saliva.

“Want- want your fingers. Please, Daryl.”

Who the fuck is he to say no?

“Are ya sure?”

Nodding, you tell him you want it - that you’ve been wanting it - and he nods back. It’s like a promise, and he sharpens his expression again, almost like the one he has when he’s tracking game. The determination burns in him, and he slides down your body, relieving the throb of his cock by pressing into the bedsheets again. He can’t keep doing that, he knows that, but all he can think about is how close you are and how good you feel and how good you smell.

You feel his tongue drag across your pelvis, and your thighs part for his broad shoulder when he hooks them up and over onto either side of his neck. They’re soft, so goddamn perfect that he can’t help but brush his lips up against them, but he’s almost jittering with excitement and he’s on a fucking mission so he needs to stop getting distracted. His eyes look back up to yours at that moment, one last search for your permission as if you weren’t begging for him just seconds ago, and he can see your chest rise and fall with deep breaths of anticipation.

There’s no more reason to drag this out. Not when the condom Carol stuck in his pockets is almost mocking him from where it lies wrapped just by his pillow.

Carefully, almost as if he would hurt you if he moved too fast, he presses the pad of his finger between your legs, just below where his tongue is lapping at you, and he takes the slight rut upwards fo your hips as a sign of enjoyment. It makes him smile - that’s your enjoyment. Your enjoyment that only he can see and taste and enjoy in the privacy of his room - and he groans, drawing a moan from you as he dips into you slowly.

Daryl’s so scared of hurting you, and part of you hates it, while part of you melts for him.

You can tell his fear by the way his movements lag from the fervour of his mouth, and you pull your leg from his shoulder, spreading yourself a little wider so you can reach down and grab his hand. It’s been so long since someone’s touched you like this - you can’t think of anyone you’d wanted to touch you like this if it wasn’t him - and the ache of desire makes you desperate.

He grunts, following your movements when you grip his wrist, and he pulls his face away in order to watch the way you push his fingers into yourself. God, you’re such a sight that he wants to burn you into his memory forever, but the fucking moan you let out when he fills you is stealing his attention.

“That feel good, sunshine?”

He curls himself then, inching in another, and his fingers are so much thicker than yours it’s making you thrum with the stretch. Your body responds before your mouth even moves, and he can feel the rush of slick heat coat him as you dig your nails into your own thigh, your other hand almost ripping the sheets with how it seems like he suddenly doesn’t even need to fucking breathe. All he needs to keep hearing you say his name the way you do, and he’d happily suffocate between your legs. He can’t think of a better way to go.

So you moan his name - you tell him it feels good and that he’s so fucking good, the words forcing themselves through because it’s the truth - and you’re everywhere in his senses that he pulls the hand at his bedsheet into his hair. Daryl can’t fight himself about this anymore. He can’t fight the fact he wants to feel you when he overwhelms you in his sensations, and when your fingers run through his hair, your nails digging into his scalp with a decadent sear, his cock leaks for your attention almost pathetically.

But his determination is paying off. Each of his grunts vibrate through you and his desire to please makes you climb towards your climax. Not slowly - you’re barrelling to it, rollerblades down a hill, goosebumps across your skin and a haze of pleasure over your thoughts of Daryl, Daryl, Daryl - but it’s definitely surely.

He can’t stop his head from spinning either, warm muffs on either side of his ears from where your trembling thighs fight to keep themselves open for him, because God, you're such a good girl for him it makes his heart sputter. This is what he’s dreamed of when those unrelenting fantasies of you kept him company on nights when he couldn’t stop his mind from running, and to feel you clench around his fingers - to feel you tug at his hair and gush you across his tongue like you’re the sweetest fruit he’s ever put his lips on - he thinks he falls in love even more.

It’s so sinful - so lust-driven and debaucherous - but his feelings for you still bloom in affection and adoration.

“Daryl, I’m- I’m so close-“

Your hands are tugging lightly at his scalp, telling him he can pull off if he wants, but he stays flush against you, mouth and fingers both. He wants this - wants to feel you when your climax hits as close as he possibly can - and he lets you know that with a single fueled look.

His eyes are wide - puppy dogged and begging which have no right in looking as good as it does coming from between your legs - and it catapults you down the hill with triple gravity’s acceleration. Running a thumb across his forehead, you swipe his bangs from his face and angle him until he’s flattening his tongue against you so perfectly over and over again that your hips act by themselves. You’re rutting up into him and he takes it. Daryl takes the chase of your pleasure happily and watches your nose scrunch up as a drowning pleasure washes over you.

The way you moan his name will linger in his mind for the days to come, and almost selfishly, he twists his fingers and grazes you with his teeth just to hear you break it off with a high whine. He’s so hard it’s almost painful, and the only thing that’s keeping him from losing his self-control is the fact he’d already found release to you just hours ago.

“Can ya gimme another?”

Daryl’s voice is slightly muffled from being pressed up against you, and he only slows enough for you to regain your erratic breathing and ride through the tingle splintering across your whole body. He’ll do it for you - if you want his tongue or his fingers again, he’ll gladly spend hours between your thighs until his jaw aches and falls off his skull - but you shake your head. He might completely unravel you if he keeps going, and all you can think about is how he’ll feel when his hips finally meet yours

“Next time then, sunshine?”

He slows after he speaks, a small smile on his face as he pulls from you and you clench around nothing at the way his voice scratches and gravels. Oddly, it sounds so sweet despite the lewd promise in his words, and the feel of him gathering your slick with his fingers makes your hips buck up to him, a small breathless whine erupting from you.

“Next time, Daryl.”

And his whole body lights up at the agreement. Next time. Next time is a reality - a reality he knows to be true because you’ve echoed him - and he can’t help the way his cock throbs knowing you’re a reality for him now. No more wishing you were his. No more mornings feeling guilty when he sees you knowing he’s spent the night before thinking about you. No, you’re really his now, and he might be the luckiest man alive because he has you.

Reaching over, you grab the condom with one hand and swipe the hair out of his face with your other, watching his thick fingers press past his lips as he sucks you off himself and his eyes are so fucking pretty blown black with a consuming, almost possessive need to taste you again. He’s so perfect and you sit up, sliding your palms down his body until they snap to his boxer’s waistband.

There’s a wet spot where he’d leaked for you, and you swallow a surge of saliva as you bite down at the corner of the plastic wrapping, holding it in your mouth so you can use both hands to grab at either side of his underwear and God, you’re both so impatient that he’s getting off the bed the second you’ve touched him. It’s not that he doesn’t want to feel your skin on his, it’s just that it feels like he might die - okay, maybe that’s an exaggeration, but honestly, it feels like he really might - if he doesn’t rid himself of that last piece of clothing. When he does, the groan he lets out when his cock juts out against his stomach is so carnal that you want to pounce on him right then and there.

And you do. You ignore your trembling thighs and move across the bed until you can touch him, and you rip the wrapper between your teeth open with one hand, biting your lip as he closes his wrist around your other when you take him into your fist. He’s warm - running hotter than the Georgian summer you’d met him in - and his jaw is clenched so tight you’re surprised a blood vessel hasn’t popped yet.

You run him in a stroke and watch the way he lets out a pant, his hips bucking into your touch, and you spit out the plastic from your mouth onto the floor, taking the condom out and rolling it onto him as he tries to keep himself still for you. It takes a second for him to notice the position you’re in - your knees are under you and you’re bent forward, your hands on his cock - and when you look up at him Jesus fucking Christ does it make his mind run. You’d look good like that doing something else.

Next time.

Next time.

A lot can happen next time.

He’s stuck staring for a second - the overrun of his mind taking up all his logical thinking - and that’s all you need to push back along the length of his sheets, propping yourself up on your elbows and spreading your legs with such an inviting look on your pretty little face that makes him want to all but press himself into you.

“Come here and make me yours, Daryl.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Fueled by a frantic need to get to you, he’s on the bed in a second, the springs dipping in accordance with his weight and bouncing you from the way his knees dig down into the mattress. You’re running through his veins, and you’re so slick when he presses his hips against yours that maybe he could slide right in, but he holds himself still, looking down at you with so much adoration it makes you want to cry.

Wrapping your legs around him, you push him closer to you, making a home for him to rest on his knees while you snake a hand between your bodies, grabbing him and biting your lip as you guide him in. Daryl follows your pace - his throat closing up with how warm you are and his mouth sneaking down to your neck to steal kisses from your jaw all the way down to the hollow of your collarbone - and when you’ve taken all of him in a wet buried swallow and his pelvis pressed flush to yours, you fist his sheets, gulping down a whimper.

He notices - can feel your throat move from how his cheek is pressed up against it - and he leans all his weight on one arm, sliding the other down your body to meet his cock and gathering your arousal before pressing down and rubbing a circle into you.

That pulls a noise from you. That pulls a nearly broken choked sob of his name that has him shoving his hips against yours before he can even stop himself. The movement makes you jerk up to him - makes you press your chest up to his - and the contact makes you clench around his cock, pulling him deeper into you. He can hear your pulse from the heat of your skin, and he nips at it lightly, flattening his tongue over his gentle bite as if reminding you of what he could do with it

Pulling his face away, his hips follow too, a slow rock that makes his mouth fall slightly agape, and he watches you look down at where he meets you. It’s almost too much to see - how far your own body has taken him - and you claw at his hips, your dull nails digging marks into his skin and he groans, watching the same image you are. It’s burning you, the sight of his sweat-covered skin and his thigh muscles flexing for each roll, and the way he’s staring at the spot where he connects to you is so fucking intense it sends shockwaves through your whole body.

You can hear his rumbling - can feel the saliva he’s left on your skin to mark you as his - and before you know it, you can feel a wetness slide from your eyes down your face. A whine follows not long after when he curves into you just right and he looks up, biting his lip and expecting a look that matches your debauched whine only to see tears stained on your cheek and tiny darkened spots on his pillow.

“What- what’s wrong? Why’re ya cryin’? Shit, did I do somethin’ wrong? Fuck- ’m sorry I-“

He stills then, his hand resting instead at your hip and the empty air taking up the space against your body that used to be taken up by the heat of his skin, and an expression of panic and guilt projects stark across his features. Fuck, what did he do? Maybe he was moving too fast - maybe the angle was off? - he doesn’t know. All he knows is that you’re crying and nothing makes him hurt more than seeing you cry. Daryl had spent months trying his damndest to keep you from it, but now he’s the reason why.

God, he’s such a fucking-  

“I love you, Daryl. I love you so so so much and I-”

Wiping your eyes, you huff out a laugh at how absurd the whole situation is. He feels so good moving in you - each pump of him pulling you down further into the depths of something you don’t want to escape - and to have him stop is like torture.

“I just can’t believe you love me too.”

Despite how innocent your words are, you writhe beneath him, swallowing more of him in a desperate search to release that tension coiling between your thighs. His thumb is perfectly rough with the hold at your ass, and a swivel of your hips makes his grip tighten just enough to have your sentence break at the end.

Looking down at you, he swallows as he watches you work yourself against him. Jesus fucking Christ you’re a sight, sweat between your brows, and there’s a sick part of him that flares alive with the way those tears slip past your pretty little eyes, but as much as he wants to slide back into you, he knows he would never - that he could never - forgive himself if he hurt you. So he stays rigid even though you’re clenching around him and making his own resolve crumble by the second.

“It don’t- it don’t hurt?”

It must have been sheer determination that has him managing to string together a coherent sentence, and you shake your head, wrapping his waist with your calves and pulling him into you. God, you love the delicious fullness you feel when his cock pushes into you, and your mind is beginning to swim. Daryl’s making it swim. His scent, his skin, his sounds. His everything.

“N- no. You feel good. So fu- sorry- sorry I killed the mood.”

A dry chuckle pushes past his lips, and he presses himself down enough to kiss your forehead, taking one of your hands into his, slipping his fingers between yours. He holds it like it’s his lifeline, all his affection fuelling the way he caresses your knuckle as he sandwiches you against the bedsheets.

You wrench your eyes shut, taking in the way his hips have sped up with sounds that are pushed from your chest, and your skin is tingling from your gut all the way up to your scalp. You’re saying his name like a prayer - begging him for everything he has to give you - and he takes your other hand, sick of not feeling it on him and you immediately react when he brings it to his back.

He’s thankful for the way you don’t care about his scars - for the way you don’t hesitate to give him what he wants and you dig your nails into him - because all he wants in the morning is to see you on his body. Daryl’s shameless enough not to deny that he’s left splotches all over your neck to let every bastard out there know you’re his, and damn it, it does things to him to know that when he wakes up tomorrow with you in his bed, he’ll know just what’s underneath his shirt and vest.

Cover him in you - paint him your colour, put your name all over him - and he’ll die happy.

Dipping even further down, he presses a sloppy kiss onto your mouth, his lips sliding across yours and his tongue slipping against yours, and when he pulls away his lungs are burning so much that there was no other choice but to. His whole body is thrumming alive for you, and inside, he’s smiling. It’s not as foreign to him as it once was - you had made it grow almost familiar over the months of knowing you - and he can’t even get it to go away even when he buries his nose into the crook of your neck and inhales you.

You whine then, feeling his tongue trail languid down to your chest, and you’re so fucking close to your climax that you’re nearly gone when he closes his mouth over you, a light nibble that has you arching your back into him. God, you’re clenching around him - your thighs are shaking - and he knows you’re close when you let out that little moan of his name that has Daryl’s hips stuttering. Only then does he pull his face away and when he sees the way your skin reacts immediately, spit slick and brandishing his attention, it sends him head-first towards his own finish.

“Op-open your eyes. Wanna - fuck - wanna see ya.”

God, does he have to sound like that?

You’re helpless to it, fighting your lust-hooded lids, and you look so wrecked it’s driving him crazy. Another whimper escapes from you, falling free from between kiss-swollen lips and you can do nothing but let it - the look of possession and enamour written stark across his face pulling you to the depths of your own pleasure. Shit, he looks perfect. Better than you’d ever imagined.

“Love- love ya, sunshine. More’n anythin’”

Another noise rumbles from your chest, and when his hand presses you further into the mattress - when the other one escapes from your pelvis and circles your nerves again - you want nothing more than to submit to the free fall of pleasure.

“Tha’s- tha’s’it. God, you’re so fuckin’- you’re such a good girl.”

Choking out Daryl’s name, wave after wave after wave of pleasure drown you, and your hips spasm against his. You’re pulsing around him - clenching around him so erratically that he nearly slips from you at the force - and you’re so wet he can hear it from each rut of your hips. He doesn’t hold your body down as you face the shatter head-on, he just helps you ride it out as he praises you with how pretty you look and how good you feel soaking him and fuck is he’s close, the noises you’re making in response to him making his insides twist.

You. Him.

Where do you end, and where does he begin?

“Daryl, please. I- I want it. Want you.”

Christ, he can’t think. You’re such a fucking rush - of pleasure, of affection, of a sweetness that never fades - and it’s nearly overwhelming, drawing him to decadent release with each push of his body into yours. His pace stutters, and after half a dozen sloppy thrusts, he groans your name, stuttering through the first syllable before swearing so filthily you’re surprised it came from his mouth.

You’re both panting when he stills, erratic breathing slowly becoming more and more regular, and he lets go of your hand, both of his arms framing you on either side of your face and pressing his forehead against yours. For a second, you’re both breathing the same air and God it just feels good like this - it feels good to be so close to him. Smiling, you rest your hands at the back of his neck, playing with his hair before tilting his head down and pressing a kiss against his lips. You can feel him smile against you, and your heart wells up in something so saccharine you never want to let go of him.

But both of you need oxygen, and he pecks you one last time before he slips from you. He gets up on still slightly shaking limbs and pulls off his condom, tying it off only to remember the fact he’d moved his trashcan out just this morning. Looking over at you, he memorizes the image of you melting into his bed like a cat underneath the warm sun, and he makes his way into the bathroom, his heart swelled up a hundred times from the satisfied look on your face.

You were already perfect to him, but to see you nested among all his things, it just - how would you say it? - hits different.

When the familiar cold tiles of his bathroom hit his bare feet, he drops the condom into the metal bin and turns back to return to you, but he pauses when he catches sight of a towel hanging on that little rung thing built into the wall that he never uses. He grabs it without a second thought - you’re sweaty like he is, and he knows it’s uncomfortable to be that against his cotton sheets - and he turns on the tap, praying that the water won’t come out freezing.

It comes out cool, and if Daryl’s bones weren’t jelly, he’d do one of those happy dances that he’s caught you doing one too many times, but he can recognize the happiness in his features when he catches sight of himself in the mirror. He scoffs at himself, but a small grin peeks through his teeth anyways.

Turning off the sink, he races back to you, thankful for the short distance between the doorway and his bed, and he calls your name softly. Your eyes are closed and you’ve covered yourself with his sheets, but when you see him with the towel you’d told him felt so soft and fluffy, you pull them off, letting him take in your bare body. His spent cock twitches with interest, but Jesus fucking Christ he’s yelling at it to calm down.

“Know how much ya hate to sweat.”

There’s a boyish almost bashful smile on his face, and he stands at the doorway until you open your arms for him to enter his own room. He takes the invitation without hesitation, sitting next to you on his bed just wanting to take care of you, and runs the towel up from your leg to your torso so earnestly you want to pull him close and whisper declarations of love into his ear.

“If I’m sweating from you, I guess it’s okay.”

His smile widens, and he presses a kiss onto your shoulder after he wipes it clean.

“That’s good. We’re gon’ be doin’ that a lot.”

A slight chuckle escapes you and your expression mirrors his. Threading your fingers through his hair, you lean in and peck the corner of his mouth when he looks up at you, whispering a ‘promise?’ against his lips that he nods in response to.

Cooled off, you thank Daryl and watch him get up, admiring the image of his toned back and his demon tattoos as he walks to the bathroom to no doubt do the same to himself, and when he gets back, he all but collapses into the sheets next to you, content with just feeling you next to his.

A silence lulls over the two of you before you turn to face him, grabbing the hand resting between your body and slipping your fingers between his.

“I don’t really think your vest is stupid, Daryl.”

All that you hear after you speak is a sputtering laugh, and it’s full-bodied, rising from his chest all the way up to his shoulders.

“Nah, I deserved it.”

He turns to face you then, biting his lip even though it does nothing to mask the outwards amusement he’s feeling from your words. Squeezing your hand, he pulls it up to his face and presses a kiss against the curve of your knuckles before he speaks again.

“I’m sorry, y’know that?”

Before you can even say anything back, his free hand joins his other, and he’s still apologizing as he fidgets with your fingers.

“I blew up at ya even though it ain’t your fault that- that asshole-“

Then he squeezes, the memory of that bastard making his blood start to simmer, but when he realizes what he’s doing, Daryl drops your hand and shifts back onto his back, popping his knuckles as he keeps them on his chest.

“Sorry. I just- fuck- he jus’ makes me angry.”

He hears shuffling from you, and before he knows it, you’ve pressed yourself up against him and dig your face into his neck and he can feel your feather-light kitten kisses against his skin.

“Hey, dude, calm down.”

Only you would call him ‘dude’ while you’re both still hazy over doing that, and you can hear the rumble of near-silent laugher coming from his body. It’s oddly endearing, your casualness. At least endearing enough to make some of his anger melt away.

“He’s not worth thinking about. Guys like that probably think they deserve to be sucked off for doing the dishes.”

He turns back to you then, the remaining spark in his blood blown out by the way you’re looking at him, and when you cuddle up against his chest, how the fuck was Daryl supposed to do anything but melt for you?

“Besides, there’s only one guy I would do that with, and he’s right here.”

Running his hand up your waist, he lets out a small huff you take as a laugh and presses you up closer, digging his face into your hair and inhaling the scent of you. It’s dark now, the sun has set into what he can only assume is the deep purple you love to stare at, and he can’t think of another place he’d rather be than right here with you.

“Gonna have to take y’up on that offer sometime then, sunshine.”

He can hear you laugh and when you respond, it’s similarly muffled by his chest.

“Would be my pleasure, Daryl.”

Humming, he holds you like you’re the last thing on Earth - like you’re the last thing that matters - and to him, you are. Something settles in him then. Like a stone dropped into a lake, it rests heavily when he really lets himself think about the fact that the only person you’ve ever wanted to be with like this is him.

You want him - him, who’s ‘a pussy whipped little boy who wants to kiss the ground you walk on’, apparently - but he’s not mad about it. While he’s got you in his bed, he can’t be because he knows when you go in for your shift tomorrow, that asshole will have to see the marks on your neck. Maybe the bastard will even see Daryl if you let him drop you off. He needs to make sure that limp-dick prick knows you’re his.

After all, that would just be the cherry on top needed after getting the shit beaten out of him and having to spend a night all alone in the infirmary, wouldn’t it?

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[readerstories]

Magic Fingers - Aaron Hotchner x male!reader

I got so many other ideas for fics with Aaron and male reader, this was just an excuse to write some “shorter” smut while I work on some longer fics. (AO3)

Warnings: smut, clothed sex

Wordcount: 2978

Summary: Working hard on a case you offer to give Hotch a massage, because the man is as stiff and tense as a block of wood. (And maybe you want to get your hands on him, but that’s neither here nor there).

The case had been hard, challenging, brutal, and difficult, which had caused the whole team to work on overdrive for the last few days with very little sleep. Which was why Hotch had ordered everyone back to the hotel to get some sleep, as none of you were going to get anywhere being as sleep deprived as you were.

He had tried to stay behind himself, but you had more or less dragged him back to a car while reminding him that even he was human and needed rest. Back at the hotel, in your shared room (because of course with your luck there wasn’t any single rooms left in the hotel for anyone in the team), you stretch before sitting down on your own bed, Hotch walking over to his.

You could see how tense he was, how much he needed to relax. Which was easier said then done when Hotch took as much responsibility as he did, always making sure everything possible was done to catch the unsub and save anyone who might get in harms way. Which was an admirable trait of his, but you could tell by his posture how stiff he had gotten over the last few days. The way he held himself spoke volumes to you, even though you knew he tried to shield it from the world and keep it to himself.

“Hotch?” He looks away from his jacket, the only item of his suit he has manged to force himself out of so far, while your jacket, shoes, and tie was long gone. You pat the edge of the bed next to where you are sitting, Hotch looks skeptical.

“Come on, you need to relax.”

“What does me sitting next to you have anything to do with that?”

“Let me give you a massage.” He raises a brow and you sigh, shifting so you’re kneeling on the bed instead.

“You’ve seen my resume, you know you I thought about going into massage therapy at one point.” Still, Hotch doesn’t move, so you know you have to do more to convince him.

“Remember when Reid had slept on his neck all wrong that one time after staying up way too late and I helped? Or when Morgan messed up his shoulder when going after an unsub and couldn’t sleep for days, and after a massage he finally could? It was the closest I’ve ever seen the man to weeping. Or when JJ was pregnant and hurting, but after letting me give her a massage she joked that if she didn’t love Will, and I wasn’t gay, she would have married me? Hotch, at this point I’ve given a massage to everyone on the team but you, so, get.”

You make a grabby motion with your hands. Hotch sigh, seeming to finally get how serious and stubborn you were being in that moment. He takes off his tie and shoes on the way over to the bed, but doesn’t do anything else, which makes everything a bit harder, but hey, you’ll take anything you’ll get. As Hotch sits down you’re greeted by the lovely opportunity to stare at his back without him noticing or caring too much, which would have been great, if you couldn’t tell how tense he was without even needing a single touch.

When you touch his shoulders he almost jumps, but he forces himself to calm down. Which doesn’t do much, because the instant your hands are on him you can tell it’s going to take a while and some effort to get him relax.

You slowly, ever so slowly start to move you hand, starting out gently at first to get a feeling for him. And ho boy, those are some serious knots if you’ve ever felt some. Your thumb barely brushes over one with some pressure and Hotch winces. You take a breath in trough your teeth, Hotch truly can’t be feeling any sort of pleasant right now, or really, ever you suppose.

“Hotch, if I really didn’t know any better, I would say your shoulders are made of wood with how stiff they are and how many knots I can feel.” Hotch grunts and starts to move like he’s about to stand up, but you drag him back down so he’s fully sitting again with your hands on his shoulders.

“Oh no, none of that, you’re not moving off this bed until all of them are gone and you can you know, actually be a little relaxed for once in your adult life.” Hotch scoffs, but doesn’t try to move again, which you count as a victory.

For the next, you don’t even know how long, your hands wander, squeeze, and press all over Hotch’s shoulders, loosing muscles and knots as good as you can while kneeling behind Hotch. Hotch is mostly quiet, only letting out sighs and the occasional grunt when an especially hard spot is made pliant.

When you’ve done as much as you can in this position you withdraw your hands, noting how Hotch is slumping slightly more forward now than he was when you started.

“Up the bed please, I can’t reach more like this.” Hotch turns so he can look at you over his shoulder.

“You’ve massaged my shoulders, what mor-”

“If your shoulders are any indication, you need a full body massage, so up on the bed please, front down.” You stare down Hotch, not breaking eye contact for one second. You’ve decided that he needs that massage, even if you have to tackle him to the bed to give it to him. He seems to have sensed this as he sighs, and above all miracles, does as you asked of him. He’s on his front, arms tucked under his head to use as a pillow, you now kneeling next to one hip.

Pleased with yourself, you get to work. You start where you left off from before, somewhere in the middle of his back. The knots there aren’t as bad as his shoulders, you suppose Hotch takes ‘bearing the weight of the world on his shoulders’ literally sometimes, but still you do your best to let your hands work over them until they are smoothed out and the muscles beneath your palms relax.

Over time your hands move downwards, and at some point right above the waist of his pants and his belt, your hands on either hip, they brush a particular point or points which make Hotch draw in a breath. Your hands pause before you speak.

“Sorry, you ticklish there?”

“A little.” Hotch reluctantly admits, mostly speaking at the wall he has been staring at for the last few minutes.

“I’ll keep that in mind.” You say as you file that little nugget of info away in a part of your brain you’ve dedicated to Hotch. You make sure to avoid that spot when your hands starts up again, instead moving to his lower back. There you find a knot truly worth your skilled hands, taking several minutes before you can move your hands from that spot. You realize you’ve accomplished your goal there when Hotch lets out a loud groan as you fell his muscles loosen beneath your hands, which you gather was an involuntary sound by the slight redness on his cheeks.

“See, I told you I was good.” Hotch doesn’t responds verbally, but nods, eyes closed now. You don’t say anything else, instead moving to his legs. You start at one ankle, slowly, slowly moving your way upwards, careful not to go to high for both of your comfort. You can tell when that is by a small twitch on Hotch’s leg, just above where you can feel the start of his boxers through his pants, and then you move down. You do however at on point press on a muscle on the backside of his knee that causes the leg to move on its own, which causes you both to laugh.

When both legs are done, you take your hands off Hotch and lean back, noting how his eyes are closed, almost like he’s sleeping.

“Turn around.” This causes Hotch to abruptly open his eyes and look at you for the first time since he laid down.

“What?”

“I haven’t done your front yet, and I’m not about to let you go with a half finished massage.”

“I-I’d rather not.” Looking over Hotch you quickly realize, with your profiling work and previous experience, why he’s not moving yet.

“If it’s an erection that’s nothing new.”

“Wha-”

“Your body is just reacting to stimuli, happens a lot with men, nothing I haven’t seen before. But if you really want to stop, we can of course do that.” You can see Hotch’s mind at war with himself. You say nothing, pretending that there’s a very interesting spot on the wall above the headboard.

It’s the movement of the mattress that alerts you to the fact that Hotch is moving, as the man himself says nothing. When you look at him, he has his arms over his face, jaw and mouth barely visible. What is very visible, is the erction pushing against the front of his pants, and though you would have liked to look, you only give it a glance. Hotch jumps when you touch his ankle again, but you don’t start just yet.

“Relax, like I said, nothing I haven’t seen before. Happens a lot actually, my hands are just that good you know, like a god or something.” Hotch huffs out a laugh, a smile briefly on his lips. You smile back at him even though he can’t see you, and then concentrate back on the task at hand.

Like before, you start at his ankles, working your way up. Hotch gets less tense almost by the second, breathing deepening as your hands work their magic once more. You don’t go very high on his thighs, actually now you’re lower than before, not wanting to make Hotch uncomfortable in any way.

Next is his hips, you start at the one closest to you and work your way up towards his shoulder instead of across his stomach. He still has his arms over his face, so you poke him in the bicep to get his attention.

“Arm please.” Hotch’s sigh is deep, but he moves his arm so you can take it. You’re gentle, well, as gentle as you can be while kneading out knots from tired muscles. His bicep is firm under your fingers, needing a lot less attention than his shoulders luckily.

When you’re done with that arm, you let it go, tapping on his other so he can move that of his face and switch it for the one you finished with. The angle of it is a bit awkward, and you probably should move for easier access, but honestly you can’t be bothered as you’re very close to being finished. However, your knee protests, telling your body that hey, moving is good as not to let limbs fall asleep.

But instead of doing the logical and probably better thing of getting of the bed and walking around, your tired brain decides to just move one leg over Hotch waist, intending to just move the other one over and after. Hotch draws in a slight breath at the motion and then something in your leg fails you, causing you to drop down on Hotch, putting most of your weight on top of Hotch’s crotch. Hotch moans out loud as his hands flies to your lower thighs and you go stock still.

“Fuck shit, sorry Hotch-”

“It’s fine, it’s fine, it-” Hotch draws in a deep breath and licks his lips as you worriedly watch his face. You’re mortified, you just dropped yourself on Hotch’s erection, holy fuck, shit.

It takes a few seconds to realize that you’re not trying to move of Hotch’s lap.

But Hotch isn’t trying to move you off either.

If anything, he’s keeping you there, a deathgrip on your lower thighs.

You take a few terrifying seconds to take stock of the situation before experimentally rolling your hips against Hotch. A flex of his fingers, but he does or says nothing as he stares at the ceiling. You on the other hand, is watching his face for any hint of what he’s thinking.

“If you want me to stop, I’ll stop, and we’ll forget about it ever happening.”

“Ah, um, fuck, shit.”

Silence, one, two, three beats.

“Fuck, move.” You start to get off his, heart already dropping to your guts, but instead Hotch drags you down and rolls his hips against you. This time it’s you who gasps, as your own dick twitches in your pants with the feeling of Hotch grinding against you. Hotch throws his head back, eyes screwed shut.

You’re quick to find your balance and leverage by placing your hands on Hotch’s chest, grinding down, moving as best as you can with Hotch’s own movements. Hotch is letting out a few low moans, which you match with your own as you move and watch the adam’s apple on Hotch’s throat move as he swallows. You want to lean down and kiss his neck, but fuck, you don’t know if you even can kiss him, if he will let you.

Hotch answers that question for you, as just seconds later his eyes open and he moves so he can look at you, catching you staring at him.

“Ah fuck.” Before you can even ask, he’s sitting up. You yelp as the movement causes you to straddle his thighs instead, and then in seconds there’s a hand on the nape of your neck, and even fewer seconds later you’re kissing Hotch.

Fuck.

His lips are firm, but pressing against you with a desperation you’re sure to match. His hands on your hips, holding you hard. Your hands go into his hair, tugging him even closer of that is even possible at this point, which causes him to moan low into your mouth which holy shit, that is, fuck, you can’t even think anymore you think.

The world shifts around you then, and you find yourself on your back, Hotch’s erection pressed against your own. It feels so good, so big and firm, and you want to feel more of him, but you can’t muster the brainpower to do anything about it, so you just tug at his hair and grind against him. Hotch seems of the same mind, as he doesn’t move to do much more either, just moving his hips against yours while kissing you within an inch of your life.

Which should be ridiculous, because you’re both grown men almost fully dressed still, but fuck, that makes it even hotter you think. Or, you try to think, as your mind is mostly chants of ‘more, good, fuck, shit, hot’ over and over again, Hotch’s name thrown in the mix for good measure.

Hotch moves away from your lips, but doesn’t move far, instead peppering kissed down your neck on the little skin he can reach. You moan and gasp, moving one hand from his hair to his back, trying to press him even more against you.

“Fuck, shit, I’m close, so close!” You frantically confess towards the ceiling.

“Me too, me too.” Hotch breathes against your neck, one hand moving so he can unbutton your shirt and get his lips on your collarbone. He starts to suck and bite at a spot there, and that is what does you in. You come just seconds after your shirt is open for him, moaning loudly.

“Fuck!” You hear Hotch mutter against your skin, and then a mutter of your name as he comes, in a low baritone that you think you will remember for the rest of your life.

You lay there panting for several seconds, or perhaps minutes, you’re not sure, just a mess of limbs, most of Hotch’s weight on top of you.

It’s hot, in more ways than one, which is what forces you to push Hotch off you, to get some air. He goes willingly, flopping down on his back next to you on the bed. A few panting breaths before you both turn to look at the other, smiles, then laughter as the situation sinks in. You’re surprisingly the first to gain somewhat of a control over yourself, grinning as you speak.

“We just came in our pants, what are we, teenagers?” Hotch pushes his weight up on his elbows, wincing as apparently something pulls somewhere.

“I don’t know about you, but I certainly don’t feel like one.” Hotch smiles as you, which you return, letting your eyes wander all over him now that you can. His hair is standing in a million different directions, there’s a blush to his cheeks, his clothes are rumpled, a wet spot is forming on the front of his pants, and he looks as fucked and blissed out as you, and most certainly he, feels. You hum, your attention going back to his face.

“We should get cleaned up.” You state, which Hotch nods in response.

“I think you mean you should get us cleaned up. My legs feels like jello right about now.” You raise a brow and he grins.

“I think your massage turned off something in my legs.” You huff, incredulous, but sit up anyway.

“I’m good, but not that good.”

“Well, the sex certainly helped.” You laugh and lean down to give him a kiss, which is mostly smiling lips pressed against each other.

“Flatterer.”

“Hey, what can I say, you got magic fingers.” You smack his chest and laugh as you get up to go the bathroom, your own legs a little shaky, which Hotch doesn’t comment on, but you know he liked by the way he grins at you when you get back to the bed.

[two-gays-in-a-trenchcoat]

Half-Incubus!Tendou x Monster Hunter!Reader (part 1)

Part 1 of what I hope to become a short series, and the prologue for my previous touch-starved Tendou fic. Spoiler alert: he’s still touch-starved and needs cuddles but this time he’s gonna be a bitchboy about it -Osa

3.6k

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It had been a while since you had gone to a party.

The speakers’ bass was drumming so loud you could feel the vibrations through the soles of your shoes, thrumming in your ears and rattling your brain. Inside, the air was thick and hot and smelled like sweat and booze. The lights were dimmed and multicolored LEDs lit up most of the house. As soon as you stepped in, you felt like turning on your heel and walking back out. 

“Hey, you made it!” A slurring, cheerful voice greeted you, along with a heavy arm slung around your shoulder which almost made you buckle under it. You recognized the flushed face of Terushima, slicked back hair tousled around his antlers. “I was hoping you’d coooome,” he sang.

You grimaced, and tried to move out from under his arm, but he stuck to you like gum on the bottom of a shoe. 

“Want a drink?” He asked. “We got a lot.”

“I’m fine.” I should have left when I had the chance.

You didn’t know half of the people here; you’d hoped to meet up with Motoya or at least Fukunaga, but neither the peppy kitsune nor the awkward kappa were anywhere to be seen. You were trying to shove the drunk jackalope hybrid off of your shoulder, when his weight was suddenly removed.

It was a tall, lanky high schooler who had peeled him from you, looking as pissed as you had ever seen anyone. From what you could tell, he was human. His voice had falsely sweet venom to them. “Don’t you have other places to be?”

Terushima didn’t seem to notice the edge to his words, and he grinned stupidly up at him. “Semiiiii, I was wondering where you’d gone.”

The tall boy—Semi?—leaned down next to Terushima and whispered something indistinguishable in his ear. At once, Terushima’s eyes widened, seeming to glass over, and he couldn’t stumble out of the room fast enough. 

Semi turned to you. You noticed his hair was bleached to a warm, dusky ash-blonde, and his eyes were sharp. “You good?”

“Yeah, thanks,” you said. “What did you say to him?

He ignored your question. “Aren’t you the new kid?”

You corrected him with your actual name, followed by, “And yes, I am.”

He smiled in amusement, and offered his fist for you to bump. “Semi. Cool to meet you.”

“You too,” you said. “So, are you gonna tell me what you said to make him leave so quickly?”

He smirked. “A magician never reveals his secrets.” 

You looked him in the eyes, deadpan.

“Alright, if you really want to know…” He leaned in closer to you and whispered, “I threatened to leak his dick pics.”

A lie. You could tell. One of the few helpful gifts your monster-hunter ancestry had left you is the ability to tell when people are lying. It wasn’t magic, per se; it was more of a hypersensitivity, a trait made possible by your heightened senses. At any given moment, your brain was subconsciously noting every single detail around you, picking apart every change in your environment, analyzing anyone you came in contact with, dissecting tone and body language. And when you focused, you could read people like an open book. In the past, this would make you an expert tracker, a master of survival. But in the modern world, it aids you in different ways.

“It’s just about as close to mind reading you can get without magic,” your father had told you. 

So you looked at Semi, expression flat, and bluntly said, “If you’re going to tell me anything, tell the truth.”

He seemed caught off guard that you had called his bluff so quickly, but regained his composure. He grinned at you.

“Too obvious? Alright, well, here’s the truth,” he paused for a moment. “I’m a siren.”

Your eyes widened. You’d only met one siren before in your life, in your middle school, and she had been a total bitch to you. She’d use her powers, her singing voice like puppet strings, to make you carry her things or just outright humiliate you. She didn’t stop until she found out that you were a hunter.

“Don’t worry, if you’re not a sleazebag like Terushima, you’re safe from my powers,” he said.

“I take it you’re not friends,” You guessed.

“Oh, we are friends, actually,” Semi replied. “I’m just, y’know, not blind.”

You snorted at this, which seemed to satisfy him.

“Wanna grab a drink with me, new kid?” he asked. “There are non-alcoholic options as well.”

Your first instinct was to say no; you never made it a habit to go anywhere with a person you just met. But there was an ease about Semi, and it made you feel comforted amongst the pressing of the party going on around you. So you nodded, and let him lead you over to the kitchen.

He waggled a bottle at you. “Sprite?”

“Why not.” You caught it with ease as he threw it at you, cracking the seal and taking a small sip. He grabbed one for himself as well.

“Y’know, if you wanted to leave, I wouldn’t blame you,” he said. “Terushima’s house parties are… An acquired taste.”

“I thought about it, honestly,” you said. “But I don’t know if dipping from the party after five minutes of being here would exactly help my social life.”

“Cheers to that.” He swirled his Sprite around in the bottle. “But, hey, if you need someone to chill with at school, you’re welcome to join me.”

Your heart swelled. “Really?” Maybe I would make friends at this new school, after all. 

“Why not?” Semi said. “I don’t really stick to one group, anyways. Kind of a floater.”

You nodded. “Yeah, I was like that at my old school, too.”

He took a swig from his bottle. “Don’t worry, I’ll show you the ins and outs of Lyonell high.”

Someone called Semi’s name from the other room. He sighed. “It’s probably Taichi. I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Thanks. For, uh…. Yeah”

“You don’t need to thank me for anything,” he said, shrugging. “You’re pretty cool.”

You gave him a half smile as he disappeared into the other room, which dropped as soon as you left. You leaned against the counter, sipping your sprite. Alone. The thought almost made you laugh; you were sure you looked as pathetic as you felt.

“Don’t like parties?” A sultry voice hummed in your ear.

You jumped back, only to see a tall, gangly boy with bright red hair and skin so pale you thought for a second that he must be a vampire. You vaguely recognized him; you’d seen him around at school, always lurking in corners, never with anyone else. He blinked at you, bow-like lips curving into a vaguely interested smirk. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, well, you did,” you huffed.

He tilted his head, mock-pouting. “I’m sorry.”

You looked away, deciding to ignore the boy in favor of your Sprite. You could feel him shift, and he leaned down to peer at you directly in front of your face.

“You’re new here, right?” He asked.

“Yeah,” you replied. “My name is-”

“Oh, I already know your name,” he cut you off. “The rest of the school can’t shut up about it.” He blinked at me. “I’m Satori, by the way, but most people call me Tendou.”

From this angle, there was no way you couldn’t meet his gaze. His eyes were heavily hooded and a searing red, almost the same color as his hair. There was something sharp about them, but not aggressive. Just intense.

You kind of liked it.

“So,” he continued, “why come to a party if you’re going to sit around in a corner being sad?”

“I’m not sad,” you said. “I’m just bored. And hey, you’re over here, too, so you can’t talk.”

He hummed. “Ah, but you see, the only reason I came over here is because I saw you.”

He stepped back at this, so he was fully facing you and you could get a clear view of him. He towered over you easily despite being slouched, and his baggy black T-shirt hung loosely on his slim frame. He had a few necklaces, chains and such, as well as pierced ears. The whole time you glossed him over, he never stopped looking at you. It was like you were his whole focus, like you were a puzzle he was trying to solve by looking at. Not that you were complaining; you found that you rather enjoyed being looked at by him. Despite having just met him a moment ago, you couldn’t help but feel attracted to him, a kind of magnetic pull.

Almost as if he could sense your thoughts, he offered you his hand, and inclined his head in the direction of the other room, where the real partying was going on.

“C’mon,” he said. “The new kid can have a little fun, yeah?”

Against your better judgement, you let him lead you into the other room. You could feel the temperature change, rise as there were more bodies packed together, drinking and laughing, swaying and bouncing along with the beat of the music. Tendou blended into the crowd easily, like it was natural for him. It was his kind of scene.

In the corner, you spotted Semi, supporting the weight of a red-headed Tanuki boy who you could only assume to be Taichi. He was a little out of it, wobbly and barely able to hold himself up, and Semi seemed to have his hands full.

In the kitchen, the music had been a dull thudding seeping through the walls. But here, at the center of its source, it was loud, seeming to drown all of your senses in it. 

Tendou pulled you into him, urging you to dance. His body moved easily to the rhythm, loose and comfortable in the overwhelming atmosphere. He was grinning, and you could see the glint of it even under the dim lighting. His enthusiasm was contagious; you couldn’t help but dance along to the song a bit, an act which made Tendou grin even wider.

At some point, he had pulled you flush against him, and your faces were so close together that you could feel his hot breath fan across your cheeks. It was like an electric spark between you, something so high and full of tension that neither of you could pull away from. He began to lean down.

You suddenly felt a cold splash on your back that ran down your shirt. You yelped, and whirled around to see a very tipsy Terushima holding a red solo cup. He at least had the decency to look ashamed, eyes wide.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” he said. He was unsteady on his feet, the remnants of his drink sloshing about in the cup. You were quick to snatch it from his hand.

“I think you’ve had enough for one night,” you growled, turning on your heel and walking out. You deposited the cup on the kitchen counter, and went upstairs to where you hoped a bathroom would be.

Your back was sticky and smelled sour, and you were muttering curses under your breath as you trudged upstairs. The bathroom was directly across the hall, and you all but dove in, slamming the door behind you.

You took in heaving breaths. You felt so overwhelmed, so out of place, like you were forcing yourself to be someone you’re not. Everything was so much, too much, you felt suffocated. This feeling had been building up all day, you realized, and Terushima spilling his drink on you was just the tipping point.

You looked in the mirror. It was someone you didn’t recognize, hair tousled and face pale. It looked like a stranger. You turned around to see the reflection of where the drink had spilled. It was a cherry red, and ran down your back and even onto the waistband of your pants. It was definitely going to stain. You scowled.

There was a knock at the door, a pause, followed by a hesitant calling of your name.

“Yeah,” I said dryly.

The door cracked open to reveal Tendou, the grin wiped from his face and the enthusiasm drained from his piercing eyes. He just looked plain worried.

“You good?” he asked. “Can I come in?”

You nodded, turning back to face the mirror. Tendou caught a glimpse at the wide stain on your back and grimaced. 

“Y’know, Teru’s always been one of those guys that talks big but really can’t hold his liquor,” Tendou remarked as he let himself in. In his left hand he was carrying a mustard-yellow T shirt. He saw that you had spotted it, and offered it out.

“Figured you didn’t have a change of clothes,” he said. “I’m hoping it’ll work.”

You took it. The material was soft and pliable from being worn, the printing on it faded. You snorted as you realized it had a printing of the periodic table.

“Is this yours?” You asked.

He shook his head. “Teru’s.”

You raised a brow at him. “He gave it to you?”

“Well…,” Tendou said, a hint of mischief in his voice. “Not exactly.”

“So you stole it,” you stated rather than asked.

“I didn’t steal it,” he corrected. “I borrowed it. For you. It’s the least he could do to make up for it.”

You chuckled. “Yeah, okay, that’s true.”

He gestured to the shirt. “Go ahead and get cleaned up.” He then turned to go back downstairs, shutting the door behind him.

After peeling your shirt from your skin, you wiped the stickiness off with a wet washcloth, and pulled the T-shirt over your head. You balled up your soiled shirt and tucked it under your arm.

When you opened the door again, you were surprised to see Tendou still there, leaning up against the stairway railing. 

He offered a smile. “I guess it fits?”

“It’s a little big,” you said. “But yeah, it works.”

His long arms were crossed over his chest, and as he dissected you with his eyes, his brow creased. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You shrugged, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ears. You debated telling him, letting him have a peek into your mind. But some part of you still wanted to stay guarded.

“A little overwhelmed, I guess.” You settled on a half-truth. 

“Are you coming back downstairs anytime soon?” he asked.

You shook your head. “Probably not. But you can go ahead.”

“Nah,” he said. “Parties like this are kinda’ lame anyways.”

For a moment, neither of you said or did anything. Tendou then stood up straight and started heading down the hall, pausing to look back and see if you were coming with him. You hesitated.

“Relax,” he hummed. “I know a spot where you can calm down.”

You let him lead you into one of the bedrooms. You paused at the doorway, wondering just where he was going with this, but he didn’t look back as he hefted the window open. Nimbly, he hopped up and pulled himself through, pausing on the sill.

“You coming?” He asked. “Teru’s roof has a pretty sweet view.”

You said nothing as you approached. He got himself all the way out, landing on the roof that started a few feet below the sill. He offered a hand to you, and although you were perfectly capable of getting yourself up there on your own, you decided to humor him and take it.

The September night air was sweet, cool, and most importantly, quiet. The booming bass of the party downstairs was a distant memory as you stepped out onto the roof. You two sat down against the scratching roofing, but you didn’t mind. You were still holding hands from before, but neither of you made any move to pull away.

He smirked. “Told you.”

He had been right; the view really was great. You could see the lights of the city below you from where Terushima’s house sat on a hill. You couldn’t see many stars because of the light pollution, but with how pretty the city was, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care.

You could feel Tendou wordlessly lean into you. He was warm, solid, comforting. You found yourself untangling your hand from his and instead snaking an arm around his waist. He tensed for a moment, as if he hadn’t been expecting you to touch him first, before relaxing and letting his head fall against your shoulder.

“This is nice,” he breathed. 

You simply hummed in response. Your hand danced up and down his side, an innocent exploration. He jolted ever so slightly as your hand brushed against his shoulder blade. You traced your fingers higher, skimming along the searing skin of his milky neck until you raked them up from the bottom of his hair, brushing through.

You heard a sharp intake of breath from him, before he sighed contentedly, letting your fingers gently scrape against his scalp. His hair was stiff and crunchy from the product he put in it, but if you were messing it up, he didn’t say anything.

The two of you stayed on the roof like that for what seemed like forever, saying nothing but feeling everything. He had shifted to sit between your legs, reclined with his back facing you, head resting on your chest. When you stole a glimpse down at him, you saw that his eyelids had fluttered shut.

As if he could feel your gaze upon him, he lazily cracked his eyes open, staring catishly at you. 

“I think you were right,” you said.

Saying nothing, he hefted himself up from your lap to face you, never breaking eye contact. He got close again, foreheads almost pressed together, breaths in the fresh night air mixing together.

And then he was kissing you. 

It was warm and wet, but not heavy. His lips were slow, practiced, knowing how to mold into yours in just the right way. You kissed him back, cupping his face in your hands. His tongue slid out for a moment, making contact with yours in between your mouths pressing together, and then he pulled away.

“I’m getting a little cold,” he said. “Wanna head back down?”

You haphazardly slipped through the window, and followed Tendou downstairs.

The party had died down a bit, but not by much. You could spot a couple passed out on the couch, and a few small groups talking and laughing rather than a crowd of everyone dancing together. Someone had turned the music down—thank God—and although it still smelled like a teenage party, it felt somehow a little more bearable.

When you got to the bottom of the stairs, Tendou turned to you. 

“That was nice,” he said. “Really nice. But I don’t want you getting the wrong idea; I don’t wanna, like… start anything. Romantically. It’s not really how I roll. I’d rather stay just friends, y’know?”

As soon as the words ‘just friends’ left his mouth, you knew it was a lie. You could see it in the blinking of his eyes, the slight twitch of the corners of his mouth, the tilt of his shoulders. 

But you didn’t call him out on it. Instead, you said, “Just friends it is, then.”

And then you let him walk away, believing that you had bought his lie, that you were completely oblivious about his attraction to you

.

Commissions open! Check out my page for details :)

[tangledinmdzs]

So I read the HC's about how the lan bro's and nie bro's reacted to their s/o with animal ears and tail and I'm wondering how would the Jiang bro's and/or Song Lan and Xiao Xingchen react its ok if you want to ignore this Love your writing

i can definitely try and write this! i'm so glad you liked the first one (here)

cheers~

｡o°✥✤✣ 　　 ✣✤✥°o｡

Jiang Cheng & Wei Wuxian

when Wei Wuxian stumbles upon a caged bird during a visit at his younger brother’s estate

he’s immediately intrigued,

“Jiang Cheng, i never knew that you liked birds,” Wei Wuxian had noted, playing and cooing at the little creature in its cage while Jiang Cheng watched from the side

“it was injured when i found it, so i brought it back home,” Jiang Cheng replies

the sect leader’s eyes follow his brother’s hands as it unlocks the cage door

the beautiful bluebird, with the softest feathers colored in beautiful shades of orange and brown does the cutest little head tilt before hopping out slowly and standing on Wei Wuxian’s extended finger

Wei Wuxian can’t help but laugh, using one finger to pat at the small head of the bird 

“you’ve trained it so well,” Wei Wuxian compliments, smiling widely as the bird whistles (almost as if to answer)

Jiang Cheng just shakes his head,

“she’s always been well behaved,” Jiang Cheng says honestly, watching the bird almost smile at his brother

“i’ll let her go when she’s fully recovered,” Jiang Cheng announces, 

Wei Wuxian pouts at those words, 

and surprisingly, 

the little bird in his hand turns to look at Jiang Cheng too, with a lot more emotion in its little eyes than it should have

a few more weeks pass by and Jiang Cheng holds true to his word, 

on a warm morning, Jiang Cheng opens the golden bird cage and urges the little bird to fly away

you leave Jiang Cheng in your original form, a small bluebird

even as you take flight to higher skies, you can’t shake the melancholy look that your caretaker had when he had let you go

so when you return to Lotus Pier, without wings, 

just your long patterned robes 

and a few feathers in your hair

you intend to return your gratitude, tenfold

Song Lan & Xiao Xingchen

the sight of you baring your teeth, eyes golden should have been enough to frighten anyone away

but it seemed that the two cultivators in front of you

had guts

your white pointed ears flickered anxiously on top of your head, sensitive to every single sound

and even though your loose greyish robes should hide any other animal-like traits within its folds

it isn’t hard to see

that you weren’t fully human

“you’re injured, let us help you” the man  donned in white, speaks up his feet edging across the snowy ground distance to you

you back yourself as much as you can into the tree that you’re leaned against,

though the blood from your gaping leg wound leaves a small streak on the snow in your sad attempt at escape

you’re still on your guard as the two men approach,

baring your teeth one last time,

but you’re tired,

and besides, they both stay

“may i?” the man in white asks when he kneels down next to you

and it takes you a slow minute for you to realize that he’s asking about seeing your leg

you lift your robe up a bit, revealing the steady drip of blood from the arrow head that pierced you, 

“she’s lost a lot blood,” the man in black comments immediately and you finally feel the adrenaline bleeding out of your body much the same

your body teeters to the side, tired, worn out 

you barely have time to process the surprise of arms wrapping around you or the warm chest that you’re leaned against,

“we’ll get you to safety,”

a final promise as your eyes close to darkness

[saynotoshityouhate]

photo from pinterest

Across the Alley (Adam Sackler x Reader)

summary: Your new neighbor likes to put on a show - but little did you know, he knows you’ve been watching.

note: this was a piece I wrote for the Summer 2021 @adcuficexchange for AO3 user 1986_Special, who also wrote my gift fic! I had so much fun with this prompt - maybe I’ll work on a part two?

cw: mutual masturbation, solo masturbation (male and female), watching your neighbor play, playing with cum like only Sackler can

Adam awoke as your bedroom light shone through his window. You were home; it was late. He wondered how the date he correctly assumed you’d been on, based on your many outfit changes, had fared. Poking his head up from his pillow, he looked across the alleyway to see you sitting on your bed, head in your hands. Must not have gone well, he thought.

Adam had been watching you since you’d moved in. He had noticed the moving trucks outside one day and, being curious, he looked out to see who his new neighbor would be. He ended up very pleasantly surprised. Over the course of the next few months he picked up on your little habits and quirks, like your love for black and white films, your morning dance parties in your underwear, and your favorite chinese food order. He found himself craving more from you - like why haven’t you brought anyone home, or why the pink vibrator is your favorite.

He’d also love to know your name, so he could hear it pass through his lips, tasting every vowel and consonant as he came.

----

After getting unceremoniously dumped by your long-term boyfriend, you needed a major life change. Moving to New York City as a single young adult was the absolute dream...right? You’d been surrounded by romantic media portrayals of life in the Big Apple growing up - Friends! Sex and the City! Will and Grace! How I Met Your Mother! As soon as you handed “he who must not be named” your set of keys, you knew this was the logical next step in your life plan.

It was your first night in your apartment by yourself when you noticed him. You had yourself all cozy in bed, watching your favorite old movie, when you heard a loud growl coming from across the alleyway. Carefully peeking out of the window, you saw a large man swinging a 2x4 around his apartment - wood and dust and glass were flying around his muscular frame, dressed in only a pair of low slung jeans and safety goggles. You called your best friend in the morning to let her know you had found your first crazy New Yorker - a right of passage and something to check off your NYC bucket list.

You worked from home, giving you plenty of opportunity to study this man across the alley. He had an odd sense of style - it was either the same pair of jeans (no shirt needed, a trait you quickly began to appreciate) or a dingy onesie that looked like something his great grandfather may have worn. He was some kind of carpenter, and was always shouting at something or someone. He had a dog, but only for a day, and didn’t often have company.

You were lonely - your friends were across the country, and every date you had been on so far had been a disaster. You were starting to reconsider this decision, but you were too stubborn to truly admit you were wrong. Plus, there were other ways to fulfil those lonely feelings.

When he didn’t have company, he had a certain nightly routine. He’d grab a tall glass of milk and a tattered old book from his extensive collection, and head into the bedroom. He’d read a few chapters until the milk was gone, and then make himself comfortable propped up with pillows against the headboard. He’d wiggle his hips, moving his tight black briefs down past his knees. He’d squirt two pumps of some kind of lubricant into his enormous hand before slowly, and not at all gracefully, bringing himself to orgasm.

You were usually already in bed when this routine would begin. Covering yourself with your blanket, you’d get comfy enough to watch the show, bringing your trusty pink vibrator along. You wondered if he knew you were watching him, if he knew you were touching yourself along with him, mirroring his long, languid strokes with your fingers, wishing it was his thick veiny cock that brought you to your release instead.

——

Adam caught on quickly that you were watching him too. He could gauge how your day was going based on how many trips you took to refill your coffee cup throughout the day. More coffee meant more stress, meaning more urgency for a way to relieve that stress. Who knew he’d have a dirty little voyeur move in next door? Adam had some kinks, but voyeurism was never one of them - until now. Tonight, however, Adam had a plan.

——

“Oh god, yes, yes,” you whimpered, eyes shut tight. Your head was full of the dirty things the man next door could do to you. The guy you had dinner with tonight was a total loser, some Wall Street know it all with a fancy apartment but zero social skills. Your neighbor was already asleep, so you had nothing but your own thoughts to put you in the mood. Thinking of his broad chest, muscular back, and endearingly goofy mannerisms tightened the coil in your lower belly. The image of his two hands pumping himself up and down while his entire body flexed in anticipation snapped that coil, causing your back to arch almost unnaturally, moaning louder than ever before. As you relaxed back down into the mattress, you turned your head towards your sleeping neighbor’s apartment. Only to see that he was not asleep.

——

As soon as your light turned off, Adam snapped to attention. He watched you reach into your bottom drawer, pulling out your favorite toy. He smiled. Show time. He gave you a bit of a head start, watching your body movements slowly increase in speed and intensity. He palmed himself through his briefs, wanting to last a bit longer. He saw the way your toes began to curl, spurring him to jump out of bed, kicking off his briefs in the process. He stood in front of the window, cock in hand, and watched as silent words spilled from your perfect lips, as your forehead furrowed and your back ultimately arched, stroking himself the entire time. It was the most erotic moment he had ever experienced. As his legs began to shake, he leaned one forearm against the window keeping his eyes on you from beneath his dark eyelashes.

—-

This was how you saw him, chest heaving, right arm pumping vigorously, a flush crept across his chest and neck, punctuated by his hair, dampened from sweat and stuck to his forehead. His eyes were trained on you.

You sat up in bed, fascinated by what was happening before your eyes. Your mind was reeling - so he knew what you were doing…and he was more than okay with it? How long had he known? Oh my god what if you saw each other on the street? He didn’t seem like a murderer - a bit erratic, maybe, but not a murderer. For every panicked thought, there were two that sent quivers throughout your already overstimulated body. You crawled to the edge of your bed, sitting cross-legged and watched as your neighbor climaxed, spurts of cum hitting the windowpane in front of him.

——

Adam closed his eyes for just a moment, regulating his breath and heart rate. Slowly opening them back up, he saw you were literally on the edge of your seat. He laughed, more than satisfied with his performance. Leaning down, he smeared some of the mess on his window, letting him write a crude “hi” message. He saw you laugh, covering your face and shaking your head. Adam scampered across his bedroom, wiping his hands on a dirty towel before grabbing a notepad and pen. He wrote a message and held it up against the dirty window for you to read.

“Hi! I’m Adam! Same time tomorrow?”

[lilsuzn]

MLQC Lucien - NSFW abc headcanons

Sorry I was gone for so long. I was busy doing hot girl shit.

Fandom: Mr. Love: Queen's Choice

Warnings: S.M.U.T.  (the reader is gender neutral, but I quote Lucien’s “silly girl” at one point so idk)

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

It’s probably because of this relationship you two have. One that Lucien thought he could never have.

Frankly, he didn’t really want one. Even with you.

But it was impossible to stop himself from jumping into that rabbit whole.

You are not even a human for him. You are far superior.

A goddess.

A greater being that must be worshiped. Cherished. LOVED THOROUGHLY and Lucien can't stop himself from doing all that.

He would help you clean up with so much care. Hold you like he’s about to lose you. Wisper praises and declarations of love into your ear.

Prefers to stay in bed, but wouldn’t mind to do it in a bath either.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

He never really gave it much thought, but if you’d ask him, he would probably say - his neck.

Because he noticed how much attention you give it. That given a choice you would always kiss and bite on the neck.

And the unreformable tease he is - he loves your ears.

The way you twitch and squirm when he licks the or softly blows around them. The way you flush when he leans in to whisper directly to it.

All those small reactions get his blood pumping.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

A big fan of cuming onto you.

Your ass is his staple favorite, but chest, stomach, back or… basically anywhere else is not bad at all either.

If he ever comes inside you without a condom… and gets to see his seed dripping out of you… IT’S SUCH A BEAUTIFUL CHANGE OF PERSPECTIVE FOR HIM.

Nothing can beat the look of his seed spilled on your pretty butt, BUT… damn that’s a nice sight.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He doesn’t believe that some deeds can be dirty or naughty.

He's a scientist. Explorer of human's brain. He knows that every single of those is a normal, human thing.

But given that we all know what is this question all about…

Lucien really liked to draw when he was a kid and he still does it from time to time.

And what else could he sketch in his free time if not the most beautiful creation of this world? You. Naked.

He has countless amounts of those at this point. Every part of you has a separate piece. He likes to go through them from time to time.

Meaning every day when you're not around.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Lucien is not a virgin but he had never been in a real relationship before you.

He had some one night stands. A few booty call relationships, but he had never been with someone the way he is with you.

So you were still a challenge, because he could not allow himself any shortcomings when it came to you.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

That’s a spoiler for the future, but Lucien is more than willing to try everything and he doesn’t really feel any special bond with a particular position.

However he does have a particular group and if you remember what I said in C above, you know where I’m going.

From behind. Seeing your butt shake. He’s an ass man. (would love to try anal if you’d show an intrest in that)

Major bonus points if you turn your head to the side and look at him. With your lovely, beautiful face that he loves oh so much.

He instantly speeds up to the point that no man should ever reach and will happily carry you around for a day or two - you’ll need it.

Because after that there could never be only one round. Or even two or three.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

I wouldn’t call it goofy.

It’s very intense. Almost in a spiritual sense.

For Lucien sex is a metter of high importance. There’s no room for fooling around.

He needs to focus, so afterwards you’re completely spent, blissed and fucked to the point where you could never enjoy sex with any other man.

Toxic trait of this cutesy otome boy - possessiveness, and although he won’t try to control what and with who you do... 

(the man has some dignity and respect for your autonomy)

He will make sure you won’t be able to forget who makes you feel so f*in' good and being ‘goofy’ won’t make the statement.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

I think Lucien would be somewhat groomed, but not bold.

Shaving just isn’t natural and therefore necessarily good for one’s body.

Therefore, if you shave he might try to convince you to stop.

I want to touch a woman, not a girl - he would say.

Carpet matches the drapes (however I like to think that Lucien has ginger pubes dontjudgeme)

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Said first in A, now will be more specific.

With Lucien sex is some kind of a ritual of worship.

It’s a sacrifice for his goddess. His energy, his time, his most attentive care.

Love beams from his eyes even stronger than light does from the sun.

The foreplay will be elongated. You need to come at least twice before he enters you (see T).

During he roams your body with his hands. Boldly, but not aggressively… unless you’d like it.

Afterwards… well, just read A again.

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

He’s a very busy man, so he doesn’t get many chances, but…

When he can he’s right at it… thinking of that pretty ass of yours.

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Lucien is quite kinky.

He's in for anything that doesn’t go under N conditions. Anything. 

Likes bondage. No. He loves it. On you. And blindfolds.

SPANKING.

DOM BOY, but wouldn’t mind to go sub from time to time for you.

You want you to submit thoroughly, so he can thoroughly please you. Give you all that can be given.

Lives for roleplaying.

He also is really into body worship. He will praise you to the point of incredibility. 

See T gir. It’s really an intense game.

Lives to hear you beg for him.

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

He likes to be in a private, comfortable place, when he doesn’t have to worry about any interruptions or other inconveniences.

Best in your or his place.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

First of all he really needs no convincing.

BUT.

The beast is awake momentarily when you wear his clothes. Like his sweater when you're cold. Or a shirt after a passionate night.

"You make a very nice sight indeed."

Other thing is lingerie. He likes it dark and erotic. Satin and straps. Maybe some nice, sheer mesh.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

No humiliating one another.

Nothing that even comes close to making you feel like he might have attempted to disrespect you.

Also - no outsiders.

And no hiding one another's fantasies. He’s there to please and satisfy you. Don’t take it away from him.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Eghem.

Can you stay up all night

Fuck me till the daylight 

34+35

If you don't get it yet, it means he wants to 69 with you.

All night. Every night.

The taste of you in his mouth is heavenly.

The feeling and sight of your mouth enveloping his groin is pure ecstasy.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

He doesn’t have much of a fav.

It all depends on his mood.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Meh...

It’s not like an unacceptable option, but he prefers delayed gratification.

Will agree if you insist, but won’t ever offer.

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? Do they take risks? etc.)

OF COURSE. YES. PLEASE.

Why would he ever limit himself to known and obvious, when there might be something far, far superior to what both of you already know.

He enjoys erotic literature. Sometimes reads online articles about interesting positions, toys or new ways to make you come harder and faster.

Won’t shy away from many things. Just remember about what I said in N.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

This man rarely sleeps. Rarely even rests.

This man is a rabbit.

It's more likely you will pass out of exhaustion then that he will take a break from fucking you. Weather it's with his hands, dick, lips or… other things. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Speaking of other things.

And fucking.

Lucien invested in a nice collection for the two of you. Vibrators. Rings. Suckers.

He likes to please you in every way he can. 

While the toys take care of you, you suck onto him.

Sometimes you just embrace yourself as the toys take care of your needs. And you go like this for hours. Until you can't take it anymore.

And let's not forget the bondage equipment. Ropes, handcuffs, blindfolds, gags, whips….

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Obvi. What did you expect?

A lot.

For hours.

Until all you’re able to say is “Lucien” and “Please”.

Edging is not negotiable. Happens every time. Often to the point when you come so fast and unexpectedly he just couldn’t stop on time.

Will talk dirty to your ear in public to then “accidently” stroke your nipple or if he feels particularly bold that day - your crotch.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Not shy at all. No shame.

Will moan, groan, pant and hiss all he wants and as loudly as he wants.

Let the neighbors hear. Why would he feel ashamed of fucking you?

LOVES when you do the same.

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He would love to take you for a weekend trip. In the mountains. Renting a nice cottage.

Necessarily with a fireplace. And a jacuzzi.

He would have it decorated with many, many gleaming candles. Set all around the cottage.

The soothing music would play.

His fingers would play with your sex while you soak yourselfs in the jacuzzi.

Then he would lay you on a soft carpet in front of the fireplace and make love to you. True, unmistakable love.

It would be a trip to remember for the rest of your lives.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

First off all, see this meme.

He just emanuates that massive dick energy. That’s just facts. No one in the bunch can relate. I’m sorry stans of the other 4, it’s not my fault, don’t @ me.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

High. Very high sometimes.

Okay - usually very high, sometimes extremely high.

All nighters will happen at least once a week unless one of you really has a tough week or just had one and still tries to get everything together.

Otherwise no mercy. His lover needs to have all her needs fulfilled. Lucien would never allow you to walk around hungry or cold. Why would he let you be unsatisfied in this category, silly girl?

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Not right away for sure. 

He wants to watch you fall asleep. And then see those cutest expressions you make in your slumber.

Sometimes he just grabs a book and holds your hand until you wake up.

Other times he isn't able to resist it and falls asleep. You in his arms. His world at peace.

[dameronology]

to make a house a home {agent whiskey}

summary: just a soft weekend away in kentucky w/ our fave cowboy {for @zazzysseoul - thank u so much for ur support and i hope you enjoy!}

warnings: i think one or two swear words? but nothing else!

enjoy,

- jazz

Jack Daniels was good at reading people.

It was part of his job. He had to be observant, had to have a working understanding of body language and non-verbal signals. He was especially diligent about it when it came to you; it wasn’t a purposeful thing, but rather an instinct to keep an eye on the person he loved most in the world. He could read you like a book and some days, it felt like he knew you better than you knew yourself, and maybe he did. There was really no telling with Jack. Every time you finally thought you had experienced every little quirk and trait he had to offer, he managed to pull something out the bag. Whether it was his ability to predict a bad mood before it happened or the way he remembered every tiny little detail of a conversation, he was constantly proving himself to be one hell of a partner.

It was no surprise; Jack thought you deserved the best and so, that’s what he tried to give you. He didn’t often let people into his life, especially not after so much loss, but from the moment you’d met, he knew he could trust you. He’d always been a brilliant judge of character and he’d been completely right about you. You’d turned his entire world upside down; taught him how to love again and reminded him that the things he’d lost could be found again, just with a little care and patience. The empty house he used to come to was filled with love and laughter and little marks of you and him; photos from your various trips, magnets on the fridge, that he brought home from all the countries his job took him to, the little notes you left on his nightstand when you had to slip out for work before he rose. The first time Jack had come through the front door and almost tripped over your shoes, he’d cried - not out of anger or shock, but at the realisation that he was no longer alone. 

Jack had the innate desire to look after you. He knew you could handle yourself but that didn’t mean that you had to. You’d been there for him in every sense of the world, and he wanted to do the same, to make sure that you felt appreciated every second of every day. In his mind, if you ever questioned his love or loyalty, then he wasn’t doing his job right. That desire translated into little things, rather than grand displays of affection; he’d do your laundry when you worked late, sent you sweet texts through out the day and brought you flowers just because. It wasn’t uncommon to find that Jack had filled up your car with gas without asking, or to come home to your favourite take out. 

His biggest way, however, was in how well he knew you. Every slight change in demeanour and every variation in the tone of your voice was caught by him; he knew when you were okay, and he knew when you weren’t. He could tell when you were half-way between, and he’d do his best to bring you back to the lighter side. You take comfort in the fact he always had your back, no ifs or buts. 

When Jack woke up early one morning to find your side of the bed empty, he immediately knew that was something was up; the second his palm reached out for you, only to be met with a fistful of cold sheets, he knew. You never got out of bed early. There could have been an atomic war happening outside and you still would have refused to move, insisting on five more minutes before nuclear winter hit. The bathroom light was off and there wasn’t anything you could have found in the kitchen. After all, you’d only arrived at the ranch a few hours earlier. You were both tired from a few long weeks at work and escaping the suffocating fog of the city for the rolling hills and fresh air of Kentucky felt like heaven. 

Jack sat up, pausing for a moment. There was a gentle creek coming from somewhere; it was steady and rhythmic, ringing from the porch. His shoulder slumped wit relief - you were outside on the porch swing. At 6AM on a cold, winter’s morning. The relief was shorting lived. 

Pulling on his robe, Jack rubbed his eyes and headed out towards the porch. Sure enough, you were the first thing he saw, shoulders covered by the plaid shirt he’d worn the previous day and fluffy socks gently brushing against the floor with the movement of the swing. The light above you illuminated you in a soft smoulder, a golden glow cast over you, illuminating your tired eyes and disheveled hair. He would have lectured you about the cold, had you not had a knitted blanket around you. 

‘Bit early for you, ain’t it?’ Jack leant against the door frame, gently smiling when your eyes met. 

‘What’s early when you haven’t slept yet?’ You aimlessly joked. 

Lifting up the blanket, you silently gestured for him to come and sit next to you. Jack obliged, dropping down beside you and winding a large arm around your shoulder. He pulled you into his chest, placing a kiss on your temple. His warm body was a welcome feeling against the cold of the January air. 

‘What’s keeping you up?’ He softly coaxed. 

‘I don’t know, to be honest.’ You replied. ‘It’s just been a long week.’

‘I get that.’ His voice was slightly murmured. He pulled you even closer, chin resting on your head. ‘But we’re here now, sugar. I think we both need the down time.’

‘Definitely.’ You said. ‘Plus, the view isn’t so bad.’

The ranch overlooked a large field filled with cows and horses; it stretched out for miles, fading away into the distance into a seemingly endless close. The edges of the green pasture were tinged with the pink of a tonic sun rise, pushing away the dark of the night sky. It wasn’t often that you got to watch the sun come up, and it felt a little refreshing to see a new day come. It was fresh; a clean slate, young and naive, but full of possibility. An ironic thought, given that you and Jack were probably going to lay on the sofa the whole day and order take out. 

‘You’re right.’ He murmured from beside you.

‘Are you doing that thing where you look at me when I’m talking about a nice view?’ You peered up at him, thinning your eyes. 

‘You said it was romantic!’

‘The first five times, Jack!’ You chuckled, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw.

‘Nothing is sacred anymore.’

You settled back against his chest with a smile. ‘I like it here.’

‘Me too.’ He agreed. ‘It’s nice to get away from the Apple. Everything over there if faster than a knife fight in a damn phone booth.’

‘And it doesn’t smell of pizza and...pee.’

You loved New York dearly; it had been your home for many years, and it was also where you’d met Jack. But, whether it was your permanent home, you didn’t know. There were some days when it all got so much. The city never quietened down and you could never quite escape it, even in the comfort of your own apartment. Out here, you were worlds away from that. Crickets were gently purring in the distance, and the only other sound came from the rustling of the animals in the field across the road. It was peaceful. Serene. 

‘What if we moved out here when I’m done at the Statesman?’ Jack posed, almost as though he were shy about broaching the subject. ‘We could get a couple horses. Maybe a dog. Heck, if you want a zoo, I’ll get you a zoo.’

‘I’d like that.’ You smiled. ‘I mean living here, not the zoo thing - but a dog and horses sounds nice.’

‘Then a dog and horses we shall get.’ He grinned. ‘Oh! I can teach you to ride.’

‘Or I could just watch you do it.’

‘There’s not a single person in this here town who can’t ride a horse.’ Jack said. ‘Unless a pony would be better.’

‘Why not both? We have enough room.’ You reminded him. ‘Maybe we can re-tile the kitchen too. It’s not that I don’t like the green, it’s just it’s...’

‘...dreadful?’

‘That’s a nice way of putting it.’

Because you didn’t live on the ranch full time, neither of you had put too much effort into making it homely. It was liveable, by all means, but the television in the living room dated back to the first Bush administration and the kitchen was a little too lime for your liking. The place had come furnished by the old owners, which had been a big selling point for Jack. He just wanted somewhere he could live whilst he was in Kentucky and this place had been practical. It wasn’t until you and your eye for interior design came along that he realised how retro it was. 

‘There’s a hardware store down the road.’ Jack said. ‘We can get a couple hours sleep and head down there later to see what they got.’

‘Maybe we can find something less green.’ 

‘I sure fucking hope so.’

---

The next morning, you and Jack bundled up into some warmer clothes and piled into the Bronco, heading for the store downtown. The actual city was miles out, but there lots of little local and independent places. There were little cafes and restaurants, as well as farmers’ markets and fresh produce. You had thought about living here permanently before, but you hadn’t verbalised it until Jack had suggested it first. Given everything that had happened in the past, you’d wanted to do things at his pace, but so far, you’d been perfectly in tune with one another. That was a testament to your relationship as a whole. 

‘I just smiled at that woman and she smiled back.’ You muttered to Jack, peering up at the store as you headed through the parking lot. 

‘And?’

‘I once smiled at a stranger on the Subway and they told me to piss off.’ 

Jack chuckled, reaching out to wind his arm around yours. He tangled your fingers together, pulling you flush against his side. It was easier to show physical displays of affection here too. He was always a little paranoid in the city, given how busy it was and how easy it would have been to for an enemy to hide. That was another thing Jack did without thinking; taking tiny little precautions to protect you. He couldn’t even begin to think about losing you. And the thought never popped up here. Never. Only in the city, where everything was loud and overwhelming.

The store itself was pretty big - it was good for you, but confusing for Jack. You had Pinterest boards with inspiration for all your hypothetical future houses, whilst Jack couldn’t the difference between ivory and sand. So, true to character, he let you tighten your grip on his arm and drag him towards the kitchen section, eyes wide like a kid in a candy store. You had a green blank canvas to go wild on, because probably would have agreed to anything. It wasn’t that he was a walk-over, or because he was lazy, he was just genuinely terrible at interior design. Introducing him to build mode on the Sims 4 had been traumatic enough. 

You didn’t have to decide anything immediately - after all, he’d said he wanted to move out here after he was done at Statesman. That was just as likely weeks as it was years. He did complain about his job giving him a bad back but you also knew that he enjoyed it. It was all he’d known for such a long time, and he’d worked hard to get to the top. Unbeknownst to you, he’d drop it all in a second if you wanted to relocate now. Even if he had the best job in the world and all the money he could ever want, the only thing Jack really needed was you.

‘Where do we even start?’ He asked, brown eyes staring confusedly at some paint samples. 

‘We start with the most important rooms - living room, kitchen, bedroom.’ You replied. ‘I’m thinking something midcentury for downstairs. What d’you think?’

‘Midwhatnow?’ His brows furrowed. 

You laughed. ‘Midcentury. So think...Bauhaus. Mid 60s sort of thing.’

‘Right.’ Jack nodded, getting a clearer idea. ‘How about you just to point to things and I’ll either shake my head or nod?’

Yeah, that sounded like a better idea.

And so, you began your trek around the store. Your Pinterest boards came in handy, especially for the kitchen - even Jack was grateful for them, because it meant you moved a little quicker. He did die inside a little when you grabbed a huge trolley and began piling it up with kitchen tiles, counters and cabinet doors, and even more so when you casually asked ‘you’re good at DIY, right?’

He didn’t complain though, not once. The sight of you rushing around the store, face lighting up at lamp shades and paint samples, was one of the best things he’d ever seen. Not only because it was hilarious, but also because it was the first time you really planned for your future. There was sort of an unspoken agreement that this was it, and that you were both in it for the long run, but neither of you had made any verbal plans together. You’d moved in together back in the city, but that had happened naturally. You’d started staying over and over more and more to sleep in his fancy Statesman bed and use his heavenly marble bathtub, and you came over one weekend and just never left. 

After a few hours, Jack finally had to put a stop to your antics. 

‘Okay, darlin’, I think we’ve reached the threshold now.’ He called. ‘We don’t need a new lighting fixture for the downstairs bathroom.’

You huffed. ‘Placing it back on the shelf.’

‘Fine.’

‘We’re gonna have a hard time getting in this car as it is.’ He held his arm out to you, signalling for you to come back to him. 

‘I’ll have to come back for the upstairs then.’ You muttered. 

‘We’ve gone from painting the kitchen to gutting the whole damn ranch, baby.’ Jack replied. ‘We’re only here for two more days anyways.’

‘Damn. I forgot about that.’ Your eyes widened. ‘I guess we better start today, then.’

--

This was supposed to be a relaxing weekend. 

Relaxing! 

And yet somehow, Jack Daniels was stood in the middle of his now half-demolished kitchen, a sledge hammer in one hand and a glass of his namesake whiskey in the other. He couldn’t deny that it had been fun to rip out the cabinets and tear off the tiles. He’d despised the colour of the kitchen for so long that it felt good to finally get rid of them, even if it meant that the tedious process of putting on the new ones came immediately after. You’d gone for simple black and white ones, with some mosaic ones for a...what had you called it? A feature wall or something. Apparently it added character (something he took your word for). 

‘So what’s the paint for?’ Jack frowned, taking a brush as you handed it to him. 

‘For the living room.’ You grabbed him by the shirt, dragging him out the kitchen.

‘But the kitchen isn’t done-’

‘- I’m bored of the kitchen.’ You said. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

‘Course not, angel.’ He pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

After grappling with covering the furniture up, you and Jack began to paint. It wasn’t too hard of a process; he just sort of whacked it on, whilst you had a much more meticulous process. So what if he got a splash of grey on the light switch? Actually, on second second thought, he should probably wipe that off.

Besides, it only took him five minutes to get sidetracked. The sight of you stood across the room, his red and black plaid shirt hanging from your shoulders, face screwed up with concentration and paint on your nose, was a distraction in itself. It was the sort of moment he wanted to get on a Polaroid, but equally, one that he wanted to savour. He always entranced by you, but sometimes that amplified. You weren’t even doing anything special - just...existing. But that was enough to capture his attention in its entirety. 

He didn’t tear his eyes away from you - not until something cold hit him in the face, and a splatter of grey paint nearly hit his eye. The noise of your laughter pulled him back to reality, practically losing it as you doubled over, holding onto the fire place for support. You were lucky that it was his favourite sound but heck, you coulda dumped the whole bucket of paint on him and he wouldn’t have flinched. 

‘That was rude.’ Jack folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’m gonna get you for that.’

‘No, you won’t.’

You dropped your paintbrush, suddenly leaping over the couch and sprinting out into the hallway. Trying to outrun a highly-trained government agent (a fact you sometimes forgot) might have not been your brightest idea, but you still managed to breeze past him and skid into the kitchen, almost tripping over a strewn tile as you did. 

Jack was hot on your heels, arms reaching out to grab as you circled back into the living room. He managed to snatch you by the waist, pulling you down onto the sheet-covered couch - he was nice enough to use his own body to break the landing at least. You landed on his chest with a thud, still in a fit of giggles as he grabbed your face and planted kisses all over it. His lips were soft and warm, tasting of whiskey when they finally met yours. You tangled your hand through his hair in an attempt to bring him close, as though it were even possible. 

You broke the kiss, rolling off of Jack and onto the sofa next to him, nuzzling into his side. The paint you’d managed to get on him was on you now as well, smeared down the side of your face and a little onto his shirt that you were wearing. Not that it bothered him all that much, because the sight of you in any of his clothes was worth a little bit of paint. You had a sort of rotation, where you would steal various garments and wear them until they lost his smell, before dumping them in the laundry and swiping some more. They were always baggy, scented with his aftershave and the faint smell of the leather from his car. When he was away on missions, it was the nearest thing you could get to one of his warm hugs.

‘Darling, d’you think, just maybe, that we should just pay someone to do all this?’ Jack gently suggested. ‘I can have a guy from the agency come in and be done in like three days.’

‘Three days? For the whole house?’ You peered up at him with a frown. 

‘Their speciality is rebuilding places after we accidentally blow them up so this will be like a walk in the park.’ He explained. ‘Although, the kitchen isn’t far off. the place is lookin’ as messy as the farmers’ market after sundown.’

‘And Champ won’t mind you abusing Statesman resources like that?’ You teased.

‘The man is so rich that he buys a new boat when the other gets wet.’ Jack reminded you. ‘He ain’t gonna notice.’

‘You have a point.’ You nodded. 

‘Besides, they’re better at decorating-’

‘- interior design.’ You cut him off. ‘It’s a house, not a Christmas cookie.’

Jack dropped his head against yours, letting out a groan. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘I know.’ You leant up to press another soft kiss to his lips. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, angel.’ 

Even though it was still a little far off, the glimpse that this weekend had given you into your future meant everything to him. He’d brought the ranch as a place to crash on business stays, and now you were helping to turn it into a home. At one point, he hadn’t imagine having a life to look ahead to or a house to decorate or somebody to love. Even though they were small, everyday things, you’d brought so much into his life, and he was never going to let you forget it. 

[truglori]

Homebody (Ch.14)

Summary: Amiyah is the younger sister of local drug dealer (Durkio). Shy and reserved she keeps to herself and stays out the way. But lately she began to find interest in his right hand man/ best friend (Erik Stevens). Wanting to get him to notice her she discovers that he already had her wrapped around his finger without even trying! There was only a few problems that kept her away from her fantasies , her brother that controlled almost every single breath she took and would kill anyone who looked at her that way and lastly Eriks girlfriend, Alexis , who they called the queen of the hood according to her lavish lifestyle as well as being with the next newest top boy in the making. While Alexis was his girl to the streets all Amiyah wanted to do was be his Homebody...

Pairing: Erik Stevens x Thick OC

Warning: Language

Lighting her favorite scented candle, Amiyah inhaled the fragrance with her eyes closed. After a long day at the boutique she wanted to relax with a good smelling room, dim lights, and her music playlist on repeat. Taking her hair out of the ponytail she massaged her scalp feeling relieved. After having it in so many protective hairstyles she decided to give it a break and let it breathe by wearing her own natural hair until it was time for her to get it done for the trip.

Laying flat on her bed with her legs twisting one over the other she scrolled through her phone. She wasn’t going into anything particular just wandering around for a while checking text, missed phone calls, and old pictures of herself on Snapchat. Clicking on her Instagram app it opened up to a relationship post from one of the pages she followed.

It was a post of a quick video of a boy laying on top of a girl who was rubbing his head. Amiyah felt a twinge of sadness prickle her heart. She longed to have something like that only for it to be a part of her fantasies and not her reality. She’s seen plenty of post like that before but this time it felt different. Mainly because she had an opportunity to recreate a small video of her own with the man she had in her hands and let slip away.

Amiyah regretted the moment she had broken up with Erik that night. Speaking without thinking, which was a trait she always had, she ended it with him before they could even work things out. Her stomach dropped when she witnessed him walk out the door and never came back like he always did. It wasn’t until the party that she knew her feelings for him was still there.

Amiyah didn’t know if Erik felt the same until they had their moment in the hall. The kiss very much dripping with emotion as their drunk but true feelings came out of hiding. Amiyah could tell that he missed her as much as she missed him. The only thing that bothered her was that she didn’t know the situation with Harmony. Was it to make her jealous? To try and get back at her for breaking up him? She wanted to know it all. But if it was real between them then she had no other choice but to fall back. Being a home wrecker wasn’t something she want as her reputation.

The sound of the front door closed and footsteps walking in the hallway had caught her attention. Looking at the time on her phone it was closed to midnight and Durk was finally coming in. Getting up she slipped on her UGG slippers and walked into his bedroom. Amiyah seen him sitting on the edge taking off his shirt leaving him in his white tee before leaning over on his knees to remove his watch.

“Knock knock.” She spoke making herself known.

Durk glanced at her with tired eyes. Amiyah could understand why knowing that he left the apartment around four in the morning.

“What’s good Miyah? What you still doing up?” He asked yawning.

“I just got done cleaning my room. You look tired.” Giggling lightly she moved near him and sat on the bed.

Durk shook his head smiling. “A nigga be out here hustling. What can I say?” Taking off the rest of his jewelry he sat it on the nightstand next to him.

Looking at his sister Durk knew that there was something on her mind that she must have wanted to talk about. Amiyah wasn’t always a direct person. She would try to talk about random things before getting to the topic that she really wanted to discuss. But Durk was the opposite. He wanted to know what a person had to say to him right then and there.

“So wassup. What you come in here to talk about?” He asked bending over and folded his hands together.

“Wha do you mean?”

Durk gave her a knowing look.

Amiyah sighed, annoyed that her brother knew her so well when she had something to say. “I wanted to talk about what happened at the shop the other day. You know whatever you and Erik was talking about.”

Durk nodded his head. “What is there to talk over? Didn’t you just say that Erik and I were the ones talking?”

“Yeah but-“ He cut her off.

“So then why are you stressing about it? It’s grown man business Amiyah. Don’t got shit to do with you.” He sent her a stern look.

Amiyah scoffed. “Why do you always have to do that Durk? Every time I try to help you, my own brother, you always push me away like I’m still some kid. If you’re in trouble then you should tell me. I have every right to know.” She stood up in front of him.

“Okay so even if I was Miyah what could you do about it? Hmm? How could you help me like you think you can?” He mocked her body movement waiting for her to answer.

Amiyah shook her head. It amazed her how things between them could always get so heated and escalate quickly. It was probably because they were both alike with their stubbornness.

“I don’t know we can go to the police.” She stated shrugging her shoulder unsure.

His laugh boomed through room. “Girl you better sell that dry snitching shit to someone else because you know I ain’t never been the one. Watch out now.” Durk stood up and walked to his bathroom.

Amiyah followed. “Durk I just want to be there for you. I mean isn’t there anything I can figure out for you. To relieve some of the stress I know you’re dealing with.”

Durk sighed glancing at his reflection in the mirror.

“Amiyah the best thing you can do for me is to stop worrying about me. I’m fine. Me and Erik is going to handle the situation. Focus on your own life.”

Closing the house robe she wore, she covered her body. Amiyah knew that Durk already had it made up in his mind and that there was no way she could be a help.

“Can you just answer this question for me please?” Staring at him with glossy eyes she asked him. “Did you do anything that could back fire on you?”

“Why you ask that Miyah?”

“Because if you did Durk I don’t want to and can’t afford to lose you. Mommy and daddy are already gone and you’re the only person I have left.” The tears that she tried to hold back fell one by one.

Durk pulled her in his arms. He kissed her head repeatedly. “Miyah don’t think like that.”

“It’s true. If I lose you then I would have nobody.” She expressed through her tears.

Durk felt a lump in his throat. He shook off the feeling to cry. It was something he hasn’t done since their mom passed away.

“Amiyah look ain’t nothing gonna happen to me. I’m gonna be straight. But even if it did I know that wouldn’t be true. You’ll always have someone.” He didn’t know what he was saying or why he said it but something made him speak with confidence.

Amiyah smiled when he wiped her tears away. She hugged him with all of the strength she had in her body ,embracing him and not taking a simple moment as them conversing for granted.

“Damn you coming in here fucking my high up and shit.” He spoke making them laugh together.

“Sorry.” She giggled wiping her face.

“You good kid. Come on let me show you something.” Throwing his arm over her shoulder he walked back over to his bed. Sitting down in their previous spots Durk reached in his drawer.

“Here.” He handed over a brochure that displayed an apartment building.

Amiyah flipped through the pages. “What’s this? Are you thinking about moving us somewhere else?” She asked becoming curious.

Durk paused staring at her before speaking. “Nah not me. Just you. It’s your new place if you want it to be after we come back from the trip.”

Amiyah laughed smacking her lips and trying to hand him back the piece of paper.

“Shut up and take your stuff back.” She stated not believing him. Her laughter died down when she saw that he didn’t join.

“Wait, you’re serious Derrick?”

“When have I ever played with you about something like this? I was gonna keep it a secret until we made it to Turks and Caicos but since we had that little heart to heart a few seconds ago I had to lighten up the mood.” He spoke honestly.

Amiyah was shocked and confused. Never in a million years did she think Durk would be the one to initiate her leaving and getting her own. She just didn’t understand why he was doing it and why now alll of a sudden.

“Durk why are you doing this now?”

She watched him hesitate. “Well because you’re getting older Amiyah. Old enough where I know you are gonna want your own personal space and not have your older brother all in ya shit.”

She shook her head agreeing with a smirk.

“Besides I get tired of coming into the house catching you in ya nasty ass grandma panties walking around thinking you the only muthafucka that lives here.” He joked.

Amiyah pushed him before laughing and leaning her face into his shoulder. “Shut up. Don’t do me.”

Durk laughed. “Nah but it’s time you get your own because a nigga like me get tired of fucking bitches at they roach infested crib. Them muthafuckas be there like they paying rent and shit.”

His genuine venting had Amiyah cracking up. She was laughing so hard her stomach started to cramp.

“Durk I can’t stand you.”

“I’m not playing girl I’m serious. But I’m bout to knock out. I been up all morning and I’m tired as hell. We’ll finish talking about this later.”

Amiyah nodded her head standing up. She walked to his door before turning around. She flicked off his light leaving a dim gloominess from the moon.

“Love you Durk.”

“Love you too. Night.”

_____________________________

“Will that be all for you two?” The cheerful waitress asked looking back and forth between the couple sitting down before her.

“Yes thank you.” Erik smiled showing his dimples.

She gave a polite smile before walking away.

Erik began to dig into his syrup covered waffles. They were the best fluffiest waffles he had ever eaten. It was Bendix’s diner famous family recipe that had him craving them every other day. Erik couldn’t deny that after Amiyah had brought him here on their first date he became addicted to the hospitality, homey feeling, and good food.

Hearing the sound of a fork clink in front of him brought him back down from his food euphoria.

“My bad. I’m just hungry as hell.” He hadn’t eaten anything all day and it was going on five in the afternoon.

She laughed. “It’s no problem. Thank you for inviting me out here. Everything is good so far.”

Erik wiped his mouth with a napkin giving Alexis a small smile.

“Yeah well you know why I asked you to come. I’m just trying to figure out what’s going on.” He spoke referring to the Shawn situation.

It’s been about three days since Durk informed Erik about a leak being in the circle. With only a handful of people knowing about the plan to rob Shawn they had to keep their eyes open and ears uncovered on everyone. There was no man being left out of the questioning. Erik and Durk was checking for everybody, especially Alexis.

With her being so close to him it made them wonder if she had somehow folded between the time of planning to even after the job was done. Erik wouldn’t have put it past her. It was easy for him to discover that she was a selfish who would turn on everyone just to cover her ass. He knew this the moment she revealed that Shawn was her off and on fiancé and how she didn’t have a problem setting him up. Alexis was a sheisty person.

Fixing her sunglasses she cleared her throat. “Erik I don’t know how that information got to him. You know if I did I would tell you.” She replied through her shades.

“So there’s no way you know?” He put his fork down crossing his arms.

“Erik it seems to me that you wanted to meet up with me as an interrogation instead of getting the information you need.” She put her elbows on the table folding her hands.

“I’m just calling it how it is. Shit was going good and all of a sudden word gets out about the way this nigga got hit move for move. Durkio’s name get brought up and you mean to tell me you don’t know shit about it? What’s wrong? You running out of the hush money he gave you?” His jaw clenched.

“No! Look things between me and Shawn have been tensed. Ever since the first time you assholes robbed him shit was getting out of hand. He was on edge trying to find the niggas who did it. It wasn’t that bad until he found his stash broken into when we came back from vacation. It’s been a living nightmare being with this nigga.” She finally pulled off the glasses revealing a black and purple mark on her left eye.

Erik sat up observing the bruise. His fists clenching and releasing. One thing he couldn’t stand was a weak pathetic man who liked to put their hands on females. This was surprising to Erik because he had never seen her with one before. With the time that him and Alexis had put in, she did do some shit that could irk the hell out of a man but never to that level where he would hit her. Erik felt that it was a sign of weakness with women already being vulnerable and not even having the same strength as a man.

“This nigga been hitting you. Why the fuck is you even with his bitch ass?” He stated pissed off.

Alexis rested her head along the palm of her hands.

“Because if I leave now I know for a fact he would try to kill me. Hell he’s already paranoid and suspicious about me. That’s why he’s been beating my ass the way he does. He’s fucking crazy Erik.”

For the first time Erik saw the fear cloud over her face. Alexis looked like she was terrified to bring his name up let alone to try and leave him. He started to feel bad. Despite of her mistakes in the past and her trying to come against him by blackmail Erik didn’t want to see her go through the pain she was probably experiencing.

“Alexis you have to get the fuck out of town. Take whatever you have left and don’t look back. It will be your best bet.” He warned her genuinely.

“I want to but it’s just not the right time. At least right now.” She paused hesitating to speak for a minute. “Erik could you just promise me something? Please?” Her eyes became soft as she held his hand.

He glanced at it. “What’s up?”

“Help me get out. When the time comes I want you to help me leave him. Please?” She begged.

Erik saw the fear and genuineness in her eyes. He shook his head agreeing. What could he say? He had a big heart for people who were going through. He experienced his own struggles and knew what it felt like to be alone.

“I’ll be here. Just say the word.” He replied calmly.

Alexis smiled squeezing his hand that she was still holding.

“I missed you Erik...I missed us.” She spoke before she could stop herself.

Breathing in and out slowly he removed his hand from hers gently.

“Alexis I apologize for what you’re dealing with on behalf of a real man but you know that there could never be another me and you together.” He spoke under his breath but loud enough for her to hear.

She sighed folding her arms. “I didn’t say I want us to be together I was just saying that I missed this and us how we used to spend quality time with each other.”

“Yeah well good things don’t last forever.”

Alexis watched him. He was becoming closed off and short answered. The only time he did that was when he was being bothered by something or put in an uncomfortable position. This must have been one of those.

She blew out air changing the subject. “Anyways I did have a little bit of information. After all that is my only reason for being here.”

Erik ignored her backhanded comment waiting for her to talk. “Go ahead.”

“Shawn has been getting word about someone going around town rocking his chain that was stolen. He’s asking around and he’s starting to get names Erik. I know you and Durk would never be dumb enough to do stupid shit like that so my guess is it’s the other motherfucka that went with y’all.”

“Cane?” His brows knitted.

“Exactly! I mean I get it. He’s a young hot nigga on the come up finally getting his hands dirty. He’s tryna prove himself but me and you both know that it would be that same flexin shit that could have him in the bottom of the ocean. So rather it be you or Durk, y’all need to check that nigga before he fucks it up for all of us.”

Erik nodded his head taking in every word. “Gotchu.”

Alexis put her shades back on and grabbed her purse.

“One last thing. Shawn is supposed to be meeting up with someone. I’m not sure if it’s related to you guys but I’ll keep you on post about it.”

Erik gave her a nod of acknowledgment and thanked her silently. He watched her get up and put on her coat.

“Be careful with yourself Erik. I mean that shit. You’re a good person that’s just tied into the wrong life. You’ve always deserved so much better.”

With that she walked out the restaurant leaving Erik behind with his thoughts. This had to be confirmation for him. For the last few weeks he’s been wanting to be fully done with this shit. He had enough money saved up where he could move anywhere across the country and not look back. But he couldn’t. He had unfinished business that he had to take care of first. Erik was never the man to leave his problems unsolved.

Taking out his wallet he pulled out a crisp fifty to take care of the bill. Grabbing his coat he left out and hopped into his car to go over to Durks. He wanted to inform him about the meeting that he had and also to warn him. It was about time they started to keep their circle tight.

___________________________

Banging on the door firmly. Erik waited in the hall until he heard the locks unlocking and came face to face with Amiyah. He took in her frame. Her face covered with her soft natural features that made her look even ten times more beautiful to him. Her healthy brown natural hair straightened with a middle part and falling just above her shoulders. She could rock any hairstyle but this one had Erik swooning over her in the inside.

It was a few seconds of silence before he spoke. “Hey is your brother around?”

Amiyah nodded. “Yeah he’s right there.” She giggled sheepishly pointing at him on the couch.

Erik looked in the direction as he saw Durk flipping the channel on the tv but he was eying the both of them suspiciously out the corner of his eye with his face scrunched up before shaking his head and giving his attention back to the screen.

“Damn I ain’t even seen that nigga.” He chuckled when he heard her laugh which was contagious.

“It’s okay I was just leaving. I’m going to Kelley’s so you guys be good.” She smiled widely before walking away.

Erik let her by watching strolled down the hall and into the elevators. She looked a lot happier today for some reason and it somehow made him feel better. Going inside he closed the door behind him and sat on the recliner.

“What’s up fool?” Erik said leaning into the chair.

“You tell me weird ass nigga. For some reason y’all two be acting like some fuckin weirdos when y’all get around each other. Laughing at nothing and shit.” Durk stated nonchalantly as he threw the remote down next to him.

Erik smiled. “Damn I can’t be the reason why she smile?” He asked teasingly.

Durk gave him a “stop playing with me” look causing him to laugh.

“What yo goofy ass doing here?”

Erik sighed. “You know that meeting I had set up?”

Durk nodded waiting for him to continue.

“It was with Alexis.”

Durk snickered shaking his head. “That wack ass girl. What she try to lie about this time?”

“Nah man to be honest. I don’t think she was lying to me. At least if she was it would be a damn good one but it just seem real this time.” Erik spoke looking him in the eye to let him know he was serious.

“Why you say that? Bitch suck ya dick or sumn.” He chuckled sitting up and grabbed his weed tray.

Bringing a hand up to brush down his waves, Erik rolled his eyes. “Nigga I said it because when I saw her she had a big ass bruise on her eye. That nigga Shawn been beating her ass because he’s paranoid as shit right now.”

“Hmph so don’t you think if he was doing that to her, that will give her a reason to go ahead and tell him everything she know? He’s suspicious about her so he starts punching her shit and then Alexis start throwing us under the bus. You can’t tell me different man.” Durk replied putting a blunt to his lip and lighting it.

Erik sat up sighing frustratedly. “Durk are you not getting what I’m saying? I mean it can’t be her because if he’s already beating her ass because he’s only suspicious about her then imagine what he would do to her if he found out that she was involved?”

He stopped mid sentence waiting for him to catch on. Durks face began to show an expression of realization when he thought about it silently.

“So if she end up telling him that it was us that robbed him and how she helped, she’d be dead before she could finish telling the story.” Durk added as he blew out the smoke from the blunt.

“Exactly! That’s exactly what she would be. Dead. It wouldn’t make sense for her to rat when she would only get herself killed. Which is why I don’t think it was her.” Erik retorted.

Durk smoked his blunt down half way quietly before he spoke again.

“We got to lay low. Shit is getting too hot and niggas is starting to know too much. I’m not sure for how long but we definitely gotta move in silence.”

“I agree. No more hits or jobs. Just have ya people work the corners and that’s it.”

Durk handed him a blunt. “Say less. It’s already done.”

Erik reached for the lighter that was on the table and sparked up his splif.

“She also told me that Cane running around here with that nigga chain on. She want us to check his ass before shit hit the fan.”

Durk shook his head. “Why do we always gotta clean up after grown ass niggas man? Yo when I see Cane I’ma fuck his ass up. Then I’m gonna interrogate him to see what he knows. Let him be the one. Fucking me over will be the last thing he does.”

“We gotta watch him too. He moves too reckless D.”

“I got eyes on him as we speak. Everybody’s a suspect. Except you. You the realest nigga I’ve ever known since I met you.” He inhaled his blunt.

Erik lifted his shoulders. “Loyalty is important to me. I go hard about that shit.”

“I know which is why I want you to come with me to Turks and Caicos in two more weeks. It’ll only be for a week but it’s better than looking over our shoulders over here. I’ll appreciate it if you accept the offer.” Durk asked giving him his full attention.

Erik chuckled. “Man what we going to Turks and Caicos for? What about your sister? Who’s gonna be with her?” He questioned him.

“That’s part of the reason why we’re going. I’m taking Amiyah for her 22nd birthday. It’ll be her first time out the country. Thought I do something different for a change with all the shit I put her through.” Durk snickered swiftly scratching his nose.

Erik smiled. The minute he mentioned the reason for the trip he was down to accept his invitation. A whole week away from the stress and drama to dinner on the beach with a view. This was something his body has been yearning for physically and mentally.

“That’s dope. I think she would really appreciate and cherish that man.”

“So what do you say? You coming or not?”

Erik tossed the roach blunt on the ashtray. “Nigga I’m fucking going to Turks and Caicos even if I have to swim my black ass over there.”

They both laughed getting back into good spirits.

“You one funny muthafucka man.” Durk chuckled reaching over to give him dap.

Erik smirked. “This might sound a little out of pocket but maybe I could bring Harmony with us. Only if that’s cool with y’all?”

Durk knitted his brows confused. “Nigga of course that’s okay. Why the fuck would I have a problem with that?” He laughed.

Erik shrugged his shoulders. The question wasn’t really meant for him but towards Amiyah.

“Shit I don’t know. I wasn’t sure if this was a family/ close friends only type of trip.”

Durk waved him off. “Look if shorty a friend of yours she a friend of mine and besides I think Amiyah would want to have another female on the trip that she could hang with.”

Erik nodded his head.

“But you must really like this girl. Thinking about inviting her and shit. Damn is the pussy that good nigga?” Durk asked leaning over towards him.

Erik laughed shaking his head. “Come on you know I don’t kiss and tell G.”

“Ahh whatever Erik. I’m happy for you though. If she’s someone who you can bring around and trust than I have no other choice but to like her as well.” Durk sent him a genuine smile.

“Yeah, we not official but she a good girl. Easy to talk to, smart, funny, and keeps it real as fuck. I fuck with her for real.” Erik replied thinking about Harmony.

Durk lifted his brows. “Aye but can I tell you something? All jokes aside.”

Erik turned to face him. “What’s up?”

“Between you and me...for a minute I thought Amiyah had a little crush on you or some shit. I even thought y’all was fucking around.” Durk snickered.

Erik’s stomach dropped. His heart even skipped a beat when he heard Amiyah and the words ‘crush on you’ in the same sentence. Putting on his best poker face he chuckled it off and pretended to be unbothered by his comment.

“What? Why you say that man?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it was just the way she used to look at you and act shy whenever you’d come over. Like earlier y’all doing that weird shit looking at each other and laughing. Fuck is that? Then there was the time you offered to bring her back to her friends crib late at night.” He explained scratching his head.

“Nah man. She’s cool. I like your sister.” Erik spoke sincerely making sure it didn’t come out the wrong way.

“ I don’t know man maybe it’s the weed talking but if you didn’t start seeing this Harmony chick I would have definitely suspected some shit about you and baby sis bro.” Durk chuckled.

Erik joined him to play it safe.

“Well you ain’t gotta worry about that. But look I’m out of here. I’ll get back to you on the information about the trip. Later big dog.” Standing up he dapped Durk up and left.

When Erik made it into the hall he finally exhaled the breath that he felt like he was holding in. That was too close for his liking and he was glad it didn’t get any further.

______________________________

Please excuse any mistakes!

Turks and Caicos trip in the next chapter!

Tag-List

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[bmo-galaxy]

sns, prompt: reincarnation, waiting, soulmates

There's always been a yearning in him. A drive that sets his blood on fire and clouds his brain with determination. Some invisible force that pushes him toward... something. Sasuke thinks it's jealousy of his elder brother.

Itachi was always the favorite, the focus, the one set up to take over in their father's stead. Focused, intelligent, determined, capable; Itachi was everything Sasuke yearned to be and strove to emulate.

For most of his life, Sasuke assumed it was this jealousy, this borderline hatred, that set the fire in his gut. It felt good, satisfying, right to work in an effort to best the elder Uchiha. Each step he took toward his goal soothed and spurred on that fire.

He excels in school, but in different subjects than his brother. He keeps busy with numerous sports and clubs, but different activities than Itachi did. While they both graduate valedictorian, Sasuke's is by a smaller margin than Itachi's had been.

In the end, Sasuke is never quite good enough for his father. The patriarch judges him harshly and scolds him severely. The comparisons between the brother's are never ending. It sets Sasuke's teeth on edge and spurs him on further, hardening his determination to get ahead.

Not wanting to simply follow in Itachi's footsteps, Sasuke chooses a different college than the elder raven's alma mater. It irritates his father but for some reason, the simmering flames in his blood seem to delight in this decision.

The buzzing anticipation and impatience, something he so long tied to his brother, urges and encourages his choice. His usually turbulent soul settles when he sends in his application and is overjoyed when he's accepted. The yearning grows, filling his lungs and chest and heart.

'One step closer to besting you, brother,' he thinks as he stares at the acceptance letter in his hands. It feels right and wrong all in the same thought, the same breath. Is that why he's going? Wasn't there something... something else... No, this was his lifelong goal.

That goal is the only reason he picked this school. That goal is all that matters and all that's ever mattered. Right? Right. And as soon as he did it, as soon as he won, this persistent and anxious fire in his core would finally settled. The yearning would ease. Right?

In a few months time, Sasuke leaves for school. Those months are confusing and disorienting, punctuated by moments of pause. Why this school again? Oh, yes, something is there. Something is waiting. Something.... something... No. Just his goals, just his chance to gain power.

The day he leaves is frustrating. The relentless burning in his soul won't ease enough for him to breath properly, leading his voice to waver when he spoke. It's so distracting that even his father's scathing scolds can't break through the fog. Sasuke just yearns to get there.

More than he's ever wanted to be anywhere, which is confusing and irrational considering Sasuke's never been to this place before. But it feels like he's returning somewhere important. He tries and fails to attribute it to his determination, his dedication to his goal.

He reasons that it feels like somewhere important because its the stage of his revenge, his chance to beat Itachi. He's off though and he knows it. This feeling is too... something. Sitting on the plane, waiting for touch down and buzzing with anticipation, Sasuke realizes he was wrong.

This frantic, seering need in his chest may overlap with his desire to be better than Itachi, but they aren't one in the same as he had believed. This fire had always been too something, entirely different from his brotherly jealousy even if Sasuke never admitted it. Too big, too consuming, too intense. 

A very part of his soul instead of simply a trait about him. Deep in his chest, buried in his heart, his soul is waiting for something. Not the satisfaction of beating Itachi or the honor of his father's acknowledgement.

While very real parts of him, Sasuke knows they pale in comparison to this wistful longing. A longing that gets stronger the closer he gets to campus. A sleek black car drops him off with his bags and when Sasuke steps out, it almost feels like he's been set ablaze.

That's right, something is waiting. Something is here. Sasuke confirms the rest of his things will be delivered and his father's staff nods. The car pulls away and Sasuke is left with the flames. There's no thought at this point, no decision to make. Where is it? What is it?

Stepping in the first direction that comes to mind, Sasuke walks. The raven keeps himself composed, maintaining a slow pace, even though his heart hammers against his breastbone. He wants to break out into a run, search every corner and crevice. Frankly, he feels insane.

This feeling, this need, this all encompassing desire; all of it feels insane. It doesn't matter though. Sasuke can accept being crazy to sate the fire and soothe the burning. His feet carry him to a large, stone building that he assumes is a library. It's a book?

Sasuke finds himself disappointed without really knowing the reason why. Climbing the steps into the cool, dimly lit library, Sasuke looks around slowly. Nothing jumps out or calls to him, the flames don't change.

Feeling foolish and frustrated now, Sasuke stalks down a random aisle and grits his teeth. 'This is stupid and foolish and insane.' Sasuke keeps walking. 'Silly to lose sight of my goal over a silly feeling.' Sasuke keeps walking. 'Nothing is waiting, there's only my goal.'

Sasuke keeps walking until he turns a corner into a brightly lit grouping of tables. Sunlight comes in from big bay windows, casting the area in a hazy glow. Sasuke comes to a halt, breath leaving him all at once. The tables aren't empty.

In a long ray of sun, glowing and ethereal, is a single person. Blonde, tan, muscular but lean. Tattoos peak out from under his shirt sleeve and his nails are painted a bright shade of green. Chin in his palm, the man peaks at him slowly.

Blue eyes, deep as seas and sparkling like sunshine on the ocean, stare at him fondly. The kind of fondness that speaks of deep connections, long histories, ancient love. Sasuke is ablaze, burning to his core. From head to toe, the yearning begs him to walk toward this man. 

Sasuke resists, staring, guarded. Is this...? Could this be...? The flames are insistent and wild, the yearning in his soul sharp and aching. It has to be... Sasuke’s lips part, he barely whispers, “Are you--” when the blonde speaks louder. 

Tan cheeks stretch as the man smiles, a dazzling and earnest smile, showing off a dimple on each cheek. Sasuke wants to kiss them and the thought leaves him reeling. 

“Kept me waiting long enough, bastard,” the blonde stranger teases lightly, expression warm with mirth. Something lurches in Sasuke’s gut, something powerful and deeply buried. 

“You know me,” Sasuke says in a faint voice. It’s almost a question. Naruto tips his head to the side and those sapphire eyes are sad for a moment. Sasuke longs to help but falls short knowing how. This man is a stranger. Right?

A knowing, sweet smile spreads over the blonde’s lips now. The fondness in his eyes, which cases away the sorrow, makes Sasuke feel seen and loved; his heart trembles in his chest. The breaking point is coming, Sasuke can’t burn like this for much longer. 

“I do know you, Sasuke. For a really long time, actually.” It takes hearing his name from those sweet lips for the flames to settle. As it recedes into his soul and settles into his bones, the fire leaves behind memories from long ago. Memories with this man. Naruto. 

Naruto can tell when Sasuke realizes. The wistful fondness gives way to infectious excitement and overwhelming affection. Sasuke feels ready to collapse, every fiber of his being feels weak. 

It’s strange, almost empty, without that constant desire in his gut. Every single bit of him feels like it’s shifted slightly, warped, changed in an irreversible way. No less himself, no less Sasuke Uchiha, just weighed down by an entire lifetime of memories. 

Naruto approaches slowly, almost cautiously, arms bent behind his head and face open, earnest. “Its weird, right? I cried when it happened. My folks thought I was finally lost it for real.” 

Sasuke chuckles, sounding hoarse. “When did you find out?” This is almost too wild to accept, too insane to even contemplate. How could this be real? How could he be so lucky, so fortunate, so deserving as to get another lifetime with Naruto?

“When I was eleven. Your family is a big deal, I saw a picture of you on TV. I’d always been really, like, restless, ya know?” And yes, yes, Sasuke understood because he’d been feeling that same thing up until five minutes ago. 

“I saw you and that anxious feeling disappeared, but then the memories came. I told my folks I had a headache and wanted to go home. Been waiting ever since.” Another easy, beautiful, breathtaking smile. It’s been a lifetime since Sasuke saw it. 

Sasuke marvels, astonished and speechless. “Why didn’t you ever reach out? You were pretty relentless about that in the past.” It’s unbelievable how easy it is to talk to Naruto. How natural. How comfortable. A lifetime has gone by but it feels like only moments. 

Naruto shrugs, eyes just as glued to Sasuke as Sasuke’s are to him. Blue travels over his face and along his figure, taking in every detail. Just as mesmerized, just as awestruck. It makes Sasuke feel smug, proud, to know that he still commands Naruto’s attention after all this time. 

“I was scared. I didn’t know if you remembered. I didn’t know if you wanted to remember. I...” When Naruto trails off, Sasuke knows what he’s thinking. Knows what Naruto has carried in his heart all these years. 

I didn’t want to see you happy without me. I didn’t want you to choose not to remember. I didn’t want you to regret remembering. I didn’t want to lose you again. 

Dropping his bags, Sasuke closes the distance between them. Steady hands rise to cradles Naruto warm, dimpled cheeks. Without a breath of hesitation, Sasuke kisses his soulmate soundly. The blonde responds immediately, wrapping his arms around Sasuke’s waist and pulling him in tight. Kissing back with the same passion and adoration. 

You won’t be an Uchiha and I won’t be a jinchuriki. We can finally understand each other in the next world. 

When they pull away and Sasuke watches Naruto’s pretty blue eyes flutter open, everything feels right with the world. The stars seem to align and the air stills and it’s just the two of them bathed in sunlight. Naruto gazes into Sasuke’s dark eyes endearingly, misty tears gathering on the edges. 

“Sorry for making you wait. I supposed I lost,” Sasuke murmurs, cracking a small smile and pressing his forehead to Naruto’s. It’s addicting being able to hold him, touch him, embrace him as he’s longed to for lifetimes. Everything he’d yearned for, everything he wants. 

Naruto smiles, sweet and teasing, with vibrant blue eyes that shine. “Better late than never.” Sasuke chuckles, shakes his head in disbelief, and bends to kiss the infuriating blonde again. 

fin~

[dragonleesupporter]

Not So Different Part I

A/N HEYYYY! Did you miss me? Probably not, but here I am with another t-fic.

Warning: This is a tickle fic!

          It was no secret that tickling was a common pastime in the mindscape. Each side had their own soft spot for the activity in different scenarios. Logan loved tickling for the inexplicable properties it possessed. Roman loved being held and teased, Virgil loved soft cuddle tickles and Janus was a fan of others exploring the ticklishness of the skin just in between his scales.

            However, there were two sides that NEVER got tickled. These two the others would call the tickle monsters of the house. Any attempt to tickle them would backfire and the daring ler would soon become the lee. If one side wanted to be absolutely wrecked, or just want a special type of tickling, the two tickle monsters were the ones to do it.

            Logan, and Roman always went to Patton when overcome by monstrous lee moods, while Janus and Virgil would go to Remus.

 Despite holding the same title and power over the others in their little games, Remus and Patton couldn’t be more different. If the two were in the same room with each other for a single minute, an argument was bound to happen. Sometimes it was cute with both tickle monsters teasing some of their favorite lees to try bribe the other to prove their dominance. But other times… their arguments got really serious… This constant friction between them caused Remus to stop coming to dinner with the others, as Patton would always find a way to ruin his fun. Patton stopped going to Roman’s room entirely because of the fact that him and Remus shared it together, and Remus always got to Patton with absurd and disturbing ideas. Patton would only enter the Imagination if Roman went with him.

 Virgil, while loving the way Remus could make him scream and nearly pass out from the all the wonderful sensations of his tickling, or how surprisingly gentle he could be if Virgil used his safe word… he was starting to get curious what it would be like to ask Patton for tickles… After all, out of all the sides, Virgil was the most neutral when it came to the divide in them- down to even being indifferent whenever Patton and Remus fought, refusing to take a side.

 One morning, the emo awoke with what he liked to call an “Oh damn, I’m royally fucked” lee mood, that consisted of him giggling and snorting to himself at the mere thought of being touched in any of his tickle spots. Usually, he’d go to Remus for a lee mood so big, but, reluctantly, it was Patton’s door he decided to knock on.

 “Hey there, kiddo! Why you shaking so much? Is something wrong?” The fatherly trait’s normally happy appearance quickly changed to one of concern at the sight before him. Virgil had hidden his face in his hoodie, hugging himself tightly and shivering with the tingles his mind was making up to get him even more riled up.

 “L-lee mood…” He barely managed under his breath. He dared a peak at Patton’s face and was surprised to see an uncharacteristically smug expression behind Patton’s glasses. He suddenly grabbed Virgil’s arms and yanked him into the room, closing and locking the door behind him.

 “Why didn’t you say so sooner, Virge?” His honey-sweet voice carried an eerie and almost predatorial undertone as he approached Virgil, grinning madly. Virgil took a few steps back, surprised.

 “Oh, don’t look so scared, you asked for this after all…” Patton practically growled as he pounced on him, holding him in his arms.

 Virgil couldn’t help but squeak, Patton’s hands were touching his sides already, making the tingles SO much worse. Virgil suddenly felt the urge to hold his breath as Patton started poking along his sides, feeling out all of his possible tickle spots.

 “Y’know, this is the first time I get to wreck you Virge… would you want to tell me what your favorite spot is? ~” His sweet voice echoed as he leaned up to whisper in Virgil’s ear.

 The emo flinched and leaned his head away, but Patton’s tickly whispers followed him.

 “Cmoooon, son… just tell me where…”

 Oh. He was serious… Remus always knew where to get him. He never had to tell him where he wanted it! Oh no, this is going to be hard!

 “U-Um…” Virgil avoided eye contact. “S-s-s…”

 “Sides?” Patton guessed and immediately shoved his hands under Virgil’s shirt.

 “I- NO! NO! NOHOHOHOHOHO! PAHAHAHAHAT!” Virgil shook like he was being electrocuted. Patton’s fingers were so soft and stubby, skittering up and down his sides like spiders on the prowl. Virgil’s body kept trying to worm away from the unbearable sensations, but there was a floor to his back, Patton in front of him, and tickly fingers on both his left and his right! His legs started kicking as his laughter got higher in pitch. Patton was inching ever so close to his hips and tummy.

 The fatherly figure saw the reaction right away.

 “Aw! Is this a tickle-tickle-tickle spot right here?? This squishy thing right here? This adorable little tummy?” Patton’s voice grew louder and squeakier with excitement as he started prodding at the edges of Virgil’s belly, making him squeal with each poke.

 “C-cut it out!” Virgil managed between each squeal.

 “Cut out what Virge? Tickling you?” Patton’s sugar-dipped tone teased, lightly circling the sides of his tummy with his fingertips.

 The emo tried desperately not to laugh.

 “Quit t-t-teasing!” He shook madly, struggling to keep his giggles in.

 “Aww, is a little Virgie embawassed? Embawassed little kiddo of mine??” Patton’s ever changing tone only got more flustering, the pitch going even higher than the emo’s heartrate. “Maybe my little kiddo needs a boost! A snack perhaps? Why, I’m so hungry, I can eat this adorable tummy right up!” The fatherly figure eyed Virgil’s belly button with overwhelming excitement.

 “Wait-!” The purple side cried in a panic, but it was too late. Patton’s head charged toward Virgil’s tummy like a bull and upon contact, Patton blew the biggest raspberry his lungs would allow.

 “NOHOHOHOHO! STOHOHOHOP IHIHIHIT!” Virgil thrashed and spun wildly, bucking and kicking like mad, but Patton stayed on his tummy button, forcing more vibrations to echo and bounce off each other.

 “NOHOHOT THAHAHAHAHAT! NOHOHOHOHOHAHAHA! PLEHEHEHEHEASE!” Virgil started crying tears of laughter, as he threw his head back, a huge wave of relief and happiness came over him.

 When Virgil’s eyes started to roll up and his laughter became silent, Patton finally stopped.

 “How do you feel, kiddo?” He murmured lovingly, rubbing the emo’s belly in slow steady circles.

 “Ahhhffffeb… gah…” Virgil’s attempt at English was pathetic, yet adorable.  

 “How about cuddles… hm?” Patton’s arms wrapped around the hooded emo, purring softly.

 “Otay…” Virgil fell asleep in Patton’s arms as he kissed at his son’s face and neck and woke up with Patton still there, spooning him.

 It was odd, how different Patton and Remus were, yet they still had that loving look in their eyes as they wrecked their lees… However, while Remus is one for suspense and buildup, Patton’s teases have the same effect before he goes right for the kill… Usually, Virgil would wake up tucked in his bed, warm and safe… but all alone… waking up with Patton protecting him with a big sleepy bear hug… this was beautiful… this was… really embarrassing… but this… also didn’t help his decision of who to stick to… or who was the more dominant ler… he was gonna need more help…

 …

 “Virgil, what was it that you wanted to discuss with me?”

 “Yeah, uh… Logan… how would you like to partake in an experiment with me?”

 To Be Continued…

 @poptartsaysurloved @thetickleeraven @fluffymary

@cefsticklestoo @leedrop-angel

[marvelousstevetony]

Hi! Maybe this one, from thst sleeping prompt list if you’re feeling inspired?: laying on their lover’s chest, listening to their heartbeat, drawing circles on their chest. the stevetony vibes are strong 🥺💖 Ty!

Hi, friend! I truly love every single prompt on that list, but this one is just extra cute for Steve and Tony! I’ve been so busy these last few weeks, and I have a few prompts in my inbox that I should’ve been writing, but I saw this and couldn’t help myself. 

I hope you enjoy this short fic of Steve being miserable when Tony’s out of town, and then really, really happy when he comes back unexpectedly. I love these two so much, I really do💖💖

-----------

It’s not that Steve can’t sleep without Tony next to him. He’s perfectly capable of being by himself at night, of lying alone in their ridiculously large bed, closing his eyes and slip off into a peaceful unconsciousness. Perfectly capable.

The thing is, though, that Steve would rather just… not be alone. He can sleep without Tony, of course he can, but that doesn’t mean he wants to.

And now Tony has been gone for almost an entire week for some stupid conference that Steve highly doubts is necessary, and Steve has been pouting about it ever since his plane took off.

Steve gets it, okay? He knows Tony has work to do, because Tony loves his work and he wouldn’t be the same person without it. Steve would never discourage Tony from working, and Tony’s passion and ambition are some of his most attractive traits, Steve thinks.

But if work could just stay in New York, Steve would be very thankful.

Yes, because with work being in New York that would mean that Tony wouldn’t have to travel around the world all the time, which would subsequently mean that Steve wouldn’t have to crawl under the cold covers at night all by himself.

Which is exactly what is happening tonight.

Steve shivers as he pulls the blankets closer around him. Usually, he would curl up around Tony, basking in the warmth and affection Tony radiates, gliding his hand under the Tony’s t-shirt and letting it rest on his stomach as he kisses Tony’s shoulder.

Tony would chuckle and guide Steve’s head to rest on his chest, placing a peck in the dirty blonde locks and sighing contently before murmuring a quiet goodnight, sweetheart and closing his eyes.

God. Steve sighs into his pillow. What he wouldn’t do to have Tony next to him right now. He tosses and turns, hugs the pillow close to his chest as if it were a certain genius, but it’s too soft and too cold, and after a couple minutes of lying restlessly, Steve groans and hurl the pillow through the air like a projectile. It hit the floor with a soft thud and Steve frowns at it like he had hurt it.

Getting to his feet, he grips the pillow and smooths it over, sighing to himself once again. It’s not the pillow’s fault he can’t sleep. No, the problem is…

Okay, so maybe Steve has a small problem sleeping without Tony. But how can he not? He has gotten so used to having Tony beside him that anything else just feels wrong.

The feel of Tony, his scent, his breathing pattern, the way his fingers usually draw circles on Steve’s back, Steve misses all of it.

He had been alright the first few nights. The smell of Tony’s shampoo had still been lingering on his pillow, but it has faded since, and even Steve’s enhanced senses can’t pick up on the light peppermint notes. Just the thought of the scent sends a pang through Steve’s chest, and he has to swallow hard to choke back an involuntary sob. Maybe if he takes a shower and uses Tony shampoo he will feel a little better.

So that’s what he does.

He turns on the shower spray and adjusts the temperature before getting undressed. By the time he’s stepped in, the room has already gone misty and humid, and Steve can now just barely make out his blurry features in the mirror.

The water is scalding hot, just like Steve wants it in this instant. It prickles his skin and makes it tingle in an almost numbing way that shouldn’t feel as good as it does. After a few moments, he has gotten used to the burn and raises the temperature again, letting another wave of senselessness wash over him.

He pours the shampoo into his palm and starts massaging his scalp. He tries to do it how Tony does it, but it’s not the same. His fingers feel too big and he can’t apply the correct amount of pressure. At least he has the scent, and when he closes his eyes, he tries to imagine Tony being beside him, but all it does is leave a bitter taste in his mouth. He knows Tony isn’t there.

Despite the room being filled with steam from the shower, Steve still feels cold when he steps out onto the bathroom floor. The tiles feel icy under his feet, and he gives a quick shiver as he wraps a towel around his hips.

With his hand he clears the condensation from a small part of the mirror to look at himself. His hair is floppy and his cheeks are flushed from the shower which is how he usually looks after a shower. But then there’s this small crease between his eyebrows that has grown deeper as the week went on, and he runs the tip of his index finger over it to smooth it out. He hadn’t even really noticed how the tension had settled right there, not until now at least, and he forces his face to relax a little.

His eyes seem different, too. They look hollow in the same way Steve feels, like he hadn’t slept for days on end, which, to be completely honest, isn’t too far off. A little watery from exhaustion and with a purplish circle around them, making them look dull.

Okay, so maybe Steve really doesn’t do too well when Tony’s not there.

Sighing, Steve once again wishes that Tony could be there, in the Tower in New York with Steve, if not forever then just now. Just tonight when the time apart has become too much for Steve, when the loneliness starts nagging at him and keeping him from sleeping, when everything begins to feel so cold.

Steve shivers again, then quickly dries off and goes back into the bedroom to put his pajamas back on. His sits down onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. He stay still like that for a little while. There are thoughts running through his head, so many thoughts, but they’re unclear and too fast for his mind to keep up with them, and it’s all just noise that becomes louder and louder until Steve wants to scream.

He almost does scream, but when he opens his mouth, all that comes out is just a pitiful sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a sob. He can feel the warmth prickling behind his eyes, and he presses the heels of his hands into both eyes to keep them shut until the tears will back down.

And then comes the sound of the door opening.

Steve’s head snaps up with such force it feels like a whiplash, but Steve doesn’t care, because there’s Tony. Tony is right there in front of him where he shouldn’t actually be right now. Well, no, he should be there, Steve thinks and ignores the voice that tells him that he’s selfish and greedy for wanting Tony to let go of everything in his hands to be there with Steve.

“T-Tony,” Steve croaks, voice almost a whisper.

Tony smiles and puts down his briefcase. “Hey, sweetheart,” he says and joins Steve on the bed.

“You’re back.” Steve is still working on believing that Tony really is there, so he reaches out to touch Tony’s cheek and feels his breath catch slightly when his cold fingers greet Tony’s warm skin.

Tony lays his hand on top of the one Steve has on his cheeks, then kisses the inside of his palm. “I’m back,” he confirms. “Everything went smoothly so they told us we could get off a couple days early.”

And now Steve really can’t help the tears that are threatening to fall from his eyes. He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to keep somewhat composed, but his body slumps against Tony’s and he looks at Tony with tired, blue eyes that are more telling of how Steve is feeling than any sentence could be.

“You haven’t been sleeping,” Tony murmurs. It’s not a question, it’s a statement, because Tony’s knows Steve.

Steve doesn’t try to deny it either, there is really no point in doing so. Instead he leans in to brush his lips over Tony’s, the touch light but electrifying. “Missed you,” he mumbles against Tony’s mouth.

“I missed you, too, darling. Get in bed, I’ll be back in two minutes, okay? Just going to change and then I’ll come to bed.”

Steve nods and gives the brunette another quick kiss before getting settled under the covers. The two minutes he’s waiting feel like an eternity, but then Tony steps out from the ensuite, wearing nothing but his pajama pants, and pads towards the bed, and Steve just feels grateful. So grateful.

Crawling under the covers, Tony scoots closer to Steve, pressing his body against him. Steve is quick to position his head on top of Tony bare chest, cheek resting right under his collarbone, and he sighs contently when Tony nuzzles his face into his freshly washed hair.

“You’ve been using my shampoo, have you?” Tony asks with a fond smile playing on his lips.

“I, uh… I couldn’t sleep so I just… I thought maybe it would help me feel like you were here,” Steve says, a little embarrassed.

“I’m here now.”

He is, Steve thinks as he lets his eyes slip shut. Right where he’s supposed to be.

As they lie there, Steve draws small circles on Tony’s chest, around the place the arc reactor once was. It had been there when they’d first started sleeping together, and Steve loved resting his hand on top of it, feeling the weak warmth it emitted against his palm. Now, though, he traces the scar with his fingers.

It used to make this soft whirring sound, too, that Steve listened to at night. A slight hum that assured Steve that Tony was there next to him, that everything was alright. Now there’s another sound that Steve loves even more, because it’s purely Tony, proof that’s he’s alive. Tony’s heartbeat might be Steve’s favorite sound, he realizes. It’s soft and reassuringly steady, a rhythm Steve could listen to all day.

That’s another thing Steve misses whenever Tony’s away. When he’s alone, it’s all so quiet. The silence becomes deafening, it becomes insufferable, the noises in Steve’s head filling every void. But with Tony, whether it’s the arc reactor whirring or his heart beating, Steve can focus on the calming sounds and let every inch of worry evaporate.

And now, with his head resting on Tony’s chest, listening to the slow thumping, Steve feels his body relax and his eyelids grow heavier with each passing second. It doesn’t take long before his breath evens out and the line between his brows has disappeared completely.

Casting one last glance down at the sleeping soldier, Tony smiles fondly and kisses Steve’s forehead before closing his own eyes and drifting off.

“Sweet dreams, my love.”

[aitarose]

FROZEN MEMORIES (T. OIKAWA) pairing: oikawa tooru x fem!reader

synopsis: tooru always spoke a million words a minute, a million words describing his everlasting love for y/n—but in reality, vows can’t always be kept, and photographs are all that stand forever.

word count: 7.0k

genre: fluff, angst, getting together, established relationship, time skip

warnings: major character death, slight ghost au

notes: lina and i were talking about planes one time on facetime and now this exists. :) writing about weddings is fun and i hope that this makes people sad—but like the good kind of sad <3 

↳ DIRECTORY

It was a simple thing, the diamond that rested on her finger.

Small, delicate, and nothing like the extravagant stigma of Oikawa Tooru. Nothing like his vibrance and charisma or the tenacity racing through his veins while on the court. There were no sprinkles of the unnecessary, no remnants of borrowed money.

Just simplicity and minimalism. A bare show of his love for her, a showcase that would be blind to the wandering eye, it was so small. The ring was all of the things that had little, if any, relation to his personality.

Throughout the timeline of them knowing one another, Y/N always knew he’d propose. Whether that was when they were in their mid thirties, twenties, or even while in high school—their love was that strong.

And she knew him best. She knew that he wouldn’t present a jewel the size of a bumblebee, or one with gems surrounding the entirety of the band. In her mind, the only option would be the bare band with a single jewel laying atop its center.

The same band that had belonged to his grandmother, mother, and now her.

It wasn’t a statement piece or trophy, but rather a reminder that their relationship didn’t have to be complicated or flashy. That the ring had surpassed generations of instability and trouble, and at the end of the day, all that mattered was their love—their love that was truly unbreakable.

Which was why it was all the more special to Y/N, why she cherished it more than any other belonging. It reminded her of him.

When he’d gotten down on one knee, professed his dreams of sharing the rest of his life by her side, the enjoyment of announcing that she would be the wife of a professional athlete never crossed her mind. 

Y/N didn’t view Oikawa as a celebrity or idol. She didn’t consider him to be on another level or above her status for any reason. In no world was he too good for her, as they were perfect for each other.

There was just something about him, a force that pulled her towards him no matter how hard she tried to resist. He was undoubtedly the other half of her spirit, the person she was always meant to connect with.

Her heart swelled whenever he was around, just knowing that he was in the same building, waiting for her at the end of the flower-filled aisle had tears dripping down her rose-colored cheeks.

She could imagine the smile on his face, the one she’d been waiting to see for over a year now. The smile that she saw when she closed her eyes, looked into her reflection, passed a shining pond.

Ambition was her most dominant personality trait, always feeling the need to reach for the sky and set new goals—but once she’d kissed his lips, she knew that he was the only goal that mattered.

And the two of them had been preparing for this day for what felt like forever, waiting in anticipation for the moment they’d be pronounced as one. However, their wishes had been interrupted by his newly honored position on the Argentinian team.

They had a month, barely thirty days to pack up his life, everything he could possibly need for an unknown amount of time, and find peace with the fact that they wouldn’t be together for every second like they’d become accustomed to.

Driving him to the airport had to be one of the most tear-filled days of Y/N’s life, other than today of course—but today’s tears were much different in every sense and form. 

She could remember the exact look on his face as they’d left the car, carried his luggage to the terminal, and said their goodbyes. Goodbyes that were, of course, temporary as no distance could ever break the bond they had.

The photo laying between Y/N’s fingers had captured that moment perfectly.

Somber looks on both of their faces, yearning for the other even though they were a mere distance away, a distance that was growing with every second the clock counted down.

Laughing lightly, maneuvering her position so her reminiscent tears wouldn’t stain the slightly marred photograph—she pushed the memory aside, instead choosing to recall an earlier one. A happier one.

A memory that was encased within the maple box that Oikawa had gifted her at the terminal. A present that he’d been putting together for nearly a decade, throughout the entirety of their early relationship.

So, while the airplane had taken him thousands of miles away, over an entire ocean and away from her—Y/N had a way to see his face. His beautiful and loving face for the times where he couldn’t answer the phone or pick up a call.

A photo box. One filled with polaroids and snapshots of moments, cherished memories of their lives that had led up to today’s date. It was her most prized possession, the story of her and Oikawa. 

The story of their love.

“Are you alright?” Y/N giggled, pushing the loose strands of hair away from Oikawa’s face. The wind was rapid, carrying them throughout the nearly empty park, and to their destination.

It was a small picnic blanket, one that he’d set up an hour earlier, laying in the center of the field, underneath one of the blossoming cherry trees. Albeit, with the roaring currents, their date spot had flown a few feet into the air.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, ‘Kawa.” She repeated, amused at the sight of his mortified face. There was never a time where Oikawa Tooru didn’t strive for perfection, and in the moment where he felt it mattered most, everything had gone wrong.

He’d been preparing to ask Y/N out for weeks. Always admiring her from afar, searching for her in the stands, smiling at her cheers and words of encouragement. Calling her a crush was beyond his feelings, she was simply his.

So he felt that their first date had to be perfect. It had to leave her hooked, left at the corner of a page, addicted and invested to turn the next—to turn every page in the chapters of their story.

Their story, that was just beginning.

“I’m fantastic, Y/N-chan!” A large, teeth baring smile grew on his lips, eyes wide with anxiety radiating out of them. He didn’t think he’d ever felt his heart beat so fast, the artery on the verge of jumping out of his chest.

“Really?” She asked with her brows raised, noticing how the blood had rushed out of his face, leaving behind a stone-cold canvas of skin. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost—no. You look like you are a ghost.”

“It’s okay. I’m nervous, too.” Y/N confessed, taking his hands in hers, her warmth overshadowing the clamminess of his palms—her touch being his salvation. “This is my first time being asked out, you know. I mean, we are only first years.”

Which was entirely true. They’d each moved from their respective middle schools to Aoba Johsai, not knowing of the other’s existence until Oikawa had accidentally tripped over her school bag while on the run from his fangirls. 

From that moment on, he’d been completely and utterly enamored by her. 

Enamored in the way that his cheeks would flush bright red at any moment of embarrassment if Y/N was around. Bright red, just as they were now, with her heart in his grasp, begging to be loved.

As he opened his mouth to speak, scripting his genuine apology for the chaos that was today, something flew right by his right eye. Something small, yellow and black—something that truly pushed him over the edge.

Oikawa ran in a dead sprint, circling the blanket, darting between trees as the innocent bumblebee chased him with glee. His shrieks were ear-piercing, inducing hysterical laughing fits from Y/N, tears brimming the corners of her eyes.

The sternness of his posture had finally relaxed, his placid expression long gone and replaced with one of the over-dramatics and the unnecessary. She felt as though the blood rushing through her veins had settled, content with the familiarity of the Oikawa in front of her.

“Protect me, Y/N-chan!” He cried out, his hands holding her shoulders with a death-grip, using her body as a shield from the barely visible bee. It buzzed around their heads in circles, causing him to duck and cover each time it got too close to his ears.

Y/N was practically out of breath, her voice hoarse from the amount of laughter leaving her throat. “Oikawa! Are you even allergic to bees?” She wondered out loud, trying to find any acceptable reason other than insanity to his reaction.

“I don’t know!” He exclaimed, taking Y/N’s hand and pulling her away from their stray picnic blanket, and towards the more dense sector of trees. “Three percent of people have a reaction, and there’s no way I’m not in the top percentage—I mean look at me!”

His skin was stained red, nearing the color of blood from how much adrenaline he’d been using. The brown in his pupils dark, almost black, large, and staring straight into Y/N’s.

Heavy breathing came from the both of them, energy on the rocks, exhausted after their marathon throughout the park. It was a strange moment, one with no words yet their feelings were communicative. She didn’t need to hear what he was thinking, as she felt the exact same. 

Oikawa began to lean in, his gaze focused on Y/N—his focus staying on her and only her, just as it would always be. Closing her eyes, preparing herself for her very first kiss with the boy that seemed unreachable, Y/N was left with no love on her lips.

Nothing but the sound of a shot snapping from a polaroid camera, and the feeling of a smile pressed against her cheek.

As her vision opened, Y/N’s jaw dropped, smacking his arm with the picnic bag that had been thrown over her shoulder. Sure, she’d noticed him packing the camera earlier, but hadn’t expected him to actually use it. 

“Are you serious?” She scoffed, amusement laced in her tone. Of course he’d pull something like that. He’d do anything to make the moment more memorable. “I can’t believe you, Oikawa.”

He grinned a shit-eating grin, forehead touching hers. If Y/N hadn’t known better, she would’ve walked out, left him behind after such a sporadic and awful first date—but she actually enjoyed the chaos. She enjoyed being with the real him.

“Well, you better believe it, Y/N-chan.” His lips were so close, a mere centimeter away. Only a centimeter between them and, still, the distance seemed too far. “And when I do kiss you, I expect to be called by my real name.”

Oikawa pulled away, saying a final wish before stalking off towards the remnants of their picnic, leaving Y/N with nothing but withdrawal and their single photograph. She rolled her eyes at him, his words racing through her head as she fell in love with the frozen memory.

Call me Tooru.

Y/N’s heart swelled as her senses picked up on the harsh sound of sneakers squeaking against the gym floor. It was a noise that would likely drive a normal person away, so wretched and foul, absolute agony for the ears—but she loved it.

She loved it since along with that sound, came him—came Oikawa.

“You two really can’t stay away from each other, can you?” Mattsun groaned, his attention brought to the entrance, bemused by the sight of Y/N and used to her inability to be without his friend for longer than two hours.

Despite the roll of his eyes, there was a light smile on Mattsun’s face. A smile that had been replicated throughout the entirety of the team, grins awaiting their captain to notice the company of his favorite cheerleader. 

In the beginning of their relationship, it’d taken the boys a few weeks turned months to warm up to Y/N. It was no secret that Oikawa was a bit of a player, never settling on one girl, always getting distracted with the next best thing—but even they could see that this time, it was different.

After all, they’d lasted for a little over two years now—and in those two years of total bliss, the whole team had picked up on the new positives to the setter’s daily attitude.

Makki noticed the way Oikawa’s eyes lit up around her, how his laugh was ten times louder whenever she was by his side. Mattsun never failed to comment on the stupid beams he’d wear, and how much effort he’d put into his appearance when he was only getting ready for a five minute video call. 

And Iwaizumi was the one who’d seen it all. He’d endured the tireless hours in which his best friend would talk about how nervous he was to see her in the hallways or how fast his heart would beat whenever she’d hand him a pen or compliment his gameplay. 

He’d been the first person to know exactly what had happened after Oikawa asked her on their first date, in which he’d been trampled by fangirls and forced to steal Y/N away into an empty janitor’s closet to get just a minute of privacy. His friend later bouncing with joy on their walk back home, babbling on and on about her accepting his confession.

The very second the setter had said his goodbye, dropped Y/N off at her home, and had one last laugh about the bee incident; Iwaizumi’s phone had blown up with text messages and voicemails—all filled with the lovestruck adoration that Oikawa held for his new flame. The flame that he hoped would burn forever.

It was safe to say that his friends loved her, that they loved them together and the safety net that was their relationship. Y/N brought the dreamer down to earth, while Oikawa taught her how to reach the sky—showed her the importance of keeping her eyes on the clouds.

Iwaizumi shook his head, letting out a low laugh as his best friend caught sight of his girlfriend and took off running in her direction, tackling her to the ground, and completely forgetting about the abandoned volleyball that he’d been juggling altogether. 

PDA was not an issue for Oikawa, never even crossing his mind as he peppered light kisses in circles around Y/N’s face. The girl was bright red beneath him, loudly giggling, and essentially forgetting where she was for a moment—distracted by him, the only person that could ever maintain her attention.

“Pack it up, Loser-kawa.” Makki called out, hands cupping his lips in an attempt to shout out over the sounds of Y/N’s squeals. Her head snapped over to the team at the sound of his calls, cheeks flushing a further scarlet in embarrassment amidst their eye contact.

Oikawa, on the other hand, showed no signs of stopping—completely ignoring the complaints of his teammates, throwing Y/N over his shoulder, and carrying her with ease towards their peers.

“Oh, come on guys.” He smirked as he set his girlfriend down and proceeded to sling an arm around her frame, snuggling her closer to his chest. “There’s no need to be jealous, I’m sure she’ll cheer for you, too—albeit, it won’t ever be as loud as she cheers for me.”

Countless volleyballs came flying in their direction, all aimed for the so-called Great King—narrowly missing Y/N’s body and hitting their target that was Oikawa’s face.

“Quit wasting our time, Shitty-kawa!” Mattsun shot another ball, smacking his captain straight in the forehead. “You two have been in each other’s business all day, save some time for us!”

“Just take a picture, it’ll last longer!”

Y/N laughed, finding the suggestion hilarious—not noticing how her boyfriend’s face lit up with delight. How he reached for the duffel bag beside the door containing their beloved polaroid camera.

“You suggested it, Mattsun!” He tossed the device, landing it perfectly in his friend’s open hands. The brown hair boy stared at the offering, not exactly sure what he’d been expecting from Oikawa of all people. “Now you’ve got to follow through!”

The setter led Y/N towards the net, placing her in front of him with a large smile on his face. His palms ghosted her’s, so close to touching with no intentions of doing so.

As the camera was about to click, he moved, a large groan escaping his throat. “Hold on!” Oikawa shouted, waving his hands in the air manically, sprinting to his practice bag. “Almost forgot something!”

The white material of his Seijoh jacket reflected underneath the fluorescent lights. He held it up with glee, returning to Y/N’s side and placing it over her shoulders with care. 

Nearly prepared for the photoshoot, he felt that one thing was missing. One thing that would truly commemorate the oh-so-momentous event that was photo-worthy.

“Oi, Iwa-chan!” The ace glared at his best friend, knowing exactly what he was asking for. With a roll of his eyes, Iwaizumi found himself between the couple, a frown on his face as they held up bunny ears above his head.

Sticking his tongue out, Oikawa was blinded by the piercing flash of the camera. “Say cheese!” He called out, pinching Iwaizumi’s cheek with his free hand and cowering as he shot him a murderous glance in return.

Y/N couldn’t help but giggle, her expression being light and carefree in the frozen moment—lost amidst her love for her boyfriend and the adoration she held for their best friend. 

Iwaizumi was always there for them—and there’d never be a time in which he wasn’t. Through hardships and breathless arguments, he was there. One phone call away to listen to any tangent or complaint from either of the two.

She knew that he was reliable, and she hoped that he’d stick by their side. She hoped that he’d be the one to walk her down that flower-filled aisle in the future. That he’d be the person to give her off to the man of her dreams.

And, little did she know, her wish would come true.

Soft hums and silent promises wafted throughout Oikawa Tooru’s bedroom. The gentle snores of his girlfriend rising and falling against his chest, pressed atop his heartbeat, filling his love for her as if his heart was a pitcher. 

It’d been a long day, one full of the tiresome stress of tournaments. Although he hated to admit it, he’d spent a majority of the past hours crying—his tears staining Y/N’s sweater, dampening the cotton fabric.

Losing to Karasuno had never even crossed his mind. Seijoh was the best of the best, he was the best of the best, that was what he’d told himself. That was what’d motivated him to continue to pursue his dreams of beating Ushiwaka for so many years. 

But they’d lost. His unstoppable team had lost to complete amateurs, infants in all senses of strategy and gameplay when compared to that of his own team’s. It was truly unbelievable—so unbelievable that Oikawa had only come to terms with it minutes ago.

He’d unknowingly played his last high school game. His final game as captain, the leader of his teammates, the face that every admirer associated with the name “Aoba Johsai”—and that was heartbreaking.

Mindlessly, his fingers graced Y/N’s back, tracing positions and numbers on repeat. It was as if his brain was still stuck on the court, glued to the placement he’d fallen in after that last whistle had blown.

“I love you.” He whispered, admiring her peaceful expression. There’d never be a time in which Oikawa wouldn’t think she was the most beautiful sight in the world. Nothing compared to her, not even the thrill of feeling the ball in his hands.

“You’re perfect, amazing, gorgeous.” An ongoing stream of compliments poured from his lips, all of them always sitting at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be released. His brown eyes bored into her closed lids, waiting for them to flutter open, knowing that she was eavesdropping on his one-sided conversation.

“I can’t wait to marry you one day.”

Her eye popped open, her iris meeting his as she fought off a smirk. Oikawa laughed at her audacity, her listening in on his professions of love whilst pretending to be asleep—a very Y/N thing to do.

“Was that a proposal I heard, Tooru?” She teased, a cheshire smile growing on her face. Though she was joking, there was a part of her that felt ecstatic. Excited for the future, their future. “Aren’t we a little young for that?”

Oikawa ignored her humorous tone, choosing to take her words seriously. Sincerity overtook his features, determination shining in his eyes. “No, that wasn’t a proposal. Not yet at least.”

“But it was a promise.” He rolled over, arms stretched out onto the mattress as he held his weight above his flushed girlfriend. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/N. Whenever you need me, I’ll be here.”

“I promise.”

Y/N reached upwards, caressing his cheek with care, pulling him down towards her frame. As she connected their lips, love flooded from their hearts. Pure love that they were so lucky to have found in each other.

Their kiss was passionate, fluid and desperate as they clung to one another in an attempt to get even closer than they already were. Oikawa’s hair brushed against her forehead, tickling her nerves amidst the act.

He cupped her cheeks in his hands, pressing further as her swollen lips were chapped and yearning for more. It was as if he was the water to her drought, the sun to her flowers, the missing half of her soul—he was everything she ever needed, everything she could ever want.

“I love you, Tooru.” Y/N was breathless, heaving gusts of air as she composed herself between his arms. Her skin was shaded pink, hair a mess, and eyes wide in adoration for her boyfriend. “I’ll love you forever.”

A scoff fell from his lips whilst he relaxed his muscles, laying down on her body, his head against her chest as he felt her short breaths rise and fall. “Don’t get your head too high in the clouds, beautiful.”

“We can focus on forever later.” With his heartbeat slowing, sleep on his mind, Oikawa wrapped an arm around Y/N’s waist. “Let’s just think about now—right now, and how amazing I just made you feel.”

“They don’t call me the Great King for nothing!”

With a groan, Y/N pushed her boyfriend off of her, choosing to sleep on her side instead of listening to his boasting. It was a common occurrence, one that she was used to and knew how to handle—feigned disinterest was always her favorite route to take.

Oikawa pouted at the emptiness he now faced without being in her arms. He wanted attention, and the only way to get her attention was to distract her from his terrible humor in the only way he knew how.

Various pokes and prods scattered across Y/N’s backside, the relentless actions being from the needy narcissist she was sharing a blanket with. Pulling the covers over her head, she peeked out from underneath, coming face-to-face with the bright flash of his camera.

“Smile for the camera, beautiful.”

The terminal was bustling with people, luggage rolling across the stone floors and towards their rightful places. Color was void on the walls, simple tones of grey and blue plastered opposite to the towering window panes.

Reunions between young children and their mothers, spouses who’d just arrived home from business trips, and pilots seeing their coworkers for the first time in days occurred in spurts—smiles of joy expressed on their faces.

And in contrast to that joy, was Y/N and her smile of sadness. 

Though she’d been expecting for this day for weeks, she knew that all the preparation in the world would never be enough to suffice the need that she had for him. The need that she had for Oikawa.

He’d been offered a position on San Juan’s professional team, his dream position as a setter for the big leagues, which meant that the move was inevitable. It meant that he’d be thousands of miles away from the love of his life for an unprecedented period of time.

The conversation hadn’t been easy, having to determine if they should carry on with their wedding plans or say their uncertain goodbyes. Countless tears had been shed, tears that had ultimately decided to part—tears that were still dripping down Y/N’s chin.

Her lip quivered, watching as Oikawa stopped dead in his tracks, staring up at the screen that flashed his flight number. He let go of the handle he’d been holding, the suitcase nearly falling over before Iwaizumi had a chance to balance it. 

Turning to face his fiancée, waterworks flooded his vision, blurring her features into a beautiful mess. A beautiful mess of rosy cheeks and teary eyes, an oil painting of agony that only he could decipher. 

“I’ll be thinking of you every day.” He said, holding her gaze as she found herself sobbing in his arms. “From the minute I step through those gates to the time I score my first point—I’ll be thinking of you. You’re all that my mind’s ever thought about, anyways.”

Oikawa cradled her head in his hands, peppering butterfly kisses against her nose, memorizing how naturally gorgeous she looked even when she was at her absolute worst. Nothing could change his view on her, the view that she was flawed perfection—his perfectly flawed perfection.

“I love you so much, Tooru.” Y/N cried, noting the little details of his face. How his irises shone gold in reflection to the setting sun. How unseen freckles kissed his skin in all the right places. How his heart was so big, so full of adoration for their relationship. “I know I say it every day, but you were my first love—”

“Well, you were my only love—and you’re always going to be my only love.” 

A pained laugh escaped her mouth as his confession deemed true. It felt like they were going their separate ways, breaking their bond although the both of them knew that this was temporary. That they’d be saying their vows on the very day he’d return.

Her hands cupped his cheeks, wiping away the stray drops that had fallen from his tear ducts. Oikawa grimaced with a tight lipped smile, bringing his own palms up and resting them over hers, feeling the cool metal of her engagement ring.

“This rock had better stay on your finger.” He commanded with a chuckle, trying his best to cement the softness of her skin against his callouses to memory. “Anyone who even thinks to hit on my girl is going to feel the wrath of Oikawa Tooru!”

“It doesn’t matter how many miles are between us,” he continued, surging forward as he captured her lips in his, saying his next few words between shows of love. “You’re my heart, and mine only.”

His kisses were gentle, soft and scarce, in great contrast to the usual tenacity and passion that he held. All the things he’d ever needed to say had been spoken, the only ones left being the promises he’d commit to at the altar. 

With the bright flash of a camera, Oikawa found himself frozen. He stared in awe at Y/N, into her devilish eyes that had finally managed to surprise him in his own game. The power of the moment was in her court, the mementos created by the push of her finger. 

“Just in case I forget.” She whispered, her forehead resting against his. Her nose scrunched in distaste for their soon-to-be goodbye, their soon to be separation. “Even though I’d never forget you, Tooru.”

“I’ll be here—loving you until the second you’re back.”

Oikawa nodded, pressing one last kiss to the top of her head, before pulling away. He took his luggage from Iwaizumi, on the verge of bursting into tears again at the sight of his sorrow gaze. 

The two boys hugged for as long as they possibly could, Oikawa’s hands gripping Iwa’s jacket, to which he responded with a slap on this back with some good natured insults. They had no shame, no concerns about their masculinity or manliness as they held each other in sadness.

Y/N had never seen them so low, always picturing their game faces mixed with determination—a stark difference to the helplessness they expressed amidst the sunsetting rays of the window panes.

“Keep her safe for me, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa requested, gesturing to the lonely girl to his left. “Don’t let her get too down on herself, okay? If I’m not there to answer a text or a phone call—you make sure you’re there for her. You make sure she’ll be alright.”

“I know she can handle herself, but she shouldn’t have to all of the time.” He grasped Iwaizumi’s shoulder, shaking it roughly with his wishes. His best friend was nodding beneath his grip, listening to each one of the setter’s asks. “Our little trio’s going to be two for a bit, not forever, but for a while.”

And with one last kiss and an offering, he was gone—lost to the sea of strangers and luggage, ripped away from his favorite people on a flight to a new country with new opportunities. Oikawa Tooru’s head was always lost in the clouds, flying high with the success of volleyball on his mind. 

But in his heart was Y/N. 

The girl that he’d wanted to marry since the minute he’d seen her laughing in the hallways. Since she’d offered to pass him some balls and cheered for him in the front section of the audience at all of his games. Ever since she’d kissed him for the first time in the back of his parents minivan. 

He lived for her, his heart beat for her—and he was itching to be back in her arms, knowing full well that it’d be months until he’d get to see her in person again. All he could hope for was that his gift would suffice her loneliness in his absence. 

That the photo box he’d been putting together for years would be enough to keep the memory of their love alive in the times when he’d be too distracted by his ambition to pay her any attention. That it’d remind her that he loved her and would climb mountains to prove it.

And he was right. The polaroids did help Y/N reminisce on all of their frozen moments, lost kisses, and happy memories that she’d be unable to maintain while he was thousands of miles away.

Thousands of miles that would disappear on the day he’d return—on the day of their wedding.

“You alright?”

Y/N jumped, dropping the box of photos in her lap at the unexpected sound of Iwaizumi’s deep voice. The polaroids fluttered to the ground, flying like kites in the wind on a sunny day, falling onto the hardwood on their final departure.

Frantically, she bent over to gather the memories, quickly snatching them up as her friend ran over to help her. The vinyl backings felt smooth in her hand, eyes glancing upwards to Iwa, who’d become stuck on a single frame.

It was one of her favorite moments of the three of them, the photo from their high school gym. The look on her and Oikawa’s faces was hysterical, them choosing to poke fun at their best friend with bunny ears and stuck out tongues.

“I still can’t believe he put all this together.” Iwaizumi wondered aloud, shaking his head in disbelief at the craftiness of his former setter. “Who knew Shitty-kawa had it in him?”

Resting her head over his shoulder, Y/N smiled, her face warming at the sight of his bright and glossy smile. She reached forward, closing his hands around the photograph. “You can have it, the picture.” 

His head snapped towards her, profusely rejecting her offer, knowing full well that that gift was meant to be hers and hers alone. “I couldn’t, really. He made this for you, I wouldn’t want to make it any less special.”

Y/N laughed, rolling her eyes whilst straightening her posture. She stood, towering over the man still kneeling on the ground and offered him a hand. “It’s okay, Hajime. I have plenty—and that memory isn’t only mine to keep.”

Taking her extension of help, he rose up, wrapping his arms around her in a large hug. The comfort that he surrounded her with was enough to bring her to tears, knowing that he’d only come in the room to tell her that it was time. That it was time for him to walk her down that flower-filled aisle. 

“You look amazing, Y/N. You really do.” Iwaizumi whispered, complimenting the dress she and her mother had selected for the momentous occasion. He raised his arm in the air, spinning her in a circle, admiring how the stunning fabric twirled around her.

She smiled, genuine gratitude filling her beam as she reflected on the comment her beloved fiancé had made about the outfit she’d been meaning to share with him. How he’d boasted about his own appearance, joking that he’d steal the show.

“Yeah, you’ll look beautiful.” He’d told her over the phone during a late night video call while she’d been rambling about choosing a dress, slowly falling asleep to the sound of his voice. “But let’s be honest, I’m impossible to outshine. Sorry, love.”

Over the past year, it’d been impossible to get his voice out of her head. Soft confessions of love, good mornings and goodnights, even arguments played on a loop, on a broken record. 

She’d missed him more than words could tell—and she knew, with how much her heart loved him, that she’d miss him every day. She’d miss him no matter how much distance was between them, whether that was thousands of miles or mere inches.

Taking notice of how her body began to shake, how Y/N’s bones were quivering with nerves and anxiety, Iwaizumi looped her arm around his. “You’ve got this.” He encouraged, knowing that she felt unprepared to present herself in front of all of their friends and family in such a way.

The look in his eyes was confident, secure with closure and acceptance for what the day was about to bring. For what the rest of their lives were about to bring to their little trio. He was ready to take the next step—and he was waiting for Y/N to do the same.

As she took a deep breath, calming her nerves into submission, she nodded gesturing to Iwaizumi to carry on, the two of them walking together out of the room and towards the crowd that awaited them.

The thick scent of camellias lay stagnant in the air, the deep red flowers surrounding the venue, strategically placed on vines and potted plants. All done by professional florists and media that had insisted that the day be perfect for a celebrity such as Oikawa.

Handing her off on her own, Iwaizumi pressed a gentle kiss to the top of her hands, wishing her luck and reassuring her that everything would turn out okay. Reassuring her that there was no need to be afraid of the future.

Her future, the new reality that was beginning at this very second. The reality that had begun at the first sighting of tears in the audience, the view of Takeru crying into his mother’s shoulder, of Makki and Mattsun silently encouraging her to go on.

“Thank you, all of you, for coming today.” Y/N began, making eye contact with each and every personality, proud of the amount of people that had shown up. Proud of the amount of people that cared enough to be there. “I know you’d all been planning on sitting in those seats since we’d announced our engagement—but really, thank you for saving the date.”

Reaching her hands out to her side, waiting to come into contact with the warmth of his palms, the loving grip that he always seemed to hold—she felt nothing but the smooth mahogany of an empty casket.

“I’m only sorry that our wedding had to become a funeral.”

She sighed, neck craned down to smooth the sparse wrinkles of her dark dress, only to look up and be welcomed by a sea of black—a sea of sorrow. An ocean that would never let her ride her final wave.

“Tooru was so excited to see all of you. He told me that every night, whether it was through a quick text message or one of our phone calls—he always talked about this day, and how lucky he was to have loved ones that cared so much.”

“He was so excited that he just couldn’t wait, he couldn’t wait the extra week and took that early flight. Took his own private jet with his crew so that he could surprise all of us, see the looks on our faces as he pulled another one of his stunts.”

A sob began to form at the tip of her tongue, a void of agony building in her stomach. Waiting to be let out in a massive scream or breakdown—but Y/N continued, fighting back her own sadness to be strong for the others. To be their rock, just as Oikawa had always been hers.

“But,” her eyes were watering, voice cracking through her next choice of words. The memory of the moment being overpowering amidst her perseverance. “There was something wrong with the engine. There was something wrong, so wrong, that—well we all know what happened.”

“His head was too lost in the clouds.”

Giving up on her composure, Y/N wrapped her arms around her shaking body, rubbing her shoulders just as he used to whenever she’d feel alone or completely broken. However, she was truly and utterly broken this time—never to be fixed by his loving grasp.

“When Hajime called me, told me what’d happened. When he told me about the phone call, and how’d he’d tried to reach me but for some stupid reason I hadn’t picked up,” Y/N gulped, breathing heavily with sorrow, “I’d never hated myself more.”

“‘Tell her I’m sorry, that I’m sorry that I kept my promise.’ That’s what Tooru had told him while the plane had been spiraling. ‘I’m sorry that I kept the promise that I’d love her ‘till the day I’d die.’”

There wasn’t a single dry face in the audience, everyone dripping with sadness, faces blue with contagious crying as Y/N made her final statement. Her final public farewell to the love of her life. The love of her life that was no more.

“But I’m going to keep my promise and live every day for him. Keep him in our lives as best I can, as often as I can until I’ve lived life long enough to be with him myself.”

A breath of relief overcame her as the audience dispersed, satisfied with her eulogy, slowly walking around the room to admire the makeshift photo boards and flowers that Oikawa’s fans and former classmates had sent. 

All alone, Y/N spun to face his casket, the casket that held nothing but a single photograph of him—there being no physical remnants to bury. It was a perfect burial for a king, her perfect king of the court. 

The burial was one that Mattsun had blessed them with, already having been in the funeral home career. There was no one else that she would’ve trusted with Oikawa, no one else that she would’ve let come near his memorial. 

As her palms ran over the varnished surface of the coffin, eyes closed in an attempt to shut out the pain. She whispered her actual promise, the one she’d told him so many times through the screens of their phones. 

“You’re my heart, Tooru—and I’d never forget my heart, no matter how far away you may be.”

And unbeknownst to her, he wasn’t far. He wasn’t far at all—as he was right beside her, his spirit always being by her side through the times she’d try to shut his memory out and pretend that he hadn’t ever existed. There wasn’t a world in which Oikawa would let her be alone to her sadness.

Watching as she cried, wishing that he could wipe away her tears, tell her how much he loves her, give her a longing kiss on the lips—all he could do was stand there and dream of the life they could’ve had. 

The life in which she’d be able to see how handsome he looked in the wedding suit he and Iwaizumi had picked out together. The life where she’d laugh and flush red at his snarky comments and cocky attitude. The life where he wasn’t buried under a trillion tons of ocean water.

But that life would never become a reality. It would never come true as he couldn’t stay with her, not even as a spirit. He needed to find his peace, come to terms with how her life would be from that day on—void of their love.

“Don’t cry, beautiful.” Oikawa cried, biting his lip to choke back his own sobs—wanting, more than anything, to brush away her tears. He took one last look at her, one last look to cement the memory of her face.

It was as if she were a photograph, his own keepsake to reminisce and recall wherever he would end up. A final gift, one being given to himself, while he accepted his inevitable fate. 

“I’d hate to miss your smile.”

© aitarose.tumblr 2021. do not copy or claim my writing, works, themes, copy and paste my words, or headers as your own

[suitofvibraniumarmor]

Summary: Bucky’s waiting for the other shoe to drop while he lives a life he didn’t think he deserved in Romania.  Pairing: Bucky x Reader Word Count: 4785 (oops?) Warnings: Some angst? Canon-level violence. Implied smut. Creative licensing. Takes place towards the beginning of CA:CW.  A/N: I have been working on this for a couple of months, at least, and one time while working on it, Lovely by Billie Eilish and Khalid came on. It just clicked in my head, the connection between the song and the story ... I’m honestly not sure anyone else will get that connection, but it was strong enough for me, I had to go with it for the title. A little nervous since I haven’t posted in a while and this is one of those things that means a lot to me, but fingers crossed at least one other person loves it, too! Happy Reading :)

A chilly, autumn breeze blew in through the open balcony door, pulling her from a comfortable sleep. She rolled to her back and reached for him but only found the edge of the mattress. Frowning, she forced herself to get up and search for him. 

He was on the balcony, looking out over the street below. His dark brown hair was blowing in the same breeze that had pulled her from sleep. His back muscles were tense as he surveyed the city, making her wish she could take away his worries, as many as they were. She smoothed a hand over his back before wrapping her arms around him, kissing his back where she leaned. 

“Bună dimineața,” she greeted. “Te gandești la mine?”

He smiled and covered her hand with his. “Good morning, beautiful. I’m always thinking of you.”

Her smile grew and she moved to his side, lifting her head as a silent request for a kiss. He obliged her, taking her face in his hands, selfishly delighting in her shiver when the cool metal of his left hand touched her face. 

“You should let me warm you up,” he teased against her lips, his hands sliding down to her hips. 

Y/N giggled softly. “I have to go to work, Dom. Anything you want me to bring home from the market?”

“We need vegetables,” he told her, following her into the apartment, checking the cupboards and the fridge while she did her morning business and brushed her teeth. She called over her shoulder some things they could plan for supper. 

Dominik returned with the things she would need to pick up if she wanted various options when she came home while she changed her clothes for her work at the market. She worked her hair into a braid then applied some mascara and eyeliner before throwing her belongings into the small bag she brought with her when she stayed at his place. 

“Okay, I think I’m ready. Will you have coffee with me before I leave?” 

He nodded and offered oatmeal with her coffee, but she declined. While Dominik brewed the coffee, she sat at one end of the counter that doubled as his stove. He set a chipped coffee cup in front of her and stole a kiss before pulling a cup down from the cupboard for himself. 

“Why don’t we stay at your place tonight?” he suggested. “Tomorrow is your early morning at the cafe — you need to sleep better than you do here.”

She pressed her lips in a thin line while he poured her coffee. “I sleep fine here.”

“You toss and turn more than you know, Y/N. I’m a light sleeper, I know, even when you don’t. I see how tired you are in the mornings.” 

His warm hand caressed her face; she pulled it away but laced her fingers through his. “Until you’re ready to share a home with me, Dominik, I’m happy and willing to go between both of our homes. I love being part of your home, whenever you’ll let me.”

He kissed her again. “You’re going to be part of my home for a long time to come. I know I don’t have a lot to offer you, but whatever I do have, you know it’s yours.”

“Then we’ll stay here tonight.”

“Dragă, we’re staying at your place tonight. I’ll even pick you up from work and we’ll walk together.”

She ceded, finishing off her coffee before kissing him and reaching for her bag. Dominik took it from her though, handing his coat to her in place of the bag. 

“It’s cold and your sweater isn’t enough to keep you warm. I’ll bring your bag when I come get you.”

With a grateful smile, she went up on tiptoe to kiss him. “I can’t wait to be done with work and back with you.”

“Me either,” he smiled. “Be careful walking to the market, please.”

She nodded and promised that she would be extra careful. “I have a very important date tonight.”

He nodded. “Yes, you do.”

After stealing one more kiss, she pushed her arms into his coat, put her keys in one of the pockets, and let herself out of the apartment. 

He watched from the open balcony door and made sure that she made it across the street safely. As she always did when she left his place for work, she stopped on the opposite corner and blew him a kiss. Bucky smiled and put his hand over his heart; he had lost count over the last months how many small tokens of affection he had stored there to remember when loving her wasn’t an option anymore. 

After all, Bucky Barnes was anything but stupid. He was living the dream right now, under an alias, with an under-the-table construction job, a shit apartment, and constantly looking over his shoulder — okay, maybe that wasn’t the dream, but it was about as close as a rogue supersoldier could get, Bucky figured. Y/N was far more than he deserved and not someone he expected to be able to keep in his life. 

Especially considering that feeling of dread that had been plaguing him the last few days. It was as though the core of the earth itself was shaking with trepidation at what was to come next. 

You’re safe, Dominik. 

Her voice echoed in Bucky’s mind; it was a sentiment he almost believed, one she had said to him over and over after nightmares, when he was a little too on edge. She didn’t know the whole truth, only knew that he had come from somewhere to which he never wished to return — in conversation, memory, or otherwise. Y/N accepted that he didn’t want to talk about it and let it go at that. She would tell him again that he was safe in the present, and, despite the alias she knew him by, sometimes, Bucky believed her.  Of course, he would never be safe, not really — and neither would Y/N, so long as she was with him. 

Bucky filled a thermos with what was left of the coffee and made way for the construction site where he was currently working. As he erected frames for new walls, he kept his eyes on what was going on around him. Hyper-vigilant was his everyday state of being but now the trait had been intensified by that core-shaking trepidation. 

“Hey, Dom,” one of his co-workers called out, “the way you’re looking around today, should we be expecting the police for you? What was your crime?”

Bucky laughed off the teasing. “Waiting for them to come and get you, Ion.”

The other man joined in the laughter, and the teasing continued throughout the day as their work continued. When the end of the work day came, Bucky punched his card and walked with purpose toward Y/N’s coffee shop in the middle of the market. He could be tense and on edge around her and she wouldn’t comment on it, would only move around him until he was ready to let her close. 

And, at this moment, he wanted to pull her as close as possible and never let her go. 

When the day was done, Y/N helped her waitstaff clean up the small cafe, counted down the drawer, and put the bank deposit envelope safely in her pocket. She was just locking up the place when Bucky came round the corner. 

“Ah, my handsome man,” she grinned, kissing him sweetly. “How was your day?”

Bucky shrugged. “It was fine — I was building wall frames today. I like that better than digging trenches to run wire or set foundation.”

She smiled at him. “Maybe someday, you can build a house for us.”

“Maybe, beautiful. Do you need to go to the bank?”

She nodded, and so they walked hand in hand through the town until they reached the bank. Bucky waited outside while she made her deposit. While waiting on the teller, she glanced outside at him. The small movements of his head giving away his hyper-vigilance. She had seen him like this before and was hopeful that a calm evening, just the two of them, would help him to relax. 

With her receipt safely in her pocket, she exited the bank and slipped her hand into his. He startled but recovered quickly, giving her an apologetic half-smile. 

“You’re safe, Dominik.”

He squeezed her hand. “I know. Just the old demons coming to haunt me, I suppose. What shall we have for supper?”

She shrugged. “Whatever sounds good to you.”

They made a few stops around the market to pick up some things for supper. Y/N was friendly and talkative with all of the vendors, keeping their attention on her and not on his nervous state. He carried the bag of groceries in one hand and held tight to hers with the other, leading them toward her place. When they reached the corner though, he squeezed her hand and tugged her toward his apartment building. 

“I thought you wanted to stay at my place? I don’t mind either way, but —”

Bucky nodded. “Let me just show you something, then we’ll go to your place. Fast, I promise.”

With a single nod, she agreed. He led her across the street and into his building, up the many flights of stairs to his place. After unlocking the door, he set the groceries on the counter, then tapped on a few places around the wooden floor with his boot before beckoning her over. 

“I want you to count the number of steps it takes you to get from the door to me.”

Y/N raised her brow but did as he asked. She started out with her strides too long; she was overthinking the task. Bucky sent her back to the door and had her try it again. She counted as she walked, until the toes of her shoes met the toes of his boots. 

“How many?” 

“Doisprezece. Twelve steps.”

He nodded. “Okay. You have to remember that number. From the front door to right here, twelve steps. If something happens to me, if my past catches up and I tell you to run — if you have to run, promise me you will come here first.”

“I don’t like this, Dom,” Y/N frowned, turning away. He caught her by the hand, bringing her back with a firm but gentle hold. “You’re scaring me.”

“I know that,” he whispered, looking down at their joined hands, “but nothing scares me more than leaving you with no way out, no way to take care of yourself. Under the floorboards, if you ever need it, there are two packs — mine is black, yours is blue. Very similar, but it’s important that you grab the right one. Do you understand me?”

She nodded. Her whole body was shaking with fear now — it was the only time she had ever considered pressing him for more information about his past. With the information he needed to tell her out in the open, Bucky pulled her to his chest and apologized for scaring her. 

“C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

He didn’t have to tell her twice. 

Bucky showered while she took a short nap. Though Y/N had asked him to wake her when he was out, he couldn’t stop himself from taking up the space next to her on the bed and watching her sleep for a few minutes. 

His intention had not been to scare her when they stopped at his apartment, but he wanted her to be ready for anything. Would he tell her the truth, given the opportunity? Bucky wasn’t so sure about that, but only for fear of what she might think of him if she knew everything. The ultimate factor in deciding to only tell her what she needed to know, however, was the idea of anyone torturing her for information about him. The very thought of it made his insides twist and boiled the blood in his veins. 

At the moment, though, he felt peaceful. How could he not when she was there next to him, hugging the pillow and lost in a dreamland where everything was safe and normal. Where he wasn’t anyone but Dominik; a world where Bucky Barnes and the Winter Solider didn’t exist. 

“Dragă,” he whispered, running his flesh hand through her hair. “Do you want me to make dinner? You can sleep longer.”

Y/N yawned before blinking the sleep away. With a ghost of a smile, she snuggled closer to him. “Mmm, no, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Last time you cooked, you nearly started a fire. I’ll cook, you relax. You’ve been building houses all day.”

“And you’ve been on your feet, cooking and serving people,” he reminded her. 

“And,” she started, kissing his cheek before sitting up and stretching a little, “I don’t want you to burn my apartment down. C’mon with me, you can help.”

Bucky chuckled as she stretched again, her tummy showing a little between the hem of her shirt and the top of her pants. He licked his lips, wishing they could put off supper a little longer. The rumbles in his stomach wouldn’t allow it, though, so he dutifully followed her into the kitchen, happily accepting the task of chopping vegetables. 

“I was thinking,” she began as she slid a pan of pork chops into the oven, “maybe you and I should get away. Only for a few days. We don’t have to go anywhere crazy … maybe  find a little place on the Greek coast, spend some time in the sun and on the beach.”

He pursed his lips. “Why do you want to get away?”

Y/N frowned and stood next to him. She gently took the knife from his hand and pushed his arm a little so he would turn to face her. When his eyes didn't meet hers, her frown deepened. 

“Hey, look at me. Please.” 

Bucky did as she requested; there was no frustration or anger in his eyes, only sadness. She went up on her toes to kiss him, making sure to hold his gaze the whole time. 

“I don’t want to get away from you. I don’t want to get away from our life here. You’ve been tense for a while now, Dom — more tense than I’ve seen you before. I thought getting out of Romania, getting away on our own for a while, maybe it would help you relax. If you don’t want to go, we won’t go.”

“You seemed excited — it’s not that I don't want to get away with you. It’s not a good time at work, and I don’t want to disappoint you.” Every new lie he told her cut Bucky a little deeper. Staying in one place under an alias was tough enough; traveling meant putting himself on the grid. He couldn’t risk that, for either of them. 

Y/N gave him a small smile. “You could never disappoint me.”

If you only knew … He had to stop thinking this way. He had her love now, no point in sabotaging the relationship. Before she could return to the stove to check the pork chops, Bucky pulled her back to him, a little harder than he meant to do. 

“Sorry,” he winced. “Why don’t we look at some trips later, for a couple of months from now? Give us something to look forward to — maybe work will slow down by then. We can save a little more and really enjoy ourselves while we’re there.”

His compromise brought a real smile to her face. She reached up to his stubbled cheeks. “Really?”

He nodded. “Really?”

She squealed and kissed him again, thanking him for meeting her halfway. She didn’t linger on the subject as they continued preparing the meal together. Bucky appreciated that about Y/N — if she felt she had to push a boundary, she never lingered in that push. She made him better, made him want to be better. 

Made him want to be anyone other than a supersoldier with a past he wasn’t proud of and for which he would never forgive himself. 

Despite the lingering concern that his past was catching up with him, Bucky kept his spirits high for her sake. They chatted happily over supper, bantered flirtatiously while doing the dishes together, and, by the time the leftovers were put away, Bucky couldn’t keep his hands off of her anymore. His hands were on her hips as he kissed her softly and gently picked her up, setting her on the counter. 

“Still hungry, my love?” Y/N teased. His kiss was soft, but she knew that look in his eye all too well. 

Bucky nodded, taking her face in his hands and kissing her again, this time making his purpose clear. He always wanted her, to be truthful, but today the feeling was stronger. It had started with seeing her exposed stomach before supper and had only intensified since. 

Her hands were in his hair and her tongue was in his mouth. Bucky’s heart was racing; he would never get enough of her. Could never get enough of her. 

“Take me to bed, Dom,” she whispered against his lips. 

Bucky didn’t hesitate to lift her carefully from the counter and into his arms. She held tight to him, whispering words of love and eternal promises in his ear as he carried her to her bed. He dropped her onto the mattress before discarding his shirt, then crawled onto the bed over her. He ran his vibranium fingers over her jawline and kissed the tip of her nose. Her eyes shone up at him, a smile playing on her lips. 

“What is it?” 

Bucky drew in a breath. “I love you, Y/N. You know that, right? You’re the only one … it’s always been you, dragă.”

Her arms went around him, pulling him to nuzzle the crook of her. “It will always be you.”

For the rest of the night, Bucky didn’t think about his past, didn’t think about HYDRA, didn’t think about what was coming at him next; he thought only of her. 

Days passed. Bucky and Y/N grew closer; he was always on edge but found his calm in her. She continued to live life as though nothing could hurt them — after all, she knew no better. With the exception of the backpacks under Bucky’s floorboards, he hadn’t given her any indication that trouble was on the horizon. 

They were in his apartment that morning, struggling to get out of bed, dress, and go to their respective jobs. She was giggling at something he said, and Bucky’s smile showed his delight in her happiness. 

He took in a deep breath and held her a little tighter. “Call in to the cafe today. They’ll survive without you.”

She looked at him, brow raised with surprise. “And you’ll call in to the work site today, too? The man who hasn’t had a day off since I met him?”

Bucky smiled. “I want to spend the whole day with you. Please?”

Y/N was unable to resist. “All right. But you’re out of fruit — I’ll stay home if you’ll go down to the market for fruit.”

Bucky pretended to think about, but the decision had already been made, really. He dressed for the market, she pulled on his t-shirt from the night before and got to work making coffee. Before he left, Bucky put a hand at the small of her back and hooked a finger under her chin. 

“Don’t miss me too much,” he teased. 

Y/N grinned into the kiss she pressed against his lips. “I always miss you when you’re not around, Dominik. Don’t be gone long.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “I love you, Y/N.”

“I love you,” she returned in a whisper before kissing him again. 

The kisses last for several more seconds, until the coffee started to flow. Bucky smiled against her lips, squeezing her side gently, and promised to hurry back. He turned back at the door. 

“Anything specific you want, beautiful?”

She thought for a moment while she secured her hair in a ponytail. “Mmm, plums. Yummy, ripe plums.”

“Plums,” Bucky smiled. 

The door shut and locked behind him, and Y/N went back to pouring herself a cup of coffee. She settled back on the mattress with a book she had slowly been working her way through, pulling her legs up to rest the book on as she sipped her coffee. 

The lock on the front door clicked a few times as someone worked to open the door. The knob jiggled … Y/N set her book to the side and stood very slowly, careful not to make any noise. Dominik wouldn’t struggle with the door like that. He had a key to her house, a key to his place, and a couple of keys for work. She had seen him work the lock before, almost without looking. 

Whoever was at the door was not Dominik. 

Y/N’s favorite fruit vendor was open, so Bucky beelined for the stand as soon as he was in the market area. The plums were bright and fresh; he smiled to himself, knowing how happy Y/N would be with such a simple selection. He checked with the vendor that the plums were ripe, and selected six from the bunch. He paid for his selection and started the walk back to the back to the apartment. 

There was a strange buzz about the market today. He had been so intent on pleasing his girl, he hadn’t noticed it when he first arrived. 

Stupid, letting your guard down for even a moment, he chastised himself. 

Frowning, he looked around and tried to make sense of the unease that seemed to be surrounding every citizen and the market like a fog. He caught the eye of the man running the newspaper stand across the way, so he detoured away from his walk home to check the paper the man was looking at between glances at Bucky. 

Winter Soldier Wanted for Bombing in Vienna. 

Bucky’s heart dropped to his feet. If this was already in the papers, then at least one agency would be after him — maybe had already found him by now. Knew where he lived, where he was working … 

Shit. Knew where he lived. He had left Y/N alone, vulnerable. Leaving the newspaper and the plums where they were already set and nearly ran back to the apartment. 

*

From her hiding spot in the bathroom, Y/N could see the uniformed man with a shield walk cautiously through the apartment. She winced as he approached the hot coffee in the pot; it gave away that someone had been in the apartment recently. She held her breath, wondering if he maybe knew that someone was still here. 

The man approached the fridge and picked up the notebook Dominik kept there — one Y/N had not even ventured to look at in her time with him. Before the man could open the notebook, the bathroom door pushed open a few more centimeters. Y/N clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the surprised gasp that escaped her throat. 

Dominik was standing there — she had not even heard him come in the apartment. His brow raised with question, she nodded. I’m okay. He held a finger to his lips, and Y/N nodded again. She wasn’t going to make a noise so long as she could help it. He turned away, pulling the door almost closed behind him. 

“Do you know me?”

Y/N knew enough English to make sense of the conversation, but she frowned at other man’s words. Why in the world would Dominik know him?

Several breaths passed before Dominik replied. “You’re Steve. I read about you in a museum.”

His English was so clear, it surprised Y/N. It sounded so natural, so … native. Dominik was from Romania though, just like she was. A million questions swirled in her mind and only continued as the conversation did. 

“I wasn’t in Vienna. I don’t do that anymore.” 

You’re safe, Dom. You’re safe. The nerves evident in her boyfriend’s voice made her long to rush out of that bathroom and wrap her arms around him, saying the words she reserved for his most anxious moments. 

“Well, the people who think you did are coming here now, and they’re not planning on taking you alive.”

“That’s smart. Good strategy.”

Dominik, stop! She wanted to shout at him for even implying that his death could be a better way to handle things. Heavy footsteps coming up the stairs of the apartment building caught her attention — was this going to get worse? Would either of them make it out alive?

“This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Buck.”

Buck? Who the hell was Buck? Y/N got the feeling this wasn’t some strange American pal-around term. But his name was Dominik … wasn’t it?

“It always ends in a fight.”

Dominik’s voice was right outside the bathroom now, and she couldn’t spot him from where she was crouched. The two men exchanged a few more statements, and then the glass of the window near the balcony crashed and shattered before Y/N heard a small explosion. She retreated into the shower stall, terrified of what the sounds that followed could mean. 

Objects crashed around the apartment as pounding noises warned of intruders outside the door. Y/N kept her hands hard over her mouth to keep herself from screaming, even as frightened tears flowed from her eyes and over her hands. She was terrified for her own life, but more for Dominik being in the midst of all the chaos. 

She heard the groan of a man before he crashed through the bathroom door. She scrambled into the far corner of the shower stall, furthest away from him and the now open view of the bathroom, but the man didn’t move. Her breathing was coming in short, steady beats as she contemplated her next move. 

Motion near the door caught her attention. Her eyes met Dominik’s for a split, too-short second. She saw love, she saw fear, she saw regret and apology. With a single nod, again confirming that she was all right, Dominik stepped away from the bathroom and pushed the fight out into the hallway. 

She waited a good ten minutes to be sure that she was safe, even when all sounds stopped. The man who had crashed into the bathroom came back to consciousness, not bothering to check his surroundings before he rushed out of the apartment and down the stairs of the building. 

Rushing out of the bathroom herself, she pulled on a pair of jeans and her boots, trading out the oversized shirt of Dominik’s for one of her own before donning a hoodie. She shoved Dom’s shirt into her bag, collected everything that was hers from the apartment, and shoved that into her bag, too. She made for the front door, and then she remembered. 

She started at one as she counted her steps from the door to collect the backpack he had made her promise to go back for. 

… Zece, unsprezece, doisprezece. Twelve steps, though the hole in the floor gave away the location. She reached down and pulled out the backpack, pushing her arms through the straps before shouldering her duffle and hurrying out of Dominik’s apartment for the last time. 

As Bucky knelt on the ground, hands behind his head and waiting for the handcuffs to be locked around his wrists, he thought of Y/N. He wondered if she had made it out of the apartment, if she had remembered to take the backpack with her. If she had, he wondered what her reaction would be when she read the note he had left in there, paperclipped to a copy of his file — one that told his entire history. He was not the man she believed him to be, but the lie had created happiness for both of them. Bucky took comfort in that, at least, despite the fact that his lie had given her a front row seat to only a glimpse of the danger his past could bring to them. 

But, for a short while, Bucky had felt safe. He had felt loved and felt like someone wanted to keep him close without wanting to harm him. 

You’re safe, Bucky. You’re safe. 

A slightly imagined memory, but one Bucky would hold onto for whatever came next in his dark, terrifying life. 

AllOfTheThings: @captain-s-rogers​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ @letsgetfuckingsuperwholocked​ @hurricanerin​  @im-not-an-armrest-im-short​ @shynara51​ @sea040561​ @pinknerdpanda​ @xtina2191​ @gifted-burnout​ @beakami​ @heartsaved​ @fullprunerebelstatesman​ @blackwidowismyhomegirl​ @averyrogers83​ @jennmurawski13​ @connie326​ @disastersoldierbucky​

[boop-le-snoot]

skin starving

tony stark x f!reader fluff. no warnings, just a few f-bombs. touch starved tony’s third person pov. words: 2,5k. no beta because i just really needed to get this off my chest.

recommended music to go with the story: two feet - 'love is a bitch' & 'quick musical doodles'. Or any lo-fi hip-hop radio really.

It started as an itch. At first, a small but bothersome thing, that kept him up at night, steering the already unreasonable hours of wakefulness into dangerous territory. The cold of his bed was unappealing and more often than not, he’d started passing out on the flat surfaces nearest to him: workshop, lab, common room couch, the lazy boy in Bruce’s apartment.

The team noticed, of course, they weren’t blind. They all had been on edge the first few months after Pepper left him. They expected him to act out, lock himself up in his lab or go back to his old habits of boozing and bringing home a different girl every night. And he had tried that, once or twice, but airheaded twenty-somethings weren’t appealing anymore. Most of the time their ass kissing and blatantly flattery annoyed him further into self-loathing abyss. He simply couldn’t step up to be the kind of man they described him to be - it seemed as if every woman on planet Earth had a whole list of expectations he specifically could not meet.

With Thor off planet, not one remaining person on the team was particularly touchy-feely. And that was the thing with Tony Stark: as an engineer, as a mechanic, he made his way through the world hands-first, every approach he had was hands-on. During late nights and early mornings, he laid in bed, sleepless and dreamless, desperately refusing to admit his own touch starvation.

Whenever Rogers threw an arm around his shoulders during a particularly successful team bonding activity, it took every ounce of willpower Tony had to not lean into it and purr like a cat. He hadn’t truly forgiven Steve for his cold, cruel words of criticism shortly after Pepper’s departing. He wasn’t going to chummy up to a man who thought him selfish, opportunistic and self-absorbed.

Tony became irritable and withdrawn. He simultaneously craved and avoided even the casual, friendlier attention his teammates gave him on a daily basis. His usual snark became that much more biting, having caused several people to storm out of team meetings.

On a cold autumn morning, Tony had found his way at the tower’s Starbucks on the employee floor. He had squeezed a generous five hours of restless sleep and he was sick of the plain black coffee in his kitchen. A spontaneous desire for something sweet and creamy and caffeinated led him to the place in line at the cafeteria, only a few early birds ahead of him.

Tony’s brain was hazy as it had been past few weeks, dull from the lack of rest and the hyperfixation of his own skin feeling alien to him. For once, he wasn’t typing away on his StarkPhone as he usually did to avoid being bothered; Tony stared straight ahead, unseeing, nothing but white noise in his usually racing brain.

Two women stood in front of him and he couldn’t help but overhear a part of their conversation.

“… Are you really horny or just lonely or touch-starved, though? I mean, Tinder? It’s not really your style.”

“Eh, I dunno. Probably the second but it’s not like men go on Tinder to find a cuddle buddy.”

“Well, maybe? I’ve heard about arrangements like that.”

“No offense, babe, but it’s probably kids in their early twenties. Those gen-z’s, babe, are weird. I’m not really up to date on all of that.”

The topic of the conversation was what piqued Tony’s interest; the world liked rubbing salt into his wounds and hysterically laugh at his misfortune. Bleary-eyed, he briefly scanned the two women: both appeared to be interns or junior techs in his company, evident by the purple employee badges hanging from their bags.

“So what are you going to do?” One woman asked the other as their turn to order took Tony one step closer to obtaining his desired caffeine.

“Unless someone normal magically appears with an offer of no-strings-attached, good ole’ snuggle fest, I guess I’m getting dicked down on Saturday,” The other replied with a teasing tone. The lack of excitement in the last part of the sentence was obvious.

“Gross,” The first one shook her head and hurriedly rattled off her order to the barista who looked about as disgruntled as Tony felt.

Hours and three coffees later, Tony’s overactive brain was still stuck on that woman from the cafeteria. Her back, her purse stuffed full of colorful manila folders, her neatly gathered hair - Tony Stark had nearly perfect memory and he remembered every single detail despite his brain fog. Objectively, she was attractive, no more no less than a different dozen of women he’d seen at any point in his life before. So why was he hung up on her?

It didn’t take him a long time to find her file, faster than he’d liked to admit. Manually sorting through hundreds of interns, lab technicians and various second-tier employees wasn’t exactly considered productive but with Pepper and her nagging out of the picture, Tony could afford to slack off a little bit.

So he found her name and her e-mail address, skimmed over her performance report with satisfaction, finding her to be a busy bee in the 90-th percentile. Her superiors considered her trustworthy, hard-working and communicative, all good traits.

Pepper’s absence meant he’d have no one to cover his ass should he get slapped with a harassment suit; however, he was the Tony Stark after all. He had more money that he’d cared to count and an army of lawyers at his disposal 24/7.

Amidst the jumbled mess of wires, circuit boards, tablets, empty coffee cups and the occasional piece of paper, Tony typed up an e-mail to the woman sharing his… Condition.

“I heard you and your friend talking at Starbucks. I could use a cuddle buddy. Wine and Netflix at my place? What’s your takeout preference?”

No. That came off way too creepy, like he was some kind of a dirty eavesdropper.

He contemplated some more, typing up and erasing multiple e-mails with various proposals: his penthouse, her place, a three Michelin star restaurant, a walk in the park. Almost all of it screamed ‘date’, like he’d drag her off to bed the very moment an opportunity wouldn’t present itself. It wasn’t so: Tony Stark, the playboy genius, had his dick firmly tucked into his pants. The thought of fucking her crossed his mind only briefly, quickly being chased away by the thought of her fingers running through his hair. Her warm, soft body in his arms. Just laying on his couch, eyes closed, reveling in each other’s arms.

Tony hit send on the least obnoxious option. He baited his breath, clicking his fingers in anticipation as the message showed itself to having been delivered.

“Mary, is this you trying to be funny? Stark is going to fire you if he finds out you’re impersonating him to stop your friend from going on a questionable date. Grow up.” Came the very prompt reply, ending with a short string of angry emojis. Tony could totally trust a person who used emojis unironically and generously.

“For the record, I wouldn’t be mad if somebody pretended to be me for the sake of saving their cute friend from a creep. The problem would be making it look credible.” Tony typed up the answer without thinking, quickly snapping a picture of himself holding the Starbucks cup with his name written on it, throwing his usual sloppy peace sign. He attached it to the email and hit send.

“WTF” Came the reply not a minute afterwards. He let it sink in, giving the woman some time to gather her wits. She did not disappoint. “Okay, even if we pretend this is real - which I doubt - what’s in it for you? If you heard our conversation, you surely know my stance on the matter.”

“I’m always glad to prove you wrong. I’m a genius - comes with the territory.” Tony simply couldn’t resist adding a generous dose of snark. “You’re welcome to meet me after clocking out. Use the private elevator, my AI will beam you up.”

The reply took a considerably long amount of time, seeing as previously, she typed back rather quickly. “Please don’t be a creepy rapist, Scotty. Fingers crossed.” Tony managed to almost break his stylus twice. His hands shook, and he had to tell himself to breathe - still, he laughed at the clever way she replied.

Several more hours later, during which Tony had nearly paced a hole through various floors on the residential side of the tower, he took a quick shower, dressed in a flattering but comfortable designer sweatpants and polo combo and made himself at home on the obscenely large living room sofa on his own, private penthouse floor.

He was up and running towards the elevator when Friday’s voice notified him of the woman entering the elevator on the employee floor. Tony tousled his hair, adjusted his glasses, fiddled with the drawstring of his pants.

The woman was wearing casual office wear, pants and a loose blouse, a lab coat loosely draped over her arm and her purse hanging off the shoulder on a thin strap. Her hair was loose now, a little frizzy as if she continuously ran her hands through it. Tony quietly rejoiced at not being the only nervous one.

Clever eyes scanned the room with unhurried interest before finally landing on him. “Not too shabby, if I say so myself,” The corners of her mouth tilted in an attempt at a smile, it was obvious she was studying him.

“Thanks, I try my best,” Tony smirked. Humble he was not. “So, how do you want to do this?”

“I see a comfortable couch,” She looked to be grateful for being given the opportunity to lead this interaction. “Let’s park our behinds on it, bicker for ten minutes about a movie choice and settle on one none of us really like. Then we can tell each other our no-no zones and, well, yeah,” She started out confidently. Probably practiced in the elevator. But towards the end, her shyness took over.

For Tony, it was kind of cute. A nice change from suck-ups that flocked him at every social gathering in hopes of getting something out of him. The woman that had tossed her bag carelessly on the far end of the couch and untucked her blouse looked and felt like the exact opposite of those people. She looked willing to give.

Tony sat next to her, keeping a couple of inches of free space between them. “Food preferences? Food allergies?” He asked, tapping the food delivery application.

“Nope, and I will eat just about anything.” He felt more than saw her side-eyeing him. Both of them were jittery. So uncharacteristic for Tony, to be blushing and stammering like a high school boy. Sex was easy, but intimacy? Complex. It was addictive and eventually, painful.

Movie decisions were surprisingly easy and she said so. They settled on a Tarantino classic, an old flick neither of them had watched in a long time. As the discussion progressed, Tony used his wits to find out more about her without making it seem like an interrogation. He had run a background check on the woman and her family but those only went that far, besides, it was a great opportunity to practice the tips Natasha had shared with him at one point or another. Being friends with spies had it’s perks.

They ate their food until their bellies were full. A comfortable, relaxing stupor, being warm from the inside out.

Tony noticed when the woman spoke, she spoke with her hands. She had caught herself grasping his forearm multiple times when they’d got more passionate about their discussion. And what Tony loved the most was that she refused to apologize. He saw a kindred soul in the woman; quiet until something struck her fancy. Then, she became a whirlwind of ideas and opinions.

In no time, it became a natural action to extend his arm and wrap it around her shoulders, reclining backwards. There was little grace in laying belly-up like a dead fish but the woman didn’t seem to mind. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she laid down sideways, throwing a leg over one of his own.

Her palm traced the outline of his arc reactor when something on the screen caught her in a moment of intense interest. Tony preferred to avoid the cursed thing - scars around it definitely did not do any favour to his aging, marked body - but he found himself exhaling the tension when it was obvious the woman really did not care. An occasional quiet hum of satisfaction was the only noise that came from her: he noticed the sound escaped her lips every time his thumb began fiddling with the sleeve of her blouse and rubbed against her arm.

He was quite content. It was warm, he was surrounded by so much warmth.

The hug was mutual when she left home, both of them comfortable with the gesture for people who had met in a rather unconventional way.

She started coming over a couple of times a week, a quiet evening of the best takeout in NYC and (mostly) interesting movies. A solace, always a single e-mail away.

Tony saw her in the cafeteria once or twice; he appreciated the brief, tiny secretive grin she gave him out of her friend’s eyesight. She never approached him. He was grateful for that. He didn’t want to deal with all the drama and all the fuss surrounding incidents between him and his employees. It was nobody’s business what any of them did after clocking out - and him and his cuddle buddy, they weren’t even fucking, for Thor’s sake.

Maybe they would get there someday. Or maybe they won’t. It was only now for Tony. The rare free Saturday night he had, he truly took a vacation from all the bullshit and lured her in with promises of very expensive wine, her favourite New York style pizza and the willingness to entertain watching a few of those funny YouTube videos she liked.

They did watch them and Tony didn’t mind. He stepped over the irrational fear and the initial discomfort and curled up around her, hiding his face in the soft cotton of her worn hoodie, his own breath tickling his face in warm puffs. The hand running through his hair was tender like it never was with Pepper - his ex was far too preoccupied to baby her grown-up boyfriend. But the woman moulded to his body like an extension of himself was happy to do so. Tony’s hair was longer now and it glided perfectly along the woman’s palms.

His heart was steady, thumping in his ears, overshadowing the noises coming from the TV. He exhaled and felt her other hand begin tracing circles on his back, as if she saw the stress and the bitterness leave his body with every caress, every brush of their bodies. Maybe she did?

He held onto her, held her back like she’d held him. Safekeeping the warmth inside of him. Guarding his peace.

[cocobwrites]

Once Upon A Time in Santa Ana

Summary:  Once Upon a Time, Angel Reyes knew you and you knew him. Once Upon a Time, Angel Reyes loved you and you loved him. In him, your teenage hopes and dreams found a home, a safe haven. Angel Reyes took your love and spat it back out at you with malice. Once Upon a Time Angel Reyes accepted a tender, fragile love and burned it down. This is the story of a man trying to rekindle his first love from the ashes.

Chapter 1

                                        Ghost Two: Angel 

Angel was unsettled, unnerved and on edge. There were too many ghosts here. The weight of his past decisions was heavy on his conscience. The streets he rode down lead to memories of emotional crimes he’d sooner forget, and the clubhouse felt like it had the potential to morph into his own personal insane asylum. 

“Angel!” The man being shouted at turned to the sound of the voice. This was the second time today that he’d been slapped in the face by a ghost of his past. The first was by his own doing. Angel knew without a doubt that walking into that convenience store was inviting hurt that he wasn’t 100% sure he could deal with, but the temptation of possibly being so close to you and not attempting to see you was too much. 

In front of him now was ghost number 2, Shania. Shania was the perceived catalyst in Angel’s love story. The cousin/best friend to the girl he first gave his heart to. The devil on his love’s shoulder egging her on to do what she desired most and covering for her disappearance acts. 

The last time Angel saw Shania she was just on the brink of womanhood. At 18 her face still held a girlish charm while her body was blossoming into full adulthood. Looking at her now the transition was complete. Her once rounded cheeks were still full but defined. Her eyes told a story of secrets that came with being grown, and her hips swayed in a way that marked her confidence. In short, Shania had finished growing up. Her hair hung in long coils hitting her waist. They were dyed a bright red and highlighted a lighter red that held a pink tone.  The colors complimented her sepia-toned skin. 

Shania threw her arms around Angel’s neck and pulled him tight swaying back and forth. Angel needed the hug. He needed the affirmation that he hadn’t burned every bridge he built while he was here all those summers ago. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath absorbing the warmth and comfort Shania offered.

“Damn, it’s been a long time,” Shania said while letting go. She smiled up at her former friend. “You forget how a phone works?” She asked following it up with a slap to his arm. “I’m mad at you Angel. Just dipped out without a goodbye and then went ghost. “ These fools” she pointed a thumb in the general direction of the members “treat information about other chapters like they’re in the CIA.” she shook her head.

“How have you been?” Shania finished with a bright smile waiting to hear about how things had been with Angel. 

Angel in return just ran a hand down his face and answered with a short “Shit” followed by a shrug of uncertainty. “I mean good I guess.” He raised his hand palm up and rolled his fingers outward in a questioning gesture. “Just doing club shit.”

Shania’s brow creased and her smile dropped, the face she was currently sporting was eerily reminiscent of her uncle. Angel was sure it was a family trait. “Wow, that was a really insightful look into what life has been like for the last'' she waved her hand “however long.”

Angel laughed, appreciating the blunt but humorous honesty. “Do you want a drink, Angel?” Shania asked and looked over her shoulder apparently feeling EZ approach. 

“Shania, this is my brother EZ. EZ, this is Shania. Shooter’s daughter.” Angel watched EZ stick his hand out and give a half-smile. Shania accepted it and gave it one firm shake. She didn’t let go though. Instead, she turned back to Angel and said “So, is the whole family fine, or were the genes reserved for just y’all?’ She finished what a laugh that mixed with Angels and was accompanied by EZ’s own chuckle. 

“I’m going to grab you a drink.” She finished with a wink and went to do just that. 

EZ stepped up to Angel and watched the girl walk away. “So, that’s Shooter’s daughter meaning she’s the cousin to the unnamed girl.”

Angel knew EZ had said you were unnamed for the sole purpose to get him talking. “She’s not unnamed” Angel answered back not without irritation. 

“Then what’s her name?”  Asked EZ angling himself towards his older brother.

Angel supplied your name. “Look, man, I don’t really want to get into this right now. Just let it alone for a bit EZ.” 

Angel stalked off towards Shania meeting her half-way to get his drink. In truth Angel really didn’t want to get into the nitty-gritty about you but he knew he had to. EZ was at a disadvantage not knowing the truth of how Angel left. There were old wounds here that he wasn’t sure fully healed. If judging by how your father reacted and how Shooter was treating him he’d have to say they were very much still open and sore. Why though? That was something that he was hoping to ply information from Shania. 

She handed Angel an open bottle of beer and clinked her own to his before taking a sip. She turned to the side so she was facing him and leaned against an unoccupied pool table.  Angel muttered a thank you and then mimicked her pose. 

Shania took a breath as if to say something, but stopped having changed her mind, and instead took a sip of her beer. 

“Does she know I’m here?” Angel asked deciding to just cut to the chase. “Hell, is she even still here?”

Shania just looked at him for a moment before answering. “Are you being serious right now? You sure you want to open that can of worms?” She huffed and shook her head. Shania set her bottle down on the green of the table and folded her arms over her chest. “Angel, I’m going, to be honest with you.” She paused again. It seemed she was unsure if she wanted to say what she was thinking, but her lips tightened for just a moment and she continued on. 

“You fucked up bad when you left here like you did. At least you gave the appearance that you did.” Her eyes narrowed briefly while she looked Angel over. “I’m willing to forgive and forget. It’s been a long ass time and it’s clear that y’all haven’t had any form of contact. My daddy and uncle on the other hand….” She trailed off. 

“My daddy won’t say anything since it didn’t involve the club, but I’d step lightly around him. Also-” she poked his arm. “Keep yo tail away from my uncle. That man has been itching to beat you down for years. He’s old but he’s quick and trust me, he hits hard.”

“Now do you really want to know the answers to those questions?” She shook her head. “Don’t go pickin’ at scabs unless you’re ready to treat the cut.”

 “I hear you, Shania. I do forreal” Angel paused “and if you don’t think it’s good for her to know I’m here, don’t tell her. I just have to know. Is she still here?” Angel tried to keep the desperation out of his voice but was failing. It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about you, but as of late he felt like he was spiraling. There was a need to feel something genuine and untainted again. Something was telling him he could do that with you.

Shania nodded along and listened. “Yeah, she’s still here.”She said casually while pulling her phone out. “Well, more like here again. She moved back home a few years ago.” She continued while apparently responding to a text on her phone. 

“As far as her knowing if you’re back-” She paused again and Angel heard the distinctive single vibration of her phone. Shania nodded in satisfaction. “Put your number in here.” She handed Angel the phone. “I want to be able to get in touch with you again.”

Angel did as directed more focused on if Shania was going to tell follow through and tell you. Shania, for her part, took the phone back and continued to tap away. “She knows now and I gave her your number.” She then pushed off the table and took a swig of her drink while walking away. Angel watched her pocket the phone and felt his stomach drop, rise up in an attempt to lodge in his throat before finally filling with moths. There were no butterflies here. Butterflies were reserved for happy reunions that would be filled with smiles and warm hugs. 

In the time he’d been back Angel had been met primarily with cold acceptance or outright hostility save for Shania. He didn’t know what he’d get with you. He didn’t know if he’d get anything from you. As badly as Angel wanted this reunion he was scared to death of it. 

He’d been reminded multiple times since getting back to Santa Ana that his departure had been less than ideal. From what he was gathering, the ripples of his decisions went farther than he thought they would. Angel huffed to himself and raised his bottle to down the rest. 

When his eyes closed he saw your face; confused and tear-streaked, a silent question on your lips “Why?” He wasn’t sure if what he was remembering was the true sound of your voice or just what he imagined it. While everyone was worried about protecting you they were ignoring the vulnerability Angel was submitting himself to. 

Was your relationship as good as he remembered? Had he taken only the best highlights of it and committed them to memory, leaving all the mess to be forgotten? That was the scary thing about memories. You could never be sure if what you were recalling was the truth or the romanticized version used to get through melancholy.

Angel looked to the now empty bottle and just stared at the label, not really seeing it. Instead is mind was playing that moment on a loop. “Why?” The memory version continued to ask and never getting a true answer. “Because I could” Angel found himself whispering the implied response. 

You had his number. That knowledge left his phone feeling like a boulder in his pocket. Would you use it? Would you let this be content with never having a true resolution? If you did use it would you come at him like your pops? Would you give him a cold welcome like your uncle or would he have you back? Could he take a stroll down memory lane and make you smile like you used to? Would he get to hear that melodic laugh again? Would Angel get a chance at redemption?

Angel eased a long sigh and let the hand holding the bottle fall to his side. He took strides towards the bar looking for another drink and felt the weight of two pairs of eyes on him. A quick glance confirmed they belonged to EZ, observant as usual, and Shania, scrutinizing and assessing. It was going to be a long weekend.