#know how to effectively search for one + not be pressured/rushed or have your mind changed by the salespeople

[fxa]

i love haggling with car salespeople actually. i have a deposit on a car that i'll 100% buy unless i can manage to find something better before it hits the lot, so i have nothing to lose when haggling with other dealerships. they want my money soooo bad. all you have to do is call them, show significant interest in a specific vehicle they have available, tell them you'll think about it, and the next day say "after i spoke with you yesterday, i found the same car for $1,500 cheaper at another dealership so i'm gonna have to go with them, sorry!" and they suddenly say "wait but we can discount our price by $2,000" oh really now. sweat for me, car salesperson

[roxannarambles]

Title: Volatile Status Condition

Ship: Nemona x Juliana

Rating: T

Summary:

“We, uh-- well. There was . . . an accident. Involving a new pokemon potion that’s apparently a love potion?”

Miriam squinted at you.

“Could you be a little more specific, please?”

You pointed to Nemona and her pink-stained shirt, trying again,

“I accidently drenched her with a whole bottle of pokemon love potion and it’s, she– w-well, she–”

“I have the Infatuation status condition,” Nemona supplied helpfully. Gratefully, you finished,

“Yeah, exactly. That.”

Wordcount: ~17k

Notes: This is rated T and is relatively tame, but it's still a bit spicier than my usual stories, so keep that in mind. Also up on a03

It had started out so innocently.

You were just getting a little shopping done with Nemona before heading out for a fun day: you'd planned a hike, a pokemon battle and a picnic afterwards. Nemona needed some pokeballs, so you'd dropped by the local Delibird Gifts.

The store was a lot busier than usual, which seemed strange since it was still pretty early. As you pushed through the throngs of people, though, you seemed to find the reason why. There was a booth set up near the back of the store, decorated with red and pink balloons and big, sparkly, eye-catching banners, some kind of promotion for a new product, it seemed. People were crowded around and gawking, as the man behind the booth was talking to customers with a big, cheesy smile and a loud voice.

“Step right up, folks, for the revolutionary new product that is going to transform the entire meta of pokemon battling as we know it!”

Naturally, such a claim caught Nemona’s attention. She squinted at the big signs, which read in flashy cursive,

Pokemon Love Potions!

100% Accurate & Effective

Invoke the Infatuation Status Condition On Command!

“What the heck? I gotta see this.”

You rushed to follow after Nemona, who quickly pushed to the front of the crowds.

“Nemona–”

You were about to suggest to her that it seemed like possibly a scam, but the man at the booth saw Nemona’s approach. Something in his eye sparked, as if catching sight of a perfect target for his sales pitch.

“Hello there, young miss! Would you like to be among the first to try Slyveon’s Pokemon Love Potions? It’s an incredible new product that’s premiering here, only at Delibird Gifts–”

Nemona wasn’t interested in listening to his pitch, though. She came forward and took one of the potion bottles from the booth, looking at it and cutting him off,

“But how’s it work? Wouldn’t using this on your pokemon just inflict them with infatuation?”

The salesman grinned and replied,

“Indeed! And that is why these potions are designed for a trainer to use on the opponent’s pokemon! You will notice, unlike other potion sprays, the nozzle on these bottles is far, far more powerful, allowing for simple, accurate aiming and long-distance spraying! It’s quick and effective, even a child could use it!”

Arriving to stand beside Nemona, you leaned in to inspect the bottle she had. It was bright pink and squat and looked very similar to the standard potion and super potion bottles, although the nozzle did look a bit different, as the salesman had noted; it looked like it was probably pressurized, like a can of bug spray or an air duster.

You frowned, commenting,

“Isn’t that against the battle rules or something? I’ve never heard of an item you can use on your opponents’ pokemon.”

Nemona set the little potion down and pulled out her phone.

“Let me double check. It does sound kinda fishy. I know that trainers giving hold items to their opponent’s pokemon is explicitly banned, because someone tried to do that once, but . . . hm . . .”

She trailed off as she pulled up the massive document that was the official rulebook for pokemon battling. It didn’t surprise you how quickly she had pulled it up; she probably had the whole .pdf practically memorized. While she was searching, you asked the salesman,

“How exactly was this potion made? As far as I knew, only Attract or Cute Charm can cause pokemon to fall in love. And destiny knot, of course.”

“And G-Max Cuddle from a Gigantimaxed Eevee,” Nemona chirped from beside you (while still scrolling). You chuckled,

“And G-Max Cuddle, yeah.”

The salesman looked pleased at the opportunity to brag about his product and answered,

“Our formula is an innovative concoction developed from Dream Mist obtained from the exotic Unovian species Musharna as well as Sylveon’s magical and psychic influences. It’s like purified, refined charm and adorableness in a bottle! We cannot reveal our exact refinery process, of course, as that’s a trade secret.”

You hummed skeptically, reading the bottle’s label. It was true that you’d heard of Dream Mist (you came from the ‘exotic’ land of Unova, after all), which was pretty powerful stuff. But the stuff in the bottle could just be sparkly food-colored water, for all you knew.

“So, technically, it’s not against any of the rules,” Nemona suddenly announced, finished with her search.

“Trainers directly giving hold items to an opponent is banned– there’s a reason Trick and Switcheroo are moves, after all– but no such ban exists for using general consumable items on an opponent’s pokemon. There is a ban on feeding berries to your opponent’s pokemon directly, but the way it’s worded is specific to berries, not all consumables.”

“Huh,” you said. She tucked the phone back into her pocket and added,

“But I think that’s only because nobody’s ever had a reason to try before. I’d say the legality of it’s still kinda in a gray area.”

“Worry not, my young friends. Slyveon’s Pokemon Love Potions are technically classed as a type of medicine, and thus there is no rule against using them on your opponent,” the salesman said, smiling. You didn’t like his smile, it was kinda creepy.

“A medicine? But it inflicts a volatile status condition!” Nemona argued.

The smarmy salesman answered,

“This potion inflicts feelings of love and adoration; it fills a pokemon’s heart with joy! Slyveon’s Love Potions are beneficial, technically speaking. Who wouldn’t want to experience love, after all?”

“Hmmm,” Nemona said, looking thoughtful. She eyed the bottles of potions.

“I guess that’s true . . .”

You crossed your arms. In a wary tone, you said,

“Nemona . . .”

She looked to you, smiling bright.

“Well, c’mon, you can’t tell me you’re not curious too, right? Trainer-inflicted status conditions could be kinda interesting, mix things up a little!”

You sighed. You answered,

“Yeah, okay. I do admit I’m a little curious too.”

The salesman enthused at you two,

“Wonderful! You young trainers are going to love it. Sylveon’s Love Potions are even better than a Pokemon’s moves or abilities, after all. They are the wave of the future for the infatuation condition.”

You raised a brow.

“Better? Better how?”

He tapped a case of his products and said proudly,

“No more discrimination! Pokemon of the same gender as their opponent or genderless pokemon can fall in love as well, guaranteed! Truly, love wins.”

Nemona’s eyes widened.

“Oh my gosh, really? Holy Tauros, now we have to get it, Jules!”

You frowned, watching the suspicious salesman. That was a pretty big claim. And why didn’t he lead with it?

Still, Nemona was so excited. You might as well try it. Maybe it really was as amazing as the guy said.

“Okay, okay, we’ll give it a shot,” you said. Nemona had already eagerly grabbed a few bottles. Her excitement didn’t fade even when the salesman told you the exorbitant price, and soon you both finished your shopping trip and left the place with a couple of shopping bags in tow. You sent your Koraidon out from his ball and hopped onboard, heading out to the South Province. It was a nice place for a hike, full of pretty canyons and trees. The sun was shining bright and it was a beautiful day, and you had a lot of fun ambling along the trail with your best friend.

Once you’d finished hiking, Nemona was eager to try out the new items with a pokemon battle. It was just a casual, low-stakes fight, so you didn’t feel too pressured or anything. You enjoyed your very serious battles with her too, of course– you loved that you could battle her with such fierce intensity. But some days, it was fun to just fool around, too.

After you cleared out her Goodra with your Cetitan, she sent out her Pawmot, which tended to be an absolute menace for your team. Neither one of you had used the fancy new item yet that you’d purchased, but you decided now was the perfect time to try. If you could infatuate the darn thing and give Cetitan a chance to use its Play Rough, you’d be golden. Smiling, you snuck the little potion bottle out of your bag.

Then you whipped it out, aiming it at Nemona’s Pawmot and squeezing the trigger. The liquid shot out of the bottle in a powerful jet stream, right on target.

Except, there was a bit of problem. That problem was Nemona’s Pawmot had very good reflexes. Probably far superior to human reflexes. And the moment you shot a squirt bottle full of potion its way, it panicked and leapt out of the way. Which, normally, wouldn’t be too big a deal, other than totally wasting a ton of money on the bottle of potion. The real issue was that Nemona was standing directly behind her pokemon.

So when Pawmot bounded aside, Nemona caught the dose of Slyveon’s Pokemon Love Potion full on in the face. You absolutely drenched her, the bottle emptying its entire load in one go. You both froze in mutual shock, utterly caught offguard.

The bright pink liquid dripped down Nemona’s face and chest, her wet ponytail stuck to her neck, her crisp white uniform shirt ruined. You stared, your mouth agape.

“Uh . . . crap. I’m so sorry, Nemona–”

But then the full implications hit you like a train. This might be more than just a mild inconvenience. You stammered,

“W-wait, does this stuff affect humans?”

You thought back and realized that was a question you never asked the salesman. Then you thought about regular pokemon potions, and how they did help with human’s injuries, just like vitamins did and other items which affected humans too, and–

“Oh, my god,” Nemona intoned, her eyes growing wide in alarm. Okay, yeah, there was a very good chance this stuff affected humans too. In a panic, you yelled,

“Crap, crap, crap! Are you okay?! Oh my god, what do I do? Uh, can you get it off?!”

Nemona started to frantically swipe at her face and shirt, shouting,

“I don’t know, I don’t know!”

You ran up to her and started helping her wipe the potion off, but Nemona waved you away, yelling,

“Jules, don’t touch it!! It could affect you too, you silly Zangoose!”

“Oh, god, I’m sorry, I just– what can we do, we need to wash it off or something!”

You turned and blurted,

“Water, we need water, hold on!”

Digging through your bag, you quickly located a water bottle and rushed back up to her, twisting the little cap off. Then you upended the bottle over her head, dumping it over her.

Nemona gasped as the cold water drenched her, the water making a glug glug glug noise as emptied out onto her, soaking her even more thoroughly than the potion already had.

She stood there, frozen in shock again and staring at you with wide eyes, water dripping from her nose and chin, her shirt completely plastered against her skin, the rest of the water running down her legs and sopping her shoes.

You suddenly felt like the worst person in the world. Nemona began to ask incredulously,

“D-did you really just–”

“Oh my god I’m so sorry I was just trying to help, I’m so sorry!”

You buried your face in your hands, apologizing profusely. You heard Nemona laugh, which to be perfectly frank was absurd, given the circumstances.

“Juliana, it’s okay, I’m not mad– Jules, c’mon, it’s okay, I was just mad for like one second, but I know you were trying to help–”

You dropped your hands away and dared to look at her again, though you still felt like such a massive jerk. Anxiously, you asked,

“Did it at least help at all?!”

Your soggy friend seemed to think for a moment. For what it was worth, the water did seem to wash a lot of the potion off, although her shirt and some of her skin were still stained pink– your hands were stained pink too from trying to wipe it off. What the heck did they put in this crap that stained so well?

“Y’know what, I don’t think we need to worry. Either your quick thinking saved the day, or this stuff doesn’t affect humans to begin with.”

You looked at her hopefully.

“Yeah? You think so?”

She paused for a moment and then nodded, saying,

“Yeah, I feel fine!”

You stared at each other for a beat. You said awkwardly,

“Well, that was certainly . . . uh . . . something.”

Nemona broke out into giggles and you laughed along with her, relieved everything was fine.

“I know I said it a ton already but I’m so sorry–”

“Jules, seriously, it’s okay. It was an accident! Totally understandable.”

“I know, but I still feel bad. You’re drenched. You wanna go back and change?”

Nemona thought for a moment, then shrugged.

“Eh. I’m fine. Let’s finish the battle!”

Your eyes widened.

“Seriously? You wanna finishing battling??”

She grinned at you.

“Of course! I’m not gonna let a little thing like this stop me! Although I think it would be best if I held off on using my own potion for this match.”

With an amused smile, you said,

“Agreed. Well, okay, if you’re really fine with it, then we can keep going, I guess.”

It really shouldn’t have surprised you– of course she’d want to finish the match. You were pretty sure Nemona could break a leg mid-battle and she’d still want to finish the fight. You both returned to your pokemon battle. In the end, Nemona even beat you.

After the battle, Nemona had her Flamigo sort of blow-dry her with one of its moves, which seemed to work surprisingly well, so you didn’t even have to return home. Instead, you could lay down your picnic blanket and have lunch like you’d both planned. Before long, the little potion accident was all but forgotten. You enjoyed your sandwiches and snacks and ended up in a meandering, lazy conversation afterwards, just laying in the shade of the trees and enjoying the lovely sound of Nemona’s laughter at your antics.

 “Look, I’m telling you, it’s true. Everyone eventually looks like their ace. Or at least one of the pokemon on their team, usually their lead. It’s inevitable. Here, see? The moment I saw Arven I was like, ‘Ah, yes, Skwovet Boy.’”

Looking at the picture on your phone, Nemona snorted.

“Did he like that name?”

“No, no he did not.”

“Okay, I’ll give you Arven, and I guess Penny, but there’s no way the rule holds true for everyone.”

“I’ll prove it! Just name somebody.”

“Okay, uh . . . how ‘bout Director Clavell?”

You took a moment to scroll through your Pokedex and pick out an entry. Then you showed her your phone. Nemona giggled and said,

“What?! Oh my god Juliana, that’s kinda mean.”

“No it’s not!! It’s just true!”

“I dunno–” “Look, look, I’ll show you!”

You pulled up a photo of Clavell and placed it side-by-side with Oranguru.

“See? Look at their faces, their expressions. Identical! And the hair? Can barely even tell them apart! Plus the move ‘Instruct’? It’s a dead-ringer.”

Still laughing, she admitted,

“Oh, jeez, I do kinda see what you mean…”

Confidently, you told her,

“Okay, pick someone else.”

Humming, she said,

“Mmm . . . Prof Raifort?”

You searched up another image and showed it to her,

“Zoroark, see the hair, the ‘lil eyebrows, the sneaky smile?”

“Pfffttt! All right, how about Mr. Jaqc?”

“Oh, he looks like Arcanine for sure.”

“What? But Arcanine is like, bright orange and Jacq’s hair is purple. I’d guess him to be a poison type.”

“Nah, you can’t just look at color. Jacq looks all fluffy like Arcanine and he’s also super friendly and goofy too, but very loyal and knows his stuff!”

Nemona studied your phone, scrutinizing it seriously.

“Hm . . . that is a compelling argument. Maybe you really are onto something.”

She turned to you, smirking.

“Who do I look like, then?”

You crossed your arms, answering,

“Hah, that’s easy! You look like your Pawmot. Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, super energetic and friendly, plus super adorable.”

Nemona broke out into giggles and shoved your shoulder a little.

“Stopit, you just like making me blush.”

“It’s true! You’re like, super smart too. And brave, and powerful, and pretty.”

“Jules,” she whined, covering her face. You laughed, unable to resist teasing her. She was just unbearably cute when she was bashful.

Suddenly turning to you, she shot back,

“Yeah well, you– you’re like– uh . . .”

She paused, gazing at you for a few moments. You raised your brows.

“. . . Like?”

You waited. Her expression softened as she looked at you, her smile gradually shifting into something very warm. In a gentle, almost reverent voice, she finally said,

“Vivillon.”

You blinked, a warm flutter stirring in your chest.

“O-oh?”

She leaned forward and continued softly,

“You are so sweet, and incredibly kind, and graceful . . . and you came into my life, dancing on the breeze as light as air, and made everything so much better.”

“O-oh,” you repeated, feeling your face warm. She leaned even closer to you, her eyes bright. Her voice dropped down even quieter, and she half-whispered to you,

“. . . but you’re also fierce and wild and way, way more powerful than people realize, and I think that excites me most of all.”

You could hear your heart hammering in your ears as Nemona smiled at you and touched your arm lightly, her fingertips tracing along your skin, causing a sensation like little electric sparks. You desperately tried to say something, but it came out as a little squeak.

 Then Nemona paused. She blinked, as if coming to some realization.

“Uh,” she said, pulling back from you just a little.

“Jules, I feel . . . ummm . . . I feel pretty funny.”

You were entirely unable to give an intelligent reply and grunted,

“Funny ha-ha or funny weird?”

She glanced away, a crimson blush overtaking her pretty face.

“Oh, man. Umm, funny weird, I guess. I-I think . . . that love potion is . . . hitting me really hard all of a sudden.”

Oh. Oh, crap.

That explained it.

“Oh. Uh, uhmm. W-what should I do? How can I help?”

Nemona looked like she was considering your question seriously. Still not looking at you, she answered in a calm voice that only wavered a little:

“W-well, you definitely shouldn’t start kissing me, because I would kiss you back. Hard. And probably not stop.”

Your face flushed hot and you sputtered,

“Wh-whuh, wh-why would I suddenly start kissing you now?!”

Sounding half-panicked herself, she shouted back,

“I dunno, you asked!!”

You sucked in a breath and tried to settle down all the thoughts screaming in your brain. Okay okay, think, think. You pushed yourself up and climbed to your feet, shakily.

“R-right, okay, okay. So, uh. W-we should get you to a nurse! Right?”

Nemona answered,

“I-I guess! Yeah.”

“Okay, okay. Give me just a sec.”

You quickly gathered your things to repack the picnic basket, then turned to her.

“Okay, do you think you can walk?”

She paused a moment.

“. . . I’m not sure,” she admitted,

“I feel a little dizzy.”

You nodded.

“Okay, I’ll help you up.”

She looked so anxious, and you were starting to get really worried about her. You hoped this stupid potion didn’t have any dangerous side-effects. It was made for pokemon, so there was no knowing how a human’s biology might react to it.

You reached down and carefully helped pull Nemona to her feet. She swayed for a moment, so you kept your hands on her shoulders. Nemona’s warning that you she would kiss you back, hard, and not stop, was still looping in your mind, but you had to be the calm one here and look out for her safety, so you shoved the thoughts back down and focused. You studied her and asked,

“How are you feeling? Is your breathing okay? Are you still dizzy?”

Your friend shook her head, not meeting your eyes.

“I-I’m okay, I think.”

You didn’t like how uncertain she sounded. You tried to remember how to take someone’s pulse.

“Give me your wrist, I wanna try to take your pulse.”

She reluctantly held her non-gloved hand out to you. You tried to find her pulse, but you were never any good at this.

“Jeez, okay, hold on. Let me try the other pulse point, it’s easier.”

You reached up and set your fingers gently to the side of her neck, just under her chin. She stiffened at your touch, startled, and her eyes snapped up to yours; you realize belatedly you should have warned her.

“U-uh, sorry.”

You could feel her pulse and focused on counting it; it was bouncing along like a hyperactive hamster on crack.

“Christ, Nemona. Okay, I don’t think you’re in imminent threat of a heart attack, but it’s pretty damn high.”

Nemona’s eyes didn’t look quite right; her pupils were blown wide and she was gazing at you with an intensity you’d never seen before. When she spoke, it was with a forced calm, drawling out slowly;

“Well, that might have to do with the incredibly pretty girl who’s currently touching me.”

“Uh,” you grunted, moving to pull your hand away from her. She caught your wrist before you could.

“N-Nemona–”

“I should check your pulse too, shouldn’t I?” she asked, voice soft and husky. Turning your hand in hers, she exposed your wrist; but instead of holding her fingers to your wrist, she lowered her head down, her lips brushing against your pulse point. You jerked, your entire body immediately swimming in icy-hot goosebumps, straight up your back and neck and all the way to your scalp.

"W-W-WAIT, N-NEMONA–”

Your startled shout seemed to only encourage her, and you felt heat searing against you, her breath tickling as she pressed her lips to your delicate skin, followed by the sensation of the tip of her tongue swiping against you–

You made a noise at the back of your throat you didn't even recognize, and it took every ounce of your willpower to pull your hand away from her and back off. She froze when you pulled away, looking shocked for a moment. You quickly came to realize she wasn’t shocked at you, but rather, at herself. She blushed deeper and held a hand to her mouth in embarrassment. She mumbled into it,

“Oh my god, Jules . . . I’m so sorry.”

You stood there rigidly, forcing out,

“I-it’s okay! It’s fine. Look, we know you’re not yourself, i-it’s fine. We just gotta, um . . . get you back to the nurse!”

“Right,” she muttered quietly, not looking up. She repeated, “Nurse.” She seemed to be trying to wrap her brain around it. You repeated, somewhat shrilly,

“We can do this! It’s not far.”

You were saying it just as much for your sake as for hers. You were talking so loud, but that was because you were busy trying to drown out the thoughts screaming in your brain about your friend’s tongue on your skin and, oh, god–

Nemona repeated, a little louder,

“Okay. Okay. We can do this.” She started to walk, hesitantly, and you were relieved she was finally moving, because you guys really needed to get out of there. You picked the picnic basket back up and lurched forward, but you’re a goddamn idiot, your lovesick brain still addled over ‘Nemona, tongue, skin’ and you tripped over your own stupid feet.

Nemona’s reflexes were good even when she was doped up on a huge dose of love potion, it seemed, and she caught you before you could eat a face full of dirt. Her amber eyes were wide in surprise, and you both stared at each other a brief moment as Nemona held you firmly in her arms.

Then she quickly let go of you and spun away, bemoaning,

“Unnghh, Jules, you’re killing me here!”

Feeling like such an ass, you quickly shouted,

“Sorry, sorry, sorry! I’m not trying to, I swear!”

Nemona flung her hands up, turning to you and snapping a frustrated reply;

“You don't have to try! You never have! You've been incredible from the very first moment I've met you! Your passion, your heart, your brío! Y-you-- you have no idea how badly I've wanted to, t-to–”

"--Nemona I am begging you to not finish that sentence, I don't think it's in either of our best interests, you're indisposed right now, remember!"

She halted and stared at you. You could literally see the wildness behind her eyes and her struggles to rein it in; her breathing had become so heavy that she was practically panting.

“Y-yeah. Okay. Yeah. You’re probably right.”

Your face was so, so damn hot, you started to wonder if you might be at risk of fainting. You were an awful, horrible person because seeing Nemona in this state should have made you worried about her, worried about her wellbeing, but in the moment it was just so thrilling, seeing her so completely undone over the thought of you--

You didn’t even have the stupid potion dumped on you, for god’s sake, you needed to get a grip! Swallowing a suddenly very dry throat, you forced out,

“Let's just go. Go to the nurse. It's not far, we can make it. Let’s just– wait! We could order a taxi!"

Wow, if your brain was functioning properly, you would have thought of it sooner. But as you grabbed your cell phone to find the number, Nemona protested.

“W-wait, wait, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

You paused.

“Why?”

She was turned away from you, probably so she could focus better. She said in an unsteady tone,

"There’s hardly any room in those things, you know? I don't think I can be that close to you for any period of time, I can barely stand being this close already without-- without--"

“O-okay, okay, I got you, we'll-- we'll walk. Or– what about riding Koraidon, could we do that?”

She paused.

“Kind of the same problem, we can’t ride together like that.”

You cursed.

“Yeah, true. Although. I mean. I could send just you but, I really don’t want to do that, I don’t want to leave you alone like this.”

There really was no good solution. It seemed like walking was still best. You repeated,

“It's okay, we can walk, it's not that far. We can make it. We’ve done this walk out here before plenty of times, probably like a hundred times by now."

It was true, the walk wasn’t long. Probably just fifteen minutes at most to reach Mesagoza. That wasn't so bad, that was easy.

You steeled yourself, muttering once again,

"We can do this."

<3<3<3<3

Of course, in your current situation, the time felt like an eternity. You both walked in tense silence, not particularly close to one another but you didn’t dare stray too far, worried that Nemona might get another dizzy spell. The weather was still very lovely, at least, a soft, spring breeze and the cheery sound of Fletchling chittering. You tried to focus on that during your walk back, occasionally asking Nemona if she was still doing okay.

Unfortunately, you both ran into a problem before you could return to Mesagoza. It seemed to be a twist of awful luck, during a day you were already having such rotten luck. The issue was that you both met a trainer passing by along the same path, and they were keen for a battle. What’s more, it seemed they recognized Nemona.

“Oh, hey! Look at that! It’s Naranja’s little Golden Child. Nemona, wasn’t it? Wow, what luck. I’ve heard a lot about you, you know. They say you’re always up for a pokemon battle, no matter what! You wanna go?”

The young man was dressed in the same uniform as you both had, obviously a fellow student. But you immediately took offense to the way he was talking to Nemona, and his greasy little smirk. Nemona looked at him and answered warily,

“Um, actually, now isn’t exactly the best time for me, I’m really sorry. My friend and I need to get back to Mesagoza. If you give me your number I could battle you later, though?”

The boy’s smirk dropped into a scowl.

“What? You’re seriously trying to weasel out of it? What’s wrong, are you scared of having a little match right here, right now? They said you’d fight anyone, why am I exempt from that?”

Nemona glanced away, muttering,

“I’m really sorry–”

Normally, you weren't really the confrontational sort, but your blood was boiling immediately. Lurching forward in front of Nemona, you snapped,

“What's the matter with you? She said now isn’t a good time. Respect her boundaries and get out of her face, she doesn’t owe you anything!”

The boy looked you up and down, sneering.

“And who’re you, her pet Rockruff? I’m not interested in wasting my time on freshmen.”

Then he shoved you, pushing you back. You were so taken aback at first, you didn’t even know how to react. Was this guy for real? What the hell?

Unfortunately, when you were stunned into silence, this gave Nemona the chance to react in your stead. And she was . . . well, she was pissed.Far more so than you’d ever seen her before. In fact, she looked about ready to bite down on the man’s jugular. Stalking forward, directly into the student’s personal space, she snarled at him,

“Oh, so you want a battle so bad that you think it’s okay to shove around my best friend? FINE THEN, LET’S GO.”

There was a certain delight in seeing Nemona capitalize on her height, because she towered over the toxic trainer who’d been harassing you; you could see genuine fear glinting in the student’s eyes. He did not want to admit to it, though, and answered,

“U-uh, ok then, fine!”

He backed off and fumbled for his belt and released his lead pokemon, the purple-finned Veluza. Nemona threw out her usual lead, her Lycanroc appearing.

“Veluza, use Liqui–”

“Stone Edge,” Nemona barked, fists balled, eyes still locked in a withering glare on the trainer. Her Lycanroc cast her a sideways glance, sensing something was very different from normal; noting how tense she was, the dog turned and charged, snarling savagely, like a pokemon that was determined to remove what was deemed a very dangerous threat.

The rock that erupted from the ground KO’d the fish immediately. Lycanroc stood and growled at the trainer, and the boy nervously sent out a Tauros.

“Okay Tauros, use Raging Bull!”

Nemona held out her pokeball and wordlessly recalled Lycanroc. She threw another ball.

“Ceruledge. Flare Blitz.”

As the Tauros’ fighting move passed through the ghost type harmlessly and it was instead struck with a Flare Blitz, the student stammered,

“Wha–aa-uh? Ceruledge, I didn’t– uhh, Tauros, Zen Head–”

“Bitter Blade.”

The flaming pokemon’s spinning blades quickly felled the Tauros.

“Nobody told me you had a Ceruledge–”

“Flare Blitz,” Nemona said. The boy almost tripped and fell in his haste to send out his next pokemon.

“Wh– Tyranatar!”

The Flare Blitz crashed into his Tyranatar, blades smoking and spinning. The trainer cried,

“Tyranatar, use Stone Edge, quick!!”

The foe’s Tyranatar turned to comply, but it was frazzled by its trainer’s panic, and it missed the Stone Edge.

“Godamn it–”

“Close Combat.”

Ceruledge smashed straight through Tyranatar, toppling it over. Half his team was already down, in under three minutes.

“G-garchomop, go!” the trainer yelled, sending out the large dragon. Honestly, his team wasn’t too bad. But none of that really mattered, not when he was a crummy trainer and he was up against one of the best of all of Paldea. Especially when she was not in the mood to play around.

The trainer ordered his Garchomp to Earthquake, and Nemona recalled her Ceruledge so she could send out her Meowscarada. Garchomp quickly fell to Play Rough, and the trainer sent out a Talonflame to counter. Nemona swapped her Lycanroc back in and destroyed the fire bird immediately.

The boy sent out his final pokemon, a Cryogonal. He looked miserable as Nemona’s Lycanroc stared down at them, drooling, waiting for Nemona’s signal to finish things off.

“What’s the matter?” Nemona called to him, speaking something other than terse pokemon orders for the first time in a while.

“Don’t like losing 6-to-1? Here, let me give you a chance to take one of mine out, even the score just a little, huh? Which one of my team do you want me to send out?”

The trainer blinked, looking startled and annoyed. He asked,

“What? Are you . . . are you toyingwith me?”

“Which one do you want,” Nemona repeated, icily. The trainer jerked and stammered,

“U-uh, uh, Meowscarada?”

Nemona recalled her Lycanroc, smiling. The smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Okay! Here goes!”

She flung a ball, her Pawmot materializing.

“Oops, wrong one. Silly me.”

Nemona took an orb from her pack and flung it. Pawmot exploded into crystals, terastializing.

“Oops again! I’m so clumsy.”

The trainer looked angry, incredibly frustrated, and frankly a little freaked out, but he still called to his pokemon,

“Cryogonal, use Ice Beam!”

Lazily, Nemona instructed,

“Okay Pawmot, let’s . . . ehhh, let’s use a Thunder Wave, why not?”

Pawmot was struck by the incoming Ice Beam, grunting in pain, but not fainting to the move. It charged up and sent a shockwave rolling over to its opponent.

“Just finish the battle off already!” the trainer yelled in disgust. Nemona crossed her arms and stared at him.

“Oh? You want this to stop now?”

He hissed through his teeth, muttering curses under his breath.

“Yes,” he finally said, staring miserably at the ground.

“Fine,” Nemona said sharply,

“Apologize to Juliana, and then we can finish the battle.”

“What–” his head whipping up, he seemed about to protest, but he shut up the moment he saw Nemona’s eyes, deadly serious. Face red, he reluctantly turned to you.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” he muttered.

Nemona nodded in satisfaction.

“Good.”

Then she turned to her Pawmot.

“Okay, Pawmot, Close Combat.”

Her pokemon rushed headlong into the massive snowflake, shattering to bits. The young man recalled the pokemon back to its ball, defeated and humbled.

And then, Nemona’s voice ordered calmly:

“Pawmot, use Charge.”

The pokemon rubbed its little paws on its cheek pouches, charging up energy, building and building in its sparkly, crystallized body. It shone brighter and brighter, until it was almost painful to look at. The trainer looked up, his eyes growing wide. He stuttered,

“I-I-I’m out of pokemon! That was six! Wh-what are you– I’m all out!”

Her arms still crossed, Nemona regarded him calmly. After a moment, she answered slowly,

“Hmm. Well . . .”

She glanced to her Pawmot.

“Then I guess you better find some more . . .”

Her gaze returned to the trainer. Her eyes took on a hard edge. She intoned quietly,

“Or you better run.”

The trainer looked as though he was about ready to wet his pants, falling over himself to grab up his pokeballs and turn tail, scrambling down the path as fast as he could, like the little coward he was. For a while you could do absolutely nothing but stare as he ran away, simply trying to absorb the past ten minutes that had played out before you.

Eventually, Nemona returned Pawmot to his ball. Then she heaved a groan and turned away from you, looking . . . embarrassed, to your surprise.

“U-ugh. Juliana, I . . . I’m really sorry about all that. Cielo santo, I can’t believe I just did that . . .”

You raised a brow, confused.

“Sorry about what?”

She seemed too ashamed to even face you. She gestured vaguely, crying out,

“That! All that! I was so freaking mean, I obliterated that guy. Ay, it was like I couldn’t even stop myself, I just . . . I got so mad when he pushed you, and the way he was talking about you, like you were beneath contempt or something and– gahh! I couldn’t stand it.”

Her eyes were still lit in anger just thinking about it. You told her calmly,

“Nemona, don’t worry about it. Your reaction was perfectly understandable, that guy was being a massive jerk!”

“Yeah, but that’s no excuse!” Nemona protested, shaking her head.

“I know I’m bigger then that, I can’t stoop to, like . . . tormenting someone during a battle like that. Dios, I even threatened him with Pawmot . . .”

She cringed, mumbling,

“You must think I’m a terrible person after that.”

You bit down on your lower lip as you thought back to watching Nemona absolutely dominating that douchebag of a trainer.

Don’t tell her she looked hot while she kicked his ass, oh god, don’t say it

“U-uh, no, not really." You paused, mumbling, "Quite the opposite, actually.”

Nemona glanced up at you, asking,

“Huh? What do you mean?”

Don’t say it don’t say it don’t say it

“Uh . . .”

You rubbed your face, frustrated with how difficult it had become to think clearly. What was wrong with you today? If you didn’t know any better you would have thought you’d been the one dosed with the stupid . . .

Your train of thought stalled as you gazed at your hand, still stained pink from when you were trying to help Nemona wipe the potion off.

“Oh. Crap.”

“What is it?” Nemona asked, looking concerned. You shook your head, trying not to worry her too much.

“N-nothing. It’s just, u-uh, I think . . . I might have absorbed some of that potion earlier.”

“Oh.” She paused, then added,

“Crap.”

“Yeah.”

A few moments passed. Then you shook your head and reassured her,

“Look, it’s fine. Nemona, you have nothing to worry about, that guy wanted a battle and you gave him one, so fair’s fair! No one got hurt and maybe next time he’ll think twice about acting like a horrible little bottomfeeder. Besides, you know you’re under the influence of weird pokemon potions right now. So let’s just stop worrying and try to get back to the nurse before we both end up ff– uhhh– let’s just get back, okay!?”

“Okay, okay!”

You both returned to walking the path leading up to Mesagoza. Fortunately, you were able to complete the journey this time without any other . . . incidents. The only real concerning thing left at that point was your old nemesis, The Stairs. While normally you’d hop on Koraidon to skip them, that wasn’t an option this time, so you and Nemona begrudgingly scaled them together.

<3<3<3<3

By the time you’d reached the top of the stairs, sweating and panting, you were very ready for this tense journey to be finished. You both rushed to the nurse’s office on the bottom floor of the central building, finding Nurse Miriam sitting at her desk, tending to paperwork.

When you burst in, you startled her a little, and she quickly stood and asked what the emergency was. It was only then you realized you hadn’t really planned on what you were going to say to her. Awkwardly, you exchanged a look with Nemona and then answered,

“We, uh– well. There was . . . an accident. Involving a new pokemon potion that’s apparently a love potion?”

Miriam squinted at you.

“Could you be a little more specific, please?”

You pointed to Nemona and her pink-stained shirt, trying again,

“I accidently drenched her with a whole bottle of pokemon love potion and it’s, she– w-well, she–”

“I have the Infatuation status condition,” Nemona supplied helpfully. Gratefully, you finished,

“Yeah, exactly. That.”

The nurse came over, indicating to Nemona to sit at the patient table, and she grabbed her stethoscope.

“Could you tell me more about this ‘love potion’? This is the first time I’ve heard of such a thing.”

As the nurse checked Nemona’s breathing and heart, you tried to fill her in.

“Well, this morning we were in Delibird Presents and there was this sort of promotion for a new item? You’re supposed to hit your opponent’s pokemon with it. So we bought some to give it a try. Except when I went to use it, Nemona’s pokemon dodged and she got the full dose instead. At first we thought it didn’t really affect her, I washed it off with water, but . . .”

Miriam stuck a thermometer in Nemona’s mouth and scowled.

“Sounds like a flagrant disregard for the National Pokemon Drug and Food Administration, there’s no way they signed off on a product like that. Do you happen to still have the bottle with you? It would help to know the ingredients.”

You thought a moment.

“We ditched the bottle already . . .”

“I schill hash my bobble in my bag!” Nemona said excitedly, around her thermometer.

“Oh, right, yeah!”

When she pulled it out and handed it to Miriam, the nurse quickly checked the bottle over. She didn’t look happy.

“This is ridiculous! There isn’t even a list of ingredients! All I can find is ‘Formulated from Dream Mist and Sylveon Magic.’”

You answered,

“I think he said the exact ingredients were a trade secret or whatever . . ."

In a tone of disgust, she muttered,

“This smells like a lawsuit to me.”

Then she turned and took Nemona’s thermometer, asking brightly,

“How are you feeling, Nemona? Can you describe your symptoms for me, after you came into contact with the potion?”

Nemona blinked up at her, looking a little uncertain.

“Well . . . at first I didn’t feel any different. I think it was around an hour later when I started feeling funny. Kinda . . . really happy, and my thoughts all felt sort of fuzzy and warm. Like I could actually feel them swirling around in my brain, you know? And my heart was goin’ kinda fast. But I didn’t really notice too much until– uh. . . well, Juliana and I were talking and I, w-well I . . . I-I . . .”

She trailed off, glancing away and blushing. The nurse, taking mercy on her, said,

“It’s all right, sweetie, I think I get the picture. How are you feeling now? Is it just as strong or has it started to wear off at all?”

Nemona paused for a moment, considering the question. Shyly, she glanced over at you and held your gaze. It was just eye contact, but you felt heat coiling in your belly as those amber eyes remained locked with yours, as if she could read your thoughts.

“Y-yep it’s still there!” Nemona quickly answered, turning away and clearing her throat.

Nurse Miriam nodded, sighing.

“Very well. Sit tight for a little bit, you two. I’m going to try and call the number on this potion bottle and see if I can get any answers.”

She moved over to sit at her desk and make the phone call, while you stood there awkwardly beside the patient table Nemona was seated on. You pondered the mystery of what to say to your best friend while giving her emotional support for being hit with a love potion. Which had made her become infatuated with you.

What could possibly be helpful in this situation?

Eventually you settled on saying,

“I’m sure we’ll get this all sorted out soon. And then it’ll be just a funny story we can look back on, right? Haha . . .”

“Mmm,” she answered, gazing at the wall.

Fortunately, Miriam wasn’t away for long. She soon finished up her phone call and returned, her expression inscrutable.

“If you’re about to tell me the potion was nothing but water and food coloring and this whole thing was just the placebo effect I’m gonna flip a table,” Nemona grumbled.

Nurse Miriam chuckled.

“Oh, no, I’m reasonably confidant you have been exposed to some kind of drug. Unfortunately, the man on the phone was utterly no help, so I can’t say for certain what it was. At this point, all we can do is monitor you closely and treat any possible harmful side-effects if they arise. I’ll have to hold you for observation.”

Nemona frowned, looking as though she really didn’t like this answer.

“For observation? For how long?”

The nurse scribbled some notes down on a clipboard.

“Oh, for several hours, at least, to be on the safe side.”

You watched as the anxiety quickly materialized in Nemona’s expression. Her voice taut, she asked,

“Hours? Is it, um, is it completely necessary? I-I . . .”

Miriam tried to answer kindly but firmly when she trailed off.

“Well, yes, I do think it’s important for you to be monitored.”

Your heart wrenched at the sight of Nemona struggling to fend off a full-blown panic. The signs were subtle, but you knew her well enough by now to recognize them clear as day. Quickly, you butted in,

“What if she went back to her dorm and I monitored her? Would that be okay?”

Miriam glanced to you, answering warily,

“Hmm . . . well, I’d prefer it if she stayed here, but . . .”

With pleading eyes, you said,

“I’ll watch her real close, I promise.”

Miriam hesitated for a bit. You stared at her until she sighed.

“. . . all right. If you take her vitals every 30 minutes and call me at the first sign of trouble, then I suppose that would be all right . . .”

Yes.

“I’ll take really good care of her!”

Looking relieved but still a little troubled, Nemona gestured to your hands, stained pink, and asked,

“But Jules, what about you? You told me that you were–”

You quickly tucked your hands behind your back and cut her off,

“–ahaha, I’m fine, Nemona! Yeah, I was a bit tired from our hike, but I feel great now!”

Miriam frowned, glancing between you both. You beamed at her with a big, fake grin, and Nemona decided to remain silent. You prayed she wouldn’t notice anything odd.

“. . . very well.”

You sighed in relief, but it was apparently premature.

“However . . .”

Nurse Miriam fixed you with a serious look.

“I do have one concern. Forgive me if this feels like prying, but . . . Nemona seemed to imply that you were, ah . . . her . . . object of affection? In that case, wouldn’t that make being her caretaker a bit difficult?”

You blinked, then glanced awkwardly to Nemona. Desperate to convince her, you stammered,

“I-I’ll, I’ll manage it. I know I can do it!”

From the patient table, Nemona added,

“It’ll be okay. It’s not so bad when I’m focused on something.”

The nurse didn’t seem entirely comfortable with the arrangement, but she acquiesced anyway.

“All right, if those really are your wishes. Then, Juliana, give me a moment and I’ll set you up with a few things to borrow while you monitor Nemona.”

<3<3<3<3

Before long, you both were out of the nurse’s office and had made it safely back to Nemona’s dorm room. When you’d entered and Nemona clicked the door closed, she sagged against the door and sighed in relief.

“Dios mío, I am so glad to be back here.”

She looked so drained. Gently, you told her,

“You should rest, tesoro.”

She glanced up to you, concern etched on her face.

“Yeah, I know. But first, are you sure you’re okay with doing this, Juliana? I know you’re partially affected too.”

You nodded, telling her firmly,

“It’s okay. The dose I got was barely anything compared to yours, and I think it’s worn off by now anyway. I just didn’t want the nurse to know, because she would have made a fuss and might not have let us back here, you know?”

Nemona nodded slowly.

“Yeah . . . I still feel kinda bad, though, making you take care of me. . .”

You laughed.

“What? You’re not making me do anything, I wanted to! I could see how much you hated the idea of staying in the infirmary, I wasn’t gonna let you stay there!”

Nemona sighed again.

“Yeah . . . I just, ugh. I can’t be cooped up there right now, I think I’d feel like a caged Incineroar or something.”

“And that’s fine,” you reassure her, going into her kitchenette to fetch her a glass of water. When you returned to her side, you told her,

“Of course you’d want to come back to your dorm so you can actually relax. We can just chill now, so no worries!”

She took the glass from you and downed the water in one go. Then she answered,

“. . . okay. As long as you’re sure you’re okay with being stuck watching me.” You grinned, reassuring her,

“Of course I’m okay with it, you silly Zangoose. You know I’m always down for hanging out in Zona Nemona. So don’t give it another thought and just relax, all right? Doctor’s orders.”

She gave a dry laugh.

“All right, all right.”

Nemona decided she wanted to change her clothes since her outfit still felt a little sticky from the potion, so while she was in the bathroom you kicked off your shoes and opened Nemona’s cupboard in the kitchenette. You found a muffin and inhaled it in just a few bites and then wandered into the bedroom area. You had been in Nemona’s dorm so often that sometimes you suspected you’d seen more of it than your own room.

Suddenly realizing how weary you felt, you plopped down on Nemona’s bed and groaned, splaying out over the comforter. It had been a long, weird day. At least you were back now. The worst of it was probably over by now, right? You just had to keep an eye on Nemona and wait for the stuff to wear off. You sighed, closing your eyes, your thoughts drifting aimlessly for a bit as you rested.

You heard the click of the bathroom door opening and Nemona emerging, saying,

“So d’you wanna watch anything, Jules, or . . .”

You blinked your eyes open and answered lazily,

“Mmm?”

Nemona appeared at the foot of the bed, gazing down at you. She remained silent, as if she’d abandoned her sentence entirely. You blinked sleepy eyes at her and said,

“Hi. Sorry, what were you saying?"

You watched as the blood rushed to her face, her eyes wide, cheeks reddening incredibly fast. Oh, crap, what– what did you do? You were just sitting there.

“Um,” Nemona mumbled, struggling for words.

“Y-you . . . uh . . .”

She seemed to tear her eyes away with some effort, looking towards the wall. She swallowed, her throat bobbing. Quietly, she stammered,

“M-maybe . . . maybe it would be best if you didn’t . . .”

Her voice went even quieter, until it eked out of her, so very small:

“. . . lay on my bed like that . . .?”

You blinked, not getting it at first. You had to actually run it through your head again to understand.

“Oh. OH.”

You hadn’t given it a second thought, because you had laid on Nemona’s bed before, normally. But thinking about it now, sprawled out across her bed like that, there was definitely the potential for some, uh, less-than-innocent thoughts?

You jerked, sitting upright.

“I-I– sorry! I didn’t–I wasn’t really thinking!”

Nemona looked intensely embarrassed at having to confess the problem to you. Talking more at the wall than you, she said,

“It’s not your fault, it’s just, I-I, I was a little worried about us being here in my room alone together, a-and then I came out and you were just . . . hnnnff . . .”

You quickly exited the bed and shimmied away from her, feeling a blush of your own. You had to remind yourself this was just the potion talking. This was just the potion. Nemona wasn’t normally plagued with intense longing for you that she could only barely keep in check.

Right?

You laughed nervously, saying,

“Okay, no sitting on the bed for me, check! I’m just gonna . . . go sit at your desk. Maybe get some homework done. Haha . . .”

“O-okay,” she agreed, sitting on her bed, looking a little lost.

Things after that were . . . well . . . the best word for it was probably ‘tense.’ You got your biology textbook out and did some homework while Nemona hopped online and watched some pokemon tournament videos. You had hoped this was the perfect chance for you both to finally relax and recuperate from the strange drama of the day. But you could sense how restless Nemona was. You recognized the videos she was watching– they were some of her favorite matches. She liked to re-watch them over and over, and normally she was jazzed to see them. But not today. She kept fidgeting and sighing. You asked her if she needed anything, but she said she was fine. So you just kept highlighting bits in your textbook and trying to focus on your work.

The only thing that broke up the monotony was when the alarm went off on your phone and you had to check Nemona’s vitals. You didn’t make the same mistakes as last time, though. You just handed her the little pulse-checking device you’d borrowed from Miriam and the thermometer. It was awkward, but at least it didn’t take long. Her vitals all looked normal, so there was no reason to call the nurse or anything. You then went back to studying, and Nemona  returned to her bed with her tablet.

You felt like the situation was deteriorating, though. Your friend only grew more and more restless. You tried to suggest ideas on stuff she could watch or do; watch more episodes of that anime Penny had gotten her into, or maybe play some of that adorable farming sim you’d discovered last week. To Nemona’s credit, she tried your suggestions, and tried very hard to get into it. But it seemed her ability to focus was just gone. As you watched her from the corner of your eye, concerned, you felt as though you were getting as tense as Nemona was feeling, just from worrying about her.

Eventually, Nemona gave up, tossing her tablet aside. She hopped up from her bed with a disgusted grunt and began to pace. You looked up to her.

“You okay?” you asked her gently, knowing she wasn’t.

“I feel so antsy,” she said, running a hand through her hair, where her ponytail was slowly coming undone.

You sighed,

“I’m sorry. I wish I could help. Is there anything I can do?”

She grumbled,

“I dunno, I dunno, I–”

Suddenly she stopped and turned, looking at you with intense eyes, saying,

“I wanna pokemon battle!”

You hesitated a moment and said,

“W-well, we can’t indoors . . .”

Her expression fell and she cursed under her breath something in Spanish you couldn’t make out. With a bit of a desperate edge, she said,

“We could go to the schoolyard!”

You frowned. Slowly, you answered,

“I . . . don’t think it’s a good idea, honestly. You’re probably not gonna want to be out and about when you’re . . . like this. Don’t you think?”

Nemona made another pained noise and ran her hand through her hair again, her hair band dislodging even further in her messy ponytail.

“I know you’re right and I hate it,” she groaned, turning back to pacing. Your heart felt like it was being slowly squashed in a vise, watching her suffering like this.

“I’m so sorry, Nemona, I wish I could make it better. Do you want me to call the nurse? Maybe she could give you something to help . . .”

Nemona shook her head adamantly, looking anxious at the suggestion.

“No, no, I don’t. . . I don’t. . .”

“Okay, that’s fine. We don’t need to.”

Nemona had stopped pacing and was staring dully at the wall. You stood from your seat, approaching her slowly. You weren’t sure if you could make things better, but you were determined to try.

“Don’t worry, we’re gonna think of something to do, okay? I’ll brainstorm for the both of us. I’m sure I can think of something.”

She looked so wound up and stressed, and you just wanted to make it go away for her. You found yourself automatically reaching out for the hair band that was all crooked and uncomfortable-looking in her hair, and gently tugged it loose for her, her dark, long strands slipping free.

Softly, you told her,

“It’s gonna be okay, girasol. I’ll think of something. In the meantime, is there anything else I can do?”

Nemona turned, slowly. She looked at you with those pretty amber eyes of hers, the ones that could look so fierce and fiery mid-battle, but that could also look so soft and warm and honeyed when she was smiling at you; in the moment, you couldn’t tell which they were. It almost seemed as though it was a mixture of both.

“W-well . . . every time you call me by such sweet names it . . . makes it harder for me to . . .”

She trailed off. Her entire body looked tensed up, drawn as tight as a bow string. She glanced away from you, wetting her lips, before finishing softly,

“. . . hold back.”

The heat returned to your face again, and you suddenly became very keenly aware of your proximity.

“Nhhh,” you commented, with your usual amount of eloquence. Her eyes returned to yours and suddenly the warning bells were going off in your head like klaxons, because the longer she gazed at you, the faster you felt your own self-control buckle.

You had to stop this. You had to. You promised you’d look after her, she trusted you to not take advantage–

“W-wait,” you mumbled, forcing yourself to back away a few steps.

“I-I have an idea! I know what we can do to pass the time.”

Those stunning eyes of hers never left yours, although now she looked amused. You watched as she quirked a brow and commented, smooth as silk,

“Yeah, I had a couple ideas myself.”

It took you a moment to process that, and then your eyes widened and you yelped,

“N-nemona! C’mon!”

She had the audacity to smirk at you. It looked way too good on her, especially when coupled with the rare treat of seeing her with her hair down. You bit down on your cheek and told yourself to focus.

“W-we can watch Ghost & Glitch Hunters! The first few seasons are up on RotomTube, we can marathon them! It’ll easily take us through the night.”

Nemona’s brow furrowed in confusion. Hesitantly, she answered,

“I . . . I guess we could? But Jules, you know I kinda hate that show, right? We’ve talked about it before, don’t you remember?”

You nodded.

“Yeah! Of course I remember. That’s why I’m suggesting it. It’s the perfect distraction! You’ll be too scared from the show, so you won’t be able to think about . . . about other stuff.”

Your were worried she’d hate the idea; quite honestly, you wouldn’t blame her. But it was the only thing that had jumped into your head, so you had to latch onto it.

To your surprise, though, she seemed receptive to the idea once you explained it.

“Hm . . . that does make some sense, actually. It might actually work.”

You were incredibly relieved, because you had no clue what you were gonna do if she said no.

“G-great! I’ll grab my laptop and fire things up! And we can make it a whole big thing, we can make popcorn and stuff, if you want. Ooh, and turn all the lights off!”

Nemona looked immediately regretful.

“Ughhh. Do we have to turn the lights off?”

Already headed over to grab your laptop, you answered with a cheeky grin,

“Well if you’re scared enough with the lights on then we don’t!”

“Ughhh.”

<3<3<3<3

It was actually getting pretty late in the day, so after checking Nemona’s vitals again, you both have a light dinner before setting up the spooky marathon watch. (Dinner consisted of zapped TV dinners, because neither of you were particularly good at cooking, nor did you have the mental capacity for anything else today) Then you popped some popcorn and set the laptop up on the foot of Nemona’s bed for her. The student dorms weren’t exactly super well-furnished, so it was kind of the only place you could put it. You moved her desk chair a bit closer to her bed, close enough you could mostly see the video but not close enough to . . . well. Be within reach of her. It was probably best to maintain a safe distance for now.

Then you hit start on the playlist and began with the first episode. Ghost & Glitch Hunters was a very cheesy, melodramatic program that followed a team of self-proclaimed ‘experts’ on paranormal phenomenon, who travelled to places to try and document said phenomenon. If you asked any pokemon professor, of course, they’d be the first to tell you that Ghost-type pokemon are just as natural and explainable as any other pokemon type; the fact that their bodies were largely made of gas and that they could control their density at will, manipulate dreams, etc etc, was honestly no stranger than the myriad other qualities and abilities that other pokemon types had at their disposal. However, superstitions about Ghost Types had been popular for ages, and these spooky stories still persisted about them. Another thing that was very popular, especially in particular regions, were urban legends about so-called ‘glitch’ pokemon. Supposedly these ‘glitch’ pokemon came from bizarre, distorted dimensions and were associated with terrifying ‘glitch phenomena,’ which happened when the laws of nature somehow became warped or broken.

You were a little obsessed with glitch pokemon stories, ever since you were a little kiddo in Unova, eating up the stories that came mostly from Kanto and Johto, with the occasional reports from Hoenn thrown in, too. Now that you’re older, you know in all likelihood the stories are complete bogus, but it was still fun to imagine the possibilities anyway; and the creepy stories made you a bit nostalgic, to be honest. Nemona, on the other hand, did not share your affection for the tall tales– she found the stories unnerving.

It was actually pretty adorable. Nemona was an incredibly smart, brave young woman, possibly the bravest and smartest person you knew; you’d seen her face down angry, Tereastalized wild pokemon twenty, thirty, forty levels higher than her team; you’d battled side-by-side with her to save the region from the Paradox Pokemon; and you’d seen her face down a semester carrying a full load of classes, active membership in several school clubs, Student Council duties and Champion duties back-to-back and still come out of it smiling with top grades. You admired her more than you could possibly say. And yet, she freaked out over the silly ghost stories from your cheesy TV show. You kinda loved that about her.

. . . okay, you kinda loved everything about her. But that was beside the point.

The first few episodes weren’t too bad. They focused on Ghost types and investigating rumors about some ghosts that the Silph Scope failed to decipher in some small town in Kanto. Nemona spent some time nitpicking the rumors and complaining that they didn’t make much sense. The blurry pictures they captured and the dramatic music and crackpot theorizing was pretty tame, relatively speaking. But things amped up a little as you worked your way further into season one. The investigators travelled to Cinnabar Island, to pursue the popular rumors of a glitch named Missingno. You perked up at this episode, because it was one of your favorites. Nemona, apparently, did not feel the same.

“Oh, no, can we skip this one?” “What?? It just started, what do you mean?”

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t really like Missingno stuff,” Nemona grumped, making a face.

“Why?”

“Because! It’s. I dunno, it’s weird.”

On screen, the investigation team was outfitting a glorified dinghy boat with their equipment, in preparation for their trip. The boat was woefully inadequate for the choppy water, which the investigators blithely ignored.

“But you told me you like weird. You said I was weird.”

Nemona quickly corrected,

“I do! But you’re good weird. Missingno is creepy weird.”

“Maybe Missingno is just misunderstood. Maybe they just wanna be loved,” you teased. She groaned.

“You’re just exploiting my good nature to keep me watching.”

You shrugged, grinning.

“Maybe.”

The show cut to night, when the crew embarked on their journey. They were sailing along the island’s coast, aiming a bright spotlight into the crashing waves. Rumors held that Missingno hid deep in the ocean by day and surfaced at night just a few miles offshore, perhaps to feed or to cause some other kind of mischief. You watched as the crew became excited over strange readings on their sonar, and they raced to catch up to whatever was causing the odd readings.

“Their boat is way too tiny! They’re gonna capsize just from sailing out in that storm,” Nemona complained anxiously.

“Pssh, yeah, I know, it’s kinda ridiculous. I think that’s the only thing their budget could afford.”

The waves kept bouncing them around as they struggled to aim their spotlight and keep the cameras steady.

“Why don’t they just–”

Suddenly, there was a deep, guttural noise that echoed out across the ocean, and the crew froze on the spot, shocked. As the boat bobbed up and down in the water, the noise repeated, louder, shuddering and twisted, sounding a bit like a human voice crying out in pain.

Nemona’s eyes were wide and she shrank back a little in her bed.

“What the heck was that?!”

You grinned, munching on popcorn.

“It’s weird, yeah?”

“It sounded almost human,” she said, eyes glued to the screen. The camera cut to an image on sonar, showing the sea below. It was incredibly fuzzy, but there was a cluster of shapes slowly moving along, lurking among the deep. As the crew’s boat rushed along and they drew closer, it became easier to make out; there were distinct, sharp lines, and what looked to be a head with a long snout. There was something strange about it, though; where there should have been eyes, there was only empty space. The show displayed an artists’ rendition of Missingno beside the sonar image, using red pen to outline the shape in the water.

“What?! They think it’s just a- a skeleton?”

You excitedly answer,

“Yeah! It’s like, the tortured remains of a long-extinct species, according to some people.”

“But that doesn’t . . . maybe it’s just wearing the skull, like Cubone or something?”

You shook your head.

“Nah, there’s nothing inside the skull. It’s empty, it’s just a reanimated skeleton goin’ around.”

Nemona made a skeptical noise, but then the boat seemed to be struck with something large and heavy, rattling and shuddering from the impact. The crew scrambled to assess the damage.

“Oh my god, what was that? They’re gonna sink their dinky boat!”

The ship rumbled with another strike, and then another, something thumping against the hull. It became clear they didn’t simply hit a rock, and that whatever was hitting them was doing so intentionally.

“Aaaaaaa, Jules!” Nemona whined, reaching out and grabbing her nearby Goodra plushie to hide behind. It was far too adorable. You laughed,

“What? It’s fine, they’re just getting a little smacked around.”

She pleaded,

“Come sit with me at least, this is way too creepy alone!”

You hesitated a moment, ready to ask her if she was sure that was a good idea, but then you realized she was probably way too freaked out for it to matter. So, you obligingly got up and sat down beside her, the bed dipping a little as you slid into place. Nemona looked to you and seemed to be a little relieved at your presence.

“I don’t know how you stand watching this stuff.”

You chuckled,

“This is just season one, it gets way creepier from here on out.”

On the laptop, the crew were desperately trying to navigate away from whatever was attacking them. Despite the damage to the hull, they seemed to be making some progress in escaping. However, a minute later, from the depths of the sea, there was an anguished, distorted cry– a blood-curdling sort of shriek– and the boat was struck again violently, throwing several people off their feet. Nemona squeaked and instinctively grabbed you, apparently deciding you were better protection than her Goodra plushie. Urgently, she demanded,

“You’ve seen this before, tell me what happens!”

 You giggled and answered,

“Aw, but spoilers–”

“Jules!”

She was so unbearably cute, it was hard not to tease her. You continued,

“Okay, okay, it’s almost over, I promise–”

Blasts of water shot onto the deck of the ship, which seemed to be intentionally directed at the crew, as though some pokemon was using a water move against them; at the same time, something under water began to glow a bright white, and the winds picked up speed, a whirlwind starting to form over the boat. The crew began to panic, everyone shouting at once.

Nemona buried her face into the crook of your neck and complained in a high-pitched tone,

“It’s not over–”

You laughed, trying to reassure her as the video footage went blurry and chaotic, accompanied by awful screeching and thumping noises, before the footage suddenly cut out and the screen went to black.

“There, see! It’s done. It’s over now, you can look now!”

The show fell quiet, displaying somber white text on a black background, explaining the events that had transcribed after they lost the footage. Nemona was still attached to you and grumbled into your neck,

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s safe now! I promise.”

Warily, Nemona turned to look back to the laptop. The episode had a narrator doing a wrap-up of events, which seemed mild enough for Nemona to eventually release you from her panicked grip. She sighed, then mumbled,

“Sheeeesh. That was awful.”

You felt a bit of guilt as you looked to her, since she really did seem to sincerely hate watching this show. As the episode ended, you told her,

"Hey. I'm sorry, I don't wanna torture you or anything. I didn't realize you hated the show that much."

She sort of just shrugged, murmuring,

"Eh, I'll survive."

Not happy with that, you tried to think of what other shows you might try instead.

"Yeah, but, maybe we could--"

Nemona suddenly yelped in fear and grabbed you again, burying her face into your shirt and whimpering. You quickly looked to the laptop and stared at it, confused.

"Wh-what's wrong, Nemona-- Nemona, nothing's happening! It's just the end credits rolling!"

Did the end credits flash a creepy photo or something? You rubbed her back in comfort, trying to reassure her,

"It's okay, it's over with now, I promise!"

After several lingering moments, Nemona reluctantly pulled her head back a little to peek at you, but something seemed off. Instead of fear, her eyes had a strange sort of twinkle to them. Then an impish smile reached her lips. She confessed,

"Yeeeeah, I know, but I didn't really get the chance to enjoy doing this the first time round, so  . . ."

As she trailed off, you balked, squawking,

"Nemona!"

She giggled as you pushed away from her, desperate to put some space between you. You nearly fell off her bed in your haste, although corrected yourself before actually falling. Indignant, you said,

"This show was supposed to distract you!"

"It did! For a while. Most of that was real fear, just maybe not the end bit!"

While that was probably true, it was still very distressing how easily she fooled you. You huffed,

"I thought you said you were a terrible liar."

You weren't actually angry at her-- if anything, you were mad at yourself for being caught off-guard like that. Despite that, Nemona's gaze lowered and she murmured,

"Sorry."

Oh, god, no, not the sad eyes. You felt instantaneous guilt.

"Nemona, you have nothing to apologize for. You're wonky on a love potion, it's my job to keep a clear head. Not your fault, it's mine."

Her head drooped and she rubbed her face, mumbling,

"Yeah but maybe if I was better at fighting the stupid thoughts racing around in my head right now . . ."

You shook your head, then realized she couldn't see you.

"Nemona, no. It's literally a drug in your system, you can't expect yourself to just 'fight it off.' C'mon, don't worry about it."

You glanced to the laptop and continued,

"Look, why don't we keep watching something? It doesn't have to be the ghost and glitch show, we can watch anything you want."

She looked back up at you.

"Nah, we can keep going with this. I think you were right about it. The stupid ghosts and stuff do make it hard to think about anything else."

Uncertain, you asked,

"Are you sure? I don't want to make you miserable, that is definitely not my goal."

She nodded.

"I'm sure. It kinda sucks, yeah, but it's not too bad. It's way better then being so restless that I feel like crawling outta my skin, you know?"

You didn't really like that answer. You wanted her to feel comfortable, in the very least, but maybe that wasn't realistic at this point. And in the absence of a better plan, you didn't really know what else to do.

Sighing, you begrudgingly agreed.

"All right. But if it ever gets to be too much, you just give me the word and we'll stop immediately. Okay?"

She nodded.

"Okay. Sounds good."

You went over to your laptop and picked through the playlist, trying to choose an episode that wasn't too intense. After settling on an episode you both decided to pop some more popcorn, on the theory that food was a great distraction too.

For a while, you had real hope that your plan was working. You managed to get through several full episodes, and to Nemona's credit, she took them really well. She clearly still found them very creepy, but it seemed like she was starting to get used to them. In fact, after a while, it seemed a lot of her initial fear had given away to curiosity, and you talked for a bit about various Missingno theories. It was perhaps not inaccurate to even claim she was starting to enjoy herself a little.

But as the hours ticked by, Nemona seemed to turn restless again. It was possible that her decreasing fear was in fact the problem; the more she grew accustomed to the show, the less of a distraction it became to her. It grew increasingly difficult to convince her to continue the marathon. To be honest, you had been hoping that as it got later, she'd get tired, but she still seemed as wired as ever. Which was very unfortunate, because you were starting to feel exhausted.

"C'mon Jules, it's super late now, nobody is gonna be out in the courtyard anymore. Come battle with meeeee," Nemona whined, looking up at you with pleading eyes. You laughed gently and answered her,

"Nah girl, sorry, I don't think it's a good idea."

After what happened the last time you both ran into a trainer, you really didn't want to chance anyone running into you two along the way. It was just safer in here.

"Ughhhhhhh, it's so boring in here," she carried on, rolling dramatically on her bed. You smiled patiently and tried to placate her.

"The next episode is an extra spooky one, I think you'll really like it? It even freaks me out a little."

"I don't wanna watch anything, I wanna get out of here."

Sighing, you answer,

"I know it sucks, Nemona, but we gotta stay put."

She grumbled,

"I can't. I can't anymore."

Her eyes were defiant. You answered her,

"Nemona, c'mon, don’t make me tie you down or something, ‘cos I’ll do it if I have to.”

You were just joking, of course, but she responded as if your comment was serious.

“Pfft, like you could. Jules, I love you, but there’s no way you could tie me up, you’d have to pin me down first and that ain’t happening.”

You actually felt a little slighted at how confidant she sounded.

 “Hey, you don’t know that. I could take you . . ."

She chuckled,

“I’d like to see you try it.”

You rolled your eyes. When you looked back to her, she was gazing at you steadily. She said,

“I meant it literally, I actually want to see you try.”

You swallowed and then laughed nervously.

“Maybe some other day, I don’t-–”

She suddenly rose from her bed and approached you, grinning,

“Aw, c’mon, you chickening out now?”

Oh god, she really was serious. You hopped from your chair, your heart immediately hammering in your chest, realizing how risky the situation was.

 “Wait wait Nemona this isn’t, this isn’t a good activity right now--"

"You don't want a pokemon battle, so why not? You don't wanna see who's stronger?" she asked with a giggle, advancing towards you. You backed away from her, your thoughts screaming.

"Nemona, we can't--"

Your back suddenly met with the wall, causing the rest of your sentence to die in your throat. You wondered how you managed to lose control of the situation so fast. Nemona was already close enough to you that you could see the flecks of gold in her amber eyes and feel the tickle of her breath.

She was gazing at you like a hungry Lycanroc, her eyes roaming you up and down. Your muscles were tensed up so tightly you felt yourself begin to shake. Youhad to do something, you had to stop this, you knew you did . . .

The trouble was you didn't want to.

And as Nemona closed the space between you, instead of fighting it, you closed your eyes and waited.

The jingle of your Rotom phone was nothing more than mere background noise you paid no attention to.

Unfortunately, you still had your phone set to 'auto answer,' so the Rotom that inhabited your phone flew out of your pocket and floated beside you, switching the call on. Suddenly, the voice of Nurse Miriam was blaring in your ears.

"Hello? Juliana? Hello, are you there?"

Gasping in surprise, you both jerked away from each other. (Or, at least, you attempted to, but you were still backed against a wall, so in reality it was just Nemona who jerked away a little.)

Your heart was still pounding and you didn't really trust your voice at the moment, but you had no choice. You rasped out,

"Y-yeah? Hello, yeah, I'm here."

There was a sigh of relief from the other side of the line.

"Oh, thank goodness. I was concerned when you didn't respond to any of my texts requesting a status update. I'd thought that maybe . . . well, never mind that. Is everything all right with Nemona?"

Your eyes moved helplessly back to Nemona's. She returned the gaze. She was holding back for the moment, but her pupils were blown wide again and you could still see something terribly wild and hungry in those eyes.

You swallowed, throat dry.

"U-uhm, umm, w-well . . ."

To your exasperation, Nemona nodded and gave you a thumbs-up and a cheesy smile, as if trying to indicate that you should say all was well. The situation felt absurd.

"Yes, Juliana? Are there any problems?"

"U-uuum . . . I-I guess not . . ."

What were you doing? That clearly wasn't an accurate answer, but you weren't sure you wanted to give an accurate answer. That would have been terribly awkward.

Nurse Miriam pushed,

"Are you sure? You sound uncertain."

You cleared your throat and straightened up a little against the wall, smiling nervously.

"Yeeeep, everything's . . . peachy keen. I've been, uh, taking her vitals every 30 minutes like you said, and all's good. Sorry I missed your texts, we were just watching a show, I guess it was kinda loud."

There was a pause. Nemona looked very satisfied with your answer.

Maybe a little too satisfied. She was starting to inch back towards you again.

Miriam replied,

"I see. And what about any other symptoms or behaviors? Are you having any difficulty looking after her and keeping her out of trouble?"

Nemona's brows bounced upwards when Miriam said the word "trouble." The devious look that she gave you made you shiver.

"NOPE WE'RE GOOD," you squeaked, your voice unintentionally rising an octave higher. Miriam seemed to pick up on it.

"You're certain? I'd be happy to drop by if you need me to, Juliana."

You opened your mouth to reply and hesitated. She was giving you a way out of this, you really should seriously consider it. As reluctant as you were to involve Nurse Miriam, if things carried on like this for any longer you were pretty sure you were going to crack. Hell, if she hadn't called exactly when she did, you probably would have let Nemona just . . . uh. Do whatever it was she had planned on doing.

From the look she was giving you, was still planning on doing, in fact.

"Well, um, m-maybe . . ." you stammered. Nemona's expression shifted to one of alarm. Miriam continued,

"I could come over as soon as I finish locking up here at my office."

Nemona snatched the Rotom phone from the air.

"Ahahaha, Nurse Miriam, heyyyy! How are you? Ummm, you don't gotta do that, we'd hate to bother you and make you come all the way over to the dorms like that. I feel fine!"

You crossed your arms and raised a skeptical brow at Nemona.

"Nemona, it's good to hear you. As I was telling Juliana, it would be no trouble at all for me. I'm accustomed to making house calls when necessary on campus."

Nemona answered quickly,

"Of course, but I'm just saying it isn't necessary! Juliana told you my vitals and everything are good, right? Nothing to worry about!"

The line was quiet a moment before Miriam answered,

"Be that as it may, your friend does sound a little strained with the task of watching you. That was my primary concern, since your symptoms otherwise have not been too unusual."

Nemona's eyes flicked to you, and she seemed to finally sober to the fact that she was acting weird. She winced, considering things for a moment before saying,

"Okay . . . yeah, I admit I've been a little rowdy tonight, but I swear we don't need a chaperone. I'll, um, I'll behave from now on, I promise!"

You could hear Nurse Miriam sighing again on the other side of the line. Patiently, she said,

"I'd prefer to have the final say from Juliana, if you don't mind. She's the one who's responsible for your safety at the moment."

Nemona turned to you, then awkwardly handed you the phone. Then she folded her hands together as if in prayer, gazing at you beseechingly, but careful not to speak anything outloud.

You frowned, giving her an unamused look. She really thought her sad Rockruff eyes were gonna work on you now--

"Juliana, are you there?"

Nemona's amber eyes widened even more, and she mouthed an exaggerated 'pleeeeeease' at you, and goddamnit, she was so ridiculous, why was this working--

"Hello?"

You pinched the bridge of your nose and sighed, before saying,

"Yeah, I'm here, sorry ma'am. Um, yeah, I'm a bit tired but otherwise I'm doing all right. I don't think you need to come over, it's getting late anyway. I'll be sure to update you first thing in the morning."

The nurse seemed to finally accept this answer.

"Very well, Juliana. Thank you for the update. I'll speak with you later. You both have a good night."

"Yeah. Thanks. 'Night."

Once you hung up, Nemona sighed in relief,

"Thank you, Jules, I was so worried she was gonna take me back to her office--"

You pointed at her, cutting in,

"I know, but you gotta promise to behave, all right? I don't want to deal with Nurse Miriam anymore than you do, so don't give me a reason to."

Nemona looked at you with a serious expression and nodded,

"Right. Yes, of course. I will. I'll be good, I'll do what you say. I'll--" Her serious expression almost immediately gave way to a little smile that made you feel uneasy, and then she purred lewdly at you,

"I'll do anything you want me to . . ."

"Nemona!"

"What?"

This was it, this was how you were gonna die. You buried your face in your hands, hiding your blush. When you dared to look back up again Nemona seemed to be genuinely struggling with keeping herself in check. She muttered,

"Okay, I just heard it outloud, and yeah, um. S-sorry."

You were in the middle of figuring out your reply before Nemona suddenly announced,

"I'm just gonna. Take a shower. It's getting late anyway, like you said. Is that cool?"

You paused, then nodded.

"Yeah. T-that's . . . a good idea."

As soon as she'd gotten a change of pajamas and vanished into the bathroom, you released a shaky sigh, thunking down on the bed, nerves completely shot. This had to be the longest day you have ever lived in your life. You deserved a metal or something if you made it through.

You looked to the clock on the wall, realizing something terrifying. The potion was still affecting Nemona and it was nearly midnight. You were gonna have to stay over so you could continue looking after her. You glanced around the room, which had little more than a desk, a desk chair, and a bed for furniture.

Okay. Okay. Hold on. You didn't come this far to be defeated by some stupid 'there was only one bed' trope. You were smarter then that, you still had your sleeping bag from when you were backpacking across Paldea with Arven. You glanced to the bathroom, wondering if Nemona would be safe to leave on her own for a bit. It wouldn't take you long, it should be fine.

You rushed back to your dorm, grabbing your sleeping bag and pillow as well as a toothbrush and your phone charger. You got back to Nemona's room and found there was plenty of time still to set things up and have a midnight snack (another muffin) and then just try to rest a little. You were scrolling through social media on your phone when Nemona finally immerged from the bathroom. She'd been in there a pretty long time, but hey, as long as she was staying out of trouble, that's all that mattered.

"Hi," you said as she padded out in her fuzzy Pawmot slippers. Her PJs were orange too and matched the slippers, with little pokeballs as buttons on the top and pants. It was adorable, but you kept that to yourself.

"Hi," she answered in a relaxed tone, her damp hair fluttering about her. She looked over the sleeping bag you were sitting on, then asked,

"Slumber party?"

You chuckled.

"Yeah, I guess. I figured it might be smarter for me to sleep down here tonight."

She nodded, then asked,

"You okay with that? I'm sure you're exhausted by now, I want you to be able to sleep."

You waved it off,

"It's fine. I slept in this a ton while backpacking, I'm pretty used to it by now. It's kinda cozy in its own way, y'know?"

To your surprise, she didn't try to fight you on it, just accepted it at face value.

"Okay, sounds good."

She then flopped onto her bed and sighed. You asked,

"Sounds like the shower helped calm you down?"

"Mmmhmm," she answered, almost dreamily. You felt a tension melt in your chest. Thank Arceus. You were beginning to fear that she would never wind down.

It was around then you realized just how damn tired you were yourself. You already knew you were exhausted, of course, but it was really starting to hit you, now that you knew you could relax a little. Your limbs and head felt heavy, like lead.

"Oof. You know, I think I'll take a quick shower too."

"Okay."

When you stood, though, you cursed.

"Aw crap, I forgot my pajamas."

Nemona waved lazily in the direction of her dresser.

"It's fine, just borrow some of mine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah? You know you can borrow anything of mine, you can borrow my toothbrush if you want, Jules."

You laughed, answering,

"Okay, okay. I brought my toothbrush though, so I won't need to."

You shuffled over and grabbed something that you thought would fit, then headed into the bathroom, which was still foggy from condensation. You had hoped that the shower would help you relax too, but your thoughts very unhelpfully kept cycling through the events of the day, and all the things Nemona had said and done. You weren't nearly naive enough to think any of this stuff had to do with how Nemona really felt about you. But your mind seemed to keep ending back up on the picnic you had with her earlier today. The moment she looked at you and told you that you reminded her of Vivillon, and all the reasons why. She'd said it with such tenderness, but also with this spark of repressed excitement in her eyes, and it was right before she told you she'd started feeling funny-- so part of you hoped at least that moment had been real. Maybe? Possibly.

Certainly it was foolish to hope anything else had been really from her heart. Especially as the night wore on and she'd been increasingly, um, focused on you.

Such as when she decided she was going to try and pin you down.

Suddenly feeling far too warm, you dipped your head under the spray and cranked the temperature down to cold, grumbling.

When you immerged from the bathroom, you still felt far tenser then you'd have liked, but maybe it didn't matter; you were close to passing out regardless. When you returned to your sleeping bag, Nemona glanced up at you and grinned sleepily.

"Aw, you chose the purple ones. You look cute."

You muttered a "Thanks," looking down at the pajamas. They were a little too long on you, but they were fuzzy and warm. From the bed, Nemona continued to mumble,

"I like it . . . seeing you in my clothes. Makes me feel . . .  good. Mi pequeña mariposa . . ."

She really sounded out of it. You sat down and wriggled into your sleeping bag, trying very hard to ignore the thrill inside from the adorable new nickname she'd used.

Instead, you asked her,

"You, um, about ready to shut the lights out for the night?"

She gave you an airy,

"Yep!"

She reached over and switched the lamp off, the room dipping into darkness. You felt so grateful. You were pretty sure you fell asleep before your head even hit the pillow.

<3<3<3<3

Your sleep was a little broken throughout the night, despite your exhaustion, so it wasn't the most restful night. Still, it was far better than some nights you'd had.

When you woke, you felt very groggy. It took you time to even remember why you were on the floor in a sleeping bag, and then the events of yesterday came rushing back to you.

"Ugnnhhh," you mumbled, reaching for your phone to check the time. 10:00. You'd better get moving. Glancing around, you suddenly realized Nemona wasn't in her bed; she must have woken before you. You typed out a quick text message, letting her know you were awake. Her reply came a few minutes later, saying she was just finishing up in the cafeteria and she'd be right back.

You're finished changing by the time she returns, carrying a little bocadillo de heuvos and a cup of coffee.

"I brought you some breakfast!"

The smell of coffee made you want to sob in joy and you had to fight the urge to jokingly ask her to marry you right then and there. Probably too soon to be joking about that stuff. Instead you just thanked her repeatedly and sat at her desk to eat. You inhaled the sandwich in three bites.

"So how are you feeling?" you asked her, the question feeling heavy, since you were worried about the answer. Nemona turned and smiled at you, and it's the usual, dazzling smile you'd come to know her for.

"A hundred percent better. It feels like the weird blanket on my brain is finally gone and I can think again."

You sighed in relief.

"Thank Arceus."

She nodded and laughed, glancing away.

"Yeah . . . that whole thing was . . . a lot."

You sipped the coffee, which was only just barely not-scorching, and hummed.

"Yeah, I'll say. But you're better now. That's what matters."

"I guess."

She looked back to you, her gaze serious.

"But I wanted to thank you for looking after me. I know how crazy and exhausting it must have been dealing with all of that. And I also wanted to apologize. For, um, everything, really."

You shook your head.

"There's no need to apologize, Nemona."

"There is, though. I was so . . . ughh," she buried her face in her hands, and you felt a pang of empathy, knowing that looking back on yesterday fully sober had to be pretty rough.

You sipped your coffee and answered calmly,

"You had an entire bottle of some weird potion dumped on you with unknown ingredients, it's fine. I'm not holding anyone accountable for something like that. Heck, it was technically all my fault, since I did it."

"Yeah, I know all that, but, ugh. I still want to apologize, Juliana. For everything I said and . . . urg, did. I realize how hard it must have been for you. And I wasn't exactly making your job easy. Plus, I know how horrible it would have been if . . . well, if I'd ended up, y'know . . ." She fidgeted nervously with her tie and looked at the floor, continuing weakly, "Ended up kissing you or whatever, ha . . ."

You frowned, your stomach souring. You timidly echoed,

"Horrible?"

She looked to you nervously.

"Well, y-yeah, it would have made it super awkward and uncomfortable between us, right? I'm just glad it didn't happen, I would hate it if I had caused that! Unintentionally or not. I never wanna be the cause of you feeling uncomfortable."

You gazed down into your cup of coffee, deciding it was still too early to be having this kind of discussion. All of your self-doubts and worries were swimming around your brain and you couldn't tell if Nemona was repulsed at the mere thought of any sort of romance with you and was just wording it very kindly, or you were  just really overthinking it.

"I wouldn't have chosen the word horrible," you muttered into your coffee, before you could stop yourself. It had apparently been too quiet, since Nemona asked,

"What?"

You swallowed.

"I, uh. I just don't think I would have used the word 'horrible' to describe it if we had . . . kissed or something."

She gazed at you intently.

"What word would you have used?"

You blinked, plenty of words coming to mind, none of them particularly useful in the present moment.

Amazing. Fantastic. Incredible. Thrilling. Exhilarating, a dream come true--

"I-I dunno," you mumbled, taking another sip of coffee to avoid speaking further.

Nemona glanced away from you. Her voice was tense and strained as she answered quietly,

"It's okay, Jules. I think I get it."

You felt panic rising in your throat.

"I don't think you do, though!"

Those pretty amber eyes were on you again. Oh, god, were you gonna do this? Confess? Confess to her now? Right now, still only half-awake and in your gross wrinkled clothes from yesterday, on the heels of the weirdest day ever? This wasn't how you'd wanted to do it, you weren't even sure if you ever were going to do it!

You must have taken too long to decide, because Nemona was telling you gently,

"It's fine, Juliana. I get that it was awkward. We can just forget about the whole thing, the entire day. Pretend it never happened, never speak of it again, ok?"

You were such a coward, because that was tempting to you. It was so tempting to just stuff your feelings down and move on with the semester, never let Nemona know the truth. Never have to face the likelihood of rejection, never have to risk damaging your friendship, never have to explain yourself, never have to try.

You stammered,

"I-I . . ."

And as you hesitated, you felt the window rapidly closing on your opportunity. Your heart began to hammer in your chest, and despite all your fear-- terror, even-- something was suddenly so plain and clear to you.

You spoke your revelation aloud.

"I'm sorry, Nemona, but I can't. I can't just leave it at that. After yesterday, I think it would kill me if I didn't finally say something. I . . . god." You rubbed your face.

"I have to tell you the truth."

Your friend looked increasingly concerned. She asked,

"The truth?"

You pulled in a breath.

"Yeah . . . and, uh, before I say anything further, just so you know, this isn't something I realized recently or decided hastily, I-I mean, this, um, this has been going on for months now."

"What has?" Nemona pressed, voice rising a little in her alarm.

 You pulled in another big breath to brace yourself.

"That . . . oh, man . . ."

You wanted to do this looking her dead in the eye, but apparently that wasn't gonna happen, so you stared down into your stupid coffee instead.

"God this sucks, I'm so crap at this. Okay, um. So. I-I . . ."

It felt like trying to wade through mud, getting any of the words out.

"W-what I wanted to say was that I, I, for a while now I've been having . . ."

Your eyes screwed shut, and you forced out,

"--feelings. About you. That um . . ."

Your cheeks began to heat up a little, which annoyed you, you wanted to play this cool, damnit.

"Feelings that are, that are, not just best-friends feelings?"

Oh my god that was the stupidest way to put it in the history of confessions. The shame of your awful confession gave you the strength to force yourself to look back up at her.

"I really like you," you clarified, and realized it was getting easier, so you continued,

"A lot. And I realize yesterday you had a love potion dumped on you so don't worry, I don't expect you to feel the same, I realize that all that stuff yesterday wasn't real. I just had to tell you, I had to get it off my chest. Before we moved on and never spoke of this stuff again. I dunno why exactly, I just had to tell you. So. Yeah."

You watched her like a hawk for a reaction, feeling your heart balanced on a razor blade.

Nemona's expression seemed to be almost entirely blank, as if her mind had just blue-screened with this information. This was terribly frustrating since it told you nothing. You watched and waited, trying to be patient, but every second felt like eons.

Finally, her expression seemed to settle into one of . . . mild exasperation?

"Y'know that would have made things yesterday a heck of a lot easier if I'd known this a little sooner."

 Befuddled, you asked,

"What?"

She looked to you and stated in a plain tone,

"Yeah, I've been completely and utterly infatuated with you since pretty much our first day together."

All the breath exited your lungs at once and your eyes boggled. Shrilly, you gasped,

"W-what?!"

She seemed almost amused with your reaction.

"Is it really so hard to believe? I thought you already knew. Or suspected it anyway, I was really bad at hiding it! Especially yesterday, hah . . ."

"You were drugged! On a love potion!" you said, gesturing dramatically at her.

This time she did laugh a little, and it distressed you how calmly she seemed to be taking all of this. Bluntly, she responded,

"Yeah, but all that really did was make it harder for me to keep my mouth shut about the stuff that's been running through my head every day about you."

Then her eyes widened and she cringed, as if realizing how much of a confession her statement had been. Nervously, she added,

"Uh. Um . . . shoot. Sorry. If that freaks you out."

You felt your face getting very hot, because that was a lot to process. All of this was a lot to process.

"It, uh . . . wow."

Nemona fidgeted with her tie.

"Wow . . . wow-bad or wow-good orrrrr . . ."

You answered quickly,

"I mean, wow good, it's just I've been spending a seriously long time telling myself that it was all just wishful thinking, so it's gonna take me a hot minute to, uh. Wrap my head around it."

She was quiet a moment, pondering things. Then she began to speak in a thoughtful tone.

"I guess I could say the same. I . . . I was so sure it was just me. At first I thought I was just ecstatic with finally finding a real friend, and it would wear off or whatever, but it just kept going and. Well then I made some other good friends but it still felt really intense with you, so for a while I told myself it was just because you and I were best friends and rivals for life, that's just how it feels! But no matter how I kept trying to talk myself out of it, it never really worked and I eventually realized that it was more than that and . . . and I'm rambling. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."

You smiled a little, quickly assuring her,

"It's fine."

"Anyway, even after I realized all that I was still so sure you didn't feel like that, and I didn't want to put that on you. When I find something I like, I tend to go at it a thousand percent, heh, as you kinda already know. And . . ."

She glanced away.

"And I know most people find me a bit . . . much."

You immediately got to your feet, stepping closer to her and answering urgently,

"And I love that about you, I wouldn't have it any other way."

She flicked her gaze back to you briefly, eyes wide. Then she turned and started to pace a little, saying,

"Hold on a moment, I'm gonna need a moment. Ooh."

You were a little confused but you remained quiet, watching her pace and fuss with her tie, fidgeting with nervous energy, until finally she asked,

"You're really serious, aren't you?"

She sounded so . . . shocked.

"Yes. I would never-- I'd never joke about this!"

She waved her hands,

"I didn't think you were joking, but, I wasn't . . . I don't know, it's just hard for me to believe, I guess?"

Staring at her, you grappled with a feeling of profound frustration. You'd spent hours upon hours thinking about all the ways in which you admired and adored your dear friend, but suddenly faced with the task of putting them all into words at once, in this moment, felt . . . entirely impossible. It all just jammed together in an incredibly powerful knot of feelings.

You stammered,

"H-how? Why? You're so, you're so amazing, I don't even know how to . . . I still find it hard to believe that you really like me that much!"

You heard yourself outloud and suddenly found yourself snickering over how ridiculous this conversation sounded. Nemona smiled and chuckled, mostly out of tension it seemed, and asked,

"What is it?"

You shook your head,

"It's just silly, we're apparently madly in love and we don't even believe each other."

Nemona's smile increased and her eyes grew warm with mirth, as she seemed to appreciate your point. After a few beats, she said,

"Well, if you need further convincing, I have a pretty strong argument I've been wanting to make for a while now."

You nodded.

"Yeah, absolutely, go for it."

She hesitated.

"You sure?"

You said,

"Of course!"

For some reason, she remained unconvinced. She glanced away, gnawing a little at her bottom lip. You weren't sure what the problem was, but it seemed whatever she was considering had her very worried.

You stepped closer to her.

"Nemona," you said gently. When she looked at you, you could see such vulnerability in those golden-orange eyes. You felt like it was a look you'd seen before, in your more serious conversations with her. Usually when she was describing her past attempts at making friends, and how she'd apparently scared them all away with her intensity.

You reached out, tenderly brushing aside the dark green strand of hair that had fallen into her eyes. You told her softly,

"Hey, it's okay. You're not going to freak me out. All that stuff that happened yesterday and I'm still here, right?"

A smile curved at your lips at the end of your sentence and she laughed a little. You could see the confidence building in her eyes. Her voice was a little firmer when she repeated,

"You're sure?"

You nodded. She seemed to be studying your gaze, so you let her see all of the certainty that you felt.

Quietly, hardly more than a murmur, you told her;

"It's okay, Nemona. No more holding back."

And as she looked at you, those incredibly expressive, beautiful eyes seemed to sparkle, like the rising sun. A joyful grin spread on her face, one that you'd helped put there, and god, you felt giddy with the knowledge.

You loved this girl. She was radiant.

"Okay, good," she said,

"Because I've been wanting to do this for god knows how long, and I'm not waiting any longer."

She slid her hands over your waist and pulled you close, kissing you with a hunger that was all-encompassing, a roaring inferno that made you shiver as you surrendered yourself into the moment. Kissing her felt like eating flame, or drowning at sea, or being pulled into a hurricane.

Wild. Unfettered. Untarnished passion.

When you eventually pulled apart, she was grinning like an idiot, and you realized you were, too. Giggling, you said,

"Wow. That was, um. That was worth the wait."

She pressed her forehead to yours, sighing.

"Yeah. It really was."

[haruhey]

Camisado

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Word count: 32k

Fluff | Hurt/Comfort | Smut (not the aforementioned comfort)

Nightmares are never fun, but when Daryl catches you barrelling out of your house after one about the Claimers, he offers you something he didn’t think himself capable of - emotional support… and something else when he thinks you’re asleep. He goes on a run the next day, returning half-conscious and covered in blood, and the realization that your worst nightmare almost came true compels you to do something you didn’t think yourself possible of.

or

Camisado: an attack by night

In hindsight, this was probably something you should have expected.

Then again, the apocalypse and all its residual effects weren’t exactly expectable.

People prepped for doomsday - fully decked out bunkers in their basements, non-perishable food items lining the walls, bottles of water whose plastic was probably well past the expiration date - but nobody prepped for the toll the constant sight of walkers or the stench of death would take on your psyche.

You, well, you weren't ready for either.

The person you see in the mirror, you realize through bleary eyes, is you, caught between your body’s beg for sleep and your mind’s refusal to submit. The person you see is tired, deprived of a momentary mental peace, and searching for an escape from the four walls of your bedroom. The person you see, standing between your bathroom’s vanity and bathtub, needs the comfort of the night sky and the blinking stars you don’t know the names of. Turning on the sink, you run your shaking hands through the cold water, hoping to freeze them from their tremor.

You know where these reactions come from, even if they’ve dissolved into vague images and you can’t really remember. A pressure weighs down on your chest, a physical culmination of everything you’ve experienced, and you hate that its presence is a growing familiarity.

Another nightmare.

The sheen of perspiration from your sleep makes the pajama shirt you’re wearing stick stifling to your body, and you grasp haphazardly for your towel, wetting it and scrubbing underneath the fabric at what feels like layers of sweat. Shutting off the sink, you don’t bother another look at the mirror before hanging your towel back up, beelining towards your dresser in order to dig out a pair of socks to get out of this house.

Out.

Anywhere that isn’t here.

There’s an unease settled deep in your bones, it makes your fingers tremor on their own accord and your legs feel like styrofoam, but you push on, descending the stairs with an experienced silence. Lit only by moonlight, you put on your shoes and twist the doorknob, slipping into the night.

“Hey, what’re ya doin’ up?”

A whispered voice shocks you for a moment, and you immediately make a move for your knife which you’ve stupidly forgotten to grab, a panic thrumming through your veins before recognizing who it is, hearing Daryl’s unmistakable Southern accent when you peel away the darkness shielding his face.

On the porch just a few feet from you and smoking a cigarette - of course.

You immediately try to wipe your post-nightmare expression from your face - you couldn’t let him see you like this. Not when the sound of man could make tears prick at your eyes no matter how unfounded they were. Daryl’s not like them and you know it. But waking up from memories of them - of nightmares of them - make your whole body want to run at the slightest deeper voice.

“What? Are you my dad now? Giving me bedtimes?”

It’s not your intention to say something so rude - your mind isn’t running on enough sleep and you’re trying to rid the pressure in your chest like you're on a sinking ship armed with only a bucket. Your apology comes not long after, a stuttered rush as your legs become more sure underneath your own weight.

“Sorry- sorry Daryl I didn’t mean to- I just- “

He waves a dismissal, though he’s not used to how unsettled you seem, kicking up from his sit against one of the pillars he’s leaning on and stamping out the cigarette underneath the sole of his shoe. Something’s bothering you - he knew it the second you barrelled out of your front door, thin sheen of sweat exposed on a sliver of your bare shoulder catching the moonlight - and he loathes the protective instinct that sparks when it comes to you.

Daryl loathes the fact he wants to steal you away from whatever thoughts you’re having, that he wants to track down the catalyst of whatever’s making your cheeks hollow and your hands shake. He loathes that, in this moment, the light he’s only ever known as you has dimmed from your presence, and he loathes even more that he doesn’t know how to bring it back.

Useless.

He feels useless.

It used to scare him how much your happiness meant to him - how much his whole body and soul could warm from you - but he’s resigned himself to the fact that he, as stupid and emotionally-stunted as he is, has fallen victim to the most wholly consuming emotion he could have.

He’s never felt like this, like he’d just downed a heady mixture of love-filled liquor, but he feels it when he looks at you. As for what he thinks you think of him, sometimes Daryl’s not even sure you actually like him. Though, realistically, he knows you do, both of you much too addicted to the ebb and flow which has blossomed forth from a friendship he can’t pry himself away from. Anywhere he went, you went and anywhere you went, he followed. He’d protect you with his life and you’d had a few too many close calls trying to do the same for him.

The feeling swirling inside him, he’d realized long ago, is not infatuation like he had first thought - the influence of Merle making his initial reaction pin the blushing and fidgeting to simply desire - because infatuation doesn’t last months on end. He’s only ever known infatuation to be a firecracker, a quick loud explosion followed by an empty silence, but with you it’s like he’s lying in the sun, a constant buzz of warmth enveloping him.

An idiot, he supposes the name you’ve taken to call him fits quite well because he was an idiot to have ever believed that he could have outgrown that buzz. He can’t - doesn’t even really know if he wants to - and he’s been in the depths of a lovesickness that has taken root in him, only blossoming in affection time and time again.

“Where’re ya goin’, sunshine?”

You scoff at the nickname and Daryl’s heart murmurs when he hears a faint chuckle, the tension in your scrunched shoulders beginning to disappear. His voice is syrup, you notice, a warm blanket covering you on a cold night, though he sounds more like coarse salt. There’s always something in his voice that calms you - that makes you feel safe when you let yourself melt away in him - and you find it alarmingly easy how much you actually want to tell him and confide in him.

Hershel used to tell you to trust, and you did with him - do with Daryl to an almost consuming degree - but you don’t seem to have a good track record with the concept in general. Especially after all the experiences and losses which have stolen parts of you.

Maybe it’s time to let that history go.

“Just out. To the field. I need some fresh air. I feel like- like the walls of my room are gonna collapse in on me.”

It feels stupid, almost - makes you feel stupid - to vocalize your feelings. Something in you is telling you you’re overreacting, that you should just bolt back to your house and deal with the nightmare without bothering Daryl, but something else begs you to let him know you. More than he already does.

“Want some company?”

You’ve always tried to keep everything under control: learned everything you could about guns from Shane then eventually Rick, learned your fairly shoddy medical care from Hershel, Dr. S. and all the textbooks Alexandria had, forced your way onto hunts with Daryl when he became so much more likable without the influence of Merle and made him teach you how to fight. But you’re terrified of lacking - of a weakness.

In this world, weakness means death.

The strong claim the weak, sweetheart, a sneering voice from that night invades your thoughts, and the shake in your legs returns, your fists balling up at your sides. The sight of the dark forest sparks forward from your memory, and when you close them, the blood-covered car Daryl almost died beside and the man - Joe, his name seared into your brain - with the ripped carotid follows not long after.

You find yourself thinking that it’s your weakness which propels your nightmares, even if deep down you know your reactions are normal, and you hate the fact that you want to disappear into yourself - that you really do want to bolt back into your house and pretend Daryl didn’t run into you in the middle of whatever this is.

“No, I… I don’t want to bother you. Just go to sleep, man. Rick and everyone else probably want you on your A-game if you’re constantly out there.”

That’s an attempt, he’ll give you that, one that he might have fallen for if he wasn’t in that stupid protector mode you give him shit for, but it’s that which lets him catch the shake in your voice when you speak. He’s heard it before - when he first tried to talk to you after the prison fell and when you waited days after Grady Memorial to finally mourn the loss of everyone - and it’s not just something bothering you, he notices, that something is doing more than just bothering.

That nonchalance - the teasing that finds so much ease between the two of you - is a shield. He knows it is because he uses it too, but in his own way. More aggressive, he supposes. Regressing into the way everyone sees him.

Daryl growled and grumbled and swore because he hated that he’d sobbed every damn time into the crook of your shoulder. Still, he couldn’t deny the comfort that had blossomed forth when you’d accepted him - just let him ‘get it out of his system’ without deservedly calling him a douchebag afterwards - and replaced the shame he used to feel after crying. He’s not good with emotions, he knows that, but he wants to give what he feels with you to you.

“What makes ya think I ain’t on it now?”

So he tests the waters, a lilt of amusement in his voice that he hopes will put you at ease.

“Your impending lung cancer.”

It’s like a key fitting snug into the slot when a lopsided smile ghosts your face, a green light rushing confidence through him at that sign of comfort. Daryl’s been on his feet since he put out his cigarette, arms crossed over his chest like yours are over yours, and he takes a step forward, slow and tentative. He can read people, he knows he can, and that ability coupled with the familiarity of you helps him gage you underneath the dim moonlight.

“Look, ya want company or not? Y’ain’t never gon’ be a bother to me, anyways.”

There’s hesitation in your actions, your jaw tenses and he notices like a moth to a flame, but you can’t deny the tug your body experiences at his offer. Nibbling your lip, you weigh the pros and cons of accepting, staying rooted in place as he just stands and waits. Daryl works hard - you’d be an idiot if you thought otherwise - and he never seems to sleep enough, a dangerous combination considering his role in the community.

He had passed out once when you were all still at the prison, and Hershel recognized it as exhaustion the second Rick carried him into the little makeshift infirmary you and the old man set up. Your heart drops in your chest at the memory - you didn’t want his body in that shape again, let alone be the reason for it - but you can’t will your mouth to speak. Fuck, were you always this selfish?

Maybe it’s impatience that makes Daryl take another step towards you, then another, and he nears you until he’s barely casting a shadow over your body. You feel small as you look at him, broad chest and broad shoulders, but before you can speak - echo your statement about being an annoyance to him - he does, a quieter whisper that escapes not as rushed as before.

“I’m serious - let’s go.”

There’s an authority in his voice, a soft one that compels you to listen, and a smile breaks from your face that you don’t quite understand, brought forth by a warm feeling in your chest that you don’t understand either. It’s nice, you realize, to have someone as intimidating as Daryl want to take care of you - to make sure you’re okay - and you follow him wordlessly when he walks past you towards the field. He knows you better than anyone, and there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s the only person you would let anticipate your needs.

The field isn’t far, just a few houses down and just a few feet from the man-made lake. You’ve come out here before, a mental familiarity now tied to the solar panels that hide you from the people at watchpoint. Sometimes, if the weather was nice, you hung out with Judith and Carl as you made sure the kid could still read something other than those comic books you’d found for him. Daryl had caught the sight on many occasions. There was always something that lingered the whole day if he saw you with them, his brain allowing himself to indulge in the fantasy of a future with you, and selfishly, it feels too good for him to stop searching for you there.

The air feels fresh as you breathe it in - comforting - and if you tune out the groaning of the dead, the whole experience is almost idyllic, like a scene an artist captures in a painting. When you plop down on your back, uncaring of the grass tickling at the skin of your legs which poke out from skimpy night shorts, Daryl follows wordlessly, a grunt escaping his mouth because of his old man back that you always tease him for.

He’s always so silent, experienced footsteps marking his path, but the noise is oddly endearing. You like it. It breaks the image you have of how impenetrable he is, or maybe you like it because it reminds you that he’s here and he’s here with you. Maybe you like it because it reminds you that he’s here because he wants to be.

He’s never been here before, this little patch carved out in his brain as solely yours, and his heart is beating out of his chest at the realization you’re letting him be here, in this tiny space you find comfort in that he’s only ever admired from afar. It doesn’t help that you look breathtaking underneath the blinking stars, a soft moonlight casting shadows on your face that steals his ability to think, or that he can see the way the tension in your body erodes away with each passing second.

Though, the image of you, sweat covered and wide-eyed as you barrel out of your house, still claws at the back of his mind. What made you like that? He wants to know.

Closing your eyes, you instead try to stop thinking - try to drown the memories of your nightmares in deep breath after deep breath - and for a second, it works, the pressure in your chest lightening before the image of that fucking car begs you to snap from the darkness of your sight. Daryl’s not dead, you remind yourself, but your body breaks into goosebumps anyways, a shiver racketing through you. He’s not dead. You know that because he’s close enough to you that you can smell the weird amalgamation of motor oil, cigarette smoke and what you’re pretty sure is the forest that you’ve memorized as him.

With a sigh, he shucks off his vest, wearing one of those shirts you had helped him tear the sleeves off of underneath, black fabric accentuating the width of his shoulders when he kicks himself upright at your side. Almost tenderly, he drapes it over your body, the action of him doing it and the care that perpetuates his actions warming you more than the leather itself. When you look up at him, gaze flickered up by your surprise, he sees your wide eyes. He sees the panic in them before his cerulean connect with you, and he swears his heart breaks, spit collecting in his throat that he has to swallow down.

You should be a little embarrassed, you guess, when your body moves on its own accord and curls up underneath the makeshift blanket, but all you can think about is how he’s okay, how everyone from that night is. Grip tightening, you pull it up, stopping when it’s just at the bridge of your nose, and you take a deep breath, overwhelming yourself with him, and the nightmares become a haze, trapped behind a wall of buzz and blur that has become Daryl.

He watches you as you melt into the grass, the tension in your shoulders falling. A surge of satisfaction rackets through him, not dissimilar to the one he gets when you smile up at him, the curve of your lips so inviting it makes him want to crumble. Grunting, he lies back on the ground, forearm underneath his head as he watches the stars blink in the sky, trying his hardest not to get distracted by the soft sighs of comfort coming just next to him. There’s an all too familiar feeling pooling in his stomach when he sneaks a glance at the way you look underneath his vest, your legs tapering out of the hem and reminding him how much of your skin he’s never seen before.

It makes Daryl feel slimy, the way he’s thinking about you, and he closes his eyes, covering his forehead with the back of his right hand as he matches the pace of your breath to try and calm himself. He can hear you shuffle next to him and he peeks into his periphery, catching you swallow a lump in your throat and a pang of guilt punches hard into his abdomen as if reminding him of what exactly brought the two of you here in the first place.

“Y- you gon’ tell me what’s botherin’ ya? What’s givin’ ya nightmares?”

His stutter is barely perceptible, but you catch it, the vulnerability in it stark like white paint on a black canvas. It makes your heart quicken in your chest, your breath catching in your throat when you turn your head to the side and catch him staring back at you. Stoic, like you’ve always known him to be, but the way he raises an eyebrow in prompt for you is a magnetic pull, and you’re hopeless not to respond.

There are a lot of things about you that Daryl’s content not knowing - he’d never asked about your past though he’d memorized every detail of what you’ve told him before - but he pushes this one moment. He wants to be there for you, even if he’s a little more emotionally stunted than anyone else you could confide in, and he needs you to know that. He needs you to know that he can be that type of person for you.

Fuck, he would be anything you want him to be if it helped you feel okay again.

“How do you know they’re nightmares and not just a bad sleep schedule?”

He tears his gaze from you as he thinks of an answer, biting his lip in order to hold back a small smirk, and he fights the urge to reach out a hand and pull down your sleep shirt that’s ridden up from your shuffling.

“Ya think bad sleep schedules make you all sweaty an’ gross?”

You scrunch your nose and kick his foot in faux offense, a similarly insincere annoyance making him kick back, his boot thumping in a dull back and forth against yours.

“Are you gonna ‘dream theory’ my REM cycles?”

Shrugging his shoulders, Daryl hums in acknowledgment before he speaks, attempting to be nonchalant. He’s never done this before - comforting someone is something so foreign to him - but in this moment, there’s nothing he wants to do more. If he knows there’s some way he can help you, he’s damn sure going to try.

“Ain’t never gon’ let myself be a shrink, but if you wanna talk, you can talk to me. Don’t look like nobody else is around.”

A panic washes over him when the words leave his mouth - did that sound rude? Dismissive? Like he thought it was some chore? - and fuck, does he realize just how hopeless at this. Biting his lip, he sits up, the ground suddenly feeling too harsh on his back, and he pulls his knees up to his chest, folding his arms over as he holds his breath for rejection.

It never comes, though, his tone much too raw for you to think he’s anything other than sincere. You know he cares about you, you’re not blind, but if you knew even half of the true scale, you wouldn’t hesitate to bare your soul to him.

Daryl’s grown a lot since you first met him in Atlanta, the man who used to grumble and swear and only talk to his bigot brother having become a man who drapes their leather jacket over someone shivering from nightmares. Jesus, he even offers them emotional support.

If somebody had told you then that you would be that someone, you might have laughed to the point of tears.

“I’ll tell you, but you- you gotta promise not to judge me or anything.”

You’re joking - mostly joking - it’s obvious in the lilt of your voice, but shame washes through him all the same at that mostly part. He’s not the best person at this, he knows that - thanks the Dixon men for that - but he has to learn how to be good at this because you need someone who is. It’s selfish, he recognizes that fact, but despite how underqualified he is, he wants that person to be him.

“Scout’s honor.”

His tight-lipped smile and three finger salute make you laugh, the sight causing his chest to clench with longing as the moonlight catches shimmer in your eyes. You look beautiful like this, unguarded as you tell him how you ‘know he was never a boy scout’, and even if he had been, he would never have the heart to disagree.

“It’s, uh, do you remember the night you met up with us all after the prison? When- when those guys showed up?”

Guilt hits him like a truck when he thinks about how he had spent time with a group like that, and his stomach drops when he hears the fear in your voice. You feel so… small - sound so small - and your presence shrinks until you feel like a child again. Daryl’s not used to you being like this, the you he knows is usually so strong in all senses of the word, and he hates that he can’t control the flare of anger washing through him. Swallowing, he nods, clenching and unclenching his jaw as he tries to keep his composure.

“I can’t stop thinking about it. Just… just everything.”

Fuck, how the hell are you supposed to vocalize this when you’d spent so long trying to pretend it never happened? That this - this weakness - isn’t a part of you?

“Like how there was so much blood and you’d think I’d get used to it by now - like- like the violence, I guess - but I keep getting these… these images of- of-“

Slipping your hands from beneath his leather jacket, you thread your fingers through your hair, tugging slightly with shut eyes as you try to compose your thoughts. Take a deep breath, you tell yourself, and you know Daryl can hear the inhale shake through your throat, but he says nothing.

“What if Rick hadn’t killed him? What if- what if-“

Those feelings which are tied so closely with experiencing those nightmares - your throat closing up, chest tightening, hands shaking so damn bad you feel them tremor at your scalp - hit you all at once and you can’t even do anything about it. It’s humiliating, you think, white hot tears you try blinking down are gathering at the corners of your eyes, but despite wanting to reach out and hold you, he’s frozen in place.

He doesn’t know what to do, and watching you try so hard to hold yourself together makes Daryl want to shrivel up and die. He hates the way you sound - he’s never heard you so… defeated - but before he can say anything, you’re speaking again, the breaking of your voice feeling like torture to him.

“What if they had killed you, Daryl? What if they beat you to death on the side of that car?”

Oh, and there are the tears. You have broken faucets on your face apparently, and you try to wipe them away but they keep coming.

“What if- what if they actually- to Michonne? To me? To- to Carl? He’s just a kid and he was crying and the guy was- and we all- they were gonna-“

Another breath, just take another breath, and even though you do, it isn’t helping.

You’re not sure when, in your attempt to compose yourself, that you’ve sat up and pressed his balled up vest into your chest, but only when you feel a drop of water on your forearm do you realize you’ve stopped your useless attempt at wiping at your face. You must look pathetic, you’re probably going to wake up tomorrow with puffy red eyes, but you can’t bring yourself to care as you clutch the leather like a lifeline.

“I was so scared, Daryl. And I- I froze. I was so useless. I could have- I should have done more, What if they-“

Fuck, he can’t let you think like that.

He can’t just let you keep crying.

“Shut up.”

Did he just-

A ‘what?’ falls from your lips, his two words so blunt and ill-timed it almost makes you laugh, half a smile having already worked its way onto your lips. He clears his throat, shuffling the distance he needs to close before he’s just inches away from you.

Kneeling, he straightens his back, an intimidating figure illuminated by moonlight, but you find nothing except comfort in the shadow that covers him just below his eyebrows. He grabs your shoulders, arms extending slowly at first so you can turn him away if you want, and goosebumps alight when you feel his skin on yours. Daryl’s okay and he’s here, his touch tethering you back to reality.

“It ain’t worth thinkin’ about, ya hear me? An’ y’ain’t useless - you’re the furthest damn thing from it. You had a gun to your head that them bastards wouldn’t’a hesitated pullin’, an’ ya did what you could’a, y’hear me?"

With his left thumb, he brushes away a tear that escapes when you close your eyes, trying not to stare at the way your lips part and your head tilts to meet the palm of that hand. He wants to stay like this forever, just holding you, but instead he speaks again, his right one now lifting your chin in a silent plea for you to look up at him.

“You’re better’n all of ‘em, an’ ya gotta leave that shit in the past. It ain’t worth thinkin’ ‘bout what could’a happened ‘cause it ain’t gonna, alright? Everyone from that night’s sleepin’ jus’ in that house over there, an’ they’re fine. So are you. An’ so am I.”

Sniffling, you nod, blinking away the last of your tears before you meet his gaze, offering him a small smile after you take a deep breath. It feels like catharsis, letting yourself just have a good cry. Even if his comfort is heavy-handed, just him being here and cutting through your nightmare with his terribly logical words is enough to set your heart and lungs into a steady pace.

Daryl pulls his lips tight, one corner quirking upwards before he clears his throat and lies down on the empty grass, bracing his head with his palms once again before he tilts his head towards you, an eyebrow raised and a teasing smirk you’ve familiarized yourself with taking place of the quick quirk.

“Y’got ‘bout three neurons synapsin’ in that head of yours, and ya gotta conserve ‘em thinkin’ ‘bout things that matter right here right now, y’understand?”

You can’t help the noise you let out, it escaping as some amalgamation halfway between a snort and a scoff, and you hit him lightly in his ribs, his amused expression only widening. Though this isn’t where you expected this to go - truly, you'd stopped expecting things the second your body had given into the urge to follow him here - it’s inexplicably nice to be here with him.

Actually, no, it’s not inexplicable, you know why you feel all warm and fuzzy despite the fact that tracks of tears are drying on your face, and now more than ever, you want to relent and just confess.

There’s never been a point in your relationship with Daryl that you’ve ever doubted you’re one of his closest friends, but in this moment, as he smiles satisfied without an inch of judgement towards you, you feel a tug at your heart that makes you think you could be more.

It’s probably stupid - he’d probably do this for anyone because he’s just that good of a guy even if he doubts it sometimes - but you let yourself entertain the fact he’s here, so close that you can feel the heat of his skin radiate onto yours, and you bite your lip to keep from breaking into a dopey grin.

Sighing, you lie back down, draping the vest width wise over both your bodies before closing your eyes and letting fatigue wash over you. It’s not as warm as it once was, half of your body exposed to the night because, in an attempt to cover Daryl’s upper body, he’s taken a good portion of the leather. A cold breeze winds through the air racketing through you and causing you shiver, your body subconsciously curling into the only source of warmth as you attempt to dig your way underneath more of the makeshift blanket.

“I just- I care about you, y’know? If- if you’d’ve died, I would have…”

He takes a deep drag of your voice, his heartbeat stuttering when he feels your hair ghost the skin of his bicep, your knees digging lightly into his thighs, and he wants to wrap his arms around you, to pull you into him. You’re tired, he can tell by your steady, slowing breaths, but almost selfishly, his desire to have you so close to him - curled up to him like those nights on the road, like he makes you feel safe - begs him to stay rooted in place, to stay silent so you don’t suggest going back to your house.

Tentatively, as if you would disappear if he moved too quickly, he drags his vest off him and drapes it over you, relishing your small noises of protest as your hand pushes it back to him so the two of you can share it.

Even bone-tired, you’re still stubborn like he’s so familiar with. He rolls his eyes, covering himself only enough for your disagreements to fizzle out. Quite honestly, what Daryl has laying over him is barely enough to cover his pec, and his sneaking suspicion - and hope - that you’ve already surrendered yourself to a sleep is only confirmed when he notices how still you’ve gone.

Your face, he doesn’t need to see it to know what you look like. He’s seared it into his memory - the curve of your eyelids, the lack of tension made obvious by the lack of your furrowed brows or your clenched jaw - and a pang of longing returns to his chest.

He probably shouldn’t - no, Daryl knows he shouldn’t because it’ll just make that stupid pang fester - but he cranes his neck all the same, keeping his body as still as he can so he can just look at you, a wave of affection washing over him in a second. Would this be what you would look like if he’d wake up next to you? You always gave him shit for how grumpy he could be in the morning, but, God, if this was what he opens his eyes to, his leather jacket replaced by his gray blankets, he’d be sunshine and fucking rainbows all damn day.

It occurs to him much too late that he’s staring, and you must have felt his gaze on you because you realize that you’re physically closer to him than you’ve ever been before, your drowsiness having lowered your inhibitions. You should pull away, you don’t know what type of line you’ve just crossed by huddling up to him like he was some kind of fire. With how hot he feels in his skin, he very damn well could be, and your pause is like water on a grease fire, emboldening him

In a second, he turns to his side, one muscular arm draping over yours and to your upper back, pulling you lightly into his chest. He returns onto his back when you curl against him again, and he scoots downwards just enough so that your head now rests on his bicep. It’s softer than you thought it would be, the relaxed muscle of his left arm feeling like a much better pillow than the hard ground, and your hand squeezes it in thanks.

He’s so warm, his presence making you feel so protected that you think you could cry for a wholly different reason than the one you’d already cried for tonight. Your cheeks are probably coated in heat right now, but your mind is buzzing so peacefully that you can’t bring yourself to care, the heady scent of him dragging you into rest. It feels like hours have passed since you’d barreled out of your house, but at the same time, it feels like no time at all. God, when did you get so tired?

Daryl doesn’t try to hide his smile, you’re barely tethered to consciousness as you lull down to sleep curled up to him. Fuck, he could die now and he’d have little to no regrets because he can’t stop the happiness flowing through his veins . Plus, there’s nobody to tease his satisfaction or about the fact his pride is sky-rocketing which is a far cry from the quiet cheering he’d get from whoever took the night watch with him all those weeks on the road.

“Don’t worry ‘bout nothin’, alright? You’re gon’ be stuck wit’ me for a long while, sunshine.”

There’s some of your hair, he doesn’t notice at first, which falls down onto your face and tickles at the curve of your skin when you laugh lightly and nod at his words, not trusting yourself to speak anything that isn’t slurred. Scrunching your nose, you push the wayward strand away, but it returns when you take another inhale. Only on your second scrunch does Daryl notice, and he brushes it away for you, his calloused fingers barely touching your skin for fear that their roughness might wake you fully. The feelings fluttering in his stomach double in intensity when you squeeze his bicep again, and, yeah, he really would have no qualms if his heart stopped right now.

Deep breath after deep breath.

He’s not sure how long he lies there just listening to you.

Daryl’s eyes are starting to feel droopy now too, his body having been teetering between consciousnesses since the second he’d stepped out onto his porch to have a smoke. He hadn’t even really meant to be out so late, let alone catch you running out of your house - hell, until tonight, he didn’t even know you had nightmares - but he’s glad he did. It’s been weeks since the Claimers, maybe even months, and he can’t help but wonder how long you’ve been dealing with the memories of them.

Was that why you always woke up so late?

His heart drops at the thought, the realization dawning on him that he’s been teasing you about something that’s been hurting you so much - shit, he should have known there was something more to you than that sunshine he always saw. Rubbing his eyes, Daryl sighs, shame washing over him like a waterfall, and he sneaks a glance at you, nibbling at his lip to keep himself from apologizing. Even if he did apologize, would it make a difference? Or would you just laugh him off and take his sincerity as patronization?

“Fuck, why’s it so hard to tell ya I care about ya? ‘Cause I do - probably more’n you know.”

He doesn’t even notice he’s speaking until a wave of liberation washes over him. It's as if the world is telling him that these words, the depth of truth he tries so hard to keep from you, are right - like you’re meant to hear them even though the thought of you catching him scares him to his core.

You don’t stir, your body as still as he remembers it being when he would take first watch, and tentatively, he reaches a hand to tuck a strand of hair back behind your ear. Daryl probably shouldn’t, but his touch lingers, a ghosting caress over your cheekbone, and there’s nothing more he wants out of this moment than to kiss you.

“‘S damn sure more than I’m willin’ to admit.”

Heart sputtering, he takes another deep breath, pulling his touch away as if pieces of himself would come off onto you.

Your skin is soft, your whole being is soft, and it’s a reminder that you’re nothing like him. He’s never been soft - never let himself be - and even though his rough edges have begun to erode after meeting you, he knows he’s stupid to think you could see him differently than anyone else.

But still, he pulls you closer, the chill of the night seeping into his bones, and he slips off what meager amount of leather covers him onto you. It’s late, there’s probably only a few hours left until daybreak, and he has a long day tomorrow.

There aren’t many times he thinks of supply runs as nuisances - someone has to do it, so he would rather it be someone like him than someone who couldn’t get their hands dirty - and as much as he likes Carol and Maggie, it sure beats sitting around in some rich prick’s house and talking all diplomatic or acting all suburban. Sometimes, Daryl even liked going on runs; it made him feel useful, like he contributed to something that made a future, but now, he can’t help but feel a little miffed at the fact he can’t gorge himself with the sight of you underneath the moonlight.

His arm slides slowly out from under you, one hand cradling your head so it doesn’t land harshly on the ground, and when you don’t mutter or jolt awake from his actions, he rises into a stand. It feels like he’s doing surgery with how cautious and careful he’s being, but he knows how little noise is required for you to reach for your holster, the pressure to always stay alert weighing you down every second of the day.

Good, you’re still breathing steady.

Maybe Alexandria’s making you more comfortable - letting you become a deeper sleeper - and he’s torn between being thankful and hating it, the thought that it could compromise your abilities outside the walls making his stomach flip.

You don’t go out nearly as much as you used to - you’re not only good for one thing like he thinks he is, those skills you’ve learned from Hershel keeping you locked in the infirmary most days - but he knows you’re far from compromised, the memory of when they failed to redirect the hoard and he came back to you lurching forward. It’s alarmingly clear in Daryl’s mind; your clothes and skin slicked over with walker blood, your hands the only things clean as you worked with Denise through the night trying to keep people alive, and he’d be blind if he missed the way your abilities have sharpened, every movement of yours so sure.

Stretching the necessary muscles - mostly, in your words, his ‘old man back’ - he bends down and hooks an arm underneath your knees, the other at the the nape of your neck, supporting the lull of your head with his elbow before he adjusts, letting your face fall into his chest.

Fuck - fuck - don’t get distracted, Daryl tells himself, but it gets harder and harder to keep his steps sure and his eyes on the sparsely moonlit pavement. It’s like he can feel the rush of blood through his arteries with each pump of his heart, and he has to remind himself of where you live, a surprising fact since that knowledge should have been easily embedded into his muscle memory from the sheer amount of times he’s made the trek there.

Don’t get distracted? When he’s holding you so close all his senses are filled with you? Thinking he could be anything but distracted is just straight up stupidity.

Rounding the curb to your house, he holds his breath as he opens your front door, face screwing inwards when it squeaks. A quick glance to your face tells him you’re still asleep, and he shucks his boots off onto your mat before gliding up your stairs. He walks nearly silent in those clunky shoes, but there’s something in him that doesn’t want to admit the fact he needs to shuck them. He chalks it up to the fact that the last thing he needs after his run tomorrow is for you to give him shit for the mud he’d tracked in, but he knows that it’s because he doesn’t want to risk even the slightest chance he could wake you.

Thank God the door to your room is open because that piece of white wood is so damn squeaky it drives him crazy when he visits. He’d have to drop by sometime with oil and fix it for you because-

Ow, fuck, what the hell just dug into his thigh?

A grunt pushes through his lips as he blinks, begging his eyes to adjust to the full moon streaming a decent amount of light through your window. Squinting, he realizes the dresser he ran into shouldn’t be where it is - he remembers it being on that wall over there - and your bed isn’t in the corner it used to be, neither is your desk.

You remodeled?

Shit, he knew your old room like the back of his hand, but now he has to be even more careful of not stepping on anything or dropping you if he slips on one of those stupid radio parts you and Eugene have been trying to fix up.

Daryl sets you down gently, cringing at the squeak of your mattress before his puckered face melts into a satisfied smile. Nimble fingers make easy work of your shoes and socks, but begin shaking when the thought of taking off other things shocks through him. Though, to his credit, he’s quick to erase what’s running through his mind, pulling his vest up off your chest and replacing it with that ugly as sin cheetah-tiger-zebra-something animal print blanket which only looks halfway decent because he can’t see most of the pattern.

Throwing the leather over his shoulder, the realization that he’s doing something as domestic as tucking you in sinks into him, tightening his chest and wringing it out like a wet towel. He looks down at you, taking in the moonlight rounding off your nose and casting a shadow over your cheek, but it does nothing to help his poor heart. It can’t cover how breathtaking you are to him.

Fuck, he should feel like a creep, Daryl knows he should, but the sight he’s seeing after what just happened, it’s impossible not to stare. Your face is so at peace that he wants to memorize it and lock it into his brain. For a second, his imagination crawls free from his logic, lurching forward into an image so damn vibrant and lifelike it’s almost embedded in him like a memory.

In the fantasy, he’s come home after a run, or a hunting trip, or a recruitment - really anything that took him away from you - and you’re in his bed, underneath his pleasantly boring gray blanket. In the fantasy, he shucks off his jeans and shirt, crawling underneath and joining you so he can hold you against his chest, letting the scent of you and the tickle of your hair against his face lull him into sleep. Maybe you’d even wake up at the dip in the mattress, turn to face him and press a sleepy kiss on his lips before muttering how you love him before dozing off again.

He’d go through hell and high water to experience that just once.

God, he’s so damn whipped.

Daryl knows it’s a fantasy, though, and tries to break himself from it before he gets too lost. It’s a life he wants, deeply craves for when nights get too long and too lonely, but he can’t help but think how much of an idiot he is for even entertaining the possibility that he’d ever crossed your mind in the way you’ve trekked through his. He’s not worth much, never been worth much, and you deserve the sun and moon and the damn stars - everything he can’t give you.

He turns on his heels, making it only a few steps before the urgings of Carol and Rick and Michonne and Maggie and even Glenn replay through his mind. They seat themselves at the forefront of his mind, and he finds himself wanting to confess more than ever. It might be the sleep in his bones that lower his inhibitions like a liquor - or just a culmination of months and months of a longing that’s begun to will itself physical - but before he knows it, his feet move him to the end of your bed, and his fingers fumble at a loose thread on the vest he’s holding.

“I wanna tell ya somethin’ too, I think. Think I - fuck - I think I might love ya, sunshine.”

Cringing, Daryl’s quick to open his mouth in a whisper again. Wow, okay, that’s not really what he had planned out in his mind, but he’s damn certain you’re not awake to hear it, so he’d just consider this practice. Baby steps, and all that.

“Shit, I’m bad at this. I jus’- sorry I ain’t man enough to tell it to your face.”

There’s a blush that rises up from Daryl’s chest, and he can’t help but internally laugh at himself - the fact he can’t properly confess to you even when he knows you can’t hear him making him feel so damn stupid. Sighing, he takes one more glance to make sure you’re still sleeping before finally turning to leave, a wave of tension escaping him, prompted by him finally vocalising his feelings, even if it falls on deaf ears.

“I, uh, hope ya get ‘nough rest. I’ll swing by an’ bring ya somethin’ nice tomorrow, alright?”

One day, you’ll know how he feels, and hopefully, you’ll feel the same.

Only when you hear your front door close does your vision return to you - how the hell the usually infuriatingly-observant Daryl Dixon you’ve known hadn’t managed to catch onto your whole ‘pretending to be asleep’ thing escaping you.

You’d just wanted to rest your eyes, lull yourself to the edge of sleep before returning back to your house, but you’d dozed off, weeks of running on only a few hours of rest taking a toll on you. Waking up being carried against his firm chest was a welcome surprise, and the feeling - the warmth and the affection and the care - held you back from opening your mouth.

You’d regretted it at first, felt bad since it was almost purely your selfishness that had let him carry you back, but now, as you lay on your bed and stare up to the ceiling, Daryl’s words repeating over and over and over in your brain, it’s not regret that’s washing through you. It’s something that settles deep within the base of your stomach, heavy like a stone, but so, so, so, pleasant.

Fuck, fuck, what the fuck?

Should you be feeling guilt? Shame? Everything running in your brain - everything you’re feeling - it’s an emotional overload, but at the same time, you can’t name anything that’s making those butterflies flap incessantly against your ribcage or making your heart pulse in your ears.

I think I might love ya, sunshine.

Just thinking of those words sends you gripping at your pillow pushing the plush into your face so you can fucking scream silent until your lungs give out. It’s hard to think when someone like Daryl - someone so emotionally walled off it took months for him to even be comfortable taking off his shirt to let you stitch him up when Hershel was busy - would even tackle something as juvenile as a crush, let alone a crush on you.

You should pinch yourself, see if what you’ve just lived through actually happened, but when you do, you find you actually are awake. What he’s said, so vulnerable and raw his voice recedes into that raspy whisper you've heard only a few times before, isn’t another one of your dreams.

Holy shit.

Curling in on yourself, you realize you’re smiling, beaming wide with your fists shaking in triumph. Daryl fucking Dixon loves you; Daryl - mysterious, standoffish, unsociable, lone-wolf Daryl - actually loves you. It feels like you’re floating off your mattress and on cloud nine.

How many months has it been since your feelings for him have crossed just mere friendship? Of wishing you had him next to you when you slept, warding away your nightmares like your own dreamcatcher?

It doesn’t need to be just wishful thinking anymore.

You fall asleep - actually asleep - not soon after, brain and body fatigued after a declaration to yourself laces over your now steady heart. Tomorrow, the second you get off your shift and he’s back from his run, you’re going to fucking sprint to Daryl’s house and confess: bare your soul to him, tell him all the things you’ve wanted to tell him since you’d realized how you felt, and maybe, just maybe you’d even kiss him silly if he lets you.

The next day passes uneventfully, a constant dull droll of people who have cut themselves on kitchen knives - how the hell they’ve survived so long is lost on you - some house calls to a few sick children, and then some textbook reading you can’t remember because your thoughts have been a constant replay of Daryl, Daryl, Daryl.

You should be embarrassed - you’ve never been so… distracted before - but you can’t feel anything but the giddiness of his return, like a child trying to fall asleep on the night before a school trip. Two honks of the pickup truck you’d hotwired break through the monotony, and you jump up from your seat, checking the state of the sun just outside your window. It’s still high, maybe just a couple hours past noon, and run crews, especially ones with Rick or Daryl, they made it a point to stay as long as they could.

Your mind runs to the worst case scenario before you can stop it, stomach dropping as you rush to your feet and out of your office, the sound of Rick’s yells only confirming that swirl of anxiety. Still, you zone in, working on autopilot as you make your way to one of the beds, grabbing a spool of thin black string - not ideal for stitches, but beggars can’t be choosers - and setting it on one of the rolling tables as Denise races from her desk. The metal of the scalpels and suturing equipment clang over each other on the plastic tray in almost perfect time with the bounding of her footsteps, and you reach for a bottle of disinfectant standing captive behind the glass of a display cabinet, swiping the bag of cotton balls just to the side of it as well.

Denise gets to the door just as you make it to the alcohol and it swings open, nearly smacking her in her face as a half-conscious, barely walking Daryl is carried in, both his shoulders dripping blood down his fingertips as Glenn and Rick support him. They unceremoniously drop his right side onto the exam table, earning the room a groan as the thin green padding does nothing to provide him any comfort, and at the sight of him, your heart sputters into overdrive, time seeming to slow as you try to dissipate the shake of your hands.

Stay professional, stay professional, stay professional.

But your body doesn’t listen, compelling you to stay stuck in place, your grip threatening to give out and drop the bottle and bag in your hands as your knees begin to tremble. Denise is calling your name, so is Glenn, so is Rick, and you can vaguely hear them though they sound underwater, your ears muffling their voices and replacing them with a ringing. It only takes a second - a second that’s felt stretched to an hour - for you to snap back to reality, quick feet shedding its unease as you nearly trip over yourself rushing towards Daryl.

Denise scrambles to grab and place the bowl of soapy water next to the exam table as Rick rushes to unbutton Daryl’s shirt with steady fingers that you beg yours to imitate, and Glenn returns with white towels, wetting them and cleaning around the gashes, dying them crimson from the coated skin. Pouring the disinfectant onto a cotton ball, you’re surprised to see that your hands have stilled, the pure muscle memory of cleaning the equipment running through your body.

“It’s your turn to suture today, so I’ll clamp the whole time, that okay?”

Nodding, you swallow the plug of spit forming in your throat, taking a deep breath and grabbing the tweezers to pull the lodged glass from the flesh of his left arm and the upper corner of his back. He’s never come back so beaten that the blood dripping from him dyes the deep green seat of the table, and the incessant thought that he might bleed out - that he might bleed out if you mess up - clams up your palms.

Denise already has her forceps, deciding to tackle the shallowest one first as she positions each tip onto either side of the shard, pulling his skin apart so you can grab it. She waits for a second before turning around, furrowing her brows as she tilts her head towards the wound, her other hand finding a clean towel to wipe around the gash.

“Hey? Did you hear me? Are you okay?”

You’re off your game - you know it, Denise knows it, and when you spare a glance at Rick and Glenn, they know it too. Wiping your eyes with the fabric of your sleeve - crying? It’s not the time to cry - you nod again, hoping the quickening of your breath doesn’t give too much away as you stand next to Daryl’s limp body. Bracing yourself, one of your hands lies on his forearm, the other inching towards the glass at his upper arm, but you can see your dominant hand trembling, as your tweezers grab the lodged glass.

There’s an attempt on your part to steady your hand, allowing you to pull at the shard slowly, holding your breath until it comes out after what seems like an eternity. Your chest feels tight and tears begin to pool that you try to blink away, heart beating through your ears so hard you can hear it and you can feel the desire of your knees to give out. Fuck, this isn’t good. You’re supposed to suture - a delicate process, an important process - but you can’t do that when you can barely see.

Setting down your tweezers, you rub your tears away with the backs of your hands as you try to fight your body’s reactions. It’s infuriating, your body fighting every logical thought in your brain, refusing to cooperate with the fact you want to stay professional, and you take a shuddering breath, turning away from the sight of Daryl’s half-conscious body as your fingers ball pathetically into fists.

“Hey- hey, calm down. He’s gonna be fine - we’ve done this millions of times. It’ll be a walk in the park, alright?”

Denise’s voice is so patient it makes you want to throw up, guilt setting deep into your bones at the fact you’re not carrying your weight and doing the one job you were assigned. Pure pettiness at your own body makes you move to grab the tweezers again, but when you hear Daryl groan in pain, another wave of tears - this time tears of frustration - fog your vision, making you blink once, twice, then three times, squeezing your eyes momentarily shut for good measure.

She’s right; you’ve stitched him up before, countless times when the prison was still around and even more since Daryl had refused to get care from a wifebeater before Rick killed the asshole, so why the hell can’t you will yourself to do anything to help him?

Denise’s hand wraps around your wrist, the warmth of her grip tethering you back to reality, and you can tell something about her’s changed, the impatient and expecting furrow of her brows gone into concerned slopes, the familiarity of her previous psychiatric studies seeping into soft eyes.

“Here, y’know what, you clamp. We’re gonna make sure Daryl’s gonna be okay. You just need to trust me and trust yourself.”

She takes the tweezers from you then, replacing them with her larger forceps and guiding your hands to a still where the glass is, watching you from beneath her lashes as the larger portion of her brain occupies itself with the monotonous, almost mechanical repeated motion shard to shard. Soon enough, your breathing regulates again, less pressure pushing down on the center of your chest and the tears have dried at the corners of your eyes as you focus on the simple task.

When all the glass is gone, piled up and clinking against one another on one of the towels Glenn brought, Daryl’s blood’s long been cleaned off, tattooed skin reflecting the sunlight as you work slowly on one gash. Not too slowly, but your previously trustworthy hands have you feeling as if you were back in that small prison cell being taught by Hershel again, speed reduced back to when you were still too nervous to pierce through skin.

Denise has long since moved on to checking up on Rick and Glenn, and your ears pick up that they had all been trapped by some herd, effectively being cut off from each scouted exit. The next thing they knew, Daryl was yelling something about ‘making their own’ and he did, in fact, jump through a window, foot getting caught on the ledge of it making him fall into the shattered glass.

Stupid reckless idiot.

Stretching your back and neck, you tie off the last stitch, reaching over to the soapy water which has cooled a considerable amount, and run it along the now closed gashes, listening to the steady in and out of Daryl’s breathing. You leave him on the exam table for another few seconds as you rinse off your hands, fingers and parts of your palms covered in his dried blood, and you nod over to him when you make eye-contact with Rick and Glenn, them following you and helping you move him to one of the beds.

Daryl hates sleeping on his stomach - he’s told you before that it makes him feel unprepared since it takes more time to jump to his feet than sleeping on his back - but the stitches are fresh and need to be kept dry and breathable for at least a day, not sandwiched between the furnace that is his body and the thick cotton mattress. It’s not like he’s awake to grumble about ‘the doctor’s orders’ like he usually does, anyways.

The next few hours you spend more or less at his side, taking momentary breaks to check up on some other patients in the otherwise uneventful infirmary, and Carol drops off some food for the two of you the second news gets to her that Daryl’s come back injured. It’s the rabbit you’d caught the day prior that Olivia shoved into the freezer probably, and you thank her as you down the stew, unaware of how hungry you’ve become until now.

She takes immediate notice of the worry lining the wrinkles on your forehead, deepening by the passing time, and she reaches out a hand, squeezing your shoulder in an attempt to comfort you, the knowledge of both Daryl’s feelings and yours floating around in her head. It didn’t matter how adamantly she’d confirmed them to either of your unconvinced ears, and she would hazard a guess that his stubbornness had rubbed off on you.

It takes a while after she leaves to have Daryl finally stir awake, groaning against the plush pillow his face has dug into before turning over onto his back, sharp pain shredding through his whole body. You shoot up at the sound, knocking over a few of the pens on the desk you’ve decided will be yours for the time being - thank God they’re not the chalk pieces or else Denise might have killed you - and rush over to his bed just a few feet away, quick hands urging him back onto his stomach as you apologize for the ‘stitches not being the best’.

Daryl scoffs out an amused huff, an undeserved macho-man lilt in his voice about how ‘it don’t even hurt’ that you see through immediately, biting back a smirk when you press a little harder on the tender flesh of a gash lying just beneath your ring finger and hear him swear. He rolls his eyes, acquiescing onto his stomach with no shortage of half-hearted complaints before you realize that there's an abandoned bowl of rabbit stew you had intended to give him when he woke up.

Sliding your hands from his elbows up his shoulders, goosebumps rise across his skin at the contact, his eyes widening as you busy yourself with adjusting the pillow behind him, heart sputtering like the revving of his motorcycle’s engine. He should be used to this by now, he thinks, the softness and tenderness of your touch just after sustaining injuries, but still he stares and allows himself to follow your urgings, sitting against the headboard and ignoring the stinging of the new stitches.

Retracting your right hand, you grab the cold stew and offer it to him, a tight pull of your lips widening into a grin when he thanks you and extends his good arm, grunting at the sharp throb of pain erupting from his back as he lifts the wood to his mouth.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

Daryl hums as he sets the bowl back down onto the little table by the bed he’s in, clearing his throat and tilting his head back against the beige wall behind him before he speaks, twisting his left arm and shocking himself with just how many gashes line the skin coating his bicep. Jesus, you must have spent hours on him, each one almost identical with the precision of the thread he’s so used to seeing on himself.

“Gonna take more’n a window to kill me.”

A laugh breaks from you and his eyes snap to the sound, pushing down a smile of his own as he watches you crouched and searching. The modicum of fight he had against falling asleep again drifts away from him as he lies back down - on his stomach, he reminds himself. Surrendering himself to his own body’s urgings, he drifts off again, back bare of the blankets he’d kicked off in an attempt to get into a sit, and the appetite-sating stew still sloshing around in his stomach.

You open your mouth to say something, the first syllable of your sentence just on the tip of your tongue, but the squeak of the bed interrupts your intentions. You turn back around, standing just to see him face-down against the mattress, pillow forgotten at the top of his head still propped up against the headboard. Pursing your lips, a smile creeps out from your teeth and you place the pens back onto the desk, walking over to him to pull at the covers he’s shed.

“I hope so… I’m just- I’m just really glad you’re okay.”

He’s halfway into a slumber when he feels the cool sheets over his back, mumbling back something incoherent - knowing him, probably something to ease your worry - and hooking his good arm underneath the plush of the pillow you’d urged underneath his face. It's not your intention to stare and you fully intended to stop staring, but then half a second passes, then a few, then a minute and Denise barges into your periphery, breaking you from the admiration that you’d lost yourself in.

Though, you can’t find it in yourself to feel any guilt, only embarrassment at being caught, the heat of a blush rushing over your cheeks before you pull yourself away from him, sitting back at your desk as Denise’s eyes flicker back and forth between the two of you before she connects the dots in her head.

You’ve rarely seen Daryl doze off, let alone fully sleeping - he’s sometimes up before the damn sun, and sure as hell up before you - and he just looks so… cute with his cheek pressed up against the white pillowcase, mouth parted with quiet snores escaping him. So unlike the usual furrowed brow and grimace you see him with, and you just can’t help yourself.

He stays like that for a few more days - in and out of consciousness, waking up for the occasional meal and bathroom break, mostly at night when he has to use a flashlight you had left out for him to navigate his way through the halls to avoid waking anybody else up. On day two, he moves into your office, his vest shucked off and hanging off the bedpost of the twin size that you sleep in on particularly busy back to back shifts now taken up by him and no doubt going to smell like his motor oil and forest by the time he leaves.

You can’t seem to find fault in that notion, though - there’s something about the way he smells that just tugs at the right strings in your brain, that long-forgotten sense of safety alighting.

You eat by him for almost all his meals, waking him up if he’s still sleeping and you both indulge in conversation after what has felt like weeks without it, most of the time being cut off by another patient just a room down. On day three, you talk him into taking a shower - ‘the stitches do not have a higher chance of getting infected, so you can’t use it as an excuse anymore, Daryl’ - shoving clean underwear and a new shirt into his hands, and he tries not to become too flustered at the thought of what a mess his room must have been when you went in.

He takes a quick one under your advice, scrubbing his hair with his good arm and skirting around his stitches - some downright odd threat still bouncing around in his head about you unthreading his vest if he broke any of the thread you’ve put on him. The second he emerges, his movements slowed with the caution of being silent and more or less invisible to the other patients, he pads down the familiar path to your office, towel hung around his neck and shirt half buttoned because it’s damn hard to button things when one arm refuses to lift for more than half a minute.

The door stands ajar when Daryl pushes it open, and he watches you doze off in your chair, a lantern lit at the corner of your desk with both your arms folded on the surface, your face cradled between the nooks and reminding him of how he used to sleep in class in his teen years. He knocks on the door - a one, two, three pattern the two of you have come up with for use during hunting trips - and you shoot up to attention, alarm in your eyes that melt the second you catch him looking at you, your mouth widening into a smile that makes butterflies erupt in his stomach. The expression’s so contagious he has to pull his towel over his face and wipe in order not to crumble lovesick into the floor.

“I have to put some stuff on your stitches, do you- do you mind taking off your shirt? I forgot to tell you before.”

He catches the stutter, but doesn’t bring it up as he pulls the towel back around his neck and returns to the bed, grunting when his butt hits the mattress and watching you as you bend slightly to get at a cabinet just below the sink. Daryl forgets for just a moment that you’ve asked him to do something until you turn back around to face him, jar of what looked like ointment in your hands and a patient smile on your face.

Hopefully, you haven’t caught him staring as he averts his eyes quickly, staring at the very interesting furnished wood floor as he fumbles to undo his buttons one handed.

His shirt is half-buttoned, sure, but there’s so many pieces of that godforsaken plastic that it’s just as hard to unbutton as it is to button. Daryl sighs, frustrated at how clumsy his fingers have become, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and eyebrows furrowed in concentration. You wait for a second after you finally get to him, an offer of help at your lips before he looks up at you, a hint of apology in them before he goes to grab at the hem of his shirt. Fully intending to pull it off from the bottom, he feels your soft fingers wrap around his wrist and his movements stop.

Maybe it’s the knowledge of how he feels that makes you more brazen, the desire to be more direct with your affections that drives you to say ‘here, let me do it’, but when he nods, a blush dusting his cheeks that you revel in, you can’t help but feel satisfied with yourself. Daryl grabs the towel and places it over his lap, feeling the familiar effects of your lingering closeness start to thrum through his veins, and he can’t help but stare at the way you’re watching your fingers move, trying and failing to stop himself from imagining your movements under a different situation.

He swallows the spit making home in his throat, pulse speeding up when your knuckles brush up against the skin of his chest, and he bites the inside of his cheek when you linger just a second longer. You smile at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth, and if he allows his brain to wander, he’s not sure if it’s his imagination when he catches something else in the expression other than warmth.

Daryl’s body listens to you when you take a seat on the edge of the bed and tell him to turn over, thankful for the mattress pressing into his crotch so you can’t see what the fuck you’re doing to him, and he melts into the bedsheet when he feels your deft fingerpads along his skin, covered in something that smells really damn good.

It’s homemade, you tell him, and he learns it’s a mixture of lavender, lemon and honey. He also learns that your touch feels even better after a shower, the residual warmth of the water and the tenacity at which you rub at his skin lulling him down into another slumber though he’s slept more in the past few days than he probably has in weeks. His stitches have stopped hurting last night, the pain of them so commonplace that he’s become numb to it, and your calculated pushes into his skin do nothing but relax him, leaving him to try and suppress a lewd groan from leaving his throat.

“Thank you… for comforting me before your run, I mean. Honestly, I didn’t think you had a heart ‘til then, Tin Man.”

Your hands don’t still even as you speak, something so daunting about referring to that night, a guilt settled deep within you like you’re gauging how much he remembers - like you had let your feelings slip and not the other way around.

“Hm? Yeah, yeah, no problem. ‘Sides, I only did it ‘cause I thought it might compel ya to do these damn stitches nicer.”

Daryl looks over his shoulder as he responds, lips twitching upwards.

“If I’d’a known it wouldn’t, I would’ve jus’ shut up out there on that porch.”

A fake gasp of offense hits his ears, and his smirk widens into a grin, though it doesn’t last long when you press particularly hard against one of his closed gashes. You make a show of crinkling your eyes into happy crescent shapes, the warmth in your expression an antithesis to the pressure of your hands, but you move onto the next wound just a second later, leaving him no time to actually feel anything other than the playfulness which laced your touch.

“Wow, you really know how to make someone feel substantial in your life, Mr. Dixon.”

There’s something infuriatingly charming about that ‘pfft’ he lets out, the familiarity of nightwatches and hunting trips tugging at your heart, and his shoulders rise with the effort of making it before he reaches out, grabbing the pillow.

“I’d sell ya for a sip of water, Doc.”

His response is mumbled as he swipes his hair back with his good arm, wet strands falling along his neck instead of on the cotton case, and he pushes his face into the plush, shivers running down to his tailbone not from the cold, but from he feeling of your breath along his skin, blowing onto the ointment in an attempt to dry it.

“I thought you were supposed to be a Southern gentleman.”

Jabbing the skin of his back, you take a second to admire your handiwork - no infections, no tears, no bleeding - and indulge in the ripple of his back muscles and the flex of his arms as he shifts the bottom half of his body up fully onto the bed, reacting to the fact you’ve pushed yourself back into a stand.

“Nah, them’s cowboys. They ain’t the same as rednecks.”

He cricks his neck when he responds, turning his face towards you, a pleasant peace on his features - no harsh wrinklings of worry or pain on his forehead or lacing his eyebrows. Yawning, he rubs his face into the pillow, and you could melt into the floorboards at how cute he looks within the four walls of your infirmary office. If you could wake up to this sight, or slink into bed with this, there wouldn’t be enough words in the English language to describe how much your nights and sleep would probably improve.

“A common misconception, I assume?”

Bending back down to place the ointment into the drawer again, the dull thud of the jar’s thick glass resounds through the middle of your sentence, and when you turn back around to look at Daryl, you can already see through the dim light of your lantern that he’s already surrendered himself to the sleep tugging at him.

Still, he hums low in agreement, saying something incoherent into the pillow, the desire to keep listening to your voice coupled with his sheer force of will keeping him tethered to consciousness. He gives up though, all the fight in him leaving his body the second you pull the sheets over him, as if he was waiting for you to tell him it’s okay to fall asleep to finally succumb. There’s an odd sort of guilt that has settled in him - that drives that disagreement between his mind and body - and he’s only fought it since you confessed your nightmares to him.

It’s a sense of duty, he guesses. A desire to protect you even though he knows you’re fully capable. Daryl taught you how to fight - of course he knows you can protect yourself - but there’s still that ache in his chest everytime he leaves, that same fear he felt the night of those claimers and the night he came back from redirecting the hoard, growing and growing with each passing moment. But you’ve survived everything life’s thrown your way, and he hopes that you’ll continue to, by his side or not.

“Shut up and rest then, redneck.”

You turn off the lantern after one more glance at him, his back rising with a steady in and out you’ve grown more accustomed to hearing over the time he’s spent sleeping in your office, and you decide to go home. The sun isn’t out anymore, each passing day getting shorter and shorter, and if you had to hazard a guess, there’s only an hour or so before midnight, Polaris and the Big Dipper inching into a vertical line.

God, you should get home - sleep in a bed for the first time in nearly a week instead of hunched over on a desk in fear that Daryl might wake up in the middle of the night and need something. Maybe those cricks in your neck will thank you for it. Grabbing your sweater from the back of your chair, you shove it on, treading to the door on silent feet though you’ve learned Daryl has begun to sleep like a log, and break into the night, a weariness in your bones that makes you crash onto your bed without even changing your clothes.

The next morning you wake up almost as tired as you were before, and you decide to take a cold shower to wake yourself up despite the fact it might destroy your mood the second you step into the rush of water. You power through, though, and step out half an hour later, the thrum against your skin knocking out the tight muscles that have built up in your body, and descend down the stairs after getting dressed and brushing your teeth, grabbing your holster in preparation to check on the snares Daryl had set up.

He always said it was best to get at them early - gives the traps more time in the rest of the day to catch more game - though, you like to think it keeps the animals from suffering longer than they should. Alexandria needed the meat, and no matter how many rabbits or deer or squirrels you’d caught and skinned under Daryl’s experienced watch, a part of you still felt a little guilty, the detachment of just seeing a slab of meat in a grocery store no longer around for you.

A visit to the armory for your hunting rifle and pistol later, you make your way to the gates, waving up at the people on watch before you pull the gates open and escape out into the forest. Daryl gave you a lot of shit for your poor sense of direction - then again, he’s acting as if you would pick up on his lifetime’s familiarity with the wilderness in just a few months - but it was good enough to traverse the haze of green in Alexandria’s surroundings, each snare you’ve helped him set up catalogued in your brain.

Gaining on the first trap, you kill a few stumbling walkers before actually getting to it, raising your eyebrows when you see the rope empty. That’s… odd, but then again, the path it’s set on isn’t the most widely traversed by the rabbits hopping through. Pursing your lips, you sigh and make your way to the second, finding it empty as well.

Okay, well, today’s probably just going to be one of your slower days. That’s fine - it’s happened before.

The third one is empty too. So is the fourth.

Then on the fifth - the one you and him have set up specifically because it yields rabbits almost twice daily - it’s fucking empty.

It’s starting to get on your nerves, you suppose, swearing under your breath and running your hand through your hair, forgetting that it’s wet before the feeling of water on your fingers runs a white-hot annoyance through you.

Has Rick come out to check on them? No, his knots aren’t nearly as polished as the ones on the traps, so it can’t be him. Or Michonne? Maybe Carol? No - shit, you’re not sure if either of them even know how to set up those traps to begin with.

Fuck, maybe the rabbits have just caught on - go that way and you’re dead. Survival of the fittest, or something like that.

There’s no choice but to go back, the hour and a half you’ve allotted in the morning to be out here is nearly up, and you should get some actual meat on the string across your shoulder before returning. During the trek, eight squirrels cross your path, and with well-aimed shots from your rifle, they all find themselves tied into the twine, thudding dull against your side with each step.

It’s kind of humiliating to return to the community with such little meat, but it’s better than nothing - you would just have to leave the infirmary early and spend some more time out there to compensate. Olivia doesn’t seem to mind, though, as she just tells you to set it on the table to be skinned later, and you give back your firearms, narrowly missing that usually awkward conversation she insists on having with you. She’s sweet, it’s an undeniable fact, but God do you wish small talk died when the world began to as well.

Swinging the infirmary doors open, you greet Denise at her chalkboard, her fingers covered in the white dust as she rubs away some mistake she’s just made, and she nods back, turning her attention back to her scrawl.

You make it to your office just a few rooms down the hall a once, twice, three times knock to tell Daryl you’re coming in before you actually push, your eyes snapping to the bed only to find it empty. You don’t think much about it - bathroom break, maybe? Or he’s waded down to the kitchen in search of satiating his appetite - and you sit down, dissolving back into the routine of flipping open a textbook.

It’s like you’re in school again, the monotony of shovelling information into yourself that you’re not even sure you’re ever going to use. But still, it’s your job to know all this - all you can do is hope nobody will need a needle thoracostomy anytime soon.

Half an hour passes and Daryl still doesn’t return - you don’t hear your name called in that deep grumble, or that stupid ‘sunshine’ he’d begun calling you - and you miss it. Not just his voice, but his whole presence, your office suddenly empty without him whittling away at the half-finished arrows you’d brought from his house to keep him occupied.

It just feels… weird without him.

Getting up, you make your way out into the hall, deciding to use the excuse of ‘checking on others’ to justify popping in and out of different rooms. You’ve checked the kitchen and all the bathrooms, yet you still don’t find Daryl. Though, you do catch the attention of Denise when you enter the front half of the house - her orbit.

She calls your name, a question of ‘what’re you looking for?’ following not soon after, and when you tell her simply that you’re looking for Daryl, she tells you she’d let him go a few hours ago, just when the sky was beginning to break into yellows and oranges.

Shit, yeah, that’s right.

Daryl was only here because he got hurt. Now that he’s not - has motor function of all his limbs and muscles, you’re pretty sure - he can leave.

He must have been the one who reset all the traps, then.

Now that you think about it, that should’ve been so obvious.

Right.

Nodding, you return to your office - return to the textbook pages, to tedium without him or his snarky remarks that make you laugh - and you start counting down the hours until you can finally leave. With the silence, it’s not a surprise that you find yourself thinking about Daryl more, the determination to confess to him that you’d had before bubbling up again.

You should have confessed days ago, but him nearly dying - not really, but it felt as if he had come back from knocking on death’s door - jolted your plans into disarray, whirlwinding your thoughts of him into only the relief that he was okay.

Daryl’s always so sure in all his actions when it comes to survival - more capable than any man or woman you had come across after the apocalypse started - but he’s not immune to danger. One mistake, that’s all it takes for a routine run to turn into utter chaos, and perhaps it’s a misplaced expectation you'd held him to that made you think of him as almost invincible.

Seeing him carried in by Rick and Glenn, bloody and half-conscious - not greeting you with that small smirk of survival you were beginning to get used to - it’s a stark reminder of your stupidity, of a long faded naïveté, the belief that he’ll be around forever shattered like the glass of a window.

Daryl won’t be.

He’ll die one day - before you or after you.

But he’s not dead; his heart's still beating in his chest, his legs and arms are still strong enough to cock his crossbow - to trek through the forest in order to reset hunting traps - and he’s just a few houses down. He’s just a few houses down and he’s already confessed to you though it was under the belief that you were asleep.

He’ll die one day, sure, but it’s what you do before then that matters, isn’t it?

It takes almost your whole shift for you to break, that determination that has settled deep in your blood - bubbling, bubbling and bubbling over hours - finally overflowing. Pushing yourself off your chair and into a stand, you close your book with a heavier hand than you had intended, a thrill thrashing through your body.

Why should you wait any longer?

You don’t have a plan, nothing other than to barrel into Daryl’s house and tell him you love him, but after saying your goodbye to Denise and rushing out of the infirmary, you decide it’s only right to do something more than just that - you realize you want to do something more than just that.

Beelining for the pantry, you greet Olivia again and grab some stuff for a meal, hoping you can defrost the part of you that used to cook for yourself back in university. You grab an armful of ingredients - a can of corn, a jar of applesauce, a box of noodles, a squirrel which you’re pretty sure was one you caught - and race back to your house, dumping everything onto the tabletop before going back out in order to turn on your generator.

Wine and dine him - that’s the plan.

Well, more of just the dine part, really. The last thing you would want is for either of you to be buzzed when you bare your heart to him.

Skinning and gutting the animal has become muscle memory after spending so long learning from Daryl, and you find that all the time you’ve spent hanging around Carol during and after the prison has lent you some pretty decent cooking second-hand knowledge. The speed at which you prepare the meal almost causes you to cut your finger, but your slice narrowly misses flesh as it hits the vegetables you’d picked while you waited for the water to boil. Though, it also could have been caused by the anxiety which has now replaced your excitement.

God, you hope the food turns out okay.

When you’re done - it tastes better than you’d expected, honestly - everything in the pot gets thrown into a glass bowl, nearly overflowing due to the overestimated amount of water you thought you’d needed. It’s alright, though, learning experience and all that.

Quick feet take you back to your generator, and when you turn it off, even quicker feet take you back into the kitchen. Each step towards his house makes your heart thrum rapid in your chest at the path you’ve decided to take - the path that leads you into hopefully becoming something more with Daryl - but the anxiety instead begins to drown into a dull ache behind the anticipation of what’s to come.

I think I might love ya, sunshine.

The replay of his voice inside your head emboldens you, a smile worming way onto your face and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from splitting into a grin. Knocking - one, two, then a one-two-three in quick succession - you listen to a series of metal on metal clangings before the door pulls open.

“Gettin’ house calls now, huh?”

Daryl raises an eyebrow, the mass of brown hair that usually falls into his face swiped back with a quick run of his fingers before it returns as he leans against the doorframe, the muscles of his biceps flexing underneath his sleeveless shirt to hold himself up. The corner of his lips twitch upwards when he sees the food in your hands, and he pulls the door open, the arm that was previously support now extended in invitation.

“You wish. I’m just here ‘cause I made too much food. Figured it’s the least I can do for a couple nights ago.”

Shucking off your shoes, you make your way between his rooms into the kitchen as he follows you with silent footsteps, setting the dish onto the tiny island as you hear an audible huff of amusement from behind you. It always surprised you how organized the rest of his house was despite the whole floor of his basement being a mess of motorcycle parts and wood scraps from carving bolts, but as you round the corner, you notice the tabletop littered with cans of food and cooking pans.

“Think ya did enough puttin’ these in.”

He shows you the stitches lining his left arm, a few of the ones in his back peeking through because of how loose the fabric covering it is, and advances towards you, one hand brushing up against your back as he manuevors his body behind yours in order to reach one of the cabinets lining the wall. The sudden touch has your skin tingling and you push yourself into the cold marble digging into your pelvis by instinct until he clears the space and only emptiness takes it up, the air cooling without his heat.

“‘Sides, ya took care of me since I came back, so I thought I would repay ya.”

With a wave, Daryl gestures to the cluttering of ingredients just a few inches from you, a bashful smile on his lips as his thumb runs down the side of one of the bowls he’s just grabbed, fidgeting. Both you and him know he’s not the best cook - hasn’t been even before the world fell, according to him - but just the fact he’d even try for you makes your chest tighten up.

“Looks like ya beat me to it.”

The two ceramic dishes clink audibly against the marble when he places them on it, and he pulls open the drawer with the cutlery, thanking whoever owned this house before him for keeping enough for a small family.

“Probably tastes better’n mine ever could, anyways.”

You scoff when you hear Daryl’s words, but take the compliment with a small smile of your own, and you reach towards his outstretched hands, grabbing the fork and spoon in his grasp. He holds his stare when you imitate his movements, biting the inside of his cheek to try and not dwell on the fact his fingers brush up against yours.

Fuck, he thought he’d gotten used to your touch after the amount of times you’d fixed him back into working order, but God, you always feel softer and… nicer than he expects. Every damn time.

There’s a pause when your head turns left - a momentary lull, stretched longer from time seeming to slow down - and your gaze flickers up from the glass bowl to meet him. Neither of you make any moves to disrupt it until you notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and his jaw tightens.

Daryl doesn’t miss the way you linger - the way you hesitate detaching yourself from his touch - and he’s so lost in entertaining why that he almost keeps his arm up for too long after his hands are finally empty, narrowly missing the embarrassment that would undoubtedly follow. Though you're no longer looking at him, he finds it too damn hard to tear his sight from you, standing there, dumbfounded, until he hears your voice, a honey that’s begun to swim in his mind telling him to go sit.

The way his body chooses to listen to your voice is almost automatic, and it wills him to move, forcing him to look at the floor so that his hair will cover his blushing face. When he finally takes a seat, he bounces his leg, biting the skin at his lips raw as he waits for you, the tension in him beginning to disappear because of the space. He takes the chair that faces away from you and towards the wall, a deliberate choice to try and calm himself from the feeling of your back against his palm and your thighs against his, but its effectiveness wears off the second you place the two bowls on the table, a smile on your face that makes him want to melt the floor from the warmth in your expression.

Thanking you, his voice catches in his throat, breaking just after the first syllable, and he grips the edge of the ceramic, staring down at the pile of noodles that peek through the dark brown stew and shoving them into his mouth with a fork. You watch as he eats nearly his whole meal in the time it takes for you to finish half, an odd sense of happiness filling your chest at the fact he hasn’t changed his habits since you all got to Alexandria. Daryl always ate with a ferocity that reminded you of an animal - like someone was going to take the food away from him if he took too long - and it’s oddly adorable even though he sometimes made a mess of himself when he finished.

With a satisfied huff, he wipes his mouth with the backs of his hands, answering your questions about how he’s doing - ‘no pain’, ‘no infection’, ‘everythin’ feels okay’ - and trying not to stare at the way your tongue peeks out to catch the stew coating your lips. Or the way you look up at him as if his voice would escape you if you weren’t watching them come out. You’re just eating, an action that’s so innocent and has never elicited a reaction so visceral, but he shifts in his seat, feeling like he’s burning underneath your eyes.

“Something wrong?”

Your words come between the sounds of your spoon scraping against the inside of your bowl, and he shakes his head, letting out a stuttered ‘no’ before he abruptly gets up and walks to the sink, sipping idly at the canteen he’d left there after his hunting.

Daryl’s not sure why he’s become so fidgety all of a sudden - you’ve been to his house millions of times, ate with him millions of times - but his fingers meet his shoulder to rub at the knots that never seem to leave, just barely missing the pieces of thread. You take notice, furrowing your eyebrows before the lightbulb goes off in your head.

It’s the stitches that are bothering him, aren’t they?

Downing the last little bit of your meal, you push up from your seat and make your way to the sink, standing just beside him and giving your bowl to him when he reaches out his hand for it, canteen screwed back closed and lying forgotten on the tabletop. Tentatively, you reach out and let your thumb graze across his exposed bicep, concentrating on the way the stitches move with his muscles - admittedly, they’re not your best work, but they really shouldn’t have any more of a chance to get infected or to scar over than all the other times you’ve put them in for him.

Daryl’s heart stops in his chest the second he feels your skin on his, hiding it well with a bite to the inside of his cheek, and he carries on washing the four utensils and two bowls as nonchalantly as possible, apparently taking sudden interest in how clean he can make them, meticulously scrubbing with the towel in his grasp.

Since confessing to you when you were asleep, it’s like everything involving you is heightened - from the sound of your voice to the weight of your stare to the way your damn fingers make him fucking tingle. Saying it out loud made it feel real even though it was into the empty air, and, despite knowing that everything he said was real, it still felt like he was exposing some dark secret to everyone.

“Do you still keep the ointment where it usually is? You might break them if you keep picking at ‘em.”

You’re halfway to the basement stairs before you speak, and he doesn’t even notice you’ve moved until then, the linger of your touch clogging up his brain. Daryl manages to yell back a rough sound of agreement, and he turns off the tap, not needing it anymore now that you’re not around to make his mind all muddy.

Fuck.

He knows what’s coming next.

He knows what’s coming next and he knows that he should be nervous, but he can’t help but feel all giddy at the thought of you touching him again - no, you’re just doing your job. You’re just doing your job and he needs to mentally prepare himself unless he wants to pitch a tent while you’re rubbing that ointment that smells absolutely divine onto him.

Wiping himself off on his shirt, his fingers work at the buttons the whole time he ambles down to his room, shucking it off and throwing it in the general area of his bed the second he crosses the doorway. Daryl looks over just in time to watch it land with a dull thump, and his eyebrows flick up for just a second when he doesn’t see you there as well, fully expecting for you to tell him to lie on his sheets - fully hoping you’d tell him to lie on his sheets because if his body does react, at least you won’t be able to see it.

Instead, you’re sitting on his workbench, something you don't get to do very often since Daryl’s usually working on modifications of motorcycle parts or chipping away at his pile of arrows all the times you’ve been here. Though, it’s not for a lack of trying on your part.

The workbench is probably your favourite part of his room - just tall enough that you can sit on it and have your legs swing without touching the floor - and you’ve told him multiple times though he chooses not to let you indulge. Sometimes, and it’s not a very often sometimes, when he misses you after long runs, he’ll pat the wooden top in a nonverbal invitation just to see the smile that breaks through your face.

Daryl stands at the door as if this was new territory, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if unsure of what to do, suddenly feeling exposed though he knows you don’t care about the little bit of muscle definition he’d lost since the prison. You kick the legs of his chair in that same one, two rhythm he does when he wants you over, and he moves like a dog to a whistle.

Grabbing the back, he swings one of his legs over and crosses his arms across the top, leaning his weight and facing away from you. His straddle makes the denim of his jeans stretch deliciously over his thighs, accentuating just how muscled they’ve become and you bite your lip, screwing open the jar in your grasp to distract yourself from the thoughts threatening to invade your coherence.

The second you touch his skin, the grip he has on the chair tightens and he sucks in a breath, the cold of the ointment a stark contrast to the overheat of his body. The repetition continues a while longer, each passing moment allowing him to calm down until you speak again, a welcome break to the silence.

“Y’know, I still want you to know that I’m seriously grateful for what you did for me a couple of days ago. It, um, it meant - it means - a lot to me.”

Throwing a lazy smile over his shoulder, his response is immediate as he watches you bite your lip in concentration, and he smothers down the desire to give you another reason entirely to do that expression.

“Told you it ain’t a problem.”

You hum, a sliver of a smile taking place peeking through your teeth before you reset back into a look which is much more serious, turning your attention back onto the last two stitches you have yet to cover.

“And, um, after- after everything that’s happened, I really, really need you to know I care about you too, Daryl.”

He furrows his eyebrows at the drastic tonal shift. It’s not that you’ve never told him this - he’s heard it a lot and it usually follows with a scolding of how he’s ‘a reckless idiot’ and how he’s always putting himself in ‘unnecessary danger’ - but he’s never heard your voice waver when you say it, or how you stress the words as if they were the most crucial things you could ever say and it makes his heart rate pick up.

Oddly, it scares him.

But it also makes something sickeningly sweet swirl in him.

Your fingers detach from his skin, your gaze similarly falling to the floor in avoidance. He watches as you take a deep breath and he gets up, sitting back down on it - ‘like a regular person’, he’d heard you say before - so he can finally face you as he hangs onto each little sound that hits his ears.

C’mon, you tell yourself, just say it. Isn’t that what you came here to do? You know how he feels; you heard his confession though it wasn’t for your ears - frankly wasn’t for anyone’s except his - so what’s the point of being shy?

“More- more than you know.”

It doesn’t click for Daryl yet and his eyes narrow, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening as he tries to decode the secret message beneath your words. Your heart is pounding in your ears and you can hardly hear what you just said, but when your gaze flickers to his, recognizing the look of confusion and cluelessness on his face, you will yourself to speak. God, for someone who’s usually so smart, he’s so dense sometimes.

“More than I’m willing to admit.”

Realization washes over him like a cold shower - like he was dunked in one of those ice-fishing holes he’d seen people up in Canada drill when he was in school - and his eyes widen into maybe the biggest you’ve ever seen them, his mouth threatening to do the same.

“Y- ya heard.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Is that all he can say? Of course you fucking heard. You regurgitated his - basically - whole confession back to him and all he said was an observation? What the fuck, he was so sure you were asleep. How the fuck did he miss the fact that you weren’t?

“I did.”

Oh no. Oh fuck. This is it, isn’t it? Where you laugh at him and call him a fucking moron for thinking he could ever have a chance with you.

“And you’re stupid.”

Ah, there it is.

Daryl wants to apologize - wants to run and hide - but the second he opens his mouth and starts to rise from his seat, your hand holds him down with a strength and determination that makes his breath hitch.

“You’re stupid for thinking I don’t feel the same.”

A ‘what?’ escapes him before he can even think to stop it, eyes widening even more when your hand travels up his shoulder and rests at the back of his neck, using the leverage to pull him lightly towards you and you to him.

“God, you’re really an idiot, aren’t you? I love you, Daryl.”

You’re so close he can smell you, heady and mixed with the lingering scent of spices on your clothes, but it pales in comparison with the way you lean forward, your neckline dropping just slightly.

It’s enough, though.

It’s enough to make his stomach twist in want. It’s enough to make a heat rise from the length of his chest to the tips of his ears - for him to be screaming at himself to reach out and touch you instead of letting his arms hang by his sides.

“I think I’ve loved you for a long time if I’m being honest, and I can’t… I can’t think of a life without you. I, um, I think that’s why that night scared me so much - ‘cause I didn’t know if you were gonna be okay. If any of us were.”

Fuck, Daryl can barely focus on what you’re saying, but everything he catches makes his head swim, drowning him in a tide made up of everything he’s ever thought of - waking up next to you, kissing you underneath the moonlight, holding your fucking hand - and it knocks him over with the ease it uses to destroy sandcastles.

“It’s- it’s okay if you don’t wanna- I mean, if you don’t want to say it back. It’s even okay if you don’t want to, uh, be anything with me. I just- after everything we’ve been through, I wanted you to know.”

He’s looking up at you from where he’s seated - fitting, since he think you’re like a fucking deity in front of him. It’s the first time his eyes meet yours since you’d confessed and he’s captivated by the way your brows slope in a warmth that he recognizes as so authentically you. Silence fills the end of your sentence, a second of lull followed by another and another, but still, he makes no attempt to break it.

“Daryl? Say something please?”

Oh, right.

“I’m jus’…”

Clearing his throat, he finally moves himself, tentative and slow as he reaches out, watching your every move in case an expression of discomfort rises. It never comes, though. His touch is welcome, making your skin tingle when he brushes his thumb over your knuckles, and he feels your fingers wrap around his. You squeeze in a silent prompt for him to continue, and he can’t help but notice that you don’t loosen, holding onto him as if he would run if he wasn’t your grasp, and he finally finishes his thought, a lopsided smile on his face at how fucking right your hand looks in his.

“Jus’ thinkin’ ‘bout how much of an idiot you’re soundin’ like right now thinkin’ I don’t wanna be anythin’ with ya.”

You kick his chair in faux-offense when he stresses the moniker you’ve readily given him before, not used to being on the receiving end. His smile falters in exchange for something more serious, and he clears his throat before he scoots forward. Just a step, but you find yourself wanting him to be closer.

“I wanna be everythin’ for ya, sunshine.”

Daryl grabs your other hand after you use it to push a strand of your hair back, and he rests his knuckles in between your spread legs, holding yours as if they were made of glass. Humming, you shuffle yourself forward too, wrapping your grip around his fingers and unfurling them, placing his palms down on the exposed skin on either of your thighs.

Your movement shocks him for a second, the thought that he’d said something wrong ringing through his head, and he’s quick to form an explanation. Shit, did he come off too overbearing? Possessive? Was it because he said ‘everything’?

“I mean- I don’t want ya to take that the wrong way or nothin’. I jus’ wanted you to know that- that whatever ya want in a man, I’ll be it for ya.”

His fingers flex open as he speaks, allowing him to rise to his feet by instinct, a panic washing through him that your feelings would disappear at the drop of a hat. Daryl’s not good with talking, he never has been, but his body makes up for that fact, allowing him to be expressive when his words fail him - even if the abrupt movement borders almost embarrassing with how he rambles.

The second he rises to his full height, you tilt your head up to keep his stare and you can feel how agitated he is, a look in his eye as if pleading with you to forgive him, even though he hasn’t done anything wrong. Without another thought, your arms reach out to wrap around his torso and you link your fingers at his back, pulling him in a short nudge towards you, a reassuring smile on your face.

“I don’t want anything other than you, you moron. Just you, y’know? Just Daryl Dixon.”

There’s something so magnetic about the way you tilt your head to the side, and he sucks in a breath when the sight of you gets closer, face just a foot from his. He imitates your actions then, sliding his hands up your thighs and over your shorts, resting his forearms at your waist and basking in your undivided attention.

“Jus’ me?”

It’s almost like he doesn’t believe you when he questions - though, maybe he’s just saying that to hear you tell him again, the sound of your voice coupled with the expression of pure affection towards him much too tantalizing to let go of. Not yet. Not ever, he thinks

“Just you.”

Something wrenches deep in his chest, a suffocation from all his senses hitting him at once, and it manifests physical on his body, the tops of his thighs pressing against the edge of his workbench as if he was a sailor beckoned over by your siren song. Your fingers fidget idly where they link at his back, and you look up at him as he stares at you, eyes flitting to the bottom half of your face.

An inkling of understanding worms way into your mind and you smile, watching as his gaze sticks to the way your lips lift, and he nibbles at his own as if fighting himself on whether or not to speak. His internal debate takes too long for him to get a word in, though, your voice hitting his ears before he schools his mind enough to figure out something to say, but your normal ease is interlaced with a hesitancy - with a doubt.

“Actually… I do want something.”

You scoot forward still, and it feels like his air is pulled from him, the heat of your fingers disappearing for a second before your arms link at the nape of his neck, slid through the empty space between his which hold you at your waist. He swallows, mouth falling just the slightest bit agape when the breath of your words ghost across his chin.

“Can you… could you kiss me?”

No, that knocks the air out of him.

“If- if you want.”

Fuck, he’d be a different type of stupid to pass on this opportunity.

“Y’know what, sunshine? I think I could do that.”

The smile that takes hold of Daryl’s face is so boyish and genuine you feel like you could cry with how he’s looking at you. He doesn’t move his hands, he keeps the heat of his palms flush against your pelvic bones, and slowly lowers his head, giving you the opportunity to pull back.

But you never do, and the second his lips touch yours - chapped from his constant biting but so perfectly him - it’s you who pulls him closer, your fingers threading through his hair. He thinks it’s cheesy, the feeling of goddamn fireworks spreading across his skin, but he can’t figure out anything else to describe the tingle he gets running along his spine, bursting like he’s the night sky during Fourth of July.

When he pulls back, his lungs calling him to calm down and take a breath, he retreats to a swipe of your thumb, crossing the length of his scruff that was tickling at your chin and onto his cheekbones. You’re grinning at him, a sight that only makes his heart beat impossibly quicker as the sunset trickles in from the window just above your head, and your thighs no longer rest idly. No, your knees dig into either side of him, the feeling of your muscles flexing making him swallow as he watches your mouth move.

“Again”

It’s a delicious pull, the way your voice glides across those two syllables, and he leans back down, this time with a bit more confidence in his actions, his forearms now lying flush against your back. His tongue peeks out not a second later, sliding along your lips, and you part for him almost embarrassingly fast.

Again, yeah he could do 'again'.

Can someone get so much satisfaction from just kissing another person? Because Daryl’s never felt as much as he's feeling right now - you feel fucking soft and you smell so good and he might be going crazy, but he thinks you’re trying to pull his hips into yours - and his brain is losing all coherence as you move your mouth against his, opening for a split second just to return.

Daryl’s also pretty sure it shouldn’t be as hard as he finds it to be to keep his hands from slipping downwards and up underneath your shirt, catching himself when he feels the hem lift from his travelling touch. His fingertips graze you, their warmth contrasting your air-cooled skin, and though they meet for barely a second, a small whine erupts from your throat, vibrating from you to him.

Embarrassment floods through you at the noise, and you go to pull away, pulling him back with the fingers threaded through his hair as well, but all he does is groan at the sting - a delicious sting that weakens his knees quicker than he would like to admit - chasing your lips with a newly erupted hunger. His hands fall off your clothing and onto the workbench tabletop when he surges that little bit of space forwards, a thrum in his veins he can only seem to satiate with the little hums you’re making.

He’s sure more than ever that he can feel the way the roll of your pelvis quickens, and he submits to the lust that drives your hands downwards across his body. Daryl gives into your soft fingers, basks in the shivers that line him as they slide down the muscles on his chest and down the ones flexing at his abdomen, and the desire to grind into the apex of your thighs grows with each passing second.

You’re too fucking far, though, and every single little noise - hell, even your goddamn pulse - is driving him crazy in the best way possible.

His hands spread open on the clothed flesh of your ass, and he tugs you towards him, impatient as he feels each one of your pretty little moans line his lips. You’re flush against him now - pressing your everything against his everything - and you grind your hips against him, barely feeling the outline of him through the denim of his jeans.

Daryl’s cursing himself now, regretting the fact he’s not wearing those sweatpants you’d dug out of your closet and gave him when everyone first got to Alexandria, but it’s not so bad - you seem to like it, and that’s all that really matters to him. Rutting himself forwards, he basks in your heat, dipping his hands underneath your shirt when your touch catches at his belt loop, grazing the skin of his pelvis as you travel inwards and tug.

The feeling of thread skates along his fingertips, the inwards dent of your spine just an inch from where his palm is resting, and he pulls away, chest heaving with how long he’d denied his body of air for. You’re doing it too, he notices, a rhythmic in and out from kiss-swollen lips, and his whole being wants to lurch forwards to you, but he uses that little bit of self-restraint he still has to hold himself steady in his steps.

“We - fuck - we should stop, sunshine.”

You’ve forgotten your shame a long time ago, but you can’t help the pang which arises, dousing the desirous heady smoke in a wave of rejection. Hands drop from the zipper on his jeans and you feel him imitate the action as your shirt falls onto your skin, his rough palms no longer acting as a barrier between the cloth from you. Scooting your body back by instinct, you watch him as he steps away, questioning him as he runs his fingers through his dark hair.

“Why- what’s wrong? Do you not- am I misreading this?”

The shake of his head is immediate and he moves to sit at the foot of his bed, the angle offering a direct line of sight to you, and the urge to return to you only grows.

“Nah, it sure as hell ain’t nothin’ like that. Jus’- jus’ worried ‘bout them stitches ya put in me.”

Daryl’s hand scratches at the back of his neck as he speaks, a fidget he can’t break due to the stick of your stare on him, and his whole body is burning red at the strain in his jeans - feels it more than anything because he’s pretty sure he’s never been like this in his life just from someone’s attention.

“Ya keep touchin’ me like that, I’m not sure how long it’s gon’ take ‘til they pop.”

The little bit of humour laced with an overlay of disappointment - of apology - in his response makes you smile, and he reciprocates like a mirror, your expression of happiness consuming his heart in an affection much less lustful than just moments ago. Nibbling your lip, a rush of confidence surges through your body when you see the way his hand travels to his pillow, strewn aside days prior from the fact he still has no habit of making his bed, and places it over his lap in an attempt to hide how much he’s failing at calming down.

An odd sense of drive kicks in not even a millisecond later, and you let yourself give into that confidence, letting it fuel your actions as you hop off the workbench and surprise yourself when you find your body has made the decision to sway your hips just a little more. Daryl’s grip on that godforsaken plush tightens, and you watch him shift, pushing himself backwards by the heels of his feet as if he would run to you if he didn’t do something to stay seated.

“Y’know, there’s, um, there’s a way for us not to pop your stitches.”

One of Daryl’s eyebrows quirks upwards at your words, and he doesn’t make a move to stop you when your hand grabs the pillow and takes it off his lap. On the contrary, his whole body opens for you, arms falling to his side and thighs widening to accommodate the way you stand between them.

“That- that right? Wha’d’ya have in that mind’a yours?”

Daryl stutters when you swing a leg over his, his fists bunching up against the mattress as you perch yourself over his lap, so pretty looking down at him with a heady expression of love and lust. It takes everything he has in his body not to flip you over - not to lay you on your back so he can rip those fucking buttons off your clothes - and his jaw clenches when he feels the your fingers linger at he base of his neck, ghosting the strands of his hair.

Your tongue peaks out for a second, nibbling on your bottom lip as you’re in what he can only assume is a mental war of consideration. He’s not used to seeing you like this - around him, you’re always so relaxed, everything coming so naturally to you that he can’t help that ease that washes over him too - and he wants to break the silence to urge you on, but you scoot forward, a positively sinful grind just where he needs it most, and the only noise he can make is a deep groan.

“Let me do the work.”

Oh.

Anticipation coats him in a sickly sweet blush at the lilt of suggestivity - no, more overt than just a lilt, to be honest, but he’s too lost in the way your hands travel down his chest and to the zipper on his jeans to give that classification another consideration.

“Ya sure ya wanna do that? ‘Cause I remember someone callin’ me ‘a handful’, an’ she sounded an awful lot like you.”

Your movement stills and he almost regrets what he’d said before you scrunch your nose, a huff of equal parts annoyance and amusement escaping at the way he smirks when he says it. Worming your fingers underneath his, you bring his touch to the hem of your shorts, wrapping his arms around your waist for him as that feeling of annoyance dissolves fully, and something stronger - more lewd - overtakes at the sharp inhale of breath he lets out.

Learning forward, you let his hands dig into your ass, yours choosing instead to retreat back around his neck as if you’d done nothing at all to drive him crazy. If Daryl had even one thought in his head other than how fucking soft you are or how good you smell or how your hips move under his palms, they’re erased the second your breath fans his ear, a shiver rushing down to the base of his spine.

“I think I can handle it, Daryl. I thought- I thought you got over the habit of underestimating me.”

If you hadn’t stuttered, maybe - just maybe, though - he wouldn’t have that painfully handsome smirk still plastered over his face, but one good rut of his hips into yours sends a rush of arousal through you, his zipper rubbing against something devastating.

“An’ I thought ya forgave me for it.”

When you pull back, you see the blush rising from his shoulders, and he leans for your kiss swollen lips before a light tug on his hair - not back but down - tilts his head upwards and exposes the column of his neck, showing you the bob of his Adam’s apple as he reacts to the flood of pleasure.

“Forgiven, but not forgotten.”

It’s immediate, the desire to press your mouth against the stretched skin, and he’s watching you as you speak, smirk dropped into an expectant expression - as if waiting for you to do just that.

When your grip loosens and he doesn’t feel the relief of your plush lips, he wonders for a second if you held back just to spite him; whether you did or didn’t, he goads anyways, a tease with an underlay of lust, punctuated by his hands travelling over the swell of your ass and dipping underneath the openings for your legs, ghosting the fabric of your underwear.

“How is your right hook, anyways, Doc? Gotten any stronger?”

Daryl likes to give you shit for it - he’d pretended for a long time that the punch you threw at him when he pissed you off enough to even punch him didn’t leave him wincing every time he lifted his crossbow. It was only when he got over his pride that he finally acknowledged it, apologizing as you dug rocks out of his bloody palms after he’d fallen off his bike and skidded across the pavement.

It’s a sore subject sometimes, sure - especially since you’d apologized over and over again following the incident - but as its mentions waded into more conversations with the memories of him trying to teach you how to skip rocks, or the first time you learned how to skin and gut animals, there’s an odd sense of familiarity to the situation. A nostalgia, even.

“Wanna find out?”

Feeling your fists now balled against his chest, Daryl hums, choosing not to respond in exchange for testing his luck, leaning forward again and fucking elating the second he makes contact with your lips. Daryl’s hands slip out of your shorts when you kiss him back, an eager buzz at his fingertips the whole time he maps a path up underneath your shirt.

His chin tilts away from you as he grazes the band of your sports bra, keeping his forehead to yours for just a second before his face retreats an inch or two. It’s barely enough to speak - to form a volume louder than a whisper that won’t pound his gruff drawl against your eardrums - but it’s too far for you.

“Nah. Maybe some other time.”

The grin that upturns his lips is close to lascivious, and if it was from anyone else, you would have hurled him away in disgust, but the mischief intertwined with the words - and the fact it’s Daryl - sends hot anticipation through you, watching him with a near hazy gaze and staring as you wait for him to speak again.

“‘Cause I wanna see what you ‘doin’ the work’ really means. Y’gon’ give me a show, sunshine?”

He dips his fingers underneath the band of your bra, twisting his palm around so that he can pull you back by it, a sharp whine erupting from your throat that he makes a mental note to hear again - preferably feel it along his lips as they’re pressed up against yours. Nodding, you push against his chest with one hand, urging him to lie down as your other races to undo the button holding his jeans together.

A grunt is all you hear before his arm scoops under your ass and he lifts you, bed squeaking underneath your body as he spins the both of you around and your back hits the sheets. For a second, you’re reminded of just how strong Daryl is - how the swift movement reminds you of the prison’s field and when you had some of your first fighting lessons with him - and a different type of adrenaline courses through you, an excitement of how else he might choose to use his strength.

You break from your thoughts too late to keep him blanketed over you, and a quick peck to your neck later - he just couldn’t help himself from the way your head threw back, the column of skin just teasing him - you find Daryl standing on the hardwood floor, his presence no longer accentuated by the dip in the mattress.

Lifting yourself, you let your legs fall to either side of you, folding at the knees before you lean towards him, the neckline of your shirt dropping as more of your weight begins to rest at your shins, then to your hands. It takes almost all his willpower not to give into the urge of just pouncing on you like the animal so many people think he is, and he takes a step back, eyes never leaving your body even as he puts more distance between the two of you.

The more the scene in front of Daryl takes over his vision - a perfectly depraved image of you perched on his bed, your movements teetering on the edge of crawling to him and those two buttons doing nothing to hide your modesty - the more his cock throbs with the urge to reach out and touch you. No, the urge runs deeper than just a touch along skin.

He wants to feel you. He wants to feel you as you bare yourself to him and he wants you to feel him as he bares himself to you in an act so intimate his heart has only ever trusted you enough to do. It’s been so damn long since he’s touched someone, his days of drifting and drunken fervor forgotten for a while, but feeling someone? Daryl’s never felt someone like this before.

And it’s almost fucking torture for him, but still, he wants to take you up on your offer, letting himself hit the edge of his workbench before pulling the chair from wherever the hell he’d shoved it to just moments prior. He can feel his skin burn as he holds your gaze - his eyes holding a glint that makes your stomach twist in knots - and the cerulean you know as him form only a ring around his lust-blown pupils.

The legs of his seat lift off the ground with the force at which he tugs at it, but not a millisecond later, it screeches to a halt beneath him, his thick thighs spread wide as he leans against the back of it. Daryl’s so large on the meager wood, an imposing figure staring at you as darkness falls over him, the remaining streaks of sun from aboveground deciding to leave him in a shadow.

“Thought you were gon’ give me a show?”

He folds his hands over his crotch, running his palm over himself just to give him some goddamn relief, and you narrowly miss his words, focusing instead on the way his abs flex and relax at his own contact, and the groan he lets out when he decides to do it again. He tells himself that it’s because you’re looking at him like that that he repeats, but he’s been almost painfully hard since the second you’d put that ointment on him, and he’s dreamt of seeing you like this for months.

You don’t make a move, staying in a stationary lean towards Daryl as if he was supposed to be giving you a show instead, and he ceases his movements, clearing his throat and just waiting. Only when you stop staring, blinking your eyes up his body in a slow return back to his face, does he speak, resting his hands back in a clasp at his lap with an infuriating pull of the corner of his lips, the expression becoming more and more charming with each time he does it.

“I’m takin’ front row to watch ya, sunshine. So do it - get yourself ready.”

Shit, his voice sounds so fucking good, his normal gravel drawl deepened with arousal, and you press your knees together in an attempt to calm the way you seem to burn from the inside. His breath gets trapped in his throat for a moment when your hands lift at the hem of your shirt, and he barely holds back a strangled groan of disappointment when you stop and smile at him, leaving him in the beginning stages of regretting his decision before he recognizes the sprinkling of mischief in the way they sparkle.

You’ve never made a habit of disappointing Daryl, so why should you start now?.

Pulling off your socks, you adjust yourself, sitting directly underneath the light and letting him take a full look of the way your fingers travel down each button. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen anything so erotic in his fucking life - not in those R-rated movies he’d snuck into when he was a teenager, or in those Playboy magazines he’d stolen with his friends, and sure as hell not in those stories Merle would tell him when he got too drunk and high off his personal stash - and Daryl swears he can’t take his eyes off the way you expose your skin to him.

For him.

Your shirt hits the floor too damn late in his opinion, but his fervor is stealing his logical thinking and turning it into something more base at the sight of your exposed skin, the round of your shoulder down your covered chest and down to the tied knot of the drawstring shorts hugging your waist.

He should have pulled at it, Daryl thinks, watching you consider which item of clothing should be the one to meet his hardwood floor next. He should have pulled at it and undone it and slid off those fucking shorts. He should have taken your underwear off in that one same damn motion to save time. He should have-

Fuck, his mouth falls agape when your grip tightens around the bottom of your bra and you tug, a brief reminder tingling at his fingers about how good you felt there. It doesn’t last long, though, disappearing the second the elastic is up and over your head, back arched so provocatively he can feel his cock throb.

There’s a conscious effort on Daryl’s part not to grind into the hands he has placed over his lap, but it’s in vain when he sees the swell of your breasts rise as they catch along the band and then drop as they submit to gravity. The groan he lets out spurs you on, hearing a swear you’re pretty sure he doesn’t know he’s even saying, and you lift yourself onto your knees.

Crawling.

You’ve turned around onto your hands and knees and you’re fucking crawling with your head turned away from him, ass perked up and mouthwateringly swaying with each slow movement towards his headboard.

His headboard.

Just the reminder you’re in his bed - putting on a damn good show for him - has Daryl scrambling to get out of his jeans, the relief from the denim feeling as close to Heaven as something as mundane as that can. Though, as he sears the sight before him into his brain, he can think of something better - something closer to Heaven, though it may be more fitting to liken that feeling to sin instead.

Grabbing his pillow, you sandwich it between your spine and the wooden slab behind you, dextrous fingers undoing the double-knot you’d tied just this morning. Another second passes and you take a deep breath before slipping the shorts down your legs, trying not to think so much about how you must look when you fold into yourself slightly, and you let the fabric fall from your grasp, a lump of black cloth now contrasting the dark brown floor.

Daryl’s excitement is boiling over in his veins, a focus on you that he’d only ever used on hunts or runs, and he feels like he might melt into his chair the second your fingers loop around the elastic of your underwear, not even given a second to fully memorize the way the fabric cuts deliciously over the curve of your pelvis before those curls peek out, and he swears he’s slack-jawed staring.

How the hell is he supposed to think let alone keep himself from touching you when you’re just a few feet from him?

He hears his name being called - never in his life had he thought those two syllables could ever sound so good - and it nearly drowns him in a wave of arousal, but Daryl’s grounded by the way your head tilts in invitation, legs bent open in a line which beckons his eyes to trail up them. Both your hands fist at the sheets between your thighs as your arms push your breasts together, leant forward and telling him to ‘come here’ in a near whine that’s driving him crazy.

His feet press against the floor in the beginnings of a step, an immediate movement triggered by the need dripping from your words, but he has just enough self-restraint to remind himself of what you’d promised him. Daryl’s never been a particularly patient man, but for you - for your taste and for your touch - he might try. Delayed gratification, or some shit like that.

So he forces himself to stay seated, choosing instead to watch how you squirm underneath his gaze, a lust so pronounced in his cerulean that you’re surprised when it doubles - triples - at the way you rub your thighs together in a search for relief. You say his name again, even more of a plead than he’s heard before, but he still doesn’t react. Only when you move out of your sit in preparation to cross the mattress does he hold out a hand to stop you, responding in a deep growl that sinks deep into the pit of your stomach.

“That was a nice li’l tease ya put on for me, that’s for damn sure, but ya need to get yourself ready. ‘Cause you were gon’ do the work, weren’t ya?”

You nod, maybe too fast, but Daryl sure as hell doesn’t mind. Instead, he shifts in his chair, choosing to ignore the wood beginning to dig into his tailbone in exchange for the sight of you easing back against the pillow, a look of slight apprehension on your face as your hands rub down your thighs.

“Do it then, sunshine. Be a good girl an’ touch yourself.”

Fuck.

It’s not that you weren’t at least expecting this - the second you’d told him that you would do the work, you knew he might want you to do this - but to hear him say it so explicitly and laced with something that’s so desperate makes your arousal pool when you swipe your finger along yourself, the blossoming of pleasure from your touch seemingly heightened.

Shameless. Daryl’s pretty damn shameless as he memorizes the way you bite your lip and whimper, a light thud resounding through the room when you throw your head against his wall, the muscle of your neck exposed to him - as if you knew just how much he wants to run his lips over it and choosing to taunt him with the promise of a taste.

With each passing moment - stuck just watching you as his cock leaks pitifully onto his boxers - his regret compounds and compounds, replaced at an exponential rate with molten desire. Daryl wants to take your bottom lip between his teeth and pull it free from your bite, maybe even slide his tongue against yours so all the little noises you’re making vibrate along it, a muffle from him on you.

Even better, though? He’d free that lip of yours and tell you not to hide those sounds from him. He’d bask in them as long as they fall from you.

Your other hand slithers up your thigh to meet the one drawing slow circles on that little bundle of nerves - spreading yourself for Daryl so he can see the mess he’s to blame for - before trailing up your stomach and your ribs to palm across your chest. A choked moan escapes from your throat, and you rut your hips up involuntarily, a squeak of the mattress punctuating your actions, and your mouth falls agape in another as your fingers pinch.

Only when you hear your name - followed by an intoxicatingly guttural ‘fuck’ - do you realize you’ve closed your eyes. Opening them, you tilt back to face him and whimper pathetic when you see his cock in his unmoving hands, a dribble of viscous liquid running down his knuckles into a darkened patch on the last remaining piece of clothing shared between the two of you.

Did you do that to him?

The knowledge of his desire feels like a wildfire - made only more intense by the physical confirmation - burning you in his stare, and you swipe harsher, seeking for more friction and more feeling as you burn and burn and burn. You need more, though, an emptiness that doesn’t seem to quell by the rub of both hands and catching you stagnant on the rise to your climax. Throwing your head back again, your other fingers join at the apex of your thighs, pushing two into yourself in a movement that has you biting your lip into nearly a bleed.

Daryl can hear it, the lewd squelch of each movement, and he memorizes it - everything from the scrunch of your brows to the flex of your thighs to the way a moan scratches at the back of your throat, an extra focus on following the length of your fingers. They’re coated in you, and he runs his tongue along his lips in a desperate seek to just taste.

They’re messy, each push and pull, and you swear you’re dripping onto the sheets as you clench around yourself, rutting forwards - the desire to be full counteracting your propriety. It’s so easy to get lost in the pleasure, but at the same time, you can hear Daryl grunting, tethering your senses back to the fact his eyes are on you.

Fuck, it feels so good, the bliss of your climax just barely out of reach. You’ve never experienced it coming so quick, the pure force of the preshocks foreign as they wreck through you. Knees knocking together, your inner thighs trap your hands in place, blocking the sight of your core from Daryl, He curses, a growl ripping from his throat that almost overshadows the crash of his chair hitting the ground.

The sounds wrench your eyes open, and you watch as he crawls across the mattress to get to you, a scowl on his face that’s both familiar but different. It’s not disdain, not anger, but a full-bodied concentration, like you’re the only thing on his mind and he’s planning something - something he won’t give up on trying to achieve.

“Shit, let me taste. Please. I wanna - fuck - can I touch you?”

His voice is scratchy from desire - seemingly pulled out of his throat by sheer willpower - and you nod, an equally ruined moan of ‘yes, please’ barely breaking above a breathy tone. Swearing, he jerks his grip from the sheets on either side of your pelvis to your wrist, drawing your fingers out from you and shoving them into his mouth, all sense of decorum and decency replaced with a rushing urge to taste you.

You can feel Daryl’s tongue run along your skin, hot and wet gathering and drawing out everything he can from each crevice, lewd grunts reminiscent almost of the way he eats after days of starvation, reminding you of how uncaring he is to veil his enjoyment. Nearly a second later, his lips detach with an audible smack before he takes your other hand, opening his mouth to let you slide your fingers along that same smooth muscles until he lets you slip from him.

Heat erupts in you when his voice groans your name, the abrupt - and unsatisfying - halt of the build to your climax forgotten as Daryl’s palms hold your thighs open, your body pulled down the mattress and onto your back so he can tilt his face downwards to watch the way you clench in a desperation to be full again. Fisting his sheets, you watch as he sets his jaw, leaning almost all his weight on his hands to keep you open for him, and he swallows, the bob of his Adam’s apple followed quickly by his tongue popping out over his lips.

His eyes flicker back to yours, fingers beginning to dig lightly into your skin, and a silent seek of permission lines his expression. When you nod and a breathy whimper of Daryl’s name follows soon after, he swears the sound swirls through his brain on repeat. And when you rut your hips up in invitation - in a plead - he’s helpless to his desire and he descends, an eager swirl of his tongue making you choke on your own moan.

Daryl’s beginning to regret as more of your noises flood his ears. He’s not regretting the fact he’s finally tasting something he’d spent months fucking dreaming about and pining after, or the fact he can feel the way your legs are trembling as you try to keep your hips still for him, or at this situation as a whole - not this situation at all - but at the fact he’d just watched you. He’s such an idiot just sitting on that damn chair and letting himself get hard as a fucking rock watching you do all that to yourself.

He could have been here.

In bed.

With you.

Touching you.

There’s no smile on Daryl’s lips and no smirk on his face, just a determination to make you scream as if he had a personal vendetta against those masochistic delayed gratification morons whose stupid philosophy kept him from you. Though, he did learn some things from his stint as your damn voyeur, and he shows you as much when his right hand pulls from you, returning in that same circle you draw onto yourself.

Only then does his scowl break, an expression of satisfaction gracing his handsome features at the way your grasp tightens around his gray sheets and your mouth falls open in an exclamation of pleasure.

Another circle, then another, and you burn in his wildfire, your hips rolling up into him and crying out when his dull fingernails dig into the flesh of your thigh to keep you still. You want to - fuck do you want to just submit to him - but your body doesn’t listen, disobeying your mind’s plead to still with the tremble of muscle at your thigh.

Daryl notices - of course he fucking notices - and he raises a teasing eyebrow, his ego boosted through the damn roof after hearing your pathetic attempt at smothering a whimper.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, sunshine. An’ ya taste even better’n I thought.”

You keen at the praise, driving him crazy in the best possible way when you clench below his tongue once more, and he slips a finger in, rutting himself into the bed for some relief from the way you’re making him feel just by being here. Daryl pushes to the knuckle, thicker and longer than yours, and curls, watching your face for every little pull of your eyebrows and scunch of your nose.

Insanely observant - like always.

Turns out he knows just which buttons to push - both when he wants to piss you off and when he wants to make you crumble for him.

“Can- do- do ya think I could add another? I don’t wanna hurt ya today an’ I don’t want ya limpin’ tomorrow.”

Nodding, your left hand goes to grab his, your forearm sliding against your pelvic bone, and you wrap your fingers around his wrist before he takes your grip, urging it into his hair and aching to feel the sensation of your tugging coupled with the taste and warmth of you. He pulls his face away when he doesn’t hear you, peppering your inner thigh in a smattering of wet kisses and placing your right hand to join your left before speaking, but his movements never stop, his knuckles beginning to get coated in you.

“Ain’t gonna use that pretty voice‘a yours? I know it can do more’n jus’ moan an’ yell at me.”

The second sentence makes you chuckle, just one breath of air escaping you in a ‘ha’ before your words contort into something more raw. You’re vaguely aware of what you’ve said - ‘please, Daryl. Yes, please’ maybe? - but you can’t be bothered too much for the details, the familar knot of your climax tightening in the base of your stomach.

Just a little more.

It’s all fervor of touch at this point, an intoxicating mixture of Daryl’s own spit and you dripping down the facial hair that scratches you so fucking deliciously, and the second he pushes in another finger, it only takes half a dozen strokes to push you over. A crescendo of back-arching sensations overtake and he can feel you spasm, contracting around him with a tightness that makes him shudder.

He memorizes you as he slows his hand’s actions down to languid, pulling himself up to his knees as your hands drop to the sheets and basking in the pride of being the reason why you’re in this state - the breathy whine of his name and the contort of your face will be seared into his brain, so help him God. If Daryl thought your happiness sparked alight adoration, seeing your chest rise and fall with shaky breaths and feeling you swipe so tenderly across his forehead alights something that consumes his whole being.

“Daryl,”

He doesn’t realize he’s mirroring your smile until he feels his cheeks sore up, and he gives into it, pure bliss on his face when he sees the bliss on yours. Resting the back of your left hand on your forehead, you watch as he breaks eye-contact only to stare at the way his fingers look leaving you, another heave of pride puffing up his shoulders when your warmth clenches to keep him in.

It’s filthy - obscene - but, fuck is it perfect.

A second later, Daryl’s gaze snaps back to you, a deliberate show of sucking his fingers clean, and his tongue darts out to catch the coating of his lips. Memories of the last few minutes flash through your mind, and your trembling legs snap closed, trapping his left hand between them. He doesn’t stop you, just keeps himself there and squeezes appreciatively at your thigh before he wipes away the liquid glistening his chin, a Cheshire grin adorning his features.

“Daryl.”

Covering your face, your voice comes out muffled behind the back of your hand, the feeling of his stare heavy as it drags along your body. Humming, he pulls his hand from your thigh, watching them fall open, and the other from his chin, wiping both dry on his boxers before he leans back on his legs, sitting down on them between yours.

You’re still spasming, the sight from where he’s seated allowing him to take in full appreciation of it, the arch of your back, as well as the jut of your chest. Shit, he knew you would look good, but fuck he didn’t expect you to look this good. What monumental thing did he do in his past life to get so lucky?

“Jus’ enjoyin’ the view.”

The sound that breaks from your throat is halfway between a scoff and a laugh, and you kick up to a sit with still buzzing legs, him between them. Daryl doesn’t pull away when your head rises to just a few inches from him, only places his hands on the sheets on either side of your waist, leaning towards you and swallowing as he watches the affection take hold of your features.

Lazy smile on your face, you run your hands through his hair, holding him in place and admiring before slotting your mouth over his, the innocence of the intended quick peck corrupting the second he swipes his tongue over the seam of your closed lip. Daryl’s arms snake around the small of your back before sliding his hands over the swell of your ass and down to the underside of your thighs, pulling your hips against his as he palms over the flesh beneath his touch.

You can feel him, the outline of his cock along with the soft fabric of his underwear rubbing against you, and in a fervour, you lean into him, letting your fingers catch along his waistband and dipping your hand in. Daryl’s warm - no, hot - and heavy in your grasp, and you run him along in a stroke, feeling a nibble on your lips when he fails to pull away in time to bite at his own, not able to suppress the groan he lets out.

It vibrates along the inside of your throat, all the way down to the hollow of your collarbones and it sends goosebumps along your sweaty skin, reciprocating his sound with one of your own just before he holds you against his chest and flips. The mattress squeaks beneath the two of you, and the small whine becomes an almost comical noise of surprise as your chest hits his, your arms trapped between Daryl’s body and yours.

You feel his smile forming against your kiss, and you pull away to take a breath, only then realizing that he’s straddled you over his body, the thin fabric of his underwear being the sole barrier between the two of you. Biting his lip, Daryl watches you retract, the corners of his mouth lifting as the heavy rise of your chest comes into view, and he fights the urge to take it between teeth - to roll his tongue over you and suck until you can do no more than moan.

Later, Daryl reminds himself.

Anticipation hangs heavy in the air - makes him drunk with determination - and he plants his feet into the mattress, the strength of his legs sending him back first into the pillow you’d left propped up against the headboard. Your body floats on his, your thighs on either side of his keeping you seated as he moves, and you scramble to press your palm against his stomach. It’s a feeble attempt at staying steady that leaves only shallow scratches on his skin, but neither of you seem to notice as the shift in position causes him to rub against you.

Daryl chokes on a groan when you grind down on him - intentionally, continuing even after he’d stilled himself - and his palms grasp at your ass, encouraging your push and pull until he thinks he might overheat and combust.

Fuck, if you keep doing that - keep feeling like that - how much longer until he makes a bigger mess of himself?

Barely a second passes before you slide back against his thighs, lifting yourself up on still slightly shaky legs to pull his boxers down and off his legs. It registers to neither Daryl nor you how desperate you’re being - you’ve spent your whole life avoiding the concept of selfish, but you’re helpless to the neediness of your own body - and he pops free from his boxers with a relieved sigh, his hands squeezing you appreciatively.

He was going to fucking suffocate, he swears.

His cock juts out against your stomach, the tip of him swollen and leaking as you look down between the two of you, biting your lip as your fingers wrap around it, your thumb swipes him over before he feels just one languid stroke - soft fingers, and Daryl realizes what a damn idiot he is for even thinking he could have replicated this pure ecstasy from a simple touch.

Swallowing, your hand stills, shifting your hips slightly as you adjust on top of him, a wave of nerves hitting you like ice through the heady warmth of lust. You’ve touched him underneath the cover of his boxers - felt the outline of him over the fabric of his underwear - but, fuck. He’s so… big.

It’s a juvenile thought - probably a juvenile way of phrasing it, too - but that’s the only thing you can think of when you finally see him bare for the first time. Daryl’s big. His shoulders widen out like a mountain range against the wood of his headboard, miles of hardened muscle down from his chest to his torso that keeps his body upright, and you can’t help but think about how fucking large he is both in your hand and against your body.

Why the hell did you only use two fingers?

Why the hell did you think that would be enough?

“Hey- hey, we don’ need to do nothin’ if ya don’t want to, y’know that, right?”

You barely notice you’re staring before he speaks, his right hand gently tilting your chin up from your grasp around him to his face. There’s an affection in Daryl’s eyes - a tenderness he’s gotten so used to hiding from you until you weren’t looking at him - and you get lost in it for a second, heart pounding as you feel yourself move almost into tears at the look.

Like a switch, he turns off his mind-numbing desire, the urge to make you feel okay overtaking him like that night just a few days ago. Observant. How did you expect him to miss the way your apprehension shines through each little feature of your face? Especially when all Daryl’s been doing for months is stare at it? You come first - you’ve always come first for him - and you huff out a small smile before responding, stuttering more than you had hoped you would.

“Yeah- I- I know, but I want to do this. Especially with you, Daryl. I just- I don’t- I don’t want to disappoint you.”

It feels oddly stupid to hear yourself say the last part though the intention rings true to the core of your being. There’s no doubt in your mind he loves you - that no matter what happens, Daryl’s not one to fall into someone’s bed without feeling something deeper than surface level - but there’s also no doubt in your mind that he wants to feel good. There’s no doubt in your mind that you want to be the reason he feels good, but, God, can you do that?

He leans in then, a light brush of his thumb across your cheekbones before he presses his lips to yours, and your heart wells up in nothing but comfort before he pulls away to respond to you. For someone who spent so long alone - protecting himself and locking people out, ready to attack like a wildcat - Daryl can’t help but feel the need to offer himself up to you, mentally, emotionally and physically.

“C’mon, you could never. Don’t worry ‘bout nothin’ ‘cause you’re doin’ fuckin’ perfect, sunshine. Got me makin’ a mess down these damn sheets an’ my damn boxers.”

His words - though very much lewd and suggestive - makes a smile breaks from your lips and you nod, a rush and renewal of confidence surging through your body. You melt into Daryl, leaning forward to press your nose right up against his and slipping your tongue in a careful caress against his so he can feel your nod. A jolt of excitement ripples through every patch of his skin, and he tries to still his hips from rutting into your hand when you stroke him again.

Scooting just barely forward, you pull your mouth back before you bite at your lip - swollen from his kisses, and he thinks he could die right now and be okay with it. You’re a fucking sight, but then again, you could be doing the most mundane thing in the world and Daryl would want to keel over at your feet.

A second passes, then another, and he can feel the hesitation in your actions, your thighs tightening around him as you build up just that tiny bit more courage you need and the furrow of your eyebrows as you stare downwards, half-lidded from the lust threatening to rob you of further contemplation. It’s slow, your movement, but Daryl endures though it feels like torture. You need this, he knows you do, and he would never be able to look at himself if he did anything to hurt you.

Grabbing your hips, he squeezes to get your attention before calling your name softly. A balm to soothe your anxiety, you suppose, and you wonder if he knows what you need before you even know.

“If ya want, jus’- jus’ keep goin’, alright? And if you wanna kick off’a me an’ try another time, that’s more than okay.”

He’s got a satisfied smile on his face though he thinks he might combust if you don’t do something - or in this scenario, a someone who, preferably, is him - and you can’t help but chuckle lightly when you see how genuine the small lilt of his lips are.

Wow. When did he get so… good with words?

“‘Sides, I ain’t exactly hatin’ the thought of diggin’ my face between your thighs again, anyways.”

Maybe not.

Scoffing disingenuously, you realize your grip has long dropped from him in favour of bracing your two palms at his chest, and you nod with that expression of slightly parted lips that drives makes him want to kiss you fucking silly. Daryl wants this - more importantly, you want this - and you take a breath before you slide over him, a brush of your core across the length of him which wrenches air from his lungs.

Another breath, a still of your thighs before they move again, and he feels your dominant hand wrap around his cock just as the mattress begins to dip beside him. On your shins, you lift yourself up just enough to notch his cock at your entrance, indulging yourself - and him, judging from his growl and furrowed brows - in a swirl to gather the remnants of your arousal.

Daryl can see everything that’s happening - the depraved way his cock inches closer to your curls, a teasing cover of what he knows is a wet, warm, velvet - and God fucking damn it you’re making it hard for him to just stay still and not rut upwards. He’s concentrating the hardest he’s ever concentrated trying to memorize the sight, and when you slowly begin to sink down, he truly thinks he might be in heaven.

Sure, he knew this was going to be good - knew it every damn time he would stroke himself heavy to the thought of doing this - but he wasn’t ready for just how intense it would be. It might be because of how long Daryl’s been stuck in the company of only his hands that he feels a sticky, syrup of pleasure consume him, but there’s more than just an inkling in his half-functioning brain that knows all these sensations come solely from you.

“Fu- fuck. Yeah, jus’ like that. See? Y-you’re doin’ fi- fuck- you feel good.”

Your knees nearly give out from the smatterings of butterfly tingles travelling down from your stomach, and you sink down further at his praise, the stretch of him an addicting burn. More - you want more - and you can’t help but clench around him each time he adds more pressure to the fingernails pressing dull against your pelvic bone, an almost suffocating squeeze he can’t get enough of.

Daryl sets your whole body electric as he brushes up against a devastating spot, making you whimper and scratch at him - and when your full weight returns to press him against his mattress, he can’t help but groan at the way he’s becoming obsessed with the feel of you on top of him. He’s not lazy, not by a long shot, but he wants to be underneath you for the rest of his damn life.

To hell with decency. To hell with responsibility.

To hell with anything but you.

It’s not a surprise how full you feel after he slowly slots - perfectly slots - into you, and he groans deep and guttural when you grind forward, rubbing your bundle of nerves up against him. You don’t move in another motion for a few seconds, needing that long to adjust to the way he curves against you, and he’s the furthest damn thing from disappointed. How else would Daryl be able to admire the way those two syllables of his name sound so fucking good falling from your lips? So he just listens and drowns himself in your noises.

That is, until you lift yourself - until you start a rhythm that tightens your abdomen and makes you flutter around him - and he’s groaning out words as if he’s never had a filter between his mouth and brain before.

“Christ, you’re so pretty like this. So pretty on my cock, y’know that?”

More. Daryl’s voice is just as addicting as the drag of his cock, and you mewl into the empty air as you throw your head back, the sweat-covered jut of your muscles sprouting from your collarbone making him want to mark up all the skin there.

He’d do it if you let him. God, there’s so many things he would do if you let him. He’d give into that primal part of him that yells at him to leave lovebites so people know you’ve got someone to warm your bed - that that someone won’t be them. You’ve got him, and with each lift of your hips, he wants you to remember the feel of him. Daryl wants you to remember that it’s him you’re moaning for. That it’s him you’re moaning from.

Each bounce of your chest is making his throat dry, and he can’t fucking take it anymore. Like Eve to the apple, his mouth slots over the curve of flesh, running his tongue along the protrude of nerves, and your back arches so intensely you nearly slip from his attention. Daryl detaches from you then, and you don’t realize you’ve closed your eyes until you see the glisten of spit across his lips.

“Was that - shit - did that feel- feel alright for you?”

It catapults you, the sight of pure desire in his features along with the weave of pure desire between his words, and your thighs shake with the effort of keeping you up. You’ve just heard him, you tell yourself, but with each drag of his cock and the way his bed squeaks each time he lifts his hips to meet yours, you can’t focus enough to form an answer.

But then Daryl uses his stupidly big hands and pulls you down by your waist onto him, stilling your steadily increasing rhythm and knocking the breath out of you, a whine ripping from your throat at the feeling of being full but nothing else.

“I asked y’a question, sunshine. Be a- fuck- use your words an’ answer it.”

You clench around him at the way his voice lowers, dragged down by lust and he swears at the feeling. It’s like all his sensations are heightened to a point with you, a roll of your hips becomes a douse of oil, and your voice is a throw of him into a fire.

“Yes, Daryl. Ye- yes, it felt more than alright. Want you to- want you to kiss me everywhere.”

His skin lights up at the way your voice drags along the second half of your words and he spreads his palm flat between your shoulder blades, dipping his head down and pressing your collarbones against his lips before he takes the skin between teeth and sucks. It’s getting colder now, breaking into autumn, so he could mark you up underneath the neckline of your shirts. Then only he would know - only he would see the brush of purple and pinks across your fabric covered body.

“Even here?”

The purely depraved sound you’d let out should have been approval enough. but you moan a ‘yes’ anyways as he stares at the wet patch on your skin. Your hips stop bouncing when his right hand sets sight onto your chest, indulging in a quick tug that he soothes over with a wrap of lips over the sensitive bud, and he groans into you when your movement becomes a heavy grind.

“What about here?”

Daryl’s words make your arms nearly give out from the vibrations and slight scratch of his teeth - your body becoming so embarrassingly sensitive from the fact he’s underneath you - and you brace yourself against the muscles in his abdomen so you can keep yourself propped up enough to breathe. Head thrown back, you take deep pull of the air, dense and humid from the heat of your body and his, and it lies heavy in your lungs with desire.

“Yes, anywhere. Everywhere.”

Growling, his hand drops back down to your waist, rough fingers digging into your pelvis that you can’t quite register through your haze of lust. He pulls you harsher now, spurred on by the compound of his rising climax, and his grip grows stronger - firmer - as he encourages each circle of your hips, grinding up to meet you in a fit of impatience.

A moan claws through your throat when his lips travel up the column of your neck, meeting yours in a fevered kiss and all you can think about is the overtake of his tongue and teeth across your senses. Daryl pulls away to hear your pants - inhale, exhale, a rhythm sped up by the way you’ve tried to refuse the burn of your lungs - and he only takes a second’s breath before his mouth reattaches to your skin, paying extra attention to that spot that makes you tighten around him.

Just below your jaw, he makes sure to leave a good one there - an obvious one - then down to that fucking muscle that protrudes each time he calls your name and you turn to face him. Those splotches will no sooner turn a deep red, and the sight of your previously unblemished skin now painted with a declaration of his attention makes him throb inside you, an impossible tingle of pleasure blanketing his brain.

Overwhelm, overwhelm, overwhelm.

Daryl wants you to overwhelm him - take him over from the inside out with your sounds and your scent and your taste.

“You’re perfect - shit. Lettin’ me mark you up, so ya look even prettier than ya do right now.”

He doesn’t mention the fact everyone will know you’re his by morning, but by the way you’d pushed your neck into him and tilted your head back to show him more, he’s inclined to believe you don’t care. God, maybe you even like it - maybe you like being his - and he grips you harsher, trying to keep himself from thinking about it hard.

The squeeze surprises both you and him, the pads of his fingers wetting with your arousal when they brush against where you’re swallowing him, and your lower body jerks towards the touch. There’s no shame in your actions when your right hand grabs Daryl’s, and you urge him to rub where you’d been nudging against his curls in a desperate search for friction. There’s no shame because you’re far too close to your climax to have any, pulse hammering through your ears and spurred on by his voice and his touch and his lips and his damn being.

He’s an all-consuming destruction and you crumble to it, deliciously with a roll of your hips, the drag of his cock heavy as your thighs shake with the effort of keeping you upright on his soft mattress. The added stimulation of his determined swipes make you feel like you’re drowning in a heady honey, and its thick syrup steals your coherence. You can’t think - can’t form a full sentence to properly warn him of your burning muscles - and you can’t be too sure what you’re saying is even intelligible.

“Daryl, I don’t think my legs can- D-Daryl, please- I need to- I need you to- please.“

Your movements have slowed - he’d noticed the change in pace when you first started to falter, a dull throb of desire plateauing the tension in the pit of his stomach instead of building it towards the finish - and he buzzes alight with a growl. One second. That’s all he needs to flip you both over and you land with a squeak of his mattress, both his hands travelling from your waist to underneath either of your thighs.

Fingers twisting into the sheets beneath you, your legs snap closed around his waist the second he lifts them to it, and the flash of your climax comes with one swift pound of his cock dragging against something devastating. It's a warningless shockwave which spreads from your core to the very ends of your body, each rock against you sending more through you and you damn near cry out his name.

No, you do - you are - and your voice breaks after the first syllable, pulse after pulse of sensations across your skin. Swearing, he furrows his brow and doesn’t relent his pace in a selfish search of his own satisfaction, each throb of his cock directly connected to the way your heat clenches and spasms and your face contorts tighter in pleasure. Another moan has him reeling and, fuck, do you sound and feel and look better than his late nights had tried so desperately to conjure up.

Daryl could get addicted to you - everything about you - and maybe the intensity of each pang of affection should scare him, but it doesn’t. It clearly doesn’t because his fingers worm their way to that bundle of nerves he knows will just pull more of everything from you, and he can’t stop watching the rise of your chest with each panting breath you take, mesmerized by the sight.

Feeling your knees slide up his waist, he hooks his left hand underneath your thigh and lifts it over his shoulder as he leans down, spurred on by the lewd expression of your swollen lips hanging agape and blanketing your body with his. The abrupt movement sends Daryl nearly falling over you, but he still has enough brain cells to push his forearm into the mattress and keep himself up, just an inch of empty air taken up by your breathing that he closes with a sloppy kiss before trailing more down your jaw.

It can’t be comfortable, you notice the angle at which he’s bent his neck, but he doesn’t grunt or complain, just keeps descending as he sucks a smattering of lovebites - taking extra pleasure in the sounds erupting from your throat when he darkens the ones he revisits. Your hands have traveled to Daryl’s back somewhere in his haze, your desperate attempts to find a relief you don’t really want from each roll of his hips making you scratch lightly at his skin. Though your nails are dull, there’s just enough pressure in them to make him feel it and the sweet soft sear rackets through his body, chipping away at what little bit of control he still has over himself.

“Such a fuck- fuckin’ good girl - lookin’ so pretty when you- when you were givin’ me a show. And ya take my cock so well, too, ain’t ya? You’re like a damn dream.”

Daryl doesn’t realize he’s spoken until he hears you whine and feels your chest press up against his as you react to his voice. He’s getting drunk off the knowledge he can do this to you - the realization that he’s the only one that you’ll let do this to you making the intoxication only headier - and he snakes his fingers in a return back down to where you wrap around him, rubbing quick, tight circles as if he was convincing you he’s all you need.

Your warmth clenches him, a leg shaking climax less abrupt than your last trembling your thighs - sensitive nerves doubling the pleasure - and he can feel himself submit to another delicious pull towards his finish. He takes you in then, memorizes the feeling of your sweat-soaked skin against his, and he can feel the coil in the base of his stomach tighten.

Somewhere in your haze, the grunt of your name draws you out and you feel the growing stutter of his hips, finally looking down to where he's joint to you for the first time. You’re split open swallowing him - the throbbing length of him coated with you, catching the little bit of remaining sunlight like a spotlight begging you to look - and Daryl bites his lip to keep a groan trapped in his chest when you mewl.

Fuck, he isn’t going to last much longer if you keep sounding like that.

And he doesn’t.

The noise propels him towards his end with little trouble, and he watches himself slip out. He watches as he pushes his cock against your stomach so he can see how far you’d taken him, and a lewd, primal pleasure spreads from deep inside his being. Knees locking up against the mattress, Daryl growls your name so roughly you would have sworn he was angry if he wasn’t grinding against you.

He’s not, though, and you know it.

Even if he’s set his jaw so hard you think he might bite through it - even if his eyes are barely two slits looking down at you, cerulean shadowed over with the scowling furrow of his brows - he’s not angry, and there’s a small part of him that wonders if he ever could be when he has you like this.

Leg dropping from his shoulder, you lift up to meet him, your abdominal muscles and thighs flexing at your movements. Red and slick, he balls his fists up at either side of your head and moans your name when your hand wraps around him, running him in a stroke that nearly has his arms giving out. It’s a simple movement, he knows it is, but it makes him keel - makes him whimper.

Who would have thought Daryl Dixon could whimper?

“Shit, sunshine, I’m- fuck- I’m gonna-“

Maybe it’s the intimacy of this - the trust that the both of you needed to feel to ever pursue exposing yourselves in body and soul - that makes each rising step towards his climax feel so intense, but he can’t dwell on why much longer when you swipe back the hair falling into his face, tucking it so gently behind his ear he forgets for a second how vulgar this moment is.

“Do it, Daryl. I want it.”

His heart stammers in his chest at how ruined your breathy command is, and he swears the beating stops when he just sees affection in your eyes - admiration. You’re beautiful underneath him and he’s helpless to replaying your words over and over and over.

It doesn’t take long for him to give you what you want.

Fuck, he’d give you anything you ask for.

Euphoria - sweltering euphoria splintering from where you touch him - hits Daryl half a dozen strokes later, and all his muscles lock up as he spills onto your stomach, your name rolling off into the empty air of his bedroom and mingling with the scent of sweat and pleasure. Rope after rope, his release marks your skin until you’ve taken all you can from him, quick breaths escaping your lips and his as you both try to recover from the intensity just moments ago.

In and out, in and out until slowly, you’re both steady again.

“Your legs alright?”

A light laugh breaks from you at how he chooses to break the silence - so utilitarian, so Daryl - and he just stares as he furrows his brows down at you, expecting and waiting for you to answer. Threading your hand through the mop of hickory atop his head, you stare back, eyes crinkled upwards from the push of your smile-risen cheeks, and something sweetly familiar swirls in his chest.

Leaning all his weight on one arm, Daryl swipes a finger at the hair fallen unruly onto your face, imitating your actions as he swipes it back, tucking it away so he can really, really see you. Soon enough, the expression he has morphs into one that’s much softer - one he’d only ever shown when he knew you couldn’t catch him - and a small grin forms on his lips, corners tugging upwards.

God, he looks so fucking cute with a flushed pink face and you pull him in for a quick kiss.

“I love you, Daryl. I love you.”

The noise that escapes him catches in his throat, your confession making him feel as though he could cry from how tenderly you say his name after brushing your lips against his. Sure, he’s heard you say it just today, but each time you do, it makes him feel something different. More intense? More affection? Whatever it is, it makes him want to crumble at your feet and devote himself to you like you’re a deity and he’s just some mortal man hoping for your blessings.

“Don’t change the subject.”

It’s funny though - ironic - him saying those words while that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“I need to develop more thigh muscles, don’t I?”

Daryl acknowledges your response with a noncommittal grunt, but you can tell by the way he raises his eyebrow that it doesn’t really satisfy him.

Pressing light kisses between your collarbones, he boxes you in with the arms he has bent beside your head, giving you enough space between his hips and yours for you to lift your pelvis up, testing the weight that you can push on your legs. There’s no denying there’s something there, more of a dull ache than a shock of pain, but you hum a response anyways, a gentle caress of your fingers making him breath a soft sigh of pleasure.

“They hurt a little, but now won’t compare to what I’ll be feeling tomorrow.”

The movement of your hips causes something wet to brush up against Daryl’s stomach and he grimaces, mostly at himself for forgetting about the mess he’d left on you. Letting himself have one last peck, he pushes himself up and off you, mattress dipping in accordance with his weight while your hands falling from the steady caress threatening to pull him into sleep.

A shock of uncertainty rattles through you, but before you can open your mouth, he quells any question of his care for you by shaking his bangs from his eyes, offering you an apologetic smile before nodding to his bathroom and walking over. He tries to be quick, swiping a clean towel from the towel rack, spurred on by the reminder you’re in his bed and waiting for him to clean you, but it takes a much more sinful turn when he starts to think about it too long.

Shit, he can’t help the guilt lodging in his chest when he feels a swirl of desire, trying to distract himself by dampening the cotton in his hands underneath the rush of water. It’s his fault your thighs are sore, isn’t it?

Turning the sink off, he rushes back to you, bare feet slapping dull against his hardwood floors, and when he reaches the doorway, the sight of you makes him stutter his actions. You’re not doing anything, just resting the back of one of your hands over your forehead and breathing a steady in and out which has your chest rising and falling, legs bent the same way you do when you crash after running from a hoard with him - which he probably won’t be able to see the same now that he’s seen you like this - but Daryl stumbles over his discarded boxers anyway.

Did he throw them that far?

At the sound, your neck turns to him and your face breaks into a grin so vibrant it puts the sun and stars to shame, leaving his body a slave to yours when you beckon him over with a tilt of your chin. He sits at your side, the front of him obscured by the rays of setting sun streaming in just behind him, and swipes gingerly at the mess, pursing his lips in apology and squeezing your wrist when your skin breaks out in goosebumps from the cold.

Clearing his throat, Daryl treks back to the washroom, a profuse blush he catches on his face that he attributes to the embarrassment of his stumble and not the way you’d smiled at him. Certainly not how his immediate thought was how many times he wants to see you like that - how many times he’d want to fall asleep to that sight or wake up to that sight or come home to that sight. And definitely not because he would know exactly how you’d gotten to that state in the first place.

He splashes his face with the cold water, a stark contrast to the overheat of his skin, and nearly sprints back to you in a desire to feel the glow of your aftermath.

Rounding the corner, he stops at the doorway to just take in the sight of you cuddled up in his gray sheets, the stupid overplush hugging your body and making you look almost tiny curled up beneath it. His lips tug upwards without much thought, his chest welling up in something so foreign that it almost feels suffocating. But it feels so nice, too. So fucking nice.

“What’re you looking at?”

He’s perceptive, but maybe you are too.

Though, Daryl’s not making a particular effort to hide his stare, either.

“You.”

A scoff breaks from you at how sincere he sounds, an ease laced one he hasn’t heard in ages that you use to hide the heat of your blush. You’re happy, he notices, juvenile pride warming his heart knowing he’s the reason why, and he catches the glint of a smile when you lift the covers for him. Patting the remaining empty space on his mattress, another flood of pride washes through him when he recognizes it as an invitation to join you - an invitation extended for him to crawl in next to you - and he can’t help but wonder how long it’ll take for his bed to become yours, too.

Daryl can’t will his body to move fast enough.

Slipping underneath the sheets, the second his body touches yours - your hand sliding over his chest - you wrap yourself up in him. Your legs are between his, and it’s so unknown to him, the hold of you is so light, so tender and it’s - fuck - it makes him almost cry. He doesn’t ever want to leave this; he doesn’t ever want to leave you.

He turns to face you at that thought, brushing away the hair obscuring your cheek from him so he can press a kiss against the rise of your bone. A breath of air escapes you when he pulls away, and underneath the scattered sunlight, you can see the cerulean blues that have become your home soften.

“I love ya, sunshine.”

Daryl’s not open about affection and you’ve known that well before you’d fallen for him - could tell since the moment you’ve considered him just a friend - but alone, he’s a puddle of mush for you.

Maybe, he doesn’t want to be anything else.

“And ‘m sorry”

You hum at his words, a small noise of confusion which he can feel when he buries himself into the crook of your neck - like he does when he hugs you, you’ve realized - and he trails his hand down your body, ribs to waist then tapping at your thigh before wrapping a timid hand around it. The action is an apology in and of itself, but paired with the way he’s giving you those puppy eyes, even if you’d been mad at him, you couldn’t have been for any longer

“No, it’s okay. I- I liked it. I like you.”

Oh.

“Promise you’ll tell me if anythin’ ever hurts again?”

Fingers threading through his hair, you pull him up for a kiss, and each knot of tension in his body melts the second his lips hit yours. Daryl’s never given much thought about Heaven - not since he’d stopped going to church every Sunday - but he’d repent his mountain of sins if it meant a life with you after all this. He’s damn sure it’s going to be a whole lot of repenting, but he’d do it.

“Promise.”

Oh.

Could one word sound so full? Full of trust? Of honesty? Of… of…

A feeling hits him like a goddamn 18 wheeler - no, a swell. A rapid swell of something different that erupts straight from his heart and paints every inch of his skin. Daryl’s known it for a while, fought with it and succumbed to it despite his best efforts, and it swells and swells with its four-lettered title.

Love.

There are no more words exchanged. Though, after all you’ve been through with him, there’s no need for them. He can feel it - he knows you can too - and he’d spend the rest of his life making sure you’ll keep feeling it.

You’re both sated, his arm slung across your shoulder, holding you against his chest with the curve of his forearm despite the slick of sweat coating your bodies. Maybe it’s too hot, but neither of you say anything. No, it feels perfect.

Daryl doesn’t stop his stare as he watches you slowly doze off, a reminder you’re here with him - no longer a fantasy he chases. You’re light in his mind and presence, and a flood of pure affection crashes through him, letting your slow breaths lull him into a slumber.

That night, the two of you sleep better than either of you have in weeks. Maybe even months.

And when Daryl wakes up barely before you, the smile that plasters over your face the second you see him makes his heart stop, the overwhelm of affection taking hold of him. You’re both late to relieve the previous watch shift - rendered helpless to the desire of being tangled in the sheets again - but when the two of you manage to pull yourselves together enough, you take him by his hand and lead him to the walls, a swing in your step he’s sure he’s reflecting as he watches you.

God, you’re so beautiful to him - so bright.

You’re just like sunshine.

@daryldixonluv @pulplorrd @fuseburner @hells-mistress @marylimlp @tinachristeen @hail-yourselves @whimsicallymad @just-always-tired @phoenixblack89​ @in-ky @riverscyberwife @jocyc1997 @avesxtxnas @candice666 @angryunicornlady @caelys @akilababs @rhyrhy462 @strawvberrymilktae​ @queendragon0614 @howdoiwork​ @burritoplant

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[salemwritesxx]

𝓽𝓸𝓰𝓮𝓽𝓱𝓮𝓻.

𝕋 𝕒 𝕜 𝕒 𝕞 𝕚  𝕂 𝕖 𝕚 𝕘 𝕠  |  ℍ 𝕒 𝕨 𝕜 𝕤

     ⇴ male reader      ⇴ all characters are depicted as [18]+

↳ request: Can you write a story where pregnant hawks goes into labor and gives birth? I just wanna know the whole process for him and what he would be feeling

↣ rating: mature ↣ warnings: male pregnancy, c-section surgery

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“[Your.last.name]-san, we really need to prepare-“

“Just 5 more minutes! Pleas-“, though being interrupted by another contraction made it hard to talk.

His legs and arms were shaking as he was leaning against the bed, trying to breath like he was taught to. Hawks’ wings losing small fluffy, red feathers all over the hospital floor with how nervous and in pain he was.

“He’ll be here soon… Just a little…”

And even though the nurse didn’t look too happy and rather concerned, she nodded again and left the room. She could give him a little bit more time, but not much…

Grabbing the phone, Hawks called you again, yet, once again, you didn’t pick up. With a whine, he threw the phone back onto the bed. Beads of sweat trickling over his forehead and dropping onto the sheets as another contraction made him wince and quietly whimper.

God, he was going to kill you if you wouldn’t come here soon!

Though, before he could throw even more curse words at you, the door opened and a familiar face made his heart jump. Just like that, he broke down with a sob. It was unusual for Keigo to cry, but seeing you finally here was just too much. The situation was so overwhelming. He was about to get surgery to meet your new baby and then-

But, as you rushed to his side and hugged him, he just snuggled into you. Everything already forgotten as he melted into your arms.

“It took too long!”, he whined and sobbed, another contraction making him wince.

“I know, I’m sorry, Baby. But I’m here now. I’m here.”, you reassured him, before finally calling the nurse once more.

It was time to deliver your baby girl.

-

Watching as you stayed back as he rolled into the OR was hard. But Keigo knew it was only for a few minutes before he was going to see you again. With a little bit of help from a nurse, he stood up from the bed and sat down onto the operating table.

Sitting there hunched over, he hugged a pillow as a nurse held his shoulders. Another nurse softly, but firmly, pushed his wings to the side. A small hiss escaped his throat as they started the lidocaine shots. Four altogether. They were pretty painful, even though he was used to getting beat up as a hero, it still stung and burned. Like that, Keigo had to breathe through it, not even able to react to any of the attempts the nurse made to try and distract him from the pain by trying some small talk.

Thankfully, he did not feel the spinal block anymore due to the lidocaine kicking in almost immediately. At that point though, everything happened so fast as he had to bring his legs up onto the operating table before he completely lost any feeling whatsoever in them because of the spinal anesthesia.

With a pillow under his head and soft blankets to keep him warm, as well as his wings being tucked away comfortably, he laid there for a few minutes until he got his catheter. And then, once that was over, they put the sterile curtain up and he finally saw you again.

As you sat down besides Hawks’ head with the appropriate attire to be in the operating room, he immediately searched for your hand, hence you took and squeezed it gently.

“You okay, Shortcake?”, you kissed the back of his hand.

He just nodded while looking around the sterile room once again. The bright lights and stark walls were a little daunting. And even though he wasn’t cold or that scared, just nervous and intimidated, Hawks couldn’t stop shaking.

Though, thankfully, the anesthesiologist calmed both of your minds when they said it was a side effect from the anesthesia. So, you just squeezed his hand more and kissed his little fingers over and over again.

“I love, Baby, you’re amazing.”, reaching out your other hand, you softly wiped a wet strand of hair from his forehead.

“You’re doing so good. I’m so proud of you, Kei.”

And then, with one last check of his name and birthday, they started. Immediately, Hawks felt tugging and pulling and a lot of pressure. Nothing the anesthesiologist hadn’t told him beforehand, but it was still a weird feeling. As if random people were grabbing his baby bump and just pulling it side to side. Not painful, but very strange nonetheless.

“You’re so amazing, Shortcake. We will meet our little baby girl soon. I’m so excited.”

A crooked, but genuine smile appeared as he sniffled and nodded lightly.

“Me too.”

He was so grateful that you were there. Kei knew he couldn’t have done it without you, even if they probably would have forced him in the end if you wouldn’t have made it in time. But now he didn’t need to worry about that anymore. You were there, holding his hand and being with him while something amazing and almost… surreal was going on down there. Like shit… You were going to meet your little chicken nugget in a few minutes!

The anesthesiologist checked in here and there, making sure Hawks was still doing fine. Which, thankfully, he was. He didn’t feel any pain, just lots of pressure. And his nerves had calmed down to a point where he didn’t feel sick anymore.

“Okay, Baby’s coming out now!”, the doctor in charge suddenly said, hence you squeezed his hand a little tighter.

With just that sentence alone Hawks’ nervousness peaked once again. His emotions all over the place once more. He took a deep breath and grabbed your hand really hard. Though all he could feel was the pressure and before he could really realize what was happening, they lifted your baby up into the air. That’s when you could both see her for the first time. Immediately, he had to swallow his sob as he watched his little girl.

One glance to you was also enough to make him want to cry out of happiness. Your own eyes were glazed as you tried to hold back tears, while a big, happy smile appeared on your face.

“[Your.name]…”, Keigo barely sniffled your name.

“You did amazing, Baby. So amazing.”, you both looked to the side to the small table as they got some fluids out of her lungs and stomach, nothing serious thankfully, just to double-check. The crying of her making his heart ache, because all he wanted to do was grab her and love her already.

Fortunately, the table was only a few meters away, hence he could watch them all the time as they cleaned and weighed your baby. And after just a few minutes, a nurse brought the swaddled girl over and that’s when he could finally hold her for the first time.

That certainly was the most magical moment. With you by his side, the baby on his chest, it was intimate and beautiful.

“Well, she is just as tiny as her Daddy, huh?”, you chuckled and kissed his forehead while softly caressing her small cheek.

Hawks could just nod and smile, before he looked up and whispered “I love you.” with tears in his eyes.

“I love you, too.”, you mumbled back and pecked his lips.

Even though he didn’t want to let go, a nurse gently pulled you away from him together with your little girl.

“Everything will be over soon.”, you reassured him one last time, before you walked out and into the hospital room he had been assigned to.

And while you had your little one-on-one moment with your baby, Hawks was nervously waiting for it to end as they closed his wound and got him situated again.

It took almost 40 minutes where he was alone in the operating room and just craving to be by your side and hold his baby, that he couldn’t help but cry in the middle of it. All of this was a very emotional experience. It was an emotional rollercoaster, really.

Though, when he was laying naked and vulnerable on the hospital bed again, as they had stripped him of the hospital gown completely, he finally came out of the operating room and into his assigned room. Covered in warm blankets to keep his small, yet so incredibly strong body warm. His mood instantly better when he saw you sitting on a chair and holding your baby girl.

You stood up immediately and walked over once he was ready and the nurses left you alone for just a few moments. Softly placing the little one onto his naked chest, Hawks held her again in a tight, yet gentle grip, as if he never wanted to let go again.

He was groggy, but so happy. The selfie you took showed you both beaming with happiness. A photo you would forever treasure.

“She is beautiful.”

“She is. Our sweet little Ava.”, you whispered back and kissed his forehead.

“You are really… the most amazing man I know, Kei. I love you so much.”

And as he grinned from ear to ear with how happy he was, his golden eyes filled with tears and shimmered as he whispered those love-filled words back. So incredibly thankful that everything turned out alright and he could hold Ava in his arms and have you by his side now.

He knew it would get tough from here on out. Not only because he had to recover from this big surgery, which meant you had to take care of Ava almost alone in the first few weeks, (which was pretty hard for him, because he wasn’t someone to just lay down and let everyone serve him), but also because family life was going to be so new. Yet, he was also excited. To experience this with you, because he could have not wanted any other man by his side right now, than you.

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@salemwritesxx || do not repost, edit, modify or translate my works

⇻ salem.talks: this request came in like two days ago? and yeah like i said, i saw it and knew i had to write it! i loved it! such an intimate moment with our birb boy is just lovely, no? 💌 and i have lots of fun finding names for the baby that have something to do with birds or flying or something lmao

[blahkugo]

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katsuki bakugo — worship kink

wc: 1.9k

cw: oral (cunni), seems like dubcon at first but it’s not at all, this is pretty tame for me tbh ( ˘ ³˘)♥︎

“Try me.”

They had been fighting words, spoken to provoke a reaction and nothing else. Katsuki was so sure of his strength, so utterly convinced that your quirk would have no effect on him. It didn’t matter that he’d seen it in action, watched as mountainous men and women were reduced to rubbles of their former selves. The Number Two Hero was tougher than a rookie’s feminine wiles, had to be.

And he was—at first.

The practice match had gone on like countless others, Katsuki deflecting every kick or stab thrown his way, shooting off small explosions that only roughly missed their mark. He’d been taking it easy on you, dragging on the fight until your inevitable forfeit. He’s unsure why he even bothers asking you to partake in these private spars when you never bother with your quirk; Katsuki always wins.

It wasn’t until that first rush of blood, the unmistakable tightness of his uniform, that he realized his mistake.

“Seems you’ve got a,” your brow quirks as you glance downwards, “small problem.” The taunt is thrown his way with a cackle—high-pitched and nasty—sending a cold sweat down Katsuki’s back. The mere sound of your voice spurs him to anger, clouds his vision and urges him to prove you dreadfully wrong. The dig at his size doesn’t go by unnoticed either.

Heat blooms and crests within his chest, tides rising and falling. One moment he’s ablaze, unable to breathe, much less think, as he struggles to fight through it. Seconds later, the fire is quelled, replaced by a rose-colored twinge that fogs the corners of his vision and renders him helpless against his rising concern for your safety.

With every one of your throwing knives flung his way, a rude laugh or jeer is quick to follow, and yet, your voice is soft around the edges, sinfully sweet notes prickling at Katsuki’s ears and settling deep in his gut.

Try as he might to focus on the battle at hand, Katsuki realizes he’s unable to suppress the ever-growing bulge in his pants. The nagging feeling isn’t one of the superiority complex Katsu’s grown accustomed to, isn’t the need to put someone in their place purely to assert his dominance. There’s an enticement to it, a longing to prove himself to you, to show you he’s worthy of your gaze. His punches and kicks lose their gall and– fuck, did he just take a hit on purpose?

Of course he did; he doesn’t want to hurt you, wouldn’t risk harming such a precious, ethereal being.

He goes on like this for a while, in waves of disoriented, amateur mistakes and reprieves of chastisements. He knows better than this—is better than this. But it seems the harder he struggles, the tighter your grip on him becomes.

And it isn’t just his mind. Katsuki can’t slow his heart when he glances at your pillowy thighs, bare and dripping with beads of hard-earned sweat. He can’t stop his cock from twitching when he notices the quick rise and fall of your chest, scantily-clad and practically begging to be touched.

From the edges of your fingers to the steel-tipped toes of your boots, everything about you drips seduction, compelling Katsuki to drink from the poisoned glass. Desire grips him by the throat, parches him, and burns harder and brighter than any explosion he could ever attempt to spark.

“Lust,” he finally finds the strength to choke out, calling out to you as he drops to his knees, “enough.”

The use of your hero name—as opposed to the colorful assortment of insults he usually calls you—must be enough to spark concern, because you immediately discard your throwing knives and crouch at his side. He doesn’t immediately notice you, his gut still heavy and pulsing with need.

Despite the pain, he isn’t quite sure whether he wants you to turn off the damn quirk or keep it on long enough to fix the mess you’ve gotten him into.

“Bakugo?” There’s no hint of triumph in your tone, no gloating or celebration of your ambitious victory. It’s sympathy, braided through your scrunched brows and stamped into your tooth-torn bottom lip.

It makes him furious.

In seconds, he flips you beneath him, back hitting the mat with a soft thud. “Bakugo?” You repeat, seemingly stunned by his sudden change, mouth agape as he removes his gloves. “What are you—”

And then, his lips are on you, slick with sweat and spit, the kiss all tongue and teeth as he attempts to quench the insatiable thirst you caused. He doesn’t know what to expect, but when your hands wrap through his matted locks to pull him closer, he’s satisfied; he’s worthy. If the drink is poisoned, so be it.

Katsuki allows his hands to roam as they yearned to earlier, running rough fingertips down the sticky skin of your neck. They travel further to trace circles against your heart and further still, until he grazes at pebbled nipples.

“Mmph.” Your mewl is muffled against him as you tap at his shoulder, most likely asking for a second to breathe. How long has it been since he came up for air? Katsuki’s unable to shake the fuzz clouding his brain, hand-spun sugar on your tongue keeping him placid.

When he finally lifts his head from yours, he’s unable to tear his gaze from the string of spit connecting you, even going as far as running a digit across your swollen lips. Your chest still shakes, your eyes glazed over. Bliss. Does your power affect you as well, or is he not giving himself as much credit as he should?

He’ll be damned if he allows you to upstage him yet again.

“Turn it off,” he grunts, surprised at the hoarseness of his own voice. You don’t quite answer, just offer a tilt your head and a sickly sweet, ‘hm?’ that has the blonde itching to leave you breathless again. “Shut off your damned quirk.”

At that, you let out a soft chuckle, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling his face towards you once more. Your lips ghost the shell of his ear, sucking at it until he lets out a weary breath. Chills travel Katsuki’s body when your sultry voice whispers,

“Baby,” another twitch of his cock, another chill at the pet name, “I stopped using it ages ago.”

It’s all he needs to hear to pounce.

In seconds, his lips are all over you again—drinking that sweet, sweet nectar as his tongue slides against yours. It’s dizzying, mind-numbing, far more intoxicating than the charm of any quirk; even more so when he peppers kisses down your jaw and neck, the sweat-soaked skin offering the perfect balance.

The rough blonde sucks lower, and lower still, peeling off your bodysuit as he travels your hills and valleys. When you’re finally bare, he pauses to stare, a poor sinner basking in the divine for the very first time. And you? You simply relish in his attention, don’t rush him along or cover yourself from his prying eyes.

“Fuck,” he sighs, brushing a digit lazily across your waist. Your body pebbles at the contact, shivering lightly beneath him. “All for me.” He nudges your legs apart, crouching low so he’s eye to eye with your pretty cunt. “And this,” he runs a finger against your slit, watches as it glistens over with your slick, “this is all because of me.”

“Ah– Katsuki.” He smirks when your hips jerk, silently searching for more. “Please.”

Who’d allow a deity to ask twice?

He tongues you with fervor, taking his sweet time to savor every part of you. It begins with your thighs, bruised a pretty purple in the shape of Katsuki’s mouth, closer and closer to where you need him most. No matter how much you gripe and whine, threading your fingers through his wiry hair to nudge him towards your cunt, he doesn’t let up. You’re not getting off that easily—and besides, a proper oblation requires precious time and patience.

A long stripe up your slit, slow and steady, his tongue flattened against you to sop up every bit of you. He wants to be soaked, wants you to see him covered and gleaming in your essence, to know how long he’s longed for this moment. When he suckles at your clit, sparks prickle his own body, reveling in the low mewls of his name—the littles ‘ah’s and ‘oh god’s that spill from your mouth like a mantra.

Of course, Katsuki can’t quell the throbbing of his cockhead beneath his pants. He’s always been a taker, and the desire is relentless, every slight shift of his body causing him to groan, every lap at your slit making him scrunch his brows together and sigh against your bundle of nerves. But he simply settles for rutting against the mat, unable to sacrifice your pleasure—the obscene parting of your lips, the glazed over look in your eyes as you stare down at him—for his own.

“M’so—,” you whimper, panting, “so close.” Your legs tremble, thighs pressed tight against either side of his face, smothering him so that everything sounds a bit muffled. “Keep, ah- fuck, keep fucking going.”

Something about the vulgarities slipping from your lips only makes Katsuki hungrier, urging him to lap harder at you—and hump faster against the mat. At this point, the two of you are a true mess, drenched in slick and sweat and too much heat, but the sloppiness leaves him light-headed, aching for more.

“Wanna see you,” his voice is gruff and sharp as he rubs circles into your clit with the pad of his thumb, “cum all over me, princess.”

Maybe it’s the pet name, or perhaps the pressure in your gut has finally come to a head, but his wish is your command. Within seconds, you’re gushing on his tongue, crying out a long, repeated string of ‘fuck,’ and ‘oh god, yes.’

Katsuki fucks you through it, feeling the coil in his own gut pulled taut and ready to snap. The entire time, he doesn’t stop rutting against the mat, disregarding how needy he must look to you. When he cums, he does so with a loud groan, lips pressed around your clit even as you tug him away with shaky hands. The taste of you, the flash of white that sears through him, could keep him going forever.

“I can’t.” Your heels dig into his back, pushing him closer even as you surrender, “N-need a second.”

The plea seems to snap him out of his haze, glancing up at you to see tears streaking your cheeks and a soft, fucked out smile plastered across your face. “Oh God,” you mumble, hands moving to cover your eyes, “your face.”

Katsuki only raises a brow and grins wolfishly, swiping the back of his hand at his chin and his tongue across his lips to lap up what you left behind. “My face is fine. Prefer it this way, actually.”

Then he’s moving again, rising to pick you up into his arms even as you slap at his shoulder and squeal,

“Where the hell are we going?”

“The showers,” he responds cooly, smirk still glued to his face, “Need to test the limits of your quirk.”

Maybe he’ll power through it, maybe you’ll overpower him once again; he wins either way.

[urlkssknt]

nanami kento x fem!reader (2.9k)

nsfw!! mdi!!

warnings; unprotected sex, it’s just very soft and vanilla

a/n; this is a scene from a series i might write, i’m not sure if i want to commit to it, please let me know your thoughts, feedback is much appreciated!

The marriage announcement caught you off guard, it felt like someone had thrown you into the deep end of a pool and you didn't know how to swim, drowning slowly in the snarky whispers from the attendants of the party that reached your ear - wasn't he married to Y/n? Poor girl, I wouldn't be able to show my face if I was her. Many eyes around the room turned towards you in anticipation, waiting for some display of anger or a rage-induced outburst. Much to their disappointment, you stood your ground. You wouldn’t let the perfectly crafted mask fall from your face, especially not now, you couldn’t let the woman, who held a leash over your ex, know she caused an effect on you.

From a distance over, Satoru watched you closely through the peripheral of his sharp vision, you leaned further into the dark long haired man standing beside you to whisper something into his ear. Suguru handed you a small rectangular box discreetly. He was equally as shocked as you. Satoru expected Toji to pull a stunt like this, maybe another pregnancy announcement or a business merger. He never expected it to be announced publicly, in a Gojou family setting. Whilst claps of congratulations sounded around the hall, Gojou's cold gaze threw daggers towards your ex-husband, standing beside your parents with a hand on the waist of his fiancée. The sight of gleaming smiles across your parent’s faces made Satoru feel sick to his stomach. The white haired man also took a mental note of the people who seemed genuinely happy for the wretched couple. Those people didn't realise that they had gotten onto Gojou Satoru's bad side and ruined any promising positive relationship with the businessman.

There was a chill in the evening air as you stood on the balcony, you were grateful no one else was outside to witness the devastation on your face, only the night sky being witness to the single teardrop that fell along the expanse of your cheek. The cold air nipped at the bare skin of your arms and neck, raising the fine hairs which run all along your skin. As a thought of regret for not bringing a jacket along with you popped into your mind, you opened the cigarette packet that Suguru handed to you, bringing one up to your lips to rest as you fish for a lighter in your purse, praying that you had one despite having quit the disgusting habit years ago.

The temperature of the chilling air around you rises as a warming presence pressed against your back, you only relax when the familiar scent of rich cologne mixed with cinnamon infiltrates your senses, allowing yourself to melt into the heated hands that run along your naked arms.

"Do you even have a lighter?" Kento questions as you continue to search through your bag, which was so small, the blond was sceptical about it being big enough to fit any necessities.

Peering up through your lashes, your azure eyes narrowed at him as your lips formed into a deep scowl. Kento was right, you didn’t have a lighter, specifically for scenarios like this, where your fingers are itching to grab at the first intoxicant to cloud your mind. Smoking would help calm the stress that scratches the walls of your brain as the tobacco fills your bloodstream.

“Suguru probably has one-“ you mutter under your breath, speaking with the white stick sitting comfortably between your lips before a hand quickly reaches for it and throws the small object off the balcony, out of sight and out of reach. “What the hell-“ there was little time to process the sudden action as your words are cut short with kento’s palms encasing your face to tilt your head slightly and allow him to lower his lips onto yours in a short kiss. The anger that rushed through your veins quickly dissolved, leaving as fast as it was produced.

A small smile creeped along your lips, “maybe I should take up smoking again.”

Kento couldn’t help the chuckle that let up his throat, his eyes crinkling in the same way that the twin’s did. His hands dropped from your face to hold your hips over the silk material, pulling you closer towards him, your breasts pressing against his chest.

“Let's get out of here.”

Earlier, before he followed your footsteps to check on you, Kento felt a strong grip latch on his arm to prevent him from moving further. The culprit was your brother. Satoru held an intimidating aura, his sapphire eyes bearing a look cold enough to pierce skin. The older man whispered short words to Nanami, advising him to take you away from the party, in order to protect you.

As Kento was texting the babysitter he had hired for the night, making sure his kids were safely sleeping in their beds, you were checking in with the two Zen’in girls that were looking after Megumi for the night. Maki and Mai loved spending time with you, when you announced the divorce with their cousin, they were undeniably upset, not because Toji’s heart was broken but it meant they wouldn’t be able to see you as often.

It wasn't as difficult as you thought it might be to locate the hotel room. Thankfully, both of you were in a conscious state of mind, avoiding the sparkling alcoholic beverages being served in crystal flutes. The hand on the curve of your waist held you close to Kento’s embrace. Just from a short glance, any onlooker would be able to know you were his, there was a loving atmosphere surrounding you two which was hard to miss, from the pearly smile painting your glossy lips to the radiant sparkling of gold among the hues of brown. The booked room was found quickly. Anticipation began to bubble in your stomach, you felt excited to spend the night with such a handsome man, again.

All of your hair was pushed to one side on your shoulder, exposing the tender flesh of your neck. A beautiful and plain canvas just waiting to be painted with deep and dark shades of pinks and purples. The plain sight caused a stir in Kento’s mind, he desired to mark you, in a way he knew no one ever would. Acting on impulse, the father of two kissed a spot where your neck met your shoulder so lightly it felt like petals brushing against your skin. A smirk found its home along Kento’s lips when you craned your head to the side, offering more of yourself to him. The innocent kisses progressed into deep bites, a sudden sharp nip against your pulse point causing a gasp to slip into the air. You couldn’t care less if a horrible bruise formed from Kento's lustful ministrations, his scent clouded your mind like a drug, your thoughts swirling into nothing. Your attention was fixated on the hands wandering from their place on your hips to groping your breasts through the silken material of your dress, sending arsoul to pool in your panties.

A deep timbre tone filled your ears, you turned to face the man speaking. “Would you like to know my new favourite colour?” Kento doesn’t wait for your answer, his hands squeeze at your chest again with more pressure, sadly eliciting another gasp from your lips. The corners of Kento's lips turn downwards ever so slightly, he had hoped that his ears would have been graced with a moan. “Sage green.”

The blond guides you to the queen-sized bed, lined with the finest material he had ever seen, Kento didn’t expect anything less from your brother, who handed him the key card. The hotel room was grand, almost as big as his own apartment, which was quite large.

Kento sits himself against the headboard with his suit jacket and tie discarded somewhere on the floor, falling victim to your travelling hands, eager to undress him. The clothing was no longer his concern as you situated yourself in his lap, thick thighs straddling his waist the best you could in the confinement of your dress. “Tonight,” Kento's eyes move from the swells of your breasts, your cleavage in his direct eye line, to meet your gleaming eyes. He was surprised to find his own reflection in them. “I'm yours.” The words felt heavy on his tongue and heart, it felt like he was confessing to you again, proving to himself that it was you that his heart yearns for.

Slowly, you clamber off of the blond man’s lap without voicing your intentions, not missing how his hands reach out to hold onto you for a moment longer, you giggle lightly at the display of clinginess, never expecting such a stoic man to behave like that. It was refreshing. It reassured the persistent whispers in the back of your mind that Kento wanted you like you wanted him. as you stood at the foot of the bed, you kicked off your nude heels, dropping your height by a few inches. A laugh fell upon your ears, Kento was amused, his smile hidden from your eyes behind his palm. However, the light atmosphere shifted when the sound of a zipper filled the room. Swiftly, the dress dropped to the floor from the pull of gravity, leaving you exposed except for the black lace thong, which barely hid anything from his eyes. Kento wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse.

Finally, it was your turn to smirk when your sharp eyes caught the growing tent of Kento's trousers.

Slowly, you crawled along the bedsheets at an agonising pace, it felt like hours before you finally reached your destination. Within an instant, you felt two large palms squeeze at the pudgy skin of your hips. You couldn’t help but press your hands against Kento's chest, fingers running aimlessly as you met his lips, kissing him with such desire, as if you had planned to devour him.

“Do you know what good boys get, Mister Nanami?” you say in a sultry tone, the touches of the small pads of your fingertips tracing unrecognisable shapes along his chest becoming distractive.

The words registered into the blond’s mind, you had previously asked the same question to the three toddlers, in hopes of containing their erratic behaviour in the kitchen. This should have been degrading, yet, despite using the childish question, a rational voice in Kento’s mind screamed at him to just give in for once.

“Rewards,” it was the same answer Sukuna gave you, it was the correct answer. However, Kento's voice only managed to speak just above a breath, finding himself unable to trust his own voice.

“Well done daddy,” you praised him with a sweet kiss, a shiver running up his neck, before making an effort to unbutton the shirt, “treat me nicely and I’ll reward you.”

All the remaining pieces of clothing were thrown off hurriedly, desperate to feel the pure heat of Kento's unbelievably hot body. It stunned you how he was constantly warm, maybe you could make him your personal heater.

Kento couldn’t help but groan loudly as your hips grinded against his dick, coating him with your wetness, he felt himself throbbing against your folds, ever so desperate to fill you to the brim. As if reading his mind, the teasing touches paused as you lined your entrance up with his cock, only after giving the hard member a few pumps with your hand. The broad shoulders of the businessman were used as an anchor, you cling onto him desperately as you sink onto his dick. In the span of a few hours, you had completely forgotten the thickness of kento’s sex, surprising yourself as you struggle to relax yourself to take him in. Wanton moans fell from both parties as you stayed still for a few seconds to get used to the burn from his fat cock stretching you. The hands on your waist squeeze tightly to help Kento ground himself from rutting up into you. Being enveloped with your warm cunt felt too good, especially when the gummy walls clamped around him, you were all he could think about.

Just from the position alone, the soft tissue of nerves which caused you to see stars were grazed upon, you couldn’t stop the moan escaping from your lips. “I could cum like this,” you relish in the feeling of the palms coaxing the movement of your hips and the mouth that latches onto your mound. A sharp nip against your peak leads to you arching into Kento's mouth, desperate for more of his touches. Despite spending the night before together, the pair of you couldn’t get enough of each other. Not when your tits would bounce as you raised your hips and begin a steady rhythm of grinding against Kento’s lap, each slam against his hips hitting a spot that causes your head to spin. The vision of you on top of him, riding his cock like your life depended on it, spurred the coil tightening in the pit of his stomach. The wetness that pooled between your thighs now began to drip down onto the pelvis of the man below you. A mixture of juices squelching and low moans sounded throughout the room. You had no time to feel embarrassed by the pornographic noises as you desperately chased your high.

“You’re making me feel so good angel,” a sense of pride blooms in Kento's chest as he feels you clenching around him from his praise. His hands stretched lower to graze his fingers over your ass, they latched onto you, his nails creating deep crevices in the area that would still be there in the morning.

You could no longer think straight, completely drunk off of Kento's cock, filling you up so well you wished he’d never leave. A numbness started to form in your thighs, creating a painful burn as you continued to move up and down, pushing through the pain and reaching for your high. From the hand gripping his hair and the way your walls were spasming, Kento knew you were so close to cumming, you just needed a little push. The brush of his thumb circling your clit leans you over the edge and causes your orgasm to hit you like a wave. Kento groaned loudly as you creamed his cock and gripped onto him like a vice. The man felt kind enough to let you catch your breath, he was still painfully hard and so close to his own high.

“As much as I’d like to be rewarded,” a cheeky smile spread through Kento’s lips, chocolate eyes sparkling at you with excitement. His playful and cheery expression leaves as quick as it comes, you almost whine in protest as he uses his strength to pull you off of his lap, and gently lays you down against the bed. The giddy look in Kento's eyes darkens to a lustful stare as your blown out eyes meet his. “Daddy wants to cum, so be a good girl and help daddy out.”

It hadn’t been longer than a few moments since your climax, you had barely calmed down. Without a second thought, Kento thrusts into your sopping entrance, your cum still coating his dick which makes it easier for him to slide back into your cavernous walls. A cry emmits from you due to the overstimulation. The feeling of being filled up again overtook the discomfort you experienced, it felt so good that you could cry from it, it was as if kento was made to fit inside your cunt so deliciously. The hands on your hips migrate to your thighs, pushing them up so that your knees are almost next to your head. Somehow, the angle of the position allows Kento to hit deeper into you.

“Fu- fuck,” your mind is lost for words as it completely blanks, no longer have the ability to form a coherent sentence.

A layer of sweat covers the blond’s body. The slapping sound returns as Kento's heavy balls hit against you with every rut. It was astonishing that the bed frame didn’t move with his frantic movements. Each thrust of his hips were more calculated than the next, earning a cry from you each time as his cockhead continuously came into contact with your g-spot. Kento knew he’d only be able to last through a few more thrusts. From the way your thighs quivered, your second orgasm was closer than he thought.

“Cum with me angel,” Kento's lips found yours in a haste of teeth clashing against each other, desperate to feel closer to you. As soon as the coaxing words fall on your ear, your walls clench around him as another climax ripples through you, this one hitting you much harder. The tension finally snapped, a growl ripped through his throat, no longer being able to hold back, as ropes of his cum shot inside your pussy, hips faltering slightly.

Your eyes flutter shut from exhaustion, trying your best to catch your breath and calm your erratic heart. Gentle hands help drop your legs so they could wrap around Kento’s waist instead of being folded in the air. Kento noticed the drowsy haze you were in. He took it upon himself to find a towel in the bathroom to clean up the mess between your thighs. Exerting his strength, the stoic man helps you to move into the sheets, the cold air no longer able to nip at your naked body.

“We need to buy plan b,” you shifted yourself close to Kento.

A kiss is pressed to the crown of your head. “We can worry about that in the morning.”

[miyagihawk]

why’d you only call me when you’re high? pt. 2 | eli “hawk” moskowitz x reader

part one

here’s part 2 by popular demand! based off the arctic monkeys song and amazing request by @deadbeatharlz <3 thank you guys for the support on part 1 im so happy you liked it :)

warnings: self harming behavior, LOTS of swearing, alcohol and drug abuse, sooo so angstyyyy buckle up

summary: it’s been 3 months since your last night with hawk, and you haven’t been yourself.

word count: 3,062



The past 3 months have been rough. Maybe the worst you’ve ever been. You fell into the deep hole that you dug yourself. The hole of loving Hawk Moskowitz.

You never thought you’d be one of those people who let unrequited love devastate their whole being. In fact you always thought the whole heartbreak thing was pathetic and melodramatic. Until it happened to you.

You hate yourself for letting him have this effect on you. But there’s a pestering voice in the back of your mind that reminds you: it’s all your fault. He didn’t ask you to love him. It’s just easier to blame him for your downfall.

Parties, drugs, alcohol. Sex with people you don’t even know. High on the same drug that compelled him to call you in the night.

You’ve become so desperate to forget him that you ruined yourself. It hurts your pride to be the whiny heartbroken girl who let a stupid boy’s rejection shatter her self worth. But the hole is too deep and there’s no hope trying to grasp onto the dirt walls to get out.

The worst part of it is that he sees it all. At school, (if you even go) he looks at you like the scum of the earth as he passes by with his little karate gang. When you end up at the same party, he’ll have a disgusted expression on his face and leave as if he can’t bare to look at you. 

Tonight is one of those nights, and you watch him from across the backyard as he goofs around with his friends. He hasn’t noticed you yet, hence why he’s even still here and not on his way out the door to get away from you.

“If you stare at him any longer, I think he’ll shoot up into flames,” your best friend Robby hands you a cup, and you don’t hesitate before downing its unknown contents. The burn in your throat makes you hum with content.

“That’s the plan,” you take your eyes of off Hawk to look at Robby. You gesture to his own cup in his hand, “Are you gonna drink that?”

“Easy there, Y/N. We got here 5 minutes ago,” he warns, but holds out the drink towards you anyway. Robby’s always been worried about you and your habits, but he knows how you can be when you’re told no.

You swallow down the drink in a few seconds, ignoring his remark. “5 minutes? I can beat my record!” you cheer sarcastically, and start walking to the kitchen in search of a keg. Robby follows closely behind you, a wary look on his face.

The fuzzy feeling starts to take over your body as you throw back drink after drink. It’s the buzz you crave every second of every day because it just makes you feel so good. Everything is happier and your cares feel so far away. Hawk feels so far away.

You sit on the couch next to Robby in your dazed trance, drunkenly rambling to him about random things. He glares at anyone who comes near you and looks like they would take advantage of you in your state.

Robby really hates you like this, but he can’t help but feel protective over you. He’s not even a fan of parties; he really only goes to keep an eye on you. You’re grateful even though you act like you hate it when he babysits you.

“Heyyy pretty Y/N! Want some?” Yasmine approaches where you sit, a joint held between her fingers. Her eyes are drooped and she sways as she stands.

You reach out to take the blunt, but you feel Robby push your arm down. “You’re already drunk. That’s enough,” he says sternly, making you roll your eyes.

“I can do what I want, Dad,” you taunt, and take the joint from Yasmine. Smoke fills up your lungs, immediately giving you pleasure. Robby just shakes his head in disapproval as the air around him becomes hazy.

“I’m going to the bathroom. Stay here,” he orders, getting up from the couch.

You nod, but of course, you don’t listen. The sound of splashing from outside sets off a lightbulb above your head and you feel like you’re floating while you walk to the backyard.

Right as you step out of the house, you make eye contact with none other than Hawk. He gives you a distasteful look like always, before turning back to his group. Asshole.

You just scoff and stumble towards the pool, where a couple is making out and a few people are drunkenly playing with the water like little kids.

Reaching the edge of the pool’s rim, you let yourself fall in with a splash. You feel the pressure in your ears start to build as you sink to the bottom. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re cross faded, but being underwater feels like a world of bliss.

The loud music of the party is muted, creating a sense of serenity. The legs of the other people in the pool make you laugh to yourself, sending bubbles from your mouth to the surface. It’s glittery and pretty and you want to stay forever.

You don’t know how long you’re under there for, but you don’t notice your lungs running out of air. It just feels good to be alone for a second. Next thing you know, you feel your eyes start to droop closed; a strange peace overcoming your body.

A loud thrashing noise in the water makes you wake up with a gasp. You swallow too much water as you feel someone grab hold of your arm. It’s all a blur and you’re being pulled up to the surface, taking you away from the tranquil world you were just in.

The music is pounds against your ears again and the air is cold on your skin. You feel your body being laid down on the concrete of the poolside, but everything feels numb. You just feel sleepy and you want to close your eyes again.

“Y/N, hey, wake up. Wake up,” a voice makes your eyes shoot back open. Someone is looking down at you, with a hand shaking your shoulder. Your vision is somewhat blurry, but the mohawk gives it away. It’s him.

You suddenly become aware of the large amount of water in your lungs and you turn over to your side to cough it up. After you get it all out, you notice the people at the party looking at you with eyes of pity mixed with judgement.

“What the fuck were you doing? You could’ve died, are you fucking stupid?” Hawk curses, but even in your inebriated state you can hear a hint of worry in his voice.

You sit up to face him. He looks angry; his clothes and hair are as wet as yours.

Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen in your brain, or maybe it’s the marijuana and alcohol, but you just feel the urge to laugh. So you do. Like a complete maniac. The way he probably just saved your life like he cares is sickly comedic to you.

His face twists in confusion as you break out into a fit of giggles. “Are you serious? You’re fucking insane, Y/N,” he gets up, shaking his head at you. He gives a glare to the people staring, and they look away in fear.

You think he’s going to leave like usual, but he surprises you by grabbing your arm to pull you up. People whisper amongst themselves as he drags you through the backyard, going through a gate that leads to front of the house. You trip over your own feet, still feeling dizzy from almost drowning, but he just pulls you along.

“What are you doing?” you ask, tugging on your arm to try and release it from the tight grip he has on you. You’re both dripping chlorinated water, leaving a track of drops on the concrete below.

“You’re going home Y/N,” he says sternly. You two arrive at his car and he opens the passenger door. “Get in.”

“Hey!” a voice yells from the house and you both turn to see Robby rushing towards the car. He looks pissed, and now you remember him telling you to stay put. Shit.

“Robby I-”

“Don’t get in there with him Y/N,” he says, sending a death stare to the boy next to you.

“I’m taking her home, Keene, so back the fuck off. Get in Y/N,” Hawk snaps, clenching his fists.

You keep quiet, not wanting to add to the fire already starting. They loathe each other; if not because of the karate rivalry, then because of you. To Robby, Hawk broke your heart and made you spiral. To Hawk, Robby is the piece of shit who he thinks is your boyfriend, and he won’t admit it but he’s jealous.

“You’re not driving her, asshole. You’re probably as drunk as her,” Robby reaches to take your arm, but Hawk pulls you back.

“You don’t know shit about me, Keene. I’ve been sober for three months, so yeah, I will drive her,” Hawk picks you up like you’re a doll, placing you in the passenger seat and closing the door. You don’t resist, you just feel tired and your head starts to pound as if the mix of drugs in your system are punishing you. The window’s down, so you can still hear the two boys loud and clear.

I’ve been sober for three months, his voice echoes in your head.

“Oh so now you care so much about her? It’s your fault she’s like this!” Robby raises his voice even more, starting to move towards Hawk threateningly. You begin to feel scared that a physical fight might actually break out, but you don’t know what to do.

“I’m not the one who almost let her die a few minutes ago, am I? Just fuck off, we’re leaving,” Hawk dismisses him, walking around the car to the driver’s seat. You’re surprised by his self control to not throw a punch, especially with his reputation.

“Robby, it’s okay. I just want to go home. I’ll call you, alright?” you reach your hand out of the window in reassurance and he takes hold of it. Hawk clenches his jaw as he turns on the engine.

“Promise you’ll be careful? I’m sorry I left you,” Robby furrows his eyebrows in worry. When he came out of the bathroom, someone filled him in on what happened to you and he almost had a heart attack.

“Promise. And it’s my fault,” you hook your pinky with his, before the car pulls out of the curb and separates you from your best friend. He watches you guys drive away, an anxious expression etched on his face.

The whole situation has sobered you up pretty well, and now you’re left with a throbbing headache, wet clothes, and awkward tension. You hate it. Being sober. You miss the foggy feeling that prevents you from thinking too hard about things. But now you’re inches away from the boy who broke your heart, all by choice.

You don’t know why you agreed to go with him, but did you even have a choice? You’re confused by his actions. He acts like he hates you but he jumps in a pool for you. He yelled at you but he’s driving you home. It all makes you overthink and it causes your head to ache even more.

You hold your head in your hands to try and ease the pain as Hawk drives quietly.

“You good?” he breaks the silence. His voice is softer compared to how he talked to Robby minutes ago.

“Head hurts,” you mumble.

“What were you doing back there? If I didn’t get you out, you’d probably be in the hospital right now,” he says. You peek at him through your hands and his eyes are on the road.

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “It was just peaceful. I didn’t really even think about breathing.”

He scoffs. “Well that’s just fucking stupid. You’re lucky I noticed you were under for so long.”

“Well thanks,” you reply quietly, feeling like a little kid being scolded.

There’s a couple beats of silence before he speaks, “What happened to you?”

The question makes you sit up and look over at him. “What are you talking about?”

“The old Y/N wouldn’t even touch a drink. You’re different,” Hawk taps his finger on the wheel in thought. His icy blue eyes quickly glance at your confused look before returning to the road.

“You happened, Hawk.” You pinch your temples in frustration. Anger starts to bubble up in your stomach at his criticism. At the mention of “old you”.

“I didn’t do this to you,” he shakes his head, as if trying to convince himself of his own words.

“You did,” you raise your voice, making him flinch. “You know it.”

“What, because I stopped sleeping with you? I didn’t make you fall in love with me, Y/N. You did that to yourself,” he spits, sending a knife to your heart and making you see red.

“You knew I loved you way before I said it. But you still stringed me along, didn’t you? You knew I would pick up everytime you called. You knew that I would let you into my bed because I was the girl who loved you no matter how fucking shitty you were!” you fire back, vomiting out words that you’ve wanted to say for months. The alcohol in your system makes you bolder than usual, but you’re grateful for it.

He’s at a loss for words at your outburst so you continue, “I didn’t ask for this Hawk. Loving you. I’m sorry that I’m such a burden and that you hate me so much that you can’t stand being in the same room as me. But please just answer me this and I’ll leave you alone forever. I’ll leave when we show up at the same party and I’ll even hide in the halls so you don’t have to see my face.”

You pause, choking on your words. You didn’t even realize that the car is already parked in front of your house and your clothes are halfway dry.

“Why don’t you love me?” your voice cracks as you spit out the question that has caused you to throw yourself away. The question with an answer that could dissipate your self worth in a mere moment.

Hawk finally looks into your glassy eyes with shock. He could’ve never anticipated what you asked him and his mouth runs dry.

“I told you, I- I don’t deserve someone like you loving me,” he swallows, but you shake your head.

“That’s not what I asked.”

He blinks slowly, trying to come up with an excuse. Any excuse, to avoid telling you the truth. You can see the inner conflict on his face, the panicked speed of his running thoughts.

“You should go home, Y/N,” he deflects, turning away from you. Putting on his mask to keep you from reading him like a book.

“I’m not going until you tell me,” you demand.

“Just get out of the car, fuck!” Hawk yells, slamming his hands down on the steering wheel. It makes you jump a little, but you’re too angry to fear the flames in his eyes.

“Why can’t you just tell me!” you fire back. “You came to me almost every night, so why do I feel something that you don’t? Is it me? Is there something wrong with me?”

“What do you want me to fucking say Y/N! That I do love you? Fucking fine. I love you. Is that what you wanted to hear? Just get out.”

I love you.

The same words you said that made him leave.

“You don’t even mean that,” you blink back your tears.

His voice is softer now, more gentle. “If I didn’t mean it then I wouldn’t have said it.”

“You said you needed me and then you left me,” your voice shakes and you hate how pathetic you sound.

“I-I didn’t leave you,” he stammers before taking a deep breath. “I left because you wanted something more than I could give you. I would’ve felt like a selfish asshole if we became more than just sex, Y/N. You deserve someone like Keene and yeah he’s a pussy but he’s good. Better than me.”

It feels like every piece in the puzzle is being put together. Everything makes sense. He does love you, but he was just afraid. He can’t be near you because it hurts too much to see someone he can’t have. Somehow, you can’t find the anger you’ve held against him for these past months; you just understand him now.

“I’m sorry, alright? For everything. For treating your feelings like shit. All of it.”

You swallow, thinking about his words. It all feels too much and the truth is now looking you in the eye, demanding an answer. You love him, but he dropped your heart on the floor for you to pick up every shard. Is one sorry going to magically fix everything?

“I- I don’t know what to say,” you admit, and he nods in understanding.

“You don’t have to say anything. Let’s just... move on. And you get better... I hate seeing you like this,” Hawk scans your red eyes and dilated pupils. “We’ll get to a better place and you and me, we’ll be good.”

It’s bittersweet, but he’s right. Being together now just because he loves you back would be a huge jump that would only end in broken hearts and toxic cycles. It would be foolish. As much as you want him, the only person who can fix you is yourself.

So it’s a meet up at the top of the mountain, when you’ve both made the journey from opposite sides.

“A better place,” you reiterate, before placing a light kiss to his cheek and leaving the car with a new sense of closure.

a/n: that was longer than i planned and a freaking roller coaster!!!!!!! im not sure if there should be a part 3? lmk what you think maybe it’ll just be short. but hehe i added robby into the mix he was so cute. ty for reading!

taglist for people who wanted part 2 :) ty friends for the support <3 @littlered6307 @deadbeatharlz @spiderman-berries @axastasiasstuff @r0-xie @estupidteen @hawkwhore @idkwhatishouldput4

[glowingbadger]

do you have anything in the ask box abt sfw + nsfw hcs w caspar and linhardt??-- if not, could i rq them pls?

Two Very Good Boys TM why have I not written more for them yet lol - especially Lin, he's a fav of mine for sure~

Also. Can I just say. Linhardt has so much Game. Like, half of his support chains end with him being like "what if we fucked and/or got married haha jk... unless?" and the other person just 👀👉👈

Caspar, Linhardt x GN Reader

SFW (nsfw below the cut)

Caspar:

- Caspar is as intense and energetic about love as he is about everything else. His feelings for you grow steadily as you work together as friends and allies, and he eventually realizes that there's a reason why he's always bizarrely excited for dull monastery chores like supply runs and patrols when he's assigned with you.

- When he finally confesses, it's in the middle of some such chore. He's been staring at you oddly as you work, until he abruptly says your name, then blurts out, "I think I'm in love with you." He practically shouts it at you, his eyes fiery and his face red. Once you work past the shock of the moment and affirm that you feel the same, he pumps a fist in the air, then laughs as he lifts you and spins you in a circle.

- He's not exactly "smooth" and doesn't have much romantic experience, but his unwavering sincerity and desire to be good to you makes up significantly for these. He's terrible at surprise gifts, since he always wants to get you something you'll love, so he'll spoil it by saying something like "So how do you feel about danishes??" right before heading to the best bakery in town. But when you thank him, wearing one of those warm, genuine smiles- he just melts, and he figures he doesn't have to be smooth or clever as long as he can make you smile like that.

- This. Man. Is a Cuddler. He doesn't like to be "mushy" in public, but he truly adores every-day physical displays of affection. He can't help swinging your hands a little when your fingers are laced during a walk through town, and if you're alone together, he just habitually has to be holding or touching you somehow. Caspar was never one to sit still for long- until he realizes that holding you to his chest while the two of you chat on his bed is completely addictive.

Linhardt:

- Oh Lin, this beautiful weirdo. For a long while, you won't get much of a love confession from him; instead, he just continuously puts himself near you. He doesn't need anything from you, and there's no pressure to keep him occupied in conversation- he just finds he's soothed in your presence. He doesn't question it until he finds himself even choosing your company over his studies or sleep. Then, for some time, he actually finds this new feeling rather disturbing.

- Finally, you're both enjoying a sunny afternoon, reading, casually chatting a bit, him dozing off periodically. In a quiet moment when you'd assumed he was fast asleep, he instead turns towards you and quite suddenly says, "If I were to tell you that I find myself quite insistent upon being near you at every possible opportunity, how would you describe that feeling?" when you don't give an immediate response, he follows this up with, "Would you consider that romantic attraction? Perhaps I really have fallen for you... hm..."

- Linhardt doesn't have much of a memory for birthdays and holidays (his mind is generally occupied with any number of other things), but you're not likely to find yourself doubting his feelings for you, nor his commitment. That's because he's very blunt about telling you. The delicate propriety of the nobility is of very little concern to him, so he feels no hesitation about placing a kiss to your lips in the middle of the (very occupied) library and telling you, "My, you are exceptionally lovely today." Before, of course, returning to his search for whatever tome he'd insisted he needs to review for his latest topic of interest.

- He is an excellent listener when you've had a stressful day or are in a bad mood. Though you will need to tell him directly if you're just looking to vent, because he's one to always think of a straightforward solution for you. But, as a creature of his comforts, Lin is wonderful at helping you relax. He'll hold you and rub small circles along your back until one or both of you dozes off- if you need it, he'll even force himself to stay up long enough to talk more, or recite some list of known crest effects until his gentle, even voice lulls you to sleep.

NSFW 18+ v

Caspar:

- He likes sex intense and passionate, and has no problem "doing most of the work," as it were. You may have to guide his pace a bit, as he can get a bit too excited- but he has immense stamina, so you'll certainly be satisfied by the end. In fact, he's fully capable of cumming more than once in a night, with a fairly short refractory period, so if you're up for it, fucking Caspar can become quite a workout in its own right.

- Caspar can be pretty bitey- he loves marking you and being marked, and even he's surprised by how much he just loves burying himself at the crook of your neck, or at your chest, or your lower stomach. He's been attracted to people before, sure, but he's never known he could be so absolutely entranced by someone's body before you.

- As you'd imagine, he's pretty vocal in bed, and likes it when you are too. His pleasured grunts and moans are completely shameless, communicating exactly how incredible you make him feel. He doesn't have much of an innate sense for dirty talk, but he loves it when you talk dirty. Even simple encouragement, like "Oh, Caspar- fuck, just like that! Mmmh- your cock feels so good-!" gets his body burning to his very core. He never realized it before, but his ultimate weakness is when you can tell he's getting close, and you moan out that you want him to cum for you. It's his kryptonite, and his body shudders as a powerful orgasm takes over him.

- His cock is about average length-wise, but it is thick and very nicely veined. He's not excessively sensitive or anything, but if you manage to tie him up or force him to slow his pace in some other way, it is deliciously easy to reduce him to a whiny, needy mess. He'll buck his hips up as you tease the tip of his cock with a slickened finger, desperation in his eyes as he groans out, "Ungh, Y/N, this is torture- please, I- I want you so bad-!"

Linhardt:

- He's deeply focused and fascinated by your body, and will study you for as long as you can withstand his gentle touch. He wants to know your every single turn on, your every tender sweet spot, and wants to hear every possible way you can moan his name. Related- I've seen a lot of people assume Lin is entirely and exclusively a bottom out of laziness, and I firmly disagree. We've seen how intensely he commits himself to the things that have caught his interest, and once you're his, he's going to learn everything he can about your pleasure. He's open minded and willing to try almost anything at least once, provided it's not too strenuous.

- Lin very much enjoys exploring some less expected erotic pleasures; things like circling your fingertips with his tongue, then nipping and sucking at the tender skin, or fucking between your thighs or ass cheeks without fully entering you until you beg him. His easy self-confidence and patience make him something of an unintentional soft dom. It's not that he aims to make you whimper and beg for him before he finally enters you- it's just that he's enjoying your body so much that he doesn't feel the need to rush.

- He loves cockwarming. Lying comfortably on his side with you cradled against him and his length buried in your warm little hole- it's absolute heaven for him. He gets to relax and feel completely at ease and even a little sleepy as you hold him deep inside of you, and it's adorable when you squirm a little, trying to get his cockhead to rub into you a certain way. He gives a light chuckle and nuzzles against the back of your neck, murmuring, "Now, now, don't be impatient- aren't you comfortable?"

- He's not much of a fan of the mess that can come with sex, and resents the cleanup time required, as once he's cum, he wants nothing more than to just hold you close and let your steady breathing lull him to sleep. So, he'll generally do his best to minimize marks, or a mess of cum- though, given his method is frequently to lick you clean, who's complaining.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

Just friends

Pairing: Sky x reader

==============================

After an entire night of sipping beer and looking for someone to connect with, Y/N finally found a guy that truly stood out. Tall, broad shoulders, dirty blonde hair that reminded her of a certain Specialist she wanted to forget and those eyes….Phew, those emerald green eyes that drew her in with their promise of a good time she’s been looking for truly captured her attention.

Standing a little too close to him in order to keep up a conversation with music blaring, Y/N allowed herself to lean into his lean body, his hand resting on the small of her back. His lips called out to her, or the beer in her system made it seem so. Whatever the case may be, she didn’t really care. 

Y/N wanted someone to feel close to and he looked like someone appropriate; similar to the very cause of the aching heart she’s trying to ignore. The way he looked at her showed he’s just as interested as she is, but his eyes kept glancing at something or someone behind them.

Irritated with his loss of focus, with her index finger on his chin, Y/N demanded his attention unapologetically.

“Ignore a fairy and she leaves.“ Y/N said with a light tone, but she hoped her pursed lips and slightly narrowed eyes were a warning he’d read.

Chuckling, the guy, Porter, nodded, licking his lips. Following his gaze, Y/N turns. Tossing her hair over her shoulder to make sure nothing obscured her vision, she gnaws on the inside of her lower lip.

On the far end of the room stood a handsome guy taller than Porter. He’s leaned against a wall, muscular arms crossed over his chest, hair floppy with blond bangs that fell on his forehead. He held a pensive look on his face, lips pressed together and dark blue eyes sending daggers Y/N’s way. 

Sky.

“Who is he?“ Porter breaks up the little staring contest with a question. Turning to him, Y/N gives him an innocent smile, shrugging.

“No one important.“ She informs him, placing a hand on his chest. Trailing it upwards, she holds onto his shoulder and looks into his eyes.

Raising an eyebrow, Porter glances at the guy and at Y/N once more, tilting his head. “Not a jealous boyfriend or anything?“ He questions, unconvinced by her previous answer.

Y/N sighs, faking a smile that never really failed to trick those around her; especially not him. She could never fool him, even when she tried. Somehow, he always knew better.

“Nope.“ She says, popping the P for effect. Feeling her heartbeat quicken its pace, she keeps that smile frozen on her face as if she had used her ice powers on herself, knowing it’s rehearsed to perfection.

“Does he know that?“ Porter asks, smirking. 

Rolling her eyes, Y/N let him go, moving out of his embrace. 

It took her a moment to stop herself from blowing up on the guy, annoyed by his constant questioning. She figured he’s a senior in Specialist training looking for a way to blow off steam that wouldn’t ask too many questions, but Porter proved to be anything but.

“Be right back.“ She taps his arm, turning around and walking towards the door.

Leaving the basement, she sits on the steps. They’re cold but she’s used to cold - she’s the ice queen anyway. She knew she’d have to be waiting patiently only for a short time. Moments later, the door opens again, the man who couldn’t keep his eyes off her coming outside.

“Took you long enough.“ She huffs, focusing her eyes on the ground in front of her instead of him. She didn’t have to look at him to know who it is. She knew by the sound of his footsteps, the left one always releasing a slight creak on the floorboards as he stepped with his entire foot while he only stepped with his heel on the right one.

Taking a seat next to her, Sky doesn’t look at her either.

“He’s not good enough for you.“ With those words, Y/N feels his piercing gaze on her. The emotion in Sky’s eyes is fathoms deep, yet they carry the warmth and life of the sunlit surface. They have a thousand hues of blue and a small touch of hazel radiating in softly swooping arcs and they leave Y/N breathless, as they always do.

Blood rushes to her face, turning up the temperature in her head to a dangerous level and it wasn’t from his eyes on her…it was that statement. His sentence had pissed her off enough for ice to swallow the steps they sit on; enough to lose control.

“You don’t get to say that.“ Y/N spits, standing up. Body rigid from anger, hands clenched so tight she felt her knuckles turning a pale color with a disruption in blood circulation. “Or anything to me. Ever.“ She turns to him with narrowed eyes.

Sky didn’t look away, no matter how cold her glare got. She hated how he could withstand it as it tore her apart.

“I only have your best interests in mind.“ Sky dares to say, fixing his tender gaze upon her as if his words were meant to calm the storm inside. His fingers twitch, like he can’t decide if he should reach out or keep physical contact to a minimum in fear of making the situation a lot worse.

Looking up in disbelief, Y/N releases something between a choked sob and a chuckle. Biting her lower lip to keep herself from shouting, her eyes fall back on the man before her.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.“ Placing a hand on her hip, she uses the other one to point her index finger at him.

“You said we were friends and then you kissed me! And then you told me we would never happen!” Shaking her head, Y/N sighs. “You can’t do this to me. You can’t stare down every guy I talk to or tell me they’re not good enough or...” Pausing, she stops before she breaks her own heart. 

She thought, ‘Friends don’t look at friends the way you’re looking at me now’, but what’s the point? He’s determined it means nothing. That she means nothing.

Standing, she points her finger at him again, “Stop. Alright? I’m tired of waiting, I’m tired of arguing! Just leave me alone.” 

Standing as well, Sky seems to have made up his mind and went for it. He grabs her finger, wrapping his hand around her entire fist with ease, pulling her closer to him. Flush against his firm chest, Y/N dares not look up, feeling his raging heartbeat through the palm pressed over his sternum.

“I never meant to hurt you. Do you know that?“ He whispers. His warm breath reaches her forehead, fanning away a couple of loose strands of her hair.

"Sky, I can’t do this right now.“ She feels her head spinning. Being so close to him was too much too fast. Especially after he broke her heart.

“You’re my best friend.“ Sky’s voice breaks, his chin resting atop her head. 

She could feel him pulling her closer, pressing his body against hers in a mock embrace, but she’s just a frozen statue in his arms. There is no way for her to relax. If she did, she’d break and she never wanted to break in front of him. Not again.

Placing both palms against his chest, ignoring the way his heart rushed with the contact, she pushes with all her might. Moving away as Sky stumbles backwards, Y/N turns her back on him. Feeling her chin tremble as his warmth leaving her body renders her as cold as the ice in her veins, her eyes close She never found the cold bothersome, not until she felt the warmth of Sky’s embrace and tender kisses.

“Yeah, well…things changed. You know very well how that came to be.“ Y/N’s response is surprisingly calm, but she’s certain Sky could read her emotions even without looking at her properly. After all, he knew her for so long…In a way, they grew up together.

“Why am I to blame for that, huh? I can’t help how I feel.“ Sky defends, lips parted as Y/N scoffs, turning back to face him.

She shakes her head slightly. It feels surreal that she has to have this conversation with him again.

“You left me standing there without a word. I poured my heart out and you had nothing to say! You couldn’t be with me? You’re not good enough? You can’t give me the answer I want? Well, guess what? I can’t give you the answer you want either.“ Y/N’s voice trembles as she speaks, feeling every muscle in her face clench under the pressure of keeping a straight face. Her entire body shakes, but she’s determined to keep herself centered.

Going to a dance with her best friend was meant to be fun and an experience she’ll never forget. However, the entire night she was stuck with Riven while the guy she wanted to dance with was away flirting with Stella, Bloom, everyone but her. She didn’t mind Riven, he’s definitely someone she considers to be very close to her heart, but she was in love with his roommate.

The guys took her home, Sky walked her to the door to make sure she got in safely. It gave her butterflies, but it was just who Sky is. He always made sure she was taken care of and protected. Always.

However, that night, Y/N was unsheltered, vulnerable in every way possible. She couldn’t keep her secret any longer.

Turning back, she looks at him, shaking. Averting her gaze to the right, only to focus it back on him, she wraps her arms around herself for reassurance.

“Everything okay?“ Sky steps closer, tilting his head.

Shaking her head as an answer, Y/N musters up some courage fueled by years of jealousy and heartache.

“Do you love me?“ She blurts out, slightly bouncing on her feet though the heels she wore made her feet hurt.

Sky smiles widely, rolling his eyes at her playfully before answering. “You know I do.“

Shaking her head furiously, feeling her heart beating so fast her head is pounding and her knees are weak, she explains.

“No, I mean. Do you LOVE me?“ she emphasizes, leaning on her right leg more for balance. She watches the look of realization cross his face, confusion taking place. He didn’t say a damn thing, just looked at her like she had uttered the most atrocious insult.

Blinking fast, she bites her lip so hard, feeling a metallic taste of blood in her mouth as a result.

“Sky, do you?“ Her voice cracks, the last part coming out almost as a whisper.

Sky stares at her, searching for an appropriate answer in her eyes in hopes of escaping this entire conversation, but he’s dead silent.

“Say something!“ She whisper shouts, desperate for a reply. She had opened up to him, completely vulnerable and at his mercy and all he gave in return was a lost stare and fast, shallow breathing by the way his chest moved.

Until he moved toward her, pushing her against the locked door. Before she has a chance to say anything, his lips capture hers and her eyes widen in shock. Arms wrapping around her waist gave her courage to entangle her hands in his hair, drawing him closer to her.

Breathless, she couldn’t think, she didn’t want to. Being in the moment, drowning in his tender, yet passionate touch was more than enough.

But as unexpected as the kiss was, so was the moment Sky broke it. He steps back, lips swollen and smudged from hers, even more kissable than before. He opens his mouth and Y/N’s ready to hear him say it back, to promise her they would try, but when Sky speaks, her heart breaks.

“I…I can’t give you the answer you want.“ Sky spoke slowly, continuing. “You’re…you’ve always been out of my league.“ Taking a step closer, he keeps talking as she grimaces at the unwanted closeness. Moments ago, Y/N wanted him closer, but it made her queasy now.

“You’re just so…perfect!“ He exclaims, outstretching his arms in her direction.

She tries to step back, tensing up as she realizes she’s backed against the door already. She has nowhere to run.

“I’m not good enough for you. I will NEVER be good enough to be with you.“ Sky’s arms return to his side, understanding she’s not interested in any sort of touching.

She nods in disbelief, not believing his logic nor the words he spoke. “You don’t get to use that as an excuse. Especially when it’s not true. But if this is the way you want to handle things….Then this is goodbye.“ 

Barely holding back tears, she watched Sky turn around, leaving her broken and alone with her heart bleeding on the ground after he so carelessly tossed it from his hands.

What hurts is that he didn’t even try to fight for her to at least remain a friend. He didn’t even try to stay. He simply stole her peace of mind and stomped on her heart and left.

In the end, the night was definitely one she wouldn’t forget, simply not for the good memories.

“I just want you back.“ Sky’s eyes brim with tears he hadn’t shed in years, leaving her speechless, but firm as he continues. “I’m not me without you.”  

Y/N couldn’t give in. Sometimes you have to take care of oneself and this is one of those times. She gave him every chance and when it came down to it, he didn’t take them. 

“I wanted many things and I didn’t get any of them. I don’t blame you for not loving me back, Sky. I don’t. I just wish you would understand how it feels for me.“ She says softly, feeling a crack in the tall, icy wall specifically meant to keep him out of her heart.

“I never said I don’t love you back”, Sky breathes out as the door opened again, Porter stepping out. 

Porter’s eyes immediately find hers, showing his concern and caution. “Everything okay here?“ Porter asks.

Folding her arms across her chest, she releases a shaky sigh. Did Sky really just admit he loves her too? Was it serious or just a way to keep her close?

She can’t make that into something it’s not. Not again.

“We’re okay. No biggie.“ She plasters a smile that Sky could read as a fake one a mile away, but Porter seems to be clueless.

“Want me to take you to your room?“ Porter returns her smile, standing in front of her. She notices he keeps glancing back at Sky, unsure of what went down moments before he arrived.

“Unless someone has something against it?“ She looks at her former best friend, hoping he’d give her a reason to stay. One word would be enough, to say that he really does love her again. She saw him saying it in her mind a thousand times, but in reality, his lips parted without a single word leaving his mouth. 

He didn’t care that much after all. If he did, it wasn’t enough. It’s just not enough.

Taking Porter’s hand, she smiles genuinely now, pulling him along without looking back.

“Let’s go.“

And all Sky can think of as he watches them leave is that it might take his whole life to make it right, but he truly felt he did the right thing for her; for them. He never dreamed it would have broken their friendship. 

Perhaps he’s guilty for the kiss he’d have died if he didn’t feel against his lips that night, because letting her go without ever tasting her would haunt him forever. 

Joke’s on him - the kiss, she, would haunt him regardless. It was the first time he felt connected to anything, but he isn’t good for her. Not now when his father is back and adamant on ruining his life.

He must protect her from Andreas and he will. Even if it costs him everything.

PART 2

[americangirlstar]

Now that both Courtney books are out and I’ve read and processed them both, I do want to say that I think they’re the least well-written of any of the AG books, but not through any fault of their own- let me explain.

(Note that for this discussion I’m ignoring the Doylist criticisms- Courtney and 3/4 of her friend group being white again, the lack of gay discussion in-text in regards to the HIV crisis, etc. These are valid complaints and concerns, but not what we’re talking about right now.)

The Problem with the Current Book Length

I think the main problem with Courtney stems from the fact her books are so short. American Girl has literally been doing the stupidest things in regards to their books lately, almost as if they’re trying to sabotage them on purpose. First they remove illustrations in 2015- when their target audience is about nine years old. I don’t know about you, but when I was six and getting into American Girl, the illustrations were the highlight for me. Not because I had no attention span and loved pretty pictures, but because it showed me firstly what the girl’s life was like, whether it be 1760s wilderness or 2001 Chicago. It was like stepping into their world, really helping you get into their heads, which was basically what the dolls were supposed to do, to let you know that girls like you exist throughout time and space.

As well as that, the illustrations were free advertisement. I can’t tell you how excited me and my sisters were as children to go to the American Girl place and look at the doll displays, shouting that that’s the dress Felicity wears to the ball! or look, Josefina’s goat looks exactly like the book! AG cut that from 2015 to 2020, as if they were trying to appeal to an older audience- while at the same time changing all the doll outfits, accessories and marketing to appeal to a younger demographic.

Now, this isn’t about the illustrations, as Courtney got those- it’s about what they did to the historical characters after the Illustration Outrage™ happened. See, they’d condensed the historical six-book format into two books- not necessarily a bad idea, parents would be more likely to buy two books for their kid than consider buying six. However, they then claimed that if they put illustrations back, they would have to abridge the books- literally my nightmare.

First of all, American Girl, we know for a fact you can fit all six books plus illustrations into ONE VOLUME, let alone two. You’re just being cowards here and trying to nerf your own stories for... some reason.

So that meant a lot of important things got cut- Rebecca’s Chanukah story, Melody’s cousin’s house search, Maryellen’s Christmas adventure... all things important to the girls’ histories and character.

The Problem with Courtney’s Writing

Now, Courtney was the first doll to be released after the abridging began, meaning her books were released, in their entirety, just as short as the abridged stories. So it basically means she gets four books while the others get six- and unlike the others, Courtney doesn’t even have mysteries or short stories to pad out. (And honestly, looking at her book’s amount of content, I’d even argue that she basically got two while everyone else got six, but I digress.)

The problem with her books isn’t that they have an author writing them poorly (I really feel like her author was doing the best with what limited time she had), but in how cramped American Girl made them. Because, well, Courtney has to deal with a lot in such a short amount of words.

Let’s compare her to Julie, for instance- Julie pretty much has a new 70s thing every book. In order: feminism, rising divorce rates, San Francisco’s Chinese culture, environmentalism, the country’s bicentennial, anti-bullying and deaf acceptance. And adding to this, we also have her own personal journies through her parents’ divorce and move, her basketball team, her friendship with Ivy (and later Joy), overcoming her fear of horses, student council, detention... It’s a lot, and yet her books don’t feel rushed or forced at all. It’s just a year in the life of a girl going through a lot of new and sudden events, and how she grows and changes throughout them. She may not be as deep a character as Addy or Kirsten, but not every girl goes through the trials and tribulations they do, and it’s a good series overall.

Courtney, meanwhile, does feel rushed and forced, because of the short timespan. Instead of fitting everything into a six-book format- or even at two-book format that is the same length and content as the six-book- everything has to be fit into two short books.   Everything Courtney has to cover includes the topics of divorce and stepfamilies, feminist and technological advancement, the Challenger explosion, the HIV crisis, Hands Across America, and the founding of Pleasant Company. And in Courtney’s own journey, she has to cover her learning to stand up for herself, her relationship with her stepsister and Tina’s own character development, her mother running for mayor and how that affects her, how much she misses her Dad after he moves, her friendship with Sarah (note on that later), her basically getting hate-crimed after standing up for her friend... that’s a LOT of stuff, and I didn’t even include the non-AG 80s product placement they shove into her collection.

But without the longer format, everything is pushed together to its detriment. Tina’s development and Maureen’s mayoral candidacy are two plotlines that are literally dropped and almost completely ignored in the second book. The Challenger and HIV issues were handled decently, but the Challenger only lasted a few short chapters, and the HIV topic was not as informative as it could be, leaving out several things like Reagan’s refusal to treat it for so long, and its effect on the gay community. Honestly, the HIV scare was more shifted to focus on the mob mentality of a new and scary disease- which, while needed right now, also ignores many of the bigotry-related reasons it became an epidemic. Pleasant Company’s inclusion feels forced in, and I think was the only resolution she had to her Dad plotline?

And don’t get me started on the Sarah plotline- every Girl of the Year since Kanani- sans Isabelle and Luci- has had the story of “oh no I’ve been ignoring my friend and now they’re mad at me :(” and it’s SO old. Seriously, I counted the contemporary dolls that have had that storyline, and it’s thirteen*. Thirteen times we’ve covered this issue- almost all of it in quick succession- and now we have to deal with it in a historical character book while much more important things are going on! Yes, it sucks when a friend ditches you while you’re being attacked and bullied for something you’re standing up for, but once again, with how much is happening in such a short book, it just feels like a forced-in plotline that we’ve seen a billion times, and with their falling-out happening mainly due to the attention Courtney was given Isaac, it serves to make Sarah seem closed-minded at best and bigoted at worst- it’s clarified that she’s not, she’s just scared and upset with Courtney, but when you put those events so close together, it leads the reader to lump them together and get the impression that, you know, Sarah is a worse person than she is.

*Full count: Nicki (book 2), Chrissa (book 2), Kanani (2), McKenna (1 iirc?), Saige (both books), Grace (2), Lea (3), Gabriela (1 and 3), Tenney (2), Z (1), Blaire (1), Joss (1) and Kira (1).

It’s a bit weird, too, that Courtney’s... what’s the word? Vibe? with her how her story is written and marketed Is closer to the Contemporaries than the Historicals. Am I the only one feeling this? My best explanation for it is that the author, Kellen Hertz, had only written contemporary books for American Girl before- the third Lea Clark book and all four Tenney Grant books, both of which contained the Friendship Issues™ plot. I’m not at all saying she’s a bad author- I honestly love the way the Tenney books are written- and I’m not saying she couldn’t write a historical book, but it’s clear American Girl didn’t ask her to change up her style or content from what she’d done for them before, as well as giving her way too much to cover in such short books.

Conclusion

Honestly, this conclusion should be obvious- American Girl needs to expand their books again. Whether they simply allow the books to be unabridged, or go back to the six-book format, Courtney's books are too cramped to tell an effective story, let alone the poor abridged girls.

The other girls were given six-book length, so if they went back to that length or format, Courtney would have to be rewritten, at least a little- and that’s okay! There’s a lot of things that could use expansion or connection, such as her Summer trip with her Dad that was given basically one sentence in the text. Her growth with her stepfamily could be acknowledged- and honestly? I think that if these books were expanded, her mother’s mayoral arc should either continue through the books, or Maureen should become mayor before the book 2 arc. I’ve mentioned this before, but having Maureen as mayor (or even still a candidate) would put a lot of pressure on Courtney to be perfect so that nobody can say “look at how awful this woman is for doing politics instead of raising her family right”- which means that when the Isaac stuff happens, it has even more stakes for Courtney and her family. Does her Mom still support her with her own reputation on the line, and what does that say about Maureen’s character, how does it affect Courtney and the D’Amicos... that’s all fascinating stuff that was completely missed out on.

And if she was turned into a six-book format- honestly, here’s how I’d do it, just off the top of my head. It would involve a bit of event shuffling, but honestly I think it would work!

Meet Courtney - pretty much the setup for everything happening, her starting to get her Crystal Starshooter plans and her mom’s campaign beginning.

Courtney Learns a Lesson - her relationship to Tina, culminating in the Challenger incident.

Courtney’s Surprise - we move the founding of Pleasant Company over here, since Molly’s basically her Christmas Present. We’ll probably need an additional plotline- maybe similar to Julie, she can have a story on spending the holidays in different places.

Happy Birthday Courtney - end of summer, aka meeting Isaac and her trip with her Dad.

Courtney Saves the Day - Beginning of the HIV arc, ending at her presentation to her class.

Changes for Courtney - Continuation of the HIV arc as things get worse for her and Isaac, ending where Friendship Superhero ends.

Is that a perfect sorting? Probably not, I came up with it in ten minutes. But would it give Courtney space to breathe and more time to explore everything happening to her? Probably!

The tl;dr of this is honestly that American Girl are absolute cowards right now, and need to expand their books back. Their abridging is only harming their stories- which, as Courtney herself points out, are the reason girls got into their company in the first place.

[little-diable]

Greasy Hands - Spencer Reid (smut)

Written by @playboysbunny​ and little-diable (that’s me - in case you were wondering). Thank you for writing the fluff and letting me have my fun with the smutty part. Enjoy my loves. xxx

Summary: a soft drabble about a broken down car, a confused Spencer and some lovemaking in a garage

Warnings: 18+, smut, oral (f and m receiving), unprotected sex

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

“You don’t understand,” she complained, “my dad used to fix everything! Dishwashers, washing machines, radios - anything that broke, my dad could fix!”

Spencer nodded, trying to calm her. 

“I just don’t see the issue in sending it to the mechanic.”

She threw her arms in the air, releasing a frustrated sigh. 

“It just doesn’t feel right!”

Spencer let her emotions settle. (Y/n) paced her apartment, back and forth, his eyes watching her from his leather reading chair in the corner. He kept his eyes on her with a patient expression, as she slowed eventually she stopped in front of the window. (Y/n) held a hand at her jaw as she watched the sunset; she didn’t want to admit what Spencer clearly already knew.

He didn’t push her, waiting for (y/n) to come to her own conclusion. She spoke in a whisper without turning to him.

“It just feels like he’s really gone,” she said. “He’s not here to fix my car and now it’s real. He’s really gone.”

(Y/n) didn’t cry as she had through the months. Her father had passed in the fall and the green of the trees now brought her some sort of hope and solace; things would get better. It wasn’t the changing of the seasons that brought her peace, though. No, that was Spencer. 

She turned to him then and sighed, his expression was understanding and sympathetic.

“We’ll figure something out,” Spencer said, getting up from his chair. He walked across the room and took her in his arms, placing his chin on the top of (y/n)’s head.

They spent the evening together, since she was lucky enough to have him home for a rare occasion. He unfolded the team’s latest case for her over a bottle of red wine, sparing the gorey details, but giving them to her bit by bit as she begged for them. They made dinner together, danced to music she liked, but Spencer detested, but he went along with it anyway, spinning her around the kitchen and reciting all the words to her as he memorized them instantaneously.

Over dinner, she told him the downfall of her day; on the way home from work, her car suddenly started overheating and she ended up in a strange neighborhood she’d never ventured into before. It was an industrial area without a lot of foot traffic. Every window had a set of accompanying bars. (Y/n) felt oddly isolated and out of place. She was uncomfortable and nervous and then she had to walk away from her car to get a signal to call a tow truck.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Spencer scolded her from across the table. “If something had happened to you…” he couldn’t finish the thought.

“What choice did I have?” (Y/n) countered. “Should I have stayed there and waited for you to come and rescue me?”

“I would have,” he replied. “I will always find you.”

He looked at her over the candlelight, his eyes glistening with truth. His words filled her with exultant joy.

They went to bed together, finally reuniting after weeks apart. Spencer fell asleep quickly, exhausted from the case he’d just returned from. He held her in his arms as she drifted off to sleep.

(Y/n) woke up alone and felt the coldness of his absence, frantically searching for a note; he’d always leave a note if he was called to a case and she was still asleep. She patted her hands around in the dim morning light, finding nothing.

She launched herself out of the bed and threw on whatever she could find. (Y/n) ran into the living room in his boxers and his button down from the night before.

“Spencer?”

The hollow echo of the empty apartment made her heart drop. She scanned the room quickly, looking for him. His go-bag was still sitting by the door, his keys and badge on the table beside it. A cup of cold coffee was resting there too, under the faint light from the floor lamp that Spencer had left on. In his leather armchair, there was a thick book she hadn’t seen before.

(Y/n) picked it up and read the cover aloud. “Haynes Repair Manual based on a complete teardown and rebuild?”

It was for her 1969 Chevrolet Camaro, though she was positive she didn’t own the manual. Why would she? She had no idea how to fix anything. 

(Y/n) grabbed the only pair of shoes she had left at the door - an old pair of tall, yellow, rubber rain boots - and ran into the hallway of her apartment building. She rushed down the stairs with the manual still in-hand. (Y/n) ran out to the back alley, where her car and others were in a long string of garages; of course, her garage door was already open.

“Damn!” Spencer yelled, clattering around under her car.

The hood was propped up and the car was up on jackstands. Spencer’s legs dangled out from underneath and tools and parts were scattered about the garage floor.

“Where did you get all this?” (Y/n) shouted.

Spencer rolled out from under the car and propped himself up on his elbow. He was in ratty blue jeans she’d never seen before and a plain white t-shirt. He was covered with splotches of black grease like a child that had been dabbling in finger paints. 

“All of what?” he said, incredulously.

(Y/n) waved the manual in the air above her head. 

“Spencer!” she laughed, “What are you doing?”

He stood up then, tossing the bolts he held in his hand to the floor. He ran a hand through his messy hair, stopping to pull on the roots. 

“You need your car fixed and that’s what I’m going to do! It shouldn’t be this hard, really,” he huffed. “It’s simple mechanics and mathematics, you’d think someone with a Ph.D in both would be able to do it!”

He continued rambling on, kicking the bolts he had scattered, waving his hands as he struggled to explain to her how his brain and his hands seemed to have a disconnect. Spencer carried on like that for a while and she knew best to let him have his soliloquies. But (y/n) didn’t miss a single drop of sweat that ran down his slightly heated skin. 

She couldn’t help but stare, forcing herself to stay calm, trying to drown out the needy longing for her man.

There was something about the way the frustration spurred him on that made her lose her focus. His intensity and passion had (y/n) biting her lip in anticipation. She couldn’t control the feeling that arose in the pit of her stomach. 

He moved back to the car and attempted to refocus himself, reciting the steps of the manual he had memorized as he got back to work. How easy - she thought - it would be to let him bend her over the car, to allow Spencer to run his oil covered hands all over her body.

“You’re staring.” 

The change in Spencer’s tone recaptured her attention, though he didn’t lift his head to make his remark; his eyes were focused on his task, his expression strained from stopping his smirk from spreading.

For a profiler, Spencer had never been very aware of her advances, to the sly glances she’d cast his direction. But now - with her thighs pressed together, her teeth pierced into her lower lip, the soft humming that she trilled while she was lost in her fantasies of him - he knew all about the heat that took over her senses. 

He didn’t need to be a genius to understand her, to know the arousal that was dripping from her folds, about the way her nipples were beginning to harden, uncomfortably rubbing against the material of his button down shirt hung over her body.

She stumbled over her words, nervously pulling a strand of hair behind her ear. 

A small “sorry” left her slightly parted lips, coaxing a chuckle out of him. Spencer rose from his kneeling position, hand reaching for hers, pulling (y/n) in for a messy kiss, tongues meeting, teeth clashing - clearly projecting the lust that kept them both distracted. 

He pulled her in close, resting himself on the side of the car.

“Maybe I should get cleaned up first,” Spencer said, putting some distance between them, very well knowing that he’d lose control soon. 

But the pleading whine that escaped her held him frozen and gaping as she fell to her knees in front of him, reaching for his belt loops. He braced himself on the car behind him. His usually busy psyche suddenly emptied, thoughts instantly leaving his mind as his tongue wet his lips, enjoying the feeling of her warm hands on his clothed bulge as she rubbed him through the fabric.

“Somebody's excited,” (y/n) teased. 

He turned down to her, a wide smile on his pretty face, his eyes glazed over in ecstasy. Slowly - teasingly - she undid his trousers, kissing up his thighs as she toyed with the elastics of his boxers. Her touches burned on his skin, pushing the genius into a dangerous headstate; the blood was quickly rushing down to his hard cock. 

He couldn’t remember his own name, and best yet, he didn’t care.

As her hands grasped his length, Spencer gasped her name - relieved to finally feel her soft skin pressed against his sensitive one. (Y/n)’s thumb circled his tip, smearing the drops of precum that bearded his skin. She couldn’t help but have a taste, lips parted, allowing him to thrust forward, cock disappearing down her throat.

Every moan that left her vibrated on his skin, pushing him closer to his release - but it was much too soon for Spencer's liking. He wanted to fill her up, claiming her, his lover, in the most sinful way, with his seed spilling out of her as she’d cry out for him.

“(Y/n), I’m going to fuck you so good, you’ll-” he moaned, she cut his rambling short as she added more pressure to her movements. 

She couldn’t deny the effect his words had on her. (Y/n) loved to hear his dirty talk and the promises he’d make as waves of euphoria would clash upon him. 

It was no secret that he was close, tightening his grip on her hair, unevenly panting her name. She was eager to push him over the edge - oh, so eager to please him - but he pushed her away before he could reach his peak.

A few moments of silence engulfed them both, the only sound echoing through the air came from the heavy breaths spilling from his lips as he tried to calm himself. 

As if he had heard her thoughts, he reached down, yanked her up by her biceps and turned (y/n) so that she could rest where he had been on the side of the car. His hungry lips grazed her neck, leaving wet trails on her skin as he snapped the hood of the car down with a forceful crash. 

Wordlessly she positioned herself for him, ripping the boxers she had thrown on down her legs, exposing her glistening wetness to his wide eyes. She leaned back as he lifted her onto the car’s hood. 

(Y/n) pledged to take him on a wild ride as she’d beg for her release.

Spencer took in every word, “let me taste you first. I bet you made quite a mess, didn’t you?”

Two fingers of his ran through her slit, spreading her slick on her folds, on her clit. She was addicted to his touch, completely at his mercy. 

(Y/n) was putty in his hands, would do anything he’d asked of her if it meant that she could cum on his fingers. He enjoyed watching her moan for him - she was begging for more, so lost in the fantasy that her words became nonsense.

As he pushed his fingers into her, pumping them in and out of her tightness, her head fell back against the hood as she arched herself off the metal. She was so close, too close, plagued with the wish that this moment and feeling would last forever.

“Feels so good Spence’,” she cried, slurring his name, eyes squeezed shut, her breaths falling short. 

Though just as she wanted to let go, he stopped, smirking at her with the special glint in his eyes. He was toying with her, using her body for his pleasure. Watching her beg for him turned him into a touch-starved, hungry man.

“I will fuck you so good, you won’t remember your own name,” Spencer moaned. 

His words sounded more like a command than a promise, cock ready to rip her in half, to fuck her till she’d cry heavy tears of pleasure. 

Her lips met his in a rather passionate way, tongues fighting, teasing one another, distracting her from the feeling of his cock pressed against her entrance. As their bodies connected in the most intimate way possible, she called out his name, pulling him close, holding onto him for dear life.

Spencer kept his gaze focused on her heat, watching his length split her in half, glistening with her arousal clinging to his skin. She was losing herself in waves of pleasures, slowly forgetting about the world outside, only caring about their love and the pleasure that ran through their bodies.

His pace was ruthless, bruising, keeping her lungs from letting any air flood through them. She was too distracted by the feeling of his cock buried deep inside of her. Sounds of praises left them both as they felt themselves climbing higher and higher, ready to reach their peaks.

“I’m so close.” 

Her words didn’t get a reply. He was focused on making her cum, adding more pressure to the speed of his thrusts as her body moved against the hood. Sweat dripped down her skin, pooling on the small of (y/n)’s back. Their lips connected once again all while she tumbled over the edge, fingernails piercing into his shoulders, as she cried out his name.

The way she looked - sweaty, hair in tangles, makeup smudged - pushed him into the arms of his own orgasm. His release spilled out of him, painting her walls white, claiming (y/n) as his.

She laid her head down and let her body collapse onto the hood of the car as he bent himself over her to rest. Forehead to forehead, they gazed into each other’s eyes as they struggled to catch their breaths. They both shared sloppy, quick kisses and murmurs of “I love you’s” as they laughed breathlessly together in the afterglow.

Spencer pushed himself off the car and straightened his pants again before handing her the boxers she’d stolen. She hopped off the hood and redressed herself as they heard nearing footsteps.

”Hey, pretty boy,” Derek chanted, announcing himself before he walked through the wide open door of the garage.

(Y/n) covered her mouth to hide her wide smile, admired Spencer as he struggled to keep himself composed. 

“Hey, Derek, thanks for coming,” Spencer answered, still struggling to breathe evenly.

“(Y/n), you can go back to bed and rest easy little girl,” Derek laughed. “I’m here now, I’ll take care of you.”

Derek’s taunt was entirely directed at the difficulties Spencer faced with fixing her car, but she couldn’t let the moment pass.

She smiled brightly in Derek’s direction as she walked past him on her way out of the garage, “Oh, Dr. Reid has already taken care of me, Derek. Don’t you worry.”

(Y/n) heard Spencer laugh as she sauntered off. She imagined the look on Derek’s face as the realization hit, but she didn’t look back to see it.

“Pretty boy!” Derek yelled in surprise.

She basked in the sound of Spencer’s laughter.

Criminal Minds Taglist: @huntheimpossible​ @23victoria​ @jensenackles512​ @trickassmotherfucker​ @miraclesoflove​ @shrekboobies​ 

Fallen Angels: @honiebee​ @itstaylorcale​ @mcira​ @megamieversole-blog​ @amelia-song-pond​​

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[marvelatthetwilight]

The Fight

Requested

Anonymous said: Could you do an imagine where Sam and the reader have like a really big fight or something like that but it ends in pure fluff?? Please! I just need more Sam content! ❤ thnx

“I can’t even look at you right now!” You shout across the room. Sam’s face is pink with anger, he’s shaking, with a small growl starting in his chest.

“Sam just go away!” You run up the stairs, slamming the bedroom door behind you and fling yourself on the bed, tears streaming down your face, your breathing heavy as you sob into the pillows.

You hear a door slam downstairs, then the definite sound of Sam’s wolf growling as he runs towards the tree line. You would recognise that sound anywhere, although normally it would be waiting for him to come home after patrol. This time, you weren’t sure if he would come home, but right now you didn’t care.

Wrapping yourself in a blanket, you curl up on your side of the bed, fully dressed. Suddenly feeling tired from the fight, eventually you allow the exhaustion to kick in as you fall straight asleep.

A week later

“You’ve got to come see him Y/N he looks a mess” Paul pleads through the door.

“Nope! He can come to me, I’m not apologising.” You respond, looking at yourself in the mirror, bags under your eyes, skin looking flat and lifeless. Being away from Sam was definitely having an effect, but you weren’t going to admit to Paul that you couldn’t sleep without Sam, that you were struggling to eat, or have any kind of fun.

“That’s the problem Y/N. He just won’t get up. He’s not sleeping, not eating. I don’t even know how long it’s been since he cracked a smile. Pleaaaase!” Paul pleads again.

“I’m not coming Paul. I need time.” You say softly.

“Ok. Just let us know if we can do anything to help you two. We need our pack leader back. Urgently.”

You hear his steps away from the house and the door slam to his truck. You sigh deeply, trudging back upstairs to throw yourself on the bed again.

The following week

After being sent home Monday morning for exploding at a customer, you realised you needed to get your life back on track. You needed to shower. Properly. You needed to eat. Properly. But to do all of that you needed one thing.

You needed Sam.

Grabbing your phone, you type a message out to Paul.

- Is Sam at yours?

- Yup. On the sofa. Not moved all day.

- I'll be over in 30 minutes.

- YEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!!!!!

You smile at Paul's reaction. As much as you wanted Sam to be the one to come to you, the imprint link had left you both sad and exhausted, and you couldn't continue the fight any longer. You needed him. You knew from the fights you'd seen from Kim and Jared that the pack felt everything far deeper than their imprints. You didn't want to punish him any longer.

Jumping in the shower you start mentally preparing your speech for when you see Sam. I don't want to feel second best to the pack. I understand what the pack means to you but I need to feel important too.

You grab whatever bits of make up you can find and make your best attempt to cover up the bags which have formed under your eyes. Pulling on a pair of jeans and a loose fitting top, you brush through your hair and take a final look in the mirror. It'll do.

Before you even get to knock on Paul's front door, it swings open to show Paul and Jared, both looking tired but excited to see you.

"Y/N!" Jared shouts, running towards you to give you a hug. He pulls back and keeps a hand on either arm, looking you in the eyes. "Please don't feel pressured if this isn't what you want yet. I know Paul kept ringing...and Sam is in a pretty bad way. But we want you to be happy too."

You smile sadly at him. "I need this too Jared, don't worry. I'm doing this for me."

Paul gives you a thumbs up from behind Jared before coming to hug you himself. He leaves an army draped around your shoulders as you both walk up the steps.

"He's still on the sofa...we will leave you two alone. We're going out on a quick patrol!" With that he drops a quick kiss on your cheek and jogs towards the treeline with Jared in tow.

You look up at the house and take a deep breath, pulling open the door and stepping inside the house.

What hits you first is the smell. Sam’s smell. A smell that’s been a comfort to you every night since you met. A smell that you have desperately missed, but has immediately put your mind at ease now it has filled your senses again.

Walking through the house towards the back room, you walk hesitantly towards the sound of the TV. As you reach the doorway, he stands up from the sofa and turns to look at you. His face is etched with sadness, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, dark bags underneath them from lack of sleep, hair messy and dishevelled. “Y/N...” he whispers, his eyes wide with shock, hands desperate to reach out to you but hesitant in case it makes you leave.

You smile at the sound of his voice. “I’ve missed you baby.”

The corners of his mouth twitch at the word baby, and he rushes towards you, wrapping you up in his arms. He breathes in the scent of your hair, his arms wandering your body before they make their way to your face, delicately cupping your cheeks before hesitating again. He looks deeply into your eyes, searching for approval, searching for confirmation that things will be ok.

You step back. His hopeful expression looks deflated, then confused as you take his hand and lead him back to the sofa. “We need to talk first.” He nods in understanding.

You both sit down, side by side, and you take his hand back in yours, stroking it softly with your fingers. He looks up at you with sad eyes, desperately trying to read your expression.

“I know how important the pack is, not just to you but to the reservation. I understand the importance. But I need to feel important to you too. My life is overwhelmed with the pack, with this life, and I just feel like I’m a passenger just going along for the ride. I feel like I have no control. Like I have no purpose. I’m just “Sam’s imprint”...is that all I am?” Feeling confident in your rehearsed lines you look at Sam, who’s eyebrows are burrowed as he stares at the ground.

“You know you are so much more than that Y/N.” He says quietly.

“I don’t though Sam. You never tell me. You never talk about things. I only know because of the imprint bond.” You move away from him slightly, letting go of his hands, frustration evident in your voice.

“You...” he starts, then looks at the ground again

“I don’t know how much more I can take if you can’t tell me what you are feeling Sam. Please.” You beg, as you reach out to him again.

He takes your hand in his and turns to face you, looking down into your eyes. His expression is warm, immediately comforting, and you have to force yourself to not be sucked back in to his loving embrace.

“You. Are the love of my life. No one else’s love will ever come close to what I feel for you. But that scares me. It scares me because I never feel good enough, I never feel like I can live up to be the man that you deserve. The only thing I can do is to keep you safe. And to keep you safe I need to make my pack strong, I need them to be impossible to defeat. I’m so so sorry that in my eagerness to make the pack strong that you felt unimportant. But I’m making the pack what it is because you are so important, the most important person in the whole world. I love you Y/N and I promise to never let you feel second best ever again...if you will have me that is.” He takes a deep breath, his confidence wavering because you haven’t spoken.

“Y/N...?”

A tear slips from the corner of your eye before you reach over and wrap your arms around his neck, taking him by surprise so he falls backwards onto the couch.

You don’t know how long you stay like that, with his arms wrapped around you, lips pressed to the top of your head as your face is buried into his neck, taking in the comfort of his scent.

It’s only when you hear an awkward cough that you realise anyone is there.

“Take it the two of you have made up?” Paul jokes, as Sam growls at him for interrupting.

You smile up at him, placing your hand on his chest to calm him.

“It’s ok, I’m not going anywhere.” He returns your smile before pressing a kiss to your lips whilst Paul and Jared make gagging noises in the background.

“Ugh it’s like mum and dad kissing!” Jared complains.

“No one asked you to stand there. Go back on patrol, the two of you are pulling a double for interrupting.” Sam orders, and they quickly comply, complaining as they leave the room.

He turns his attention back to you, stroking your cheek with his thumb whilst looking deeply into your eyes.

“I love you Sam.”

“I love you too Y/N.”

Taglist:

@volturiwolf @wallwriterstuff @volturidoll13 @like-rain-or-confetti @moviequeen51 @raindancer2004 @officialfictionalwreck @megzdoodle @slasher-sweetie @reclusive-chicken-nugget @holl2712 @icarusinstatic @imdoingathingmom @fanfic-love-show @volturiwolf @awesomebooklover17 @teampaul

@fatiguing-thoughts @clearwater-hoe

[wizkiddx]

the worst case scenario

okay so this is possibly part 1 of a v v angsty dad!tom fic!!

WARNING: the section under the cut of this is v v v dark with mentions of death and some graphic descriptions of blood etc - please please don't read if any of these things may affect you <3

the part above the cut (the keep reading bit) is completely fluffy (a bit of childbirth but not graphic) so you could read only that first bit as a stand alone if anybody wanted to

dad!tomholland x reader

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“Stop laughing at me!!!”  Y/n exclaimed in mock anger before bursting out laughing, knowing she did look pretty ridiculous. 

“I can’t help it you just…. You look like an elephant!” Tom cackled from his reclined position lying on the couch, whilst his 8 month pregnant fiancé struggled to get up from her seated position on the floor - where she had spent the last half an hour wrapping presents for her nephews birthday.

“You know a supportive soon to be father would’ve helped me up!” Replying with a scowl that didn’t last long, Y/n finally standing up took the three steps to the couch before uncerimoniously collapsing into it. 

Grinning with this absolute sparkle in his eye, Tom leant forward and slid up to Y/n to pull her into his side. His hand came to rest upon her massive bump - at this point it was almost a rule that if he were touching Y/n he also had to be touching the bump. Tom claimed it to be skin to skin contact and although Y/n were pretty sure that didn’t come into effect until after the baby was born, she wasn’t complaining either. 

“It’s a shame your stuck with me then huh?” He murmured into the top of Y/n’s head, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head while tracing meaningless patterns on her shirt over the bump. Tom was beyond excited to become a Dad, family had always meant everything to him growing up (and now). There was nothing he wanted more , therefore, to call them a family of three - or more accurately four, not forgetting Tess of course. 

“Oh how I regret ever taking up that extra shift at the club” She mused sarcastically, enjoying how he feigned offence in return.

 The way the two had met was so incredibly cliche that it was almost painful, whenever anyone asked how they met she always winced internally. But it was their truth, Y/n had been a caddy at the golf course Tom frequented with his brothers. The nature of his ‘reputation’ meant the caddies always had to sign NDA’s to be paired with Tom’s group and the chosen few were those personally recommended by the golf course. She’d always stuck out to him, mainly because she seemed to be biting her tongue as they worked their way round the course. Caddies, also by job description, were not to speak unless spoken to; to be polite and courteous but not chatty. So, given how professioial she was, had taken some convincing for Tom to drag it out why she looked in physical pain whenever they played the 13th hole.

~~

“Look somethings on your mind I can tell! If you hate me I can arrange another caddy I just -“ He followed her march to back from the hole toward the little buggy, ahead of his brothers and Dad who were making small talk from behind.

“FINE! Okay fine.” Reaching the end of her tether, Y/n snapped, whipping her body round to face him. “It’s your grip! On this hole especially you always play the driver with you pinky too far down the shaft, it’s why you always end up in the bunker on the 13th! It’s bloody infuriating because them I’m the one that has to clean the buggy you’ve trampled sand into!”

“Oh…. I-I … I wasn’t expecting that” Tom had spoken quietly, in an unfamiliar tone to Y/n. Over hours she’d spent on the course with them over the months, Y/n had gotten used to his storytelling voice when recounting an insane experience to his family that he’d had in the world of Hollywood; his grumpy voice when he played badly, which was often; and then his gloating voice - most definitely the worst and intolerable. This voice though, was different.  

“I-I’m so sorry I have no right, I just-“ She’d out her foot in it …. badly. The young actor was one of the most clubs most prestigious and valued members; and she’d just insulted him. Clearly, she was also about to be in search of another job. 

“No no I appreciate your tip… I didn’t even realise you play?” His gracious smile calmed her nerves a little, though Y/n still wrung her hands together as she replied.

“Well we aren’t supposed to talk about it but the club let us employees loose after hours… I practice quite a bit”

“Seeing as you think my game is so shitty, you fancy a round next time?”

~~

Flash forward 3 and half years and a proposal, they were now taking their next massive leaps in the world together. Bringing a whole new life into it. It was bloody terrifying, they both openly admitted. But it was also exciting, new, incredible and… and made them even closer. Now they had to be in each others lives forever, no escaping. 

“How many days left?” Craning her neck back on his shoulder so Y/n could meet his brown eyes, she knew the answer would be immediate. 

“15 till the due date and the app said they’re the size of a rhubarb but I don’t really know what that means.” He knew more about the pregnancy and birth than she did. He had about a dozen different apps on his phone (including one pointlessly comparing the size of the baby to carrots/ watermelons/ onions), had read 4 different books (which for Tom was the equivalent to reading Newton’s book ‘philisphica Mathematica’.)

Ever since she’d told him about the pregnancy Tom had excelled every expectation Y/n had of him… massively. Without even having a conversation surrounding it, he had explicitly cancelled all major work commitments within 2 months of the due date and until around a year after. He had flown back and fourth across the world so he could pop in and check on you. He’d also set his whole family on becoming your minders when he was away - Y/n wouldn’t have been able to go a day avoiding a Holland (or Osterfield) if she had tried. 

The pregnancy thus far hadn’t been the easiest though, hence why Y/n still appreciated to constant worrying texts and calls. During the first trimester the morning sickness had been literal hell; and then you’d had a little bit of a scare with pre-eclampsia during the second. It landed you a 3 day stay in hospital and a very very panicked Tom rushing back from New York on the first possible flight. 

So now? Y/n wanted the baby out. She wanted family life as parents. (At which point hopefully Tom would stop comparing the size of your child to an assortment of different fruit and veg)

“You know, you really are going to be the best dad in the world Thomas Stanely Holland.”

“And you Y/f/n y/m/n y/l/n are already a pretty impressive mum.”

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It was 3 o’clock the next morning when Y/n awoke with a sudden groan instinctively rubbing her stomach in an attempt to get them easing up. Now too familiar with Braxton-Hicks contractions, the weird cramping that waxes and wanes but never letting her get any rest - Y/n knew she was in for a long night. With a muted sigh she carefully lifted Tom’s arm off her side, cautious not to disturb him. The poor boy had been up most nights with her, just because baby wasn’t letting her sleep, it didn’t mean Tom wasn’t deserving of rest either. 

So making furtive movements at a snails pace, she attempted to tip toe out the room - yet as Tom had pointed out before, she looked almost like an elephant, so everything was relative. Surprisingly though, she was successful, escaping onto the soft cream carpet of their hallway before choosing to venture into the room opposite theirs. It had once been a spare room, though more correctly termed the ‘shit room’ because that’s where all the accumulated shit they got was thrown. Now however, Tom and his brothers had taken on the mammoth task of clearing it out and redecorating - creating the most beautiful nursery one could ever see. Complete with a rocking chair which Y/n made a beeline for, now allowing herself to audible groan at the tight sensation deep inside her. 

Normally they would ease after a half an hour or so, yet this time, after what was surely more like an hour and a half they started to…. ramp up. What was a tight pressure sensation quickly became one more forceful volatile and full of pain. She put it off for about 3 or 4 cycles of these, pursing her lips and breathing deeply as she tried to convince herself they’d just simply fizzle away. This couldn’t be the real thing could it? It was too soon - as Tom had said she wasn’t due for another 15 days. It wasn’t happening… was it?

The answer was pretty comprehensively and cohesively given when Y/n tried to stand up, in the hope of walking the ache off, she felt an incredibly tight crunch as her insides seemed to wring themselves together. Oh … and a surge of water soaked her pyjama bottoms. 

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck FUCKKKK TOMMMM!! TOM-ah shit-  MY WATERS!!! TOOOMMMM”The pain had amped up to a very very impressive levels, forcing Y/n to clutch her sides as she kept bending and straightening back up… as if that would help. Her lonesome agony didn’t last long though, a flustered Tom hurtled in the room - his hair sticking up all over the place and although his eyes were puffy from sleep he still had them glued open impressively wide.

“No its-its too- its too early!” In pure disbelief, Tom shook his head staring across at her face, contorted in pain.

“Yeh because-“ She gulped and exhaled in as much of a controlled manner she could through pursed lips; before answering his stupid statement. “Because I can just HOLD IT IN FOR ANOTHER 2 WEEKS SHALL I?” It took a while for Tom to process, looking down at the puddle of clear fluid on the floor and damp patch on her plaid bottoms while it was Y/n’s turn to look upon his it utter disbelief at his stupidity. 

 “Oh shit shitshitshitshitshitshit!!!!” His words grew with increased volume and place whilst he stayed frozen, his arms reaching out lightly toward Y/n without touching her though. “What do we do?!”

He of course had revised repeatedly and extensively what he was supposed to do when this happened - yet in the moment all knowledge and planning evaporated from his mind. Now wasn’t the time for taking the mick of her terrified fiancé though, Y/n was too blinded by pain as she leaned on the dresser.

“Get the-ah FUCKING hell - phone we need to time them and phone the … the-MIDWIFE.” It was hard to direct a frantic and terrified man when one feels as though her insides are collapsing in on themselves. 

Tom gulped, nodding shakily, whilst trying to take deep breaths because although he was fucking terrified it wasn’t him that was giving birth. He had to step up now. 

It took barely 10 minutes from the midwife picking up to a frantic Tom for her to assess that they needed to get into the hospital asap. During the pregnancy, all of Tom’s rich friends had recommended paying for a private hospital like the ‘Portland hospital’. The idea was it was a much more luxurious and private experience - of course coming with a heavy price tag. For Tom money was not an issue, so he’d suggested to Y/n and met the strongest rejection of all his life. The NHS was by far the only choice in Y/n’s mind - of course it busier, a lot less serene and not as private; but if god forbid something did happen, that was where all the experts and resources were. The idea of being able to pay for better access to healthcare actually repulsed Y/n and everything she stood for… so in short Tom was met with a very blunt refusal. 

Once they arrived on the ward, all it took was one look at Y/n’s inflated belly and the way her body was squirming in the wheelchair Tom was pushing, whilst laden with the baby bags they’d had packed and prepared for weeks, for the pair to be rushed into a side room. After an intense 20 minutes of getting Y/n settled, getting her full medical history and inspection of her vagina the hmidwife’s head popped up from between her legs with a kind smile. She explained in a calming and gentle tone that Y/n was 5 cms dilated and had got to that point fast, yet now things looked to be slowing down a bit. With final words of advice of try to relax she left the pair to it. 

They both looked at each other, a matching expression of confusion and relative terror blatantly clear in both their eyes. It had them both burst out laughing, if Y/n then scowled at the pain that shot through her side.

“This is really happening huh?” Tom murmured as he rounded the bed to gently run his hands through her sticky hair.

“I don’t know unless you really do want me to postpone their arrival for a short while?” Tom rolled his eyes and shook his head, although not really able to surpress the chuckle at his finances humour - even if it was at his expense.

“Glad to see you can still be as sarcastic as ever.” He laughed but before she could reply another wave of contractions hit making her instead just scream - grabbing his hand so tightly Tom was certain a bone or two were crushed in the process. 

It was another hour or two of the same traumatic sight of watching the women he loved more than anything in the world be in such extreme pain. God knows how his appreciate for his mother grew in that moment - she had had four kids overall, two of them twins! Tom dared to think of the scenes in that room of twin brothers birth. Having to deal with both Sam and Harrys large heads…

Harrison had arrived in the meantime, he was to be the child’s godfather and Y/n was more than happy to have him there - even if it was more of a support to Tom than Y/n. Quite expectantly though, he was just as terrified and useless as Tom - so instead of having one idiot to deal with, the midwives now had double trouble of terrified men. 

And yet after another 1 hour or so Y/n was being told to make one final push. Baring down on the gas and air tube, Y/n squeezed her eyes shut together whilst simultaneously contracting every muscle in her body with what little energy she had left. Hearing Tom and Harrisons words of encouragement; the midwifes orders and her own long and continuous scream, Y/n pushed with all she had. It was excruciating and torturous yet she kept going until the most beautiful sound was the only thing left reverberating round the room. 

Her babies cry. 

Tom looked at the scene in awe, feeling an almost out of body experience as the midwife unfolded from her position leant over the bed looking up to Tom. 

“Do you want to cut the cord Dad?” Releasing a breathy laugh, tears collecting in his eyes he looked down at Y/n. She looked a mess - hair flying all over the place; sweaty sheen and a ruined look on her face; panting hard as she caught her breath. But to Tom? Never had he seen her look more beautiful, especially when she managed a small smile, nodding encouragingly at him. So he moved round to the end of the bed as the nurse motioned, while Harrison squeezed Y/n’s shoulder with the proudest look on his face. 

It was the first time Tom had ever seen his child. And really, seeing a wrinkly little pink thing covered in all sorts of gunge - it shouldn’t be such a magical moment. But here he was, a single tear escaping over his lower lashes at the sight of them wriggling about. The midwife gave him a second, before gently handing him the medical scissors and directing him as to what to do. Once done, the lady announced the room it was a beautiful baby girl.

The next hour or so was a bit of a blur, the whole situation felt extremely surreal to everyone - but perhaps most to Y/n. Although the baby was premature the doctors had checked and were confident was perfectly healthy, so after both Y/n and Tom having their turn holding her (Tom finally got his real skin to skin time) they brought in a little incubator where she could rest while Y/n was recovering. Due to her prematurity, as a safety net, the doctors did want to keep the baby girl in overnight for observation, which meant the whole party would be staying too. 

Y/n loved nothing more than watching Tom and Haz with their baby. The way they delicately cradled her in their strong arms and the way their eyes softened so inexplicably. Y/n swore that had she not just pushed a watermelon sized human out her vagina, the way Tom looked while holding their daughter would make her pregnant all over again.  

“I still can’t believe you two created a real life human.” Harrison mused while standing with the baby girl in his arms, shifting his weight from foot to foot as he watched her sleep soundly. 

“To be fair it was mainly Y/n” Tom laughed as he squeezed Y/n’s hand (wincing internally as it hurt his already injured hand - Y/n had an almost death grip)

“Oh no credit where credits due… he was involved for a whole 3 minutes or so.” Harrison snorted and Tom scowled at her, yet her cheeky if exhausted grin instantly erased any annoyance.

“Don’t make sexual jokes in front of our child!” He retorted, Harrison still laughing at his friend. Haz loved Y/n too - she made Tom a better version of himself. And now, she’d made him a dad. 

**triggering part starts here

After all the excitement of the early morning it was more than fair to say Y/n was shattered, Tom not doing much better. So after a little bit, Tom joined Y/n on the bed and they instantly fell asleep to the light beeping of their babies heart monitor. Harrison stayed in the arm chair in the corner of the room, wheeling the little incubator right in front of him to just stare at the little girl. He had been texting Tom’s family too, giving them details of when they’d be allowed to come and meet the little one, who had just woken up to all Tom’s frantic texts from the night before.

Eventually though he was ped ousnapt of his happy daze, looking over to the bed and seeing Tom groan as he shifted on the mattress that was technically only spacious enough for one.

“You good mate?” Harrison spoke in a low voice, keen not to disturb either the baby of Y/n - she had earned a bit of peace. Tom just mumbled in response, rubbing his eyes as he sat up before letting out a deeper groan.

“-hat the fuck” Tom lifted up the blanket covering them both as Harrison looked on inquisitively. But then Tom leapt off the bed, started violently shouting Y/n as he shook her in a look of desperation. It was violent and harsh, Harrison was horrified as he immediately stood up in an action to pull Tom off her. 

“Tom what are you-“

“Get help Haz.” Tom turned around to look at Haz, only at which point could the blonde haired boy make out why Tom looked so insane. Because his trousers, and the bedsheets that were now not hidden by the blankets, was covered in a red sticky substance. Jaw dropping, Haz slalomed round the incubator to stand at the foot of the bed. 

It honestly looked like a horror scene. Y/n’s lower half was completely saturated in a bright red liquid that slowly was creeping further and further through the sheets. Her face looked pale, Haz cursing himself for not noticing earlier and her breathing… it looked so slow it was barely noticeable. The silence was only endured for a few moments, before Tom turned back to violently shaking the dead weight below him yelling her name repeatedly and frantically. 

As soon as the alarm was raised more and more staff piled into the room, each one carrying a new level of importance and seniority - instantly taking control of the room and shouting orders. Tom had long since been pulled away from the bed by a nurse, who was trying to speak to him and calm him down, but was completely ignored as he focused on the scene over their shoulder.

“Looking like a primary PP bleed but she’s lost at least 3 pints already…. Somone bleep the aenestists and lets get moving to the OR please!.. We’ll need bloods crossmatch 5 units….”  

Tom heard to the controlled sense of urgency in the lead doctors voice and he felt as though his heart was being torn straight from his chest. Harrison took over from the nurse, half restraining - half hugging him as the nurse ushered them completely out the room.  Shouting over Tom’s desperate pleas to let the doctors do their thing. He fought hard against Harrison but ultimately his hold was enough to keep him back, the two watching from he corridor as Y/n’s bed was wheeled rapidly out the room - what seemed like at least 12 staff members bustling after it.

Harrison knew it was hopeless to try and talk to Tom, as he paced up and down the ‘relatives room’ the two had been confined to. They didn’t have a clue what was going on, no-one seemed to want to tell them - making the worst case option appear the most likeliest in Harrison’s head. A nurse had said the baby, as yet unnamed, had been taken down the neonatal unit so that it was one thing less for them to worry about ; but refused to say anything about Y/n, saying a doctor would come and explain soon. 

It must’ve been 20 mins, even if to the two men it felt like a lifetime, when a round and short, greying man with big black rimmed rectangular glasses entered the room. Tom was too in his own head to even notice, pacing up and down the room while constantly running a hand through his hair as he tried to keep his breath in regular time - even if his brain was on overdrive.  It took Harrison calling his name twice to make him snap out of it, looking up with desperate pleading eyes to notice the stout man, a sympathetic smile on his face. 

“Are you Mrs y/L/n’s husband?”

“Fiance”

“I’m Dr Webber the consultant gynaecologist,  shall we take a seat sir?” Tom stayed rigid, standing opposite him in an offensive manner.

“She’s dead isn’t she?” At Tom’s cold words, Haz’s breath halted in his chest. It had been what they’d both been thinking, of course, it was natural when you see someone with more blood out their body than inside it. The doctor seemed a little shocked at his frankness, pressing his lips together as he let out a sigh. 

“No sir she’s not but she is very very unwell. Please, let’s sit down so we can talk about it because I understand it’s a lot to take in.” It took a couple of movements of Tom stood frozen staring but Dr Webber held firm, waiting until Tom took a seat next to Haz before he moved - drawing a chair from across the room so he could face both men. 

“First off I’m sorry you were removed from the room and put in here for so long but these situations are incredibly hard and to get Y/n the best care we needed the whole room.”

“Doctor I just… I just need to know what’s going on.” He couldn’t deal with the state of unknowing, Tom was going insane, he didn’t care for the small talk. 

“Sorry right, so what we think happened was your fiancé developed a condition called ‘placental accreta’. In simple terms, a bit of the placenta is stuck in the uterus and causes bleeding.”

“That much bleeding?” Haz couldn’t help himself from butting in, he knew this wasn’t really his place, that he was just being there for Tom. But at the same time that was his godchilds mum, it mattered. 

“Honestly? Usually not, Y/n had very severe bleed… So she has been taken in for surgery, where the very talented surgeons are trying patch up the affected blood vessels. I’m afraid at this point that’s all I can really say.”

“So… she’s going to be okay?” It was desperate plea for something that, even if Tom wouldn’t admit, he didn’t really believe - it seemed as if none of the three in the room did. 

“It’s not that easy I’m afraid. Assuming the surgeons can stabilise the bleeding and fix it…. with blood loss like she has suffered we… we don’t know what the effects of that will be. We tried to prevent as much damage to her brain and body as possible with transfusing blood into her and it was good that she was in hospital so could get treatment almost immediately…. But I’m afraid it’s simply too early to say. The first hurdle is going to be getting her out of surgery safely, only then can we deal with whatever happens next.”

Tom had so many emotions flashing through his head. He knew the doctor was trying to go slow to make the information a little more digestible  but it was all so bloody incomprehensible. So when the greying man asked  both men if they had any questions, neither took up his offer. Surely they both would after hours of processing and analysing but for right now? They were stunned into silence. 

“Okay sir, now I hope you don’t mind me saying this but it really is important for you to hear. You are now a father, as Y/n is a mother. This situation is never easy but as a first time dad I need you to be aware that now your fiancé can’t be your only priority. We are all here to support you but please, just remember that.”

Harrison was so glad the doctor had said that, it was so completely true - yet Haz knew he didn’t have enough power to have said it to Tom. The whole thing was impossible and at the centre was an innocent, beautiful but totally dependant baby. 

“What happens now then?” Haz had to ask on behalf of his friend, who was now completely overwhelmed. Dr Webber sighed, leaning back and rubbing his knees before answering. 

“If the surgery is successful it’ll be at a best estimate two hours before we will have news for you , then she will be taken into intensive care where everything else would be assessed and further investigations would happen. You can both stay here or go get food, maybe go down and see the baby in the neonatal ICU? I personally promise that as soon as any of us get any news you will be the first to know.” 

He was met with the sort of silence that makes you shiver. Sighing heavily, the doctor rubbed his knees, apparently preparing to leave. “This possibly one of the worst case scenarios that could’ve happened but Y/n is in the best hands and we will do everything for her. If you do think of anything you want clarification on, grab one of the nurses and they’ll come and find me.”

And then he left. 

The room was deathly silent. Harrison couldn’t dare to look over at Tom - he knew what he would see and honestly seeing Tom like that would only make it worse. God knows how long they sat in those plastic lined, lightly padded hospital chairs. Both in silence. Just thinking… or more like worrying… or more like dreading. It was Tom who actually broke the silence first, his voice barely audible but still the meaning was crisp and clear. 

“I can’t do it Haz” For the first time since the doctor was with them, Harrison looked at Tom, catching him directly in the eye. That hurt… Tom’s eyes looked so, so… hopeless. He knew what his broken friend was saying, but honestly Haz didn’t want to hear it so he did not respond. That didn’t stop Tom though, he continued. “I can’t do it. … I-I can’t be a dad without her… I just can’t.”

What the hell was Harrison supposed to say? There wasn’t really a guidebook to this situation. He was clueless. So, cautiously Harrison just leaned over, wrapping his arms round Tom as he all but collapsed into his friends chest. Tom was sobbing harshly as Harrison looked up at the ageing ceiling tiles, trying to surpress his own emotions because now clearly wasn’t about him. 

“You can Tom… you have to.” His friend didn’t respond, well apart from harsh sobs that racked his frame. And so Harrison just let Tom cry, folded awkwardly and uncomfortably over the arm rest of the chairs, occasionally yelling into his chest at the unjustness of the situation. 

It wasn’t fair. But it had still happened. And there was still a baby girl by herself downstairs. 

//////

is this okay or too much? I won't write another part if generally people think its a bit too dark!!!!

[fanfic-cave]

Migraine

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 1.8k

Pairing: Hunter x GN!Reader

Warnings: War Flashbacks/implied PTSD, angst & guilt, people be crushing on eachother, is this fluff? perhaps...

Summary: You start with a normal day with TBB, when a migraine comes on and you relive your worst traumas. How do you cope, especially when it happens on the havoc marauder?

I came up with this idea when I was having a migraine the other day, and I kinda infused it with an OC I had thought up. I decided to leave it GN for the readers, but technically its a part of their story, if that makes sense. (I actually think the story is kinda cool so I might write up chapters we'll see...)

Leave feedback if you'd like! :)

Today started as a normal day for you. You made a trip to go visit the most interesting group around, The Bad Batch. They seemed to appreciate your company, and you enjoyed theirs. Often they expected you to come over and socialize for a good chunk of the day. You remember what a stark contrast this was from when you first met, each of them suspicious of you (well, except for Omega), and you skeptical of them. Once you asked for their help making a trip to Dantooine, you protected each other in battle, and the walls started coming down. Now you had each other's backs, you’d all proven it countless times.

Except you’re still lying to them. The unwelcome thought intruded your mind. You still haven’t told them why you’re really avoiding the empire.

*Y/N, did you hear what I said?* Tech spoke in Ryl. Once he heard you knew several languages from all over the galaxy, he enjoyed taking the opportunity to speak a different language with you.

You shook your head. “Sorry Tech, lost in thought, what did you say?” You had replied in common instead. He looked slightly disappointed at your doing so. “I asked you if you’d seen the improvements I made to your vibroblades yet.” You looked down and saw he had definitely made some adjustments. “Oh, no I haven’t. I need to try practicing with them.”

“You’d have better luck with a blaster.” Crosshairs voice came from down the hall. He shouldered past you, bumping into you intentionally. You laughed at his comment, massaging your forehead as an attempt to combat an oncoming headache. “Hah, do I need to remind you what happened when you let your snarky attitude get the better of you while I had my blades?” You managed to see him shake his head in response, the lights in the room suddenly started to bother you.

His voice became faint, you heard “Lucky … only close … shoot you.” His voice was coming in and out, and a harsh pounding pain began at the top of your skull. You gripped your head and tried laughing at Cross’s comment, you’re sure it was probably his usual attitude. You thought you heard Hunters voice coming down the hall, but you couldn’t make out words. You saw through squinted eyes Tech was analyzing your behavior, and his lips began to move.

Finally you had to squeeze your eyes shut, and voice as loudly as you could “Gotta go.” The lights seemed too bright, and your headache revealed itself as a full-blown migraine. The bright lights seemed to cut into you, making the pounding in your head stronger. You felt like a big fist was punching you from inside, trying to break your skull open. You stumbled down the halls and managed to find the bathroom, rushing in and shutting the door.

The pounding subsided slightly, now that light was absent. You groaned and settled yourself on the floor. Unwelcome thoughts began to flash through your head. Separatist forces engaging you and the battalion. BANG. Tanks firing. BANG. Dead clone troopers lying on the ground, their voice screaming. BANG. Your own body lying on the ground unable to move. BANG. Tears streamed down your face, both from the pain and the horrible memories.

A soft knock at the door pulled you back into the moment, and you realized you had been banging your head on the wall. “Y/N?” You heard Hunters voice on the other side.

“I’m fine.” You said weakly. “Headache. Give me a minute.” You heard voices on the other side of the door, and footsteps shuffling. The head pounding in your skull still continued, but the flashes were gone.

“Close your eyes.” Hunter spoke quietly now. You covered your eyes, not having the energy to argue with him right now.

You heard the door open and he walked it, quickly closing the door. “What’s going on?” He knelt onto the floor next to you. You could make out his figure, and see a concerned look etched into his face now that your eyes adjusted to the dark. “Migraine. I’d like to be…” Alone. You tried to say it, but you couldn’t. You’d never had someone around when the pain was this bad, and part of you wanted him to stay with you the whole time. You gripped your head with both hands as a swell of pain surged through again.

Hunter gave you a moment to finish your sentence, once he realized you wouldn’t he sighed. “Let me at least put you somewhere more comfortable.” He spoke in a whisper, trying not to agitate you too much. He waited for a response. “Can you move?” You tried standing, pain swelled, and you settled back down. You knew it would only get worse when the door opened and the light would come through. You tried shaking your head. “I’m gonna carry you, okay?” He waited for an objection. “The light…” you breathed out. “Don’t worry, I'll handle it.” You heard him shuffle around, cloth moving, and then he gently wrapped a towel around your head. Your eyes were now effectively covered.

You felt one arm wrap around your back, his hand gripping your side, the other arm began securing you under your legs. In one fluid movement, Hunter lifted you up and your body was leaning against his. You pressed your towel-covered face into the crook of his shoulder, preparing to block out the light. You felt him take a sharp breath in as you pressed your face tightly against him. The door swung open, and you were relieved that you could see no brightness. The pain continued its pounding, but it began to dull. You felt comfortable and secure in his arms, and you realized nobody has ever taken care of you quite like this. You were suddenly grateful you had the towel on (which you realized had quite an unpleasant smell too), because it hid the blush that filled your cheeks.

Hunter's body swayed a little and you heard his feet move. Do I even weigh anything to him? You wondered, since he carried you so easily. Another door opened, and then shut. He took a few more steps, then you felt him adjusting your weight, beginning to set you down. He settled you onto a comfortable cot, a soft blanket underneath you. He gently rested your head down on the pillow, and removed your towel. The room was dark, darker than in the bathroom. You looked around and realized you were in Hunter's room. It was small, but it had enough room to fit you on the cot and him standing at the foot of the bed.

You both looked at each other for a moment, the pain lessening a little. “That towel smells.” You whispered. Hunter shrugged. You wrinkled your nose at him and then went to massage your forehead. You turned onto your left side so you could face him better, and fully relaxed into the bed. Although there was a slight stink, the bed smelled like him too. You pulled the blanket up a little to hide your face, and to take in the scent more. It served as a good distraction.

“Stay as long as you need to,” he said quietly. You heard him begin to shuffle out of the room. “Wait-” you reached out, not close enough to grab him, but the gesture caused him to freeze. You felt a slight surge of embarrassment, but ignored it. “Stay a bit. Please. I think it helps.” You saw his chest move up, like he was holding his breath. You wished you could see his face, to try and pick apart what he might be thinking right now. You continued massaging your head, moving to your temples now. You closed your eyes and tried relaxing, not wanting to pressure him by staring. You didn’t hear his movement, but the bed shifted, and you felt fingers move in between yours, and they began taking over the circular motions. You looked up and saw Hunter sat on the bed, a few inches in front of your body. You hoped he couldn’t see the color in your face change as he gently took over massaging your temple.

Although you were a little flustered by him doing this, you felt your heart flutter and your body relax to his touch. The pain was a soft thud now, and you could more easily ignore it. Your eyes had wandered away for a minute, but you searched for him again. You saw that he was watching you closely, and you thought he looked concerned, although his face seemed to betray no expression. The massaging turned into a head rub that went in circular motions all around and through your hair. It felt amazing and you sighed, resting your head more onto the pillow.

You watched Hunter for another minute. He never made eye contact with you, but you knew he was watching you, just as you were watching him. After a few more moments passed, you reached up to grab Hunters hand to stop his motions. He looked into your eyes questioningly. “Thank you, Hunter.” You smiled softly, and began to sit up on the bed. He hesitated, and then his hand retreated back. “Sure, we take care of each other here.”

What does this mean? You thought, as you both looked into each other's eyes. You had wondered at one point if there was something more to Hunter, or something more between the two of you. You both seemed to get along well, and you couldn’t deny there were moments you had. Tending to wounds, protecting each other in a fight, you wondered… Could there be something more here?

It doesn’t matter. I don’t deserve it. I don’t even deserve their trust.

You looked away from him and began to stand. “I should be getting back.”

“Already?” He seemed surprised. “Everyone will be back soon.” You remained silent. “I know Omega would like to see you.” You felt a sting in your chest as he mentioned her. Omega was your first friend in the group. Her innocent kindness towards you had been the beginnings of your relationship with everyone. You had a soft spot for her, just like everyone else seemed to. You managed to look back at him and smile softly “You’ll have to tell her hi for me.” You allowed yourself another moment to look at him. He broke eye contact fairly quickly and said “Alright then, fine.” You sighed and recognized that he was disappointed in your decision.

Could this be more?

The sting in your chest seemed to tug at you with this thought. “I’ll see you around Hunter.” You turned away and started to leave.

Maybe.

[zet-sway]

I wrote something angsty and spicy.

Rated: "E" for "Extremely Spicy" [NSFT] AO3 Link: "Vantablack" Pairing: Thane / FemShep (Unrequited?) Pairing: Garrus / Femshep (Mentioned) Summary: Alone, as only a drell mind could, moments melded together like droplets of dew on grass. The ghost of his mouth over her neck. The taste of her painted lips on a rim of crystal. Hair feathering over his fingers, the scent of her body, and the thrum of her pulse tugging at his heart with longing.

THIS IS NOT HAPPY SHRIOS. Most of my recent work has been very soft and warm feeling - this is not that. But I want ya'll to know I have some soft happy shrios in the pipeline to make it up to you <3

Inspired by @shut-up-alexa's fic Weightless, I drew upon the moment where Thane takes a sip from a glass Shepard had just been drinking from - as was her intention. The fic itself says he tastes her lip print and sets the memory aside for when he is "alone with himself in the darkest part of the night." It was then I knew I had been visited by the smut fairy. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR LETTING ME WRITE FANFIC OF YOUR FANFIC :D

Sleep was difficult enough to claim, most nights.

Thane, ever a man of routine, kept to his nightly rituals like an acolyte. He began with prayer. Verses carved into his mind since his youth, silent and still as he bargained with the gods to mull the chaos of his memories, to forgive his misgivings. Meditation lasted as long as it needed to. Sleep was, after all, fruitless without a quiet mind.

Aboard the Normandy, however, nightly meditation felt like a fool’s pursuit. Shepard, returned from the waves of Kalahira’s ocean, demanded much of a man like him. In her hands, the carefully constructed fortress of his mind was like a house of cards. Reborn into the hands of the enemy, she raged, unable to trust the unfamiliar construct that was her body and searching with grief and heartache for a lover she couldn’t locate. She prodded him with questions, seared him with her gaze and her relentless upset.

Raw, heart-stricken, and reckless, her anger was justified - even if she flung it at him underhandedly. He forgave her always. To be her target was to bear her trust. He could see it clearly; she knew no other way to soothe the guilt and isolation that tore openly at both her body and her mind. In time, he was confident she would heal. Until then, Cerberus was no friend to her.

And thus tonight, like most nights, she haunted him.

At 0300, he decided on a compromise. Troubled sleep was better than none at all. After a calming herbal tea and having tended to his hygiene, he settled into his cot, nude as he so preferred to sleep. If he could sleep at all.

The minutes, and the memories, began to tick by.

"The most important aspect is intent," he’d said to her, watching her eyes follow him while he circled behind her. "A breath of hesitation will get you killed, or worse." Hands alighted on her shoulders - a companionable gesture before they both endeavored to threaten her life.

Shepard didn't flinch when he began the demonstration. Thane flattened himself against her back, one arm winding wide around her shoulders. Pressed into the curves of her body, his sweet torture began. She arched her neck - calm, trusting - offering her throat into the curl of his elbow as he tucked his arm under her chin and sealed his hand on her opposite shoulder. He steeled himself against his lust, breathing in unison with her, taking advantage of his proximity to inhale her scent as he demonstrated the headlock. Carmine hair brushed across his fingers where they were clamped on the nape of her neck, his breath washing over vulnerable, prickling skin.

Thane let the silence linger, writing the lush warmth of her body into his memory, caught in the lethal intimacy of his embrace.

"Weaken the spine by twisting," he murmured, his lips nearly brushing her ear, each word sending strands of hair ruffling on his breath. Thane closed his eyes, enflamed by her closeness, praying for mercy as she tilted back into him - a wordless exchange of scorching intent, however convinced she was to not act upon it.

His voice, barely a whisper, poured forth from intangible parts of him that hadn't known a lover's touch in over a decade.

"Apply pressure in the opposite direction."

Careful, controlled, he flexed the arm around her throat and wristed the palm at her neck. Painful to her, as he knew it would be, but not enough to truly hurt her. Nevertheless, she tensed in his arms, a kinetic shiver flowing from her body into his like the sinful call of a siren. Willing herself to trust a killer's restrained tactile intimacy, a hair-trigger away from dropping her where they stood.

"And snap."

Innate human vulnerability gave voice to her wanting. A single breath escaped her lips when she failed to contain it behind clenched teeth, her carotid artery pounding beneath smooth scales. Thane answered with his own hot rush of air against the back of her neck, a contorted gasp he hadn’t realized he was holding, torn from his throat almost against his will.

He allowed himself a blinding second more before releasing her, but not before stealing a brush of delicate skin across his lips as he pulled away. A parting gift to himself - one he paid for just hours later, when she laid her poisoned trap before him.

With the skin of her neck still irritated from their training, Shepard, mildly intoxicated herself and wrapped in a dark silk robe, presented him with a glass of her own venom. Tequila - amber and potent, an indulgence she knew full well he’d deny -- unless it was laced with his drug of choice. Her.

There upon the rim of the glass was the rosy imprint of her pigmented lips. A well of temptation, spiked with her essence. If this was a test, he'd failed spectacularly. Gods forgive him, he raised the glass to his lips under the pretense of drinking and lost himself to the faintest tastes of her mouth, entranced, savoring the traces of her beneath the mask she painted on every morning to reclaim what little of herself she believed was left. Shepard watched him with a carnivore's eyes, drawn over with night-black daggers as if to warn him. Like a rose garden, she was beautiful and wreathed in thorns. He knew better than to stray too close, but he would gladly take what meager offerings she presented - venomous or not.

This was his penance for opportunity’s kiss, stolen behind her back. A petty theft, to be sure. But even petty sins were still sins.

True to her reputation, Shepard was a fast learner. She played his game, abided by his rules, allowed him to touch her under the guise of training. She wasn’t blind to her effect on him - no. She would use him to find her turian lover. And he would let her. Selfishly, begrudgingly - willingly. What she desired would be hers for however long she allowed him to remain in her orbit.

The temptation of her lingered in his mouth and still, it wasn’t enough. It would never be until he could taste it directly from her lips, sealing his arms around her, a serpent beckoning her to taste of her own forbidden desires.

“What does it taste like?” She’d asked, as he sampled her forbidden offering.

The moment played over in his mind as he savored what little he had of her. Wax and pigment woven through with the fire of her essence. The rubicund flavors of her mouth, lit from within by the burn of tequila. The leash of his desire held firm in her little human hands, ever reminding him that she was not his to hold.

Alone, as only a drell mind could, moments melded together like droplets of dew on grass. The ghost of his mouth over her neck. The taste of her painted lips on a rim of crystal. Hair feathering over his fingers, the scent of her body, and the thrum of her pulse tugging at his heart with longing. Filched moments clutched around and within him, lust coiled like a snake in his gut, rearing its head between his legs. A call of arousal demanding to be answered - painfully, without another to share in his release.

He shifted on his cot, loosely draped in the delicate, tight-woven sheets that slipped over his scales as he rolled onto his back, throwing an arm behind his head in frustration. All the meditation and control in the galaxy would not be enough tonight. Like that sinful sip of tequila, his blood was on fire in a way he could not ignore.

Cool air met his scales as he pulled the sheets back, uncaring when his calves tangled within them. Alone and aroused, he would do as his body willed.

Memories welding together behind closed eyes, conjuring visions to answer his need. A slick tongue traced over his - a kiss. A common intimacy that he burned so brightly for, and had been denied to him for what felt like a lifetime. She might hesitate at the first touch, a breath of uncertainty when she met the split of his tongue, unknowing how much he ached to spoil her with that small perk of interspecies diversity. He drank of her mouth, absorbing her heat as he glided one palm over his length in teasing strokes.

As she so often was on the battlefield, the woman he imagined was demanding. Soft, unblemished hands pushed him back, fisting in his clothes as she, lost in her burdened reality, both pushed and pulled them together. Would she think of her lover? Of endless nights entangled in the long limbs of the famously obstinate Vakarian? In truth, Thane did not care. In his selfishness, it mattered not whose hands she thought of when he finally drew back the long elegant robe she so loved to taunt him with. Watching the fabric slip past her shoulders to reveal skin so bright it was nearly blinding in the dim light of his quarters. She was untarnished, even by the freckles that once dusted the high points of her features. The way she hated her body was something he understood all too well. A product of another's vision, a construct and tool to be used by others, with little regard for her dispositions. A weapon financed and fabricated by Cerberus. She obsessed over her body not out of vanity, but in rage. Such had begun their training.

He wanted fiercely to call upon any memory of her hands on him, but he had precious few. As yet, she hadn't managed to land a single blow on him in all of their sparrings. But little by little, she was getting stronger. Almost imperceptibly so. His grip tightened around his length at the thought - hovering over the phantom taste of her on his tongue, the beguiling wrap of her fingers around the neck of a glass bottle. She knew her strength, knew exactly what she was doing. The way she toyed with him, oh, it made his breath catch. Tempt me, touch me.

He wanted her to overpower him, to trail those supple human fingers over the hard planes of his body as she took her pleasure from him any wretched way she chose. Her soft hand coiling around his shaft, a thumb smoothing his own weeping seed over the head of his length. He gripped himself harder, scales beginning their familiar bite into his flesh.

It wasn't enough. No. He wanted more.

Alone, yet weighted down with the shame of indulgence, he paused and reached beneath his cot, searching the small compartment that contained his personal effects. From it, he produced a single leather glove, turning it over in consideration. He disliked wearing gloves, the material impeding finer sensations he preferred to feel through his bare hands when striking for another's life. But they were a tool like any other in his arsenal. Useful for eliminating evidence and now, apparently, for self-gratification.

He couldn't have her hands on him, but he could have this. Soft and worn from wear, the material slid over his palm and fingers and he reached back into the darkness for himself.

It was different. Not quite what he imagined of her hands, but different enough from the texture of his own scales. He squeezed, a quiet sigh drifting from his throat as he tested his grip, repositioning his fingers, letting the sparse fluid of his sheath accumulate in his palm. Touch me, he willed her. Take from me what you please.

In the long years after he'd failed as a husband and a father, the pull of guilt and desire was but an old companion to him. He bore his sin on strong shoulders, praying to his gods, to his wife, to Shepard, for patience and the gentle hand of forgiveness. But even he, merely a man, could succumb to the base desires of sentience. She was imperfect and wracked with loneliness just as he was.

In the maelstrom of his thoughts, her beautiful, terrible wrath and desire descended on him like a drug.

He found it to be true that Shepard did, as he had heard, “fight like a krogan in a bar fight." That tactic had carried her this far, but there was much more to learn. With each day spent in rigor and training, he showed her how to control her fury. It wouldn't be long before she would learn to recognize an opening when he gave it to her. Beneath the lust of his own touch, he could think of little else than to tempt her with feigned vulnerability, if only just to see how far she would go. To let her catch his feet with a sweep of her leg and knock him flat on his back, all for the opportunity to peel him out of his training leathers and shatter the last barriers between them.

Such a union would destroy their delicate alliance. But here in his thoughts, any perceived fragility was his alone to endure. His mind raced with the thought of her entrapping him on the sparring mat, giving himself over in sweet surrender just as he’d done with her lipstick-imprinted well of liquor. How eagerly he would be her captive, submitting his pounding heart and body to her exploitations until she arrived at the manifestation of his need, screaming for her touch, twitching beneath her hands.

He cared little for how she took him. In his heart of hearts, he wanted to worship her, to show her how even reborn into a frighteningly reconstructed body she was still everything he ever saw in her and more. He wanted to taste her lips, her flesh, to map the broad expanses of her with his hands and tongue, to see her skin darken with the distinct human blood-flush of wanting…

But she would never let him. That privilege was for her lover alone, the handsome turian with indigo clan markings the same color as Shepard's lacquered fingernails. Thane's place was beneath her, and even that very thought lit his nerves afire with wanting as he drew out his pleasure with his gloved hand, aching for her to make him dance in her palm as she did when he bested her in combat drills.

If he couldn't worship her, he would more than willingly submit to her control. How he wanted to be the one to satiate the desperate woman within her. To see the visceral spread of her thighs around him, luscious hips rolling like waves over him as she shook loose her robe, and with it, the shackles of her desolation. His eidetic memory pulled forth every gasp and cry she had unwittingly fed him as they trained together. Her sonorous human voice played over his nerves, singing into his blood with every pump of his hand, a soundtrack to the Shepard he'd constructed in his fantasy. Her wide-shut eyes, wanton in the throes of pleasure, drawing him into her depths to answer the sanguine howl in her blood. The feral woman he knew, unleashed and longing to fill the void of two missing years with just a single shred of affection as she held out for her chosen lover.

Even if she overlaid him with vivid imaginings of turian plates and talons, Thane trembled to be the vessel of her desperate need. How badly he wanted to give her this. Heart pounding, he painted her in his mind with too-smooth skin the color of sun-soaked Rakhana sands. Speckled with tiny beads of sweat that carved trails down the valley between her unbound breasts with every rise and fall of her body. Her hair stuck to her dampened, vulnerable throat, still wrapped in a delicate lace of scale-borne irritation from their training. Her eyes fell closed, darkened lashes sweeping across flushed cheeks as she reached between her legs to galvanize her pleasure.

He lost himself to the vision of her face as she used his body to reach her peak of ecstasy. She was wild, clawing back her humanity through animalistic impulse that shredded her reality for what few blissful seconds her biology would allow - and it finished him. Buried to the hilt inside her, he surrendered with every nerve in his body. He choked back a shout, neck pitched back, vicious sparks of need pouring through the conduit of his lust and claiming her in a torrent of screaming, feral possession. For a split second of eternity, he was lost, trembling before the avatar of his own carnal lust, wondering if he could ever be forgiven for wanting her so savagely.

And then it was over.

Minutes drifted by as he laid still, assuaged yet afflicted with the sin of indulgence. Gods forgive him, he wanted her. And perhaps even more forbidden than the pleasures of her body was the thought of holding her.

Indeed, the simple intimacies of loving someone seemed by far the most out of his reach. To stroke the sweat-slicked skin of her back, nudging his face into her damp hair as she laid atop him panting, satisfied, permeated with his essence and high on his venom. The rosy, burning flavor of her venomous gift lingered in his mouth. So close and yet nearly further away than she had ever been, pushing and pulling him in heartache.

Slowly, as he tidied himself, his phantom lover evaporated. Away she wisped, searching for the embrace of her wayward lover, wherever he might be.

His heart rate slowed as the seconds slipped by. 0400. Training in two hours.

[let-them-read-fics]

Safe With Me

Pairing: Jennie x Fem!Reader

Word Count: ~ 1,690

Warnings / Misc. -- Angst, Anxiety, Fluff, Happy Ending

Disclaimer: This writing is a work of fiction, and no disrespect is meant for those mentioned herein.

A/N: Hey everyone! Here’s my first writing for Jennie; I hope you enjoy it. Let me know what you think! 

🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤🖤

“Y/N, it’s Jennie. She needs you.”

The second that your brain processes those words, you’re on your feet, mind beginning to race. 

After the staff had called you in a panic earlier, you came as soon as you could. They failed to inform you, though, that it was something concerning Jennie -- likely because they knew you’d drive like a maniac in order to get there as fast as humanly possible.

“What happened?”

“She had an attack on stage earlier and she still hasn’t fully calmed down. We got her some water and she’s in her dressing room right now, but she keeps asking for you.”

With that, you thank the backup dancer and exit the waiting room, quickly making your way to her. The winding hallways of the backstage area seem longer than they ever have before, and you can’t help the antsy feeling that creeps over you. 

Upon turning the corner, you spot Jisoo outside of Jennie’s door, a heavy look of contemplation on her face. When her eyes meet yours, worry flashes across her features -- considering how strong she always stays for the other girls, this comes as a bit of a surprise. Despite the stutter in your step after seeing that, you continue on nonetheless.

Rosé and Lisa are further down the hall, the low chatter of their voices carrying over to Jisoo and yourself. “This one was pretty bad, Y/N. Take care of her, okay? I’ll keep the others occupied.” With a nod, the two of you part ways, and you open the door.

You make sure to enter slowly, not wanting to burst in and frighten her in her already anxious state. “Hey, jagi. Come here.” The words come out softly, a gentle request, as you open your arms to her and sit down beside her on the small couch. Wordlessly, she crawls over to you and settles against you. Now, holding her close, you can feel every tremble and sniffle that she lets out. Your world shatters a little more with each erratic pulse of her untamed heart -- you can feel every beat against your own chest. Her head is resting on your shoulder, her warm cheek pressing against your skin, and her lips lightly brush your neck.

It wasn’t anything sexual -- it’s something that she does everytime you hold her, no matter what. She once told you that it brought her comfort to feel your pulse point against her lips, the steady beat working to regulate her own. So, everytime she gets anxious, you assume this position with her. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner, but I’m here now, baby. I’m not going anywhere.” Your left hand rubs soothing circles on her lower back as you use your other to play with her hair, knowing the calming effect it has on her. Her body begins to relax into you, and you feel the weight start to lift from your shoulders.

Having an inconsiderate boss always sucked, but never more so than at times like these. Even after explaining your reason for needing to leave early, he didn’t budge. He fired off the cliché, “If I let you do it, then I’ll have to let everyone do it too!” In a moment of crisis, Jennie needed you more than anyone else, and you couldn’t even be there for her. Even though it wasn’t your fault, you can’t help but feel guilty about it. Her reasoning for finding such comfort in your mere presence still baffles you, but you’re always willing to offer it when she needs it. 

She must have noticed the dejected look on your face, because she pushes herself up enough to press a kiss to your cheek. “I love you; thank you for being here. Now, will you tell me about your day?” You nearly melt at the sound of her sweet voice, paired with her declaration of love. It still makes your heart skip a beat, and based on the light smile that tugs on her lips, you’re sure that she felt it.

Her words serve as your command, and soon you’re filling her in on everything that happened throughout the day. Jennie could listen to you talk about absolute nonsense for hours on end; she loves the sound of your voice, and she takes solace in the vibrations of your body as you speak. All of those things -- some of her favorite things about you -- are a combination that never fails to take her mind off of anything that’s stressing her out. If she’s honest with herself, everything about you cheers her up. The way your face lights up when you see her, the feeling of your arms wrapped around her, your sense of humor, your kindness, the warmth that you radiate just by being yourself -- she could go on and on forever. No amount of words could possibly convey how thankful she is for you and all that you do for her. 

It goes without saying that you feel the same way about her. You suffer from anxiety, too, and she’s always by your side in an instant whenever it gets especially hard to handle. Her perfume would wash over you, and she would pepper kisses across your skin. Words of affirmation would spill from her lips and drift to your ears, working to bring you back down to Earth. She always knew just what to do to help, and you often thank your lucky stars for aligning with hers.

Things like that can really make or break a relationship -- dealing with stressors and pressure is never easy, but it can certainly bring people closer together. Before you even started dating, Jennie knew you were special; being around you brought her comfort like no other, and she quickly realized that she would choose to spend all of her time with you if she could. Anytime she thinks about her future, you’re always in it; you’re a complex puzzle that she wants to spend her life unraveling and solving.

After spending the better part of an hour like that -- limbs entangled as you talk with one another -- Jennie’s feeling a lot better. Her heartbeat is steady now, and that suffocating feeling of panic is long gone. 

“What would I do without you, huh?” She asks, nudging your shoulder as she sits up to face you. 

“Hmmm, I don’t know,” You start, looking off dramatically while you pretend to think. “Probably be really bored without all of my awesomeness around.”

Your dorky response earns you a chuckle, and she shakes that beautiful head at you. 

“I think you might be right about that one.” She tilts her head to the side, her eyes shining with a look of pure adoration. 

She rests her forehead against yours and guides your hand to her chest. It’s her special thing that she always does after an attack; she wants you to be aware of what your help does to her. The rhythm of her heart is constant against your palm, and her fingers slide up to lace with your own. Knowing that she’s comfortable now is the only reward you could ever ask for.

“I love you so much, Jennie. You’re so strong.” 

“I couldn’t do it without you.”

Her lips find their way to yours, and you can taste the gloss on them as she deepens the kiss. Before long, she’s worked her way into your lap, her hair falling like a curtain around the two of you. Unbeknownst to you, moments like these got her through some very hard times; her mind would recall the memories of how her skin felt against yours, the sighs that would leave your lips as she would kiss down your jawline, how just one touch from you could send her wild, etc. Her safe place is you, and she’ll do everything in her power to always remind you of that.

Just as her fingers begin to undo the buttons of your shirt, the building’s intercom starts up, and the sound echoes loudly across the building. Jennie startles, falling forward against you, and lets out a surprised yelp. Despite your efforts, you can’t stop the small giggle that leaves your lips at how easily she gets scared. She playfully smacks your shoulder and tries to give you an angry look; she can’t keep it up for long, and soon the two of you find yourselves in the middle of a laughing fit.

You give her cheeks a little squish before saying, “You’re the cutest ever.” Following this, she boops your nose and replies with confidence: “I know.”

She pecks your lips one final time before standing up and tugging you along with her. “We’d better go find the girls now.” 

“Fiiiiiiiiine.” You drag out, your usual dramatic self coming back out to play. 

With that, the two of you head out to the main dressing room in search of the girls, hand in hand. 

~~~~~~~

“YAY! You’re here!” Lisa shouts, nearly knocking the two of you over with her bone-crushing embrace. 

“We sure are!” You struggle out, the words coming through as more of a pained wheeze than anything else.

Rosé and Jisoo manage to pry Lisa away, but soon all of you are hugging again anyway. Your little huddle is perfect, and you’re so thankful for the girls. Being surrounded by such genuine, talented people is a blessing, and you seriously wonder how you got so lucky. As the sounds of their jokes and laughter fill your ears, you can practically feel your heart soaring. 

“Time for dinner!” Rosé shouts, now walking out the door. 

“I’ll race you to the car!” Lisa rushes out, quickly darting past the other girl.

“Not fair, I wasn’t ready!” Their rapid footfalls fade as they get further and further away, and you just scoff at their antics. 

“Kids.” Jisoo says with a roll of her eyes, her inner mom showing.

Jennie leans into you, settling against your side, and lets out a content sigh.

In that moment, the dynamic between everyone so perfectly highlighted, you can’t help but think to yourself: there’s nowhere I’d rather be.