#this might be an issue of living in an old house with terrible walls and my shitty family

[punkpendulum]

No offense to all my musician friends but I hate living with musicians. Stop making so much fucking noise I need to study and the amp is too loud and sound travels

[firefly--bright]

omg meeting jean’s family and spending christmas/new years w them ??

YES i went with spending christmas eve with them!! this might be a bit too specific but its something ive been thinking about for a while :D thank you for the ask!! :33 taglist ; @holding-infinity-and-a-book , @mrsnobodynobody , @hopeless-anti-romantic-again , @jeanscremebrulee , @berrijam , @happxme , @cherrypieyourface , @imgayandshesanime , @moonmalice , @kivernova , @potaho3frog , @xakilicious , @katestrophes , @gojo-ana , @ppushable, @candleohappiness , @zombiefiedskeivy , @1ovede1uxe ❅ masterlist is in pinned post ❅ enter my taglist ❅ requests for headcanons are open! ❅

❅ backstory on his family a bit first! okay so in my head it. it was was him and his mom at first. his dad wasnt in his life all that much and would only show up randomly. right. caused issues in his psyche. more about this in upcoming dusk to dawn chapters (PLEASE BE PATIENT W ME GUYS)

❅ and so when he was like. 13 or something. already hormonal teenager, his mom married this guy who already had two daughters, one of whom was older than him and one was younger.

❅ anyway. it took him a while to be okay with all of that, because he got really protective over his mom at one point and threatened his now stepdad with the whole "if u hurt my mom i will hunt u down and make u wish u never lived" mind u hes like 14

❅ ANYWAY so in my head he has an older sister who older to him by like 5 years and younger one is like 3 years younger than him. they didnt get along at first, obviously, being kids and allat. none of them were okay with this but with coaxing from their parents they found out that they werent terribly company, actually. again more on this in dusk to dawn upcoming chapters i swear

❅ ok so back to the request!! christmas in the kirstein household is beautiful ok. their house isnt super duper big but is well off enough, and jean's parents always go full out for it. lights and beautiful decorations, one of the prettiest houses on the block. youre obviously super nervous even if you had talked to his mom a couple times on the phone when she forced jean to give it to you. his sisters knew about you on social media and whatnot but thats way different than meeting in real life

❅ and jean tells you that his mom already loves you so you have nothing to worry about. "but what about your sisters and dad?" "my dad trusts my mom and will literally do anything she says so he will love you. my sisters will love you because youre you, stop worrying so much." he says even though everytime he has to talk to your family hes also scared shitless.

❅ you see their house and your jaw drops to the floor. he mumbles something about how they outdid themselves and how he's pretty sure theyre the ones trying to impress you. you only half listen to him tho

❅ anyway!! his mom opens the door and immediately hugs you. WARMEST HUG EVER BTW. cold outside be damned and she hugs you for a good two minutes before pulling away and then scolds jean for not wearing a beanie. "so i just dont get a hug?" and thats when she hugs him.

❅ the inside of their house is just as decked out as the outside. their christmas tree almost takes up the whole room. imagine those cozy romcom houses on christmas :') his dad is chilling by the record player (that jean has told you about) and gives jean the. guy hug like the two pats on the shoulder one. welcomes you in, shows you to you room, tells you to treat it as your home because it is your home. theyre all such warm people honestly

❅ his little sister isnt there to greet the two of you until after youve almost settled into jean's old room. its just big enough for the two of you and youre going through his old posters and things on the walls while jean tells you that "that was just a phase, honestly, haha, im not even that person anymore.." as if u dont kow everything about him already. and then his little sister walks in with some hot cocoa in her hand and looks at the two of you for a couple seconds and then says "how did this ugly ass bag you."

❅ anyway. turns out his older sister is going to be there by evening time so you help out in the kitchen, and jeans mom shoos him out of there coming up with some excuse of how his dad needs him or something. and then she tells you about all the times he wet his bed as a kid. this woman is dead set on embarassing her son tbh. i love her

❅ youre bonding over having a shared love for baking and shes giving you tips when his little sister walks in again. "did she tell u about how many times he used to wet the bed?"

❅ you find out shes studyinng to be a lawyer, in her first year of uni rn so shes super busy. his mom says shes very smart and shes just bashful and says "im not that good," waving a hand infront her face and you cant help but note that jean does the same fucking thing when someone gives him a genuine compliment. except that he usually follows with "i mean- unless youre into that." or something that ruins the soft moment.

❅ anyway. you meet his older sister soon, and she's almost identical to mama kirstein, mannerisms wise. the same laugh, her voice just a little bit deeper, the same sense of style, almmost everything. she embraces you in her warmth as soon as she steps in, tells you how excited she has been to meet you and that jean cannot stop telling her about you. she asks about your career and you find out shes also like jean with her passion and drive in her own career, and you get into an indepth discussion about it over a glass of wine until its time for dinner

❅ dinner is fucking beautiful. mama kirstein only let you help with the smallest things because you insisted, and she paid attention to any and all dietary restrictions you might have. sibling fights w jean and his sisters and you figure out why he hates his hair being touched (because his sisters always mess it up. thats literally all its not even that deep) jean and his dad eventually have a discussion about wines and stuff and its so obvious. right. they comb their hand through their hair in the same direction in the same way and youre like OH THAT MAKES SENSE.

❅ at one point you fix jean's collar and his sister is like "man u cant even do one thing right" to him, and his mom brings up marraige at the same time and jean chokes on his food. its not why she asked it that shocked him its just how she asked it. its so casual - "youre such a child, jean," his younger sister says, and his dad is talking over them, "alright, just because his collar is a little dishevled," and jeans glaring at his sister as you fix it and theyre all kinda talking over eachother right and you fix it and its like a little soft moment and he mumbles a "thank you" and his eyes are like shining and his hand is on your thigh and you roll your eyes in fake annoyance. and his mom is just, "so marraige."

❅ LMFAO moving on. theres dessert. you help with the clean up and jeans sister tells you that when they were small they used to make pancakes for their parents and jean got flour everywhere and she was always the one who cleaned it up. jean would worry about the presentation more than the taste and their younger sister would make the coffee, accidentally putting in too much sugar which went unnoticed until papa kirstein had to gulp down a wince at how sweet it was. speaking of, jean and him were in the living room and you could hear his voice clear as day complaining about how he just doesnt have enough vinyls and his dad telling him exact coordinates of where he'd find them <3

❅ and theyre all SO SWEET UGH like you can clearly see eahcother's influence in them. of course this cant be complete without mama kirstein showing you his old baby pics. hes so red in the face when his mom points out how chubby his cheeks were and his older sister pinches his cheek and he swats her hand away which turns into a small cat fight. dont talk about it. his dad puts some music on and claps his hands, "monopoly, anyone?" which then turns into a whole game night :')

❅ complete the night with a movie where you and jean fall asleep on eachother halfway through the movie, and his younger sister takes like 2000 pictures of the two of you with different filters on. as blackmail.

❅ bonus you wake up to pictures sent by an unknown number with different pictures of jean throughout his embarassing teenage years and his (gasp) emo bad boy phase in highschool... cringe...

god i love this man. i want him and his family so bad. anyway! thank you for the ask!! and for your patience :333

sorry for not making a moodboard, I couldn't find enough pictures with the vibe I wanted to go for (⁠･ั⁠ω⁠･ั⁠)

[victorsandvanquishers]

The Red House (and all who live in its walls) - Chapter 6

Fandom: DC Comics

Ships: Slowburn Eventual Bart Allen/Kon El; past Kon El/Tana Moon, past Kon El/Cassie Sandsmark, past Kon El/Knockout, past Kon El/Cassandra Cain, past Kon El/Travv

Ratings: M+

Warnings: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers; Southern Gothic Horror; Mentions of Alcohol & Drug Abuse; Suicide ideation

Story Synopsis: When former child star and Metropolis sweetheart Kon 'Superboy' El loses the last vestiges of his career to rampant partying and a budding alcohol addiction, he's forced to move into an old house in the Georgian woods because he can't afford his apartment or his bills anymore. Never the quitter, Kon embraces the crumbling antebellum house and all of its possibilities.

[Bart Allen/Kon El, No Powers AU, gothic horror romance]

Chapter Summary: Kon was a terrible young man, so he figured he might as well endorse all the hateful things people thought and said about him.

~~~

I hope you all have been enjoying the crazy ride thus far. I promise you, it only gets worse (affectionately). Who is Bart Allen? Why is he so invested in a sadboy with severe mental health issues? Why is KonMan so obsessed with Lex? When the fuck is the rest of the cast showing up?

Find out next time on Dragon Ball Z! Thank you, and don't forget to leave a review! ╰(￣ω￣ｏ)

[justadram]

It's great to see the story being continued and the chapter was great!

Seeing the conversation between Theon and Sansa, and him proclaiming his love for her. If Dany and Jon would have not arrived, would Ned have agreed to marry Sansa to Theon? He would have been the Lord of the Iron Islands, but considering the history between the North and the Iron Islands, and Theon's personality before the conquest, it seems doubtful that Ned would have agreed to the marriage.

The ending of the chapter was also great and surprising. I didn't expect Theon to do that. Why did Theon kill Dany? Was it something that he talked and planned with Ned, before they left the North or was it something that he planned and decided on his own?

I'm very curious and eager to see the next chapters and to see what the fallout will be. Will the Dothraki and Unsullied blame Jon and Sansa for planning that with Theon? I'm also very curious to see how the people of King's Landing will react and if they might start a riot.

Have a nice day!

Maybe Ned would have agreed. Ned could have treated Theon like a prisoner, but he didn't. Canonically, this is like nourishing a viper in the bosom of Winterfell. If he realized the risk, he chose that course anyway. Either because Theon was a child or he hoped to make a more reasonable and friendly heir out of the future lord of the Iron Islands.

Or Ned is just a bad judge sometimes. Cat's a bad judge too. She spends years worrying Jon is the viper being raised to steal her son's inheritance when it's Theon. Ugh. Sorry, the Theon and Jon parallels get me.

In this fic, I think it's safe to say Ned might have been persuaded to accept a marriage between Theon and Sansa. Especially if she wanted it. Sansa's older and her parents are more respectful of her wishes because of that. It's not a terrible match on paper, so if she said but daddy, I love him, I think he would have okayed it begrudgingly. After being like really? him?

The crux of the issue is Sansa doesn't think of Theon that way. And if she ever could have been persuaded to think of him that way, the possibility pretty much died when he kissed her best friend. And as Theon is going to his death, I think he knows and wants to confess the worst thing he ever did was kiss the friend when he wanted Sansa. That was doing Jeyne dirty and betraying his love for Sansa if it was real. But that was the old Theon. Careless at the very least. Indulgent of his fleeting wants without thought for the consequences.

Theon has seen the writing on the wall. He knows Sansa is not safe while Dany lives. So Dany's got to go. There are probably a dozen reasons why he decides he has to be the one to do it and do it alone, including, his desire to be a hero, to act honorably, to be someone the Starks would claim as their own. He swore privately to Ned to keep her safe, he's along solely for that reason. But they didn't plot together. This is just Theon's final notion of how best to keep her safe. It's his last service to House Stark.

Theon's not thinking about the potential fallout.

[whereareroo]

IMAGINE

WF THOUGHTS (12/13/23).

It’s been a while since we played an imagination game. Put on your imagination hat and let’s get started.

Imagine that you’re back in college and that you’re taking an ethics class. To provoke some conversation, the professor shows the class a video that unfolds as follows:

1. Mary, a suburban Mom, is sitting in her kitchen at 8:30 a.m. on a normal Wednesday morning. She just got the kids on the school bus and her husband left for work two hours ago. There is a loud knock at the door. Actually, it’s louder than a knock. It sounds like somebody is trying to knock the door down. Mary goes to the door.

2. Jane, Mary’s friend from across the street, is pounding on the door. She’s in a panic. She’s screaming. Between tears, Jane explains that she just received a terrible phone call. On his way to work, her husband has been very seriously injured in a car accident. His condition is grave. He’s been taken, by helicopter, to a hospital that is 50 miles away. Jane needs a ride to the hospital. Her car is in the shop. Jane begs Mary to take her to the hospital.

3. Mary refuses Jane’s request. Mary explains that she has an appointment with a cardiac specialist at 9:30 a.m. and she’s been waiting for months to see this particular doctor. Mary says that she can’t deal with Jane’s problem until after she addresses her own issue. She says that she’ll only be available to drive Jane to the hospital after she’s attended to her appointment.

4. Jane runs away screaming. As she leaves, she looks back at Mary and says: “I don’t have time to accommodate your schedule. By the time you’ve finished dealing with your issue, my husband might be dead.”

That’s the whole video. To get the discussion going, the professor asks the following questions:

A. What do you think about Mary?

B. What obligations do friends have to each other?

C. Who has the higher priority problem, Jane or Mary?

D. Ever though her medical appointment is very important to her, is it reasonable for Mary to insist upon dealing with her issue before dealing with Jane’s issue?

E. When word leaks out about Mary’s behavior, what will happen to her standing in the community?

F. As a matter of morality and ethics, what should Mary have done? Is there any way to defend Mary’s behavior?

Now, let’s put the imagination game aside and focus on the fact that Ukraine is facing an extreme emergency and her very survival is at stake. She’s almost out of money, and she’s almost out of military resources. Without help from America- -her supposed friend- -she will lose the war. Putin has repeatedly stated that his goal is to totally conquer Ukraine and make it part of Russia. If he conquers Ukraine, it won’t be long before Putin seeks to conquer other countries in the region. That will precipitate WWIII.

This week, the President of Ukraine went to our Congress to beg for money and military aid. The Republicans in the House rejected his plea for help. Those Republicans claim that it’s a higher priority to fund a border wall and pass legislation that restricts immigration. They won’t even consider funding for Ukraine until after their agenda items have been resolved. If Ukraine is toppled because of this gamesmanship- -if it dies before more help comes from America- -the Republicans in the House are willing to live with that result. Are you?

Aren’t the Republicans in the House acting like Mary? What’s wrong with them? Is this how we should treat a friend who desperately needs help? I understand that Republicans care about border security and immigration reform. Many Democrats care about those issues too. Isn’t this the wrong time to pursue those issues to the total detriment of a friend who is facing an immediate life-or-death crisis? Aren’t we better than this? Don’t the Republicans care about our standing in the international community?

I’m a big boy. I understand how political games work. In the old days, the leaders in Congress knew when it was time to put the political games aside and to do the right thing. The Republican leadership in the House is so weak that it’s afraid to put the political games aside, even for something as important as saving Ukraine and avoiding WWIII. Let’s pray that somehow Ukraine survives. Let’s pray that America doesn’t totally lose her place in the world. This is serious business, and the House doesn’t have any serious Republican leaders. These are dangerous times.

Every student in a college ethics class would know what to do right now. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the House Republicans took a crash course? I’m not holding my breath.

[haruhey]

Mind If I Join You?

check out my masterlist!

buy me a coffee ¿?

Word count: 13k (i am SO SORRY i got carried away and this fic turned out SO FILTHY but i hit 300 followers so consider this a gift??)

Established Relationship Fluff | Smut

There’s only one bed shower, and Daryl Dixon is an opportunist.

the request:

every single fic of yours is seriously amazing. ur a great writer!! can i request a daryl shower smut bc wooweeeee

There’s always a giddiness inside Daryl when he returns from runs. No more sleeping in the RV for nights on end, no more eating cold canned chicken soup and - as much as he liked Aaron - no more hearing him talk about how much he missed Eric and making him miss you, too. He’s exhausted, his muscles sore from overuse, but the fact that you’re probably curled up in bed makes him so damn excited that all the ailments of his aging body are swiftly forgotten with each step he takes.

Houses fly by in a blur as he ramps up into a jog, his feet taking him to the dim light of a moving lantern in your shared bedroom window. By Daryl’s estimate, it couldn’t have been more than 10 or 11pm, but time meant little in the apocalypse - it was either dark out, or light and with the days getting shorter, he noticed you using the lantern more and more frequently. Just a few days ago, you had fallen asleep curled up on his chest, the soft orange light filling the room before he strained his body trying to turn it off without waking you. The next morning he had a terrible cramp running from his rib up to his bicep, but he never complained. Not even a wince in your presence since he thought the soreness was worth it. He would rather die several times over than lose the image he saw - of your pillowy lips taking soft, steady breaths of air while you slept against his bare skin.

Smiling, he lets himself remember the way you looked when he first gifted it to you, a grin that spread to the apples of your cheeks and crinkled at your eyes plastered on your face. It wasn’t a perfect replica, but it looked close enough to the one you would both light on nightwatches in the prison - which he thinks was when he first realized he loved you. Daryl also remembers the first night he saw you use it, the memory so vivid in his mind that he felt like if he reached out, the soft fabric of your pajamas would welcome his touch.

He could picture it now, your back against the headboard, reading one of the books that littered the shelves he never touches. Your face bathed in the lantern’s hue while your eyes scanned the pages and drinking in every word of whatever you were holding. He plucked that book right out of your hands that night and pulled you onto his lap, kissing the pout off your face until you weren’t annoyed at him anymore, rendered down to just laughing against his lips.

Fuck, he couldn’t wait to get home and see you again.

Daryl curses under his breath as he fumbles a little with the doorknob, but the profanities are quickly replaced with a huff of accomplishment as he practically sprints to the bedroom, boots shucked off haphazardly at the front door. He skips every other stair with long strides, desperate to feel you in his arms. When he enters the bedroom, he places his crossbow on the dresser and is surprised to see the room as dark as it is, the only source of illumination being the moon as it streams through the windows. The bed is empty and the blankets are strewn to your side, but neither you nor your pajamas are anywhere in sight. Panic flies through him before he registers the unmistakable sounds of the shower running, and he scoffs at himself when he sees the dim orange light peeking from beneath the bathroom door.

Had you known how worried he was for a second, you would have laughed at him. He was already so protective of you before the two of you got together, but it was another level entirely when you both made it official. It wasn’t just losing you to the dead anymore - it was also losing you to other people. Daryl knew you could take care of yourself, he had seen you hold your own on runs in the prison and trips outside the Alexandrian gates, but, God, if anything happened to you he wouldn’t know what to do. Being apart from you once when the Governor attacked was already almost too much for him to handle, but the thought of losing you and having to be okay with the fact you were never going to love him again? That was something he never wanted to experience.

Leaning against the wall, he pulls off his belt and places it next to his crossbow, his vest following not long after. The mattress squeaks slightly when he makes his way over to it and lies down, his body feeling almost instant comfort at the feeling of something other than the hard leather of his bike’s seat. Days like this made him think that maybe you were right in jokingly telling him that his motorcycle was a dumb choice for long runs - his tailbone was probably shaped like a rectangle from how long he’d been sitting on his ass.

A few moments pass as he allows himself to indulge in some rest, eyes closing and already in the first stages of a slumber before he shoots up, pushing himself to the edge of the mattress and sitting straight. Fuck, he needed to shower. He had given you his word that he would. Each time before he fell asleep after a run, he’d said; and Daryl Dixon was not one to break promises. Especially not to you.

Getting off the bed, he sheds his shirt and throws the old fabric onto the dresser, grimacing at the knowledge he would have to scrub at the dried walker blood come morning. His socks are next, pulled off by impatient hands and left on the floor, not even given a second glance as he then pulls open a drawer and grabs a pair of boxers from his meager pile. The only thought in his mind being the feeling of smooth sheets and your body against his skin. He’d pick up his clothes after his shower - if he could even muster up enough energy to.

Step by step, he makes it a good few feet out of the bedroom before he realizes the other second floor bathroom doesn’t work. If his memory served him correct, there were some plumbing issues and, before anyone could buy replacements, the world became, well, what it is now. After all, it was the only reason you and Daryl even took this house - nobody else wanted to have only one shower and, after becoming a couple, sharing one between two people didn’t seem all that bad. At least, that’s what he thought until now. Groaning, he rubs his eyes in an attempt to rub out the fatigue in them before his whole body lights up with an idea. Maybe he could have some fun with this. And if you asked, he could always blame the missing pipe or whatever it was that the Alexandrians couldn’t fix.

Practically thrilled, he mentally pats himself on the back and rushes back to the bedroom. Tired? Not anymore. Daryl can’t be if he wants to fulfill what just popped into his mind. Years of hunting leave his footsteps nearly silent when he enters the bathroom, but he’s not exactly at a disadvantage in terms of noise. The rhythmic beating of water against the tiled floor drowns out the slight squeak of the door as well as the hitching of his breath when he notices the gap. With how the room was designed, just standing at the door led his gaze in a nearly direct line of sight to you, the shower curtain lying an inch or two from the wall and offering him a vision which he doesn’t hesitate to indulge in.

It’s not like he's never seen your body - far from it, actually - but there was something about you that made him hesitate when it came to stuff like this. You deserved sweet and soft, affectionate with declarations of love between his kisses, and while he enjoyed giving that to you, sometimes he wanted something different. Sometimes Daryl wanted to act on impulse - to feel a different type of desperation - and tonight, he wanted to act out one of his long-hidden fantasies. One that involved you on many, many occasions.

Truthfully, he couldn’t fucking stop thinking about it since Merle and his buddies showed him that damn VHS as a hormonal high schooler. He never really had a committed girlfriend or anything like that to ever even pluck up the courage to ask, but that fantasy remained like a phantom in the back of his mind, lying just outside his finger’s reach. One that haunts him late at night and renders him withering in his own palm. At least, that was the case. Because he has you now and how he managed that? He didn't know. But he felt confident enough around you and trusted you enough to pursue the desire in him.

A shiver courses through him, running along the tip of his spine when he considers the possibility you might like it as much as him - and if you did, maybe he would divulge to you more of these secrets he’s always kept hidden so well.

With silent movements, Daryl unbuttons and unzips his jeans as he leans against the door of the bathroom, just barely suppressing a groan when his fingers graze the zipper. He curses himself, chastising his sensitivity at the mere image of you doing something as mundane as taking a shower, but he knew it was an inevitable consequence. Ever since the prison, anything you did got him riled up - even just seeing you sitting on his motorcycle made his skin light up with goosebumps. Left in only his boxers, he steps out of the denim pooling at his feet and picks it up, throwing it haphazardly onto the cream coloured counter as he waits for you to take notice of his presence. The metal button clashes against the smooth marble of the vanity, and its noises sound across the room, your eyes opening and your fingers catching the edge of the plastic curtain as you dart your head out, searching for the source.

Your body tenses up, no doubt the experience of living out on the road for so long, but the fighting instinct drains from you the moment you see the affectionate boyish grin playing on Daryl’s lips. It’s barely visible as he stands so far from the meager light source, but it sends an eager smile onto your face. Like all those times he’s returned to you, you want to run to him, feel his arms wrap around you and inhale his scent as you plant those incessant kisses he ‘hated’ everywhere on his face, but that urge only serves to remind you that you’re standing naked in a shower and he’s just staring at you.

“Daryl! What the- I thought you weren’t coming back until tomorrow.”

Embarrassed, you speak, voice pitched higher than normal from the shock and excitement coursing through your body. However, he stays put, leaning against the door as he drags his eyes up the expanses of skin afforded to him; that is, until you pull the plastic curtain to cover yourself and run your free hand through your hair, tilting your head ever so slightly in order to urge his eyes to meet yours. You wait for his response as you brush the wet strands back from your face, but it never comes, him instead choosing to stride towards you and send you a pout before pulling petulantly at the shower curtain, trying to coax you to let go of it. Raising an inquisitive eyebrow, your grip loosens and he can barely hold back his excitement when you really do let go, tongue peeking out for just a second before he hooks his lip between his teeth.

Throughout your relationship with Daryl, you learned he loved looking at you, gawking at and admiring each angle, birthmark and curve until you felt heat flush through your body. Even before the two of you got together, his gaze stuck on you, longing and soft when you weren’t looking, only hardening if your eyes ever met his. Each time he saw you it was like he was still in disbelief that you were his, forever suspended in the wide look he had when you first confessed to him, hence why you didn’t pay much attention to his stare as you moved to pump out some shampoo. You didn’t really know why he was in the bathroom and he made no effort to tell you, but you were here to clean yourself. So that’s what you’ll do. He’ll probably leave sooner or later after making sure you weren’t hurt anywhere, anyways.

The way the light from the lantern bounced off your glistening skin made you look like some sort of goddess. Like an otherworldly being he shouldn’t be looking at. Or like a succubus, sinfully tantalizing, except you didn’t know what you were doing to him as you raked your hands through your hair again, bubbles forming already between your fingers as you scrubbed. Shit, this was way better than he expected, and he’s gladly taking in everything it was offering. Shifting his weight, he clenches and unclenches his fists - commanding himself to keep them at his sides - but then you turn around, allowing the water to rush down your back and his resolve withers away as he tries not to envy the path along which it’s falling.

Soon, the little space between the shower curtain and the ceramic tiling isn’t enough for him. He needs to feel you against him, his trembling hands and suffocating boxers egging him on like this was the first time he’s ever seen you naked. Clearing his throat, he urges himself to move, building his confidence which had seemed to dissipate nearly immediately as you locked eyes with him. What he wanted to do wasn’t sweet or affectionate, and even though he knew you would tell him if you didn’t like it, he just didn’t really want to risk even doing something you didn’t like in the first place.

“Sorry I, uh, I’ll go rinse out my hair somewhere else. Here, I’ll get out so you can-”

This was it. He had to act now or he’ll lose the opportunity. Running his thumb across his bottom lip, he watches as your hand reaches for the shower valve, but your movements and voice stop when Daryl shoots his dominant hand out, the calloused skin wrapping around your wrist in a warmth that makes you snap your gaze to his. While firm, he never applies enough force to hurt you - he knows what kind of men there were in this world, and he didn’t know what he would do if you ever thought of him like that. On the contrary, the feeling of his fingers around you is welcome, especially after what felt like years away from him. Giving him that same inquisitive look, except this time laced with a small smile, you can tell by the way he’s gnawing at his lip that he has something to say. Something that has him hesitating in a way you’ve never really seen him hesitate before, well, besides the first time you both kissed.

“Actually, mind if I join ya? ‘Cause ya see, the other shower don’t work and there’s this girl - my girl - she’s amazin’, but she doesn’t let me into our bed ��til I shower and I’m damn tired.”

Oh.

Noticing the way you tense up slightly at his suggestion, he offers more, another reason to sway you into accepting as if the pursuit of his little fantasy would both begin and end with what drops from his lips. This definitely felt more daunting, like a much larger leap than him asking for permission to kiss you.

“I also heard showerin’ in pairs saves water.”

Oh.

Yeah, you get why he was hesitating now.

Honestly, Daryl really couldn’t give a fuck about the water he was talking about. What he had in his running mind had little to do with his environmental footprint and more to do with feeling your skin on his and the image of you coming undone for him. He hasn’t been home - been with you - in what felt like weeks, and he thought the generator could stand to work a little harder after running for one person for a few days. With a slight upwards twitch of his eyebrow, you can feel what little apprehension you had leave your body and his heart pounds in his ribcage with the anxiety of what’s to come. At least, he thinks that’s why its beating at 100 miles per hour.

It surely can’t be the residual hormonal anticipation or excitement from his youth.

“And who exactly did you hear that from?”

The slight joking edge to your voice causes him to smile, but it’s a mischievous one, one that holds promises and sends a shiver through your body. Daryl really had no clue what he did to you when he looked at you like that, his piercing blue gaze hitting you as his head tilts down almost sheepishly to the grip he has on you.

His eyes flick up to meet yours, a glint residing in them that draws you to look at nothing but him as he runs his thumb along the bone of your wrist. With a tilt of his head, he speaks, muttered as he gnaws once more at his lips and lets go of his hold.

“It matter?”

So nobody, probably.

The amusing thought sends you shaking your head ‘no’ as you smile, pulling open the plastic curtain in invitation while trying to suppress the idea that just popped into your head. Daryl just wants to shower and the only reason he wants to shower with you is to fulfill that promise he had made. Because he just wants to go to sleep. That’s all. Nothing more, nothing less. Hooking his fingers into the waistband of his boxers, he’s hopeful that you would be watching him - and he’s fully prepared to make a show of stripping his last piece of fabric - but he’s sorely disappointed when he sees your eyes closed in an attempt to keep the bubbling shampoo from burning at them.

Why weren’t you looking at him? Was he not overt enough?

Wow, he really wasn’t very good with… whatever it is he’s trying to do, huh?

You shuffle forward from the steady stream and he takes that as his cue to step in, gladly placing his body just a few inches from yours and sighing in relief when the water hits his sore muscles. The sounds don’t go unnoticed by you, and your heart sinks a little with each suppressed groan of pain Daryl lets out. He always worked so hard for Alexandria, and they still treated him like somewhat of an outsider, questioning his true intentions with harsh looks when he even so much as walked too close to them. But they didn’t seem to mind him much when they were eating the animals he hunted, though, and that sent your blood boiling.

Turning around, you try not to let your gaze drop too low as you place your hands on his shoulders, frowning when you feel the stiff knots that have burrowed their way underneath his skin. Almost immediately, Daryl submits to your touch, an all too familiar warmth bubbling in his heart as he, too, turns and exposes his scar ridden skin to you, allowing your thumbs to rub circles into his upper back. He always loved this - the domesticity of these moments, the wordless communications, your love and affection directed solely at him - and he’s starting to forget the real reason he crashed your shower in the first place, lulled into relaxation under your nimble fingers and the water beating down on his overworked muscles.

“Does that feel better?”

Your question warrants a response landing somewhere between a grunt and a groan, but then you laugh and he swears his heart swells tenfold. He missed hearing that. Even if you got embarrassed of it sometimes, or hid it muffled behind the palms of your hands, he loved hearing it. Because you glowed when you did, your eyes crinkling up at the corners with a smile that almost always brought him to his knees, and perhaps almost selfishly, the knowledge that he doesn’t want to be away from you any longer dawns on him - as well as the knowledge that it’s inevitable that he has to leave again soon. Whether it be with Aaron or Rick, or some of the poor bastards that piss their pants whenever they see him.

When you stop your ministrations, he feels himself frowning as you tap him once with your thumbs, but he elates almost immediately when you speak promise of a better massage come morning. He’s slightly ashamed of the way his whole body lights up in goosebumps in anticipation, but it’s not unwarranted. Spending late mornings with you was something Daryl never knew how the hell he had lived so long without, and they were his favourite types of mornings by a long shot. Especially when it ended up more often than not with you on him or him on you, the both of you thankful for the misfit house you had all to yourselves and away from prying eyes and eavesdropping ears.

“You’re too damn good to me.”

But he deserves it, you think to yourself, He deserved to be cared for like this.

His praise drips with a softness he didn’t even know he was capable of until you came along and Daryl turns back around to face you, smirking lopsided when he sees a shy smile worm its way onto your face. He had to have known what he was doing when he said stuff like that - especially when he used a voice like that. Seriously, how long had the two of you been together? It felt like an eternity already, but he could still make you flustered from a simple compliment. Shaking your head, you rest your wrists at the nape of his neck and use the leverage to pull his lips to yours, thumb swiping at the blood dried at his cheek and hoping the distraction of your tongue on his will keep him from teasing the warmth crawling up your neck.

A ‘hm?’ noise falls from him, small and surprised as his eyebrows raise for just a moment before his hands loop around your waist by instinct. When you pull away, another noise falls from Daryl, but this time it’s more disappointed than anything, and he chases your lips with his bottom one jutted out, taking full advantage of the strong arms he has wrapped around you. Holding you in place, his eyes plead with the now perfected ‘one more’ look you’re all too familiar with and you can’t bring yourself to deny him - he knows you can’t. Closing his eyes and puckering his lips as he waits patiently, he hums when you finally kiss him again, his satisfaction vibrating down to the hollow center of your collarbones before begrudgingly letting you go when you pull away again.

The water runs a brownish red from the dried walker blood being washed off his body and he scrubs furiously at his arms, trying to gauge the right move that will get your thighs shaking and your moans bouncing off the ceramic tiles he’s seen less than he’s willing to admit. Should he just… go for it? Just pull you against him and push you up against the walls he wants your noises to echo off of? No, he should come up with a better idea. You deserved a better idea.

Running his thumb along his jaw, Daryl sneaks furtive glances at your body - who the hell he was hiding them from, he didn’t know - and picks even more skin off his chapped lips as he watches you twist at your waist ever so slightly to comb through your hair. Swallowing down his spit like some teenager, he watches your shoulder blades protrude and disappear, intently following the droplets of water as they fall along your neck and down the muscles you’ve developed. He had to hand it to the sorry rich prick who had designed this house because, all things considered, they did a pretty good job; there was just enough spread of it between the two of you to pass as a decent shower. Even if you or him had to oddly angle yourselves to warm a cool patch of skin.

Reaching towards the shampoo bottle, his arm brushes against your waist almost feather-light, but it sends a shiver through you, rattling your ribs and making your cheeks flush all the same. Daryl lingers for a moment longer than you expect, his body leaning as he stretches over and you think he’s going to step forward - wrap you up in him - but dutifully, respectfully, anxiously he stays put. You want his touch, especially after nights alone with only the scent of him on his side of the bed to keep you company, and, having caught a quick glance at his straining boxers before he joined, there’s little room for doubt in your mind that he wants you. But still, it exists.

Your own arms begin to sore when he finally pulls away, his hands now raking through the hair he seemingly never wants to cut. Clearing your throat, you turn around, eyes screwed shut as you face Daryl, fearing for both the shampoo you’re washing out stinging at your eyes and the fact that if you looked at him, your gaze would probably drop. God, was all it took just a few days without him to have you craving him like this? The close proximity coupled with the knowledge he’s standing next to you naked makes you tense up before a shiver runs up your spine, your thoughts causing your breath to hitch for barely a second. Despite your efforts to suppress it, your subconscious prays that he picks up on the little noise. Please let him pick up on it.

And he does, ever observant as he connects the dots, the initially surprised look on his face melting into a small anticipatory smirk before he all but races to lather his hair in the coconut - or was it grapefruit? - scent. This was good. This was damn good.

He dares take a step forward, tentative, testing out the waters as if he was unsure of your desire, but he knows he can read you, and that he can do it well. This was when he should do something, right? The subtle confirmations - a tense, a shiver, a hitching breath - beg him to. Under the streaming shower, Daryl impatiently scrubs at his scalp, teeth hooked permanently atop his lip as he watches the rivulets of watered-down shampoo catch along your skin, his fingers and mouth itching to replicate its path down your neck to your chest. He knows that path well, and perhaps that’s what makes him even more envious.

Thank God for the fact you’ve closed your eyes because if anybody saw Daryl right now, they would take a step back, maybe even several thinking he was angry. How could they not when he was glaring at you as if you had done something horrible? It’s a surprise to him, the fact that it seemed like you really could not feel the burn of his stare, but then a thought pops into his lust-fogged brain. Maybe you did know. And maybe you were toying with him, playing coy and pushing him to a teetering edge, letting him taste the tension on his tongue until he could hold back no more.

To say he’s impatient is an understatement. He isn’t simply impatient, no, he’s impatient. He wants to do something. He wants you to do something, to initiate the flurry of hands and lips he’s craving so desperately and, seemingly blind to that triad of signals, he scrubs frantic at his hair in an attempt to control himself. As he rinses out the shampoo, he manages to cling onto what little restraint he had over his body until you turn back around. It was like the universe was egging him on, trying to break his resolve by showing him those dimples on your lower back, reminding him of the way he gripped them when he took you that night before he left - and it works. Jesus fucking Christ does it work.

Daryl’s body crowds you then, muscular arms wrapped around either side of your waist and rough hands palming at your chest before sliding down to your stomach, pulling you flush into him while he grinds his hips experimentally against your body. The feeling catches you off-guard, eyes widening in surprise as you let out a gasp into the steam of hot water and you grip harshly at his forearm, attempting to steady yourself from the sensations blossoming from your thighs. He can feel them tense and begin to snap closed against him, but you hear the corners of his mouth twitch upwards with satisfaction.

“What- what are you doing?”

Restless, his fingers travel downwards, hooking a strong thigh between your two legs as he ignores your question, them parting immediately to accommodate him. Daryl’s veins thrum with adrenaline, feeling the all too familiar effects of your warm skin when he realizes you’re letting him do this - enjoying him, even - your hands pawing at his to beg him to speed up, to bring you that nirvana he loves to be the reason for. Heat flushes your body, knowing full well what he’s capable of, but despite it, your skin erupts into goosebumps under his touch, desperate for more.

“What’s it look like ‘m doin’?”

Your neck comes under his affection next, his lips meeting it as he mumbles the words against your pulse point, tongue darting out when he feels it speed up. Almost methodically, Daryl finds the marks he’d left days prior, darkening them with unadulterated determination and rolling his hips against you once more. The heavy motion draws a whine from you, short and needy as your nails dig into his wrist and he all but basks in it. God, this felt good. How the hell had he spent so long without you? Without your skin under his? Everything about you feels like a fucking drug to him.

“D-Daryl- what would your girl say.”

He smiles against your neck, a warm pride bubbling in his chest when he hears the slight shake in your voice. It always got like this when he was touching you, and he liked to think it was the anticipation raking through your body. All the possibilities he could bring to you. He loved listening to your voice as it was, but hearing it quaver as it bounced off the ceramic walls, mingled perfectly with the rhythmic thrum of water crashing against the two of you? It was almost alarming how quickly it made his head spin.

Submitting to your urging, he lets you slide his hands down to the apex of your thighs, groaning guttural into your ear when he feels your hips lift and rut into his touch, unintentionally grinding your ass onto his cock when you push yourself back onto him. Hooking his chin over your shoulder, you hear his breaths as he digs his palm an inch below your pelvis, thick fingers gripping harsh at your inner thighs as he nudges his further between them. It feels like fucking magic, whatever he’s doing, and a plea tingles at your lips before you bite it down. Daryl’s never been this bold, and this is new territory for the two of you. Very new. So you were going to let him take his time - let him explore every inch of your skin as if he didn’t already have it memorized - despite the fact every cell in your body screams for you to sink down on him right here and now.

His grip disappears too quickly for your taste, but before you can even register the decadent sear that marks his blunt fingernails and calluses, his palm makes home just below your stomach and he swipes two fingers against you, spreading you for him but avoiding that bundle of nerves you want so desperately for him to touch. An expletive drops from Daryl’s lips as he gathers evidence of your arousal, and the sound of him makes you claw at his wrist, your hands still blanketing his as you try to angle him to do something other than coat his fingers and smear you across your inner thighs. Amused, his middle finger curls, breaching you just until his first joint before pulling away, relishing in the way you clench as if trying to keep him in you.

“Hm, I dunno. What do ya think she’d say? I think she likes it.”

You can hear the self-satisfied smirk on his face as he feels your body react and you can practically see it behind your closed eyelids. Daryl knows all your buttons, every single movement that renders you down to a puddle of mush, but he’s avoiding them. His jaw clenches and unclenches as you buck your hips up to try and meet the talented fingers only getting further and further and further from you. Skin warm from the streaming water and the sheer amount of lust coursing through him, his left arm snakes upward, resting just under your breasts before pulling your shoulders flush against him. His teeth sneak out from behind his lips, grazing against that spot that made your thighs shake the first time you slept with him, and you become putty in his hands.

A gasp of Daryl’s name falls before a staggered whimper erupts from your throat, his hands moving so fast and sure along your body as if he had molded you to his perfection. Everything hits you at the same time, his sharp canines right below your jaw bone before they melt into the caress of slightly chapped lips, the hand at your chest palming and tweaking and toying like there was no tomorrow, his fingers swirling, nudging at that tiny bundle of nerves you’ve been silently begging him to touch just once, and you can’t stop the noises falling from your lips. No matter how much you try, they escape.

“Or d’ya think she’s too busy moanin’ for me to tell me?”

Oh, that fucking prick.

To make it worse, you can’t even bring yourself to be angry for that long because his voice drops into that low, husky whisper that makes your knees go weak. Had Daryl not essentially smothered you against his body, you just know you would be a puddle, pliable and aching after just a few days away from him. A jolt of pleasure rockets through you the moment you realize what he wants - to make you as desperate as he is for this - and you know he knows exactly how to get it. Biting your lip, you trap your sounds in your throat just to spite him and you dig your fingers into his forearm, seeking in any way to find another outlet for all the compounding stimulation he just keeps giving you.

Your heartbeat drums through your ears and you can barely register the growl against your skin, but the vibration of it is inescapable. He feels the crescent shapes already forming from your nails on his tan skin and he pulls his face from you, breath fanning your ear in preparation to express how disappointed he is at you robbing him of your noises, but you beat him to it, freeing the words that burn at your tongue to knock him off his high-horse. Daryl was never a very confident man, but fuck if it does not make your skin tingle.

“I think she’d tell you to- to shut up.”

The rebuke is futile, a stutter brought on by the push and pull of his deft fingers and he laughs. Daryl chuckles into your skin before everything from him detaches, only for him to grab at your waist and spin you around to face him, adjusting his hold to crowd you once more. Your back hits the ceramic tiles, a sharp whine escaping you at the contrasting cold, and you can see that smirk you had envisioned on his face when you open your eyes, taking in every inch of the swept back hair now falling into his face as he tilts his forehead slowly to yours. Running your non-dominant hand up from his arm to his face, you push the strands back, smiling slightly at the way he melts as his eyelids flutter shut for just a second. As much as he said he hated how damn soft you made him, he sought after your touch, your hands much too intoxicating for him to deny them.

You glow a ring of delicate orange from the lantern shining behind him, the light bouncing off your glistening skin and those sparkling damn eyes that shine with unguarded affection despite your ‘annoyance’ from just moments ago. Creating shadows over your body with his broad figure as he blankets you, Daryl nearly groans with delight at the image - the realization that you look impossibly better with the warm hue making his head spin. And when he remembers that you’re his to love? He tries to hide just how much it makes his mind run, but his voice comes spilling out without much thought, everything about you shrinking the filter between his brain and mouth that he so tenaciously keeps on during the day.

“That so? ‘Cause if I do then I can’t tell ‘er how much I missed her. Or what I was thinkin’ when I thought about ‘er at night.”

Daryl was already so worked up at the thought of doing this to you, you didn’t even need to actually do anything to him to have him throbbing against your stomach, begging to be touched after days of only imagined scenarios to keep him company. So you indulge him, tracing your dominant hand down the V-line of his pelvis and biting your tongue when his hips snap into your grasp, his grip at your waist tightening as he tries to still himself. He wants you to touch him, to let you give him what you want to give him and he tries his damndest to control himself, instead using his words to try and rile you up.

“Nothin’ I do feels as good as her. Nothin’ I’ve tried’s ever been close.”

Your whole body shivers at the insinuation, the ceramic sandwiching you to Daryl ceasing to feel as cold as it did when he first pushed you against it. He feels like centuries have passed when your hand finally wraps around him, running your fingers in a stroke that has him groaning and nearly keeling over you with how much that simple damn action makes heat pool in the pit of his stomach. Everything about this feels heightened, the steam of the shower failing in comparison to the heat pinging between the two of you. His eyes seek yours, cock twitching and catapulting him much farther to his climax than he would like to admit when he sees you watching your grasp, lips parted ever so slightly, pleading with him to lay his on them.

Heart thrumming in his chest, another groan of an expletive followed by your name drops from Daryl before his hips jerk forward, stuttering into your grip with no real rhythm as he pushes a rough kiss onto your mouth. When you let out a little surprised squeal, he pulls himself back immediately, as if shocked by his own lack of self-control, but your hand never stops, and your face leans closer towards his, the feeling of his ruined sounds vibrating along your tongue making you chase him. This must have been how he felt when he had you whimpering for him on those late nights and early mornings. No wonder you both loved them so much.

Twisting your other hand from the side of his neck to his nape, you pull him to you with equal fervor, the stroking of his cock forgotten in favour of his chapped lips turning into something more sinful with each movement of his talented mouth. His fingers begin to wander now, eagerly grasping at the two dimples at your lower back before his palms find all too familiar territory kneading and massaging your ass. Knees nearly buckling, you remember the leaking heaviness twitching in your grip and you nudge him between your thighs, your legs spreading just a bit wider as you inch him closer and closer and closer to where you need it most.

“N-no, wait- I gotta-“

His hands shoot downwards to still yours and he pulls his hips from you, his statement stuttered through a sharp, shaky breath. Whining, you nearly beg for him before you realize he succeeded in what he set out to do - and he was only gone four days, your subconscious chastises. Your head is swimming in desperation for him as you shake it, hair whipping into your face and onto the wall while you vehemently disagree with both his words and your own internal mocking. All coherent thoughts leave your mind, washed away in the stream of water running down your body and you come to the conclusion that you don’t fucking care if he would poke fun at you come morning, you need to feel him.

“Daryl you don’t need to- you can just- I can-“

You don’t need to keep-

You can just-

I can-

God, you sounded pathetic, your voice barely breaking above breathy through the heavy beating of water, and he loves it, it’s enticing him; he could die right now and he would feel nothing but satisfaction. Daryl was never a very confident man - well, with people at least - but around you, he felt wanted. Not just in moments like this when you craved him so debaucherously, but in moments when you would pull close to him while you were sleeping or hug him from the back. Just giving him your affection so freely and not expecting any back. It made his heart damn near break everytime he had to leave. Adjusting his grip on you, he digs his knee into the wall, perching you on either side of him and leaning closer and closer to your burning skin.

“Gotta get ya ready. Jus’- jus’ be a good girl an’ be patient. Don’t want ya limpin’ tomorrow ”

Despite his words, Daryl can’t help but think that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It wouldn’t be so bad to linger beside you the whole day, a constant reminder of the real reason you needed him to get you things, or why you would grip his arm as a piss poor substitute for a crutch when the two of you walked along the street. Nobody else would know - at least, neither of you would ever tell - but the satisfied puff of his chest and the fact he stands just a little bit prouder might make them connect the dots. That, and the lovebites that creep out from underneath the neckline of your shirt which, coincidentally, only seemed to darken after he came back. Nah, he thinks to himself, it wouldn’t be so damn bad.

“I thought you were tired.”

There’s a hint of concern in your voice, peeking out from between the teasing and he grunts, acknowledging your words before his hands wrap around your wrists and urges them to loop around his neck. He knows he needs to do this, the action a silent beg for you to just relax and let him treat you right in the way you know he always will. With his neck flush in the crooks of your elbows, you tug him, pulling his face to yours and raking your fingers through his wet hair.

“Never too tired for you.”

His stubble scrapes against your nose as he mumbles his confession between kisses down from your forehead, a delicious burn leaving a trail that makes your heart beat impossibly faster between your ribs. Grip falling to your waist, Daryl’s rough fingers inch towards the apex of your thighs, but he moves them so fucking slow you're tempted to just reach down and push them into you like you intended to do with his cock. Before you can entertain the idea any longer, he catches your lips in a clash of tongue and teeth and knowingly smirks against your lips. He’s dedicated, attentive, and what kind of man would have the heart to deny you? He would do anything for you, all you had to do was ask.

Daryl eagerly swallows the moan you let out against his lips when his middle finger curls into you, the vibrations spreading along his tongue and consuming him from the inside out. Your thighs spread wider for him, welcoming him - no, begging him - for more and it riles him up almost comically well. Whether it was intentional or not, he would never know. He pulls his face away just inches, breath heavy against your parted lips before he sends you a small smile, an underlying mischief peeking out from the tiniest sliver of teeth he exposes. Leaning more of his weight onto his knee, his left hand travels around your waist to your ass, digging his dull fingernails into the flesh and pulling towards him, bringing your hips off the cold ceramic and snaking that arm into the curve he’s just created.

Before you can even brace yourself, he pushes a second finger in, curling languid with accelerating speed, revelling in the heat you bring him with an audible groan that reverberates off the shower walls. Already so desperate, the feeling nearly makes your legs shake under your own weight, but Daryl’s prepared - he could keep you up with the hand he has splayed across your upper back and he’s secretly proud of it. His mouth returns to you again, tongue surging to meet yours as if just the taste of your kiss would satisfy his desire to taste what’s beginning to coat down his palm.

It doesn’t, but it’s a damn good substitute.

Nails scratching pathetically at his scalp, your lungs beg for oxygen, but you ignore your body’s pleading for as long as you can. You need Daryl. Just him. Just him. His fingers are ardent, all of them pushing and pulling and toying and touching you in a way that skyrockets you into an overwhelming nirvana and it feels good. It feels so good to be with him again, surrounded by his scent and his heat, that you start to entertain the thought of begging for him. You try to do just that, but every sound coming from your lips is only absorbed greedily by his before you pull him away by his hair, taking large gulps of oxygen as he does the same.

Not even a second passes before you’re grinding down into his palm with pleas falling into the steam of the shower, all your words going straight down to his cock. Gritting his teeth, he growls at your desperation, lips shooting down along your collarbone before catching the skin between teeth. He has your whole body memorized, proof of that fact littered across your body in the form of lovebites, memories seared into your mind of his everything and it’s almost too much to handle. Almost. But you need more. And Daryl knows, much too perceptive in all senses of the word.

His left arm snakes up to your neck, the nape of it secured in a grip firm enough to pull your hips down onto his muscular thigh, spreading you and rubbing that sensitive bundle of nerves with his rough skin. Something between a swear and Daryl’s name chokes through your throat and he curls his two fingers just enough for you to repeat the sound, the movement perhaps pulling your hips forwards toward him. With the way you grind down so readily on him, it wasn’t easy to tell whether the roll of your lower body was from his fingers or the lust running through your veins. A satisfied smirk worms its way onto his face that you want to kiss off, but your head is stuck against the ceramic tiling by his hand tugging securely on your hair. Not enough to hurt you. Never enough to hurt you.

He can feel it now, the fact that you’re close, and it only makes him work harder. Maybe it was selfish of him, expediting your pleasure so he can finally seek out his, but he’s damn near shaking with the thought of finally being able to be with you in one of the ways he always wants to be. Sometimes Daryl felt like a teenager with all this certain enthusiasm he can’t seem to control with you around, but you had never complained - you made him feel alive in all the best ways - and he thanked whoever was pulling the strings in his favour for bringing him to you. Circling his thigh, he pushes everything he can up into you, the pressure making you feel like you’re floating. Fingers carding through his hair, your whole body tightens around him in a silent plea, and he's pretty sure he would have to be just about the biggest idiot in existence to ever deny you.

“Give it to me. C’mon, give it to me. Ya wanted my cock didn’t ya? Jus’ give it to me an’ I’ll make ya feel even better.”

Give it to me.

Give it to me.

Give it to me.

Daryl’s voice makes your mind swim, the growl rough and dangerous like everyone always tends to think he is, and incoherence drops from your lips, echoing against the confines of the walls as his breath fans your ear. Rutting your hips up to his hand, the knot in your abdomen snaps, the proclamation of it escaping you in a broken moan of his name. He can feel your body’s reactions before you start to get those familiar sparking waves of pleasure, the clench of you around him growing sporadic as he continues to unravel you with his teeth gritted, the unrelenting precision of his fingers sending you clawing and tugging at his scalp with no regard of your strength for just a moment.

His groan at the sensations edges out the haze of your climax and you immediately detach from him, pulling your body back from his so abruptly that he slips from you. Scrunching his nose in disappointment, his large hands cling at the back of your thighs, bringing your chest and forehead to his as if he couldn’t stand being apart from you for even just a few seconds.

“Sorry- sorry if that hurt I didn’t mean to-”

Face inches from yours, he shakes his head and cuts you off with a series of hungry pecks. One to your sinfully soft lips, then to the corner of your mouth, then one to your jawbone, devouring your apology right then and there as he overtakes your senses.

“‘S alright. It felt good.”

Then he kisses you again, urgent all the same, but he only pushes a firm brush of his mouth against yours. The movement is like a signature, as if it were his name scribbled easily along at the bottom of a letter - a soft possession that you wear along the tingles of your lips. It makes you claw at him again, tugging on the sides of his hips to pull him flush against you, fingernails digging crescent shapes he wants to see come morning, and your apprehension all but dissolves into the hot water of the shower. You were his, he was yours and in his mind, there was nothing he wanted more than for you to show him just what he does to you.

“Anythin’ ya do feels good.”

It’s stupid, how you could be in the middle of something so intimate and a simple compliment from him could leave you flushed from the neck upwards, but he loves it. He loves the little whimper you let out at his words and he smiles that lopsided boyish grin that makes your heart skip a beat. When he smiles at you like that, it makes you feel like the only person in the entire world. No walkers, no Alexandrians, no runs or patients at the infirmary to steal you or him away from the other. There was no one except you and Daryl - and it’s been too damn long since it was like this.

Body flush against yours, he snakes a hand down between his legs and the other grips at your thigh, hooking it around his torso and begging with a roll of his hips for you to rest your leg there. Each breath he takes sends a jolt of pleasure blossoming against your ribs, his skin rubbing against your chest so deliciously it makes your mouth fall open in silent pants of air. You don’t know when you closed your eyes, but they open when Daryl says your name, broken by a curse that falls somewhere after the first letter. He looks good like this - eyebrows furrowed and jaw clenched.

Gritting his teeth, his mouth can barely form a coherent sentence with how much excitement is coursing through him, and he’s trying his fucking best to hold back from slamming into you until you give him a nod or a pull or anything, but then something in him breaks. The feeling of just having you so damn close worms its way into his brain and he takes himself in his fist, dragging along to gather the remnants of your climax and notches himself, all the while groaning from the heat emanating off you.

“‘S this okay? Need t’know if this’s okay.”

Slurred speech. It was so uncharacteristic of the Daryl everyone else knew - the Daryl who was so sure of himself, the Daryl who wore a permanent scowl on his face, the Daryl who was so mysterious, never speaking anything above a growl - and you think you could have laughed had it not been for the fact the words themselves dig up memories of all the times he had said them to you before. Every cell in your body lights up, high alert now that he’s in you, but he’s not moving. He’s not inching into you or filling you in the only way he can and you push your hips towards him, greedy movements making you swallow more of him. Taking a sharp breath, he lets you rut against him, but still, he doesn’t fucking move.

“God, Daryl- yes. Yes, it’s okay. More- more than okay.”

Sometimes you hated him, and then hated how stupid you felt for hating him.

He waits for your words. He always does. Without fail he checks on you before he slides into you. He never wants to take because he always wants to be good for you, but sometimes you wish he would. Sometimes you wish he would just take from you - take everything you have. There is nothing in this world that is not shared between the two of you. Daryl’s wholly yours as you are wholly his.

Curses drop from his lips, your name thrown in once or twice as if he’s reminding himself you’re real as he feels you around him. They fly out of his mouth like the bolts from his crossbow and ricochet off every wall as he begins to move, slow at first, experimental maybe with his hand secure against your thigh, then he starts building and building into a heavy, sinful rhythm. Shakily, Daryl groans, the breath he lets out tendrilling at your chin before he sucks frantically at your bottom lip, your noises meeting his as they hit the ceramic wall.

He wants to live in this moment forever; immortalize the way you look and sound on one of those VHSes, write the damn date on it, and hide it away for his and your eyes only so it’s rewatchable and revisitable and reliveable. It's not enough to just sear you into his memory like he’s done so many times before because you’re damn near perfect. Like you were made for him - for him to give you everything he wants to give to you.

“Fuck- fuck- you feel better’n I remembered. How’s‘at possible?”

The words escape him, rushing out as if you’ve put a spell on him, and they almost escape you, too, your pulse beating in your ears. But he’s so close to you, growling out through gritted teeth into your ear and pushing his lips to the curve of your jawbone like they need to be on your skin. He pulls his body away, chest leaving yours, and you pull at his waist to bring him back, whining lewd for him and only him, shameless and betraying the blush you feel as you register his stutters, but he doesn’t. Instead, Daryl smiles, that same damn grin with his teeth hooked along his bottom lip and eyes hooded as he watches every change in expression. You groan, half in the way he rolls his pelvis just enough to rub against that small bundle of nerves that beg for him, and half in annoyance at the way that lascivious expression seems to make every electron in you buzz.

“Shut- shut up.”

He lets out a sharp breath, a singular amused ‘ha’ following it, cock hardening and twitching even more at the fact he’s making you blush like that first night he had lavished every inch of your body with his lips - like you didn’t deserve every single damn word escaping from him. Leaning his weight against his left forearm that lies on the side of your head, Daryl brings his face to yours, nipping at your lips and seeking your tongue before he starts speaking.

“You should see yourself like this, y’know. Fuckin’ perfect for me.”

For a man who only ever growls and mutters, he certainly liked to talk a lot when he was pounding into you the way only he knows how and you’re just so damn unbelievable for him. For him. You’re his to love and it sparks something within in him that makes his tongue fucking run and his hips speed up involuntarily. Hell, you probably heard more of his voice in this shower tryst than the whole first nightwatch you had with him. You’re not even sure the water is beating down onto you anymore because the heat of your body makes the shower pale in comparison.

The sweat accumulating on his back and chest and everywhere is washed away almost immediately as it forms and you’re grasping for something to hold onto. Clawing, you wrap both your arms under and around his shoulders and scratch desperately at his back, grinding up against him and making jumbled noises of moans and Daryl’s name when he drags against that spot he knows so well. It’s skin on skin, the ceramic wall ceasing to feel cold as you screw your eyes shut and let yourself mount and mount with each roll of his hips. You hear a nearly feral growl, feeling your leg being hiked up higher by the elbow hooked underneath your thigh, and a loud noise breaks from your throat when his thumb swipes where his cock meets you.

“C’mon, we ain’t got all night.”

You’re close and he knows it. It was like he was rubbing it in your face, the fact he could make you like this - how quickly he could reduce you into the incoherent, ruined state you always seemed to become for him. Attentive. He’s always attentive. You can tell by the way he’s memorized everything that makes you shake and capitalizes on them, thrusts coupled with the tight circles pulling you closer and closer to that precipice of pleasure, but he says those words anyways, hoping to get a reaction from you. Daryl’s not an impatient lover - he would spend hours buried in you if you let him - but he’s so damn close and perhaps almost selfishly, he wants to watch you succumb first. He wants to watch the water race down your body as you writhe for him against the wall, and he wants that to send him over the edge.

“Then- then do better, Daryl.”

You bite back, your breath grazing against his neck and a wet heat rushes through him, making him groan nearly wrecked as his hair tickles your cheek. Reaching behind his muscular body to his shoulder blades, one of his large hands is more than enough to wrap around both of your wrists and he takes them in his grasp, moving them until they’re secure against the ceramic wall behind you. You’re warm for him. Pliable for him despite the veil of distaste in your voice and he can’t get enough of it.

Daryl’s so fucking happy you bite back.

His hips stop and you let out an almost childish cry, but he stays buried deep, filling you up to the brim as the water beats down on the both of you and holding you against the tiles by the weight he’s pressing from where you meld to him. His face is so close to your ear now. So much so that you can feel the breath when he speaks, a dangerous growl resounding through your body before his teeth graze along your neck.

“Hm? I ain’t never heard a complaint from you be- before. That a- fuck- are ya challengin’ me?”

An expletive drops from Daryl’s lips when you clench around him, no doubt from the sudden crash of your mounting pleasure, and he pushes impossibly further into you, firmly pinning you down until he knows you won’t be able to move anymore. He wants to show you he can stop at any moment, that he can make you work for it, but you both know he’ll give in. Maybe you didn’t know the extent of which you have him wrapped around your finger, but if you even knew half of it, you would know he would never stop. Not when he was so desperate for you he can barely think of anything except the way you look and feel. At least, not unless you wanted him to.

“Are you g-gonna take it up?”

Although your mouth ceases there, your brain runs, pleas tickling at the tip of your tongue, but you can barely manage to form the meager few syllables that have already escaped you. Eyebrows knotted at your forehead, you try desperately to coax more movement from him - a whine, a whimper, a thrash of your pinned hands flattened by his strong grip - but Daryl’s so damn still and it’s driving you crazy. When your body settles for only ragged breathing and shaking thighs, he takes it as his cue to lean down, lips brushing yours in a kiss that’s so affectionate you forget that, just moments ago, he was relentlessly pounding into you.

“Don’t know. Seems like you might be wantin’ it more’n me.”

Smiling against your mouth, he pulls away just enough to speak. A challenge in his words so obvious to you that you try in vain to buck your hips to his. If he didn’t sound so good and look so good and feel so damn good, you would have denied it, but you’re strung so taut, so close to the peak, that you can barely form a retort. A stupid, handsome smirk rests on his lips as he waits. Patient. Like it wasn’t affecting him, being buried in you. He’s just waiting for your words - goading you as he watches from underneath his lashes.

“Daryl, I swear to God if you stop right-“

The insincere threat is enough to spur him into action. Partly due to the fact you sound so desperate and ruined for him, and partly because he just needs to feel you again - he would lay you down and take you the way you deserved on the bed come morning, but right now was a different matter entirely. Swearing, his smirk drops in favour of a scowl, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he snaps up into you in quick succession. The hand at your thigh is roaming now, massaging and palming wherever his nimble fingers can worm their way onto before it splays across your ass, using the grip to pull your body impossibly closer to his. Daryl would have made you beg for him - he wanted to - but he can’t stop himself. Not when you look so pretty up against the wall and you’re taking his cock so well.

“Been gone four days an’ you’re already so damn needy.”

Whether that statement was directed at you or himself, you would never know.

An abashed whimper escapes through you and you want to deny it, perhaps just to see what would happen, but you can’t. You can’t because Daryl’s right. He knows he is, and you know he is. You thrash your arms so you can touch him, feel his skin underneath your fingers, but his grip around your wrists keeps you firm against the ceramic tiling - just enough to keep you pinned so he can admire the way you squirm for him. Grunts and groans of your name escape from him with each thrust, the feeling of your body melded to his much too intoxicating for him to keep his mouth shut.

“What, you embarrassed now? Wanna cover your mouth? Keep them noises from me when you’re soundin’ so damn pretty? Ya better not be thinkin’ about it. ‘Cause ya damn well ain’t gotta.”

Daryl tilts his head, eyes squinting in faux-concern and mocking you as his hips relentlessly hit up into yours, pushing out the breath from your lungs which escape in tantalizing gasps with each roll. You’re so close, and the only thing you can do is moan at the sound of his rough voice, the coil tightening in your abdomen because of his determined thrusts. You just need a little more - just a little more - and he reads you like a book.

Without warning, the hand pinning your wrists frees itself, his finger pinpointing back between your thighs with an unadulterated eagerness to pull your climax from you and you damn near cry out Daryl’s name as you claw at his back. It’s like second nature to him, the way he can touch you and make you crumble for him. Practice does make perfect, and he’s always been a persistent man.

“Ya sure as hell weren’t when you were bein’ a brat.”

Everything he’s doing to you is almost effortless. It makes your legs shake and without warning, your thighs tense up, a white hot surge of pleasure erupting from the base of your stomach and you gasp a broken moan of Daryl’s name as you clutch at his neck in an effort to keep yourself from collapsing onto him. He holds you close, chest pushed up to yours and breathing ruined into your ear as he works you through your climax with dextrous fingers, chasing his own as his rhythm begins to falter. Sporadic thrusts meet each flutter of your clenching warmth. until he can’t hold out anymore.

Screwing his eyes shut, a stuttered chanting of profanities mixed in perfectly with pleads of your name fan out from his mouth and he pulls out, rubbing himself harsh against your thigh before your fingers wrap around his cock. Fuck, Daryl nearly crumbles right then and there, a ragged groan rushing from him before his hips jerk upwards to your touch - nothing could even compare to it and he thinks nothing could ever come close. Nothing except you. Pulsing in your grasp, both of his rough hands dig into either of your thighs and he stills, teeth gritted as the evidence of his pleasure hits your stomach before being washed away in the steady stream of water.

Satisfied, you smile and lean towards him, your head coming off the ceramic wall, and he parts his lips immediately for your tongue, but you pull away after giving him a quick peck. Scrunching his nose, Daryl pats lightly at your thigh for your attention and seeks your lips once more, moving his with the same amount of overwhelming love and affection he always does. It makes you feel warm inside, like you were the only one in the world for him. And you were. At least, in his mind you were.

He releases the grip he has on your thigh and slowly lowers it, his hand still ghosting close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off his body. Both legs still shaking slightly, your foot hits the floor of the shower and you lean your weight on it, tentative and experimentally at first before you overestimate its security and half-fall-half-stumble into him. Daryl notices, of course he does, and he swallows down the pride welling in his chest as his sure grasp steadies you against his body.  

“Hey, hey, I got ya. Jus’- jus’- I got ya.”

By instinct, he speaks, the rumble of his chest against yours making your heart well up with the familiar fondness you always experience when it comes to him. Daryl wasn’t a man of many words even though you had managed to break him out of his shell a little - at least with you - but there was no doubt in your mind that he genuinely and wholeheartedly cared about you. In his eyes, you had strung the stars into the sky and he always treated you with a softness he never thought himself capable of.

With one hand on his waist and one on his shoulder, you use Daryl as a crutch, continuing to lean your weight on your legs until they cease to shake. When you can stand on your own, albeit with wobbly legs, you link your fingers in both of his and meet his protective gaze - alert as if prepared to catch you again if your body gave any type of signal. He smiles when he sees the expression on your face and brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a firm kiss onto the back of each of your hands before letting go and reaching for the bar of soap you two had ignored in exchange for something more riveting.

“Here, let me- I’ll help ya wash up.”

It meets your shoulder and it’s cold as he trails it down, lathering your right arm before moving across your chest and to your left. Smiling at his concern, you hum, nodding your head and content at the feeling of his tenderness as he continues to dutifully run the suds down along your body. Daryl unabashedly goes about copping a feel or two when his hand just so happens to fall onto your chest or your ass, a boyish grin meeting your quirked eyebrow when you question his intentions with a look. If you actually, truly cared to ask him, he would say he was helping you wash your body and making sure he was doing it to the best of his ability - quality assurance or some shit like that.

He helps you lather, too, calloused fingers rubbing off dead skin much better than yours could as he focuses the showerhead on him. You laugh when he pulls you into him, water streaming down your body along with his hands as the bubbles wash off your body and you run the bar of soap along the broad expanse of his shoulders, doing your fair share of subtle… touching too. Daryl all but melts into your caring hands, revelling in the way your attention is solely focused on him before he grunts, as if signalling you to look at him. When you do, his hands loop around your waist, head tilted to one side as he gingerly rubs those little shapes he always love to draw onto your skin.

“Y’alright? Was, uh, was that alright, I mean.”

Allowing you to maneuver him under the shower, he begrudgingly lets go of you to rinse off all the soap and feels genuinely clean for the first time in what felt like days. Smiling, you respond, saluting playfully and laying a small peck onto the corner of his lips before you spin around, pulling the curtain open just enough to reach for the towel lying just a few inches away on the towel rack but still keeping the warmth from the water in.  

“Yes, sir!”

His cock twitches at the name, betraying the slur of fatigue in his voice and he sighs at himself, turning the shower knob off and opening the curtain fully, reaching for his own towel that hangs next to yours. He always did feel like a teenager when it came to you, and usually he didn’t mind it, but he really was tired before this and his back is killing him, so maybe another time.

Drying your body, you turn your head towards him and smile before making quick work of your wet hair and stepping out, pulling your underwear on from where you left it on the bathroom counter. It’s a small smile, one fully innocent and only ever reserved for him, but that look makes your words replay in his mind. A shudder runs through him as he tries to ease a smile onto his face too, admiring the scene of you for a moment. It’s domesticity, showing him a homelife he could actually feel loved and safe in; reminding Daryl something like that actually existed for him.

He imagines meeting you in a different world, wooing you like you deserved through coffee dates and Radiohead concerts, not through killing reanimated corpses or guarding Alexandria’s walls together, and his whole body calms down.

But then you pull on a shirt that’s much too big for you - one of his shirts that you said you liked wearing because it smelled like him - and he swallows his spit as if he hadn’t seen you naked just moments ago, a familiar shudder running through him again. Definitely another time. Near future, preferably.

Hopefully.

“You coming?”

Your voice breaks Daryl out of his daydream and he grunts an answer, smirking at the joke that just popped into his head as he replies with a curt ‘I just did’ and catches the pair of boxers you throw at him in response. Rolling your eyes, you comb your fingers through your hair and try to dry it as much as you can with the towel before reaching for your toothbrush. He follows suit, dressed in only his boxers as he brushes his teeth and shakes his wet hair at you like a dog, causing you to whip water at him off your fingertips after you wash off the excess toothpaste dribbling at the corners of your mouth. Smiling internally, he spits, tasting mint on his tongue that he'd much rather replace with the taste of your lips, even though he knows full well you’re just as minty as he is.

“Thank you.”

Meeting his eye in the mirror, you give him a confused look, eyebrows raised in an expression he thought was much too cute on your face for your own good. Your hands don’t still as you continue to rub out the water in your hair, determined not to go to bed with it too wet and risking it to clump up and dry tangled.

“For lettin’ me, uh, do that.”

His naturally gravelly voice clears up, turning slightly more timid than you were used to and you notice the shift in his behaviour. He avoids your gaze, waiting for your response as he fiddles with the lantern he now has in his grasp, unsure of what you would say and you decide your hair is dry enough. Hanging your towel back onto the rack next to his, you grab his free hand and lead the two of you back towards the bed, smiling affectionately as you turn off the lightsource and place it onto the nightstand. Wide-eyed, Daryl stares at you, as if waiting for you to tell him to leave - that you hated what he had done - but you break him from that train of thought as you slip under the covers and welcome him to join you.

Relief washes over him and he happily climbs in, groaning at the feeling of your body next to his and he succumbs to the comfort of the mattress. Pushing yourself into his side, his arms automatically open for you and he swears he could cry when you brush your thumb against his cheekbone and lean up to him.

“Anything for you.”

He feels the words as you whisper them just inches away from his lips, and he relishes in them when you pull away from the quick peck and dig your face into your pillow, closing your eyes and just looking so at peace. You’re so close to him Daryl’s in awe and he can’t help but stare. Wanting to hold onto the feeling of his skin a little longer, your finger draws a little heart over where his beats in his chest and you speak again, voice so warm and sincere.

“I’m glad you’re home.”

Home. That’s what it is to him now, too.

“Glad ‘m home too.”

With a final kiss laid on your forehead, Daryl echoes your statement and pulls your body closer into his. A small smile tugs at his lips and his arm slings lazily at your waist before he, too, closes his eyes, allowing himself to fall into the lull of sleep.

It was good to be back.

Back to a home he had made with you.

──── ⋙ 

@daryldixonluv @pulplorrd @fuseburner @hells-mistress @maria--grey-blog @marylimlp @pncnsc @tinachristeen @hail-yourselves @whimsicallymad @just-always-tired​ @phoenixblack89​

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[fernweh-writes]

Hi dear, I hope you are doing well ♥ Could you please write headcanon how would slashers react to their s/o having a panic fear of spiders? Like she always freezes or scream when she sees even a really small spider.

(today I freaked out, when I saw the eight-legged monster above my bed and wish I had some big stabby men here, who would save me :) )

Spiders simply have to many legs and to many eyes

-Fern🌿

Slashers X S/O With Arachnophobia

Michael Myers

He simply cannot understand why you’re afraid of spiders. You’re not afraid of a giant man who murders people, but you’re scared of a tiny insect with eight legs? Yeah, okay, makes sense.

The first time he sees you screaming and freaking out over a spider, he thinks that it’s hilarious. Michael has never seen you so scared of anything before. Not even he managed to get that kind of reaction from you when he was considering killing you. It amuses him that you’re so afraid of a bug.

When you scream for him it never fails to freak him out. He thinks that you’re in danger. So when he just sees you pointing at the spider he considers letting you suffer and deal with it on your own.

Once he’s done watching you have your bug breakdown he will kill it for you. It is his job to protect you after all and while he does occasionally enjoy seeing the fear in your eyes, he would much rather you fear him. That small bug is stealing his thunder, so it has got to go.

Bo Sinclair

There is most definitely plenty of spiders in Ambrose. Majority of the places are run down on the inside, which makes them a safe haven for creepy crawlies. So unfortunately for you, there will be plenty of encounters with the eight legged horrors that are spiders.

The first time Bo hears you scream he panics, thinking that you’re in danger. So when he finds you pointing at a spider, it’s safe to say that he is a little bit upset.

At the same time he also finds it endearing and loves that you come running to him to save you. It shows that you trust him to protect you, even from little nuisances.

But still, even though he does think you’re being dramatic he’s quick to squash them. Bo knows that there’s plenty of spiders in Louisiana that could be dangerous and land you in the ER so he’s more than happy to handle them for you.

Be prepared for Bo to give you hell about your fear though. “What are you so scared for darlin’? The thing ain’t but the size of a dime, if that.”

Vincent Sinclair

He spends most of his time in dark, cool tunnels underground. There’s spiders absolutely everywhere in his workshop, Vincent is just used to them at this point.

Vincent does his best to keep you up in the house after the first time a spider crawls over your leg and you loose your mind. That effort lasted about all of one day considering he hates working alone now and misses your presence. Knowing that you want to be with him also doesn’t help his resolve any.

Used to try and save the spiders but eventually gave up. There’s simply to many of them in Ambrose, so saving them just doesn’t do any good.

Luckily, Vincent takes your fear of spiders very seriously. So anytime you call upon him to save you from the eight legged nuisances he is always quick to oblige.

If you interrupt his work though it may annoy him a little bit but he’ll never let you know that. He knows that you can’t help your phobia, but don’t expect him to stick around after he finishes the job. May also get a little bit of an attitude afterwards as well but always ends up apologizing.

Brahms Heelshire

Spiders don’t phase Brahms. He lives in the walls with plenty of them and has more than likely come to appreciate them. Which is very surprising for Brahms. So sometimes he tries to save the spiders and move them outside. Unless he’s been bitten by one.

If Brahms has been bitten by a spider before then it just turns into the two of you freaking out and arguing over who has to kill the spider.

“Be a gentleman, Brahms! You kill the spider.” “No! You kill it, you’re the one being paid!”

If you don’t want to deal with the spiders, all it takes is Malcolm stepping on one for you one time when you started freaking out. Brahms saw you thank him for it and got jealous. Now Brahms is your official protector from creepy crawlies, not Malcolm.

Thomas Hewitt

You’re going to have to get over your fear of spiders if you want to live in the Hewitt house. The old place does a terrible job of keeping the bugs outside so you’ll see them scurrying across the floor pretty frequently.

You know what they say, everything is bigger in Texas. Turns out, the spiders are no exception, so good luck.

Thomas is very busy and handles most of the chores for the family. He doesn’t have the time to run to your rescue every time you see a spider.

When he is with you he won’t hesitate to kill them for you though. Thomas isn’t afraid of people with weapons, why should he be afraid of a small critter with eight legs?

Luda Mae would honestly just look at you like your stupid if you tell her about your fear. Nonetheless any spider she sees it quickly whacked with an old newspaper before you even have a chance to see it.

Billy Loomis

“How come you never scream for me like that, babe?”

Billy thinks it’s absolutely hilarious that you’re afraid of something so small. You can date a murderer but an eight legged bug is where you draw the line?

While he loves to tease you about it, he will still save you from the spiders. What kind of boyfriend would he be if he didn’t? “Ask nicely and I might kill it for you.” “You’ll kill people but not the spider?” “You know what, just for that you can kill it yourself. Have fun!” Or maybe not…

Walks away but circles right back around when he hears you freaking out again. Then he gets dramatic about everything and starts huffing and rolling his eyes at you.

Stu Macher

Much like Billy, Stu teases you but in a less condescending way. Stu keeps his teasing more lighthearted, he just has a tendency to go to far with it from time to time.

Is also very dramatic and makes a whole scene out of killing the spider for you. Acts like he’s your knight in shining armor.

On the bright side, him being a complete dork distracts you from the spider. Unlike some people *cough cough Billy* he doesn’t delay the part where he kills the spider.

However, he does expect payment for saving you and protecting you from the big bad arachnid. It’s okay he accepts cuddles and kisses as a form of payment.

Jesse Cromeans

He has spent to much time on his murder sprees in the Deep South to be scared of spiders. Everyone knows that the south has plenty of deadly spiders and Jesse sin;t fazed by any of them so you can count on him to keep you safe.

There aren’t any spiders in his house either. Jesse has to much money to allow any sort of bugs get anywhere close to his house. Any time you see a spider within the house it’s most likely already dead anyways.

Jesse finds your fear of the bugs cute. It makes you seem so innocent. His sweet kitten isn’t afraid of him or what he does but they’re afraid of a tiny little spider.

Asa Emory

Asa doesn’t fear spiders, the spiders fear him.

Unlike the other slashers, Asa doesn’t tolerate bug homicide. Any time you find a spider in the house you better let him know so that he can safely get rid of it.

Some times he’ll keep the spiders that find their way into the house. Spiders are his favorite after all and native species are important for the environment.

Sadly, he would use your fear against you if he deems it necessary. As long as you listen to him though, there won’t be any issue.

[bloodpacks-archive]

HOMES OF THE RFA (+V AND SAERAN) HEADCANONS

alright we’ve got zen’s bachelor pad first - generally zen tends to be a pretty minimalist guy with his house. part of it is honestly because he couldn’t really afford to completely deck out his house for a while, and now he’s just grown used to the look of it so he really likes having spaces that are a little less cluttered. the one exception to this, unfortunately, is his kitchen. he doesn’t use his kitchen often, and as a result, he often forgets to do his dishes until the end of the week. monday? that shit is spotless. his kitchen is cleaner than anything has ever been and the dishes are neatly put away. do not even look at that kitchen on wednesday. it’s become a disaster zone and he’s embarrassed. but once the mc starts to come by more, i think he ends up cooking for himself a lot more because he starts to realize that he actually really enjoys it. he loves being healthy, and now that he has the motivation to cook for himself (and her, of course), he starts to realize how much he likes control over what he eats. so now his kitchen is a lot cleaner bc it just has to be.

two different places for yoosung !! - the one on the left is yoosung’s dorm :) it’s actually really cool in there. he spends a lot of time in that little room, so he decides to invest a little bit and make sure that he’s happy with the place he lives. he likes alternative lighting (mainly because it helps his eyes a bit when he’s playing lolol) but also because overhead lights can be a little harsh for him, especially after a long day of school. when the mc’s there, he always makes sure that the lights are just right. it’s very common for both of them to fall asleep while the LEDS are still on, a movie playing on the projector he bought a while back. when he moves out of college, though, his house is a bit of a different story. he still keeps some LEDS and neon signs in a little gamer/office space, and for the most part he’s actually pretty neat, but his house can definitely get messy. surprisingly enough, the mattress on the floor is not for him. in fact, it’s for zen. he comes over so often that yoosung ends up setting up a little mattress for him so that he can stay over whenever he has drinks with him. the mess honestly isn’t terrible though, and he and the mc are both good about making it an organized disaster.

jaehee’s cozy little apartment - rather than art posters, jaehee actually has a lot of framed broadway and other musical posters on her walls. she branches out a bit from zen’s musicals over time, and she actually really loves decorating her home with something that she loves so much. she likes her small apartment, and it means that she and the mc are never really that far away from each other. she places her hand on the mc’s back whenever she squeezes past her in the kitchen, and when they have their coffee in the morning she can lean over and grab her hand during conversation. she always has candles lit, and she prefers really earthy and woody scents. tobacco is a common scent, but as is sandalwood. even with the candles, their apartment constantly smells like fresh coffee beans and sourdough bread. it is a very rare day if there isn’t dough rising in the window somewhere, and even rarer if there isn’t a baked loaf hidden away in the kitchen.

two homes for jumin as well !! - the first picture is of his penthouse when the mc moves in with him. she adds little throw pillows, some rugs, and some plants to his stupid penthouse and makes it feel much more like a home. he gets rid of that stupid circular bed the second he realizes that she feels a little cramped in it and upgrades to a beautiful king sized mattress. there’s about a million and one windows, and that’s actually something he really loves about the penthouse. so it’s really no surprise when he and the mc move a bit out of the city and they keep the big windows and the big open spaces, but make it feel like something that’s meant to be lived in. jumin discovers his love of wood and tall bookshelves with a mix of occult novels and old classics, and the mc convinces him to add a little more color into his interior. their new house has a big garden out back so he can still visit the roses (though they aren’t the same ones from his old rooftop garden, but he’d argue that he planted them with her, so they’re so much better). they built the house themselves so it’s perfect for them, and elizabeth the third has her own little space for playing.

hmmmm. saeyoung choi’s new home <3 - saeyoung eventually leaves the bunker. it’s a hard move, and it’s definitely not one he takes lightly (he’s used to moving, but not away from a place with so many good memories). but, he builds this new home from the ground up with the mc. he makes the plans and hires architects to help him, and he starts to fall in love with this new home even while it’s still a blueprint. he never gives up his complicated security system (the arabic dictionary really starts to feel heavy sometimes), but he does start to realize how much he loves windows. he still ends up getting them reinforced, but he loves the natural light and he actually really likes being able to see outside so easily. it’s a stupid thing, but sometimes the mc will catch him sitting on their couch and just looking out at the secluded little forest they ended up moving to, and he seems really happy. similar to yoosung, saeyoung cannot stand overhead lighting. at first, his solution was to just have no lighting at all, but one day he came into his office and there were these little lamps everywhere and they actually made his office feel a lot less daunting. ever since then, he’s started using lamps more often than the lights installed into his ceiling. he also says they help to reduce any sensory issues he might have from the light, which also means a lot less headaches for him. he starts to really love thunderstorms while he lives there, and so he and the mc always curl up whenever it starts to rain and they sit on the couch, watching as lightning cracks across the sky and counting the seconds until the thunder together. whenever it rains, saeyoung knows he can take a break from everything for a while.

jihyun kim’s beautiful little apartment - his apartment is tiny except for his studio. similarly to jaehee, he likes the small spaces because one, he loves how cozy is feels, but two, because it means he can reach out to his mc a lot more often. his studio, however, is the biggest and brightest space imaginable. all of his apartment is big on natural light, but he loves having a huge window in his studio because it means he’s able to see actual life even when he’s wrapped up in his work. it’s also big enough that the mc can sit in and watch him work without ever feeling like she’s in the way, which he absolutely loves. it’s really common for her to be sitting on one of his extra stools, flipping through some of the drawing drafts he’s made with delicate fingers. he’ll turn then, half-dried paint on his fingertips and go to kiss her. she’ll laugh when she feels the coolness of the wet paint on her cheek, and he’ll feel terrible about it, but there’s not many worries that can be had when you’re standing in the shine of the afternoon sun, surrounded by art that you’re proud of and standing in front of the girl who brought you back to artistry. as far as the rest of his apartment goes, jihyun is very particular about color. he likes things to look nice and he appreciates things to be very calming in nature. the green kitchen is perfect for him because of this, and everything is always spotless. the only part of his home that’s ever a mess is his studio, but he knows where everything is.

and lastly we have saeran’s little getaway :) - of course, saeran stays close to saeyoung. they both end up moving to a really nice, secluded area where they feel safe. even after the issue with their father has been resolved, both of them feel safer if they’re away from the public. this actually ends up being great for saeran though, because it means that he has access to so many plants. so many. he can walk though his pretty summer garden outside to get to his greenhouse, and he loves being able to tend to all of the flowers there. it really is something that’s calming for him. plus, whenever he walks outside he can see saeyoung’s house and he can be reminded that he’s only a few steps away, so he’d make the trip often even without the flowers. his house is pretty small, but he can’t imagine wanting anything too big. it always smells really fresh in his house, like clean linens and citrus, but not the artificial kind. he just always has oranges somewhere in his house so fresh citrus is always there in the kitchen. he and the mc enjoy a really quiet life together in their house, and it’s honestly at this point that he feels the happiest. he likes being able to wake up in the morning and sit at their kitchen island together, a homemade breakfast in front of them and her head leaning on his shoulder.

[heavenunderthemoon]

Olly, Olly, Oxen Free {Hotch x daughter!reader}

Warnings: PLEASE, be advised of the SEVERE mentions of gun violence, murder, death, etc. This is a heavy piece, so please, please, please, do not put yourself at risk to read this, if you would like to know the plot without reading let me know and I will accommodate as best as I can!

This is set in “100″, so, daughter!reader is currently trapped with foyet in her childhood home. Alright, enjoy. 

"Y/N."

You sprung from your place on the floor, watching your brother retreat past the living room, his feet happily climbing the old route he used to take in the childhood home he was raised in. You  doubted he forgot it so soon, even with his young age. This was the house they had made home. Over the last year, you would've done anything to be back in this house, surrounded by the memories of your past life. The life in which you weren't forced into the witness protection program, abandoning all of your friends due to a serial killer hellbent on destroying your father's life.

Your hand reached out, gently grabbing the cellphone extending from the hands of your mother's.

"Dad."

You forced herself to sound calm, composed. Sitting only ten feet from you was a man who had previously shoved a blade into your father's abdomen just to prove a point. You figured seeming weak wasn't particularly a good idea.

There was the hum of an engine, one that you knew well. When you was younger- much younger- you used to wait up for you father to come home from cases. Most nights you fell asleep before he came back, but on the rare occasion you actually made it past midnight, you could hear that very same hum of his government issued SUV pulling into the driveway, subsequently causing you to dart out of  bed to jump into his waiting arms. It never mattered to you that you would receive a scolding from your mother for not going to bed at a proper time, not when you would see the smile that grew on her father's face when you accomplished your goal.

That smile, so rare and so blinding, hardly even captured in pictures. Your father was a tired man, a hardworking man, a dedicated father, but all of his good qualities had hardened into stone from the heat of his job and sometimes you feared that eventually, even you might not be able to crack that tough exterior. It seemed silly, sure, but your mother used to be able to find the chinks in his armor, used to make him laugh and smile and love and then one day she couldn't and who was to say that it wouldn't happen to you too?

"Y/N/N, I love you, you know that?" He used the nickname Jack had accidentally given you. When he was just learning to talk, the boy was unable to fully pronounce your name and you had been stuck with it ever since. You used to hate it- or, at least pretend to, but you could never yell at Jack. The boy was too good at absolutely melting you.

Your father's voice, which was typically strong and gruff, came out a bit cracked. It filled you with a sinking feeling. If your father wasn't composed then how the hell were you supposed to be?

The man who hoisted you on his shoulders every Fourth of July to see the fireworks better, or grabbed every spider that made you scream for your life. The man who taught you how to swing a baseball bat and then immediately yelled because you whacked him right in the knee. A fearless, strong, admittedly taciturn man that was making abundantly clear the ambiguity of your future.

You swallowed down that fear, you couldn't afford to be afraid right now. Y/E/C  eyes looked up to your mother. She was still beside you, looking at her daughter as if trying to engrain every single facet of your face in her mind, burning the image of her daughter into her memory.

"I know, I love you too." You didn't know how you managed to keep your voice so even but to anyone listening it sounded like a normal conversation. She could almost imagine they were sitting at a dinner table (something they hadn't done in a year because of the Witness Protection Program).

Pass the salt. She would've said.

"I need you to listen to me carefully, Bug." If you hadn't been so worried that you might die soon you might've found yourself scolding the man not to use that nickname anymore. After your friends had slept over in seventh grade and heard your father use it you were teased relentlessly, but now you didn't mind it. You didn't mind your father using a nickname you hated. You didn't mind a lot of things now that you were facing death, serial killer breathing the same air as you and your mother, standing in your living room, staring at you with cold, calculating eyes.  

It's funny how little things matter when death enters the picture.

"Remember when I taught you to drive?"

Your eyebrows furrowed, and you glanced to your mother, trying to keep your face void of emotion.

You hadn't learned to drive. You had begged your father, of course, but he had said no. You remembered the fight that had ensued, his words loud just to overpower your teenaged protests. "There's no use learning to drive when your mother's here, sometimes me, and the metro, it's useless. It would do you better to learn something more useful, like shooting a gun."

Oh.

The sinking feeling returned in the pit of your stomach. Or maybe it just never left. Your eyes hardened with resolve over what you knew her father was asking you to do, and you nodded.

"Yeah."

A tiny breath of air left your parted lips, and even with the confusion laced on her mother's features and the amusement playing on Foyet's, your mind cleared a bit.

Frontside. Trigger press. Follow through.

"I'm a terrible driver." You murmured to her father. Your hand began to sweat at what he was asking of you. You recalled the shooting lessons. It had been a year or so ago, the man wanting you to be prepared for anything and then he had been shot and you hadn't seen him since. Even with the little practice, you hadn't been too bad, but this was nothing like the shooting range. This was pointing a gun at a killer and hoping to anything that was good and holy that you didn't miss. Even so, who said you could get to the gun before Foyet got to you?

"You're good enough."

Good enough. You wanted to scream.

Foyet rose from his spot on the floor, and Haley stiffened in her place.

"I think that's good enough, right, Y/N?" The way he moved, eyes trained onto you, alight with a kind of...mischief? Yes, mischief. Like an adolescent boy who just found his father's stash of fireworks. His body moved like a predator. Refined, sophisticated, and calculated.

And, as he moved closer, you could smell him. He didn't smell like you thought a killer would smell. Though, to be fair, you hadn't ever given much thought to the scent of a killer. Maybe you thought that someone capable of such dirty, heinous crimes would smell as such. Like the rotten core would seep through their pores and become a putrid scent recognizable to those surrounding him. Instead, he smelt clean. Like laundry detergent and freshly washed hair. The hand that didn't hold the gun reached up, taking a strand of your hair into his fingers and running it through them deftly.

"Don't touch me." You pushed him back on instinct and, not seeming to expect such force, the man was shoved back two steps. Rather than cocking the gun right then and there, Foyet looked at you with interest and then, he did something you didn't expect. He smiled.

A laugh fell through his lips. It bubbled and boiled and hit your ears like nails on a chalkboard.

"Wow, you've got a feisty one, Aaron. I think she gets that from you, the old ball and chain over here is a bit of a whiner." He chuckled to himself like he said the world's funniest joke, and you glared.

"Leave them alone." Your father may as well have been on mute because the killer paid no mind to his orders.

He breathed in a deep sigh, looking at you with those same bright, calculated eyes. Then, as if coming to a consensus, tilted his head. "How about this, how about you go hide, I'll give you a head start, and then I'll come find you."

You could feel her mother bristle from beside you, quiet whimpers coming from her mouth. The hum of the engine played in the background, and the wind chimes on the front porch sang a tune with the breeze. "No." You said firmly.

Foyet pouted, going to stand closer to the two. With each step he took closer to the two of you, it felt like a nail going into her coffin. You could see the twitch in his hands, as if itching to plunge a blade into your mother's flesh, yet, you couldn't just leave your mother. You couldn't leave her to die.

"Ah, come on. You're a teenager- a teenage girl, no less, aren't you guys supposed to be fun?" His tone was teasing and coupled with his non-imposing figure, he shouldn't have been able to chill you with his words but the way his eyes bored into yours they did.

You felt a hand on your elbow, a nudge and you glanced back to your mother. Haley was smaller than you, it had been that way for about a year or so now. You had hit a growth spurt once you entered high school, inheriting your father's height, and it caused you to be a couple inches taller than your mother. Her eyes were filled with tears that were streaming down her face without care. You had seen her mother cry more than most daughters should.

Haley liked to cry at night, after putting her children to bed. She didn't think about how often you stayed up, listening to the sobbing on the other side of the wall.

A hand cupped your face, and you leaned into the warmth. How many fights had you two gotten in over the past year? You had always been a daddy's girl. He was never home, and it left your mother to be the 'bad guy' in most situations. And then, you all had been forced to pack up your lives and vanish. That year had been filled with nights of yelling at each other. Fights about small things. Like, your music playing too loud, or drinking too much coffee. And big stuff too. Like, you confronting your mother about having an affair.

Your relationship had been rocky. But, she was still your mother. She still reminded you to wear a coat when it was cold out, or washed your sheets when you felt sick. She made your favorite meals when you were sad, and bought  nail polish that she thought you would like. She was your mother, and you didn't think you would ever be able to ignore that.

"Y/N, go." Her words were stern, and it reminded you of a scolding. But your mother's lips were tugging at the corners, and she was caressing your cheek so softly that you thought you would collapse right there. Your heart clenched at the sight of your mother.

Would this be the last time you saw her? The thought made you want to scream, cry, and punch something all at once.

For the first time that afternoon, you let your mask slip. Your eyes welled with tears, lip trembling. "Mom, no." it came out shaky, and you didn't have to turn around to see Foyet smiling at the way he could make an entire family fear for their lives in a mere couple of minutes. You could simply feel it.

Haley nodded, both her hands cupping your face now, scanning it over and over again. Your eyes, a fierceness to them that mimicked her own. A button nose that sat above rosy pink lips. On your chin, a small scar. You were an adventurous child. You hadn't been afraid to climb the monkey bars despite being far too small for them and when you had fallen off, you had busted the skin open. Haley remembered being panicked, seeing you covered in blood, rushing you to the hospital, to find that you were calmer than she was. That's how you always were. You were never scared. You were brave and fearless and kind and even if you played awful, punk alternative music that made Haley's ears want to bleed, you were such a sweet girl with a big heart. The mother stood on her tiptoes, kissing your forehead.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a moment, trying to burn the memory of her mother's lips on your forehead in your mind. And when you opened them again, you tried to burn the image of your mother as well. Even now, red eyed and sniffling, your mother was beautiful. Everyone always told you, you looked just like your mother. Haley used to have blonde hair. It had passed her shoulders and you used to beg her to play hair salon because of it. She had cut it after the divorce and you had a suspicion that it was because she craved change. Her cheekbones were high and sharp, just like yours. It made her skin pull taut when she smiled. Her nose was soft and dainty- something you had always been jealous of.

What if you never saw your mother smile again?

Haley was nodding, nodding and patting the girl's cheek and it took you a moment to realize she was speaking once more. "Go, baby. I'll be okay."

No, you won't. You wanted to say. You wanted to let your body fall into your mother's arms and have the woman hold you like she did when you were a child. You wanted to feel your mother's hands run through your hair and hear the woman sing you to sleep. You didn't care how childish it seemed, you just wanted your mother.

Your shoulders shook and you fought to keep your emotions from consuming you.

"I- I love you." It was a desperate attempt at closure but it did nothing to make you feel better. It only made your mother smile.

"I love you too." Haley gave one final pat before a light shove and you felt numb. You couldn't feel yourself hand the phone to your mother, nor could you feel your feet move in the desired direction. Everything in you felt like it was simultaneously being doused in cold water and burned in hot flames. Your mind kept screaming at you to go back. Turn around, grab your mother and hope for the best but you could hear Foyet talking with your mother now and she knew that your father had told you what to do next.

It was weird.

All the nights you had spent in that stupid witness protection program, closing your eyes imagining you were back in your childhood home. You would pretend you were back in your room, waiting for your father to come home. You would pretend your mother was putting Jack to sleep and you would pretend that everything was normal. Now you were back and everything was wrong.

Focus.

After teaching you how to properly use a gun, Aaron had told you where one could be found in cases of dire emergencies. Your feet stepped lightly, moving as swiftly as you could. The laces on your converse slapped against the sides of the shoes and you silently pulled open your father's nightstand. It hadn't been touched since you all had moved out.  It was normal upon first glance. A couple of papers, reading glasses, sleeping pills. You knew better.

You pulled at the string on the bottom, the false top giving in immediately and revealing the silver .38. You grabbed for it, cocking it as quietly as you could. The weapon was heavy, yet, familiar in your hand. You thought that in a time like this you would be more shaky, but all you could focus on was your mother's quiet sobs from the living room a whole story down.

The sound gave you hope. If she could cry, then she was alive. You pushed on with that thought in mind, rounding the corner. Just before you could head back downstairs and possibly take down Foyet, you heard it.

Gunshots.

Your mother cried out the first time, but it was completely silent after the second two. Just the light thud of a body hitting the floor.

You bit down on your cheek to keep herself from screaming. The taste of blood followed soon after. Your hand rose to your mouth, attempting to muffle the cries that attempted to escape.

"Y/N!" A sing song-y voice called out. There was a thumping sound on the stairs and after a sickening moment, you realized it was the sound of your mother's body hitting the wood. He was dragging her up the stairs, wanting to display her just how he liked. Your eyes burned and you let the tears fall down your cheeks without care. They dripped off your chin, falling onto your shirt. It was a band t-shirt. Your mother hated it, said that the swords were too violent, but she allowed you to wear it anyways.

You darted into the closest door- Jack's old room- eye's scanning your surroundings for a plan. Whatever Foyet was doing, you knew you didn't have much time until he was coming after you.

"I just wanna play, Y/N. Come out, come out wherever you are." He sang out. He must've taken your mother- your mother's body, you corrected yourself bitterly- to your parents bedroom. With a chilling realization, you remembered you had been there only moments before. He was close to you.

Your eyes landed on the closet, overflowing with toys, even months after not being in use. Jack tended to get whatever he asked for- not that he was spoiled, he was just hard to say no to. It wasn't difficult to squeeze into it, leaving the door open a crack. The gun sat in your hands ready and waiting.

You steadied the sound of your breathing.

How was you going to tell Jack about mom? Well that was a bit optimistic, now, wasn't it? Presumptuous of you to think you would live through the next five minutes to be able to tell your little brother that our mother was dead, You thought bitterly.

"I think I'll lay your body right next to your Mom. You'd like that, wouldn't you? So you can be together?" He was in the hallway, and even with the barrier of Jack's door and the closet door, the sound of his voice made you shiver. It was smooth, charming, even. If you hadn't known he was a complete psychopath you wouldn't have given the man much thought. You wouldn't have thought him capable of doing the heinous acts he had done.

There was a creak, the door opening to the room and your arms rose slightly. Your eyes were peaking through the crack, your heart racing. You could see the man moving into the room, searching for his next prey- and that's what he thought you were. Prey. He thought you were an easy target. Everyone did.

Everyone thought you were just some stupid kid. Some people said it outright and others just assumed. You could tell when you first met your father's team, some of them had stereotyped you as well. They had asked her about school and about boys and gossip, because they assumed that was all you were capable of speaking about and then you had surprised them by mentioning books and Neo-noir films. You were accustomed to being underestimated. And you were betting your life that George Foyet was doing the same.

As soon as you saw the man move into the middle of the room, you sprung. The door flew open and before you could hesitate, you pulled the trigger. Pure shock could've been the reason, you were able to get out of the room. Or perhaps you had managed to shoot him in the head and end your family's suffering once and for all. You weren't sure because you were moving purely on instinct. Your feet carried you through the house, jumping over toys and broken chairs and bloodstains that weren't there before.

"You bitch!"

Okay, so he was alive. He was chasing after you but you didn't look back. You jumped into the linen closet, out of breath but not allowing yourself to pant as you wanted to. You could hear the slight groans of the man as he made his way through the house, though it was farther, as if he was walking in the wrong direction. You had slowed him down, that's for sure. The gun in your hand felt warm, like a pat on the back, but the thought of your mother's dead body lying somewhere in the house sat in the back of your mind.

Where was Jack? You thought briefly. You had to trust that he was safe. Trust and pray that whatever their dad had said to him had made sense. You hoped he couldn't hear anything that was going on. That he didn't hear the sound of your mother being murdered and you shooting the killer.

You  felt the towel shelf press into your back, but you didn't dare move anymore. You were sure Foyet hadn't died now. If anything, you might've made him more angry.

It smelled like fresh laundry in the small space and it reminded you of Sunday nights. Your father was usually home, cases typically being taken during the week and coming home Saturday nights. That's why you liked Sundays so much. You liked waking up to the smell of pancakes while your father played a Beatles album. He would sing into a spatula and twirl your mother around the kitchen. And Haley would laugh and tell him to stop, but she never actually meant it. And, when he noticed you coming down the stairs, he would take you in his arms- no matter how big and tall you had gotten, he never stopped doing it. He would spin you around as well and when you was little you would dance on his feet, but when you were older, your bare feet would touch the cold hardwood floor.

Your mother would do crossword and pretend not to notice that your father was giving not-so-subtle hints every so often. Your father would have you catch him up on what you had been up to that week, and you would have to help Jack read through the comics because he didn't really understand the jokes. Sundays were your favorite days because instead of being a separate family like they were every other day, they were all together and it felt normal.

You closed her eyes, trying to imagine it was Sunday.

A large clatter rang out, effectively snapping you from your thoughts. You could hear footsteps, fighting, yelling. It was hard to tell how long you waited in the closet, gun pressed to your chest. You could hear someone outside the door, light footsteps against hardwood.

The light on the bottom was obscured from a large shadow and you tried to prepare yourself. What would death feel like? Maybe you was selfish, or maybe you were a coward, but you didn't want to know. You wanted to stomp your foot and say that it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that your mother was dead. It wasn't fair that you were about to die. The door was ripped open and you extended your arms, about to shoot blindly, when you saw who was before you.

"Woah, hey, Y/N. Y/N, look at me."

You had stopped crying long ago, but your entire body was shaking. There was so much tension in your shoulders, it felt like somebody had tied you up entirely, slowly but surely squeezing the life out of you. You hadn't realized it before, much too focused in getting as far away from the serial killer in your house as possible, but when you had shot Foyet, some of his blood had splattered onto you. You could see it now that the light was on it. It sat on your hands, partially dried and partially wet. And you could feel some of it on your cheeks.

You wondered what you looked like.

Derek stared at you. Your eyes were wild, darting between the gun in your hands and the gun in Derek's. Your cheeks, flushed as they were, were painted lightly with splattered blood. The only evidence of previous tears were puffy eyes, but you hardly seemed weak right now. You seemed...feral.

"Y'N, it's me. You're safe. it's me, it's Derek. Put that gun down." It was strange. It was like you could see his lips moving, you could see that he was speaking but you couldn't hear the words. All you could hear was the sound of your mother's body hitting the stairs one at a time.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

"He's dead. Y/N, he's dead." The sound came back all at once. Everything came back all at once.

You could see people behind Derek. There were cops and medical examiners, flooding in and out of your childhood home. They all seemed to be moving toward the same place, all in the direction where you had fled. They were heading toward the body, you realized. The body of your dead mother. There was the faint sound of sirens, and there was chatter. You wanted to yell at them, scream for them to be quiet. And then you saw someone else.

Your father was coming toward you. He was covered in blood. Who's blood was that? Was that your mother's? Was that Foyet's? Movement caught your eye.

JJ was holding someone in her arms, he looked confused, pointing at his sister, eyes alarmed at the weapon in her hands and the Jaraeu woman seemed to be trying to turn him away. He was asking for you.

'Y/N/N?' He said.

Your shoulders dropped, the weapon falling into the Morgan man's waiting hands. You stepped forward. Despite your sudden awareness, everything felt like it was in slow motion. The world was moving with resistance, and you opened her arms, almost crumpling in relief when Jack squirmed away from the blonde agent and ran into your waiting arms. You scooped him into your arms, sitting him on your hip.

"Y/N!" Despite all the chaos around you two, you let yourself focus on your brother. He seemed fine. Confused, surely. He had looped his arms around your neck but his eyes squinted at the blood on your cheeks that hadn't been there before. His little eyebrows furrowed, and he reached one hand to poke your cheek. "Are you okay, Y/N?"

Jack loved you. Before you two were put into witness protection program, he didn't see you all too much. You were so busy with school and hanging out with your friends, that you hadn't even been home very often. Then, you didn't have much of a choice.

You  liked showing Jack your music- the clean versions, of course. He would scrunch his nose at certain metal heavy bands, but you assumed he liked most of them just because you did. He liked to play cards with you, and have your draw him funny sketches. And when he would have bad dreams, you never hesitated to let him sleep with you.

You felt multiple sets of eyes on you, your father pulling you into a hug. They all pretended not to notice you flinch. You kept your eyes on Jack.

"I'm fine." You took a hand, running it through the boy's ruffled hair from hiding god knows where. He giggled at the action, and you let your hand rest on his cheek for a moment. Your mother was dead somewhere in this house, her body laid across the floor, slaughtered. You swallowed down the rising bile in your throat.

"Let's get you checked out, yeah?"

[interact-if]

Day 2 of Pride Month interviews! You know them, you love them…. give it up for Ames!

Ames, author of Attollo and Metamorphosis

Pride Month Featured Authors

“…and it was a singular, terrible thought, which burrowed itself into your mind like an engorged maggot. This was not a man nor a monster. This was a concept, an ideology, a terrible myth, which had personified itself to stand before you now.You were, to put it simply, screwed.”

After several years of radio silence, you receive a message from your younger sibling that carries a strange sense of urgency to it. Either out of familial concern or boredom, you embark on a journey from your residence to your sibling’s apartment in New Hampshire to see what’s going on and, hopefully, be home before the weekend.

Too bad it’s never so simple.

Demo: Attollo, Metamorphosis (TBA)

Tags: cybernoir, thriller

(INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT UNDER THE CUT!)

Q1: Tell us a little bit about your project(s)!

Attollo is a cyber-noir horror set in a walled city off the coast of the Atlantic that’s been a victim of a nuclear disaster. After several years of radio silence, you receive a message from your younger sibling that carries a strange sense of urgency to it. Either out of familial concern or boredom, you embark on a journey from your residence to your sibling’s apartment in New Hampshire to see what’s going on and, hopefully, be home before the weekend. Too bad it’s never so simple. Attollo is a 17+ game that deals with heavy topics and a lot of moral questioning; from cults to corrupt government, it has no shortage of monsters in the dark—both metaphorical and literal.

Metamorphosis is a crime/horror story based in the world of crime scene cleanup, where there are three simple steps: Get the call, clean the scene, and don’t ask too many questions. These are the rules that you live by under the employment of Noctua’s Crime Scene Services, and you credit them for keeping you alive.

However, after a routine house call brings forth nightmares of memories that are not your own, you find yourself pulled deeper into Noctua—a city of both monster and man—in a bid to find out the truth behind the murder of Deirdre Callow, and better yet, how her memories came to be yours. Your job mandates that you don’t dig too deep—but could this finally be the exception?

Metamorphosis is 18+ and will have explicit content; follow the last moments of a stranger to find out not only who took her life, but how this connects to the underbelly that Noctua works so hard to hide.

Q2: Why interactive fiction? What drew you to the medium?

Lmaoo, oh man. I think it really all began last summer when I first found examples of interactive fiction. I don’t even remember how I came across it, it might’ve been that I saw it mentioned in a post or I saw it as a tag on Itch.io, but at some point, last summer I began to investigate it more. I think what really drew me in was the ability for the player to control the narrative; it was like playing an old RPG, but modernized, and the fact that I could see a story unfold that was influenced by my decisions was so fascinating to me. Not to mention that IF allows so much more character depth than regular novels, in my opinion.

I’m 99% sure my first exposure to interactive fiction was through the game Crème de la Crème (a fantastic game, by the way) and I just enjoyed it so much that I went haywire for the genre. Then Temple of the Endless Night came out (another fantastic game that I’m looking forward to!), and that was really the turning point for inspiring me to give it a go. Now, almost a year later, here I am working on my own two games!

Q3: Are your characters influenced by your identity? How?

My bisexuality doesn’t have much of a major influence on the game, but I do think it contributed to the way that I view and write relationships. I figured out my sexuality around high school (I kissed a girl in high school and found out I liked it just as much as when I kissed a boy) and since then I’ve been very involved in the LGBTQ+ community of both my hometown and uni town.

I think this involvement, like being able to hear about other people’s experiences and share my own, has made me feel a lot more comfortable writing some of the characters in the game. Although Attollo and Metamorphosis both don’t focus heavily on relationships (both have murder in them, which I feel is a bit more pressing), I do keep the option for any RO’s to be romanced by anyone, regardless of gender or preference, because that’s simply what I’ve become so attuned to. In terms of side characters relationships as well, I think my involvement and my own experiences have allowed me to write far more diverse relationships than I might have, and I think that this has also allowed a more fulfilling experience for players when reading through.

I also have incorporated some struggles that I’ve faced before because of my identity into the games. For example, I and a few others have faced issues with religion due to who we are, and I incorporate this into both games. Dreamwalker, Pariah, and Sysba from Attollo all have shadows of this experience in their character origins, and Ilali and Ariston from Metamorphosis has a major point involving identity and beliefs. Both games also have undertows of ostracization and division between groups, which is also something I’ve experienced in the past. Being able to grapple these moments and control them via a narrative has been eye opening for both myself and others involved, and I’m hoping it can be a learning experience for the readers as well.

Q4: What would you like to see more of in LGBT+ fiction?

I think, now, the amount of progress in LGBTQ+ fiction is expanding at a wonderful rate. There are so many interactive fictions with options to select sexuality, select gender, select beliefs, etc. However, despite this expansion, there’s still a good deal of backlash against some aspects of LGBTQ+ fiction.

For example, as a bisexual woman who has dated men, I know there are some individuals who may not consider me a part of the LGBTQ+ because of this aspect. Not only is this incredibly disheartening, but it’s a viewpoint that I think should be educated against, and fiction is a fantastic pathway to do this. Another example I can think of is a friend of mine who identifies as asexual but is sex-neutral rather than sex-repulsed. Most people can’t believe her when she says this, and she often faces backlash for this declaration as well. This is another thing that I think that, with exposure through a medium such as fiction, can be worked on.

What I’m trying to say here is that I think LGBTQ+ fiction can be a brilliantly educational platform—if used right. Although it already teaches so much with what it has, I think having that representation of different subgroups of sexuality, of their experiences and beliefs, so people can become aware and knowledgeable of these options, is something I’d like to see more of.

Q5: What or who are some of your biggest inspirations?

Oh man, I struggled to list off inspirations because I know I have some, but as soon as someone asks me who they are my brain just goes ‘brrrrrr’ LMAO.

In terms of the games that I write and the worlds that I build, I think David Lynch and Robert Chambers are probably the two that I somehow incorporate. Attollo and Metamorphosis both have a lot of surrealist horror, which are what these two really specialized in. Shirley Jackson is also another person who inspired me a lot when it came to the writing and creation of Attollo, especially the intrapersonal relationships between the characters.

In terms of life, this is something else I really struggle to answer. I don’t really have celebrity inspirations or anything like that, but I do get inspired by my close friends and sister a lot. Seeing them go through the struggles that they face and absolutely thrive really drives me to push through my own struggles. They’re the strongest, most brilliant group of people that I know, and I consider myself incredibly fortunate that I can be a part of their lives. Not only that, but we also all collectively encourage each other to push further and to chase our dreams (as cheesy as that is LMAO) and that’s something that I think is another stroke of good fortune. I struck gold when I met them, and they’re some of the biggest inspirations in my life.

Q6: What’s a super vague spoiler for your current project?

For Attollo, I’d say ‘Home is where the heart is.’ For Metamorphosis, to quote John Berendt, ‘Always stick around for one more drink.’

Q7: Lastly, what advice would you give to your readers?

What advice would I give to you all? Oh my, I’m not exactly a wise woman here, but I’ll do my best to give you something lmaooo. I think what I really want you to walk away with, from both my stories and this interview, is that if you’re passionate about something, then share it with the world. Don’t let anyone deter your passion.

I remember listening to this painter once who commented to his friend how he ‘really liked painting’, and his friend’s first response was ‘but are you good at it?’. He then compared this to the scenario of walking; would you say, ‘but are you good at it?’ to someone who said, ‘I really like walking’? No, because it simply wouldn’t make sense, and it doesn’t make sense to say that to anyone who’s doing something out of passion.

To put it simply—if you love something, then don’t let anyone take that passion from you. I began writing these stories because I’m passionate about Attollo and Metamorphosis; I love each character, each bit of lore, and I share it with you because I want you all to enjoy it as well. Am I the best writer? God, no. Does everyone like what I write? Definitely not. But will I let this stop me from writing, from enjoying what I’m doing? Never, and I want you to do the same.

Explore your passions, embrace your passions, and let what makes you happy continue to do so

[sunnysviolin]

Omotober Day Two- Faraway

You can also read it here on ao3

In a small town like Faraway, gossip is a ritual. The intricate ways of being nosey and knowing everything about your neighbors must be carefully taught to all new inhabitants.

“No matter what you do, someone always knew you would.” ― Ami McKay

“Country folk talked, that was all. Whether in the borderlands or the baronies, gossip was ever the chief sport.” ― Stephen King

Faraway is a town with only two thousand seven hundred and fourteen people. It just barely crosses the threshold of rural to suburban, and despite what the mayor promised with all of the new construction plans, the people of the town didn’t expect that there would be many more people coming anytime soon.

Faraway was perpetually sleepy, and when you combined that with how much it lived up to its name in being far from any city, most newcomers either left quickly or never stayed in the first place. Everything closed at nightfall, and the worst crime was high school ruffians who occasionally spraypainted a wall or smashed in a mailbox or two. The town was little, but the residents liked it that way. They liked not having to worry about locking their doors or watching their backs as they walked around. They liked being able to poke their heads into each others backyards and always being invited to every party and outing.

But Faraway did have one detraction. As with pretty much every small town, most of the residents were terrible gossips. Such was the fate of a place without much to do, neighbors found their entertainment in one another.

“Did you hear Perdita’s husband finally got sick of her and left? It was only a matter of time, she’s a complete alchie”

“Greg finally found out that Emily was cheating on him and now they’re getting divorced. It is going to be meeeeessy. They’re fighting over the house and the kids!”

But the biggest piece of gossip was what happened to Sharon.

Anyone who moved into the town learned the story quickly. Once the new neighbors had a chance to settle in, a group would come over with a plate of cookies or a casserole after church, and wait until they were offered a cup of coffee and a chat. It was the neighborly thing to do after all, and it was important that anyone coming into their world know what they were getting into. Once the coffee was poured and the trivial compliments about the layout of the house were given, then it would start.

First with some simple things- who was going behind whos back, which couple was doomed to get a divorce before too long. It was important to gauge here if this new neighbor would be one of them or not. If the new arrival seemed put off or uncomfortable, a few feelers would be put out. They might just be new to small town life and not aware of the importance of knowing all of this. If all attempts to chat were rebuffed, then the rest of the town knew that this person wouldn’t last long among them.

But sometimes a new neighbor showed potential, promise in their willingness to listen and participate. If that happened, then it was time to move onto the main story that plagued the town even four years after it had happened. No one ever meant to talk about it, but it was inevitable that it would be brought up. It wasn’t every day that one of the darlings of the town ended up dead after all.

“A tragedy, such a shame.”

“Hung herself! Poor thing,”

“The girl had been only fourteen- oh wait fifteen. Yes Mari had been fifteen.”

“No, she hadn’t left a note, but everyone could guess. Her parents were always such strange people, so strict and demanding of their children. It was inevitable that one of them would snap, but no one expected it to be Mari. She seemed so happy, so above it all.”

“She was in a relationship with Teresa’s boy. Not the one still here, of course, but the one who’s in college now, studying to be a doctor. All the way on the other side of the country if you can believe it!”

“It only got worse from there though. Sharon’s husband had left her afterwards, and she never told anyone why...He probably blamed her for it. Men can be that way, can’t they?”

“Now she goes around acting like nothing happened at all. It’s bizarre. If I lost my daughter you wouldn’t catch me acting like she never existed.”

“I hear she’s moving. Yes I’m sure, the manager over at Fix-Its told me that she asked him for a moving company reference,”

“I saw a For Sale sign in the front yard. It make sense though, I have no idea how she could have possibly lived in that house for the last four years, knowing what her child did there,”

“‘How could she live in that house’? What I want to know is how could she let her son stay in there day in day out! After what happened to him,”

“Oh, sorry honey, let us explain. So Sharon has, well had, two children. Mari, her daughter and Sunny, her son. I can’t for the life of me remember how old he is. High school age now I suppose...but no one has seen him in years,”

“ Years . We’re completely serious. Sharon does errands and goes to work in an office nearby as a secretary, and she shows up sometimes for a cup of coffee or the occasional church meeting, but no one has seen Sunny since his sister died. He’s the one that found her, and he completely lost his mind. He’s psychotic now,”

“Now that isn’t fair. That child went through something no person should ever have to, and at such a young age. It’s no wonder the boy has issues, but Sharon should have done something. At least forced him to keep going to school,”

“You can’t deny that the child is strange, Margaret. He was strange before he found his sister hanging from a tree. My Ethan was in classes with him, and he said he used to see Sunny staring out the window for the entire class period without blinking. Like he was possessed,”

“He was friends with Perdita’s girl, and we all know how that child turned out. She’s going to end up making license plates and eating gruel before she turns twenty, mark my words,”

“And what about what happened to the cat? You can’t deny that’s strange,”

“Oh that’s just a rumor. I don’t believe it,”

“Rumors, but no ones seen it since she died. Lacey swears that she saw a dead cat in their trash bin only a week after Mari’s funeral. Don’t look at me that way, I’m just saying. I certainly don’t have any plans to let my children near that house,”

“Even if you did, they wouldn’t let you in! Teresa’s boy goes there every afternoon, and no one ever answers the door. He’s such a sweetheart, you should introduce your kids to him. Kel’s always been a rather lonely boy for some reason, even though he’s such a nice child. He’s been practically distraught since his brother left for school, the one we told you is going to be a doctor?”

“Oh by the way, make sure you don’t say any of this to Teresa or her husband. She’s still very close with Sharon and views Sunny like one of her own. If only Kel had rubbed off a little more on him,”

“I’m just glad that Kel got out of that group of kids before it completely devolved. Teresa’s boys are far to good to be around children like Sunny and Aubrey,”

[comfyswitcherblanketfort]

Silent Treatment

I was really vibing with both of these prompts today so I combined them 🤷‍♀️? I hope y’all Nonies are okay with it? It’s not exact but I think it captures the vibe? I hope?

Warnings: we got mommy issues up in this bitch, on both sides, abandonment, controlling/narcissistic parents, definition of ‘hurt’ isnt explicitly mentioned but is used mainly in the emotional sense, first fight, established geraskier relationship, it ends soft i promise

_______________

Jaskier was surprised by this new side of Geralt every day. He was gentler, attentive, sweet, and even verbally appreciative of Jaskier and the little things he would do. A lot of things were making more sense to Jaskier now that he was seeing Geralt express himself. 

The grunts, for example, were less of a disinterested placation and more of a way to respond without showing his hand. And now that he had no cards to hide, Geralt's grunts and sideways looks were few and far between. They’d been replaced with soft smiles and little murmurs of ‘you’re cute’ and ‘your eyes are very pretty in the morning’. 

Jaskier was constantly on his toes, not in a bad way, just - adjusting. Geralt seemed to drop his walls rather quickly, though that might have been because Jaskier started their relationship off with a big ole’ “I love you and would rather die than take another lover if it upset you.” Surprisingly, Jaskier was having a hard time keeping up. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy it, he just wasn’t prepared to be the one knocked on their ass from a nonchalant compliment. 

He started to loosen up a month or so in. Making jokes again, doting on Geralt in turn, and becoming just as comfortable with their newfound openness. 

Though it wasn’t long before he put his foot in his mouth. They were taking a bath together when he did, Geralt leaning back against his chest as they shared stories of sneaking out in their youth.

“...and then my mother, had the gal to tell me she just ‘wanted the best’ for me. As if putting a seven year old under house arrest for wanting sweets is in any way good for a child? Sometimes I envy you, dear. My mother was a terrible woman. I think I’d have been better off without her. I know my father would have.” 

Geralt had stopped scrubbing at the gunk on his arm and frowned at the wall. 

Jaskier felt his stomach drop as soon as Geralt’s muscles tensed. 

“No you don’t,” he murmured.

“I-” He almost started defending his position, which he had grounds to. His mother was a tyrant and a narcissist who bent everyone to her will and slandered those who wouldn’t bow until they fled. But he knew what he’d said. Geralt had never outright said he missed the good parts of his mother, but Jaskier heard it in all the little bits of stories he had dropped over the years. How he’d wonder what his mother would have thought of what he’d become, who he loved, the causes he’d fought for. Jaskier was all too aware he’d fucked up as he lightly rested his hands over Geralt’s hips, “Darling I didn’t mean it…”

Geralt rocked forward and stood abruptly, water making a sickening slapping sound when it hit the floor as he quickly stepped out, “You had someone to protect you. Even if she was wrong, she still fed you and kept you safe.”

“Protect me?” Jaskier knew he should shut up, a voice in his head was begging him to, but alas, he couldn’t have stopped if he wanted to, “She did what she had to to keep up appearances. Don’t think for a second she protected me.”

Geralt glared at him as he toweled off, “She kept you.”

“Until I no longer worshiped her! I was out on my ass at sixteen for questioning her at the family dinner table!”

Geralt pursed his lips and set his face in a stony mask of indifference, “Okay.”

“Okay?” Jaskier felt a chill, even in the hot bath, at the look on Geralt’s face.

He simply shrugged and dressed for bed, leaving Jaskier to marinade in his stupidity. 

Of course Geralt would see having any type of mother as idyllic compared to his childhood. But there was still a righteous anger burning in Jaskier’s gut as he crossed his arms and sunk into the water up to his nose. Just because it hadn’t been as bad as Geralt’s childhood didn’t mean the things Jaskier had to grapple with were fading any faster. The fact didn’t suddenly absolve Jaskier of the baggage he carried, nor mend his broken relationship. And logically, it wasn’t meant to, but Jaskier was having a hard time seeing anything but red. 

When he got out and went to bed, Geralt was already asleep, or pretending to sleep. Either way Jaskier was too angry to call his bluff and settled down to sleep without nuzzling into his chest. 

In the morning, Geralt was already up and packing, only humming in response when Jaskier said good morning. Jaskier tried to make light conversation, to loosen Geralt up even a little, but it was met with grunts and silence. 

If he’d thought the newfound praise and range of facial expressions were a surprise, this was whiplash. It was like being thrown back a decade, when he’d first decided to stick to Geralt like tar, before he would even call Jaskier by name. He did his best to give Geralt space, but he missed their banter and how Geralt had started holding Jaskier’s hand as they walked. Part of him wanted to lay into him, tear him a new one for telling him how to feel about his mother, but another part of him wanted to wrap around him and apologize profusely, both in words and gentle kisses. Even more than either of those, though, was the sinkhole of guilt in his chest over flippantly hitting Geralt right where it hurt most. 

Finally, Jaskier couldn’t take it anymore. 

They were sitting across the fire from each other, Geralt pointedly not looking at him as the sun sank below the trees. 

“Geralt?”

“Hm.”

Jaskier took a slow breath before he continued, having told himself all day to keep his head on straight when he said his piece, “It’s not okay.”

Geralt just frowned at him. 

“It’s not okay for me to treat something that hurt you so lightly,” he clarified, catching the slight upward twitch of his lover’s brow, “I don’t need to be thankful for someone who hurt me, either. But, I reacted poorly. I’m sorry for snapping. And upsetting you.”

Geralt set another branch into the fire, his eyes narrowed as he thought, “I didn’t… hm…” he frowned and chewed at his chapped lips as he pieced his words together, “I didn’t think she hurt you. I thought you were… griping about a strict rule.”

Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief at getting full sentence responses, “To be fair, I was. And putting my foot in my mouth.” 

The corner of Geralt’s lips twitched up as he shook his head, “I’m sorry I shut down.”

“All’s forgiven,” Jaskier smiled, “I’m sorry I-”

“I know. Come here.” Geralt interrupted, holding a hand out to Jaskier as if to hold it over the fire. Jaskier took up residence across his lap instead, wrapping an arm around Geralt’s neck and laying his cheek on his shoulder, pressing his other palm to Geralt’s chest. Geralt held him securely in place and pressed a kiss to his forehead as he gently swayed, setting a soothing rhythm. 

“I missed you today,” Jaskier whispered, not wanting to break the spell of calm over their little campsite. 

“Don’t worry, I still thought you were cute.” Geralt chuckled, the low rumble under Jaskier’s palm soothing what was left of his worry. 

“Oh good!” Jaskier chirped, loading his words with an extra helping of sarcasm, “Now I’ve had a taste of your honey-sweet words, I might never be able to live without them!”

Geralt cracked a grin as he ran a hand through Jaskier’s silky, fine hair, “We can’t have that.”

“Of course not,” Jaskier giggled, more from the giddy feeling of a lifted weight from his chest than their banter as he lifted his head to look down at Geralt.

The witcher pulled him in for a soft kiss, after all, Geralt was still Geralt. Actions would always come easier than words for him. 

“I love you.” he sighed as their lips parted, only pulling away far enough to get a breath.

“I love you, too.” Jaskier grinned into the next kiss, holding Geralt close for the rest of the night. 

[cryoaquila]

the cost

prompt; you see something you weren’t supposed to see...

pairings; tartaglia x gn!reader

themes; established relationship, genshin universe, death (no major characters), descriptive death, blood, angst, break-up.

wc; 2k

you were in over your head, but that realization came far too late. now, every little sound, like the creek of your house or the sounds of people walking outside or the knock at your door like the one you just heard all cause your heart to skip a beat. you peek through your window, something that had become custom for you, and there he was; tartaglia was standing at your door, waiting for you to answer and explain to him why you’ve been avoiding him. as you look him over you notice he’s wearing a sorrowful expression, but your eyes could not unsee his expression before, the one you saw during the 'accident’, as you refer to it. it was a terrible event you wish you could forget or not care about, but no, instead it changed your relationship with him forever.

the ‘accident’ occurred at his house. he wanted to treat you to a nice dinner out and asked you to come by his place in the evening. having gotten ready a little early, you decided that you’d just go to his house to hang out before the date. but as you approached you noticed his front door was slightly ajar and you heard angry yelling coming from inside that made you both curious and fearful. you hurried up the steps and let yourself in, your mind racing with possibilities from the tame to the quite imaginative. the entrance hallway was dark save for a light shining from the dining room all the way toward the back of the hall. quietly, you walk over to peer into the dining room, pressing yourself against the wall to stay in the shadows. tartaglia was sitting in one of the dining chairs, dressed and ready for the date tonight, but there was someone else in the room that you had never seen before. a man, who was pacing around the table, dressed in black and red and wearing a mask, muttering about something. it was strange, while you’ve never seen him before, his clothes looked… familiar as if you saw them once stuffed somewhere in the back of a closet or drawer. your train of thought ended as the man began to yell once more.

“you can’t just vanish without saying a word and expect us to accept it without consequence. you know how our organization deals with deserters.” 

“i know how your organization deals with people who want to leave, too.” tartaglia scoffed at him before letting a sigh out, resting an arm on the table beside him, “i can do what i wish, my past ranking should allow that much.”

“but why leave? you were at the top of your game and you loved what you did, i don’t understand.”

“i owe you no explanation,” he replied coldly.

“then,” the man in the mask muttered, “let me show you what we owe you.” suddenly, the gleam of a dagger appeared from one of his pockets. you reached out a hand, about to say something, but it was too late. he lunged at tartaglia. you gaped, watching as he skillfully jumped up from the chair before you could even get a single word out. the candlelight flickered as the dagger slammed into the back of the wooden chair, getting stuck. tartaglia grabbed the chair before the other man could retrieve his weapon, and, in one swift motion, he slammed the chair into his attacker before taking the dagger for himself. he threw the chair at the masked man who staggered backward against the wall behind him. the masked man managed to punch tartaglia in the face as a last defense, but this only made him stagger sideways a little. he looked back up, a smirk on his face, and you heard him chuckle, almost as if he enjoyed the futile effort of his attacker. you slapped your hands over your mouth, trying to hold back your scream as, before your eyes, tartaglia stabbed the man directly in his throat without hesitation. you watched in horror as the attacker’s body spasmed for a few seconds along with a horrendous gurgling sound that scarred your ears. he clawed at the dagger impaling him, desperate, but tartaglia didn’t let go and instead his grip on the weapon only seemed to tighten. you continued to watch in horror as the life left the masked man’s eyes and his body went limp. once he made sure the man was dead, he yanked the dagger out, blood splattering across his attire and pooling on the floor below.

“damn,” he muttered as the body fell to the floor with a loud thud, “what a mess this was.” you swallowed hard before taking a few small steps backward toward where the front door was, wanting to leave without alerting him but unable to take your eyes off the scene before you. a small creek from the floorboards echoed from one of your steps and you paused, noticing that he was now looking toward the hallway you were in. he held the dagger out in your direction and asked, “who’s there? come out, or do you not want to die like your ally here?” that’s when you saw his expression. he had a small grin on his uncaring and unafraid face and he looked strangely determined, as if he was ready to stab the next person who dared confront him without any mercy. and his eyes. dear archons, his eyes were that of a killer’s - not the wide bright blue eyes that you were used to seeing. you were sure if you stayed, if you showed yourself, he’d act without thinking and that single thought sent a shiver down your spine. with your heart now racing your flight instincts kicked in and you turned and booked it out of his house and headed back to lock yourself inside your own home, terrified of what you witnessed him do and terrified of… well, him.

that was the reason you had been avoiding him for a while and, currently, why you weren’t keen on opening the door. he knocks again and you see him roll his eyes as you duck back down. “hey, i’m worried about you. i haven’t seen you in weeks, just, talk to me? please?”

you knew you couldn’t keep avoiding him, even though you wanted to. you rise to your feet, letting out a shaky sigh before heading to the front door. you crack it open only a tiny bit, enough to show him that you were somewhat alright. you decide to rip the bandage off and confront your fears and let him know what the issue was, “i saw.” was the first thing to come out of your mouth.

“you saw?” he pauses to think over your reply before responding quicker than you expect, “oh. you mean... that day, before our date...? you weren’t supposed to see that...” he stayed silent for a few moments before trying to justify himself to you, “it was nothing but self-protection, i didn’t want to harm him.” he connected the dots so easily, you wondered if he had expected that you saw what happened but hoped you hadn’t. at the very least, that... uncaring killer you saw at his house was gone and the tartaglia you fell in love with was before you.

“i know it was self-protection.” although, you couldn’t help but feel like a part of him took a little joy in killing that masked man - a mixture of self-protection and a liberating form of pleasure seemed more like it to you. “who was he?” it was difficult to even look at him, afraid that the next time you glance up he’d be covered in blood with a dagger in his hand.

“he was an old... colleague from a past i’m not happy with, but that doesn’t matter right now. i don’t understand why you avoided me if all i did was protect myself. it’s not like i was in the wrong.”

“no, you weren’t in the wrong.” you shake your head, “but i’m so afraid of seeing someone die like that or... seeing you kill like that again. you did it so easily, without a second thought, even when he lost his weapon. and how you looked when you did it.” you notice he flinched as soon as you said that. “what... did you do before i met you?” your voice was barely a whisper at this point.

he put a hand on his chest, “what you saw wasn’t me, or, i mean, isn’t what i want to be anymore. it’s just... an after affect, i guess, but i’m done with that life. however, if death is the cost of protection, i’d rather the death be someone else’s than yours or mine.”

“no! i don’t want there to be any more death. yours, mine, theirs, a stranger’s, i can’t...” you mutter in a shaky tone, resting your forehead against the cold door in-between the two of you. your words were jumbled together, your thoughts equally so. 

he leans to the side, trying to get a peak of you, his face distraught, “that... might not be a possibility. this organization i used to be a part of doesn’t look kindly on deserters like me. that’s why i didn’t mention it to you, i know you aren’t used to... such a lifestyle since you’ve lived in town your whole life. but that doesn’t matter, they don’t matter. i swear, they won’t touch a single hair on your head, i’ll die before they harm you.”

tears form in the corners of your eyes, “please don’t say something like that! i can’t see you... die.” just saying the word out loud felt like you were bringing it into fruition and you can’t help but grit your teeth and hold your breath, ready for an archon or even someone lesser to come and end his life before your eyes. but nothing of the sort happens. letting out the breath you were holding, you continue speaking, your voice shakier than before, “and not just dying, i can’t handle you killing either! seeing you like that, with blood on you, ready to kill or be killed...”

he looks just as confused as you felt, “i’m sorry, i’m really, truly sorry. you weren’t supposed to ever see me like that. tell me, how can i make this right so we can be happy together once again?” his tone went from worried and confused to practically begging.

“i… i don’t think i can... i’m terrified...” you wrap your arms around yourself before muttering, “i’m terrified of you and what might happen to you.” the words felt strange to say, to be terrified of the man you once hugged and kissed freely, and now watching his hopeful expression drop off his face was not helping your own conflicting thoughts.

“no, archons no, i don’t want you to be terrified of me, i want you to see me like you used to see me and how... how i want to see myself now that i’m not with them. i love you, please i don’t want this to end, i can be good-”

“i just, i need time for myself, time away from... you. maybe that will help me come to terms with... everything? i don’t know... i just don’t know...” your head was hurting, but not as much as the ache in your chest like someone ripped your heart out.

“i…” he sighs, looking like he was on the verge of tears. he rubs his eyes, trying to keep the tears from building up, before looking back at you, completely defeated, “ok… i can give you some space if that’s what you need now.” his words cause your bottom lip to tremble.

“i think it will help me figure things out.” you try to keep your voice from cracking, but couldn’t. and his response only made your stomach churn.

“i won’t ever stop loving you, though.”

you shut your eyes tightly, trying to keep the tears from rolling down your cheeks, “... i know.” you whisper and, with that, you shut the door before letting the tears flow freely.

[softcallofdutyimagines]

Stay | Russell Adler x fem!bell!Reader

Summary: Despite having developed deep feelings for you after all this time working together, Adler takes you to antarctica like he was told. The only issue is... Things aren't as they seem when he finally confronts you.

Aka, sorry Treyarch, but this time the thotlers win.

SKSKSKS I ONLY MADE THAT POST TO TEST THE WATER, SO THANK YOU @smokeywhalee FOR ASKING FOR THE FIC. I ACTUALLY WROTE THIS WHOLE ASS THING LAST NIGHT SO COME GET THIS FLUFFY ASS BREAD Y'ALL AND ENJOY

Tags: fluff, angst, and angst with a happy ending

Warnings: some strong language and you might need a tissue box bc I sure did 😭😭

"Nothing like arctic air, eh?"

Russell Alder stands just a few feet away, hands resting squarely on his hips, looking out over the cliffs.

"Sure", you smile tiredly, a little sleepy from the long flight, as you walk up beside him. Without needing permission, you slip your pinky around his as he loosens his grip to allow you to do so.

Adler takes a glance down at your intertwined hands. He can't keep you in the dark for long. But still, he's afraid to tell you...

You move to lean your head on his shoulder, only to be left alone as he wrenches himself away.

"Listen Bell, there's... There's something I need to tell you", he refuses himself a glance at you. It would hurt him too much. You make an inquisitive noise and a long silence passes.

Perhaps it would be best just to get the hard part over. He was never one for beating around the bush anyway. "They sent me out here to kill you, Bell"

His voice is hardly audible, a clever trick to disguise the hurt in his voice. He grits his teeth, wondering if you really needed to know that, but then he remembers... He's done lying to you. You deserve to know.

Adler braces himself for the backlash, perhaps even a bullet in the back. Instead, he's met with a whisper.

"I know"

Your voice is only audible thanks to the bitter wind helping it along to his ear, leaving a ghostly caress as it passes him by. Russell turns around this time, almost disappointed to see your back still turned to him.

"How d-?"

You turn slowly, and even from there he can see the tear rolling down your face, "Why else would we be out here?", you gesture around to the great nothingness enveloping you both. You sniff and swipe a hand across you cheek, a joyless laugh escaping you, "Besides, you never take me anywhere nice"

In any other scenario, it would be playful and teasing, just like he knows you for.

Adler huffs a half hearted laugh at that, before tearing his gaze away. "Bell, I..."

"Oh, cut the shit Russell. Just do it, alright?", the tears flow freely down your glassy eyes now, "I know you have to... Really, I get it. A-and it's alright, you know? I-"

By now, Adler has made his way across to you. Even now, he hates to see you so upset. He gently grips your arms in his strong, steady hands, hoping against hope to give you some sense of ease. He needs to finish what he has to say.

"Bell..."

He then tries to say your name, but you won't allow it.

"Just shut up, alright? God, I hate you! I h-hate you..."

You struggle in his grip, beating weakly against his chest as your body becomes wracked pwith sobs, voice trailing off pathetically. Adler pulls you close, just in time, as you collapse into his arms.

"God, why? Why why...?"

You're choked up with hiccuping sobs again as Adler lowers you both to kneel in the grass. He squeezes you tighter, comfortingly he hopes, and if nothing else, to keep him from allowing tears of his own to fall too.

With a ragged gasp, you find your voice, allowing your anger and frustration to seap in at last, "After all I did for you people... This is how yo-?"

But you're cut off, and suddenly all your senses are overwhelmed with... Him.

Adlers lips crush into yours, the eagerness with which he kisses you is enough to erase all the fear, and pain, and sadness. At least, for the moment.

The crisp arctic air only accentuates the musky smell of his cologne, infusing every breath you breathe with its familiar scent. Charred birch and a hint of cigarettes. You almost smile at that.

He's been trying to quit, per your request, but... Old habits die hard.

The uneven stubble of his scarred chin tickles as he works over your lips, sucking gently, but adamantly once, then twice, before sustaining one long kiss again.

At last you part, lungs burning for air. Small puffs of condensation intermingle between your mouths as you catch your breath.

Adler takes one last gasp for air, to steady himself more then anything, before delivering one more kiss to your forehead. He knows he doesn't deserve to think such things, but...

You have no idea how long he's wanted to kiss you.

A few more tears start up from you again, but in that moment, he decides once and for all to commit to all the promises he's been wanting to make to you. He's done watching you suffer, and it's time you knew.

"I'm not going to kill you Bell...", he whispers against the warm skin of your forehead before pulling you to the crook of his neck.

You sniff, instantly frozen as you try to make sense of what you just heard. Too soon, faster then your mind can catch up, you search for words, "Wha-? Why? How? Russell, if they find out they'll kill yo-"

"Shhhh, they're not going to find out. I'm defecting. Right here, right now"

"B-but, why? I already told you, it's o-"

Adler moves his hands to cup your face, training your gaze to be all on him.

"No, it's not ok Bell. What we did to you... What I did to you... Was fucked, and unfair, but... it was for the greater good. But this? No."

"W-well ok... but-?"

"I'm doing this because I love you Bell", he barks it out, almost angrily, but even behind those old tinted aviators, you can see his expression soften almost immediately as he gently strokes your cheek with his thumb, "I love you... So much. Do you understand?"

He pauses for a moment, and his grand show of steely emotions breaks as he removes the sunglasses to wipe away his tears. And when he looks back at you... You're surprised at the reminder of how beautiful his eyes are.

"And... I'm... sorry I never told you before... Well, this"

Your mind is reeling at the rush of information. This... confession, isn't exactly news to you, but to hear him say it...

With one more sniff, Adler manages to pull himself together for a final moment of vulnerability, "Look, I know this is... a lot, but I was thinki- I...", he sighs and takes a deep breath. This is it.

"Would you... Come away with me? The CIA is going to be looking for both of us, and, well... No body and all, so I was thinking... We could find somewhere... off the grid, just you and me, start fresh? I know it'll be tough bu-"

"Yes!"

"-t I can protect you an- Wait... Yes?"

"Yes!", you seal the statement with a quick kiss. A promise. Then, you grow serious, "There's nothing left for me out here Russell... You're my only choice"

"...I'm sorry to hear that"

You cup a hand to his face, a tiny glimpse of that beautiful smile he loves so much peeking through, "No no, I didn't mean... This is a good thing. I meant to say, I wouldn't want to choose anyone else"

Adler sniffs and huffs a laugh, rocking gently as you pull in for an embrace, "Well in that case... I'm sorry to hear you have such terrible taste in men"

That earns a genuine laugh from you, and to him, it sounds like music.

You slip your hand into his, holding on just by the fingers before reaching up to plant a kiss over the scar on his jaw. You always rather liked those scars of his, no matter how much he wishes they never were.

But then again... He loves the way you use them to make him feel handsome, and he'll never understand how you do it.

After a few moments more, Adler gets up, pulling you to your feet as well. You wipe away the last of your tears, and as you glance up at him, a look of uncertainty crosses you.

He knows he has no right to ask you to trust him. Not after all the lies and the manipulation that got you and him to this point. But even after all that... The fact that you're willing to give him a chance humbles him to no end.

Adler looks back at you, and wishes for nothing more then the ability to make sure you never have to worry, or hurt, or live in fear ever again. But if there's one thing he does know, he'll be damned if he doesn't try.

"Come on kid", he rubs some warmth back into your arms, then kisses the top of your hair, "let's get out of here, huh? I've got just the place in mind..."

And just the place indeed.

A few months of preparation go by first, but at last you've managed to escape to the Swiss country side. Fields and fields of vibrant green grass and small wildflowers pass you by as Adler drives along, the great alps standing tall and strong just in the distance.

The sun glows warmly over head, and a little sparkle catches your eye. You look down and admire the ring on your hand once again, turning it this way and that, before stealing a glance at Russell's matching one.

With a couple more twists and turns, Adler asks you to close your eyes. A little while more, and the car comes to a stop. "Hey, don't open yet!", He hurries around to help you out, guiding you along want feels like a gravel path.

He puts his hands over yours, "Ready?"

You nod, the suspense absolutely eating you up. Finally, he moves your hands aside, revealing a small, brightly painted house before you. A stone path leads up to a white fenced porch complete with a swing for two.

The whole thing is practically overgrown with wysteria, coiling in and around the pillars and walls, and out front a wild garden stretches up towards the sun.

It's perfect.

You whip around, finding yourself unable to speak. But, he already knows. Adler sweeps you up off your feet and gives you a little spin as you shriek in surprise, melting into a fit of laughter as he sets you down.

He leans in and kisses you, just another of countless more to come, before pulling back. You have no idea how much it means to him to see you this happy....

"Welcome home"

[the-expose-on-girls]

Characteristics of Toxic Office Women

The girls who think being a receptionist makes them upper class, the heads of HR who think they rule the world, and everyone in between.

Either goes overboard with her fashion or dresses like a future Karen

There is no in between. On the one hand is the girl who thinks the office is her own personal runway. Probably has one favored aesthetic that she sticks to, which can seem very costume-y at times: like vintage bitch or old money. Or the less common type gets straight to the point by dressing as sexy as she can get away with to manipulate men and intimidate women.

Then on the other hand are the women dressing old while still young, but they don't seem to realize it. They probably buy their clothes for the office at Maurices, Walmart, Kmart, or Ralph Lauren. Most outfits are comprised of unflattering billowy tops in floral print or blah colors, cropped pants like old ladies wear, and flats that only accentuate their stubby legs and make it look like they have duck feet. (Can we make that a new term? "Office Ducks") They think ankle "booties" are SUCH a power move.

EXTREMELY POWER HUNGRY!

Will claw her way to the top of the office ladder, preferrably in a position like HR, marketing, or accounting, then squeeze every last drop of sadistic pleasure out of her authority. Usually makes coworkers miserable in the process. Has bullied at least one woman out of the office (either covertly or openly), yet men in the office will still be shocked then doubtful when women come forward with stories of how awful she is. Relishes every opportunity to correct others, exact punishment, appear more knowledgeable, show off, etc. She has no power in her personal life, so she pursues it at work to make herself feel better.

A legend in her own mind

Thinks her job is SO upper echelon, but all she actually does is answer phones, push around trivial papers that accomplish nothing, and gossip by the copy machine. Genuinely thinks she's a high power business woman of Wall Street or making a positive difference in the world, but she's just another cog in the machine.

Those in a marketing department post way too much and overshare on their personal social media, thinking they are demonstrating their marketing talent by doing so. No ma'am, you're not a high profile influencer or popular blogger; you are just a loud mouth with an Internet connection and narcissism issue. The promotions you design are lackluster at best.

Hypocritical, mediocre, and lacking all self awareness

Likes to make derogatory jokes about how hard work is, how ready she is for "Friyay", and how terrible her boss is (only if she is not the boss, herself). But will turn around and act like her job makes her a class above others, the mere peasants.

Mediocre life goals. Work her way up the office food chain to the end goal of something like HR, have an average-looking husband, drive an ugly SUV, live in a cookie cutter house, and have no more than 3 children, all with the most basic names. Once she achieves this, she thinks she's queen of the world and all must bow low before her. She sits in her little office with her "inspirational" Instagram font wall art and spends all day savoring the little kingdom she has carved out for herself.

Genuinely believes she is a "wine connoisseur" and that she's classy for it. LOVES wine, wine humor, and cheesy wine accessories. Not so subtly drinks wine on work video calls. Drinks heavily over her weekends and it definitely shows on Mondays.

Climbing the corporate ladder

The younger toxics might be promiscuous cheaters. They know full well that their womanly qualities can get them moved up the office food chain. Oh, their poor boyfriends/husbands and the wives of the male coworkers they toy with!

GOSSIP is the top weapon in her arsenal for dealing with "competition" and other girls she is threatened by---other girls who have no ill will toward her and aren't actually trying to compete with her. She takes catty and passive aggressive to a whole new level.

Not all toxic women will exhibit all of these traits at the same time. But even having one of these characteristics can be enough to make everyone else in the office miserable. Be on the lookout!

[1kook]

commercial break ; THREE

this is a netflix & chill drabble kook’s pov during their argument in d&b !

summary; But Jungkook loves the sun. warnings; post-fight, drinking, heart ache :( miscellaneous; everyone say thank u kim namjoon 🤩 word count; 1.5k

notes; a lot of people wanted to know his thoughts during the iconic d&b fight scene so here’s the closure we all needed </3 

He knows he’s said the wrong thing the second the last syllable departs from his lips.

Jungkook doesn’t mean it, that much he knows right away, but even still… there’s a silent moment of shock between the two of you, one where even he is surprised by his own tongue.

You move first, phone whipping across the room.

Now Jungkook has seen a lot of scary things in his life. He’s seen horror movies and walked through a cemetery at night once. He’s come home way past curfew and had to face the wrath of his normally lenient father. He’s sat front row in his first ever college seminar. Yet none of that fear, that anxiety, that dread, compares to the level of emotion he feels wrap around his throat the moment you get up.

“___, wait,” he calls out frantically, hands shaking the further and further you get. He has to tell you he doesn’t mean it, that he would never mean it. But how do you follow up a statement like that? Even when he catches your eyes, beautiful irises colder than the bottom of the ocean, he doesn’t know what to say. He stutters through an excuse he wouldn’t have believed himself and watches you slip further away.

Jungkook can’t let you leave, not when you’re so hurt and he’s so confused, but what else can he say? He doesn’t know, and when you angrily send him back inside he feels every bit the scolded child. Funny how that works.

He calls and calls until he realizes the muted hum from upstairs is the phone you left behind. He’s crazy and in love, desperately scouring through your social media accounts for a sign you’re safe and home. (You were on Twitter three minutes ago, so that’s a relief.) But even then he can’t relax, turning his own words over and over in his head.

Jungkook values a lot of things in your relationship. There’s a beautiful understanding that comes with being in love, a new sense of comfort he’d never felt before. You make him feel warm and in love, keep him grounded when the world threatens to swallow him beneath its surface. You care for him and he for you.

Where those thoughts had come from, he didn’t know. All he knew was that one minute you were picking at the edges of his patience, and the next he was shooting a dagger into your chest.

Self-reflection, Namjoon had always said, the key point to understanding oneself. Usually, that’s followed by some tips on yoga, on calming the mind, but his leg won’t stop bouncing and there’s a boa constrictor wrapped around his throat so that zen mentality will have to wait for now. A harsh exhale, foot thumping against the floor.

Carefully, he unscrambles his thoughts.

There were times you were childish and, for the most part, Jungkook didn’t mind. You brought out the most beautiful things in life with just your laughter alone. You roped him into doing things he never could enjoy growing up, which made him rekindle his love for old hobbies. If sunshine was a person, Jungkook is sure it was you.

You were bright and ever-burning, always with a mission in your head, even if it was something as small as cleaning your windows that day. A star, he thinks, except your smile alone garners the power of ten supernovas combined. The amount of joy and euphoria you’ve brought him this past year was immeasurable. You made him smile, even when you were tired, rising every morning and setting every night dutifully just like the sun.

But too much sunshine could be hot, scorching even.

His mom had mentioned it once, very early into your relationship, how you were a little too childish for Jungkook. He had angrily defended you, stormed out of his parents' house like he was ready to leave them all for you. (Would he? He likes to think so.) But a mother’s advice always haunted one the most.

Yes, your youthful outlook made his life colorful and bright, but there were times he found himself wondering what it would be like to have someone… not as outgoing.

Someone plain and always collected. Someone who would gently remind him of his deadlines, and watch all his favorite documentaries with him. Someone like him, he supposed, who matched his interests perfectly.

It sounds awfully boring.

It sounds terrible to be damned to such a dull life, especially now that he’s had a taste of you. You, who brings laughter and sunshine everywhere you go, his amazing other half. He’d hate it if you always did what he wanted— he loves when you pick at everything he likes because you let him do it back! Jungkook’s head was a never-ending spiral— that much he’s known from a young age. But with you in his life, it became fun and exhilarating. Gone was the dark tunnel and in its place was a twisty slide with loops and turns that defied all laws of gravity. It wasn’t a scary place anymore and it was all because of you.

You, who he might possibly lose forever. His own negligence was to thank, an inability to voice small issues until they piled up and became this big, warped monster that no longer pertained to his original frustrations. It was an ugly thing, so twisted and vile, taking the thoughts he seldom had and weaponizing them against you.

Was that it? Had those mindless thoughts been the root of today’s brash decisions. Jungkook wants to blame it on that, but part of him knows it’s his own inability to share his feelings that led to that spontaneous outburst. There were obviously some things he still needed to work on, but pinning it all on you, his dazzling ray in the sky, was the worst move he could have made. Self-reflection, he repeats to himself.

His heart is still pounding in his ears, drumming obnoxiously loud as if it wants to torture him for his actions. His phone rings across the room and Jungkook lunges for it, hoping and praying it’s you.

It’s not.

It’s just Namjoon calling to wish the two of you a happy anniversary. “You two having fun?” he teases before Jungkook can get so much as a greeting in.

“Hyung,” he chokes out hoarsely, glancing down at the ground. “I-I said something to ___,” he whispers even though there is no one here to hide from but his own crippling thoughts. “And I don’t think she’s coming back.”

His voice cracks a little. He hides it with a gulp so dry it hurts. “What?” Namjoon asks. “What do you mean?”

Jungkook sighs, running a hand over his eyes. “Are you busy right now?”

—

“You need to go to bed,” Namjoon tells him, ambling the two of them up the stairs. Jungkook snorts, sliding against the entire wall on the way up.

“I refuse,” he announces. He has to pause on the next step because he’s pretty sure there’s about four of the same step whirling before his eyes. Beside him, Namjoon sighs. “Hyung, I can’t see.”

Namjoon rolls his eyes, deciding the stairs are too much of a hassle and guiding them back to the living room instead. “Couch,” he informs him before rather carelessly dumping him onto it. “Listen,” he begins, crouching down beside Jungkook. “It’s like, 4 AM… and I have work tomorrow. So I’m going to leave,” he says, slowly pointing in the direction of outside. Jungkook nods, even though Namjoon is definitely pointing upside-down backward. “Okay, JK?”

“That’s me,” he agrees, letting his head slump back against a throw pillow. Namjoon groans.

“That is you,” he concedes. “And you need to sober up before you try talking to ___ again.”

The mere mention of your name turns a switch on inside him. “Can’t,” he whines, features twisting up together. “She hates me. Will cut my balls off.”

Namjoon goes to protest but eventually stops himself. “Yeah, well. Probably.” Jungkook wails at his friend’s poor attempt at consoling him. “Sleep a little and then head over to hers, okay?” He pats him on the cheek once before finally making his exit.

Jungkook can’t believe this. How embarrassing. If you saw him right now, you’d clown him for getting this drunk off wine. But he truly understands it now. It was the devil’s drink, so sweet and cooling only to suddenly slap him across the face with his own insobriety. Oh, his head was going to ache badly later.

Well, that was a problem for later’s Jungkook, he decides as he slinks off the couch and back into the kitchen. There’s a new box of cherry vodka he’d bought just for tonight—or last night, technically—because he knows it’s your favorite. And well. He misses you so much he’ll do anything to feel close to you again.

He’s not sure how long he sits on the floor, swing after swing going down his throat until he’s got three extra fingers and a new middle name. Just that when the sun finally filters through, so warm and bright, he finds himself missing you again. His feet take him out the door before he can think twice.

The morning rays bring with them a wicked headache that almost has Jungkook throwing up into his bushes. Part of him, the last droplet of reason, tells him he should change. He’s wearing the same clothes from yesterday and they reek. Furthermore, the sun is hellbent on soaking up every inch of his black clothing.  

He should change if he doesn’t want to suffocate in this heat, under this blazing sun in the sky.

But Jungkook loves the sun.

He walks on.

—

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