#first i get lost in space then i get lost in time... whats next?? the distortion world???

[swaps55]

What I really, really wish Bioware had focused on when it came to defeating the reapers is the singular advantage our cycle had. Every previous cycle lost all chance at survival the moment the reapers came out of dark space, because the reapers took the Citadel, and therefore the relays. With the reapers in control of the relays system, they cut off travel, communication, and obliterate supply lines.

Everyone in every previous cycle was cut off and isolated before they even knew what hit them. If they didn’t even know the reapers existed, it might be years, even decades before they knew what happened at all! There would be no way to share intel, to warn others about reaper movements, etc. A society that developed to rely on the relays would be utterly crippled without them, and every previous cycle lost the relays in the opening minutes of an attack they didn’t even know was coming.

Except us. Our cycle kept the Citadel. When the reapers showed up we still had control of it AND the relays. We were the first cycle in the history of the reapers to keep that advantage - because of the prothean scientists on Ilos. It's really an incredible thing when you think about it.

The previous cycles couldn't evacuate, fall back and mount a defense with their allies. They couldn’t reach safety. Without the relays there was nowhere to go! All the reapers had to do was go system by system to wipe everyone out systematically, and all that any previous cycle could do was wait until they were next and fight the best they could with what they had available.

The crucible is such an insane concept because there would have been no way to pull it off. You don't have the resources, the labor, the logistics, to even begin to build it, because you don't have the relays to move the resources or the people where they need to be. And even more insane, the battery for the whole damn thing was the Citadel, which every previous cycle lost access to in the opening minutes of the initial attack!

Even if the protheans or anyone else could have found a way to build it, there would have been no way to use it. Why in the world would you base your MacGuffin on something so inaccessible?

If you had to use the Crucible as your win button, it could have been interesting if you looked at it not as something that everyone else ran out of time to build, but as something other cycles had conceived of and had no way to build - but we did. At a cost.

The reapers are here. We might still have comm buoys and the relays, but the reapers are still killing billions, destroying strategic locations and wreaking havoc with supply lines. So if you are diverting supplies to build the Crucible...who are you taking them from? Whose front collapses because you took what they needed to build that thing? Who gets fucked over because this ship had to mine minerals to build the crucible instead of run supplies to refugees? A war table like you had in DA:I could have been so interesting in Mass Effect 3.

The fact that the protheans reached through time and made one, small change that dramatically changed the way the reapers harvest a cycle had so much potential. We were different. We had a chance no one else ever had, not just because Shepard is a badass, but because a small group of people who had no hope for themselves decided to have hope for someone else. We weren’t better than other cycles – we were gifted something no one else got: the protheans broke the cycle. We didn’t. They did.

I wish the game hadn’t forgotten that, and I wish the ending would have found a way to tie back to that. Instead of boiling the end of the trilogy down to an RGB choice between control, destroy, and synthesis, I wish it had celebrated the truth that we are nothing without our differences. We are nothing without each other. We could bring a bunch of disparate organic and synthetic races together to fight for each other’s right to exist because the people who came before us performed a selfless act to help a future they would never see.

[muqingslover]

Hello! Regarding the LADS LIs, in what order do you think they would be more compatible with an MC that is quite independent? In the sense that the MC likes her space and needs to be lost in her own thoughts and hobbies to unwind once in a while. A LI that is constantly needing attention or quality time would burn her out. I have a feeling Rafayel is the least compatible with this type of MC, but I would like to hear your thoughts since I feel like all of the LIs are a bit clingy to various degrees 😅 Love your blog btw!! I find your characterizations very interesting and on point

[ This was so fun to think about actually!! thank you anon! it's the first time I get a request for a specific reader! 🥳 I did from most compatible to least! ]

Starting off strong, Zayne is definitely the best match!

He is the type to enjoy his own space as well so both of you get some "down time".

He doesn't feel the need to be constantly breathing down your neck to show he loves you or to feel loved by you.

Instead, he'd bring you your favorite sweet, make sure you're feeling alright and then give you a kiss before leaving to another room to do some relaxing of his own.

He understands needing time alone to unwind better than any other. Especially after a full day of dealing with emotional patients and families.

He will be waiting for you when you feel ready!

This guy knows you better than you know yourself.

While growing up he bothered you a loooot about it. He was only a brat and couldn't understand why you liked to hole up in your room if you weren't sick or sad.

As both of you got older, he switched his approach to building a pillow fort where you could hide in when you didn't feel like talking anymore and he'd hide there with you of course.

Now, as an adult, each time he notices your battery is low he slowly starts to make some adjustments to your environment; Lowering the TV volume, speaking in a softer voice and wording his sentences so that it doesn't really require a verbal response from you.

He will always ask you "Wanna take a break?" no matter how many years pass.

Caleb would either go for a run, and get your favorite meal while at it, or cook something if you asked to be left alone ( and yep, he's 100% baiting you with food). He's often texting you silly things to show he's still thinking of you though!

Walk with me here.

The reason he is in the middle is because he is neither the best or the worst match with someone like this!

His nature is extreeeeemely clingy, but! He is also pretty quiet himself so it would completely depend on how you prefer to spend those moments.

Xavier wouldn't mind leaving you to your own thoughts/hobbies, but needs to at least be next to you.

He will use this time to catch some z's most of the time anyway so he will hardly bother you at all if you don't mind the closeness.

Of course, if you really don't want him around then he will leave without a word of complaint. Just expect a looooot of cuddling and requests for affection once you come out He missed you.

Fourth place goes to none other than our favorite loverboy.

He is second to last not because he is dramatic, but because he can be quite anxious about leaving your side.

Though he may not look like it, Sylus will feel antsy if you stay quiet for too long. He prefers to have good and clear communication with you to avoid any....unfortunate events from happening again.

If you want to indulge in your hobbies then please allow him to be apart of it! Even if it's the smallest, most meaningless task. (Like having your back resting against his chest while he flips the pages of your book for you without a word.)

He also makes sure to remind the twins to respect your space when you feel low on energy!

His brain does not know the difference between you wanting to be alone and being condemned to death. What do you MEAN you don't want to be with him?

Definitely makes a big deal out of it the first few times it happen— He sulks so much about being left alone for truly no good reason.

Rafayel will create situations on purpose just to make you come out and get some attention when he feels extra lonely.

Eventually, he decides to compromise; You will get your alone time while he is off to spend the next few hours in his tub (if you have seen his official schedule then you know what I'm talking about).

If you are an artist like him he'd ask you to come paint with him so it's just the two of you just enjoying some silence together!

[archivesctrccio]

— CHAPTER FIVE!

SUMMARY — After losing spectacularly to your ex-girlfriend in your first game since the break up, you get into a fender bender with the worst possible person: your nemesis, the incredibly beautiful and incredibly mean Jackie Taylor.

cheerleader!jackie x basketballplayer!reader

CW —  inspired by the 'She drives me crazy', book by Kelly Quindlen. characters are a little ooc(?), use of y/n.

7.2k words.

⊱ ۫ ׅ✧ jinx's notes.ᐟ thank God i spent 1 month without updating this fic because it gave me a lot of time to write and now ive wrote it to like chapter 8

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On Saturday, you and your dad wake up early to take your car to Sledd Brothers Auto Shop. They promise you the bumper is an easy fix, but with the amount of work they’ve been getting lately, they’ll need a decent amount of time before they can return your car. Your parents will have to drop you off at school until then. When the mechanic gives you the estimated quote, you feel strange knowing it’s Jackie’s insurance that’s going to cover it.

The rest of the day is devoted to getting ready for the homecoming dance. Your mom and Tori hover around you the entire afternoon, bombarding you with ideas about how to do your hair as if you have the faintest clue what they’re even talking about. Finally, Pamela takes pity on you and sets up a little space in the basement for hair and makeup. She hangs your suit on the door for “inspiration,” puts music on the speaker, and brews a fresh pot of coffee to keep the mood going. Tori sits next to her, tossing out opinions, while you stay still and silent, letting your sisters take the reins.

Pamela and Tori move effortlessly through Girl World. They speak a language of their own that you’ve never understood, filled with sparkling words like contour and bandeau and bralette. It’s their birthright, this ability to be like every other girl. You never had that same right, and you knew it long before you ever heard the word gay.

Maybe that was part of why you liked Allie: she had no hesitation about moving between those two worlds. Now you had to face both without her.

You breathe easier once Pamela and Tori finally agree on a hairstyle and reassure you about how beautiful you’re going to look. Tori hands you a coffee and offers an enthusiastic smile. Her own cup looks oversized in her tiny hands, but she takes a practiced sip and smacks her lips the same way Pamela does.

  The instant you step into the dance, your heart aches. All you can think about is Allie, and how this was supposed to have been your perfect homecoming together. You get so lost in your head that you barely catch half of what Lottie and Van are talking about. A wild bull could’ve been set loose chasing you and you wouldn’t have noticed.

Speaking of which—there’s Jackie.

She’s dancing with a group of friends, looking genuinely happy, but you don’t care. Lottie, meanwhile, is trying not to be caught glancing at the stage every two seconds. Natalie is up there, strumming her red guitar, her braided hair gleaming under the lights. He’s wearing slacks and a dress shirt, but still with his usual zip-up hoodie on top.

Over by the punch bowl, Shauna Shipman is putting on a show of pouring tiny cups for her friends. When one of them turns to the side, you spot a silver flask in Shauna’s hand.

You glance at Van and nod toward the drinks table. He studies you for a second, then raises a brow and asks:

— Thirsty?

The two of you head over to Shauna. Before either of you can say a word, she mutters out of the corner of her mouth:

— Only for people who voted for me.

Van throws you a sidelong glance.

— We both voted — she lies.

— Everybody says that, and yet that bitch is still wearing my crown. — Her eyes flick to your suit with judgment. Your face flushes. — Make a transfer to my account — she says finally. — Just write “senior fundraiser” in the description. Take a lap and come back when this song’s over.

You and Van walk away from the drinks table, pulling out your phones to send Shauna the money.

You return when the song ends. Shauna slides two cups across the table without even looking at you.

— Ugh — Van says after taking the first sip. — Tastes like the inside of the mascot costume.

You swallow tentatively, your throat burning. The taste is definitely awful.

— Gross — you mutter, licking your lips. — That’s way more vodka than punch.

You never drink — not since last year’s party, at least — but it’s something to do. The alcohol goes down easier once the slow songs start playing. Couples cling to each other, swaying, pressing their foreheads together, making out, and you remember Allie at last year’s dance, whispering dumb jokes in your ear.

Pamela’s words echo in your mind. Was Allie really that bad? And if she was, then why do you feel so sad and lost without her?

You drift away from the crowd, not caring where you’re going. The hallway lined with lockers gives you a welcome change of scenery, lit by moonlight and empty. You sink to the floor and rest your head against the cool metal behind you. Impulsively, you pull out your phone. Allie’s Instagram story has been updated with a post from the Candlehawk party. It’s a video of a girl pretending to spank a guy while the crowd cheers her on. Allie’s laugh rings through the speaker, sweet and triumphant.

Your throat tightens before you can stop it. You set your phone aside and rub your eyes. Then you just sit there, trying to make sense of how this all happened, how you lost Allie and yourself in one brutal blow.

You’re about to stand up when a pair of girls clatters down the hallway. They’re shaking out the skirts of their dresses, whispering in high-pitched voices to each other. You don’t have the energy for anyone else’s drama, especially not tonight, so you’re ready to slip away when you hear a voice you’ve been hearing all week.

— I’m not in the mood, Taissa — Jackie says. — I’ve already got too much going on.

— One dance won’t kill you — Taissa insists. — It’ll be good for you. Come on, you just got crowned queen! You deserve to have some fun.

— With the girls you’ve been picking out for me? No way.

Your heart gives an unexpected jolt. Did you hear that right? Girls?

— You’re way too picky — Taissa continues. — What’s wrong with Madeleine Kasper? She’s one of the cutest freshmen…

— You know I can’t go out with a freshman…

— Stop being so stuck-up. You’ll find someone. You just have to open your eyes and be ready to take what the universe wants to give you.

You can’t move. There’s a faint hiss in your chest. It’s surreal, overhearing Jackie talk to her best friend like this — as if you’re peeking behind the curtain — and yet you can’t get past the part about girls. Does everyone know Jackie Taylor likes girls? Did you somehow miss that memo?

— I can’t think about dating right now — Jackie says. She sounds tired. — My mom’s on my case again about paying her the insurance deductible, but she doesn’t know I spent my whole savings on cheer camp last summer. Unless I quit cheer and get a job, there’s no way I can…

— You can’t quit cheer — Taissa cuts in. — This is the first time one of us has a real shot at Athlete of the Year! How many years will it take before another cheerleader even comes close?

— Tell that to my mom — Jackie snaps back.

— She’ll understand. — Taissa taps one of her heels against a locker. — She knows how much this means to you. Did you tell her about Benson?

— No. Why would I, if they won’t let me go?

— But the coach wants you, Jackie! — You piece it together: Benson University is a college in Virginia, and it sounds like Jackie might have a guaranteed spot on their cheer squad. — And I know you want to go there, even if you’re pretending otherwise.

The sound that follows is one of confrontation, and you imagine Taissa trying to smother Jackie with a hug and good vibes.

— You know I can’t go without a scholarship. My parents would never agree to me moving out of state when I could go to college here for way less. The Benson coach said she might help if I win something as impressive as Athlete of the Year, but what if I don’t?

— Don’t think like that. You’ve got a real chance.

— I hope so. — She sounds sad, defeated. — Shauna’s already trying to sabotage me. She’s been telling people that even if cheerleading is, quote, a “legit sport,” unquote, I’m obviously not a good captain if I’m letting girls fall during routines.

— That jealous, crooked-toothed bitch — Taissa says, and you have to stifle a laugh.

— Besides, I can’t figure out if winning queen helped me or hurt me — Jackie goes on. — Do people think girls are less athletic when they get a crown for being pretty?

— Of course not. You’re tough. Everybody knows that.

— Maybe. — Jackie doesn’t sound convinced. — I don’t know, Taissa. I need to win Athlete of the Year to get to Benson, but I can’t win Athlete of the Year if I’m not in cheer, and I can’t pay the insurance unless I quit the squad and get a job.

— You need to talk to your parents. Just explain it to them. Give them a chance to understand.

— They won’t understand, especially my mom. She’ll make me quit the squad and work at her office to pay off my debt. She’ll finally have something to hold over me.

Jackie’s voice sounds different from anything you’ve heard before. It gives you a feeling you can’t quite name. It takes a moment before you realize it’s empathy. She’s carrying a weight so much heavier than you thought. That doesn’t excuse her being awful to you, but still… you get it.

Jackie sighs, and Taissa comforts her, and eventually they leave. You wait another minute before following.

When the dance ends, it’s collectively decided that the night will keep going at the Christmas Emporium. It’s a not-so-secret tradition that Grandma Earl students have been throwing their own after-parties there for decades. Plus, Taissa has a key to sneak everyone into Santa’s Room, where the Earl-Hewetts store their stash of Santa statues so people can take drunk photos with them.

Natalie drives since she’s the only one who didn’t take part in the “senior fundraiser.” Van claims shotgun while Lottie and you squeeze into the backseat, your lap full with his guitar case. Van took two more shots of “fundraiser” while you were off in the locker hallway, so she’s a little wobbly and giggly. She won’t stop laughing aout how badly she has to pee.

The Emporium’s garage is open when you arrive. People are scattered around, still in their suits and dresses—some inside the Emporium, others lingering in the parking lot. The air is mild, smelling of dead leaves and woodsmoke.

While your friends rush ahead to check out the Santa statues, you take a moment to sip some water and let something ferment in your head. The thought sparked sometime in the past hour, after overhearing Jackie and Taissa’s conversation at the dance. It’s a crazy, ridiculous idea, but you can’t shake the feeling that it might be exactly what you need to fix things. Didn’t your sisters tell you to fake it until you got what you wanted?

You make your decision and march straight toward Jackie before you lose your nerve.

She’s standing with a small crowd of friends, all of whom look up when you approach. You’re breaking every unwritten social rule by coming over, but right now, you don’t care.

— Jackie — you call out firmly.

— What? — she replies, her voice edged with steel. Jackie folds her arms across the peach-colored dress and eyes you warily.

— I need to talk to you. — You give her a pointed look. — It’s important.

You’ve never been this bold before, but why shouldn’t you be, especially now that you know all her weak spots?

She follows you behind the Emporium, out near the abandoned train tracks. Fewer people are around, making it easier to have a private talk. You sit on the tracks and wait while she crouches to sit beside you.

— What is it? — she asks.

You pull your knees up, wrapping your arms around them like this is the most casual conversation of your life.

— I overheard you and Taissa in the hallway — you say, meeting her eyes. — I didn’t know you were into girls.

A flicker of worry flashes across her face, but she quickly smooths it over and shoots you a cold glare.

— Why are you always in the wrong place at the wrong time?

Of course she wants to pin the blame on you for having a private conversation in a public spot.

— I was in the hallway before you were — you answer evenly. — You’re the one who didn’t check if I had the right of way.

She lets out a bitter laugh.

— Clever. Love the metaphor.

— Right? I thought it was inspiring.

Jackie shakes her head, running her fingers through her hair. For the first time, you notice it as a nervous habit instead of vanity. You expect her to deny everything or threaten you, but her response is completely different.

— If you’re planning to get back at me for what I did to your car, then just get it over with.

You’re so caught off guard you just laugh.

— What?

She studies your face.

— What do you want?

— Do I look like the type who blackmails people? Jesus, that’s messed up. I’m not talking about that. I’d never drag you out of the closet.

Under the moonlight, her eyes soften—just barely.

— Then what are you talking about?

— I think we can help each other. How much is your insurance deductible?

— What?

— Just answer the question, Taylor. How much?

Her mouth flattens into a line.

— A thousand.

— Ouch. — It’s more than you expected, but still within the limits of your plan. — And how much do you have right now?

— Not enough. Why are you asking?

— I’ve got plenty saved up from my summer job. Enough to cover your insurance

It’s true: you spent hours and hours at Chuck Munny, the old town movie theater, sweeping up popcorn and watching vintage films. You’d been saving the money for stupid things, mostly because you’re planning on going to free in-state college, but now you’ve got a much better use for it.

Jackie narrows her eyes.

— And why would you give me that money?

— Okay, listen. — You clear your throat. This is the part that could either go perfectly or blow up in your face. Once you say it, she’ll have the power to crush you if she wants. But your gut says she won’t.

— Everyone at Grandma Earl and Candlehawk thinks my team’s a joke — you say. — That I’m a joke. But you have the power to make people change their minds. I want my team to get some real attention so we can start playing better and finally beat Candlehawk at the Christmas Classic. — You pause, remembering the sound of Allie’s laugh on your phone as you sat alone in that empty hallway. — And, as you’ve probably noticed, Allie the Goalie left me wrecked. I want to make her jealous, and I think I know how. The only time she’s cared about me lately was when she heard I was giving you a ride. If she actually saw me going out with you, she’d lose it.

Jackie raises her brows.

— So you want to pay me to be your friend?

Your heart pounds under the suit jacket.

— I want to pay you to be my girlfriend.

A loaded silence hangs between you. Then Jackie bursts into laughter, sharp in the cold air.

— Your girlfriend? — she says, her voice pitched high, like you just suggested the most absurd thing in the world. — Like, pretend we’re dating?? You can’t be serious.

— I am.

— This is basically some kind of Rent-a-Girlfriend fantasy?

You freeze for a second.

— You’ve seen that movie?

She rolls her eyes.

— Oh my God, you really think you’re special, don’t you? — she mutters. — You’re telling me you want to pay me to make you popular? You know that’s not a thing anymore, right?

— The hell it isn’t. Or are you telling me cheerleaders and basketball guys have been showing up to my practices out of the goodness of their hearts?

— So you’re trying to use me.

— I’m manipulating a situation to benefit both of us. You need the money if you want to stay in cheer and win Athlete of the Year. Don’t you think this would finally get your mom off your back?

She takes a deep breath. You can practically see the gears turning in her head.

— So you do want to drag me out, in a way — she says flatly.

There’s a thread of vulnerability in her tone. That was the part you worried about.

— Only if you want to. You don’t strike me as the type who lets other people run your life. If you want to do it, great, we’ll announce it however you want. If not, fine, I’ll walk away and we’ll never bring this up again. I won’t even tell my best friend.

She hugs her knees.

— I don’t care if you tell Lottie.

You blink.

— You know Lottie’s my best friend?

She stares at you like you’ve just sprouted a second head.

— Uh, yeah? Everybody knows Lottie’s your best friend. I literally voted for you two as “Most Inseparable.”

You’re speechless. You’d been sure she knew nothing about your life—at least not before this circus began.

— Oh. Well… I voted for you and Shauna Shipman.

Jackie snorts a laugh. It’s the first time she’s actually appreciated one of your jokes.

— Just so you know, I don’t think coming out is some lighthearted thing — you say carefully. — But I honestly believe you could use it to your advantage, especially for Athlete of the Year. People love the whole queer wave right now. They’d bottle our hormones and sell them if they could.

Jackie cuts you a side glance.

— You’re way more cynical than I thought.

— True, and you know it. What do you have to lose? — You stretch your hands out as if offering her the world on a golden platter. — You’ve already won queen. Your cheer routines are killer, aside from last night’s slip-up, which I’m betting only happened because you were distracted, worried about having to quit. And now you could break even more ground—not just being the first cheerleader to win Athlete of the Year, but doing it while openly “dating” a girl in the months leading up to the award.

— You really think I’m not already breaking ground? — she snaps. — How many cheerleaders gunning for Athlete of the Year do you even know?

You shrug, playing it cool.

— Just you, I’m sure. So why not go all in?

Her lips press together.

— How long?

— Until we play Candlehawk at the district championship in February.

— Four months?

— It’s not as long as it sounds — you insist. — Look, if you can get your squad cheering for us, it’ll have a huge impact on our games. We’ll beat Candlehawk at the Christmas Classic, then ride that momentum into the championship, and by then you’ll have your Athlete of the Year nomination locked.

She shakes her head stubbornly. You have no choice but to press harder.

— Or — you say lightly — you could quit cheer for four months while you work to pay your debt to your parents. But I don’t know if that’ll help you win Athlete of the Year, which means you might lose your shot at Benson.

You feel like a bit of an asshole for dangling her dream like this, but you need her to say yes. Your heart is about to leap out of your chest. Jackie runs a finger across her bottom lip, thoughtful.

— You’ll give me the money upfront?

— Yes.

— And you won’t tell anyone we’re doing this?

— Not if you don’t.

She brushes her lip again, distracting you more than you’d like.

— I can’t believe I’m actually considering this.

— Me neither — you admit. — But I also can’t believe you secretly turned me into a cheerleader fan who’ll probably vote for you as Athlete of the Year. So I guess it’s an unprecedented week all around.

She looks at you, her eyes glinting.

— Fine — she says, holding out her hand.

You take her warm, soft palm and squeeze. A thrill races up your arm. This is the first thing that’s gone right for you in a very, very long time.

— How do we start? — Jackie asks.

— You got your car back from the mechanic, right?

— Yeah.

— Perfect. — You flash a crooked smile. — Step one: you give me a ride to school on Monday.

Jackie picks you up at 7:22 on Monday morning. You know the exact minute because she calls you three times in a row while you’re blow-drying your hair.

— I’m coming! — you yell into the phone.

She clicks her tongue and hangs up without saying a word. When you reach the sidewalk, there’s an unplanned complication. Pamela is standing under the awning, keys in hand, glaring at Jackie’s car.

— Uh… good morning — you greet Pamela.

— Is it? — Her eyes narrow. — Mom told me I had to give you a ride since your car’s still at the shop, but it looks like Regina George got the same memo.

Jackie stares at you through the windshield. She looks impatient.

— I thought I told Mom I had a ride. — You sling your backpack over your shoulder, trying to look like you’re in a rush. — Sorry about that, but don’t worry, it’s all good!

You take a step toward Jackie’s car, but Pamela grabs your arm.

— You want to explain to me why your archnemesis is giving you a ride?

— Um, it’s kind of complicated, I’ll tell you tonight…

She tightens her grip and waits. You have no idea how to explain this to her. You knew you’d have to convince your family more than anyone else that you and Jackie are dating, but you thought you had a few more days to prepare for this moment. And Pamela is the last person you want to start this conversation with. She’s way too sharp for this shit.

— There was an… unexpected romantic development.

Pamela chokes.

— With her? She smashed into your car last week. And you said she bullied you last year.

You shrug.

— Forgive and move on, right? People change.

— Are you out of your mind? That bitch is going to mess with you the same way Allie did.

The car door opens. Jackie steps out, slipping off her sunglasses with a precision that makes it look like she’s ready for a fight to the death.

— Hi — she says, voice serious and cold. — That bitch’s name is Jackie.

Pamela whirls around to face her. She’s several inches taller than Jackie, but Jackie doesn’t flinch and meets her glare head-on.

You hover between them, pulse racing.

— So you’re the one who messed with my sister twice, by my count — Pamela says, voice dangerously calm. She circles Jackie’s car, inspecting it. — Hm. Looks brand new. Wouldn’t it be a shame if my hand slipped?

She raises her keys and mimics scratching down the entire driver’s side.

— Pamela, don’t… — you start.

Jackie presses her lips together.

— I deserve it. So if that’s what you need to do, go ahead.

She takes a step back, clearing the way to her car, and your brain short-circuits. That’s the first confession of guilt you’ve ever heard from her. Pamela narrows her eyes even more.

— We’re late — you say, moving toward the passenger seat. — Pamela, please, we need to go.

— Why did you bully my sister? — Pamela asks.

Jackie’ eyes flick to you. She has the decency to look ashamed.

— I made a mistake.

— A mistake. — Pamela laughs humorlessly. — Bullying isn’t a mistake. Did you apologize?

From the way Jackie exhales, you know just how humiliating this is for her.

— No, I didn’t.

Pamela doesn’t speak for a while. Then she lifts her chin and says:

— I’m surprised you can even pull off your routines with an ass that soft.

Jackie’s cheeks darken.

— I’m working on it.

There’s a long silence. Pamela stares Jackie down, unashamedly studying her. Then she turns to you. From the curl of her lips, you can tell she’s softening. For now.

— You call me if she screws with you — Pamela tells you.

She throws one last death glare at Jackie, then storms past you and heads straight back inside. Jackie slips into the car without another word. You’re still processing what just happened as you toss your bags into the back seat. When you glance at the trunk, everything looks spotless.

Jackie’s car is immaculately clean and smells sweet; there’s a vanilla air freshener dangling from the AC, and the windshield looks like she wipes it down constantly.

There’s a single elegant cheerleading ribbon hanging from the rearview mirror. Music is playing, but it’s too low for you to catch.

— Your sister looked like she wanted to kill me with her eyes — Jackie says sharply. — If you’d been outside on time, we could’ve avoided that whole stupid fight.

You snort.

— You know another way we could’ve avoided it? If you’d never messed with me in the first place.

— I said it was a mistake.

— Some mistake.

Jackie pops a piece of gum in her mouth. She drums her fingers on the wheel, restless.

— If we’re going to be in love, can you please be ready on time?

— Can you please act like the kind of girl another girl could fall in love with?

You wait for a comeback, but a shadow crosses her face.

— I don’t need this today.

You avoid looking at her. Maybe you should be basking in her discomfort, but all you feel is empathy. You might hate her, but you don’t wish homophobia on anyone.

— It won’t be that bad. — You tap your fingers on the dashboard like it’s no big deal; you don’t want her to know you care.

— Nobody said anything when I came out. Just try to act like it’s something everyone should’ve already known.

Jackie stays quiet. The silence between you is heavy. Then she clears her throat and says:

— Put on some music. I don’t think I heard right.

— What?

— Put on some music — she repeats, impatient. — You’ve got a song for every emotion, don’t you? So pick something upbeat. Something that’s, I don’t know…

You know what she’s trying to say. Something to help you both get through this. You scroll through your library, seeing a few options, until you find the perfect one. Perfect because it’s ridiculous. You connect to her Bluetooth, hit play, and wait for her reaction. BOOM.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM…

You can tell the exact second Jackie recognizes the beat, because she gives you that look she always does.

— Seriously? — she asks.

You shrug and crank up the volume.

— Oh, come on. Eye of the Tiger is everyone’s favorite pump-up song.

She radiates extreme don’t-mess-with-me energy.

— It’s got cheesy sports movie energy.

— Exactly, and you love sports. You’re an athlete, remember?

— Screw you — she grumbles, but not seriously.

— Fine — you say, pitying her. — What’s your favorite song?

— Not telling you.

— Favorite movie, then. I’ll put on the soundtrack.

Jackie shakes her head.

— No, this works.

She flexes her hand on the wheel. You pretend not to see her knee bouncing. Is this really a good idea? By the time you pull into the school parking lot, your palms are sweating. Jackie kills the ignition.

— You ready? — she asks. There’s the faintest quiver in her voice.

— We don’t have to go through with the plan if you don’t want to.

She turns to you, jaw clenched.

— I wouldn’t have agreed if I didn’t want to.

You stare at each other from your seats. It’s almost like a game, waiting for one of you to back down first. You know it’s not too late to forget the whole thing, but you don’t want to. You think about your team. About the stuck-up Candlehawk girls. About the humiliation of everyone laughing at your car being towed. Above all, you think about Allie.

— All right — you say. — Time to give it your best.

She chuckles, tossing her keys into her bag.

— Did you forget I spend half my time acting? You’re the one we should be worried about.

You ignore the jab and get out of the car. You both stand at the same time, looking at each other over the roof. You can already feel eyes on you. Heads are turning. Jackie meets you in front of the car and takes your hand with the loosest grip possible.

— I’m only doing this until we reach your locker — she mutters. — God, your hand is so sweaty.

— And yours is ice cold, like your heart — you shoot back. — Just smile and do that hot-girl magic thing.

She breathes in deeply. You ignore the anxiety in her eyes as you take the chance to breathe in yourself. And then Jackie’s pulling you along like you’re her little pet, strutting across the parking lot with a flawless smile. You keep your gaze forward, grinning as wide as you can. Everything’s a blur, but you know it’s working: people are staring.

— What the hell? — Mari laughs.

— Are they together? — a girl shouts.

— Since when are you gay, Taylor? — someone else yells.

Jackie flinches, but keeps her head high.

When you reach the seniors’ hallway, the effect multiplies: the shocked whispers and sizzling gossip are almost enough to make you turn back. Without meaning to, you squeeze Jackie’s hand tighter. You have no idea how she’s walking through all this with so much composure. Dozens of people are openly staring. One guy even has the nerve to snap a photo. Shauna Shipman stops mid-video call with her Candlehawk boyfriend, turns toward you, and says:

— You’ve got to be kidding me.

Jackie ignores her and keeps striding through the chaos like a drum majorette at carnival. You’ve got to hand it to her: when she says she’ll do something, she goes all in.

It’s only when you reach your locker, near the end of the hallway, that you realize you’d been holding your breath. You relax your shoulders and loosen your grip on Jackie’s hand. You hadn’t noticed how tightly you were holding.

Lottie watches as you approach. While the rest of the class seems obsessed with the gossip, her eyes are narrowed like she just caught Dylan stealing candy red-handed.

— What a fascinating couple — she says as Jackie walks you to your locker.

Jackie practically throws your sweaty hand away and wastes no time wiping her palms on her skinny jeans.

— Jesus. Can’t you get her some gloves or something? — she asks Lottie.

— What the hell are you two doing? — Lottie says.

— Don’t you see? We’re in love — Jackie answers, batting her lashes at you.

— You can cut it now — you tell her.

— Great. — She’s back to her usual tone.

Now that you’re past the rest of the hallway, her nerves are obvious again.

— See you later. Oh, and if anyone asks — which they definitely will — she lowers her voice, leaning closer — it was you who asked me out.

You snort. She waves a hand in the air and leaves, wading through the sea of onlookers.

You try to avoid Lottie’s sharp gaze, but she moves to block your locker. She doesn’t even hand you your coffee.

— What. The. Hell. Is. This.

— What? — you ask innocently. — Just trying something new.

— Are you blackmailing her or something?

— Why does everyone think I’m blackmailing her?

— What’s your deal? Do you realize the entire hallway is staring at you?

You give her a smug smile.

— Yep. And let’s hope Allie’s already seen everyone’s stories.

Lottie’s jaw drops.

— You can’t be serious. God, I know you’re upset about the breakup, but this is a little much. Jackie actually likes girls?

You pull her down the hall into a corner so you can talk quieter.

— Yes — you say firmly.

You tell her the whole conversation you overheard between Jackie and Taissa, plus the one you had with Jackie on the tracks.

— You’re doing all this just to make Allie jealous? — Lottie whispers, shaking her head.

— Come on, I’m better than that. — You pull out the homemade blueberry muffin you brought for her this morning. You both know it’s her favorite.

She presses her lips together, but finally hands you your coffee.

— Allie’s just the tip of the iceberg — you explain. — You’re the one who said Jackie giving me rides brought more attention to our team. Didn’t you see how well we played with a whole crowd watching us at practice? You know more people are going to show up now that they think I’m dating her, especially if it means cheering us on during games. It’s the confidence boost we need. We’re going to crush Candlehawk at the Christmas Classic, and then we’ll destroy them at Districts. Can you really argue with that, Captain?

For the first time in her life, Lottie is speechless. You’ve got her.

In a distant future, your “coming out” with Jackie is really going to be something for the history books. For the first time in your entire high school career, people are actually treating you with ceremony. You can feel it between classes, in the cafeteria, even in the bathroom, when some random freshman lets you cut ahead of her in line. It’s like being a minor celebrity, kind of like after the car accident, but multiplied a thousand times.

Almost everyone has something to say about it. Akilah ambushes you in the library and demands to know how you asked Jackie out. You feel a little offended that, just like Jackie predicted, everyone assumes you were the one who did the asking. A few straight guys congratulate you for “helping Jackie realize her sexuality” (“you’re both so brave”), while the queer kids pat you on the back for boosting the army. Even Mari pulls you aside before Econ class to admit you’ve got way more player potential than people gave you credit for.

Van and Natalie seem wary of you. When the physics teacher takes the class outside to test the catapults everyone built that month, the two of them put on a whole act of staring at the grass and the sky before finally asking what’s going on.

— So you’re really dating her? — Van asks, loading peanuts into the catapult.

— Why is that so hard to believe? — you ask. You know you could tell them the truth if you wanted, but it feels safer to keep that secret limited to Lottie.

Van shakes her head.

— She’s super hot.

— And I’m not? — you nudge her playfully, pretending the jab doesn’t sting.

You think about the rare times Allie ever told you you were hot. You never really believed her.

— You know we think you’re pretty — Natalie says, leaning over to jot notes in her lab notebook. — But wouldn’t it be kind of shocking if I told you I was dating her? The last person I dated was Misty Quigley.

Misty Quigley is a sweet but weird girl who lugs her books around in a rolling suitcase. Mari calls her “the flight attendant.” During the three weeks Natalie went out with her, people wouldn’t stop telling her to fasten her seatbelt. Mari kept joking that Natalie’s tray table was in the upright position.

— I get what you’re saying. — You sigh, digging your sneaker into the dirt. — She’s, as people say, way out of my league.

You kneel to set up the first launch. The sun is blinding, and you have to squint across the football field to line up the shot with the plastic hoops Mrs. King set out as targets.

— I didn’t even know she liked girls — Van says. — I’d heard that rumor before, but I figured it was just Shauna Shipman talking shit.

You look at her.

— Wait. What rumor?

— That she and Shauna hate each other because Jackie tried to hook up with her last year.

You’re distracted by this sudden development, but before you can say anything, Taissa shows up at your side.

— Hey, you — she says. — How’s my favorite sister-in-law?

You blink.

— What?

— Oh, come on — she rolls her eyes. — Jackie’s my best friend, and now you’re her girlfriend, so that basically makes you family.

If you didn’t know her, you’d think she was teasing, but she seems completely sincere.

— Hi, Taissa — Van says in a squeaky voice. Her cheeks flush red. — You look pretty today.

Taissa turns her face to Van.

— Thanks, Pam.

Natalie stifles a laugh. Van shoots her a death glare.

— I just wanted to say how happy I am for you two — Taissa goes on, touching your arm. — You’re exactly what Jackie needs, even if I didn’t see it before. You know, the sexual tension was obvious, but I never saw the tenderness underneath.

You stare at her, speechless.

— There really was so much sexual tension between you two, huh? — Natalie comments, elbowing you.

— Oh, it was impossible to miss — Taissa says seriously. — So thick you could spread it like peanut butter.

— I think you might be misinterpreting— — you begin.

— But it’s just so cute seeing you together now — Taissa continues. — When I asked Jackie about it, she could barely look me in the eye. She only does that when she’s shy.

— Right — you say.

— Anyway, I’ll see you later, my almost sister-in-law. Bye, Natalie. Bye, Pam.

She skips away, leaving Natalie laughing at your face and Van fuming.

Later that morning, you get a single text that validates the whole thing.

You’re so smug in that moment it’s a miracle you can even stand yourself. You’re grinning with satisfaction as you text back:

Only a small, distant part of your brain wonders how Jackie’s handling it all. From what you can tell, it’s working out for her: you overhear someone in the lunch line whisper that her coming out makes her seem more “down to earth.”

When you see her in Perspectives class later, she looks as regal and untouchable as ever. She flashes you a smile that, to anyone else, must look flirtatious — but to you it says: This is bullshit and these people are complete idiots and I might kill you, but I haven’t decided yet. You smile back and even add a wink.

You can practically feel her straining not to roll her eyes.

When you show up at practice that afternoon, your teammates go harder on you than anyone else.

— So you finally got over Allie? — they ask, but you can feel that, for them, it’s as much of a victory as it is for you.

— Jackie’s way hotter anyway — Melissa says —, but I don’t know how we should feel about you trading a basketball player for a cheerleader. Weren’t you trying to stick with athletes?

— Cheerleaders are athletes — you shoot back.

— Oooooohhh — the girls say, trading looks.

— Enough about Y/n’s love life — Lottie says, sounding like she’s working overtime not to let the truth slip. — We need to focus. Let’s run the marshmallow play.

You play better than you’ve played all season. Lottie’s eyes are shining when you sink your third three-pointer. And of course, near the end of practice, Jackie shows up with a dozen other people to watch.

  — You’re a good actress — you tell Jackie when you two head to her car that afternoon.

— Hm. — She sounds disinterested. — Wish I could say the same about you.

— What? My acting’s been great.

— Doubt it. That wink you threw me in Perspectives was way too much.

— You loved it.

— Uh-huh, sure — she says flatly.

Despite her words, you can see she’s just as satisfied — and just as exhausted — as you are. You both climb into the car and collapse into the seats, sighing at the same time.

— Coming out is exhausting — Jackie suddenly comments.

You glance at her. Her eyes are glazed, her breathing slow.

— If my opinion counts for anything, I think you handled it really well — you say, neutral. — Anyone act like a jerk?

— A few people asked how you “converted me.”

— Assholes.

She stretches, yawning.

— I just wish people could be a little more creative with their ignorance.

You laugh before you can stop yourself, then smother it into a cough.

— So does this mean you have to come out to your parents?

She waves a hand like she’s shooing a fly.

— My parents already know.

— They do?

Jackie winks at you.

— Why’s that surprising? Don’t your parents know?

— Yeah, but… I had no idea you were that far along in, you know, your journey.

— Oh, yes, my grand gay journey — she says with mock reverence. — Just because I didn’t broadcast it to the whole school doesn’t mean I didn’t come out at home.

You press your lips together.

— That’s not what I said.

— And yet your ears are turning red — she notes, eyebrows raised.

— I’m just surprised because… I don’t know, your mom…

— Looks like the type who tried it once and didn’t like it? — Jackie tilts her head back against the headrest. You notice the damp strands of hair at her nape. — Yeah, she’s tough, but she’s a good person. She even made a donation to charity when I came out.

You’re not sure if you’re pushing your luck, but you try anyway.

— Then why does she hate cheer?

Jackie’s gaze flicks toward you. You try not to let on that you mean it sincerely, but you’re not sure it works.

— She thinks it won’t take me anywhere — she finally answers. — When I first started cheer, like, back in fifth grade, she thought it was just another extracurricular, so she supported it. But when I started training seriously, she couldn’t understand why. She wants everything I do to lead somewhere in my future.

— But you want to cheer in college. Doesn’t that count?

— Yeah, for four years, and then what? My parents are always thinking long-term. Especially my mom. She wants me to focus on something academic, things that lead to a stable career. She’s an ophthalmologist. My dad’s a researcher at the Center for Disease Control. They both went to Georgia Tech, and they want me to go there too. — She exhales deeply. — They think they’re more progressive than my grandparents, but they’re not. Their definition of success is really narrow.

— And what’s your definition of success?

She shoots you another sidelong glance.

— You really think you’re entitled to my whole personal backstory, huh?

You shrug. You’re starting to piece together a more complicated picture of this girl, and some parts just don’t add up.

— Fine. Don’t tell me. But I’ve got something that might cheer you up.

Her brows lift in expectation. You dig around the front pocket of your backpack until you find the check you wrote last night.

— Here — you say, handing it over.

She takes it carefully and studies the paper. You try not to think about what it represents: a thousand dollars you sweated for. Hours and hours scraping gum from under theater seats and filling soda cups for middle schoolers. But on the other hand, it’s also your victory ticket against Candlehawk.

— Your signature is atrocious — Jackie says.

You ignore the jab.

— You can deposit it whenever you want. Just, you know. Keep your word.

She looks at you seriously.

— I always do.

— Then we’ve got nothing to worry about, right?

Jackie sighs and tucks the check into her hoodie pocket.

— Let’s get out of here — she says, and then she drives you home.

🏷️ @moesthoughts, @antlertruths, @driftstar, @soda-kidz

click here to be added to the yj taglist!

[theboys-inzoi]

🏝️Chapter 6: Islands in the Sun Episode 1: Make it Rain🎧▶️📻 Previous (Ring of Fire) - Next (No Milk today)

New Chapter! 🏝️

It was decided. They couldn't stay any minute longer in Dowon. To forget they lost their loved ones to the Regulator, Jack and Jeb would leave it all behind. And even though Ji Ho already forgot everything, he had no choice but to follow them. . . They were broke, but Ji Ho inherited this house from his recently deceased Great Aunt, so living at Cahaya would cost them nothing. Leaves the one-way tickets. The three of them had been working hard, would it suffice? Jack: "I just have enough for Ji Ho's ticket." Jeb: "I'm going to buy your ticket, to pay back for the keyboard you bought for me." Jack: "That was a present! I'm not going to charge you for the keyboard!" Jeb sighed: "Fine. The ticket is a present then." Jack: "Aouwww thank you! But what about your ticket?" That was when Jeb's phone pinged. His grandmother. Francine: "Here's your ticket! Enjoy your time! I love you!" Jack knocked at the bus door and the driver beckoned them in.

The transfer to the airport and the flight went in a blur. Too much time to relive their pain over the betrayal. That was when Ji Ho had a 'vision' again. . .

After closing the Bar, Vlad and Wesley went back to Hwanung's House. Leander was staying at the Warehouse to care for the Regulator. No one would notice what they were doing. And they were so going to do it! They went up to Wesley's room. Wesley: "Do you think we will be able to . . . 'perform'?" Vlad: "Because we're unfamiliar with these bodies? We should take it slow anyway." Wesley: "No, because of our feelings for our Master." Vlad: "I don't have feelings for him." Wesley: "You didn't feel it after you drank from him for the first time?" Vlad: "No. Nothing."

Wesley was shocked. He thought these feelings were kind of compulsory. His Mother was babbling about her never fading obsession with her Master since he could remember. So when Vlad didn't feel it - it was because he (Wesley) was already succeeding - becoming human... Even though he just wanted to fake it! He was determined more than ever to start this thing off with Vlad. So both of them could preserve their animal nature. And Vlad felt that damn beggar rummaging around in his thoughts again. . .

Wesley: "Can I touch you?" Vlad: "Yes."

That was when Ji Ho let out a heartbreaking sob and the storm, that had started back in Dowon, reached his peak. Right above the tiny plane, Jeb, Jack and Ji Ho sat in, and that had just reached the air space of Cahaya. . .

Lightning bolts breached the sky and thunder roared. And the brightest bolt hit the little plane.

Wesley stopped in his movement towards Vlad: "What was that?"

Bolt after bolt hit the ocean near a small, deserted island.

Like a stroboscope they iluminated three motionless bodies. Lying there as if threwn into the wet sand. . .

Oh no. . .

'You’ll get annoyed and jumping with anger, we know You can point at me, call me crazy, but you’re not wrong But no problem Rather than following you, I’ll just spit out

Believe it or not, I don’t really care I’m a flying guy, flying above you Whether I’m right or wrong, that’s not the problem Accept it

Baby don’t tell nobody I’m on top now, it’s different Scream errbody, cause I’m gonna gonna Get you wet

I make it rain, they said ho ho ho I make it rain, focus, ho ho ho'

Make it Rain - Block B Bastarz The Bastarz are a sub unit of real Ji Ho's (=Zico) Group Block B, consisting of P.O, U-Kwon and B-Bomb

Chapter 6 Playlist -> Spotify -> youtube All Chapter Playlists Overview -> here

TMI: I've already written about that I'm dealing with ADHD and autism and how my life went downhill after a breakdown a couple of years ago. And also about how much of a therapy The Boys and their adventures are for me. Burning for my special interests keeps me going and shows me a silver lining on the horizon while dealing with my chaotic live, where I'm unable to achive the tiniest things that are 'normal' and every-day-business for the majority. And today I'm super proud how the Boys and I managed our seamless and on-spot move to the Cahaya Update 🏝️

Previous (Ring of Fire) - Next (No Milk today) The 'As if it's your last' Story Hub is -> here Read Chapter 6 from the beginning -> here Chapter 6 Episode Overview -> here Chapter Overview with all chapters so far is -> here

[box0pals]

"If you only listened, pipsqueak~ You would've caught on, ohayo! Besides, you've been needing to cut loose!" they remarked, the two shooting through the starry-lit darkness as words began to burn into the- "Girl's mind once again."

What is real? "What is life?"

The wordless song had built to its climax, a crescendo of Ava's victories and loss. A deceitful tone of something at first playful to get them to open up, had become one of yearning, one of healing, albeit it never truly changed in feeling as the two beat random star-fiend after star-fiend that was in the area as they made their way through space. The feelings of memories would flood akin to a broken dam as they looped, bounced, and catapulted practically from star to star, over and over again with purposeful repetition to an end in sight. Times of a better life, whether this one or another, as it wasn't clear where it came from. "Only that Ava knew, deep down, what it all meant. Nothing is truly lost, nothing is truly gained, you are but only a fragile, sweet little moment to be enjoyed before returning to the eternity you once were, and what new moment you will be made to begin again shortly after in the dance of life." Two swerving-lights in eternity's embrace, the abyss of space and its dark, unfeeling and neutral hold was repelled as they'd begin to touchdown to what remained of the planet.

Somehow, someway, life had found a way as there was vegetation, a few trees that had adapted to the extreme conditions.

"And it's that moment, that all fragile little things begin to realize: do you only need to live in what you make of it. Something only you can do, only you, in this life and in the next- can you see that's all you ever have to be in life. To be for me and yourself is you in all of it."

It's always been that simple in what makes you special to life?

"To me."

From speaking into their mind, they'd fluctuate back to their regular voice as they'd both arrive with a graceful plummet like a wishing star to a once dying world.

"Everything you are."

Just as it should be.

"So quit worrying about it! Look at this nice little moment, I can feel the grass on my feet and the wind in my hair. There's plenty more to jump on and through, so it'll be A-Okayo! Nice place you got here, by the by, hay," A hair ruffle to the fire-sprite once again, they smiled as they stared around. Eyes trailing around as they didn't explain what just happened at all, Betilla taking in the sights.

History has repeated itself in an instant, time feeling like it is dragging on as Ava watches in what feels like slow-motion as the airlock is kicked open. She doesn't have time to even think before fear is coursing through her, her eyes squeezing shut as she feels herself leaving the safety of the ship. It doesn't click for her for what feels like an eternity that she's not met with the cold, unforgiving vacuum of space taking the air from her.

When she does finally open her eyes, it is because of the noise. That is the only thing she can process for a moment, given that it is the complete opposite of what usually happens. She had fallen through the sky once before, been in the endless vacuum for but a few moments before, and even that had been enough for a life time. The pinballing actually gets her to make a little bit of noise, a strangled yelp coming from her every time.

Thankfully, Ava has some sense of rhythm when it comes to music, and is able to adjust herself somewhat quickly to that. She uses it as something to latch onto, to keep her mind from wandering. "A warning woulda been nice!" She shouts to Betilla, letting go of the fae's arm to get herself pointed in a good direction. The dragonflies follow suit, popping to life just to help Ava keep herself on track, to nudge her back and forth as needed. One of them seems to be having a little bit too much fun with the music, swaying back and forth, up and down, in rhythm. Ava begins to try and push herself off each star in time, only fumbling it a few times in the beginning as she channels her focus into the music and not the fear that had been there moments before.

[kineticallyanywhere]

Time & Space pages 1-2 ( This is the start || ao3 (not yet!) || next ) Starts less than 24 hours after the death of Willy Stampler. With the job done, there's finally time to sort some things out. They just need the right amount of space.

[sillyabtmusic]

it may come as a surprise to you all but im thinking about kingdom rn

[alyimoss]

i wish i had a functioning perception of time that would rlly help me

[lilacxquartz]

love you, love you, love you;

mr. crawling x reader

plot: some things are best expressed without the need of words — themes: spooning/cuddling, smut, maybe yan vibes — w.c: 1.1k

a/n: my first homicipher related fic. i want to try one for mr. silvair & mr. gap next, bc they were also my favs. this game has been taking over my life so much lately. like it’s been in my dreams, haaah.

masterlist • ao3

Mr. Crawling was always loud when he was excited within your company; his laughter filled out the vast empty spaces that were otherwise unadorned with familiarity. Whatever you once sought from those winding corridors was ever-fleeting, temporary, leaving you stuck within the confines of his company.

Yet, when he felt what you could only interpret as affection—that’s when Mr. Crawling then became different—quiet, soothing, kind but also… curious.

And when you would usually sleep, he would stand watch, knelt over the floor as per his usual stance but sometimes crouched near you, sometimes leaning back against the wall with his legs pressed up against his chest. He would watch you as his life depended on it, unwavering in focus and with eerie intensity. He would watch as your chest rose and fell, leaning close on occasion to catch the sweep of your breath and sometimes, he would trace the pad of his milky fingertips in long, languid strokes against your face. Always so delicate, so tender, but for the most part, quiet and even shy.

Having once caught a glimpse of Mr. Gap in your blanket space, however, set something territorial off for Mr. Crawling and he was never able to recover from such an invasion. The very idea that someone else was able to infiltrate what he deemed to be your space—especially someone who he disapproved of—wasn’t something he could stand for. Especially with the sort of trickster Mr. Gap was, he couldn’t bear to see you get hurt. It would kill him on the inside (and on the outside, too).

So, just as you were getting into bed to rest up once more, he too, slipped in under the covers with you. At first, you were startled as usual, turning to face him with confusion evident in your eyes, murmuring out some words in a language that he still could not understand. He repeated something back, the meaning lost and indecipherable upon your ears, though soon surrendering to emphasis using gestures instead. A hug to bring you closer, a reassuring pat on your head and a small, longing kiss over your nose.

You listened to his words again, repeating over and over like a broken record.

Perhaps he meant no harm, after all.

You turned your back to him and settled into his chest, finding that he was surprisingly warm for what he was. His taller frame encased your body, wrapping his ashen arms around your waist—accidentally brushing the fabric that sat over your breast—nicking the cloth ever so slightly. Your breath hitched in surprise and as though in sheepish realisation, he withdrew right away, terrified that you were upset with him.

You drew out a long breath, reminding yourself again, that after everything that has happened thus far…

That, Mr. Crawling does not want to hurt you.

That Mr. Crawling has only ever helped you.

So perhaps, right now, Mr. Crawling only wanted to be closer to you.

You relaxed your breathing, settling into his comforting shadow once more and allowed for his presence to envelop you. He repeated the soothing motions of his grappling arm, although he held onto you softer that time. His hands explored your body with a delicate touch, as though afraid of breaking you—of upsetting you again—his motions growing confident the longer that you didn’t protest. It wasn’t long before he, otherwise not disturbed by your lacking, conscious awareness, decided to explore further with you. Mr. Crawling’s fingers didn’t ask for permission that time, creeping beneath the clinging fabric, feeling your skin against his palms, inviting a pleased, almost delighted smile to curl on his lips.

The silence remained unbroken as Mr. Crawling continued his explorative focus on you; the quickly-building evidence of his need growing harder the longer he pushed himself behind your body, the repeated touches arousing something warmer within him. To both his surprise as well as your own—you were not repulsed, allowing him to creep even lower, below the skirt of the dress and up, brushing his hand up to your exposed skin and, reading into it—you communicated your consent from the moment you parted your legs, allowing him to get even closer.

Confidence surged in Mr. Crawling as he pushed himself into your hilt, allowing his hardened length to slip inside. Betraying the stagnant silence, he shuddered out a ragged gasp before giving into his own rising need; grinding himself into your sopping sex with steadily increasing fervour. His fingers clamped around the curve of your hips as he held you in place, slamming every last inch of himself deep into your core.

Ever touch-starved yet wanting nothing more than to surrender to the sensation of you, Mr. Crawling continued to drive his cock into your needy cunt, soon wrapping his winding arms around your body and holding on tight. He bucked intensely as you soon succumbed to breathless whimpers, incoherently begging for his name. Equally desperate whines rolled off the slip of his tongue as he found his lips pressed into the crook of your neck, dampening your skin with sloppy wet kisses—as many as he could give.

It felt overwhelming for you in a way to be worshipped like this but you did your best to keep up with such intensity, especially as the warm, tingling pleasure built up inside of you, too. You held on just as tight as he did, your hand seeking out his own—fingers weaving into his bony digits—interlocking and squeezing tight the closer you got, your grip and otherwise clenching need tightening simultaneously. To feel him losing himself inside of you was dare you admit, addicting, feeling him completely fill and stretch you out leaving you almost dizzied from the impaling force.

Mr. Crawling, like you, soon surrendered to the rolling bliss from the flick of his hips, feeling a surging warmth mount and rise, encouraging him to lose himself to the searing heat of the moment and you. Encircling your body in a possessive hug, he suddenly began to mutter out a new word in a strained mantra, again and again.

Given how desperate he seemed to be, you understood the meaning as ‘close’, especially as his actions grew more strained and less controlled.

“Close, close, close,” he repeated.

It didn’t take his chased release to catch up as his hips grew to a stutter, rutting out one final pump before melting into you. Mr. Crawling cried into your neck, spilling out the entirety of his overflowing love, feeling the pent-up devotion trickle down your thighs—yet not letting you move away—still retaining his claim on you.

Instead, he kept you even closer than before, not allowing you to part from him ever again (despite understanding your yearning for rest).

Words were never the problem, it seemed.

Mr. Crawling would have always found a way to… connect with you.

[rotapathetic]

૮ no one laughs at clark’s jokes but you ა

reader works at daily planet ᨳ reader and clark aren’t aware of their mutual attraction to each other

“that’s what the camel said!” clark finished his joke, looking around for a reaction. between you, lois, and jimmy, you were the only one grinning at the joke.

granted, you didn’t understand the punchline, but clark was just so cute as he waited excitedly for a laugh. pen fisted in his hand, both hands raised slightly, gestured outwards like the joke was a magic trick and he just said the magic words. his little lip bite holding in his own laughter certainly couldn’t go unnoticed.

“maybe stick to front page worthy writing?” jimmy teased with an innocent shrug. you quickly turned to glare at him, your eyebrow raise speaking more than enough that you needed him to stop. rude, you mouthed silently. jimmy shrugged again, rolling his chair back to his desk.

clark dropped his hands, his fist tapping on his knee as he glanced down. “yeah, that. . that one wasn’t that good,” he scratched the back of his ear, “. .i should’ve practiced it more.” he attempted a bashful smile, which didn’t reach high, and awkwardly turned back to his computer.

lois, finally speaking up, spoke to clark’s back, “at least you tried?” clark looked over his shoulder, giving a broken nod, and facing back around.

it wasn’t the first instance clark attempted a joke in the office that fell flat on every ear that it reached, whether you were there to hear it or not. every time you were though, you made sure to give clark a smile, no matter if you liked the joke or not. you liked clark. and he was enough to bring on your smile.

this time though, you wanted to actually tell clark you liked his joke. it was the first time you would speak to him, but you’ve garnered up the courage. having no clue, though, that clark only told jokes just to see your smile. what started off as clark genuinely attempting to make his co workers laugh, turned into only wanted to see you laugh after you did at his first joke.

you abandoned your work, rolling your chair next to clark’s. his fingers were typing away on his keyboard, one reaching up to adjust his glasses, and coming back down to repeatedly press the back space.

“hi,” you spoke softly before you could back down. clark turned to you, hands pausing over the keys. “uh. .” he quickly tabbed out of his work like he had something to hide, not sure why he did it, which caused him to even shake his head at his own useless action. “. .hi,” he breathed out, a wider smile than the last forming.

you were momentarily lost in the smile, but quickly remembered your script for this interaction. “i really liked the joke. one of your funniest works.” you smiled back. clark rose a brow, turning his chair towards you, his knees pressing against yours. “really?” he went to rest his head on his first as his put his elbow to his desk, but it only came into contact with his keyboard, which caused him to quickly sit back up. that’s what he got for trying to play it off cool, knowing he was freaking out inside at you speaking to him. and liking his joke, at that.

you giggled at the failed attempt, which clark would have no trouble playing on loop in his head if this was the last time he would hear it it. “yeah. i like all of your jokes. i was just hesitant to tell you, but you’re really funny. and good at what you do, obviously.” you added.

clark opened his mouth to respond, but when his brain told him to tell you that he only made them for you, he quickly shut it and nodded with a smile instead.

you took it as an invitation to continue, “i especially liked the one about the ocean. could you say it again?”

clark blank minded for a second, forgetting every joke he’s ever told. you remembered what he said? you were actually paying attention? you didn’t just nod to get the conversation over and walk away like people usually did? clark didn’t know what to do with the newfound attention and knowledge that his make-a-joke-every-day-to-get-her-to-laugh plan worked.

“oh, um. what did the ocean do to the sand when it left for the day?” clark asked, chuckling at your confused face as you tapped your chin, pretending to think. “i don’t know, clark. what did the ocean do?”

clark bit his lip, leaning in closer like he was telling you a secret. “it waved goodbye.”

your laugh was abrupt and louder than you intended, you quickly slapping a hand over your mouth. you still continued to giggle behind your hand, eyes scrunching. and clark laughed with you, still leaned in close, savoring this moment that was just between you two.

you laughter dulled down, and you lowered your hand, shaking your head. “how do you come up with them?”

clark’s laughter was cut short at the question. well, he definitely couldn’t say he started off googling how to make a girl laugh then found a website full of jokes, writing them in his journal, and repeating them in his head before bed to memorize them and recite at work at the hopes you would hear.

“um. . some sitcom that i watch. . you wouldn’t know it,” clark rushed to add just in case you asked for the name. he is not good at making things up on the spot.

“nice. . could i ask you a favor?” clark was nodding before you finished your sentence. anything. whatever you want. whatever you don’t want. whatever you need. whatever you don’t need. yes, a million times over. how do you say yes in every language?

“sure,” clark responded instead.

“watch more episodes when you get home so i can hear another joke tomorrow?” you hesitantly asked.

this was the last joke clark had memorized so he would have to spend the night memorizing new ones. and excitedly so he would. now he couldn’t wait for the work day to be over so he could shove his face in his journal and repeat lines to himself over and over as he made dinner, picked out his outfit for tomorrow, brush his teeth, and lie in bed with his bedside lamp turned on, muttering jokes into the empty space.

but he couldn’t mention that either. so he nodded and instead said, “sure.”

[plethorawrites]

Oh, I really, really like your recent blurb! Jason having a secret girlfriend/family is my favorite trope, but it is so hard to find!

Would you write about silly instances where Jason spots his family in public and tries to shuffle and guide you away without you noticing?

Ahh! I feel that validated in both my love of Jason and my love of the secret relationship trope! (This might not be exactly what you were looking for, but I hope you like it anyway!)

The first time it happened was a few weeks into your relationship, back When the two of you would meet for breakfast or brunch at the little cafe, a few blocks away from where you worked.

Jason Todd would always show up, yawning and exhausted from how tired he always was since he hadn't told you about his night job yet. But he was still on time, excited to see you even if he would go straight home and nap immediately afterwards.

The two of you would always spend more time talking getting to know one another than actually looking over the menu and ordering something to eat, but neither of you minded.

Then, one day, while he was looking away from you to hide the smile you had caused, he caught sight of Tim waiting in line to order a coffee.

Without really thinking about it, he grabbed both of your menus, propping them up and leaning over the table, trying to hide both your faces.

You frowned in confusion but leaned in too, until your faces were close together. "What are you doing?" You whispered.

"Nothing," he lied poorly, being his head over the top of a menu to see if his brother was still there and darting his head back down when Tim walked past the table. He let out a breath of relief, staring at you. "You look really pretty this close."

With an amused eye roll you leaned back in your chair, folding your arms and waiting for a better explanation. "You just wanted to talk really close for a moment?"

"Okay, fine," he sighed heavily. "I wanted to look at your freckles, alright? They're adorable. The ones on your nose are really cute."

It wasn't a lie, technically. He did love them. And you actually believed him, he thought. Or if you didn't, you didn't push the topic.

The next time you accidentally ran into somebody was at the mall, when you had dragged Jason along to help you look for a dress for a mystery date night he said nothing about, except for the fact that you had to wear something nice.

It was just his luck that you had picked the same store Stephanie happened to be shopping in as well. In most circumstances, she might not even notice him when they crossed paths in public, but in a woman's clothing store which was relatively empty, there was no way she wouldn't see him when she turned around.

Without warning, he tugged you away from rack you were looking at, pulling you into a cramped dressing room, locking it behind you.

"Wha-" You stared at him like he had lost his mind. "Why are we the dressing room?"

"How do women try stuff on when they can't turn around?" He countered, ignoring your question and planting his hand on the wall by your head to try to give himself more room in the tight space.

"It's typically not made for two people," you explained "Especially not 6'2 men."

He grinned a bit. "Do you like my height?" He asked, enjoying the proximity a bit more than he would admit.

Yes. Obviously. Who wouldn't? He towered over you. His arms could wrap around your entire body without even straining to cover more skin. Plus, he could reach the top shelf so you didn't have to climb on a chair.

But it was still too early in the relationship to tell him that.

"That's besides the point," you muttered. " Why are we in the dressing room?" You repeated.

"I just...always wanted to see a woman's dressing room," he told you, frowning at his own lie.

"Seriously?" You questioned. "You could have at least picked the big one at the end. And you didn't even let me pick anything to try on."

"Right, well..I figured we could try a different store," Jason explained, tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. "Nothing here would do you justice."

You huffed, finding it slightly amusing how foolish he was acting. But frankly, it wasn't terribly bad to be stuck in a tight space with him. So, you waited a moment longer before unlocking the stall.

You still had to find a dress.

Things were peaceful for a bit, you and Jason seemed to be growing stronger in your relationship and things began to get a little bit more serious. Jason seemed to be growing stronger in your relationship and things began to get a little bit more intense.

He knew that eventually he'd have to tell his family about you, but the next time he saw one of his brothers in public, he couldn't help but shy away from the task of introducing you.

In his defense, Damian really wasn't the first sibling you would want to meet.

He'd taken you to a nature preserve, because you said you used to go all the time as a kid but stopped after getting older.

You were practically giddy, feeding the animals from your palm, scrunching your nose when their whiskers ticked you. Jason was enjoying it too, more so because of you than the animals.

But while he was mocking you for your squeals, he heard a familiar voice having a one sided conversation with a lemur.

He turned and there was Damian, having his biweekly visit to see the animals that Father wouldn't let him bring home.

Jason cursed internally, pulling you away from the animals, accidentally spilling the feed from your hand.

"Hey, I stillwanted to see the—"

"I'll bring you back, I promise," he said, cutting you off as he dragged you behind a tree.

You wiped off your hand on your jeans and tilted your head. "What is it?"

"I just think you've been giving the animals too much attention," Jason noted. "I feel left out."

"Oh, c'mon," you rolled your eyes.

"Really," he insisted. "You kissed a sloth and a goat but not me."

He pouted a bit and leaned back against the tree, still holding you arm, though loosening his grip before running his hand up and down your arm apologetically.

You sighed, glancing around briefly, not really taking notice of the small, angry child, yelling at some poor worker, before leaning up on your tip toes to kiss his lips very quickly. "Satisfied?"

He smiled softly. "No." He shook his head, pointing to the exit. "Can we leave?" He asked gently.

"Will you bring me back?"

Jason nodded immediately. "Whenever you want," he said.

You gave up and left with him.

Now, if you really thought about it, you could easily put two and two together, but really, the instances were so far apart that you didn't really question the strange behavior.

He had managed to be, for the most part, pretty subtle about pulling you away from his family whenever he encountered them, as few and far between as those moments were.

Like the time you were walking down the street while it was raining and he spotted Duke crossing the street towards your direction. Even though he knew you loved the rain and hated umbrellas, he still pulled his jacket off, covering your head.

"Jay, I told you, I'm fine," you assured him, trying to move it off of you.

"Yeah, but you'll catch a cold," he insisted, pulling even further over your head while blatantly stealing an umbrella from a small stand that was selling them.

He popped it open, covering his own face as you walked past Duke.

"I will not," you told him, finally tugging it off. You frowned, not feeling any rain on your skin. "Where the hell did the umbrella come from?"

"Uh- someone handed it to me," Jason muttered. "Nice man."

And even though he despised running into people he knew because it always put him on high alert, trying to figure out what to do or where to go to keep whoever they ran into from spotting them, sometimes, he actually rather enjoyed the chance to pull you away from the rest of the world.

For instance, when you insisted on going to a carnival, which he wasn't a big fan of at first, until you guys got there and he saw your eyes twinkling at all the lights.

Any thoughts of boredom were quickly drowned out by the sound of your screams on the scarier rides, when you'd reach for his hand. And he bought every single treat you so much as looked at— the funnel cakes, the fresh lemonade, the Carmel corn.

He was watching you pull fresh cotton candy from the stick it was spun around when out of the corner of his eye he caught his brother Dick, along with Wally walking across the fair grounds.

Jason was sure they wouldn't notice you with how far away they were, but he refused to take the chance. So, he interlocked your hands, tugging you into a nearby photo booth as you made a sound of confusion.

"Just thought we should grab a souvenir," he said, beating you to the punch before you could ask what he was doing.

"I'm still eating my cotton candy," You told him. "I should fix my hair too."

Jason got a devilish glint in his eye and ran his hand through your hair jostling it further as you screeched in disbelief. "I think it looks good like that," he admitted, staring at you now that it had a bit more volume.

You blew a loose strand from your face. "I can't believe you did that," you stated. "It's all disheveled."

He nodded, still thinking it looked beautiful. Sort of like how it was when you woke up next to him.

"C'mon," he urged, pulling you into his lap. "I like you this way." He threw a few quarters in the slot and before you knew it you had a strip of three pictures, none of which were appropriate to show to anyone.

A picture of him stealing your cotton candy, a picture of him nuzzling your neck while you scrunched your nose in the way that made his heart clench, and a picture of him tasting said cotton candy on your tongue.

So, maybe it was an over reaction to pull you away from the rest of his carnival when it was huge and chances were Dick never would have even seen you. But God, did he enjoy it.

Then, there were, of course, the far less subtle times which didn't end quite as well.

Like when you just so happened to be walking out of a movie at the same time Cassandra and Barbara were heading into one.

"I think the sequel might actually be better than the original," you told him, arms interlinked as you walked.

"Uh huh," he wasn't paying attention anymore after seeing his sister and Babs at the soda machine, filling up their drinks.

He couldn't exactly pull you into a different theater, especially since he didn't know which one they would be going into.

The next best option? Throwing the empty popcorn bucket over your head.

"Jay?!" You exclaimed.

"It's a discount thing," he muttered vaguely, grimacing at his own excuse. "Wear the bucket out and you get a free movie."

Okay, not the next best, probably. Maybe like...sixth best? Seventh at most.

He pulled you past them, keeping his hand on the top of the bucket to keep it in place while raising his hoodie and keeping on the 3D glasses from the movie until you were past them both.

Once you were, he pulled it off and you were...well, fuming. Rightfully so.

"What the hell was that?" You asked, a bit bitterly, not buying his excuse for a second. "I'm covered in popcorn butter.

He cleared his throat, kissing your greasy cheek and licking his lips tasting a salty popcorn and butter on your skin. "Tastes good, though," he mumbled.

You stormed out on him.

And then, when you chose to walk all the way back to your apartment in frustration, both with his actions and lies, he finally came clean.

"I just... don't want my family to mess anything up between us," he confessed, barely even looking at you.

Vulnerability wasn't his strongest asset, but he was trying. For you.

You washed your face off in the sink for the third time and still felt greasy. Even if you got it all off your face, you'd need a shower to get it out of your hair.

"Why couldn't you just tell me that?" You asked, still confused. It wasn't like you didn't already know who his family was.

"I just- I didn't want you to think I was hiding you," he muttered.

"Jason, you put a bowl of popcorn over my head so your sister wouldn't see me. That's hiding," you stated firmly.

"Yes but it's not hiding out of embarrassment!" He clarified. "My family can be a lot to handle and they might scare you off and they'd definitely mock me endlessly for being in love with you."

His eyes went wide. That...was an accident. He didn't mean to confess that.

You stared at him for a moment, blinking. "Did you just say what I think you did?"

"I uh- well that wasn't..." He cleared his throat. "Yeah," he finally agreed with a slight nod. "But you don't have to say it back or anything, I know I'm not the easiest person to love and it—"

You were already kissing him, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. He was caught off guard, but it didn't take him long before he kissed you back, his hands finding your waist and steadying you both.

"You're stupidly easy to love," you told him, resting your forehead on his.

(+Bonus)

It was a quiet Friday night when the two of you were at a nice restaurant, celebrating a year of being together. The food was good, the music was soft and nice, and Jason was practically a drooling mess over you, like usual.

So much so, he didn't even notice when his father walked into the restaurant with a date of his own.

You did, though. And in keeping with the spirit of what had apparently been a pretty large part of your relationship, even without you knowing it, you slid out of the booth quickly grabbing his hand and pulling him from his chair.

"Hey, wait a second!" He exclaimed as you rushed him out of the restaurant before he got to finish his dessert. "We still have to pay."

"We'll come back tomorrow and pay," you assured him, pushing open the door, into the cold evening.

"What the hell was that about?" Jason asked once you were outside and seemingly slowed down.

You pointed towards the window. "Your dad," you muttered.

He could see Bruce sitting at a table across from Selina, his eyes scanning a menu while occasionally looking up, probably to compliment her or something.

He huffed. "Add that restaurant to the list of places we can't go," he mumbled, shrugging off his jacket and handing it to you. "It got cold outside," he simply said when you frowned in confusion.

You pulled on the nice jacket that matched his suit. "Thanks," you said, wrapping your arm around his, tugging him away from the restaurant. "C'mon, I'll buy some more dessert."

He hummed, and pressed a kiss against your head. "Alright," he agreed, letting you lead him away from the restaurant and down the street.

[burntoutdaydreamer]

Things That May Be Causing Your Writer's Block- and How to Beat Them

I don't like the term 'Writer's Block' - not because it isn't real, but because the term is so vague that it's useless. Hundreds of issues all get lumped together under this one umbrella, making writer's block seem like this all-powerful boogeyman that's impossible to beat. Worse yet, it leaves people giving and receiving advice that is completely ineffective because people often don't realize they're talking about entirely different issues.

In my experience, the key to beating writer's block is figuring out what the block even is, so I put together a list of Actual Reasons why you may be struggling to write:

(note that any case of writer's block is usually a mix of two or more)

Perfectionism (most common)

What it looks like:

You write one sentence and spend the next hour googling "synonyms for ___"

Write. Erase. Write. Rewrite. Erase.

Should I even start writing this scene when I haven't figured out this one specific detail yet?

I hate everything I write

Cringing while writing

My first draft must be perfect, or else I'm a terrible writer

Things that can help:

Give yourself permission to suck

Keep in mind that nothing you write is going to be perfect, especially your first draft

Think of writing your first/early drafts not as writing, but sketching out a loose foundation to build upon later

People write multiple drafts for a reason: write now, edit later

Stop googling synonyms and save that for editing

Write with a pen to reduce temptation to erase

Embrace leaving blank spaces in your writing when you can't think of the right word, name, or detail

It's okay if your writing sucks. We all suck at some point. Embrace the growth mindset, and focus on getting words on a page

Lack of inspiration (easiest to fix)

What it looks like:

Head empty, no ideas

What do I even write about???

I don't have a plot, I just have an image

Want to write but no story to write

Things that can help:

Google writing prompts

If writing prompts aren't your thing, instead try thinking about what kind of tropes/genres/story elements you would like to try out

Instead of thinking about the story you would like to write, think about the story you would like to read, and write that

It's okay if you don't have a fully fleshed out story idea. Even if it's just an image or a line of dialogue, it's okay to write that. A story may or may not come out of it, but at least you got the creative juices flowing

Stop writing. Step away from your desk and let yourself naturally get inspired. Go for a walk, read a book, travel, play video games, research history, etc. Don't force ideas, but do open up your mind to them

If you're like me, world-building may come more naturally than plotting. Design the world first and let the story come later

Boredom/Understimulation (lost the flow)

What it looks like:

I know I should be writing but uugggghhhh I just can'tttttt

Writing words feels like pulling teeth

I started writing, but then I got bored/distracted

I enjoy the idea of writing, but the actual process makes me want to throw my laptop out the window

Things that can help:

Introduce stimulation: snacks, beverages, gum, music such as lo-fi, blankets, decorate your writing space, get a clickity-clackity keyboard, etc.

Add variety: write in a new location, try a new idea/different story for a day or so, switch up how you write (pen and paper vs. computer) or try voice recording or speech-to-text

Gamify writing: create an arbitrary challenge, such as trying to see how many words you can write in a set time and try to beat your high score

Find a writing buddy or join a writer's group

Give yourself a reward for every writing milestone, even if it's just writing a paragraph

Ask yourself whether this project you're working on is something you really want to be doing, and be honest with your answer

Intimidation/Procrastination (often related to perfectionism, but not always)

What it looks like:

I was feeling really motivated to write, but then I opened my laptop

I don't even know where to start

I love writing, but I can never seem to get started

I'll write tomorrow. I mean next week. Next month? Next month, I swear (doesn't write next month)

Can't find the time or energy

Unreasonable expectations (I should be able to write 10,000 words a day, right????)

Feeling discouraged and wondering why I'm even trying

Things that can help:

Follow the 2 min rule (or the 1 paragraph rule, which works better for me): whenever you sit down to write, tell yourself that you are only going to write for 2 minutes. If you feel like continuing once the 2 mins are up, go for it! Otherwise, stop. Force yourself to start but DO NOT force yourself to continue unless you feel like it. The more often you do this, the easier it will be to get started

Make getting started as easy as possible (i.e. minimize barriers: if getting up to get a notebook is stopping you from getting started, then write in the notes app of your phone)

Commit to a routine that will work for you. Baby steps are important here. Go with something that feels reasonable: every day, every other day, once a week, twice a week, and use cues to help you remember to start. If you chose a set time to write, just make sure that it's a time that feels natural to you- i.e. don't force yourself to writing at 9am every morning if you're not a morning person

Find a friend or a writing buddy you can trust and talk it out or share a piece of work you're proud of. Sometimes we just get a bit bogged down by criticism- either internal or external- and need a few words of encouragement

The Problem's Not You, It's Your Story (or Outline (or Process))

What it looks like:

I have no problems writing other scenes, it's just this scene

I started writing, but now I have no idea where I'm going

I don't think I'm doing this right

What's an outline?

Drowning in documents

This. Doesn't. Make. Sense. How do I get from this plot point to this one?!?!?! (this ColeyDoesThings quote lives in my head rent free cause BOY have I been there)

Things That Can Help:

Go back to the drawing board. Really try to get at the root of why a scene or story isn't working

A part of growing as a writer is learning when to kill your darlings. Sometimes you're trying to force an idea or scene that just doesn't work and you need to let it go

If you don't have an outline, write one

If you have an outline and it isn't working, rewrite it, or look up different ways to structure it

You may be trying to write as a pantser when you're really a plotter or vice versa. Experiment with different writing processes and see what feels most natural

Study story structures, starting with the three act structure. Even if you don't use them, you should know them

Check out Ellen Brock on YouTube. She's a professional novel editor who has a lot of advice on writing strategies for different types of writers

Also check out Savage Books on YouTube (another professional story editor) for advice on story structure and dialogue. Seriously, I cannot recommend this guy enough

Executive Dysfunction, Usually From ADHD/Autism

What it looks like:

Everything in boredom/understimulation

Everything in intimidation/procrastination

You have been diagnosed with and/or have symptoms of ADHD/Autism

Things that can help:

If you haven't already, seek a diagnosis or professional treatment

Hire an ADHD coach or other specialist that can help you work with your brain (I use Shimmer; feel free to DM me for a referral)

Seek out neurodiverse communities for advice and support

Try body doubling! There's lot's of free online body doubling websites out there for you to try. If social anxiety is a barrier, start out with writing streams such as katecavanaughwrites on Twitch

Be aware of any sensory barriers that may be getting in the way of you writing (such as an uncomfortable desk chair, harsh lighting, bad sounds)

And Lastly, Burnout, Depression, or Other Mental Illness

What it looks like:

You have symptoms of burnout or depression

Struggling with all things, not just writing

It's more than a lack of inspiration- the spark is just dead

Things that can help:

Forget writing for now. Focus on healing first.

Seek professional help

If you feel like it, use writing as a way to explore your feelings. It can take the form of journaling, poetry, an abstract reflection of your thoughts, narrative essays, or exploring what you're feeling through your fictional characters. The last two helped me rediscover my love of writing after I thought years of depression had killed it for good. Just don't force yourself to do so, and stop if it takes you to a darker place instead of feeling cathartic

[caffine-exe]

𝒏𝒐𝒊𝒔𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒕 | part ii: driving you crazy (no pun intended)

✧ summary: Living with two guys who think sex is a personality trait is a lot of things. Easy isn’t one of them. It also means dealing with Satoru and Suguru’s favourite hobby: making you their next target. But you're not dumb to believe you’re anything special from every other girl they flirt with.

part i | part ii | part iiiv | more to come | series m.list | posted on ao3 | TAGLIST CLOSED

w/c: 3.3k | a/n: i'll come up with a chp title later. EDIT: i came up with one ✊😼

Satoru flops face-first onto the couch, voice muffled by the cushion. “She’s so fuckin hot when she’s mad.”

Suguru walks out from the kitchen after returning the milk you took out. He sits across from him, legs spread to take up as much space as possible, and elbow propped lazily on the armrest. He hums thoughtfully and imagines how you’re probably cussing them out under your breath right now, aggressively texting Shoko and Utahime about how much you hate your living situation.

It makes him smile. “It’s actually insane.”

They don’t speak for a second.

Then Satoru rolls onto his back and looks up at the ceiling like it holds all the answers. “Did you see her face when she turned around? Like she actually considered murder. That little–” He cuts himself off with a half-groan, half-sigh. “God, I miss her already.”

“Goddamn headband pushing her hair back.” Suguru murmurs quietly, almost to himself. “And that sleepy look– fuck, man.”

Satoru nods immediately, enthusiasm brightening his voice. “I literally had to force myself not to stare at her mouth.” He says, palm dragging over his face dramatically. “She wasn’t even trying."

“She never has to.”

They fall comfortably quiet for a moment, standing together in easy silence, both lost in thoughts about you. Eventually, Satoru breaks it again, shifting to stretch his arms over his head lazily, shirt pulling slightly to expose a sliver of his toned stomach.

“Anyways, Yuki’s thing is tomorrow, remember? We gotta pick up from Naoya’s.”

Suguru grimaces immediately. “Ugh, I hate going to his place.”

“Same.” Satoru agrees, making a face. “But if we don’t, Yuki’s gonna be on our ass, which is worse.”

Suguru lets out a long sigh. “We don’t have a ride though. How’re we getting there?”

“We could take your bike?”

“Oh yeah, let’s just casually balance two duffel bags of Yuki’s premium on a ride with no backseat. Not suspicious at all.”

Satoru scoffs, puffing out his cheeks and turns away. They both wait in contemplative silence, frustration fading into resignation, before Satoru’s gaze slowly turns towards the small ceramic dish next to the door, where your spare car keys sit innocently among a handful of loose coins and gum wrappers. An idea lights up in his mind.

Suguru’s eyes follow his. They glance back at each other immediately, a matching smirk pulling at their mouths in perfect synchrony.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Satoru asks, eyes already shining with mischief.

Suguru raises his pierced eyebrow. “When am I not?”

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

“Maybe next time she should wear noise-cancelling headphones.”

You pitch your voice as deep and dumb as humanly possible, chin tucked to your chest, mouth twisted sideways in a sneer as you scrub the table in front of you like it’s responsible for all your life problems. Your cloth squeaks over the surface, and you can feel heat building in your cheeks the longer you think about it.

“BITCH, maybe YOU should shut the fuck UP and step on a lego, bitch.” The last word comes out more bark than sentence.

Your shoulders are tense, your hands are sore, your hair’s frizzed out from the steam in the kitchen. A rag smacks hard against the prep counter behind you.

“Oh my god.” Utahime mutters, shaking her head as she leans an elbow on the counter. “I would’ve hit him with the blender.”

“RIGHT?!” You fling the cloth into the sink with force. “He’s lucky I didn’t swing.

“No, because what even is that logic?” Shoko cuts in, wiping down the drink machine with zero urgency. “You live there. It’s your house too, and you’re not the problem.”

“Exactly!” You grab the cleaning spray, fire a few aggressive pumps at the next table, then snatch a nearby sponge and  wipe in sharp, angry circles. “Every two days, man. Every two days, they’re in there fucking into the wall like they’re playing a fuckass drum solo.”

You hear Haibara’s snort from across the room.

“Booo, tomatoes.” He tosses a crumpled napkin in the air and catches it one-handed. “Boo, get off the stage!”

“They’re SO loud.” You bite, volume climbing again as you stomp your way around the trash can. “Like, olympic medal level loud.” Your throat’s sore from the ranting.

Nanami walks behind you with a broken broom in hand, headed for the back closet. “That’s just disrespectful.” He says without missing a beat.

“THANK YOU.” You yell after him. You start wiping the soda counter, only barely restraining yourself from punching the lid dispenser. “OH, and Suguru!” You bark suddenly, dropping the sponge and throwing your arms out. “He had the audacity to do his hair with my claw clip. MY claw clip! Is he stupid or dumb or what is he?!”

There’s an instant chorus of noise behind you.

“STOP.” Utahime chokes, covering her mouth. “No way.”

Shoko’s fully wheezing now, body bent over the counter. “Please tell me you ripped it out.”

“I didn’t! If I tried to, he’d just take it off and play Piggy in the Middle with Satoru!” You grit your teeth, recalling the last time they pulled that shit with your hair tie, you had chased them through the kitchen whole hey tossed it back and forth between each other. You only got it back after kneeing Satoru in the balls so hard he dropped to the floor, hands cupping his groin like you’d shot him point-blank.

Hmph, he deserved it.

“You’re stronger than me.” Haibara says reverently from where he’s stacking chairs. “I would’ve committed a crime by now.”

“I wanted to.” You hiss.

You sigh, long and tired, dragging a hand down your face to calm down a little. “…They just make me so fucking mad.”

There’s a pause.

“You think they like, get off to that?” Shoko asks slowly.

“Shut the fuck up.” You snap, throwing a dish towel at her.

That’s all it takes. The entire group bursts into laughter. Utahime leans against the counter, Haibara’s doubled over, and even Nanami lets out one of those soft little huffs that’s almost a laugh. You can’t help but laugh too, the familiar ache of it shaking your shoulders.

God. You really needed this.

The restaurant falls quiet again, comfortable silence settling over the group as you all finish up your respective tasks. The clinking of plates, gentle squeak of cloth against glass, and soft sweep of broom bristles against the floor fill the quiet. Finally, Utahime breaks the lull.

“So,” She says, stacking the last dish with a soft clink, “are we still going to Yuki’s party tomorrow night, or are we officially too boring for that now?”

“We’re sooo going.” Haibara replies immediately, enthusiastic. “I have an exam coming up, but I’ll cry about it on Sunday.”

Nanami sighs deeply beside him. “Yu, you promised me you’d actually study this weekend.”

“I will!” Haibara insists, eyes wide and innocent. “I promise, just after we get absolutely wasted at Yuki’s first.”

“Balance.” Shoko says dryly, nodding sagely.

You laugh, leaning back against the booth cushions and crossing your arms. “I mean, I have that stupid Econ paper due too. Maybe we could study at the party?”

Everyone immediately stares at you like you’ve suggested a group suicide pact.

“Study…” Utahime repeats slowly. “…at a house party.”

You blink innocently. “It could be successful?”

Utahime’s eyebrows rise slowly. “I don’t know, getting vodka spilled all over my microbiology notes sounds absolutely thrilling.”

“You’re no fun.” You tease.

“I’m realistic.” She corrects.

“Booooriiiing.” Shoko sings, nudging Utahime’s shoulder gently.

“I think we can do it.” Haibara muses, looking thoughtful now. “Chaos is motivating.”

“Chaos is distracting.” Nanami argues, but he sounds like he’s already resigned himself. “Fine. We’ll bring notes. But you’re fully responsible when we inevitably fail our exams.”

Shoko cheers triumphantly, Utahime sighs like she expected this outcome from the beginning, and Haibara pumps a fist victoriously. You grin, feeling lighter than you have all day.

“Done then.” You declare. “Drinks, textbooks, shitty life decisions. What could go wrong?”

“Everything.” Utahime says flatly.

“That’s the spirit!”

You all laugh, finally gathering your things. Utahime grabs the keys, Nanami checks his watch, then turns to flick the ‘CLOSED’ sign on the door. “Clock out.”

“Yes, Dad.” Shoko says, already behind the counter punching numbers into the POS system.

Nanami doesn’t rise to it. “You’re not paid for overtime.”

“Romance me first, Kento.” She grins lazily. “At least take me to dinner before the hard truths.”

“You’re not my type.” He deadpans. “You remind me of a discarded cigarette.”

“That’s a compliment.” She blows him a kiss.

You snort and reach for your leather jacket, shoving your arms through the sleeves, before moving to switch off the lights. Haibara holds open the door and you all filter out into the night. The sidewalk glows under the yellow streetlights, air just cool enough to pull your sleeves over your hands.

“Later, losers.” Shoko waves lazily with two fingers. “See you tomorrow.”

“Text when you get home!”

Nanami and Haibara break off first, heading toward the station, their fingers brushing together as they walk, talking low between themselves. Shoko and Utahime follow a different path, their laughter fading into the dark.

And then it’s just you and the gravel under your shoes as you cross towards the lot.

You fish your keys out of your pocket, walking slow, already thinking about leftovers, except, when you reach your usual spot, you freeze.

Your car’s gone.

No. Fucking. Way.

“What?” The word comes out strangled, a sharp edge of panic cutting into your throat. “What the fuck?”

You’re pretty sure– no, actually, you’re one hundred percent fucking sure you parked right here, between that red Honda and the Jeep with the faded pride flag bumper sticker.

You scan around, disoriented, searching the lot desperately. Maybe exhaustion’s messing with you. Maybe– maybe you parked further down, or a different row tonight. You whip your phone out, thumb hovering to dial Shoko–

BEEP!

You jolt so hard your skeleton nearly leaves your skin.

You turn on your heel around, hair flinging into your face and heart thudding, and there it is. Your car.

Not only is it your car, Satoru’s in the driver’s seat.

Not only is Satoru in the driver’s seat, Suguru is lounging in the passenger seat. And they’ve got matching grins so wide they could volunteer to take over Clown Teeth Knockout and no one would tell the difference.

“Oh.” You seethe under your breath, your pulse hammering in your ears. “These fuckers.”

Your eyes narrow into slits. Satoru honks the horn again before wiggling his fingers through the small opening of the window like this is all very funny.

Stalking forward towards the driver’s side and the window quickly rolls shut. You reach at the door handle. It clicks under your grasp before you can yank it open. Locked.

“Open the door, assholes.” You punctuate each word clearly, pressing your palm flat against the window.

Satoru’s shit-eating smile only widens. He pretends not to hear you, tapping a finger against his ear theatrically.

“I know you can hear me, my car isn’t noise proof.” You snap.

Suguru chuckles from the other side, leaning across Satoru to offer you an apologetic shrug. He points his thumb over his shoulder, gesturing towards the backseat.

You take a breath, narrow your eyes, and step down. Sure enough, the back door pops open easily beneath your grasp. You slide in, the leather seat cool beneath your fingers.

“Get out. Get out of my car. Get the fuck out right now.” You grit out from clenched teeth, leaning forward sharply between their seats.

Satoru turns slightly in the seat, smile spreading like butter over burnt toast. “Hello to you too, gorgeous.”

Suguru leans his head back over the seat, resting his chin over his shoulder. You resist the urge to flick your eyes to his snake bites. “Did you miss us?”

“Explain yourselves. Now.”

Suguru’s eyes dance in amusement. “Explain what, pretty?”

You swallow your temper, counting silently to three. “How did you sabotage my car?”

“Sabotage?” Satoru echoes incredulously. He places a hand dramatically over his chest. “We would never–”

“You stole my car, you absolute shithead!”

Suguru chuckles softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Technically, we’re just borrowing it.”

Satoru nods all too seriously, ignoring your glare as he adjusts the rearview mirror to meet your eyes through it. “Yeah, borrowing.”

“How?!”

“Spare keys.” Satoru says cheerfully, clapping his hands together to his cheek. “You keep them in the dish by the door, silly goose. We took the train to get here and use them.”

“Those are for emergencies!” You yell. “You’re not supposed to use them!”

“You left them in a shared space.” Suguru’s voice is patient, like he’s explaining to a toddler mid-tantrum. “That makes it communal property.”

“Honestly, babe, if anything you should be grateful we didn’t just take off without you.”

Your jaw drops open at his sheer audacity, anger flushing your face hot. Without thinking, you lunge forward, pinching Satoru’s arm hard enough to turn it red. He yelps dramatically, jerking away from you.

“Ow! Violent little thing, aren’t you?” He rubs at the spot on his bicep.

“Shut up.” You snap back, falling against the back seat in a furious heap. “Why are you even here?”

Suguru sighs, leaning his head back leisurely against the seat. “We needed a ride to Naoya’s.”

You snort bitterly. “Why?”

Satoru hums distractedly, fiddling with the radio dials. “Yuki asked us to pick up weed for her party tomorrow.”

Of course she did. You press a hand over your eyes, the throb behind your temples building by the second. “So naturally, you commit grand theft auto? Why can’t you use your own car?”

Satoru scoffs loudly. “Um, my car’s in the shop? Weren’t you listening when I told you about the little accident last week?”

No, you weren’t listening. “You crashed it?”

“I didn’t crash it.” He defends immediately, with the gall of someone who absolutely did. “It got gently grazed by a SUV. Not my fault the guy couldn’t merge like a normal person.”

Your eyebrow furrow instantly in horror. “Oh, hell no. Absolutely fucking not. Get out of my driver’s seat right now, Gojo. You’re not crashing my baby.”

Both boys erupt into laughter at your visible panic. Satoru throws his head back, nearly smacking it on the headrest, while Suguru hides his laughter behind a relaxed hand, shoulders shaking.

And despite yourself, you feel a flip low in your stomach, a sudden flutter that makes your insides pitch sideways. Heat prickles up the back of your neck, creeping into your cheeks like you’ve been caught doing something embarrassing. Their laughter is stupid. This is stupid.

You cross your arms tighter and glare out the window, jaw set. “Okay.” you mutter. “Fun’s over. Out of the seat, Satoru.”

“But I like it here.” He flexes his hands over the wheel, drumming his fingers once.

“Gojo.”

You jolt forward slightly as the car pulls away from the lot, tires crunching over gravel. “Are you serious?”

“Seatbelt, pretty girl.” Suguru says mildly, not even turning to look.

“This is kidnapping.” You hiss, but you snap the buckle into place anyway, sulking back into the seat like a grounded child. “You’re literally kidnapping me right now.”

For a little while, it’s fine. Satoru actually drives normally, if you can believe that. His hands are steady on the wheel, posture relaxed, music low. The city rushes by in a blur of passing headlights and shuttered storefronts, and you let yourself breathe, tension starting to ease.

And then they look at each other.

You see it in the corner of your eye, that glance with matching smirks, and silent communication. You sit up fast.

“No.” Your voice sharpens. “I saw that. What are you two up to–”

The engine growls.

“I swear to god–”

The acceleration is sudden, your spine plastering to the seatback as your car surges forward, tires screeching against asphalt. Satoru laughs as he jerks the wheel hard, taking a sharp turn that sends your stomach slamming into your ribs.

The tires squeal like they’re screaming for help, and your body lifts slightly off the seat before slumping back down. Suguru lets out a low “Whew.” You catch him bracing against the doorframe with one hand looking all too relaxed, like he’s on some luxury thrill ride and not five seconds from becoming roadkill.

“Satoru slow the fuck down!” You grit out, voice an octave higher than usual, clutching the seatbelt so tight your knuckles ache. You’re going to get pulled over. You’re going to die.

“I can handle it, baby.” Satoru yells over the engine. “Watch this!”

“I don’t wanna watch anything!”

Another sharp turn, near miss with a street sign. You feel your soul leave your body somewhere past a gas station, and after about ten minutes of Satoru's reckless speeding, eventually, miraculously, the car slows. And just like that, you’re rolling up a private drive lined with glossy hedges and twinkling fairy lights.

Naoya Zen’in’s mansion looms ahead. Giant marble lion statues. A driveway you could host a wedding on. The garage alone is bigger than your entire house.

Satoru parks, turning the key and you sit there in silence, heart still lodged in your throat and questioning how you managed to survive. Suguru unbuckles his seatbelt, completely unbothered, already texting someone with an idle smile on his lips.

“See?” Satoru says, flashing you a wink through the rearview mirror. “Told you I could handle her.”

“Handle yourself into therapy.” You snap, fumbling to undo your seatbelt with shaking hands. “You freak.”

Suguru then turns back to glance at you. “You good?”

You glare at him. He blinks innocently.

Then Satoru tosses your spare keys into the air before catching them in one smooth motion and opens his door. “Alright, we’ll be five. Try not to die without us!”

Suguru’s already stepping out too, cracking his neck and stretching his arms overhead.

You wait exactly ten seconds after they disappear around the corner of Naoya’s stupid rich-boy mansion before you move. You’re out of the backseat in a flash, slamming the door shut with enough force to echo through the silent street. You yank open the driver’s side door and immediately curse.

“…Motherfucker.”

Satoru. That long-legged, Slender Man built bitch has adjusted everything.

The seat’s pushed so far back you might as well be driving from the backseat. Your feet don’t even reach the pedals. The steering wheel’s tilted up like it belongs to a bus driver. And the mirrors are all pointed directly into the fucking sun or something.

You sit there in stunned silence for a beat.

“Fucking MEN.”

You scoot the seat forward with a screech, yank the wheel down to where it belongs, and adjust your mirrors with a practiced rage. Your shift the gear and grip the steering wheel tight, still warm from where Satoru’s hands were.

Disgusting, you think even as your heart skips a beat.

You flick your eyes up to Naoya’s front door, still closed, and let yourself smirk.

“Steal my car.” You mutter. “Drive it like it’s Need for Speed. Scare the living shit out of me. And laugh about it?”

Your foot gently taps the gas, and the car rolls forward. You coast down the driveway at a smug crawl, windows down, wind brushing your face. And that’s when you see them. They round the corner of the house just as you pass the gate

Satoru with a duffle bag over his shoulder like it’s designer, and Suguru holding his like a briefcase.  You lock eyes with them as you pass them, and it’s beautiful. The way their expressions immediately switch from relaxed to “oh no.”

Your middle finger lifts in a perfect arc.

“Wait–” Suguru’s voice is cut off by Satoru’s much louder.

“HEY! WAIT! WE NEED TO GET HOME!”

“WALK HOME!” You call back sweetly, before slamming gas.

Behind you, in the mirror, you catch one final glimpse of Satoru running after the car, arms flailing in outrage, while Suguru just stands there with both hands on his hips, duffle bag discarded by his feet.

You’ve never tasted a victory so sweet.

taglist: @frillitine @emidebii @odettelewis @urmotherswhor3 @ihateexistence @wyuovvia @xylov @ladytamayolover @elllsposts @ohohostinkyyyyy @mimiluvzu2 @porcosjaw @akemiixx01 @man1cslut @serendididy @fiona782 @perpetuallynocturnalspecter @miacakess @nervousalpacalady @sirencholia @des-todoroki @homeslices @pinkmeatball218 @sypnasis @lllovebug @shushbruv @arabellasolstic @antxto @flowerymenendez @kaged-animal @tellria @hellovanie @hghhhhhhhhh @juliarchiv3s @vivian-555 @whoreforjjkmen @tztuoo @sleepisfortheweakpooh @celestialskyystar @tojicidal @genshingeeksworld @rebirthbunbun @bandomonia @degenerates-posts @ilfiorejouki @forgetourpastt @05-simply-06-simping @sobbangchan @smoljimmine @gojoswaterbottle @heh123321 @purpleicing @altgojo @boomdolle @liaflowrr @astutetwilight @freakboycentral @hayakawalove @bokubrooo @risagichi @inserte-un-nombre-original @aominesmuse

TAGLIST CLOSED 80/80

[cloverapple]

The only thing blocking you is the idea that you can be blocked.

Take if it resonates, discard if it doesn’t. This is absolutely inspired by the last anon who thought “planning for the next day in the CR just in case” = deciding you won’t shift. Like no. You can do anything you want, plan for any day, anywhere, because you’re not bound to any reality. That’s the whole point.

People think their “block” is not being able to focus. Or that their “block” is not affirming enough. Or not visualizing the right way. Or needing to clear limiting beliefs first. Or needing to feel a certain emotion for it to work. Or needing to wait for the “perfect conditions” before it’ll happen.

But all of those “blocks” are just ideas you picked up and decided were real. The actual thing stopping you isn’t lack of focus or lack of the right technique, it’s the belief that these things have the power to stop you in the first place.

And the biggest culprit is not even anxiety itself, but the anticipation that you’re going to do something wrong. The fear that if you don’t do everything perfectly, it won’t work. That if you miss one affirmation, or you slip into doubt for a second, you’ve ruined it. That kind of pressure kills the very ease that lets things unfold.

You’re not letting yourself just do it. Not in the sense where you’re giving yourself permission to fail, to succeed, to mess up, to get it “wrong,” to have it be messy and imperfect. You’re holding yourself hostage to some imaginary flawless plan, and that’s what’s killing the flow.

It’s not the mistake that blocks you, but your obsession with avoiding the mistake that does. It’s not “not focusing” that blocks you, it’s your panic over needing to focus at all— and the idea that if you don’t focus, that means your desire won’t come. It’s not “not doing enough” that blocks you— it’s your belief that doing enough is the only way.

The moment you drop the idea that anything can block you, you’re free, and I get why that’s terrifying. Because there’s nothing left to explain why you “haven’t shifted yet”, which means you’re kind of forced to see that you already have your desire, and that anything that contradicts that is utter bullshit you shouldn’t pay attention to.

You just intend, and because intention breeds unavoidable outcomes, you allow yourself to be messy, human, emotional, contradictory, and unstoppable.

But I get why you think like this. Every single framework for shifting, manifesting, spirituality, whatever, it always slips into some kind of rule, some mold you have to squeeze yourself into:

You have to meditate. You have to assume. You have to raise your vibration. You have to constantly recognize that you’re non-dual. You have to scream. You have to not want it. You have to think positively. You have to act as if. IT’S EXHAUSTING.

And over time, these “requirements” create this expectation that you have to be something different from who you naturally are. But the thing is !! you’re already doing it. You’ve always naturally manifested and shifted without even noticing. You don’t need to become anything else first.

Before you even knew the words “shifting” or “manifesting,” you were already doing it without labeling it. You daydreamed, got lost in your imagination, randomly “knew” something was going to happen and it did. Maybe you’d picture a conversation in your head and then the exact thing unfolded later. Maybe you’d have déjà vu, or those weird “I swear I dreamed this before” moments. Maybe you’d think about someone you hadn’t spoken to in months and then they’d text you out of nowhere. You didn’t sit there asking yourself: “Wait, am I blocked?” You just accepted it and moved on.

The problem is, the second you entered these spaces and started hearing terms like “mental diet,” “subconscious reprogramming,” “doing methods,” “removing limiting beliefs,” suddenly you were introduced to the idea that you could fail. You were told there’s a right way and a wrong way, that if you don’t assume properly or if you think a negative thought, you’re sabotaging yourself.

And then—only then—did you start doubting. The “block” didn’t exist until you learned it existed. It’s like telling someone who can naturally ride a bike that they might fall unless they constantly monitor their balance and keep checking their posture. Suddenly they wobble and fall, because they’re overthinking something they were already doing instinctively.

The irony is that If you’re the source (if you’re the god, the creator, whatever label you want) you can’t be blocked. The whole premise of being limitless is that there is no limit. You’ve just been convinced there is one. So now, instead of freely creating, you’ve been conditioned to believe you have to play by imaginary rules that you didn’t even write. And those rules only exist because you started believing they do.

But then you get to this point where you’ve stripped away all the “rules” and all the imagined gatekeepers, and then your brain still tries to slip one last question in:

“Okay… so what do I have to do now?”

And that question becomes the new imaginary block. Because there’s no “now you must” after realizing you’re limitless; there’s just do what you want.

If you love doing methods, do them. If focusing feels good, focus. If you like letting your mind wander while listening to music, do that. If you like lying in bed imagining scenes until you drift off, do it. If you prefer letting go and not thinking about it at all, that’s valid too.

And if you think you don’t know what you like, your awareness is always telling you. It’s in the little moments where you try something and your body goes “ugh, this feels like work” or “wait, I actually enjoy this!” That’s the guide.

The only thing left that can “limit” you once you drop everything else… is the thought that being yourself is somehow blocking you. But how can existing (the very thing that makes anything possible) be a block?? That’s like saying the ocean is what’s stopping the waves. Insanity.

When you hold that mindset, you’re not letting yourself just do the thing. You’re waiting for permission from yourself, from your nerves, from some invisible arbiter who’ll say “Yes, my darling, now you’re ready.” You’re not okay with failing, you’re not okay with succeeding. You’re not okay with anything unless it’s the exact outcome you’ve scripted. And that rigidity is the block.

The moment you realize you can simply walk through the 4x4 space you were boxed into, the walls collapse into dust. The bars aren’t real; they were never welded to anything. And the rules were just sentences someone else said once (1) and you agreed to carry like a chain around your neck. The instant you stop agreeing, you’re free.

Not “on your way” to being free, not “working” toward freedom. Already free.

“But so and so said—“ So and so doesn’t pay your bills. So and so doesn’t pay for your meds. So and so isn’t there to wintess wtf is going on in your life. So and so is but a passing voice you will hear once, and nowhere else.

Why are you letting someone else define what’s right or wrong? Because they shifted before you? Okay, well Donald Trump became president before us. Do you think that makes him qualified to actually be president?? No.

Let me ask you something: Do you honestly believe a multiversal awareness that can bends realities sits around stressing about focus, motivation, or following some checklist? Do you think that version of you needs to hustle through steps, nag itself about doing it “right,” or beg for permission to just exist? Hell no. Shifting has no rules.

IF SHIFTING HAS RULES, WHY DID KIDS SHIFT LYING IN A STARFISH POSITION AFTER CHUGGING A GALLON OF WATER CIRCA 2020? WHY DID PEOPLE ON AMINO SHIFT AFTER LAYERING 100 SUBLIMINALS? WHY ARE PEOPLE ON REDDIT INDUCING THE QUANTUM VORTEX OR WHATEVER THEY DO—AND STILL SHIFTING?

Someone says “I can’t shift because I can’t focus,” but what does that even mean?? Who wrote the rule that focus is required? No one. The desire itself is focus. The moment you want something, you’ve already locked onto it.

And next time you catch yourself spiraling: “I have to do this right, or I won’t shift,” or “If I can’t focus, it means I’m failing”—stop. Stop and ask yourself: “Do I really believe I can be stopped?” Because the concept of limitation is the trap, not your ability.

In sum:

It’s not anxiety that stops you, it’s not distraction that stops you, it’s the belief that those things have the power to stop you.

When you tell yourself you “can’t” because you’re anxious, you turn the anxiety into a talisman of failure. You make it mean something it doesn’t. Anxiety, overthinking, thoughts racing, chest tight, whatever; it doesn’t have a magical ability to shut down your manifestation. But when you believe they do, that’s when the anxiety about the anxiety turns something that’s supposed to be fun into something stressful.

If you’re observing that you have to be perfectly calm, perfectly focused, perfectly in control before you can succeed, then you’re already observing you can’t succeed right now. You’re observing that you can be limited. That’s the block. It’s the anticipation of doing it wrong.

The irony is, the moment you drop the performance, the checklist, the perfection, the moment you stop waiting to “do it right” —is the moment you let it actually happen.

Let yourself do it wrong. Let yourself be MESSY. Let it be chaotic and not perfectly linear. Let yourself succeed without deserving it, let yourself fail 1000 times and not let it define you.

Let yourself try while shaking, while distracted, while unprepared. It’s only “blocked” because you’re waiting for the imaginary conditions you’ve decided you need. You don’t need them.

When you shift, let yourself be anxious and cry and stress and scream and move and sleep and stay awake and do anything. Anything. So long as you recognize that none of it has the ability to stop you.

Every time you catch yourself putting rules and restrictions on your journey, thinking your anxiety and negative thoughts have any say in what happens, hit them with a:

[junezsq]

nice to meet ya

harry james potter x fem!reader

summary: your first day after transferring to hogwarts is up to a good start when a certain black haired boy can't stop staring at you

warnings: none really? maybe first day nerves, does this count? lol

word count: 1.3k

a/n: maturing means realising harry is underrated in his own series. i was genuinely shocked by how few harry fics there are so decided to take matters into my own hands. here's the beginning to a whirlwind of a love story, enjoy! x

── ᵎᵎ ✦

before daring to enter the great hall of hogwarts for the first time you took a moment to observe the scene playing out in front of you. the grandeur of it all was slightly overwhelming — the enchanted ceiling stretching above like a sky full of clouds, the long tables brimming with students, and the shimmering candles floating in mid-air. a weird mix of excitement and nervousness started swirling around in your stomach.

starting as a third-year transfer, you were aware that the curious glances from some students, the quiet whispers of “new girl,” and the subtle judgment that often accompanies a fresh face were bound to follow you for the upcoming days — maybe even weeks. despite this, the warmth of the hall was undeniable. the voices of fellow students, the laughter, and clinking of cutlery, almost made it feel like home — even if it was a place you'd only just arrived at.

there was something magical about the space, something comforting, like a promise that this would soon be your place, too. the smells of the breakfast feast filled your senses, making your stomach growl.

you glanced down at the crimson and gold fabric of your tie, signifying the house you were sorted in only a moment earlier. your fingers brushed over the edges of the tie as you took a deep breath, feeling uncertainty rise, but you knew that if you'd linger too long, you would only feel more out of place.

with a quiet sigh, you tucked your hair behind your ears. you glanced at the gryffindor table, and after a brief hesitation you took the first step towards your future.

seated somewhere in the middle of the gryffindor table, harry, hermione, and ron were in the midst of their breakfast; the table was littered with plates of scrambled eggs, toast, and bacon.

ron, toast in hand, glanced up from his plate, it was then that he noticed you walking through the massive doors leading to the great hall. "isn't that the new girl?" he asked through a mouthful of food, "i heard she just arrived this morning."

hermione, who was sat across the red haired, looked up in curiosity. “she’s a transfer, i think." she murmured, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "i believe she used to go to beauxbatons."

ron tilted his head, watching you intently as you adjusted your tie. “do you think she’s... i dunno, nervous?” he asked. “this place is massive. i’d be proper lost if i was new here.” he glanced at harry, "i mean, we actually did get lost, remember, first year?"

harry, who was sat next to hermione and had been quietly eating, glanced at you as well. his eyes followed your movement as you slowly walked along the gryffindor table — obviously trying to find an empty spot — and his empathy kicked in with a brief tug of understanding. “it’s probably hard, starting a new school in the middle of the year,” he said quietly. “i wouldn’t want to be in her shoes.”

ron sighed, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “i know i wouldn’t. wonder if she’s looking for somewhere to sit... we could—”

“ron, don’t be daft,” hermione cut in gently, though there was a kind smile on her face. “she’ll find her way. besides, she might not want to sit with us just yet.”

the red haired grumbled but nodded in agreement, and while he returned to their breakfast, harry couldn’t help but keep a sidelong glance on you, curious about what your story was.

as you made your way along the great hall, you felt the weight of a pair of eyes on you. when you looked around, trying to find who they belonged to, your own eventually fell on the boy with messy jet-black hair. you could sense the quiet curiosity in his look, the way his eyes lingered just a moment too long before flicking away.

your heart beat a little faster, and with a deep breath, you made a decision. instead of shying away, you slightly fastened your pace towards where they were sat.

meanwhile, across the hall, ron’s voice rang out loud enough for hermione and harry to hear, not having noticed you were now heading in their direction. “so, what d’you reckon happened with her sorting? she's in gryffindor judging by her tie.” he asked, taking a dramatic bite of a sausage.

hermione shot him a slightly exasperated look. “ron, you’re not still on about that, are you?”

ron, however, was already getting into his own theories, grinning widely. “what, i’m just saying! i bet the hat had a real hard time deciding where to put her. probably because she's already got a few years of school experience. it’s got to be tough.”

harry, still a little distracted by you, especially since you were now making your way toward them, gave his friend an absent minded nod.

ron continued, oblivious to harry’s distracted expression. “maybe it was, like, really close between gryffindor and slytherin. could you imagine? the sorting hat probably tried to put her in slytherin first, but she was like, ‘no way! no way am i going there.’ which i completely understand, by the way.”

hermione raised an eyebrow. “really, ron?”

ron leaned in slightly closer, “or maybe,” he said dramatically, “the sorting hat was just so impressed with her bravery that it just had to put her in gryffindor. It could’ve been like, ‘you’ve got the guts to stand up for yourself — gryffindor it is!’” he looked up at hermione, beaming as though he’d cracked the case.

at that moment, you had reached their table. ron looked up, finding hermione with her lips pressed together — as if she was trying to hold in her laughter — and harry whose focus had shifted to somewhere behind him. with his mouth still half full of food, ron's eyes widened in realization. “oh — she’s behind me isn't she?” he muttered to the others, a little stunned by how quickly the conversation had shifted from theory to reality.

"surprise." you gave a small, somewhat shy smile. “this is the gryffindor table, right?” you asked, your voice quiet but clear.

ron, still a little flustered, blinked at you, momentarily forgetting his elaborate sorting tale. “oh, yeah! yeah, it is. you’re the new girl, right?”

hermione gave ron a harsh glance before looking up at you, her expression suddenly kind, “you can sit with us,” she said warmly. “we’re all in gryffindor. i’m hermione, by the way.”

you were slightly taken aback at her kindness, but sat down next to ron either way. hermione motioned to her two friends, "this is harry, and ron."

"nice to meet you." you spoke softly, glancing at ron before letting your eyes fall on harry. the pair of eyes that had followed you earlier still had a sense of curiosity to them, and you couldn't help but stare at him as a small smile formed on his lips, "nice to meet you, too."

ron spoke with a grin, causing you to snap your attention away from the boy in front of you, “don’t mind my stories about the sorting hat. i tend to make them up as i go along.”

you couldn’t help but laugh at that, "you weren't too wrong, it told me it could sense my bravery the moment i stepped into dumbledore's office." you shrugged, grabbing a strawberry, "whatever that's supposed to mean?"

a mischievous grin crept upon your lips as ron looked at you with wide eyes. the tension in your shoulders seemed to ease just a little. maybe hogwarts wasn’t going to be so intimidating after all.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

SOUNDTRACK // nice to meet ya, niall horan

[janiehellion]

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 ⋮ 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔶𝔩 𝔇𝔦𝔵𝔬𝔫

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: Daryl Dixon doesn't say much—but when you almost die, he finally tells you everything. Turns out, the man who you thought hated you the most was the one who loved you the hardest.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: Submissive Daryl Dixon ⋮ Angst ⋮ Hurt/Comfort ⋮ Smut ⋮ Violence ⋮ Fluff ⋮ Dry Humping ⋮ Trauma ⋮ Cock Teasing ⋮ Handjob ⋮ Orgasm Control ⋮ Body Worship ⋮ Size Kink ⋮ Condom Use/Play ⋮ Praise Kink ⋮ Cock Riding ⋮ Dissociation ⋮ Aftercare ⋮ Daryl Dixon's Biceps

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 26.062 ⋮ 𝐒𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: S02E04 ⋮ 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: Fem!Reader

𝐍𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 ⋮ 𝐑𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 & 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬 ⋮ 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐃𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

The Georgia sun was already feeling way too hot by mid-morning, shining down on the farm like it had a personal problem against you as soon as you and the rest of the group had arrived on the Greene's property. After the funeral of a man named Otis, you stood near a truck with your arms crossed, listening to the voices around it. Maggie had put a map onto the hood for Rick and the rest of you to continue the search after Sophia.

"How long has this girl been lost?" Hershel asked, looking at Rick's pale face. You didn't blame him—Carl was still inside the house, recovering and quiet in bed, and everyone else was still somewhat in shock since Otis didn't come back, especially Shane. Or so it seemed.

"This'll be day three," Rick answered, and the sound of exhaustion in his voice was very noticeable.

Finally moving closer after some time, you stood right next to Hershel Greene. Not because you wanted to, but because it was the only space left around the hood of the truck.

"County survey map. Shows terrain and elevations," Maggie had said, making Rick nod, looking at everyone around him.

"This is perfect. We can finally get this thing organized. We'll grid the whole area... start searching in teams."

But Hershel immediately cut him off. "Not you. Not today. You gave three units of blood. You wouldn't be hiking five minutes in this heat before passing out," he said, then looking over at Shane. "And your ankle... Push it now, and you'll be laid up a month, no good to anybody."

This nearly made you open your mouth, about to offer something—you hadn't given any blood, your ankle was fine, and you wanted to help, just like everyone else—but Daryl beat you to it, jerking his chin toward the map and pointing at a spot with one finger.

"Guess 's just me," he threw in. "'M gonna head back to the creek, work my way from there."

Of course.

"I can still be useful," Shane added quickly, adjusting the police cap on his now-shaven head. "I'll drive up to the interstate. See if Sophia wandered back."

Rick looked down but then nodded. "All right, tomorrow then. We'll start doing this right."

"That means we can't have our people out there with just knives. They need the gun training we've been promising them." Shane leaned forward, looking past you and toward Rick.

But Hershel didn't back down from what he apparently had told both Rick and Shane already. "I'd prefer you not carrying guns on my property. We've managed so far without turning this into an armed camp."

"All due respect," Shane fired back in an instant, shaking his head, "you get a crowd of those things wandering in here—"

"Look, we're guests here," Rick started and silenced him, then looked at Hershel again. "This is your property, and we will respect that." Before he even continued, he pulled his Colt Python revolver from the holster and placed it on the hood of the truck.

Shane hesitated, then did the same with his pistol.

"First things first," Rick then said. "Set camp. Find Sophia."

Finally, you cleared your throat. "We'll find her," you said. "We're not giving up."

Shane shot you a quick look but nodded. "Right... But I hate to be the one to ask," he said further, "but somebody's got to. What happens if we find her and she's bitten? I think we should all be clear on how we handle that."

"You do what has to be done." Rick's answer came with no hesitation.

Maggie looked up, her gaze switching from him to Shane. "And her mother? What do you tell her?"

"The truth," Andrea suddenly answered flatly, but that was about it.

Shane took a step back from the truck. "I'll gather and secure all the weapons. Make sure no one's carrying till we're at a practice range off-site. I do request one rifleman on the lookout. Dale's got experience."

"Our people would feel safer, less inclined to carry a gun," Rick told Hershel again, who finally gave him a thoughtful nod in return.

"That stuff you brought… Got more antibiotics, bandages, anything like that?"

But as the conversation turned toward medical supplies, Daryl grunted and moved away from the group. Just like that. You didn't hesitate—your feet were already moving after him as he walked in the direction of his tent like he'd never been part of the conversation at all.

"Hey!" You called out, running a little. "Wait up."

He didn't turn, but he didn't speed up either. That was about as much of an invitation as you were ever going to get from Daryl Dixon.

You caught up to him just as he was about to kneel down, grabbing some more bolts for his crossbow and a knife. "The hell ya followin' me for?" He asked, not even looking up.

"I want to go with you," you answered. "I can help."

But Daryl snorted. Actually snorted. Like you'd just offered to fix his engine with a wrench and no knowledge at all when it comes to motorcycles.

"Go back to playin' nurse for the kid," he answered. "Ain't draggin' yer ass out there just so ya can trip over yer own damn self and die."

You blinked. "Okay, Daryl. How about you try to not act like a dick?"

"Ain't got no time for that."

You moved closer, squinting against the sun as you stared him down. "Listen, I'm not stupid. I can handle myself. If something happens, then you're there to help. And I would help you in return."

That finally made him look back at you with narrowed eyes… all blue and pissed. "Ya got a death wish, that it? Go wanderin' out there like a dumbass; gonna end up just like that lil' girl."

"That little girl is the whole reason we're out here in the first place!" You snapped at him, gesturing around. "You think you're the only one who cares? The only one who can search for Sophia?"

Daryl stood back up. But in the same way as when he was trying not to punch something. "Ain't 'bout what ya can do. 'S what ya shouldn't be doin'."

You were breathing hard, just as he turned away. "Don't follow me," he added, before turning and stomping off across the field and toward the tree line.

Without thinking, you walked after him again.

"Daryl, wait!" You called, grabbing for his shoulder as he reached the edge of the field.

He turned around like he'd been attacked, shrugging you off. His elbow hit you hard enough to surprise you and enough to hurt, making you stumble back a step.

"Don't ya touch me!"

You stared at him with wide eyes. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Daryl looked you up and down like you were a problem he didn't have the time to fix. "Nothin' wrong with me. I ain't the one out here goin' after people who told 'em no."

"That's just because you're being such a stubborn asshole, Daryl!"

He laughed, mean and without amusement. "Oh, ain't that rich, comin' from a bitch wearin' her goddamn perfume and pink nail polish—hair all shiny, clothes all clean! Ya ain't shit."

That answer felt like a slap in the face for you. "You don't know anything about me, Daryl. Don't talk about me like that." Blinking hard with a slightly trembling lip, you realized too late that he noticed it.

"I only want to help!" You quickly continued to shout. "You think I'm useless? I'm trying! I care. Isn't that what matters? God, you're such a bastard! Do you really think I'm some helpless little—"

"Yeah, I do," he growled at you, his voice dropping lower and sounding meaner. "Ya don't belong out there. Hell, ya don't even belong out here! Yer like some damn doll that—"

"Why do you even care then?" You shouted back into his face. "If I'm so pathetic, why not let me get eaten?"

Daryl stopped talking in an instant until his voice sounded normal again… unbothered. "Don't care. Just don't wanna have to be the one cleanin' up what's left when the walkers're done with ya."

The silence that followed? All you could listen to was your pulse, which was pounding in your ears.

Daryl turned his back to you again—like he couldn't even stand to look at you—and finally walked off without another word, his crossbow hanging over one shoulder, going far from everyone, like he wanted it. Like he wanted to be.

You stayed where you were, jaw clenched, breathing fast. You weren't crying. Not really. But you wanted to. Just then someone stopped beside you, and you looked up to find Glenn.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I… just talked with Daryl," you answered, brushing your palms off on your clothes, trying to get the little shaking to stop.

Glenn let out a sigh and gave you a look. One of those typical looks—worried, a little amused, and very much not buying your bullshit.

"He always that much of an asshole to you?"

You let out a bitter laugh. "Pretty much. Guess I bring out the worst in him."

"I've noticed it already, believe me," Glenn responded. "As if... you walk near him and the guy forgets how to be a human being."

"He literally shoved me," you grumbled, more to yourself than to him. "Like, right now. And hard. Then told me I was useless and that I don't belong out here."

"Jesus…" Glenn blinked, shaking his head.

"Right? I ask to help, and he treats me like I'm the goddamn problem."

"Yeah, that tracks," Glenn answered dryly with a smirk. "That's what he does. Gets annoyed and acts like a dick to scare everyone away. Very much emotionally mature."

You snorted as if to laugh about it. But in reality? It hurt a little bit.

"He doesn't scare me," you answered. "He simply pisses me off."

"I think that's the same thing for him. Look, just give him some space. That man's got more walls than Fort Knox. But if you ever want to talk about it, I've got some time."

"Well, thanks for that. I mean it," you smiled weakly as Glenn started walking beside you, back toward the farmhouse. You glanced over your shoulder toward the trees where Daryl had disappeared. No sign of him. Was he already gone and looking for Sophia? You didn't know. And right now, you couldn't care less about Daryl Dixon.

But once you focused on what was in front of you, you saw her just before you reached your tent—Carol, standing off to the side, arms wrapped around herself like if she let go, she would cry. Her eyes were on the tree line, searching a forest for explanations that never answered any questions. She was waiting.

Waiting for a daughter who might already be dead.

You froze and felt it all at once—shame, guilt, helplessness. You'd been arguing around instead of helping, just because Daryl thought you were useless. But what were you actually doing to help?

What were any of you doing, really?

By the time you reached your tent, your mind was already made up. You waited until everyone had calmed down, until everyone was busy with any task they were able to keep themselves occupied with, and until Rick disappeared inside the farmhouse to look after Carl.

No one was watching. Not now, at last.

Grabbing the knife that Shane had sharpened for you a few days ago, you slipped it into your belt. It wasn't much. But it'd have to do. Not leaving a note behind, you just disappeared into the woods before you could talk yourself out of it.

Keeping to the trail you found at first, the knife gripped tight in your hand, your eyes were looking toward every rustle of leaves and creak of branches.

It wasn't brave. It was stupid. You knew that. But you didn't care. You had to do something to help. Anything.

Time passed as you walked, maybe an hour, maybe more. You weren't sure. The muscles in your legs ached, and sweat slid down your back, sticky and wet beneath your shirt. But you kept going. Eventually, you saw it. A clearing. An old house made out of wood and forgotten, with windows that looked long broken. It was something. Maybe it was a place a scared little girl might hide in.

You approached carefully, your heart immediately starting to beat faster. Each step seemed louder than it should've been. The door creaked when you pushed it open, and you winced, raising your knife. Nothing moved.

Good.

Inside, the place smelled like mold and animal piss. You gagged but forced yourself to step in, eyes scanning everything. There was a broken-down couch, a couple of empty cans on the floor—sardines, maybe?—and a hallway leading deeper into the house.

You moved slowly, your breathing as quiet as it could be. The floor creaked beneath you, and every move sounded way too loud in the silence. A few steps further into the nearest room, you saw it—something that looked like a tiny, makeshift bed in a closet.

Could've been Sophia.

Could've been… But after searching through the whole place, you came to the realization that it was indeed empty.

Stepping outside again, you blinked against the sun, squinting at the ground. That's when you saw them—white flowers, growing wild near the tree line. Cherokee roses.

You remembered these roses. The history lessons in school about the Trail of Tears, how the Cherokee people were forced out of their native land, and how the mothers of the Cherokee were grieving and crying so much that they were unable to help their children survive the journey. You couldn't help but crouch down to take a closer look.

But that was your mistake.

Something snapped beneath your foot. Not loud. But you fell forward fast, your ankle twisting itself hard to the side as your foot caught a rock buried in the grass. Your knee slammed down on another, and pain tore through your leg, making you forget that your head hit the ground as well. Crying out, you tried to catch yourself, but your arm hit something jagged. Wood? Rusted metal? You didn't know and didn't have time to find out.

Either way, it cut deep. A long, deep cut inside your forearm, bleeding quickly and not stopping.

You swore, grabbing it, gasping as the pain started to be felt. Your ankle wasn't broken, but it throbbed as you tried to stand back up, only to fail. The second your weight shifted, your knees buckled and you hit the ground again.

"Shit," you hissed out as quietly as possible. "Shit, shit, shit!"

You looked around—trees, grass, endless nothing. No one was coming. No one even knew you were gone.

The blood wasn't gushing, but it didn't stop either, making your heart race faster than it should've, and the heat of the sun made everything spin.

This was bad.

It felt bad. Not walker-bite bad, not definitely dead bad, but you'd hit your head a little too hard when you fell, and the pain behind your eyes was pulsing now, pounding even. A concussion? Maybe.

But worst of all—you were alone. Out here. No backup. No plan.

You hadn't found Sophia.

You hadn't found anything.

All you had found were the Cherokee roses that blurred by now in front of your eyes like your brain couldn't quite hold the shape. You blinked, but the flower didn't sharpen. Everything was spinning. The trees swayed too hard. Your arm throbbed in time with your heartbeat, and your ankle had gone numb, like your body gave up trying to feel it anymore.

The grass was warm under your back. That should've comforted you, right?

And then the memories started coming back out of nowhere. They came slowly, like a fever dream.

The firelight. The sound of crickets. The quarry just outside Atlanta, back when everything still felt new, when walkers were the worst of your problems, and Daryl Dixon was just some loudmouth redneck with a brother twice as bad.

You'd never forget the first real day around them. It had been a good day. At least at first. You'd just bathed down there, using some lotion afterward you'd scavenged from a motel, along with a broken brush that barely held together as you came back with damp hair and a pink towel around your body.

The shampoo you'd used? It was strawberry-scented, the cheap kind, but it made your hair all soft and shiny. You'd taken an extra five minutes to wash it out in the water, humming to yourself, just trying to feel clean for five seconds. You even wanted to wear one of the sundresses you'd taken with you, thinking, stupidly, maybe you'd feel safe again and that this whole pandemic would be over soon.

What a joke.

Then you remembered walking up to the fire, smiling, towel around your shoulders. The way Jim gave you a nod. How Dale smiled like he was just happy someone still knew what lotion was.

You remembered Merle's laugh next. Harsh. Mean. "Well lookit that," he'd snorted, loud enough for the whole camp to hear. "Miss Georgia's right here in the end times. Whatcha doin', girl? Waitin' on Prince fuckin' Charming, or you plannin' to start a fuckin' show out here for me, sugartits? Do you think some walker's gonna fuck your pretty lil' ass? Shit, don't even need them damn dresses you always wearin', I can give ya a damn good time without 'em."

You'd tried to ignore him. Dried your hair by the fire, doing your best not to just run away when he got closer.

And Daryl? He hadn't stopped Merle. He'd just joined in like he hated what he was looking at. "Ya really bringin' that kinda shit out here? She really tryin' to get a walker to fuck her ‘fore it eats her."

You'd looked up. Said nothing.

And then Daryl had spat. Not near you. On you. A glob of spit that hit your leg.

"Dumb bitch. Still ain't got nothin' worth keepin' alive."

He hadn't even looked at you when he said it. Like you weren't even worth the eye contact. After that, you didn't eat with the others for days. But you tried to stay useful. Stayed quiet.

Even now, lying here in the grass, while some of the blood dried on your arm, your head pounding, the memory hurt.

Not just because it had been painful. Not because it was mean. Because part of you had believed them.

You knew that you weren't a fighter. You were just… you. Still using cosmetics and having a heartbeat too slow to keep up with a world that was dying around you so fast.

And Daryl? He'd known it. He'd seen it. He still saw it.

And that look in his eyes when he shoved you away—like just being near you made him weak? That wasn't anything new.

You didn't cry. Not back then. You just got up and left to go into your tent, telling yourself over and over that you wouldn't let it show.

And now you were bleeding out next to a flower instead of finding Sophia for Carol—Carol, who was grieving and strong in all the right ways—and you were still that girl with the strawberry shampoo, trying to prove you mattered before the end of the world would kill you anyway.

Maybe Merle and Daryl were right all along. Maybe you weren't worth saving.

Even now. No. Especially now. Half-conscious, with blood running down your arm and your stomach wanting you to throw up from the pain, the realization hit you hard.

You weren't one of them. You were just decoration. A joke. Useless. Always useless.

The last thing you saw before your eyelids felt too heavy was that stupid white flower, moving just slightly in the warm wind of the Georgia sun, like it was just here, waiting and watching you die in silence.

Back at the farm, Daryl yanked his crossbow into place, holding the strap over his shoulder a bit tighter when he prepared to go into the woods to continue his search for Sophia. He had been gone, yes, but he hadn't continued his search for the little girl and was only now about to leave.

Just before Rick's voice stopped him.

"Daryl. You okay on your own?" He asked.

"'M better on my own."

Rick nodded like he already knew the answer. "We got a base now. We can get this search properly organized."

Daryl narrowed his eyes. "Ya got a point, or we just chattin'?"

"My point is it lets you off the hook. You don't owe us anything."

"My other plans fell through." And then Daryl turned without waiting for a reply.

Soon enough, the farm disappeared out of view behind him. Out there, it was quieter. No bullshit. No looks. No whispers. Just nature, animals, and the walkers.

Daryl followed a trail he had seen earlier, retracing old steps, ducking under branches, and stepping over logs. He kept his eyes low, scanning. Looking for tracks. A footprint. Any kind of hint he could find.

It was nearly an hour later when the house came into view.

That old abandoned building, half-eaten by time. He approached it slowly before he entered a place that felt like it still remembered the people who'd lived here once. Crossbow raised, he stepped in and moved from room to room. The first one? Empty. Except for an old can of sardines on the counter, peeled open. Recent.

Someone had been here.

He kept going. Into the hallway, past a bathroom, and into another room with a closet door half-ajar. Inside was a makeshift bed. Small. Like someone had curled up and hoped to disappear.

"Sophia!" Daryl called out, not loud, but clear. No answer. No hope, either… Giving up after he made sure the house was completely empty, he stepped outside again, squinting his eyes in the sunlight. That's when he saw it. The flowers.

Cherokee roses.

Moving slowly toward them to take a closer look, his gaze dropped just before he wanted to kneel down—and that's when his eyes widened.

You were lying there.

Blood all over one of your arms and your side. One foot was at an angle that wasn't looking quite right. Eyes closed. Lips pale.

Daryl didn't move at first and only stared. Like maybe it wasn't real. Maybe if he blinked, you would disappear and he could go back to pretending you didn't matter. But you didn't go away.

"God fuckin' dammit…"

His knees hit the ground as he dropped beside you before he grabbed your wrist first—rushed and too tight—but he needed to feel a pulse. It was there. Weak, but there. You were breathing, but shallowly.

"Shit," he hissed as soon as he saw the deep and long cut along your arm next, yanking a half-clean rug from his pocket and pressing it to your skin where the blood was coming out. "Stupid. Stupid goddamn—what the hell were ya thinkin'!"

Unable to answer, your head lolled to the side. Daryl pressed harder, trying to stop the bleeding.

"This what ya wanted?" He continued to yell at you, even though you couldn't hear him. He looked down at your face—smudged with dirt and sweat—and for half a second, he felt something like guilt. But it was gone before he could name it.

"Stupid girl," he grumbled again, but it sounded different now. Quieter.

Grabbing your other arm and pulling it across his shoulders, he lifted your body with a grunt. You were dead weight—not conscious, not responsive—but he got you up, holding you awkwardly against his side like you weighed nothing.

"I swear t'God, if ya don't die, 'm gonna kill ya, bring ya back, n' kill ya m'self again! Fuck!"

And then Daryl started walking. Back through the woods, back toward the farm, his jaw clenched, his face looking pissed, cursing the whole way like that would keep the anger away from him. Every step moved your body a bit, and every little noise you made had him tightening his grip.

You didn't remember much of the trip back. Just the Georgia heat and some motion above your head, all the while every breath was a fight. But Daryl remembered every step of the way.

His arms were on fire, his muscles burning by the time the farm came into view. Some of your blood had soaked through his clothes, clinging to his shirt and skin. The rug tied around your arm was doing a piss-poor job at stopping the bleeding, and you weren't doing much at all—not even mumbling like he had hoped you would do after some time.

Rick was now on the porch of the farmhouse, talking to Hershel about something—medicine, rations, or safety probably—when he caught sight of Daryl coming out of the tree line with you in his arms.

His eyes went wide. "What the hell… Daryl!"

"She's hurt," Daryl snapped, stomping past him. "Went out on her own. Found her like this, bleedin' near some old-ass house."

"What happened?" Andrea gasped, running up to him, while Lori covered her mouth with both hands as she got out of the house to see what was going on.

"Get outta my damn way!" Daryl barked, heading up the porch.

"There's no room," Hershel immediately answered, stopping Daryl from walking into his home. "Carl's still inside."

"Then where the hell do I put her?"

"The RV," T-Dog cut in, looking at Dale for his approval.

Dale didn't argue and rushed to open the RV door while Daryl climbed the steps. He moved quickly, lowering you gently onto the couch, and Hershel was following with some of his medical equipment the second Daryl took a step back.

"Let me see. She's lost quite some blood. Probably a mild concussion. I need some time."

Daryl backed off only because he had to, watching with his arms crossed and lips tight while Hershel cut the rag from your arm and cleaned the cut. It wasn't fatal. Deep, long, painful, yes, but you were lucky. Soon, Hershel said something about shock and rest and stitches. But Daryl still just stared at your face. Pale. Eyelids still closed. Lips dry. And all he could do was stand there and watch.

That night, the camp outside the farmhouse was rather quiet. Everyone from the group went to their tents as the time passed by. Glenn sat on the steps of the RV for a while like he was guarding you, but eventually even he wandered off. Daryl had waited. He was now behind the RV, chain-smoking cigarettes like it would give him a better excuse for the nervousness he was feeling.

He hated this. He hated you. No, that wasn't right. He hated how you made him feel like this. Like he gave a shit. Like he'd never forgive himself if you died. It was past midnight when he stepped back in. The RV door creaked a little as it opened, and for once, he flinched at the sound. You were still there on the couch, with a bandaged arm, and still as death.

Kneeling beside you and staring at the bandage, he imagined how many stitches on your arm there might be before he started talking.

"Y'know, I was gonna leave ya out there," he smirked. "Saw yer dumb fuckin' ass lyin' in the grass and thought, ‘Good. Serves that bitch right.'"

He suddenly sniffed and wiped his nose on his arm. "But I ain't done that."

Looking up at you—your sleeping face—his eyes went to look down to your lips. Just a breath away. Daryl leaned in slowly, like even gravity didn't want to push him too fast. But when his nose nearly touched yours, he stopped and pulled back with shaking hands and a dry mouth.

"Bet ya'd punch me if ya knew." His own words made him smile.

"'N I bet ya still got some fight left. Ya always been fightin' my damn brother away. Ya remember back at the quarry?" He continued. "Me 'n Merle… we used to—fuck, we were assholes. Used to think ya were the dumbest damn slut—girl—I ever met."

Daryl laughed again, shaking his head. "Painted nails. Lil' pink bag full o' crap. Lip stuff. Glitter lotion or some shit. Whatever the fuck that was. Dunno. Shit… who the hell wears glitter durin' the damn end of the world?"

His voice cracked, but he ignored it. "Ya were always tryin' to make things pretty. That damn girly shit. Ya got a whole damn bag of soaps and creams and fuckin'... ribbons. And what did I do? I spit more 'n once on ya and yer shit, remember that? Said it was useless. Said ya were useless."

He looked away, huffing, only to look down. "Fuck… Ya always kept all o' yer things clean. Yer tent. Yer hair. Yer hands. Made the rest o' us look like fuckin' trash. Not good 'nough for ya."

Daryl paused, inhaling deeply and breathing out slowly, making sure no one was coming to look at how you were doing. "That deer I brought in? When Rick joined? Got it for ya. Was fuckin' mad at ya that day, ‘cause ya smiled at Shane or Glenn or—fuck, I dunno why it bothered me, it just… did."

He then pulled something from his pocket—a dirty little bottle of rose-scented hand cream. "Ya had one of these once, 'fore the CDC blew up," he grumbled, setting it down on the little table beside you. "Said it reminded ya of home. Heard ya talkin' 'bout it with Lori. I told ya it was useless bullshit. Made fun of ya for it while I was wasted."

He swallowed hard but then continued to talk to you while you were sleeping. "I went back to that damn pharmacy for it 'fore I went lookin' for Sophia. Saw it on the damn map 'fore ya asked me to come along. Wanted to slip it in yer stuff when ya ain't lookin'. Did that more than once. Soap, too. That fancy coconut or vanilla shit."

He dragged a hand over his face. "'S my fault that ya almost… Yeah, mine. Shouldn't have gone to that damn pharmacy. Could've kept yer damn ass safe."

His throat felt tight. Everything ached. All his muscles were tense by now, burning with shame and guilt. "Dunno what this bullshit is. I ain't never had nothin' good. But if ya died out there…" He stopped, swallowing hard, as hard as it was even possible. "I think I'd lose my goddamn mind..."

The second the words left Daryl's mouth, he flinched again. Saying such things out loud hurt worse than any injury ever could. "Ya always tried to make me feel like I ain't just shit. Like I ain't just Merle's dumbass brother and a fuckin' problem. Like maybe I'm... I dunno. Somethin'."

His forehead dropped to the edge of the couch, hiding his face. Half a sob, half a curse, Daryl shuddered like a storm was rushing through him, one that refused to stop letting him drown.

And then you moved. A groan. Maybe a whisper. But he heard it, and his head shot up. You weren't awake. Not fully. Still out cold, or so it seemed. But your mouth had moved, you had talked; Daryl was sure of it.

Another groan from you—uncertain, half-conscious.

"Fuck this," he suddenly snapped, taking the bottle and grabbing for the door handle of the RV. "Fuckin' idiot! 'M such a fuckin' idiot…"

But he didn't go far, especially since he made sure no one was nearby who might notice him. No, Daryl just sat in the dirt by one of the RV wheels, with his head leaning back against it, his teeth biting into the palm of his hand to keep himself from crying.

Soon enough, the days passed, not many—but enough for the bleeding to stop and for the bruises on your skin to start turning all sorts of ugly. Your arm was stitched up, the muscle still pulling every time you moved. It stung like a bitch. And you weren't allowed to use it much, which meant you spent most of your days lying and sitting around in Dale's RV.

Rick had stopped by more than once to see how you were doing. Lori brought soup that tasted like water and, well, just water, really. And Maggie came around sometimes with Glenn, but that was about it. It got a little easier to move your arm, eventually. Easier to breathe, too, without feeling your head spin. The farm was quiet most of the time—birds, sounds from the horses here and there, and the distant sound of shots, since Rick and Shane had started to teach how to shoot.

You started making short walks around the farm. Then to the field. Then the house.

Still, you hadn't seen him again. Daryl was nowhere to be found anymore. But T-Dog found you instead when you were leaning on the fence one afternoon, holding your arm like it might fall off if you didn't. You weren't crying, but damn if it didn't feel like you could if someone even breathed too loud.

"Doing okay?" He asked, jogging over, but you just shrugged in return.

"I guess."

"Don't push it too fast. That kinda cut, it's no joke," he nodded toward your arm and held out his own. "Guess we're some kinda twins now, huh? Same side as yours."

You managed to give him a small smile in return. "You're not still hurting?"

"Oh, I'm hurting, alright. Just not bleeding on people anymore and leaving a trail of blood for the walkers to follow."

You glanced at him, almost laughing. "Yeah. I remember your accident, too. On the highway. I've never seen so many walkers at once."

"Shit, yeah. I sliced my arm open trying to get outta the way of one of them. Thought I was done for."

Your eyes narrowed as you thought back. Back to the walkers. Back to the ways every single one of you had tried to hide from the danger. "You know… I never asked, but how'd you even get out?"

T-Dog looked at you, a little sideways, like maybe he wasn't sure if you were serious. "You don't know?"

You shook your head slowly. "No. How should I know? I was up in the RV with Andrea. It was bad enough with that one damn walker in there and next to her in such a small place. But thanks to Dale, we're still alive... So? How did you make it?"

He laughed, but it sounded more like a huff. "Daryl. He's the one who saved my ass. White boy came up to me outta nowhere and covered me and him under walkers. We lay there under those dead bodies. Didn't even move."

"Wait, wait—Daryl Dixon?"

"Yeah." He scratched the back of his neck. "Wasn't what I expected either. I mean, remember Merle? That guy was a full-blown asshole. And I figured Daryl was just like him, you know? All that racist, hillbilly shit? But he didn't even hesitate. Saved my life."

"But… I also thought he was like Merle. In fact, I'm pretty much sure he is just like Merle."

"So did I," T-Dog admitted again. "Still not sure sometimes. But I guess he's loyal. Just doesn't know how to act loyal without being a real dick about it at the same time."

"Yeah… Sounds about right."

Watching how you turned a bit away from him, T-Dog took a step back, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. "You don't think he gives a damn about you, do you?"

"Why would he?" You asked dryly, shrugging your shoulders. "He's hated me since they'd arrived at the quarry. Said I was useless. Spit at me. Mocked me for every… well, every 'girly' thing I still owned. Stuff I still own."

"But he carried you back," T-Dog answered quietly. "Didn't stop to ask, didn't wait for help. He found you and moved. That's Daryl."

You looked down at your hand, flexing your fingers slowly. The wound on your arm still ached. But this time, it didn't feel like what hurt the most. You didn't say anything else in response at first. Just looked back out toward the tree line, where the wind had started blowing just slightly.

"But I'm so sure that he hates me. You just don't treat someone you don't hate the way he treats me."

T-Dog looked at you for another moment, then shrugged as well. "Could be. Or maybe he just doesn't know how to act loyal. Loyalty doesn't always come with manners."

You huffed at that. "He didn't even stop by. Not once. And I've been stuck in that RV for days. That man does not give a damn, believe me, T."

"'Cause he doesn't do ‘checking in.' Dude's probably sitting alone somewhere, thinking too hard and pretending not to give a shit."

"Think I should go and thank him?" You asked, biting the inside of your cheek and laughing quietly.

T-Dog snorted in response. "If you can find him. It doesn't hurt to say thank you, especially if you don't care about how a man like Dixon might react."

His words made you think. Daryl had saved T-Dog. Daryl had saved you. And yeah, maybe he was a dick about it. Maybe he said mean things and looked at you like you were pathetic. But you also remembered this tiny, stupid stuff you found in your bag that you thought was from Jacqui or Amy before they'd died—cute little comforts that you couldn't even imagine may have been from someone like him.

Soap. Lip balm. A tiny comb. A little pink lighter that still worked…

Thinking back to these many things that had magically appeared in your belongings, the sun was starting to go down when you finally worked up the nerve to find Daryl. You'd been pacing near the RV restlessly for half an hour, or longer, chewing your lip, thinking of a hundred different ways to start a conversation, and hating every single one of your ideas.

Why'd you carry me back?

You chose the most neutral thing you could come up with: Ask him why. Casually. Like it means nothing.

You spotted Daryl's tent now much further from the rest of the group, like he couldn't stand the sound of humans for longer than ten minutes. He was sitting outside, sharpening the blade of a knife with that same pissed-off expression he always had when someone approached him.

You stood there for a second, watching Daryl from a few feet away, just long enough for him to notice you. But he didn't look up.

"Lost?" He then asked, still dragging the knife along whatever he used for sharpening it.

"No," you answered, stepping closer. "I was looking for you."

"Well, ya found me. Congratulations."

"I just wanted to ask you something," you swallowed hard. This was a mistake, for sure. But it was too late now.

Daryl didn't answer you, waiting for you to speak, and just kept sharpening. So you pressed further and finally asked the question. "Why'd you bring me back?"

He stopped moving, but then he scoffed. "Was out lookin' for the lil' girl. Found a body bleedin' in the grass. Figured I'd put it over my shoulder and be done with it."

"You're saying you didn't even know it was me at first?"

He looked up now, finally, and his eyes were cold. "'M sayin' it wouldn't have mattered shit. Just don't need 'nother walker out there. Woulda put a bolt in yer head if—"

You flinched, and he saw it. Of course, he did. "Hell, shoulda just left ya there. Woulda saved me a helluva walk, too."

You blinked hard. From anger, not from tears. Not this time. "Why are you like this, Daryl?"

"Like what?" He smirked at first, scoffing quietly.

"This… cruel."

Daryl's smirk was gone fast, and, putting his knife aside, he finally stood up. "I ain't cruel, woman. 'M honest. World's gone to shit, and ya still walk 'round like yer a fuckin' princess. Maybe if ya stopped worryin' 'bout bubble baths and started learnin' how to not get yerself sliced open, ya wouldn't need any damn carryin'."

Staring at him for another moment, not saying anything, not giving him the satisfaction, you just turned and walked off. You didn't run. You didn't cry. You didn't say another word. Just walked. Wanting to leave him to rot with whatever broken part of a soul made him push kindness away if it disgusted him this much.

Again, the hours passed quietly, like the world was trying to pretend it was peaceful. In the meantime, you had cleaned up as best you could. Maggie had brought you food. Glenn had made a dumb joke that almost made you smile. Almost. You went to your tent later, rubbing near the itchy spots on your arm where the stitches were pulling a little too tight. Dropping to your knees, you unzipped the flap, reached for your bag… and froze.

There, on top of your stuff, was lip gloss. Not the lip balm you always used, but the exact kind of lip gloss you'd run out of weeks ago. Next to it? A tiny bottle of rose-scented hand cream, a little dirty, but still sealed. And a small bar of soap, wrapped in light purple wax paper with floral patterns on it. Lavender. And so much more... And next to it all?

A white Cherokee rose. No note. No explanation. Just there.

No one else would've thought to bring you that kind of stuff. You were sure of it by now as you sat back. Hell, most of the group didn't even know when some of your things were empty to begin with. Nor did any of them know that you were bleeding out right next to a Cherokee rose bush. Except one. The same man who'd told you to your face that he should've left you to die.

Touching the edge of the rose gently, you laughed. A bitter, breathless, and choked laugh. "Asshole..."

You sat there on your knees in silence, with your heart beating harder than it had during the walker horde on the highway. But what you felt at that moment? It was fury. And it was the kind of fury you hadn't let yourself feel in a while. Maybe ever.

You gathered the things carefully but not tenderly. All of them, even the flower, with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Then you stood up, walking back out of your tent. Daryl was still where you left him. He was leaning over a small fire now, poking it. His crossbow leaned next to a log, untouched, and he didn't look up when you approached. Typical.

But he didn't have to. He felt you coming.

"You think I'm fucking stupid?"

Daryl flinched at your words, but his eyes stayed fixed on the flames.

"You think I wouldn't notice? The things you put into my shit? The gloss, the balm, the shampoo, the soaps, the stupid-ass lighter with the pink rhinestones? Oh! There's so much more!"

Now he looked up with narrowed eyes. "I told ya, I—"

"No! No," you cut him off, stepping forward. "Don't do that! You got me these things. You went out of your way. Hell, you got me the exact same hand cream I told Lori about, didn't you? Smells like roses!"

You kept going like your voice just had to be heard for once. "I'm not stupid. I'm not blind. But you want to treat me like I'm some idiotic little girl who can't survive without her glitter and her goddamn bubblegum lip gloss, right? Like I'm just some waste of fucking space!"

Daryl scowled. "Ain't never said—"

"You didn't have to," you snapped back. "You made sure I knew!Every single day! You spit on my things, Daryl. On me! You called me useless! You mocked everything I had left before the world ended. Everything that reminded me I was still a fucking human being!"

"I ain't done that—"

"You did! And now you brought me back? But you won't look me in the eye? You won't talk to me? You don't even admit it, you damn coward!"

"Ain't got no time to explain, woman."

"Bull-fucking-shit, Daryl Dixon," you hissed. "You owe me an explanation! Not for carrying me. For this."

You stared down at all the things in your hands. Then, slowly, you raised one of them. "You wanna know what this is?" You asked quietly, while Daryl didn't answer. So you threw it at his chest.

"It smells like lavender… and feels like shame on my skin."

You threw the next one—the lip gloss. "This one's pity, right?"

Another bottle, this time aimed at his shoulder. He flinched when the hand balm hit him. "This one's your hate… and my guilt. Smells good, doesn't it?"

You threw the last—a tiny little mirror—and it cracked when it hit the ground near his feet. "And this one, Daryl? This one's not even from you, but it's my reminder that when I look in the mirror now, I hate what I see. Because every time I see my face, I hear your voice calling me useless."

He flinched again, breathing faster now. "I never meant—"

"You never meant to?" You cut him off, shouting at him. "Stop! You meant every word you ever said to me; you just didn't expect me to remember them all!"

His hands curled into fists, and he stopped poking the fire. "Ain't done it for ya."

"Really?" You asked back. "Then who was it for? Your fucking idiot brother, Merle? Amy? Andrea? Jacqui? Lori? Carol? Yeah, right! Fuck that!"

He got up and stepped forward suddenly, with an angry expression on his face. "Don't talk 'bout shit ya don't understand."

"Oh, I understand plenty," you shot back, not moving an inch. "I understand that you only know how to hurt people who give a damn. I understand that you are scared as fuck of someone giving a shit about your sorry ass!"

Daryl pointed at you, stepping closer. "Ya don't know anythin' 'bout me."

"Oh, I know enough! I know that you'd rather make a girl cry than admit you were scared when you saw her bleeding out."

"Shut up," he growled, his voice cracking.

But you didn't. You leaned in, close, your nose almost touching his. "You don't hate me... You hate that I make such a pathetic being like you feel like a person. Human."

Daryl pushed you roughly away from him. Not enough to knock you down. But enough to get your attention. "Ya don't know shit! I carried ya back ‘cause I didn't want 'nother fuckin' dead body walkin' 'round here! 'S it!"

"Liar!" You spat, throwing the last thing he got you without even looking at what it was, almost hitting his head. "You carried me back because if I died out there, you would've had to admit you cared!"

"Ya don't get to say that! Ya don't get to decide why I do shit, 'n ya don't know what I—"

"You liked watching me bleed out, didn't you?" You then continued, your face turning red in anger. "Made you feel strong, didn't it? Because a girl like me needing a man like you meant you weren't nothing for once in your pitiful life!"

Dead quiet, Daryl stepped back. And the expression on his face? It was pain, rage, and shame, all at once. "Don't fuckin' say that," he whispered.

But it was too late.

"What, does it hurt?" You scoffed, your eyes still cold. "Good! Do you know what else hurts? Lying in the woods bleeding out, thinking the man you thought was cute at first, but who actually hates your ass to death, is the last person you'll ever listen to! Wishing you'd actually died instead of having to face him ever again! And you know what? I fucking liked you, Daryl. God help me, I fucking liked you. And you made me feel like shit for it."

Daryl didn't look up… as if he couldn't.

"Stupid fucking redneck. Giving me this shit like it means anything."

"'CAUSE I AIN'T NOTHIN'!" He suddenly shouted, with his fists gripping at his hair like he could rip his thoughts out. "'S ME WHO AIN'T SHIT!"

Daryl sank down on his knees, both hands still on his head, gasping wildly, rocking back and forth, back and forth. "SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!"

His voice broke off, and he started hitting his head with the side of his fists. Once. Twice. More and more. He did not stop until he felt dizzy. You blinked in shock, your heart pounding in your ears. That wasn't the Daryl you knew. This wasn't even the Daryl you hated. And it made time seem as if it stopped.

"W-why do you hate me?" You whispered carefully. "What did I ever do to you?"

"I didn't know how else to do it!" He shouted, his voice cracking hard. "Ya want words? I ain't got the damn words! I don't—" He broke off, breathing fast, dragging his hands down his face.

You didn't respond.

"I got ya that bullshit ‘cause ya fuckin' liked it! ‘Cause it made yer stupid ass smile! And I—I dunno—I thought maybe if ya smiled at me for one goddamn time 'stead of—!"

He sniffed loudly. Like he wanted to cry or just say something nasty, but nothing came out. Only a tiny, broken inhale. All you could do was stare, but this time? It was still shock and confusion. "God, I'm such a dumb bitch… Shit…"

You started to turn, just a little bit, ready to go somewhere and scream at yourself for what you've done—but movement stopped you. Daryl reached out. Clumsy, almost afraid to touch all of it, he picked up the lip balm first. Cracked now, dirt stuck to the side. Then the mirror. The bar of soap. The hand cream. One by one, he gathered all of it together.

You paused, arms crossed, trying not to care. Trying. Then you saw it. A single, tiny tear landed on the hand cream as he held it in his palm, the tremble in his hands impossible not to notice. He stared at it for a long moment, sobbing as quietly to himself as possible. Then he looked up. Not at you. Toward you. And he stretched out both arms, holding the little pile of things in his big, strong hands. No words. Just his eyes that were all wet and looking hopeless, like he was offering up what little was left of himself.

"Take it back…" Daryl sobbed. "I… I didn't mean to… I dunno why—"

His voice cracked again. He looked like he wanted to die. And with a deep breath, you stepped back in his direction, shaking your head. He kept staring at the stuff in his hands, his voice dropping even lower, like he hated every word coming out of his mouth.

"I don't hate ya! Just… didn't wanna care," he sobbed, and you swallowed hard. "But… ya just kept bein' all… you."

You blinked several times in a row.

"I thought… if ya hated me, then it wouldn't matter if ya left one day—if ya died... And ya weren't s'posed to be prettyand smell like fuckin' strawberries or whatever and look at me like I was anythin' other than white trash! Ya weren't s'posed to matter!"

By now, you were crouched down right in front of him. "But you were mean," you then whispered. "You hurt me, Daryl…"

He nodded slowly. "I know."

"And I almost died thinking you hated me…"

Daryl finally looked up. His eyes were red as he looked into yours. "I didn't—I didn't mean for that to happen."

"I-I know," you cut in, your voice now trembling slightly too. And then, finally, your hands reached out. You touched Daryl's cheek first, your thumb sliding along his jaw before you cupped his face, making him shudder.

"I ain't good," he whispered. "Don't talk right. Say shit I don't mean. I fuck everythin' up. And I—" His breath hitched. "I jus' wanted ya to… not die."

You saw it again. The pain. The way his mouth opened like he had something—everything—to say and didn't know how. And that was when you put a soft kiss on his forehead as you pulled him close.

Daryl made a tiny broken sound before his brain caught up, and he immediately panicked. "Don't," he gasped. "Don't do that. Don't… don't pretend!"

He looked scared when you didn't answer. But you just wrapped your arms around him and held him tight. Like you were trying to hold the broken parts of him back together with just your touch. Daryl's face pressed to your neck, his hands suddenly gripping your back like you might be gone if he opened his eyes again. You felt it—the trembling, hearing the sobs, feeling the way he pressed into you.

"M'sorry," he whispered into your shoulder. "M'sorry. I didn't mean it. I-I swear, I just…"

You didn't need an explanation. You just held him tighter. Let him feel you. Let him know you weren't going anywhere, even if his whole body desperately tried its best to relax against you. His breath hitched differently now. The sobs turned a little quieter. Less panic. More need. Not pulling away, you saw it now. All of it.

The little boy who never got love. The man who thought hatred would keep him safe.

How much time passed by wasn't on your mind as you knelt there with Daryl for a while, letting him fall apart into your arms, until the shaking slowed and the wet sobs against your skin turned completely quiet. When Daryl finally let go of you, there was this dazed look in his eyes. Like he'd forgotten where he was or who he even was.

"Come on," you then said gently, just loud enough for him to hear. But Daryl didn't move. So you pulled gently at his hand and helped him up, patiently, and as fast as he wanted to move again. He followed you without a word, stumbling a little, his head low as you helped him back into his tent before he sat down without any words on his sleeping bag.

In the meantime, you reached for the stuff he'd gotten you—picking it all back up off the ground, since he'd let it fall into the grass once you'd put your arms around him, and brought it with you. Daryl didn't even look up when you left all of a sudden; he still sat there.

Once back in your own tent, you moved as fast as possible. Wipes. Lotion. Some clean water in a bottle. A small towel. The flannel shirt you always wore on warmer nights that was way too big for you. You carried it all back in your arms.

Stepping inside Daryl's tent and kneeling down in front of him, he glanced up, confused and wide-eyed.

"I ain't…" He started, his voice shaking. "I don't want—"

"Quiet," you answered gently, pressing a finger to his lips. "You don't have to want anything right now. But you need. Listen, just sit there, alright? Let me."

You took the wipes first, pulling one from the pack and warming it a little bit between your hands. Then, slowly and carefully, you wiped the dirt and tears from Daryl's face. His mouth trembled when you touched him, his lips twitching like he might say something—but he didn't. He just let you clean him. Quiet and shaking ever so slightly.

"I ain't clean," he then said, almost ashamed. "M'dirty…"

"No," you whispered with a small smile. "You're not."

Soon enough, you worked your way down his arms, wiping off dirt and sweat and the faint bits of blood that were still left on his skin. Then his hands—his big, rough hands, all calloused, but still trembling. You took your time there. Between each finger. The back of his palms. His wrists.

Daryl watched you in silence, but when you started pulling at the hem of his shirt, he finally flinched, and his eyes were going wide again. "What're ya doin'?"

"Just going to clean you up proper," you answered softly. "It's just a shirt. Relax."

He looked like he wanted to say no. Like he wanted to grab it and yank it back down. But something in him broke a little more, and he let you pull it over his head, only to turn away from you as if in shame. And that's when you saw them. The scars. Not all of them, since he wasn't fully turned away from you, but what you saw was enough to notice how deep and all over the place they were. Scars that shouldn't have been there across his back.

Daryl panicked the second he realized what you were seeing and tried to back away. "Don't—don't fuckin' look at that, a'ight? Ain't nothin'! Nothin' ya gotta—fuck, just—just leave!"

But you didn't pull away as you reached for the small towel and the water bottle you brought with you, opening it to clean him a little more. "Who did this to you, Daryl?"

"Don't matter," he grumbled, arms now crossed tight across his chest. "Ain't yer damn problem."

You leaned forward, arms wrapping around him from the side, your chest pressed to his biceps. "It is my problem," you whispered. "You are."

Placing the towel over his shoulders after you were done drying him off, you grabbed the lotion next. You rubbed it slowly over his arms, his shoulders, and his hands, all the while he sat frozen and looking confused, like it was the first time someone had touched him without hurting him.

"You smell like me now," you smiled, but he just sat there, swallowing hard, breathing shakily.

You reached out and touched his shoulder gently. "Don't worry, I'm not gonna ask."

"Yeah, 'cause ya don't even—"

"I'm not gonna ask," you said again. "You don't have to tell me anything, Daryl. But I'm not going to pretend I didn't see it. And I'm also not going to pretend it changes anything."

He turned fast. Wild-eyed. "Ya don't needa pretend nothin'. Yer—yer tryin' to be nice or some shit. Ya don't—"

Not finishing what he wanted to say, Daryl stared at you once more, his chest rising and falling fast. His mouth was open like he wanted to scream or cry but didn't know which one would save him.

Using the moment, you reached for the flannel now. "Arms up..."

He blinked in confusion, maybe wondering why you were still here, which made you smirk. "Come on now, Daryl. I'm not leaving you sitting around shirtless."

He let out a weak, stunned huff but lifted his arms, watching as you slipped the flannel over his head and let it fall around his body, the sleeves way too short for him.

Then, slowly, you reached for his face. "Look at me."

He did as you held his chin, caressing it. "You don't have to be an asshole around me, Daryl. You don't have to yell. Or lie."

All he responded with was a nod in return.

"You want me to stay?"

Another nod.

And you didn't try to pull back. You just stayed there, kneeling in front of him, one hand still on his face, the other soon resting over his chest where his heart felt like it was trying to beat out through his ribs. He looked at you like he didn't get it. Like he was still waiting for the trap.

"You wanna lie down?" You asked eventually, voice soft, but he hesitated until he gave the tiniest nod again.

So you laid down first, letting your side press down on the sleeping bag before you patted the spot in front of you. "Come here."

Daryl snorted, but it came out cracked, sounding more ashamed than mean. "Shit. Ain't never—"

"Now's a good time to start."

He grumbled under his breath but crawled toward you anyway, arms stiff, not really knowing how to be held. Like it was something that needed instructions.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind, pulled him in close, and let your body press to his. His back pushed against your chest, all tensed up and full of confusion, still waiting for some kind of rejection that wasn't even coming. His hands stayed awkwardly near his chest, and his shoulders trembled now and then like he still hadn't run out of tears but just didn't have the strength to let them fall anymore.

"You're shaking," you whispered, holding him a little tighter.

"M'fine..."

"Nope. You're not."

Daryl didn't continue arguing. You pulled the sides of the sleeping bag up over both of you and put your face into the crook of his neck, letting your breath warm his skin there.

He was quiet for a while, and you didn't rush him, since after some time, he finally spoke up again. "Why ya always been like that?"

"Like what?"

He hesitated again. "Weird, I guess? N'... y'know. Just girly. With all them lil' bottles n' fuckin'... soaps n' shit. Creams or whatever all that stuff is ya usin'."

You snorted against the back of his shoulder and kissed the skin there, which made him squirm. "Is that such a big problem for you?"

"Nah, I just... I don't get it. Ain't never made sense. Ya know... world's gone to fuckin' hell, n' ya still put on lotion as if it matters."

"Well, it matters to me," you laughed in response.

"Why?"

You held him a little tighter. "Because it's who I am. I've always been that way. Even before the world ended, I guess. It's what makes me feel human. Like I'm still me. Not just some scared girl trying to survive."

Daryl was quiet again until he whispered. "'N why the hell would a girl like—" He started but cut himself off. "Don't need someone smilin' at me."

"Daryl."

He didn't answer, so you let your hand glide over his side. "You're the first person that ever made me feel safe back at the quarry. Shane always seemed so… impulsive. The others? Well, no one really fought like you did. I'm not saying the rest of the group can't keep us safe, but when that walker got that deer you were hunting down? Made me realize you knew more about survival than everyone else. You were the first one to point out that we need to destroy their brains. You were the first one, the only one, really, who knew how to hunt. It seemed so… natural. Not because you're big or strong or scary—though, let's be real, you kinda are—but because you see people. You look after them. Even when you act like an asshole."

He huffed out a grunt, his shoulders relaxing a little more.

"You gave me those things," you continued softly. "Little things. Stupid things. A flower. A bar of soap. So many things… So you cared. Even if I didn't know at first."

He didn't answer you, but his hand found yours, holding it tight against his chest.

"And yeah, you're… you. Sometimes a bit rude. But now I think that—" You didn't talk about it further, just pressed another kiss to the back of his neck, softer this time. "You don't have to understand it. Not all at once. But I really do likeyou. I liked you right from the start. I just didn't smile at you because… well, you know how you were acting around me."

His grip on your hand loosened, and you felt him slowly, finally, letting out a deep breath. Like he'd been holding that breath since Atlanta. And you stayed like that. Daryl didn't say anything else, but his breathing slowed after a while, sounding calmer, until he fell asleep like that, in your arms.

Like a broken, little boy who'd never been held in someone's arms for the sake of it.

And when you were sure Daryl was out, you slowly, so slowly, moved yourself away from him, pressing one last kiss to the side of his face and putting the sleeping bag tighter around him. He grumbled something in his sleep. A quiet sound where you couldn't make out what he was saying. But it didn't matter what exactly he said when you gathered your stuff back together and stepped out of his tent again. At least you knew he was feeling safe for now.

The next day when you were back on your feet, you weren't thinking too hard about the night before. Making yourself as useful as possible, you tried to help the rest of the group as best as you could in the morning.

Lori handed you a knife while Carl ran around the farm, finally able to move after he'd been out for days after the incident, and already having more energy than he should've had after being shot. But hey, Hershel worked miracles. The kid was back to running around as if nothing ever happened.

"Don't let him wear you out," Lori said with a wide smile, wiping her hands on a towel. "He'll run circles around you until you get dizzy."

You snorted. "That's what I'm afraid of. And I think he's already making my head spin. But, you know, he's feeling like a kid again for once; that matters the most, especially with everything going on…"

Carl then ran up beside you, holding out a deflated ball to play with. "Wanna play catch real quick?"

"Only if you go easy on me," you answered, pointing to your arm. "Doctor's orders."

"Deal!" He grinned and ran back a few feet, while Lori chopped onions beside the fire. For a moment, it all felt so… normal. Almost like something from the before-times—morning air still chilling and not too hot, smells of wood and watery coffee in the air, people waking up, stretching, and starting their day.

And soon enough, you noticed him from the corner of your eye before you heard him—always the quiet one.

Daryl.

He was walking in from the tree line, his crossbow as always with him. Same sweat-drenched skin while walking around in the sun, the same scowl that was more habit than emotion. But he didn't look your way, and you didn't call out, since Carl had already started playing with you. Still, you couldn't help but watch him walk toward the RV before returning your attention to the kid.

Meanwhile, Daryl pushed open the RV door. He'd been avoiding Carol for a while now—not because he didn't give a shit, but because he didn't know how to. What was he supposed to say? "Sorry yer kid's missin'? 'M still searchin'?" That didn't help anyone.

But he had remembered the roses that bloomed in the woods. Right there, where you had been bleeding near the house, like they were waiting for him again. He'd stared at them for a full minute before pulling one out of the dirt and shoving it into an old beer bottle he found.

He felt stupid carrying it back. Felt even more stupid walking up the steps of the RV, holding it. But he did it anyway.

Inside the RV, Carol was cleaning everything, trying to distract herself from the emptiness that was eating her up from the inside out. "I cleaned up," she said without looking at him. "Wanted it to be nice for her."

Daryl glanced around. "For a second I thought I was in the wrong place." He set the beer bottle with the rose down on the little table.

She finally turned. Her eyes looked at it, then back at him. "A flower?"

"'S a Cherokee rose." He sighed. "The story is that when American soldiers were movin' Indians off their land on the Trail of Tears, the Cherokee mothers were grievin' and cryin' so much 'cause they were losin' their little ones along the way from exposure, disease, and starvation. A lot of 'em just disappeared."

Carol froze but continued to listen to Daryl. "So the elders, they said a prayer, asked for a sign to uplift the mothers' spirits, and give 'em strength and hope. The next day this rose started to grow right where the mothers' tears fell. I ain't fool 'nough to think there's any flowers bloomin' for my brother. But I believe this one bloomed for yer little girl."

Her eyes filled up with tears, but she shrugged it off with a laugh.

"She's gonna really like it in here," he added, nodding once. Then he turned away and stepped back outside.

But Daryl didn't head straight back to his tent. Not right away. Instead, he stopped near one of the fences, where he could see you, even though he'd made up his mind to head out again soon.

You were laughing, tossing a ball, even if your movements were stiff, and Carl almost fell when he caught it. Lori said something, probably about food or ordering Carl to be more careful. But you, you looked...alive.

Still pretty. Still you. Still 'girly n' shit,' with your beautiful hair and your clean clothes and that voice that didn't sound like anyone else's.

Daryl could still feel your hands on his skin; that damn flannel shirt still smelled like you, which he carefully left in his tent.

Raising a hand without thinking, he waved a little. Awkwardly. But you looked up and smiled at him. Really smiled. And that's when Daryl's face turned red and he damn near panicked. He dropped his hand, spun around, and stormed off toward his tent like he hadn't just spent a few hours walking through the woods while secretly hoping to see you at the end of it.

Meanwhile, Lori leaned over, grinning a little confused. "What was that about?"

"Long story," you answered, shaking your head.

Lori raised her eyebrows but didn't push any further when you turned your attention back to Carl.

"Alright," you challenged him. "Last round. The loser has to eat a whole onion raw!"

But every now and then, your eyes looked toward the tree line again, right where Daryl had disappeared again. You'd be checking on him later. And as time passed, it was safe to say that you barely saw him all day. He was nowhere to be found. Not that you were watching or anything—okay, maybe you did want to look after him. Still, you weren't about to start jogging all over the Greene's property, but damn if your eyes didn't automatically look to every movement of the trees, every corner of the farm, every second someone from the group came walking out of the woods or was near you.

Still, Daryl was just... gone.

And it wasn't like you to worry—not in the clingy, 'where's my man?' kind of way, but after last night, after everything he let you see, the way he sobbed in your arms like a hurt little boy, the way he clung to you like he'd drown otherwise? It didn't sit right with you that he could disappear so easily, like none of it ever happened.

By the time it was afternoon, you finally gave in and went looking.

Finding Glenn near the stable while Maggie stood at one of the stalls and stroked one of the horses, you heard them talking, laughing about something.

"Hey," you called as you approached. "Have either of you seen Daryl? I saw that he left again, but he's still not back."

Glenn tilted his head. "Yeah, earlier, when we came back. He asked me about the town where the pharmacy is. The one Maggie and I hit."

You nodded slowly, a little confused. "But doesn't he already know where it is? Did he say why?"

Glenn shrugged. "Said he was going scavenging again. But probably still looking for Sophia too. Guess that takes some time."

You tried not to let the disappointment show on your face. Of course, he went alone. Again.

Meanwhile, Glenn narrowed his eyes a little. "Why, are you still trying to go thank him for saving your life or for ruining it a bit more?"

"Wow. What a joke, Glenn. Maybe I just miss his charming personality," you snorted, rolling your eyes.

Maggie laughed, and Glenn wanted to answer, but your mind was already somewhere else, and your feet followed those thoughts soon after—back down the way to Dale's RV.

You stepped up into the RV with the intention of grabbing a weapon. Not a big one. Just something small enough to carry, big enough to keep you from getting attacked by a walker if you crossed paths with one. A pistol. A knife. Both.

But the second you turned and went back outside…

"Where do you think you're goin'?"

You froze. Shane was leaning up against the RV, arms crossed over his chest, eyes narrowed just enough to let you know he'd been waiting and watching.

"Just walking around, looking, watching," you lied flatly.

He stared at you with a smirk, shaking his head. "Don't look like walkin'. Looks like you were grabbin' a gun."

"Maybe I wanted to do both," you grumbled. "Feels safer."

"What's goin' on?" Rick's voice stopped you from behind Shane, who still didn't move.

"My bet? She was about to head out on her own."

Rick frowned, stepping closer, looking at you like he already knew he wasn't going to like the answer. "Is that true?"

"I just wanted to check out that town Glenn and Maggie went to. That's all."

Rick sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You're still not fully healed. You know how dangerous it is out there. Especially alone."

Shane was shaking his head. "What he said. Not happenin'. Not alone."

"It wasn't up for debate," you argued back. "And it still isn't up for debate. I can handle myself just fine."

"Well, now it is," Shane answered. "You're not goin'. Period."

And just like that, they were walking off, leaving you alone. But Lori showed up not even a minute later, carrying a basket and looking somewhat amused.

"Okay," she started. "What's going on this time?"

You let out a deep breath, staring at the spot where Rick and Shane just stood. "I wanted to go look for Daryl, but no, of course, the only two cops that are still alive around Atlanta stopped me from doing so."

She stopped mid-step, but without answering you, so you glanced at her. "What?"

But Lori just smiled. Not in a mean way—just a knowing one. "I'm sure he's fine," she said gently. "Come help me with the eggs, okay?"

"The chicken coop? Eggs? Really?"

"Yeah. Besides, you've got to keep your hands busy before you go out and annoy both Rick and Shane at once. Believe me, you don't want that."

You followed her, grumbling, "Not a bad idea, actually..."

"Oh, by the way," Lori added casually as you reached the coop. "Daryl actually called me Olive Oyl."

You turned your head in confusion as you crouched down. "Wait, what?"

She smirked, crouching down by one of the nests as well. "I called him selfish. He called me Olive Oyl. You figure out what that means…"

You stared at her, half confused, half in thought, and she just tossed you a couple of eggs like she wasn't just out here admitting something to you, but you weren't really sure what she meant.

Hours passed again.

Chickens were settled, dinner was halfway done, and, as always, everyone kept themselves as busy as possible.

You were wiping your hands on a towel near the porch of Hershel's farmhouse when Lori nudged you with her elbow. "Look," she said softly, nodding her head toward the tree line.

You turned. And there he was. Daryl. Finally.

He came walking out of the woods, a bag slung over one shoulder. No blood. No obvious injuries. No anger in his walk. Just calm and relaxed, like he hadn't just ghosted you the entire day. And without even looking over to the farmhouse or at the group, he walked straight to his tent and disappeared as if nothing ever happened.

But you knew that it would soon be late enough where no one would pay attention. No one would notice if you moved away during the night. And if Rick or Shane would notice? You somehow counted on Lori to have your back.

You caught sight of Daryl before you made it to him—sitting outside his tent with his back turned, searching through that bag he probably found in that small town nearby like he was checking it for something. And you could see how stiff his shoulders were, even from a distance.

Hesitating for a second, you then decided to walk over to him as quietly as you could manage in hopes of not scaring him off, your hands curled into fists like the pressure might help with the sudden nervousness you felt out of nowhere.

Being close enough after a while, you could see the fumbling of his fingers and the new bits of dirt beneath his nails. You reached out, one hand raised and your fingers stretched, just about to tap his shoulder—and the second your hand made contact?

Daryl moved fast. Too fast.

Before you could even yelp, he had you pushed on your back in the grass, one foot pressing down by your hip, the other leg straddling your thighs. His forearm came down hard near your neck, not on it, but close enough that you knew—if he'd wanted to hurt you, really hurt you, or even worse—he could've.

His other fist was in the air, ready to punch. And then he saw you. Stunned. Taken aback. Breathing hard and trying to cough beneath him.

Daryl's mouth fell open the second he realized it was you. Shock and horror were written all over his face, his eyes quickly looking around, as if unsure what part of your face they should focus on, and his fist dropped instantly.

"Shit! Shit! Fuck," he stammered, pulling back but not quite getting off you. "I ain't—fuck—I didn't know! I thought—hell, I ain't mean—shit! Shit!"

You reached up before he would freak out completely, both hands finding his face. Your thumbs slid along his cheekbones, and he flinched like you'd hit him. But you didn't say a word. You simply lifted yourself as best as possible and kissed his forehead like you'd done before—slow, soft, waiting for him to calm down. You felt the panic slip out of him in shaky breaths, his body relaxing against yours, until you pulled back and wrapped your arms around him.

Daryl didn't say anything. For quite a while, he simply let you hug him, his forehead dropping against your shoulder like he wasn't sure he deserved it.

Eventually, he crawled off you completely and helped you up, grumbling a bunch of apologies—and curses—as he did. You could barely make them out. He was red in the face, not just from embarrassment but from shame.

Brushing your palms off, you followed his eyes to the open bag beside his tent. Whatever was in there had fallen out in the heat of the moment—some canned food, a bottle of water, some medicine he'd found, a few hygiene things that looked suspiciously like they'd been taken from a women's section—and then, carefully folded underneath it all, was a dress.

Pink. With ribbons. Not over-the-top, but definitely... you. Your size. Your style.

"Well," you said with a smirk, stepping closer and crouching beside the bag. "What's this?"

Daryl went stiff. "I—ain't—look, I didn't mean nothin' by it," he answered fast, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand like he wanted to disappear into the ground. "Was just... y'know, ya still like all that stuff, an' I saw it hangin' there all clean-like, figured it'd maybe... I dunno... ya still like that kinda shit, right? Thought maybe ya'd... wear it. Or somethin'. Ain't mean nothin' by it, just saw it, figured it was dumb, but it made me think'a ya, and—fuck…"

"It's not stupid," you said, cutting him off gently, but he looked at you like he couldn't quite believe you meant it.

You picked up the dress carefully with your hands, held it against your chest, and spun a little around as if you were modeling for him. "You got the size right. And it's got some ribbons as well... You really have been paying attention, huh? To everything."

His head was so red by now you thought it might explode on the spot.

"I like it," you continued, more quietly this time, not wanting to push him too much. "A lot."

Daryl swallowed so hard it was almost audible, his eyes looking at the dress, then to your face, then immediately away again. "Y'do?"

You nodded.

"Yer so fuckin' weird," he responded, but it sounded like a joke. No anger behind it.

"Guess I am," you answered with a smirk. "And I guess you like weird girls who wear pink dresses and make you sleep like a baby when they hold you."

Daryl opened his mouth to argue for a second, then shut it again. Stepping toward him and sliding a hand into his hair, brushing through it gently, you watched how his eyes shut close at the contact. He was so touch-starved it somehow hurt to see.

"Ya, uh... ya gonna go back to yer tent now?"

You tilted your head in confusion at his sudden question. "Why? Do you want me to leave?"

Daryl shrugged a little, rubbing the back of his neck once more. "Just... Y'know. 'S gettin' cold and all."

"Daryl? It's warm. I won't freeze to death." Shaking your head, you held back a smile. "Are you asking me to stay?"

He huffed a breath and gave a helpless little nod of his head, not looking at you. "Yeah, yeah, right… But… Ain't askin'. Just… Would be okay if ya did, s'all."

Quickly taking a step back, you leaned down to put all the things that had fallen out of his bag back into it, picking it up and holding it out to him until he took it. Finding his other hand, you then put it into yours.

"I'll stay."

Daryl followed behind in silence as you slipped inside his tent without any hesitation, with him throwing the bag into one corner of the tent as fast as he could. Inside, it was dark, but not pitch black—the moon gave you just enough light to see everything—the sleeping bag, his gear, and the flannel shirt you'd given him that smelled like you, lying right next to where some improvised pillow was lying on the ground.

You turned toward him, still holding his big, calloused hand in yours. His fingers twitched like he wasn't sure if he was supposed to let go or tighten his grip.

"So," you said softly, smiling at him. "We sleeping or what?"

Daryl shrugged, his eyes switching from you to the sleeping bag like the situation was somehow too complicated for his brain to process. "Yeah," he grumbled, "guess so."

He sat down awkwardly first, then lay back, giving the sleeping bag a few rough pats like that was going to magically make it more comfortable. You crawled right beside Daryl and turned your back to him instinctively, expecting him to just sort of… get it.

But Daryl didn't move an inch.

Peeking over your shoulder, he just grunted at you, clearly ashamed and confused, but finally slid closer next to you. He lay on his side behind you, arms straight at his sides like he was getting ready for a casket instead of cuddles.

You waited. And waited…

Finally, you sighed and reached behind you, grabbing his wrist and putting his hand over your waist.

Daryl went rigid. Completely tensed up and unsure. So you laughed to yourself and wiggled back into him until his chest was pressed against your back and his big, strong arm rested across your stomach.

"Do you still not know how spooning works, Dixon?"

Still awkward. Still stiff.

"What, this?" He scoffed. "Ain't nothin' to it."

But his voice cracked just a little, and you could feel the hesitation in the way he touched you. Careful. Nervous, even. But you didn't push him. You just covered his hand with yours and rubbed your thumb over his knuckles.

Daryl's breathing slowed eventually. You felt his nose against the back of your head, his fingers twitching now and then against your side, and soon, your body relaxed too, feeling his chest rising and falling behind your back.

You felt safe, stupidly so, when you dozed off like that. And it might've been an hour later when you felt it.

A little movement. Barely there, at first. Just the press of his hips rougher against you, and then again.

And again.

You blinked awake slowly, still a little bit sleepy. And then it hit you.

He was hard. Really hard. And he was—shit, he was humping you in his sleep.

Not fully. Not aggressively. But enough that you could feel the drag of his cock against your ass, big and hard, right through his pants, softly grinding, lazy and slow, as if he didn't even know he was doing it.

You smirked to yourself, eyes still half closed, not daring to move just yet.

Holy shit, that man was packing.

With your thighs clenching a little without even wanting them to do so, you didn't even need to see it to know. You could feel it. How thick he was. How the head of his cock pressed against you when he moved like he was grinding in a daze, with no idea you were wide awake by now.

You bit your lip at the realization of it all—Daryl Dixon, quietly, accidentally dry-humping you in his sleep as if he was desperate and didn't know how to ask for what he wanted.

Holding your breath, you tried not to giggle—because laughing would wake him up, and waking him up might ruin the moment. Or worse, embarrass the hell out of him. But shit, the way his hips rolled was so slow and lazy… His body was dreaming of something he'd never admit to wanting.

Another sigh left his lips. This one was more like a whimper. And that's when your thighs clenched for real. You pressed your lips together, closing your eyes. You couldn't help it. Couldn't stop your hand from drifting down to rest on his again. The one he still had on your waist.

Daryl's fingers twitched. He reacted. Shit, was he waking up?

"Mhm..." He mumbled. Not a word. Just a sound. And he moved again, a little more this time, his cock pressing harder against your ass, making your breath hitch.

The longer it went on, the hotter it got—him so unknowingly needy, and you, getting wet from the feel of it, every roll of his hips pressing that thick, aching cock against you like it just needed somewhere to go.

Daryl let out another soft sound behind you. Not a groan. Just a broken sigh that made you swallow hard and your pussy throb.

You could wake him up. You could turn around. You could grab his jaw, kiss him just like that, and show him what to do next. Or you could wait a few more seconds and see just how far that sleepy little grind of his was going to go.

And Daryl kept it going, his hips rocking ever so gently, pressing himself against your ass like he was in a different world entirely—a fantasy, a dream—where he got to have this. You. Where it was okay to want.

And oh, how he wanted you. You could also hear it by now, the way his breath hitched just a little more each time he moved. Louder. Another soft whimper barely made it past his lips. You wondered if he even knew he was making those little sounds and if he'd hate himself for them in the morning.

Shifting slowly, you let your thighs part just a little. Not enough to be obvious—just enough to feel him better. You let his hand go, moving back with your own until your fingertips brushed over the side of his thigh. He jerked, only a twitch, like his body felt the touch even if he wasn't awake yet.

Then, quietly, carefully, you rolled over to face him, feeling how his strong arm slipped off your waist. His brow was furrowed just a little, his lips parted, almost looking innocent. And maybe he really was.

Reaching up, you couldn't help but let your thumb touch his bottom lip softly, parting his mouth a little more.

And then, you kissed him. Only one deep kiss.

Poor Daryl had no idea. Or maybe he did and just couldn't help himself. But then you slid your tongue along his lips. That was the moment he stopped moving entirely, and you didn't have to look to know he was wide awake now.

Still, you froze for a second. So did Daryl.

Then he pulled back in an instant, realizing what kind of situation he was in. "Shit! I… fuck! What—?"

"I noticed," you whispered and gave him a loving smile in response. "And I simply kissed you in return."

He opened his mouth, like maybe he had something to say, maybe an apology, maybe an excuse, but you beat him to it. Crawling toward him, you quickly pushed him back down to keep him from escaping you, straddling him.

Daryl's face turned a shade of red you didn't think possible for a man who spent all day out in the sun. "I—I didn't know I was—fuck, I didn't mean nothin' by it! I wasn't…"

You caught one of his hands and wrapped your fingers around his. "It's okay," you said, your thumb stroking his knuckles gently. "Was kinda cute, actually."

He made a strangled noise like he couldn't decide whether to groan or storm out of his tent as fast as possible. "Cute?" He asked, clearly offended by the word.

"Yeah… You heard me," you answered, sliding your hand down between your bodies until your palm pressed against the hard outline of his cock.

Daryl didn't know what to say anymore, but he didn't stop you either.

So you kissed him again, with just enough pressure to make him gasp. You felt the way his mouth opened for you, the way he stopped breathing, so you let your hand continue to move against his cock ever so slowly, and when it moved over the thick tip of it, he choked out a sound that damn near made you moan in return.

"Jesus," he groaned, letting his head fall back with his eyes squeezed shut.

Taking the opportunity, you leaned forward and kissed his jaw and his neck, nipping gently at his skin.

He was already so fucking hard…

"Shit," he hissed through clenched teeth like the word had been ripped out of him.

"What?" You smiled against him. "You literally hump me in your sleep and then act like you don't want it when you're awake?"

He made another strangled sound, somewhere between a grunt and a moan this time, his face turning deep red. "I wasn't—I didn't!"

Daryl's eyes looked into yours, wild and wide, and then lower, down your body.

"Yeah, you did," you smirked, pulling back a little, not wanting to overwhelm him. "You just didn't know I'd let you. Now..."

Making yourself comfortable to straddle him tighter, you pulled your shirt up and over your head, slow enough to make your point clear. His eyes never left your skin—staring at every inch like it was something new, something forbidden. Your bra came off next.

And Daryl looked like he forgot how to breathe. His jaw dropped, his tongue wetting his lips so fast he didn't even realize he was doing it, his eyes fixed on your tits like he was terrified to blink, and his hands twitched at his sides.

You tilted your head and grinned. "Are you going to touch or do you want to stare all night?"

Swallowing hard and not wanting to refuse, one hand came up trembling, like he was expecting you to slap it away, but then he stopped halfway.

"Daryl... I'm letting you. Just try and touch me."

That certainly helped. His fingers moved up your waist first, cautiously, like he needed to warm up to the idea. Then, slowly—so goddamn slowly—he brought his hand up to your chest.

And fuck, the look on his face… As if he'd never seen a naked woman in his life and wasn't sure if he was hallucinating or about to die from it.

Daryl's palm cupped one of your tits with doubt, but also hunger, like he wanted to devour them but was too scared he'd hurt you if he squeezed too hard.

He didn't even squeeze. He held.

But when you gasped—when your back arched a little more and your mouth dropped open in a silent moan—then he started to touch, kneading gently, his thumb brushing over your nipple, where he didn't even realize what he was doing until you shivered from it.

His eyes looked up to yours, panic on his face, thinking maybe that noise meant he did it wrong.

Reassuring him, you shook your head, smiling gently. "That was good, baby. Don't stop."

Daryl didn't. He kept touching. You could see the way his jaw clenched, see the tense muscles in his neck, and feel the way his cock twitched hard beneath you in an attempt to hold himself back from thrusting up against you.

Leaning down, you let your tits rub across his chest up to his face, just enough to tease, and kissed the corner of his mouth.

Daryl whimpered. He whimpered, the poor thing…

You could feel the tremble in his thighs now, his hand still clinging to your tit with a look that said he was afraid you'd change your mind. But his fingers tightened further, wanting to make himself believe that your sounds weren't even pity, but want. Real want.

"Do you want to come for me, Daryl?"

His hips bucked up without permission, and his breath hitched again at your words, all the while you kept your hand on him—pressing and sliding your palm over the bulge in his pants, feeling how hard he was, but still trying to hold himself together, which was getting harder with every second that passed.

"I, uh," he stuttered, almost too quiet to hear. His eyes went shut when your fingers squeezed just the tip of his cock through his pants out of nowhere. "F-fuck—don't… don't... PLEASE."

You bit back a grin. There it was.

His hips bucked up once again, just a little, trying to get you to touch him some more. It was obvious that his body didn't care that he had no real idea what he was doing—it wanted more of you.

Leaning in close, you let your tongue lick over his parted lips. "You sound like you're begging for it, you know..."

Daryl's eyes snapped open at your words.

Wide. Confused. Embarrassed.

You watched the realization hit him—watched him remember what sounds came out of his throat. His mouth was still open, attempting to take it back, maybe deny it—but nothing came out. Only another moan. By now, he was all whimpers and stutters and fuck-me eyes.

You laughed softly, rolling your hips against his thigh. "Didn't even realize, huh? You're just so damn worked up you don't know what you're saying anymore."

Tilting your head, you pressed another soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before dragging your lips along his jaw. "You never had someone make you feel like this before, Daryl?"

"N-no…"

"Mhm," you smiled against his skin. "I didn't think so."

Daryl whimpered again, and you felt his cock twitch under your palm.

You leaned closer, letting your breath tickle his ear, whispering. "Does your dick get hard like this for just anybody, sweetheart?"

His head turned to the side with the expression of someone who was more than just ashamed.

"I'm gonna touch you for real, Daryl," you whispered, not moving your hand further for now. "And you're going to be good and let me. You're going to say ‘thank you,' too… like a sweet little boy who listens."

"I…"

"You what?"

"I… thanks," he stammered, hardly able to say it out loud.

"Good boy. All the while you're begging for it without even meaning to."

His hips jerked up again—uselessly on instinct—and he made the softest sound you'd ever listened to in your life. Was it a sob? You weren't sure with his fingers still on your tits and him looking too stunned to do anything.

"Oh, baby…" You smirked, pretending to be all sweet and kind while grinding down against his thigh. "You want it that bad?"

Daryl nodded. Just a tiny, helpless nod—but he meant it.

You sat back some more, sliding your hand from his cock up to the button of his pants, but didn't open it. Not now. Reaching up, you started to open the buttons of his own flannel shirt instead, one by one, only to kiss your way to the middle of his chest. One kiss. Then another. Then lower, sliding your lips and tongue down to his stomach.

He was panting now, his chest rising and falling wildly, his other hand twitching like he didn't know where to put it. "Please," he whispered. It slipped out quietly. But you heard it. Hell, you felt it.

"Please?" You asked, not stopping your trail of kisses down to the skin just above the waistband of his pants. "Please, what? Tell me."

"Dunno," he whimpered, almost desperate. "Just, just—don't leave."

You couldn't help but giggle at his words, kissing his skin just above his belly button. "Don't worry, Daryl. I won't leave, and believe me, I'll tell you what to do."

He blinked down at you, looking like he'd agree to anything if you just kept touching him like this.

As soon as you got off, kneeling down beside him, you grabbed his jaw. "Lay back onto the sleeping bag."

He obeyed immediately, lying down flat on his back and breathing like he'd run for miles, his eyes looking from your face to your tits and back again.

You straddled him again, slowly, getting comfortable like you had all the time in the world. "Wanna suck on my tits now?"

His mouth dropped open at your question. No sound came out. Just an overwhelmed, shaky cough. Suddenly cupping your own tit in your hand, you gave it a light squeeze, then brushed your thumb over your nipple, watching how Daryl's eyes followed the movement of your finger.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I'm letting you, Daryl," you whispered. "Come on. You can do that. Be a good boy for me and do as I say."

Daryl nodded slowly, pushing himself up on his elbows and thinking he might still be dreaming of a fantasy. A fantasy he's had since the first time he saw you at the quarry outside of Atlanta. But he already knew it back then… how you'd become his undoing.

You guided him gently, making yourself comfortable next to him now, and arched a little closer so he didn't have to reach far. He stared for one more second—just one—and then leaned in. Awkwardly so. His mouth was unsure at first, with quivering lips brushing over your nipple that didn't quite know what was allowed and what was not.

So you sighed and put your fingers into his hair, caressing the back of his head. "Open that pretty mouth, sweetheart."

Daryl obeyed. You brought your nipple to his mouth and watched him. Watched him take it in, his lips wrapping around it as if he was scared. "That's it," you whispered. "Suck."

He did. Carefully at first—then with more confidence when your hand returned to his hair, guiding him. His tongue flicked over your nipple, his lips sucking gently, then harder when he heard you moan. You felt the way his cock throbbed beneath your thigh, how he was still so hard it probably hurt—but he didn't ask for anything. Didn't even grind up to feel more. He just sucked. Sweet. Quietly. Needy.

"You're doing so good right now," you whispered, letting him take the other nipple into his mouth next, his tongue moving with more urgency now. "Look how well you listen."

Daryl whined again but never stopped. By the time you looked down at him again, his lips were shiny, and his cock was leaking so much precum that his pants were dark and soaked through a little.

But you let him continue to explore your tits as long as he wanted to—slow little licks, then sucking gently, then sucking harder when he was sure you liked it as much as he did. One of his hands came back up too, holding your tit, trying to memorize the feel of it while he kept going, switching sides when your hand in his hair pulled it a little.

And all the while, he kept making those noises. Not words. Just quiet, breathy sounds. Whimpers. Moans. Every now and then, a broken little 'fuck' or 'shit,' wanting to try and hide that he couldn't really handle it. Pulling back after a while, only enough to see his face, you smiled down at him.

Daryl only blinked at you, so you kissed his temple. "Do you realize how sweet you are? I bet I could make you come like this. Just from sucking on my tits."

That made his hips buck again. And the noise that came out of him? Practically a whine. You knew it now—knew Daryl. How desperate he was. How careful. And you could tell that he was already close. Only from this. The thought alone turned you on.

You couldn't help but press your knee between his legs to tease him a little and to feel it—that cock throbbing against you, for you, and still aching. Poor boy was losing it, and you hadn't even taken his pants off yet.

Reaching down slowly, you let your fingers tease the skin near the waistband, making him shiver. Daryl froze for a moment like he was trying not to run away. But he didn't stop you, even though he was still fighting with himself. You worked his button open, then, patiently, pulled the zipper down just enough to slip your hand into it. His breath hitched when you brushed over the front of his boxers. So warm. So hard. Fuck, he felt like steel, and he throbbed so wildly under your hand when you barely even touched him.

"You're so cute," you whispered, letting your lips kiss his jaw as your hand started moving over his cock. "So sweet…"

Daryl moaned—not even loud enough, really, making it sound like a broken whimper. He looked down between you with disbelief in his eyes. It was clear no one had ever touched him that way before. And he wasn't even able to concentrate on touching you as well when you teased him for a while through his boxers.

Long strokes. Nothing fast. And enough to keep him on edge.

Watching him being this close so easily felt almost unfair.

"Don't," he whined all of a sudden. "I—I can't!"

"You can, believe me," you hushed him softly, watching him hide his face out of embarrassment, but you could still hear every broken little noise that left him. Then you slid your hand down, right inside his boxers.

Trembling and barely able to hold himself together, he gave you a shocked gasp when your fingers wrapped around his cock. His body betrayed him, wanting more before his mind could even catch up.

"You poor thing." You said, kissing his neck. "I hope that didn't hurt?"

Daryl didn't answer. He couldn't. His hand had grabbed part of the sleeping bag, eyes shut tight when you started to move your hand—once. Just a pump. Twice. Again. Watching the way he reacted to every single one. He couldn't stop shaking. Couldn't stop gasping.

"Already this wet and leaking," you smirked, feeling the precum dripping down along his shaft. "It's quite impressive how much you're trying to be good."

"Please…" He then sobbed, and you looked up at him. That red face. Those quivering lips. His pleading eyes.

Oh, shit.

Your brain just kind of stopped working when your fingers wrapped harder around his cock at that sight. He felt so warm. So thick. And Daryl groaned—deep, broken, as if in actual pain—and his hips bucked up just barely. Lord... He really was desperate.

Slowly pumping his shaft with your hand moving up and down, you kept the pressure torturously gentle, making his abs clench every time you reached the base of his cock, his breath shuddering.

He was losing it, and his hand found your wrist suddenly, gripping—not to stop you, but to beg you without words.

You leaned down, lips brushing over his jaw. "What is it, baby? You wanna come for me?"

A strangled groan left him. He was too scared to say yes.

"You think I'll stop if you come too fast?"

Daryl didn't know if he should nod or shake his head at your words, and it turned into a mix of both. It looked almost pathetically wholesome how this strong man let himself go in a way you could've never even imagined. Especially not a few days ago.

"Good thing I want to see you come." And then, without warning, you changed your rhythm, pumping his cock harder now, faster.

"F-FUCK—m'sorry—I can't!" He moaned, louder this time. His back arched up off the sleeping bag, unable to control his body anymore, even though he wanted to.

Your other hand went to his hair again, stroking it gently. "Look at you. So cute. And I haven't even started riding you."

"I—I'll do anythin'! Just wanna come for ya… fuck! I'll be good!"

"Oh, I know you'll be good," you giggled. "But good boys wait. Good boys hold it back."

"Please," Daryl whimpered in response. "Please, please, please…"

You hushed him, cupping his cheek as he shook, letting it overwhelm him. Every twitch. Every breath. Every bit of feelings he didn't know how to handle.

"That's it, baby," you encouraged him. "Good boys come when they're told... Do it."

His whole body jerked and tensed up. A quiet, choked groan, a full-body tremble, and then a broken moan that ripped itself from his throat as he came—hard—right in your hand.

You felt Daryl's cum shoot into his boxers, his cock pulsing against your palm while he gasped for breath, hoping that maybe you wouldn't see how ashamed he was.

"N-no," he whimpered to himself. "I—I didn't wanna! Fuck!"

"You didn't want to?" You teased softly, licking your lips. "Seemed like your dick had other plans."

Daryl groaned again as he let himself fall back down onto the sleeping bag, his hands covering his face, totally embarrassed. He didn't even realize your hand was still inside his pants, but you felt him shiver beneath you, his cock still throbbing in your grip.

He was quiet. Not because he didn't have anything to say—but because he didn't know how to handle this situation. Even when his sticky cum in his pants had to be starting to feel awkward, he just lay there, soon with his hands over his face.

But eventually, you moved just a little and smiled, "Let me clean you up."

Daryl stiffened immediately. "Ya don't gotta—"

"No arguing. Be quiet. Give me something to clean you with. I want to. Now."

He flinched at that as if it hurt more than helped, but he obeyed, reaching for a cloth near him. You sat up gently and took it from him, just when he tried to push you back down—his hand on your body feeling so unsure, like he didn't even know how to ask you not to leave. But you just kissed his forehead.

"Just a few seconds, sweet boy. Then you can go back to hugging me."

It made Daryl grumble, but he let go. You pulled his pants and boxers down slowly, cleaning him up with care. Like taking care of him was just what you did. And Daryl watched in silence. Red in the face, lips parted, still breathing a little too fast.

He didn't say thank you. But his hand found your thigh, poking it to make you notice him. It was a nervous apology for coming too soon, for shaking too hard, and for needing too much.

Once you were done, you smiled and kissed his forehead again. Then you crawled back into his arms, and this time, you were facing each other. Daryl's hand trembled where it rested on your back. Not from exhaustion—though you knew he was exhausted—but from a little bit of fear. So you hugged him. Let him breathe. Let him come down for a while. And when he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.

"Yer not… just doin' this 'cause—I dunno," He started. "Told ya… ya don't gotta pretend."

You tilted his face up, kissing the tip of his nose. "Daryl. Stop. Stop it right there."

Without saying anything, he put his head beneath your chin, one arm trying to pull you closer. You were still shirtless, and you felt the way his breath stuttered against your skin when his cheek pressed to your tits once more, but he didn't try to pull away this time. Didn't want you to cover up, either.

He just grumbled something into your skin, probably some curses, and you couldn't help but giggle. Another grumble. And his arm only held you tighter.

"You know… I know that you know that Maggie and Glenn went to the town not far from here, right? The pharmacy's still got a stash… I bet," you smirked, kissing his hair.

That made him lift his head just a little more. "What kinda stash?" He asked, confused.

"Oh, I dunno. Things a girl might need. Like... lip balm. Some body lotion. Maybe even condoms."

You ran your fingers through his hair again, and Daryl stared at you. Clearly shocked. His mouth opened, but he couldn't say anything, just like before.

"And if there are still some left," you added in a thoughtful voice, "maybe I'd put on that pink dress… Let you lay back. Let me climb on and ride you until I come."

Daryl whined. Honest-to-God whined and dropped his face back against your tits so fast it made you laugh. "Oh, you like that idea," you teased, stroking the back of his neck.

Without answering that question, he nuzzled deeper against your tits, praying that if he hid there long enough, the shame would go away. You stayed like this a little longer, just feeling the way his body stayed tense against yours, but Daryl feared that maybe if he moved again, he'd come a second time just from breathing the air you were breathing as well.

"Hey," you soon whispered into his hair.

A muffled grunt answered you.

"I've been thinking…"

Another grunt. Thinking was clearly dangerous right now.

"About that pink dress you got me," you smiled against his head, sliding your fingers up the back of his neck gently. He didn't say anything. But you could feel the answer.

Leaning back just enough to search for his gaze, you looked down at him. His eyes, still a little glassy, still wide and panicked, blinked up at you.

"Daryl," you continued, "do you want me to wear it for you?"

His mouth dropped open. Then shut it again. "I—I dunno…"

"You don't know?" You asked sweetly. "Or do you not want to say it out loud?"

He looked away fast, so you just giggled and cupped his cheek. "It's okay. You don't have to say it. But maybe…" You let your thumb slide slowly across his skin, making him shiver. "Maybe I should try it on right now."

His whole body tensed up immediately when you pulled away, trying to reach for the bag where the dress was still inside, along with the other things he'd scavenged.

"What? No... No, don't!" Daryl reached for your wrist, panicking, but his pants were still half-down his thighs, and he couldn't move worth shit. "Just wait! I didn't... I just—fuck!"

But you were already crawling to the other side of his tent as you reached for the bag to get your hands on that dress again.

"Don't," he still begged, sitting up halfway but unable to stop you. "Ain't—just… Just wear it t'morrow!"

You turned to look at him, though you were a little confused by his weird reaction. "I could wear it tomorrow, or I could just wear it right now. Where is the difference? Why are you freaking out about a dress?"

"I ain't freakin' out!" He snapped back, his voice rising, and yanked his boxers and pants completely down to get them off and to finally move. "Just don't—ain't no need for ya to wear it now!"

"Daryl, stop… I'm sorry, but," you laughed, grabbing the bag anyway, "now I have to wear it. Whether you like it or not. And I think you will like it. Calm down."

Daryl groaned and dropped back flat onto the sleeping bag, his hands covering his face. "Jesus...shit…"

You pulled the first couple of items out that you've seen before: the canned food, the bottle of water, the medicine, and other hygiene things that he probably got for you. But once you reached for the dress, your hand touched something else at the bottom of the bag.

Pulling it out slowly and turning it over in your hands, you had to blink several times in disbelief.

"...Daryl." He didn't answer, and you stared at the condoms in your hand. "Are these… what I think they are?"

He groaned once more and turned his head away from you, feeling how the shame was about to kill him. "I ain't—I wasn't—I just found ‘em!"

"Found them?" You responded, grinning by now. "And you just happened to put them safely into the bottom of your bag? For what, for emergencies?"

He grumbled something you couldn't make out, so you turned back and got closer to him, waving the condoms in front of his face on purpose. "Daryl Dixon," you whispered playfully, "you got these because of me."

"Nah. I didn't."

"You little liar," you smirked. "You didn't think I'd find out? Or were you just hopingyou'd need them in the future?"

"I didn't even think ya'd—" He sat up finally, his face red all over, and ran a hand through his hair. "I ain't even know if they're good; I just…"

Leaning in close, you reached down between you both, putting your hand on his thigh and feeling him shiver. "You've been dreaming about fucking me, haven't you, Daryl?"

His breath hitched.

"Don't worry, baby. I won't do anything… yet. But…" You leaned in to whisper right into his ear. "I love knowing that you thought about it."

Moving slowly, you gently pushed him back down by the chest until he lay flat again, with his eyes shut tight and parted lips.

"I should reward you," you continued, crawling onto him. "For being brave enough to even think about it."

Daryl's hands twitched at his sides as you straddled him, not right against his cock, but close enough.

"Undo my pants," you smiled, and he froze. "You heard me."

"I—I don't…" His voice cracked. "I never—"

"Doesn't matter," you promised, nuzzling his neck now. "All you gotta do is use your hands."

With shaky fingers, he actually reached for your waistband, but still, he looked at you once, pleading in confusion, and you gave him a nod. "Go on, baby. You can do that."

The button popped open under his fingers.

"Good boy," you praised softly. "Now the zipper."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. But he did it. Slowly. Carefully.

You moved your hips to help him, watching as he opened your pants, and when your panties peeked out beneath them, Daryl let out another shaky breath.

"Want me to take them off for you?" You asked, all gentle and sweet.

He nodded fast. Desperate. Unsure if he should've said no and shaken his head instead, especially since he didn't know what you'd say next.

"No… You do it."

"W-what?" He asked in shock, staring at you.

"You're the one who wants to see," you teased. "So go on, sweetheart. Take them off as well. Not just my pants."

He was breathing harder again now, his chest rising and falling fast, his hands shaking like he didn't dare to touch.

"Don't be scared. You won't hurt me. I promise."

Slowly, shakily, his hands slid to your waistband. With a quiet grunt and a whole lot of effort, he tugged them down your hips.

"I—" His voice cut off into another broken groan. He was getting hard again. You could feel it. Your position over his thighs was perfect, and that little bit of pressure was definitely waking up his cock.

"Shit… Please…" He begged, though he probably didn't even know what he was asking for.

But it didn't matter. You were going to give it to him anyway. Let him take off your panties. Let him see everything.

Out of nowhere, you stood up and got off of him slowly. He was still laid out on the sleeping bag, not wanting to move unless told to. Picking the pink dress back up from where you left it, you watched the way Daryl's eyes stayed on you while you played around with it.

"You want me to put this on for you, baby?" You asked, your voice sounding as sweet as sugar. "Me wearing this while I ride your dick like I promised?"

Daryl let out another groan and tried to hide his face behind his forearm.

"Oh no. Don't be shy now," you grinned, getting him to peek at you from under his arm in return, trying not to smile in embarrassment.

You held the dress up and slowly put it on, not pulling it all the way down just yet—only down to your hips, holding it there. You knew what you were doing, and so did he.

"You're thinking about it right now, aren't you? Me in this little thing… climbing on top of you, telling you how to fuck me? Or maybe I'd ride you with it bunched up around my waist, my tits out of the top for you to suck on like before…"

Daryl whimpered again with a visibly harder cock that wanted more, even if he wasn't sure he should.

Stepping further away from him, you pointed down at the end of his sleeping bag in front of you. "Crawl to me."

Daryl wasn't sure he'd heard you right and tilted his head.

"You heard me. Crawl. To. Me."

He opened his mouth to protest, but you looking at him like that stopped him before a word came out. Shame-faced and trembling, he started to move. And it wasn't exactly graceful. Daryl was awkward as hell trying to crawl with his cock hardening against his thigh, but he did it—hands on the ground, knees following as he moved closer, his face burning red the entire way.

Reaching down, you grabbed his jaw to make him look at you. "Good boy," you praised him with a smile. "Do you really want me to wear this dress when I ride you? Tell me."

"Y-yeah," he nodded shakily.

You smirked, letting out a relaxed sigh. "You really wanna be inside me while I'm wearing it, huh?" Another whimper. A twitch from his cock below. "But you know what you have to do first, don't you?"

Daryl swallowed, looking away from you. "N-no?"

You grinned a little and slid your other hand into the waistband of your panties but didn't pull them down. "You still need to take these off for me. But not with your hands."

He stared at you again, lips parted, a confused expression on his face. "Huh?"

"With your mouth, Daryl," you answered dryly, biting your tongue after those words left you.

His eyes widened. "With… with my—my…"

"Use your teeth," you continued sweetly, letting go of his jaw. "I'm not using my hands. And neither are you. Go on."

Daryl stared at what was in front of him, right at your panties, swallowing hard. And you? You just stepped a little closer. Close enough that your thighs were almost touching his face. "Do it, Dixon."

He stopped, but then you felt his breath on your skin as he leaned in, trembling. With his mouth open, he slowly caught the edge of the waistband between his lips, his nose pressing against your lower stomach. You gasped softly as the warmth of his breath hit your skin, his teeth barely biting into the fabric as he pulled at it. It took everything in you not to moan at how careful he was.

Working your panties down awkwardly slow, Daryl was clearly unsure if he was doing it right. But you just sighed calmly and stroked his hair, praising him further. "That's it. You're doing so good. Keep going, sweetheart."

He grunted, pulling them further down inch by inch, kissing your skin accidentally between his pulls, his stubble brushing your inner thigh—and by the time they slipped past your hips, his nose was buried close enough to your pussy that you felt his shaky breath there.

"That's good, baby. Now pull them all the way down."

Daryl obeyed. His teeth pulled them lower until your panties dropped to your ankles, and you stepped out of them, one foot at a time. You bent to pick them up, but not before giving him a full view of your pussy. Though you didn't have to ask—his eyes were already staring, wide and stunned.

"Gonna let me ride your dick with nothing but this pretty little dress on?" You asked once more to get his attention back, running your fingers over your thigh.

No answer.

You looked down at his cock; by now it was already leaking.

"Now, look at that," you smirked. "I think you liked that more than you want to admit."

Daryl simply nodded, his hands twitching like he wanted to touch you, to taste, but was too scared to do so.

"Can you wait for me?" You asked, wanting to calm him down softly. "Can you stay good a little longer?"

He nodded when you leaned down, giving him another kiss on the mouth, slow and soft, before you took a few steps toward the bag, grabbing one of the condoms. Daryl was still kneeling, his eyes looking from your fingers to your face, trying to commit the whole moment to memory in case it was just a fever dream in the end, even after everything that has happened so far.

"Lie back down."

Crouching down after you said those words and helping Daryl with pushing him onto his back again, you suddenly moved to press a kiss to the tip of his cock—just a quick one—and he almost sobbed. You then crawled up into his lap, straddling him, your pussy just above it, not touching it yet.

"Arms over your head," you said next, watching as he obeyed without any words.

Stretching them and holding one wrist with one of his hands made his biceps flex instantly, while he himself was looking all helpless beneath you.

That was the moment you were the one almost losing your mind—just because of him.

You hadn't expected how immensely strong he looked laid out like that. The second his arms flexed, you stopped breathing. No, you hadn't expected it at all. You'd known he was strong, sure—years of hunting, tracking, and surviving life—but seeing it? Your mouth went dry.

"Goddamn…" You stammered before you could stop yourself, blushing slightly.

Meanwhile, Daryl looked at you kind of confused, not understanding what was wrong. "What?"

"N-nothing," you answered quickly, hoping he wasn't able to notice the effect he had on you. "Just… stay still. Eyes on me."

He obeyed again. Good boy. Too good. So good that you had to let out a deep, long breath. And he saw it. But you caught yourself quickly, pressing your thighs a little together to hold back the trembling building between them, your knees pushing against either side of his hips.

"Don't move," you whispered. "Not a muscle."

Leaning back ever so slightly and spreading your legs wide enough to show off everything, you then slid your hand down the dress. "You will stay quiet and watch me," you explained to him. "That's all you're allowed to do for now."

You slid your fingers down over your belly, past the edge of the dress, and let your touch slip between your thighs, making your breath hitch, and his too. Daryl's hips twitched slightly, but he still didn't move his arms. He just bit his lower lip, which was trembling a bit now. But you kept your movements slow. One finger was sliding between your pussy folds, parting them. Then two fingers, spreading them wider and teasing yourself, rubbing them softly over your clit while you moaned—just for him.

Daryl groaned in return, and you pushed your fingers deeper, pressing inside enough to feel how wet you were before pulling them out and bringing them back to your mouth. You sucked one finger clean—still watching him—and his body shivered, his fists clenching where they lay above his head.

"Poor baby," you teased him on purpose. "You're trying so hard, aren't you?"

Daryl nodded desperately. No words, just him nodding, wanting you to save him from himself. Then, he did something again that made you stop.

Only one thing.

One tiny, unplanned, accidental thing.

Something he'd done since you'd woken him from grinding and humping against your ass in his sleep. It was him looking at you. But not at your tits, not at your pussy, but at your face. Daryl looked up at you with those goddamn blue eyes, as if he was already in love with you and wanting you to notice that this wasn't only about lust—it was all about you, you, you.

"God… f-fuck… Daryl," you whispered with a shaky voice.

Immediately grabbing for the condom next to you, you quickly bit at the edge of it, fast, tearing the package open with your teeth. Daryl's eyes went wide in confusion as you held the torn wrapper between your teeth, letting him see it there while you stared him down, lips parted around the piece you bit off, before spitting it away to the side.

Taking out the condom and throwing the rest of the package away, you moved lower over his body until your face was right above his cock. You watched Daryl flinch, his legs tensing as you reached out, gently wrapping your fingers around his shaft. He hissed through his teeth, whimpering at the feeling of your touch.

"Hush now," you whispered and began pumping him slowly, with just your fingertips at first. He throbbed in your hand, his head dropping back against the sleeping bag as you worked him up.

Still keeping your eyes looking at his, you leaned down toward his cock and pressed your lips to the tip, making it leak even harder, but you did manage to hold him still.

Smirking at him next, you brought the condom to your face instead, putting the ring of it carefully between your lips, and used only your mouth to roll it down over his shaft, inch by inch, holding his shaft steady with one hand. It took effort. But you managed it. When the condom finally slid all the way down, you pulled back, leaning over him again and letting your tits press against his chest.

Daryl moaned quietly, so you just kissed him again—really kissed him.

Not like before. This time, you kissed him roughly, letting your tongue slide into his mouth. He gasped and shivered under you, his tongue all clumsy but wanting more, his body shaking all over.

"Look at you," you whispered against his jaw when you pulled back. "Lying there and just waiting for me to fuck you."

Daryl swallowed hard at your words. Then you moved, sitting upright on his thighs and moving forward until your pussy pressed to the length of his cock, still not letting him inside, just grinding yourself down along the shaft.

The warmth of his cock, the shape… Shit, it felt good.

"F-fuck," Daryl breathed out when you rocked forward again, sliding up slowly, notching the tip ever so slightly against your clit before grinding back down.

"Shit—please—fuck."

You laughed as a response, short and sweet, and reached up to grab one of the straps of the dress, letting it slip slowly off your shoulder. It slid down, giving him another chance to look at your tits again.

"Wanna suck?" You asked him, and he nodded helplessly, staring up at you with an overwhelmed expression.

Leaning back down, you offered it to him. His mouth found your tit instantly, his lips sucking on your nipple while you kept grinding down along his cock. You could feel how close he was again, his cock throbbing with every little movement.

"God," you moaned. "You make me feel so good, Daryl..."

He whimpered against your skin, sucking harder at your nipple, until you straightened up, letting it slip from his mouth, only to reach down and grip his cock, guiding the tip right where you wanted it to be next.

That first moment—simply letting the tip of his cock push against your soaked pussy—was almost too much. Even through the condom, you felt everything. The thickness. The throbbing of it. The sheer size of him.

Jesus Christ. He really was big.

Then, slowly, so goddamn slowly, you sank down onto him. The tip of his cock pushed into you with such a deep, thick stretch, it made you both moan—louder and longer, but not too loud. And you took your time. Letting inch after inch of his cock fill you up until he was completely inside, your ass pressing down onto his lap.

"Holy… holy shit," you breathed out, half-laughing, half-groaning, your hands now on his chest to steady yourself as you rocked your hips forward, letting yourself feel him pulsing inside. "Daryl, you're—fuck…"

Looking down at him, Daryl choked on another moan, but still, he didn't look. That wouldn't do.

"Look at me, baby."

He shook his head, his eyes still squeezed shut. "Can't."

"Why not?"

"Don't wanna fuck it up," he sobbed in return. Your heart damn near broke at that, but you didn't let it show. Instead, you reached out to caress his cheek.

"You're not doing anything wrong. You're doing good. Now open those eyes and look at me."

His eyes opened slowly, almost afraid, but when he looked up at you, they seemed to relax.

And shit, there was that same look on his face again, giving away that he'd never seen anything so unreal in his life. You, in that pink dress, breathing hard, your tits bouncing just slightly as you ground your pussy on his cock, your eyes looking into his like you owned him. Like this moment, this man—was yours.

"There we go," you whispered. "Keep your eyes on me."

And then you lifted yourself just a bit, leaving only the tip of his cock inside of you before you sank back down.

Your mouth dropped open as he slid in again, inch by aching inch, and all you could do was to start riding him faster—and you meant it—your hips rolling, your ass slapping against his thighs. And the more you moved, the harder it was to stay calm. Especially when you looked at his reactions.

"Keep looking," you reminded him with a breathless voice.

Daryl tried; he really did. But his eyes looked down, then back to your face with another loud groan. His hips pushed up once, involuntarily, and you whimpered at the sudden, deep, rough thrust.

"Oh, fuck! Y-you like watching it go in, don't you?"

Daryl bit his lip and nodded, but then looked back at your face as if it was the most important part of you.

Smiling, you began to move faster again, your rhythm picking up, riding him harder now, which had both of you gasping, cursing, and trembling. Your soaked pussy was taking him again and again, his cock filling you so perfectly, stretching you with every movement, so deep you could barely concentrate.

And you loved it. Loved how shy he looked while his cock was buried inside you, loved how he watched you so insecurely, not wanting to hurt you.

Your hands moved to your tits, pulling out the other one, squeezing them right in front of him, and pinching your nipples as you bounced on his cock. That got you a grunt—and a broken, whispered, "Goddamn..."

Now he was really watching.

"Yeah… just like that," you breathed. "That's it, baby. Watch me."

He moaned again, his mouth open now, totally lost.

And you were getting close. You could feel it—the way your clit ground down against him just right, the muscles of your thighs aching from the effort of riding him. But you didn't stop. You could feel him fighting it, staying still beneath you, letting you use him just like you'd promised. But then he bucked again. Out of nowhere, his hips thrust up once more.

"Oh God—fuck!" You nearly screamed, your whole body tensing up as the thick tip of his cock slammed as deep into you as it possibly could.

Your hands searched for his shoulders as you struggled to hold on, and Daryl instantly panicked. "Shit—I—I didn't mean to!"

Not wanting to answer him, one of your hands grabbed for his wrists, holding them down roughly.

"Don't move," you hissed, but your voice cracked, sounding more like begging than an actual command he'd have to follow.

Daryl's biceps flexed, though he didn't resist as you leaned down, kissing him at first, only to bite him next, right on the muscles of one arm. Your lips left a bruise, your teeth a mark, and still you didn't stop moving, your pussy continuing to clench around his cock.

You couldn't even talk anymore. All the words were gone. All you had left were the noises you made. Breathy, broken moans. Shaky, little whimpers every time his cock filled you up completely. Soft, short gasps that escaped between kisses to his arms, his neck, his shoulder—anywhere you could reach his body with your mouth, but without ever letting go of his wrists.

"Fuck, fuck…" Daryl was groaning beneath you, ragged and fast, his muscles twitching under your grip.

He was trying his hardest to hold back, knowing it would be beyond any kind of hope if he let his body continue to respond to your every little touch.

You felt drunk on it. Wild. Overstimulated and insatiable all at once. Then it hit you, that deep feeling inside that told you that your orgasm was coming fast, and you barely managed to choke out the warning.

"S-shit! I'm about to—"

You had to slow down. With shaking hands, you let go of his wrists, putting your palms on his thighs instead, and leaned back—arching your body and trying to keep calm. It was right there… right there.

"Hold me," you then gasped. "Now. Please."

Daryl obeyed. His hands quickly moved to your hips, trembling and sweaty, but still as strong as always. And as soon as he gripped you, it slowed down everything. You didn't exactly know if time had stopped, but it sure felt like it. Just long enough to see him.

"Look at me," you whispered. He already was, and you knew that, but you felt the need to convince yourself that he wouldn't look away.

"I don't want to come without you… I want to come with you. With."

You weren't sure if you were begging or controlling anymore—maybe it was both. Maybe that's what desperation looked like on you: shaking, wet, aching, and stretched full with him, your voice almost nothing but that one plea.

With.

Daryl's fingers tightened just a little on your hips, but he didn't answer. His mouth opened in hopes to answer, to say anything, and to give you everything in return, but nothing came out except a long, needy moan that turned into a needy, broken sound as you rolled your hips slower, with Daryl feeling himself twitch inside you.

"Please," you said again, but this time it was quieter. You were so close it almost hurt—it was just too much—but you waited. You held it back with every bit of strength you had left. Simply to make sure.

Daryl looked done, even scared to let it happen. "'M tryin'…"

His voice broke off, and you nearly screamed. Everything inside you tensed up. "Come with me, Daryl, come on… Touch me."

His hands finally grabbed your ass hard, pushing you down onto his cock, and his hips bucked up into you, uncontrolled now, losing himself. Then it hit you both at once.

You cried out but didn't care. Couldn't hold back the sob as you came hard on his cock, taking your breath away, your everything. Daryl came the same second. You felt it. The way he shook. The way he groaned with his lips trembling and eyes squeezed shut as his cock pulsed hard inside you.

As soon as it was over, you leaned forward, your forehead touching his, kissing him softly several times in a row. And for a while, neither of you moved. Nothing but the sound of panting. Of hearts trying to calm down. And Daryl… poor Daryl looked like he wasn't sure he'd survived it.

"Still with me, sweetheart?"

He didn't answer at first but nodded. His voice, when it came, was sounding kind of hoarse and unsure.

"Y-yeah… I… goddamn..." He trailed off, burying his face in your neck, without being able to stop himself from remembering something. Something he'd already been trying to push away, probably the moment it happened.

"Ya bit me," he then whispered, his voice quiet like he was trying not to draw attention to it. "‘S'pose that was on purpose?"

Looking back at him, you raised an eyebrow, smiling knowingly. Not teasing in a way that might confuse him. Just amused. And maybe still a little… hungry.

"What, you didn't like it?"

Daryl looked away instantly. "N-no, I, uh, I didn't say that. I just—" He swallowed loudly. "Was kinda… surprised, I guess."

"Surprised?" You repeated, moving your hand across his chest and further until it stopped above the spot on his biceps that you'd bitten. Biting your bottom lip, you then grinned at Daryl as if you were about to devour him all over again. "I simply told you to keep still."

"But I did…"

Your smile turned into a tiny smirk. "Then maybe I was simply proud of you."

Daryl didn't know what to do with that answer. You could see it in the way he looked at you. He looked like a man who'd never been praised for anything except maybe not dying. "Flex your arms for me..."

"What?"

You pulled back just far enough to look right into his eyes again, your hand not leaving one of his strong arms. "I told you to flex for me. Be a good boy and flex your arms again. Come on, show me."

Daryl closed his eyes and still hesitated. Really hesitated. His brows were furrowed in thought, checking if you were messing with him. Knowing that his first instinct was to run away from being seen again, you continued to wait patiently until he breathed out slowly through his nose and obeyed. The muscles under your touch tensed, feeling ever so strong and still trembling a little from everything you'd done to him before.

Hell, he had no idea what that did to you.

You immediately leaned down and dragged your mouth along his bicep, soft at first, just a teasing little kiss. Then your tongue came out, licking along it until he shuddered, before your lips were pressed to the mark you'd left earlier, sucking a little harder this time.

"Shit," Daryl whispered. "What're ya doin'…"

But he didn't stop you.

"I'm making sure you know," you said quietly, pulling back again, "that you didn't imagine this."

He didn't answer, but his eyes looked at his arm to where your lips had just been, then back up to your face, unable to believe it. As if all of this—your mouth, your voice, your gentleness—was too much to understand. And that was when you could feel how something changed. It wasn't even noticeable at first. The way his hands twitched and then went still. The way he stopped looking at you, even though your face was still so close to his.

"Hey, hey," you whispered softly. "Daryl, are you okay?"

His jaw clenched and his shoulders stiffened further beneath you, making him uncomfortable. "…Yeah."

"Did I hurt you?" You sat up a little, carefully, and that's when he hissed again.

"N-no," he answered with a strained voice, not really convincing you.

"Okay, okay, wait," you whispered, slowly lifting yourself off him, trying to be gentle, but he winced again, his eyes squeezing shut as his cock slipped out. He turned his face to the side, biting down on his tongue, wishing it would help, since he didn't want you to hear him make another pitiful sound.

Once you slipped off him, you instinctively reached down to take care of the condom. Kneeling between his legs, your fingers cautiously slipped it off, tying it together and tossing it aside without saying anything, trying to keep things quiet.

But Daryl was trembling again by now. He was lying there with his face turned away, seemingly chewing on the inside of his cheek with his teeth. His hands were curled into fists on either side of him, his arms all stiff, not knowing what to do with them anymore.

Daryl only then realized that you'd pulled off him. Not because you weren't on him anymore, riding him. No, you weren't with him anymore. That was when his thoughts started screaming. That this was over. That you got what you wanted, and now you'd realize what an asshole he was underneath it all. He hated how much he wanted to pull you back down. Onto his lap. Onto his cock. Onto him. Just to feel safe again. Just to feel needed. But he didn't say a word. Didn't even breathe right.

Reaching out to caress his chest, you were caught off guard the second your fingertips touched him, his arm shooting out, grabbing your wrist.

You gasped, and Daryl realized what he was doing too late. His eyes snapped open, and he instantly let go. You pulled back a little from the shock of it, holding your wrist, and the expression on his face?

He looked like someone had just hit him. "Fuck, 'm sorry! This ain't—"

"Hey, it's okay," you cut him off fast, holding up your hands, even though your heart was still racing a little bit. "It's okay, Daryl. You didn't hurt me. I'm fine. I'm okay."

But you weren't sure he heard you when he sat up. His face was turning pale now, his hands shaking as he slid them through his hair, back and forth, over and over again. He was grumbling something—probably to himself—but you couldn't make it out.

"Stupid… stupid fuckin'—goddamn—shouldn't've…"

"Daryl," you said softly, still kneeling in front of him, but he didn't look at you. His eyes were somewhere else, far away.

"I fuckin' touched ya like that," he finally whispered. "Grabbed ya."

"Yeah, and then you let go," you said gently, but your voice was shaking now too, but not because of any pain he thought he'd caused. "Daryl, you didn't hurt me."

Then you realized he wasn't breathing right. Short, shallow gasps, like he was trying not to cry or scream or vomit. Or maybe all three.

"I ain't like that," he whispered. "I ain't—I ain't him!"

You didn't know who 'him' was, but your heart sank at the sound of it. Some memory, or so it seemed. Some long-buried monster, maybe.

Daryl looked at you once again. But there was no man in front of you. He looked like before—just a boy. A boy who never got held after someone hurt him. A boy who was taught that love was dangerous and wanting love made you weak. A boy who'd never been looked at like he was wanted, let alone loved, and now that he'd let you see all of him—let you use him, take him, and especially care for him—it was too much. And now the shame was devouring him from the inside out.

"I fuckin' spat on ya," he then remembered. "Treated ya like shit. Told ya that ya were nothin' but some fuckin'… useless dumbass…"

"Daryl—"

"Ya should hate me," he simply continued, louder this time. "Ya should. Ya should hate me, ya should leave, shit, ya should go!"

He moved to get up, but his knees wouldn't let him the second he stood. His legs gave out, and you caught him in time, your arms wrapping around him as he leaned against you, trembling harder.

"Daryl, hey… hey," you quickly said, holding him up, or trying to as best as you could. "I'm here. Listen to me… I won't leave. I won't."

Pressing his face into your shoulder, he didn't answer you and went silent. Breathing hard. Twitching a little in your arms like he was cold. Or scared. Or both. You sat down slowly, pulling him with you, holding him in your arms, sensing that he didn't know how to hold himself up anymore. You didn't do anything else for a while. You only held him.

Eventually, you felt one little, wet drop hit your naked chest. Then another.

And you said nothing, but Daryl had gone quiet now, with his forehead pressed against your collarbone. Eventually, he tried to put one of his arms around your waist, and the twitching of his muscles definitely wasn't the good kind. They twitched way too fast for someone who wasn't really moving.

As soon as you moved slightly away from him, he sobbed in shock, thinking you would really just leave.

"Easy, baby. Just grabbing something for you."

Daryl's eyes followed you, wide and glassy, unsure if he should stop you or not, so you gave him a tiny smile—just enough to convince him you weren't going anywhere for real. Then you crouched by the corner of his tent, searching through the clothing you left on the ground. His pants, your panties, his boxers, your bra, and your shirt were all tangled together, looking through it until you found what you were searching for.

The flannel shirt you gave him. You picked it up and brought it back over to where he was still half-sitting, dazed and shivering.

"Arms up," you whispered, remembering how you'd told him those same two words before.

But Daryl only sobbed.

"Come on now," you said gently, watching how he moved awkwardly and unsure. "Only the shirt."

You slipped the sleeves on, one at a time, then buttoned the middle lazily. Not all the way. Just enough so it wouldn't slip off his shoulders if he moved again.

Then you leaned in and kissed his forehead. "Lie down."

He did. Not all the way at first, but once he did, you lay down next to him, pulling the edges of the sleeping bag slightly over both of you, hugging him close until his leg rested over your hip, your hand on his chest, and his forehead against your temple.

You thought maybe Daryl would fall asleep like that. But his breath stuttered.

And the next sob came out of him so suddenly, so harsh, it didn't even sound like crying. It sounded like a choke. Like his body was wanting to push away the pain and couldn't keep it in.

Daryl then grabbed onto you like he was scared, and you could barely keep him still. Even with both arms around his shoulders, his sobs cracked, and he stuttered every time he tried to apologize, repeating it over and over as if it were the only words left in his throat.

"…'M sorry. 'M sorry. 'M sorry…"

"I know," you whispered and kissed his cheek. "I know. I know."

It went on for a while. You lost track of how long. Could've been ten minutes. Could've been thirty. But you didn't care. Eventually, Daryl's crying stopped. He was still trembling, but not violently. His hands relaxed around you, though they didn't let go.

"Daryl?" A hum was the only answer you got. "Can I ask you something?"

This time, he didn't answer with a hum. Just a slight nod, the tiniest one, like it was all he could manage.

"I wanted to know," you started softly. "When you came out of the woods and went up to the RV…" You waited, wanting to see if he remembered what you meant or if he would simply brush it off.

"Just gave Carol a damn flower..."

You nodded and smiled. Not a big smile. Not the kind that told him he did something wrong or something right. It was a quiet, understanding little smile, as if saying, I understand.

But once Daryl realized you weren't answering him, he looked up at you like he couldn't figure out why you weren't mad. Or confused. Or disgusted. Or whatever he thought he deserved. His hand then came up fast, moving in a way that wasn't really familiar for him, with his fingertips brushing against your lower lip once while looking at your mouth. And for a second, it really did feel like the world had gone normal again. As if all that crying and shame and panic never existed.

For you, it seemed Daryl just needed to remind himself that you were real. That your mouth hadn't cursed him out in secret, hadn't spat in his face like he used to do to you. That you were still kind. Still looking at him like he wasn't just white trash.

You then kissed the tip of his finger gently. That was all it took to undo him again. His eyes got wet instantly, and the little shaky breath he took like he was trying not to cry again—it hurt you. Moving closer, your nose bumped against his, one of your hands moving to caress his cheek with the back of it. His skin was still a little sweaty, and he swiped under his eye, even though the tears hadn't fallen again yet.

"You don't have to look at me like that," you whispered.

His voice cracked. "Like what?"

"Like you expect me to leave for good."

Daryl looked at your arm then, the one with the healing injury where you'd sliced it open, the one he thought he was guilty of, in shame and silence. He looked so tired. So tired from thinking that he was the one that almost killed you.

"I don't know what you told Carol," you then continued gently, brushing your nose along his cheek. "But you got her that rose for a reason, right?"

He swallowed once but didn't answer.

"She's not me," you whispered with a smile. "And I'm not her. But I understand."

That got him. He wasn't sure if he should move, if he should do what his twitching hands wanted to do right now. To hold you in his arms as well.

So you reached down and took one of his hands in yours and brought it to your chest. Laid it flat right over your heart. "I know the story," you continued. "The history of the Cherokee roses."

Daryl's lips were parting slightly, but he was nodding in silence.

"That flower only grew when their women cried. Their tears watered it. And when it bloomed, it protected them. It gave them strength. So they were able to keep going. So they could protect again as well."

"Yeah..."

You smiled when Daryl finally spoke, but still, you wanted to remain careful. "It's kinda like... it's a promise."

He tilted his head, still looking unsure.

"Like… no matter how hard it gets, no matter how much shit is in the way," you said, sliding your finger lightly over his chest through the flannel shirt, "there's this rose that grows. It's the courage to keep going, the strength to protect what matters. It sounds familiar, don't you think? Thinking it's invisible... but still holding on. Still here."

"But I hurt ya…" He answered and immediately buried his face in your neck, reaching for your waist so hard that it almost bruised, but not from aggression. Just panic and instinct.

"You didn't mean to. You were scared. You still are."

You looked Daryl straight in the eye so he wouldn't flinch too far away. His lip trembled. Then he did it anyway, apologizing again.

Sighing softly, you pulled his arm a bit tighter around you, letting him feel how warm you still were, how unbothered, how there.

"You're not a bad man, Daryl," you smiled. "But you're a man who got too used to losing."

He didn't answer but held you again, this time much more gently. One arm wrapped around your waist, the other sliding up your back, then stopping like he was still afraid he'd fuck it up. But you just cuddled close and let him.

For once in his whole life, someone was feeling warm, safe, and simply there, and it was him getting to keep it. And for the first time since the world ended, Daryl Dixon let himself fall asleep with someone in his arms—with no fear, no distance, no shame, and no guilt.

Just with you.

And he slept like he knew you'd still be there come morning.

𝑻𝒂𝒈-𝑳𝒊𝒔𝒕: @cokeangell