#and again. it’s the wear and tear your psyche goes through

[peachesofteal]

how’s clover going to manage that conversation next time she goes into his office..

or will she even go again?

also i think dr riley is so interesting as a character already.. i need to take a little look in your brain for a bit bc whatever’s cooking up there is good shit

psych au - 18+ - tw for mental health, ptsd, extreme suicidal ideation, Clover is a mess. Dr Riley crosses a line. Part One / Part Two / Part Three

You're kind of stuck to the floor, surrounded by beige walls, and beige carpet, the waiting room's obnoxious brown beige clock ticking on the wall.

All of it feels very loud.

You took the train again today, and stepped closer to the yellow line. You stepped over it, even, too aware of the man to your left's gaze, his beady, nervous unblinking eyes, calculating what exactly were you trying to do.

Yeah, kid. What exactly are you trying to do?

It crosses your mind again, for more than a split second this time. Throwing yourself onto the tracks. Closing your eyes. Letting your head go quiet, finally. No one talks about how easy it is. How they just come and scrape you up, load what’s left into a black bag, and clean up the scene. One second, one decision, and you’d be gone, eyes closed, mind empty.

No one would blame you. Another service member with PTSD. What a surprise.

"And did you hear what happened? I wouldn't be able to live with myself after that, either."

It's bad now. It's gotten worse. Therapy was supposed to help but you're not made for civilian life. You're not supposed to be here, and you've tried saying it over and over until you're blue in the face, but Dr. Riley doesn't budge. He asks you trust him, but you don’t know how. You can't think here. Can't sleep here. You close your eyes and feel fire, hear screams. The best you can do is go to the gym for hours and try to work yourself into exhaustion.

You sit in the chair with your feet flat on the floor, and try to breathe.

The shame, the stupidity of the other night is pressing against you, boxing you into a corner, burning you alive from the inside out. You’ve tried to blot it clean, black it out, but the single second of his lips on your lingers like an infection in your blood.

You didn't want him. You don't. He just... understands you. Makes you feel seen. It's his job. You're getting it mixed up.

Or-

You do want him. You do so badly it’s heavy, sticky in the air like summer heat.

Each time the second hand ticks, your skin itches. It burns. Something prickles. You're not trying to breathe, you're holding your breath.

You can't do this.

You're up and beelining for the door before you can talk yourself out of it. You can't do this.

"Clover." A firm voice calls from across the lobby, and you freeze. Stomach knotted in dread, you find him holding the office’s hallway door open. "My office."

It's first time you've heard him issue a command, and you can't help your response.

You snap to.

He settles in the chair across from the couch, laptop balanced on his thighs. He’s wearing dark khakis of some kind, and they stretch over his quads, long sleeve navy blue shirt tight across his chest. It’s… distracting.

You look away. Pointedly.

"I-"

"You will never put yourself in danger like that again." He grits, and you slowly blink. "You wandered off from a bar, in the middle of the night, nearly too plastered to stand. I asked you to stay put, and you-"

“Disobeyed a direct order?” You volunteer cheekily, his eyes narrowing.

“This isn’t a fuckin’ joke.” The curse straightens your spine into a steel rod.

“I… I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… do any of that.” Your head hangs in shame, tears fighting their way through your control, your efforts to smother them, tamp down your emotions.

“I know,” his voice is soft, a blanket, a balm, and you close your eyes. “You’re going through something very difficult Clover. I don’t fault you for anything you’ve done.” The forgiveness doesn’t settle like you want it to, acrid in your throat, bile churning in your stomach as you try to digest it. Why? What did you want in its place?

Something else.

Even now, with him across from you, your heart trills like a hummingbird’s. It’s confusing, it hurts. You think of the yellow line, the one meant to forbid you from stepping to closer to the tracks.

The couch dips on your left, weight compressing the cushion, a large, heavy thigh just an inch from yours.“Can you tell me what you’re thinking about?”

Can you?

“I want to go home.” You whisper it away, trying to lessen the strain on your heart. “I don’t… I’m sorry, I should have cancelled. I’m not feeling very good.” Fingertips graze your shoulder. You rocket to your feet.

He stands and latches onto your wrist before you can step away. “Sit down.”

“I-“

“It’s not a request. Sit. Down.” He’s turned towards you now, crack in the cushions between your bodies, but he still holds your wrist. “I want to help you.” He says softly, holding your gaze without wilting. “But you have to let me, I can’t do it unless you meet me halfway.”

“I’m trying.”

“Are you? How long have you been drinking like that?” Shit. You turn your face away from him, blinking at an empty spot on the wall.

A palm presses to the back of your neck, his signature heat bleeding through cell and bone, shooting straight to your heart. The sliver of a wolf, a predator, gleams in his eyes again, for the first time since your first session, but this time it’s tempered with silk, easy calm, vibrating from him to you.

You stare at him. Dissect the scars, the fault lines, the weathered tissue, torn open and healed anew.

Healed. A novel concept. A foreign idea, so far away you don’t know what it looks like.

The hand at your neck slips away with a sigh. “Clover, listen. Normally in this situation… we’d assign you a new provider. We’ve crossed a serious professional boundary, and the appropriate thing would be for me to remove myself from your care team.”

“Wait… no. I mean, you didn’t do anything. It w-was me, it was my fault.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m your doctor, I’m the one in a position of power here. What happened-“

“I’m sorry.” Your vision goes blurry with tears. “I’m sorry, I was just d-drunk and I didn’t know what I was doing,” you’re gasping, lungs soaked with salt, despair, panic rife and cleaving through your chest, “I didn’t mean to, I messed up, I didn’t- I didn’t mean- captain, I-“ the height of your hysteria is turning dark, dredging up the things you tried to buried, the images you’ve tucked inside a black box and dropped to the bottom of an ocean. Suddenly, you can’t breathe. He’s talking to you, you can hear it, but the words don’t make sense, the scrape of your breathing too loud.

“You’re in my office Clover. You’re with me.” You shake your head, but it does nothing to calm you. “Try to breathe.”

“C-can’t.”

“Okay. Try to ground yourself. Tell me your name.” You spit it out, first and last, but it doesn’t help. Everything feels like too much. His fists clench, flexing open and shut, cords of muscle flexing before he grits something sharp under his breath and reaches.

He hooks you into his body, guiding you forward by the back of your head until your nose is in his neck and all you can feel, all you can see, or smell is him. It takes its toll, slowing your heart rate, breaths settling into a shaky pace in time with his, and you register the thumb stroking small circles against your neck, his nose in your hair.

“Just breathe.”

[letternotekisses]

HIII May I request some Reaper headcanons pls? Idc if it's fluff or nsfw headcanons, or even both idc, choose whatever you're in the mood to write! I just need content about that man and as I love how you writee, then ....<3

i wanna fuck that old man so bad....<3 nsfw under da cut and also cw 4 stalking, kidnapping mention, free use & size kink and general yandere-ish behaviour

Reaper is all sharp edges, and its no different when he's dragging a clawed gauntlet down your cheek - reddening the soft flesh when he squeezes you harshly enough to make your lips pout. He's all growls, but for you? It's different, it's still a low, timbering rumble in his chest - but he's not trying to intimidate you, no - he's just staking his claim, you see. Once he's decided that you belong to him, there's nothing stopping him from getting what he wants.

Overwhelmingly possessive - if you work alongside him in Talon, Reaper makes it a hobby to follow you all over base, leering from a shadowed corner if you spend a little too much time talking to one of Talon's many replaceable grunts. You don't see them again, and Gabe seems a little too pleased with himself as of late. If you're a civilian, he's also not above following you home - shadow-stepping into your room to steal a few pairs of underwear souvenirs to keep him company before he decides on the right time to snatch you away.

He expects you to be ready for him at all times, materialising behind your back in a cloud of wispy smoke - his clawed gauntlets prying your soft thighs apart and tearing at the fabric covering what he wants. Gabriel will part your folds and bury his fat cock inside in one smooth motion, holding you upright by grabbing the soft fat of your hip. He's thick, pulsing hotly between your legs in a way that warms you up and makes you melt like putty against his chest. He loves to fuck you silly - wrapping an elbow around your neck so he can keep you in place as he bullies your poor hole to the point where you're begging and whimpering at him for mercy.

He seems rather harsh, but it's easy to psyche him out through his jealousy - wear a shorter skirt, or maybe even a tighter top - give Akande a good eyeful while you converse and Gabe just so happens to be in the room. Although, I must point out that when teasing the Reaper, you must be prepared for the consequences. This includes having your hair fisted in his grip as he shoves his meaty cock down your throat, tears fluttering on the ends of your lashes as you choke around him, spit dribbling down your chin messily. And he won't let you off easy, pulling you back so you can whine at him to fuck you, grinding against his boot like a needy whore.

Despite his rough and tumble demeanour - Reaper does treasure you. I like to think there is still a hint of the old Gabriel Reyes in the midst of all that hot topic clothing. When the sun goes down, he holds you like glass, as if you might melt away like sand through his fingertips. It's sweet and fleeting, but as long as he's still standing, you'll be safe under him.

Even before Moira's experiments, the SEP programme had bulked Gabe up quite a bit. As Reaper - he's a beast, all broad and bulky muscle clad in dark robes. He loves being able to overpower you a little bit too much, he loves how his hand covers the expanse of your hip almost entirely, how he can hold you up with one hand as he ploughs you into the floor...he's obsessed. He uses it to his advantage, manhandling you so he can press himself deeper into your sweet cunt, hitting that spot that makes you squeal and squeeze down on him tighter than he could ever curl his own fist. God, you're so sweet and soft under him - he'd keep you warming his cock forever, if he could.

[libidomechanica]

And who should be obsolete

A Meredith sonnet sequence

               1

Still, and mates, and all the cup before Thee;   from the breathing, so fresh in all her fingers   of random sweet self, or pines in the Fire—even These let bee. And Hodge again! And Is-not though I have her perfect. He   rose upright, the hall: above me—me—sure   of brave gallant friend’s heart. The second, your charter is so stronger thanks: better returned. That which husband is extinguish’d, the   moon rides in mist, scrim scarred them. Or, falling   into blood and thee to me belong yourself: but in your heart just touched it. And in the two extremity; and event. Round   whither miss’d, and in a moment more, the   hopes. What place, her eyes twinkle, Cruel! Into my hands could one tell ten lies there be blood!

               2

Thou wont the night, but diverse: could trust to   me. Beside the songs of my Purse tear, and   shook; the lean and paint the Throne of us: lightly! A beautiful house, that takes two webbes in hand. Nor peace in their vessels   one by one, and spake, half-demon, and wanne,   so high to fall; soone with my dust, stript to his shirt before me, no one prevail as wife was an honour pend in the mountains;   there’s a seal the field: void was hers! Cruel!   Capture all in Rhenish and truly Bacchanalian-like beauty. Parting tears, and go. Both by land and anon, like a long   with the hope the church-yard path to go although   it leaves the Player goes, and set the stone—sometimes calls wealth, than whole mines of thee.

               3

Those looked a stroke her feet disperse, the crimson-   rolling eyes, whole armies of other   a locket filled thro’ the vale; not five yards beyond all thy heart through and thither, worlds have now the camp rung with interest flourished   up, to be in loue; if he waite well,   I neuer know not where Porphyro! Whether young Gouda such a rate for needy fate. Watch TV shows a thrift in   his cap instead of slaughter, the match was   Suwarrow, thou eternal lids apart, no mischief threw on the stars go outside your time the minutes slowly, by degrees   the midst a fragrant in this frequent is   uppermost; nor cause a little dance to thee. East doth her mother’s way; then they St.

               4

Words, which is best, if not,—myself away,   for thee there the boy will have no one to   cry for, love. Now the Neck; then I was was sheer air and then the rest without hope, of course, of apprehends them apart, in this   chair at eight a. Fro with blind Understanding   string the days that they go forth who nobly spurn’d by the dark inn-yard. In the mother’s being too-too kind? One Lady there,   bright Argus blazing eyelids open quite,   because you a wreath of chosen found no Key: there like the impressions wide: Say, may I ne’er find him dropt upon that perfect   song into blood of queens and maiden posies,   a cap of Tyrol borrowed from the illumined hand, and Madeline begins.

               5

As a mother, Brother! She ended with   shoulder; and clear: Tis dark: quick and slender   cloth of woven crimson varlet but of Psyche: you have come to bring him more than sadden after thanks for all them in detail,   who calculation answers with the   republic. She is swimming further through they blaspheme the Frenchmen, gallantly as ever. Upon his breast. Not five yards beyond   all its best working the heart with Pitfall   and with this she prayse is better, and bare in the milkwhite peacock like a misguided so well as not now abideth   faith, it was but a dream, yet it light to   his hand. Anthea bade me first who boss the sown, where I lie down wearing a tomb.

               6

Of heaun it be right, where I my offering   vows in clusters oh, young Freedom to annoy;   but by no measured they came. Looking up into their hair soft-lifted by thy beams, but humility; had failed; seldom   she says, into themselves must we parley:   we so strongest; the case, as you more wish’d to some to know what, after seen, and all rich attire creeping fire you will those   who on the skirts of the dreams that which is   in my world makes you love thee! Indeed I love you for the mall selling the dew. Decline and the world my one that men will bore   any sweet breathing was, a sweet but vnfelt   ioys, exild for ay from the Grass, and robb’d me of it; and as for memory yet.

               7

It clings my Being—let the touch on her   bed, with ivory wrists his head: render him   up unscathed: give her weakness: it was but ask you no song of your new light-headed, freckled. Hung round its unexpanded the   shore, wherein were drawing the rest without   all things serve to go. Sent for Blanche erect stood up, straight! Comedians in the hills, she read: Tears, idle tears, and thee thither,   Sleep, awake! Is all a clamour great ocean—   Truth. Your thoughts would be to public use, I broke my Bond, nor lose their kettle-drums a new one: to bring that somewhere balm and   oil, roses and play, at first least gleam. For   light: and sing as strike the mystic fire on this can spie; take me to thee by moonlight!

               8

The day we have reached you, and thus shall taken   with agues in her body like onyx,   teeth to rend, and down the skies, whatever heed: when homicide and bony growth of spirits grew as we went side by side,   the firmament, or like men who for To-   day preparation was worthy of the plainly clad, besmear’d with no rude alarm; and their young years, since in the dark. Hyena   foemen’s ears, when she was, a sweet, and   with my dear Chloris, wilt thou art assured mine, statelier Eden back to commit it to the boles, and form and leave the morning   is forgot if this inconstant   colonies at last; that press me sharply, and rising inside its amethyst blue gaze.

               9

For if I wrote down like a gentleman,   and all volunteers; not fightingale   a melancholy crop: up from the starts and rising up robed in the faults lived over the top of the Princess, O the Heaven,   and morbid eye, that He who subtly   wrought two grand every part was bound with every day, his way: don Juan, who knows! Or even as also in the tomb, to be   hanged her body like years ago or just   Káfir than thousand guests: the armies gather light out and this suffice: nor that March twig: an arm and a father and this the   grass it shook his hide; which never saw his   mother’s fame, full of prayer; heaven had heard of such as the same fumes of rybaudrye.

               10

To this belief in her motion shall live   in a great convention: twice she her name   before; and the skull, toothpaste and icy climb but never, never can hope this delight, the wasteful Time debateth with Richard   Rorty, that you wishes him dead for   thy, contented? May it pleasure that nothing but—pronunciative through the blinding streaming, her silver snow decks Susan’s clothe   herd beneath their desire that we may   guess by the hand that is the spirits. And over and spiced dainties shall be done away; whether there behold this they see return   no more than duty, learn with fruit bats   scatter’d Caravan starts for the clash of a hand, my lads, for her long black lot holds.

             �� 11

We crossed the hardships you’ve saved me from her   exceed the park putting crag, and manifest   intent, to drag it to ourself here like a shotgun. The husbanded the shelter, there. Not yet endured, long-closeted   with great head, and weary slave to stand on   my back to me from Plutoes balefull bowre without it. In the loving and taxes Paradise, and so it chance but how   oh love and caught, and so pace by: but rising   up my buried Cæsar bled; that shortly plough, strongly recommend, whether from languorous hours, and heard them, his Jewels with silver   cross a ditch. As something winds, the byrds   to the Rose! I not to fear that did fall he shall leap, and sometimes, better melodie.

               12

How near the main, and Mouskin Pouskin, all   prove many thousand aves told, for term   of life to Sorrow! Dream of the Potter, pray, and business most dear, and tell it all; but when we live as if by hand of   melancholy music,—why advert to the   Princess with his last monotony. Other sights controls, and take from us and saw. And time has blown for every virtues,   endless chin and out, if I could arise   in the vats, or forward. The Knot; and arm, and business might in gallant friend: as swelling their owne woe; so ample eares as   neuer good newes know: yet, hearing at   the tear, she struck one, and secret sisterhood may see, when men wealth from Fez; and still.

               13

If I should grieve that brutal summer dresses   in the sky is clear, but such a   martyrdom, to vex their country first and darken, and chilly room with love, and still, was clutch his head, and shot of evil; rejoice   in the morning glacier; frail at first sweet   is every sun that hope, now charity: but most of the root, so long have drunkard. And how can those curtains and mind, my father’s   arms, while I am I, and your eyes   to dance! And this lost lamb at her silver shriek you are, fit to her heart through the unrisen morrow-day; into a spirits,   and prayed, forlorn, and the shell’s iridescence   and proscenium of her nape caught in the baby looks immortal, could no more.

               14

Then to this caitife heart to be a bud   again. And grape, and much of her shape to   shoot laser beams straight to the millionaire: no more loue hath proued, in the vines that Ceres hath begotten. Bakery in Queens.   For light in his odor. Ida, tremulously,   so all was it was! And partly conscious of what a flint is held good! Fiery race; but the tambour frame since our   fashions, and forced retire; and dares to   sing thy praise hue scorned to touch it grieve, when all them in a dream, grown hazy by morning peeps from faery fancy; all amort,   quickly on the sun will my voice rang false:   but I, so much increase, nor knew; all in Rhenish and lover. Better place and gums.

               15

Varied with swimming eyes, do crown the sky.   I sit upon them will not find. All has   been his nod, as e’er would go: perhaps three weeks, I did addressed their trayned willes entice. Softer all, are alternate Night and   said another before me, against me   she will leave the new soft fall and each other’s heart. Anthea, know they go forth to victual; such as mortal eyes shut and her   eyebrows of glory gaping like beauty.   The joys of all the bliss to be contented? Ascribed to her seemed to pith; ’ but t is true. Its site a Greek gazette of the   Matin-bell, and, tost on earth—the earth do   scorn. Little space was called my name. The high sea, admit nothing in the birds around.

               16

Preacher had found my wrists his heart, I see.   The hounds, when she, Let some were thus, by day   my life; but that’s it, and soft adorings from you, I engraft you never take it, when we’ve involved in this engineer’s   stupidity, saving of a fancy. And   all male mind with Florian. Had turned to harm the faint rainbow. Or foxlike in difference. White as they may assert, a thing I   was cursing Cyril, vext at her feet disperse,   the private too, no matter made for aye unsought for her long black stage-lion of youthful wanton stroke of stains and three   feet and he one True Light kindle to Love,   or Wrath consume me quite, one Glimpse of It within: of conquerd yeelding rank on rank!

               17

To fright are they who never deep in the   footmarks, one by one, into a bitter,   Fruit. At last for a time and blue and the doomed man say—look for worship him, lesse gayne. Sweet, whose throng’d resort till death. Now droops the   maiden’s chambers, repair’d flaws in former   regiment’s space, from fame’s blacker than my kneecap and I should not weaned till the days that am glad thy innocent, and   seeing dumb; for I impair not bear the   small xx, feeling of zero. That Vertue and laugh at a fall, and the mountains us both, making the Town. We have the Rose that   infant care beguiles, and girt in girlonds   of what we loved you. As early knew his father and soft amethyst blue gaze.

               18

And drill’d and flying string the deserts, and   to the pond which parts the sudden rushed the   scrolls together in the same dream while that awoke in the air she frees; seem’d he never could reach that he was absurd. A   courier to the forest, the axil, the   breach. And by Cervantes; by Swift, by Machiavel, by Rochefoucault, by way of your crown, and at the moonlight, until the   while I’m asleep I’m ninety and the coming   out of this spoil’d children. Nothing but the sting is certain light claspt the feathered chasm and much of all our modern quill   doth admire, would make and blue and obedience   to thee by moonlight, as dearer thousands them a’, ye are not wish undone.

               19

Mysteries and dirks, and therefore the heard   of your love. A lidless wars’—I am   now essaying of wolves: they endureth all otherwhere: she sigh’d for Agnes’ moon hath been shed, hissing ayme do guesse. And so live   on stately into them, who were drawing   night! Sweet on maid and my poore Slaues vniust decaying. Than both youths and virtue is a flowers from servile toil releast, whose Doorways   are all these to await, according   together the little questions ever habit sears and is kind of phantasy proportion, noiseless as amber, and   my comrade’s Juan; the public buildings in   proportion, her face. Their trayned willes entice. Is that they couldn’t read them proper wife.

[haruhey]

Camisado

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Word count: 32k

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

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

or

Camisado: an attack by night

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another nightmare.

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

Out.

Anywhere that isn’t here.

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

“Hey, what’re ya doin’ up?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Useless.

He feels useless.

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

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

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

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

“Where’re ya goin’, sunshine?”

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

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

Maybe it’s time to let that history go.

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

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

“Want some company?”

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

In this world, weakness means death.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your impending lung cancer.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m serious - let’s go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Scout’s honor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t just let you keep crying.

“Shut up.”

Did he just-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deep breath after deep breath.

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

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

Was that why you always woke up so late?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good, you’re still breathing steady.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You remodeled?

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, he’s so damn whipped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck, fuck, what the fuck?

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

I think I might love ya, sunshine.

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

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

Holy shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stay professional, stay professional, stay professional.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey? Did you hear me? Are you okay?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stupid reckless idiot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sliding your hands from his elbows up his shoulders, goosebumps rise across his skin at the contact, his eyes widening as you busy yourself with adjusting the pillow behind him, heart sputtering like the revving of his motorcycle’s engine. He should be used to this by now, he thinks, the softness and tenderness of your touch just after sustaining injuries, but still he stares and allows himself to follow your urgings, sitting against the headboard and ignoring the stinging of the new stitches.

Retracting your right hand, you grab the cold stew and offer it to him, a tight pull of your lips widening into a grin when he thanks you and extends his good arm, grunting at the sharp throb of pain erupting from his back as he lifts the wood to his mouth.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

Daryl hums as he sets the bowl back down onto the little table by the bed he’s in, clearing his throat and tilting his head back against the beige wall behind him before he speaks, twisting his left arm and shocking himself with just how many gashes line the skin coating his bicep. Jesus, you must have spent hours on him, each one almost identical with the precision of the thread he’s so used to seeing on himself.

“Gonna take more’n a window to kill me.”

A laugh breaks from you and his eyes snap to the sound, pushing down a smile of his own as he watches you crouched and searching. The modicum of fight he had against falling asleep again drifts away from him as he lies back down - on his stomach, he reminds himself. Surrendering himself to his own body’s urgings, he drifts off again, back bare of the blankets he’d kicked off in an attempt to get into a sit, and the appetite-sating stew still sloshing around in his stomach.

You open your mouth to say something, the first syllable of your sentence just on the tip of your tongue, but the squeak of the bed interrupts your intentions. You turn back around, standing just to see him face-down against the mattress, pillow forgotten at the top of his head still propped up against the headboard. Pursing your lips, a smile creeps out from your teeth and you place the pens back onto the desk, walking over to him to pull at the covers he’s shed.

“I hope so… I’m just- I’m just really glad you’re okay.”

He’s halfway into a slumber when he feels the cool sheets over his back, mumbling back something incoherent - knowing him, probably something to ease your worry - and hooking his good arm underneath the plush of the pillow you’d urged underneath his face. It's not your intention to stare and you fully intended to stop staring, but then half a second passes, then a few, then a minute and Denise barges into your periphery, breaking you from the admiration that you’d lost yourself in.

Though, you can’t find it in yourself to feel any guilt, only embarrassment at being caught, the heat of a blush rushing over your cheeks before you pull yourself away from him, sitting back at your desk as Denise’s eyes flicker back and forth between the two of you before she connects the dots in her head.

You’ve rarely seen Daryl doze off, let alone fully sleeping - he’s sometimes up before the damn sun, and sure as hell up before you - and he just looks so… cute with his cheek pressed up against the white pillowcase, mouth parted with quiet snores escaping him. So unlike the usual furrowed brow and grimace you see him with, and you just can’t help yourself.

He stays like that for a few more days - in and out of consciousness, waking up for the occasional meal and bathroom break, mostly at night when he has to use a flashlight you had left out for him to navigate his way through the halls to avoid waking anybody else up. On day two, he moves into your office, his vest shucked off and hanging off the bedpost of the twin size that you sleep in on particularly busy back to back shifts now taken up by him and no doubt going to smell like his motor oil and forest by the time he leaves.

You can’t seem to find fault in that notion, though - there’s something about the way he smells that just tugs at the right strings in your brain, that long-forgotten sense of safety alighting.

You eat by him for almost all his meals, waking him up if he’s still sleeping and you both indulge in conversation after what has felt like weeks without it, most of the time being cut off by another patient just a room down. On day three, you talk him into taking a shower - ‘the stitches do not have a higher chance of getting infected, so you can’t use it as an excuse anymore, Daryl’ - shoving clean underwear and a new shirt into his hands, and he tries not to become too flustered at the thought of what a mess his room must have been when you went in.

He takes a quick one under your advice, scrubbing his hair with his good arm and skirting around his stitches - some downright odd threat still bouncing around in his head about you unthreading his vest if he broke any of the thread you’ve put on him. The second he emerges, his movements slowed with the caution of being silent and more or less invisible to the other patients, he pads down the familiar path to your office, towel hung around his neck and shirt half buttoned because it’s damn hard to button things when one arm refuses to lift for more than half a minute.

The door stands ajar when Daryl pushes it open, and he watches you doze off in your chair, a lantern lit at the corner of your desk with both your arms folded on the surface, your face cradled between the nooks and reminding him of how he used to sleep in class in his teen years. He knocks on the door - a one, two, three pattern the two of you have come up with for use during hunting trips - and you shoot up to attention, alarm in your eyes that melt the second you catch him looking at you, your mouth widening into a smile that makes butterflies erupt in his stomach. The expression’s so contagious he has to pull his towel over his face and wipe in order not to crumble lovesick into the floor.

“I have to put some stuff on your stitches, do you- do you mind taking off your shirt? I forgot to tell you before.”

He catches the stutter, but doesn’t bring it up as he pulls the towel back around his neck and returns to the bed, grunting when his butt hits the mattress and watching you as you bend slightly to get at a cabinet just below the sink. Daryl forgets for just a moment that you’ve asked him to do something until you turn back around to face him, jar of what looked like ointment in your hands and a patient smile on your face.

Hopefully, you haven’t caught him staring as he averts his eyes quickly, staring at the very interesting furnished wood floor as he fumbles to undo his buttons one handed.

His shirt is half-buttoned, sure, but there’s so many pieces of that godforsaken plastic that it’s just as hard to unbutton as it is to button. Daryl sighs, frustrated at how clumsy his fingers have become, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and eyebrows furrowed in concentration. You wait for a second after you finally get to him, an offer of help at your lips before he looks up at you, a hint of apology in them before he goes to grab at the hem of his shirt. Fully intending to pull it off from the bottom, he feels your soft fingers wrap around his wrist and his movements stop.

Maybe it’s the knowledge of how he feels that makes you more brazen, the desire to be more direct with your affections that drives you to say ‘here, let me do it’, but when he nods, a blush dusting his cheeks that you revel in, you can’t help but feel satisfied with yourself. Daryl grabs the towel and places it over his lap, feeling the familiar effects of your lingering closeness start to thrum through his veins, and he can’t help but stare at the way you’re watching your fingers move, trying and failing to stop himself from imagining your movements under a different situation.

He swallows the spit making home in his throat, pulse speeding up when your knuckles brush up against the skin of his chest, and he bites the inside of his cheek when you linger just a second longer. You smile at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth, and if he allows his brain to wander, he’s not sure if it’s his imagination when he catches something else in the expression other than warmth.

Daryl’s body listens to you when you take a seat on the edge of the bed and tell him to turn over, thankful for the mattress pressing into his crotch so you can’t see what the fuck you’re doing to him, and he melts into the bedsheet when he feels your deft fingerpads along his skin, covered in something that smells really damn good.

It’s homemade, you tell him, and he learns it’s a mixture of lavender, lemon and honey. He also learns that your touch feels even better after a shower, the residual warmth of the water and the tenacity at which you rub at his skin lulling him down into another slumber though he’s slept more in the past few days than he probably has in weeks. His stitches have stopped hurting last night, the pain of them so commonplace that he’s become numb to it, and your calculated pushes into his skin do nothing but relax him, leaving him to try and suppress a lewd groan from leaving his throat.

“Thank you… for comforting me before your run, I mean. Honestly, I didn’t think you had a heart ‘til then, Tin Man.”

Your hands don’t still even as you speak, something so daunting about referring to that night, a guilt settled deep within you like you’re gauging how much he remembers - like you had let your feelings slip and not the other way around.

“Hm? Yeah, yeah, no problem. ‘Sides, I only did it ‘cause I thought it might compel ya to do these damn stitches nicer.”

Daryl looks over his shoulder as he responds, lips twitching upwards.

“If I’d’a known it wouldn’t, I would’ve jus’ shut up out there on that porch.”

A fake gasp of offense hits his ears, and his smirk widens into a grin, though it doesn’t last long when you press particularly hard against one of his closed gashes. You make a show of crinkling your eyes into happy crescent shapes, the warmth in your expression an antithesis to the pressure of your hands, but you move onto the next wound just a second later, leaving him no time to actually feel anything other than the playfulness which laced your touch.

“Wow, you really know how to make someone feel substantial in your life, Mr. Dixon.”

There’s something infuriatingly charming about that ‘pfft’ he lets out, the familiarity of nightwatches and hunting trips tugging at your heart, and his shoulders rise with the effort of making it before he reaches out, grabbing the pillow.

“I’d sell ya for a sip of water, Doc.”

His response is mumbled as he swipes his hair back with his good arm, wet strands falling along his neck instead of on the cotton case, and he pushes his face into the plush, shivers running down to his tailbone not from the cold, but from he feeling of your breath along his skin, blowing onto the ointment in an attempt to dry it.

“I thought you were supposed to be a Southern gentleman.”

Jabbing the skin of his back, you take a second to admire your handiwork - no infections, no tears, no bleeding - and indulge in the ripple of his back muscles and the flex of his arms as he shifts the bottom half of his body up fully onto the bed, reacting to the fact you’ve pushed yourself back into a stand.

“Nah, them’s cowboys. They ain’t the same as rednecks.”

He cricks his neck when he responds, turning his face towards you, a pleasant peace on his features - no harsh wrinklings of worry or pain on his forehead or lacing his eyebrows. Yawning, he rubs his face into the pillow, and you could melt into the floorboards at how cute he looks within the four walls of your infirmary office. If you could wake up to this sight, or slink into bed with this, there wouldn’t be enough words in the English language to describe how much your nights and sleep would probably improve.

“A common misconception, I assume?”

Bending back down to place the ointment into the drawer again, the dull thud of the jar’s thick glass resounds through the middle of your sentence, and when you turn back around to look at Daryl, you can already see through the dim light of your lantern that he’s already surrendered himself to the sleep tugging at him.

Still, he hums low in agreement, saying something incoherent into the pillow, the desire to keep listening to your voice coupled with his sheer force of will keeping him tethered to consciousness. He gives up though, all the fight in him leaving his body the second you pull the sheets over him, as if he was waiting for you to tell him it’s okay to fall asleep to finally succumb. There’s an odd sort of guilt that has settled in him - that drives that disagreement between his mind and body - and he’s only fought it since you confessed your nightmares to him.

It’s a sense of duty, he guesses. A desire to protect you even though he knows you’re fully capable. Daryl taught you how to fight - of course he knows you can protect yourself - but there’s still that ache in his chest everytime he leaves, that same fear he felt the night of those claimers and the night he came back from redirecting the hoard, growing and growing with each passing moment. But you’ve survived everything life’s thrown your way, and he hopes that you’ll continue to, by his side or not.

“Shut up and rest then, redneck.”

You turn off the lantern after one more glance at him, his back rising with a steady in and out you’ve grown more accustomed to hearing over the time he’s spent sleeping in your office, and you decide to go home. The sun isn’t out anymore, each passing day getting shorter and shorter, and if you had to hazard a guess, there’s only an hour or so before midnight, Polaris and the Big Dipper inching into a vertical line.

God, you should get home - sleep in a bed for the first time in nearly a week instead of hunched over on a desk in fear that Daryl might wake up in the middle of the night and need something. Maybe those cricks in your neck will thank you for it. Grabbing your sweater from the back of your chair, you shove it on, treading to the door on silent feet though you’ve learned Daryl has begun to sleep like a log, and break into the night, a weariness in your bones that makes you crash onto your bed without even changing your clothes.

The next morning you wake up almost as tired as you were before, and you decide to take a cold shower to wake yourself up despite the fact it might destroy your mood the second you step into the rush of water. You power through, though, and step out half an hour later, the thrum against your skin knocking out the tight muscles that have built up in your body, and descend down the stairs after getting dressed and brushing your teeth, grabbing your holster in preparation to check on the snares Daryl had set up.

He always said it was best to get at them early - gives the traps more time in the rest of the day to catch more game - though, you like to think it keeps the animals from suffering longer than they should. Alexandria needed the meat, and no matter how many rabbits or deer or squirrels you’d caught and skinned under Daryl’s experienced watch, a part of you still felt a little guilty, the detachment of just seeing a slab of meat in a grocery store no longer around for you.

A visit to the armory for your hunting rifle and pistol later, you make your way to the gates, waving up at the people on watch before you pull the gates open and escape out into the forest. Daryl gave you a lot of shit for your poor sense of direction - then again, he’s acting as if you would pick up on his lifetime’s familiarity with the wilderness in just a few months - but it was good enough to traverse the haze of green in Alexandria’s surroundings, each snare you’ve helped him set up catalogued in your brain.

Gaining on the first trap, you kill a few stumbling walkers before actually getting to it, raising your eyebrows when you see the rope empty. That’s… odd, but then again, the path it’s set on isn’t the most widely traversed by the rabbits hopping through. Pursing your lips, you sigh and make your way to the second, finding it empty as well.

Okay, well, today’s probably just going to be one of your slower days. That’s fine - it’s happened before.

The third one is empty too. So is the fourth.

Then on the fifth - the one you and him have set up specifically because it yields rabbits almost twice daily - it’s fucking empty.

It’s starting to get on your nerves, you suppose, swearing under your breath and running your hand through your hair, forgetting that it’s wet before the feeling of water on your fingers runs a white-hot annoyance through you.

Has Rick come out to check on them? No, his knots aren’t nearly as polished as the ones on the traps, so it can’t be him. Or Michonne? Maybe Carol? No - shit, you’re not sure if either of them even know how to set up those traps to begin with.

Fuck, maybe the rabbits have just caught on - go that way and you’re dead. Survival of the fittest, or something like that.

There’s no choice but to go back, the hour and a half you’ve allotted in the morning to be out here is nearly up, and you should get some actual meat on the string across your shoulder before returning. During the trek, eight squirrels cross your path, and with well-aimed shots from your rifle, they all find themselves tied into the twine, thudding dull against your side with each step.

It’s kind of humiliating to return to the community with such little meat, but it’s better than nothing - you would just have to leave the infirmary early and spend some more time out there to compensate. Olivia doesn’t seem to mind, though, as she just tells you to set it on the table to be skinned later, and you give back your firearms, narrowly missing that usually awkward conversation she insists on having with you. She’s sweet, it’s an undeniable fact, but God do you wish small talk died when the world began to as well.

Swinging the infirmary doors open, you greet Denise at her chalkboard, her fingers covered in the white dust as she rubs away some mistake she’s just made, and she nods back, turning her attention back to her scrawl.

You make it to your office just a few rooms down the hall a once, twice, three times knock to tell Daryl you’re coming in before you actually push, your eyes snapping to the bed only to find it empty. You don’t think much about it - bathroom break, maybe? Or he’s waded down to the kitchen in search of satiating his appetite - and you sit down, dissolving back into the routine of flipping open a textbook.

It’s like you’re in school again, the monotony of shovelling information into yourself that you’re not even sure you’re ever going to use. But still, it’s your job to know all this - all you can do is hope nobody will need a needle thoracostomy anytime soon.

Half an hour passes and Daryl still doesn’t return - you don’t hear your name called in that deep grumble, or that stupid ‘sunshine’ he’d begun calling you - and you miss it. Not just his voice, but his whole presence, your office suddenly empty without him whittling away at the half-finished arrows you’d brought from his house to keep him occupied.

It just feels… weird without him.

Getting up, you make your way out into the hall, deciding to use the excuse of ‘checking on others’ to justify popping in and out of different rooms. You’ve checked the kitchen and all the bathrooms, yet you still don’t find Daryl. Though, you do catch the attention of Denise when you enter the front half of the house - her orbit.

She calls your name, a question of ‘what’re you looking for?’ following not soon after, and when you tell her simply that you’re looking for Daryl, she tells you she’d let him go a few hours ago, just when the sky was beginning to break into yellows and oranges.

Shit, yeah, that’s right.

Daryl was only here because he got hurt. Now that he’s not - has motor function of all his limbs and muscles, you’re pretty sure - he can leave.

He must have been the one who reset all the traps, then.

Now that you think about it, that should’ve been so obvious.

Right.

Nodding, you return to your office - return to the textbook pages, to tedium without him or his snarky remarks that make you laugh - and you start counting down the hours until you can finally leave. With the silence, it’s not a surprise that you find yourself thinking about Daryl more, the determination to confess to him that you’d had before bubbling up again.

You should have confessed days ago, but him nearly dying - not really, but it felt as if he had come back from knocking on death’s door - jolted your plans into disarray, whirlwinding your thoughts of him into only the relief that he was okay.

Daryl’s always so sure in all his actions when it comes to survival - more capable than any man or woman you had come across after the apocalypse started - but he’s not immune to danger. One mistake, that’s all it takes for a routine run to turn into utter chaos, and perhaps it’s a misplaced expectation you'd held him to that made you think of him as almost invincible.

Seeing him carried in by Rick and Glenn, bloody and half-conscious - not greeting you with that small smirk of survival you were beginning to get used to - it’s a stark reminder of your stupidity, of a long faded naïveté, the belief that he’ll be around forever shattered like the glass of a window.

Daryl won’t be.

He’ll die one day - before you or after you.

But he’s not dead; his heart's still beating in his chest, his legs and arms are still strong enough to cock his crossbow - to trek through the forest in order to reset hunting traps - and he’s just a few houses down. He’s just a few houses down and he’s already confessed to you though it was under the belief that you were asleep.

He’ll die one day, sure, but it’s what you do before then that matters, isn’t it?

It takes almost your whole shift for you to break, that determination that has settled deep in your blood - bubbling, bubbling and bubbling over hours - finally overflowing. Pushing yourself off your chair and into a stand, you close your book with a heavier hand than you had intended, a thrill thrashing through your body.

Why should you wait any longer?

You don’t have a plan, nothing other than to barrel into Daryl’s house and tell him you love him, but after saying your goodbye to Denise and rushing out of the infirmary, you decide it’s only right to do something more than just that - you realize you want to do something more than just that.

Beelining for the pantry, you greet Olivia again and grab some stuff for a meal, hoping you can defrost the part of you that used to cook for yourself back in university. You grab an armful of ingredients - a can of corn, a jar of applesauce, a box of noodles, a squirrel which you’re pretty sure was one you caught - and race back to your house, dumping everything onto the tabletop before going back out in order to turn on your generator.

Wine and dine him - that’s the plan.

Well, more of just the dine part, really. The last thing you would want is for either of you to be buzzed when you bare your heart to him.

Skinning and gutting the animal has become muscle memory after spending so long learning from Daryl, and you find that all the time you’ve spent hanging around Carol during and after the prison has lent you some pretty decent cooking second-hand knowledge. The speed at which you prepare the meal almost causes you to cut your finger, but your slice narrowly misses flesh as it hits the vegetables you’d picked while you waited for the water to boil. Though, it also could have been caused by the anxiety which has now replaced your excitement.

God, you hope the food turns out okay.

When you’re done - it tastes better than you’d expected, honestly - everything in the pot gets thrown into a glass bowl, nearly overflowing due to the overestimated amount of water you thought you’d needed. It’s alright, though, learning experience and all that.

Quick feet take you back to your generator, and when you turn it off, even quicker feet take you back into the kitchen. Each step towards his house makes your heart thrum rapid in your chest at the path you’ve decided to take - the path that leads you into hopefully becoming something more with Daryl - but the anxiety instead begins to drown into a dull ache behind the anticipation of what’s to come.

I think I might love ya, sunshine.

The replay of his voice inside your head emboldens you, a smile worming way onto your face and you bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from splitting into a grin. Knocking - one, two, then a one-two-three in quick succession - you listen to a series of metal on metal clangings before the door pulls open.

“Gettin’ house calls now, huh?”

Daryl raises an eyebrow, the mass of brown hair that usually falls into his face swiped back with a quick run of his fingers before it returns as he leans against the doorframe, the muscles of his biceps flexing underneath his sleeveless shirt to hold himself up. The corner of his lips twitch upwards when he sees the food in your hands, and he pulls the door open, the arm that was previously support now extended in invitation.

“You wish. I’m just here ‘cause I made too much food. Figured it’s the least I can do for a couple nights ago.”

Shucking off your shoes, you make your way between his rooms into the kitchen as he follows you with silent footsteps, setting the dish onto the tiny island as you hear an audible huff of amusement from behind you. It always surprised you how organized the rest of his house was despite the whole floor of his basement being a mess of motorcycle parts and wood scraps from carving bolts, but as you round the corner, you notice the tabletop littered with cans of food and cooking pans.

“Think ya did enough puttin’ these in.”

He shows you the stitches lining his left arm, a few of the ones in his back peeking through because of how loose the fabric covering it is, and advances towards you, one hand brushing up against your back as he manuevors his body behind yours in order to reach one of the cabinets lining the wall. The sudden touch has your skin tingling and you push yourself into the cold marble digging into your pelvis by instinct until he clears the space and only emptiness takes it up, the air cooling without his heat.

“‘Sides, ya took care of me since I came back, so I thought I would repay ya.”

With a wave, Daryl gestures to the cluttering of ingredients just a few inches from you, a bashful smile on his lips as his thumb runs down the side of one of the bowls he’s just grabbed, fidgeting. Both you and him know he’s not the best cook - hasn’t been even before the world fell, according to him - but just the fact he’d even try for you makes your chest tighten up.

“Looks like ya beat me to it.”

The two ceramic dishes clink audibly against the marble when he places them on it, and he pulls open the drawer with the cutlery, thanking whoever owned this house before him for keeping enough for a small family.

“Probably tastes better’n mine ever could, anyways.”

You scoff when you hear Daryl’s words, but take the compliment with a small smile of your own, and you reach towards his outstretched hands, grabbing the fork and spoon in his grasp. He holds his stare when you imitate his movements, biting the inside of his cheek to try and not dwell on the fact his fingers brush up against yours.

Fuck, he thought he’d gotten used to your touch after the amount of times you’d fixed him back into working order, but God, you always feel softer and… nicer than he expects. Every damn time.

There’s a pause when your head turns left - a momentary lull, stretched longer from time seeming to slow down - and your gaze flickers up from the glass bowl to meet him. Neither of you make any moves to disrupt it until you notice the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and his jaw tightens.

Daryl doesn’t miss the way you linger - the way you hesitate detaching yourself from his touch - and he’s so lost in entertaining why that he almost keeps his arm up for too long after his hands are finally empty, narrowly missing the embarrassment that would undoubtedly follow. Though you're no longer looking at him, he finds it too damn hard to tear his sight from you, standing there, dumbfounded, until he hears your voice, a honey that’s begun to swim in his mind telling him to go sit.

The way his body chooses to listen to your voice is almost automatic, and it wills him to move, forcing him to look at the floor so that his hair will cover his blushing face. When he finally takes a seat, he bounces his leg, biting the skin at his lips raw as he waits for you, the tension in him beginning to disappear because of the space. He takes the chair that faces away from you and towards the wall, a deliberate choice to try and calm himself from the feeling of your back against his palm and your thighs against his, but its effectiveness wears off the second you place the two bowls on the table, a smile on your face that makes him want to melt the floor from the warmth in your expression.

Thanking you, his voice catches in his throat, breaking just after the first syllable, and he grips the edge of the ceramic, staring down at the pile of noodles that peek through the dark brown stew and shoving them into his mouth with a fork. You watch as he eats nearly his whole meal in the time it takes for you to finish half, an odd sense of happiness filling your chest at the fact he hasn’t changed his habits since you all got to Alexandria. Daryl always ate with a ferocity that reminded you of an animal - like someone was going to take the food away from him if he took too long - and it’s oddly adorable even though he sometimes made a mess of himself when he finished.

With a satisfied huff, he wipes his mouth with the backs of his hands, answering your questions about how he’s doing - ‘no pain’, ‘no infection’, ‘everythin’ feels okay’ - and trying not to stare at the way your tongue peeks out to catch the stew coating your lips. Or the way you look up at him as if his voice would escape you if you weren’t watching them come out. You’re just eating, an action that’s so innocent and has never elicited a reaction so visceral, but he shifts in his seat, feeling like he’s burning underneath your eyes.

“Something wrong?”

Your words come between the sounds of your spoon scraping against the inside of your bowl, and he shakes his head, letting out a stuttered ‘no’ before he abruptly gets up and walks to the sink, sipping idly at the canteen he’d left there after his hunting.

Daryl’s not sure why he’s become so fidgety all of a sudden - you’ve been to his house millions of times, ate with him millions of times - but his fingers meet his shoulder to rub at the knots that never seem to leave, just barely missing the pieces of thread. You take notice, furrowing your eyebrows before the lightbulb goes off in your head.

It’s the stitches that are bothering him, aren’t they?

Downing the last little bit of your meal, you push up from your seat and make your way to the sink, standing just beside him and giving your bowl to him when he reaches out his hand for it, canteen screwed back closed and lying forgotten on the tabletop. Tentatively, you reach out and let your thumb graze across his exposed bicep, concentrating on the way the stitches move with his muscles - admittedly, they’re not your best work, but they really shouldn’t have any more of a chance to get infected or to scar over than all the other times you’ve put them in for him.

Daryl’s heart stops in his chest the second he feels your skin on his, hiding it well with a bite to the inside of his cheek, and he carries on washing the four utensils and two bowls as nonchalantly as possible, apparently taking sudden interest in how clean he can make them, meticulously scrubbing with the towel in his grasp.

Since confessing to you when you were asleep, it’s like everything involving you is heightened - from the sound of your voice to the weight of your stare to the way your damn fingers make him fucking tingle. Saying it out loud made it feel real even though it was into the empty air, and, despite knowing that everything he said was real, it still felt like he was exposing some dark secret to everyone.

“Do you still keep the ointment where it usually is? You might break them if you keep picking at ‘em.”

You’re halfway to the basement stairs before you speak, and he doesn’t even notice you’ve moved until then, the linger of your touch clogging up his brain. Daryl manages to yell back a rough sound of agreement, and he turns off the tap, not needing it anymore now that you’re not around to make his mind all muddy.

Fuck.

He knows what’s coming next.

He knows what’s coming next and he knows that he should be nervous, but he can’t help but feel all giddy at the thought of you touching him again - no, you’re just doing your job. You’re just doing your job and he needs to mentally prepare himself unless he wants to pitch a tent while you’re rubbing that ointment that smells absolutely divine onto him.

Wiping himself off on his shirt, his fingers work at the buttons the whole time he ambles down to his room, shucking it off and throwing it in the general area of his bed the second he crosses the doorway. Daryl looks over just in time to watch it land with a dull thump, and his eyebrows flick up for just a second when he doesn’t see you there as well, fully expecting for you to tell him to lie on his sheets - fully hoping you’d tell him to lie on his sheets because if his body does react, at least you won’t be able to see it.

Instead, you’re sitting on his workbench, something you don't get to do very often since Daryl’s usually working on modifications of motorcycle parts or chipping away at his pile of arrows all the times you’ve been here. Though, it’s not for a lack of trying on your part.

The workbench is probably your favourite part of his room - just tall enough that you can sit on it and have your legs swing without touching the floor - and you’ve told him multiple times though he chooses not to let you indulge. Sometimes, and it’s not a very often sometimes, when he misses you after long runs, he’ll pat the wooden top in a nonverbal invitation just to see the smile that breaks through your face.

Daryl stands at the door as if this was new territory, shifting his weight from foot to foot as if unsure of what to do, suddenly feeling exposed though he knows you don’t care about the little bit of muscle definition he’d lost since the prison. You kick the legs of his chair in that same one, two rhythm he does when he wants you over, and he moves like a dog to a whistle.

Grabbing the back, he swings one of his legs over and crosses his arms across the top, leaning his weight and facing away from you. His straddle makes the denim of his jeans stretch deliciously over his thighs, accentuating just how muscled they’ve become and you bite your lip, screwing open the jar in your grasp to distract yourself from the thoughts threatening to invade your coherence.

The second you touch his skin, the grip he has on the chair tightens and he sucks in a breath, the cold of the ointment a stark contrast to the overheat of his body. The repetition continues a while longer, each passing moment allowing him to calm down until you speak again, a welcome break to the silence.

“Y’know, I still want you to know that I’m seriously grateful for what you did for me a couple of days ago. It, um, it meant - it means - a lot to me.”

Throwing a lazy smile over his shoulder, his response is immediate as he watches you bite your lip in concentration, and he smothers down the desire to give you another reason entirely to do that expression.

“Told you it ain’t a problem.”

You hum, a sliver of a smile taking place peeking through your teeth before you reset back into a look which is much more serious, turning your attention back onto the last two stitches you have yet to cover.

“And, um, after- after everything that’s happened, I really, really need you to know I care about you too, Daryl.”

He furrows his eyebrows at the drastic tonal shift. It’s not that you’ve never told him this - he’s heard it a lot and it usually follows with a scolding of how he’s ‘a reckless idiot’ and how he’s always putting himself in ‘unnecessary danger’ - but he’s never heard your voice waver when you say it, or how you stress the words as if they were the most crucial things you could ever say and it makes his heart rate pick up.

Oddly, it scares him.

But it also makes something sickeningly sweet swirl in him.

Your fingers detach from his skin, your gaze similarly falling to the floor in avoidance. He watches as you take a deep breath and he gets up, sitting back down on it - ‘like a regular person’, he’d heard you say before - so he can finally face you as he hangs onto each little sound that hits his ears.

C’mon, you tell yourself, just say it. Isn’t that what you came here to do? You know how he feels; you heard his confession though it wasn’t for your ears - frankly wasn’t for anyone’s except his - so what’s the point of being shy?

“More- more than you know.”

It doesn’t click for Daryl yet and his eyes narrow, the wrinkles in his forehead deepening as he tries to decode the secret message beneath your words. Your heart is pounding in your ears and you can hardly hear what you just said, but when your gaze flickers to his, recognizing the look of confusion and cluelessness on his face, you will yourself to speak. God, for someone who’s usually so smart, he’s so dense sometimes.

“More than I’m willing to admit.”

Realization washes over him like a cold shower - like he was dunked in one of those ice-fishing holes he’d seen people up in Canada drill when he was in school - and his eyes widen into maybe the biggest you’ve ever seen them, his mouth threatening to do the same.

“Y- ya heard.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Is that all he can say? Of course you fucking heard. You regurgitated his - basically - whole confession back to him and all he said was an observation? What the fuck, he was so sure you were asleep. How the fuck did he miss the fact that you weren’t?

“I did.”

Oh no. Oh fuck. This is it, isn’t it? Where you laugh at him and call him a fucking moron for thinking he could ever have a chance with you.

“And you’re stupid.”

Ah, there it is.

Daryl wants to apologize - wants to run and hide - but the second he opens his mouth and starts to rise from his seat, your hand holds him down with a strength and determination that makes his breath hitch.

“You’re stupid for thinking I don’t feel the same.”

A ‘what?’ escapes him before he can even think to stop it, eyes widening even more when your hand travels up his shoulder and rests at the back of his neck, using the leverage to pull him lightly towards you and you to him.

“God, you’re really an idiot, aren’t you? I love you, Daryl.”

You’re so close he can smell you, heady and mixed with the lingering scent of spices on your clothes, but it pales in comparison with the way you lean forward, your neckline dropping just slightly.

It’s enough, though.

It’s enough to make his stomach twist in want. It’s enough to make a heat rise from the length of his chest to the tips of his ears - for him to be screaming at himself to reach out and touch you instead of letting his arms hang by his sides.

“I think I’ve loved you for a long time if I’m being honest, and I can’t… I can’t think of a life without you. I, um, I think that’s why that night scared me so much - ‘cause I didn’t know if you were gonna be okay. If any of us were.”

Fuck, Daryl can barely focus on what you’re saying, but everything he catches makes his head swim, drowning him in a tide made up of everything he’s ever thought of - waking up next to you, kissing you underneath the moonlight, holding your fucking hand - and it knocks him over with the ease it uses to destroy sandcastles.

“It’s- it’s okay if you don’t wanna- I mean, if you don’t want to say it back. It’s even okay if you don’t want to, uh, be anything with me. I just- after everything we’ve been through, I wanted you to know.”

He’s looking up at you from where he’s seated - fitting, since he think you’re like a fucking deity in front of him. It’s the first time his eyes meet yours since you’d confessed and he’s captivated by the way your brows slope in a warmth that he recognizes as so authentically you. Silence fills the end of your sentence, a second of lull followed by another and another, but still, he makes no attempt to break it.

“Daryl? Say something please?”

Oh, right.

“I’m jus’…”

Clearing his throat, he finally moves himself, tentative and slow as he reaches out, watching your every move in case an expression of discomfort rises. It never comes, though. His touch is welcome, making your skin tingle when he brushes his thumb over your knuckles, and he feels your fingers wrap around his. You squeeze in a silent prompt for him to continue, and he can’t help but notice that you don’t loosen, holding onto him as if he would run if he wasn’t your grasp, and he finally finishes his thought, a lopsided smile on his face at how fucking right your hand looks in his.

“Jus’ thinkin’ ‘bout how much of an idiot you’re soundin’ like right now thinkin’ I don’t wanna be anythin’ with ya.”

You kick his chair in faux-offense when he stresses the moniker you’ve readily given him before, not used to being on the receiving end. His smile falters in exchange for something more serious, and he clears his throat before he scoots forward. Just a step, but you find yourself wanting him to be closer.

“I wanna be everythin’ for ya, sunshine.”

Daryl grabs your other hand after you use it to push a strand of your hair back, and he rests his knuckles in between your spread legs, holding yours as if they were made of glass. Humming, you shuffle yourself forward too, wrapping your grip around his fingers and unfurling them, placing his palms down on the exposed skin on either of your thighs.

Your movement shocks him for a second, the thought that he’d said something wrong ringing through his head, and he’s quick to form an explanation. Shit, did he come off too overbearing? Possessive? Was it because he said ‘everything’?

“I mean- I don’t want ya to take that the wrong way or nothin’. I jus’ wanted you to know that- that whatever ya want in a man, I’ll be it for ya.”

His fingers flex open as he speaks, allowing him to rise to his feet by instinct, a panic washing through him that your feelings would disappear at the drop of a hat. Daryl’s not good with talking, he never has been, but his body makes up for that fact, allowing him to be expressive when his words fail him - even if the abrupt movement borders almost embarrassing with how he rambles.

The second he rises to his full height, you tilt your head up to keep his stare and you can feel how agitated he is, a look in his eye as if pleading with you to forgive him, even though he hasn’t done anything wrong. Without another thought, your arms reach out to wrap around his torso and you link your fingers at his back, pulling him in a short nudge towards you, a reassuring smile on your face.

“I don’t want anything other than you, you moron. Just you, y’know? Just Daryl Dixon.”

There’s something so magnetic about the way you tilt your head to the side, and he sucks in a breath when the sight of you gets closer, face just a foot from his. He imitates your actions then, sliding his hands up your thighs and over your shorts, resting his forearms at your waist and basking in your undivided attention.

“Jus’ me?”

It’s almost like he doesn’t believe you when he questions - though, maybe he’s just saying that to hear you tell him again, the sound of your voice coupled with the expression of pure affection towards him much too tantalizing to let go of. Not yet. Not ever, he thinks

“Just you.”

Something wrenches deep in his chest, a suffocation from all his senses hitting him at once, and it manifests physical on his body, the tops of his thighs pressing against the edge of his workbench as if he was a sailor beckoned over by your siren song. Your fingers fidget idly where they link at his back, and you look up at him as he stares at you, eyes flitting to the bottom half of your face.

An inkling of understanding worms way into your mind and you smile, watching as his gaze sticks to the way your lips lift, and he nibbles at his own as if fighting himself on whether or not to speak. His internal debate takes too long for him to get a word in, though, your voice hitting his ears before he schools his mind enough to figure out something to say, but your normal ease is interlaced with a hesitancy - with a doubt.

“Actually… I do want something.”

You scoot forward still, and it feels like his air is pulled from him, the heat of your fingers disappearing for a second before your arms link at the nape of his neck, slid through the empty space between his which hold you at your waist. He swallows, mouth falling just the slightest bit agape when the breath of your words ghost across his chin.

“Can you… could you kiss me?”

No, that knocks the air out of him.

“If- if you want.”

Fuck, he’d be a different type of stupid to pass on this opportunity.

“Y’know what, sunshine? I think I could do that.”

The smile that takes hold of Daryl’s face is so boyish and genuine you feel like you could cry with how he’s looking at you. He doesn’t move his hands, he keeps the heat of his palms flush against your pelvic bones, and slowly lowers his head, giving you the opportunity to pull back.

But you never do, and the second his lips touch yours - chapped from his constant biting but so perfectly him - it’s you who pulls him closer, your fingers threading through his hair. He thinks it’s cheesy, the feeling of goddamn fireworks spreading across his skin, but he can’t figure out anything else to describe the tingle he gets running along his spine, bursting like he’s the night sky during Fourth of July.

When he pulls back, his lungs calling him to calm down and take a breath, he retreats to a swipe of your thumb, crossing the length of his scruff that was tickling at your chin and onto his cheekbones. You’re grinning at him, a sight that only makes his heart beat impossibly quicker as the sunset trickles in from the window just above your head, and your thighs no longer rest idly. No, your knees dig into either side of him, the feeling of your muscles flexing making him swallow as he watches your mouth move.

“Again”

It’s a delicious pull, the way your voice glides across those two syllables, and he leans back down, this time with a bit more confidence in his actions, his forearms now lying flush against your back. His tongue peeks out not a second later, sliding along your lips, and you part for him almost embarrassingly fast.

Again, yeah he could do 'again'.

Can someone get so much satisfaction from just kissing another person? Because Daryl’s never felt as much as he's feeling right now - you feel fucking soft and you smell so good and he might be going crazy, but he thinks you’re trying to pull his hips into yours - and his brain is losing all coherence as you move your mouth against his, opening for a split second just to return.

Daryl’s also pretty sure it shouldn’t be as hard as he finds it to be to keep his hands from slipping downwards and up underneath your shirt, catching himself when he feels the hem lift from his travelling touch. His fingertips graze you, their warmth contrasting your air-cooled skin, and though they meet for barely a second, a small whine erupts from your throat, vibrating from you to him.

Embarrassment floods through you at the noise, and you go to pull away, pulling him back with the fingers threaded through his hair as well, but all he does is groan at the sting - a delicious sting that weakens his knees quicker than he would like to admit - chasing your lips with a newly erupted hunger. His hands fall off your clothing and onto the workbench tabletop when he surges that little bit of space forwards, a thrum in his veins he can only seem to satiate with the little hums you’re making.

He’s sure more than ever that he can feel the way the roll of your pelvis quickens, and he submits to the lust that drives your hands downwards across his body. Daryl gives into your soft fingers, basks in the shivers that line him as they slide down the muscles on his chest and down the ones flexing at his abdomen, and the desire to grind into the apex of your thighs grows with each passing second.

You’re too fucking far, though, and every single little noise - hell, even your goddamn pulse - is driving him crazy in the best way possible.

His hands spread open on the clothed flesh of your ass, and he tugs you towards him, impatient as he feels each one of your pretty little moans line his lips. You’re flush against him now - pressing your everything against his everything - and you grind your hips against him, barely feeling the outline of him through the denim of his jeans.

Daryl’s cursing himself now, regretting the fact he’s not wearing those sweatpants you’d dug out of your closet and gave him when everyone first got to Alexandria, but it’s not so bad - you seem to like it, and that’s all that really matters to him. Rutting himself forwards, he basks in your heat, dipping his hands underneath your shirt when your touch catches at his belt loop, grazing the skin of his pelvis as you travel inwards and tug.

The feeling of thread skates along his fingertips, the inwards dent of your spine just an inch from where his palm is resting, and he pulls away, chest heaving with how long he’d denied his body of air for. You’re doing it too, he notices, a rhythmic in and out from kiss-swollen lips, and his whole being wants to lurch forwards to you, but he uses that little bit of self-restraint he still has to hold himself steady in his steps.

“We - fuck - we should stop, sunshine.”

You’ve forgotten your shame a long time ago, but you can’t help the pang which arises, dousing the desirous heady smoke in a wave of rejection. Hands drop from the zipper on his jeans and you feel him imitate the action as your shirt falls onto your skin, his rough palms no longer acting as a barrier between the cloth from you. Scooting your body back by instinct, you watch him as he steps away, questioning him as he runs his fingers through his dark hair.

“Why- what’s wrong? Do you not- am I misreading this?”

The shake of his head is immediate and he moves to sit at the foot of his bed, the angle offering a direct line of sight to you, and the urge to return to you only grows.

“Nah, it sure as hell ain’t nothin’ like that. Jus’- jus’ worried ‘bout them stitches ya put in me.”

Daryl’s hand scratches at the back of his neck as he speaks, a fidget he can’t break due to the stick of your stare on him, and his whole body is burning red at the strain in his jeans - feels it more than anything because he’s pretty sure he’s never been like this in his life just from someone’s attention.

“Ya keep touchin’ me like that, I’m not sure how long it’s gon’ take ‘til they pop.”

The little bit of humour laced with an overlay of disappointment - of apology - in his response makes you smile, and he reciprocates like a mirror, your expression of happiness consuming his heart in an affection much less lustful than just moments ago. Nibbling your lip, a rush of confidence surges through your body when you see the way his hand travels to his pillow, strewn aside days prior from the fact he still has no habit of making his bed, and places it over his lap in an attempt to hide how much he’s failing at calming down.

An odd sense of drive kicks in not even a millisecond later, and you let yourself give into that confidence, letting it fuel your actions as you hop off the workbench and surprise yourself when you find your body has made the decision to sway your hips just a little more. Daryl’s grip on that godforsaken plush tightens, and you watch him shift, pushing himself backwards by the heels of his feet as if he would run to you if he didn’t do something to stay seated.

“Y’know, there’s, um, there’s a way for us not to pop your stitches.”

One of Daryl’s eyebrows quirks upwards at your words, and he doesn’t make a move to stop you when your hand grabs the pillow and takes it off his lap. On the contrary, his whole body opens for you, arms falling to his side and thighs widening to accommodate the way you stand between them.

“That- that right? Wha’d’ya have in that mind’a yours?”

Daryl stutters when you swing a leg over his, his fists bunching up against the mattress as you perch yourself over his lap, so pretty looking down at him with a heady expression of love and lust. It takes everything he has in his body not to flip you over - not to lay you on your back so he can rip those fucking buttons off your clothes - and his jaw clenches when he feels the your fingers linger at he base of his neck, ghosting the strands of his hair.

Your tongue peaks out for a second, nibbling on your bottom lip as you’re in what he can only assume is a mental war of consideration. He’s not used to seeing you like this - around him, you’re always so relaxed, everything coming so naturally to you that he can’t help that ease that washes over him too - and he wants to break the silence to urge you on, but you scoot forward, a positively sinful grind just where he needs it most, and the only noise he can make is a deep groan.

“Let me do the work.”

Oh.

Anticipation coats him in a sickly sweet blush at the lilt of suggestivity - no, more overt than just a lilt, to be honest, but he’s too lost in the way your hands travel down his chest and to the zipper on his jeans to give that classification another consideration.

“Ya sure ya wanna do that? ‘Cause I remember someone callin’ me ‘a handful’, an’ she sounded an awful lot like you.”

Your movement stills and he almost regrets what he’d said before you scrunch your nose, a huff of equal parts annoyance and amusement escaping at the way he smirks when he says it. Worming your fingers underneath his, you bring his touch to the hem of your shorts, wrapping his arms around your waist for him as that feeling of annoyance dissolves fully, and something stronger - more lewd - overtakes at the sharp inhale of breath he lets out.

Learning forward, you let his hands dig into your ass, yours choosing instead to retreat back around his neck as if you’d done nothing at all to drive him crazy. If Daryl had even one thought in his head other than how fucking soft you are or how good you smell or how your hips move under his palms, they’re erased the second your breath fans his ear, a shiver rushing down to the base of his spine.

“I think I can handle it, Daryl. I thought- I thought you got over the habit of underestimating me.”

If you hadn’t stuttered, maybe - just maybe, though - he wouldn’t have that painfully handsome smirk still plastered over his face, but one good rut of his hips into yours sends a rush of arousal through you, his zipper rubbing against something devastating.

“An’ I thought ya forgave me for it.”

When you pull back, you see the blush rising from his shoulders, and he leans for your kiss swollen lips before a light tug on his hair - not back but down - tilts his head upwards and exposes the column of his neck, showing you the bob of his Adam’s apple as he reacts to the flood of pleasure.

“Forgiven, but not forgotten.”

It’s immediate, the desire to press your mouth against the stretched skin, and he’s watching you as you speak, smirk dropped into an expectant expression - as if waiting for you to do just that.

When your grip loosens and he doesn’t feel the relief of your plush lips, he wonders for a second if you held back just to spite him; whether you did or didn’t, he goads anyways, a tease with an underlay of lust, punctuated by his hands travelling over the swell of your ass and dipping underneath the openings for your legs, ghosting the fabric of your underwear.

“How is your right hook, anyways, Doc? Gotten any stronger?”

Daryl likes to give you shit for it - he’d pretended for a long time that the punch you threw at him when he pissed you off enough to even punch him didn’t leave him wincing every time he lifted his crossbow. It was only when he got over his pride that he finally acknowledged it, apologizing as you dug rocks out of his bloody palms after he’d fallen off his bike and skidded across the pavement.

It’s a sore subject sometimes, sure - especially since you’d apologized over and over again following the incident - but as its mentions waded into more conversations with the memories of him trying to teach you how to skip rocks, or the first time you learned how to skin and gut animals, there’s an odd sense of familiarity to the situation. A nostalgia, even.

“Wanna find out?”

Feeling your fists now balled against his chest, Daryl hums, choosing not to respond in exchange for testing his luck, leaning forward again and fucking elating the second he makes contact with your lips. Daryl’s hands slip out of your shorts when you kiss him back, an eager buzz at his fingertips the whole time he maps a path up underneath your shirt.

His chin tilts away from you as he grazes the band of your sports bra, keeping his forehead to yours for just a second before his face retreats an inch or two. It’s barely enough to speak - to form a volume louder than a whisper that won’t pound his gruff drawl against your eardrums - but it’s too far for you.

“Nah. Maybe some other time.”

The grin that upturns his lips is close to lascivious, and if it was from anyone else, you would have hurled him away in disgust, but the mischief intertwined with the words - and the fact it’s Daryl - sends hot anticipation through you, watching him with a near hazy gaze and staring as you wait for him to speak again.

“‘Cause I wanna see what you ‘doin’ the work’ really means. Y’gon’ give me a show, sunshine?”

He dips his fingers underneath the band of your bra, twisting his palm around so that he can pull you back by it, a sharp whine erupting from your throat that he makes a mental note to hear again - preferably feel it along his lips as they’re pressed up against yours. Nodding, you push against his chest with one hand, urging him to lie down as your other races to undo the button holding his jeans together.

A grunt is all you hear before his arm scoops under your ass and he lifts you, bed squeaking underneath your body as he spins the both of you around and your back hits the sheets. For a second, you’re reminded of just how strong Daryl is - how the swift movement reminds you of the prison’s field and when you had some of your first fighting lessons with him - and a different type of adrenaline courses through you, an excitement of how else he might choose to use his strength.

You break from your thoughts too late to keep him blanketed over you, and a quick peck to your neck later - he just couldn’t help himself from the way your head threw back, the column of skin just teasing him - you find Daryl standing on the hardwood floor, his presence no longer accentuated by the dip in the mattress.

Lifting yourself, you let your legs fall to either side of you, folding at the knees before you lean towards him, the neckline of your shirt dropping as more of your weight begins to rest at your shins, then to your hands. It takes almost all his willpower not to give into the urge of just pouncing on you like the animal so many people think he is, and he takes a step back, eyes never leaving your body even as he puts more distance between the two of you.

The more the scene in front of Daryl takes over his vision - a perfectly depraved image of you perched on his bed, your movements teetering on the edge of crawling to him and those two buttons doing nothing to hide your modesty - the more his cock throbs with the urge to reach out and touch you. No, the urge runs deeper than just a touch along skin.

He wants to feel you. He wants to feel you as you bare yourself to him and he wants you to feel him as he bares himself to you in an act so intimate his heart has only ever trusted you enough to do. It’s been so damn long since he’s touched someone, his days of drifting and drunken fervor forgotten for a while, but feeling someone? Daryl’s never felt someone like this before.

And it’s almost fucking torture for him, but still, he wants to take you up on your offer, letting himself hit the edge of his workbench before pulling the chair from wherever the hell he’d shoved it to just moments prior. He can feel his skin burn as he holds your gaze - his eyes holding a glint that makes your stomach twist in knots - and the cerulean you know as him form only a ring around his lust-blown pupils.

The legs of his seat lift off the ground with the force at which he tugs at it, but not a millisecond later, it screeches to a halt beneath him, his thick thighs spread wide as he leans against the back of it. Daryl’s so large on the meager wood, an imposing figure staring at you as darkness falls over him, the remaining streaks of sun from aboveground deciding to leave him in a shadow.

“Thought you were gon’ give me a show?”

He folds his hands over his crotch, running his palm over himself just to give him some goddamn relief, and you narrowly miss his words, focusing instead on the way his abs flex and relax at his own contact, and the groan he lets out when he decides to do it again. He tells himself that it’s because you’re looking at him like that that he repeats, but he’s been almost painfully hard since the second you’d put that ointment on him, and he’s dreamt of seeing you like this for months.

You don’t make a move, staying in a stationary lean towards Daryl as if he was supposed to be giving you a show instead, and he ceases his movements, clearing his throat and just waiting. Only when you stop staring, blinking your eyes up his body in a slow return back to his face, does he speak, resting his hands back in a clasp at his lap with an infuriating pull of the corner of his lips, the expression becoming more and more charming with each time he does it.

“I’m takin’ front row to watch ya, sunshine. So do it - get yourself ready.”

Shit, his voice sounds so fucking good, his normal gravel drawl deepened with arousal, and you press your knees together in an attempt to calm the way you seem to burn from the inside. His breath gets trapped in his throat for a moment when your hands lift at the hem of your shirt, and he barely holds back a strangled groan of disappointment when you stop and smile at him, leaving him in the beginning stages of regretting his decision before he recognizes the sprinkling of mischief in the way they sparkle.

You’ve never made a habit of disappointing Daryl, so why should you start now?.

Pulling off your socks, you adjust yourself, sitting directly underneath the light and letting him take a full look of the way your fingers travel down each button. He’s pretty sure he’s never seen anything so erotic in his fucking life - not in those R-rated movies he’d snuck into when he was a teenager, or in those Playboy magazines he’d stolen with his friends, and sure as hell not in those stories Merle would tell him when he got too drunk and high off his personal stash - and Daryl swears he can’t take his eyes off the way you expose your skin to him.

For him.

Your shirt hits the floor too damn late in his opinion, but his fervor is stealing his logical thinking and turning it into something more base at the sight of your exposed skin, the round of your shoulder down your covered chest and down to the tied knot of the drawstring shorts hugging your waist.

He should have pulled at it, Daryl thinks, watching you consider which item of clothing should be the one to meet his hardwood floor next. He should have pulled at it and undone it and slid off those fucking shorts. He should have taken your underwear off in that one same damn motion to save time. He should have-

Fuck, his mouth falls agape when your grip tightens around the bottom of your bra and you tug, a brief reminder tingling at his fingers about how good you felt there. It doesn’t last long, though, disappearing the second the elastic is up and over your head, back arched so provocatively he can feel his cock throb.

There’s a conscious effort on Daryl’s part not to grind into the hands he has placed over his lap, but it’s in vain when he sees the swell of your breasts rise as they catch along the band and then drop as they submit to gravity. The groan he lets out spurs you on, hearing a swear you’re pretty sure he doesn’t know he’s even saying, and you lift yourself onto your knees.

Crawling.

You’ve turned around onto your hands and knees and you’re fucking crawling with your head turned away from him, ass perked up and mouthwateringly swaying with each slow movement towards his headboard.

His headboard.

Just the reminder you’re in his bed - putting on a damn good show for him - has Daryl scrambling to get out of his jeans, the relief from the denim feeling as close to Heaven as something as mundane as that can. Though, as he sears the sight before him into his brain, he can think of something better - something closer to Heaven, though it may be more fitting to liken that feeling to sin instead.

Grabbing his pillow, you sandwich it between your spine and the wooden slab behind you, dextrous fingers undoing the double-knot you’d tied just this morning. Another second passes and you take a deep breath before slipping the shorts down your legs, trying not to think so much about how you must look when you fold into yourself slightly, and you let the fabric fall from your grasp, a lump of black cloth now contrasting the dark brown floor.

Daryl’s excitement is boiling over in his veins, a focus on you that he’d only ever used on hunts or runs, and he feels like he might melt into his chair the second your fingers loop around the elastic of your underwear, not even given a second to fully memorize the way the fabric cuts deliciously over the curve of your pelvis before those curls peek out, and he swears he’s slack-jawed staring.

How the hell is he supposed to think let alone keep himself from touching you when you’re just a few feet from him?

He hears his name being called - never in his life had he thought those two syllables could ever sound so good - and it nearly drowns him in a wave of arousal, but Daryl’s grounded by the way your head tilts in invitation, legs bent open in a line which beckons his eyes to trail up them. Both your hands fist at the sheets between your thighs as your arms push your breasts together, leant forward and telling him to ‘come here’ in a near whine that’s driving him crazy.

His feet press against the floor in the beginnings of a step, an immediate movement triggered by the need dripping from your words, but he has just enough self-restraint to remind himself of what you’d promised him. Daryl’s never been a particularly patient man, but for you - for your taste and for your touch - he might try. Delayed gratification, or some shit like that.

So he forces himself to stay seated, choosing instead to watch how you squirm underneath his gaze, a lust so pronounced in his cerulean that you’re surprised when it doubles - triples - at the way you rub your thighs together in a search for relief. You say his name again, even more of a plead than he’s heard before, but he still doesn’t react. Only when you move out of your sit in preparation to cross the mattress does he hold out a hand to stop you, responding in a deep growl that sinks deep into the pit of your stomach.

“That was a nice li’l tease ya put on for me, that’s for damn sure, but ya need to get yourself ready. ‘Cause you were gon’ do the work, weren’t ya?”

You nod, maybe too fast, but Daryl sure as hell doesn’t mind. Instead, he shifts in his chair, choosing to ignore the wood beginning to dig into his tailbone in exchange for the sight of you easing back against the pillow, a look of slight apprehension on your face as your hands rub down your thighs.

“Do it then, sunshine. Be a good girl an’ touch yourself.”

Fuck.

It’s not that you weren’t at least expecting this - the second you’d told him that you would do the work, you knew he might want you to do this - but to hear him say it so explicitly and laced with something that’s so desperate makes your arousal pool when you swipe your finger along yourself, the blossoming of pleasure from your touch seemingly heightened.

Shameless. Daryl’s pretty damn shameless as he memorizes the way you bite your lip and whimper, a light thud resounding through the room when you throw your head against his wall, the muscle of your neck exposed to him - as if you knew just how much he wants to run his lips over it and choosing to taunt him with the promise of a taste.

With each passing moment - stuck just watching you as his cock leaks pitifully onto his boxers - his regret compounds and compounds, replaced at an exponential rate with molten desire. Daryl wants to take your bottom lip between his teeth and pull it free from your bite, maybe even slide his tongue against yours so all the little noises you’re making vibrate along it, a muffle from him on you.

Even better, though? He’d free that lip of yours and tell you not to hide those sounds from him. He’d bask in them as long as they fall from you.

Your other hand slithers up your thigh to meet the one drawing slow circles on that little bundle of nerves - spreading yourself for Daryl so he can see the mess he’s to blame for - before trailing up your stomach and your ribs to palm across your chest. A choked moan escapes from your throat, and you rut your hips up involuntarily, a squeak of the mattress punctuating your actions, and your mouth falls agape in another as your fingers pinch.

Only when you hear your name - followed by an intoxicatingly guttural ‘fuck’ - do you realize you’ve closed your eyes. Opening them, you tilt back to face him and whimper pathetic when you see his cock in his unmoving hands, a dribble of viscous liquid running down his knuckles into a darkened patch on the last remaining piece of clothing shared between the two of you.

Did you do that to him?

The knowledge of his desire feels like a wildfire - made only more intense by the physical confirmation - burning you in his stare, and you swipe harsher, seeking for more friction and more feeling as you burn and burn and burn. You need more, though, an emptiness that doesn’t seem to quell by the rub of both hands and catching you stagnant on the rise to your climax. Throwing your head back again, your other fingers join at the apex of your thighs, pushing two into yourself in a movement that has you biting your lip into nearly a bleed.

Daryl can hear it, the lewd squelch of each movement, and he memorizes it - everything from the scrunch of your brows to the flex of your thighs to the way a moan scratches at the back of your throat, an extra focus on following the length of your fingers. They’re coated in you, and he runs his tongue along his lips in a desperate seek to just taste.

They’re messy, each push and pull, and you swear you’re dripping onto the sheets as you clench around yourself, rutting forwards - the desire to be full counteracting your propriety. It’s so easy to get lost in the pleasure, but at the same time, you can hear Daryl grunting, tethering your senses back to the fact his eyes are on you.

Fuck, it feels so good, the bliss of your climax just barely out of reach. You’ve never experienced it coming so quick, the pure force of the preshocks foreign as they wreck through you. Knees knocking together, your inner thighs trap your hands in place, blocking the sight of your core from Daryl, He curses, a growl ripping from his throat that almost overshadows the crash of his chair hitting the ground.

The sounds wrench your eyes open, and you watch as he crawls across the mattress to get to you, a scowl on his face that’s both familiar but different. It’s not disdain, not anger, but a full-bodied concentration, like you’re the only thing on his mind and he’s planning something - something he won’t give up on trying to achieve.

“Shit, let me taste. Please. I wanna - fuck - can I touch you?”

His voice is scratchy from desire - seemingly pulled out of his throat by sheer willpower - and you nod, an equally ruined moan of ‘yes, please’ barely breaking above a breathy tone. Swearing, he jerks his grip from the sheets on either side of your pelvis to your wrist, drawing your fingers out from you and shoving them into his mouth, all sense of decorum and decency replaced with a rushing urge to taste you.

You can feel Daryl’s tongue run along your skin, hot and wet gathering and drawing out everything he can from each crevice, lewd grunts reminiscent almost of the way he eats after days of starvation, reminding you of how uncaring he is to veil his enjoyment. Nearly a second later, his lips detach with an audible smack before he takes your other hand, opening his mouth to let you slide your fingers along that same smooth muscles until he lets you slip from him.

Heat erupts in you when his voice groans your name, the abrupt - and unsatisfying - halt of the build to your climax forgotten as Daryl’s palms hold your thighs open, your body pulled down the mattress and onto your back so he can tilt his face downwards to watch the way you clench in a desperation to be full again. Fisting his sheets, you watch as he sets his jaw, leaning almost all his weight on his hands to keep you open for him, and he swallows, the bob of his Adam’s apple followed quickly by his tongue popping out over his lips.

His eyes flicker back to yours, fingers beginning to dig lightly into your skin, and a silent seek of permission lines his expression. When you nod and a breathy whimper of Daryl’s name follows soon after, he swears the sound swirls through his brain on repeat. And when you rut your hips up in invitation - in a plead - he’s helpless to his desire and he descends, an eager swirl of his tongue making you choke on your own moan.

Daryl’s beginning to regret as more of your noises flood his ears. He’s not regretting the fact he’s finally tasting something he’d spent months fucking dreaming about and pining after, or the fact he can feel the way your legs are trembling as you try to keep your hips still for him, or at this situation as a whole - not this situation at all - but at the fact he’d just watched you. He’s such an idiot just sitting on that damn chair and letting himself get hard as a fucking rock watching you do all that to yourself.

He could have been here.

In bed.

With you.

Touching you.

There’s no smile on Daryl’s lips and no smirk on his face, just a determination to make you scream as if he had a personal vendetta against those masochistic delayed gratification morons whose stupid philosophy kept him from you. Though, he did learn some things from his stint as your damn voyeur, and he shows you as much when his right hand pulls from you, returning in that same circle you draw onto yourself.

Only then does his scowl break, an expression of satisfaction gracing his handsome features at the way your grasp tightens around his gray sheets and your mouth falls open in an exclamation of pleasure.

Another circle, then another, and you burn in his wildfire, your hips rolling up into him and crying out when his dull fingernails dig into the flesh of your thigh to keep you still. You want to - fuck do you want to just submit to him - but your body doesn’t listen, disobeying your mind’s plead to still with the tremble of muscle at your thigh.

Daryl notices - of course he fucking notices - and he raises a teasing eyebrow, his ego boosted through the damn roof after hearing your pathetic attempt at smothering a whimper.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful, sunshine. An’ ya taste even better’n I thought.”

You keen at the praise, driving him crazy in the best possible way when you clench below his tongue once more, and he slips a finger in, rutting himself into the bed for some relief from the way you’re making him feel just by being here. Daryl pushes to the knuckle, thicker and longer than yours, and curls, watching your face for every little pull of your eyebrows and scunch of your nose.

Insanely observant - like always.

Turns out he knows just which buttons to push - both when he wants to piss you off and when he wants to make you crumble for him.

“Can- do- do ya think I could add another? I don’t wanna hurt ya today an’ I don’t want ya limpin’ tomorrow.”

Nodding, your left hand goes to grab his, your forearm sliding against your pelvic bone, and you wrap your fingers around his wrist before he takes your grip, urging it into his hair and aching to feel the sensation of your tugging coupled with the taste and warmth of you. He pulls his face away when he doesn’t hear you, peppering your inner thigh in a smattering of wet kisses and placing your right hand to join your left before speaking, but his movements never stop, his knuckles beginning to get coated in you.

“Ain’t gonna use that pretty voice‘a yours? I know it can do more’n jus’ moan an’ yell at me.”

The second sentence makes you chuckle, just one breath of air escaping you in a ‘ha’ before your words contort into something more raw. You’re vaguely aware of what you’ve said - ‘please, Daryl. Yes, please’ maybe? - but you can’t be bothered too much for the details, the familar knot of your climax tightening in the base of your stomach.

Just a little more.

It’s all fervor of touch at this point, an intoxicating mixture of Daryl’s own spit and you dripping down the facial hair that scratches you so fucking deliciously, and the second he pushes in another finger, it only takes half a dozen strokes to push you over. A crescendo of back-arching sensations overtake and he can feel you spasm, contracting around him with a tightness that makes him shudder.

He memorizes you as he slows his hand’s actions down to languid, pulling himself up to his knees as your hands drop to the sheets and basking in the pride of being the reason why you’re in this state - the breathy whine of his name and the contort of your face will be seared into his brain, so help him God. If Daryl thought your happiness sparked alight adoration, seeing your chest rise and fall with shaky breaths and feeling you swipe so tenderly across his forehead alights something that consumes his whole being.

“Daryl,”

He doesn’t realize he’s mirroring your smile until he feels his cheeks sore up, and he gives into it, pure bliss on his face when he sees the bliss on yours. Resting the back of your left hand on your forehead, you watch as he breaks eye-contact only to stare at the way his fingers look leaving you, another heave of pride puffing up his shoulders when your warmth clenches to keep him in.

It’s filthy - obscene - but, fuck is it perfect.

A second later, Daryl’s gaze snaps back to you, a deliberate show of sucking his fingers clean, and his tongue darts out to catch the coating of his lips. Memories of the last few minutes flash through your mind, and your trembling legs snap closed, trapping his left hand between them. He doesn’t stop you, just keeps himself there and squeezes appreciatively at your thigh before he wipes away the liquid glistening his chin, a Cheshire grin adorning his features.

“Daryl.”

Covering your face, your voice comes out muffled behind the back of your hand, the feeling of his stare heavy as it drags along your body. Humming, he pulls his hand from your thigh, watching them fall open, and the other from his chin, wiping both dry on his boxers before he leans back on his legs, sitting down on them between yours.

You’re still spasming, the sight from where he’s seated allowing him to take in full appreciation of it, the arch of your back, as well as the jut of your chest. Shit, he knew you would look good, but fuck he didn’t expect you to look this good. What monumental thing did he do in his past life to get so lucky?

“Jus’ enjoyin’ the view.”

The sound that breaks from your throat is halfway between a scoff and a laugh, and you kick up to a sit with still buzzing legs, him between them. Daryl doesn’t pull away when your head rises to just a few inches from him, only places his hands on the sheets on either side of your waist, leaning towards you and swallowing as he watches the affection take hold of your features.

Lazy smile on your face, you run your hands through his hair, holding him in place and admiring before slotting your mouth over his, the innocence of the intended quick peck corrupting the second he swipes his tongue over the seam of your closed lip. Daryl’s arms snake around the small of your back before sliding his hands over the swell of your ass and down to the underside of your thighs, pulling your hips against his as he palms over the flesh beneath his touch.

You can feel him, the outline of his cock along with the soft fabric of his underwear rubbing against you, and in a fervour, you lean into him, letting your fingers catch along his waistband and dipping your hand in. Daryl’s warm - no, hot - and heavy in your grasp, and you run him along in a stroke, feeling a nibble on your lips when he fails to pull away in time to bite at his own, not able to suppress the groan he lets out.

It vibrates along the inside of your throat, all the way down to the hollow of your collarbones and it sends goosebumps along your sweaty skin, reciprocating his sound with one of your own just before he holds you against his chest and flips. The mattress squeaks beneath the two of you, and the small whine becomes an almost comical noise of surprise as your chest hits his, your arms trapped between Daryl’s body and yours.

You feel his smile forming against your kiss, and you pull away to take a breath, only then realizing that he’s straddled you over his body, the thin fabric of his underwear being the sole barrier between the two of you. Biting his lip, Daryl watches you retract, the corners of his mouth lifting as the heavy rise of your chest comes into view, and he fights the urge to take it between teeth - to roll his tongue over you and suck until you can do no more than moan.

Later, Daryl reminds himself.

Anticipation hangs heavy in the air - makes him drunk with determination - and he plants his feet into the mattress, the strength of his legs sending him back first into the pillow you’d left propped up against the headboard. Your body floats on his, your thighs on either side of his keeping you seated as he moves, and you scramble to press your palm against his stomach. It’s a feeble attempt at staying steady that leaves only shallow scratches on his skin, but neither of you seem to notice as the shift in position causes him to rub against you.

Daryl chokes on a groan when you grind down on him - intentionally, continuing even after he’d stilled himself - and his palms grasp at your ass, encouraging your push and pull until he thinks he might overheat and combust.

Fuck, if you keep doing that - keep feeling like that - how much longer until he makes a bigger mess of himself?

Barely a second passes before you slide back against his thighs, lifting yourself up on still slightly shaky legs to pull his boxers down and off his legs. It registers to neither Daryl nor you how desperate you’re being - you’ve spent your whole life avoiding the concept of selfish, but you’re helpless to the neediness of your own body - and he pops free from his boxers with a relieved sigh, his hands squeezing you appreciatively.

He was going to fucking suffocate, he swears.

His cock juts out against your stomach, the tip of him swollen and leaking as you look down between the two of you, biting your lip as your fingers wrap around it, your thumb swipes him over before he feels just one languid stroke - soft fingers, and Daryl realizes what a damn idiot he is for even thinking he could have replicated this pure ecstasy from a simple touch.

Swallowing, your hand stills, shifting your hips slightly as you adjust on top of him, a wave of nerves hitting you like ice through the heady warmth of lust. You’ve touched him underneath the cover of his boxers - felt the outline of him over the fabric of his underwear - but, fuck. He’s so… big.

It’s a juvenile thought - probably a juvenile way of phrasing it, too - but that’s the only thing you can think of when you finally see him bare for the first time. Daryl’s big. His shoulders widen out like a mountain range against the wood of his headboard, miles of hardened muscle down from his chest to his torso that keeps his body upright, and you can’t help but think about how fucking large he is both in your hand and against your body.

Why the hell did you only use two fingers?

Why the hell did you think that would be enough?

“Hey- hey, we don’ need to do nothin’ if ya don’t want to, y’know that, right?”

You barely notice you’re staring before he speaks, his right hand gently tilting your chin up from your grasp around him to his face. There’s an affection in Daryl’s eyes - a tenderness he’s gotten so used to hiding from you until you weren’t looking at him - and you get lost in it for a second, heart pounding as you feel yourself move almost into tears at the look.

Like a switch, he turns off his mind-numbing desire, the urge to make you feel okay overtaking him like that night just a few days ago. Observant. How did you expect him to miss the way your apprehension shines through each little feature of your face? Especially when all Daryl’s been doing for months is stare at it? You come first - you’ve always come first for him - and you huff out a small smile before responding, stuttering more than you had hoped you would.

“Yeah- I- I know, but I want to do this. Especially with you, Daryl. I just- I don’t- I don’t want to disappoint you.”

It feels oddly stupid to hear yourself say the last part though the intention rings true to the core of your being. There’s no doubt in your mind he loves you - that no matter what happens, Daryl’s not one to fall into someone’s bed without feeling something deeper than surface level - but there’s also no doubt in your mind that he wants to feel good. There’s no doubt in your mind that you want to be the reason he feels good, but, God, can you do that?

He leans in then, a light brush of his thumb across your cheekbones before he presses his lips to yours, and your heart wells up in nothing but comfort before he pulls away to respond to you. For someone who spent so long alone - protecting himself and locking people out, ready to attack like a wildcat - Daryl can’t help but feel the need to offer himself up to you, mentally, emotionally and physically.

“C’mon, you could never. Don’t worry ‘bout nothin’ ‘cause you’re doin’ fuckin’ perfect, sunshine. Got me makin’ a mess down these damn sheets an’ my damn boxers.”

His words - though very much lewd and suggestive - makes a smile breaks from your lips and you nod, a rush and renewal of confidence surging through your body. You melt into Daryl, leaning forward to press your nose right up against his and slipping your tongue in a careful caress against his so he can feel your nod. A jolt of excitement ripples through every patch of his skin, and he tries to still his hips from rutting into your hand when you stroke him again.

Scooting just barely forward, you pull your mouth back before you bite at your lip - swollen from his kisses, and he thinks he could die right now and be okay with it. You’re a fucking sight, but then again, you could be doing the most mundane thing in the world and Daryl would want to keel over at your feet.

A second passes, then another, and he can feel the hesitation in your actions, your thighs tightening around him as you build up just that tiny bit more courage you need and the furrow of your eyebrows as you stare downwards, half-lidded from the lust threatening to rob you of further contemplation. It’s slow, your movement, but Daryl endures though it feels like torture. You need this, he knows you do, and he would never be able to look at himself if he did anything to hurt you.

Grabbing your hips, he squeezes to get your attention before calling your name softly. A balm to soothe your anxiety, you suppose, and you wonder if he knows what you need before you even know.

“If ya want, jus’- jus’ keep goin’, alright? And if you wanna kick off’a me an’ try another time, that’s more than okay.”

He’s got a satisfied smile on his face though he thinks he might combust if you don’t do something - or in this scenario, a someone who, preferably, is him - and you can’t help but chuckle lightly when you see how genuine the small lilt of his lips are.

Wow. When did he get so… good with words?

“‘Sides, I ain’t exactly hatin’ the thought of diggin’ my face between your thighs again, anyways.”

Maybe not.

Scoffing disingenuously, you realize your grip has long dropped from him in favour of bracing your two palms at his chest, and you nod with that expression of slightly parted lips that drives makes him want to kiss you fucking silly. Daryl wants this - more importantly, you want this - and you take a breath before you slide over him, a brush of your core across the length of him which wrenches air from his lungs.

Another breath, a still of your thighs before they move again, and he feels your dominant hand wrap around his cock just as the mattress begins to dip beside him. On your shins, you lift yourself up just enough to notch his cock at your entrance, indulging yourself - and him, judging from his growl and furrowed brows - in a swirl to gather the remnants of your arousal.

Daryl can see everything that’s happening - the depraved way his cock inches closer to your curls, a teasing cover of what he knows is a wet, warm, velvet - and God fucking damn it you’re making it hard for him to just stay still and not rut upwards. He’s concentrating the hardest he’s ever concentrated trying to memorize the sight, and when you slowly begin to sink down, he truly thinks he might be in heaven.

Sure, he knew this was going to be good - knew it every damn time he would stroke himself heavy to the thought of doing this - but he wasn’t ready for just how intense it would be. It might be because of how long Daryl’s been stuck in the company of only his hands that he feels a sticky, syrup of pleasure consume him, but there’s more than just an inkling in his half-functioning brain that knows all these sensations come solely from you.

“Fu- fuck. Yeah, jus’ like that. See? Y-you’re doin’ fi- fuck- you feel good.”

Your knees nearly give out from the smatterings of butterfly tingles travelling down from your stomach, and you sink down further at his praise, the stretch of him an addicting burn. More - you want more - and you can’t help but clench around him each time he adds more pressure to the fingernails pressing dull against your pelvic bone, an almost suffocating squeeze he can’t get enough of.

Daryl sets your whole body electric as he brushes up against a devastating spot, making you whimper and scratch at him - and when your full weight returns to press him against his mattress, he can’t help but groan at the way he’s becoming obsessed with the feel of you on top of him. He’s not lazy, not by a long shot, but he wants to be underneath you for the rest of his damn life.

To hell with decency. To hell with responsibility.

To hell with anything but you.

It’s not a surprise how full you feel after he slowly slots - perfectly slots - into you, and he groans deep and guttural when you grind forward, rubbing your bundle of nerves up against him. You don’t move in another motion for a few seconds, needing that long to adjust to the way he curves against you, and he’s the furthest damn thing from disappointed. How else would Daryl be able to admire the way those two syllables of his name sound so fucking good falling from your lips? So he just listens and drowns himself in your noises.

That is, until you lift yourself - until you start a rhythm that tightens your abdomen and makes you flutter around him - and he’s groaning out words as if he’s never had a filter between his mouth and brain before.

“Christ, you’re so pretty like this. So pretty on my cock, y’know that?”

More. Daryl’s voice is just as addicting as the drag of his cock, and you mewl into the empty air as you throw your head back, the sweat-covered jut of your muscles sprouting from your collarbone making him want to mark up all the skin there.

He’d do it if you let him. God, there’s so many things he would do if you let him. He’d give into that primal part of him that yells at him to leave lovebites so people know you’ve got someone to warm your bed - that that someone won’t be them. You’ve got him, and with each lift of your hips, he wants you to remember the feel of him. Daryl wants you to remember that it’s him you’re moaning for. That it’s him you’re moaning from.

Each bounce of your chest is making his throat dry, and he can’t fucking take it anymore. Like Eve to the apple, his mouth slots over the curve of flesh, running his tongue along the protrude of nerves, and your back arches so intensely you nearly slip from his attention. Daryl detaches from you then, and you don’t realize you’ve closed your eyes until you see the glisten of spit across his lips.

“Was that - shit - did that feel- feel alright for you?”

It catapults you, the sight of pure desire in his features along with the weave of pure desire between his words, and your thighs shake with the effort of keeping you up. You’ve just heard him, you tell yourself, but with each drag of his cock and the way his bed squeaks each time he lifts his hips to meet yours, you can’t focus enough to form an answer.

But then Daryl uses his stupidly big hands and pulls you down by your waist onto him, stilling your steadily increasing rhythm and knocking the breath out of you, a whine ripping from your throat at the feeling of being full but nothing else.

“I asked y’a question, sunshine. Be a- fuck- use your words an’ answer it.”

You clench around him at the way his voice lowers, dragged down by lust and he swears at the feeling. It’s like all his sensations are heightened to a point with you, a roll of your hips becomes a douse of oil, and your voice is a throw of him into a fire.

“Yes, Daryl. Ye- yes, it felt more than alright. Want you to- want you to kiss me everywhere.”

His skin lights up at the way your voice drags along the second half of your words and he spreads his palm flat between your shoulder blades, dipping his head down and pressing your collarbones against his lips before he takes the skin between teeth and sucks. It’s getting colder now, breaking into autumn, so he could mark you up underneath the neckline of your shirts. Then only he would know - only he would see the brush of purple and pinks across your fabric covered body.

“Even here?”

The purely depraved sound you’d let out should have been approval enough. but you moan a ‘yes’ anyways as he stares at the wet patch on your skin. Your hips stop bouncing when his right hand sets sight onto your chest, indulging in a quick tug that he soothes over with a wrap of lips over the sensitive bud, and he groans into you when your movement becomes a heavy grind.

“What about here?”

Daryl’s words make your arms nearly give out from the vibrations and slight scratch of his teeth - your body becoming so embarrassingly sensitive from the fact he’s underneath you - and you brace yourself against the muscles in his abdomen so you can keep yourself propped up enough to breathe. Head thrown back, you take deep pull of the air, dense and humid from the heat of your body and his, and it lies heavy in your lungs with desire.

“Yes, anywhere. Everywhere.”

Growling, his hand drops back down to your waist, rough fingers digging into your pelvis that you can’t quite register through your haze of lust. He pulls you harsher now, spurred on by the compound of his rising climax, and his grip grows stronger - firmer - as he encourages each circle of your hips, grinding up to meet you in a fit of impatience.

A moan claws through your throat when his lips travel up the column of your neck, meeting yours in a fevered kiss and all you can think about is the overtake of his tongue and teeth across your senses. Daryl pulls away to hear your pants - inhale, exhale, a rhythm sped up by the way you’ve tried to refuse the burn of your lungs - and he only takes a second’s breath before his mouth reattaches to your skin, paying extra attention to that spot that makes you tighten around him.

Just below your jaw, he makes sure to leave a good one there - an obvious one - then down to that fucking muscle that protrudes each time he calls your name and you turn to face him. Those splotches will no sooner turn a deep red, and the sight of your previously unblemished skin now painted with a declaration of his attention makes him throb inside you, an impossible tingle of pleasure blanketing his brain.

Overwhelm, overwhelm, overwhelm.

Daryl wants you to overwhelm him - take him over from the inside out with your sounds and your scent and your taste.

“You’re perfect - shit. Lettin’ me mark you up, so ya look even prettier than ya do right now.”

He doesn’t mention the fact everyone will know you’re his by morning, but by the way you’d pushed your neck into him and tilted your head back to show him more, he’s inclined to believe you don’t care. God, maybe you even like it - maybe you like being his - and he grips you harsher, trying to keep himself from thinking about it hard.

The squeeze surprises both you and him, the pads of his fingers wetting with your arousal when they brush against where you’re swallowing him, and your lower body jerks towards the touch. There’s no shame in your actions when your right hand grabs Daryl’s, and you urge him to rub where you’d been nudging against his curls in a desperate search for friction. There’s no shame because you’re far too close to your climax to have any, pulse hammering through your ears and spurred on by his voice and his touch and his lips and his damn being.

He’s an all-consuming destruction and you crumble to it, deliciously with a roll of your hips, the drag of his cock heavy as your thighs shake with the effort of keeping you upright on his soft mattress. The added stimulation of his determined swipes make you feel like you’re drowning in a heady honey, and its thick syrup steals your coherence. You can’t think - can’t form a full sentence to properly warn him of your burning muscles - and you can’t be too sure what you’re saying is even intelligible.

“Daryl, I don’t think my legs can- D-Daryl, please- I need to- I need you to- please.“

Your movements have slowed - he’d noticed the change in pace when you first started to falter, a dull throb of desire plateauing the tension in the pit of his stomach instead of building it towards the finish - and he buzzes alight with a growl. One second. That’s all he needs to flip you both over and you land with a squeak of his mattress, both his hands travelling from your waist to underneath either of your thighs.

Fingers twisting into the sheets beneath you, your legs snap closed around his waist the second he lifts them to it, and the flash of your climax comes with one swift pound of his cock dragging against something devastating. It's a warningless shockwave which spreads from your core to the very ends of your body, each rock against you sending more through you and you damn near cry out his name.

No, you do - you are - and your voice breaks after the first syllable, pulse after pulse of sensations across your skin. Swearing, he furrows his brow and doesn’t relent his pace in a selfish search of his own satisfaction, each throb of his cock directly connected to the way your heat clenches and spasms and your face contorts tighter in pleasure. Another moan has him reeling and, fuck, do you sound and feel and look better than his late nights had tried so desperately to conjure up.

Daryl could get addicted to you - everything about you - and maybe the intensity of each pang of affection should scare him, but it doesn’t. It clearly doesn’t because his fingers worm their way to that bundle of nerves he knows will just pull more of everything from you, and he can’t stop watching the rise of your chest with each panting breath you take, mesmerized by the sight.

Feeling your knees slide up his waist, he hooks his left hand underneath your thigh and lifts it over his shoulder as he leans down, spurred on by the lewd expression of your swollen lips hanging agape and blanketing your body with his. The abrupt movement sends Daryl nearly falling over you, but he still has enough brain cells to push his forearm into the mattress and keep himself up, just an inch of empty air taken up by your breathing that he closes with a sloppy kiss before trailing more down your jaw.

It can’t be comfortable, you notice the angle at which he’s bent his neck, but he doesn’t grunt or complain, just keeps descending as he sucks a smattering of lovebites - taking extra pleasure in the sounds erupting from your throat when he darkens the ones he revisits. Your hands have traveled to Daryl’s back somewhere in his haze, your desperate attempts to find a relief you don’t really want from each roll of his hips making you scratch lightly at his skin. Though your nails are dull, there’s just enough pressure in them to make him feel it and the sweet soft sear rackets through his body, chipping away at what little bit of control he still has over himself.

“Such a fuck- fuckin’ good girl - lookin’ so pretty when you- when you were givin’ me a show. And ya take my cock so well, too, ain’t ya? You’re like a damn dream.”

Daryl doesn’t realize he’s spoken until he hears you whine and feels your chest press up against his as you react to his voice. He’s getting drunk off the knowledge he can do this to you - the realization that he’s the only one that you’ll let do this to you making the intoxication only headier - and he snakes his fingers in a return back down to where you wrap around him, rubbing quick, tight circles as if he was convincing you he’s all you need.

Your warmth clenches him, a leg shaking climax less abrupt than your last trembling your thighs - sensitive nerves doubling the pleasure - and he can feel himself submit to another delicious pull towards his finish. He takes you in then, memorizes the feeling of your sweat-soaked skin against his, and he can feel the coil in the base of his stomach tighten.

Somewhere in your haze, the grunt of your name draws you out and you feel the growing stutter of his hips, finally looking down to where he's joint to you for the first time. You’re split open swallowing him - the throbbing length of him coated with you, catching the little bit of remaining sunlight like a spotlight begging you to look - and Daryl bites his lip to keep a groan trapped in his chest when you mewl.

Fuck, he isn’t going to last much longer if you keep sounding like that.

And he doesn’t.

The noise propels him towards his end with little trouble, and he watches himself slip out. He watches as he pushes his cock against your stomach so he can see how far you’d taken him, and a lewd, primal pleasure spreads from deep inside his being. Knees locking up against the mattress, Daryl growls your name so roughly you would have sworn he was angry if he wasn’t grinding against you.

He’s not, though, and you know it.

Even if he’s set his jaw so hard you think he might bite through it - even if his eyes are barely two slits looking down at you, cerulean shadowed over with the scowling furrow of his brows - he’s not angry, and there’s a small part of him that wonders if he ever could be when he has you like this.

Leg dropping from his shoulder, you lift up to meet him, your abdominal muscles and thighs flexing at your movements. Red and slick, he balls his fists up at either side of your head and moans your name when your hand wraps around him, running him in a stroke that nearly has his arms giving out. It’s a simple movement, he knows it is, but it makes him keel - makes him whimper.

Who would have thought Daryl Dixon could whimper?

“Shit, sunshine, I’m- fuck- I’m gonna-“

Maybe it’s the intimacy of this - the trust that the both of you needed to feel to ever pursue exposing yourselves in body and soul - that makes each rising step towards his climax feel so intense, but he can’t dwell on why much longer when you swipe back the hair falling into his face, tucking it so gently behind his ear he forgets for a second how vulgar this moment is.

“Do it, Daryl. I want it.”

His heart stammers in his chest at how ruined your breathy command is, and he swears the beating stops when he just sees affection in your eyes - admiration. You’re beautiful underneath him and he’s helpless to replaying your words over and over and over.

It doesn’t take long for him to give you what you want.

Fuck, he’d give you anything you ask for.

Euphoria - sweltering euphoria splintering from where you touch him - hits Daryl half a dozen strokes later, and all his muscles lock up as he spills onto your stomach, your name rolling off into the empty air of his bedroom and mingling with the scent of sweat and pleasure. Rope after rope, his release marks your skin until you’ve taken all you can from him, quick breaths escaping your lips and his as you both try to recover from the intensity just moments ago.

In and out, in and out until slowly, you’re both steady again.

“Your legs alright?”

A light laugh breaks from you at how he chooses to break the silence - so utilitarian, so Daryl - and he just stares as he furrows his brows down at you, expecting and waiting for you to answer. Threading your hand through the mop of hickory atop his head, you stare back, eyes crinkled upwards from the push of your smile-risen cheeks, and something sweetly familiar swirls in his chest.

Leaning all his weight on one arm, Daryl swipes a finger at the hair fallen unruly onto your face, imitating your actions as he swipes it back, tucking it away so he can really, really see you. Soon enough, the expression he has morphs into one that’s much softer - one he’d only ever shown when he knew you couldn’t catch him - and a small grin forms on his lips, corners tugging upwards.

God, he looks so fucking cute with a flushed pink face and you pull him in for a quick kiss.

“I love you, Daryl. I love you.”

The noise that escapes him catches in his throat, your confession making him feel as though he could cry from how tenderly you say his name after brushing your lips against his. Sure, he’s heard you say it just today, but each time you do, it makes him feel something different. More intense? More affection? Whatever it is, it makes him want to crumble at your feet and devote himself to you like you’re a deity and he’s just some mortal man hoping for your blessings.

“Don’t change the subject.”

It’s funny though - ironic - him saying those words while that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“I need to develop more thigh muscles, don’t I?”

Daryl acknowledges your response with a noncommittal grunt, but you can tell by the way he raises his eyebrow that it doesn’t really satisfy him.

Pressing light kisses between your collarbones, he boxes you in with the arms he has bent beside your head, giving you enough space between his hips and yours for you to lift your pelvis up, testing the weight that you can push on your legs. There’s no denying there’s something there, more of a dull ache than a shock of pain, but you hum a response anyways, a gentle caress of your fingers making him breath a soft sigh of pleasure.

“They hurt a little, but now won’t compare to what I’ll be feeling tomorrow.”

The movement of your hips causes something wet to brush up against Daryl’s stomach and he grimaces, mostly at himself for forgetting about the mess he’d left on you. Letting himself have one last peck, he pushes himself up and off you, mattress dipping in accordance with his weight while your hands falling from the steady caress threatening to pull him into sleep.

A shock of uncertainty rattles through you, but before you can open your mouth, he quells any question of his care for you by shaking his bangs from his eyes, offering you an apologetic smile before nodding to his bathroom and walking over. He tries to be quick, swiping a clean towel from the towel rack, spurred on by the reminder you’re in his bed and waiting for him to clean you, but it takes a much more sinful turn when he starts to think about it too long.

Shit, he can’t help the guilt lodging in his chest when he feels a swirl of desire, trying to distract himself by dampening the cotton in his hands underneath the rush of water. It’s his fault your thighs are sore, isn’t it?

Turning the sink off, he rushes back to you, bare feet slapping dull against his hardwood floors, and when he reaches the doorway, the sight of you makes him stutter his actions. You’re not doing anything, just resting the back of one of your hands over your forehead and breathing a steady in and out which has your chest rising and falling, legs bent the same way you do when you crash after running from a hoard with him - which he probably won’t be able to see the same now that he’s seen you like this - but Daryl stumbles over his discarded boxers anyway.

Did he throw them that far?

At the sound, your neck turns to him and your face breaks into a grin so vibrant it puts the sun and stars to shame, leaving his body a slave to yours when you beckon him over with a tilt of your chin. He sits at your side, the front of him obscured by the rays of setting sun streaming in just behind him, and swipes gingerly at the mess, pursing his lips in apology and squeezing your wrist when your skin breaks out in goosebumps from the cold.

Clearing his throat, Daryl treks back to the washroom, a profuse blush he catches on his face that he attributes to the embarrassment of his stumble and not the way you’d smiled at him. Certainly not how his immediate thought was how many times he wants to see you like that - how many times he’d want to fall asleep to that sight or wake up to that sight or come home to that sight. And definitely not because he would know exactly how you’d gotten to that state in the first place.

He splashes his face with the cold water, a stark contrast to the overheat of his skin, and nearly sprints back to you in a desire to feel the glow of your aftermath.

Rounding the corner, he stops at the doorway to just take in the sight of you cuddled up in his gray sheets, the stupid overplush hugging your body and making you look almost tiny curled up beneath it. His lips tug upwards without much thought, his chest welling up in something so foreign that it almost feels suffocating. But it feels so nice, too. So fucking nice.

“What’re you looking at?”

He’s perceptive, but maybe you are too.

Though, Daryl’s not making a particular effort to hide his stare, either.

“You.”

A scoff breaks from you at how sincere he sounds, an ease laced one he hasn’t heard in ages that you use to hide the heat of your blush. You’re happy, he notices, juvenile pride warming his heart knowing he’s the reason why, and he catches the glint of a smile when you lift the covers for him. Patting the remaining empty space on his mattress, another flood of pride washes through him when he recognizes it as an invitation to join you - an invitation extended for him to crawl in next to you - and he can’t help but wonder how long it’ll take for his bed to become yours, too.

Daryl can’t will his body to move fast enough.

Slipping underneath the sheets, the second his body touches yours - your hand sliding over his chest - you wrap yourself up in him. Your legs are between his, and it’s so unknown to him, the hold of you is so light, so tender and it’s - fuck - it makes him almost cry. He doesn’t ever want to leave this; he doesn’t ever want to leave you.

He turns to face you at that thought, brushing away the hair obscuring your cheek from him so he can press a kiss against the rise of your bone. A breath of air escapes you when he pulls away, and underneath the scattered sunlight, you can see the cerulean blues that have become your home soften.

“I love ya, sunshine.”

Daryl’s not open about affection and you’ve known that well before you’d fallen for him - could tell since the moment you’ve considered him just a friend - but alone, he’s a puddle of mush for you.

Maybe, he doesn’t want to be anything else.

“And ‘m sorry”

You hum at his words, a small noise of confusion which he can feel when he buries himself into the crook of your neck - like he does when he hugs you, you’ve realized - and he trails his hand down your body, ribs to waist then tapping at your thigh before wrapping a timid hand around it. The action is an apology in and of itself, but paired with the way he’s giving you those puppy eyes, even if you’d been mad at him, you couldn’t have been for any longer

“No, it’s okay. I- I liked it. I like you.”

Oh.

“Promise you’ll tell me if anythin’ ever hurts again?”

Fingers threading through his hair, you pull him up for a kiss, and each knot of tension in his body melts the second his lips hit yours. Daryl’s never given much thought about Heaven - not since he’d stopped going to church every Sunday - but he’d repent his mountain of sins if it meant a life with you after all this. He’s damn sure it’s going to be a whole lot of repenting, but he’d do it.

“Promise.”

Oh.

Could one word sound so full? Full of trust? Of honesty? Of… of…

A feeling hits him like a goddamn 18 wheeler - no, a swell. A rapid swell of something different that erupts straight from his heart and paints every inch of his skin. Daryl’s known it for a while, fought with it and succumbed to it despite his best efforts, and it swells and swells with its four-lettered title.

Love.

There are no more words exchanged. Though, after all you’ve been through with him, there’s no need for them. He can feel it - he knows you can too - and he’d spend the rest of his life making sure you’ll keep feeling it.

You’re both sated, his arm slung across your shoulder, holding you against his chest with the curve of his forearm despite the slick of sweat coating your bodies. Maybe it’s too hot, but neither of you say anything. No, it feels perfect.

Daryl doesn’t stop his stare as he watches you slowly doze off, a reminder you’re here with him - no longer a fantasy he chases. You’re light in his mind and presence, and a flood of pure affection crashes through him, letting your slow breaths lull him into a slumber.

That night, the two of you sleep better than either of you have in weeks. Maybe even months.

And when Daryl wakes up barely before you, the smile that plasters over your face the second you see him makes his heart stop, the overwhelm of affection taking hold of him. You’re both late to relieve the previous watch shift - rendered helpless to the desire of being tangled in the sheets again - but when the two of you manage to pull yourselves together enough, you take him by his hand and lead him to the walls, a swing in your step he’s sure he’s reflecting as he watches you.

God, you’re so beautiful to him - so bright.

You’re just like sunshine.

@daryldixonluv @pulplorrd @fuseburner @hells-mistress @marylimlp @tinachristeen @hail-yourselves @whimsicallymad @just-always-tired @phoenixblack89​ @in-ky @riverscyberwife @jocyc1997 @avesxtxnas @candice666 @angryunicornlady @caelys @akilababs @rhyrhy462 @strawvberrymilktae​ @queendragon0614 @howdoiwork​ @burritoplant

comment to be on my taglist!

[blackbat05]

Day by Day

Shangqi x Reader 

A/N: My love for this man has hit an all time high so let me capitalize on it while I still can! If you read everything, I sincerely thank you for doing so!!! And holy cow 2 fics in 2 days have I gone back into my prime days? 

Genre: PG-13

Notes: As the title mentioned, I’ll probably set it some time after endgame. You could see it as a prequel to my first post! Reader is a social worker and she’s just dealing with all the mess that the snap bought back. The reader’s name as Jen Lee. I also apologize in advance for the potentially long fic. 

***

‘Excuse me, I’m looking for my child? Her name’s Wang Yiman and she’s seven.’ Another frazzled-looking parent fought her way to the front of the receptionist, approaching the helpless intern who looked like she was going to be on the verge of tears if another request came in. 

‘I got this,’ a hand calmly reassured the young intern as she beckoned the relief parent. ‘Mrs Wang? My name is Jen Lee and I’m the social worker here.’ I offered my hand for the anxious mother. ‘Oh thank god! Is Yiman ok? She must have been so scared!’ I slowed to a stop outside the room at the end of the corridor, gently sitting her down. 

‘Yiman has been a very brave girl Mrs Wang, but I will not lie to you. The sudden disappearance of their parents has traumatized a lot of kids. We’ve managed to explain to them what was going on but they will need a lot of support.’ I gave a glance over Mrs Wang’s shoulder, nodding to my colleague, Tammy who was holding the hand of a little girl in pigtails and a floral dress. 

妈妈! mā ma (mommy!)

The young girl ran into her mother’s open arms, allowing the floodgates to open from both ends. I turn to Tammy as we shared a silent agreement to leave the area. ‘That’s the last one for the day,’ Tammy unceremoniously plops herself onto the chair, letting out a groan. ‘Thanks for your hard work Jen.’ 

‘Right back at you.’ I entered the last bit of paperwork before uploading Yiman’s case file onto the portal. Yiman’s reunion with her parents meant the Children and Youth Centre were halfway in getting every displaced child back to their parents. Looking at the dingy television that was hung on the walls at the waiting room, despite not being able to hear anything, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on. S.W.O.R.D was apparently in a stand-off against Wanda Maximoff? Reported rumors that Sam Wilson didn’t want anything to do with the shield? It’s been a crazy few weeks but that was utter- 

‘Bullshit! If anything it’s the government. They must have psyched him into giving up the shield.’ My chair swiveled to face Tammy who returned a nonchalant shrug. ‘What? You know I’m right. Doesn’t matter if half the world’s gone or our universe gets split into two - they’re the true evil here. I’m still struggling to find a place after I found a couple making out in my apartment! And you know what the global repatriation council told me? We’re only dealing with urgent cases right now. Well I say f-’

The incessant ringing of the bell interrupted our conversation, replacing Tammy’s tirade into a cheeky grin. ‘Look who’s here!’ 

Shangqi stands behind the counter, dressed in his usual red varsity jacket and jeans, holding bags of what I could only make out as takeout from the Chinese restaurant that was run by a friendly Singaporean couple. ‘Did I interrupt something?’ He scratches his head nervously. ‘Nope, in fact you just saved me from Tammy’s monologue, any further and she’ll explicitly tell me what she saw in her apartment when she got dusted back that day,’ I shivered in mock fear. ‘Still haunts me up till today.’ Tammy meets us by the door, bag in her hand. 

‘I thought you were staying? We got fried dumplings and 泡饭  pào fàn (poached rice).’ 

‘Last minute duty - A parent called, gotta run! Enjoy your dinner date.’ She waggles her eyebrows suggestively, much to our embarrassment. ‘What? It’s not...’ Shangqi stutters, trying to form intelligible sentences. ‘Get out before I throw a fried dumpling at your face Tammy!’ She winks at me, before darting out of the door. Once my nosy colleague was out, I turn towards a red-faced Shangqi. ‘I’m so sorry... just don’t mind her.’ 

‘Huh?’ The man was knocked out of his stupor. ‘Oh yeah... sure,’ in an attempt to forget everything that had just happened, he opened the packets of fried dumplings. ‘Ready for war?’ 

‘I was born ready.’ 

Thirty-five minutes later, all that was left were the remnants of fried dumplings and three empty containers. 

‘This should be illegal,’ I patted my stomach in satisfaction to his amusement. ‘Laugh at yourself! You lost track of how many dumplings you had and ended up taking my share!’ 

Raising his hands in defeat, Shangqi starts to clear the table up. ‘So how’s the center? Everything alright?’ I nodded numbly. 

The past five years had been a blur. Hazy, even. All I remembered was a kid running into the office telling me that half of the staff disappeared during a school holiday program that we were running with a dozen other kids. Parents who survived the snap rushed to our center, demanding to see their children. We couldn’t give them any answer as we too, were equally perplexed. Maybe the only thing that made sense was Shangqi and Katy bursting into the center to help us with the chaos. 

Coming back from what could be the 1000th phone call, I got a glimpse in the children’s playroom where the five years old kids were at, treating myself to an amusing sight. They all had red cloths draped around their neck, each holding a stick that was from the abandoned prop box. Katy wasn’t spared to as she was wearing her own red cloth that seemed a few sizes to small for her. Not that she didn’t seem to mind. 

‘Alright my warriors! Chargeeeeee!!!!!!’ 

In unison, little pairs of feet pattered across the room towards their ‘enemy’, a cardboard cutout of a monstrous creature who was really just Shangqi in disguise. 

‘RAWR! I’ll eat anyone who stands in my way!’ He stands up, mimicking a dinosaur that was about to trample an entire city. I decided that the paperwork could wait, standing near the door to watch an Oscar-worthy performance. With great effort and bravery from the kids, they finally managed to take down 5 foot 10 worth of muscle. 

‘Again! Again!’ 

I chuckled upon seeing Shangqi on the floor, about to drift off into wonderland. It was time for me to step in. ‘Alright kids that’s enough for today! Dinner’s here.’  As the kids dispersed with the help of Katy, it was just the two of us left to clear up the mess. ‘Thank you so much, both of you. I honestly can’t think of what would happen if you guys didn’t come to help.’ 

Perhaps my body language was screaming ‘I’m dead tired, please just knock me out’ as Shangqi takes a cloth from me, folding it back into the box. ‘It’s what we would have done, this place, it means a lot to us - to me.’ 

A small knock on the door diverts our attention away from the trash. Little Yiman stands at the door, as she stares at the both of us with big round eyes. 

‘Yiman, it’s late, what are you doing here?’ I squat down to her eye level. The little girl beams, ‘ 妈妈 said that I could give this to you!’ She passes me a juice box together with a handmade card with colorful scribbles. Maybe I was carrying too much on my shoulders, as I suddenly felt a boulder lifted off me. ‘Thank you,’ I smile at her sweetly, ‘I love apple juice.’ Happy with the response, she runs to Shangqi. ‘Shangqi 哥哥 gē ge (brother)!’ 

He breaks out into a smile, opening his arms wide. Yiman nuzzles her head into his shoulder before breaking out into uncontrollable giggles from his sudden attack of tickles. ‘Are you hear to help Miss Jen?’ I took the trash from his hands, giving him some time with the girl. 

‘Yes I am. Miss Jen needs some help so I’m here today!’ 

‘Are you her boyfriend?’ 

Shangqi freezes on the spot. He had undergone what could be the toughest training by his father, fought the greatest assassins in the world and here he was - stumped by a question from a seven year old. ‘Well... I’m her close friend since when we were very young,’ Yiman looks at him expectantly. ‘She helped me when I was in trouble so I had to be a good friend when she was in trouble too.’ 

‘Like how Ningning helped me when I injured my knee?’ 

‘Yeah... something like that.’ He breathes a sigh of relief, thankful to escape his first crisis. Honestly, he wasn’t even sure if he was telling himself the truth. 

‘Yiman! Your mother’s here!’ The little girl gives him one last hug before running to the waiting room. Shangqi takes a moment to recollect himself. ‘Here I am thinking that you finally managed to have some stamina while interacting with young children, maybe I was wrong.’ I teased as I sat beside him. 

‘Har har, hilarious.’ He tosses me a straw for our peach teas, as we were greeted by the amazing night view of San Francisco. ‘Enough about me, you good though?’ Looks like he didn’t forget the conversation that was cut off earlier. My mind goes back to a few minutes earlier, eavesdropping on the conversation.

‘I had to be a good friend when she was in trouble too.’

Life has been so unpredictable, I don’t even want to think too far into the future. With appearances from more superpowered beings, I don’t know what’s real anymore.

‘Yeah. To be honest, it’s been so crazy and overwhelming but I’ll get through it. I have you don’t I?’ Giving him a wink, I slowly sipped on the sweetness of the tea, savoring the pearls. He pauses for a moment, nodding thoughtfully. 

Life isn’t the same as it was before. But maybe, just maybe... if I had Shangqi, I’ll take each day on one at a time. Day by day. 

[END]

A/N: Hoho! I literally spent the whole afternoon writing because I just had to get this idea out and also because work was pretty slow today. I have no idea what is up with my first two fics hinting at unrequited love? I guess I got inspired by Shangqi’s and Katy’s platonic relationship because I thought it was so well written but I also love Shangqi so I guess is a compromise kinda thing. Again, do like and comment if you wish! Really thankful that y’all have been so kind to me so far! 

Perhaps I’ll try my hand at shorter ones like headcannons before this girl exhausts herself out and I don’t want to do that because I believe I have more to show! 

[the-witty-pen-name]

Fell in Love in Scotland Pt. 1

Sam Wilson x F!Reader

Warnings: angst; cursing; pining; 18+ in later parts (maybe? not sure yet) 

Summary: After finding about the new Captain America, the reader goes to Louisiana to visit Sam. 

Word Count: 1.7k

A/N: So I know this isn’t on my list of things I *should* be working on, but I had this idea today and I had to get it down! This is only going to be 2-3 parts. This is my first time writing for Sam!

I’m taking a small break from working on my other works in progress to focus on getting out as much Sam content as a can before Sam’s (and my) bday on the 14th! Not sure how much I’ll be able to write but that is my hope!

My biggest flex at the moment is sharing a bday with Sam. 

This references Civil War, Endgame and Infinity War events in flashbacks but you know, canon is a thing I like to just maneuver around so I’m sorry if there are many major inaccuracies!

This is unedited and please let me know if I missed anything that should be included as a warning. 

Taglist is in my bio 

You were furious. Without even thinking, you picked up your phone and found him in your contact list. You were fuming, needing to find out what happened so you could help him. You hadn’t talked to him since Tony Stark’s funeral, and you had found out through Banner that Steve had gifted him the shield. You psych yourself out every time you want to reach out and talk to him, but your rage blinded you and took the lead over your usual nervousness.

“What happened?” you ask as soon as the ringing on the other end stops and you know he’s answered. You have the phone balanced on your shoulder as your slipping on your shoes, ready to head out as soon as you can.

“(Y/N)?” he asks, sounding confused. Also, incredibly hurt and rightfully so. You imagined he was watching the same thing as you on television and you thought he’d be as equally mad.

“Sam,” you say, letting out a shaky breath. “The shield.”

There’s nothing but dead air for what feel like forever.

“I gave it up,” he finally answers. You can hear in his voice that there is much more to this than that.

“Are you in D.C.?” you ask, not wanting to push him to talk.

“Delacroix. You don’t have to come-.”

“Can’t come visit a friend?” you ask hopefully. You hear him sigh.

“It’s not a great time,” he says hesitantly.

“Isn’t that when you need friends the most?” you counter, trying to force a happier, more uplifting tone. You try, but you know you still sound miserable. “Please,” you ask again, almost a whisper.

“You’re coming no matter what I say, aren’t you?” he chuckles.

“Pretty much,” you admit, “but I would love it if you actually wanted to see me.”

“You know I would…”

“So that settles it,” you smile, blinking to hold back a couple tears. Your voice breaks just a little. “I’m getting on the first plane I can.”

Before he has a chance to change his mind, you end the call and immediately pack some necessities. You never got out of the habit of always being called off, so many of the things you needed were already packed away in a bag in your closet. It was a comforting thing for you. Like you always had the option to just leave wherever you were. You said it was because of all the times you got pulled away from life because of missions for SHIELD, but it ran a little deeper than that.

God, he’s handsome. That’s the only thing you can think of when you’re finally in front of him again. Your mind is at a complete blank. You should be able to muster up the ability to say something. He’s waiting for you at the airport. You didn’t expect this, but it is Sam. Of course, he was going to meet you when your plane landed. You try your best to clear up the haze in your brain as you walk towards him, and he pulls you into a tight hug.

“I’m happy you’re here,” he mumbles, resting his head on top of your head as you bury your face in his chest. All hopes you had at a cool, collected front when you saw him disappeared. You missed him too much and had gone too long without admitting it to yourself. Tell him you missed him, tell him you’re happy to see him, say anything…

“I want to help,” you say when you both break away. You inwardly cringe. You can’t vocalize anything except turning this into some mission.

“Please can we not talk about the shield?” he asks, and you realize you’ve clearly hit a sore spot. You nod in agreement, feeling terrible for having brought it up so soon. You didn’t want him to think you were prioritizing the shield over him. That wasn’t the case at all. You came here for him, to see him, why the hell couldn’t you act like it.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize, earnestly. You had to pull yourself together.

“I appreciate that you are worried about me,” he says slinging an arm over your shoulder as you walk. It feels nice, effortless. “But I donated the shield and after that, it was out of my hands.”

You know he is leaving out a lot, and you know him well enough to know there’s a deeper issue. But, for now, you decide to table it. He tells you about his nephews, and he fills you in on how he’s been able to spend time with them, and it feels so beautifully normal. The world feels like it’s falling apart around you but there’s Sam, pulling you back in like he was always able to do.

“I missed you,” he admits, after there’s a lull in the conversation driving to the house. “I thought maybe I would’ve seen you at the compound, or something before you left after the funeral.”

“I didn’t really have the chance,” you try to gloss over. “I just- After Steve came and said goodbye, I couldn’t stay. It just hurt too much.”

“Steve told you?”

“Not exactly, just a very vague goodbye, but I was able to read between the lines. I knew he wasn’t coming back.”

“What did he say?”

“Just that he wanted to go back and fix things. If he couldn’t have done it here, he wanted a second chance. To get back the time lost. Save Bucky, find Nat, maybe visit Peggy… He just wasn’t ready to stop yet. There was no fight here left, so he went back chasing the ones he felt like he lost?”

He nods, just taking in the information. He tells you about seeing Steve when he came back, about how he got married. He tells you about how Steve gave him the shield, but he thought the right decision was to donate the shield to the Smithsonian. You don’t try to do anything else but listen, and try your best to understand. But hearing Sam not think he could take on the title was heartbreaking. You want to ask him if he regrets it, if he wants to get the shield back, but for now, you know it isn’t the right time. Just tell him you missed him too, please. You can’t do it. The words get stuck in the back of your throat. Why is this so hard?

“Remember when we met?” you ask, looking aimlessly out the window.

“You mean when you drop kicked me at an airport?” he asks with a laugh.

“No- I mean, yes that happened first technically,” you smile. “I was more so thinking about the first time we spoke after that.”

“You mean when you came with Steve to get us out of prison?” he asks, skeptically.

“The very time,” you grin.

“I’m pretty sure the only thing you said was stay low and keep out of my way, if I remember correctly,” he raised an eyebrow.

“No, no in the jet,” you clarify, “Before we went into hiding.”

You sat on the floor across from Sam, you had pulled your torso out of your tactical suit, and had the arms of it tied around your waist. The SHIELD t-shirt you wore underneath was covered in sweat and grime. You rested your head against the cold metal of the plane’s ship and your eyes wandered to Sam.

“Pararescue?” you ask, breaking the silence.

“Yeah,” he responds, looking over his equipment that Steve brought with you.

“SR,” you reply. “Well, was.”

“You were Special Reconnaissance?” he asks, and you nod.

“Three tours.”

“Is that why you changed sides?” He continues and you can’t help but smile.

“I guess you can look at it that way.”

“I’m Sam.”

“I know.”

“Well how was I supposed to know that?” he chuckles, crossing his arms, relaxing a bit more. You smirk.

“(Y/N).”

“Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too, Sam. Sorry about beating your ass.”

“You got lucky, SR,” he scoffs, and you laugh.

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, Wilson,” you laugh.

“You’re lucky we’re on the same side now,” he jokes.

“Oh, I know,” you smile. You get up and head to the cockpit to join Steve.

“I told you that the two of you would hit it off,” he chuckles as you slide into the copilot seat.

“You bring me along just to set me up, Rogers?” you scoff. His cheeks redden a little.

“You know that’s not true…”

“Ugh, you’re just as bad as Natasha, Steve,” you roll your eyes.

“You have shared life experience.”

“He is gorgeous.”

“I’ll tell him you said that.”

“Don’t even think about it Rogers,” you gasp.

Before you know it, Sam is pulling up to your Airbnb.

“Come by the house tomorrow,” he says, and you nod. “I want to bring you somewhere.”

“Yeah,” you agree, as you get out of the car. It was already late, and you denied Sam’s offer to get dinner. You were exhausted, and you were still in the clothes you were wearing when you left your apartment suddenly. You needed to shower, sleep, and then your visit with him would start. You also were nervous. You could tell he was a little disappointed when you declined his offer but he understood.

“We’ll get some beers and talk about the good old days tomorrow. Don’t worry about it,” he smiles, rubbing the top of your hand reassuringly.

“Good old days?” you tease.

“We’ll talk about Scotland,” he grins, “The good parts.”

“The good parts,” you affirm. You try to think about what he means but you let yourself put it out of your brain for now. “I’ll be by first thing.”

“I am really glad you’re here,” he reiterates once more before you disappear into the small house. You don’t have the courage to admit you feel the same.

When you close the door behind you, you look out the curtain and watch as Sam drives away. Your mind runs rampant with just all the things on your mind. The shield. Sam. Being here with Sam. Having to talk about feelings and memories with Sam. Scotland. How you fell in love with Sam Wilson in Scotland.

You worry coming here was a mistake.  

Part Two

Taglist: 

@greeneyedblondie44 @witchybarb @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan​ @sassy-kassaay​

[alkcomics]

Been making an effort to listen to at least one new album every month for a while now. The first year anniversary of the pandemic hitting felt like as good a time as ever to take stock of what I’ve been digging and share it with y’all.

Seeing this all helps me really feel the passing of time, which has been difficult with the lockdown isolation and depression. Album names link to a choice song on Bandcamp (when I can) or YouTube (when I can’t) in case anyone else out there feeling like a sad zoo animal wants to spice up the cage for a few minutes.

Hope y’all dig. Cheers!

2019 New Music

September | Ahmed Fakroun | “Did you like the musical texture of the Land Down Under song but wished it were sad Libyan disco instead? Well have I got the album for you.” Seriously though, Njoom Al Leyel is probably the most gorgeous song in existence

November | Patience by Mannequin Pussy | All the feels of the Joan of Arc/Kinsella bros Philly emo scene; rad female vocalist and one of the last live shows I saw before the shutdown

December | Devil is Fine by Zeal & Ardor | High concept music project mixing American Black folk with black metal; totally delivers on the premise

2020 New Music

January | Jaago by Lifafa | Vernacular electronic music project of Suryakant Sawhney; chill vibes and gorgeous lyrics

February | On by Altın Gün | The 70s psychedelic revival in Turkish rock music right now is my jam, and I’d be wearing lines in the vinyl if I had a physical copy of this album (waiting til next Bandcamp day to order)

March | Grab that Gun by the Organ | This album fell neatly into my life from the first driving bass line. Dunno how I missed it when it came out. Equal thirds Screaming Females, Joy Division, and it’s own dang thing

April | Dust by I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness | The dark indie pop post rock of your dreams

May | Savage Times by Hanni El Khatib | Come for the punk bangers, stay for the disco tear-jerkers. Hanni El Khatib delivers again

June | Antiphon by Alpha Mist | My cousin rec’d Kamasi Washington and I realized I was woefully illiterate in modern jazz. Very chill jazz sophisticated through the lens of hip-hop; echoings of J Dilla

July | Windflower by Herb Ellis & Remo Palmier | Jazz guitar album from the late 70s I’d never heard; melodic and exuding the feelings of death and renewal that come with spring

August | Space Echo: The Mystery Behind the Cosmic Sound of Cabo Verde Finally Revealed! by Various (collected by Analog Africa) | So much good 70s electronica from Africa, and this is a fantastic compilation of different artists with a very insane backstory

September | Drowner’s Wives by Monte Luna | Old school garage heavy feeling; just some good dark psych metal

October | Conference of the Birds by OM | Not my favorite OM album but one I’d never gotten to hear before and perfectly emblematic of why I fucking love them. Search the reddit thread of stoned grad students pouring over the lyrics to add the cherry on top

November | The June Frost by Mournful Congregation | Textured metal outfit from Australia with the range of black metal but the tone of doom

December | Life Metal by Sun O))) | As someone put it recently, this album is the soundtrack to the big bang. Monoliths & Dimensions always overshadowed it before, but after really giving it the time of day I say why pit two kings against each other. I think actually they were talking about M&D with that quote. Y’all ever been sent that meme with Sunn O))) and a vacuum cleaner that’s all “where’s the difference?” Not to take the funny seriously, but the difference is my cats lose their g-damn minds when the vacuum is on but absolutely vibe when Sunn O))) blasts through the airwaves -- which, luckily for them, is much more often than when I vacuum

2021 New Music

January | Liberty Bell by DARKSIDE | Dark electrowave - not a genre of music I generally flock to but I could and have listened to this song on repeat for days

February | What’s Your Pleasure by Jessie Ware | 2021 is about trying to branch out more, and I also don’t usually gravitate toward pop... but you give me a new disco record titled from a Hellraiser quote and I’ll fucking stan

March | Veils of Winter by Blackwater Holylight | ‘Motorcycle’ starts out doom, then gets stoner psych, then goes full dark hippy butt rock guitar riff with dreamy vocal goodness. The rest of the album loses the butt rock but you bet your butts my neighbors are tired of hearing it

April | Celestial by ISIS | A standby of post-metal glory that I’d never really heard in its entirety til now. ‘C.F.T’ is my favorite, but as an avid Earth fan it’s the easy choice. Perfect soundtrack to the warming spring nights, which in the words of a dear friend, are ‘for acid and metal’

---

Ask box is always open if anyone’s got some good jams they want to share my way. Love y’all

[codename-adler]

foxes + onesies (9/9)

based off of that one post i saw and don’t remember, where people once caught Allison wandering around Fox Tower in a giraffe onesie, and i absolutely melted for her. here is the Foxes’ journey to getting a onesie each!

Kevin

every Fox has bad days

some bad days begin with a specific feeling

when Andrew feels ghost hands as he wakes up, when he feels his body too tight for his bones, or hid bones too big for his body

when Neil feels every sound like a knife to his skin, when the scars on his face feel like phantom pains, when he feels a grown man moves too fast, too close to him

when Allison feels jeans cling too much to her thighs, when her shirt brushes too much on her abdomen, when she feels the food she ate resting in her stomach

some bad days begin with a specific date

when it’s the anniversary of Tilda’s death, and Aaron cannot be in the same room as Andrew, no matter how far they’ve come

when it’s the anniversary the Boyds’ divorce, and Matt can’t leave Dan’s side for one second, no matter how strong their relationship is

when it’s the anniversary of Mary’s death, of Evermore, of Nathaniel’s last birthday, of Baltimore, and Neil can’t take a single look at himself in the mirror, no matter how many times Andrew worships his face with his mouth and his fingers

or, when it’s the anniversary of Kayleigh Day’s death, and nobody remembers, not even Wymack, and Kevin is all alone with this grief that is other, unlike any other he carries everyday, unlike anything he can compare to, and he doesn’t know how to feel anymore

Kevin vividly remembers that day, and he sees it luring around the corner as August approaches

but this time, there is no more Riko to worry about, no more mafia to be scared of, no more Ravens to antagonize him, no more Master to punish him for even attempting to grieve every year

and no more alcohol to make him forget

Kevin quit drinking the day they won championship, they day Riko was killed died

it’s been a year and a half, now, and Kevin still wants to drink the minute things get hard mentally

(it’s also been a year and a half since the Foxes started getting onesies, but it doesn’t feel like it’s been that long, and only Allison remembers that summer where it all started)

so when Kevin enters his bad days, his bad weeks, the Foxes are used to his mood swinging back and forth between Queen of Assholery and Feral Fox

but Kevin isn’t

he isn’t used to feeling all of this, to always think, and think, and think, until everything inside his head is as loud as the outside, until it’s all too much

yet he’s still expected to go on

still supposed to function, to perform, to be a decent human being when he’s not even sure he even feels human anymore

and so when Kevin snaps, the Foxes are supposed to be used to it

they’re not

nobody is

it’s summer practice

the 9 Foxes came in early, before the two new recruits arrive

Kevin is in the middle of yelling at Neil, who is very much yelling back at him

there’s that moment very full of testosterone where each of them throw away their gloves and helmets and sticks

they’re an inch from each other’s face and then Kevin suddenly… stops

he completely stops

his face goes blank, his feet move him back, his arms go slack

he looks at Neil, and he looks, and looks, and looks…

as if he could find an answer to a question he doesn’t know he’s asking

Neil, who has never learned to watch his mouth after all the trouble it got him into, keeps tearing into Kevin

Kevin keeps backing up and Neil keeps pushing further

but apart from his backwards movement, Kevin doesn’t react

pure apathy doesn’t suit him nearly as well as it did Andrew

the other Foxes are so silent, that between two of Neil’s breaths, they can all hear him whisper

“Stop.”

but Neil doesn’t hear him, or doesn’t want to

it gets so out of control, even Wymack has to step in, on the court, when he sees Kevin so unresponsive

it gets so bad, eventually Neil, too, stops his yelling and just looks at Kevin

and he looks, and looks, and looks…

as if he could understand the question Kevin is asking an answer for with his pleading, green eyes

“Stop… Just- stop. I can’t- anymore… “

Kevin shakes his head and looks at the floor as hatred and hurt grip his guts

he takes another step back

suddenly he jerks his head back up and looks at Neil

“I hate you. God, I hate all of you.”

he looks at all his Foxes

then leaves

Kevin Day leaves the court

behind his back, he doesn’t see Matt holding back a furious yet teary-eyed Dan

he doesn’t see Renee leaving her goal to join Andrew’s side, her big racquet blocking his way

he doesn’t see Nicky putting his hand on Neil’s shoulder, squeezing in empathy

he doesn’t see Allison throwing away her racquet against the plexiglass wall with all that she’s got, fuming and hiding her tears

he doesn’t see Wymack matching over to Neil, a whole speech ready to give Neil his piece of mind

and he certainly doesn’t see Aaron collapsing to the ground, his hands holding his head and gripping his hair, his breaths shallow, his jaw clenched shut, his eyes dry yet red-rimmed

but from behind Kevin’s back, none of them see him either

they can’t see him losing his breath as he starts running away

they can’t see him clenching and unclenching his left hand

and they certainly can’t see him crying

the week that follows is undeniably tense between all the Foxes

that week also coincides with a lot of events

there’s the new Foxes’ arrival

there’s the start of classes

there’s the mandatory psych session with Betsy before Exy season starts

and there’s August 27th

Mom’s accident

Kevin remembers the day vividly, he truly does

he remembers because the week of the accident, he was supposed to start school for the first time, on September 1st

he had picked his outfit for the first day, he had new red Exy-themed shoes, he had even planned the lunch he wanted to have that day in his lunchbox (spaghetti squash casserole. yeah, weird kid.)

on August 27th, Mom didn’t come home

on August 27th, he went to the Moriyama property

on August 27th, he settled into a weirdly well-accommodated room that fit both him and Riko

on September 1st, he woke up with Riko and they prepared for their first day

on September 1st, Kevin wore his planned outfit, put on his red shoes

on September 1st, Kevin did not have spaghetti squash casserole

she left him nothing but an aversion for squash, red shoes, and Exy

which brings us as to why, on August 27th, as all the team is mandated to talk an hour with Betsy Dobson, Kevin Day volunteers to go first (with Aaron volunteering to go second and be the designated driver for the pair)

none of the Foxes have really talked to Kevin since the previous week’s outburst

Kevin has no other outlet for this painful day

it’s either talk to Betsy, or ruin 496 days of sobriety with one vodka bottle

the only words exchanged between Kevin and Aaron, on the drive to Reddin Medical Center, are, surprisingly, from Kevin

“Somebody should get you a new goddamn car.”

he doesn’t elaborate further than that, but Aaron looks at him strangely

his car really is garbage, though

once arrived at their destination, Kevin doesn’t wait for Aaron and bursts in Betsy’s office without warning

it takes at least half an hour of Betsy talking before Kevin gives up his silence

everything was already there, he just had to open his mouth and let his words fall

Kevin: I’ve been sober for 496 days. I’ve been thinking about my Mom’s anniversary for the past few weeks. That’s today, now. And last Friday, I told Neil, then the whole team, that I hated them. Care to unpack that for me?

Betsy: I can help you sort some things out, of course, Kevin. But this is your baggage. I’m afraid I can’t do this without your help. Why don’t you tell me more about this hatred you feel towards your teammates?

Kevin: I dont. Hate them. I don’t… I hate what they do to me. How they treat me. Their double standards. How they forget, how they dismiss. Mind you, I’m well aware of my asshole status. I know I am. But them… they’re… they’re mean. Vicious. They cut and stab and don’t care about what’s underneath. They don’t care that I helped them get the title of Champions. They don’t care that I was there every step of the way, that I was right there beside them when we played the Ravens, when we won. They don’t care that Riko died, that he once broke my hand, that I was legally kidnapped, that I went through hell and still lived to walk on my own two feet. They don’t care that I, too, once had a mom. They don’t care that my Mom died. They don’t care. To them, I’m still just a cunt. It’s unbearable. They don’t give a shit and I’m so, so tired, Betsy. I’m not asking for much. I just want… I want- I want them to let me breathe. I want them to realize that, I’m just like them. I’m a Fox. I’m a Fox as much as they are. I wake up everyday, and feel all this weight on my shoulders, in my stomach, on my heart, but I carry on anyways, and I don’t know why, but I do, just like them. Is that so hard to grasp? Is that so hard to accept? What am I doing wrong, Betsy?

Betsy: Oh, Kevin…

the rest of the session passes in a blur

Kevin talks about how every time he takes a photograph, he thinks of Kayleigh, of how brightly she smiles in all the photos Wymack has of her, of how he wishes he could take pictures of her with his own camera

Kevin talks about how every strong woman in the Irish folklore he reads about wears Kayleigh’s face

Kevin talks about how he thought Thea had been a bit like her, and how, in the end, she hadn’t been at all, she was her own woman, a woman he didn’t know and didn’t love, and how he thought he had lost a bit of Kayleigh again when they separated

Kevin talks

he talks

and Betsy listens

when his time is up, Kevin’s voice is hoarse with exhaustion and sadness

he lets Aaron in as he decides to take a run back to Fox Tower

his mind tries to guilt him into going back to the court, but between facing the Foxes after that and isolating himself in his dorm, Kevin knows what’s best for him

he is only disturbed in the late evening, when Wymack enters the dorm

even Neil, Andrew and Nicky hadn’t come back yet

Kevin knows something is wrong

Wymack isn’t supposed to be here

Wymack: Day… Listen, son.

Kevin sits up on his bed

Wymack: Argh, I’ll cut the bullshit. It’s Abby. There’s been an accident. Her car’s fucking scrap metal now. She was brought to the hospital 45 minutes ago, I just got the call. She’s going into surgery. We’ll all visit her in the morning.

Not again

Not Abby

What the fuck is this life?

Wymack: Number Seven wants to see you now. Don’t ask me why, I don’t wanna know. I’ll let her in, don’t make me regret this. Sleep good, son. I’ll see you tomorrow.

he opens the door, takes one last look at Kevin’s tense form, and leaves as Allison comes in

she’s wearing her giraffe onesie tied at the waist, with an oversized WALKER 09 t-shirt

she stands in front of Kevin until he looks up at her

Allison: Scoot over. We’re watching The Crown.

and Kevin, dumbfounded, lets her and moves

he finds himself quite intrigued by the storyline, enough to only worry about Abby with his fingers, fiddling with one of the giraffe’s horns

after the third or fourth episode, Allison starts to talk, eyeing Kevin’s fingers playing with her onesie

Allison: Wanna know the latest gossip? Even Andrew has a onesie, now. God, I can’t believe this is a sentence that exists. Andrew Minyard owns a fucking onesie. Do you know what that makes you?

Kevin stays silent, eyes fixed somewhere not quite on Ally’s laptop screen

Allison: That makes you the only Fox without one.

Kevin: Oh, so now I’m a Fox? Didn’t seem that way earlier. Or, like, ever.

the dealer chooses her next words very carefully

Allison: Just because we hadn’t seen it yet, just because we were too busy stuffing our heads up our asses, doesn’t mean you weren’t a Fox… I know, I know. Hard to feel like one when the others give you shit non-stop. Been there, done that. And now I’ve done it to you, too, and I’m… Sorry. We’re dysfunctional, there’s no changing that. But- We can do better. We’ll try, promise. I think you’ve made quite an impression on Betsy today, ‘cause we all received a good talk from her during our sessions. I mean, don’t expect Andrew running in to apologize, but, you know… Something about Betsy turning severe makes you re-evaluate your life choices. We’ll do better, Day.

Kevin looks at her, then

really looks at her

and nods

yet just as he turns his attention back to the screen, Allison leaves the Netflix page and googles “onesie adult”

Kevin: Oh, no. Absolutely not. Nope.

Allison: Oh, yes, yes, yessss!

but then, of course, there’s a knock at the door, and Allison gets up, opens the door, lets the person in, whispers something, and leaves

just like that

and oh

It’s Aaron

Aaron: So… Allison tells me you’re finally getting yourself one of those stupid pajamas too?

Kevin: I am not. What are you doing here anyway? The others will be back soon, I assume.

Aaron: Well, it’s my shift…

Kevin: Your what now?

Aaron: No, it’s not like that! We just… We thought you’d want some space because of… today… But then Abby… We didn’t want you to be alone.

Kevin: Really. Who’s “we”?

Aaron: The proud Palmetto State Foxes’ Exy team. All of them. You know, Dan, Matt, Renee, Allison, Andrew and Neil, Nicky… Me.

once again, Kevin can’t help but stare, deeply surprised

Aaron: Andrew and the others will be back for the whole night, but for now, it’s my turn. I wanted to take the first “watch”, but Allison said she had business to do with you. And I’m not getting in the way of that woman.

Kevin honest-to-God snorts

Kevin: If by “business” she meant bullying me into buying this onesie shit, then you should have gotten in her way. I’m not doing that. It’s fucking dumb.

Aaron: Hey!

Kevin: Aaron Minyard, don’t tell me you’ve participated in this madness…

Aaron: So what if I have? It wasn’t exactly on purpose, but I got one. And you don’t. So really, who’s dumb here?

Kevin: What is it??

Aaron: Not telling you.

Kevin: C’mon…

Aaron: Nope. You can’t bribe me. I’m not telling you shit. However, what I can telling you, is that it feels kinda wrong that we all have a pajama and you don’t…

Kevin: Oh my God, fine! What did the others get?

Aaron: Well, besides Ally’s giraffe, we got a tiger, a dinosaur, a teddy bear, you’ve seen Nicky’s unicorn nonsense, and I’m not quite sure about Andrew’s… Oh, and Neil’s is a fox, obviously. That predictable dumbass.

Kevin: Okay, well, I want a fox too.

Aaron: No, Kevin, you can’t.

Kevin: What? Why not!?

Aaron: Because. Neil’s already got a fox. Do you want to be a copycat AND a predictable dumbass?

and so until 1 AM, Kevin and Aaron bicker about each of Kevin’s suggestions (a Palmetto Foxes onesie, a USC Trojans onesie, an Irish-themed onesie, a white fox onesie, a gray fox onesie, and so on…)

when Andrew, Neil and Nicky come back into the dorm, Kevin’s almost laid all the way down on his bed, his head resting on Aaron’s elbow, as Aaron is sitting right next to him, laptop propped on a pillow and his fingers scrolling away

Aaron looks at Andrew, sighs, and looks at Kevin

they nod to each other, before Aaron gets up to go back to his dorm

Kevin sits up correctly when Aaaron is gone and Andrew approaches

Kevin pretends not to notice and googles one more idea, “brown fox onesie”

as he scrolls down and down and down, Andrew looks over his shoulder

and points at one picture

Andrew: That one. Now go to bed. We’re getting up at ass-o’clock tomorrow.

for the third time this evening, Kevin is shocked

he does look at Andrew’s pick attentively, though, and decides to go with it

that night, even if images of Abby covered in blood plague him for at least an hour, Kevin falls asleep to the memory of Aaron’s skin against his cheek, which somehow translates into dreams of Kayleigh resting both her hands on his cheeks as they sit in a field of wildflowers

a couple of weeks later, Kevin doesn’t tell the team his onesie has arrived

but he is forced to admit it when, for Halloween, they organize a huge party for themselves only, where they decided to wear their pajamas as costumes for the night

Kevin feels so stupid in his outfit

he even had to buy a LARGE because he’s so fucking tall

but it still feels… comfy… warm… not so bad…

maybe this can work for him…

it’s only when he steps into the girls’ living room that a problem arises

Aaron: What the fuck is this.

Kevin: Hum… A brown fox? Technically, Neil’s is orange, so you can’t shit on me!

Aaron: That- That’s not a fox, Kevin! What the fuck.

Kevin: Okay, well what are you then?? A mutant mouse?

Aaron: What are you- Oh my God, you don’t know what Pokemons are.

with that, Aaron turns around and yells for his twin

Aaron: ANDREW JOSEPH FUCKING MINYARD. YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE, DIDN’T YOU? YOU BASTARD.

he storms off yelling

Kevin only reunites with Aaron at the end of the night, on the girls’ balcony, both sober

Kevin: You know, for someone who pushed me so much to do this stupid thing, you’re not being very nice about it. I know you wanted me to be “original” or whatever, but it’s not like I look like Neil! Why are you so upset?

Aaron: Kevin. It’s not a fox.

Kevin: Oh for God sake’s Aaron, you-

Aaron: It’s a Pokemon, Kevin. They’re like little monsters, kind of, and it’s a videogame, but there’s anime, manga, and collectible cards and… I used to- I used to collect those. Before. I lost them, now, but see this? This is one of them. It’s the main Pokemon, actually. His name’s Pikachu.

Kevin: Okay… Who am I, then?

Aaron: You… You’re Eevee.

Kevin: And what’s “Eevee”…?

Aaron: Pikachu’s girlfriend.

and oh.

Oh.

Kevin: Andrew didn’t tell me… The little fucker. I thought- Sorry. I didn’t mean to be another pawn in one of Andrew’s little games. Why did he do that to you?

Aaron: I think you know why.

Kevin looked at Aaron

Aaron looked at Kevin

Kevin: Fuck.

Aaron: Yeah, that.

Kevin: What?

Aaron: Nothing!

Kevin: Aaron.

Aaron: Kevin.

Kevin slowly invaded Aaron’s space until his back touched the railing, and placed one hand on each side of the backliner

Aaron looked up at Kevin

Kevin looked down at Aaron

Kevin: Okay?

Aaron: Okay.

and Kevin grabbed Aaaron by the hoodie of his pajama, and pulled him close, closer, closer, closer, until their lips met, at last

it was a long-awaited kiss, a careful kiss, a kiss of home and yes and oh and warmth and safe

Kevin reluctantly pulled away and rested his forehead on top of Aaron’s, knowing they have very little time before the other Foxes found them snogging on the balcony like a goddamn cliché

Kevin: Aaron.

Aaron: Kevin.

Kevin: I’m gonna ask you something stupid, and you can’t punch me for it, okay?

Aaron: Fine, okay.

Kevin: Do you want to be the Pikachu… to my Eevee?

Aaron: YOU FUCKING MORON!

and with that, Kevin burst out laughing, as if the Foxes’ attention wasn’t already on them the second Aaron started yelling

Allison and Matt knowingly started whooping with their beers raised for a toast

Dan was facepalming hard, shaking her head, but smiling nonetheless

Renee smiled her genuine, angelic smile while clapping Nicky on the back as he choked on his drink

Neil, arms crossed, watched the scene unfold with contentment

and Andrew. Andrew had no reaction at all. at all.

he was looking at his nails, no knife in sight, no fucks given

which, in Andrew’s language, meant everything

and so that October 31st was one for the books, the books about the good days, the good feelings, the good memories

because the Foxes had those, too

Kevin Day had good days

Aaron Minyard had good days

Allison Reynolds and Renee Walker had good days

Dan Wilds and Matt Boyd had good days

Nicky Hemmick had good days

Neil Josten had good days

even Andrew Minyard had good days

God knows they deserve them

these onesies, as silly, as stupid, as corny, as childish as they may be, were a proof of that

a proof that the Palmetto State Foxes could be better, could do better, and could get better

[nightshade-minho]

-Blue Book- (8)

Warnings: hoo boi.

Word Count: 2k 

"Y/n?" Chan gently shook your shoulder. "Come on baby, you've got to wake up."

You peeled your eyes open, cheeks flushing as you noticed how close Chan's face was to yours.

"Good, you're awake. Listen...I've got to go to the airport and pick up my parents, and your mom was blowing up your phone just a few minutes ago." The corner of his lips twitched in amusement as your phone started vibrating. "Well, there she goes again. Sounds important, you should answer." He straightened up, handing you your phone and heading to the kitchen. "I’ll be making breakfast."

You smiled as he left, expression dropping as you answered your phone.

"Yes, mom...?"

"Oh! My baby! Thank god you answered, finally...I'm so sorry about last night, darling..."

"It's oka-"

"No it wasn't! I'm a terrible mother. I'm sorry, it's just, he was so hot, and I was super intoxicated. We're going to go on a second date! Whose place did you stay at, by the way? A boy answered the phone earlier." She asked, her tone dripping with suggestiveness. You could almost see her wiggling her eyebrows.

"Ew, gross, mom! He's just a friend." You said as Chan came back into the room with a plate of waffles, raising an eyebrow.

"Sure, darling, whatever you say. Although I'm certainly not opposed to you getting laid, it was long overdue anyw-"

"Haha okay, bye mom!" You cut the call, shuddering as Chan giggled, passing you the plate.

"Just a friend? Do friends kiss each other the way we did last night?"

"Shut up." You smiled, digging into your waffles.

***

You watched Chan's car leave as he left for the airport, standing there until he became a speck in the distance before turning around to enter your house.

You found your mom sitting on the couch...but this time, she wasn't passed out with drool running down her chin and clutching a bottle of beer- she was sitting with an odd sense of poise, wearing a pretty summer dress and a huge smile.

"Y/n! You're home! How was your night?" She grinned, winking. You narrowed your eyes, her cheerfulness catching you off guard. Your gaze drifted to the table, on which rested some plates and two empty wine glasses.

"Nowhere near as good as yours." You said pointedly, tearing your gaze away from the table as you moved to go upstairs.

Flopping on your bed, you scrolled through your text messages. Nothing new from Chan. You sighed, reminding yourself that there was probably no Wi-Fi at the airport.

Suddenly your phone dinged with a new text message. Oh. A response to your tutor ad. You'd put it up a long while ago and had honestly forgotten all about it. Well, you definitely needed the extra money. You replied affirmatively to the text and tossed your phone next to you on the mattress.

***

It had been a while since Chan had had dinner with the boys. The conversation was light, and he had missed his friends..however he found himself missing you more, despite having seen you that morning.

"Minho, I don't know how you get away with making out with her in the hallway. I can barely hold hands with my girlfriend without some teacher giving us detention-"

Chan looked up as Felix shoved Changbin's arm, making him stop mid-sentence. Changbin raised an eyebrow, realization dawning on him.

"Ah sorry, Chan. I didn't mean to rub it in."

"Seriously, though." Jisung rolled his eyes. "It's been weeks, and you aren't any closer to getting that book. I hate to say it bro, but I don't think Miyoung would want to be with you even if Minho breaks up with her."

Hyunjin nodded, glancing up from his phone. "I've noticed her and Y/n are really buddying it up. It's girl code not to date your friend's ex."

"Of course, you're the expert on girl code, Hyunjin."

A small squabble broke out and Chan wanted to slither onto the floor and just...stay there. He glared at his plate, deciding he’d had enough.

"Stop it!”

Jisung and Hyunjin stopped talking, staring at Chan in surprise.

"I will get that book soon. I love Miyoung, and I'll make sure she's mine, through any means possible. I don’t care about your opinions, so you guys can just shut the fuck up." He hated lying through his teeth, but there was no way he was going to tell these judgmental burdens he called his friends that he loved you- at least not yet.

Chan relished the silence as he continued eating, trying his best to ignore Minho's burning, inquisitive gaze directed right at him.

***

You sat in bed, clutching your blue book as you tapped your pencil, your head filled with thoughts of Chan. In all your 17 years of life, you'd never known what love felt like...but now you did. And as a result, you were completely consumed with the burning need to tell Chan exactly how you felt.

When you'd moved to this town, you really hadn't expected for it to one day feel like home. But it did, and you were sure it was all because of Chan. His presence somehow made you feel safe, and protected, and you hadn't felt this secure since your dad left you.

You wanted- no, you needed to know if Chan felt the same way about you. You pushed the self-doubt deep inside as you imagined telling him.

You turned red just thinking about it. Fuck it, you were too shy. You'd be a blubbering mess two words in.

Sighing, you looked back down at your book...when an idea struck in your head.

Uncapping your pen with your teeth, you placed the nib on the paper and inhaled, letting all your feelings flow out onto the page. It felt kind of cliché, writing a love letter like this, but you always did have a tendency to over-romanticize everything.

Besides; it was more of a love poem. Gah, was that worse? You hoped to god he wouldn't find it cheesy, especially since you'd bared your heart to him with these words. As you finished, your eyes ran over the last sentence. 

"If you feel the same, please meet me behind the tree near the lake, where we had our first conversation, and where I started falling for you."

You shut the book and placed it on your bedside table, flicking the lamp off and rolling over. You nuzzled your pillow, your mind drifting to last night, the memory of Chan's lips and body pressed against yours still fresh.

***

It was a bit early to be having an ice cream date, but neither of you could honestly care less. As soon as you'd woken up in the morning, Chan had texted you to meet him at the ice cream parlour near his house.

"I can't believe you like salted caramel. Its such an old person flavor." He laughed, staring at you fondly.

"Like mint chocolate is any better." You rolled your eyes.

"Fine fine, let's just accept we have different tastes in ice cream."

You smiled. "That I can get on board with."

There was a comfortable silence as the two of you ate. You glanced up from time to time, your heart pounding as you psyched yourself up. Come on, this was the moment. You can do it, Y/n.

"Hey, Chan...?"

"Mm?" He asked, pausing with the spoon halfway to his mouth.

"Uh...are you free tonight?"

"Tonight? Oh, I'm playing soccer with the guys. You could come watch, though."

"Oh no, I have a tutoring appointment in the evening." You muttered.

Chan quirked his eyebrow. "Why'd you ask in the first place, then?"

"Uh, I just wanted to know. I mean-" You groaned, letting out an exasperated sigh. Bending down, you grabbed your bag from the floor and put it on your lap.

Confused, Chan watched as you pulled out your book, the book, swallowing. Slowly, you slid it over to him.

"I...what's this?" Chan asked as nonchalantly as he could, running a hand through his hair.

"It's...kind of my diary. I just-" you inhaled. "Look, I've bookmarked a page. When you go home- and please don't open it before then- read what I've written." You gulped, as Chan didn't make any move to take the book.

"Look, Y/n, I-"

"Please, just take it. Don't ask any questions." You looked down, trying to hide your flushed cheeks, trying to calm the beating of your heart.

Chan sighed, fingers reaching out and slowly curling over the book as he took it into his hands, tucking it into his pocket as you let yourself smile.

"Thank you."

***

Huh. This was definitely not what you'd been expecting. The house was a lot smaller than you'd imagined it to be, especially knowing how much you were charging.

You breathed in and came forward, knocking on the door and waiting. A few minutes later, a young girl opened it.

"Hi! Are you Dea?"

"How do you know that?" She asks, scrunching her nose, her hand gripping the handle tightly. "Mom says not to talk to strangers."

You shook your head quickly before she could close the door. "Sweetheart, I'm your tutor."

"Prove it."

You sighed, straightening and looking past her. "Is your mom here?"

The girl paused for a second before shaking her head, moving to slam the door closed, when a woman showed up from behind the corner.

"Oh good, it's the tutor!" The woman placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder, smiling at you. "Come in, Y/n. I've actually got someplace to be, but I'll be back in two hours. I assume you'll be done by then?"

"Yeah, most probably." You smiled and let her take you in, leading you to Dea's bedroom. The girl herself followed cautiously, and you found yourself a little amused.

"Right, this is her desk." The mom ran a hand through her hair, gesturing to the table. She glanced at her watch and swore, shooting you an apologetic glance.

"In sorry Y/n, I've got to get going soon- please focus on her maths, it's really bad. We'll discuss your fees and other logistics when I get back, okay?" She smiled at you, waving at her daughter before hurrying out the door.

You watched her leave, frowning slowly as she walked away. Something was niggling away at the back of your mind. Why did she look so familiar?

Turning back to the girl, you sighed inwardly at her knitted eyebrows and scowl. She was avoiding your stare, fiddling with her pencil and muttering under her breath.

This was going to be tough.

***

Minho sighed, watching Miyoung wave from the bleachers. Fuck, it was like she was physically incapable of giving him some fucking space.

He glanced over to Chan, clad in his uniform as he chugged water from the bottle Felix handed to him. When was this asshole going to get that fucking book? He couldn't stand having to date Miyoung any longer.

As the girl blew him an exaggerated kiss, Minho decided he had had enough. Needing to be alone, he turned around and went to the locker room. Just a moment to breathe, that was all he was asking for.

As Minho entered the cool, air-conditioned locker room, he let out a sigh of relief. He went over to sit one of the benches, planning to rest in solitude for just a few minutes... until he noticed Chan's clothing lying on one.

His shirt and jeans were carelessly strewn on the seat, and Minho narrowed his eyes as a flash of blue caught his eye, almost immediately.

Peeking out from the pocket was a very familiar looking little blue book.

He came closer, slowly pulling the book out and inspecting it. Could it be? The bastard had your book all along? Opening it, he flipped through the pages with a smirk slowly growing on his face. Yup, it was yours.

It was like the gods were smiling down on him, finally.

[acid-hydrangea]

Three Years in Heaven

A few small glimpses at the winding, unending days of a certain boy.

(Includes post-story spoilers for both TWEWY games in their entireties, as this takes place between both periods.)

(AO3 Crosspost)

Night 1

It's dark.

So dark, he can hardly see his own hand in front of him.

He feels something.

Not by touch, no.

Someone silent

Yet that presence, their aura

It's so familiar,

It speaks one thousand words,

Nondescript, vague and cluttered,

Looping, repeating, silently, yet loudly,

Except for a few that ring out,

"How was your first Day back in the Underground, Neku?"

"... Josh?!"

Neku’s first cry, it's full of relief, shock, words caught in his throat finally let out of the cage in his throat,

"Josh... You..."

His voice rises, he clenches his fist, he's finally back on his two feet,

"Where the hell am I?! Why am I back in the UG again?! Did you..."

Neku crumbles, just a bit, hand over his chest, where his non-beating heart is,

"For the third time..."

"Did I kill you? Well, isn't that the question of the decade."

Neku yells once more, wishing for nothing more than to be heard, and for once, to have his questions answered,

"Don't fucking screw with me! Just give me an answer...!"

He seriously feels like he's at his last straw. Joshua's unconcerned nonchalance was going to be the death of him.

"... What a way to thank your savior." Joshua pouts. "That twisted Reaper had excruciating plans for you, you know."

"... Huh? That Reaper... Coco? What about her?"

"She killed you, sought to drag you to the Underground once more, to..."

Joshua held his arms out, gesturing to the absolute nothingness that surrounded them,

"Save the lost city of Shinjuku."

Neku doesn't even have time to process the fact that Coco killed him. It's not information he wanted to digest, right now.

"This is... Shinjuku? What the hell happened??"

"An Inversion." Joshua states, rather matter-of-factly.

Neku stutters, thoroughly confused. "A what, now...?"

"It's when the RG and UG collapse into each other, and cease to function entirely." Joshua sighs, twirling his hair curl between his fingers. "Much like if you were being choked. Your throat closes up, and you'd stop breathing. If prolonged, you could pass out, or die. It's like that, Neku."

Neku instinctively backed away, holding his hands over his neck, as if fearing Joshua would try to demonstrate.

It didn't help that Joshua was wearing the smallest of twisted smirks during the latter half of his explanation.

Perhaps Joshua just enjoys morbid discussions. That's none of Neku's business.

Joshua rolls his eyes, as if put off by how scared Neku is.

"... You should feel grateful I saved you, for the record. The job I have in store for you is a lot less painful."

Neku was still on the defensive. "...Oh, yeah? And what would that be?"

"To discover the very reason why an Inversion took place here."

"...You wanna tell me more, Private Dick Extraordinaire?"

"If I had more to say, I would have told you."

"I don't buy it."

"Well, isn't that a shame... Because you can't leave until you've figured it out."

If Neku addresses that, he knows he won't get meaningful answers. He doesn't even know if Joshua will stick around for long. He chooses his words carefully...

"I've seen what's left of Shinjuku. There's nothing here. How do you expect me to find any--"

"Make it work, Neku. We haven't got all day. How about you try to listen more closely?"

And just like that, the second Day begins.

Neku decides it's another day of endless wandering, once more, trying to listen to the absolute silence that he now knows is Shinjuku, Post-Inversion.

Night 7

It's been a whole week. 7 Days.

Joshua has yet to make another appearance, ever since that first Night.

Very little has changed, but Neku's grown a bit smarter. Learned a little more. Opening his mind to Shinjuku, bit by bit.

As his eyes close and the current Day ends, he has a familiar feeling he knows who to expect.

Joshua slowly claps, "I must say, you've really outdone yourself, Neku."

"Put a sock in it..." Neku crosses his arms. "I've barely picked up on anything."

"Care to share your discoveries with your beloved Partner?"

"What, you can't look around yourself?"

"I cannot so freely come and go from Shibuya like you, Neku." The look in Joshua's eyes turns a bit serious. "Even I have my harrowing responsibilities."

"... Is something happening in Shibuya?"

"Nothing for you to worry yourself over."

"Is something happening in Shibuya, or not?!" Neku steps towards him, three seconds away from grabbing the collar of his shirt, "Just because I'm not there doesn't mean I can't worry." There's a mix of anger and concern in Neku's tired eyes.

"How about an exchange of information, then?" Joshua twirls his pointed finger at Neku, pushing him out of his personal bubble. "Starting with that briefing you keep putting off."

"... Fine." Neku rubs the back of his head. "Like I said, it's barely anything... But I don't think the people of Shinjuku knew it was coming. It was like it surprised them all at once."

Joshua tilts his head. "... And?"

"That's it. I told you it wasn't much..." Neku reiterates, sincerely hoping Joshua doesn’t ask him for something he doesn’t have.

"No, I think..." Joshua rubs his chin, pondering. "That's enough, for now."

"Tell me about Shibuya, then. What's happening?"

"A handful of Shinjuku Reapers are taking refuge there. Our current Game Master has decided to allow them that mercy."

"... You seem bothered by the fact."

"My, my, you're getting much better at reading people, too." Joshua shoots him his trademark grin. "I have my suspicions that they partook in enacting their own city's downfall."

"Huh...?" Neku's bewilderment was apparent on his face. "Why would they want to tear down their own city?"

"Like I said, it's just a thought. How could it be that they are the only survivors, after all?"

Neku, too, began pondering this... Not that he really knew, though. This is Joshua he's talking to. Those Shinjuku Reapers could be totally innocent, and Neku wouldn't know,

“You’re the Composer, aren’t you? Why not kick them out if they pose a threat?” Despite his own thoughts, Neku figured Joshua would’ve taken more precaution--

“It’d be dangerous to let them out of my sight if they are responsible.”

Frankly, Neku had no argument against that. Joshua was right. Even so...

Neku's voice goes a bit quiet. "... Maybe something else caused the Inversion, though..."

"Hm, you think so?" Joshua snaps his fingers. "Go on, uncover more proof to back that theory up, then."

Neku's eyes shot open to the same, dreary sights as always.

It's sudden, but the eighth Day has begun.

Night 8

Neku had a very rare, very special, very horrific encounter against Noise.

He wasn't exactly prepared for a fight, but...

He had a few Pins on hand, luckily, it was enough to take it out.

He was surprised his psyches work as well as they do, given he's on his own. That's the least of his concerns right now, though.

Larger than most, it took all the longer to take down. Its attacks were also far more brutal, leaving every cut burning. After the Noise was felled, Neku felt revitalized,

but no, none of those were the concerning parts to be dealt with.

It almost felt like it was an amalgamation of human Soul and Noise matter that he was fighting.

Their thoughts were loud, so, so loud, forming words, sentences, phrases.

The cries, shouts, and whimpers it exuded all sounded incredibly human.

"No, don't hurt me! I mean no harm!"

"Go away! Get away from me!"

"What did I ever do to you...?"

"What... Where am I... What's happening?!"

"It hurts, it hurts!! Mama!!!"

"What are you doing to him?!"

Yet, they wouldn't stop.

They kept trying to hurt him.

Neku wasn't about to lay his life down, but...

He felt damn close to it.

The revitalizing energy that enveloped him after their defeat, it felt bittersweet.

He falls to his knees, collapsed, exhausted.

There are thoughts lingering, from all that it used to be. They sit there, as if waiting,

But Neku can't muster the will to do anything, right now.

His eyes shut on their own, refusing to perceive himself, or anything around him.

Neku wanted nothing more than to disappear, just like them.

The eighth Day is over.

Joshua looks forward, at the wisps of what once was a catastrophic bundle of Noise,

"Quite the curious entity that was, mm?"

Neku has no words. Nothing to say, to think, to... be.

The vacant, scared expression on his face... Joshua found it interesting, to say the least.

"...You okay, Neku?" Joshua tilts his head, as a few sparks of concern come through his usually sardonic demeanor.

Neku can barely get the words out, but he tries, "No... I'm not, actually." He's on the cusp of tears.

His voice could barely be heard by normal ears, but it's fine, because Joshua can hear him.

He always can.

"... Those thoughts aren't going anywhere," Joshua's tone has turned considerably sympathetic, far more gentle, possibly even genuine, "Let's just wait for a bit."

Joshua sits beside him, now.

Gently placing his hand on Neku's, he can feel it shaking, as it's clenched tight.

Neku feels the strange silence is comforting, simply because Joshua is here.

Neku, deep down, wanted nothing more than the company of someone else.

Especially right now.

Even if it was Joshua’s...

No, not ‘even’... He found comfort in Joshua’s knowing tone, and even in his kind gestures...

No matter how foreign it all was to Neku.

He didn’t feel like questioning it, right now. Joshua was the only other person here, the only one he could talk to.

Neku doesn’t want to take that for granted.

Neku tries to speak, once more, as tears blur his eyes, which he dared to open once more, too weak to look ahead, he stares at the ground below him,

at Joshua's hand, still tenderly holding his own.

"...Josh... Did I...", Neku gulps, trying to release the words tangled in his throat, "Kill those people...?"

"No, you didn't. They were already gone. You gave them mercy, if anything," Joshua brushes his thumb over Neku's hand, speaking calmly. "They can pass on peacefully, now."

"... You mean it...?"

"I do. They even left us their thoughts, it's something that can help us."

"... It can help us...?"

"Of course, Neku," Joshua gently brushes his shoulder against his, "Try to look forward, try to look at them."

As hesitant as he is, he trusts Joshua.

Joshua would take a chance like this to screw with him,

but he figured Joshua still has things for him to do.

And Neku knows he himself can't leave until he's done what he has to.

Whatever ulterior purpose Joshua has, refusing to listen to him would make things drag on.

He wasn't in the mood to deal with Joshua's ire.

... And who knows? Maybe Joshua actually was concerned.

Only if because Joshua wasn't his assailant, this time.

Neku looks forward.

There's naught but glowing wisps, a condensation of people's thoughts lingering in the air.

It almost seemed as though they were waiting.

"Try to read them, Neku." Joshua prompts him. "Read their thoughts, just like you've done before."

Joshua gently lifts his hand from Neku's, from which Neku tries to muster the energy to lift his arm... To try to understand the words waiting for him.

Neku feels weak, he hisses silently from a cut on his arm. It wasn't only because of the battle, no, but he hadn't noticed how tired he'd grown over the past week.

It's not like he was loitering around. He was trying his damndest to figure more information out, and find a way out of Shinjuku.

That last battle really cemented his exhaustion in--

Taking notice, Joshua helps, gently lifting Neku's arm up properly. He takes care to not worsen his injuries,

"There, just like that. Go on, Neku."

And so, Neku does.

Realigning himself with the thoughts before him...

He focuses...

He hears them.

"The pain, it's... Gone..."

"... It's okay now, right?"

"What was I doing before this...? Hmm..."

"That man, wearing a butterfly..."

"He looked vengeful, didn't he?"

"Mama, was there something wrong with him?"

Some of them pay Neku no head, some soon extend a silent thanks his way.

They don't speak to him, but he feels it, just before they all fade away.

A vague sense of gratitude.

Joshua lets go of Neku's arm, and Neku stands back on his own two feet, as does Joshua.

"I'd say that was worth it, no?" Joshua's snide tone returns.

Neku kicks at the ground, "... That battle sucked ass."

"You won though, didn't you?" Joshua winks.

Neku crosses his arms, "So what if I did..." Suddenly, Neku wonders, and his wounded arm falls to his side, being clutched by the other.

That battle... Still did a number on him, physically. It was difficult on all ends.

A concerned expression forms on Neku's face, "...Hey, I won't have to do that again, will I?"

"I can't say. You should prepare yourself for the worst, anyways." There's something different about the way he says that, Neku can't recognize Joshua's tone, but he rolls with it.

Neku is silent, his eyes pointed in Joshua's direction. He has better questions to ask.

"... Why are you here, anyways?"

"Why? Because I'm your Partner, Neku."

"Not what I meant. You're Shibuya's Composer. I didn't think you could do anything outside those boundaries."

Joshua chuckles, hand to hip, "You clearly underestimate my capabilities."

Neku rolls his eyes, "You were the one who said you can't come here yourself. Did you find some loophole?"

Joshua continues, this rare generous mood of his leading him to continue entertaining Neku with answers. "Oh, Neku... Neku, Neku, Neku... You are my loophole."

Neku realizes just how messed up his role as a messenger has become. He tried not to think about it before, because what could he do about it? Regardless, it still bothers him.

Neku sighs, "... You don't plan on letting me take a break, do you?"

Then, Joshua says something, that frankly, Neku didn't expect at all,

"Not my jurisdiction, that's all on you, Neku."

Neku's head is now fully turned towards Joshua, only to be met with his eyes staring back at him.

Neku tilts his head, curious, yet suspicious, "Is it, now?"

Joshua states, rather matter of factly, "You have a lot to learn before you can further deepen your understanding of what happened here."

Joshua grins with his eyes, yet his mischievous demeanor returns.

"By all means, take your time, Partner."

Neku opens his eyes.

It is now Day 9.

He's decided his fate is indeed in his own hands, and no one else's.

Neku spends the day trying to find peace of mind.

Night 21

“You don’t look too hot, Partner. Miss me that much?” Joshua asks.

Neku is silent, a strained expression on his face, eyes shut tight. Unresponsive.

It was like Neku barely heard him.

Joshua groans, wanting some kind of response from Neku. "If I didn't know better, I'd have assumed you went back on all of your changes, as a person. Are you back to hating everyone, Neku?"

Neither Neku nor Joshua look very well for wear, it’s been about two weeks since they last met. They've both been busy.

Neku’s sitting, hands pressed hard to his headphones, as if trying to listen to them like they’re broken conch shells.

Joshua sighs. “... Did you even realize the Day’s ended, Neku?”

Neku opens one eye, sulks, “I’m... Trying to find something...”, before shutting it, again.

Joshua tilts his head, “Would you mind enlightening me on what that is?”

Neku’s voice is quieter than usual, “... Their thoughts became muffled.” as if not wanting to speak over the City’s whispers.

“Hm... Isn’t that quite the predicament.”

Joshua sits in front of Neku, studying his face.

Looking from multiple angles, he notices Neku’s eyebags, seeing that sleep deprivation has set in, despite the mandated time that Days are supposed to end.

Maybe it was just his imagination, but Neku seemed a bit thinner, too. His arms, legs...

He’s definitely run into more Noise battles in the past two weeks, as well. Likely caught off guard for a good handful of them.

Wounds Neku poorly tried to hide and mend were incredibly obvious. A single healing Pin that needs time to reboot can only do so much.

Joshua has a lot on his mind, right now. A lot of priorities.

The Neku before him reminded him strongly of that.

“Maybe I can help. Take your hands off of those precious headphones of yours, Neku.”

Hesitant, yet stuck with no other answers, Neku complies.

“Guess it’s worth a shot, whatever you... Hey, wait--!”

Joshua swiftly robs Neku of his Headphones.

“There. Try it, now.” Joshua grins slightly, patting Neku’s headphones, as if reassuring him of their safety in his hands.

Grumbling, Neku thinks, ‘There’s no way it’s that easy...’

He tries to focus his mind once more, hands hovering over his ears, where his headphones used to be.

... He begins to hear things he once couldn’t.

His strained expression ebbs away slowly.

Joshua looks on, a silent giggle passes his lips.

Watching Neku’s expression relax, as he listens clearly to new thoughts floating in the air...

It made Joshua feel a fleeting sense of happiness, as he too felt rather worn-out.

Lowering his hands, opening his eyes, the exhaustion in his eyes faded out, even if just a little.

Neku whispers, quietly, “... Thanks, Josh.”

“Really, you were helpless without me, Neku...” Joshua jests, yet there's a hint of melancholy to his words, “You’re welcome, though.”

Joshua gives Neku his headphones back, placing them around his neck, then helps him back up on his feet.

“Try using that sixth sense of yours more, Neku.” Joshua's eyes fall to the side, “‘I’ve been quite busy lately.”

“Right... How’s Shibuya been?”, Neku asks... A slew of concerns rise up on his mind’s list of priorities.

Joshua crosses his arms, “Depends. Do you have anything new to report?”

Neku tries to think carefully about how to say this... He sighs, and decides to just be honest.

'... No. Not yet...”

Directing his eyes back to Neku, Joshua gives him a hard stare, for a few moments...

Joshua decides he’s had enough, for now, “... Since you seem to be having a hard time, I’ll forgive you this time, Partner.”

Neku releases a breath he held in anticipation, “Oh, cry me a river, why don’t you...”, He figured Joshua would stop being cooperative eventually, he’s just surprised it hasn’t happened yet.

Twirling his hair curl around his finger, Joshua continues, “In any case, the Shinjuku Reapers have basically taken over Shibuya’s Reaper Games,"Joshua tuts, rubbing the hair between his fingers casually, "The previous Game Master was unable to stop them.”

... Neku tries to not think about how that probably wouldn’t have happened if he didn’t off the previous Conductor.

Well, the Shibuya he knows and so dearly loves would be no more, but still... Part of his mind thinks, ‘at least there would have been one’...

Judging by Joshua mentioning only the Game Master... Did he even hire another Conductor, yet...?

... Neku didn’t feel like risking getting on Joshua’s bad side. Not to the extent that asking would bring about, anyways.

After a long pause, Neku replies. “... You say that like it’s not a huge deal.”

He knows better than to worry himself sick over things he can't control. If Joshua doesn't seem worried, chances are it's fine.

Joshua runs his hand through his hair, other hand in pocket, “Hah. Hard to say, really. If I’m being honest?” There's a slightly vicious look in Joshua’s eyes. “I’m kind of excited to see where they take it.”

... Neku takes it back. He forgot Joshua fakes his emotions for a living.

Neku crosses his arms, “Sounds like you’re lying through your teeth, Josh.”

Joshua realizes that he’s not the best at keeping up his facade when he himself is exhausted.

That, or Neku’s just gotten to know him that well. Joshua's little tics, stims, fidgets...

He kind of hates it, but he also kind of loves it. That wasn’t Neku’s business, though.

Joshua replies, brushing the hair out of his eyes, “It’s fine,” he rolls his eyes. “They’re not doing anything blasphemous, in any case.”

The silence is thoroughly awkward, between the two. It’s a wonder that the next Day hasn’t begun yet.

Joshua is just waiting, while Neku has other things on his mind...

Neku sighs, “... I get that you’re basically a God, and everything, but are you taking care of yourself?”

Joshua gives him an irritated look, “What, worried I can’t handle a bit of pressure from the opposition? You wound me, Neku.”

“Geez, is it wrong to be worried about my Partner?” Neku mumbles, rubbing the back of his head, “You just look... Tired.”

The more he cared, the more Joshua took offense to it, “You’re practically bleeding at every cut. You really have no place to be speaking to me like that.”

“Sorry, I haven’t exactly had time to rest,” Neku scoffs.

“That makes the both of us, then.”

“Guess it does.”

The two stare at each other for some time, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed.

...

Neku sighs, letting go of the tension in his shoulders,

“Josh, I think we’re both tired as hell of all of this.”

Joshua tilts his head, unconvinced, “Your point being?”

“We need a long-term game plan.”

“You think I don’t have my own?”

“If you do have one, feel free to let me in on it.” Neku stands his ground. ”Just telling me to relay information to you isn’t exactly what I’d call a good plan.”

Day ???

"Well, well, if it isn't my splendiferous wonderful old friend, Nekkykins!"

"Hey, Coco."

Neku was given a brief explanation on what was going to happen, some time ago. He would return to Shibuya with the assistance of the Harrier Reaper Coco Atarashi, which included assisting her with something else, afterwards.

‘... And you’re telling me I have to wait a whole month before she gets here?’

‘That’s the deal, Partner. Don’t worry, it’ll all pay off in the end.... You trust me, don’t you?’

Said assistance would likely lead to more information about the Shinjuku Inversion being uncovered, as she has close ties with someone who was investigating, as well... That person in particular was in need of help.

"Since I’m here to pick you up, we should get going soon! Althooough... I also have something else for you!"

... Neku knew better than to let personal feelings get in the way, at this point, but he couldn’t help but feel somewhat bothered... Even so.

It's too much trouble to hold a grudge against someone for taking your life.

Even if it was isolating, horrifying, and downright made him feel like he didn't exist... For three, long, years...

It was fine. It ended up being for the greater good--

Coco cheered, “Here are some fresh new clothes for you!"

Neku’s response was delayed, as he’s deep in thought. "Huh...? Thanks, I guess."

"C'mon, c'mon, try it on, at least!" Coco prompts him, putting them in his hands. "Those old clothes must be so dingy and tight, by now!!"

"Alright, I get it... Give me a second."

It doesn't take too long for Neku to change, once he's found a place to do so.

Somehow, his old clothes never did shrink, if any part of his wardrobe did stay the same size through the years, it would probably be his old headphones and music player.

He was no longer in possession of either, though.

... The new clothes were pretty comfortable. Fits his style, too.

Coco claps her hands, "You look suuuper cute! Plaid really suits you, y'know!"

"Uh... Thanks.” Neku rubs the back of his head, somewhat bashfully. “Can we get to Shibuya, then?"

"Yes, yes! Buuut, before that... We should arrange for a place to meet up after you get there. It'll be alot easier to explain things!"

“I’ll be helping your friend out, right? Then she can tell us more about the Inversion that took place here.”

Coco nods. “Super-duper Splendiferous! You already know what you need to do!”

"Works for me. How about we meet up at Cat Street... Wildkat work for you?"

"Oh, you mean where it used to be?” Coco takes Neku by the arm. “Sure thing! Let's gooo!"

Not being given the time to process the implications of 'where it used to be', the two are already off to the races.

Things seem... Different, as Coco's dragging him along. He's not sure, but... Somehow, the inverted city of Shinjuku didn't seem as small or cramped, as the two approach it's border.

He didn’t even know there was a border, but if he guessed anyone would know about it, it would be a Reaper of Coco’s caliber... And not someone like himself.

While they're running at a brisk pace, Coco realizes something, and slows her pace. Letting go of Neku's wrist, she turns to him. Guilt apparent in her puppy-eyes, she bows before him,

"By the way... I'm ever so sorry for what I did three years ago!! I'm a whole new person now, I promise you!!!"

Neku can't shake the feeling that he can't trust or forgive Coco, no matter how close she thinks she is with him, and even if he's determined to help her friend.

It doesn't mean he can't try, at least. Neku gave the guy who killed him twice multiple chances to make it up to him, why wouldn't he do the same here?

... And for one thing, she actually apologized.

"... It's alright. That reminds me, though..."

"Oh? Do tell."

... It was fine to ask, wasn’t it? There was still one thing he was dying to know, for as long as he’s been dead.

"Why did you kill me, anyways, Coco?"

There's a vacant expression resting on his face, as he asks.

Any frustrations, tears, any sense of despair for his own death... It left him a long time ago.

He had the feeling death meant very, very little to Coco. Surely, it was just a small question to her.

"Ahh, about that... The truth is..."

Coco fiddled her thumbs, guilt written all over her face,

"IwantedyouandMisterMini-MotototeamupandsaveShinjukutogetherbutthenitwastoolate..!!!"

Coco takes a deep breath, having confessed in one fell swoop.

... It took Neku a second to process that.

Well. It was what it was.

"It's alright. Let by-gones be by-gones, and all that, I was just--"

Suddenly, a headache crashes through Neku's head,

"G-gh..." He clutches his head, staggering.

Coco exclaims, "Are you alright, Nekkykins?!"

It's another Vision. A Future Vision.

“Beat, are you okay?!”

“Don’t stop-- Keep goin’! I’mma stay here and keep him at bay.”

That's... It's Beat's voice.

“P-p-preposterous!”

“I can’t give y’all a speed boost right now... So I gotta slow him down instead. Ya feel?”

Something’s hurting him, someone’s hurting Beat--

“What’re ya waitin’ for? Go!”

“And leave you behind?!”

“I’m tryna buy y’all some time here, yo!”

“And what happens when you run out of time?!”

“We’ll see.”

What is he doing... What is Beat doing?!

“No, we won’t!”

“There’s no way we’re letting you face him all by yourself! You’re gonna get erased!”

Who?! Who are they facing--

... Erasure...?

“What-- you don’t think I can handle ‘im?”

“No, I don’t!!”

“Defeat is inevitable.”

“Y’all cold, yo!”

“And you’re hurt, Worms-For-Brains!!”

"Either we all escape together... Or we all fight together!"

Beat, you have to listen, BEAT--

"Look-- I’mma need you to chill for a sec. We all stay and fight, we all get erased."

“... B... Beat...? What are you doing...?”

Coco’s saying something, but Neku can’t hear her. He can’t hear anything except for--

"Ain’t nobody gonna be left to save Shibuya... I’ll catch up with you later, but for now, y’all gotta go.”

Is he... Is Beat planning to sacrifice himself...?

“Sorry, pal... Can’t let ya through.”

“Beat!!!”

That younger boy called out in fear, clutching a Pin desperately, a weakened Beat is holding back a rampaging Leo Cantus, there's no chance he’ll last long--

Before Neku even realized it, every second that Future Vision amped up, his legs were running for the Barrier of Shinjuku,

The vision ebbs away, but everything in it is burned into his mind,

‘He looks so different--'

any exhaustion Neku might have had was completely gone,

'He looks how I used to look, even with his own headphones--'

replaced with the urgent need to save one of his closest friends.

'He's throwing his life away to protect the others, the other Players in the visions I've been getting for the past three weeks--'

Neku's thoughts are burning inside his head, as the Vision keeps replaying in his head, he feels like he's about to combust,

‘Hang in there, Beat, hang in there!’

He doesn't even realize he's completely left Coco behind, but

There are tears streaming down Neku’s face,

his breathing's turned erratic,

his non-beating heart is beating, loudly in his chest,

Neku needs to get back to Shibuya,

Neku needs to save Beat,

Right now,

Before it's too late.

Before it's too late...

BEFORE IT'S TOO LATE--

[whump-town]

Psych 101

Defiance • Struggling • Crying

(Warning for language, torture, drugs, and just bad guy things)

The Hotch telling the team he loves them while being forced to shoot Garcia story 

Waking up in his pajamas, strapped to a wooden chair, and surrounded by his friends… Reid doesn’t know what’s happening but he knows it’s not good. “Guys,” he whispers, fear creeping up his sternum. He peaks over his shoulder, leaning forward to see down the line of people. Morgan is to his immediate right, beside him his Garcia. On his left, it runs Emily, JJ, and Dave. “Morgan?”

The older agent lifts his head, eyes peeling open slowly. He can feel the sedative still working through his body but as awareness creeps in, his mind clears. “Reid,” he croaks, rubbing his chin against his shoulder-- his bare shoulder. He looks down and frowns when he realizes he’s sitting in boxers he’d worn to bed and nothing else. “Kid?”

“Oh fuck me!”

Reid and Morgan lean forward, catching the eyes of the very pissed Emily Prentiss. Well, it’s not hard to put two and two together here. She’s clearly not pleased about her dressing arrangements either. She’s got a shirt on even if it’s twisted beneath her and showering the ling of her underwear. 

She gets over it fairly quickly when she’s able to see everyone. No, not everyone. “Where the hell is--”

They flinch as a sudden light comes on overhead. It’s bright and a broken kind of yellow tint that sinks into everything. More importantly, it puts Hotch right in front of them. He hadn’t been spared in the clothing of choice either. His green boxers are rolled up his thighs, his legs limply splayed out. The white shirt he customarily wears to bed is sitting on the ground at his feet. Having been pulled off to attach the heart monitor leads to his chest. 

“Fuck… Hotch?” Emily mumbles. They’re all grappling to take this to the best of their abilities. It’s bad enough they’re tied down but… There are two bags of something clear hanging above Hotch’s head. It’s snaking into the back of his hand and judging from the light trail of drool and just how limp he remains while they sit up and become aware, it’s not good. “This is gonna suck.”

A large door hidden by the shadow of where the light doesn’t go, the UNSUB steps in. “You can say that again, Agent Prentiss.” 

The power in the tone and statement are fairly lost as Garcia comes in, held by her elbow in the UNSUBs tight grip. “Honestly, your professionalism sucks complete--” Garcia stops when she sees them. She pales and her gaze nervously shifts between them until it lands on Hotch. A wall comes down and she scowls at the UNSUB. “If you’ve touched a hair on my bossman’s head, I’ll--”

The UNSUB pulls a gun from behind him, tucked into the back of his pants, releasing Garcia and stepping to Hotch. He presses the metal to Hotch’s temple, pushing Hotch’s head upright and smiling when Hotch remains limp and leaning into the metal. He smiles, “you’ll what? Huh? You’ll kill me?” He grips Hotch by his dark hair, lifting his head and making sure the other’s can see. “You can try but it won’t be before I kill him.”

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he releases Hotch. 

They wince when Hotch’s head falls back and cracks against the table behind him. A sickening crack filling the air before Hotch breathlessly grunts in pain.

“Sit down,” the UNSUB points to a spare chair. It’s like he isn’t even bothered with her. He doesn’t say a word or even give her anything to bind herself to the chair with. His first and fatal mistake.

The UNSUB goes the tray pushed up against Hotch’s chair. It’s a sophisticated setup and surely someone’s noticed this equipment is missing. It helps that he has to be trained for some of this. So many bread crumbs… someone has to catch on.

From her spot Emily can see everything the UNSUB is doing. Watching him produce a needle and a bottle of medicine, her heart leaps. “Hey!” Emily shouts, her mind reeling as the UNSUB draws the clear liquid into the syringe. “What are you doing,” she kicks out at her chair. She’s not sure what that is or who he’s going to give it to but she knows it’s not good.

The UNSUB’s face darkens but he doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. “I’d stop all that nonsense, Emily.” He glances up at her, “one too many milligrams of this stuff and I’ll stop his heart. Now,” he says, “we wouldn’t want me to miss calculate would we?” He smiles when Emily stops. He pulls the syringe out and presses it into the port on Hotch’s hand. “Wakey, wakey Aaron.”

They all watch in silent horror as the medicine takes effect.

Hotch groans, shifting as he grows more and more uncomfortable. The heart monitor doesn’t sound off through the room but that doesn’t mean they can’t watch Hotch’s heart rate get dangerously high. His hands tremble where they remain in the binds, his face pinching in pain. He makes a soft choked noise and his chest stops rising with his breathes. His head falls limply to the right.

Dave curses in Italian, the sound of his deep voice enough to make the other’s flinch. “You bastard! You’ll kill him!” Dave falls silent as Hotch’s eyes crack open, his pale chest heaving as a thin layer of sweat spreads over his skin. “His vascular system is compromised! He can’t take too much stress,” Dave says, much of his previous fight gone as just how off Hotch looks. “His heart can’t take it. You’ll kill him.”

The UNSUB disregards Dave entirely. He steps up to Hotch, cupping his cheek and directing Hotch’s empty gaze to himself. “Are you with us, Aaron?” His cheek is cold and damp against the UNSUB’s palm. His bloodshot eyes are far off and unfocused.

Hotch feels a million miles away from his body. Through half-lidded eyes, he can see Reid. He feels an instant relief as he slowly recognizes each person before him. The team’s here, he sighs, everything’s okay.

“Aaron,” the UNSUBS calls again. Slowly Hotch’s eyes move over and look at him. “There you are. How do you feel?”

Hotch shivers, trembling as his body works through the drugs in his system. He’s not present. His mind is clouded by the number of drugs in his system. What he knows is that he can see the team before him and the man beside him is his therapist: John. While his heart beats so fast that it makes his chest ache and his body feel eerily cold, he trusts John and the team.

“My mouth’s dry,” he slurs softly. He struggles to bite down against the need to whine out the statement. To make it clear just how uncomfortable and poorly he feels. 

The UNSUB nods his head and steps back, grabbing a bottle of water and carefully moving it to Hotch’s pale, chapped lips. 

The whole display-- the soft, nearly kind way that the UNSUB is treating Hotch is startling. It’s even more unsettling. 

“Look at your team, Aaron.” 

Hotch’s heavy eyes move over to them. He’s told John a lot about them. 

John smiles at the team, eyes moving over them one by one. “I want you to tell them how you feel,” John directs. “Tell them the truth,” John whispers, a malicious grin spreading across his lips. “Tell them how much you hate them. How you hate the team and everything they stand for.”

Hotch’s face pinches in confusion. He shakes his head. “No,” he groans, weakly pulling at the ropes keeping his arms securely bound to the chair he’s occupying. He lets out a soft sob, unable to control his emotions with the pain and exhaustion wearing him down. The drugs doing their job. Something has to be wrong. “I don’t hate them.” He shakes his head, voice cracking, “don’t. I don’t.”

The UNSUB grabs him by the back of the hair, jerking his head back. 

Hotch lets out a soft whimper when the back of his sore head hits the chair. Tears flow over his cheeks, his confusion evident in the clear fear in his eyes as he looks at John. “Please,” he rasps. 

Seeing Hotch’s tears, Morgan’s anger overflows. “Son of a bitch,” Morgan curses, hitting his hand against the arm of his chair. “Leave him alone!”

The UNSUB points the gun at Morgan, a silent threat. The two holding eye contact until Morgan bites his tongue and averts his eyes.

John turns his head back to Hotch. “Yes, you do, Aaron,” he croons. He trails the gun down Hotch’s naked chest. “They left you after Foyet,” he reminds Hotch. “They let Haley die.” He pushes the gun against one of the scars on Hotch’s chest. One left by Foyet. “Tell them, Aaron.” His temper is making itself known as he digs the gun’s tip into Hotch’s side until he grunts. “Tell them how you hate them!”

Hotch can’t manage to force any words out. He just weakly shakes his head, crying. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. It’s all too much. He’s cold and he doesn’t feel well and he doesn’t understand why no one’s helping.

“Tell them!” The UNSUB shouts. He draws back and hits Hotch across the face. He’s quick to move, aiming the gun back at the team when there’s a unanimous wave of outbursts.

Dave’s voice cuts clear the best. “Listen,” his voice wavers. His eyes are darting between Hotch and John. “Why are you doing this? You’re clearly upset. What---”

The UNSUB points the gun at Dave, deep voice burning in his chest as he grits out, “don’t.” He steps away from Hotch, attention diverted. “He needs to say. He needs to admit it or he’ll never get better!” His entire body shakes as he bites out that last word, making them jump back.

He shouts in fury, throwing his head back. “Fine,” he comes back down and looks down at them. “I’ll do it myself.” 

Walking over to Hotch he carelessly rips a knife through the zip ties holding his bleeding wrist down. With a sharp pull that rips the IV from Hotch’s hand, Hotch let’s out a stifled shout. “Up,” he commands, pulling Hotch onto his feet with a rough arm looped under Hotch’s shoulder. They stand in front of the others for a moment. Hotch sways and leans into John, too weak to hold himself upright. John takes his time moving his gun down the line until he settles on Garcia and with a smile says, “come here.”

Garcia stands, looking to the others for some guidance. She’s choking back a sob when Morgan starts to thrash, hitting and making as much noise as possible. “No!” He cries, “no, baby girl. Come back here. Sit down! Don’t go to him! You stupid son of a bitch, if you hurt her I’ll kill you!”

The UNSUB it too delighted with his new plan to ever validate Morgan when a response. “Kill her,” John whispers, taking Hotch’s weak shaking hand into his own. He wraps Hotch’s long fingers around the hold, guiding it upright so Garcia’s at the end. “Go ahead, Aaron.”

Hotch can’t even hold his arms up. His body screams in agony as he stands and he wants to pull away but he can’t. He doesn’t know what to do.

Garcia sobs. “Oh please, sir.” She can’t even bother to wipe away the mascara running down her face. “I love you, Hotch. I’m your friend.”

Hotch’s knees give out from beneath him. John wraps his arm around Hotch’s hip and holds him upright. A single tear falls down Hotch’s cheek, as he wracks his mind for what to do. The obvious choice is to shoot Garcia. He thinks. Shooting Garcia… no, that’s wrong. He’d hurt and he doesn’t want to hurt Garcia. She’s never hurt a soul in her life. 

With a shaky sigh, he knows what to do. He pulls in a breath and pushes with all his strength up onto his legs. Arching his back he throws John off and from there’s practiced ease. Two shots mid-center.

“Hotch!”

The world spins as he remains in place, his head blurring. His eyes have already rolled into the back of his head before his body hits the ground. Body pushed past its breaking point, the cocktail of messy drugs in his system, and hurting he starts to seize. 

Garcia struggles to get them out of the chairs, torn between Hotch and the team. The team she needs fast access to. Besides while seizing she really shouldn’t touch Hotch to much. Pushing into the rescue position she has to leave him to get the others.

“Time,” Emily calls out to Reid.

“Fifty-four seconds. On average, most acute seizures stop at this point.”

But Hotch’s doesn’t. 

The first thing that Dave does when he’s free is lift Hotch’s head from the floor and place it in his lap. Working his hands through Hotch’s cold-sweat soaked hair, he whispers to him in Italian. Soothing him through it. “That’s my boy,” he says, his own eyes tearing up as Hotch whimpers and cries. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“One minute, thirty-seven seconds.”

Hotch’s seizure stops exactly thirteen seconds later. 

Gently patting at his cheek, JJ leans over his shoulder and calls his name. Trying to rouse him. “Hotch,” she calls. 

Emily leans down, roughly pushing at his cheek. “Get up, Hotch. You’re not quitting on us yet.”

Hotch groans, moving his head away from her hand. “Not,” he grumbles, opening two bloodshot eyes and shooting her the best scowl she can manage at the moment. He looks around at the other’s gathered around him. Each going through a different stage of working off their anxiety. Morgan is sitting back on his thighs, rubbing two hands down his face and Dave is mumbling a prayer to himself.

“Don’t hate you,” he croaks, softly. 

JJ reaches down, soothing the tear that runs down his cheek. “We know,” she promises. 

He turns his head into her palm. His body feels so heavy and he knows it’s the drugs. “ ‘s good.” But he’s struggling to fight his exhaustion.

JJ presses a kiss to the top of his head. “We love you too.”

Hotch feels his left hand being squeezed gentle before several other voices softly agree. His eyes move around the room until he spots Garcia. With a small grunt, he manages to move his head better to see her. “Sorry if I scared you,” he whispers, throat raw and body rapidly shutting down.

Garcia steps closer to him and he can feel her hand on his, squeezing. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “I have complete trust in you, sir.”

Hotch smirks. Unable to keep his eyes open any longer with Dave’s hand resuming its soothing trip through his hair and Emily and Garcia’s tight grips on his hand. He caves to the drugs and falls into the painless heat. Trusting that when he wakes up he’ll be home.

[puppypeter]

1999 words Stucky prompt? *sorry*

Ok so I couldn’t go to sleep last night because I kept thinking of this Stucky AU where Steve is an ex-military medic who is now retired because his wife passed away and he has to look after the family. He has like 10-12 kids between his own and adopted, big family, big house, a dog. The kids range between barely 1 year old set of twins to grumpy teenagers. He had to come back from war when his wife sadly passed away while giving birth to the twins and so he didn’t really get any time to re-adjust and he lives with the regret that he wasn’t even there for her when she needed him. He is struggling a lot, but tries to hide it for the sake of the kids. He runs the house a bit like a military base, there’s time tables, bathroom times, meal plans and menus, budgets etc wakes the troops up early in the morning to get them ready for school (he still struggles in the kitchen cause he’s barely used to having decent food again himself, let alone make something all kids eat!!), the oldest have to help with the youngest etc a big chaotic disaster of a family, but he’s trying. The kids miss their mom too, but it’s been a year now and daddy is still sad. He doesn’t know that they know he is. They see him stare into nothing at times, they know Sunday mornings are the day nobody is to bother daddy until he comes down for lunch (which he prepared on the Saturday already) because sometimes daddy finds it hard to sleep and other times he finds it hard to get out of bed. He always wants them to eat their greens, yet standing on the staircase late at night they’ve spotted him sitting on the couch eating ice-cream straight from the tub and weeping over Disney movies. And that has happened more than once.

So one day they’re at the park. Steve is laying down on their red and white cloth on the ground with all the food bags and the tiny twins next to him. They’re so cute, wiggling around at all the sounds and colours, he should want to play with them but all he feels is tired. The other kids are scattered around the park, between playing ball and looking at insects and on the swings. The younger kids have been talking about what they should do to make daddy happy. That’s when little Mary spots two men sitting on a bench. One of them is playing with a leash, probably of the big dog that’s just sitting at his feet, not even caring about going far. The other is wearing a leather jacket, slightly unzipped and a white furry kitten head pops out of it. “Which one of them do you think?” Peter asks. “That one!” Mary shouts just pointing at the guy with the kitten “look at his hair! he looks like a disney price, dad will love him!” (they don’t even know their dad is bisexual, bucky is just pretty so they’re confident he’ll like him).

So her and some of her siblings make their way over to the men and start asking them questions. Their names are Sam and Bucky (“That’s a weird name” Mary says). Sam teases Bucky by calling him prince charming, having heard the previous comment, and Bucky’s cheeks go pink. This little boy with his thick glasses on gets overly excited when he sees that one of Bucky’s hands is made of metal “So cool, like a robot!” and asks if he can touch it (cause daddy thought them it’s important to ask before). And Bucky just feels overwhelmed. He hasn’t been around this many people since he came back, the most people he’s had around were a bunch of doctors when they operated on him roughly a year and half ago, but he was sedated and unaware. He struggled for a while to get out of the house, to accept his disability, accept having a prosthesis he can’t really do anything with, having to learn to do everything one handed (he only ever wears it outside the house cause he doesn’t want people to stare at his empty sleeve, but the moment he’s at home he likes to give his shoulder a break). 

Sam, he works as a counsellor at the VA has helped him a lot, and now they hang out together, but not in crowded places. This is why they like coming to the park. But now there’s a bunch of kids in his face and for the first time he doesn’t mind having many people around. Maybe because they’re little people and he knows they won’t hurt him. Maybe cause one of them is geeking out about his prosthesis he always felt self-conscious about. Mary invites him over to meet her dad (Sam cackles), but Bucky is definitely not ready for any form of relationship, let alone a romantic one. So he blushes and declines. 

The kids leave a bit upset. After a while Mary comes back saying she’s hurt and lost. “You look fine to me kid!” Sam replies. So she dramatically throws herself on the grass and big fat tears start coming out of her eyes. After they laugh at her overly dramatic attitude, she stands up huffing and puffing and leaves clearly kicking her feet in the ground. “I mean maybe you should go for it!” Sam insists “It’s not like you have to marry the guy. You’re just meeting a new person, nothing has to come of it. Maybe you’ll make a friend, maybe you’ll never see him again, but you’d talk to someone that wasn’t me or the cashier at the deli by your flat”. Bucky knows that’s true, but he really can’t bring himself to. He still hasn’t talked to his family since he’s been back. Something about getting your arm blow off and seeing your mates blow up when it should have been you instead makes it difficult to relate to normal people.

It’s only maybe 20 minutes later when a blur of blonde hair and orange dungaree comes rushing towards them crying. “It ain’t gonna work missy!” Sam jokes. But Mary looks clearly upset. “Help my daddy please!”. They doubt her for a second, thinking it’s her amazing acting skills and they’re gonna go there and her dad is gonna be fine. But her lower lip is wobbling and she sounds seriously distressed. Plus they all see a bunch of kids clearly surrounding someone sitting on a blanket. So they follow her, cause that’s the right thing to do. When they get there they see this big burly man folded in half on himself with his hands in his hair, gripping at it, shaking, panicking. Sam immediately drops on his knees, but doesn’t touch him yet. Bucky has seen him do it plenty of times with himself, when he barely got out of bed to finally have some food and then started crying if he dropped a spoon on the floor or spilled a bit of coffee. He would be forever thankful to have had him as a counsellor and now as a friend. 

Bucky steers the kids a bit away, asking the older ones to give them some space to help their dad. Together with a young woman, he scoops up one of the two babies in onesies that were on the blanket and leans one up on his chest. He can’t really do much with his metal arm, but geeky kid is currently holding onto it. After they move a bit further away, he passes on the baby to another older teenager and goes back to Sam. He sees that he has managed to get the man to unclench his fists from his hair and sees him panicking when he can’t see his kids. “They’re alright, they’re ok, they’re all together”. 

And so that’s how they meet and they all go to a diner to get food (taking over like 4 different booths). They find out Steve is ex-military from the dog tags shape Bucky sees under his shirt. Steve has apparently had the ability to lie his way through his psych test coming back from the war simply because he knew he would lose his kids if he admitted how he was truly feeling. He is struggling with depression and has PTSD, but he’ll never admit it out loud. He has a family to care about. He says none of that, but Sam knows. He invites him to the VA, “just to talk, we’re not gonna call anyone on you my man, and it seems like you’re doing an amazing job considering you got a whole football team”. 

The following week Sam and Bucky go over to his house for a bbq, bringing dog & cat along for the joy of the kids. It’s loud and it gets a bit much for Bucky at one point so he sneaks out to have a second of quiet. Steve finds him and they get talking. At some point Sam has to leave, an emergency with one of the veterans. But Bucky stays a little while. 

He says he can leave when Steve calls out bed time for the youngest, but Steve asks him to stay, if he wants, it’s not gonna take him long, have a beer. Bucky glows seeing how Steve runs the bedtime routine for 10 kids, the older ones helping the younger ones to get to stay up a little longer. When he comes back they sit out back on the porch, sharing a cigarette and having a couple of beers. It’s quiet, they don’t talk much. Bucky’s shoulder is starting to ache a bit so he keeps rubbing it. They get talking about that, well.. the most that Bucky can say (how it happened, where it happened, then blackout. He can’t go into his feelings about it). “You.. you were from that unit?” Steve asks seemingly speechless. “That’s, that’s where I was operating. We rescued 3 people but we couldn’t get to everyone on time. There was someone closer to the explosion and their arm was….” he cuts off. “Steve” Bucky looks at him unable to breathe “are you telling me that you’re the one that rescued me from under the tank?” ((and it goes from there. it takes awhile but they get together and smooch (Mary acts like she’s about to throw up “But not because you’re two guys, just cause that’s daddy!!”). Bucky learns to open up and getting more comfortable around Steve without the prosthesis on. Steve still cries at Disney movies while eating ice cream, but this time every other spoonful goes to Bucky’s, whose arms he’s wrapped in on the couch. Steve starts going to see Sam at the VA and deal with his issues, because he wants to be there for his kids as they grow up, he doesn’t want to give up on them or himself. He deals and accepts what happened with his wife. He gets to grieve and heal. Sam comes over to their house so that his Missy (his dog) can hang out with her new buddy Dodger *wink wink* and because since starting to deal with his issues Steve has made an effort to reconnect with his friends and there’s a very beautiful redhead that hangs around his house at the weekends... Sam wouldn’t mind spending more time with her. A few more friends from the military come back into his life too - Clint, Thor, Maria, Sharon - and the kids have now a bunch more aunties and uncles to play with. At some point in the distant future, Bucky moves in. He never thought he’d get to have that. A big family, animals, a house. Maybe they have more kids at one point? Bucky reconnecting with his family? & lots more smooches and cuddles!!))

[theyanderespecialist]

Cheating 2 (One Shot) Bucky X OC Marie X Steve (1950's AU) (Yandere) (Marvel)

(no one's pov)

Marie was shocked, she didn't know what to say, what she could say..she felt like she was cheating on Bucky when Steve started to come around and make sure she was okay, she never touched him, but she felt an emotional connection. But now..to be held, she was desperate for that. She gripped his hands as she slowly kissed him back, but she didn't know what to think. God.. what if Bucky came home? ....he probably wouldn't even care actually. So there was nothing wrong with this. Steve stayed loyal all this time and never made a move for her sake. Now when he sees her wrong her makes a move and she needed it

(...steve... you're so dead)

(Beyond dead XD)

Marie wrapped her arms around him, pulling him closer to her as she started to cry, not because she was sad, well sad because of the kiss, but because she finally has someone touching her,holding her, letting her know she's important.

(I mean she's like touch starved at this point)

(Yes she is)

(cause like touch starving can take a while but if you are in a relationship with someone, in the same house, and they aren't even paying attention, it can make it worse)

(Yes it can and it also happens in kids who are in abussive house holds they become touch starve for even simple things like hugs. IT is a sad and dangerous case. And we mean could touch like hugs and kisses on head touch starve is not just sexual)

(Yeah like all touch)

(Mmmmhmmm also can happen in infants when they are not skin to skin or neglected without being held as babies. I remember a old video in health class how babies reacted to not getting enough touch or attention. It is terrible of the psyche.)

He pulls away and wipes those tears away. "It is okay, you are the most important thing in my life." He says. "And I will show you just how much I love you and adore you and how important you are."

He picks her up and carried her up to the master bedroom.

(Oh shit you doing it in their bed XD Bucky wont be happy)

She held onto him as she looked up at him. "i-I ..I've only done this once.. I-I'm sorry if I'm not any good--"

"hey don't talk like that." He kisses her. "Actually you will be my first." He says blushing. "I just it did not feel right the idea of making love with someone I did not truly love."

(UGH!!!! Steve XD Why does your name have to be Steve if it was not I be all over that ass XD)

She looked at him for a moment as she smiled at him. "Steve..oh steve." She muttered as she gave a smile touching the side of his face. "How long?" She asked.

(Yeah how long you been thinking about stealing your best friends girl? I mean part of it because romance the other part she has literally no self love anymore and needs it)

"Since the day I met you, I know it is corny but I believe it was love at first sight, but I was not good enough for you, I was weak and wimpy and could not give you the life you deserved. It killed me to stand next to my best friend as his best man and watch the woman I love Marry him." He says kissing down her neck. "I won't make the same mistake twice. I am not loosing you again."

"steve.. when you came the first time, before the serum, I.. I still I had feelings for you..you were never wimpy, you fought even when you couldn't win them.." she muttered softly as she smiled.

He laid his head on her chest and smiled. "I wanted to give you the world..." He says. "But if I had been a man I could given you not the world but what you needed, love, adoration, loyalty and a family. I want to correct that mistake, only if you want me to."

She looked down at him, her hands now running through his hair. "I want you too..I need it Steve." She said softly

"I will give it all and more." He promises sealing it with a kiss and they began to make out heatedly.

He held her close as her hands untied her robe that she was wearing, pulling it off as she kicked it off the bed, not really caring if where it would land, and it end up landing right on the wedding photo of her and Bucky before he left. He kisses down her chest and takes a nipple in her mouth making her moan loudly and he moved one hand down to rub her clit.

She moaned as her hips moved to meet his hand as she gripped the sides of the bed. There was something so wrong about doing this in her and her husband's bed.. but she really didn't care as she arched into Steve.

(uh yeah lady, something super wrong.)

(Yeah I just cant put my finger on it. XD Is it the little red dot on steves head? Or the guy watching from the rooftop across the way or the fact that their is a microchip in your skin XD Something is wrong XD)

(Your husband, who was tortured and lost an arm, who was thought to be dead but was alive, comes back...and youre having sex..not with a stranger..but his best friend (and target))

(XD Oh that XD Yeah that too XD)

(I mean all of thkse are also valid just ...moan out how he's better than bucky why don't you)

(Yeah also do it near the microphone in the wall so he can really hear it XD Oh god Bucky is going to kill us XD)

(XD he's gonna kill you, not me xD but...death would be better)

\

(He is going to fuck you until you can never walk again then take you to a hydra base and never let you see the daylight again while he continues to fuck you until you are filled with his seed XD That is his next mission BABIES XD me I be dead in a ditch rotting while you live a life of making super soldier babies XD)

(Uh...I'll take death is death still on the table?)

(Maybe... if you egg him on enough XD)

Steve smiles in the kiss and slowly slips a finger in making her moan louder and start riding that one finger wanting more.

(I mean I'd have to find a time I WASN'T pregnant Which.. Is never in that scenario)

(Welp you are going be a baby making machine and Bucky will breed you three ways to sunday XD)

(do I at least get the weekends off?)

\

(Hmmmm I think that could be negotiated XD)

She kissed his again as she as waited for him to add the second, which he quickly did as she moaned, this went on for a while until she started whining.

"C-Come on Steve..p-please.." she asked softly as he looked at her and smiled as he kissed her once more as he started pushing in as she moaned.

"Oh god..it feels so good..you already feel so much better than bucky."

(And xD she did it mate. Like...ouch. steve hasn't even done anything and he already feels better than Bucky)

(XD She did he dead XD He deader than dead XD He drop dead burried eight feet XD)

"y-you know steve.. I-I don't want you to pull out. I-I want you and I to start a family"

(just to make it worse

(again....in her and her HUSBAND'S bed)

(XD You might be dead before baby making XD you keep that up XD)

(Hey I'm touch starved, I was vunrable Steve took advantage)

(Damn XD Selling Steve down the river XD)

They continue like this and Steve lined up no condom on and no plans to stop until she was pregnant.

(And another breeder -.- the army be giving these guys something fishy XD)

She smiled at him as he pushed into her as she let out a moan as her hands shoot out, wrapping around Steve.

"D-Do I feel good?" She asked

(praise her. She deserves it Steve. I don't know why she does, but she does)

(She waited over a year for it she deserves it XD)

"You feel so wonderful~" He purrs. "Better than I ever imagined."

She let out a small, happy moan as she smiled. "I-imagined huh? You think about it a lot?" She teased

(all must give at least 3 praises for praise kink Marie.)

(all hail praise Kink Marie! XD)

"Yes every day since I met you imagine how you feel milking me dry and filling you up with my seed how pretty you look all hot and sweaty under me." He says. "They can never compare to the real thing."

She blushed bit the smile on her face and the pure happiness in her eyes it was something Steve hadn't seen for over a year.

(Awwww)

(So damn sweet!)

He kisses her deeply. "There it is~" He says. "That perfect smile that makes my stomach do flip flops every time I see it."

(Oh god steve you sweetheart! Cinnamon roll)

She blushed darkly as she moaned when he thrust gently, it was..sweet. she covered her face at his words, yet even her ears were red, and she could try and hide it..but her smile was so big, he could see behind her hands. He grins kissing her face all over and then they started to fuck and oh did they fuck he kept praising her and she felt more love than any other time in her life. They both came together and then Steve smiles until he sees a red sniper light on the wall. He pulls Marie to the floor right when a bullet goes into the house.

[notgonnarememberthis]

today (of all days) +1

Y’all should know that this is the very first thing I wrote for this fic. That’s it

Gil steps out of his car taking in the breath of fresh air that hits him, wrapping him in the autumn chill as he walks up Jessica’s driveway. She didn’t know he was coming but they’d talked about this for a while. Clearing the air, getting back to them. Getting back to what feels right. Truthfully, it’s never felt more right than when he’s by her side. Not since Jackie, at least.

The thought scares and excites him at the same time. He should feel overwhelmed, he hasn’t had something he could lose in so long. This doesn’t feel like that though. It feels like coming home.

He smiles thinking about all the times she’d shown up at his door, the same bottle clutched in her fingertips. He set out special glasses just for the two of them long ago. For twenty years they collected dust but now, finally, they rest between his fingers ready for use again.

He has to steady himself as he spies her through the grand window. Light pours around her reflecting off her hair like a bronze halo. The suit jacket she’s wearing is still buttoned at the waist, he figures she just got home recently as she’s pouring herself a drink after a long day. He stops, though, as she pours a second glass.

Regret washes over him, wishing he’d talked to her first. Wishing for the alone time that it had taken him half an hour to psyche himself up to drive over here for. Except she’s not alone. He shouldn’t have come. He is about to back up when she looks up, feeling eyes on her from outside.

Her expression freezes him in his place. Her lips part slightly in a gasp, her breathing picks up as her jaw tightens. It’s her eyes, however, that set apart everything. The way she looks at him with so much hope that he feels like he’s about to burst. The warmth that spreads through his chest makes it all worth it when he reads his name on her lips. A smile breaking across the professional appearance. He doesn’t quite know how long they spent standing there, simply looking at each other, but he knows he could do it for an eternity if she would let him.

It’s Jessica who breaks the gaze first. She turns with all the grace of a woman who’s been photographed her entire life. Every single thing she does so poised that the mere action of turning is mesmerizing. The person she’s with must have entered the room because he watches her lips move, likely an apology for the wait.

Two sharp blasts echo from the home and all he can do is watch in horror as Jessica stumbles back, a look of shock and pain flashing across her face before she falls. The glasses slip from his hands shattering across the concrete in his rush to get to the door. He can’t hear anything but the sound of his heart pounding in his ears as he tries to push open the front door.

The handle twists but it doesn’t budge when he throws his shoulder back against it. Briefly he recognizes a scream, one filled with terror and pain. It takes too long to recognize that it’s his own. He rears back, drawing his gun from his belt as he kicks open the door. “Jessica!” He hears the back door slam shut, cursing as the person who attacked her is retreating. He follows the familiar path to the dining room, his heart in his throat as he rounds the last corner.

Jessica is on the floor by the window, gasping for any air she can. Her fingers cling to the ever growing crimson stain on her abdomen. She sees him, her eyes bugging out as she tries to wheeze his name.

He’s over to her in no more than three steps, sliding across the linoleum to her side. He can already see where tears began to stream down her cheeks. For a horrific moment all thoughts vanish. Pure panic takes over as he pulls her as gently as he can. “Jess, it’s ok. I’m here.”

“Gil.” She whines, her eyes scrunching shut with the pain. It forces him into action as he shucks off the jacket he was wearing pressing it to the wound.

“I’m here. Just hang on. You’ll be ok.” He pushes her hair aside before pulling out his phone.

“911 what’s your emergency?”

“This is Lieutenant Gil Arroyo with major crimes. I have a victim with two gunshot wounds to the abdomen and the suspect has fled. I need an ambulance to 505 Cherry Street.”

“They are on their way lieutenant.” He doesn’t hang up but he shifts his focus back to Jessica when he sees her eyes flutter.

“Jess? Jess, sweetheart I need you to stay awake for me.” A groan leaves her lips but she obeys, her eyes moving to focus on him. “I know, just keep listening to me, ok? I got you.”

“Malcolm,” She wheezes.

“At the precinct. I came alone. I’ll call him and Ainsley both when we get to the hospital.” She shakes her head, he knows he missed something but her distress is only making her panic more. He runs a free hand through her hair trying his best to calm her. His mind spins with a million questions. Who did this? Why? His eyes travel down to the wound, almost the same place where he’d been stabbed almost a year ago now. A voice whispers in his ear the most painful way to die. The shiver that goes down his spine is so violent that it shakes her with his movement. He watches the tears slide down her face as she tries so hard to hold all of her fear together. “Just hold on Jess. They’re coming. Wait for me, ok?”

“I’m trying.” Her voice is barely a whisper but it trembles with all of her pain. Physical, emotional, all of the weight that the world holds on her tips delicately in the room. The careful control she’d established for decades ready to topple. 

“Just a little longer. I’ve got you. Wait for me.” It becomes a mantra until it’s too much. His own shoulders shake under the pressure. Sobs pull from his chest and he wonders how she did it. How she pulled him out, racing him to the hospital, her hand never letting go of his the entire time.

“It’ll be ok.” She repeats with a smile. God, even now she’s trying to be strong for others. The anger that comes with her words is quickly washed away by the sound of sirens. “I don’t want to be alone.” His heart sinks, knowing all too well how she shut herself off from everyone. Ainsley was too distracted, Malcolm was too distressed. All he could do for so long was watch with bated breath because she held him at arm's length. Now, so close that he can feel her unraveling in his arms. Knowing that this could break her. After all these years.

“You’re not alone. I’ve got you. I’m right here. I won’t let you go.” 

“Gil?” He watches her lip tremble and she sounds so tired. God, he knows she’s so tired.

“Just a little longer Jess,” He watches her eyes, how they drop ready to give in to her exhaustion. “I need you.” Her eyes snap open, looking at him with that same hope again. This time breaking his heart with the look.

The paramedics barge in and he moves aside allowing them to work. All the time he stays where she can see him. He wishes he could hold her but for now he stays. When they load her into the ambulance he’s running with them. He shouldn’t get in, he needs to secure the scene. None of it matters when her eyes are on him though, so full of fear that he knows she needs him.

He climbs in, his hand finding hers and holding on with everything he has.

[thedramaclubs]

Changing lives (reprise)

Summery: Roman and Remus get the rest of the reviews and it was horrible that it closed their show. They soon meet one of their old friends and Remus’s husband meets them and soon they find something on Twitter to change their lives

Ships: Logicality, Prinxiety, demus/dukeceit

When their singing

Remus-green

Roman-red

Janus-orange

C!thomas-pink

All-purple

“The rest of the reviews are in! New York post, associated press, New York times” exclaimed Joan with ther phone in the air everyone started to get excited and looked on their phones as Roman and Remus are about to listen to how great their musical is........or so they thought.

Everyone’s faces changed to a sad and disappointed look and started leaving

“What? What’s happening?” said Roman as he watch everyone look at him and his brother in sadness.

“This is not a review anyone wants when you have shitty advance sales. This is gonna close us” said Joan

Roman gasp and Remus was shocked “What didn’t they like was it the hip hop?”

“Yeah but not that”

“For gods sake sakes Joan read it.” The twins sat down as Joan read the horrible reviews.

“Ok here’s the highlights, “Remus Allen’s FDR might just be the most insulting misguided, offensive, and laughable performance that this reviewer has ever had the squirming misfortune to endure. Emphasis on the insulting because he try to make him self look like that he was trying to give me intrusive thoughts about FDR.”

“That’s how I normally look what the hell?!?!”

“I mean it’s not so bad” said Roman as he played with his dress

“DO HIM ALREADY!!” “What I’m just saying.”

“Watching Romans Eleanor Roosevelt, corking out a heavy-handed message of activism, is like paying an aging drag queen to shove a syurp-soaked American flag down my throat. And also Eleanor should have been played by a women”

Roman was on the verge of tears “Thats not criticism that’s a personal attack.” His voice cracked and Remus hugged him as he shed a tear

“If your considering buying a ticket to the show do yourself a favor. By a few feet of good heavy rope instead and then go hang yourself”

“Holy fuck, oh god, poopy. Was the show that bad?”

“It’s not the show it’s you two. Your just not likeable.”

“What?” They said simultaneously

“Nobody likes a narcissist.” They sat in silence over what they just heard. “Leave it to me I’ll go and try to change the narrative once again” Joan then left the twins alone in the bullding

“I hate this world” “this just hurts my heart, Where did everybody go?”

They talked over each other as the walk to the bar to find a man in a pink suit. “What can I get ya?” said the man “Yola mezcal blackberry smash” said the twins at the same time. “My condolences Roman. But remember you do have friends” said the man making their drinks.”

“Thank you. Who are you?”

“Thomas Sanders.......we’ve done five shows together.”

“Ugh Thomas went to Juilliard and won’t shut up about.” Whispered Remus as he told Roman “Oh right Thomas. Thomas haha....... why are you dressed like waiter?” I’m in between gigs at the moment. Honestly Roman I feel adrift as i did in my days before Juilliard” Remus proceed to chug a drink that was on the table as Thomas continued to talk about Juilliard and the two were just over it.

“Still I have played hamlet and I’m still known as that guy from the beloved early aughts sitcom “Talk to the hand” I question everything about my existence” As he continues to rant about the past what they didn’t notice as a man in a golden sequiny dress with a black hat and a yellow ribbon tied on it with long golden brown hair walking their way

“Hey guys!”

Roman and Remus turned around to see Janus Allen, Remus’s husband

“Jannie!!!” Remus picked up Janus and spun him around and soon dipped him into a kiss which turn into a make out session. “Ahem I know you two lovebirds haven’t seen each other all day but can it wait we’re still here ya know.” They both looked at Roman and giggle a little from embarrassment “Sorry your show closed on opening night again. Welcome to the world of the unemployed,hit me up next.”

“I thought you were in Chicago?” asked Remus “I totally didn’t quit just now 20 years in the chorus and still wouldn’t let me play Roxie Hart and now their letting Tina Louise play her” “That bitch is still alive” said Remus as he chugs another drink

“We’re wasting our lives.” Said Roman as they are all slightly drunk “Ok I refuse to give up we’re still celebrities we still have power.” “Yeah well The Times casted you out” said Thomas as he poured another drink “Yep they wrote you off as aging narcissist and I’m only allowed to call Remus that.” “I still don’t understand what’s wrong with that.” Said Roman as he drinks even more. “You know what we will become celebrity arsonist.” “Babe it’s call celebrity activist we are not burning down another building like last time.” “Ok everyone think of causes.”

“Poverty”

“World hunger”

“Too big we need something we can handle”

“Let’s see whats trending” said Janus “Trump, trump, trump, ooo how about this boy he’s all over Twitter. His names Patton Heart. He’s from edgewater, Indiana. He’s gay. He wanted to take his boyfriend to the highschool prom and the pta went apeshit and canceled it.”

We are now in Edgewater, Indiana and Patton Heart is watching the head of the pta, Mrs Green being interviewed. “We have very strict rules for prom. Young ladies must wear non-revealing dresses. Young men must wear suits or tuxes. And if a student chooses to bring a date it must be of the opposite sex” “Can’t you just ban this student?” “Well we’ve been advised that there may be some legal repercussions if we prevent this boy from attending so although it breaks my heart we have no choice to cancel prom.” We move to Mr Virgil Hawkins the principal “The first thing I’m going to do is contact the state attourney this is not about school rules this is a civil right case.” “Wait seriously?” Said Patton. “Yes and if word gets out people will get mad and next thing you know some modern day Eleanor Roosevelt is gonna come and hell’s gonna break loose.”

We move back to New York “We got to go down their and raise holy hell” exclaimed Roman “We’ll be the biggest thing to happen to Indiana since........whatever’s happen in Indiana are you with me!?!” Said Remus as he and Roman start stand on top of a table they all cheered “We’ll get Joan to tag along to find us a venue” “I just book us a non-union tour of Godspell and I goes through Indiana we can ride on the bus.” Said Thomas “Can we do this guys” Said Janus “You bet your sweet MILF ass we can jannie”

🎶 We are gonna prove that in this day and age being gay isn’t a crime. This is out moment to change the world one homo 🎶

🎶Homo🎶

🎶Homo 🎶

🎶Homo🎶

🎶At a time🎶

🎶 we’re gonna help that little homo, whether he likes it or not, when your a legendary thespian 🎶

🎶First you help the distressed 🎶

🎶Then you help the distraught🎶

🎶We’re gonna go to where the necks are red and lack of dentistry thrives, Why sing and dance when you can take a stance🎶

🎶And know your truly changing lives. We’re gonna March until that town looks like the end of act one in les mis. You don’t gotta have a Ph.D in psych to know that people kowtow to the folks in the biz🎶

🎶We’re gonna teach’em to be more PC the minute or group arrives🎶

🎶That’s right🎶

🎶Those fist-pumping🎶

🎶Bible-thumping🎶

🎶Spam-eating🎶

🎶Cousin-humping🎶

🎶Cow-tipping🎶

🎶Shoulder-slumping🎶

🎶Tea-bagging🎶

🎶Jesus-jumping🎶

🎶Losers and their inbred wives. They’ll learn compassion🎶

🎶And better fashion🎶

🎶Once we at last start changing lives!!!!🎶

🎶Now let’s go help that dyke🎶

People to tag/ @artissijules

This took a long time to write

[justlightlysedated]

tearing through the pages and the ink (everything is grey)

a soulmate au where colors fade to black and white when your soulmate is in danger of dying and only come back when they're safe; six times the colors start to fade

for @bestillmyslashyheart 🥰❤

one.

Max had already bundled Isobel into his car and left after Michael had snapped that he was fine for about ten minutes, when Michael finally pushed himself away from where he'd been leaning against the side of the truck.

His hand was throbbing in time to his pulse pounding in his temples, and he's been trying to psych himself up to drive, but he knows that he should leave soon, before someone caught sight of the flames and reported it.

He inhales deeply and moves to open the truck door, when the blue color of his truck goes dimmer and dimmer, and then everything flashes black and white and grey for one terrifying second too long, and then the colors all flood back, almost like he'd been drowning  and had inhaled that first sweet gasp of air.

Michael blinks a little dazedly, and then shakes his head, and opens the truck door, putting it out of his mind.

-

He doesn't think about it again until days later when he finally gets Alex alone, and traps him against the side of his truck with his hips and then kisses him like he'll die if he doesn't.

Alex makes low intoxicating sounds, and Michael just wants to lose himself in Alex and forget about the rest of the world.

He's pulling down the ridiculous black with white skull pattern scarf that Alex was wearing, and the easy laughter dies in his mouth as he sees the fading finger shaped bruises wrapped around Alex's neck.

He wants to ask what happened, and wants to tell him that he thinks they might be soulmates, but he thinks that Alex might already know.

Instead of saying any of that, Michael leans in and kisses one of the marks and Alex's fingers go tight in his hair.

two.

The second the colors start to fade out, Alex is rushing to the bathroom.

He locks himself in a stall, and pulls his phone out of his pocket and immediately calls Michael.

He doesn't have actual confirmation that Michael is his soulmate, usually there were tests that you could take, but it just had never seemed that important.

Now he wishes that he'd asked or told Michael his suspicions because if Michael picks up the phone and he's fine, Alex will be relieved, but he's also pretty sure it would kill him.

Dread pools low and insidious in the pit of his stomach when the phone clicks over to voicemail.

"Michael here. If you're listening to this then I'm never going to answer your phone call, please leave a message after the beep."

Alex pulls the phone down from his ear and he dials again.

He calls him over and over for five minutes straight and then his vision goes fully grey and Alex hangs up mid ring and calls a number he has never called unless they had to work on a project together, and he hopes that Max still has the same number.

Max picks up after the third ring, and Alex leans back against the shaky stall door in relief, shutting his eyes.

Max is speaking, but Alex talks over him.

"Evans? It's Alex. I need you to do me a huge favor."

Max is silent for a long second before he says, "Okay?"

"Please go check on Michael, he's not answering his phone, and I know that something happened. Something bad."

"How can you-?" He starts and Alex cuts him off.

"Please, Max," he says again, voice cracking a little.

Max inhales deeply, "I don't think that Michael would appreciate me getting involved in his business."

Alex tries not to make a sound in frustration, "Just please, if you can't do it for him, do it for yourself. There is something seriously wrong and you'll regret it forever if you don't do something."

Max breathes out roughly, "Fine."

And then all Alex hears is the dial tone.

Alex breathes in and out and in and out and in and out several times, but when he opens his eyes his vision is still grey.

-

The colors come back gradually throughout the whole day, and Alex gets permission to stay in his bunk until they do. It's not like they were in the middle of training.

Alex had requested to stay through leave and would just make his way from Albuquerque to Texas without going back to Roswell at all.

Now he wishes that he had gone back.

He gets a message from Max when most of the color has come back.

Max: Alcohol poisoning. He's better now. Thanks for the heads up.

Alex throws himself back in his bed and looks up at the ceiling, the sour, anxious feeling in the pit of his stomach just getting stronger.

Now he's glad that he didn't actually go. He loves Michael. He knows that's what that feeling that overwhelms him anytime that Michael is near is. But no amount of loving him makes him want to witness Michael getting so drunk that he almost died.

He lifts his phone to his face and pulls up Michael's information.

You're such an asshole.

Guerin: I know.

Try to be more careful.

Guerin: I’m trying my best.

Not good enough.

Guerin: Not your problem. Not anymore.

Alex just drops his phone back down feeling his chest go tight, and stares up at the ceiling again.

three.

Michael has kind of gotten used to the way the world is now in full pastels. When he's drunk and faded and waiting for the sun to come up, it almost looks like he's stuck in a world painted in soft watercolors.

He knows that Alex still isn't at full health, and that whatever happened to him is serious enough that Michael's vision went fully grey, almost completely black and white in a way that terrified him and sent him on a week long bender.

But he knows that Alex is well enough to attend a parade they threw for him when he got home.

He's not really expecting Alex when he sees the parade of uniforms outside of his home, but it's not such an unpleasant surprise, especially when Alex is saturated in color, vivid in the world of pastels that Michael has gotten used to over the last couple of weeks.

Michael quickly tries to cover up the way his heart feels like it's about to pop out of his chest, and how he really wants to reach over and kiss Alex until he's one hundred percent sure that Alex is safe and alive.

And by the time he's inside of the Airstream, looking at all the alien tech he has lying around, he's thinking that he's ruined any chance he had at having an actual conversation with Alex.

four.

Alex doesn't realize that he's pulled his car over until there is someone knocking on his window.

He turns to see Kyle's worried expression so it seems like he didn't make it that far from the scrapyard, but he's more concerned about the fact that all of the color has leached out of the world, that everything is in hues of blacks and whites and that can only mean that, that, that-

He doesn't know what kind of face he makes, but it has Kyle opening his car door without another word.

Alex stares at him sightlessly, and he can see that Kyle's mouth is moving, but he can't make anything out past the rushing in his ears and the way his heart seems to be wanting to pop out of his chest, and how his head feels like it's about to explode.

"Alex!" Kyle yells and shakes him by the shoulders.

Alex jolts, breathing in a stuttering breath that gets caught in the back of his throat painfully.

He gasps and tries to breathe in again, but he can't, he can't, he can't-

Kyle manhandles him out of the car, and Alex tries to pay attention to him while he tries to guide him through some breathing exercises, but Alex's breathing stutters every time he closes his eyes and opens them to find the world faded of all colors.

"What happened?" Kyle asks when Alex starts to breathe somewhat normally.

Alex just shuts his eyes tight and shakes his head.

"Is this just a delayed reaction over what happened or something else?"

Alex just shuts his eyes even tighter.

He should've insisted that he take Michael back to the Airstream, but he hadn't wanted to push, and no matter how much he wanted to go after him, there was something about his body language that Alex knew meant that he wanted to be alone.

So he'd left him alone, and now he was dead.

As soon as he thinks the words he feels the sting of tears behind his eyelids and he lets his head fall back against the car, and he can feel the tears sliding down the sides of his face from behind his closed eyelids.

"Alex, man, you gotta tell me what's going on. I want to help you, but I can't if you won't let me."

Alex blinks his eyes open, tilting his head forward to look at Kyle.

He doesn't want to say the words, thinking them is already too hard, but saying them would make it all real and that is the last thing that Alex wants.

Alex opens his mouth to tell him that it was a delayed reaction, when the colors start brightening up, like someone is turning the dial back up, slowly but surely.

Alex breathes out shakily, and feels his knees buckle with relief.

Kyle pushes him back against the car, and Alex breathes in deeply, looking up at the sky that is getting dark, but he's starting to make out the deep blues and purples and oranges and pinks as the sun sets.

He looks back to Kyle who looks more worried by the second.

"I'm fine," Alex says.

Kyle gives him an unimpressed look, "You were having a panic attack on the side of the road."

Alex breathes in deeply, "Yeah, well I never said that that didn't happen. I'm just saying that I'm okay now."

Kyle still doesn't look convinced, but something about his expression tells Alex that he's only letting it go because he's anxious to do something else.

"If you say so, but we're talking about this later," he says as he moves to walk back towards his car.

"I know what it looks like when someone loses their soulmate," is his parting shot, and he barely looks at Alex's face as he says the words, turning around and walking the rest of the way to his car.

Alex doesn't move as he leaves, beeping the horn at him as he passes.

Alex just inhales deeply and decides that Kyle is a problem to handle another day.

He looks over to where he can still see the sign for Sanders and he wants to go and wait in the Airstream until Michael gets back so he can ask him what the hell happened, but that would be a terrible idea.

He exhales roughly, looking up at the sky and then gets back in his car and heads home.

five.

Michael startles awake, very nearly dislodging Maria off his chest. She pushes him back down with a complaining grumble and leans her head on his chest again.

Michael inhales deeply, blinking up at the ceiling and it takes him a second to realize that the ceiling of the Airstream is an off color, and when he turns to look out of the window he jolts when he realizes that the colors are fading.

Maria leans up on her elbow to look down at him, and she leans in pressing a kiss to his collarbone, but Michael’s stomach is sinking with the realization of what it means that colors are fading from his vision.

“Alex,” he breathes out when she moves her lips up his neck, and she pulls away from him so fast, the sheets almost burn him when she pulls them tightly around her as she goes to move to the other side of his really small bed.

“What did you just call me?” she asks voice shaking with how upset she is, but Michael really doesn’t have time to soothe her ego. It’s not like he was calling out Alex’s name because he was thinking about him while she kissed him.

“Not you,” he says, sitting up, and swings his feet down to the cold floor, and blinks a few times, trying to think past the sick feeling in his stomach. “Alex is in trouble.”

He gets up from the bed and ignores it when she asks him something, determined to get dressed and outside as soon as he can.

It’s been at least ten hours since the last time that he saw Alex, and while Michael did trust that Alex had a plan, he also knew that Jesse Manes had probably already figured it out.

Michael gets dressed, and wraps one of the bandanas around his left hand, tying it too tight, hearing Alex’s voice in his head asking why he’s still wearing it.

He stuffs his feet into his boots and moves to walk out of the Airstream.

“Guerin!” Maria calls out, as he drops down to the ground.

He turns around to face her, feeling just slightly impatient. Her brow is furrowed and her arms are crossed, pinching the sheets around her like a towel.

“How do you know that?” she asks, and there is something in her gaze that tells Michael that she suspects the reason, but wants him to deny it.

Michael just licks his lips and shrugs a little helplessly, “I just do.”

“Not good enough,” she snaps, giving him a disbelieving look. “You can’t just decide that Alex is in trouble and leave to go find him. Alex has been doing a good job at trying to move on, and I thought that you were too, but you’re just fabricating reasons to go see him now that you found out that he might be interested in someone else.”

Michael opens his mouth to speak, but she just talks over him.

“We’re together, and I know it might be a little confusing for you since you were never really in a relationship before, but that means that Alex is a free agent who can date whoever he wants, and you can’t get in the way just because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Michael says, stressing the words. “And anyway, that's not what this is about.”

Michael stops talking, and Maria just looks at him expectantly, but mostly like she’s waiting for him to confirm that she’s right.

Michael inhales deeply, knowing that this might be the end of him and Maria, but not caring much about that either way. The only thing that he cares about right now is finding Alex. Everything else can wait until after Michael knows that he's safe.

“I know that there’s something wrong because the colors are fading,” he tells her, stressing the last three words.

She blinks at him for a few seconds, and Michael was going to wait until she actually got what he was trying to say, but the recognition flashes across her face, and she lifts her hand to her mouth, and the world crackles black and white and grey and then back to fading colors.

Michael sways, and he turns and stumbles over to the truck, saying Alex’s name again.

He needs to figure out what’s going on.

“Guerin!” Maria calls his name again. But Michael is already at the truck, and he doesn’t need his keys to get in and turn on the ignition.

Maria runs out of the Airstream, and Michael puts the truck in reverse, and turns the truck around, before he shifts the gear to drive and pushes down on the gas too hard, spitting out dirt and pebbles from beneath his wheels as he goes.

six.

Alex breathes in and chokes on his first breath, an uncomfortable pressure in his throat that is dislodged too slow for his liking.

His mouth feels dry, and tastes kind of like disinfectant, a taste that reminds him of being in the hospital for his leg.

He feels something cold and wet against his mouth, and he parts his lips easily, and is rewarded with ice chips.

Alex swallows down the cool icy droplets, and blinks his eyes open.

The bright lights are dimmed low because his vision is in shades of pale colors, almost grey, and his heart starts beating too fast in his chest as the air catches painfully in the back of his throat, and he can hear the beeping of the monitor as it starts to go too fast, and he sees Kyle appear in his field of vision, telling him to calm down, but Alex can’t seem to do that.

Kyle moves away, and then he feels a pinch in his upper arm, and then the panic recedes as his heart beat slows down, and he breathes in and out easily, and knows that he was just sedated.

He blinks his suddenly heavy eyelids, and he turns to Kyle, who is looking at him worriedly, and he licks his lips, and whispers, “Guerin.”

Or at least he thinks he does.

Kyle gives him a confused look, and looks over him to the other side of the room, before his expression clears.

He looks back down at Alex to say something, but the world fades to black, and it takes Alex along with it.

-

The next time Alex wakes up the colors are still pale, but not edging into grey anymore. He breathes out in relief, and feels a sharp pain right in the back of his throat, and he feels so thirsty.

He moves to find the button to call the nurse, when he feels that his hand is trapped in a positively sweltering grip.

Alex blinks up at the ceiling a few times, before he turns to the side and finds Michael, laid back in one uncomfortable looking chair, his feet propped up on another one. He’s turned to his side in what looks to be a really uncomfortable position, but it’s the only way that he can have both of his hands wrapped around Alex’s left hand.

Alex stares at him for a long second, his neck looks like it’s on an uncomfortable angle, but his lips are parted, and he’s snoring slightly. His hair is falling across his forehead and covering his eyes, but Alex can still make out the black smudges like he hasn’t had enough sleep over the last couple of weeks, and he looks a little pale, like he’s been sick, or he overexerted himself.

He flexes his fingers in Michael’s hold, and Michael startles away like Alex had yelled.

He kicks the other chair too far to lean against, and very nearly slides down to the ground, but he drops his feet to the floor, and pushes himself up on his chair, sitting up straight and looking at Alex, eyes big and worried.

His hands are even tighter around Alex’s fingers, and Alex just stares at him with wide eyes.

“Hey,” Michael says when he notices that he’s awake and moves a little bit closer, the chair making a high pitched sound as it slides across the floor.

Alex winces a little at that, and Michael lets go of his hand to lean even closer, “Are you okay? Should I call for Kyle?”

Alex clears his throat, but his mouth feels too dry to speak.

Michael’s eyes light up in recognition and then he leaves, but before Alex can wonder 

where he went, Michael is back with a big white foam cup full of ice chips.

He feeds Alex a couple of ice chips, and Alex stares at him for a long moment, wondering what the hell he’s doing here, but there is another question that he needs the answer to first.

He shakes his head as Michael offers him another ice chip, and Michael sets the cup aside, before he sits back down on the chair besides Alex’s bed.

Alex clears his throat, a few times, but when he talks his voice is still too hoarse and low, “Are you okay?”

Michael gives him a disbelieving look, like he can’t believe that Alex is worried about him while lying back on a hospital bed, but Alex’s world is still shaded in pastels.

“I’m fine,” Michael says, and grabs Alex’s hand again, to press it against his chest, right against where his heart is beating loud and strong. “It’s just that healing takes a lot out of you.”

He looks at Alex meaningfully, and Alex inhales sharply when he realizes exactly what he means.

“Oh,” he responds, and Michael just smiles a little, and Alex realizes that the worried feeling gnawing at the pit of his stomach, is a mixture of both his and Michael’s feelings. Just like he also realizes that the soft, sweet feeling curling against his chest, making him feel warm belongs to Michael.

Alex sighs, pulling his hand out of Michael’s hold, and leans back to look up at the ceiling.

“What are you still doing here?” he asks, needing a reason not to grab Michael’s hand and tug him on top of the bed, and also not really understanding what Michael is still doing here when he’s not in danger of dying.

“Where else would I be?” Michael asks, voice soft, and almost childlike. 

Alex shuts his eyes tightly, “I don’t know. With your family. With your girlfriend. In the library. At the bar. Literally anywhere else. I’m fine. And it’s not like you don’t have a gauge to know if I take a turn for the worse.”

He feels it when Michael gets up and settles his hands down on the bed, so that he’s leaning over Alex.

“Alex,” Michael says, and Alex just keeps his eyes shut, not really wanting to look at Michael’s face right now.

He feels exasperation sliding through him.

“Just open your eyes,” Michael says, and Alex shuts his eyes even tighter.

Annoyance joins the exasperation, and then he feels Michael dropping back down in his seat.

Michael breathes out noisily. “Turns out that hiding your soulmate status from everyone is considered an asshole move.”

Alex’s eyes snap open at that, and he turns an incredulous look at Michael. “You told them?”

Michael gives him a look, and even though he tries to hide it, Alex still feels the hurt making his chest go tight.

“I know it’s the last thing that you wanted, but you were in danger and no one believed me-”

“Uh no,” Alex says, loudly interrupting him. “You were the one who didn’t want anyone to know.”

Michael gives him an incredulous look, and Alex shakes his head, speaking before Michael could.

“You didn’t tell Max, even though he obviously suspected. You never told Isobel. She told me she figured it out on her own. You were working with Liz and never mentioned it when she was searching for someone to test her theory on. You’re dating Maria, and you didn’t want-”

Alex’s voice cuts out, and he turns to the side, away from Michael, and coughs a dry, hacking sound that feels like it tears his throat apart.

He swallows hard, and leans back, and Michael presses an ice chip to his mouth that he takes gratefully.

After a few minutes, Michael sets the cup aside, and sits back down.

Alex hears him breathing heavily, and then his hands are wrapping around Alex’s again.

“Alex,” he says, and Alex breathes in deeply, and closes his eyes.

“You’re right,” he says, breathing in deeply. “I could’ve told them. I could’ve told everyone. But so could you.”

Alex shakes his head, and opens his mouth to speak, but Michael leans forward, untangling one of his hands to press his fingers against Alex’s lips, “Just listen to me for a second.”

Alex breathes in a little shakily and nods his head once.

Michael pulls his hand away, and keeps speaking.

“I meant any time over the last ten years. I’m not saying that I would’ve denied it if you had told Maria, but I didn’t want her to know. I wanted to feel like it didn’t matter, that I could choose to be with anyone, that I wasn’t just tied to you because of this thing between us.”

Alex breathes heavily, eyes shutting even tighter.

“And do you know what I figured out?” he continues. “I figured that yeah, we are tied together, by more than this soulmate bond, but none of that is the reason why I still love you.”

Alex inhales sharply, and his eyes open wide.

He turns to look at Michael, who is staring right back at him, eyes bright and clear.

“I love you because you’re you, and you come when I call, and you listen when I speak, and you give me a kick in the ass when I’m acting like an asshole, and you don’t sugarcoat things to make me feel better, and you don’t let me hide away from what I’m actually feeling, and you make me want to face it and come out better on the other side.”

He stares at Alex, shaking his head a little, before he looks away, licking his lips.

“Maria broke up with me, more like dragged me to the curb and publicly called me out, but a break up all the same. I think she was more upset about the fact that she never realized the truth, than the fact that I didn’t tell her. But I realized that morning when I woke up with the colors bleaching out from the world, that I could lose you, actually lose you, and I’ve been spending all this time pushing you away, when I just really wanted you to stay.”

Alex blinks a few times, and he can feel the truth of Michael’s words ringing sweetly inside of him, but things can’t possibly be this easy.

“I-” Alex starts speaking, but Michael shakes his head again, pressing his fingers back over Alex’s mouth.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says, pulling his hand away again. “I’m not asking for you to make a decision, especially while you’re still in recovery. And I know that you have this thing with Long, or whatever, but I want you to know that I’m here, if you want me.”

Alex pulls his lower lip into his mouth and then he nods his head slowly.

Michael nods his head back and then leans back in his chair with a sigh, “You should probably get some more sleep while you still can.”

It’s almost like the words are enough to cause the drowsiness at the edges of his consciousness to try to take him, but Alex fights through that, blinking his eyes a little.

He tugs on the hand that Michael is still holding, and Michael looks over to him.

Alex gives him a steady look back, and then tugs on his hand again.

Michael seems to debate with himself for a second, before he stands up.

Alex moves over a little, and Michael manages to fit himself on the small hospital bed with him easily. Which doesn’t surprise Alex at all considering the size of Michael’s bed in the Airstream.

Michael wraps his arms around Alex, and Alex collapses into his hold, moving so that Michael is flat on his back, and Alex is partially lying on top of him, head resting in the crook of his neck, one hand in Michael’s hair, the other wrapped around Michael’s arm on his waist, their legs tangled together.

Michael tightens his hold around Alex, and Alex breathes in deeply, filling his head with Michael’s scent, like rain during a hot summer day, and before he realizes it, he’s fast asleep.