#its about being a boy raised by dogs. its about looking in a mirror and not knowing what looks back at you

[acaciapines]

i read dog boy by hornung weeks ago and man. im still thinking about this book. as a therian it just REALLY hit home, and. my god. that ending. heartbreaking! but how else could things have ended.

god i adore this book. i'd recommend it to anybody who has read and enjoyed my otherkin works--its about an orphaned russian boy raised by a pack of feral dogs and oh boy!!! does it scratch all the right itches!!! its heavy and it doesnt pull its punches but its just so effective, gah.

please read this book i cannot keep spiraling about it in my own head--

[irisintheafterglow]

welcome back to coparenting megumi with satoru (megs' birthday edition! because it's basically winter and i wanna write more found family fluff)

you're well aware that megumi is not a normal child.

you're reminded of it on a daily basis when he tells you about the low-level curses he spotted around the corner while he and tsumiki walked home from school. you're reminded when either you or satoru immediately go to the corner where he saw the curse and exorcising every curse within a four mile radius. you're reminded when he sees a dog and immediately wants to summon his divine dogs, even though his cursed energy isn't at a level where he can activate it without being wiped out for the rest of the day. but mostly, you're reminded on his birthdays that he was not born and will never be normal. still, satoru makes it his mission to give the boy what he calls a "bangin' birthday."

the other kids in his class would have their parents bring in cupcakes or goodies on their special day; megs, however, would probably argue that the other kids aren't deserving of the sweets you brought. so, on his 7th birthday, he's in class for barely an hour before you sign him out at the front desk. his eyes stare out the back window at the passing cityscape and he sips on a smoothie you had waiting for him when he met you at the front office.

"i thought you had a mission?"

"i called in a few favors and got today off," you reply happily, smiling wider when his fingers automatically grab your pinky. as you pull into the driveway of his first surprise, the tiniest gasp of realization leaves him and you wink at him through the rearview mirror. "recognize that sound, megs?" he nods furiously, throwing off his seatbelt as soon as the car is parked with excitement you'd never seen from him before. the barking coming from the house you've pulled up to only increases in volume while he practically runs up the front path and, with no warning, two gigantic dogs burst into the front yard and into the arms of the birthday boy.

"they still know me!" he beams as the two dogs nudge his face with their foreheads, sticking their nose against his clothes and licking stray drops of smoothie. "look, they still like me!"

"i see, megs," you say with a melancholy twist in your chest. even though he was becoming better at summoning his own divine dogs, you knew he missed the ones that helped him break his mental block in the first place. like no time had passed, megumi herds the dogs back into the house and they dutifully follow. you shoot your friend a text, thanking her for letting you use her house and letting him see the dogs she adopted all those years ago. while she worked in her office upstairs, she very generously gave you the rest of the first floor to use for birthday festivities. festivities, you noticed, were much more decorated than you previously planned it to be.

while megumi slips his shoes off at the door, the dogs race over to a gigantic box in the center of the dining room, barking furiously at it like it was an intruder. it's wrapped in shimmering, bright blue paper that gives you a headache the longer you look at it and looks suspiciously large enough to hide a 6-foot-something idiot. you knew you raised megs right when he's also immediately suspicious of the package, eyeing it with distaste as if he already knew what (or who) was inside.

"i'm guessing from your face that you didn't put that there," he remarks and you shake your head in acknowledgment. "any idea what's in it?" you swear you can hear a stupid giggle from inside the cardboard and you stifle a laugh.

"don't know," you say with fake indifference. "maybe it's a present from the dogs."

"it'd probably be hard for them to wrap seeing as they don't have thumbs," he states blankly, still frowning at the obnoxious wrapping paper. "wanna just put it somewhere to get it out of the way?"

"sure," you start, an idea popping into your head and a sly grin working its way onto your face. "i guess...i'll just throw it in my domain for now-"

"surprise!" as if on cue, the top of the box breaks open to reveal your very panicked boyfriend who despised portaling into your domain. he's wearing ridiculously oversized party glasses with frames shaped like balloons and his clothes are covered in metallic confetti that sprinkles onto your friend's floors. the dogs break into another bark-fest and satoru shushes them urgently; you break into giggles and help him step out of the box. "where's my favorite birthday boy?"

"why were you in there?"

"it's called a surprise, megumi. people have them when they want to have fun," he quips and you click your tongue, picking a stray piece of confetti from his hair. he murmurs an apology under his breath, kissing your forehead like he wasn't in bed with you a few hours earlier. "hi, gorgeous."

"hey, handsome. your limbs alright after being stuck in there?"

"a little creaky, but i'll survive," he reassures you, stretching out his ridiculously lanky arms as an example. his hand gestures to the ungodly amount of streamers and balloons that were much more than you'd bought last week. "i did a little redecorating."

"i see that," you chuckle. "alright, megs. you ready for your next birthday activity?" he looks up from his spot on the floor, where he'd somehow convinced the dogs to lay on either side of him.

"there's more?"

"mhmm, and it involves some strawberries from the fridge. you wanna help me wash them?" he nods and walks over to the fridge with the dogs trailing behind him. "there should be a strainer already in the sink."

"you still think we'll be able to make it to the park?" satoru asks quietly, pulling you into his arms and watching the winter sky become more unfriendly. "i can protect us from the rain, but a storm would probably ruin the atmosphere we've got goin' here."

"i agree," you murmur. a glance at the mirror shows megumi standing on a stool in front of the sink, sneaking washed berries to the dogs. "though, i don't think he'd mind just staying here."

"i also agree. i can order some lunch and go pick it up while dessert bakes. i need to go grab tsumiki, anyway," he suggests. "she can help me pick out matching cozy sweaters for when we watch a movie."

"i think megs would rather die than wear a matching sweater with you, sweetheart."

"true," he concedes. "but i'll do that, then. need anything else while i'm out?"

"no, just for you to get back faster."

"i'll be here before you can even blink, beautiful."

"are we making me a birthday cake?" megumi calls from the kitchen, finally noticing the ingredients stacked neatly on the island counter. "and does that mean i can throw food at satoru?"

"if you can get him to turn off infinity, then sure," you reply. your boyfriend makes a face of betrayal and you stick your tongue out at him. "tell him it's for your birthday present."

"gojo, i know what i want for my birthday!"

if you enjoy my writing and would like to support me, you can buy me a coffee on my ko-fi! you can also check out my full masterlist here :)

[teddybeartoji]

touching teeth with gojo. sounds weird i know but my beloved biters and chewers just stay with me here okay. you're both sitting on your bed in the dim-lit room, the only light being the computer screen on the floor. there's some music playing quietly in the background but it's all muffled in – your focus being on the man sitting before you.

his pupils are blown wide and his lips are parted, deep breaths slipping from between them. his chest is rising and falling fast, the excitement bubbling in it, ready to burst. you're facing him, sitting on the bed with your knees tucked underneath you. you're not doing any better than he is – you're heaving like he is, eyes so big and wide, fingers itching to feel him already.

you don't really remember how you ended up here but that doesn't matter. his lips strech into a hungry smile, the rows of perfect teeth flashing you teasingly. he knows you're ready to lunge because he's ready to lunge. you lean forward an inch and he does the same. everything is so slow, the clock in your room has stopped in its track, the music has gone quiet. your own lips mirror the smile the boy in front of you is sporting and you see something flicker in his eyes. curiosity? want? need? a mixture of all of them? they drop down to your mouth and he gulps. you look delicious. he looks delicious. it's a feast.

you part your lips and he automatically opens his wider too, completely mirroring you. you lean closer, he leans closer. the distance between you isn't there anymore, you can smell his cologne, fuck – you can almost taste him. your own eyes flick to his mouth and as if your hand has a mind of its own, it raises to touch his soft flesh.

satoru's breath hitches, feeling your fingers against him. you slowly drag them all over his mouth, pushing and pulling his lips until they're properly pink and a little bit swollen. he's really panting now, sounding a bit like a dog. a puppy, eager to play. a cub, eager to bite.

he can't tear his eyes from your lips either, he's intoxicated. he's addicted, and you only make it worse when you sink your teeth into them. he lets out a quiet little groan, from the depths of his throat, making your grin stretch even wider.

your hand cradles his face, tracing over his cheekbone before resting on his jaw. your thumb pokes at his bottom lip, the quiet open up, baby coming from you is making him feel dizzy but he obeys nonetheless. his mouth opens wider than before, displaying the sharp canines you've been thinking about for the longest time. oh, he's perfect.

you press your thumb inside his warm mouth, dragging it over his teeth, feeling the edges of them against your soft skin. satoru's eyes close as he fists the bedsheet underneath your bodies. he's so warm, and you feel yourself sigh when your thumb meets with his tongue. his lips lock you inside, his tongue swirling around your finger before he hollows his cheeks and sucks on it. you can't breathe anymore.

you've never been this enamoured with anyone before. he's sucking on you thumb, teeth gently grazing against it and you're in love with him. you tell him to open up again and he listens in a second, he's good like that. you tell him to look at you and he does – big beautiful doe eyes staring back at you, ready to do whatever you ask him to do. whatever you tell him to do. you award him with another smile and he just can't help but match your expression. there's spit all over his mouth and the desire to clean him up is eating you alive, but you have to wait. you need to take this slowly.

he's looking at you like you hung the stars in the sky and you love him. deciding to push him even further, you wrap your fingers around his wrist and pull it closer to yourself. he doesn't say anything, only observing and learning. you raise his hand to your mouth and you part your lips, inviting him in.

his leans forward with his whole body, hypnotized by the sight before him. you hold his hand with both of yours, molding his fingers into a fist, only leaving his pointer finger out. you guide him in, watching his adam's apple bob at the warm feeling. you guide him over your own canines, just as you'd done with his, letting him explore the inside of your mouth. his own hangs open and he looks so cute like this.

you take your hands off of him and watch him fall into the deep pit of hunger all on his own. his heavy finger presses down on the row of sharp edges, secretly wishing it'd drew blood. he runs his finger over the sides of your teeth, smoothly gliding over them causing the skin of your cheek bulge out. he tries to swallow the thing stuck in his throat but he can't. he feels like he's suffocating; gasping for air, gasping for more of you.

while he's focused on the finger disappearing into you, you take the time to trace of his lips again, promptly pushing through them and connecting you both. teeth and skin. wet and warm. his eyes glance up only to find you already staring at him and he feels himself harden in his pants.

gently, you bite down on his finger, he does the same. he gnaws on you and you do the same. it's romantic. it's erotic. you need more.

so, suddenly you move from your sitting position, pushing the boy in front of you down onto the soft bed. situating yourself over his abdomen, you press another finger into his mouth, reveling in the way his eyes roll back into his head for a moment. his finger is still locked between your sharp teeth, leaving deep dents in it. god, he wishes you'd draw blood. his free hand goes to your hip, squeezing the flesh so hard it'll bruise. you need more.

the room feels too hot, your bodies feel too hot. satoru feels like he's about to melt into the bed, your heavy gaze burning him alive. fingers press flat on his tongue and his eyes widen once more, and when you press them deeper into his mouth, down his throat – his hips buck under you. his eyes close as he tries his best to keep from gagging. you bite down on him harder and his eyes do another round around his skull. fuck.

cracking open his eyes, he's greeted with a big toothy grin. it's reaching your ears, and with the way your eyes shine in the dark room, it's a bit scary. is this the beast one might meet in a forest somewhere? the one that will eat and devour him? the one that'll open him up and consume him?

his heart thrashes in his ribcage, calling for you, reaching out to you. he's not the predator he thought he was; he's the oblivious prey, who walked into your love all on his own and who is now stuck in it.

it's not like he wants to leave anyway.

[chouxsardine]

Mariner's Complex -- Jake Kiszka x reader

Summary: "Look for the lighthouse when you are lost, it will always bring you home. May the light in your soul guide you, may the love in your heart keep you strong." -- Jake is nervous before going on stage. You know just the right way to calm his nerves.

Pairing: Jake Kiszka x reader

Word Count: 2532

Warnings: 18+! minors be gone, mention of alcohol, mention of anxiety, public sex, unprotected penetrative sex, soft Jake (please let me know if I missed any!)

Genre: Smut, hurt/comfort (kind of)

Author's note: This piece is inspired by the gif above. I am smitten upon seeing it. This is my first time writing smut. It's about vulnerability, about receiving and giving love, lots of love. It is my fictional way of hoping that Jake is reminded of being one of the best guitarists out there and that he is loved by us. Deepest thanks to the wonderful @sacredjake for beta reading and for inspiring and encouraging me to pick up writing and post this. Please do yourself a favor and read her works; they're awesome beyond words. Enjoy!!

🎧: songs that pair nice with this piece: Lost at Sea by Lana Del Rey and Rob Grant; Mariners apartment complex by Lana Del Rey (can you tell I'm bad at titles now?)

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There’s just something about the air in the stadium before the concert; it feels like with every inhale, it immediately turns into adrenaline. With its graininess accentuated, one can almost sense the atoms buzzing in the air, like a shoal of sardines forming a bait ball, enclosing him, a cyclone where he is the eye. Is this what Josh means when he writes “carbon dancing through time” ?

His mind is racing a million miles a second; it’s like hoping onto a car with broken brakes, he’s bound to hit something in the hazardous terrain——

Knock knock. “Jake?”

As if someone pulled the switch, he is snapped back to reality. He immediately recognizes the voice of his lover. The sweetest sound in the world. His shoulder visibly relaxes, the corner of his mouth turning up, and his heart feels tender. He has always appreciated this—forever so considerate and thoughtful, always respecting his privacy even though they have already been together for so long.

“Come in!”

As expected, his lover’s face came into view, the familiar smile.

“I got you the salad you wanted!” You said, raising the white plastic bags in your hands.

You can tell he is anxious the moment you push open the door. Years of a committed relationship must have formed some kind of telepath between you two. You can almost sense it in the air. Is it a thing though? Like the service dogs that can smell it when their owner’s heart is beating too fast. Well, you know someone’s heart is certainly racing now.

You can’t quite figure out where his anxiety is coming from. They boys are at the middle leg of this tour. Is it from the traveling? Or maybe it has to do with his string snapping during soundcheck earlier? Or it could just be his brain playing tricks on him. And you respect that, even amazed or amused because you know it’s from the very same place where all the amazing melodies and witty remarks are born.

You spotted the glass on the vanity. Amber liquid barely covering its bottom, corresponding to the proportionate empty space in the newly-opened bottle of whiskey right next to it. You know Jake is never one to get plastered before going on stage. The alcohol is just a pacifier for his nerves. You follow his gaze to the white roses sitting in the vase. He’s remained quiet all this time, not even trying to hide his feelings, only giving you a smile through his reflection in the mirror. The comfortable silence hangs mellowly like willow branches, a mute radiation of his trust and vulnerability.

You set the bag aside and squat down in front of him, thumb brushing the back of his hand. You know better than to ask questions like “are you okay”. You know that right now your physical presence is already a comfort for him. You’d rather let him take the lead for the rest.

Jake tilts up your chin—a silent cue for kisses. You happily oblige, feeling his lips forming a smile upon contact with yours. He releases a contented sigh, pulling back after a moment. “I’ve missed you.”

“Yeah? You’ve got me now.” Now sitting across his lap, your hand rests gently on his cheek. Jake immediately leans into your touch like a cat, turning his head and pressing kisses into your palm.

“They already double-checked it. I’ll ask them to pay extra attention before the show starts, just to make sure.” You said, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear, revealing the little hoop dangling.

Jake hums, knowing you are referring to the snapped string earlier. Stupid mistake. His throat feels dry, “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I——”

“Shh,” you give him a peck on the lips, “none of that. You don’t have to explain anything. Those feelings are valid. And they are temporary.”

Then a brilliant idea strikes you.

“We’ll take a walk, alright?”

“Here?” He cocks his head in slight confusion.

He immediately recognizes that you are giving him a taste of his own medicine. Well, in a good way. He knows you are talking about one of those “mental health walks” that he proposes when you are engulfed by the noises inside your head. But the backstage is not street gardens or some hiking trials in a park, how will that work?

“Yeah, you have time. Right?”

There’s indeed at least a good half an hour before the last sound check. He can’t argue with you. By the way, when were he ever able to say no to your invitations? This little genius mind of his lovers, constantly conjuring up the most amusing and endearing words and ideas like the hat of a magician. With a resigned smile, he caves in, placing his hands in yours.

“Come on, up you get, you lazy butt.” You step back and pull on his arm.

“Hey, you love this butt!” He protests in feigned grievance.

“Yup, can’t deny it’s a nice one.” You jokingly smack his ass as you follow him out of the dressing room, feeling happier hearing his banter, seeing him slowly getting back to himself. He’ll get there, you will make sure of it.

The corridors are generally quiet around this time, allowing the artists to rest before the real frenzy starts. Occasionally, stage crews pass by, rolling equipments boxes down the hall. You two swiftly move out of their way, hand in hand, strolling as if window shopping in the mall. You are entertaining Jake with a funny little incident you saw on your way to buy him food.

“You should’ve seen it, really,” you snort out a laugh recalling the scene, “that poor lady is struggling so hard and the shopping cart is just running away from her, loaded with two cases of Guinness!”

Jake is laughing with you, slightly shaking his head in disbelief. You turn to admire his profile, the apple of his cheek rising, the wrinkle to his nose deepening, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. There’s nothing you love more than seeing Jake smile and laugh, it never fails to create that fizzy feeling in your heart, like a bubble approaching the surface of a cream soda.

Having jumped out of your storytelling, your attention diverts back to the feeling of Jake’s arm snaking around your waist. Now his hands are sliding up your sides, from the small of your back to the sweet spot on your flank.

He turns to look at you. Upon meeting his gaze, you immediately pick up the implicit plea. His caramel eyes full of admiration, the edge of his iris grows fuzzy. His eyelashes flutter as his gaze falls to your lips.

You cover the distance between you with a kiss. This one is different from the one in the dressing room. The tip of his tongue tickles your bottom lip with small licks before him pulls back a bit and mutters under his breath, “Want you, want to be close to you.”

Once again, you are more than willing to indulge.

It’s just so convenient that you happened to be near the corner where a pilaster protrudes enough to hide you from the passersby. As your back hits the wall, your fingers are already tangled in Jake’s hair, holding him close. You are circled by him, his freshly applied cologne lingers, now well adapted to his skin, bergamot wrapping the hidden notes of pepper and cedar. Jake kisses along your jawline and traces downwards, creating a dotted line of kisses across your breasts and hovering over your navel. His hands tugging on the waist of your pants. As he unzips it smoothly, he dives back in with more kisses, nibbling on the material of your underwear.

“No,” you mumble, tugging on his elbow motioning him to stand up, “I want you in me.” You loved it when he goes down on you, but not now. Now you need it to be about him, you know he needs it too.

There is a halt in his movement, suddenly his eyes a shade darker.

“Yes, let it out, Jake.” You hold your forehead against his, making sure he hears every word certain and clear. Whatever it is, a much-needed release, a claim of territory, an outlet of his bundled nerves. “Use me. Fuck me.”

“You’re gonna be the death of me.” Jake sucks in a breath.

You smirk, tilting your head back against the wall and surrendering more of your body to his arms. Jake’s hands on your thighs cover the coolness of your skin as your pants pool around your ankles. His knuckles tracing your heat through the fabric, the ghostly touch making you squirm.

“Please, Jake.” You loop your arms around his neck, raising up a leg pressing it into the side of his waist.

“So wet for me already, angel.” With frantic eagerness, he takes out his length and pulls your underwear aside. Your slickness draws his hard cock inside as he bottoms out in one firm and steady thrust. Jake was looking down as he enters you, his eyebrows creased in concentration, eyelashes throwing shadows under his eyes. He never fails to marvel at the way your bodies connect, it catches him in awe every time no matter how many times you have fucked, just as you are exploring each other’s bodies for the first time. When his gaze meets yours again, it’s like moonlight spilling behind clouds. You are the only object of his vision.

“Yes!” You mouth silently as he starts moving, him picking up the pace almost instantly as if placed in a running wheel. Jake’s head nuzzles into the crook of your neck, hot breath radiating and him lapping up at whatever area of skin he comes in contact with. His arm goes under your knee and finds leverage on the wall, the other hand holding onto your pelvis, pinning you in place. The rough texture of the brick wall rubs against your back along each shudder, magnifying the titillation deep inside you.

You feel like with each thrust his insecurity and anxiety ebbs away like the snaky morning fog, replaced by his confidence and charming self: the one you know will work his magic on stage tonight just like ever, the one that will make the entire stadium shake and roar just by his fingers moving across six strings, the one that proves both to the world and to himself again and again that “it could be done”.

You can feel him swell and twitch against your walls, you squeeze you thighs and clench, knowing he’s getting close. The spasms of his cock tickling that particular spot to the point of no return, the ecstasy washing over you like a cascade. The whines and screams rolling and tumbling in your chest like a pot of boiling water, threatening to jump out of your mouth. You roll your eyes back and swallow them down, releasing only one suppressed moan of “let go, baby” against Jake’s ear, and that is enough to send him over the edge.

With one jerk of his body, he cums hard. You can feel the additional thickness of his release almost dripping down your crotch. Jake’s whole weight falls towards you with the hunch of his shoulders. His chest presses firmly against your body, its rise and fall teasing your still hard nipples.

You hold his head against your chest as he comes down from the high, fingers brushing away the naughty strands of hair that have flown into the corner of his mouth and stuck to his cheek.

“As much as I would like to stay here forever, you really have to get going. They must be looking for their rockstar everywhere.” You chuckle while shimmying out of your rumpled underwear, using it to clean up.

“Damn.” Jake leans back against the wall as he watches you, still on cloud nine and short of words. For a moment, all he can do is look at you.

“Stop staring.” You nudge him, unable to stop blushing facing his caramel eyes filled with unadulterated adoration. You bet if you could reach into them, you would find a handful of stars. Plus, Jake looks exceptionally beautiful post-fuck, the upturn at the corners of his mouth accentuated the curve of his cupid’s bow. The smug smirk is counterbalanced by the rosy blush on his cheekbones, a tell-tale sign of his satiated desire. Good. That’s what you’d expected and what you’d like to see.

Jake cups your face in both of his hands as he leans in for a kiss. This time, almost childish, his pouted lips pepper all over, the bilabial “mwah” is especially pronounced, causing you to giggle again.

“Quite the walk, huh?” You insinuate.

“Well, now I prefer to call it the ‘mental health fuck’,” Jake slowly straightens his back, resembling a cat stretching after a content nap. “Catch you on the flip side, my love.”

He was already a couple of strides away when he rushes back to kiss you again, catching you in surprise. Aggressive and fervent in his actions, but oh so gentle when his mouth meets yours. This is the type of kiss where he takes the lead, and you are completely at his mercy. The tip of his nose brushes against yours, and his teeth softly bite your lower lip. It’s a kiss that steals your breath and your heartbeat away for tits entirety . “You know you are my lighthouse, yeah?” He stares right into your eyes, his voice low and husky. “ You always guide me back when I’m lost at sea. My Leucothea, my Lady of Luck.”

You feel a lump in your throat, and every word goes straight to your heart. The feelings there are so overwhelming that they rise and swell like tidal waves. It;s so much love that it makes you want to cry.

“Gosh, Jake, such the poet.” That all you manage to say.

“Because you’re my muse, my angel,” Jake smiles again as he steps back one last time. “And now it’s time for me to set sail again, yeah?”

“Aye aye,” you blow him a kiss, “Fair Winds, Captain.”

You watch as he leaves. The Starcatcher symbol on his back standing tall and proud. The crystal embellishments on his jacket scintillate, jet crystals and glass beads shimmers, reflecting the lights like a thousand stars falling onto his shoulders. He is the warrior that breaks their fall, wearing them proud as a crystal armour. You watch as he marches forward, carrying on his shoulders the weight of dreams. Your dearest rocker, the bravest captain.

For Jake, the atoms are still buzzing, but now he can feel them moving rhythmically, like the joyful wings of a hummingbird or the secret dance of bees. They delivering a yet undecipherable but nonetheless auspicious message. Soon he will be going on stage, carrying a heart full of love from his lover, so he can give all his love to his fans out there. And he knows if he looks, he will find you among the crowd, a cluster of flame, a powerhouse of love.

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Thank you so much for reading!! :) any comments and feedbacks are greatly welcomed and deeply appreciated.

The description of Jake's jacket is heavily relied on this post

kudos to who spotted the TLSP reference hehe

If you are in need of some fluff, feel free to check out my another Jake pieces: Permission to Fall || Ticked (all my boxes) || Love is a four-legged word || The Lucky Ones

[whumped-by-glitter]

Chapter 1 Part 3: Late

⚠️CW: Institutional Slavery, Food Whump, Bullying, Blood, Beating, Minor Whumpee, Implied Nudity (Non Sexual, Caretaking), Imprisonment, Dehumanization..... If i missed anything, please let me know.

A special thanks as always to @3-2-whump for the beta read and tolerating the endless drivel as I work through all of my threads and ideas.

Story under the cut:

⏮️ Previous

Dog looked over and saw that Boy was still asleep. The kid was only about 13 and was also never given a name. Nobles preferred to name their slaves themselves, so slaves his master bought to train and resell as silver bands were rarely named.

He couldn’t just let him sleep like that. He shook his head. He knew that the two silver bands were kept more separate, but Dog didn’t understand why no one would have looked out for the child even a little.

Dog walked over, gently shaking him. All Boy did was roll over. ‘This would be so much easier if I could talk’ he thought, inwardly rolling his eyes.

“Why are you bothering with that failure?”  Zan laughed, but Dog completely ignored him.

He slapped Boy harder, turning his cheeks red. The kid reacted but did not wake up. Boy had been on food restrictions for 4 days now and was just exhausted Dog figured. The older slave scooped him up to carry him into the washroom.

“Hey! Don’t just fucking ignore me!” Zan spat as the dog brushed past him.

Dog had practically raised him. Boy had been bought at the age of 3, Dog had been 12 at the time. Corvius couldn’t be bothered with things like potty training and teaching him how to speak, so Dog was put in charge of that.

Hauling the kid to the washroom and setting him on the floor, he splashed some cold water on his face, which finally startled the younger slave awake.

The mutt quickly scrubbed him down and braided his black hair so that it wouldn’t stick to his neck while working. He also took a mental note that it probably needed to be cut this evening.

Dog quickly patted him dry and dressed him, just in time. The latch being opened echoed through the outbuilding, he quickly tied his blindfold over his eyes before helping the kid up. It was time to begin the day.

By the time he finished dressing him and they returned to the common area, breakfast had already been distributed. It was no surprise to Dog that he didn’t have a tray, since he was fed separately because everything he was allowed to eat was laced with various poisons to work up his resistance. The mutt, however, found it concerning that there was as still nothing for Boy. It was beginning to get dangerous, especially with the amount of extra work being piled on him.

Dog didn’t even feel the crime fit this level of punishment, or even made sense with the offense. From how he understood it, Boy was cleaning the mirror on Balor’s dresser and accidentally pushed too hard and cracked it. It wasn’t like the mirror isn’t easy to replace. What Balor was angry about was the old superstition that if a mirror is broken, its owner is cursed. Balor was convinced, because of this, that Boy had tried to kill him.

Balor was the Master’s son. He was lazy, dimwitted, and sadistic, nothing like his father. At least with the master, the rules were clear, and everything had a reason. Most of the slaves and even servants avoided him, however he seemed to take a particular shine to tormenting Boy, and Dog, of course, but that went without saying.

The Mutt sat Boy down next to Ruby. “Please look after him,” he requested in a quiet, gravelly voice, now allowed to speak. His voice had been shot a long time ago from screaming in pain, the poisons, and just plain disuse.

“I’ll get him going,” she grunted, slipping the dazed boy a piece of her toast.

Mutt headed off towards the main house to report to their Master.

 As he walked up the hill to the mansion, he noted the sun was a little higher than usual. This was becoming an all too frequent occurrence; this particular servant would often delay unlocking the door.  She would use the trip to the slave house as an excuse for a smoke break. It didn’t really affect anyone except for him, who had to report to the master right away, but it was getting old.

As he reached the door, he tried to push his worry for Boy aside. It would be a distraction, which wouldn’t help the situation. He was really hoping to perform well enough to request his master interfere in his son’s punishment of Boy. He took a steadying breath and opened the door.

“What took you so long?!” his master snapped as a greeting, well… at least an acknowledgment of his arrival. The mutt inwardly winced. Today was going to be one of those days, he could tell already.

“This mongrel deeply apologizes,” the Drar dropped to his knees, bringing his forehead to the floor in an almost worshipping bow. He knew better by now than to try to explain.

Balor provided a sharp kick to the slave’s ribs; he could tell by scent and sound it was him. Additionally, Balor always wore a special pair of shoes that came to a metal covered point which made his kick pretty distinct. A second blow came, and he did the best he could to not react as he could feel a bit of blood trickle across his ribs under his loose shirt. Facial expressions were off limits for him and would only make things worse, as was moving and making sounds.

He conjured the feeling of the small warm hands, calming himself, they were the reason for this right? He was held to impossibly high standards for them. ‘I am just a tool, tools don’t feel,’ he told himself, just like he did every time. It was a reflex at this point, as natural as blinking. It was easier to convince himself that he didn’t feel the pain than to try to cope with it.

“That’s enough!” the mutt heard Corvius snap.

“Father, I can beat it for wasting your time,” he heard Balor say.

“I don’t need your help,” his master said in a pointed tone. Sometimes he almost felt sorry for Balor, he tried so hard for approval his father never gave.

“Fine,” Balor sulked, giving the mutt another firm kick in the ribs before walking out. He almost felt sorry for him…

“Up,” his master ordered harshly. “Follow.”

@whumpsandbumps, @whumperofworlds, @skittles-the-whumpee, @wounds-seen-and-unseen, @generic-whumperz

@emptycalories-splitlip, @pigeonwhumps, @i-eat-worlds, @starfields08000, @onlywhump

@snakebites-and-ink, @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

As always, if you want to be added or taken off my taglist, just let me know!

Also, my asks and DMs are always open, and I more than welcome interactions!

Masterlist

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[verdemoun]

yep it's strange man time again

John met him in the first game. He knows *something*. Okay maybe he doesn't know shit boy ain't that smart BUT something is up. Does Strange Man turn up again? Ever? At any point? Especially if he's related to Trelawny in some way?

strange man my beloved who puts up with so much bullshit

the strange man went to jack marston's execution. while one of very few who did not cheer as the trapdoor was pulled, jack was the last of the VDLs - which meant Trelawney's time fuckery bullshit was over. The Strange Man could have a damned cup of tea in peace without feeling time being rewritten four times by his (for desperate want of a better word) protégé.

And being a possibly immortal, possibly omnipotent, time travelling deity, he doesn't much concern himself with the lives of mortals because they die so easily and are boring. but he might be a little curious. just a smidge. just a touch curious about how that strange bunch of VDLs are doing in modern era

john doesn't recognise him in typical john fashion - getting a suit fitting for some event. probably a graduation. giving brief one word answers to slightly odd questions about how he's going. how's his wife and children and getting that nagging feeling sure abigail made the appointment but who just guesses you have children

they make sort of idle conversation about catching up with family and how nice it is to have everyone in one place. john sort of chuckles along like it's an inside joke but it is nice having everyone all together, especially when they're doing the big catch up, too busy rambling awkwardly about his family in suit-fitting style

notices the hat. the tailor has the custom hat that algernon made for him, and has placed it on his head. it's definitely the same hat, from 1907. realises it's the strange man and feels his whole body tense like a dog raising its hackles.

turns around and the strange man is not there. hat still is on his head. looks back in the mirror. strange man is behind him, a coy sort of grin on his face as he wishes him well and walks off. john can hear the footsteps.

shakily decides to pay for the suit and finds the bill already covered, including the hat.

[fallenrayvens]

Identity

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Day 2 Prompt for the @dadbastianweek2023

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A boy and a beast stood in front of a mirror, staring at the child who stared back at them. The sky, staring at the stars, staring at the sky.

————————————————————————–

CONTEXT WARNINGS: O!Ciel’s original name is assumed to be “Sirius” here. | The context of this piece is drenched in a WIP of mine for a longfic in which O!Ciel shares his body as a vessel with Sebastian as opposed to having him serve as a human butler.

————————————————————————–

The child in the mirror was not just a reflection of himself, but a phantom image of who he pretended to be, for the Fates had been feeling particularly cruel the day he was put inside the same womb as him.

And yet, just a moment moment ago, when he had caught himself saying “We have much to do tomorrow, so we should go to sleep.”, he meant him, the Earl, and the fiend who lived inside his head — which was foolish since Sebastian did not sleep, but also made him freeze in place because…

Who was we?

When had him grown so accustomed to sharing that mortal shell with the demon who was to one day devour his soul, that “we” was how he referred to himself? And who was this “himself” it had merged with, anyway?

Was it the weak and lonely child who cursed this world and denied God, the one he had chosen to leave behind? Was it the mask of the heir he had chosen to wear since that day? The strong-willed and proud noble who stood tall and didn’t bow to anyone?

…Had Ciel ever been like this mask he had built in his honor at all? — It brought tears to his eyes when he realized he didn’t know the answer to that question. That was the image he held of him, for sure, but both of them had been only ten. Did the boy he pretended to be even existed? And if he didn’t… did he? Did them?

“We shouldn’t worry ourselves with the tiniest things, my lord.” the low and melodic voice inside his head finally made itself known again, pulling him in to the present. A shadow hand emerging from behind the mirror cradled his face, but he knew it was coming from his own body, he could feel it too. “It will bring you no good to dwell on such details. It matters not to me who you were then, only who you are now.”

The boy in the mirror smirked at his brother, his foolish, naïve younger brother, as the shadows embraced him like a father would his own child, and he accepted.

How very strange was it, to feel like he was embracing himself, but also being embraced by another. “You are not the same either, Sebastian.” he declared, reaching for the shadow hand that held him so gently with his own tiny human hand. “You have changed, too.”

“I suppose I have.” He obliged, unable to lie by the bounds of their contract, though the crimson glow that came from the boy’s reflection suggested the demon was not up to the discussion.

He knew why.

He felt the beast’s conflict at the pit of his stomach whenever the boy reminded it that he was its prey. That at the end of their contract, it would have to claim its payment and abandon the name of his dog, that he was nothing but a rabbit being raised by a wolf.

They never again had a full conversation about that truth after he made it swear on bringing him his victory, after the Queen had given him his brother’s title and his family’s duties.

And although the version of Sebastian who looked like a soft-featured, elegant lean and tall butler existed only within their dream and headspace interactions, he sure had begun to sound more and more like Tanaka, and sometimes very much like Vincent.

“Let’s go to bed, young master.” the voice insisted again, this time blocking the vision of the mirror from the boy’s eyes by raising black shadowy smoke in front of the glass, forcing him to break the spell he had lured himself into. “Tomorrow is a busy day, and we can’t have you wasting precious sleeping hours having an existential crisis.”

“Fine.” the Earl rolled his eyes, finally giving in. “But we’re not done with this.” He shooed the shadow hands off his face, demanding one of them help him get up instead. It was comically confusing, as he did not know how exactly that worked, and neither did the demon care to explain it.

As he climbed upon his bed, wrapping his body with the thick blankets and closing his eyes, he heard the rustling of cloth, the blankets hugging him in a more tight manner, and felt a clawed but tender hand caress his gray-blue locks, the voice inside his head lulled him to sleep. “Good night, young master.”

He wanted to protest, to tell Sebastian to cut it out already, but he felt too heavy, too sleepy to do so. His brain felt tired from all the guilt, from all the thinking. So instead, he let Sirius, the boy he had once been, speak.

“G’night, ‘Bastian…”

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[0perfectimperfections0]

What if lou befriended the robot dog/what if the robot dog became Lou's guard dog.

Aww, I really love this idea. I wrote a short story called "Escape" that centers around Lou and Bella's (what me and Natalie-writes named the dog) bond.

But here is a little short about Lou and Bella's first bonding and how it grew to that point in "Escape."

<><><><><><>

Lou tried fixing his hair the best he could. There was a dusty, floor-length mirror he managed to find in the pile of objects that used to be his. When the dolls started cleaning out what used to be his mansion, almost all of his belongings were set to be taken to the recycling.

Unfortunately, the mirror hardly did him any good when his appearance seemed impossible to fix. One of the dolls -- some red-headed girl he purposefully forgot the name of -- had dumped the bucket of soapy water over his head that he was using to mop the floor. His shrunken clothes were soaked through, making warmth a distant memory now, and his hair was soaked and lost its form. Water dripped from the blond ends that came just to his shoulders. All he could do was vainly brush the wet bangs behind his ears to see better.

The door to the shed creaked open and Bella's nose peeked through the opening. Lou let his arms drop to his sides as he stomped over to the entrance. "Get out," he pushed vainly against her snout. She didn't budge. "This is the only peace and quiet I have anymore." He pressed his back against her nose, using his legs to try and shove her back out. He grunted and fell onto his back when she suddenly pulled away. Lou blinked up at the metallic canine. "Why are you even still here? I'm not working."

Bella grabbed one of his feet with her mouth, earning a yelp of surprise from the doll. She used her tail to shut the door back and began striding off to who-knows-where.

"Put me down!" He twisted around to try and pull free, but it was in vain. "It's nighttime! I don't have to clean anymore!" She ignored him and kept walking.

Lou crossed his arms, glaring at an upside-down world. This was ridiculous. The dolls acted as if he wasn't already being watched throughout the day by the citizens. What could he possibly do at night? Escape? That was impossible for him...

He'd already tried years ago.

The next movement he was subjected to was gentle, which jostled him from his thoughts. Bella laid him down gently on her dog bed. The dolls had made her a dog house to stay in whenever it rained so her metal wouldn't rust since the Gauntlet had been disposed of as well. Lou propped himself up on his forearms and watched her circle the bed a few times to get comfortable. He stood up, glaring at her, "As if it wasn't humiliating enough to be living in a shed. Now you want me to literally be in the dog house." Lou prepared to walk all the way back to his shed.

Bella growled, standing in front of him to block his past. She bared her reflective teeth down at him. Lou froze, eyes wide. He took a few cautious steps back. That's when Bella stopped growling. She hadn't meant to scare him, but he always refused to accept her charity. She just wanted to keep him safe. That was her job, wasn't it? Wasn't that why the green bunny had told her to keep an eye on him 24/7?

Why are you even still here? I'm not working.

Was...her purpose not to keep him safe?

But this small doll trembling from the cold and staring up at her with wide blue eyes didn't seem threatening in any way. She was more of a threat than he was.

She wasn't part of his punishment...was she?

That thought made her tail droop. She raised her head and stepped over the doll to finally lay on her bed. She was a bad dog. This whole time she thought she was doing a good job at keeping the boy safe and in actuality, she was part of why he looked so miserable all the time.

Lou debated walking out. He looked between the sullen canine and the outside. What was with the drastic change in mood? She was now staring crestfallen at the wall, ears drooped down. Had he done something wrong?

He shook his head. So what if he had done something wrong? This dog wasn't in charge of him. Ox wasn't either. He could do whatever he wanted to at night. Aside from leaving this blasted Institute. Lou steeled himself and made to walk back out. No matter how far he went, he couldn't escape the dog--

Wait.

He couldn't leave.

And neither could Bella.

They were both stuck in this place while the other dolls were free to come and go as they pleased. Perhaps that's what she was suddenly upset about. The harsh reality would also hit him worse at the most random times.

He wrung his hands together, looking down at his still-drenched clothes. Lou looked back to Bella and slowly walked toward her head. He scuffed a foot across the bedding, "I guess...we're both kinda trapped here, huh?"

Bella's ears twitched a bit. Hmm, she'd never considered the word 'trapped' to describe her circumstances. She had him after all to keep company with along with the baby.

"Is that what you're sad about?"

No, silly boy, she thought fondly, I'm sad that I've hurt you. Gosh, if only she could speak his language.

Lou took her silence as a weird agreement to his question. He looked off to the side, a shiver from the cold trailing down his body. Bella took notice and lifted her head to nudge him closer to her side. He got the hint and sat down on the bedding. Legs drew up to his chest, arms wrapping around them, and his chin resting on his knees. He looked outside. Bella held back a whine. She wished she hadn't scared him. Maybe he would be happy then.

"It makes me sad, too." His voice was distant.

Bella looked away in shame. She had made him sad. Bad dog, she scolded herself. Why did she have to scare him? Why was she a part of his punishment?

"I don't know if I want a kid," he continued. "I just...want someone to stay. Even kids leave eventually." That grip on his throat tightened. He squeezed his eyes shut and buried his head in his arms. "I want someone who cares enough about me to stay...," his voice broke as a sob escaped him. "I wish I-I was just as important as the Big World...I-I wish I was worth staying behind for."

That's what he was upset about. He wasn't mad at her. He was lonely.

While she still hated seeing him sad and even more seeing him cry, at least she could fix this problem. Bella curled up into a tight ball, tail wrapping in front of Lou and pressing the side of her snout to his legs. Good boy. She hadn't associated a name with him. Good Boy sounded fitting, though.

Lou sniffed, not lifting his head, but he could feel her presence. "Good girl, Bella," he spoke softly.

She was filled with joy at the praise. Poor, Good Boy.

Lou finally lifted his head enough to look at her. He gave a soft smile despite his reddened eyes and flushed face. Much better.

It took a few more minutes, but Lou's eyes soon became too heavy for him to keep open. He curled up against her side. Bella gently pushed some of his hair out of his face with her nose. He had stopped shivering. She settled in herself to make sure he slept here every night instead of that awful shed again.

She laid her head down in front of him, watching his small form.

Good Boy.

[storiesforallfandoms]

unimaginably happy ~ corpse husband

word count: 1414

request?: yes!

“Can you please write some corpse husband fluff? Just something cute and sweet. I need some cute stuff I've been having a ruff few days”

description: when his two year old son crashes his stream, he can’t help but talk about how amazing parenthood has been and how he admires the strength of his baby mama

pairing: corpse husband x female!reader

warnings: swearing

masterlist (one, two)

*i started writing this for corpse’s birthday but had a lot happen between then and now, so uh...happy belated birthday corpse!*

The door to his streaming room creaked open just in time to stop Corpse from yelling out a four letter word that started with F. He looked over to see his two year old son, Leo, stood in the doorway, holding his favorite stuffy by its arm.

“Hey buddy,” Corpse said. “What’s wrong?”

“I wanted to say hi,” Leo responded.

“Is that my little bestie?!” Rae’s voice called through Corpse’s headphones.

He unplugged the headphones from his PC so Leo could hear them. “Leo, say hi to Aunt Rae.”

“Hi Auntie Rae.”

Rae squealed excitedly as the rest of Corpse’s friends began to talk all at once, saying their “hello”s to Leo and gushing over how adorable he was. The chat was mirroring their excitement as it filled with messages about Leo’s sudden appearance.

(Y/N) stood in the doorway and smiled at her two boys. “I’m sorry, I was on the phone and he came down when I wasn’t paying attention.”

“It’s okay. I don’t mind,” Corpse assured her. “And I’m sure no one else minds, right guys?”

Everyone began talking over one another again. Corpse looked up at (Y/N) and smiled. She smiled back and crossed the room to kiss him on top of his curly hair.

“Can I play with daddy for a while, mommy?” Leo asked. He looked up at (Y/N) with his big puppy dog eyes, a mirror image of Corpse’s.

“Yes!” came Rae’s voice again. “(Y/N) please, we’ll be family friendly I promise.”

“Corpse isn’t even family friendly,” (Y/N) teased. “But yes, if it’s okay with daddy you can play with him for a while.”

“I never say no to a streaming partner.”

(Y/N) smiled and left the two to their “playing”. Corpse plugged his headphones back in so he could hear his friends better. As he adjusted Leo on his lap, he read the quick incoming messages in the chat about being excited for Leo to join the stream.

Leo was a pretty good stream partner to have. For starters, whenever Leo was around Corpse was instantly 10 times happier. It was hard to feel any sort of negative emotions when the little person he created was asking to play video games with him. Besides that, Leo also just spent the whole time curled up in Corpse’s arms. Most nights he even fell asleep there.

The little boy settled back against Corpse’s chest, watching with wide eyes at the bright colors on Corpse’s screen. Although his friends were able to freely speak, Corpse found himself struggling to keep it clean in front of Leo. It was the one downside to the boy joining his streams.

He glanced at his chat for a moment before muting himself in the Discord call.

“I see a few questions in chat from new fans,” he said. “I’ll clear some things up for people who don’t know: Leo is my two year old son. My girlfriend, (Y/N), who you heard earlier, found out she was pregnant shortly after we got together, and we both decided we wanted to keep the baby. I’ve always wanted to have kids and honestly, Leo has been like a dream come true. He’s such a great kid, and getting to raise him, seeing a little mini me grow and become an actual person is the best feeling in the world.”

Corpse felt Leo’s weight slouch against him, a signal that he was starting to get tired. Corpse smiled down at him and kissed his head.

“(Y/N) has been incredible since the moment she found out she was pregnant,” Corpse continued. “She had a hard pregnancy, but she really pushed through it and acted like it was nothing. And she’s been so...just amazing with raising Leo. I can’t imagine having anyone else by my side through it all, or having a better life partner to help me raise this little guy.” He looked down to see that Leo had already drifted off to sleep. He chuckled. “Who, by the way, is now sound asleep on my lap.”

He unmuted himself and waited for everyone to quiet down enough to say, “Leo’s asleep, so I think this is LG for me. I’m going to put him to bed when we’re done.”

“Oh my gosh, he’s asleep on your lap?” Bretman asked. “That’s the cutest shit ever! I love the idea of daddy Corpse.”

Although it wasn’t the first time he had heard someone say that, Corpse couldn’t stop the blush that crossed his cheeks. He was so glad he didn’t do facecam streams.

When the game ended, he said goodbye to his friends and viewers and signed off. Once the screen was off and the room had gone dark, he was careful as he shifted Leo in his arms and stood. The little boy stirred just a little bit, but only to reposition his head on his dad’s shoulder before sighing and going back to a solid state of sleep.

He walked slowly and silently to Leo’s room, then gently placed the sleeping child down onto his bed. Instinctively, Leo took hold of his blankets and pulled them up under his chin. Corpse tucked Leo’s stuffy under the blanket next to him and softly kissed his head before quietly backing out of the room.

(Y/N) was waiting by the door when Corpse exited. “How long till he fell asleep on you tonight?”

“I’d say maybe 15 minutes,” Corpse responded.

(Y/N) chuckled. “I knew that was gonna happen. He was fighting with me about going to bed. The minute he went to your recording room I knew it wouldn’t be long.”

Corpse stood in front of (Y/N) and took her into his arms. He enveloped her in a loving embrace, resting his head on top of hers. She giggled and buried her head into his chest, taking in the familiar scent of his cologne as she did so.

“What’s this for?” she asked, her voice lightly muffled by the fabric of his hoodie.

“Just because,” he responded. “Some people were asking about Leo in the chat and I was talking about when we found out you were pregnant, and it got me reminiscing on the past few years.”

(Y/N) lifted her head to smile up at Corpse. “I know what you mean. I find myself thinking about that almost every day, especially when Leo learns to do something for the first time. It’s crazy to think he’s two already. He’s a tiny person now!”

Corpse chuckled and pulled away from (Y/N). He took her hand in his and led her down to their shared bedroom. Corpse shed himself of his clothes while (Y/N) changed into one of his shirts, her usual nightly attire. When they climbed into bed together, (Y/N) took her place in Corpse’s arms again, resting her head on his chest. He played with the hair on the nape of her neck, something (Y/N) had often told him she loved.

“I never imagined actually having kids,” he admitted. “I always wanted them, but with all of my health issues, and the agoraphobia, I never thought I’d actually be able to have any.”

“And now that you do have one, what do you think?” (Y/N) asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Like..is it what you expected? Or did you expect anything?”

Corpse thought over the question for a moment. “I wasn’t sure what to expect when you told me you were pregnant. I thought, originally, that it couldn’t be true. Then I was afraid that I wouldn’t be healthy enough myself to take care of a baby, or that before Leo was born you’d realize how much wrong I had going on with me and you wouldn’t want to have him with me anymore. Now that he’s here though...I can’t imagine ever being as happy as I am.”

(Y/N) smiled to herself in the darkness. “Really?”

“Really. I mean, as cliché as it is to say, he’s perfect. Everything about him is perfect. And I really can’t imagine having anyone else as his mom.”

(Y/N) had to blink away the tears forming in her eyes as she lifted her head to find Corpse’s cheek. She placed a light kiss there before mumbling, “I love you so much.”

“I love you too,” Corpse responded. “And Leo. I love our little family so much. I’m so unimaginably happy with everything.”

[insult-2-injury]

Take a Seat-  Chapter 1

After a skirmish up top, your failing shop falls under the watchful gaze of the Eye of Zaun. And his blue-haired gremlin daughter.

Silco x Fem!Reader | Total WC: 34k | Eventual Smut | Slow Burn | Romance | Angst |

AO3 Link

Next chap

"The past is never where you think you left it" -Katherine Anne Porter

The first step into Piltover was always a tad violent on the senses. The sun felt particularly offensive today, its rays clashing furiously with the Undercity smog that battled its way upward, thinning alongside you as the elevator made its ascent, hidden mechanics whirring as you came to a shuddering stop.

You raised your palm to preemptively block out the full brunt of the light as the latticework doors hissed open, proudly revealing the golden child of the two conjoined cities, disgustingly picturesque.

A familiar sense of world weariness nestled into the slopes of your shoulders as you stepped out, squinting toward the towering spires of the new hex gates. You felt out of place here, like a fish out of water. Or, more accurately, a fish who had sprouted two human legs and sauntered its way up and out of the swamp.

You pressed the thin fabric of your scarf to your face as you walked, ghostlike, across the bridge, inhaling a few deep breaths to acclimatize to the change. Even the air here was richer than you.

Loathe to admit, you’d actually taken time on your outfit today, throwing on your favorite dress, a green, watermelon striped piece. You'd even thrown the mirror finger guns before you'd left your place.

But of course, the moment you set foot on the outskirts of the bustling city, you understood why your attempt at fashionable disguise was unfruitful. Because topsiders knew the highly specific likes of their own people, and they could catch onto the stench of a foreign invader in seconds flat.

They sniffed the air like prairie dogs, scattering as politely as they could manage as you strolled through the active marketplace. You couldn’t fault them at all, really- it wasn’t as if a lamb-faced Piltovan could exactly blend in downstairs.

The off-white marble fountain loomed ahead as you turned a corner, wiping the beading sweat off your brows. You were looking around for a place to sit when an orange flash of movement nearby caught your attention.

A young, scrawny boy with shockingly red hair was combing through the food stalls of the farmer’s market nearby. His eyes were glazed over with a kind of hunger that you recognized well enough, the kind that made you impatient.

You recognized him from the Lanes; him and his friends took no small joy in terrorizing the local shopkeepers with ridiculously explicit graffiti. You’d never been able to bring yourself to frown on it, as it was somewhat of a comfort discovering another well-placed, comedically spray-painted pair of boobs hidden around the Lanes. A sign that things hadn’t changed while you weren’t paying attention.

The redhead stood out like a sore thumb in Piltover’s golden-rayed streets. Passersby watched him roving about, wary, as if he was a stumbling, undomesticated dog, growling and foaming at the mouth.

And he did look feral, but in the way that only a fellow child of Zaun could understand.

You slid your satchel onto your hip, heading toward him. You purchased an absurdly expensive loaf of rye and a small block of cheese, having learned long ago that flashing any form of money on the streets of Piltover was one way to put suspicious onlookers at ease, as if adorning yourself in cash made you ethical, less likely to steal.

Oh, thank heavens, they thought, you had money. You weren’t one of those people.

Conversely, if you flashed your coin around the Lanes, you were almost guaranteed to be humbled in a host of different ways if you couldn’t defend yourself. You’d be down cash and your shoes, too, if they looked expensive enough.

“I can spot you a mile away with that hair,” you said, walking toward the kid. “Hope you don’t think you’re being stealthy.”

The kid recognized you, shooting you a glare as you placed the offering beside him. “Least I’m not dressed like some wannabe Piltie.”

You pursed your lips and looked down at your dress. “I deserve that.” Reaching into your satchel that was about a thread away from unraveling entirely, you took out a sheathed knife and placed it into his open palm.

“For the cheese. Or whatever else you’ll use it for. Carving more tits into the walls.”

He examined it closely. “Looks sharp as fuck.”

It took the bothered gaze of multiple passersby to realize that your uncivil discourse had created a ripple of disturbance throughout the peaceful fountain area as a Piltovan child was sullied by their first F-bomb. You, a grown adult, threw another one out for good measure, if only to be on the receiving end of one more glare.

“It is sharp as fuck. What do you think I make, butter knives?”

“Would be more useful right about now.”

It was a brief comfort for both of you, you thought, to find reprieve in the churlish language that only someone from the Undercity could understand. It was the kind of harsh, disrespectful speech that probably simulated something like nails on a chalkboard to a mild-mannered Piltovan. You scanned the fountain area.

“Just wear a hat next time. Cover that hair.”

“Wear some make-up.”

You locked gazes with a familiar face across the way. A warm hand wrapped its fingers around your heart as you abandoned the redhead mid-insult and walked toward your brother.

“Stef,” you said, keeping your voice purposefully flat.

When he spoke your name in return, an aching affection bubbled in your chest, even as you took note of how stale the word sounded falling from his lips. He placed an awkward palm on your shoulder and squeezed, but said nothing else, beckoning you with a tilt of his head. An ancient bitterness ignited in your belly at his lack of affection. He’d never been warm, even when you were kids. You stewed quietly as you fell in step behind him, following him toward the pretentious fountain splashing softly in the heart of the marketplace.

Stefan looked at you with his bright eyes, the same color as yours. His floppy, chestnut hair that he'd started to grow out. His dimpled chin with the scar from when the front wheel had fallen off his bike as you’d both ridden down an unpaved road. He had spared you of any injury, wrapping you in his arms to soften the blow. You blinked away a swell of sadness.

He sat down on the thick, marble lip of the fountain and you perched yourself a safe distance away, criss-crossing your legs and pretending to study your nails, as if being in the presence of your elegantly dressed, Piltovan brother didn’t unsettle you in every possible way.

When you’d been summoned to meet Stefan, you had immediately begun the mental groundwork necessary to keep your emotions subdued. The past could hold no power up top, you promised yourself. Your memories together were nothing but distant drops of water. But they weren’t. They cascaded across your mind like a river carving out a canyon.

“You making knives for kids now?”

Your head turned to where the redhead had ditched the knife in place of his own hands, tearing into the loaf of bread with a vengeance.

“Eh, what’s the worst he could do with it?”

“Plenty.”

Your eye twitched.

“Tell me about the Lanes, anything new?"

Irritation cracked through you like a whip.

“Why not take a little outing? And see it for yourself. Instead of sending some shady Piltie suit.”

You were referring to the lavishly dressed man with impeccable posture that your brother had sent to your door as a physical invitation two nights before. Talk about standing out. You’d be surprised if he hadn’t gotten his ass kicked on the way out of Zaun.

Stefan clenched his jaw and despite your vow to remain unfeeling, you found your voice softening with an old devotion.

“It’s the same, Stef, just more shimmer.”

You brought him up to date on your business, about how recent clientele had boosted your profits exponentially. How because of that you were upgrading the tiny stall you’d rented out in the Boundary Markets. You glossed a bit over just who it was you were selling to. Besides, he was smart enough to figure out that the people who were looking for the kinds of weapons you crafted were probably not looking to use them for soap carving.

Stefan, in turn, updated you. He worked in the council building and shared that they were in the works of planning a celebration for the opening of the hex gates. He hardly responded when you mentioned just how screwed up it was that instead of using a fraction of that money for Undercity reparations, from the devastation topside had wreaked years ago, they were pouring it into an event they were branding the most expensive party of the year.

All in all, it seemed his hierarchy of needs was being met, while you struggled to scrape by. Of course, you weren’t surprised by this in the least.

He sat for a long moment after he finished, clearly mulling something over before running fingers through his hair. “You know, the City of Progress is progressing.”

You arched an eyebrow at his astute observation, biting your tongue. He’d never responded well to teasing.

“And we grow stronger yet.” He saw the way your body stiffened at the word ‘We’. “The Lanes haven’t. Progressed.”

You'd only risen to the surface a handful of times to catch up with him since he'd left the Undercity, but every time you did, you lost further touch with who he was now. He spoke differently, his cadence unnatural, like a child trying to fit into a suit he hadn't quite grown into yet.

“Oh, please do continue.”

He placed his head in his hand, sighing at your barbed words.

"If things were ever to come to a head again, it could get ugly. I just want to make sure..."

"Spit it out."

You knew full well what he was trying to get at. With the rapidly growing wealth disparity, and especially with the opening of the gates, tensions had risen exponentially. And the two cities had certainly not been frictionless before. Aside from that, whatever sort of science was behind the hex gates… well, you could only assume that whatever further experimentations were going on up top came at no benefit to those below.

What he was trying to say was if the Undercity tried to rise again, it would get its shit rocked.

"I'm worried about you."

"I'm fine."

Stefan paused, weighing his next words.

“I know you well enough to know you're probably not associating with the right sorts of people.”

You hummed, unable to form words through the melancholic bitterness that had started to form a nasty, bubbling potion in your stomach, increasing slowly towards a boil.

“I'm afraid that after-" He searched for the right words. "I'm afraid that after... what happened... you’ve become disillusioned. Resentful. I just... I shouldn’t have left you down there so long.” As if you were the last spoonful burning at the bottom of his soup pot, curdling and left to wither. What on Earth did he think you did all day, sit by the door and wait for his return? You stared at him incredulously. “I just don’t want you to be in the crosshairs when we-"

You boiled over.

“I’m sorry, who’s we?”

When Stefan was younger, he’d always had a hero complex and the ego to boot- it was what had pushed away the other children at the orphanage. In a game of make-believe, he'd always had to be the savior, and since no other kids would tolerate his big-headedness, you'd always felt the sisterly obligation to play into his imagination. You'd been a great subject and he'd always stayed true, sheltering you from every storm you would walk willfully into the shadows of.

He had needed you and you had needed him.

So, shooting him off his high horse after all these years felt a little treasonous.

"How’s the council stuff going? You said you, what, water the lobby plants?”

“I’m an administrative assistant."

“That's a fancy word for secretary, Stef. You’re a secretary.” Stefan’s knuckles were white as they gripped the lip of the fountain. “You have a lower security clearance level than a janitor, so keep your mouth shut about the Undercity. At least I provide for the cause.”

You could almost see your brother's head inflating to protect his pride as he bored holes into the cobblestone at his feet. He nodded, as if something had just clicked into place.

“Guess that answers my next question. About whether or not you’ve progressed.”

"And how do you suppose I progress? I'm barely staying afloat as it is-"

"Then let me help you."

"I don't want your help."

"Why, because I'm an evil topsider now?"

"No, because I only accept help from the right sorts of people."

You were being childish, and you knew it full well, but you were burning, the gentle affection you’d felt earlier sprouting thorns that raked down your insides.

Progress. The two of you had entirely different ideas of its definition, you realized. Stefan, he hadn't just moved on, he'd crushed any semblance of his former life in the Undercity. And with that, he'd crushed any realistic idea of who you were.

And you? The past beat in you like a second heart. You cloaked yourself in it, sheltered and basked in its savagery. Looking at your brother with fresh eyes, you thought that perhaps ignorance really was bliss.

"And who's that? Whatever misfit band of criminals walks by next?"

"So, everyone in the Undercity is a criminal now? What about you, you think you're somehow excluded in this?"

"Fine then, stay in the past with your friends."

As if the fountain was suddenly a hot skillet under your touch, you leapt up, hair whipping across your face as a sudden breeze seemed to couple with your wild emotions.

The moment suspended in time, the cruelty of his words beginning to tingle across your scalp, setting in, as if someone had just cracked an egg over your head and the yolk was spilling down your temples.

“You…” Your face contorts.

To his credit, he did have the decency to look a little sorry.

“I just want to protect-"

“Few years too late,” you interrupted, “For that.” You took a step forward. “Hope you can swim.”

With one swift motion, you shoved your brother into the fountain and reveled in the way that he yelped in surprise, hands grabbed wildly at thin air before he toppled over with a satisfying splash. Loud gasps echoed around the open space as he plunged in.                                    

In your head, you’d slain a monster when all you’d realistically done was gather enough courage to push a grown man into a shallow pool. But you took the small victory and ran with it as you watched him struggle to slide his entire body in to be able to stand up.

You jeered at those rushing forward to help. What a scandal.

Your smile dropped as you saw an enforcer among them, charging toward not you, but the redhead at the food stands, who had apparently used the hell out of your small distraction. With how quickly he was foraging through different stalls, he was sure to open his pockets later to an incredibly diverse array of food groups.

“Look out!” You shouted and just like that, you entered yourself as a player in the game. A second enforcer locked eyes with you. Must have been a slow day at work. Or maybe being from the Undercity was cause enough for arrest. Didn’t matter because in a split second, you were running toward the kid, an enforcer hot on your heels.

You may as well have been waving a knife and shouting death threats, the way people dove out of your way as if their very lives were at stake.

“Fucking Run!”

The kid’s eyes were glistening with possibility as he hesitated, wanting more. Needing more. You remembered that cockiness, the way you’d felt invincible when you’d pushed the limits, just barely making it out of a scrape. But as the kid had concerned himself, in his hunger, with the proportion of bread to pocket size, he’d forgotten something crucial: the current ratio of Zaunite to Piltovan.

A bulky shopkeeper lunged and grabbed the boy by the shirt from behind, a comical number of fruits falling out of his pockets as he was yanked forward and grappled.

You growled. Shit. You weren’t about to leave the poor, idiot kid to a mob of topsiders. In the moments it took to cross the 20-foot distance, you weighed your options. Damage to property was most certainly a lesser charge than damage to person, so you targeted the legs of the table instead of the pudgy, veiny legs of the man who held the redhead by the scruff of his neck.

The wooden stilts caved in like toothpicks as you used your momentum to perform a sweeping kick that had the table careening in on itself as you flew past. You spared a glance backward, nearly letting out a whoop at the small burst of adrenaline in your chest when you saw the young boy following in your steps.

Recalling your original purpose, your head whipped over to the fountain and you stumbled slightly. Your brother had always been easy for you to read. It was a sibling thing, sure, but when you were younger, others found his mannerisms odd, cryptic. You'd always been able to navigate his sensitivities, knowing when you’d crossed the delicate line, calming him from his verbal tirades. All because you could just… read him. But in that single second of eye contact, you’d come to a sobering realization that you didn’t know this Stefan, this Piltovan flesh suit of your older brother. And that you actually had no idea where you stood.

You were utter strangers.

The two of you sprinted out of the sunny marketplace and down the stairs, narrowly avoiding attempts of capture by the two enforcers following. It was a bit shameful really, how easily you dodged their flying restraints, like it was a traveling game of Double Dutch.

You should’ve been concerning yourself with the consequences, perhaps. Admonishing the redhead boy who ran a half step behind you for never learning how to shoplift. But you were abnormally quiet. Because your brothers’ golden eyes, blank as a slate, burned behind your own.

The two of you held your gasping breaths until the elevator descended downward, as if a misplaced exhale of air would alert enforcers of your location. The skinny boy was silent, his pride wounded, having been held in the air like a squirming puppy not even five minutes ago. You said nothing, figuring the humiliation was enough.

“Thanks.”

Surprised, you looked over to where he was clearly avoiding eye contact. You muttered, “Don’t mention it.”

He nodded, the movement jostling a single, teetering apple out of his side pants pocket and resolutely, you did not laugh as he bent to pick it up. Instead, you found yourself thinking about the alliterative Piltover headlines the next day. ‘Marketplace Massacre’. Or ‘Terrorist Takeover’. And draw them in with a simple hook: “Have Poor People Gone Too Far?’

The elevator came to a shuddering stop, releasing steam as the doors opened to your city, welcoming in a stench you hadn’t known you’d missed. You inhaled deeply, as if you had been deprived of oxygen your entire time up top.

You settled your face into a steady glare, pulling your scarf tighter around your neck. As jarring as the entrance back into the green glow of the Undercity was, it was vital to not show it on your face. Opportunists stalked, you knew, in the shadows nearby, eyeing those who stepped foot in the city for any chinks in their armor.

You ignored the typical scammers as you walked, those who waited just outside the elevator, ready to sell you ‘the very newest gadgets’ from the City of Progress. It was something you really should fall for only once, and it was dumb even the first time, so the fact that they kept making coin was absolutely mind-boggling.

The redhead took off for home, you assumed, leaving a trail of literal breadcrumbs.

You walked through the heart of the city, figuring you had no reason to worry about heading home. With the harsh changes under Silco’s rule, enforcers hardly ever set foot in the Undercity, only occasionally being spotted around the Last Drop. And well, you could only assume they were pressed under the same thumb.

Besides soothing their wounded prides, Piltover wouldn’t waste resources to go after a young boy who snatched some bread and the likelihood they’d put out a search on a crazed woman who smashed some guy’s fruit stand was slim. They’d shake their fists at the city below as they always did, beefing up security around the marketplace for a short time.

Even so, you were extra aware of your surroundings as you walked back to your home on the outskirts of Zaun, keeping to the shadows.

The routine nightmares were held at bay that night, but only because in their place came the haunting words of your only brother. Curling in on yourself, you drifted into a fitful sleep.

                                  _______________________

You got to work early the following morning, despite feeling exhausted. The hours lost to your brother yesterday had been wasted time, and with your increase in clientele, you actually felt a sense of excitement that had spurred on a surge of creativity.  

You were confident that you’d managed to slide through the cracks as the next day dragged on in your lonely little riverside workshop. You were confident enough that you lost yourself in your work, no longer peering out the windows nervously for prowling enforcers. But it wasn’t an enforcer that had you nearly amputating yourself with a hacksaw as you startled. No, whoever it was quite literally caved your door in with a single knock.

You leapt up, scrambling for your dagger.

“I have a knife!” The intended threat came out more like a general statement and you would have winced if you weren’t so strung out on a sudden adrenaline.

A grunt in response.

You clutched the handle of your weapon and pointed it at the doorway. “Who are you?”

A pause. Then a gruff voice.

“Running errands.”

“For who?”

The man didn’t mince his next words at all, which in any other circumstance, you could appreciate. But at the time, you felt he could’ve done more to soften the blow.

“Silco.”

A bucket of ice water down your back would have been less shocking.

<3 <3 <3

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[whirlybirbs]

          (   this chapter’s gif by @august-walker​ from this beautiful set !   )

✪   —   VACANT MIRRORS  ;  B.B.  |  4/?

summary: you formulate a plan, meet steve rogers, and bucky goes on a date.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 6.8k, mother of pearl

a/n: this ended up being mostly a filler with a lot of romantic growth - i had to break this chapter up from the unce unce unce clubbing that coming up, so please enjoy! 

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MOSCOW, 1975.

In all the years that James Buchanan Barnes has had a heartbeat, he’d come to know the sounds of grief well.

War taught him a lot of things — that they were all just little boys playing with guns, and that no matter how many times you thought you’d be ready for the vomit-inducing pungency of violence, you never were. In the end, you’d do anything to save yourself; you’d crawl through the thick of death and debris a million times over if only to cling to the shredded tatters of your own humanity.

You would kill someone else’s son for the sake of your own mother.

War was disease that devoured every part of you — it was gunpowder snuff and carved flesh. That sickness — inky and desperate — had sunk deep into this heart during the war, and it crescendoed to the sounds of mothers clutching dead sons. The sounds that followed death were like a hollow opera. Waning and wailing.

In the raucous wake left by warborn grief, Bucky drowned everytime.

To the Winter Soldier, the operatic quality to the sounds of grief were as insignificant as a child’s rhyme.

He did not drown. No, he waded through the waves, comfortable in the cold and unphased by the stinging cut of loss. That was not something he could comprehend. After all, there were orders and there were targets, and everything in between was absolute.

He was the disease that devoured all.

He’s holding a gun to Andrei Kuznetzov’s head in a dining room with ornate trim — with silverware as delicate as scalpels that tinker against fine china. The carpets are red, the curtains are red, there’s blood on the table cloth. The guests continue to eat. Kuznetzov’s wife is screaming, red nails dug so deep into the dining chair’s arms it’s carving out the fabric. War dogs, like him, keep her rooted in her seat, and her tears find polished boots. She’s begging and bartering but the man with Kuznetzov’s life in his hands is not listening. He is eating his veal, bloodied meat dancing between his lips. He takes a sip of wine as his medal emblazoned chest glimmers in the light of crystalline chandaliers.

The spoils of war.

His smile is stained red.

There is no deal to be made.

The Winter Soldier pulls the trigger.

NOW.

His eyes are open.

Panic is the first emotion he feels, and it seizes him up quickly in its grasp. He doesn’t know this view, he doesn’t know where he is, not again, not again, not again —

Then:

“Good morning, sleeping beauty. Did you know you snore?”

The relief that the sound of your voice brings is immediate, and just like that he remembers. He’s laying on the bed. You’re sat up across from him at that small desk in the corner. He reaches as he rubs his face to thumb the edge of the pillowcase. He exhales tightly.

He’s fine. His name is James Buchanan Barnes. He is not longer the Winter Soldier. He’s in his Brooklyn apartment. He is fine.

When’s the last fucking time he’s slept in a bed?

He sits up, scratching his neck as he does. You lean back, half rotated in the desk. Before you is a mess of papers and his laptop — and on top of the keyboard sits his notebook. It’s open to the page where all he’d been able to figure out about Innessa was scrawled in his chicken scratch.

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed and immediately his back complains.

“How long was I out?” he asks, voice hoarse with sleep. He moves to part the curtains. The room blooms with warm morning light.

You offer an apologetic smile into the vanilla sunshine. “Three hours. I wanted you to get some shut eye. You were starting to look a little overwhelmed last night—”

“You click too fast,” he waves, standing and immediately rolling his neck to the side. You watch as the man, before as peaceful as a sleeping pup, now regains his usual thinning veiled level of threat. Bucky is dangerous — it shows in the way he holds himself. He cracks his neck, rolls his shoulders, and groans. He exhales again, posture sagging a bit, “I couldn’t keep up.”

You’re standing now, socks padding against the hardwood as you eye his cowlick with a budding bloom of affection. With his notebook between your index and middle finger, you offer it out. You cling to your empty coffee cup in the other.

“I didn’t peek,” you say warmly, “Pinky promise.”

His laugh is more like a hot puff of air. Bucky manages a look that feels like an emotional dethaw.

“Thank you.”

You lead the way to the kitchen, stretching your own back as you go. You’d been up all night — this is your third trip out here for yet another cup of coffee. The pot has been on for too long, though, and you know the coffee sitting there is beyond bitter. You’re moving to dump it down the sink when Bucky grumbles.

“Don’t.”

“You want it?”

“No,” he mutters, reaching for a mug, “But I don’t want to waste it.”

“Wow,” you chirp, “The Great Depression just jumped out.”

“Yeah,” he snorts, yanking open the fridge to search for something to eat, “It does that.”

“Well, grandpa,” you hand him the steaming cup and set out to make another pot, “You’re also living on Depression Era rations — might I suggest some Dolly’s? Because I’m starving and I’ve been up all night and I think that means I get to decide where we get breakfast.”

Bucky’s look is soft — but you don’t see it. You’re too busy scooping sugar into your cup, too busy nudging him aside to grab the milk. He’s rooted there in the kitchen, watching you move about. You’re comfortable. There isn’t a trace of anxiousness in you, not in this moment, and he tries to remember what it looks like.

Your eyes find his and he clears his throat.

“Earth to Sergeant Barnes?”

“Don’t start,” he groans, albeit playfully, “It’s too early.”

“Oh, what? Too early for me to grill you on why you didn’t tell me that little laptop in there was on loan from the FBI? To one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes of the 107th?”

His face falls.

“Don’t worry,” you raise a hand quickly, leaning against the counter as you sip your coffee, “I figured that out before I did anything massively illegal.”

Bucky rubs his face as he takes a sip of his coffee — the bitterness is enough to slap him awake. He winces, swallows it back, and remembers the taste of instant coffee made in helmets on the line in Bastogne. He can smell snow, and the acrid sting of mortar smoke. Suddenly, he’s craving a cigarette.

That hasn’t happened in a while.

Bucky clears his throat. “Did you find anything?”

You frown slightly, lips pulled as you hide your inward disappointment — you push off from the counter and shake your head as you brush past him. Like a loyal dog, Bucky follows. Into the bedroom you go, and Bucky’s again surprised he managed to get any sleep at all in that bed. Maybe it was the comfort of having someone else there, or the genuine exhaustion that had finally choked him out after hours of trying to understand what the hell you were even doing on there.

You plop into the desk chair and snatch up a piece of paper littered with notes.

“I couldn’t do much of my usual snooping,” you explain gently as you gesture to the chromebook, “This thing might have been given to you in good faith, but they’re watching you pretty closely. So, I worked a little magic and ended up running a virtual machine. Gave me enough wiggle room to avoid the malware and keystroke trackers. Even still, I wanted to be careful, so I just did a little looking.”

“Looking?”

“I can’t dig deeper on Innessa, I know where to dig, but I can’t,” you frown, “Not on this laptop, and definitely not on my personal machines. I’ve got the GRC breathing down my neck, and the files I need to poke are very much off-limits.”

“So, what? We’re shit out of luck?”

“No, not entirely,” you stand up and motion to the paper in your hands; your tone is tight, “I know a few people who can help, but getting to them is going to be the hardest part.”

Bucky takes the paper, squinting at the writing as you settle on the edge of the bed next to him. You take a sip of your coffee and watch as his blue eyes dart across the notes; you point to the name scrawled across the top.

“There’s a club in lower Manhattan, but you’ve gotta know the right people to get in,” you mumble, scratching your cheek as a creeping sense of embarrassment bubbles up behind your words, “It’s in the basement of an old computer repair shop. It’s like a blackhat networking event, but with strippers.”

Bucky squints at the paper and reads the name. “The Glass Cannon?”

“Yeah,” you huff, crossing your arms tightly as you stand, “That’s the one.”

Bucky looks up from the paper, attention now rooted on the pacing you’ve begun to do across the room. Back and forth. You’re holding your coffee like a lifeline, gaze far away. That anxiousless way you’d been holding yourself before is gone. Now, he can see the tensing in your shoulders, in your fingers. You’re suddenly nervous.

Bucky stands. His voice is gentle.

“You alright?”

“Yeah,” you snap almost immediately, “Just, y’know. Worried. I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. Did stupid shit. And now I’m about to waltz in after six years like I haven’t put that part of my life behind me.”

“We don’t have to do this,” he says immediately, moving to stand closer and halt your pacing. The invasion of your space forces you to look at him. His fingers glimmering in the morning light. You follow the line of his figure up to his eyes. The emotion there makes your heart clench. You can’t pin it down, and it’s gone in an instant.

“It’s the only way we’re going to find Innessa.”

“You don’t need to put yourself in situations like this for me,” he says, stressing the for me part in both expression and tone. The depreciation makes you wince and you’re fast to shake your head.

“That’s what friends do, Bucky,” you stand your ground, but you know there’s more to your reasoning than that, “Plus, she’s a bad guy. And I know you said I technically wasn’t the sidekick, but—”

“You’re not the sidekick—”

“I know,” you huff, nudging him gently with your arm, “But, I wanna help. Do some good.”

“You do enough good,” he mutters, “You’re a good person.”

Your words fail you at that — and your mouth parts but nothing comes out. Bucky watches with an expression as solid as rock as you blink and look away. His hand, the one of flesh and bone, finds your wrist as you tighten your grip on your mug.

The touch, though far too tender for you to handle, feels like fire.

Like a slap in the face, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky is.

You slap that thought back, trading volleys, and remain quiet.

His tone is stern. “I mean it.”

“Well,” you finally muster, tone dipping sardonically into a cruel peel of humor, “Just wait until you see me in my natural habitat. Maybe the tequila shots will make you second guess that.”

“I didn’t know we were going out drinking,” he chirps as he raises an eyebrow, “Am I going to need to get you a leash?”

“We’re gonna have to try and blend in as best we can. People are going to know me — if they try to pin me with the GRC or the feds, we aren’t going to get anything on Innessa. They probably won’t even let me in the building if they suspect something’s up, after all not everything that goes down in Glass Cannon is kosher.”

“This is already sounding like a bad idea,” Bucky mumbles as he crosses his arms, “I’m stating that for the record, by the way.”

“Well, I think standing around and working ourselves up about this is even worse of an idea,” you chirp back, moving towards the door to muscle on your shoes, “So I say we feed ourselves and don’t worry about this until Thursday night.”

“Thursday.”

You nod.

All of a sudden, Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Today is Sunday.”

You freeze, hand on the doorframe. You shoot him a wide-eyed look at the sudden flare of panic that’s shot up through him. “Yea, Bucky, today is Sunday.”

“Shit.”

“What?” you nearly cry as he disappears into the bedroom once more. You hear his closet open, then a clatter as he grabs something like keys — you nearly run directly into his chest when he strides back into the kitchen. He’s shouldered on his usual leather jacket, and in his hands is another.

He’s got keys in his hand.

“C’mon.”

He shoves the jacket into your arms and you frown.

“What the hell?” you cry, doubling back to snag your phone and bag as Bucky moves to the door, “What is this?”

“Put it on,” he says, holding open the door for you as you follow him into the apartment hallway.

You raise a brow and stand there as he locks the door.

“Why?”

“Because,” Bucky mumbles, rubbing his face as he widens his strides to the stairwell across the hall; before you know it, you’re desperately trying to keep up as he bounces down the steps — light on his feet like the boxer he is — towards the lower level of the apartment complex, “We’re late.”

You groan, trying to shrug on the jacket that smells like Bucky as you follow — a smell you’d come to know as clean laundry and sandalwood. Must be something for his hair. He never wore cologne, that much was apparent. The jacket is big on you, especially on the shoulders. You were swimming in it, trying not to trip as he held the door open to the garage.

Suddenly, the air is cooler. Immediately you wonder how much his rent is if he had access to a ground level garage. Call it NYC instinct.

“Bucky,” you nearly whine, throwing your head back, “Where are we going?”

Before you get a reply, you run straight into his back. Bucky grunts, moving to grab both of your hands and push you to the front of him.

Sitting in the spot is a motorcycle.

It’s a jet black Harley.

Bucky is handing you the helmet on the back seat as your mouth moves in disbelief. “No way— no, I’m not getting on that thing. I’d rather sell my kidneys. Stop, stop — ow, Bucky — you haven’t even said where we’re going!”

He’s muscling the helmet onto your head and through the flash of the visor you can see a real smile, the sort born out of his never-ending amusement towards your fickle sense of humor. His fingers are nimble against your chin. He takes the time to strap it on, adjust it, and give it a gentle tug. Bucky taps the matte black helmet twice, then flicks the visor down.

“We’re going upstate.”

                                        ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

It takes two hours to get to Elmwood Senior Living.

You spent the first forty-five minutes clinging to Bucky’s waist with your eyes closed — no fault of Bucky’s, really. It was different from riding in a car by miles, and you had your own qualms with driving. You couldn’t be in the passenger’s seat anymore. Not after the accident with Jaimie, when Mom disappeared. Being out of control made you itch; and it’s not until the fifty-minute mark that you ease up on the panic and remember who the man is that’s driving the bike.

You trust Bucky. You trust him with your life.

Once it’s open road, winding up towards the Northern part of the state, it gets easier.

Bucky can feel your grip around his waist loosen just a bit — and it’s enough reassurance that he stops looking back in the mirror every fifteen seconds. It’s enough permission to open up on the throttle, and the bike roars alive. Your immediate reaction is a gobsmacked yelp, the sort that’s pulled from a jolt of shock, but then comes the laugh. 

Bucky’s own quiet chuckle rumbles against your chest. You hold on tighter, but this time with open palms against the thrum of his ribs.

Halfway through the trip, he pulls into a McDonald’s.

You drop your ass onto the parking lot’s curb as he leans against the bike and houses a burger. You laugh, eyeing him candidly as you take a large bite from your own lunch. Bucky is a mess with it — cursing quietly when he ends up getting ketchup on his jacket.

“Shit.”

“Jesus, Bucky,” you mutter, “Did you even taste that thing?”

“Barely,” he clears his throat and starts picking at his fries, “These things taste different now. First time I ever had McDonald’s was right before bootcamp.”

“How much was it? Five cents?” you snort, leaning back and dropping a fry into your mouth.

Bucky watches with a half-smirk. “Fifteen, but nice try.”

He spends the next five minutes on his hand with a wet nap, trying hard to get the grease out of the delicate plates along his palm. You watch, as you knock back the rest of your soda, as his eyes crinkle tightly in frustration. His mouth is pulled tightly into a fine line. For the second time today, you’re reminded of how handsome Bucky Barnes is — and how fucking stubborn he is, too.

“Want help?”

“No,” he mutters, trying to get a spot between his thumb and index finger, “I got it.”

“I have smaller fingers,” you sing-song, gathering up his trash and your trash and crossing the parking lot to the bin; upon returning, you waggle them in his face, “Good for hard to reach places.”

Bucky absolutely hates that can feel his blush hit the tips of his ears at the comment.

He’s glad you’re too preoccupied with his hand to notice. You’re watching, like you always do, with respectful awe. To you, this part of him is a bit like a treasure — you find it beautiful and intriguing and incredible. It’s clear in the way you watch the mechanisms turn and tighten that you aren’t frightened by it.

It unsettles Bucky every time.

Finally, once he’s finished under your watchful eyes, he leans to muscle that helmet back over your head. You groan, squinting tightly.

“C’mon,” he knocks your helmet with his knuckles, “We’re almost there.”

The rest of the ride is wide open space, farm land and mountainous peaks looming far ahead. It’s warm, and the sun is hot on your back. The wind is howling around you and it sends your jacket collar flapping against your neck. Your chin rests neatly on Bucky’s shoulder, trying to get a view of the road ahead.

Elmwood Senior Living is tucked into the back of a suburb.

The two of you weave through a neighborhood or two, dancing under the shade of age old maple trees. They cast long, scattered shadows across the pavement as kids play on their lawns. A dog barks somewhere in the distance. Over the hill, church bells ring. Sunday service has ended.

Bucky rolls into the parking lot, past the large sign with swirling lettering. Suddenly, things make more sense. Suddenly, you’re struck with a sinking feeling of grief. Nostalgia. Mourning. But, happiness.

There are folks sitting outside, basking in the sun, tethered to walkers.

Bucky’s wrists crank back weathered knuckles, and slowly the bike rumbles into an open spot. Extending his legs, Bucky balances the bike with ease. You take that as your cue to swing yourself off the back clumsily, hopping a bit. Bucky leans, kicks the stand down, and with significantly more grace than you, swings his leg over.

You’re shrugging his jacket off when he speaks.

“He’s going to be different than how you imagine him.”

You exhale slowly, draping the jacket over the bike’s seat. You peel the helmet off.

“I’ve sort of pieced that together.”

You can see the slight discomfort hanging in his posture. You reach and touch Bucky’s arm.

“Come on,” you nod to the entrance, covered by a shady overhang where someone is helping a family member out of their car, “We don’t wanna be late, huh?”

His eyes soften. Bucky nods.

You walk side-by-side into the lobby of Elmwood Senior Living and it’s like time slows down. It halts in a warm, sunshine colored still — full of chatter, full of humanity, full of wisdom. The room is framed by big windows, by plants, by a man in a U.S. Navy ball cap. He’s stationed by the door, watching the comings and goings. The main desk, where a young woman watches, sits in the corner. You follow Bucky with a content little look. He notices.

He stands a little closer at the main desk. The girl, who looks like she’s incredibly out of place with her blue hair and piercings, is younger than you thought. Highschool, maybe. She offers Bucky an excited smile.

“Took you long enough,” she chirps, moving to sort through a bin to her side with key fobs.

Your brows raise. You spy calculus homework on the desk.

Bucky snorts. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

He notices the same problem set you so, and purposely leans over the desk. Suddenly, you’re seeing flashes of a more boyish version of Bucky — one that reminds you of a man with siblings. Bucky taps the paper, jutting a chin to the girl as she tries to swat his attention away.

“How’d you do on that test?”

“I got a 96,” she chirps pridefully, laughing, “Thanks for the help, nerd.”

You’re watching the entire exchange with a smile, backing up a bit to toss a curious glance over your shoulder. There’s a dining room through open doors — and looks like lunch is just wrapping up. Folks are moving around, back to their rooms or upstairs where you can hear the beginnings of a seated aerobics class begin.

Bucky nudges you with his hand.

“Thanks, Sarah,” he says and waves the key she’d handed over.

The girl with the blue hair scoffs. “Say hi to grandpa for me, Bucket.”

You laugh out loud as Bucky quickly flips her off. She’s quick to do the same.

You follow him around the corner, grinning ear to ear. He spares you a sheepish look, then rolls his eyes.

“What was that?”

“She’s a good kid,” he offers, eyeing the key with the grey little fob attached, “Reminds me of my sister.”

Your face softens. “Sister?”

“Her name was Sarah, too,” he says quietly, boots landing softly on the blue carpet. He’s navigating the residential wing like he’s done it a million times. There are rooms with flowers outside, with holiday garb, with little photos and keepsakes. Each room holds a lifetime of personality — the sound of Jeopardy lulls along in the background.

You hum. Bucky sighs.

He meanders down a long hallway where a different door is — this one heavy and locked by the little keypad. Bucky raises the key fob to the device and the door buzzes.

This side of Elmwood is quieter.

Down the hall, Timmy Dorsey and Sinatra play quietly over someone’s record player.

There aren’t as many folks in the hall in this wing, but doors are open and nurses flit about. Around the corner, there’s a loud conversation going on about lunch — and you watch as Bucky weaves towards the nursing station. It’s a room overlooking the common area with windows. Inside are three women.

One of them immediately jumps when she sees Bucky.

“Oh, good! I was meaning to talk to you—”

“Everything alright?”

“About the same,” she breathes as she stands, moving to grab at a Bucky’s arm with a sense of motherliness that makes you smile, “But, meals have been a bit difficult lately.”

“No kidding,” he mutters, rubbing his chin, “He just doesn’t wanna eat?”

“He thinks Peggy is coming home,” the woman whispers with a pained smile as she begins to lead you both down the hall, “He thinks your grandmother made dinner for him.”

“Right,” Bucky nods, “Doesn’t wanna ruin his appetite.”

“Exactly.”

You take note of the conversation, muddling through your own confusion. You’re quiet, though. This isn’t really your conversation to have. Bucky seems to be relaxed more — even humming slightly to a song that plays across the hall from the room the nurse is knocking on.

“Mr. Carter?” she calls gently, “Your grandson is here to see you, and his…”

She looks expectantly at you. You bawk.

“Friend.”

“Right,” she smiles and pushes open the door.

It’s like a little slice of home.

Sofas, chairs, photos on the walls. There’s a record player in the corner, a television, a coffee table stacked with books on the second world war. There’s a dresser covered in baubles and warm light coming in from the window overlooking the street. It reminds you of your grandparents’ sitting room — everything looks so lived in, so comfortable, so alive.

And then, below the light of the window, is a hospital bed.

In it is Steve Rogers.

Not the one you know — no, this one has lived a full life. This Steve Rogers has fallen in love, owned a home, settled down. This Steve Rogers has years of wisdom settled into his face, years of well-fought fights in his joints. His blonde hair has gone shock white, but his smile is all the same.

“Bucky.”

The way Steve says his name is like the man beside you holds the world.

To Bucky, he can hear a new weakness. A new exhaustion.

“Hi, punk.”

The nurse offers a little wave to you as Bucky ventures into the room, stripping his jacket off and moving to scope out the minifridge in the small kitchenette beside the bathroom. She leaves the door open, and you smile to her softly. Bucky rummages, poking his head up.

“You want a drink, Steve?” he asks, tone almost like he’s feeling out the lucidity of the man across the room, “There’s some of that lemonade I brought last week in here.”

“Sounds good,” he says slowly, “Please.”

You feel out of place — not unwelcome, but… it’s clear that Bucky has come and gone from here a thousand times now. He knows to get the glasses out, to get a straw, to turn down the record player on his way over. Doris Day’s voice lowers to a soft croon. You watch with heavy eyes.

“I brought someone, Steve,” Bucky says, “She’s a big fan.”

“Oh?” Steve asks with a slow look to the corner where you’re standing, “That musta broke your heart.”

Bucky snorts as he moves to swing the hospital bed’s tray over Steve’s lap. He places the lemonade down, then the other glass on the nightstand. He’s quick to move the armchair closer to the nightstand, and gestures for you to come over. Bucky’s hands guide you by the shoulders as he plops you into the chair.

“She’s one of the good ones,” Bucky says, “Reminds me of you.”

“No kidding,” Steve says slowly, offering a hand that shakes, “Steve Rogers. It’s a pleasure.”

You exchange your name with a shy look, shaking that hand with reverence and gentility. “It’s an honor, Mr. Rogers.”

“Please,” he mumbles, moving to slowly take a sip of his lemonade, “Steve is fine.”

Bucky moves to take up a post on the opposite side of Steve, in the sun. “You’re losin’ weight, y’know.”

That earns him a wave of the hand.

Bucky leans back and sips his lemonade. He waggles a finger and you watch the two begin to go back and forth.

“No, no,” he swallows, “No, you don’t get t’ shrug me off—”

“M’fine, Buck,” a sigh, “Really.”

“Mhm,” he narrows his eyes, “You’re startin’ to look like the Steve I knew before the serum.”

You lean back, hiding a quiet smirk behind your hand.

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up an’ pester me,” he says with a tired look, “The only peace I get around here is when Peggy comes home.”

Your eyes jump to Bucky. He’s watching you.

“Peggy?” you ask gently, “Is that your wife?”

A proud smile washes over his face. “Still knocks me for a loop, too.”

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice is gentle, “Peggy won’t be coming around for a while. Remember?”

There’s a look that flashes across Steve’s face, then. A mixture of sadness, of confusion, of panic. It’s clouded with a furrow of his brow, hidden by a tilt of the head. He looks at Bucky, mouth pulled in a fine line.

When he finally speaks, his voice is sad.

“That’s right. I forgot.”

“S’alright,” Bucky taps his head, maintaining an air of nonchalance, “That’s why you got me.”

“And why you’ve got her, no doubt,” he turns to you with a winning smile and offers his hand again, “Steve Rogers. Nice to meet you.”

You take it, you shake it, and you introduce yourself once more. Your smile is patient and understanding. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Steve.”

Bucky breathes a sigh of relief. Steve smiles, tossing Bucky a look that borders on mischievous.

He sips his lemonade and clears his throat. “How is Sam?”

“You ask every time,” Bucky mutters, “And every time I have the same answer.”

“Sam?” you ask slowly.

“Wilson,” Bucky finishes, “Bird man.”

“You mean Falcon,” you correct, shooting him a stern look, “The Falcon. Are you ghosting The Falcon?”

“I don’t know what that even means, so maybe,” Bucky leans back and crosses his legs, “I’ve been busy.”

You roll your eyes. Steve saw. He smiles.

“I’m gettin’ why he keeps you around.”

Your face is smacked with a look of pure joy.

“C’mon on now,” Bucky cries, nearly indignantly, “No flirting—”

“M’ not flirting—”

“I know that look, Steve—”

Steve is laughing.

Bucky has a stern look in his eye. “You always do this—”

“I’m not doin’ a damn thing—”

“And you better keep it that way, old man,” Bucky shirks, voice splintering into a laugh in a way that you’ve never heard before, “I swear, this is how it always goes.”

“Always the bridesmaid, never the bride, huh, Buck?” you ask gently, leaning your cheek into your hand.

Steve laughs loudly at that.

Bucky spares you a smile — the sort that’s drenched in good humor and sunlight. It makes your lungs flutter, and you ignore the buzz in your fingers at the sight. You hide your laugh into your cup of lemonade, resigning to be a quiet counterpart in the conversation.

The two of them go on to chat about small things, then chat about old things. From the Commandos, to HYDRA, to amends, to therapy, to Peggy, to the itch the starch of their old dress uniforms used to bring. It takes a bit, a few redirections on the way, but it’s clear by the end why Steve Rogers is in Elmwood’s memory unit.

It makes your heart ache.

And if a super soldier is bed-ridden…

The two of you say goodbye around three in the afternoon after Bucky helps Steve shave.

The walk back to the bike is quiet.

Bucky speaks first.

“He’s dying.”

You chew your lip, eyes on the pavement. You match his slow stride, bumping your elbow with his as you walk. It’s still warm, and the clouds hang high in the sky. When you look up, Bucky’s watching you. You sigh.

“I’m sorry,” you finally muster, “I am.”

“Don’t be,” he says, grabbing the jacket from the seat and holding it up, “He’s lived a long life.”

You let Bucky hold out the arm for you, and you press your hand through the sleeve. He helps the other side on, and you zip it up to your chin. When you turn around to face him, there are tears in your eyes.

They snuck up on you. You hadn’t realized it until Bucky’s face fell, until the first one fell along the weathered leather of the jacket. You blink, raising your brows as you swipe them away, and offer an apologetic look.

“I’m happy,” you say, “Y’know. He has you. But, he’s a man out of time. Even now. That makes me sad.”

Bucky’s quiet for a while. He’s leaned up against the bike as you turn and watch Elmwood from the back of the parking lot. There’s a big part of you that feels heavy with guilt — and though Steve was in good spirits when you left, you can’t help but ache to provide him with more company. It’s clear that seeing Bucky means a lot to him, and that in turn it means a lot to the man beside you.

“Come on,” Bucky says then, “Let’s go home.”

You nod, let him muscle that helmet onto your head one more time, and hold on a little tighter back to the city.

                                       ◦   ◦   ◦   ◦   

You don’t see Bucky until Tuesday.

In all honesty, it feels weird to not hear from him for two days. At the very least, you expected some sort of phone call — but you remind yourself that you’ve been okay alone for a long time. There’s no need to throw all your work on being comfortable by yourself out the window for Bucky Barnes.

It’s tempting, though. God, it’s really tempting.

You hate the ache in your chest when you finally see him lumbering towards the cafe counter before your appointments. You hate this new feeling — so you shove it down and ignore the way his fingers brush yours when he hands you your latte.

He is ignoring it, too. He’s been ignoring it.

No use in thinking about it though.

“You got plans later?” you ask him in the elevator after your appointment, tilting your head, “Apparently there’s a Lord of the Rings marathon tonight on FX.”

Bucky stiffens — and immediately he can feel the hot sting of anxious regret flood his cheeks. He clears his throat, tucks his hands in his pockets, and toes the ground. You watch with a confused look. Then he speaks tightly.

“...I’ve got a date.”

You could have caught flies the way your jaw fell open.

“Oh. Oh!”

You blink, readjust your expression, and swallow down a sharp stab of rejection.

Bucky clears his throat. “It’s… I wasn’t going to but, Dr. Raynor—”

“No, no,” you wave your hands and shake your head and try to seem genuine, “No, I’m happy for you. Is this one of those Christian Minglers?”

Bucky groans. “Shut up.”

“Okay,” you say, “Okay! Just, uh, be careful. Y’know? And call if you need anything.”

The elevator doors open, and Bucky walks side by side with you through the well-lit lobby. He holds the door open for you, and you pass through with a pained look at the ground. He lingers, though, rubbing the back of his neck as you wait for him to say what’s on his mind.

“Thursday,” he says, “I’ll stop by.”

“Yea,” you say, waving your hand, “Whenever.”

But, that doesn’t end up happening.

No, Bucky Barnes shows up at your apartment doorstep at 10pm.

He’s clutching takeout and a six pack of beer and wearing a horrified expression that screams of guilt and exhaustion. No, Bucky buzzes the door to your apartment and basically croaks that he’s here — he’s asking if the marathon is still on while you buzz him up.

“Third floor,” you say into the buzzer with a smile, “Come on in, old man.”

When you open the door, you have to laugh — because his hair is a mess and there’s still a trace of lipstick on the corner of his mouth. Whereas jealousy threatens to flare, his incredibly regretful expression tamps it down. You cock a hip, eye him up and down, and jut your chin out.

“Get laid?”

Bucky rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he didn’t break something.

He pushes past you, moving to drop the beer on the counter and place the takeout gently down by the basket of fruit.

“I’m here for the cat,” he grumbles, “Not your witty commentary, sweetheart.”

You’re moving quietly to the sink and gathering a paper towel with a smirk as Bucky looks around, admiring the decor and aliveness of your apartment. When you turn around, he’s already pried a beer from the pack and popped the top off with his vibranium palm.

He winces when you reach up to swipe the coral lipstick from the corner of his mouth.

Then Bucky settles, letting you clean off the mess.

“Mhm,” you hum, “Right. Was it at least fun?”

“She had fun,” he mutters into his first sip, “It was a lotta tongue for my first night out in nearly a century, though.”

You wince. He nods with a sardonic smile that tells you everything about how the date went down — and you’re relieved. “So, I take it you're not calling her in the morning?”

“No,” he shakes his head, “Nope. No, and I’ve decided no more dates. That was enough for me.”

You wince and pluck a beer from the pack. Wordlessly, Bucky gestures for you to hand it over. In one smooth motion, he twists the cap off with his hand.

“That bad?” you ask, eyeing him critically.

“I decided halfway through,” he says as he moves to take the takeout from its bag, “I’d rather be watching Lord of the Rings with you.”

That stops you into silence. It’s like someone’s taken your own words and gagged you with them — and you’re left floundering for breath you never even realize you lost. You know he means it. You know it because he won’t look at you, because that sort of confession isn’t easy for people like you two. So you take those words and you glue them in a lonely locket and keep them close to your heart.

Poke’s entrance saves you a mouthful of broken words — he comes in, trots up to Bucky, and hollers.

Bucky laughs.

“Nice to meet you, too,” he mutters, eyeing the cat that’s eagerly rubbing himself along Bucky’s leg.

You wipe your face, sip your beer, and move to the pantry across from the kitchen island. You come back out with a bag of salmon treats — the good ones — and offer Bucky the bag. He takes it, eyes still on the calico, and crinkles it a little.

You lean against the counter and watch Bucky kneel.

“If you keep it up long enough he might even let you hold him.”

He lights up at that.

You laugh.

You move to grab plates and forks and knives and groan when you open up the first box to see Pad Thai — you make a mental note to properly thank Bucky for this. You meager dinner of reheated pasta really hadn’t hit the spot. This will, though. You can tell from the smell alone.

By your knees, Poke chirps.

“He’s cute.”

“I never took you for a cat guy.”

Bucky snorts.

You make a plate and flick his head as you walk by. “You’re missing the start of The Two Towers.”

“I’m going to be confused, aren’t I?” he asks as he stands and begins making himself a plate. He watches as you settle onto the couch and sip your beer, “I was too busy being turned into a cyborg to read the books.”

You laugh out loud. It shocks you.

“Was that a joke? Did Bucky Barnes just make a joke?”

He’s smirking. He rounds the counter with his food and settles next to you. Poke is following him, eager to curl up next to his new friend.

“I can be funny.”

“Funny lookin’.”

He elbows you on purpose. You snort into your beer.

There’s a comfortable moment of quiet between you, and you clear your throat.

“Thanks.”

“Yeah,” he says slowly, “No problem.”

More quiet, and he’s still watching you. Then, he asks what’s been on his mind for the last three days.

“You got a plan for Thursday?”

“I’ve got anxiety, Buck,” you exhale, swigging your beer and turning the television up, “I always have a plan.”

[tommyspeakycap]

omgg write something about playing or braiding jack’s hair

oh em gee I love this !!!!! I loved his hair braid too omg

Jack had a very specific barber he liked to go to to get the same quality haircut he always got. He trusted that specific barber and his appointments were always made in advance to absolutely ensure he could get it done the way he liked by whom he liked at the right time so it never got overgrown or hard to manage. Jack was very specific about his hair and about keeping it the way he liked it to be. It was part of his image, part of him really. The Brummie boy hated when anyone else touched it. Be that joking team members giving his head a teasing push or his dad ruffling his hair each time he walks in the door, it irks the living daylights right out of him.

So it seems as though it’s Jack’s own personal nightmare now the barbers are shut with absolutely no sign of opening up for at least another month and Jack can’t seem to take one minute more of training with his hair getting all up in his eyes, dropping into his face and blowing wildly in Birmingham wind even with a headband in. It is driving him absolutely insane. It’s all he can think of in this moment.

And that is because he currently has your fingers tangled in it completely absentmindedly as he lays in between with your legs with his legs stretched out along the L section of the L shaped couch. Your eyes are fully focussed on the storyline evolving throughout an old episode of Greys Anatomy. Jack’s arms are around your torso as his head rests comfortably on your lower stomach with his eyes peacefully shut. He would usually engage in the TV with you, but the preseason after an unexpected break that had him doing less exercise than he definitely should have been doing had him absolutely shattered.

It was rare for even you to touch the locks he took so laughably serious, but it felt like the most soothing experience he’d maybe ever had to feel the gentility of your finger massaging over his scalp in the most relaxing manner he’d ever known. Even his sports massages after long matches weren’t this relaxing.

“Mmmhm, feels so good.” He murmurs, his voice ticking your stomach as he speaks against it, the sigh that leaves him making you giggle in response. “So annoyin’ in training.” He adds tiredly, but not lacking in the obvious irritation he feels towards it. Jack tends to feel a lot and often, and even seemingly small things like his hair getting in the way of his play was unimaginably irritating for him.

“I could cut it?” You suggest.

“Yeah,” he snorts, “And end up like the poor dog? I’ll pass love.”

“Aw come on! It wasn’t that bad.” You retort

“He looked like a street rat with curls, sweetheart.” He laughs, despite the disappointment he feels for your hands leaving his hair for the first time since he lay down tonight.

“Cheek.”

“Sorry baby.” He lulls, finally looking up at you for the first time, lifting his face to offer you a smile that strained him. Holding his head up like that was too much for his already tired muscles, so he’s quickly laying his head back to its resting place. You can’t think of anything else to retort with, knowing full and well the incredibly poor state of affairs that occurred in your household three weeks into Lockdown 1 after you attempted to give the dog a haircut out of pure boredom and lack of open dog grooming services. The state of affairs being Jack crawling to the bathroom on his knees and one hand with the other hand holding onto his crotch because he was trying so hard not to wet himself from laughing at the poor pup who looked so confused that his dad hadn’t been able to greet him as normal when he returned from the weekly food shop.

Jack very nearly did piss on your good cream carpet that day, so it was fair for him to not trust your barber skills either. Especially being the way he is about his hair.

“You know the old episodes make me miss Derek.” You announce after a moment of only the television speaking between the two of you.

“He the one with the hair?” Jack mumbles. You snort a laugh.

“They’ve all got hair, Jack. Go on, say it then?”

“Fine,” he huffs indignantly, “The one with the good hair.”

Your giggle makes his heart erupt into butterflies that dance through his stomach and chest just like it does every single time he gets to be lucky enough to hear it. Jack doesn’t like to admit when others have hair he likes. He prefers to live in a world where his hairstyle is simply the best, and truly he usually does. He tends to live in his own world anyway. The world where his hair is fantastic, he gets to do what he loves for a living and come home to you each and every day. That’s his world and fucking hell does he love that world.

In reality though, part of that world is that however fictional Derek Shepherd may be, his hair is fantastic and always looks rather immaculate. Something Jack can’t quite relate to at this current moment in time. “You know this episode is kinda about his hair,” you note softly, hands smoothing back over your boyfriends brown locks. He knows by the tone of your voice that you’re going to go into more detail about the episode currently playing through on Amazon Prime TV. Some people may well have been annoyed listening to their girlfriends recounting entire episodes of TV shows that they weren’t exactly inclined to watch, but Jack was not one of those men. He didn’t care what you were talking about, just the sound of you talking was enough to make him listen intently. He loved to hear you talk, and if that was the only thing that he ever got to hear for the rest of his life then he’d still be happy.

“They adopted a little girl and he hasn’t quite figured her hair out yet but everyone’s shocked ‘cause his hairs pretty good. Like you, a little. You got good hair, just haven’t learned to manage it yet eh?” You explain, weaving your fingers in and out of those stands of hair that make him hum in both understanding and enjoyment. He isn’t sure what you’re doing, but the weaving of stands, pads of your fingers dancing over his scalp carefully, softly feels like what he might imagine heaven to be. “Yeah?” He asks, “And what does he do then?” His voice is filled with genuine interest for what you were saying. It was the first time you’d ever known that in a relationship. He heard you snigger softly to yourself. “He learns from someone who knows a bit more about hair than he does.” You state pointedly, prompting him to roll his eyes even if you can’t see him.

“I’m not letting you cut my hair, (y/n). Not happening, I’m sor-“

“Alright, Jack. I bloody know! That’s not what I meant.” You grumble. Jack can immediately imagine your disgruntled pout already, with those irritated narrowed eyes and the playful scrunch of your nose. “Sorry.” Every time he sees that look on you, he moves to kiss that furrow out of your nose. It makes his heart smile each and every time he sees it. You are simultaneously the most beautiful, more adorable and hottest woman he has ever laid his eyes on. “Sorry baby,” he reiterated, “Go on.”

“I could braid it for you?”

That earns a belly laugh from him that reverberates through your body, jostling with the force of his whole body laughter. “So you will,” he bellows in breaks between the ever comedic gasping from breath after each loud laugh. “Not a chance.”

He pushes himself up to sit back on his knees, trapping your legs between his as he looks down at you with a huge grin still stretching his lips and creasing his eyes, yet they still sparkle in adoration for you. “Oh yeah?” You muse with a giggle to follow despite the firm attempt to seal it behind clenched lips. The giggle sets those dimples into your cheeks, his eyes just drinking you up as you lounge back on the huge couch there in front of him, sinking back into the pillows just like he had been sinking against you in comfort for hours only moments ago. “Yeah.” He repeats firmly, the playful jest of his words not lost on your ears as he leans forward.

With the emission of only a small, surprised yelp from you that turns the head of the dog in his bed for only a moment, Jack has grabbed your legs to tug you down so you were laying flat on your back on the L of the sofa. He leans over you, hands and strong arms keeping him above you with ease. “Realllly?” You tease, one eyebrow quirked. Jack loves it when you do that, mostly because he can’t and he finds it beautifully funny.

Your hands reach up to his face, cupping over the beard on his cheeks to bring his face down to peck his lips before letting him press back up like a simple press up over your body. This was a common occurrence between the pair of you and Jack had always loved to show off. “Not cuttin’ about with a braid in my hair baby, sorry.”

He dips down for another kiss and you break out another giggle that parts your lips from his. “You already are, bub.”

“Ya what?” He pops straight up, sitting again back on his knees. “Not falling over your face now eh?” You taunt with a cheeky grin that makes him furrow his brows. Jack removed his hands from beside you to run one after the other over the top of his hair, a weird mix of a grin and disbelief washing over his face. Your sweetheart smile warms his heart as you lay there looking up at him with tired eyes and a lazy smile, cheeks flushed and one of his old cotton shirts keeping you warm long after his body raises from yours.

“Wait there!” He yells, bounding off the couch to all but leap through the living room until he reaches the mirror in the hall just outside the door. “Babe!” He cheers through the house, appearing back in the doorway of the room. “Nah it’s kinda cool, you fuckin’ smashed that!” You sit up and turn around towards him with your hand covering your mouth in a giggle that makes him stride forward and tug your hand away so he can see that beautiful smile. He jumps back again. “And look; stays in when I move around like-”

An immediate howl of laughter breaks out of your mouth with your head tipped back in hysterics as you watch him run on the spot, jump on the spot and then shake his head around like your puppy when he had a cone on his head. You laugh so hard your laughter looses its noise, simply existing as a elongated wheeze and a sudden gasp for desperate air to aid and allow for only more laughter. “Why you laughing for?” He yells, his words split by his own laughter as he tugs you to your feet, standing taller than him when your on your feet on the couch. Jack wraps one arm around your waist and moves the other down to the bend of your knees to sweep your legs from beneath you, perching you on the edge of the back of the couch.

“It,” kiss, “is,” kiss, “perfect.” Kiss.

“Just like you, baby.” He rumbles lowly, “Perfect just like my girl. Gonna wear it to training. Keep hair out my face, remind me of you, perfect.” He just keeps talking, keeps praising you between kisses while he brings you closer and closer to him until you can wrap your legs around him. Locked in place, he takes your face in his hands.

“So you’ll let me braid it again?” You chime, eyes lighting up. Jack chuckles, thumbs smoothing over your cheeks with a kiss pressed to the tip of your nose. “Course baby. Every day.”

True to his word Jack Grealish is. Every night he comes home from his training, he’s laying on the couch letting you massage the days stresses out of his mind, letting your fingers weave the tension out of his scalp. Jack’s never let anyone take care of him so much. He’s never felt comfortable to be taken care of like this, but you are his exception. His one single exception. And every morning he sits in the floor at the foot of the bed while you sit with a leg on either side of him, fingers weaving the strands into place for the day and tighter for match days. People make comments but Jack doesn’t give even half of a shit. His hair is how he likes it; out of his face so he can concentrate on his game and it gives you more of a reason to actually be up in the morning when he leaves before the sun rises above you. That’s perfect for Jack.

Until his next haircut, the only time that footballer doesn’t have a braid through his hair is when your fingers are tangling in it while he’s between your legs for another very enjoyable reason.

[crossbowking]

Honey & Whiskey

Summary: (Set throughout series) When the world ended, everything good died along with it. At least, that's what Daryl Dixon thought. But then he met a stranger in the woods and his entire world turned upside down.

A/N: HOLY MOLY. I can't believe it's here! I've been working on this story since October and I'm so excited for y'all to finally read it. This story is absolutely my favorite of all time and it's 20,835 words of pure Daryl POV (which is just *chef kiss*) — that being said, it’s also a slow burn...and I mean an entirely self-indulgent SLOWWWW burn. So strap in, y’all.

PSA: There are mentions of 'Dog' in this story that are sort of non-canon, especially now that we've seen a backstory as to how Daryl actually found him in the show...so for the sake of the story, let's just pretend 10.18 doesn't exist :)

Anywho, please be sure to share your thoughts with me afterward!

Happy reading!

xx Jess

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The sun dipped below the horizon, the sky alight with brilliant orange and yellow rays.

Daryl tilted his head back, glancing up at the shifting colors as night drew near. The air was crisp, a welcomed change from the usual summer heat. The streets of Alexandria were fairly empty, most already settling into their respective homes before nightfall. Though the unusual silence was near deafening, the archer paid it no mind.

He appreciated the quiet these days.

The grass poked and prodded beneath where he sat, but he simply shifted, drawing one knee to his chest, the other leg splayed out in front of him. He picked absently at one of the holes in his worn jeans, tugging at the string hanging off the fabric.

And then he thought of her.

Leaves and twigs crunched beneath Daryl’s boots as he traversed through the otherwise silent woods.

The farm was destroyed, winter was approaching, and there seemed to be an ever-looming pang of hunger in the pit of his stomach. He pushed away any inkling of weakness, forging ahead with determined strides. His people were waiting for him, hunkering down in an abandoned diner less than a mile East, hoping he’d bring back something to dull the growing ache inside all of them.

Daryl’s steps faltered — ‘his’ people.

The thought had come so naturally it nearly took him off guard. The feeling of community, of belonging, was something he’d never felt in his entire life. It was a strange notion, but that drive, that need he felt to provide, pushed him further out into the forest.

The archer kept his footsteps light, practically imperceptible, listening for noises only a seasoned hunter could distinguish. When a twig suddenly snapped off to his left, he froze, scanning the stillness around him. He raised his crossbow, the weight familiar in his grasp as he took a small step in the direction the noise had come from.

A moment later, Daryl spotted it — a lone raccoon just a few yards ahead.

The archer felt a rush of adrenaline, a tingling sensation in his fingertips as they hovered over the trigger. He exhaled a soft breath, focusing all his attention on the animal. But with his concentration elsewhere, it wasn’t until after he’d pulled the trigger that he’d realized he was no longer alone in the woods.

Daryl spun around, coming face to face with an incredibly grotesque-looking walker, teeth bared, arms outstretched, launching itself towards him. The archer braced his arm against the biter’s throat just in time, grunting under its weight as he stumbled backward.

“Shit,” he snarled through gritted teeth, tossing his unloaded weapon aside as he fought against the attack. Using his free hand, he reached for the hunting knife secured on his belt, grabbing onto the hilt.

But before he could yank it out, the world began tilting rapidly around him.

Daryl’s back slammed against the harsh wooded ground, his foot tangled up in an exposed root. He spat another vicious curse as the walker thrashed on top of him, snapping its mangled jaw closer and closer, growling in starved desperation.

Then suddenly, it stilled.

The archer froze, his gaze locked on the unexpected sight of one of his arrows now embedded through the biter’s temple. He snapped out of his reverie, shoving the dead off his chest and scrambling back to his feet.

And then he saw her.

She stood just a few feet away, her rapid breathing mirroring his own, looking as though she was seconds away from passing out. Her hair was matted by a mixture of blood and dirt, her clothes were torn and ratted, her wide eyes seemingly too big for her gaunt features. She had a nasty cut across her temple, blood dripping down the side of her face, past her neck, pooling at the collar of her shirt.

Daryl’s eyes bounced back up to meet hers — his guarded and calloused, hers unsure and fatigued.

“I’m assuming — this — is yours?” she spoke between heaving breaths, tossing something in his direction, the motion causing her to sway unsteadily.

Daryl glanced down, spotting the raccoon he’d shot earlier now lying at his feet — but the arrow he’d used to kill it was no longer there.

Now, it was lodged through the skull of the walker that’d attacked him.

The archer focused back on the stranger — but before he could respond, her skin was suddenly paling, her body crumpling to the ground like a paper doll.

Daryl stared down at her unmoving form in bewilderment. He could tell by the shallow rise and fall of her chest that she was at least breathing. The cut on her temple was still bleeding, the wound looking fairly recent — his best guess was a concussion or exhaustion. Most likely both.

He took a small step forward, almost hesitantly. But when his approach didn’t stir the stranger, he found himself facing an unforeseen decision.

He could leave her — he should leave her. She wasn’t his responsibility. She was a complete stranger. She chose to intervene, not him. She made that choice. Not him. Her.

Though as he turned to leave, as he scooped up the limp raccoon and shoved it into his bag, as he grabbed his strewn crossbow and strapped it across his back, one thing became startlingly clear.

He couldn’t do it — he couldn’t just walk away.

Daryl huffed a defeated breath. “Shit.”

He could’ve sworn that day in the woods was an entire lifetime ago.

Rick had nearly lost his damn mind when he’d returned to the diner with not only a small woodland creature in his pack, but a stranger slung over his shoulder.

“Is she dead?” Carl pressed nosily, hovering by the booth where the stranger was now laid out, still unconscious.

Lori quickly intervened, moving forward with one hand on her protruding belly, the other grabbing onto Carl’s shoulder. “Step back, baby. Give Hershel some space to work, okay?” she cautioned, pulling the inquisitive boy away.

“Oh, it’s quite alright — I’m just about done here anyways,” Hershel drawled, setting aside the blood-soaked cloth he’d been using to tend to the stranger’s head wound.

Daryl watched the exchange from across the room, arms folded tight against his chest, ignoring the stares coming from other group members.

The front door of the diner suddenly swung open as Rick marched through. He shot the archer a disapproving look before addressing the others. “I think we’re okay,” he finally spoke, re-holstering his pistol. “If Daryl had been followed here, I’m sure we would’ve known by now. We’ll keep somebody on watch — jus’ as a precaution — an’ get back on the road first thing.”

The archer gnawed on the inside of his cheek as the rest of the group began whispering amongst themselves, clearly distressed about the possible danger his decision may have put them in.

Rick approached a moment later, his steadfast strides immediately setting Daryl on edge. “Can I speak with you?” the sheriff hissed, glancing over his shoulder and locking eyes with Lori’s worried gaze. “In private?” he added in a hushed tone before turning around and storming back outside.

Daryl scoffed under his breath, pushing away from the counter he’d been leaning against and stalking after Rick.

The archer yanked the door open, the cool air biting at his skin as he followed suit. He spotted Rick pacing back and forth across the parking lot, surveying the surrounding woods warily before spinning around and facing him head-on.

“What the hell were you thinkin’?” Rick demanded, taking a step forward.

Daryl fought back the instinctual urge to be on the attack. Instead, he took a breath. “What was I supposed ta’ do, man? Jus’ leave her out there?” he countered, eyes narrowing.

“You don’t bring her here,” the sheriff snapped before pinching the bridge of his nose, attempting to collect himself. “We — we have ta’ look after our own, Daryl — you know that. We have no idea who she is, where she came from, who she’s with,” he specified sharply before shaking his head. “That’s jus' not a risk I’m willin’ ta’ take. Are you?”

Daryl held Rick’s gaze for a long moment before looking away, glancing towards the tree line. The sheriff had a point, he couldn’t deny that. But there was something inside him, a nagging sensation in the pit of his stomach that said otherwise.

Rick slowly nodded, interpreting Daryl’s silence as an answer. “When she wakes, she’s gone,” he finally resolved, stepping past the archer and back towards the diner without another word.

But Daryl couldn’t let it go. “Hey,” he called after Rick, the sheriff’s strides halting mid-pace as he glanced back, the harshness in his features fading, unveiling a man with nothing but the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Back when Carl got shot, if Hershel had turned us away, what’d ya think would’a happened?”

Rick paused before exhaling a long, heavy breath, some of the fight leaving him with it. “That’s not — it’s not the same —”

“It is,” Daryl interjected. “It’s the same damn thing.”

The air grew quiet as Rick’s shoulders sagged, one hand resting against his hip. “My family…” he suddenly murmured, shaking his head sadly. “I can’t risk it.”

Daryl nodded once. “I get it. After everythin’ with Shane an’ Randall, losin’ the farm the way we did, I get it, man,” he rasped, regarding him earnestly. “But m’ tellin’ ya…this’s the wrong call, Rick.”

The diner door suddenly flung open, interrupting the conversation and revealing a flustered-looking Glenn.

“Uh, hey guys,” he interrupted, sending the pair an awkward wave. “Just wanted to let you know that she’s, uh — she’s awake.”

Rick and Daryl shared a look.

“And kinda freaking out,” Glenn quickly tacked on at the end.

Daryl didn’t hesitate. He stormed past Rick and back into the diner, making a beeline towards the small crowd that had gathered around her.

“— okay, it’s okay. We’re not gonna hurt you, sweetheart,” Lori spoke softly, holding her hands out in front of her as though approaching a caged animal.

The archer pushed through the group, spotting the stranger a moment later.

She was still sitting in the booth he’d initially laid her out in — though now she was huddled away from everyone, back pressed up against the wall, knees drawn to her chest in a cowering stance. Her gaze darted frantically around the room, clearly confused and disoriented and overwhelmed.

Daryl couldn’t even begin to understand why, but he felt a wave of outrage course through him.

“C’mon, people. She ain’t a fuckin’ zoo animal,” the archer growled abruptly, taking a defensive stance in front of the booth and motioning for the rest of the group to move back. “Give the girl some damn space.”

The archer waited until everyone stepped away before turning back around and glancing down at the stranger. He was surprised to see her eyes trained on him — even more surprised at the flush of heat that spread across his chest. He held her gaze a second longer before Rick appeared, parting through the crowd like Moses and the Red Sea.

The stranger shrunk away.

Daryl wondered why the sight bothered him so much.

Rick came to a slow halt in front of her. “What’s your name?” he finally asked, his tone measured and firm.

The stranger did another sweep of the room, as though surveying just how much possible danger she was in. But when her eyes flashed up towards the archer once again, some of her unease faded. “Y/N,” she spoke hesitantly.

Rick nodded slowly before extending his arm. “Rick Grimes.”

Y/N looked at the gesture cautiously. Still, she reached out and took his hand in hers.

She appeared composed but Daryl noticed the slight tremble in her grip.

After a brief shake, Rick grabbed an empty chair and sat down at the end of the booth, resting his forearms against the table. “So, Y/N,” he began, giving the archer a look of resolve. “What happened ta’ you?”

The time after the farm fell was foggy, each day blurring into the next, suffocated by a heaviness the unknown inherently brought. But that day, the day he met her, ran stark against the rest.

Y/N had told her story like Rick asked her to do. She spoke of the small group she’d been staying with and the refuge they’d built, ultimately destroyed by the dead. Everybody had scattered — and if they hadn’t…

Any previous hesitancies the group held melted into understanding and sympathy almost immediately.

Daryl had known Y/N would be accepted into the group. Rick had hardened since the farm, but he wasn’t heartless. He wouldn’t be able to turn her away, just as the archer hadn’t been able to leave her out in those woods.

Spending the winter season on the run had been difficult for everyone — constantly running from the dead, cold and bitter nights, supplies growing scarce. The road was unforgiving, proving time and time again how completely fucked this new world was, how things would never return to the way they were, how this was now the new way of life.

Though for Daryl, if he was being honest, it wasn’t all bad — not in comparison to what his old life had given him.

He’d choose a lifetime of running over the stench of whiskey and the sting of belt buckles any day.

The only other person who’d appeared unaffected was Y/N. Besides showcasing a natural skillset in survival, she’d found her place amongst the group with ease — so effortlessly that Daryl hadn’t been able to recall what life looked like before her. She exuded a warmth that people were drawn towards — that the rest of the group clung to during the darkest of days.

But not Daryl.

He’d kept her at a distance, kept her at arm’s length because he refused to let her in as everyone else had.

Little did he know.

Daryl swiped at the beads of sweat dripping down the sides of his face.

The Georgian heat was nearly suffocating, blanketing over his body and setting his skin ablaze. He pushed away the discomfort, bending down and grabbing the ankles of one of the many walkers spread out across the prison’s courtyard. He’d lost track of how many bodies he’d dragged out, his group working tirelessly to clean out their newfound home.

The archer had just pulled the limp body through one of the fences, nearing the pickup truck used for disposal, when he heard someone approach.

“Need a hand?”

Daryl stilled — he glanced up, his eyes locking with Y/N’s, a small smile tugging at her lips.

Her hair was pulled back out of her face, a thin sheen of sweat laid out across her forehead. One hand rested on her hip, the other hovered near her face, blocking the sun rays. The sleeves of her shirt were rolled up past her elbows, streaks of dirt and blood visible against her exposed skin.

He realized then that she was really rather beautiful.

The intrusive thought caught the archer completely off guard. He quickly turned his attention downward, grunting a half-assed ‘nah’ before continuing his trek to the pickup truck, determined to preserve some space between them.

But instead of leaving, as he’d assumed she would, Y/N remained rooted in place.

Daryl faltered, the expression that flickered across her face hinting that maybe she hadn’t come to just ‘lend a helping hand’. She had something on her mind — he could tell by the way she snagged her bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing absently as she shifted her weight back and forth.

The archer dropped his hold from around the walker’s ankles and straightened. “What?” he demanded gruffly, curiosity getting the best of him.

Y/N’s eyes found his as she took a small step forward — Daryl fought back the urge to back up. “I, uh —” she paused, her mouth twisting to the side as though fumbling for the right words. “Just — thank you.”

Daryl’s brow furrowed. “For what?” he huffed.

Y/N’s head cocked to the side, seemingly surprised. “I — I don’t know,” she murmured, a soft, sort of bewildered laugh slipping past her lips. “For bringing me here, for introducing me to your people — for everything, I guess,” she expressed sincerely. “You could’ve just left me out in those woods that day — most people would’ve.”

The archer chewed on the inside of his cheek, feeling incredibly exposed for some strange reason. “Was nothin’,” he finally grunted, ignoring the prickle of heat at the tips of his ears.

“It wasn’t nothing,” Y/N replied indignantly, like she was offended at the notion that he didn’t deserve her gratitude. “You saved my life.”

Daryl shifted uncomfortably, wanting nothing more than for this interaction to be over with — because once that happened, he could go back to maintaining his distance, he could go back to allowing the air between them to be just that. “Figured I owed ya,” he finally mustered, recalling the first day they’d met.

Y/N’s lips curled up into a megawatt smile and Daryl could’ve sworn he’d never seen anything so damn captivating in his entire life. “Okay,” she grinned, sticking her hand out in front of her. “We’ll call it even then.”

The archer glanced down at the gesture before warily reaching forward, taking her hand in his, and shaking once, twice, three times. Her grip was firm and she didn’t seem to mind the grime coating his skin.

When she pulled away, Daryl felt the empty spaces she’d filled set ablaze.

Y/N shot him one last smile before turning around and heading back towards the courtyard. But she’d only made it a few feet when she paused, glancing over her shoulder. “Make sure you eat something, okay?”

She didn’t wait for a response — instead, she narrowed her eyes, shooting him a look in mock-seriousness as if to say ‘I’m watching you’. Then her face broke out into another grin before she sent him a small wave — and she was gone.

Daryl watched her leave, unable to pull his gaze from her retreating form.

He tried to ignore the mess his mind was becoming, littered with confusion and insecurity, the nagging voice that lingered telling him he’d never be good enough, strong enough, brave enough for anything other than what he’d always known.

He wouldn’t let her in — he couldn’t let her in.

But as he bent down, grasping onto either ankle of the walker at his feet, he felt a tingling sensation in his fingertips he swore had everything to do with the Georgian heat and nothing to do with her.

A gentle breeze roused Daryl from his thoughts.

He shifted from where he sat, reaching into the pocket of his jeans for the pack of cigarettes he kept there.

The package was falling apart, half-crushed, half-wrinkled from everyday wear and tear, but the archer slipped one of the few remaining cigarettes out anyway and caught it between his lips.

It hadn’t taken long for him to realize that keeping Y/N at arm’s length was a futile attempt — he’d been naive to think it was possible in the first place.

Before he knew it, she’d wormed her way into the forefronts of his mind and found herself a nice, cozy corner to call home. She’d done it as effortlessly as the blink of an eye or the beat of a heart. It just happened — no rhyme or reason, no explanation or logic. It just happened.

Which made leaving that much harder.

“Daryl!”

The archer ignored Glenn’s shout, marching further into the woods and approaching a snide-looking Merle. “C’mon, bro,” the younger brother grunted, worried if they didn’t leave right then and there, he’d change his mind and return to the prison with the others.

Merle’s booming laugh sounded, drawing Daryl from his thoughts. “Well, I’ll be damned,” the man sneered, tossing an arm around the archer’s shoulders. “Looks like somebody decided ta’ grow himself a big ole’ pair a’ cojones while I was gone,” he snarked, pushing Daryl forward and falling in step beside him.

The archer pressed his lips together, swallowing his retort and focusing ahead.

“Hey, wait up!”

The voice that sounded halted Daryl in his tracks. He spun around, spotting Y/N making her way through the forest, her strides long and determined as she headed straight towards him.

“Well, would ya look a’ that,” Merle quipped under his breath, leering at her approach, his tone sending a swell of aggravation through the younger brother.

“Jus’ gimme a minute,” Daryl quickly waved him off, ignoring the prickle of heat creeping up his neck as he trudged towards her.

Y/N came to a stop in front of him, slightly out of breath, her eyes searching his for a long moment.

She seemed to have something to say, a reason for chasing after him — but it was as though she couldn’t get the words together. She glanced down, shaking her head slowly before taking a deep breath. When she looked back up, Daryl noticed a resignation in her gaze that wasn’t there before.

“Are you sure about this?” she finally asked, her troubled expression sending a pang of guilt through him.

Daryl looked away. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure — he wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

He shifted his weight, focusing back on her. “Ya watch out for yourself, ya hear me?” he rumbled, pushing away the unexpected worry gnawing at him.

Y/N’s shoulders sagged in disappointment, her defeated expression damn near changing his mind altogether. “I will,” she murmured, a bittersweet smile ghosting across her features.

Daryl held her gaze a moment longer before nodding once, turning without another word.

But he’d barely taken a step when he suddenly felt her grab his wrist and twist him back around.

Before he knew what was happening, Y/N was hugging him. She threw her arms around his middle and squeezed tight, leaving Daryl completely and utterly dumbfounded. His arms hung limply at his sides, caught off guard by the surprising gesture. Though as soon as it’d begun, it ended. Y/N unwound herself from around his body and took a step back, a pink tinge to her cheeks he hadn’t noticed earlier.

She whispered a somber goodbye — though Daryl couldn’t hear it over the sound of the blood rushing to his ears — and then she was gone.

The archer fought back the urge to follow, telling himself over and over again that he was making the right decision — he was choosing blood, he was choosing family, he was choosing —

“Hey! Where’s my hug at, sweet cheeks?” Merle’s suddenly hollered, calling after Y/N.

She didn’t look back and Daryl fought back the impulse to start swinging.

But Merle just laughed, the noise loud and boisterous as he sauntered forward. “Damn, lil’ brother. Didn’t think ya had it in ya! I was startin’ ta’ think ya played for the other fuckin’ team’,” he jeered, clapping the archer on the back with more force than necessary.

Daryl’s entire body tensed up, his darkened gaze snapping towards his brother. He noticed then that Merle was also watching Y/N — though his eye line was fixated on one specific part of her body…

“Let’s go,” the archer spat under his breath as he spun around and stormed off, his hands balling into fists.

He had to walk away. Otherwise, he’d lose it — he’d give in to instinct, he’d allow the rage coursing through him to take over, and all of this would’ve been for nothing.

So he took a deep breath, relaxed his clenched fists, and dismissed any lingering thoughts of her.

Daryl scoffed at the memory, an unlit cigarette still caught between his teeth.

He pulled out his lighter and flicked his thumb against the wheel, sparking a small flame before inhaling a deep breath. The familiar taste of nicotine and ash filled his senses as he drew smoke into his lungs, immediately feeling a rush of calm flow through him.

Daryl existed in the quiet, taking another long drag of his cigarette. He pulled his legs towards his chest, resting his elbows atop his knees, letting his hands dangle in front of him. He watched the lit cigarette butt dim and dance between his fingertips, the embers burning off and drifting into the grass.

It’d only taken a single day for the archer to come to his senses — to realize the mistake he’d made in leaving with his brother. And if he was being honest, it’d had nothing to do with Merle. He couldn’t blame his brother because his brother hadn’t changed — his brother was still the same brash, volatile, ill-tempered redneck he’d known his whole life.

No, it was him — he was the one who had changed.

“Would ya slow yer damn roll? I ain’t the athlete I used ta’ be, ya know!” Merle bellowed from somewhere behind Daryl, clearly struggling to keep up with the younger brother’s pace.

But the archer didn’t slow, his strides matching the beat of his pounding heart. He ducked under tree branches and side-stepped exposed roots, the prison growing nearer with each step he took.

It wasn’t until Daryl heard a sudden thud, followed by a viciously snarled curse, that he slowed. He spun around, spotting Merle pushing up off the forest floor.

“Ya good?” Daryl called out, crossing back and reaching down, offering his hand.

But Merle just swatted him away, his expression twisting in contempt as he staggered back to his feet. “Lemme ask ya somethin’,” he growled. “How the hell ya think this’s gonna go, huh? Ya think those assholes are jus’ gonna forget ‘bout everythin’ that happened? Ya think we’re jus’ gonna hug it out an’ sing ‘round the campfire like some kinda damn afternoon special?”

The archer fought back the urge to roll his eyes. “Ya —”

“This ‘bout that skirt from yesterday? Huh? That it?” Merle steamrolled over his attempt to interrupt, taking a step forward, the brothers now toe to toe.

Daryl felt a prickle of heat flush the back of his neck, his chest tightening. Merle was just trying to get a rise out of him — he knew that deep down — but damn, was it working. “It ain’t ‘bout her,” the archer growled defensively, fixing him with a glare. “It’s ‘bout survival, ’bout rebuildin’ — ‘bout tryin’ ta’ make somethin’ outta this shit world. It can’t jus’ be us out here, man — not anymore.”

Merle rolled his eyes. “Oh, c’mon, did Officer Friendly force-feed ya that bullshit?”

Daryl stiffened before huffing a breath and waving his brother off. He turned away, determined to continue his trek back home before it was too late — but he’d only made it a couple of feet when Merle called after him once more.

“It ain’t ever gonna work,” the older brother voiced, his usually brash tone dimming into something surprisingly vulnerable. “It — it jus’ ain’t. Not after everythin’ — not after what I did.”

The archer glanced back, watching Merle’s notorious bravado finally melt away, replaced with something he could’ve sworn looked like guilt. “We ain’t dead yet, man,” Daryl rumbled simply. “Still time ta’ make shit right.”

Merle considered his words for a long moment — but before he could respond, the sound of barraging gunfire exploded through the air.

Daryl’s head snapped in the direction of the noise, feeling his stomach drop when he realized where exactly it was coming from.

He took off into a sprint, Merle’s pounding footsteps echoing directly behind him.

Daryl lied to his brother that day.

In his defense, it hadn’t been deliberate. When Merle had questioned his intentions, alluding to the idea that Y/N was the main reason for his urgency to return home, the archer had denied it.

He hadn’t known it back then, but the truth became startlingly clear once he’d made it back to the prison, marched up the pathway leading to cellblock C, and laid eyes on her.

Daryl found Y/N crouched down beside Axel’s unmoving form, one hand resting on his shoulder.

His steps faltered, feeling as though he was intruding on a private moment — but he couldn’t help himself. The Governor had attacked the prison, his people were shaken, and damn it, he just needed to make sure she was okay.

She stood a moment later, turning to rejoin the rest of the group huddled by the fence, her despondent expression filling his bones with a red-hot rage.

But then her eyes met his.

Y/N’s footsteps stilled, her gaze widening in disbelief as she looked at him. A heartbeat passed between them before Daryl noticed how she was holding herself — hunched over slightly, one hand wrapped around the opposite arm, blood seeping out from between her fingertips.

He crossed to her in three long strides, ignoring the heat that flushed his chest the closer he neared.

Instead, he focused on the wound — that he could deal with, that made sense.

Unlike the unexpected and rapid thrumming of his pulse.

“Daryl,” she breathed in disbelief, her voice thick as though the word had gotten tangled somewhere in her throat.

His name sounded like honey the way it rolled off her tongue.

He shrugged off his crossbow and tossed it aside, wordlessly reaching forward and pulling her hand away from the injury. He examined the laceration carefully — which upon closer inspection appeared to be a gunshot wound — though luckily enough, the bullet seemed to have only grazed the side of her arm.

The archer reached into his back pocket, grabbed the red rag he kept there, and gently pressed it against the wound. “Jus’ keep pressure on it, alright?” he rasped, guiding Y/N’s limp hand to rest over the cloth, stalling the blood flow.

He glanced down at her, doing a slight double-take when he realized she was watching him, a slightly strained smile pulling at her lips. “You came back,” she whispered, her eyes warm despite the blood splattered across her cheek, the pallor in her complexion.

Daryl swallowed the lump in his throat, incredibly aware of how little space remained between them. He managed a stiff nod in response, his voice suddenly lost.

But Y/N’s smile merely grew, like the first hint of sunshine after a devastating storm.

And the tightness in his chest finally faded.

The archer inhaled another long drag from his cigarette, the smoke spilling past his lips and disappearing into the growing night.

Returning to the prison had given Daryl a sense of purpose, a sense of hope — he was back where he belonged and the threat of the Governor just didn’t seem so insurmountable anymore.

And then his big brother went and got himself killed.

Daryl stormed across the field that led to the prison’s courtyard, shoulders set, fists balled, eyes rimmed red.

The Governor would pay — he’d pay for what he’d done.

To Glenn, to Maggie, to countless others.

He’d pay for what he did to Merle.

The archer’s footsteps faltered, only briefly, when he spotted Y/N pacing back and forth behind the gate. Her head snapped towards him as he approached, her worried expression melting into relief as she quickly pulled the gate open for him.

“You okay?” she called to him, brow furrowing as she craned her neck, now looking behind him. “Where’s Merle?”

Daryl kept his gaze forward, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand as he marched past her without a second glance. “Dead,” he grunted, ignoring the prickling sensation growing behind his eyes.

“What?” he heard her exclaim, though he didn’t turn around — he kept his momentum pushing ahead, hellbent on going after the Governor and taking him down once and for all.

No matter what the cost.

He stalked towards where he’d parked his motorcycle, slinging his crossbow over his back and mounting the bike in one swift motion.

But Y/N was just as quick.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” she jogged towards him, planting herself in front of the bike, an alarmed look in her eyes. “What’re you doing?”

Daryl felt a swell of anger wash over him, an unusual feeling when directed towards her. “Move,” he growled, using his heel to knock the bike’s kickstand up.

Y/N’s brow furrowed, his intent becomingly startling clear. “No.”

He was caught off guard by her protest, though snapped out of it just as soon — his scowl deepened, his eyes darkening, seeing nothing but redness and fury and Merle’s reanimated corpse flickering through his mind. “Move, damn it,” he snarled once more.

But Y/N stood her ground regardless of the wariness in her gaze. “No.”

The archer’s rage churned inside him, his grip white-knuckled around the throttle. “Ya —”

“Please, don’t do this,” she interrupted his brusque retort, shaking her head. “I promise — I promise — he’ll get what’s coming to him, but Daryl…this is not the way.”

He knew deep down she was right, but he didn’t want to hear it — he didn’t want to hear ration or reason or the pity in her voice.

He didn’t want to hear any of it.

“I’m sorry,” she suddenly whispered, emotion clouding her eyes. “God, I’m so sorry about Merle. I’m —”

Something inside the archer snapped. “Ya know what, ya can drop the damn act,” he hissed, springing off the bike and shoving it to the ground with a deafening crash. He ignored the way Y/N flinched as he barreled towards her like a surging storm. “Ya can stop pretendin’ like anyone in this fuckin’ place gave a single shit ‘bout my brother!” he fired back, his voice rising. “Or me, for that matter!”

Y/N recoiled away from him, eyes wide. “I’m —” she started, shrinking under his heated approach. “I didn’t —”

“Forget it,” the archer spat, unable to stop the fervor spewing out of him. “Ya don’t know shit.”

A beat of silence passed as they stared one another down — but the more the quiet stretched on, the more a different emotion began to seep through the archer.

Guilt.

Unable to watch the hurt settling across Y/N’s features, Daryl turned away, allowing his brewing vehemence to carry him across the courtyard and to the doors leading into cellblock C. He paused at the doorway, unable to stop himself from looking back.

He watched Y/N’s head lower, her shoulders drop, before she slowly reached down, grabbing his toppled motorcycle by the handlebars and propping it upright.

The archer swallowed his remorse, buried his instincts, and stalked inside.

Daryl hissed a breath as the burnt end of the cigarette singed his fingertip. He stubbed the flame out against the heel of his boot, flicking the butt away into the grass.

Still, to this day, he felt bad about losing his temper. The anger had clearly been misdirected, but in the moment, he hadn’t been able to get a handle on it — Y/N had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Despite the aftermath of his outburst weighing heavily on him, he’d kept his distance from her throughout the days that followed.

Old habits die hard.

Daryl woke with a start, his eyes snapping open, chasing away lingering images of the nightmare he’d found himself immersed in.

Sleep had never been kind to him, even before everything went to shit — tonight was no different.

He could still see flashes of redness and death, smell the scent of rotting corpses and bloodshed, hear the sounds of tormented screams and anguished whimpers —

Daryl’s thoughts faltered as he quickly pushed up onto his elbows, straining his ears.

He realized then that the whimpering wasn’t coming from just his imagination. No, it was real — and it was coming from somewhere inside the cellblock.

The archer sprang up, untangling himself from the bed sheet coiled at his feet before shuffling towards the doorway. He paused there, his senses on high alert, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as he listened carefully.

When another soft cry sounded, he moved from the entryway, slowly slinking past cell after cell and following the noise.

It wasn’t long before he found himself standing outside Y/N’s cell.

Daryl peered into the shadowed room, just barely able to make out the shape of her beneath the covers. She murmured something jumbled and incoherent, her words muffled as though her face was pressed into the pillow. She tossed and turned for a moment before finally settling.

When she remained still, the archer nearly left for his own cell.

But then he heard a quietly gasped sob and began moving forward before he could think twice.

Daryl crouched down beside Y/N’s bedside, turning on the lantern she’d left sitting on the floor. He shielded his eyes from the light until they adjusted before focusing on her.

She was curled up, covers drawn to her chin, faint tear tracks marking the sides of her face. Her brow was knitted, causing lines to form across her forehead — he fought back the urge to reach out and smooth them away.

Apparently, he wasn’t the only one sleep was unkind to.

Another soft whimper blew past her lips and Daryl reached for her, gently shaking her shoulder.

Y/N immediately jolted awake, shooting upright, disoriented and alarmed as her bleary eyes darted around the cell.

“Hey, hey,” Daryl quickly rasped, holding his hands out in front of him. “It’s alright.”

“What — what happened?” she croaked, her voice thick with sleep, her wide gaze finally settling on him.

The archer shook his head, pulling back slightly, second-guessing his decision to wake her. “Nothin’ — nothin’, alright? We’re okay.”

“What —” she sounded, a bewildered look flitting across her face as she settled her hand against her undoubtedly racing heart. “Are you okay?”

Daryl’s brow furrowed at her question, confused as to why that would be her next question and not ‘what the fuck are you doing in my cell?’ Regardless, he nodded once. “Yeah,” the archer brushed off her concern, sitting back on his haunches. “Ya — uh, ya were cryin’,” he revealed hesitantly, scratching the back of his neck as he watched for her reaction.

Y/N straightened, the top bunk just grazing the crown of her head as she dabbed her fingertip at the corner of her eye, appearing almost embarrassed suddenly. “Oh,” she whispered, wiping away the tears that’d formed.

Daryl gnawed on the inside of his cheek. “Ya alright?” he rasped after a long moment.

She quickly nodded her head, waving off his worry. “Oh, no — yeah, no, I’m fine,” she replied flippantly, shooting the archer a tight-lipped smile.

Despite Daryl seeing right through her bullshit, he didn’t push.

Instead, he nodded once and clambered back to his feet.

But he’d just barely turned to leave when Y/N spoke up once more. “Hey, Daryl?”

The archer faltered, glancing back at her. “Yeah?”

Her demeanor appeared collected, though he could see her hands twisting nervously around the sheet splayed out across his lap. “I —” she paused, seemingly working up the nerve to say what was next. “Are we okay?”

Daryl felt his chest tighten, the heaviness that’d grown between them splintering in that moment. There was something about her words, the smallness in her voice, that had him kicking himself for being so damn stubborn, for not making things right sooner.

She raked a hand through her tousled hair. “I just — I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have — I mean, I wasn’t trying to —”

“Stop,” Daryl cut off her rambling, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I was actin’ like an asshole,” he grumbled admittedly, the shame he’d buried creeping back in.

The tension in Y/N’s features softened as she regarded him. “It’s okay.”

For some reason, her easy forgiveness made Daryl’s insides churn.

“Nah, it ain’t,” he shot back sharply, almost wishing she’d curse him out instead. “Wasn’t right ta’ take that shit out on ya.”

“You were grieving,” she justified, her explanation simple and understanding.

Daryl worked his jaw, clenching and unclenching as he stared at the far wall of her cell, his gaze darkening — he didn’t deserve her compassion. “Well, ya probably stopped me from doin’ somethin’ real stupid,” he muttered dryly.

She merely shrugged, still completely unfazed. “Grief makes us do stupid things,” she murmured, defending him yet again. “I am sorry about your brother, you know,” she whispered a moment later, the sincerity in her voice knocking down the wall Daryl had worked so hard to keep between them.

He nodded slowly, clearing his throat before speaking again. “Merle was no hero,” he finally rumbled. “But he died tryin’ ta’ make shit right,” he mustered, his eyes finding hers amidst the shadows of her cell.

Y/N shot him a small, somewhat sad smile. “Then he didn’t die for nothing.”

Daryl swallowed the lump that formed in his throat, feeling as though his heart was moments away from bursting out of his chest. It was as though the cell was shrinking around him, the walls closing in — and the only thing keeping him above the surface was her.

“Get some sleep,” he managed gruffly, turning to leave once more.

“Daryl?”

The archer stilled. “Hm?” he sounded, not trusting his voice.

“Can you stay?” she whispered, so softly he almost missed it entirely. “Just a little longer?”

Daryl shifted his weight back and forth, feeling the overwhelming urge to run, to retreat to his own cell and pretend he hadn’t heard her.

But the slight tremble in her voice, something others surely would’ve missed, pulled him right back in.

The air thickened as he walked towards her, every fiber of his being screaming at him to make a run for it while he still had the chance. Y/N watched him approach, slightly wide-eyed, his steps faltering the closer he neared. She maneuvered slightly on the bed, moving towards the wall as though making room for him beside her.

Instead, Daryl did the most rational thing he could think of — he grabbed the empty mattress on the top bunk, slid it off the frame, and dropped it onto the floor next to her.

Y/N’s brow furrowed. “Oh, you don’t have to —”

“G’night,” Daryl interjected abruptly, avoiding her gaze as he quickly turned off the lantern and laid down. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, his face surely on fire.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Daryl peeked an eye open, certain she could hear his thrumming pulse from where she sat. But a moment later, the bed creaked as she settled back down against the rickety mattress.

He released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

The archer wasn’t sure how much time passed before Y/N’s breathing evened out, the stranger from the woods all those days ago finally falling into a deep and restful sleep.

He, on the other hand, remained awake until morning came.

She’d asked him to stay and that was exactly what he was going to do.

Not even sleep could take him from her.

Everything changed after that night.

After the people from Woodbury moved into the prison, the demand for supplies nearly tripled. The archer found himself going on runs more often than not, hunting for game or scavenging local businesses — but the days and nights he was home were spent with her.

They fell into a routine of sorts. The days were spent working the fence or tending to things around the prison — but most nights, they’d sneak away from the others and spend hours sitting atop one of the unused watchtowers.

It became ‘their spot’, as Y/N had put it.

Some nights they sat quietly, existing in comfortable silence, watching the vast night sky. Other nights, Daryl would learn things about her — those were his favorite nights.

Y/N would talk about anything and everything — the mundane stuff, the deep stuff, the things in between — while Daryl would rest his head against the watchtower and close his eyes, listening to the way her voice rose and fell. She’d tell stories of her life before the end and her hopes for the future as though there still was one.

And over time, despite the world decaying at its very core, even Daryl started to believe that maybe, just maybe, there could be one.

She became his solace.

Hell, maybe she always had been, but he’d been too damn stupid to realize it.

“I’m sick of hearing myself talk,” Y/N suddenly spoke, a soft laugh following.

Daryl’s eyes snapped open as he glanced over at her, his brow furrowing.

She shifted from where she sat, the side of her face illuminated by moonlight. “Tell me something about you,” she said sweetly, her knee brushing against his as she rested one shoulder against the watchtower, giving him her full attention.

The archer felt his face warm under her curiosity. “Ya know plenty,” he grunted — and it was the truth. He’d told her more about himself than anyone else in his entire life.

“Oh, come on,” she countered and though Daryl couldn’t see it, he sensed an eye roll. “Just one thing? Something I don’t already know and then I’ll leave you alone.”

He huffed a breath. “Fine,” he grumbled, giving in.

Y/N waited patiently as the archer fell into thought, racking his brain for something to share — something even worth sharing. The silence that dredged on wasn’t helping either — if anything, it only added to the pressure. His life wasn’t all that interesting, never had been, never would be.

Daryl snuck a glance at Y/N — well, maybe that wasn’t entirely true.

“Uh,” he rumbled, scratching the back of his head. “I don’t know. Guess I always wanted a dog?” he mustered, the confession coming off more so a question than an actual statement.

Still, Y/N’s face broke out into one of her million-dollar smiles. “I can totally see you with a dog,” she beamed. “You never had one?”

Daryl almost shook his head, but then a faint memory came to mind. He looked away, propping his elbows against his knees and focusing straight ahead.

“When, uh —” he cleared his throat uncomfortably, picking absently at the skin beside his thumbnail. “When I was a kid, I was walkin’ home from school. Found this stray covered in mud, damn near skin an’ bones. An’ so I took it home,” he pressed his lips together before snorting a breath. “Even tied my shoelace ‘round its neck like a leash.”

“Aw,” Y/N sounded softly.

“Mhm,” the archer mumbled, the corner of his mouth quirking up.

After a stretch of silence lingered, she spoke up once more. “But you didn’t keep it?”

Daryl began picking at his skin a little more aggressively. “My old man — he was on a bender. Started screamin’ an’ hollerin’ when he saw me ‘cause he ‘didn’t wanna take care a’ no mangy mutt’,” he bit out, echoing his father’s words from all those years ago. “He threw somethin’ — don’t remember what. Maybe an empty whiskey bottle. Poor dog was scared outta its mind,” he murmured, shaking his head. “It pissed on the floor, right in front a’ him.”

Y/N’s expression turned troubled, her lips forming into a small frown.

Daryl ignored the tightness growing in his throat. “So he tossed the dog in his truck, drove off, an’ that was that — I never saw it again,” he finished, wincing as he ripped a small piece of skin off his thumb, drawing a drop of blood.

“What’d your dad do?” Y/N asked, her voice small.

The archer wiped the blood off onto his jeans. “Don’t know,” he shrugged, glancing over at her. “He never said an’ I never asked.”

She held his gaze for a long moment before letting out a soft sigh.

Daryl turned his head, staring out over the railing and into the darkened forest. He’d never told anyone that story — not even Merle, who’d been doing another stint in juvie at the time. The truth was, he carried a lot of guilt from that day. Sure, he was only a kid, but he was the one who’d brought the stray home in the first place.

Whatever happened to that dog…well, that was on him.

“Hey,” Y/N murmured, gently poking the side of his arm, drawing him back to her. “Maybe we’ll find you a dog of your own someday.”

Daryl quirked a brow, unconvinced.

“You never know,” she shrugged. “What would you name it?”

He scoffed softly in response, shaking his head.

“Come on,” she reached over and poked him once more. “Humor me.”

“How ‘bout this,” the archer relented. “If — an’ that’s a big-ass if — we ever find a dog someday, ya get ta' name it.”

Y/N’s face immediately lit up. “Me?”

“Mhm,” he nodded his head, feeling the corners of his lips twitch.

She exhaled a breath, her gaze widening. “This…this is a shit-ton of pressure, Dixon,” she whispered, the wheels in her mind, very obviously, turning.

Despite everything, a soft laugh rumbled from deep inside Daryl’s chest, the sound strange and unfamiliar. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d genuinely laughed — the noise got stuck in his throat, like his body was physically rejecting the sensation.

When he noticed Y/N watching him, a cheeky grin plastered across her face, his skin flushed.

“Okay, okay, let me think…” she grew serious, closing her eyes and resting her chin against her clasped hands. Not even a second later, her eyes shot open. “Got it!”

Daryl motioned for her to continue. “Lemme hear it.”

“Alright,” she shifted, facing him head-on. “Dog.”

The archer’s brow knitted together, his gaze narrowing. “Dog?”

“Dog,” she nodded resolutely.

“Ya — ya wanna name the dog ‘Dog’?” he questioned dubiously.

“Yup,” she grinned, popping the ‘p’.

Daryl rolled his eyes, fighting back a smirk. “Ya got a couple a’ screws loose, ya know that?” he teased, tapping the side of his head.

“Shut up,” Y/N laughed softly, nudging him with her elbow.

A beat of quiet passed between them before Daryl cleared his throat. “We ought'a head back,” he grumbled, starting to stand.

But then Y/N reached out, grabbing onto his hand. “Hang on,” she objected, looking up at him. “Just a few more minutes?” she asked, gently tugging his arm down.

The skin on his hand tingled beneath her touch as her gaze, warm like honey, melted further into his.

Before he could think twice, he found himself settling back down beside her, his hand still intertwined around hers.

Besides, when had he ever been able to say ‘no’ to her?

Daryl could’ve sworn those nights up in the watchtower were the best nights of his life.

Then the prison fell.

And destroyed everything good along with it.

“Do you miss her?”

Daryl’s eyes snapped open, just then noticing the quiet that’d settled over the funeral home. He glanced over at Beth, who remained seated in front of the piano, her kind gaze watching him curiously.

Settling further inside the casket he laid in, the archer turned to stare up at the ceiling, folding one arm behind his head, the other laid out across his stomach. He ignored Beth’s question — not because it wasn’t true, but because he knew if he spoke, if he started talking about her, the hollowness inside his chest would swallow him whole.

“I think she’s still out there,” Beth assured him quietly, steadfast in hanging onto whatever hope she could muster. “I think they all are.”

Daryl grunted softly in response, not trusting his voice.

He wanted to believe that — he wanted nothing more than to believe that Y/N and the others were out there somewhere, somewhere safe. But he wasn’t a foolish man — and he just couldn’t bring himself to feign the kind of certainty that came so effortlessly to Beth.

“‘And whatever you ask in prayer, you will receive, if you have faith’,” she suddenly murmured, her eyes glowing against the candlelight, a bittersweet smile tugging at her lips. “Daddy used ta’ quote scripture — that was one of his favorites,” she explained, her voice growing thick at the mention of her father. She pulled herself together before continuing. “I have faith,” her words were resolute, as though not only trying to convince him but herself as well.

The archer huffed a breath, crossing his arms over his chest. “Got enough for the both a’ us?” he muttered dryly, quirking a brow.

Beth laughed, breaking the heaviness that’d spread. “Sure do,” she beamed before shooting him a meaningful look. “You can thank me later.”

With that, she swiveled around on the bench and faced the piano once more, her fingers dancing along the keys, filling the room with a gentle melody.

Daryl wasn’t a religious man — never had been, never would be.

He didn’t buy into all that bullshit. If there was a God out there…what the fuck was he doing? Where was he? Why didn’t he stop the world from ending? Why did he let the bad destroy the good, time and time again?

He just couldn’t put his faith into something so cruel, so merciless.

Daryl wasn’t a religious man.

But for the first time in his entire life, he closed his eyes and prayed.

The archer felt his throat constrict.

He tilted his head back, looking up at the darkened sky. The sun had melted into the Earth, in its place thousands upon thousands of littered stars, surrounding a glowing crescent-shaped moon.

Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe there was a God out there — some higher power or greater being — who’d been listening that night in the funeral home.

Because somehow, someway, despite all the odds stacked against him…he’d found her.

Daryl felt his lip split beneath another vicious punch, his head snapping to the side.

He was losing strength, his bruised body slowly giving out on him as two of the Claimers continued to relentlessly beat him. It seemed like no matter how hard he fought back, he just couldn’t get the upper hand.

He was outnumbered and unarmed, but as long as their attention remained on him, he wouldn’t back down — because once they were done with him, they’d move on to the others.

They’d move on to her.

Daryl caught Y/N’s horrified gaze from the other side of the road — she was knelt in front of Tony, who had a fistful of her hair in his grip, simultaneously holding Michonne at gunpoint. Y/N was struggling against his hold, attempting to break free, her features twisted in pain.

A low growl rumbled from deep inside the archer, a red-hot rage coursing through his veins as he fought even harder against the two men.

He managed to dodge another punch, but in the process, connected with a swift jab to the ribcage. He exhaled sharply, losing his breath as the two closed in on him once more — though as the archer braced himself for the next strike, he noticed that the men had suddenly frozen in place.

Daryl followed their stares, finally understanding what had caused the abrupt standstill.

Rick was staggering away from the leader of the Claimers, red staining the bottom half of his face — the archer didn’t even realize it was blood until he saw Joe. The man swayed unsteadily on his feet, eyes wide, mouth agape, as his hands reached for where his throat should’ve been.

Taking advantage of the distraction, Michonne grabbed Tony’s gun and turned it on himself, shooting him once. Daryl followed suit, landing a solid hook against the side of Billy’s face. He heard another gunshot ring out but was too focused on the man at his feet to notice. Without any hesitation, the archer stomped the heel of his boot into the man’s skull, killing him instantly.

He backed away from Billy’s crushed form, stumbling over Harvey’s body, a bullet hole now between his lifeless eyes. He spun around, steadying himself against the hood of the car in front of him as he worked to control his heaving breaths. He’d turned just in time to see Rick mercilessly stabbing Dan, over and over again until the man’s center was nothing but a mess of blood and guts.

And then he saw her.

She was still on her knees, though now hunched over beside Tony, staring silently at his unmoving figure.

Daryl pushed away from the truck and rounded the hood, his heart leaping into his throat as he made a beeline towards her. His footsteps faltered the closer he neared, the sight before him suddenly registering — Tony had been shot through the neck by Michonne, but the front of his skull had also been caved in.

His gaze flickered towards Y/N, just then noticing the blood-soaked boulder clasped tightly in her hand.

It took every ounce of strength to not rush forward, to not pull her into his arms and hold her close because damn it, she was alive, she was okay, she was here.

The archer stepped over Tony’s body, slowly crouching down in front of Y/N — when his approach didn’t stir her, a jolt of unease shot through him. Her vacant eyes were trained on the dead man, her features expressionless and ashen. There was a cut just above her eyebrow, a small trail of blood trickling down the side of her face, but other than that, she appeared relatively unharmed.

Daryl gently took her hand in his and carefully unclasped her fingers from around the rock. He tossed the boulder aside before settling down, kneeling opposite her, his deep blue eyes maintaining a watchful look.

The archer brushed his thumb over the back of her limp hand, squeezing softly a moment later.

And then, almost hesitantly, she squeezed back.

Daryl held his breath as her eyes found his, welling with unshed tears, the helplessness in her haunted gaze twisting his insides. “I never killed someone before,” she whispered suddenly, choking on her words as though speaking shards of glass.

He wasn’t used to seeing her this way — she’d always been so steady, a light others were drawn towards, that he’d been drawn towards. And now…well, now he wished the Claimers would come alive so he could rip them apart all over again.

Unable to stand the sight of her broken expression any longer, Daryl reached for her. “C’mere,” he rasped, slipping his hand behind the back of her head and pulling her forward.

Y/N’s features crumpled as she fell against his chest, a hitched sob catching in her throat. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, gripping onto the front of his vest as though he was the only thing keeping her afloat.

He wrapped his other arm securely around her back, keeping her cradled against his body. “S’ alright,” the archer rumbled as she held on tighter to him, her frame trembling as she cried. “I got ya, Y/N, I got ya.”

Daryl wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, woven around one another, his pounding heart echoing hers.

But he didn’t mind — because he’d found her.

And nothing else seemed to matter much with her engulfed in his arms.

The weeks that’d followed nearly destroyed them all.

With unrelenting heat, dwindling supplies, and the hollowness of loss inside each of them, morale had been at an all-time low. The little amount of food they’d managed to scrounge up had been divvied into morsels — though not enough to soothe their aches of hunger. The water supply eventually depleted, leaving their throats raw and mouths like cotton as they walked — day after day, down winding road after winding road, searching for salvation that was nowhere to find.

The line that’d separated them from the dead had become alarmingly thin.

And it’d only been a matter of time before that line disappeared altogether.

Daryl roused from his sleep, somehow feeling even more exhausted than when he first closed his eyes.

He scrubbed at his face, wiping away the thin sheen of sweat that’d formed before huffing a breath. The sign of first morning light seeped through the canopy of trees above him, visible through the motionless overgrowth of leaves and greenery. The heat was already suffocating — his clothes stuck uncomfortably to his skin, his throat desperate for water he couldn’t afford to drink.

But focusing on that, focusing on the discomfort, was much easier than acknowledging the looming darkness that lingered.

The archer pushed up onto his elbows, the forest floor digging into his skin. He scanned the makeshift camp his group had set up, positioned just off the main road. Almost everyone was still asleep, curled up on the harsh wooded ground within the permitter they’d barricaded.

Except for Y/N who was nowhere to be seen.

Daryl felt his stomach lurch as he pulled himself off the ground and staggered to his feet, ignoring the wave of dizziness he felt — it’d been days since he’d eaten, since any of them had eaten. He grabbed his crossbow and slung it over his shoulder, tiptoeing around the others as to not wake them — they deserved a few more minutes in a reality that wasn’t as fucked as this one.

The only other person awake was Glenn, who’d volunteered to be on watch. He sat with his back against a large tree trunk, Maggie at his side, her head resting against his shoulder.

Daryl headed towards them, drawing Glenn’s attention. But before he could say anything, Glenn nodded his head towards something on the main road, careful not to jostle Maggie awake.

The archer followed his gaze, spotting Y/N through the trees. He nodded once in silent ‘thanks’, feeling the pit in his stomach loosen as he marched out of the woods and crossed over the asphalt.

Y/N was sitting on the hood of a long-since abandoned car, her feet perched atop the dented front bumper. Her eyes flashed towards him as he approached, prominent dark circles beneath a weary gaze, so unlike the warmth he was used to seeing.

Daryl felt his throat constrict — he could handle his own demons, the heaviness that’d latched onto his bones after the last few weeks.

But hers?

She needed to be okay — he needed her to be okay.

He slid onto the hood, the car dipping below his weight as he settled beside her. A comfortable silence stretched on as they stared down the long and desolate road ahead, each lost in their own thoughts.

“I miss ‘our spot’,” Y/N suddenly murmured, her tone wistful.

Daryl grunted softly in response, the nights they’d spent up in the watchtower flashing through his mind.

He missed it too — he hadn’t known peace like that before.

“God, we had it so good back then,” she exhaled a breath, lowering her head.

The archer peeked over at her, hearing the hint of emotion growing in her words, the sadness she tried to conceal. But she couldn’t hide it — not from him.

He could tell how she was feeling by the steadiness of her breath.

“We still had Hershel…” she whispered, clasping her hands together, her knuckles turning white. “Bob…Tyreese…” her voice cracked slightly before she glanced up. “Beth.”

It was Daryl’s turn to look away.

He couldn’t think about her — not without smelling moonshine and ash, not without feeling the weight of her lifeless body in his arms.

He never got to thank her.

When the prison fell, Daryl had been certain he’d never see Y/N again — that somehow, someway, she’d burned along with it. But Beth…she’d known — she’d known he’d find her again one day.

And he never got to thank her.

“I know you’re in pain,” Y/N’s voice broke through his guilt-ridden thoughts, drawing him back to her. “And I know how easy it is to just shove it down and push it away and pretend like it doesn’t exist,” she looked over at him then, her gaze steady and knowing — and despite the scrutiny, he couldn’t find it in himself to look away. “And I’m not asking you to talk about it. But please, just — just don’t pretend like it’s not there.”

Daryl gnawed on the inside of his cheek, his teeth breaking skin and filling his senses with the metallic taste of blood.

When Y/N reached towards him, he stiffened.

She slowly brushed away the hair that fell in front of his eyes, smoothing the strands back out of his face. “You’re not carved out of stone, Daryl,” she murmured gently before resting her palm against his flushed cheek.

The air suddenly thickened, the archer becoming painfully aware of how little space remained between them. There was a pull — almost magnetic — that urged him to lean closer, to draw nearer, to take her in his arms and shut out the rest of the world.

But before he could give into instinct, he pulled away and hopped off the hood of the car, landing on his feet with a huff.

Daryl looked anywhere but at her, ignoring the slight tremble in his fingertips. “M’ gonna —” he quickly cleared the thickness in his throat. “M’ gonna take a look ‘round — see what I can see.”

Y/N was quiet, though the archer didn’t dare look at her. “Okay,” she finally sounded — and even though Daryl couldn’t see her expression, he could hear the tangible defeat in her tone.

He clenched his jaw, kicking himself for being the source of her disappointment as he beelined towards the woods on the other side of the road, opposite the campsite.

But he’d only taken a couple of steps when he faltered, realizing then that he couldn’t just walk away — he’d never been able to just walk away.

Not from her.

“I hear ya,” he rasped, glancing back at her, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them. “Ya know, what ya were sayin’ before an’ — an’ all that. I jus’ — I hear ya,” he mustered, the jumbled explanation all he could offer.

A tired smile tugged at Y/N’s lips. “I know,” she assured him softly.

Daryl held her gaze before nodding once, turning without another word, and disappearing into the trees.

A newfound determination coursed through the archer as he ventured further into the woods — there had to be something else out there, somewhere his people could call ‘home’. They couldn’t keep going on like this, fighting day-to-day just to survive — it couldn’t be them and the dead anymore.

There had to be something else, something more.

The world couldn’t be all bad.

Not the same world that’d given him her.

Daryl pulled his gaze away from the darkened sky.

His eyes trailed over the towering gates that surrounded Alexandria — sturdy iron sheets and impenetrable steel, the only thing keeping away the dead that roamed just outside them. He brushed his fingers over the ground, tugging at the overgrown blades of grass beneath where he sat as he fell back in thought.

Despite his initial doubt that Alexandria was all it promised to be, in time, the community had proven him wrong. Sure, there were fractures in its foundation, but it was better than nothing.

It was better than before.

And for the first time since the end of everything, there was hope for a future.

Smoke spilled past the archer’s lips, wafting in front of him before disappearing into the night air.

The streets of Alexandria were still — a welcomed change in comparison to life outside the walls. Daryl shifted on the porch steps, taking another drag from his cigarette as he rested his back against the railing. He tilted his head backward, blowing out a lungful of smoke, feeling his nerves calm in the process.

“Hey, stranger,” a voice suddenly called, breaking the quiet that’d stretched on.

Daryl knew that voice — knew it better than the back of his own damn hand.

He quickly shook away the hair that’d fallen in front of his eyes, watching as Y/N approached.

She looked different — her hair was washed, her clothes no longer blood-stained and tattered. The lines of worry that’d marred her features were smoothed away, replaced by a warm smile that only grew the closer she neared. It was strange — almost like getting a glimpse of her before the dead started walking.

Her footsteps slowed as she stopped in front of him, her head cocking slightly to the side. “What’s that look for?”

Daryl ducked his head down, his face feeling fuzzy — like a kid getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Nothin’,” he shook his head, inhaling another drag from his cigarette before stubbing the flame out against the porch steps.

Y/N plopped down beside him, propping her back up against the railing opposite his. “So,” she started, turning her attention towards him. “Deanna was asking where you were tonight.”

The archer scoffed as he flicked the cigarette butt away. “Aaron’s,” he rasped, pulling one knee to his chest, resting his elbow on top of it.

Y/N appeared surprised at his response but didn’t push further. Instead, she exhaled heavily. “This place is like the fucking Twilight Zone.”

He huffed a breath, nodding in agreement. “Ya headin’ back over there?” he rumbled after a moment, jerking his head in the direction of the welcome party.

“Oh, no,” she quickly shook her head. “I’m sick of people,” she admitted before glancing over at him. “You don’t count.”

Daryl snorted a laugh, rolling his eyes despite the strange sort of pride her words brought him.

A beat of silence passed before Y/N spoke again. “Aaron seems like a good guy.”

The archer grunted softly in response, their conversation from earlier coming to mind. “He wants me ta’ start scoutin’ with him — findin’ other survivors, bringin’ ‘em back.”

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up. “Really?”

“Mhm,” Daryl sounded, nestling the side of his thumb between his teeth.

“Is that something you’d wanna do?” she asked, leaning forward a fraction.

He paused, taking a minute to consider her words. If he was being honest, he felt more comfortable outside Alexandria’s walls than inside — and having a good enough reason to be back on the road didn’t seem like such a bad thing. But if he was being really honest…

Daryl’s gaze met Y/N’s once more — he hadn’t been away from her since the prison fell.

That wasn’t exactly a time in his life he’d like to revisit.

“I do alright out there, I guess,” he shrugged a shoulder up, dropping his hand back into his lap.

A look of amusement flashed over her features in response. “That’s quite the understatement.”

The corner of his mouth quirked, but he couldn’t seem to ease the sudden worry gnawing at him. “Ya gonna be alright in here?” he rasped, steadying her with a serious look.

“Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” she countered smoothly — but Daryl could hear the hint of something in her tone, something he couldn’t quite place. When he remained silent, Y/N’s expression turned reflective. “I think it’ll be a good thing — you could help a lot of people out there who need it.”

The archer picked up on her deflection. “That ain’t what m’ askin’,” he retorted, calling her bluff.

Y/N looked as though she wanted to argue — but then her lips pressed together, forming a thin line. “I don’t know,” she finally said, avoiding his gaze. “I just — I don’t like being away from you, that’s all,” she admitted quietly, wringing her clasped hands together.

He stilled, never having been more grateful for nightfall — otherwise, she surely would’ve seen the sudden redness creeping over his cheeks.

“But, like I said,” she continued, exhaling a slightly awkward laugh. “It’ll be a good thing.”

He nodded once. “Mhm,” he sounded, not trusting his voice.

Her eyes softened before she began pulling herself up off the porch steps. “Well, I’m gonna get some sleep — see you in the morning?”

The archer cleared his throat. “I’ll see ya,” he rumbled.

A small smile tugged at Y/N’s lips as she headed up the steps, gently squeezing his shoulder as she passed.

He didn’t move a muscle, listening intently for the sound of the front door shutting before closing his eyes, ignoring the tingling sensation beneath where she’d touched him.

Daryl huffed a defeated breath. “Shit.”

Had he given into instinct that night, he would’ve told her the truth.

He would’ve told her that he felt the same way, that being away from her felt like losing half of himself, that nothing in his life had ever made sense until he met her. The words had toyed at the tip of his tongue, desperate to be heard after being swallowed time and time again — but he just hadn’t been able to do it.

He could almost hear Merle’s snide voice in the back of his head — taunting him, calling him ‘whipped’ and a ‘pussy’ and a ‘good-for-nothin’ redneck’, mocking him for even considering that someone like her could feel anything for someone like him.

So instead, he’d reverted back to what he knew best — shutting down and pushing away.

It wasn’t intentional, merely second nature after years and years of repetition.

But the wall he’d worked so hard to build stood no chance.

Not against her.

Daryl knew something was wrong the moment he crossed back through Alexandria’s gates.

And then the screaming started.

He took off into a sprint, his heart mimicking the echo of his footsteps pounding against the asphalt. He could hear Aaron and Morgan just behind, right on his heels, their heavy breathing mirroring his own as the sounds of anguish grew louder.

The archer felt his stomach drop the closer he neared, his mind repeating one, single phrase over and over again —

Just let her be okay.

When he and Aaron had gotten trapped in that car earlier, surrounded by walkers, he’d thought that was it for him. He was going to lead the dead away and give Aaron enough time to make it out, to make it back to Alexandria where he could continue doing what he did best — bringing salvation to those who needed it.

He’d made peace with his decision.

And as he’d grabbed the door handle, moments away from pushing into the raging swarm, he’d only been thinking one thing —

Just let her be okay.

For some reason, he’d been given a second chance and all he wanted was to see her again. It was nearly overwhelming, setting his nerves ablaze, sending his heart racing — it consumed him entirely, the thought of her.

He’d realized then what he should’ve known all along.

He’d never felt for anyone the way he felt for her.

Daryl finally found the others, all gathered in the center of town — but he barely had time to register what was happening when a single gunshot rang out.

Aaron and Morgan stood frozen beside him as they took in the scene — Rick had a gun in hand, the barrel pointed towards the ground, directly above Pete’s now-shattered skull. The crowd looked on in horror, huddled together near a dimly lit fire, eyes wide, mouths agape. Then he saw Reg — his throat sliced open, his body splayed out across Deanna’s lap, Michonne’s bloody katana lying beside him.

“Rick?” Morgan suddenly spoke, breaking the deafening silence that’d followed.

The sound drew Rick’s attention, his vacant eyes finding Morgan’s — but Daryl’s gaze drifted, meeting hers instead.

His stomach dropped when he saw her — she had one hand pressed against her cheek, blood trickling out from between her fingers, her face frozen in disbelief.

Daryl moved towards her, the rest of the world fading away.

Just let her be okay.

Y/N’s expression shifted as he neared, the apprehension that’d marred her features melting, turning into relief despite her ashen complexion and the chaos surrounding them. She absently shook her head back and forth, opening her mouth as if to say something, but no sound came out.

The archer came to a stop in front of her, his own voice lost somewhere deep inside his chest. So instead, he reached for her, very carefully, as though she’d been spun from glass. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist and gently pulled her hand away from her face, revealing a gash that stretched across the entirety of her cheek.

The swell of rage that coursed through him felt red-hot, flushing his skin as he stared at the wound, his eyes glinting dangerously by the light of the fire.

“She caught the nasty end of Petey-boy’s backswing,” came Abraham’s gruff voice.

Daryl hadn’t even realized the man approached — he was too busy thinking up new ways to bring Pete back to life, all so he could shoot the dead prick dead all over again.

Abraham crouched down a few inches beside him, taking a closer look at Y/N’s injury before whistling softly. “Ya must be ridin’ the gravy train with biscuit wheels, lil’ lady. That sack a’ shit damn near took your eye out,” he drawled before glancing over at Daryl. “Don’t think she needs stitches — unless someone wants ta’ reincarnate Dr. Dickwad for a second opinion.”

Y/N attempted to huff a laugh, but the motion had her wincing, her features twisting in pain.

And Daryl had seen enough.

He grunted a gruff ‘I got it’, giving Abraham a nod of appreciation before taking Y/N by the elbow and maneuvering her away from the others, back onto the street.

She allowed him to guide her elsewhere, neither saying a single word.

The two houses Deanna had provided to the group had been split amongst the lot of them. Daryl chose to reside in the finished basement — it was small and dingy, but he didn’t mind. The room had a couch and a bathroom and was much nicer than any other place he’d ever stayed at — even before the end of times.

And right now, it was serving as a makeshift infirmary.

Y/N sat perched on the edge of the couch, her knee bouncing anxiously as she watched Daryl barrel around the space like a rampant tornado. He grabbed whatever he could think of — the first aid kit stored beneath the bathroom sink, a bottle of water, a clean t-shirt to swap out for her blood-spattered one — before making his way back to her. He set the items down on the coffee table in front of the couch and took a seat on the edge of it, opposite her.

Still, neither spoke.

Daryl kept his eyes focused on the slash mark — that was much easier than acknowledging the absence of space between them. He unscrewed the cap to the water bottle, emptying a small amount onto a dry piece of gauze before leaning forward. Ever so slowly, he dabbed at the blood that’d dripped down her face and onto her neck, ignoring the near-palpable tension.

Y/N sat still as a statue, tilting her head back slightly as he wiped away the redness. But when he moved further up, nearing the wound, she flinched, hissing reflexively. Daryl snatched his hand back as if slapped, his eyes meeting hers, quietly apologetic.

She nodded for him to continue, taking a deep breath and balling her hands into fists atop her thighs.

The archer worked his jaw, lightening his touch.

He wasn’t sure how long they sat like that — all he knew was that when he was with her, nothing else really seemed to matter.

Luckily, the wound wasn’t as severe as it’d initially appeared — it was fairly shallow, faint towards the edges, and in time would heal completely. He wanted to tell her so, but the words wouldn’t formulate — the silence that’d stretched on felt untouchable.

So instead, Daryl focused on her hands, wiping away the blood that’d stained the grooves of her skin — and although she tried to conceal it, he could feel the slight tremble in her fingertips.

After he was done cleaning her hands, he sat back, his knee brushing against hers. He glanced up, flicking his hair away and studying the cut on her face — it’d stopped bleeding, though the edges were an angry-red, spiking his own temper once more. The collar of her shirt was soaked crimson, the color more muted in areas that’d already dried.

He hadn’t noticed the way their hands remained intertwined until Y/N squeezed softly, snapping him back to reality.

Daryl pulled his hand from hers and stood, grabbing the extra t-shirt off the table and dropping it into her lap. He scooped up the first aid kit before spinning around and stalking back towards the bathroom, giving her privacy as she began to change.

The archer avoided his reflection entirely, certain he’d see nothing but flushed skin and remorseful eyes. He squatted down, yanking open the drawer beneath the sink and tossing the kit inside. He gnashed his teeth together and grabbed onto the counter, his grip white-knuckled around the edge.

He needed to get a fucking hold of himself, that was for damn sure.

After regaining his composure, Daryl slammed the drawer shut with more force than necessary and pulled himself up in one swift motion.

But his entire body froze, his blood running ice-cold, when he noticed Y/N in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, standing in the doorway behind him.

Their eyes met through the glass before the archer twisted around, facing her head-on.

Her brow was furrowed as she stared at him, her head tilting to the side, the wheels in her mind visibly turning though her expression remained unreadable. She looked like she wanted to say something but didn’t quite know how to say it. She inhaled a breath, opening her mouth, but quickly snapped it shut — and then something different flickered across her features, an expression he hadn’t seen before.

Daryl waited for her to speak, to finally break the prolonged quietness that’d carried on.

But then she was suddenly crossing towards him.

He didn’t realize what was happening until Y/N’s lips crashed against his.

It was as though a dam had broken open — every fleeting feeling, every moment of suppressed longing coming to a head after dancing around one another for so long. At first, Daryl’s entire body went numb, his brain scrambling to figure out just what in the hell was actually happening. His breath caught in his throat as he stiffened instinctually, years of touch deprivation and self-consciousness clawing their way to the surface, leaving him paralyzed against her.

But when Y/N pulled back, breaking away from the kiss, he found himself craving her in the spaces she’d filled.

Her eyes were wide, boring into his, her gaze a mixture of shock and awe that he was certain mirrored his own — like even she couldn’t believe what she’d just done. She clung onto the collar of his shirt, the material balled in her fists.

Daryl’s chest heaved beneath her touch, his breathing syncing up with hers as they stared at one another, their noses only a few inches apart, each soaking the other in for what felt like the first time.

Something inside the archer fractured, right then and there. The wall he’d created inside his mind, the one designed to keep everyone at arm’s length, began to crumble. His guard fell to pieces, brick by brick, shattering at the very foundation he’d built it on.

And in its place…her.

Without any hesitation, Daryl slipped a hand behind Y/N’s neck and surged forward, closing the gap between them and bringing his lips to hers once more.

A soft gasp escaped her at first — one of surprise — the feel of it against his mouth sending a tingle down his spine before she returned the kiss with equal fervor. Her hands slid down his chest, snaking around his middle as she pressed herself against him with similar desperation.

He slid his hand up the back of her head, holding her in place as their lips parted, exploring each other with a deeper intensity. His fingers tangled throughout her hair, desperate to feel her in all of the ways he’d denied himself of, his other hand rising to gently cup the side of her face.

But when Y/N inhaled sharply, suddenly jerking back a fraction, Daryl’s eyes snapped open.

“Ow, fuck,” she hissed, her expression pinched.

“Shit,” the archer rasped, realizing then that his hand had brushed up against the cut on her cheek. “Ya alright?” he rumbled, pulling back further to get a better look.

Y/N let out a breathy laugh, her face lighting up in a way he’d never seen before. “Yeah,” she whispered hoarsely, her cheeks tinged pink, her lips red and slightly swollen.

Once again, Daryl found himself fighting to catch his breath.

He swallowed the thickness in his throat, carefully reaching forward and picking at a strand of hair that’d been swept out of place, tucking it behind her ear instead.

Y/N leaned into his palm, laying her hands against his chest, staring at him like she thought he’d hung the moon and painted the stars.

The look shifted into something deeper as she stepped back, ghosting her fingertips down each of his arms, his skin catching fire beneath her touch. She intertwined her hands around his calloused ones and began inching backward, slowly leading him out of the bathroom without another word.

The archer felt something stir deep inside him, a warmth settling in the pit of his stomach as she guided him towards the couch. He was entranced — like a man who’d been lost at sea for far too long, finally catching a glimpse of salvation from a lighthouse, beckoning him home.

And for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t afraid.

Daryl flushed at the memory.

She still had that same damn effect on him. It didn’t matter how much time passed, how many years went by, he’d never tire of her. She was, without a doubt, the best thing that ever happened to him.

He’d always felt out of place — even before the end. It was like everybody who’d ever lived was somehow born knowing the same song and dance — and yet there he’d been, stumbling along, fighting to catch up and fall in step with the rest of the world. It’d isolated him, made him feel weak and undeserving — like no matter how hard he tried, he’d never truly belong.

And now?

The only comfortable place his mind seemed to know was her.

Daryl fought back a wince, his entire body tensing up.

“Almost done,” Denise murmured as she continued stitching up the laceration on his back.

“Ya said that an hour ago,” the archer grumbled in response, grinding his teeth together.

“It definitely wasn’t an hour and you’re the one who refused the numbing cream, remember?” she countered evenly, her tone unwavering.

The archer merely huffed in response, fighting back a scowl as he gripped tightly onto the edge of the metal table he sat on top of. He ignored the feeling of Denise’s needle digging into his skin, closing up the knife wound he’d received back on the road, surveying the quieted house-turned-infirmary instead.

Rick was in the next room over, not having moved from Carl’s bedside since the survivors had taken Alexandria back from the dead. Glenn and Maggie were huddled together on the cot across the room while Michonne rocked Judith back and forth, exiting the infirmary with her a moment later. The others were gathered outside, recuperating after the long and harrowing fight that’d taken place mere hours ago.

And then there was Y/N — she sat on the floor beside his dangling legs, her head resting against the side of his knee, his vest laid out across her curled form. He could tell by her steady breathing and the way her head lolled every so often that she’d fallen asleep against him.

The entire community was running on little to no sleep, having fought through the night, taking on the herd that’d invaded their home — now, hundreds of bodies littered the streets, the wall that’d collapsed needed to be rebuilt, and those they’d lost during the attack needed to be buried.

Daryl glanced down when he heard a soft sigh, feeling his chest constrict as Y/N nestled closer.

She hadn’t strayed far since he’d returned and honestly, he wasn’t quite ready to be away from her either — especially after what happened on the road. Over the two days he was gone, he’d nearly lost his life on more than one occasion — and from what he'd heard, she’d nearly lost hers when the Wolves attacked.

But they were okay — she was okay — and that was what mattered.

Michonne reentered the infirmary a moment later, the exhaustion on her face mirroring his own. Judith, on the other hand, had fallen asleep in her arms, curled up against her chest, dark blonde wisps of hair sticking to her forehead.

“How’re you holding up?” Michonne asked softly as she approached the table, not wanting to wake Judith — or Y/N, for that matter.

“Jus’ a scratch, is all,” Daryl rumbled in response, peeking over his shoulder at Denise who remained focused on the wound.

Michonne nodded, rubbing small circles against Judith’s back. “I sent everyone home — Rosita and Heath are keeping watch where the wall came down. We’ll clear the dead once everyone gets some rest.”

“Alright,” Daryl rasped, a bone-deep tiredness beginning to seep in.

Before leaving, Michonne paused, looking down at Y/N’s sleeping form. When she glanced back up, her expression had shifted into something softer, something less tense. “She’s good for you,” she suddenly murmured, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You deserve that,” she whispered, reaching out and squeezing his hand, still latched around the edge of the table.

Daryl’s hand flexed beneath hers as he glanced down at the top of Y/N’s head — did he really deserve someone like her?

He’d spend the rest of his life wondering that.

Michonne patted the top of his hand before pulling away, disappearing into Carl’s room without another word, Judith still fast asleep against her.

“Alrighty,” Denise exhaled, drawing him back to the present. “You, my friend, are free to go.”

The archer grunted a gruff ‘thanks’ as she began cleaning up the supplies she’d used to stitch him up. He bit back a grimace as he pulled his shirt over his head, feeling the stitches stretch as he moved.

He reached forward then, gently ruffling the top of Y/N’s head, stirring her awake. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes before craning her neck and looking up, her bleary gaze meeting his. “All done?” she murmured, her voice slightly croaky.

“Mhm,” he sounded, sliding off the table and offering his hand to her.

The corner of her mouth quirked up as she grabbed it, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She swayed, fighting back a yawn, Daryl’s hand finding the small of her back and steadying her. Wordlessly, she held out his vest, which he slowly slipped back on, grinding his teeth together as a sharp jolt of pain shot across his shoulder.

Y/N’s brow furrowed as she watched him, her eyes narrowing — but before she could comment, Denise approached once more.

“Change the gauze in a couple of hours and take two of these for the pain,” she informed, holding out a small bundle of supplies, including fresh bandages and pills. “Doctor’s orders."

But Daryl waved her off. “Save ‘em,” he grumbled, carefully adjusting his vest.

He saw Y/N throw him a glance from the corner of his eye, though she didn’t protest — instead, she stepped forward and held her hand out.

Denise passed the supplies to her before lifting her glasses and rubbing one eye with the back of her hand, her fingertips stained red with blood. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything strenuous for a few days or he’ll tear the stitches,” she continued, speaking solely to Y/N as she set her glasses back in place.

Daryl huffed a breath. “M’ standin’ right here, ya know.”

Y/N nudged him in the ribcage, giving him a look that clearly translated to ‘be nice’.

Denise directed her attention back to the archer. “Don’t tear my stitches,” she reiterated emphatically before her expression eased. “Rest, relax, sleep — both of you.” She shot Y/N a pointed look before shooing them towards the front door, heading over to check in with Glenn and Maggie.

Y/N glanced over at Daryl once they were alone, her eyebrow quirking playfully. “I like this new side of Denise.”

The arched scoffed in response, flicking the hair from his face. “I liked it better when she was scared a’ me,” he grumbled as they fell in step, making their way out of the infirmary and back outside.

A laugh slipped past Y/N’s lips as they crossed over the porch. “Sounds about right,” she grinned, thoroughly amused.

“S’ true,” he shrugged his uninjured shoulder up as they made their way down the stairs and back onto the street.

“You know, you really aren’t that sc—”

Y/N stopped mid-sentence, her footsteps halting abruptly. Daryl faltered as well, glancing back at her, his brow knitting together. Before he could ask what was wrong, he realized what she was looking at.

In the light of day, the aftermath of the attack was startling. There were more bodies than he could count, rotted and decaying, bones torn through skin, blood spilling out onto the street, stark against the asphalt. The carnage was overwhelming, the reality of what they’d accomplished, as well as what they’d almost lost, suddenly settling in.

“We’ll fix this place up — make sure nothin’ like this ever happens again,” Daryl rasped, not entirely certain if he was trying to reassure her or himself.

Y/N’s expression turned solemn. “It’s not the dead I worry about,” she fixed him with a stare, her gaze flickering towards the wound on his back before she continued surveying the damage done to their community.

There wasn’t anything he could say that would make her feel better — not in a world as dark and void and meaningless as the one they lived in.

The only thing he could do was just be there.

Daryl reached for her, slipping his hand around hers and squeezing softly, drawing her back to him.

Although Y/N kept her eyes forward, he felt the tension leave her.

And then she squeezed back.

The archer huffed a breath, nestling the side of his thumb between his teeth.

Well, maybe the world wasn’t entirely meaningless.

Daryl stood still beneath the shower head, warm water washing over his body.

But he couldn’t focus on that — all he could focus on was Y/N, standing behind him, her arms wrapped around his middle, her bare chest pressed against his back. He closed his eyes, committing the feeling to memory — her heart steadily pounding against him, her cheek resting against his shoulder as water continued to cascade down their bodies.

She pulled back slightly, gently pressing her lips against one of the scars on his back.

Daryl felt a chill run down his spine despite the steam around him, fighting back the instinctual urge to stiffen — and as she moved to the next scar and the next, softly kissing each one, he couldn’t help but melt beneath her touch.

He turned then, feeling the tips of his ear redden at the sight of her before he quickly averted his gaze.

Y/N laughed, soft and sweet, reaching towards him and brushing the hair from his face.

Daryl caught her hand with his own, pressing her palm flat against the curve of his jaw. The cut on her cheek had healed, leaving only a faint, thin line below her eye. His own knife wound was still fresh, but in time, would heal as well.

He brought his hand up and gently brushed his thumb across the length of the mark before tilting her head back, bringing his lips to hers.

He wasn’t sure where the sudden boldness came from — still, Y/N returned the kiss, her arms snaking around his neck, his around her waist.

It wasn’t until the water began to run cold that Daryl, begrudgingly, turned the shower off.

They moved about in comfortable silence — drying off, changing into clean clothes, completing eerily normal and mundane tasks that had the archer wondering if he’d somehow transported into an alternate reality without realizing it.

But the blood and muck that’d washed off their bodies and collected at the bottom of the tub reminded him otherwise.

It’d taken three whole days to clear Alexandria of all the walkers that’d infiltrated their walls. Now, they could start rebuilding, reinforcing, doing whatever they needed to do to make sure an attack like that never happened again.

Daryl climbed into the bed he shared with Y/N, having moved up from the basement and into her room after that first night they’d spent together. He winced as he rotated his shoulder — despite Denise’s instructions to limit arduous activity, he’d worked the past three days from sun up to sun down in removing all the bodies from within the gates.

Y/N had tried to get him to take it easy, but he hadn’t — that just wasn’t in his nature.

She crawled into bed after him, sighing softly as she settled by his side, sitting with her legs crossed beneath her. She held her hand out towards him and in her palm, two pills — he recognized them as the ones Denise had given her.

Daryl huffed a breath.

“Don’t make me say ‘please’,” she warned, raising her brow expectantly.

The archer fought back the urge to roll his eyes but took the pills anyway, popping them into his mouth and washing them down with the bottle of water he’d left by the bedside. Y/N shot him a cheeky grin as she laid down, curling onto her side, facing away from him.

He reached over, wrapping an arm around her middle and dragging her towards him, eliciting a surprised laugh from her. She nestled closer, her back pressed against his chest, one hand clasped around his forearm, drawing absent circles against his skin with her thumb.

Daryl felt himself fading, slipping into unconsciousness after a long, tiring day of survival.

But just before the world darkened entirely, a whisper broke through the quiet.

“I love you.”

The archer’s eyes snapped open. Part of him wondered if Y/N was sleep-talking. An even bigger part of him figured he’d imagined it because there was no way — no way in hell — she could’ve consciously and deliberately said that to him.

But then she was shifting, rolling onto her back and looking up at him.

He searched her gaze for something, anything — a punchline, an explanation, a ‘hah, fooled ya!’ — that would explain what in the fuck he’d just heard.

Except that didn’t happen.

Instead, Y/N slowly nodded, like she was finally coming to terms with her own blatantly impromptu confession. “Yeah, I-I do — I —” she fumbled slightly in her admittance before steadying. “I love you,” she murmured, blinking up at him.

Daryl swallowed the lump in his throat, his mind screaming at him to say something instead of just staring at her like he’d seen a ghost. He could feel the words toying at the tip of his tongue — he wanted to say it, he did, because…well, of course. Of course, he wanted to. But it was like his body was physically rejecting a response.

Y/N patiently watched him struggle, giving him a second to get his shit together, a small, knowing smile playing at her lips.

The archer pushed up onto his elbow, clearing his throat, his cheeks burning red. “I, uh,” he grumbled, shaking his head slightly. “Y-Yeah, I —” he faltered, clearly struggling. But when his baffled gaze met her kind one, almost instantly, his wall of insecurity diminished. “Yeah,” the single word came out resolute and sure, everything he needed her to hear.

Y/N’s smile grew, stretching across her face, bright enough to light the sky on fire. “Yeah?” she asked softly, reading between the lines.

Daryl nodded once. “Yeah,” he rasped thickly, like it was the most obvious thing in the world — because it was.

He’d felt that way since the day he met her, even if he hadn’t known it.

She reached up, twisting her fingers in his hair and bringing his face down to meet hers, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips.

Then she was curling onto her other side so they laid chest to chest, her head tucked beneath his chin as she snuggled closer, his arms wrapping around her instinctually.

Daryl wasn’t sure how long they laid like that, limbs weaved around one another like coiled rope. But when her breathing evened out, he pulled back and snuck a glance, tracing every inch of her face as though the first time and the last. He brought his hand to her face, carefully brushing back the hair that’d swept over her features before leaning in and pressing a kiss against her forehead.

Then sleep came for him as well.

Daryl dropped his hand back into his lap, drawing his legs to his chest.

Being with Y/N was effortless — as easy as breathing. It came, somewhat alarmingly, natural to him. He’d never pictured himself with anyone ever. Before the end, before her, he’d been content to sit on the sidelines and watch all the relationships around him undoubtedly burn — it was all he’d ever known, it was all he’d ever seen.

But then she came along and flipped his entire world upside down.

A love that came without warning.

“Let’s get this shit loaded up — looks like it’s gonna rain soon,” Daryl rumbled, peering up at the darkening sky, noticing a cluster of bulbous clouds rolling in.

Y/N tilted her head back, following his gaze before humming a breath. “I don’t know — the wind’s blowing East. It might just miss us,” she remarked, catching the archer’s eye, a mischievous look flashing across her features. “Wanna make a bet?”

Daryl scoffed a breath in response, shutting the car trunk filled with scavenged supplies and adjusting the strap of the rifle slung across his chest — he was still getting used to the weapon. It felt unfamiliar in comparison to the weight of his crossbow. The reminder of his stolen weapon sent a flush of anger through his veins. He’d find those assholes someday and get it back, that was for damn sure.

“Come on,” Y/N grinned, drawing him back as she hefted another box over to him, dropping it onto the ground with a huff. “How about this? If it rains…I’ll take your watch shift tonight with Elizabeth.”

The archer quirked a brow, suddenly intrigued. Elizabeth was one of the original members of Alexandria — and she was…chatty. “Fine,” he nodded, opening the car door and lobbing the box she’d brought over onto the backseat. “She’s always yappin’ ‘bout books an’ shit I don’t know nothin’ ‘bout. Damn irritatin’ sometimes,” he grumbled.

Y/N laughed at his aggravation, turning to pick up another box. “I like her,” she shrugged, making her way towards him.

Daryl huffed a breath, waving her off. “Alright an’ if it doesn’t rain? What’d ya want?” he questioned, taking the box from her hands and sliding it into the car.

Before she had the chance to respond, Rick suddenly appeared, pushing through the front doors of the high school they’d been scavenging — it’d been turned into a FEMA evacuation center right at the beginning of the end. It’d somehow, miraculously, been left untouched — the doors and windows had been barred and chained, but luckily they’d had the tools needed to break in.

It’d been a little over a month since Alexandria had been overrun with the dead — the wall had been rebuilt and fortified, but the survivors had been hesitant to venture outside the gates after what happened the last time. Regardless, supplies were dwindling and a run had to be made.

“How’s it comin’ along out here?” Rick called as he jogged down the front steps and into the parking lot.

“Filled up the trunk pretty good — gonna need another car or two jus’ ta’ fit the rest a’ this shit,” Daryl remarked as the sheriff approached, motioning to the rest of the unpacked boxes lying around.

Rick came to a stop in front of them, one hand resting on top of the handle of his pistol strapped around his waist. “This is good — this is real good,” a rare smile spread across his face, so unlike the usual tension in his features.

“Tara’s finishing up around back — she’s grabbing the rest of the stuff from the greenhouse,” Y/N relayed to Rick, sharing a hopeful look with the archer. “We’ve got enough stuff to last us, I don’t know, at least another couple of months — that’ll be enough time to get some crops growing, maybe even a garden or two.”

Rick huffed a laugh in disbelief, shaking his head. “Who would’a thought,” he mused to himself before taking a breath. “Alright, I’m gonna grab a few last things inside an’ then we’ll lock up — come back tomorrow with a couple a’ cars an’ clean this place out.”

The sheriff left without another word, leaving Daryl and Y/N alone once again.

He began rearranging the boxes in the backseat, making sure there was enough room for two people to sit there on the way back home.

“A date,” Y/N suddenly spoke, catching him off guard.

Daryl straightened, turning back around to look at her, his brow knitting together. “Huh?”

The corner of Y/N’s mouth quirked up as she took a step towards him. “If I win, if it doesn’t rain today…I want you to take me on a date.”

The archer tilted his head to the side, trying to distinguish if she was joking or not. “Ya serious?”

“Yeah,” Y/N nodded, a sort of awkward laugh slipping past her lips. “I know it’s stupid — and given the way you’re looking at me right now, I know you’re thinking the same thing,” she laughed again as he quickly erased the skepticism from his expression. “But that’s —” she shrugged a shoulder up, “— that’s what I want.”

Daryl scratched the side of his head, flicking the hair from his face as he studied her, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the car. “That really what ya want?”

“Mhm,” she sounded. ���And it doesn’t have to be anything special — just us and, I don’t know…maybe Aaron can whip up some of his famous spaghetti,” a soft smile grew on her face as she looked at him. “I, uh — I just — I want to do this right, you know?” her expression turned earnest. “I want those moments with you, Daryl.”

The archer felt a swell of warmth spread throughout him as he looked at her, feeling his resolve give way. “Alright,” he managed to rasp, his throat tight with emotion.

“Alright,” Y/N reiterated with a nod, sticking her hand out, a playful look in her eye.

Daryl snorted a laugh as he reached out and grasped her hand with his own, shaking once to seal the deal.

Y/N shot him a cheeky grin as she pulled from his grip. “We should —”

“Guys?” Tara’s voice suddenly sounded, drawing their attention.

Daryl knew as he pushed off the car, as he turned around that something was very wrong — he could hear it in her tone.

It took a moment for him to fully register the scene before him — a wide-eyed Tara just a few feet away, standing straight as an arrow, holding her hands up near her head.

Then he spotted a man.

The stranger stood just behind Tara, one arm wrapped around her neck, the other holding a gun, the barrel pressed against her temple. He was young, maybe early twenties, though it was hard to tell with all of the blood coating his skin. He peered over Tara’s shoulder, his frantic gaze bouncing wildly back and forth between the archer and Y/N.

Daryl’s protective instinct kicked in as he took a step forward, drawing the man’s attention, keeping Y/N out of his line of fire. His hand automatically reached for the rifle strapped around him but his movements stilled when the man’s eyes widened, his arm tightening around Tara’s neck.

“Hey, take it easy,” Daryl held out his hands in front of him.

“Move,” the man growled, jerking his head to the side. “Away from the car.”

Daryl felt Y/N grab a fistful of material from his shirt, slowly pulling him back as the man moved towards them, keeping Tara in front of him to conceal his body.

A tense standoff of sorts stretched on as they maneuvered around, the man never taking his eyes off of Daryl. When the stranger made it to the driver’s side of the car, he unwound his arm from around Tara’s neck, using it to open the door instead — though his finger remained twitching above the trigger. Once the door was opened, he faltered, realizing he’d lose the coverage of Tara’s body if he tried to get inside.

“Take it,” Y/N suddenly spoke, stepping out from behind Daryl with her hands near her head, drawing the man’s attention.

The archer shot her a sharp glance. “Y/N —”

“Take the car, take the supplies, take whatever you need,” she continued calmly, ignoring Daryl’s growled protest. “Just let her go, okay? No one’s here to hurt you.”

The stranger’s expression shifted, the animalistic look on his face shifting into something that resembled more of a quiet desperation than anything else. “I —“ he shook his head quickly, shifting back and forth. “I just need — I just need to go — I need to go.”

Y/N took another step forward, the side of her arm brushing against Daryl’s. “Okay,” she nodded, exhaling a breath. “That’s okay — just let our friend go and —”

Her sentence was interrupted by the front door of the school swinging open.

Daryl whipped his head around, feeling his stomach drop when he spotted Rick walking out with a stack of boxes — but when the sheriff noticed the standoff happening just down the steps, the boxes came crashing down, falling out of his hands, and instead…he grabbed his pistol.

It was as though everything happened in slow motion.

The stranger’s expression twisted as his sights set in on Rick — he swung the barrel of his gun away from Tara, who instantly dropped to the ground as the man pointed the weapon up the steps, and then…

A barrage of gunfire sounded as Rick and the man began shooting at one another in rapid succession. The sheriff used the front door as a shield, attempting to fire from around the frame, the awkward angle throwing off his aim. The stranger, on the other hand, fired away in no particular direction — his aim was erratic and panicked as he tried using the car door as coverage.

When a bullet flew past the side of Daryl’s head, he dove towards Y/N. He knocked her off her feet and onto the pavement, attempting to take cover from the shootout. The archer flipped onto his back, fumbling for his rifle before finally getting a grip and pointing it at the man.

But before he could take a shot, the stranger threw himself into the car, slamming the door shut, bullets from Rick’s pistol embedding into the metal. He peeled recklessly out of the parking lot, still firing from out of the opened window as he made his getaway.

Despite one of the back tires exploding after getting hit with a stray bullet, the stranger kept driving, disappearing onto the main road and out of sight, leaving a wake of destruction in his path.

“What the fuck?” Tara called from where she’d taken cover.

“Is everybody alright?” Rick yelled back, coming out from behind the door and running down the steps.

Daryl twisted onto his side, looking over at Y/N. “Hey, ya alright?”

“Y-Yeah,” she murmured shakily, pushing up onto her hands and knees. “I’m okay.”

The archer let out a sigh of relief, climbing to his feet and surveying the damage done around them as Rick appeared at his side.

“What an asshole,” Tara swore, coming to a stand as her eyes bounced between Rick, Daryl, and Y/N. “Seriously, what kind of —”

Daryl looked over at her, waiting to hear the rest — but that was when he noticed her staring at something just behind him, the horrified expression on her face filling him with a vast and all-consuming sense of dread.

The archer spun around.

And that was when he saw her.

Y/N stood a few feet away, swaying unsteadily, her hand pressed tightly against the center of her stomach. Her head was lowered, bowed to her chest as she slowly pulled her trembling hand away, revealing a stark redness pooling from her midsection, staining the front of her shirt. She looked up then, her eyes meeting his, the shock in her gaze surely mirroring his own.

“No,” Daryl whispered, the word sounding strangled in his throat as Y/N’s knees suddenly began to give out. “No!” he roared, rushing forward and grabbing onto her before she could collapse.

His arms slipped around her middle before he carefully lowered her onto the ground, her head drooping down against his shoulder. His heart pounded so violently against his ribcage, part of him wondered if it was giving out on him entirely — maybe it was. Maybe this was what dying felt like. Maybe this was what it felt like to have your soul ripped straight out of your body.

Daryl cradled the back of Y/N’s head with one hand as he laid her down flat against the pavement, her eyes wide and unseeing, staring straight up at the sky. “Hey, hey, look a’ me, jus’ look a’ me,” he urged, brushing the hair back from her face, ignoring the blood now staining his hands — her blood.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, I’m okay,” she mumbled, repeating it over and over again as though she could will it to be true — though her skin grew more ashen with each minute that slipped by.

Rick suddenly kneeled on the opposite side of Y/N, taking a piece of cloth and holding it against the wound. “Keep pressure on it,” he instructed Daryl and although he tried to conceal it, the archer could hear the way his voice wavered. “You jus’ hold on, Y/N, understand? We’re gonna get you outta here,” he promised, reaching down and squeezing one of her hands before disappearing.

Daryl watched him leave, dragging a teary-eyed, slack-jawed Tara along with him as they began frantically searching the abandoned parking lot for any working vehicles — it was their only chance at getting her back to Alexandria.

And if they didn’t…

No.

No, he couldn’t go there.

Instead, he pressed the cloth against the gunshot wound, attempting to stall the blood flow, the pressure eliciting a pained whimper from Y/N that almost made the contents of his stomach reappear. “I got ya, Y/N, I got ya,” he rasped, grabbing her limp hand with his own and intertwining their fingers, holding his other hand firmly against her stomach.

His words seemed to bring her back to him, her hollow gaze shifting into one of panic — like she only just realized what was happening. Her features crumpled, a flash of fear skirting across her face as the shock began to wear off. “Am — am I dying?” she managed to choke out, her eyes filling with unshed tears as she looked up at him.

“No,” he shook his head resolutely, feeling moisture build in the corners of his own eyes. “No, ya ain’t goin’ nowhere, ya hear me?” his grip tightened around her hand — like his touch alone could keep her there with him. “We’re gonna get ya back ta’ Alexandria an’ — an’ get ya patched up, good as new, alright? Ya jus’ gotta hang on for me, girl.”

Y/N’s bottom lip quivered as a tear snaked down the side of her face. “I-I don’t want to leave you,” she whispered, a sob hitching in her throat.

“Hey, it’s gonna — ya gonna — jus’ — Rick!” Daryl suddenly bellowed, sitting back on his haunches and desperately scanning the area for any sign of him or Tara. He spotted them at the opposite end of the parking lot, running from car to car, searching for keys or at least a way to jumpstart one of the abandoned vehicles.

But luck was not seeming to be on their side.

Daryl let out a vicious string of curses before focusing back on Y/N. He’d never felt so helpless in his entire life — and God, if he could, he’d take her place in a second.

She was fading — fading so rapidly it made him dizzy. Her skin was cold to the touch, her lips tinged a disturbing shade of blue, her eyes lacking the warmth he was so used to seeing. He felt a swell of emotion rise in his throat, threatening to consume him, but he shoved it down.

“Hey, y-you were right,” she murmured weakly, the corner of her mouth twitching up as she tilted her head to look up at the sky once more. “I think it’s gonna rain.”

Daryl felt a tear spill down his cheek as he followed her eye line, the previously blue sky now blanketed with thick, dark clouds. He huffed a humorless laugh, their conversation from a few minutes earlier ringing through his mind, somehow seeming like an entire lifetime ago. “Guess that means ya — ya gotta take watch tonight, right?” he rasped despondently, keeping his gaze towards the sky.

He stilled when he was met with nothing but a deafening silence.

He felt his stomach roll as he squeezed his eyes shut, afraid of what he'd see if he looked down. “Y/N?” he whispered, his voice hoarse.

When she didn’t respond, Daryl knew.

She was gone.

His girl was gone.

And his entire world came crashing down around him.

Daryl forced his eyes open.

His body went numb at the sight of her, his mind refusing to accept the image before him — empty eyes, grey flesh, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. Her hand slipped from his grasp then, dropping onto the pavement beside her unmoving form as she continued staring vacantly up at the sky.

His brain couldn’t process what was happening — where he was, what he was doing, why he was there. It felt like a nightmare — a reality that wasn’t quite reality, warped and desolate and consuming him whole. The only tangible thing he felt was a sharp, physical pain in the center of his chest, his breaths short and hitched, causing black spots to dance in his vision.

Over the blood rushing to his ears, he could just barely make out the sound of a car engine, the noise muted and dull as it approached…

But it was too late.

They were too late.

Daryl reached for her hesitantly, hands trembling as he wound his arms beneath her back and carefully scooped her up off the ground, falling back slightly as he pulled her body across his lap. When her head lolled listlessly to the side, he brought his hand up, brushing his bloodstained fingers through her hair before cradling the back of her head, pressing his cheek against hers.

“Ya said —” he squeezed his eyes shut, rocking back and forth as his grip around her lifeless body tightened. “Ya said ya were okay,” he choked out brokenly, his own shock slowly wearing off as something deep inside his soul fractured.

Then he broke.

And the sky opened up and wept alongside him.

The sound of barking drew Daryl back to reality.

He glanced over his shoulder, quickly blinking away the tears that’d formed, spotting Dog trotting towards him. The German Shepard’s tongue hung lazily out of his mouth, his easy pace picking up the closer he neared, letting out another short bark.

Daryl rumbled a laugh as Dog came to a halt at his side, plopping down next to him. “Hey, boy,” he rasped softly, scratching behind his dog’s ear and earning a sloppy lick in return He wiped away the moisture from his cheek as the canine laid down beside him with a huff. “Good, Dog.”

The archer ran his fingers through his sleek fur, feeling his throat tighten. When he’d found the German Shepard a few years back, he’d remembered the conversation with Y/N from back at the prison — and it’d only felt right to name him ‘Dog’.

It’s what she would’ve wanted — and somehow, it made him feel just a little bit closer to her.

“Man, she would’a loved ya,” he whispered thickly, sighing a long and heavy breath.

Daryl looked forward once more, studying the small gravestone in front of him — her gravestone.

For a long time, he stayed away. He hadn't been able to go near where she'd been laid to rest, he just couldn’t — it was too fucking painful, like part of himself had been buried right along with her. But over time, the grief became easier to manage — it never went away, it'd never go away — but he found a way to exist alongside it.

Now, he found a strange sort of peace here.

It’d been years since he’d lost her — she’d been gone for longer than he’d known her. It was hard to keep track of time these days, they seemed to come and go without rhyme or reason. So much had happened since that day — the war against the Saviors, the looming threat of the Whisperers, losing friends, family, Rick…

Time seemed to move differently after losing the people loved most.

After that day at the high school, Daryl had tried to find the man responsible for what happened to Y/N — he’d gone back to the high school, wild and unhinged in his grief, hellbent on retracing their steps and tracking down the stranger. He’d needed revenge, bloodshed, he’d needed the man to know what he’d done, who he’d taken from the world.

Despite the improbability, the archer had no trouble finding him.

The back tire that had been blown out during the exchange of gunfire had sent the car careening down an embankment and into a large tree less than a mile from the school. One of the branches had broken through the windshield and punctured the man’s chest, most likely killing him on impact.

He’d reanimated still strapped in the driver’s seat.

Daryl left him that way.

It wasn’t the ending he’d hoped for, but maybe it was the ending he deserved.

He reached down, absently stroking the top of Dog’s head, and inhaled a deep breath.

Not a single day went by without the thought of her.

She came and went — like a flash of light or the beat of a heart. Daryl had barely had any time to hold onto her before she was gone — and he would’ve held her so much tighter had he known it’d be the last chance he’d have.

Some people were just too bright to stay, too good for what the world had become — at least that’s what he told himself on the really dark days.

The archer closed his eyes, imagining her at his side — sometimes if he sat like that for long enough, he could almost hear her voice, her laugh, he could almost feel her warmth, her touch — and it was like she was still there, sitting right beside him.

It wasn’t the same, but it was enough — at least until he could be with her once more.

Daryl opened his eyes, peering up at the vast night sky, and released the breath he’d been holding.

Someday, he’d find his way home again.

Fin.

A/N: ...hi...how y'all doin'? lol

So yeah, this is a lot to unpack. If you've made it to the very end, THANK YOU! I know this was a super-dee-duper-long oneshot but hopefully (heartbreak and all) it was worth it.

Most of this story was purely self-indulgent - I mean, come on, who doesn't want this kind of love? But aside from that, I also wanted to write a relationship for Daryl that felt authentic and true to his character (*cough cough* definitely not throwing shade at 10.18...nope...not at all...lol)

What also made this story super fun was the fact that I was able to incorporate other characters from over the course of the series! (Even though he's only in it for .2 seconds, Abraham is probably my personal favorite lol I'd never written for him before, and damn, is it fun!)

I also like the little 'twist' at the end when we realize that in the present parts of the story, he's been hanging out at the reader's grave the entire time, reminiscing. Ow, that hurts my heart.

After writing this for months, I was the last person who wanted to see the story end like this. I honestly grew super attached to this relationship and part of me contemplated ending it on more of a 'happy' note...or as 'happy' as you can get with a show like this one. But this was the ending I'd envisioned from the beginning. We got to experience a Daryl x Reader relationship from the very start to the very end. No open-ended questions, no 'what ifs'.

And I think that's sorta beautiful.

P.S. Feedback is incredibly important. I write for my own happiness, but I also write for YOU. So don’t be afraid to shoot me an ask or leave a comment with your thoughts! It truly motivates me and helps move along the writing process. Also, please consider donating to my Tip Jar. Every little bit helps!

P.S.S. I can no longer tag people on this account, so my tag list has been transferred to my side blog @crossbowking2. If you'd like to be added/removed, please let me know!

[lindzaylove]

eighteen

A Kook's Perspective series

word count: 2.5k

trigger warnings: underage drinking, protective dad, controversial bandana color ???

taglist: @ashleyj27 @pogueslandia @maybankforlife @teelagurl558 @maybanktrash @psychosympathizer @slut4jj @cherrybarzy

gif by: @gemmusings

"are you sure you don't mind honey?" your mom asked, putting her earrings on. you nodded again, hoping your parents would actually leave a lot sooner. "we just feel so bad about leaving you on your birthday."

"mom, it is really okay. i'll probably just order some food and watch movies," you lied. your phone was vibrating in your pocket with the Pogues all wanting to know where you were.

"oh, have some people over! the Camerons would be welcome, that Thornton boy too," your mom stood from her vanity, turning to face you. "how do i look?"

"fabulous, as always," you smiled. she did look absolutely stunning. you were sure she would put all the other military girlfriends and wives to shame at.....whatever event this was in Charleston. at that moment, your dad came in.

"Sarah is outside," your dad said, checking his tie in the mirror before looking at you. "i think she has something for your birthday."

"Sarah Cameron?" you asked, turning to look out the window. there she stood, leaning against a black car with a relatively large and thin pink square in her hand. "what the fu-"

"Y/N," your mom scolded you, coming to look out the window as well. "i didn't know you and Sarah were getting to know one another."

"we aren't," you turned around. "i can walk out with you guys and talk to her then."

"go on down, i want to talk to Y/N for a moment," your dad said, pressing a kiss to her cheek. your mind ran over all the things you've done in the past week to warrant getting in trouble with your dad. you had purposefully stayed home since the boneyard party incident and avoided even speaking to the Pogues in case your parents had caught it.

"so, i saw Jake Allen at the club yesterday," your dad fixed his sleeves. your heart stopped; your whole body froze. he obviously knew everything, but no excuse could pour out of your mouth about why you had been with Rafe.

"he said he saw you and Rafe Cameron driving around the island," he finally looked at you. "at one in the morning."

"he did," you nodded. "i had been down at the beach that night. Rafe, Sarah, Topper Thornton, and Kelce Smith were there doing their own thing. I didn't drive, so instead of letting me walk home, Rafe gave me a ride." you were twirling a bracelet around your wrist behind your back, nerves coursing through you.

"that all that happened?"

"he dropped Kelce off, then Topper and Sarah, and then we got here around one. i wasn't ready to come in so we drove around and listened to music. i got home around three and went straight to bed."

"he ran a red light with you in the car," your dad put his hands in his pockets. "so why didn't i know until yesterday?"

"i dropped my phone and he was just making sure i was okay. we just happened to go through the light. he wasn't speeding or driving erratically at all," you were pleading, though you weren't sure why. he wasn't even angry at you, he was angry with Rafe for getting you in trouble and putting you in danger. you could easily put him under the bus and let your dad drive it over him, but you couldn't. you were getting defensive for him.

"he wasn't drinking or on anything?" your dad was still set in his stance, but you were done playing with your bracelet.

"if i was in danger, you know i would have told Mr. Allen," you crossed your arms. "can i go get my present now?"

"yeah, of course," your dad finally calmed down. "i'm just glad it wasn't one of those other kids you're always hanging out with. they must have been at that party that night."

"mhm," you rolled your eyes as you went down the stairs. outside, it was starting to get warm out as the sun went to reach its peak in the sky. your mom was talking to Sarah, who was standing up straight from the car and moving her hands around as she spoke.

"hey," you greeted them, pulling your cardigan up over your shoulder despite the heat. "what's up?"

"happy birthday," Sarah smiled, going to grab the once forgotten gift she had for you. "it's from Rafe, actually."

"he couldn't give it to her?" your dad asked, joining everyone in the front yard. you were staring at Sarah, hoping Rafe had a really good excuse for sending his sister - for his sake.

"he and my dad are going into Charleston today," Sarah told him. you closed your eyes, praying your dad doesn't make a smart comment.

"we're going into Charleston!" your mother smiled, you could hear it in her voice. "what are you they going for?"

"my dad has some business to do and dragged Rafe along. but you two look much nicer than some business meetings," Sarah complimented them.

you rolled your eyes. your dad was literally in his Marine Corp Dress Blue Uniform.

"open up your gift before we leave you two," your dad said. he was smiling, though it didn't reach his eyes. you pulled the pink tissue paper off the gift, your jaw dropping as you realized what it was. you pulled all the paper off, revealing to everyone the Chase Atlantic Vinyl.

"he got you a record?" Sarah asked, furrowing her eyebrows.

"we had talked about it the other night briefly," you brushed hair behind your ear, a big smile on your face. "i also have a record player in my room."

"that's so sweet," your mom said. your dad cleared his throat in response.

"you two need to go before you miss your ferry," you told them, ushering them to your father's car. they both kissed you on the cheek and left. you let out a sigh, coming face to face with Sarah by yourself.

"thank you, for giving this to me," you held up the vinyl slightly. "you can go home now."

"that's not the only reason i'm here," Sarah admitted. you paused to look at her instead of going inside. she held up a bandana - a gray piece of fabric that was far too familiar.

"what are you doing with that?" you turned all the way back around. "is John B. okay?"

"he sent me to come pick you up. you're supposed to be coming over to the chateau for your birthday and i am your ride since i had to see you to give you that," Sarah put the bandana back in her pocket. "so go put that inside and let's go."

"whatever," you mumbled, going back into your house. as you went up the stairs to your room, a piece of paper came out of the vinyl. you stopped and picked it up.

happy birthday, y/n. sorry it doesn't have your favorite song, but i hope it'll do - R.C.

you smiled the rest of the way up to your room, adding the record to your box of others. you switched tops and lost the cardigan.

the note from Rafe was sweet, even if all it really said was happy birthday. you thought over whether or not to add it to your memo board, but you slid it on there despite your better judgement. by the time you got downstairs, Sarah was in her car and scrolling on her phone. you got in the front seat next to her, pulling your phone out. Sarah's music was playing quietly through the speakers, but you quickly went to send Rafe a message on Instagram.

thank you for the gift! it means a lot that you got me something :)

you checked your other messages, quickly heading to the group chat to question why Sarah was suddenly involved in your birthday plans. all you got in reply were the eye emojis, though John B. wasn't answering your messages which made you even more annoyed. you were out of Sarah's car before she was parked.

"John B.!" you yelled, storming into the chateau. he came out of his room, a wide smile on his face.

"hey Y/N! happy eighteenth!" he went to give you a hug, but you out your hands up and blocked him.

"why the hell does Sarah have your dad's bandana?" you pointed at her as she came in. "why is she even here at all?"

"well, you were there when we kissed," John B. swallowed. you crossed your arms, biting gently on your tongue. "and this past week she broke up with Topper and came-"

"she went home with him that night!" you exclaimed. "like held his hand and went into his house."

"you went with them, you can't be mad at her for that," John B. threw it back.

"i didn't kiss someone in front of my boyfriend, then let my boyfriend beat him up, and ultimately leave with my boyfriend," you turned to Sarah. "did you and Topper fuck while you were at his house? you were all over him in the truck."

"i didn't," she glared at you. "let me know when she calms down, i'm going outside."

"funny how she gets to talk to me like i'm a dog and you don't stick up for me at all," you looked at John B. "let alone on my birthday."

"i'll talk to her about it after you explain to me what went through your mind when you went with her," John B. leaned against the wall.

"i was thinking that my father would happily blame you all for what happened and get you all in trouble if i had been seen by the police with you. i was the farthest away from the twinkie and would have gotten as all pulled over and in trouble if you'd have to wait. so excuse me for caring about the well being of my friends," you raised your eyebrows. "gonna go get your girlfriend to apologize now?"

"you went ghost after that night. we all just eventually assumed that Rafe convinced you of something bad. Sarah had said he took you home alone and that after she broke up with Topper she went straight home. she got home around two and he didn't get home until after three. he wouldn't talk about what took him so long so we didn't know what happened," John B. explained. "that doesn't give me the right to be a jerk to you, so i'm sorry."

"my dad knew about the party and i didn't want him to connect it to you guys. but Rafe and i just listened to music, that's all," you said, though you were still hurt that they thought Rafe would have that much influence on you. yeah, being with Rafe was fun, but they were still your friends. you were not that fickle in your opinions.

your opinions on Rafe, however....

"i understand now," John B. gave you a half smile, holding his arms out. "can i give you your birthday hug now?"

"i suppose," you teased with a matching smile, giving him a hug. you two hugged and went outside together, the other four people at John B.'s all looking at you expectantly.

"i'm eighteen, not eighty. you guys can be happy for me," you told them, laughing slightly. Kie was the first to come hug you, Pope following with JJ trailing along. John B. went to Sarah and they seemed to talk. by the time you wrangled out of JJ's grip, Sarah came and apologized.

"hey Y/N," Sarah started, fingers rubbing the thin material tied around her neck. you recognized it as the bandana. however angry you were before, it was John B.. he was your friend and you trusted his judgement - despite how dumb he seemed some times.

"i'm sorry," you told her. "you didn't have to come over this morning and bring me here, but you did. you clearly like John B. and he likes you, and you won't be going anywhere. i just thought it was going to be us five, but six is a better number."

"i'm sorry for being rude too, especially since it's clear how much you care ab-"

"let's get this party started!" JJ yelled, interrupting you and Sarah by pulling a beer out of no where and handing it to you. you took a drink and smiled at Sarah.

it truly was the beginning of one of your favorite days ever.

there was glow sticks, alcohol, and a hot tub. you got more bracelets from Kie, a book you had been wanting to read from Pope, a serenade from John B. and JJ, and an IOU from Sarah. there was so much laughter and cheer, you couldn't believe that once upon a time these people weren't your friends. you were so grateful for them, for the adventures they've taken you on.

nonetheless, nagging in the back of your mind, was that feeling in your chest. were you having fun doing something you shouldn't be right now? yes. was it giving you that feeling? unfortunately, no. your brain kept thinking about Rafe despite the dancing and drinking with your friends. you kept thinking about that feeling in your chest you were missing. you were really trying to not let it bother you. you wanted to find your way back to Rafe's truck with the windows down and music blaring. you realized you would probably be chasing that feeling for the rest of your life. the revelation made you ready to go home and listen to your new vinyl - at least that would remind you of that feeling. it was the first time you had ever felt out of place while with your friends.

"hey, are you feeling okay?" Sarah asked, gently touching your elbow. you vaguely remembered that she wasn't drinking because John B. knew you had to be home by the time your parents got back.

"i should probably get home. it's getting late," you nodded, putting your drink down on the counter. "where are my-"

"in my car already. say your goodbyes and i'll see you out there," Sarah smiled, heading out the door to the porch. you splashed some water in your face, hoping to finally calm yourself down. it was dark out now, and you were probably supposed to be home. you checked your phone again, the only message being from Rafe.

"who's that?" Kie asked, popping in next to you. you locked your phone, shoving it in your pocket.

"just some birthday wishes," you waved it off, holding Rafe as your secret. it was just a birthday present anyway, no need to get everyone torn up about it.

"happy birthday, Y/N," Kie hugged you suddenly. "i can't wait to go on a road trip with you once we graduate."

"of course," you hugged her back. "thank you for an amazing night, as always. you're a great friend, Kiara."

"you're just going home for the night, Y/N. no one is disappearing forever," she laughed pushing you out the door while she went to the bathroom. you gave your hugs to the boys before getting into Sarah's car. you checked your phone again, finally being able to see his reply.

i'm glad you like it, you deserve it. happy birthday, y/n x

[junko-and-riri-domain]

the right direction | pjs

↬ series: tatts & cupcakes | chapter 15 ↬ pairing: park jongseong / jay x reader ft. all members ↬ genre: enhypen single dad au | ceo!jay | single dad!jay | baker!reader | single mom!reader | fluff ↬ navi: beginning | previous chapter | series masterlist ↬ warnings: none ↬ word count: 1.8k ↬ a/n (1/2):

final chapter of tatts & cupcakes my loves !! 

Days turned to weeks which turned to months and ultimately a few years went by. In the past few years you officially became Jay’s girlfriend, Ni-ki learned that he had two dads, and Sunoo and Jungwon were more than happy to call you their mom. But despite this, there was always a lingering worry in the back of your head. What if one day, Jay decided that the trouble of loving you and Ni-ki was no longer worth it to him? What if Sunoo and Jungwon no longer wanted you as their mom or Ni-ki as their younger brother? But today those worries would be put to rest forever. As you looked at yourself in the mirror wearing the dress you had chosen for yourself while holding a bouquet of flowers, the sound of your name being called causes you to turn around to see Heeseung and Jake walking up to you with a grin on their faces.

“Jay’s gonna be a wreck when he sees you,” Heeseung said.

“Ten bucks says he’ll cry,” Jake adds in, nudging the older with his elbow. You can’t help but roll your eyes at the two and ask,

“Is everyone here already?”

“Yeah, they’re all sitting down. Sunghoon’s trying to calm Jay down though, I’ve never seen him this nervous before,” Jake replies. Dressed in their suits, Sunoo and Jungwon run up to you. While planning your wedding, you and Jay decided that Sunoo and Jungwon would walk you down the aisle while Ni-ki stood next to Jay. After Heeseung and Jake jokingly told you that there was still a way out if you wanted to leave, you stood behind the door with Sunoo and Jungwon holding your hand. When the doors opened and you took your first step, you the wedding march played. Despite all the people watching you, the nervousness was washed away and replaced with excitement. The only thing you could focus on was the sight of Jay and the feel of the two hands holding yours. You see Heeseung handing Jake what you can only assume to be a $10 bill, causing you to have to hold back a slight laugh. Step by step, you walked with Sunoo and Jungwon until you finally stood in front of the man who would be your husband. Sunoo and Jungwon head to your side while you see Ni-ki with the biggest smile on his face. You wipe away Jay’s tears, something that he’s done for you more times than you can count but today, the roles were switched.

“I love you.” You had said it in hopes of calming him down but it only seemed to have the opposite effect as he cried even harder. You felt lightheaded, palms sweaty, and the butterflies in your stomach felt as if they were doing cartwheels. Finally,

“You may now kiss the bride.” Not even a full second later you felt Jay pull you close and his lips on yours. He deepened the kiss slightly, but still mindful of the people in the audience watching you both. Jay’s arms settled around your waist while pressing a kiss to the top of your head,

“Thank you for giving us a chance,” you hear him whisper.

While you and Jay were unpacking boxes into the new house the five of you decided on, Sunoo, Jungwon, and Ni-ki were in the living room. The house had more than enough rooms for the boys to have their own but they chose to share one. In the meantime, the other rooms were turned into guest rooms. While watching them chatting and playing amongst each other, Jay’s presence makes itself known to your body with the feel of him behind you and his embrace surrounding you,

“We’re home,” you say as you hold Jay’s hands. You feel him playing with the wedding ring on your left hand and despite not directly looking at him, you just know that he’s smiling. While resting his head on your shoulder,

“Anywhere is home with you and our boys.” You turn around to face him,

“Y’know… our boys have been talking about wanting a cat lately.” Cringe washes over Jay’s face at the thought of a cat in the house,

“I’m allergic to cats.”

“What about a dog instead?” you ask, voice sounding more excited than you meant it to. Jay raises his eyebrow in suspicion,

“Is this something they want or something you want?”

“I’d like to think that this is a family necessity.”

“Dogs are just agents of capitalism,” he replies with a roll of his eyes. 

“At least think about it first before saying no.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll think about it.”

Jay’s “YAHHHH” in the morning (which the entire neighborhood probably heard) wakes you up and gets you out of bed. Still sleepy, you drag a blanket with you. When you walk to the living room, you’re met with the sight of Ni-ki clinging onto Jay’s leg, Sunoo watching everything while munching on some bread you baked just last night, and Jungwon carrying Maeumi, your recently adopted dog in his arms.

“Jungwon-ah, give me the dog,” Jay says sternly and gritting his teeth. When Jungwon sees you, he immediately runs behind you but on his face, you can see a mischievous smirk. Patting Jungwon’s head and looking at Jay,

“Babe, what happened?”

“The little agent of capitalism chewed on the cables in my office!” You can’t help but laugh, while now petting Maeumi’s head,

“It’s kinda your fault for leaving the door open, isn’t it?” Jay sighs, most likely thinking of ways to find inner peace,

“D-don’t tell me you’re taking the dog’s side right now?”

“Of course I am.”

“You really love the dog more than me?” With a teasing smile,

“Of course I do.”

“I never should’ve agreed to adopting the dog if it was just gonna become number one in your heart,” he muttered.

“Our boys and Maeumi are number one to me, you’re second,” you corrected.

Following the next few weeks, you noticed that Maeumi was closer and clinger to you than normal. Maeumi would settle by your stomach when you sat on the couch or lay on your lap and you couldn’t help but wonder why. But then, it hit you.

You had been slightly moodier.

You felt a little queasy in the mornings.

And you were late.

When you realized what the possibility was, you headed to the bathroom. The morning of the day K came back into your and Ni-ki’s life, you were sick and Jay took care of you. He bought a ton of medicine and somehow, a pregnancy test got added into the mix. You weren’t sure why, but you had kept it after all this time. While waiting for the results of the test, thousands of thoughts were running through your mind as nervousness coursed through your veins. Were you and Jay even ready for a baby? Well... you had three kids already but a newborn? Having another child was a conversation that hadn’t yet come up after getting married, moving into the new house, and adopting Maeumi. After all, Jay was running his company while you were running the bakery. But when the test was finally ready and the two lines set in tears of happiness began to pour from your eyes. That night when Jay came home and you were all eating dinner you wanted to tell them right then and there but decided that it’d be better to tell them after getting confirmation from the doctor. Which was exactly what you did the next day.

“Congratulations!” the doctor said to you as she showed you the screen of the ultrasound. She printed out a couple of pictures for you to keep and you bought some decorations to surprise Jay tonight. After closing the bakery early and picking up the boys from school,

“When we get home, do you guys wanna help Eomma decorate the living room?” you asked after heading into the house.

“Is today a special day?” Jungwon asked, eyes wide and curiously looking up at you. You nodded and took out the picture to show them,

“You guys are going to have a little brother or sister in a few months.”

“Really? I won’t be the maknae anymore?” Ni-ki asked, eyes full of hope.

“Yup, you’ll be an oppa or a hyung now!”

“Wahh, can I eat tteokbeokki with our new dongsaeng?” came from Sunoo.

“When they get older, of course you can! Now, let’s get to decorating so we can surprise Appa, ok?” You were met with a chorus of excited “yes, Eomma!” and with that, decorating and getting ready to surprise Jay when he got home began.

The house was dark when Jay got home, causing him to wonder where you and the boys were.

“Love?” he called out.

No answer.

“Sunoo-ah?”

Nothing.

“Jungwon-ah?”

Nada.

“Ni-ki-ah?”

He swore he could’ve heard crickets chirping. Desperate for any answer,

“Yah! Agent of capitalism, where are you?” That garnered an answer as the light tapping of Maeumi’s feet on the floor met his ears and Maeumi was now in front of him. He picked up Maeumi and walked further into the house. Turning on the light in the living room and suddenly being met with,

“SURPRISE!”  

“YAH, YOU SCARED ME!” he yelled as he stumbled back, and fell onto the floor. The boys instantly piled themselves on top of Jay in excitement but he looked at you with slight fear in his eyes,

“It’s not our anniversary, is it? Did I forget?” he asked. You shook your head,

“No, you didn’t forget anything. But we have a surprise for you.”

“And that is?” You handed Jay a small box in which you put a “dad of five kids” mug (Maeumi included even if Jay didn’t want to admit it), a picture of the ultrasound, and your pregnancy test. Jay looked at the cup in confusion but when he looked at the other contents of the box, it finally registered in his head. He held the ultrasound by its corner as if he were scared it’d turn to dust or get wrinkled.

“We’re having a baby?” His eyes were shining when he looked at you, you were unsure if it was because of the tears forming in his eyes or the happiness, maybe it was both.

“Mhm, we’re having a baby.”

“Wait isn’t this the test that I bought like, years ago?”

“I told you it’d come in handy one day.” All of a sudden, Jay was hugging you and practically sobbing in your shoulder,

“I love you. So, so, so much. I don’t think words can do my feelings justice. I just, I love you.” Returning Jay’s hug while rubbing his back,

“What do you want it to be?” you asked curiously. In Jay’s head flashed to the daydreams of a little girl running around a house, that little girl being half-you, half-him. But in this moment, he didn’t care if it was a girl, a boy, or whatever it’d choose to identify as in the future.

“Healthy, as long as it’s healthy I couldn’t care less.” You smiled at Jay’s response, hugging him tighter. You knew that being with Jay, trusting him, loving him, it truly was the right direction.

↬ final tatts & cupcakes a/n:

this is the end of tatts & cupcakes and wow has it been a rollercoaster !! i don’t know how to feel about this series ending since it was by first baby (is it weird to say that? idk but anyways) i'll be honest with yall, this series was a product of my procrastination... it was around 1 am and i just didn’t want to do any of my work so i just thought to myself, “let’s write a fic with jay as a single dad” because why not ?? initially, it was going to be a oneshot but then i realized writing it as a oneshot wasn’t the best option for me because one, i needed to get my work done at some point lmao and two, it’d just be way too long so i ended up writing the first chapter, read it over a bit, posted it, and tatts & cupcakes was born !! i didn’t think that the series would get this far with the storyline and there were a few times when i thought about discontinuing it due to things like school, thinking it wasn’t interesting enough, other responsibilities, etc., but then i started getting notifs related to the series and writing became the better parts of my weeks so thank you everyone !! for those who have read until this part and decided to give my writing a chance and for all the love that this series has received, thank you so much !! i hope that it’s been written well enough to be a series actually worth spending time on to read 🥺

even though this series is ending, i do have some happy news !! i’ve started a new one called cameras & caffeine the pairing for this series is cafe owner!jake x ceo!reader cameras & caffeine is similar to tatts & cupcakes in how reader is also a single mother there so if you’re interested check it out here :)

once again, thank you so so much for taking the time out of your day to read tatts & cupcakes and i hope you’ve enjoyed !!

~ riri 💞

taglist: @cha-raena | @hoonieclipsee | @affectionaterainoflove | @ghjasksdk | @j45uk3 | @enhypenova | @googoojeu | @softnanaaaa | @rubyanne | @steadyfreakmuffinalmond | @ncityy04 | @gratefulmaria | @j1ungluvr | @lixseu

taglist: @dear-dreamie​​ | @jay-ke​​ | @sunoosh1ne​​ | @unvrseung​​ | @lost-lepord-beaniewrites​ | @koufaxx​ | @ifvjay​ | @sunshineshouchan​ | @sjycty​ | @poutypoutybin​ | @crjwon​ | @shesin-therain​ | @markleepooh​ | @alice-adi​ | @mooni-a-multi​ 

taglist: @shawkneecaps​ | @niikipuff​ | @k1ttyl1x​ | @babyminghao​ | @colouryourfears​ | @rjsmochii​ | @hseungace​ | @o-schist​ | @woniecstasy​ | @paperbckjourney​ | @teawithbucky​ | @ex-skz-me​ | @sprngfeverr​ | @tobioslave​ | @woonieiv​ | @w-o-o-y-a-a​

unable to tag: @smileyjimvn | @tubaotter | @babychangmin | @snghnluvr

❦ written by riri ( @enhykkul​ ) | main blog masterlist | blog navi

[dudeandduchess]

Kyo ruining his own birthday cake by eating all of the sugar in the house before you *ahem* his wife can use it in a cake

Oh my god, bby. The giggle that came out of me was inhuman. 😂

Also, ✨🔥🎉🎂HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO SWEET BABY KYŌ!!!🎂🎉🔥✨ More fics will be up within the week, hopefully. Some of them will be smutty. 👀

___

Kyōjurō x F!S/O: Sweeter than Sugar (Fluff, Modern AU, SFW Scenario)

Note: I’ve been getting a lot of requests to add the kids in, so they’ll be mentioned here.

***

“I know I just bought it last week,” (Y/n) muttered under her breath; eyebrows furrowed in mild frustration, as she rummaged through the cupboards in the kitchen. No matter how hard she looked however, she couldn’t find the bag of sugar that she had gotten specifically to make her husband’s birthday cake.

Frustrated couldn’t even begin to cover just how she felt, as she already had the other ingredients pre-measured out on the counter. All that was missing was two cups of sugar, but she couldn’t— for the life of her— figure out just where she had put it.

“Kyō?” The young woman called aloud, finally getting up on her feet after having gotten down on all fours earlier.

“Yes, love of my life?” His cutesy nickname was sweet, and it almost made her want to giggle, but it was dampened by the reminder that she only had until six to get Kyōjurō’s cake ready for his birthday dinner.

Instead of yelling her reply though, (Y/n) marched out of the kitchen and made a beeline for the living room; where she had last left her husband with a bowl of popcorn.

The sight that greeted her, however, had her inhaling sharply as she pursed her lips tightly— if only to hold back the laughter that threatened to bubble free from her lips.

Because, right there, sprawled out on the couch was her husband… only, he was tilting the bowl up to his mouth, while his tongue kept darting out to make the popcorn stick to the tip of it.

“Why are you eating your popcorn like a lizard?” (Y/n) asked, with disbelief and a little bit of humor coloring her tone as she quirked and eyebrow at him.

Kyōjurō merely grinned at his wife, not even bothering to put the bowl down as he answered, “Ran told me about it. She thought that she was such a genius… and I think she might be.”

“Kyō…” (Y/n) couldn’t help it, she began laughing at her husband’s antics— especially when it had been fueled by their youngest child’s whims all along.

“See, clean hands, baby.” The blond raised his hands up slightly, even going as far as to wiggle his fingers; making his wife laugh even more, since he looked so childish doing it.

However, when her laughter died down, she couldn’t help but sigh contentedly and let her grin taper down into a pleased smile— one that had Kyōjurō mirroring her expression just as softly.

And, slowly, he got up from the couch and set the bowl on the coffee table, before turning back to his wife and opening his arms for her. “The birthday boy wants a hug.”

Only a heartless wench would have been able to refuse him, when he looked that adorable.

So, without dwelling on it, (Y/n) crossed the room and let Kyōjurō envelop her in a tight hug; giggling and shyly turning her face away from him when he began to loudly kiss her right cheek.

All the kissing noises, and all of the flustered laughter coloring the otherwise silent house.

Had the kids been there instead of with Senjurō though, (Y/n) was sure that they already would have put her in a dog pile of hugs. They took so much after Kyō so much, after all… if their hair and eyes weren’t already enough of a giveaway.

“What did you want, baby?” Kyōjurō asked after a minute of just cuddling up with his wife, gently nudging his nose against the apple of her cheek, while he let his lips continuously brush against her skin.

If (Y/n) were to be honest, she would say that she had to have a minute to think— as he was making it so hard to focus, so she could remember why she went to him in the first place. But she refused to give him even more of a leverage, so she wracked hard through her brain and eventually breathed out, “The sugar. Uh… we’re out of sugar. Did you eat it?”

The blond’s eyes widened at that, but he quickly composed himself and hugged his wife tighter; with one hand making its way up to cup her cheek and turn it, all so he could press his lips to hers.

“Have I told you how pretty you look, sweetheart?”

(Y/n) wasn’t buying it, however. “Only ten times since your dad and Senjurō picked up the kids.”

“I’m being ho-”

“Kyōjurō,” (Y/n) drawled out, while pulling herself out of his grasp and quirking an eyebrow at him. It was the equivalent of her crossing her arms and tapping her foot when she was lecturing the kids— and it was making the blond panic.

Since he couldn’t tell her that he had eaten it with the kids; all because they goaded him into eating it throughout the week. Add in the fact that he had picked up some Kool-Aid from the grocery store a few days ago and poured in a lot of the sugar, even when his wife had told him to use it sparingly.

He didn’t even know how to react— much like a deer in headlights. So, he did the only thing he could think of…

Kyōjurō cupped his wife’s cheeks with both hands and pulled her in for a heated kiss. “Let’s have another baby.”

And to his surprise, that had his wife blinking rapidly— as if to clear her thoughts, while a flustered grin made its way up onto her face. They had been considering having one last baby before, and that just cemented their plan into becoming a reality.

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah… yes. Very.” It had been a last-ditch effort to get out of trouble, but the more that he thought about it, the more that he realized that he really wanted it to happen. Especially if it would finally give him the chance to have a child that captured just how lovely his wife was.

His life sure turned out sweetly; much sweeter than the bag of sugar that he and the kids had totally obliterated in the past week.