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k0mmari · 5 months ago

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Endless Abyss(kinda)! SY AU

First things first, this is very much inspired by this post by @/rainbowsmagicandshit and @/allpiesforourown, HIGHLY recommend reading that fist just to get a glimpse of where I started off, but do note I have accidentally deviated from the original idea a bit, so uh, oops ig.

This was born out of a mix of different ideas (as usual), so think of this as ‘The AU where SY is a demon, and also the Endless Abyss, and also my excuse to have Binghe possibly make a harem consisting entirely of SY’s’, or, as I like to call it:

As per usual, Shen Yuan has died. It happens to the best of us, and of course, he died while reading the glittering piece of trash that is Proud Immortal Demon Way.But, as he is in the process of getting snatched away by the System, something goes wrong, and the System has to quickly redirect itself and it causes SY to get knocked out of course.

His soul scrambles to find a new host, and it manages to find someone suitable enough. When SY wakes up though, he isn’t greeted by the sight of a roof, or a forest, or anything remotely familiar; instead, the moment he regains consciousness, he’s senses are flooded with as much information as possible. It’s like a computer with too many tabs open, but in this case, you can see all the tabs at the same time and all of them are playing the most obnoxiously loud videos possible, in fact, everything feels so overwhelming even thinking becomes too much.

What SY doesn’t know is that he has transmigrated into the body of a Titan, an almost extinct godly demon race that only existed in the confines of Airplane’s first drafts, and it turns out shoving a human soul into the body of a deity doesn’t bode so well, since what the human mind is able to process doesn’t even come close to what a Titan is able to feel. So because SY can’t get a hold of his own mind, his control of his own body is also not great, and he is completely unaware as his newly acquired body goes on a rampage.

See, SY is currently in a very old version of the Demon Realm, so old in fact, Heavenly Demons still rule over the Realm. It really is quite a shame that SY wasn’t in his right mind at the time, and instead of being able to observe how ancient Heavenly Demons governed demonic society, he instead accidentally set on a path of destruction, with the casualties being anything that had the bad luck of standing in his way. In fact, the destruction got so bad a few of the Heavenly Demons rulers, who notoriously hated each other, settles on a temporary peace agreement and joined forces to stop the mad Titan.

SY, in his frenzied state, didn’t even notice as hundreds of years went by as the Heavenly Demons tried to stop him, and also barely noticed when they finally managed to chain him down and cast him away to be forever banished to the Endless Abyss. His body, once so tall it grazed the clouds, was torn apart, with each of its different parts sealed away in various locations as an attempt to diminish the Titan’s power. It worked, actually, and unbeknownst to the demons, SY slowly began to get his thoughts in order; the event that finally pushed him to coherency was when a few of those Heavenly Demon rulers got greedy, and while sealing away SY’s body parts, attempted to harness his power for themselves, and tried to create legendary weapons out of his flesh and bone.

Most of them failed, a Titan’s power to overwhelming for even a Heavenly Demon to handle, but one of them succeeded, and created a powerful sword made from the Titan’s own heart: Xin Mo. Unfortunately for the creator of Xin Mo, it didn’t take long for them to fall into madness and eventually succumb to Xin Mo’s power, casting themselves away to hold onto the sword forever in the same valley SY’s hands were sealed; but it is as they say, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure, and while Xin MO’s creator perished, they managed to take enough power away from SY for him to finally be able to think.

It had been a thousand years at this point, and SY’s first coherent thought was that he desperately needed a break, and that in all these years, he hadn’t managed to get a single glimpse into the world of PIDW, and what a waste! Specially since he was now in the most interesting area Airplane had managed to create, he was itching to explore the world. Of course, in his current state he wasn’t exactly able to move (having his limbs cut off certainly didn’t help, but apparently it had been so long since he was imprisoned that his Main Body had started to fuse with the Abyss? Really, more of a slight inconvenience than anything), but he also had become tired of his Titan body with it’s Titan feelings, and so he decided to split his consciousness and create a small army of human sized avatars who were later dubbed his ‘Watchers’, who’s sole purpose was to explore the Endless Abyss and send their findings back to the Main Body (in bite sized, easy to understand thoughts).

It is the first years of his Watchers wandering about that SY finally understood what had happened to his body, and figured out that Xin Mo was a product of his flesh. He figured that since demons tried to use his body for malicious purposes before, with one even succeeding, he decided that one Xin Mo was enough, and came up with a plan: He was going to piece his Titan body back together as a means to prevent anything of the sort happening again, but he was immediately going to seal the Titan body away again, as to not have to deal with it’s overwhelming power.

As the Watchers were sent to locate his body parts again, one of their first findings were the hands, which also meant the resting place of Xin Mo itself. How lucky, he thought! He could just take the hands away and maybe leave one of the Watchers guarding Xin Mo so when Luo Binghe eventually comes to retrieve his sword, SY at least can catch a glimpse of his favorite protagonist! He wasted no time, and while his avatars tried to unseal his hands, one of them went to move Xin Mo, just so it was out of the way, and in doing so the sword retaliated and ended up disintegrating the poor Watcher. What a rude sword, going against its own body.

Fine! If Xin Mo was going to be difficult so be it, and SY formed a new plan: before reuniting his Titan body back together, SY send his Watchers to keep an eye on as much of the Endless Abyss as possible and the moment Luo Binghe fell in, he would turn to hugging the protagonist’s thigh and help him survive the harsh environment as long as Binghe took Xin Mo. Well, it should be no problem, right? Binghe was fated to get the sword one way or another, and SY is sure his involvement will be small insignificant enough that it won’t be much more of a side quest for the future Demon Emperor!

Now, if he were a half human, half Heavenly Demon teenager who just got pushed into hell by his teacher, where would he land….

So, as you can see, this is mostly more like SY’s origin story lol, but I’ll probably write Binghe’s first meetings with the Watchers sometime soon (hopefully).In the meantime though, enjoy some more of the bonus sketches I did while figuring out the AU, and of course, if anyone has any questions or thoughts about this, feel free to send them to me!

#now this is what I call a drabble #just me yapping away #why create multiple small AU’s when you can fuse them all together into one #svsss #shen yuan #luo binghe #bingqiu #bingyuan #binggeyuan???? maybe?????#binghe is like a half blackened lotus when this takes place #slightly charred lotus even #komm’s endless abyss travel guide #this couldnt be more self indulgent even if I tried #long post

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honeyryewhiskey · 5 months ago

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when dean falls in love

or, all the little details that run through dean's mind when he's falling in love. and all the fears and self-doubt that come crashing down on him. warnings ! a pinch of angst | mostly feel good | kissing | confessions | dean admiring reader | dean's internal struggles | reader being patient | sam third wheeling j's note ! this is my apology for that sad one i posted last night. also, i had little baby 26-year-old dean in mind for this one. enjoy <3 5k words

Few rules exist in Dean’s life—most are made to be bent, broken, or ignored altogether. But you?

You’re the exception. You’re the rule he refuses to cross.

You are entirely off-limits.

Not that you seem to care. You crashed into the Winchesters' world like a wildfire, all sharp eyes and steady hands, showing up guns blazing in the middle of a nasty hunt. There was no slow introduction, no time for cautious trust. One minute, it was just another night, another hunt—then suddenly, there you were, standing in the wreckage, breathing heavily, covered in blood that wasn’t yours.

Dean should’ve known to let go right then and there—you were too good to be true. But he didn’t. Instead, you stuck to the corners of his mind like sugar between his teeth, sweet and relentless. Your energy, raw and electric, burned through everything around you. You invaded his thoughts, wrapped around his mind like a constant hum.

You were the kind of girl who made a man forget his own damn rules.

At first, Dean tells himself this newfound trio is temporary.

You’re a lone wolf, and the Winchesters don’t do long-term attachments. But somehow, you weave yourself into their lives like you’ve always belonged.

You slip into the passenger seat of the Impala without waiting for an invitation, kicking your feet up on the dash just to piss him off. You steal fries off his plate like it’s second nature, smirking when he glares at you but never stopping. You roll your eyes at his bravado, call him out when he’s being an ass, and yet—when it matters—you’re always there. Ready to fight. Ready to bleed for this life, for them.

For him.

Dean tells himself he doesn’t notice the little things. The way you hum along to his rock tapes like you’ve known them forever, how your hands—so much softer than he deserves—patch him up without hesitation. The way you meet his teasing with just as much fire, never backing down.

None of it means anything.

Because it can’t.

Not when he’s always been too rough, too jagged around the edges to hold onto something as good as you. Somewhere around his twentieth birthday, he made peace with the fact that he was cursed—fated to be nothing more than a soldier, a brother, a blade meant for war.

Being anything else, wanting anything more—wanting you—would only end in tragedy.

But then he catches Sam talking to you in hushed voices over coffee in the morning, like you’re family. As if every diner table and wobbly motel kitchenette was always meant to sit the three of you. He watches you clean his gun without being asked, like it’s second nature now. He hears your voice on the other end of his phone at 3 a.m., always answering when he calls, asking if he’s okay after a rough hunt.

And just like that, you’re in. You’re a part of them.

A part of him.

And that? That’s the most dangerous thing of all.

Dean doesn’t know when it happened—when the lines started to blur, when the rule he swore by turned into something fragile, something breakable.

Maybe it’s the way you slip so effortlessly into their lives, settling into the spaces he didn’t even realize were empty—mediating brotherly arguments like you were always meant to be their missing piece. Maybe it’s the sound of your laughter, bright and unshaken, slicing through the heaviness of a bad hunt. Or maybe it’s the way you look at him, like he’s something more than the scars, more than the sharp edges—like he’s worth seeing at all.

Or maybe it’s the small moments like this.

The diner is warm, buzzing with the quiet hum of conversation, the clatter of silverware against plates. Sam’s focus is his laptop, half-listening to whatever you’re saying as you flip through the menu, sitting beside Dean, debating tonight’s meal. Dean’s trying to keep up, trying to ground himself in the normalcy of it all.

And then, without a second thought, you reach for his jacket.

It’s been draped over the back of the booth since he sat down, familiar and worn, carrying the weight of long nights and too many miles. And you just take it, slipping your arms through the sleeves, tugging the collar up like it belongs to you.

Dean’s fingers tighten around the menu.

It’s nothing new—he’s handed it over a dozen times before, thrown it around your shoulders without a second thought on cold nights. But this? This is different. You didn’t ask. Didn’t even hesitate. You just did it, like it was instinct, like it was yours.

He clears his throat, trying to force down the feeling clawing its way up his chest. “Comfy?”

You hum, settling into the fabric, your fingers curling into the sleeves. “Mmhmm.” Your voice is light, easy. “You always run so warm. Thought I’d steal a little of that.”

Dean swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. Prying his eyes off of you, he tries again to look like he’s reading the menu. Scanning the small font, even though he’s already decided on a burger and fries like he always gets.

Across from him, Sam sighs, clicking at his keyboard. “You guys do realize you act like a couple, right?”

Dean shoots him a glare. “Shut up.”

Your laugh falls out sweet and quiet, the sound pressing against his heart with a persistence to make it move faster. Your boot nudges Dean’s under the table, and he takes it as an excuse to look at you again. “You jealous, Sammy? Want me to steal your jacket next?”

Dean barely hears the response. He watches as you burrow further into his jacket, your nose dipping beneath the collar. Then, with that same mischievous glint in your eye that always spells trouble for him, you lift the collar to make a show of taking a slow, exaggerated sniff.

His brows press down, lashes forming a tight squint around his eyes as he braces himself, “What the hell are you doing?”

Your lips twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. “One thing about this old jacket, though,” you muse, taking another thoughtful inhale. “There’s this metallicy smell… buried under all that cologne you drown this poor leather in.”

Dean scoffs, shifting in his seat and turning his head to save himself from letting you see the pink creeping up his cheeks. “I do not drown it in cologne.”

Sam doesn’t even look up from his laptop, but his chuckle doesn’t help ease Dean’s embarrassment. “You kinda do.”

Dean’s head shoots up, tilting slightly as he glares at his brother. You’re already grinning, undeterred, your fingers lazily tracing the worn seam of the sleeve. “It’s faint, but it’s there. Like… gunpowder. And whiskey, I would assume. And maybe a little bit of blood?” Your teasing gaze flicks up to meet his, “What have you been getting into, Winchester?”

Dean should play it cool. Shrug it off. But he can feel his ears burning red and hot from that little teasing smile on your lips and his brain is a few steps behind, caught somewhere between you’re too damn close and when did this get so hard to ignore?

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. His mind makes quick work to steady buzzing nerves, “Dunno what to tell ya, sweetheart,” he sighs, jaw popping as he finds his barings, “That jacket’s seen more action than you have.”

You feign offense, pressing a hand to your chest. “Wow. First, you over-season your leather, and now you’re just slinging insults?” You shake your head, dramatic as ever. “I thought we had something special, D.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah, yeah. You done sniffin’ my jacket, or should I be concerned?”

You huff, settling back against the booth so that your arms brush against each other when you shrug. “I dunno. Might need another whiff.”

Dean points a warning finger at you, his smile breaks his attempt at stoicism, and all it does is make you grin wider.

Sam lets out another long-suffering sigh, shutting his laptop with a little more force than necessary. “I’m concerned. And I’m officially done with this conversation.”

You smirk, smug as ever, but Dean? Dean’s just trying to pretend he’s not completely, stupidly gone for you.

The rest of dinner passes in easy conversation—at least, for you. Dean is quieter than usual, letting you and Sam fill the space between bites of food and stolen fries. He tries to focus on anything else—the chipped laminate of the table, the hum of the old diner lights, the way his fingers tap absently against the side of his glass.

Mostly, he tries not to look at you.

Not when you lean forward, chin propped in your palm, laughing at something Sam says. Not when you nudge his boot under the table, stealing the last bite of his pie with a satisfied little smirk. Not when you adjust the lapels of his leather jacket like it’s yours now, like it belongs to you the way he does.

By the time the check hits the table, he’s still got too many thoughts in his head, and none of them are ones he should be having.

Outside, the night air is crisp, the motel’s flickering vacancy sign glowing just across the lot. Sam mutters something about research and trudges off toward their shared room, leaving the two of you lingering by the diner’s door.

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it is. You shift on your feet, then tilt your head toward the motel.

“What’s it gonna be tonight, D?” Your voice is soft, slipping into the quiet like it belongs there. “You sticking around for a bit, or heading to bed?”

Dean exhales, shaking his head. “Gotta make sure you get in safe.”

Your laugh rings through the empty parking lot, light and easy, curling around him like warmth against the cool night air. And despite only wearing a flannel, despite the late hour and the breeze whispering through the lot, he feels nothing but warm.

“Ah, yes,” you tease between giggles, nudging his arm. “My knight in shining armor, always keeping me safe.”

The short walk across the lot is quiet but never empty—the kind of silence that lingers in the spaces between you, comfortable and charged all at once.

At your door, you unlock it with a flick of your wrist, pushing it open before leaning lazily against the frame. The dim motel light catches the amusement in your eyes as you glance back at him.

“See?” You gesture to the empty room with a grin. “All’s quiet on the western front.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves you off, stepping inside without a second thought, the door clicking shut behind him.

You move past him with easy familiarity, shuffling through your things while Dean leans against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest. He watches as you slip into your usual routine—kicking off your shoes, pulling your hair back, stifling a yawn with the sleeve of your sweater. His jacket, draped over the chair beside your bed, stays untouched. He doesn’t move to take it. If he’s honest, he kind of hopes you’ll sleep in it. Let it take on your scent instead of his.

When you return from the bathroom, fresh-faced and sighing contentedly, you crawl onto the bed and sit cross-legged, flipping absentmindedly through an old paperback—the one you grabbed from the library when you were supposed to be researching.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you so deep in thought tonight?” you break into the silence without looking up, voice soft but knowing.

Dean huffs, tipping his head back. He’s trying to find something other than you to look at, he’s gotta stop watching you so often. “I’m always deep in thought.”

You snort, “yeah, okay. Sure.”

Your eyes flicker over him, he’s always following you into your room like a stray pup, like he doesn’t know where else to go. He lingers in your space, but is careful to maintain a set distance. At first you thought he was trying to claim you as another notch on his bedpost, but all that ever happened on these nights were quiet talks until your eyes grew too heavy to keep open. And by morning, you’d be alone, tucked beneath the blankets like someone made sure they were pulled around you just right.

You watch him for a beat, noting the familiar tension winding through his shoulders. “Seriously, though. You were kinda out of it at dinner.”

Dean hesitates, glancing away like he can pretend he didn’t hear you. His eyes settle on the peeling motel wallpaper, tracing the cracks like they hold some kind of answer. He hadn’t planned on sticking around this late—not when his head is already full of you. Not when it’s dangerous for the sanctity his carefully drawn lines to be near you like this, feeling the way he does.

But neither of you move. You, cross-legged on the bed, book in hand. Him, still leaning against the dresser, pretending he has somewhere else to be.

He should make an excuse, crack a joke, steer this conversation somewhere safer. But your voice, soft and steady, tugs at something in him. And instead of fighting it, he lets himself lean in.

“You ever think about what happens when we stop?”

Your fingers still against the worn pages of your book. “Stop what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely, like that explains everything. “The hunting, the moving around. All of it.”

Your brows furrow slightly as you consider his words, the weight of them pressing down in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. This life—it’s far from glamorous, but it’s all you’ve got. Stepping away from it is a thought you buried long ago, a fantasy that never had a chance. You shrug, pushing the thought aside. “I don’t know,” you say quietly. “Never really let myself think about it too much.”

Dean exhales a heavy breath, eyes dropping to the floor like the weight of your words is sinking in. “Yeah.”

A beat of quiet settles between you. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s a weight to it that presses against Dean’s chest, making the space feel tighter than it is. You can feel his tension, like he’s holding something back, but he doesn’t look up.

Then, you shift, breaking the silence with an easy gesture—a pat to the empty space beside you on the bed. “Don’t just trail off on me, D. Sit down. Tell me more.”

Dean hesitates for a split second. This is a bad idea. It’s an invisible line he’s been toeing for too damn long, one he’s tried not to cross—never sit on the bed, never get too close when we’re alone. But then again, it’s you. You’re looking at him like you care, soft and patient, as if whatever’s inside his head actually matters.

And just like that, he gives in. One little exception, just for tonight.

With a quiet sigh, he pushes off the dresser, settling beside you on the bed. He stretches his legs out, but the small mattress makes it impossible to keep any real distance. His legs brush against yours, and his arm brushes yours too. He hopes to hell you don’t see the flush creeping up his neck.

If you notice, you don’t mention it. There’s no teasing, no playful smile—just the quiet comfort of your presence beside him. You don’t push, don’t pry. You just sit there, calm and steady, waiting for him to speak.

“I dunno,” he mutters, “just been thinkin’ lately. About what it all looks like when it’s over. If it ever is.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And?”

Dean swallows, debating how much to say. How much to admit.

“And… I don’t see much of anything.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Spent my whole life doing this, I don’t see an ending where I’m not dying at the hands of this. Y’know, going down in the fight.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then—so softly he almost doesn’t notice—you shift closer, your arm snaking its way around his. You’re snuggled right up next to him, watching with careful eyes.

“There will always be monsters to hunt,” you murmur, your voice soft yet steady in the dim room. “But you don’t have to be a warrior forever, D. There will always be hunters, too. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.”

Dean chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound, more an exhale than a laugh. His gaze drifts toward the bedspread, unable to meet yours. "Yeah, well... I don't know if I could just walk away." His words come out quieter, like he’s unsure if he’s talking to you or to himself.

You turn slightly toward him, noticing the tension still coiled in his shoulders. The quiet settles deeper now, heavier with each passing moment, but he doesn’t seem to notice the distance between your words.

“What’s got you thinking about all of this?” you keep your voice light, though there’s a weight to it.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, his thoughts at war with the words he wants to say. "I can’t have the things I want, not really," he finally admits, the confession slipping out before he can second-guess it. His gaze drifts to the side, and his fingertips come up almost absentmindedly, dragging across your temple, pushing stray hairs back into their place.

“This life," he continues, barely above a whisper, "it consumes all the good things in my life."

“Not true,” your voice is firm but gentle, like you’re trying to remind him of something he can’t see.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just quirks a skeptical brow at you.

“You have your brother,” you continue, “and you’ve got me. Nothing in this universe can take us from you.”

Dean’s breath catches, and for the briefest moment, he wonders if you understand just how much weight those words hold. He swallows, trying to hold it together, but he can’t ignore the ache that creeps up his spine. He gives a small, almost rueful chuckle, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "What makes you so sure?"

You meet his gaze with a steady confidence. "Because I know you wouldn’t let it."

His hand lingers by your face, his thumb brushing softly against the warmth of your cheek. There’s an electricity in the touch, something that feels too close and yet too natural. He can feel the way his pulse quickens, how much his body wants to close that last inch of space between you. But he doesn’t.

You don’t push him. You just watch him, like you’re waiting for him to decide whether to take the step—or to retreat.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and his eyes drop to your lips for a moment before meeting yours again, like he’s trying to reconcile the gravity of what he’s feeling. His voice drops to almost a whisper, his words thick with something raw. “You have no idea how right you are, little miss.”

Your hand comes up, curling over his with a quiet, deliberate touch. The softness of your skin against his makes it almost impossible for him to remember the times he’s watched you move through the world—handling a gun with precision or a blade like it’s second nature. Most of you makes him forget, really, about everything that doesn’t involve you in this moment.

Your warmth, your softness, it makes him lose himself in daydreams of a version of you—one that doesn’t belong to this life. A version where you’d lean into that gentleness, the part of you that exists outside the hunts and the danger, in a life far away from the chaos that haunts him.

You shift, sitting up, still keeping your gaze on him, and it makes something in his chest tighten. The determined strain in your features catches his attention immediately. It’s the same look you get when you're deep into a lore book, your brow furrowed with that little scowl—like something has piqued your interest, and you won’t rest until you’ve unraveled it completely.

“Dean, there’s more to this than you’re letting on.”

He shakes his head, trying to brush it off with a quick, dismissive shrug, his lips pouting up into his best attempt at nonchalance. “Nope. That’s pretty much it.”

You let out an exasperated huff, and Dean can tell you’re seeing straight through him. It’s not enough to deflect you. What he doesn’t expect, though, is the rough shove to his shoulder. It makes him blink in surprise, but before he can recover, your fingers press right back into the tension of his muscles he’s been trying to ignore all night.

“You’re as stiff as a board,” you point out, your fingers digging in a little harder. “Something’s bothering you.”

His breath comes out shakier now, and for a moment, his whole body feels like it’s been wound too tight. You can feel it, he knows you can. There’s no denying it now, but the words feel too heavy in his throat. He wants to argue, to brush it off again, but something in the way you’re watching him shifts. It’s not just curiosity anymore—it’s concern. And maybe, just maybe, a part of him wants to let you in.

But damn if it doesn’t feel like a risk.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull away, but the pressure of your fingers is a subtle anchor, keeping him there. His gaze flits to the floor, anywhere but your eyes, because once he looks at you, he knows he won’t be able to hide.

"I told you, it's nothing," he mutters, his voice rougher than usual, the words escaping before he can stop them. He tries to push himself up, but the weight of your stare presses him back down.

You don’t buy it. You never do.

"No, Dean," you start softly, the concern clear in your voice, "I know you better than that. Something’s been eating at you for a while, and you’re not gonna keep dodging it."

His chest tightens, his heart racing in his ribcage. Every part of him wants to throw up some wall, some excuse. Something to keep you from seeing the rawness of what’s inside. The vulnerability he’s been running from his entire life.

But still, you watch him, waiting, your eyes steady and unwavering.

"Come on, just let it out," you press, your hand moving to his shoulder again, your touch gentle now but insistent. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, you know?”

He swallows hard, his jaw tightening, hands suddenly restless at his sides. The fight inside him is crumbling, piece by piece, until he's barely holding on to whatever's left. His voice comes out strained, almost desperate.

“Please, just drop it,” he grinds out, his eyes briefly meeting yours before flicking away again, helplessly. “I’m fine. You don’t... you don’t need to know all of it.”

You sit forward, leaning in just a little, your hand still gently gripping his arm as you search his face. The determination in your gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s something softer there now, almost like a plea. “Dean—”

He jerks back slightly, suddenly standing up with a bit too much force, the air between you thickening with a tension that’s making it harder for him to breathe. He takes a few steps away, running a hand through his hair, his back turned to you as he tries to calm the storm rising inside.

"I can’t do this," he mutters, his voice low, rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel. His shoulders still tense with the weight of the world pressing down on him.

You’re silent for a beat, and he knows it’s because you’re giving him space. But he also knows you won’t stop until you get him to say what he’s been holding back.

He exhales sharply, his hands trembling as he clenches them into fists, his back still turned, fighting a battle he knows he’s losing. "God, I don’t want to talk about this." His voice cracks slightly as he says it, and he hates how much it betrays him.

His eyes flick to you then, and there's a crack in the armor—a vulnerability that’s almost painful to see. He looks at you, but he’s not sure he can bear the weight of your gaze anymore. Not when all he wants to do is keep you safe from the wreckage inside him.

His body is coiled tight, but his chest feels like it’s going to implode. He wants to walk away. He wants to escape from the weight of this conversation, from the way you're looking at him like you’re waiting for him to finally crack open and spill it all out.

But when he finally turns back to face you fully, all he sees is that unflinching patience, that quiet insistence that you’re not going to let him go until he finally says what he’s been hiding for so long. It makes him want to burn every rule he’s built for himself.

"You don't get it," he spats roughly, eyes flicking to the floor. "I can’t just... say it. It’s part of me, it’s who I am, this thing that I can’t get away from."

You rise to your feet, crossing the room in one smooth motion. There’s no anger in your steps—just a calm resolve that cuts through the tension between you like a knife.

"I'm not an idiot, Dean," you peek up at him, unfamilarly timid as you cross this uncharted territory. "I see the way you look at me. Hell, at first I thought I was imagining things but I can see it’s eating you alive. And I—” your words cut off in your own shock at the confession, the sincerity in your expression making his knees weak, “I can’t bear to see you like this.”

Your hands reach up tentatively, like you’re scared he’ll tear himself away again. But he stills, letting your warm hands press into either side of his jaw, “you’re my rock, alright?” your words trail into a soft laugh, easing the tension of your own truth. “I don’t wanna live in a world where I’m not by your side, because you make life worth the fight to stay alive. But you can’t just keep me in the dark, I have to know what you’re feeling.”

His breath catches in his throat, the weight of your words hitting him harder than he expected. The realization that you know, that you’ve seen through all his defenses, makes everything inside him ache.

"I don’t know what you want from me," it comes out sounding like a plea, still looking for an excuse to retreat into himself.

"I want you to stop hiding from me." Your words are simple, but they strike right at the heart of the matter. "I want you to stop pretending like you can’t have the one thing you want most."

His throat tightens, and he shakes his head, trying to dismiss it. "I don’t get it," he mumbles, though his eyes are locked on yours, searching for the reprieve he still doesn’t believe he’ll find. "I don’t... I’m not fit for this."

"I’m not either, D. I’m just asking you to let it happen." You’re so close now, he can feel the warmth of your body, the soft pressure of your fingers against his jaw. Your gaze doesn’t break, it never wavers.

And that’s when it hits him. He’s been afraid of this—afraid of the way you make him feel like he can finally breathe, like all of his pain and avoidance can cease in your presence. he’s been holding himself together with tattered shreds for so long, and you’re the only thing that’s strong enough to pull him out of the mess he’s made of himself.

And letting that security live in someone else terrifies him more than any monster he’s faced.

“I’m not perfect,” he admits quietly, his words like gravel in his throat. “I’m broken, and I’m scared as hell, but god, if you only knew how much I want—”

You stop him with a soft kiss, the sweetest touch of your lips to his. It's gentle, almost hesitant, but it shatters something inside him, enough to freeze him in place. The weight of everything unspoken presses in, and for the first time, it feels like the walls he's built around himself might finally crumble in your hands.

The chains of his tightly kept composure snap at the delicate pressure of your lips, and without thinking, his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. His hands find purchase at your waist, holding you as if you were the only thing that kept him grounded. The kiss deepens, desperate, as if he's trying to kiss away the years of holding back, the silent fear of letting you see the real him, the uncertainty of if you’d stay with him in the wreckage.

When you finally pull back, your lips linger just above his, breaths mingling. Your voice is a soft whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a thread being pulled taut. “Then say it, Dean. Tell me what you want.”

His heart beats in his chest, loud and frantic, as his walls come crashing down, piece by piece. He can’t think straight with you in his arms, all of his steely armor melts at your touch. And for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets go of some of those fears.

His eyes are nearly consumed by his pupils as he takes in the sight of you slightly out of breath, lips wet and a little more pink. From his doing, from his touch—it makes every broken rule worth the trouble.

“I've fallen for you, Sweetheart,” he breathes, his voice is raw, shaky, but it's honest, every word carrying the weight of what he’s been holding back. “I want to keep falling for you, love and all that crap. And I’m terrified of it, but I can’t keep hiding this from you.”

Your thumb brushes over his cheek, the gesture soft, but nevertheless, grounding. A quiet smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your eyes hold nothing but certainty. “You’ll never have to hide any part of yourself, Dean. I’ve been here all along, with nothing but love. Just been waiting for you to see that.”

tags <3 @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @dulcescorderitas @bluemerakis

#dean winchester #dean winchester x fem!reader #dean winchester fanfic #dean winchester x reader #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fluff

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himasgod · 3 months ago

Note

Hiii!!! I saw your requests were open and I was wondering if you could do some housewardens with a mute reader?

If that violates your boundaries please just ignore!

Good day/night! <3

HOUSEWARDENS X READER

Where you are mute PART 1

How would the housewardens act towards you if you were mute?

riddle, leona, azul.

Part two with kalim, vil, idia, and malleus will be posted in an hour on my profile <3

Riddle Rosehearts

At first, when he discovers you're mute, he's a little nervous. Not because it bothers him, but because he doesn't know if he'll be able to communicate with you properly.

Riddle is used to expressing himself directly and within strict rules, so having to adapt to a new form of communication is a challenge for him.

He asks Trey and other students if they know anything about sign language, and he even does his own research at the library.

If you use sign language, he'll do his best to learn it, even if he gets a little frustrated at first if he doesn't fully understand it.

One thing that surprises him (and secretly pleases him) is that you communicate a lot with expressions and gestures. When you give him a disapproving look because he's stressed or offer him tea with a smile, he feels a warmth in his chest.

"You don't need to say anything. I understand what you mean just by looking at you."

If someone makes fun of you for being mute, you can bet Riddle will punish them with a magic collar right then and there. No one has the right to disrespect you with him around.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona, far from finding it strange that you're mute, sees it as a relief.

It's not that se doesn't like conversations, but he hates unnecessary and noisy chatter. The fact that you can communicate without speaking seems convenient to him.

At first, he doesn't make an active effort to learn sign language, but over time he realizes that he does it unconsciously.

Little by little, he picks up on the gestures you use to express yourself and ends up understanding you without difficulty.

"Hah, you don't have to speak to understand what you want, herbivore. Your face says it all."

One thing he likes is how you can express yourself without words, especially when you stroke his hair when he's lying on your lap. It's one of the few moments when he completely relaxes.

If someone tries to take advantage of your condition, Leona glares or shoos them away with a low growl.

Azul Ashengrotto

Azul is a natural talker, so at first he wonders how he's going to negotiate with you if you can't respond with words.

However, he's so intrigued by the way you express yourself that he finds ways to adapt.

He learns sign language quickly. He has an excellent memory, so he works hard to memorize every sign you use.

Plus, he sees it as a competitive advantage, in case he ever has a mute customer at Mostro Lounge.

He offers you a contract to provide you with a temporary voice, but when you decline his offer (with a calm smile), he's taken aback. He's amazed by your self-confidence.

Over time, he realizes you don't need a voice to assert yourself, and that impresses him even more.

If someone underestimates you for not being able to speak, Azul intercedes with sharp and manipulative words, maybe asking Jade and Floyd for help to ruin their life basically.

No one will look down on his loved.

#twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted x you #twisted x reader #twisted x yuu #azul x reader #azul ashengrotto #riddle x reader #riddle rosehearts #leona x reader #leona kingscholar #twisted wonderland headcanons #twst headcanons

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mixingandmelting · 3 months ago

Note

Hey! So kinda new here but I LOVED your take on how they would react to their s/o thinking Damian's adorable. Everytime he comes up I get in full protective older sister mode and it is so hard to find fics like that (kinda thinking about writing it myself). But I would really love to see how do you think it would be for Damian to meet his brothers' partners and actually get along with them.

All his life he's been mostly surrounded by terribly traumatized people who seem to be allergic to express their feelings (most of the times at least), it's always been hard for him to actually be a kid. So I think that maybe meeting a person he can trust, is kind of mentally stable and just fun to talk to would actually allow him to let his guard down a bit. Not saying he would act fully like a child bc you know ✨️trauma✨️ but idk I guess it would be interesting to see him feeling safe and not needing to prove himself or put on the whole "I'm not a kid" act

Anyway, english is not my first language so I do apologize if that paragraph is just a big mess and hopefully you could actually understand my rambling, sorry about that too.

A/N: treating it as a prequel to the aforementioned post here!

w/ Dick:

He heard about you. From Oracle, Steph, Tim, even Jon. Yet despite what they told him, he held no expectations for you. Just with Starfire, he saw you as temporary, a flame soon to be put out like his brother’s other exes.

And he made sure to let you, meeting you for the first time in the Manor when the two of you coincidentally are left alone to chill in the living room on your day visiting the place.

“I hope you realize you’re not Richard’s first nor will you be his last.” The teen states. His eyes never leave the page he’s currently on regarding the etiology of cows as he sits on the couch across from you.

“And?”

…And?

He continues to insult you, questioning if you were truly unable to comprehend what he’s trying to get at only to suddenly find himself debating with you about what Batcow’s breed could possibly be.

“You can’t rule out all dairy cattle when certain breeds are also brought to the slaughter house.”

“That’s true but considering her size, she would be leaning towards beef cattle. Also there are certain breeds that have the red and white coat like hers.”

How it happens, he doesn’t know. Especially when his goal was to exert his superiority, doing everything he can to get under your skin to show he’s above you. But you don’t bat an eyelash to anything he says. Rather, you’re wanting to know more about him, responding to him how you would respond to anyone else who is similar age as you.

And it seems like he isn’t the only one to have realized how quickly he’s gotten comfortable with you once you got dragged out for a “girls talk” by the girls. Whatever that is.

“I thought you didn’t want to get along?” Dick asks, entering the room and plopping himself right next to the youngest Bat.

“More like your s/o is either non-human or can manipulate the mind.” Damian scowls and swats at the offending hand that attempts to ruffle his hair.

But even without the knowing smirk the eldest shoots at him, he knows that isn’t the case.

So when you promise you’d bake sweets whenever the two of you meet, he takes you up for it. Now he uses it to his advantage to annoy his older sibling whenever he comes over to visit, enjoying how the eldest son of the family miserably sulks for having your attention taken away from him.

w/ Jason:

It’s either you’re a saint or lacking a brain. That’s what he assumes when the eldest of the family yells to everyone in the Batcave that their second oldest brother, the trouble-maker and black sheep of the family, had finally found himself a significant other.

He most definitely didn’t expect you to be… collected and reserved when he casually breaks into Todd’s unit to demand for assistance (it’s not him needing help), only for his eyes to meet wide and surprise yours.

“Who are you?”

“Uh, I should be the one to say that to you. Not the other way around buddy.”

Shots are fired, both sides fully suspicious of each other with him trying to exert dominance while you manage to counter and land hits of your own in the battle of words. And to the bitter end, he will never admit how he’s thrown off guard and has his pride extremely hurt at the very start, your eyes’ glint and your voice vocalizing recognition as whom, what Todd apparently refers to him as, “the pain in the ass” before he was able to realize you’re the s/o Richard had been talking about (the argument he gives later on after gloating to family how he was the first to actually to meet you was how he didn’t think Todd would be dating someone normal considering all his history with others and hook-ups).

As it should be known when putting two stubborn people in the same room, it’s either go big or go home. That’s why he sits down at the table and drinks the cup of tea you place in front of him. The one that you made in the midst of the verbal argument which “only” you refuse to back down despite there already being a winner. Not because you give him snacks and you’re decent with steeping tea with loose leaf tea.

The argument shifts to gossiping, and soon, Jason arrives while the two of you spill the tea with each other regarding the latest Batfamily’s love-drama.

“Oh, you’re back!”

The way Damian nearly does a double take at the sight of the man genuinely smiling with joy, captivation, and enamor though it only lasts for a second at him noticing who else was sitting at the table with you. He’s glad to say the least he’s able to find someone he could gossip about his family’s dilemma with romance while gleefully able to get at the man for all the times his buttons were pushed.

w/ Tim:

Trust Drake to keep you hidden for this long, successfully in completely masking your presence from the whole family. He didn’t even know you existed, nonetheless Drake having a significant other in general, leaving him to quite literally not have an opinion on you.

The only way he finds out is the person in question kissing who he now knows is you purely by accident where the two of you were in the middle of a date and he was subbing in for patrol. He had the biggest grin when witnessing all this as he realized he just got his hand on his nemesis’ biggest weakness (he does make a face at the public display of affection though). And what better way to cement it by finding out more about you.

As per tradition, the first thing he does is follow you to where you live. Then proceed to break in and wait for you to come home the following week.

“You’re Drake’s significant other?”

“What the fuc-fudge, why is there a kid in my apartment?!”

He gets fed up and presses harder with the interrogation as you won’t stop calling him kid, kiddo, bud, and worst of all: sport. He’ll give it to you how you don’t easily bend to peer-pressure, keeping the playing field even and leveled where you ask him back questions of your own. But he doesn’t fall for your tactics to sidetrack him when offering refreshments and beverages.

What’s your relation with Timothy Jackson Drake, how long have you known him, where did you meet him. The strange part is how you answer them truthfully. Sure you keep to the barebones, which he would ask a follow up if he deems as “important” but now he’s questioning Drake’s tastes in people, wondering if the latter is into those without awareness.

“You do realize you’re giving out information to someone you just met, right?” He crosses his arms, an eyebrow raised. It’s not out of concern for the two of you, he’s merely mocking how weak the relationship seems to be. He tilts his head when you suddenly look sheepish, almost bashful.

“Well…about that…”

It’s starting then things don’t go as planned. One, you had already known about him as the “demon spawn” who had taken the position of Robin. And two, the two of you start bonding over knowing your BF’s most humiliating moments.

It gives Damian the greatest satisfaction to see how his sibling’s facial expression falls into horror as he slams the door open only to see him in the middle of writing notes on the one story of how he attempted to skate through the rain to impress you and fail.

#dick grayson #nightwing #dick grayson x reader #nightwing x reader #jason todd #red hood #jason todd x reader #red hood x reader #tim drake x reader #red robin dc #red robin x reader #tim drake #damian wayne #dc imagine

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goqmir · 5 months ago

Text

Welcome to r/Smells, a home on the Web for nosey smellthusiasts! Unfortunately your post has been deleted. While your account exceeds the minimum 1.5 year age to post, we do not allow conversation surrounding public pool scents, which is listed as rule 27 on the subreddit's sidebar. Luckily, your ban from the subreddit is temporary, and you're welcome to create another post in 74 days, 23 hours, 43 minutes. Thank you for your interest in r/Smells.

- [Moderator] ScaredOfSwimmingSteven

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reasonsforhope · 6 months ago

Note

If I can also offer some additional thoughts to strawberryraviegutz, and anyone else who's worried about the same things:

There's zero evidence for the "250 year/10 generations" rule or whatever they call it. It's been a popular theory for quite some time, but every post about it cherrypicks examples of nations in history that lasted around that long and ignores all the ones that lasted longer or survived by adapting over time.

Literally every doomer post about it is based on that same cherrypicking and contemporary trends you see on social media, not long-term realistic projections used in actual academic circles, where they employ real scientific and historical evidence. Evidence that doesn't round off the lifespans of nations to some arbitrary number.

Not that I'm trying to downplay any existing problems, just that what we're dealing with today is hardly anything apocalyptic. It's really important to remember that increased awareness of a problem does not correlate to an increase in scale of said problem.

Also, despite what you may hear, there haven't really been many true collapses of entire civilizations in history. When states in the past have collapsed- Rome, China, India, the Mongol Empire, Alexander the Great's Empire, etc.- the people living there don't just disappear. They survive and go on to build new states that grow, change and evolve from there. That's a form of continuity, not total destruction.

And just as there has never been a true utopia, there has also never been a true dystopia. A dystopia is a literary device, not a state of being. So long as people disagree with and oppose cruelty and tyranny in any form, as is human nature, a true dystopia is impossible.

Especially because a dictator will never outlive the people. No matter how they may want to pretend otherwise, their grip on power is only ever temporary. The power held by the people is eternal.

I've seen more tangible good done in the last ten years than I thought would be possible, and I don't see any reason to stop believing that'll be true.

So don't give up just because of a few social media posts from people who have no idea what they're talking about. Every generation has had people who say these things and they're always proven wrong, so it's not worth your time and energy to worry about it.

Be kind to yourself and to others, and remember the world is a better place with you in it. We have not reached the end of history, not by a long shot.

Thank you for sending this in, and agreed!

#commander-bubbles-the-first #love your url btw #ask #hope #not news

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edenunbuilt · 4 months ago

Text

── ϧ𝑒 packing it up.ೃ࿔

℘ jj maybank x fem!kook!reader ৴ length: 0.6k ৴ time of posting: 9:48pm

summary: y/n holds jj through the night. it's kinda new for him

content: sfw ﾉ soft!jj ﾉ not proof read ﾉ kook reader

author's notes: see end for notes

jj never stayed the night. that was the rule.

no cuddling. no waking up in tangled sheets. no letting someone look at him like he was worth sticking around for.

and yet, here he was.

her room was nothing like the places he was used to crashing, he can accept that much as his gaze flickers over the delicate and antique furniture. it smelled like lavender and something sweeter, something distinctly her. soft, warm, untouched by the sharp edges of the world he knew. the kind of place that didn’t feel temporary.

he should’ve left hours ago. should’ve done what he always did—made some dumb joke, thrown on his shirt, and disappeared before the sun could catch him still wrapped up in her.

but he couldn’t.

not when she had looked at him like that.

she should’ve turned him away. when he showed up at her door, bloody and exhausted, she should’ve done the smart thing and shut him out. should’ve decided, right then and there, that his baggage wasn’t worth it.

instead, she just sighed—like she’d been expecting this. like she wasn’t surprised that he had nowhere else to go.

and then she pulled him inside.

she didn’t press him for details. didn’t flinch when he winced under her touch, just guided him to the bathroom and stood between his legs, dabbing at his split lip with careful fingers. she was so close. close enough that he could see the worry knitting her brows together, the softness in her eyes, the way she bit the inside of her cheek when he hissed at the sting.

jj should’ve made a joke—damn, princess, if you wanted to get me undressed, you could’ve just asked. something stupid to make her roll her eyes, to shake off whatever was shifting between them. but for the first time in his life, he didn’t have anything to say, the words catching in his throat.

because she wasn’t looking at him with pity. or judgment. or regret.

she was looking at him like he was worth keeping.

and it hit him then, like a sucker punch to the gut.

somewhere along the way, he had stopped keeping his distance.

it hadn’t happened all at once. it had been in the little things—the moments he hadn’t realized mattered until it was too late.

like the first time he made her laugh, really laugh. the kind that made her throw her head back, eyes crinkling, completely unguarded. he remembered staring, thinking: shit, i want to hear that again.

or the night she found him at a party, already too many drinks deep and buzzing with the need to self-destruct. he’d made a move on her, fully expecting her to let him. she didn’t. just pulled his drink from his hand, wrinkled her nose, and told him he was embarrassing himself. then, instead of leaving, she hooked her pinky with his and told him to come sit.

she never gave him what he expected.

never pushed his buttons, never bit back when he tried to start something just to keep from feeling too much. she just let him be. let him breathe.

and that was new.

jj rolled onto his side, gaze settling on her, curled up next to him in the dim glow of her bedroom. her fingers twitched slightly where they rested against his ribs, like she was making sure he was still there.

he was.

and that was the problem.

because jj had spent his whole life running. keeping people at arm’s length, never staying long enough to make it hurt when he left. but now—god, now he wasn’t sure if he could leave at all.

he was in too deep.

and for the first time, he didn’t want to find his way out.

𐙚𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𓏵𐙚

author's notes: this is a fair warning that most of my works will most likely be kook!reader. i write to escape my not so glamourous life and if i wanted to daydream about being poor, i wouldn't write in the first place. anywayssss i do have an in-progress fic that involves an oc and i'm not sure if i'll just rewrite it to be self-insert or if i'll post it as is. all my drabbles come from snippets of said fic and would make much more sense if we started from the beginning lol.

#ಌ signed with love #edenunbuilt.ᐟ 𐙚˙⋆✶#jj maybank x reader #jj x you #jj x reader #jj maybank x y/n #jj fanfiction #jj imagine #jj fluff #jj maybank x female reader #outer banks x reader #outer banks #obx fanfiction #gen is feeling soft #jj maybank my beloved

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gloomwitchwrites · 24 days ago

Text

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Ten

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, mild suggestive themes, mentions of war

Word Count: 4.4k

Under Simon’s watchful eye, Kyle and Johnny keep you occupied during the singles social. Simon has a frank conversation with you.

Chapter Nine // Chapter Eleven

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

“Looking to crack some teeth, Lt?” asks Johnny as he peers into his empty cup.

“More like cracking a few skulls,” replies Simon with a growl.

Across the room, you chat with a man Simon doesn’t recognize. The sizzle beneath his skin becomes a raging boil, threatening to bubble over into action. The fucking wanker shouldn’t be standing that close or smiling at you like he can’t wait to get you under him.

Johnny clucks his tongue in disappointment. “Talking about your jaw.”

Fucking hell.

“What about my jaw?”

“It’s clenched.” Simon promptly relaxes his jaw. “That’s a good lad,” croons Johnny.

“Shut the fuck up, Soap.”

Soft classical musical plays from hidden speakers in the ceiling. The lighting is warm, casting the room in an intimate glow. Simon hates these events. Fucking loathes them. When he first arrived at this Safe Zone after the whole of Task Force 141 was transferred, he met with a family planner just as you did. But because of his position in the military and the importance of his work, they never put up a fuss when he refused their every suggestion. He avoided the socials they told him to attend and ignored each summons to their office.

For a while, Simon was free, unbeholden to everyone except his superior officer. He kept busy, picking up every mission and every job Captain Price brought to him or the team. And when he needed his cock sucked, it was never difficult to find a willing mouth. They left him alone, and Simon forgot all about the pillars and the mandates and the other stupid fucking rules and regulations civilians are forced to follow.

Unhappy is the word Captain Price used. Unhappy with his refusal to propagate.

“They might force my hand, Simon,” Price had said. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Punishment. Rescinding his rank. Forced leave. Price listed off all the possibilities if Simon couldn’t get his shit together and pretend to be involved.

Johnny lightly taps Simon’s upper arm with his empty drink cup. “Need a damn refill.”

“Not stopping you, Johnny,” replies Simon dryly.

As you shift on your feet, popping your right hip, the man you’re talking with glances over your shoulder and makes direct eye contact with Simon. Like a knife to the jugular, the man’s face pales. Good. The bloody wanker gives you a half-hearted smile before turning tail.

Johnny whistles lowly. “Still got it, Lt.”

“Never lost it,” chuckles Simon.

Victory is sweet brilliance—an infinite bath of joy that can only occur when you’ve taken another step toward the thing you want most. Simon could soak in this feeling all damn day.

It’s a temporary exaltation. Fleeting. A momentary triumph.

Like a copperhead lurking in the leaves to bite the wayward hiker, Sergeant Noah Fields strikes. Emerging from nowhere to take the previous man’s place, Fields smoothly slides into conversation, lightly touching your elbow for a stirring of your attention. As you turn toward him, Fields adapts a smile that would fool anyone if they didn’t know him well enough. And you, unknowing of Fields’ transgressions, greet him.

Anger is not the correct word. Red may be the color, but it is not the tangible malice that culminates in his limbs, urging Simon to succumb to poor decisions. It is sharper. Feral. It is bloodthirst and violence.

Johnny notices. And he reacts.

Before Simon can take a step toward Fields, Johnny drapes his arm across Simon’s shoulders, halting his forward momentum. Bringing him in close, Johnny whispers to him. “A drink, Ghost. You need it.”

“Another and I might start swinging.”

Johnny shakes his head. “Ya need a drink. A strong one.” He sighs. “Maybe a fucking walk.”

Fields leans in like he’s about to tell you a secret. You turn your head to give him your ear. The inhale is small, but Simon notices—and he seethes. Fields’ nostrils flare, eyelids growing heavy as he takes a whiff of you. With a slowness that borders on maliciousness, Fields’ heavy-lidded gaze intensifies, flicking upward. Calculated with cold execution, Fields smiles over your shoulder in challenge.

Come and take her, Lieutenant.

Simon tastes metal. If he’s bitten his tongue, he feels no pain. There is only focus, and a great, heaving need to take Fields out in the street for a fucking curb stomp.

“Simon,” warns Johnny through clenched teeth.

His arm around Simon’s shoulders tightens. The empty cup in his hand is quickly discarded as he presses his palm to Simon’s chest. Johnny is just a barrier, one that Simon can easily push aside if the determination is there. And it fucking is. Fields shouldn’t be anywhere near you and why the fuck are you even entertaining him? Simon told you to stay away. It’s infuriating how you listen to him but don’t out of sheer stubbornness and spite.

His dick would be hard and throbbing for you if he weren’t so bloody mad.

“Handle this, Johnny,” growls Simon. “Or I will.”

“Be civil, Lt,” murmurs Johnny, his gaze sweeping outward to observe the surrounding area. “Don’t draw unwanted attention.”

Without breaking eye contact with Fields, Simon speaks out the corner of his mouth. “You and Kyle said you’d keep her occupied.”

“We did,” affirms Johnny.

“Then go occupy her time.”

Johnny squeezes Simon’s shoulder, putting on one of his best smiles. “Can’t be suspicious. Everyone will think I’m desperate.”

“You are desperate. That’s why Kyle’s chatting up the blonde in the corner. Need a wingman to get your dick wet.”

Johnny nods at two men from another unit as they walk past. “You won’t share,” drawls Johnny, giving Simon a pat on the back that’s more forceful than necessary.

“I won’t share her.”

With another squeeze of Simon’s shoulder, Johnny saunters over to where you and Fields chat. The man isn’t in your space like he was before, but the fact that he’s in your vicinity at all pisses Simon off. Every man that looks your way is a threat and Simon’s instinct is to lash out—to push in and shove them away. His interest is the only one that matters.

“Noah!” booms Johnny, extending his arms outward like the two are old friends.

The easy smile on Fields’ face becomes a grimace as Johnny embraces him with overt enthusiasm. Simon would laugh at the spectacle if he weren’t irritated with it all. Johnny deplores Fields just as much as Simon does. Everyone knows this.

The hug is intentional. Johnny places himself between you and Fields, creating a clear separation. From where Simon stands, he can see Johnny’s lips moving, but the distance obscures the words. Fields, to his credit, keeps that forced smile. They’re both pretending—faking it for the sake of control. Johnny aggressively pats Fields’ back before grasping his shoulders. The façade begins to crack, annoyance slipping in between the fractures. The man is about to snap, and it’s exactly where Simon wants him.

Make an ass of yourself, Fields. Go on.

Fields attempts to step away from Johnny, to create space where there is none, but Johnny is a menace, completely obstructing you from Fields.

“Atta boy,” murmurs Simon.

Kyle appears to your right, gently touching your arm to bring your attention to him. You turn, and Kyle gives you a stunning smile. His charm is the perfect distraction, and it takes Kyle no effort at all to herd you away, striking up an easy conversation with you like he’s known you for ages. Fields doesn’t even notice that you’ve disappeared. He’s too focused on Johnny. With a scowl, Fields storms away, heading for the bar. Johnny pivots on his heel, winking at Simon as he makes for the blonde that Kyle was schmoozing minutes ago.

Another hour of this and Simon can take you home. The two of you need alone time. He needs you to listen, to understand that this isn’t a game. On the surface, this entire process might appear trivial—Simon thought so when he first arrived—but eventually, as all authoritative powers do, they sink their teeth in, shaking you around in their maw like a dog toy. Wombs are precious, which is why they’re already shoving this down your throat, forcing you to eat the mandate of genetic contribution all while telling you how good it tastes.

The only choice you’ll have is who. Simon intends for it to be him.

Walking the perimeter of the room, Simon keeps tabs on you. Pretending is the hardest part—faking his disinterest because someone behind a desk wants you to “shop around.” Every glance your way, every step, every word from another man is a threat. From the moment you were brought before him, Simon knew.

You are an opportunity. A way to not feel so alone anymore. He seized it. Cornered you. Staked a claim. From that possession came longing—deep and sharp and bloodied. For Simon, every intimate interaction has been transactional. But with you, he can picture a different future, a path where he has an actual partner and not someone looking for a handout.

Not that he blames any of the women that tried to baby trap him, or the ones that never told their husbands that they cheated. Danger is thrilling for the ones stuck in monotony. They seek escape with him. Others want to ensnare him, bring him to heel simply for their own ends. Simon knows. He understands. Which is why he takes every precaution. It’s why he has a reputation.

Safe Zones bleed with rumor. Civilians eat that shit up, devouring it as quickly as they devour resources. Simon hears what people say about him. It’s no mystery. When women flock to him to seek his bed, it’s easy to sus out who wants a quick fuck and who is looking to get knocked up. Simon always indulged the sex but never took it farther. They never wanted him. They never wanted Simon.

“See the new military ordinance?” Kyle saddles up to Simon’s left side, taking a sip from his cup.

“You’re not with her,” observers Simon.

Kyle inclines his head. “Price is with her.”

Frowning, Simon glances around the room, seeking you. It takes a few sweeps before he locates you near the far wall in animated conversation. The tension in his shoulders dissipates some. In terms of rank, Captain Price is one of the highest in the room. That authority alone will deter anyone from cutting in.

“Surprised he’s here,” replies Simon.

The middle of Kyle’s brow furrows. “The old man isn’t married.”

“No,” says Simon slowly. “But he donates.”

Kyle bursts out laughing. “No shit?” He shakes his head. “Wanking on the weekends.”

“Don’t we all,” comments Simon which only makes Kyle laugh harder.

“Wonder how many little buggers are running around with Captain’s genes.”

“Probably more than we think,” muses Simon with a chuckle. Glancing away from you and Price in deep conversation, Simon changes topics. “What’s this about a military ordinance?”

Kyle’s humor dissipates, replaced by exasperation. “Excessive force.”

“What about it?”

“Use of force must match level of threat,” says Kyle as if he’s reading from a script.

Simon snorts. “That’s nothing new.”

“Use of excessive force against civilians or essential infrastructure is now considered a war crime.”

Simon clucks his tongue. “Sounds like one of the zones was behaving badly.”

Kyle nods. “Bad enough that every zone has to establish a civilian oversight committee.”

“Fucking hell,” growls Simon. “We taking orders from civilians now?”

Kyle shrugs and downs the rest of his drink. “Talked to Price about it. Says military personnel are included in the ordinance. But we’re not the problem.”

“Then who is?” asks Simon. Kyle arches a single eyebrow. Simon scoffs. “Fucking police. Always on a goddamn power trip.”

“Bunch of gits who couldn’t pass basic,” mutters Kyle. “Don’t know the details but Price said it wasn’t good.”

“People died,” states Simon because it isn’t a question.

“Enough that it fired up the Continuity Council.” Kyle takes a slow, lingering look around the room. Leaning in, he lowers his voice until it’s a whisper. “And upped the minimum number of births across all zones.”

“Price confirmed this?”

Kyle gives a quick nod of his head. “Said he’d debrief us in a few days. We might be heading elsewhere for a bit.”

No. No.

You’ll be left unattended. Vulnerable. Up for the taking. Anyone can step in and make themselves at home. Simon won’t be able to stop them.

“Sounds like tyranny,” growls Simon.

“Stinks of it,” mutters Kyle, his mouth curled downward in disgust.

A trio of women saunter by, their gazes lingering on Simon and Kyle in lecherous interest. Kyle sends a flirty wink in their direction, eliciting a few girlish giggles and a fluttering of eyelashes. Simon remains unmoving, expression neutral. They don’t interest him. The only woman he wants is you.

But that future might be slipping away.

“How many days are left?” asks Kyle.

“A few,” answers Simon. “Then she’s on her own.”

Kyle inhales deeply. The exhale is slow—almost a sigh. “You need to talk to her. Make a move before it’s too late.”

“I know,” mumbles Simon, his gaze growing soft as he watches you in animated conversation with Captain Price.

You’re a strong, stubborn thing with a touch of sweetness. There are moments when Simon lingers in memory, when the two of you slept beside each other in that bunk on base. He draws up the desperation on your face, the vulnerability of loss, of how you begged for him to make you feel anything other than the pain you felt in your heart. You were beautiful and soft. Simon hungered to devour every bit of yourself you were willing to give.

If only Johnny hadn’t interrupted. You’d be his right now, and the two of you wouldn’t have to navigate this ridiculous function. There would be no threats, no potential suitors.

Simon checks his watch. “Fucking finally,” he grumbles.

“It’ll work out,” affirms Kyle as Simon heads in your direction.

When you notice him, there is no malice or fear. Your smile widens in pleasure, a clear sign that you’re happy to see him. Hope renews itself, pushing down on Simon’s worry. There is every possibility that things might not go his way, but you continue to gravitate toward him. You will choose him. Simon only needs to make you understand.

“Time to go,” he murmurs, placing his hand on the small of your back.

You melt into him, leaning into Simon’s touch as you gaze into his face. Pride blooms in his chest at how quickly and easily you respond to him. There is no asking—no commanding. You are drawn to him, effortlessly seeking him when he’s close.

“Finally,” you sigh, your gorgeous smile softening. “Thought you’d never rescue me.”

Captain Price inclines his head, a knowing glint in his eye. “Have a good evening.”

When Price is out of earshot, Simon leans in, drawing you closer to him. “Ready?”

“Yes. Please, Lieutenant.”

The way you say his title pleases him. Even when you’re angry, even when you say it with venom, Simon adores it. He wants to bottle up the tone of your voice and bathe in it.

With a gentle push at your back, Simon shepherds you away from the noise and drudgery of societal expectation. There is only the two of you walking in quiet contemplation, simply enjoying the mutual company. While you don’t hold his hand, you stroll along the pavement close to him, your arm occasionally brushing his.

It's not until the two of you enter your temporary flat that Simon drums up the courage to push the issue.

“How was it?” he asks, shutting the door behind him.

Simon steps up to you, helping you out of your coat. “Fine,” you reply. “Better than I thought it would be.”

“Not a social butterfly?” teases Simon.

“No,” you laugh. “Not when it’s forced and with people I don’t know.”

“That’s fair,” murmurs Simon, hanging your coat on a hook near the door. “Family planner will want to hear about it.” The annoyed groan that bursts from you makes Simon chuckle.

“Joann can go fuck herself.” You rub at the back of your neck, rolling it back and forth. “She’s pushy.”

“That’s her job,” replies Simon dryly. You turn, narrowing your eyes in annoyance. “Not justifying it, dove.”

You drop your hand. “Probation isn’t over and she’s up my ass about finding a partner. I don’t even know where I’ll be living once it’s up. And I just started work.”

Kyle’s words from earlier creep in. Enough that it fired up the Continuity Council and upped the minimum number of births across all zones.

It’s no surprise the family planner is being pushy. If the United Nations Continuity Council is upping the minimum number of births across all zones, the family planners and localized governments will do anything to incentivize women to increase their numbers to meet the new standard. You’re an untapped resource they intend to seize.

“Contributing to the genetic pool is the first pillar,” states Simon. “It’s expected from everyone.”

“Is it?” you counter. “Or is it only truly expected from those with a working womb?”

You don’t understand the significance of what you’re saying. There are much larger powers at play that don’t entirely care about your opinion on the matter.

“This isn’t a game,” growls Simon.

“Didn’t think it was,” you retort. “But I will not be forced to choose.”

No. You truly are ignorant to how it works.

Simon slides into a calmer tone. “You’ll have to make a choice.” He takes a step toward you. “They will push. Talk around your options. But you will choose.”

“Will I?” you counter. “How long have you lived here, Lieutenant? Did they ever force you to make a choice?”

Simon draws back from the blow. “No.”

“That’s exactly my point,” you hiss, stepping into his space, staring up at him in challenge. “You’re a man. They would never.”

“That’s not entirely true, dove,” murmurs Simon. “They might covet those with viable wombs, but they need healthy, strong donors to fill them.”

The fire in your eyes fades a bit, your gaze hiding nothing from him. Simon picks up on it, glimpsing the hesitation as you process his words. This place is a stranger to you. Isolation has numbed you to the reality of the world and how it functions in the aftermath of so much death.

You lick your lips, glancing away from him for the first time. It’s not a sign of submission. It’s a consideration.

“It’s not the same,” you murmur.

“No. It’s not.”

A few brief seconds pass before you look up into his eyes. “I don’t want to choose.”

“I know,” he answers softly. “But it doesn’t matter what you want.”

It’s far too blunt, but it needs to be said. If Kyle is right, and they might be leaving shortly for a new mission, Simon needs to have this conversation with you. Bringing you gifts and asking to kiss you might be small steps toward his goal, but they won’t be enough if he leaves for an extended period.

“The fact I have to choose at all is ridiculous.” Your voice breaks, and it hurts him to hear it. “The pillars preach autonomy but contradict it in the next breath.”

Desperation clings to you—holding on like a sickness that just won’t clear the system. Simon understands your frustration, he accepts your anger with it all, but some battles are not achieved alone. Sometimes, you must mold what you have and make it work.

“Picking someone is better than fighting.”

“It’s not a choice, Lieutenant! It’s an illusion.” Your outburst softens into a murmur. “I shouldn’t have to.”

You’re not drawing back from him—not fleeing. Taking a chance, Simon shifts closer, fingers itching to touch you, to feel your skin against his.

“That’s the reality, dove.” You scoff, turning away. Simon reaches out, grasping the back of your neck, forcing you to look him in the eye. “But as long as you pick, they’ll think you’re trying. They’ll leave you alone for a while.”

Even now, your eyes water. Tears are threatening to fall. Simon longs to chase them away.

“And what happens when there is no baby?” you counter. “What happens then?”

Simon’s answer is immediate and laced with finality. “There will be.”

“Really?” you guffaw, clear disbelief in the way you snort. “With who?”

With me.

Simon remains silent. You’ll figure it out.

The deep creases in the middle of your brow start to smooth as your facial muscles relax, shifting from disdain and stubbornness to surprise.

“With you?” you whisper. Your lips part, eyes darting across his face as they seek any hint of confirmation.

“I told you I’d protect you. Provide for you. Keep you safe.”

Your head shakes slightly in abject refusal. “I—I don’t—”

“When they make you choose,” continues Simon. “Who will you be safer with?”

“Don’t, Lieutenant.”

“Who do you think will be patient?” he pushes.

“Stop.”

“Me? Sergeant Fields?” He pauses. “A stranger?”

You attempt to pull away, to remove yourself from this conversation. Simon stays steady, his grip on your neck firm and unmoving.

“I’m done talking about this,” you say, nearly begging.

“But the family planner will ask,” murmurs Simon. “Joann will want to talk.”

Genetic contribution, the rebuilding of society, are veins sunk deep in the very fabric of this new world. Genocide and war will do that. Near erasure of an entire people cripples everyone. There is a reason there are so many rules and regulations now. There is reason in the spreading of cultures across the globe, equally divided among Safe Zones. Isolationism and puritanical eugenics brought the world to a precipice. Then it pushed everyone into the abyss. Even the ones that believed these ideals would save them suffered.

There were no winners. Just carnage and scorched earth. And the remains of civilization.

“Just go home, Lieutenant. Just—go.”

Your voice is breathy, tinged with grief. You’ve right to be angry with him, to blame him for ripping you away from everything you know. It was selfish. Simon won’t deny that. To pursue you after is pure greed.

“Look at me,” he urges, coaxing you with gentle timbre. You shake your head, refusing. “Look at me, dove.” With the lightest touch, Simon taps your jaw with his thumb. It’s brief, a ghost of a thing, but you respond to him. “You’d be safe with me.”

Your mouth forms a sad smile, and it’s an answer unto itself. A revelation. An epiphany toward revealing what you’re truly thought all this time.

“But can you make me happy?” you ask. Your stare is piercing—seeking answers and reassurance.

Simon doesn’t lie. Not to you. But sometimes he twists the truth.

“In time,” he sighs, tilting your mouth toward his.

Maybe you believe him. Maybe you don’t. The only concrete reaction Simon can gleam is your refusal to choose, that in the end, you will have an option. For now, you do have the option, an opportunity to select the man who will father your children. But if you keep denying—keep pushing the decision off—someone will be assigned to you. And if Simon is gone, if he’s away at another zone, it won’t be him.

“It’s not enough.” You place your hands on his chest like you’re going to shove him away. But there is no pressure. Just your palms against his pectorals.

He needs to frame this differently, to give you reason to pick him over anyone else. The truth of the situation isn’t working. For whatever reason, you’re denying it, believing that all will be fine, and your autonomy is intact. When it comes to life in the Safe Zones, this is true. But genetic contribution is their top priority. It is the one thing they won’t budge on.

Drawing you close, he drapes his arm around your lower back, his hand splaying wide across your hip. The way you surrender to him, how you melt and form to him with gentle comfort, should be enough to persuade you. How the fuck do you not see it?

“Then why do you indulge me?” he asks softly, bringing his face closer. You sigh with contentment, eyelids closing, head tilting to welcome him. It takes all but a single kiss. You fully collapse into him, your splayed hands moving upward to hook behind his neck. “You like this,” he rasps against your lips.

“It’s—it’s just a bit of—” Simon’s hand falls to your ass. Squeezing, he nips at your bottom lip. “—comfort,” you manage to gasp out.

Simon nuzzles the side of your face, lips brushing your cheekbone. His hands roam, and with each exploration, you press into his touch, little moans of pleasure falling from your lips.

“You begged for me once,” he murmurs. “Spread your legs and welcomed me.” Simon’s hands slip beneath the hem of your blouse, fingertips caressing bare skin. “You tasted so good,” he continues, licking his lips in remembrance.

Blood rushes downward, hardness becoming an intense, throbbing need. You shiver as his fingertips trace an upward path, and then moan when he palms your breast, thumb brushing over the nipple, bringing it to stiffness.

“Do you want safety with me? Security?” Simon palms your other breast. “Pleasure?”

You whimper, hips flexing as if to grind against him. Words mean nothing in the face of action. Denial dripping from your lips are empty, hollow shells when you surrender to him like this. How close he is to making you his.

Mine.

Always mine.

Simon’s hands descend—retreating. In the haze of lust, you drift upward, emerging as if from a dream. Deep in the recesses of his mind, Simon captures this, storing it away. When you’re bare and riddled with post-orgasm euphoria, is this what you’ll look like?

“I can’t,” you breathe. “I won’t choose until I’m ready.”

Stubborn as ever.

There are no more kisses, no yearning touches. Simon gently cradles your cheek and lightly presses his lips to your forehead. The ticking of the clock on the far wall is an incessant reminder.

Time is fleeting. And it is not his ally.

398 notes · View notes

zomquette · 10 days ago

Text

Let Em' Dream

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female!Reader

Genre: Protective Daryl / established relationship / Angst & Comfort / Survival Tension / Flirty Banter

Warnings: Language, tense power dynamics, creepy men (Claimers, ew), implied past trauma, protective behavior, mild violence, emotional vulnerability, implied sexy vibes but no smut.

Summary: You and Daryl joined the Claimers for safety. That safety came with a price. Leers, comments, tension you can cut with a knife. But you’re not weak—and you’re not alone. Daryl’s love language might be grunts and glares, but when it comes to keeping you safe, he’s louder than words.

Era: Post-Prison / Pre-Terminus

Long-ass Author’s Note: I really wanted to write a fic involving the Claimers because… well, no one really does. And when they do, it’s often the same tired formula: the reader is heavily objectified, used as a plot device to elevate the male character or trigger protective instincts. That kind of storytelling not only feels lazy but can be genuinely harmful. It reduces women to props for drama and reinforces the idea that being mistreated is somehow part of the fantasy. That’s not what I wanted here.

I know—it’s just a fic. A silly little story. But even in these kinds of spaces, the way we write about objectification and misogyny matters. I didn’t want to center the reader’s value in how much pain she could endure or how much she needed saving. I wanted her to be capable, complex, angry, soft, and human. And yeah, I couldn’t resist adding a bit of fluff at the end too. Sue me.

On a more personal note, this fic hit close to home. The kind of treatment the reader faces here—subtle, persistent, exhausting—is something I (and so many other women and girls) know all too well. It’s isolating. It makes you second-guess your own instincts. And sometimes, you forget that it’s not your fault. I wish someone had told me that earlier. So if you’re reading this and any of it resonates—please know you’re not alone. None of this is okay, and it never was.

Anyway, I’ll shut up now. Hope you enjoy. :)

**************************************************************

It was the kind of cold that settled in your teeth. Dry air, dry land. Smoke from a cooking fire clung to your jacket like something alive, and every step crunched like bone underfoot.

You stayed close to the tree line while Daryl walked ahead, crossbow slung low on his back, posture half-feral. The others trailed nearby—Joe, Len, Billy, and whatever stragglers they'd picked up since the last camp. The Claimers. They called themselves that with pride, like they weren't just scavengers with vocabulary.

They weren’t so bad at first. Talkative. Friendly. The kind of friendliness that came with teeth.

You and Daryl joined up a few days ago. Not by choice - not really. You needed the strength in numbers if you guys wanted to sleep at night without two eyes open. It was simply smarter to travel in groups, or at least that's what you kept telling yourself. The rules were simple: don’t take what’s been claimed, and don’t walk away.

That last one was never spoken aloud. But you could feel it, like being circled by wolves that hadn’t decided whether to bare their teeth. This was only temporary. This first chance we get we are hightailing it and we never see these assfucks again. You could only dream of that moment for now.

The nights were the worst. You always woke up before sunrise, not from noise, but from the quiet. The wrong kind. Like someone holding their breath near your ear.

You felt eyes on you. Not Daryl’s. His, you were used to. His gaze was steady, grounding, always followed by the warmth of his palm finding yours under the blanket.

No, the others were different.

Joe had a habit of watching too long and saying too little when it came to you. Always quiet, always smiling, always sitting just close enough to be noticed. Len, on the other hand, didn't hide his thoughts. He'd whistle when you walked by, crack jokes about "needing a good woman to stick around." The worst was Billy, who once asked if Daryl "shared well."

You laughed it off, quickly stepping in front of Daryl so he wouldn't tear the guy's eyes out. Sure, that would be fun to watch, but two against eight weren't odds you would gamble on. Besides, you knew that was what they wanted; to see you snap - that would be like stepping into a trap. And at this rate, Daryl would be at his breaking point sooner or later.

But every word, every look, chipped away at your reserve. You started wearing Daryl's clothes over your own, stopped washing your hair so often, and kept your gun closer than usual. You felt like you were betraying yourself, smothering who you were to appease others. This wasn't you; cowering under others' stares while you shrug your hood over your face. No, you would think let em' dream while you strutted by them, swaying your hips like Shakira. And if someone did decide to be dumb and mouth off, you would show them why that was dumb - no need for scary boyfriend Daryl to shoo them away. Maybe everything really was weighing down on you; the loss of the prison, of Hershel, of your group, of… Beth. Maybe that person was left behind at the prison, and here you were left trying to scramble for the pieces, rithing at how vulnerable you felt… it made you sick with fury.

And Daryl felt it, too.

He noticed the change in you. The way your body tensed when someone said your name. The way you touched his arm a second longer when someone else was near. He didn’t need you to say it out loud. He didn’t need to see it happen. He knew, and it twisted something in him.

He wasn’t used to this—to feeling this much. He didn’t always have the words for it, didn’t even always understand it himself. But when it came to you, it showed up in the way he watched. The way he kept near and his eyes stayed on the backs of men too long, like he was calculating angles.

He knew you could handle yourself. Had seen it. Trusted it. That wasn’t why he hovered. It was because his body didn’t know how not to. Because loving you made his instincts loud, louder than they’d ever been. Protection wasn’t a comment on your strength. It was a confession of his. That he couldn’t bear to lose the one thing that made this hell of a world feel like something worth enduring.

The air of your camp for the night had the taste of rust and smoke, thick with campfire. A good place as any - being in the woods was better than out in the open on the road. You excused yourself quietly, weaving through the abandoned, rusty cars that some of the guys had settled into, and stepped over the metal wiresu descended into the woods for some privacy surrounding the makeshift camp, which created a perimeter as yo. Daryl watched you go with a look that said everything—be quick, be careful, be back.

You felt him before you heard him. Len.

The crunch of leaves behind you was too heavy, definitely intentional. You slowed after a few minutes of walking, every nerve on alert, gaze sweeping the shadows. It was a full moon tonight, silver light catching on the blade at your belt. At least you weren't caught with your pants down.

“Didn’t think we were doin’ shifts,” you called out flatly, not turning around.

He chuckled behind you, smug and slow. “Just makin’ sure a lady like yourself doesn’t get turned around. It’s dangerous out here.”

You turned. Not startled. Not shaken. Just done. So done with this bullshit. The apocalypse was so effective in wiping out most of the population, why couldn't it have included the entitled pricks like shit-for-brains here?

Len had his thumbs hooked in his belt loops like he owned the night air itself. You stood your ground, arms crossed, weight shifted to one hip.

“You got about three seconds to turn around and walk back to camp," you said, voice cold. "Or I start making souvenirs outta your fingers."

He smiled, eyebrows raising, taking a step closer.

"Oooh," he drawled. "Small thing talks a big game."

"You'd be surprised what a small thing like me can do with such a small tool,” you shot back, taking out your knife to admire it. “Course you know all about that, don't ya, Lenny?”

“C’mon now,” he said, mock-wounded. “We've been travelling companions together, ain’t we? Breakin’ bread, sharin’ fire. That’s gotta mean somethin’.”

“Oh sure. It means i havent slit your throat yet,” you replied, flashing your dazzling smile and twirling your knife.

He didn’t laugh this time.

You saw it then—the flicker of frustration. The way men like him hate being reminded they’re not owed anything. Especially not you.

He moved fast, hand going to your arm.

Your knife was faster. Your leg shot out and swept his leg from under him when it came into contact with the back of his, making him take a knee. It happened so fast, he went from reaching for your arm to now kneeling with you behind him. Oh, and the small tool you mentioned earlier was now pressed against his neck so harshly it was like you were going to peel his skin off like a potato.

“Try that again,” you say quietly into his ears, sending shivers down his spine. “I dare you.”

He blinked, neck taut against the blade, and for the first time, Len looked small.

“I ain’t lookin’ for trouble,” he muttered.

“No?” you snapped, voice going slightly higher, effectively taunting him with the situation he was in. A chick has you by the throat, gonna cry bitch boy? “Well then, don’t go sniffin’ where you’re not wanted. I ain't a prize, and I sure as hell ain’t yours.”

You pressed the knife just enough to nick the skin, drawing some blood. A sweet reminder for later.

Then you stepped back, shoving him into the dirt to tower above him.

“And you can go ahead and tell your little buddies that, too. You want someone to own get a damn dog.”

Len didn’t speak. Didn’t move. He just lay there, butt hurt trying to process what just happened, lips thin, pride in tatters.

You walked away first, and you didn’t look back. And for the first time in a while, when turning in for the night, you didn't feel like you had something weighing on your chest.

______________________________________________________

The car creaked gently as the wind rocked it. Daryl’s arms had settled heavily around your shoulders, spooning you in the backseat, one hand tracing slow lines along your arm. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable, but it wasn’t peaceful either. It hovered, like both of you were trying to name something you’d carried too long.

You shifted against him, voice barely above the hum of cicadas. “It’s weird, y’know? The world ended, and for a while… men weren’t the main problem anymore. Just walkers. Just hunger. Then suddenly, it’s back. That same old look. The kind that makes your skin crawl.”

Your eyes glued to the car ceiling, lost in thought. Part of you didn't wanna say these things to him. Wouldn't it just make him sad? It was one thing to feel completely helpless as a woman in a disgustingly testosterone environment; the last thing you needed was a pity party. But that wasn't how Daryl worked. “Makes you think… maybe it’s better to be hungry than desirable.”

He didn’t speak right away. Just rubbed his thumb along your arm, like he could erase the tension coiled there.

“You think you’re past it,” you added, voice so quiet it was just short of a whisper. “Then someone stares too long, or gets too close, and it’s like muscle memory. You always watch for it, and the moment you catch on, everything just stops. And you think ‘how the fuck am i gonna get out of here?’ and that feeling hasnt left since we got stuck with these assholes”

Daryl didn’t need you to explain it — he’d already seen it in the way you were always on edge around the Claimers. And still, hearing it cracked something in him. It was one thing to know you were tense — it was another to know you were expecting it. Bracing for it like it was routine. You had to prepare yourself for the way men looked at you. The idea that those bastards had you scanning exits, holding your breath — that they got to live in your mind rent-free like that — it made him sick. You were the best thing in this goddamn world. Tough, loyal, quick as hell, and his — which he still had trouble wrapping his head around half the time. And still, they had the audacity to think about you like that. To make you feel like something to be claimed. He didn’t know how to carry that — didn’t know how to fix it — but he’d be damned if he let you carry it alone.

“Merle used to say somethin’,” he said finally, breaking the heavy silence. “Said, ‘Ain’t nobody gonna care for you but me.’ Like… that was supposed to be enough. Like givin’ a damn made you weak.”

You turned your body to look up at him slowly, your brow furrowed.

“I believed him,” Daryl admitted. “For a long time, I did. Thought the only way to survive was keepin’ your distance. Keepin’ everybody out.”

His hand moved from your arm to your back, warm and steady.

“But you… You make me wanna stay close. Make me wanna care. And I ain’t scared of that no more. Not if it means ya feel safe… Not if it means I can carry some of that for you.”

Your throat went tight—not because you were afraid, but because it was the first time in a long time that someone wanted to share the weight.

You leaned into him, letting your forehead find it’s place in the crook of his neck.

“I gotcha,” he murmured, rubbing your back. “Long as I’m breathin’, ain’t nobody layin’ a hand on ya.”

You huffed a soft laugh against his skin. “Kinda melodramatic, Dixon. ‘Ain’t nobody touchin ma woman ya hear?!’.” you mocked in a hushed voice, face scrunching exactly like his signature scowl.

He grunted, shaking his head. “Yeah, well… you bring it outta me.”

He hugged you tighter, his arms closing around your frame and locking you to him in the most wonderful way and kissed your head as he nuzzled into your hair.

______________________________________________________

The morning air was crisp, tinged with dew and the fading smoke of last night’s fire. You wandered down to the creek with a change of clothes tucked under your arm and sleep still clinging to your bones. It was rare to be alone these days, but you needed a moment. The water was cold, biting at your fingers as you crouched by the edge and scrubbed the grime from your skin. You let out a slow breath, staring at your reflection. Jeez, I look like a Tim Burton character.

Behind you, Daryl lingered.

He was meant to be back at camp, but he stayed just a few metres away by a tree, crossbow slung on his shoulder, eyes never leaving your form. Watching, but not invading. There was a quiet reverence in the way he kept his distance. Not because he thought you needed protecting, but because he needed to know he was there if things went sideways.

And things almost did.

Two of the Claimers had peeled away from the group. They tiptoed away from them and made their way towards the creek. Towards you. Their faces dropped instantly when instead of finding you, they found a irratable redneck. One of them let out a short laugh that didn’t reach his eyes, and Daryl’s stance shifted.

“You best turn around,” he said before they got too close.

The two men froze. One of them — a lanky guy with a toothpick — tried to play it off with a smirk.

“We ain’t doin’ nothin’,” he said, face blank.

“Didn’t ask what you were doin’. I said turn around.”

The tension stretched thin as fishing wire.

The bigger of the two men — the one with the beer-can crush of a face — squared his shoulders like he thought he had something to prove. “You always this twitchy, Dixon? She’s just takin’ a bath.”

Daryl stepped forward. “And you’re just about ready to take bolt to the ass. So, unless you wanna get an extra hole, I suggest you walk.”

That did it. They backed off, muttering curses under their breath, but Daryl didn’t move until the last boot crunched out of sight.

You walked back over, hair dripping and a towel hanging off your shoulder, oblivious to the tension that had just slunk off into the trees.

Daryl was leaned against a tree like he’d been relaxing the whole damn time — one foot crossed over the other, arms folded, face like stone.

“Everything alright?” you chirped, side-eyeing him as you wrung water from your ends.

“Uh huh,” he said, nodding once. “Just enjoyin’ the view.”

You paused. “…The creek?”

He smirked, eyes skating over your figure. “Among other things.”

You narrowed your eyes, smiling as you stalked towards him. “That right?”

“Mhmm,” he muttered, straightening up. “Nature’s real pretty this time of mornin’.”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, shaking your head. Then — crack — you snapped the towel against his thigh with a mischievous grin.

He jerked back. “The hell, woman?!”

“That’s for being a creep,” you laughed, already backing up.

He lunged like he might chase you, but you squealed and darted ahead. “Don’t start nothin’ you can’t finish-” he hollered after you, boots thudding in pursuit.

You glanced back with a grin. “Baby, I finish everything I start. You of all people should know that”

“Don’t go bringin’ that up unless you’re plannin’ on finishin’ somethin’ right now.” He closed in on you, shoulders now relaxed. “cmon, I'm hungry for breakfast.” He motioned for you to walk beside him, playfully patting your ass to move, which of course earned him a scowl from you. "You better be talking about game, Dixon. I ain't servin' up anything else." You looked over to him to see his face, now sporting a cunning smile, and that look in his eyes which you only saw when you guys were alone. You dropped your head in disbelief, a big smile growing on your face as you whipped him with your towel again. "keep dreamin' Dixon."

The earlier tension was now forgotten, or at least tucked behind the sly grin he wore only for you.

**************************************************************

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