wannabespacesmuggler

[wannabespacesmuggler]

SHANE'S GIRL ➵ D. DIXON [14]

Part Fourteen | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee | Check out the playlist

Summary: Daryl Dixon knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s alone at night in his tent. Hell, he shouldn’t even be looking at you throughout the day. You’re not his. You’re Shane’s girl. But Daryl doesn’t like the way Shane treats you. And he certainly doesn’t like how you’re forced to play ‘loving girlfriend’ to a man with eyes for another woman at the camp.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female!Reader

Warnings: Shane Walsh & Merle Dixon are the worst, angst, canon violence, mentions of tobacco use, story follows the show but dialogue and events are paraphrased, abusive behavior, a very slow burn

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: Alright. I'm back after a work induced hiatus. I have missed this story deeply and even though this isn't the most eventful chapter, I'm excited for what it's setting up. I've also updated the playlist on Spotify if any of you want to give it a listen — I think it encapsulates our two favorite apocalypse idiots very well. As always, let me know what you all think and if you want to be added to the taglist.

attack seems to have shaken everyone; however, for Daryl, it’s different. He’s dealt with plenty of walkers during his various hunts after the world’s end, but this wasn’t just one or two stragglers in the woods that he could sneak up on before they noticed him. No, this time they were too close to home, and they managed to get the jump on him. He almost died. The realization almost made him sick to his stomach. It’s not that Daryl fears death. He’d come to terms with his own demise long before the dead started walking. Hell, he always assumed he’d die young anyway. The fear that settled deep into Daryl’s bones last night was not for himself, but for the woman softly snoring into his shoulder: you.

You saved his life. And the terror in your eyes afterwards, as you stared at the bloody knife in your hands, will haunt him for the rest of his days. Because it’s his fault. You killed to save him. And maybe it’s not his place, but Daryl was hoping to shield you from the horrors of this world for as long as possible. He knows the toll that taking another life does to a person — the guilt and pain that lingers in the back of his mind every day. He knows that it doesn’t matter that they’re technically already dead — that walker was still a human being once. He didn’t want that burden on your shoulders, but now it’s too late.

The sun is just cresting over the horizon when Rick’s voice slices through the thick silence that settled over the quarry camp, officially ending the longest night that Daryl has ever experienced.

“I know we’re all running on fumes, but we need to bury our dead.”

Rick’s voice is quiet, but there’s an urgency to his tone as his eyes shift from Daryl to T-Dog and Glenn. The two men had hunkered down near the RV once the chaos had settled and exhaustion consumed the camp for just a few hours. Even though he hasn’t spoken to either of them since you’ve all gotten back from Atlanta, Daryl’s grateful that they stuck close to both of you. Now, more than ever, Daryl believes that there is safety in numbers. Still, he couldn’t sleep. Even though his shoulders sag due to the weight of the last twenty-four hours, the warmth of your body keeps him up. A constant reminder of what he has to protect — of what he could have lost last night amidst the devastation. So, even though every single fiber of Daryl’s being yearns to stay by your side, he nods at Rick’s words.

“Not you, Daryl.”

Daryl’s brow furrows, and he's not the only one confused by his words. Both Glenn and T-Dog look skeptically at Rick until they follow his gaze. Rick Grimes is watching you peacefully sleep against the camp’s, so-called, notorious brute. Daryl suddenly feels uncomfortable and shifts slightly under the weight of their attention. The movement causes you to stir in your sleep and he fights off a smile at the content sigh that escapes your lips as you press your face further into his shoulder. Rick raises a brow at you both before continuing.

“You’re busy. I haven’t seen her get a good night’s sleep since I’ve gotten back.”

He’s right. Daryl’s not sure if you’ve truly rested at all since he’s met you. And a part of him believes that has more to do with Shane Walsh than the end of the world. After all, it’s probably hard to relax when the most dangerous threat to your well-being is lurking in your tent. So, Daryl simply gives Rick a firm nod.

“Man, why does Dixon always get to play bodyguard?”

Glenn’s eyes immediately widen, and he elbows T-Dog in the side. T-Dog’s eyes land on Glenn before following his gaze to Daryl. He raises his hands up in defeat as the archer glares daggers at them both.

“I’m just kidding, man.”

“You better be.”

Rick huffs out a laugh before placing himself between the men. He gives Daryl a momentary, warning glance before turning to T-Dog.

“You best get to work or else you might need a bodyguard.”

T-Dog’s eyes shift from Rick to Daryl. Daryl juts his chin up at the man. He doesn’t want to fight — not when you look so peaceful right now — but he’s not one to back down. Luckily, T-Dog sighs defeatedly before walking off with Glenn in tow. Rick watches them walk away for several moments before turning back to Daryl. He raises a brow at the youngest Dixon brother before collapsing into the lawn chair T-Dog had been lounging in. Daryl watches as Rick roughly runs his hands over his face — it looks like he got about as much sleep as Daryl did last night.

“Listen, I feel like you and I got off on the wrong foot.”

Daryl scoffs at Rick’s words. Off on the wrong foot seems like an understatement. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Rick had a gun pointed at him in Atlanta. But he��s important to you, so Daryl bites his tongue and lets him continue.

“But I know her.”

Rick’s gaze drops down to you, and Daryl’s eyes follow.

“And she trusts you.”

Daryl tears his eyes away from you at that admission. He expects to find confusion or judgment on Rick’s face, but instead, he’s looking at you with the tenderness of a loving brother. And when Rick looks back up at him, there’s a sadness in his eyes that he cannot place.

“I don’t know what happened while I was gone, but I know you looked out for her. Thank you.”

The earnestness in his tone surprises Daryl, but he gives the man a firm nod. In all honesty, he doesn’t need his thanks. It has never been a burden to look out for you, and he’s certainly not trying to pass off the responsibility onto someone else. No, Daryl Dixon has begrudgingly come to terms with the fact that he cares about you. The two men sit in comfortable silence together until another muffled sob escapes Andrea, who is still clutching Amy’s limp hand in hers.

“What are we gonna do about that?”

Daryl motions towards the sisters with his free arm, and Rick glances towards them before letting out a deep sigh. He rakes a hand through his hair, and Daryl almost feels bad for asking. After all, Rick never asked to become the de facto leader of this group. But someone has to call the shots, and Daryl sure as hell doesn’t want it to be Shane.

“I already talked to her. She said she’ll take the shot — but only after she turns.”

A sudden rage courses through Daryl’s veins. Waiting for Amy to turn into one of those monsters endangers everyone in this camp. Rick knows the risk, and yet he’s still allowing it to happen. Daryl isn’t in charge — he doesn’t want to be — but he will not risk your life for the convenience of others. Maybe it’s selfish, but he really doesn’t give a shit.

“You can’t be serious. That girl’s a time bomb and you know it.”

Rick’s face hardens, and his jaw clenches.

“What do you suggest?”

“Take the shot. Clean, in the brain from here. Hell, I can hit a turkey between the eyes from this distance.”

“Don’t be an ass.”

You mumble the words into Daryl’s shoulder, just loud enough for both men to hear. Your face scrunches up immediately once you open your eyes. A groan escapes your lips as you try to adjust to the morning sunlight.

“Good morning to you too, sunshine.”

Rick snorts, which causes you to peel yourself away from Daryl so you can shoot the sheriff a playful glare. For a moment, Daryl is disappointed by the loss of contact, but then he spots the blush that’s creeping across your cheeks due to the nickname he’s given you. It tumbled off Daryl’s lips before he could think twice about it. He meant it as a lighthearted jab — understanding the way your eyes meet the rising sun with nothing but disdain. After all, he didn’t become a morning person until the world fell apart. He recalls the nickname rolling off his mother’s lips on the mornings she remembered to wake him up for elementary school. And the groan that escaped you reminds him of the ones he’d let out as Merle would exclaim that nickname in the kitchen when Daryl finally stumbled out of his room late in the afternoon with an intense headache due to the hangover he had from the eventful night before. But honestly, in Daryl’s heart, it’s less of a nickname and more a term of endearment — one he could find himself using more as long as you keep letting him.

“What’s so funny, Grimes?”

“Nothin’. It’s good, sunshine. Fitting, even. Just wish I’d thought of it myself.”

You roll your eyes at the sheriff before shifting your eyes back to Daryl. Your playful expression suddenly turns serious as you regard him.

“I’m serious, Daryl. Let her be. She needs to do this her way.”

Daryl studies you for a moment. And Rick watches as you both seem to have an entire conversation without speaking. The interaction confuses him deeply, and he desperately needs to sit down with you to catch up on everything he’s seemingly missed. To his surprise, Daryl shifts on his feet slightly before giving you a nod.

“‘Lright.”

You give him a small smile — a silent thank you to him for trusting your intuition. Daryl’s eyes shift from you to where T-Dog and Glenn are burying the dead. Even though he knows it’s not his responsibility, he suddenly feels guilty that he’s not helping. You follow his gaze and put the pieces together. You know how hard it is for Daryl to stay still, especially when he knows there’s something else he can be doing. You reach out, grabbing his forearm to get his attention. His focus is immediately on you — his expression brimming with concern as his eyes check you over.

“Go.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’ve got Rick. Go.”

Daryl’s eyes shift to the sheriff before finding their way back to you once more. You understand how he feels. After last night — after watching that walker almost tear into his flesh — you don’t want Daryl out of your sight right now. But you’ve both got things to do and there will always be responsibilities that will pull you away from one another. Finally, Daryl seems to relent.

“You need anything, you come get me. ‘Lright?”

You nod at his request and watch as he slings his crossbow over his shoulder after getting up. He looks down at you one last time before walking off towards Glenn and T-Dog. Your eyes follow Daryl for longer than you care to admit, and once you finally peel your gaze away from him, you’re met with an incredibly perplexed Rick Grimes. He looks like your protective older brother — arms crossed tightly across his chest and brow raised in confusion.

“I think you and I need to have a little talk.”

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[wannabespacesmuggler]

Listen, life is rough but I think that being held by Tommy Miller would fix like 99 of my problems.

[wannabespacesmuggler]

Joel Miller haunts my narrative.

[wannabespacesmuggler]

Well MI:1 is fantastic. Ethan cocky and comfortable with his found family and when that is ripped away he rapidly becomes unhinged. Lucky he found Luther to give him someone to lean on. Can see why he spent the rest of the franchise trying to rebuild that found family feeling, to heal and recreate what he had before Prague and also frantically and desperately trying to protect anyone with even a tangential connection to him (look how quickly he becomes focused on saving Grace)

I also wonder if he thinks perhaps he, too, should have died in Prague, that perhaps they could have been saved if he had, and that is why he’s so reckless with his own life.

He’s obviously close to Jack and I have to wonder - did Benji ever remind him of Jack? Did he listen to Benji giving the technical details and think of Jack?

Or worse - did he listen to Benji over the comms and worry he’d hear Benji’s death over comms, like with Jack? No wonder he constantly says ‘talk to me Benji’. It’s not just asking for instructions. He’s constantly asking ‘are you still alive, are you there, are you safe?’

[wannabespacesmuggler]

LOVE YOU, MISS YOU, MEAN IT ➵ S. WILSON

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: It’s been five years since you heard from Sam Wilson — the longest you’ve gone without speaking since you met him at sixteen years old. You've tried to move on, but six words still weigh heavy on your heart. You're certain you'll never hear those words again until you get a phone call from upstate New York.

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader

Warnings: angst with a happy ending, high school sweethearts, mentions of Riley (CA:TWS), mentions of loss and grief, spoilers for Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame, mentions of the Blip and its repercussions, no use of y/n, use of pet names (ie. "honey" and "baby")

Word Count: 3.5k

Song Inspo: "Love You, Miss You, Mean It" by Luke Bryan

Author’s Note: So, apparently all of us are desperate for more Sam Wilson fics. I promise I don't also base my fics on songs, but I was listening to this one recently and couldn't get this idea out of my head (maybe Sam Wilson fics based on country songs is just my niche now lol). Like always, I hope you guys enjoy this one and let me know what you all think. Also, my inbox is open to any ideas for Sam Wilson fics. I'm not promising to write them all, but I'm desperate for my Sam content and if it has to be done by me then so be it.

“What about Craig from book club?”

You furrow your brow at Sarah as you wipe down the counters during a lull in the afternoon lunch rush. You’ve worked at Wilson Family Seafood since your family moved to Delacroix during your sophomore year of high school. Your father suddenly lost his job and, by pure happenstance, reconnected with his old childhood friend, Paul Wilson. Within a week, your family packed up your entire lives and moved across the country to help at the Wilson’s family-owned restaurant. It was a drastic change, but the transition was helped by Sarah Wilson, who quickly became your closest friend. The two of you spent your days in classes together at the local high school, your afternoons working at the restaurant, and your evenings working on homework by the docks. You were sure that your life couldn’t get any better than this.

But then you met her older brother, Sam. 

You’d seen him in passing a few times; however, basketball season kept him busy for the first few months you spent in Delacroix. Once his team was knocked out of the playoffs, Sam also spent his afternoons at the restaurant. To Sarah’s dismay, Sam took an immediate liking to you. At first, you brushed off Sam’s attention as playful, meaningless flirting. But, to your surprise, Sam asked you to the junior prom while the three of you sat at the docks after your shifts. Sarah pretended to be disgusted by the idea of her older brother and best friend dating, but, in reality, she couldn’t be happier — after all, she’d never seen her brother so smitten. 

“I don’t need a date, Sarah.”

“You deserve to feel loved.”

A sigh escapes you as her voice softens. When Sam enlisted in the military after high school, you were confident that was the end of the line for the two of you. However, Sam went above and beyond to make things work. You received letters from him twice a month while he was deployed, and every single one ended the same: love you, miss you, mean it. He visited home whenever he could, and the two of you were happy. But then his wingman got blown out of the sky during a night operation, and Sam slowly withdrew from everyone in his life: his friends, his family, and you. His letters started showing up only once a month, then every two, until eventually they stopped altogether.

It all came to a head when you heard from Darlene that Sam got honorably discharged from service, and instead of coming back home, he chose to stay in D.C. after accepting a job with the Department of Veteran Affairs. You remember the phone call that followed when Sam told you he just couldn’t face living in Delacroix right now without his father — that he couldn’t handle adding that grief to his plate right now. He didn’t try to convince you to join him. Sam knew that you couldn’t leave his mother and sister like that, and although he knew he was making a selfish choice, he didn’t want to drag you and his family along with him during his recovery process. You’d drop everything to help him, but that’s not what you deserve. You’ve already spent over a decade assisting the Wilson family — starting full-time at the restaurant after high school, providing funds from your savings account for numerous doctor appointments and procedures when his father got sick, and opening up your home to Sarah and her new husband after they lost theirs. Sam couldn’t ask you to put your life on hold, yet again, just for him. And even though he knew he was losing you, he still ended the call with the words he only ever said to you: love you, miss you, mean it. You remember wanting to be angry with him, but, in reality, all you felt was a deep, profound sadness — because you could tell just by the sound of his voice that this wasn’t the same Sam who left for the Air Force all those years ago. This isn’t the Sam you fell in love with. So, even though it was the hard thing to do, you let him go. 

You didn’t see Sam again until Darlene passed away two years later. After the funeral, Sam asked if you wanted to grab a drink. And even though your brain was screaming at you to stay away from the man who broke your heart — you couldn’t say no. He was surprised to hear you weren’t seeing anyone, and you were just as surprised that he wasn’t dating. Conversation flowed easily between the two of you, and you couldn’t help the smile that spread across your face as you realized that, although the Sam sitting in front of you was a little bit older and a little bit wiser, he still had the same boyish charm that made you fall in love with him all those years ago. And your heart almost stopped in your chest when he said the six words you haven’t been able to stop thinking about: love you, miss you, mean it. 

“I do feel loved.”

“It’s not enough to just feel it in your dreams.”

The words made you stop in your tracks. It’s been five years since you heard from Sam Wilson — the longest you’ve gone without speaking since you met him at sixteen years old. After the two of you reconnected after Darlene’s funeral, you and Sam kept in touch with the hope that one day, this tender, unspoken thing between the two would turn into something more permanent; however, for now, you both had responsibilities — Sam was the head of PTSD counseling at the Department of Veteran Affairs, and you were now a co-owner of Wilson Family Seafood. But then Sam met Steve Rogers, and his whole world seemed to turn upside down. You remember watching the news, clutching Sarah’s hand as the anchor explained that there was now a global manhunt for three men after a bombing in Vienna: James Buchanan Barnes, Steve Rogers, and Sam Wilson. And suddenly, your little dream life together seemed to slip right between your fingers — after all, your high school sweetheart was now a wanted fugitive. Sam couldn’t risk contacting you while on the run with Steve and Natasha. And even though all he wanted was to call you and explain his side of the story — explain that he only did what he knew was right — he didn't. It wasn’t until they ended up in Wakanda with Thanos on their heels that he finally reached out. He was pretty sure that this was it for him — he wasn’t a super soldier, he wasn’t magical or enhanced, he was just a man with metal wings. So, Sam sent you a message before he was thrown into another war because even if it was the last time you heard from him, he needed you to know that six words were still weighing on his heart: love you, miss you, mean it.

“Sarah…”

You trail off because you’re unsure how to respond — because you know she’s right. Sam sent that message five years ago. You didn’t believe he was gone until Steve Rogers showed up on your doorstep with a box of Sam’s belongings. There weren’t many items, but Steve thought it was best that you received them — after all, missing you was all he talked about during their time on the run together. After Steve left, you opened the box and pulled out Sam’s old pararescue sweatshirt, a few unsent letters, his father’s watch, and a handful of photos: one you had taken of Sarah, AJ, and Cass on an old fishing boat, an old picture of Riley and Sam in full tactical gear while on deployment, another of Sam standing between Steve and Natasha at some sort of party, and lastly one of you and him sitting side-by-side on shiny bleachers together after his senior year championship game. With misty eyes, you put the photos on your refrigerator and pulled on his sweatshirt — desperate to feel close to your lost love in any way possible.

“He’s gone, honey.”

You know her words come from a place of love — from a place of understanding. Sarah understands the grief you're experiencing better than anyone else. She not only lost her brother in the Blip but also her husband a year before due to a sudden car accident. Everyone else in your life told you to move on, but Sarah knows that six words keep you securely planted in the past. She watched as you threw yourself into your responsibilities to cope: draining your savings account to keep the restaurant afloat while moving in with her to help raise AJ and Cass. But she also noticed how eager you were to slip away when things were quiet at the end of the day. She knew it was so you could see Sam again. You relive your favorite moments in your dreams: kissing him for the first time while parked in your driveway, Sam surprising you at work during his deployments, dancing all night together at Sarah’s wedding. It’s not the same — it’ll never be the same — but it’s the closest you’ll get to having him back. 

“I’m not ready to move on yet.”

You’re not sure if you’ll ever be ready to move on. You’ve loved Sam Wilson since you were sixteen years old. Through life’s highs and lows, through steadiness and imbalance — it was always Sam. It will always be Sam. Sarah gives you a gentle, knowing smile. She knows. Of course, she knows. She’s confident that if Sam were in your place, he’d be just as distraught because the hardest years of Sam's life were the ones after he pushed you away after Riley passed. Even though he was sure everyone in Delacroix was better off without him, Sam would call Sarah once a month to check in with everyone. She could hear the pain in her brother’s voice every time he asked about you — no matter how much time passed, you were an open wound that never seemed to heal. But even though Sam was hurting, all he wanted was for you to be happy — even if it was without him. 

“And that’s okay. Just know that Sam would want you to be happy.”

You suck in a sharp breath. Your chest suddenly feels like it’s about to cave in under the weight of your grief. Luckily, you’re saved from the conversation by the sound of the door opening. The lull in the afternoon lunch rush ended, and so did your discussion. Still, you spent the rest of your shift thinking about it. Sarah offers to close up for the night, and you’re grateful. You desperately need to go lay down — you feel absolutely drained after your shift, and Sarah’s words are still rattling around in your brain. The air is thick and sticky as you walk the empty streets of Delacroix. Even though it's halfway through October, the pervasive southern humidity has yet to disperse. A wave of relief washes over you as you enter the small, air-conditioned home you now share with the remaining members of the Wilson family. You kick off your shoes at the door, toss your keys on the kitchen counter, and collapse onto the couch in your living room. AJ and Cass are spending the night at a friend’s house, so your home is uncharacteristically quiet — that is, until your phone starts ringing. You pick it up off the coffee table with a deep sigh, and your brow furrows as you recognize the area code: Upstate New York. Usually, you’d send it straight to voicemail, but your finger hesitates on the decline button. Against your better judgment, you accept the call.

Your heart stops as you listen to a nurse explain the situation on the other end. Sam Wilson was just admitted to their hospital after taking one hell of a beating with his fellow Avengers, and you were contacted since you’re still listed as his emergency contact. You thank the nurse for the information before hanging up. Your hands tremble as you place your phone back on the coffee table. For a few moments, all you can do is focus on breathing in and out. A part of you thinks this is a dream — that any moment now, you’ll wake up alone in your living room with an aching in your chest. But that moment doesn’t come. You simply sit on your couch, staring at your phone while time slowly passes until Sarah eventually comes home. She’s concerned when you don’t answer her question as she opens the door, and panic rushes through her veins once she spots you sitting in the living room — your expression holds an ocean of emotions fighting for dominance as you stare at the coffee table.

“What’s wrong?”

“I got a call. Sam’s at a hospital in Upstate New York.”

“What?”

Sarah collapses next to you on the couch. You both sit in silence for several moments. Sarah’s at a loss for words, and you’re still not sure this is real. But what if it is? What if Sam is really lying in a hospital bed in Upstate New York right now? You have to chance it, right? Sam would. 

“I need to go.”

Sarah finally looks at you. Tears are streaming down her face, but her expression is one of unbridled joy. After everything she’s lost — after praying every single night to a God she stopped believing in long ago — she finally received a miracle. She wraps her arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug.

“I know.”

You’re out the door in under five minutes after haphazardly throwing clothing into an old backpack along with your essentials. You give Sarah one last hug before tossing the bag into the passenger seat of your car. The ride is torturously long. It takes you a full day of driving to make it to the address the nurse provided, but you refuse to stop. You can rest when you get there — once you see Sam with your own eyes. Your hands shake as you enter the hospital and approach the front desk. You feel idiotic giving Sam’s name when the lady behind the counter asks who you’re here to visit, but she simply smiles at you before writing down a room number. Exhaustion has settled deep into your bones, but you push yourself forward, putting one foot in front of the other until you find yourself outside room 335. You knock your fist against the door, and your heart lurches as you hear a response from the other side. After taking a deep breath, you open the door, and you get the wind knocked out of your lungs — as if you’ve been sucker-punched in the chest.

Lying in a hospital bed, looking a little worse for wear, was Sam Wilson. There is a long line of stitches on the left side of his face, a deep purple bruise is forming under his right eye, and his toned abdomen is wrapped in bandages and gauze, but it’s undeniably him. 

“Sam?”

His face immediately softens, and if he could, he’d cross the room in a heartbeat just to wrap you up in his arms. Tears well up in his eyes as he takes in your appearance. You know you look older, but he looks exactly the same beneath the injuries. Still, he looks at you as if no time has passed — as if you are still the bright-eyed, naive sophomore falling in love with the dangerously charismatic basketball captain. 

“Hey, baby.”

His voice sounds like home. And in this moment, even though your mind is foggy and your knees are on the verge of buckling, you thank whatever higher power sent him back to you. Sam’s brow furrows as he clocks the noticeable fatigue in your movements.

“Come here.”

He gestures to a chair next to his bedside. You immediately do as he says, and your muscles breathe a sigh of relief as you sit down. Sam painfully repositions himself closer to you and immediately reaches out. You melt into his touch as he brushes his knuckles against your cheek. 

“When was the last time you slept?”

A laugh escapes you due to the absurdity of his question. He’s currently lying in a hospital bed after five years of being presumed dead, looking frailer than you’ve ever seen him, and yet, he’s only worried about you. 

“You’re ridiculous, Sam.” 

A smile spreads across Sam’s face as you catch his hand and intertwine your fingers. You hold onto him with a tight grip — afraid that if you let up, he’ll slip right between your fingers again. His smile fades at the realization, and Sam’s gaze is brimming with concern.

“How long was I gone?”

“Five years.”

You don’t look at him as you answer, but you can feel his body shudder in response. He takes a shaky breath, attempting to process that information as you rub your thumb across his swollen knuckles. You’re the only thing grounding him in reality at this moment. 

“Is everyone okay? Sarah, AJ, Cass?”

You nod, finally meeting his frantic gaze. 

“Everyone’s fine. They’re back in Delacroix looking after the restaurant. I took care of them.”

“Who took care of you?”

Sam’s face falls as you press your cheek to the back of his hand, avoiding eye contact. That’s enough to answer his question. You’ve been strong your whole lie. Stronger than you ever gave yourself credit for — stronger than him. While he ran off to war, you stayed and fought to keep everything together at home. He realized long ago that he left you with the toughest battle, and he promised himself while on the run that he’d help relieve your burden once he cleared his name — he promised himself that he’d finally come home to you. But then Thanos snapped his goddamn fingers, and everything after that was a blur. Apparently, he has to add going MIA for five years to his long list of things to make up for. And there’s no time like the present to start making amends. 

“I wanted to call you every day after Hydra — after Vienna. I hope you know that I never stopped thinking about you. I tried to get a message to you before everything…”

Sam trails off, and his eyes glaze over as a faraway look sweeps over his expression. Your hand tightens around his as you realize you have no idea what he’s done— what he’s witnessed — since you last spoke to him. You’ve both been through hell, but somehow — some way — you made your way back to each other. That has to mean something.

“I got the message.”

Sam’s face twists into confusion as you let go of his hand and pull four photographs out of your backpack. You offer them to him, and Sam grabs them with trembling fingers. A small, sad smile spreads across his face as he recognizes them from his locker at the Avengers compound. 

“How did you get these?”

“Steve.”

Sam should have known that Steve would seek you out after the dust settled — after they counted their losses. He was a soldier, after all; he knew the protocol. He nods as he admires the old photo of you and him: what he would give to go back, to have that time with you again.

“Listen, five years is a long time. I can’t imagine what you’ve gone through or what you’ve done to get by.”

There’s a heaviness in Sam’s tone, and as he avoids eye contact with you, you realize he’s trying to ask if you’ve moved on. He wouldn’t fault you for creating a life without him — but little does he know, you’ve been waiting for him against all odds in Delacroix the whole time.

“Sam…”

Hope reignites in Sam’s chest as you wrap your hand around his again and drag your chair closer to him. It’s the first time he’s felt that old, forgotten emotion since he kissed you beneath the fairy lights of that bar by the docks. And just like that night, six words burn in his chest as he looks at you with pure adoration.

“I love you, miss you, mean it, baby.”

A bright smile spreads across your face as the words grace your ears. You never thought you’d hear them again. 

“Still?”

His smile rivals your own — and the sight jumpstarts the process of stitching your shattered heart back together. His gaze is incredulous as he cocks his head at your words — as if it was the most ridiculous question he’s ever heard. 

Still? 

Sam could never dream of loving someone else. His heart has been yours since he was seventeen years old.

“Always.”

And then you close the gap between you. As you press your lips against his, the years of loss and longing melt away. And even though every muscle in his body aches, Sam holds you like his life depends on it. He has a lot to apologize for — a lot of time to make up — but, for right now, this tender moment with you is enough. Because it’s just you and him. It always has been, and it always will be.

[wannabespacesmuggler]

PLATONIC ➵ S. WILSON

Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Bucky has no idea how two people who have known each other for two decades can be so blind to their feelings for one another. At first, it was somewhat comical, the two of you dancing around your obvious attraction for one another, but Bucky has grown tired of pretending that your relationship is strictly platonic.

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Reader

Warnings: FLUFF (some angst if you squint), mutual pining, mentions of Riley (CA:TWS), Bucky meddling in your relationship, mentions of the Blip, alcohol consumption, Reader and Sam being two oblivious idiots in love, no use of y/n

Word Count: 3.8k

Song Inspo: "Platonic" by Ryan Hurd

Author’s Note: So, I saw Brave New World in February and haven't been able to stop thinking about Sam Wilson since. The x Reader tag for my boy is absolutely lacking so I decided to write something for my cap. Hope you guys enjoy some good ole Sam Wilson fluff. Let me know what you guys think and if you have any Sam Wilson x Reader recs on tumblr. Please, I'm desperate.

“You know you could just ask him out, right?”

You choke down your beer, nearly spitting it out as Bucky speaks up beside you. The two of you have been quietly sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the shitty, hole-in-the-wall Irish pub that Sam insists on frequenting whenever all three of you are in D.C. at the same time. The little tradition had started as a coping mechanism after the three of you were blipped back into existence. You remember Sam begging you to accompany him to O’Malley’s the first time. And you remember sitting between your best friend and Bucky Barnes — it looked almost comical, an ex-Hydra assassin, a former Air Force pilot, and the newly named Captain America drinking a beer together. At first, you thought that Sam had asked you to come as a way to get you out of your house after everything that happened, but as the three of you sat in uncomfortable silence together, you realized that Sam brought you as a buffer. In all the years you’ve known the charismatic Sam Wilson, you never met someone he couldn’t talk to.

And then you met James Buchanan Barnes. 

Unlike Sam, you quickly fell into a cordial friendship with Bucky once you broke the ice. He’s both headstrong and cocky but also observant and aloof. People who meet him in passing might comment on how quiet he is, but you know he’s incredibly opinionated — hell, you made the mistake of commenting about baseball during your trio’s second outing together and had to listen to the man complain about the Brooklyn Dodgers moving to LA for a good thirty minutes. But what really bonded you with Bucky was Sam. You know that when Bucky looks at Sam, he sees what Steve saw in him — the man that Captain America decided was worthy of his mantle. 

He reminds you of Riley in many ways, and that’s why Sam had a more challenging time getting on board with the three of you hanging out together at first. Because for so long, it was just you, Sam, and Riley. You met Sam at boot camp, and then you met Riley shortly after. The three of you ran pararescue missions together — Sam and Riley clad in Exo-7 flight suits while you manned the C-130, which, thanks to a big government contract with Stark Industries, integrated cloaking systems and environmental blending. Then, on a routine mission, Riley got shot out of the sky, and suddenly it was just you and Sam. Sam became a PTSD veteran counselor, you got a piloting job with SHIELD stationed in D.C. to stay close to him, and then the two of you became regulars at O’Malley’s due to its proximity to both of your apartments. A part of Sam was afraid that he was replacing Riley by inviting Bucky into the space you share with him, but he had made a promise to Steve before he’d gone back in time with the infinity stones. And slowly but surely, the two became close friends, bonding over shared military stories, their musical tastes, and their deep respect and adoration for you. 

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Bucky scoffs at your question before taking another swig of his beer. He knows you’re playing dumb — the two of you have been participating in this same song and dance for the better part of a year now. Two months into regularly drinking with Sam and Bucky at O’Malley’s, you drunkenly confessed to Bucky that you harbor feelings for your best friend. He pretended to be shocked, but he knew about your little secret after first meeting with you and Sam. Bucky may be a tad out of touch with new social norms — the man hasn’t participated in the dating scene since the 1940s — but the act of pining hasn’t changed over the decades that have passed. 

“We’re just going to pretend you haven’t been brooding all night after Sam got whisked away by those girls?”

You roll your eyes at Bucky’s question. The annoyance weaved into your expression doesn’t come from a place of malice but instead draws from your frustration at how well Bucky understands you. Sam will always be your best friend, but Bucky has become something like a brother to you over the past year — an empty role in your life since Riley passed away. And after all, Bucky is an older brother — a protector — at his core. He may have lost his little sister a lifetime ago, but the instincts were still there, buried deep down until you and Sam showed up in his life.

“Brooding is your thing, Buck.”

“Exactly. So, can you stop stepping on my shoes?”

A smile tugs at your lips as Bucky playfully nudges you with his elbow. You know he’s trying to lighten the mood, and his humor has made you feel a little lighter; however, there’s still a gnawing in the pit of your stomach as you watch one of the girls slowly slide their hand down Sam’s arm. Bucky follows your gaze and lets out a tired sigh.

“Seriously, kid. What’s stopping you from just asking him out?”

“He’s my best friend, Buck.”

Bucky arches a brow at your reasoning. You say it as if it’s the answer to all of your heartache — as if it’s a valid excuse to hold yourself back from happiness. He has no idea how two people who have known each other for two decades can be so blind to their feelings for one another. At first, it was somewhat comical, the two of you dancing around your obvious attraction for one another, but Bucky has grown tired of pretending that your relationship is strictly platonic. He’s been trying to intervene, but whenever you think about confessing your feelings to Sam, you immediately talk yourself out of it. And Sam isn’t any better. Bucky’s tried to talk some sense into him at least a dozen times, but he’s sure you don’t feel the same way about him.

“I could always set you up with one of my friends.”

“I’m fairly certain you only have two friends, and they’re currently at this bar, Buck.”

Bucky rolls his eyes as he finishes his beer. 

“Believe it or not, I do have a life outside of you and Sam.”

He places the empty bottle on the counter along with a five-dollar bill before layering his leather jacket over his long-sleeve t-shirt. It’s a mild spring day, but you know he doesn’t wear the extra layers for warmth. They’re worn for the same reason as his leather gloves — security that his shiny, metal arm is covered. Bucky spares Sam one last glance before turning his attention back to you. You’re nursing the beer in your hand, simply waiting for Sam to notice you again. He gently grabs your shoulder with his good hand, and Bucky’s heart breaks in his chest as you look up at him with sad eyes.

“Just think about it, okay?”

You nod at his question, and Bucky releases his hold before heading home for the night. With a sigh, you finish your lukewarm beer and order another while waiting patiently for your best friend. Sam Wilson has always been the life of the party — the man who shines like a ray of sunlight even on the darkest days. But the Captain America mantle came with a newfound attention that Sam seems to revel in. You, however, find yourself struggling with it — it had been just the two of you for so long, and now you feel like you’re sharing him with all of America. 

But little do you know that even now, with the entire bar vying for his attention, Sam feels drawn to you like some invisible string is pulling him back. His eyes scan the crowd at O’Malley’s until they find you. He gives you a bright, genuine smile — the kind that leaves you grinning from ear to ear. You watch as he excuses himself from the lively conversation and approaches you. He slides into the seat beside you, shoulder bumping against yours as he leans into your space to grab the beer in front of you. You shoot him a playful glare as he takes a drink out of your beer bottle, and he winks at you in response. He places the bottle back in front of you before speaking.

“Bucky already left?”

“You know the old man — has to be home before bedtime.”

Sam laughs while throwing an arm back across your chair. You don’t even think twice about the action; Sam’s done it at least a thousand times at this point.

“Are you ready to get out of here?”

You give him an eager nod, desperate to get some fresh air. Sam laughs at your reaction before paying both of your tabs. Like in the bar, you don’t think twice as Sam slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as you walk down the streets of the nation’s capital. Not even as he walks up the five flights of stairs with you to your apartment, unlocking the door with the key you gave him ages ago. Not even as he moves through your apartment as if it were his, opening your fridge to grab two beers and rifling through your junk drawer to find the bottle opener he knows is in there. Not even as Sam falls asleep on your couch again after a night of talking for hours. You don’t think twice because this is how it’s always been between you and Sam — it’s always been comfortable, domestic. 

But, for some reason, tonight is different. As you sit on your kitchen counter, finishing your beer, Sam’s loud snores from your living room are drowned out by Bucky’s words from earlier this evening ringing in your ears. This is what your life has always looked like, but is this all it will be — waiting for your slice of Sam’s increasingly divided time? You’re happy for him. Truly. Sam deserves everything that the mantle of Captain America comes with — the attention, the popularity, the spotlight. You’re overjoyed that the world is finally seeing what you’ve seen in Sam all along, but a small part of you is jealous. And that jealousy is starting to eat you alive. 

You sigh, downing the last of your beer before sliding your phone out of your pocket. Scrolling through your contacts, you find Bucky’s name. You listen to the phone ring twice before Bucky answers your call. Concern is evident in his voice as he says your name. You rarely call him this late, but you know you’d talk yourself out of this in the morning. 

“I’ll do it, Buck. Set up the date.”

“It’s about time, kid.”

You spend the rest of your agonizingly slow week second-guessing that phone call. Hell, you almost call Bucky at least a dozen times to cancel the date altogether — to simply state that Bucky’s advice is ridiculous and you’re perfectly fine with your current situation. But, ultimately, you decide this is for the best. If your goal is to get over your absurd crush on Sam Wilson, then you actually need to start working on it. So, even though you’ve managed to worry yourself sick on Friday, you still manage to get yourself ready that evening and leave your apartment. A small smile pulls at your lips as you stand outside the address Bucky texted you several days prior. You’re thankful he chose a casual ramen spot for the blind date. It makes the whole experience a little less high stakes — like you could leave at any time with limited consequences. 

With an exasperated sigh, you finally bite the bullet and pull open the door to the small establishment. The bell above you rings, and you’re greeted by a friendly man behind the counter, telling you to sit wherever you want. You turn towards the quaint dining room and, to your surprise, see a familiar figure sitting at one of the tables. Sam Wilson looks just as surprised as you feel. Your feet move on their own accord as you approach your best friend. He looks nice — clad in a maroon polo and his nicest pair of jeans. 

“What are you doing here, Sam?”

You found it strange that you never received your weekly text from Sam asking you about your Friday night plans. But you concluded that either Bucky told him about your blind date or Sam planned a date for that evening as well. But this was an outcome you never expected.

“Bucky set me up on a blind date with one of his friends.”

Your brow furrows at Sam’s confession.

“Bucky set me up on a blind date with one of his friends.”

Sam looks at you as if you’re speaking a different language, and embarrassment washes over you as you realize that you’re right: Bucky Barnes only has two friends, and they’re currently looking at each other stupidly in a family-owned Ramen joint. Anger rushes through your veins as the realization sets in, but Sam still looks dumbfounded.

“So, Bucky set us up on a date.”

“Oh.”

You wait for him to continue, but he just sits at his empty table, at a loss for words. Usually, the silence between the two of you is comfortable; however, right now, it's excruciating. You suddenly feel about two inches tall as you stand before Sam. As the room gets twenty degrees warmer and the walls begin closing in, you decide it’s probably best if you get out of here. 

“This was a stupid idea.”

You turn away from Sam, but before you can take a step towards the door, he grabs your hand. The contact causes you to look back at your best friend, whose gaze is surprisingly tender. Your body relaxes ever so slightly, and, against your better judgment, your hand tightens around his. 

“It doesn’t have to be.”

His tone is genuine, but there’s still that voice in the back of your head gnawing at you. There’s no way that your best friend suddenly wants to go on a date with you. That shit doesn’t happen in real life. This isn’t a movie — he hasn’t been waiting almost two decades for this exact moment to express his feelings for you. You keep your expectations low because although Sam is a superhero, this isn’t a fairytale. Still, you let him gently tug your body into the seat across from him. 

“You don’t have to do this, Sam.”

Sam’s brow furrows, and a look of genuine confusion washes over his features. He studies you for a moment before speaking. 

“You think I don’t want to go on a date with you?”

You roll your eyes at his question. This whole conversation is ridiculous, and it’s beginning to feel like Sam and Bucky are pulling a practical joke on you right now. But Sam looks at you expectantly, waiting for your answer, so you play along even though you aren’t happy about it.

“C’mon, Sam.”

Sam simply arches a brow at you with a bewildered expression, and for a moment, your resolve falters. What if this is real? What if this isn’t some stupid joke between Sam and Bucky? What’s the harm in just letting this moment play out? With a sigh, you look up at Sam, who is still studying your features. 

“Sam, I’m pretty certain that if you were interested in me at any point in the last twenty years, you’d have asked me out by now.”

Sam huffs out a laugh at this, and suddenly, he looks embarrassed. This reaction confuses you. Sam is a confident man — he’s rarely self-conscious about himself or his decisions. 

“Yeah, about that…”

Your heart lurches in your chest as he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly as he tries to find the right words. And as he meets your eyes, there’s an emotion in his gaze that you can’t quite place. 

“What is it, Sam?”

Sam sighs before speaking.

“This isn’t just platonic for me.”

Suddenly, your world comes to a screeching halt. This feels like an out-of-body experience — like some sort of dream — and you’re pretty sure if you pinched yourself right now, you’d wake up alone in your apartment. But that doesn’t happen. You’re really here with Sam, having this conversation.

“How long have you felt like that?”

Sam looks away from you as he thinks for a moment, wanting to give you an accurate answer.

“After we helped Steve with Hydra in D.C., seeing you in the hospital put things into perspective.”

You were working as a SHIELD pilot for almost two years when Sam went missing with SHIELD’s two most wanted fugitives: Steve Rogers and Natasha Romanoff. Because of this, it didn’t take much convincing for you to ignore your orders and help Steve stop the launch of the helicarriers. Bucky, acting as the Winter Soldier at the time, had taken out most of SHIELD’s air support; however, you and a group of four other pilots managed to get your birds into the air. Although the stakes were high, a part of you felt like it was old times — watching Sam soar through the air in his Exo-7 flight suit from the cockpit of your F-35 Lightning II. The fight was going well until Bucky nailed your left wing with a large piece of debris, causing you to go into a downward tailspin. You attempted to stabilize your aircraft but ran out of time. So, you decided to pull your parachute, but to your horror, the cord was stuck. Sam, grounded due to his broken wings, watched helplessly as your fighter slammed into the Potomac River. You were found by search and rescue after the helicarriers were destroyed and woke up in a hospital bed three days later. Recovery was agonizingly slow, but Sam never left your side — except to check on Steve every so often in the room next to yours. The memory brings a small, sad smile to your face.

“That was ten years ago, Sam. What stopped you from telling me?”

“Other than everything that happened after that? You’re my best friend — I didn’t want to risk that.”

You suppose he’s right. There was rarely a moment of downtime after you recovered from your fall into the Potomac River. The two of you immediately threw yourselves into helping Steve track down Bucky, and just two years later, all four of you were wanted fugitives due to the Sokovia Accords. Between the years you spent living on the run and the years you lost to the blip, there was rarely a quiet moment until Thanos was finally defeated — until now. 

“For me, it was after Riley.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up at your confession, obviously not expecting for you to have fallen first. But, despite his excitement at this revelation, he stays quiet, letting you continue if you want.

“After losing him, I couldn’t help imagining it being you who got shot down that day. The idea haunted me in my nightmares, and I realized that if I lost you, it would be a different kind of grief.” 

Sam’s face softens, and he reaches across the table for your hand. He wraps his hand tightly around yours, grounding you back into this moment before speaking.

“You never have to worry about losing me.”

You scoff at his words, giving him an incredulous look.

“You’re Captain America, Sam. Running head first into danger is your job.”

“Okay, fair. But I have a very compelling reason to stay alive.”

You laugh, attempting to cover up how flustered you feel due to Sam’s words. It doesn’t work. Sam smiles as he notices the effect his words have on you. He could get used to this — flirting with you until you’re bright red and stumbling over your words. It’s undeniably cute, and he can’t believe it’s taken him this long to do it. 

After your emotionally charged conversation, you both need something to eat. The two of you both order ramen, and Sam doesn’t let go of your hand until two bowls are set down on the table. You enjoy your meal while Sam occasionally nudges his knee playfully into yours under the table before offering you a flirtatious smile. The conversation that flows between you doesn’t feel forced or uncomfortable — it feels both familiar and somehow brand new. The two of you had been navigating the grey area between romantic and platonic for so long that it feels almost liberating to look at Sam and know his true intentions. 

After Sam pays the bill, giving the establishment's owner a generous tip, the two of you fall into step with one another as you walk toward your apartment. The walk isn’t drastically different from the thousands you’ve taken before. Sam still slings his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side — except this time, you move your hand up and intertwine your fingers. He still walks up the stairs with you to your apartment, unlocking the door with the key you gave him ages again — except this time, he leads you by the hand up all five flights. And he still moves through your apartment as if it were his, opening your fridge to grab two beers and rifling through your junk drawer to find the bottle opener he knows is in there — except this time, as he places the beers behind you, he doesn’t move away. Instead, he keeps his hands on the counter, one on either side of your body, caging you in. His expression is soft, illuminated by the lone fluorescent light in your small kitchen. And there’s an adoration in his gaze that makes you feel lighter than air.

Steve’s words, from what feels like a lifetime ago, ring in your ears as you look up at Sam Wilson, who stands just a breath away: "As the world's expert on waiting too long, don't."

Tired of waiting, you grab Sam by the front of his polo and pull him into you, locking your lips with his as your chests bump into each other. It’s not a picture-perfect kiss; it’s a little sloppy and frantic, but it’s the type that makes up for the twenty years you spent dancing around your feelings for one another. Eventually, you break away from each other. Sam rests his forehead against yours, and the brightest smile you’ve ever seen graces his face — the man looks like sunshine incarnate as he studies your features.

“I should have done that ten years ago.”

The laugh that escapes you is melodic — a goddamn symphony to Sam’s ears. And he can’t help but kiss you again. And again. And again. In an attempt to make up for lost time and to prove to you, this was never just platonic. 

[wannabespacesmuggler]

Me, a week ago: I know they're going to wait to put in a Frank Castle appearance in order to keep us all watching, so I'm not going to get upset when he isn't in the first couple episodes.

Also me, tonight (March 4th): WHERE THE FUCK IS MY BOY, FRANKIE???

[wannabespacesmuggler]

IN THE COLD ➵ CPT. REX [01]

Part One | Masterlist | Check out the Playlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: Ferrix is a rocky, sparsely populated planet that shifts into a desolate tundra in the long winter months. In that barren wasteland, your greatest nightmare becomes a reality. After losing your squadron, you're demoted to Commander and reassigned to the 501st Battalion. In between missions after the departure of their former Commander, their next assignment comes from the Jedi Council: the 501st is needed to relieve the current squadron stationed on Ferrix. You fear that you won't be able to survive another battle in the cold, but your new Captain makes it his mission to keep you safe and warm.

Pairing: Captain Rex x Jedi!Reader

Warnings: canon typical violence, mentions of loss, PTSD, slow burn, canon divergent, set during The Clone Wars post Ahsoka leaving the Jedi Order, anti-Jedi Council, original clone characters, reader is around Anakin's age, no use of y/n, use of the names 'commander' and 'sir'

Word Count: 1.8k

Author’s Note: I've been wanting to write for Captain Rex since I fist watched The Clone Wars years ago, but never had an idea worth putting to paper until now. I'm really proud of this one and I'm excited for you guys to read it. Let me know what you think and if you want to be added to the taglist.

The cruiser is buzzing with activity as Rex, helmet in hand, marches through the hallways at a breakneck pace. He'd just received word from General Kenobi that his presence is needed on the bridge, along with General Skywalker. After years of fighting side-by-side with General Kenobi, a direct message to his personal comms isn't an unheard-of scenario. However, Rex rarely receives orders from the General of the 212th, which can only mean one thing: he can't find Anakin. After checking both his personal quarters and the mess hall, he knows there's only one other place that Anakin often sneaks off to.

Rex slides to a stop in front of the door to the mediation room and makes sure no one else is in the hallway before punching in his clearance code. The door hisses as it slides open. Anakin's head shoots towards the sound, but the worry in his features disappears when he notices Rex standing in the doorway.

"Sir, General Kenobi has requested our presence on the bridge."

"Thank you, Rex. I'll be out in a minute."

Rex gives his General a curt nod before exiting and standing guard in front of the door to ensure his privacy. Rex has known about Anakin's relationship with Senator Amidala for quite some time. After all, Anakin was never particularly gifted in the matters of subtleness and secrecy. And Rex, after many years working side-by-side with his General, knows that his favorite place to slip away and have a private comm chat is the meditation room. After a few moments, Anakin exits and gives Rex an appreciative grin.

"Ready to meet our new Commander?"

Rex falls into step beside Anakin as they begin to make their way to the bridge. He doesn't quite know how to answer the General's question. After Ahsoka's departure, Rex was sure he'd be promoted to Commander. However, several weeks after the position was vacated, Anakin received word from the Jedi Council that they'd be sending another Jedi to fill the position. Rex would be lying if he said that it didn't sting. After all, the Jedi Council decided it was best to promote someone outside of the battalion when he's been with the 501st for the majority of his life now. He knows that not everyone looks at the clones like General Skywalker and Kenobi do — like they are all actual, complex individuals instead of pawns on a holochess board — but his dedication and loyalty to the 501st is undeniable. But then Anakin asked who they'd be sending, and they said your name.

"Yes, sir."

"I'm sure you have thoughts on the matter. After all, you've probably heard the rumors circling around."

Of course, Rex has heard rumors about the lone survivor of the 177th whispered in the bunk room after curfew or thrown around amidst the chaos of the mess hall; however, he also read your report after they'd been notified of your new position with the 501st. You were stationed with your squadron on Ferrix, an outer rim planet that the Republic considers essential territory due to its abundant natural resources and bountiful salvage markets. The 177th had been pushing back the Separatist Army for weeks — trudging through waist-deep snow in sub-zero temperatures — when the Separatist Army began shooting at them from above in a small canyon during whiteout conditions. You made the wise decision to retreat. After all, the 177th were supposed to be pulled off planet three days prior, but, last you heard, multiple snow storms delayed the reinforcements. Before you could retreat, your squadron was flanked by the Separatist Army on either side of the canyon — leaving the 177th weak, frostbitten, and unknowingly trapped in a minefield. Rex remembers feeling sick to his stomach reading the report, knowing the 177th never stood a chance. If the explosions didn't kill your squadron, then the ensuing avalanche that buried everything in the canyon did. You were the only survivor, and you spent the next two days pulling your troopers out of the snow while waiting for the next squadron to relieve you. After you were finally evacuated, you spent the next month submerged in a bacta tank, and when you finally returned to the Jedi Temple, you were promptly demoted to Commander. A small, selfish part of him thinks that the Jedi Council is punishing you both with your new position.

"I read the report, sir. I have nothing but respect and admiration for our new Commander."

Anakin glances at the clone, searching his features for any hint of dishonesty or skepticism. But he is pleased to see nothing but sincerity on his Captain's face. He's also read the report, and the incredible act of loyalty to your squadron may not have earned you favor from the Council, but it certainly earned Anakin's respect. Although he knows that the council can never replace Ahsoka, you are certainly cut from the same cloth as the rest of the 501st.

"As do I. Obi-Wan ensures me that they're a good fit for the team. Apparently, their squadron rivaled ours in Council sanctions for 'unorthodox military strategies'."

This causes Rex to laugh. Rex was an exemplary student during his training on Kamino — being one of the first clones promoted to a leadership role in the Republic's army. However, one thing he's learned throughout his time as Captain of the 501st is warfare is rarely done by the book. Instead, he's realized that in times of war, leaders require a little more finesse. The Council may not necessarily approve of their methods, but they don't complain as long as they get the job done. But on the rare instance when they fail? Well, let's say Rex hopes never to attend another one of those meetings.

"Then this should be a smooth transition, sir."

Anakin nods at his second-in-command, and Rex slides his helmet on him before they enter the bridge. He is grateful that his face is obscured because he's sure his expression twists into prominent confusion as the doors slide open and reveal you standing beside General Kenobi. You're young — not much older than Anakin. He supposes the Republic needs all the leaders it can get, but he thought that General Skywalker was an anomaly. But here you are. You're clad in navy Jedi robes and Republic-issued black body plate except for your shoulder bells, which are undoubtedly standard clone armor. The sight peaks Rex's curiosity — he's never seen a Jedi sport their squadron's uniform until today. He immediately recognizes the white spaulders with deep, purple accent paint — the color once assigned to the 177th — as Commander Bravo's. However, you've made a singular adjustment to your late Commander's gear. Tallies are a regular occurrence on clone armor. Some clones like to keep track of their Separatist kill count, while others like to document their successful missions. However, he's certain that the tally marks you've etched onto your left spaulder signify something a little more personal. There are nine tally marks — one for each clone you lost on Ferrix. He's certain because his marks convey a similar message — one tally for each brother he's lost since the start of the war. The shoulder bells seem almost out of place as they contrast the rest of your dark attire. And Rex quickly realizes that it's purposeful. You want them to be the first thing someone notices — you want to keep the memory of Bravo and the rest of the 177th alive. Rex finds this behavior at odds with what he knows about Jedi teachings; however, it's also one of the most admirable actions he's witnessed from a Republic General.

"General Skywalker, a pleasure to meet you again."

Your tone is assertive, and you stand like a soldier with your hands clasped tightly behind your back. The way you square your shoulders at the Generals showcases your defiance; however, Rex can tell you mean no disrespect to Anakin. No, this display is directed toward General Kenobi — to show clear opposition toward the Jedi Council. Obi-Wan lacks the shock evident in both Rex and Anakin's features, and he shows no offense to your actions — seemingly indifferent to your noncompliance. Rex can only imagine what your meetings with the Jedi Council were like before this. He watches as an amused grin spreads across Anakin's face at your antics. General Kenobi was undoubtedly right about one thing — you'll fit right in with the rest of the 501st.

A part of him is surprised that you were reassigned at all, but then again, the Republic Army needs all the bodies it can get. Maybe you understand what it's like for the clones, constantly feeling like pieces in the Republic's grand game of holochess.

"Pleasure is all mine, Commander. This is our second-in-command, Captain Rex."

Rex notices the way your jaw clenches at the word 'commander'. Although he was initially disappointed in being passed over for the title, he can't imagine what it's like to be stripped of your position altogether. Especially one you'd worked so hard to achieve — becoming a Jedi General is no small feat. He'd feel lost if he was ever demoted from his position as Captain. So, Rex muscles off his helmet and gives you a salute, trying to provide you with proper respect.

"Sir."

Your frigid facade melts for just a second, and in its place is a moment of recognition. Rex watches as your eyes widen ever so slightly, and your breath seems to catch in your throat. You look like you've seen a ghost.

"Excuse me, General. Captain."

Your voice wavers slightly as you give Rex a curt nod. He watches with Anakin as you retreat from the bridge, leaving them equally impressed and confused. General Kenobi clears his throat before addressing the Bantha in the room.

"As you can see, they came back from Ferrix a little..."

"Frosty?"

Obi-Wan stifles a laugh as his former padawan finishes his sentence.

"Something like that."

Rex's eyes are still glued to the door you just left. He can't stop thinking about the way you looked at him. He's confident that this is the first time he's met you, but you regarded him with a familiarity that made Rex believe you once knew him — like he is someone who haunts you.

He tears his eyes away from the door and focuses on the conversation between General Kenobi and Skywalker. There is still no word on their next assignment. This is disheartening, after the loss of Ahsoka both Anakin and Rex are itching for a new mission — for something to keep their minds off of what's missing. No matter where they get sent next, one thing is sure: there's work to be done beforehand to earn their new Commander's trust. Obi-Wan excuses himself as he receives a call from the Jedi Council. Anakin takes this moment to direct his attention back to Rex.

"What do you think, Rex?"

"I'm starting to think that transition isn't going to be as smooth as we believed, sir."

[wannabespacesmuggler]

D.D. | Shane's Girl [13]

Part Thirteen | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee | Check out the playlist

Summary: Daryl Dixon knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s alone at night in his tent. Hell, he shouldn’t even be looking at you throughout the day. You’re not his. You’re Shane’s girl. But Daryl doesn’t like the way Shane treats you. And he certainly doesn’t like how you’re forced to play ‘loving girlfriend’ to a man with eyes for another woman at the camp.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female!Reader

Warnings: Shane Walsh & Merle Dixon are the worst, angst, canon violence, mentions of tobacco use, story follows the show but dialogue and events are paraphrased, abusive behavior, a very slow burn

Word Count: 2.3k

Author’s Note: I've been on kind of a roll with this series lately. It's just all been flowing nicely and I've felt super excited to write each new chapter. Thank you for all the love you've shown this fic over the years, but especially for the last two chapters. It's been so heartwarming. Let me know what you all think and if you want to be added to the taglist.

Your knees ache as your feet pound against dark, uneven asphalt. Glenn leads the group through back alleys and side streets while Rick and Daryl silently take out any lone walkers you run into as you all make your way back to the box truck. You and T-Dog trail behind the other men, carrying the gear you’ve all picked up in the city. Glenn turns down another narrow passage, and finally, the five of you can see the train tracks where you left the vehicle. But the sight is not one of relief. Instead, panic rises quickly in your chest as you notice that the box truck is missing. 

“Where the hell’s our truck?”

Daryl spits the question out through gritted teeth; crossbow raised as he observes his surroundings for any sign of an ambush. He doesn’t like this. Without a vehicle, the five of you are vulnerable. You all either need to move or find shelter — standing out in the open isn’t an option. Glenn takes his baseball cap off, running his hands through his dark hair, before responding to Daryl’s question. 

“We left it right here. Who would take it?”

“Merle.”

Daryl lowers his crossbow as Rick says his brother’s name. As much as he hates to admit it, the sheriff is probably right. His brother probably thinks he was left for dead, handcuffed to that roof — and he ain’t the forgiving type. Daryl nervously chews on his bottom lip as he makes eye contact with Rick. Rick waits for Daryl to blow up at the insinuation, but the youngest Dixon simply nods at his statement. 

“We gotta go. He’s gonna be taking some vengeance back to camp.”

Rick’s jaw clenches as he takes in Daryl’s words, but he composes himself before addressing the rest of the group. 

“Alright, drop anything we don’t need. We don’t have a vehicle, but we need to make it back to camp — fast.”

“How are we going to do that?”

Rick locks eyes with T-Dog, and you let out a tired sigh as you look at one of your oldest friends. You know that expression — you’ve seen it countless times. And you know you’ll hate the following words that come out of his mouth.

“We run.”

You rarely hate being right, but right now, you loathe how well you know Rick Grimes. Before you can ask what you’re supposed to do about the heavy duffle bag full of guns hanging off your shoulder, Daryl takes it from you with ease. He adjusts his crossbow to fall across his chest while the duffle bag rests against his back. A part of you wants to get defensive and insist that you can handle it, but you’re more impressed by how little Daryl reacts to the extra weight he’s carrying. The five of you give each other one last look before breaking off into a jog back towards camp. 

If you thought the hour drive to the city was long, the run back is excruciating. Your lungs burn as you keep pace with Glenn behind Rick and Daryl. Your lungs might feel like they’re on fire, but at least it means that you’re alive. And even if you thought about slowing your pace, Daryl’s occasional glances back to you are enough to keep you focused on putting one foot in front of the other.  

You glance at Glenn nervously as the sun sets behind you, noticing that T-Dog has fallen behind slightly due to the weight of the toolbox on his left-hand side. Glenn notices and spares an amused look back at his friend.

“You holding up, T-Dog?”

There’s a grin plastered to Glenn’s face as he asks the question. T-Dog rolls his eyes before quickening his pace slightly.

“Shut up, Glenn.”

Hours pass. And as your breathing becomes more ragged and your sweaty clothes cling to your body uncomfortably, you begin to believe that you may never make it back to camp. That is until a deafening scream rips through the eerily quiet woods. You share a panicked look with Glenn as Rick breaks off into a dead sprint towards the sound. Before you can follow suit, Daryl grabs your shoulder. 

“Don’t matter what’s there, just get your knife out and stay behind me. Okay?”

He searches your eyes as you nod frantically at his request. He huffs out a frustrated breath as the rest of you chase after Rick who has started cutting through the treeline, abandoning the dirt path you’ve been following. Daryl has his crossbow raised, and you've got a white knuckle grip on the knife in your right hand. As the five of you stumble out of the treeline and into camp, you let out a panicked gasp. To your surprise, Merle is not the culprit of the chaos, but instead, a small herd of walkers that just so happened to have wandered into camp. Rick, T-Dog, and Daryl immediately throw themselves into the action, but your entire body freezes as your eyes land on Amy’s bloody body on the ground nearly fifteen feet from the RV. 

No. It can’t be. You were all supposed to be safe here. Shane promised that you were all far enough away from the city — that there was no way walkers would make their way up here.

You shake yourself out of your momentary paralysis, wiping the tears from your eyes with the back of your free hand before rushing into the confusion with Glenn. The two of you make sure the children are accounted for and that everyone without a weapon is hidden from the carnage as Rick, Daryl, and T-Dog make quick work of the walkers with Shane’s help. You usher Jacqui into an empty tent, telling her to stay put until someone gives the all-clear before looking around the camp for any more stranglers. Your eyes land on Daryl, who shoots another walker straight between the eyes. He moves to reload, missing the walker approaching him from behind. Your grip tightens around the hilt of your knife as your feet move on their own accord.

“Daryl, behind you!”

You watch in horror as Daryl turns, and the walker grabs him by the shoulders. Daryl’s footing staggers as he drops his crossbow. He attempts to grab the knife at his side, but holding the walker back from biting into his flesh is taking all of his strength. Your legs move as fast as physically possible to make it to him in time, and you don’t think twice before plunging your knife into the back of the walker's skull. Daryl releases his hold as the walker becomes deadweight in his arms and turns to you with a bewildered expression. You look down at your shaky hands, dropping the bloody knife and taking a step away from the body.

“Hey.”

Your eyes shoot up to Daryl, who has ducked his head down to meet you at eye level. His chest is heaving, but the look in his eyes isn’t panicked. No, he’s looking at you with a gentleness and appreciation that seems misplaced in your current predicament — like you just saved his life. 

“I killed him.”

Daryl nods at your words before speaking.

“You had to.”

You did save his life. So why does the sight of the walker’s corpse make you want to throw up? You’re disgusted as you look down at the bloody knife. Not by the scene before you but by yourself. 

“Is it over?”

Your voice feels small and far away from your body as you look back up at Daryl. He looks around the camp — at who’s left after the devastation — before nodding. You let out a tired sigh before turning on your heel without another word. There’s only one thing on your mind as you make your way towards the RV: Amy. 

Daryl picks up his crossbow and your knife before following after you. He stops short as he watches you approach Andrea and Amy. You crouch down beside your friend’s body and hug Andrea. He doesn’t particularly like you being so close to Amy’s corpse, but he knows you need to say goodbye. He doesn’t want to take that closure away from you, so he makes his way to the front of the RV and slides down to sit on the ground. He’s far enough away that he can’t hear your conversation but still close enough to step in if anything happens. 

You know he’s watching over you as you console Andrea, and you find comfort in it. Andrea’s arms are tight around your body as she sobs into your shoulder, explaining that she was excited to celebrate her sister’s birthday tomorrow. You just hold her tighter, assuring her that this is not her fault. Eventually, Andrea pulls away and asks for a moment alone with her sister. You nod, tears rolling down your face as you hold Amy’s hand one last time. Finally, you tear yourself away from your friend’s lifeless body and make your way over to Daryl.

“You ‘lright?”

You slide down next to him, shoulder brushing against his. Your head leans back against the RV, and you can feel Daryl’s eyes on you as you take a shaky breath. You know you look like a complete mess, and your hands are still shaking at your sides, but he’s looking at you with a tenderness that makes you want to sob. 

“Feels like you’ve been asking me that question a lot lately.”

In spite of the circumstances, a huff of air escapes through Daryl’s nostrils — the closest thing to a laugh that anyone will hear tonight. The sound makes your lips quirk up into a small, sad smile.

“Lot’s been going on.”

He’s right. The last three days felt like a month, and you’re left with nothing but exhaustion. And today was nothing less than hell on earth for you, but you cannot shake off the feeling that this is just the beginning.

“Nothing’s going to be the same now, is it?”

You know the answer. 

After witnessing the destruction and mayhem in Atlanta firsthand. After taking down your first walker — knowing that even though their only instinct is to kill, it was once a person with dreams and aspirations. After watching a close friend meet a gruesome, untimely demise.

You know nothing can go back to the way it was. 

Daryl sighs, looking at you with a disheartened expression. It’s the first time he’s dropped his composure since you’ve both gotten back to camp.

“Nah, I guess not.”

His voice is strained, brimming with unspoken sadness and frustration. Your heart aches at the realization that he’s also had one hell of a day. After all, Daryl lost someone today as well. Your brow furrows as you peer at the man sitting beside you. A single question ricochets through your brain as you watch him pick at his thumb.

“Are you going to leave now?”

The question makes sense to you, and you’re expecting him to say yes — bracing for a goodbye that you’re not prepared for. But Daryl physically recoils at your words, and confusion washes over his tired features. 

“What are you talking about?”

“I figured with Merle still out there…”

Daryl’s face softens as you trail off. Oh. Merle was the last thing on his mind after everything that happened today. The hope he’d felt after seeing the trail of blood and realizing that Merle had managed to cauterize the wound immediately disappeared after he witnessed how many walkers there were in the city. Merle is headstrong and resilient; however, at the end of the day, he’s still just one man. Maybe if he were a better brother, finding Merle would be the only thing on his mind. Daryl knows that several weeks ago, he would have left without a second thought, not stopping until he found his brother’s body. But things have changed. It may be selfish, but after everything that happened today, the only concern on Daryl’s mind is keeping what’s in front of him safe. But anxiety suddenly courses through his veins as he realizes maybe that’s not what you want. 

“Do you want me to leave?”

Daryl cringes at his words. Maybe Merle was right. Maybe he is already whipped for a woman he barely knows. Because if you told him to leave right now, he would. He’d leave in the dead of night without another word. But he hopes that you don’t. Even though it makes him feel strange and uncomfortable, Daryl finds himself hoping that you ask him to stay. 

And you’re at a loss for words as you take in the vulnerability deeply etched into his expression. Even though you’ve known him for weeks, you feel like this is the first time you’ve actually seen Daryl Dixon. His stoic, hardened demeanor cracks for just a second, and the importance of this moment doesn’t escape you. Finally, you manage to shake your head at his question. Daryl smiles at that — genuinely smiles. And the sight is a breath of fresh air on your worst day. 

“Then I’m not going nowhere.”

You nod, biting back a smile before falling into a comfortable silence. Daryl leans his head back to look at the night sky. It seems so strange that after all the carnage he witnessed today, he can still find beauty in little things like stars — or how your breathing evens out beside him as you fall asleep. He knows you’d have a better night’s rest in your tent, but he doesn’t make an effort to wake you. He’s painfully aware that you technically still share a tent with Shane, and he really has no interest in going back to his empty tent filled with Merle’s belongings, so he just continues to sit next to you. And although every muscle in his body tenses as you lean your head against his shoulder, he doesn’t falter. 

He promised you he wasn’t going anywhere, and he meant it. 

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[wannabespacesmuggler]

D.D. | Shane’s Girl [12]

Part Twleve | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee | Check out the playlist

Summary: Daryl Dixon knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s alone at night in his tent. Hell, he shouldn’t even be looking at you throughout the day. You’re not his. You’re Shane’s girl. But Daryl doesn’t like the way Shane treats you. And he certainly doesn’t like how you’re forced to play ‘loving girlfriend’ to a man with eyes for another woman at the camp.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female!Reader

Warnings: Shane Walsh & Merle Dixon are the worst, angst, canon violence, mentions of tobacco use, story follows the show but dialogue and events are paraphrased, abusive behavior

Word Count: 2k

Author’s Note: I know, I know. Two updates in two days. It's a goddamn miracle. Anyways, felt inspired. Really happy with how this story is turning out. Let me know what you all think and if you want to be added to the taglist.

There’s still a slight ringing in your ears as you muster up the strength to open your eyes. You take in your new surroundings, a fairly empty room with a single desk in the corner and two chairs in the middle, facing each other. You’re tied to one, while Glenn is tied to the other. You blink several times, trying to unblur your vision. Glenn lets out a sigh of relief as you finally make eye contact with him.

“I’m so glad you’re awake. I was so worried. How are you feeling?”

A pained groan escapes your lips as you roll your shoulders back. You grimace through the pain — you definitely pulled something when one of your attackers slammed you into the wall before you and Glenn were thrown into a car. Daryl had tried his best to get your attacker off of you, but the three of you were outnumbered. You can only imagine the hell that he’s raising right now — you just pray that he doesn’t kill Rick and T-Dog in the process. The wildfire of anger burning within Daryl started the minute he saw his brother’s severed hand on top of that roof. You don’t blame him — everything about the situation you’re all in is fucked up. The look in his eyes as Rick pointed a gun to his head sent a shiver down your spine. You didn’t fear him like Glenn and T-Dog, who both quickly put ample distance between the archer and themselves. This anger wasn’t caused by hatred or contempt — no, it was simply misplaced grief. You were able to tame the flames and calm Daryl down enough to de-escalate the situation, but you’re certain your kidnapping only stoked the fire raging within him.

“I’ve had better days, Glenn.”

Glenn lets out a dry laugh at your words before nodding. Today didn’t seem to be going anyone’s way, but between your group’s failed ‘rescue mission’ and your very public breakup this morning, you definitely pulled the short end of the stick between the five of them.

“How long have we been here?”

There’s still sunlight seeping in through the cracks of the boarded windows to your right, but you have no idea how long you were unconscious.

“Not long. I’m sure the group will think of something and get us out here in no time.”

“If they were smart, Rick would bring those guns back to camp and regroup before doing anything dumb.”

Rick just got his family back — the last thing he needs to do right now is come in here without a solid plan. It may be selfish to say, but you cannot watch Carl lose his father again.

“I’m pretty sure Daryl would kill Rick if he even thought about leaving you here.”

His expression is playful, but there’s a sincerity to his words that you cannot ignore. You arch a brow at him, which only causes him to laugh again.

“Hey, I’m simply stating what I’ve seen. I wish I had someone that cared that much about me.”

Your brow furrows at his admission. From what you’ve seen, Glenn is well loved by everyone in the quarry camp. Dale was quick to take him under his wing and give him lessons on engine repairs. Andrea seems to always follow his lead when it comes to strategizing for runs to the city. And T-Dog seems to have an infinite amount of compliments for the man sitting in front of you. Hell, you don’t know him all that well, but you do know that you’d miss his positive demeanor and quick wit if he weren’t around.

“People care about you, Glenn.”

He gives you a soft smile before responding.

“Not like that.”

Your eyes fall to your feet as his words sink in. You know he’s right. Daryl Dixon cares about you in a way that almost feels unnatural. Your silent protector, your watchful guard dog, your constant companion. And it goes both ways. When Rick held his gun to Daryl’s temple, your heart immediately leapt into your throat. You didn’t think twice before placing yourself between the two armed and angry men. You know that if Rick decided to head back to camp without you, Daryl would kick down the door to this hideout by himself even though he’s outgunned and outmanned. And you only know this because you would do this same for him. You’ve only known Daryl for a handful of weeks, but you’d risk your life for him. That feels both unnatural and somehow right.

Before you can respond to Glenn, the door swings open, and two large men step inside. You and Glenn share a nervous look as the men approach you. They cover your mouth in duct tape before placing a cloth bag over your head. Then, they move to do the same to Glenn. Finally, your feet are untied, and you’re being lifted off of your seat.

“C’mon, your boys are here.”

Without another word, you’re escorted through various hallways. The grip your captor has on your shoulder is strong but also surprisingly hesitant — like he’s afraid to hurt you. You hear a door unlock and the inside of your cloth bag is suddenly much brighter. They’ve taken you outside. You can hear men talking in the distance, but the conversation is too far away to make out anything specific. The hand on your shoulder releases its grip and the bag is suddenly ripped off of your head. You look around as your eyes adjust to the sunlight. Glenn is on your left, looking desperately at something below you both. You follow his gaze and lock eyes with Daryl. You lean forward to get a better look at how high up you are. You’re several stories above Daryl, but you can still hear the snarl that rips through his throat as the man next to you grabs your shoulder again, keeping you in place.

“Don’t fucking touch her.”

The man’s grip loosens slightly as Daryl’s crossbow raises towards him. Rick places a hand on Daryl’s chest, giving him a stern look. It’s a silent warning to the man beside him. Reluctantly, Daryl lowers his crossbow, knowing that Rick is right. He desperately wants to shoot the man beside you, but he knows that it will not help keep you safe. You’re all still outnumbered, and even with T-Dog as their sniper, Rick and himself couldn't take on all of these men. He gives Rick a small nod before looking back up at you. Rick and the man you’ve concluded is the leader of this group speak for several moments, but Daryl keeps his eyes locked on yours. There’s a steadiness to his gaze that you find comfort in. And even as you’re dragged across the rooftop, back to the door you came from, you know he’ll find a way to get you out of this.

This time, you and Glenn are led to the middle of a long hallway two floors down. There’s a set of double doors to your left, and you can hear people conversing behind them.

“Alright, I think we’ve scared these two enough.”

The man who had just been talking to Rick enters the hallway, and you notice how the men standing next to you, and Glenn visibly relax in his presence. Still, you square your shoulders, looking toward their leader with indifference.

“What do you want from us?”

He smiles at you, looking at his men with an amused expression.

“Damn, you’re just as chilly as your redneck vato.”

He nods to his men, and they immediately untie you. You rub your rope-burned wrists for a moment before meeting the leader’s gaze. Your brow furrows in confusion as he shoves his hands in his pockets.

“My name is Guillermo, and we don’t want to hurt you. We just want to protect what we have here.”

He motions over to the double doors that his men have opened, and you’re pleasantly surprised by the scene before you. There are countless elderly people scattered around the cafeteria. Several younger men walk around giving out medication and food to those that need it. You look over to Guillermo, your features notably softer than the last time you spoke to him.

“What is this place?”

“It’s an assisted living facility. Felipe and I worked here before everything. The rest of the staff left them to die, but Felipe and I stayed. Everyone else — the vatos — came here to check on their family members and choose to stick around.”

A laugh escapes your lips as a woman approaches Glenn, taking him by the hand and leading him to a table full of elderly women. He shoots you a nervous glance before he’s wrapped up in conversation. This place is no different from the quarry where your camp settled — just good people trying to get by in dire circumstances.

“We shouldn’t be fighting.”

Guillermo sighs, taking in your words. He places a reassuring hand on your shoulder before responding.

“I didn’t know what kind of people you were, but now I know. We’ll settle this when your boys get back.”

You nod, giving him a soft smile before wandering over to the table that Glenn had been whisked away to. Glenn looks up at you, motioning for you to sit down next to him. The next hour passes by quickly as you and Glenn enjoy friendly conversation and good company. This new world may be brutal and unyielding, but it’s still surprisingly beautiful.

Suddenly, an older man begins to cough several tables away. No one seems to notice at first, but once he doubles over, unable to take a steady breath, everyone moves into action. You watch as two vatos rush in with an inhaler and talk him through the process until his breathing is even again. Swept up in the commotion, you don’t notice the rest of your group standing at the open doors with Guillermo. There’s a sudden hand on your shoulder, turning you around abruptly. Your protests die in your throat as you meet Daryl’s eyes. He’s looking you over, worry evident in his sharp features.

“You ’lright? They hurt you?”

His eyes meet yours again. He stops scanning your body for injuries but keeps a steady hold of your shoulders. You smile at him, and his face twists into confusion. Over his shoulder, you spot Glenn watching your interaction. He gives you a knowing look, which you choose to ignore, deciding instead to focus on the man in front of you.

“I’m fine, Daryl. Pulled something in my shoulder when we first got jumped, but they didn’t do anything to us.”

Daryl searches your eyes for several seconds before nodding, content with the situation. He releases your shoulders and lets out a sigh of relief. The wildfire raging within him has noticeably dissipated, and as he looks down at you again, his expression softens.

“Y’know, if this is how I knew today would turn out — I’d have told you to stay at the camp.”

You laugh at his comment, and Daryl’s face lights up with a rare smile.

“If I stayed, you and Rick would have killed each other.”

As if on cue, Rick approaches you. The smile quickly fades from Daryl’s face, but the amusement in his features stays. Rick looks between the both of you before speaking.

“You good?”

You give him a nod which he returns. To your surprise, he hands the shotgun in his hands to Guillermo and tells T-Dog to give them half of the guns in the bag you all just risked your lives to retrieve. You place a hand on Daryl’s forearm before he can protest. He looks down at you, rolling his eyes in the process, but he doesn’t say a word. Although guns are worth more than gold nowadays, he knows this is the right call. They may not be bringing back as much firepower as promised, but they are leaving with an unlikely alliance that one day might be more valuable than the guns. Finally, Rick turns to look at the four of you.

“C’mon, we’ve been gone long enough.”

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[wannabespacesmuggler]

D.D. | Shane’s Girl [11]

Part Eleven | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee | Check out the playlist

Summary: Daryl Dixon knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s alone at night in his tent. Hell, he shouldn’t even be looking at you throughout the day. You’re not his. You’re Shane’s girl. But Daryl doesn’t like the way Shane treats you. And he certainly doesn’t like how you’re forced to play ‘loving girlfriend’ to a man with eyes for another woman at the camp.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x female!Reader

Warnings: Shane Walsh is the worst, angst, canon violence, mentions of tobacco use, chapter follows “Tell it to the Frogs” but dialogue and events are paraphrased.

Word Count: 1.5k

Author’s Note: Felt inspired while rewatching the Walking Dead for the thousandth time. I'm excited now that the reader has broken up with Shane, they can have more moments with Daryl. Let me know what you all think and if you want to be added to the taglist.

You finally convince Daryl to change out of his two-day-old hunting clothes, and while he’s gone, you try to make yourself useful; however, Glenn and T-Dog assure you that they can handle packing up the box truck with what little supplies the five of you need in order to survive in the city. Your eyes scan the camp, searching for any other tasks that need to be completed before you leave; however, your gaze lands on Rick and Lori, who are having a hushed argument by the RV. She’s unhappy with him, which you don’t find surprising — she just got her husband back, and now he’s agreed to leave to rescue a man he barely knows. But you know Rick, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he knew he left a man to die handcuffed to a rooftop.

Shane and Lori may be able to live with that guilt, but Rick can’t — you can’t. There’s no way that you would be able to look Daryl in the eye if you didn’t go back for Merle. He may not be your favorite person in the world, but he still means the world to Daryl. And you know that if you had someone important in Atlanta — someone you needed to save — Daryl wouldn’t hesitate. He’d be the first person to volunteer to help you, followed by Rick — that’s simply the type of men that they are. Reliable. Dependable. Kind.

Suddenly, another set of eyes lands on you as someone notices your interest in the conversation happening between Rick and Lori. Based on the way your skin crawls, you know you shouldn’t look over, but your curiosity gets the better of you. Your blood runs ice cold in your veins as you lock eyes with Shane who is leaning against the RV, arms tightly crossed against his chest. His gaze, which you once used to find comfort in, is like daggers piercing into your soul. Jealousy is an ugly feeling, and it is written all over his face. But unlike the past several weeks, you make no move to comfort him. Instead, you tear your eyes away from him and return your attention to Glenn and T-Dog. Your hands rub against each other anxiously as you watch the two men bicker with one another. The scene would normally make you laugh; however, you can’t seem to find joy in the interaction when you can still feel Shane’s eyes on you from across the camp.

You jump as a hand suddenly grabs your shoulder from behind, but you relax as your head twists, and you spot Daryl standing beside you. His face twists in worry at your response to his touch, and you feel the familiar sting of guilt creeping into the forefront of your mind.

“You ‘lright?”

You manage to nod at his question, but you can still see Shane’s imposing figure over his shoulder watching you intently. Daryl follows your gaze and moves to block your view of the former deputy. He ducks his head slightly, meeting you at eye level. Unlike Shane, Daryl’s gaze is overflowing with warmth and sincerity.

“He say anything to you?”

You shake your head in response, but Daryl doesn’t seem convinced. You don’t blame him for his skepticism as he takes in your shell shocked state.

“He’s just been watching me.”

You say it in a nonchalant tone because you know that it shouldn’t be affecting you as much as it is. After all, you’re the one that broke up with him. But you still can’t seem to shake off the feeling that you’re not safe around him anymore. Daryl throws a cold look over his shoulder at the other man, who seems to get the warning and finally turns away from you. A sigh of relief escapes your lips as your body automatically relaxes now that you’re no longer being watched.

“You ain’t gotta worry about him anymore.”

You nod at his words, but Daryl can still tell that you don’t fully believe him. And he doesn’t blame you. He’s worried about what Shane would have done to you if you had broken things off with him in private. The fact he escalated that much in front of everyone is concerning, to say the least. And he didn’t miss the way that Rick’s face twisted into surprise as he watched his best friend treat you with such disregard. He doesn’t know the man well, but from what little he’s seen and from what you’ve told him about the sheriff, he knows that Rick cares for you. It makes him feel a little better knowing that at least one other person in camp has your best interests in mind.

“You ready for this?”

Daryl won’t admit it, but he feels conflicted about you joining them on their little ‘rescue mission’. On one hand, he doesn’t want you to have to face the horrors that are out there in the city. You’ve been pretty sheltered from the reality of the situation you’re in by staying at the quarry camp; however, he knows that at some point, you will have to come face-to-face with this new reality, and he’d like to be there when that happens, to ensure your safety. On the other hand, he doesn’t want you here with Shane — not when both he and Rick are leaving. He knows that you are strong, and if you told him to ‘fuck off,’ he’d listen, but he doesn’t trust Shane. And if he were to do something to you when he was in Atlanta, he’s not sure he’d be able to forgive himself. But the last thing he wants to do is make decisions for you — he doesn’t want to control you. He doesn’t want to be Shane, but he wants to keep you safe. This is all new to him — having someone to care about and protect.

“You okay with me coming?”

Daryl’s brow furrows at the question.

“Don’t need my permission to do nothin’.”

A small smile graces your features, and before you can respond, Rick finally joins you both. He gives you a kind smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s exhausted — you can tell by the way he carries himself.

“We should talk after this.”

You give him a nod. He’s right — you have a lot to catch him up on. He then switches his attention to Daryl, who is still standing by your side and watching your interaction with the former sheriff.

“Ready to go get your brother?”

Daryl scoffs while adjusting the crossbow slung across his back.

“Bout damn time.”

Rick’s brow furrows as he watches Daryl jump into the back of the box truck. You laugh and give him a gentle pat on the shoulder.

“He grows on you.”

Rick looks down at you with a weary expression before shrugging his shoulders.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

You hop in the back with Daryl and T-Dog while Rick gets into the driver’s seat and Glenn navigates from the passenger seat. It takes a little under an hour to make it to the outskirts of the city. Daryl spends the ride sharpening his crossbow bolts beside you. His shoulder bumps into yours every so often due to a sudden pothole or turn; however, neither of you makes an effort to move away from the other. When the box truck finally comes to a stop, Glenn looks back at the three of you nervously.

“We walk from here on out.”

Daryl nods and gets up before extending his hand down to you. You grab his hand, biting down a smile as he pulls you to your feet with ease. To your surprise, Daryl doesn’t immediately release your hand. Your brow furrows — from what you know about Daryl, he isn’t necessarily comfortable with physical touch. Your breath catches in your chest as you look up at him and notice he’s already looking down at you. You’ve grown accustomed to the callousness in Shane’s gaze, so you’re taken aback by how Daryl’s steely features soften as he regards you.

But, before you can think twice about the moment, T-Dog clears his throat. You pull your hand out of Daryl’s gentle grasp and take a step away from him as you both look at T-Dog, who is still sitting on the floor at the back of the box truck. T-Dog raises his hand expectantly towards Daryl. Daryl scoffs, rolling his eyes at the man before exiting the box truck. You try to laugh off the awkward encounter before you grab T-Dog’s hand and pull him to his feet. He looks down at you with a playful expression.

“So, are we going to gaze into each other’s eyes as well or…”

You shove him away, making him laugh.

“Shut up.”

T-Dog raises both of his hands in surrender, and you both hop out of the box truck, joining Daryl, Rick, and Glenn. The laughter between you and T-Dog dies as you take in your surroundings. You haven’t been to the city since before the dead started walking. It’s worse than you imagined. Daryl looks at you, noticing how your expression shifted once you exited the truck.

“C’mon.”

He motions for you to follow him as Glenn and Rick take the lead. And you fall into step beside Daryl as you become acquainted with the new world. 

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[wannabespacesmuggler]

frostbite [han solo x reader]

ao3 / ko-fi

rating: t word count: 4k warnings: none

Han’s frequent trips to the medical bay since the transfer to Hoth stop surprising you eventually. He’s a regular, coming in for every scrape and bruise. Usually, it’s only ice that he needs… on a planet made of ice. Still, he likes to insist you treat him whenever he can if only to assure him there’s no concussion or sprain. At this point, you’ve even stopped looking up when he struts through the doors. Why would you need to? You have a sixth sense about him at this point. 

This time is no different. When you hear the hiss of the door sliding open, you know it’s him coming through. Of course, it's him. He’s a master at choosing inopportune moments to command your attention, and you can feel his presence in your bones.

“Captain,” you greet him, pretending to take stock of inventory. Pretending you hardly notice him. You don’t even look up from your datapad. You don’t even say his name.

“Doctor,” he returns, leaning against the rack of supplies. “Give me a hand, would you?”

“I'm on break in ten minutes,” you tell him after checking the time. "Find someone else.”

He leans in. "I would’ve asked someone else if I could’ve. Two seconds, doc. That’s all I’m asking for.”

You drop the datapad into your satchel. “Fine,” you sigh. “What can I do for you?” 

He extends his left hand, revealing a swollen welt on the base of his thumb. “Luke suggested I get this checked out,” he explained. “I don’t think it’s that bad, but I thought what the hell?”

You seize his hand gently and hold it close for inspection. “How’d this happen?”

“Lost my gloves outside yesterday,” he says.

“Numb?”

“Pins and needles.”

You drop his hand. “That’s frostbite, Han,” you tell him. “It is that bad.”

Han cradles his hand to himself. “No need to get snippy, sister,” he says. “What do I do about it?”

Ten minutes until your break... But you’ve never been able to refuse Han, and Dak will understand if you’re late to lunch. 

You sigh and lead Han to a basin of warm water. “Give me your hand,” you instruct. 

He complies, resting his hand palm-up in yours. Slowly, you submerge his hand under the warm water, trying to ignore his pained hiss when the water hits the frostbite.

“Keep it warm. Keep it covered. Do not rub or massage it,” you tell him. “What did I just say? Repeat it back.”

“Warm, covered, no rubbing,” Han repeats.

You nod and pull some gauze out of your satchel. “I’ll write you a prescription for anti-inflammatories. Set an appointment with me within the next couple of days to check up. Alright?”

“Well, aren’t we in a rush today?”

“I told you,” you say. “My break is in ten minutes, and I’m meeting Dak for lunch. Hand.”

Once again, his hand is in yours. “You ever not meeting Ralter for lunch?”

Slowly, you begin to wrap the gauze around his thumb into a sort of fingerless glove. “Occasionally,” you answer absently. “Why? Does it suddenly bother you that I eat with my friends?”

“No,” Han responds immediately. “You and Ralter are pretty friendly, though.”

His meaning isn’t lost on you, and it gives you a moment’s pause as you look up at him. He has this idiotic smirk on his face like he’s got you pinned down and dissected. It’s infuriating. As if you and Dak Ralter of all people would be involved. As if there was anyone for you besides... “Yeah, of course, we’re friendly,” you tell him. “We’re friends.”

“‘Course, you are,” Han replies. The smirk doesn’t leave. 

You study him for another second before dropping his hand. “Do you have something to say, Solo?”

He folds his arms over his chest and leans in. “Do you, doc?”

The sudden proximity is a little too much. Maker, you can feel his warmth. “Impossible man…” you grumble as you straighten yourself and walk away.

“Would you have me any other way?” Han calls after you.

“Yes, I would!” you shout back over your shoulder. You could waste hours describing the various ways you would have him, but you’ve had enough of Han Solo for one day. You’ve never been able to understand how someone so… pretty and charismatic can be such a nuisance. 

When you reach the mess hall, you collapse on the bench across from Dak. “Sorry, I’m late,” you mumble.

“What kept you?” Dak asks, pushing your rations across the table to you.

“Solo got frostbite,” you explain, stabbing at your rations.

“Oh?” Dak says with a conspiratorial look. “Did he beeline for you like always?”

“Stop it, Dak,” you say through a mouthful. You swallow before continuing. “It’s not gonna happen. He’s obsessed with the idea of you and me together.” 

Dak nearly chokes before he starts laughing.

“Yeah, I know,” you say as a smile creeps over your face.

“How doesn't he know about me?”

You shrug and shake your head. “He’s an oblivious idiot?”

Dak nods. “Either that or I’ve got to try harder,” he muses. “Why not tell him it’s never gonna happen next time?”

You stammer before a coherent sentence leaves your mouth. “Oh, right. Right, of course. How does this sound? ‘Hey, Han, you’ve got the wrong idea about me and Dak. You can fuck me through the floor now.’ How about that?”

Dak is silent for a moment. “I love how that’s where your mind immediately goes,” he says. He takes a bite of his rations. “You need to make out already. Before the end of the week.”

“Ha ha.”

“No, I’m serious,” Dak says. “I dare you.”

You almost cough up your food. “No!” you say. “Not that stupid game!”

“You owe me a dare! You said so yourself.”

“That was over a month ago!”

Dak wields his fork at you like a weapon. “Fair’s fair,” he insists. “You’ll thank me later.”

“Doubt it,” you grumble.

But Dak waves off your doubt and moves on. It’s easy for him. He doesn’t think about it every day.

You, on the other hand, think about it all through lunch. You think about it through the end of your shift, dinner, and on the way to the barracks. The mere thought of simply kissing Han plagues you when you brush your teeth and change into nightclothes. It cuts into your sleep.

Which explains why you're so tired at your shift the next morning, slumping into the medbay and making caf before attempting conversation with anyone.

"Doctor?" Harter Kalonia approaches you after your first sip. "Are you ready to start?"

"Yes," you sigh, lying through your teeth and reaching for the datapad she’s holding out to you. One look at the name at the top of the info sheet and you want to bash your head against the wall. "Who let Captain Solo schedule his appointment for first thing today?"

"He insisted," Kalonia replies. "He's waiting in the examination room right now."

"Of course, he is," you grumble. "Let's get this over with."

When you walk in, he’s sitting on the examination table like he’s not sure what to do with himself. His frostbitten hand is pinned between his knees while his other is propping him up, and there’s a scowl on his face that’s almost comical.

“So,” you begin, “I guess I should’ve specified not to book me for the very next day.”

“Well, doc, you seemed a little too busy to elaborate on much of anything,” he says, sounding as irritated as he looks.

“I told you to go find someone else,” you point out.

“And I told you that there was no one else,” he counters.

“Nevermind,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “Let’s see it.”

He holds out his hand and lets you gingerly unwrap the burn. It’s something you should take your time with, but the closeness is making everything foggy. His head is so close to yours, and you’re both looking down at your hands, observing the way your fingers brush up against his now and then. If both of you were to look up at the same time, you would be nose-to-nose. There isn’t anything you want more than to be over with it. Nevertheless, you push through every agonizing second until his hand is bare before you.

“It isn’t the worst I’ve seen,” you explain. “Fairly mild, in fact. Keep taking your meds, and it should heal up within a few months. So… more appointments, probably. Not tomorrow. Give it some time to progress.”

“Sure,” he agrees.

“Good thing it’s your left, huh?”

“I’m left-handed.”

“No,” you protest. “You shoot with your right.”

“I shoot with my right,” he confirms. “Everything else I do with my left.”

It would be laughable if you weren’t mortified. “Funny how the only person I know who wears two jackets indoors managed to get one of the most inconvenient frostbites on base,” you mumble.

“I see nothing funny about this,” he counters.

“I promise you it’s hysterical from this side,” you say, making appointment notes on the datapad.

Han furrows his eyebrows and practically pouts. “Well, I’m glad I could amuse you.” 

He’s being childish, and you’re sure he doesn’t think so. For once, you smile at how ridiculous he is. And then you look up to notice that his eyebrows have unfurrowed and his face has lost its hardness as he looks at you. You stand that way until your smile fades, and you realize that you’re standing nearly nose-to-nose as you feared. If you wanted to, you could move just a couple inches forward and… Dak’s challenge immediately comes to mind when your eyes flick down to his lips, and the backward step you take is almost involuntary.

“Right,” you say, swallowing hard. “That’s it for today. Set an appointment for about two weeks from now on your way out, alright?”

“Aren’t you gonna wrap this up?” he questions, waving his hand.

“Oh, yeah,” you mutter, reaching for fresh gauze from your satchel.

You’re halfway done wrapping his hand when he speaks up in a low voice. “You’re doing it again,” he says.

You spare him a glance before returning to your work. “Doing what?” you question. 

“Rushing. Like you can’t wait to get away from me. You treat all your patients like this or am I just special?” 

“You’re imagining things,” you say, shaking your head. This isn’t a safe conversation. 

“Yeah?” he asks, closing his hand over yours and making you look him in the eye. “Then how come you walk in here without so much as a hello and try to leave without so much as a goodbye?"

It takes you a moment to work up an answer to that. How are you supposed to explain to him that the only reason you keep him at arm’s length is because of how badly you want him closer all the time? How could you ever possibly explain something you don’t fully understand yourself? “I-I’m not trying to. I’m just...”

“Busy?”

“Busy,” you confirm.

Han nods, lets you finish wrapping his hand, stands, and takes a deep breath. “Figures,” he says. “Say hello to Ralter for me.”

“Maker—” you start, your hands curling into fists at your sides. “I— You— You are so oblivious sometimes. For your information, I’m not even having lunch with Dak today.” 

“Alright, I get your point,” he says, heading for the door.

You don’t think he really does, but you still don’t know how to explain it to him. You don’t know if it would matter. It doesn’t stop you from calling his name before he can step through the door. “Han.”

He stops dead in his tracks and hesitates a moment before looking back at you. “Yes, doctor?” he sighs.

You don’t know. Honestly, you were saying his name just to say it. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. “Just…” you start. When you open your eyes again, he’s still staring at you. You like to imagine that you can still see some of the softness in his features that he showed you a moment ago. “Please… Take care of yourself?”

He swallows hard before answering, “What do I rely on you for?” He’s out the door before you can answer.

At the end of your shift, Dak meets you outside the medbay to go to dinner.

“Hey,” you greet him.

Whether he knows by the tone of your voice or the way you’re walking, Dak cringes and says, “Was your day that bad?”

“Well, I had an appointment with Solo if that answers your question,” you answer. You hold up a finger. “And before you ask, no I didn’t.”

Dak smiles and shakes his head as you begin to walk. “At this point, it’s like you don’t want to.”

“I do!” you answer a little too quickly and a little too loud. Quietly, you repeat yourself. "I do…"

"Then why don't you do something about it?"

"Because," you sputter. "It's just… It's not that easy. I mean, what if he didn’t kiss me back?"

"Is that it?" Dak asks. "Am I being stupid or is this the same guy who comes in for every stubbed toe and doesn’t let anyone else treat him?”

“Because I’m a good doctor!”

“Yeah, but you’re so mean to him,” he answers. “Look, you’ve got nothing to worry about. And besides, fair’s fair. So—”

“No, Dak,” you say, turning serious. “That’s just it. If something happens, I want it to happen because I want it. Because he wants it. This is a real part of my life, not a game or a joke. It’s just— It’s too important.”

Dak is silent a moment before whispering. “Holy kriff, this is beyond a crush for you, isn’t it?”

You walk with your head down and don’t answer.

“Okay,” Dak continues. “Okay. No dares. You do it in your own time.”

“Thank you,” you say. Then you smile. “Now, can we talk about something else? I have had enough of Han Solo for one day.”

Dak wraps his arm around your shoulders and squeezes. “Absolutely.”

It’s the end of the week, and your shift is nearly over when your comm buzzes.

“Hey, doc, do you do house calls?” Han’s voice asks the minute you pick up.

“Solo?” you say. “How did you get this frequency? It’s for medical personnel only.”

“Pulled a few strings. Do you do house calls?”

“Technically, yes. But it’s—” A deep breath. “It’s the end of my shift.”

“It’s not for me,” he says. “It’s Chewie this time. Can you swing by the Falcon?”

A moment’s hesitation. “Give me two seconds,” you say before flicking off the comm and gathering your med bag.

You know exactly where the Falcon sits. You pass her every day on the way to the mess hall and try not to think about the captain, but you’ve never been inside. There’s no time to consider that as you climb the ramp and navigate the halls to where Chewie sits. Han is standing over him like a protective parent which almost makes you laugh considering how often it’s the other way around.

“Finally!” Han says, waving you over. “Tell her what’s wrong, Chewie.”

Chewie says… something. 

“I don’t speak Shyriiwook,” you tell Han. “You’re going to have to translate.”

Han nods. “He caught his wrist and twisted it working on the power couplings. Says it hurts something awful.”

So it went that you would ask Chewie a question and Han would translate his answer. Chewie had sprained his wrist badly, but you fixed him up with a sling and instructed him to rest it. “And I mean it,” you said. “I know you work hard, but you need to let it be for about two weeks. Got it?”

Chewie nodded and said something that sounded like affirmation before standing and retreating down the hall.

“Ah, he’s gonna go get some sleep,” Han explained. “Been a long day for him.”

“Him and me both,” you sigh, leaning against the wall and trying to stretch out a kink in your neck that’s been there all week. 

Han swallows hard and reaches for a cabinet on the wall. “Drink?” he asks, retrieving a bottle of brown liquor from the cabinet and pouring two glasses before you can answer.

“Guess I’m off-duty now,” you concede, accepting the glass with a nod. You take a sip and let the burn of the liquid settle in your stomach before speaking up. “So, why’d you drag me out here? He could’ve come to the medbay with that.”

“Well, uh,” Han begins, swirling his drink and not meeting your eyes. “Don’t tell him I told you, but he’s sweet on one of your nurses and didn’t want to embarrass himself. Harter something.”

Your eyes widen. “Harter Kalonia?”

“That’s the one.”

“Oh,” you say. It comes out as a giggle. “Well, she’s cute.”

“Yeah, she is,” Han agrees and takes a swig of his drink.

That response doesn’t sit right with you. Before you have a chance to think, you blurt out, “You wouldn’t stand a chance with her, of course.”

Han raises his eyebrows, folds his arms over his chest, and leans against the wall with you. Less than an arm’s length away. “I wouldn’t? What makes you say that?”

“Well,” you scoff. “Reason one: Kalonia isn’t a nurse. She’s a first-year resident on her way to being a doctor. Reason two: she’s a very no-nonsense girl. Level-headed. Not your type. Reason three—”

He holds up a hand. “Whoa, hold on,” he says. “How do you figure who’s my type and who’s not?”

“I—” you begin, struggling for a good explanation besides the fact you figured his type was anyone not like you. You take a swig of your drink and swallow. “I assume—”

“Yeah, you assume,” Han says. “And I venture to say that your idea of who my type is is a lot different from mine. But go on. Reason three?”

You take a deep breath before continuing. “Reason three: Kalonia wouldn’t hold with your… style.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that I don’t think you could seduce a woman without yelling at her.”

“Oh, you think so?” Han asks, leaning in. “Bet I could surprise you. You oughta make it part of that dare game you play with the pilots.”

You almost snort. “Yeah, I think that game effectively ended a couple days ago.”

“How come?”

He’s looking at you with the same softness you saw in him before, and you wind up staring at him so long that you almost forget to laugh off the question. When you do laugh, it comes out awkward. “Something stupid Dak dared me to do, that’s all,” you answer, pushing yourself off of the wall and gathering all of your supplies back into the bag. “Thanks for the drink. I’m off.”

He calls your name before you reach the door. Not “doctor.” Not even “doc.” He says your name, and even though you squeeze your eyes shut like it hurts you, it’s one of the nicest things you’ve ever heard from him.

“There you go again,” he says, irritation lacing his voice. “Running off without a goodbye.”

You turn back to face him. “Why do you care so much?”

Now, he pushes himself off the wall and walks over to you. His shoulders are hunched, and he looks like he’s at war with himself. “What was the dare?”

“None of your business,” you answer.

“It’s just between you and Ralter, isn’t it?”

Exasperated, you throw your hands up. “What is your obsession with me and Dak?”

“It’s not an obsession! I just wanna know what’s going on!”

“He dared me to kiss you! Is that what you wanna hear?”

That shuts him up. Considering that was more information than you ever planned on volunteering, it shuts you up, too. 

It’s a full minute before Han says, “I thought he was in love with you.”

You roll your eyes. “He’s not in love with me,” you answer. “Dak Ralter doesn’t like women.”

Han goes silent again as he processes the new information. Finally, he speaks again. “And you turned down the dare?”

“Of course, I did,” you answer immediately.

“Of course, you did,” Han repeats. “Why would I think anything different?”

"What are you talking about?"

"What am I talking about?" he responds. "I'll tell ya, sister. I'm talking about how I've had just about enough of this for one day."

You laugh in his face, trying to hide how his words sting. "Oh, you've had enough? I've had enough of you from day one!"

“Fine! See if I come by your office again! I won’t! Weren’t you leaving, or something?”

“As a matter of fact, I was,” you snap and march out the door. 

The minute you leave the Falcon, you stop dead in your tracks. The outside cold hits you like a slap to the face, but there’s cold under your skin too. You’re shaking, not shivering; and your own words are gnawing at your mind. You can’t bring yourself to take another step forward. In fact, you want to turn back around. You want to look him in the face and argue with him until the sun rises. You want to feel his hand closing around yours again. You want to sit in total silence with him for hours. Yes, he’s a storm that makes your bones ache with his presence, but you’re a liar if you say you’ve had enough of him. You’ve never had enough of him. You never would.

The beginnings of a scream rise in your throat before you spin around and march back up the Falcon’s ramp. 

You collide into his chest in the hallway, just as he’s storming out of the lounge. When you regain your bearings, you both start talking at the same time. Then you both stop. Then you both start again.

You slap your hand over his mouth. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I would take it back if I could.” Then you drop your hand. Oh, but your fingers glide over his lips and down his chin so you curl them into a fist once they’re back by your side.

“So, you’re saying you would take the dare if you had another chance?” he challenged. “Alright, I dare you.”

You stare, horrified. “Have you lost your mind?”

“Slightly,” he admits. “I don’t know… You’re a doctor, right? Can you explain why I can’t even think straight when I’m in the same room as you?”

“What?”

“I just said I can’t think straight,” he repeats. His hands are on your shoulders before you can register that he’s reaching for you. “As a matter of fact, I haven’t been able to go a whole day without thinking about you for months now, and I’d like to know what’s wrong with me. Have any idea?”

You don’t know what’s wrong with him, but you sure as hell know what’s wrong with you. So you answer, “A little…”

“It means something to you?”

“Um,” you start. His fingers are gripping your shoulders so tightly, it’s dizzying. “A little.”

It’s not the answer you mean to give, and by the way he sighs and pulls his hands away from you it wasn’t the answer he was hoping for either. A little too late, your mind clears, and you realize that he’s slipping away. And maybe it’s the alcohol taking the edge of fear off, but you’re so sick of letting your chances pass you by. So you grab him by his sleeve and pull him back to you.

You’re nose-to-nose again, but this time it’s on purpose. Your neck has to crane to look up at him like this, and he has to bend his head down. He could move right now, you realize. If he wanted to, he could step away. But he doesn’t.

So you kiss him, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket and pulling him in. The cold in you shatters, making way for burning, melting warmth when he wraps his arms around your waist and hoists you closer to him. It’s still not close enough, but it’s better than you dreamed. You had never quite gotten the details right in dreams. How could you have imagined the texture of his hair at the nape of his neck where your fingers comb through or the unexpected softness of his lips against yours? How could you have imagined the way his arms around you are both strong and gentle. How could you have imagined him not letting go even when you pull away? How could you have imagined such warmth in a frozen wasteland? 

It’s a moment after you pull away before you dare to open your eyes, but when you do, you find him staring at you, soft and dazed. 

“Okay?” you ask as though a kiss is a sufficient explanation.

But then again, maybe it is, because he swallows and nods. “Okay…”

With a smile, you kiss him again — quickly and sweetly — before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into an embrace, your hand cradling the back of his head. You can feel his smile, warm against the curve of your neck.

You stand that way for what feels like an age, and the warmth never leaves you.

[wannabespacesmuggler]

Say what you will about Rey. That girl definitely has more restraint than me because if Kylo Ren looked at me with those big, sad eyes and said:

"You have no place in the story. You come from nothing. You're nothing. But not to me."

I'd fold immediately.

[wannabespacesmuggler]

nobody talks about the way Logan shakes his head when he says "I can be the good guy" in X2: X-Men United and it's a god damn travesty

[wannabespacesmuggler]

TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE ➵ A. HOTCHNER [1]

Part One | Part Two | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee

Summary: You've found yourself spending more time with Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner after a mysterious figure begins following you home. After your stalker's arrest, you believe your freedom is too good to be true. Maybe Aaron should've listened.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BAU!Reader

Warnings: mentions of stalking, kidnapping, canon-typical violence, mutual pining, mentions of Foyet, flashbacks in italics, part one of two

Word Count: 4k

Author’s Note: Your boy has been rewatching Criminal Minds, and Hotch has always been my favorite. After realizing how little Aaron Hotchner fanfic there is on Tumblr, I decided to write my own. This is part one of two — let me know if you want to be tagged in part two.

“You know, you don’t have to bring me coffee every morning.”

You watch Hotch’s eyebrows knit together as a deep stoicism floods his handsome features, but he still graciously takes the small thermos from your hands, which is full of fresh, hot coffee. The two of you have been doing this same song and dance for the past three months — since Hotch started acting as your personal Uber to and from Quantico.

You had noticed a dark vehicle following you on your way home from work several times. At first, you thought you were just being paranoid — a natural side effect of your job with the BAU. But then you started feeling uncomfortable in your own home, as if someone was watching you the entire time. You mentioned it to Garcia offhandedly one morning, and she begged you to tell either Hotch or Morgan. To her dismay, you waved off her concern. In all honesty, you were conflicted. Half of you desperately wanted to tell Hotch and Morgan what was going on — the two men in your life who consistently make you feel safe. However, the other half of you wants to face this fear on your own because what if this is nothing but your own mind playing tricks on you? I mean, you’re an FBI agent after all. You didn’t want to face the embarrassment of telling the two bravest men you’ve ever known that you’re afraid of something lurking in the shadows. 

But then you received the first note. 

You finally had a weekend away from the BAU to relax and catch up on some much needed sleep, but those plans immediately fell apart once you picked up your mail on Saturday morning. There, shoved between your water bill and a Crate and Barrel catalogue was a nondescript envelope with no return address and one word messily written on the front: your name. Inside of the envelope were dozens of photos of you living normally, taken over the course of several months: waiting for the bus on your way to work, grabbing drinks after a long case with Derek and Penelope, relaxing in your own home on your rare days off. And if that wasn’t enough, there was a handwritten note inside with a single sentence written in the same messy handwriting from the front of the envelope: I know who you are.

You immediately called Derek, who was out the door before you could even finish explaining. He spent the short car ride to your townhome scolding you for not telling him about this situation. You shouldn’t be surprised. The two of you met during training at the FBI Academy. Derek Morgan, at face value, was nothing more than a cocky hot shot, but he became your closest companion at the Academy. He’d never really noticed you in class, until one day in hand-to-hand combat training. You were scrappy and eager to prove yourself and Derek watched as you took down the biggest recruit in the class with nothing more than your wits. The odds were stacked against you and yet, you fought like you had the winning hand. In that moment, you earned his undying respect. After the training was done, he watched the man you’d taken down attempt to take a cheap shot at you from behind while you were distracted by a group of recruits. Derek stepped in immediately grabbing his arm before he could get his hands on you. And in that moment, he earned your undying respect. From then on, the two of you were thick as thieves — two bright eyed recruits against the world. You graduated together, kept in touch as the two of you went back to your hometowns, and when Morgan was recruited by Hotch you were the first name he offered when asked if he knew anyone else interested in working for the BAU. So, you shouldn’t be surprised that Derek is overprotective when you tell him about your situation — he’s been looking out for you since the beginning.

Derek took a look at the note and photos when he arrived at your townhome and immediately knew that this was not a situation that the two of you could handle alone. No, you needed the team to help investigate this. But first, you needed to call Hotch. Hotch was, arguably, more concerned than Derek when you called and explained the situation. After the momentary shock wore off, Hotch ordered you to meet him at Quantico with Derek.

Everything after that felt like a blur — as if your life was suddenly set to fast forward. 

Derek helped you gather all your important belongings into a couple of bags and loaded them into his car before heading off to Quantico. To no one’s surprise, Hotch beat the two of you there and immediately asked to see the envelope when you entered the bullpen. You watched as Hotch spread the photos out on an empty table. His brow furrowed and his face twisted into a tight scowl, as his eyes carefully studied every image. Hotch enlisted your help creating a timeline of the photos as Derek called the rest of the team. They arrived over the course of the next hour: Rossi first with an ample amount of coffee and Garcia not far behind. The team got to work finishing the timeline, while Reid memorized every aspect of the note and Morgan went through a cognitive interview with you. Eventually, you all hit a wall. Without a license plate number or a physical description, the profile was just too vague and the search parameters were too wide. Hotch eventually sent the rest of the team home, except for Derek. He ushered both of you into his office and began making a plan of immediate action: getting you set up in an FBI safe house, making sure that there is a constant patrol outside of the premises, setting up a carpool system to and from work.

“Just think of it as a thank you for driving me every day.”

Hotch scoffs at your words before taking a long sip and putting the thermos down in his cup holder. His expression notably softens as he regards you once more. At some point during your late night and early morning one-on-one drives, your relationship with Hotch moved from strictly professional into something much more tender. And you aren’t the only one aware of this not so subtle change. On the rare mornings that Hotch cannot pick you up due to a conflict with Jack’s schooling, Morgan picks you up and grills you about the nature of your relationship with Aaron Hotchner. 

“You know you don’t have to thank me, right?”

A small smile spreads across your face at Hotch’s question. You know you don’t have to thank him, not only is it his job to ensure your safety, but you are also fully aware that he likes the responsibility. It’s his natural instinct to protect you. And it’s a different type of protection than Derek’s brotherly, reactive protectiveness. Derek steps in without a second thought when you’re in danger. Whereas Hotch has a watchful, proactive protectiveness. He has a knack for sensing danger before there are any warning signs. You often feel his eyes on you in the bullpen, on the jet, and in the field, deciphering your facial expressions and body language. 

“I know, but still.”

Hotch rolls his eyes as he pulls out of the driveway, but you notice the ghost of a smile that pulls at the corners of his lips. It doesn’t take long to get to work from the safe house, it’s conveniently almost halfway between Quantico and Hotch’s apartment. What you don’t know is that it isn’t convenient, it’s purposeful. Although Hotch respects and trusts Derek almost more than anyone else and knows he’d protect you with his life, this is something he needed to do. He’s not sure if he could sleep at night if he wasn’t the one making sure that you got back to the safe house at the end of the day or the one checking in with the patrols every morning. 

Hotch parks in his designated spot and climbs out of the vehicle, grabbing both his bag and yours before walking into the building with you side-by-side. Your routine is second nature now. Hell, it’s hard to remember when you didn’t spend this much time with Hotch. He’s become somewhat of a safety net for you. No matter what’s happening with your life or with a case, Hotch is always there at the end of the day to talk it out. 

The bullpen is bustling with activity as the two of you enter. Derek’s voice cuts through the commotion and he motions you both to the conference room. 

“We got him.”

Your brow furrows at Derek’s statement and Hotch’s expression matches your own. 

“We just arrested a white male, early thirties, driving a black four door sedan near your townhome with various photographs of you in the back seat. Reid’s conducting a handwriting test now to compare to the letters we’ve received, but we’re sure we got him.”

Tears well up in your eyes at Derek’s words and you pull him into a tight hug. It was beginning to feel like you’d be in that safe house forever. Although your stalker has always been a top priority for the team, there were always other cases that needed your attention. At first, your stalker was sending letters to you almost every day, either to your townhome or direct to Quantico. But as their contact slowed down over time and there was less and less evidence to gather intel from. You pull away from Derek’s embrace and immediately glance behind your shoulder, to Hotch. A bright grin has spread across your face and Hotch has a hard time remembering the last time he’s seen you this happy.

Hotch had a front seat ticket to your descent into a reasonable madness. Watching as you supplemented your non-existent sleep schedule with a staggering amount of caffeine. He understands your situation better than anyone else. He’s fairly certain he never got a full night’s rest when Foyet was after him — reviewing case files late into the night and early into morning until they were burned into his memory. He knew based on the dark circles under your eyes and your ever decreasing energy level that you’d been doing the same. Hotch kept an eye on you, but didn’t intervene. 

Not until one late night about a month and a half after you were moved to the safe house. The two of you were the only ones left at the office. You had told Hotch that you needed to stay late to finish the paperwork that’s been piling up on your desk. He knows that both Morgan and Reid offered to take some of it off of your plate, but you’re stubborn and you won’t let your personal setbacks affect your professional life. As Hotch finished the last of his paperwork, his eyes landed on you. You were sitting at your desk, sandwiched between Morgan and Reid’s, with an astonishing amount of case files. Hotch was about to busy himself with something else since you were still focused intently on your own work, but stopped as he noticed your pencil snap due to the intense amount of pressure you’d been writing with. It was such a simple inconvenience, but it pulled you into a sudden tailspin. You threw the pencil down onto your desk angrily before pushing your chair out and rushing to the break room.

Hotch waited for a moment before following you. He found you sitting on the floor, back against the counter, and head in your hands. Without a word, he slid down next to you and simply sat shoulder-to-shoulder with you. Your breathing was uneven and you suddenly felt incredibly embarrassed that Hotch just watched you lose your shit over something as simple as a pencil.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Hotch shook his head at your apology and covered your hands with his once began nervously picking at your fingers which were already worked red and raw. You lifted your head up to look at him and Hotch’s heart damn near stopped once he noticed the tears streaming down your face. 

“You don’t have to apologize. I know how hard this is.”

Your eyes squeezed shut at his words and you let out a shaky breath. 

“I just feel stupid right now, Hotch. I shouldn’t be this upset over a pencil.”

“We both know this isn’t about the pencil.”

For a moment you both just sat in comfortable silence, as you relished in the warmth of Hotch’s large hand around yours. Hotch has always been an incredible profiler — there’s no one else on the team that can manage to get inside an unsub's head like him. But you think that maybe the person he’s always been best at reading is you. You have known Derek Morgan for over a decade, but no one knows you better than Aaron Hotchner.

“I don’t know what I’m doing, Hotch.”

Your defeated tone made Hotch’s heart twist uncomfortably in his chest. This wasn’t like you. You weren’t one to simply lay down and take the punches. No, Hotch had always admired your resilience. But there’s only so much one person can take, and you were at your breaking point.

“I know. But you have to take care of yourself or at least let me — let us — help you.”

His words made him cringe slightly. He’s tried to stay professional during all of this, but it has been difficult. It had been easy covering up his soft spot for you when he only saw you at work, but the lines between work life and personal life had blurred. At first he had simply just driven you to and from work, but after a particularly bad night during your second week in the safe house Hotch started coming in after work every day to search the premises for you. And it quickly became a slippery slope after that. He started staying a little later day by day and then, a month in, you asked if he wanted to stay for a drink and he knew the professional thing to do was to say no, but he was enjoying his time with you too much to be professional. So now here he was, the unit chief of the BAU teetering on the edge of something a little too personal with one of his agents. 

“First things first, you need to get some sleep.”

Hotch shakes off the memory and stiffens his posture. This is exciting news, but as the unit chief he needs to make sure this man’s arrest and interrogation isn’t rushed. He wants nothing more than for you to feel safe in your own home again; however, in order to do that he needs the team to do this correctly. He starts giving orders to Morgan, Rossi, and Prentiss before turning to you.

“You know, you don’t have to sit in on the interrogation, right?”

You know it’s supposed to be a question, but his tone is matter-of-fact. The underlying meaning of his words is clear to you: it’s better that you’re not there. It’s not patronizing, no his words are laced with care and concern. He’s trying to do what’s best for you, without taking away your autonomy. You give him a nod before responding. 

“I’ve got some desk work to get done, anyways.”

You turn on your heel, grabbing a stack of case files from Derek’s desk on the way. With your back turned to the conference room, Hotch looks at the only person left: JJ. She’s looking at him expectantly as the last member of the BAU without a plan of action. 

“JJ, I need you to do me a favor. Keep an eye on them, okay?”

JJ watches as Hotch’s eyes find you at your desk, before returning back to her. She raises an eyebrow quizzically, but nods at his request. You start working diligently on Derek’s unfinished paperwork, but your curiosity peaks as JJ approaches you. To your surprise, she simply slides into Reid’s desk and starts getting to work on her own files. You brush off your curiosity as you’re ultimately glad to have some company. The two of you work quietly together for the next couple of hours while the team works to put your stalker behind bars. Sometime after midday, JJ finally looks up from her work and gives you a gentle smile.

“Want to take a break and grab some coffee?”

You let out a sigh as the words leave JJ’s mouth and you close the file in your hands. 

“Please. My eyes are killing me.”

The two of you make your way to the break room and JJ pours three mugs full of coffee. Before you can question her about the third mug, Hotch’s figure sidles next to you. JJ slides two mugs towards the both of you, before giving you a knowing look and making her way back to the bullpen. You grab cream and sugar, putting an ample amount into your mug as Hotch takes his black. He could laugh at the juxtaposition: bitter and sweet. After taking a sip from your mug, you place it on the counter and turn your attention to Hotch.

“Good news or bad news?”

You wish you could read his face, but his workplace stoicism has settled deep into his features. That is, until his lip quirks up every so slightly into a small, lopsided smile. 

“We got him.”

You let out a heavy sigh of relief as you take in his words. You’re not quite sure how to react at this moment. A part of you is still in disbelief that this is actually happening, but then your posture relaxes as the severe anxiety you’ve experienced for three months straight starts to dissipate. Without thinking, you lean your head forward to meet Hotch’s shoulder and wrap your arms around his waist. Hotch looks around the break room which is uncharacteristically empty before wrapping a strong arm around your shoulders. 

“It just feels too good to be true.”

Your words are muffled into his shoulder, but he still manages to make them out. And his arm tightens around your shoulders in response. He knows. Of course he knows. Even though he killed Foyet with his own hands, he still finds himself looking over his shoulder for the man. That anxiety — that fear — nestles deep into your bones and stays with you like a parasite. Hotch knows he’s still working through his own trauma, and he’ll stand by you as a helpful, steady hand as you begin healing yourself. You reluctantly pull away from Hotch and take a step back.

“So I can go home?”

Hotch nods at your question.

“I can help you pack up your things when we get back to the safe house.”

You shake your head at his offer. There aren’t enough personal items at your safe house to warrant help and the thought of independence tastes sweet on your tongue.

“Actually, I’m going to do this on my own.”

Hotch’s brow furrows, but you interrupt him before he can protest.

“Aaron, I haven’t been able to do anything by myself for three months. I need this.”

His face softens at your words. He knows he can’t force you to have an escort. After all, the threat has been neutralized. But there’s still this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. This need to hold you close and keep you safe. But this feeling doesn't stem from his position as unit chief. No, this feeling is due to the affection that has taken hold of his heart. Affections he’s been trying to keep at bay long before he started acting as your personal bodyguard. He not only fears for your safety, but also for the change that is about to happen in your relationship with him. You don’t need him around anymore. Hotch will spend his mornings taking Jack to school and you’ll start going out with Derek and Penelope after work again. Things will go back to normal — and that’s what he’s afraid of. But that’s not fair to you, so he bites down his emotions and gives you a curt nod. 

“I understand.”

The hollowness in his voice doesn’t escape you and for a moment, you fear that you’ve hurt him with your decision. But why would that make sense? You know Hotch has missed spending time with his son and now all that time he’s had to waste protecting you can be spent on Jack. Still, there’s something in his tone, the way that his words are void of all emotion, that rubs you the wrong way. But he turns to make his way back to his office before you can question him further. And you fear that this unspoken, tender thing you built with Aaron Hotchner over the past three months left with him. You swallow your heartbreak and go to find Derek.

Hotch collapses into his desk chair with a heavy sigh and attempts to busy himself with the paperwork he snatched off your desk. It helps for a few hours, but you’re there in the back of his mind the entire time. He knows you’re right — you need to feel independent again. But something you said keeps nagging him: it just feels too good to be true. He looks down at his phone, if he leaves now he’ll make it home in time to eat dinner with Jack. As he grabs his coat from the back of his chair, he sends you a quick text to ease his worries. It’s simple, just asking if you made it home safely. He doesn’t wait for your response, instead he pockets his phone, puts on his jacket, and makes his way to his car.

His night passes quickly as he enjoys a meal with his son and helps him with the last of his homework. It isn’t until he puts Jack to bed, that he finally looks at his phone again. His anxiety spikes as he notices that you didn’t respond. Hell, you didn’t even read the message. He quickly dials Morgan’s number, hoping you’d simply gone out with him and Penelope to celebrate your newfound freedom. He picks up on the second ring and Hotch asks if he’s heard from you.

“No, but Garcia and I are on our way to their place.”

Hotch lets out a sigh of relief. 

“Can you tell them to check their phone when you get there?”

“Will do, Hotch.”

Hotch mutters a thank you before hanging up. He distracts himself with dishes as waits for your response. Suddenly, embarrassed at how needy he’s become. He craves your attention in a way that makes him feel vulnerable. Finally, his phone vibrates against the kitchen counter, but to his surprise it’s Morgan’s name that lights up the screen.

“Hotch, we’ve got a problem.”

Hotch’s heart rate quickens at Morgan’s words. His tone is sharper than the last time they spoke, laced with a concern that mirrors his own. 

“What’s wrong Morgan?”

“They aren’t here, but their phone is and the door has been kicked in.”

Hotch’s heart stops, and for a moment he genuinely worries that he might be experiencing cardiac arrest. But Morgan’s voice calling his name pulls him out of his terror.

“Hotch, I’m pretty sure they’ve been taken.”

“I’ll meet you there in 20. Call the rest of the team.”

Hotch hangs up before Morgan has a chance to respond. 

He should have trusted his instincts. Everything about the arrest this morning seemed too perfect — as if your stalker was dropped in front of them wrapped in a bow. He tries to ignore your words still nagging at him: it just feels too good to be true. But a wave of nausea suddenly hits him as he realizes you were right.

This was too good to be true because they got the wrong man.

[wannabespacesmuggler]

being an x reader writer and trying to be inclusive of all readers makes me overthink so much like should i write about you having smth with milk in it? no no what if the reader is lactose-intolerant. about the reader being the big spoon? noo what if they wanna be cuddled like a little spoon. about fingers through your hair? noooo what if the person reading it is bald

[wannabespacesmuggler]

Alright besties, I may just be color blind but Captain Silvo is kinda hot.