#part of the challenge is I only had half an hour to draw each one

[daily-tma]

Daily TMA 162 - Some colour palette challenges!

#tma #mod moth #the magnus archives #tma michael #michael distortion #cw eyestrain #tma helen #helen distortion #tma agnes #agnes montague #part of the challenge is I only had half an hour to draw each one #so that’s why they’re a little messy lmao #the colour palettes were randomly picked from a bunch of them #and then I decided the character #very fun

[hockeynoses]

Sick!Steve: A College AU, Part 2

Summary: A sequel to this fic. Steve is sick again. This time he's in class with Eddie, but they don't know each other yet. Eddie has the fetish and it's from his POV. This is set in the Spring semester, following the last fic which was in the Fall.

Warnings: Mess, contagion. 3.2k words.

Notes: I finally finished it! I started this last July and let it sit for far too long. It's one of my favorites that I've written in a while.

I imagine the professor to look like Jaime Cam/il from Schm/igadoon, but that's neither here nor there. The snippets of his lecture are directly taken from the Wikipedia entry on the Renaissance.

One tiny scene was inspired by this post by gemsden.

I hope you all enjoy! 💖

~*~

At five minutes to the hour, Eddie strolls into class as though he has all the time in the world. He’s learned from years of being punctually challenged that it’s easier to fly under the radar if you don’t appear rushed and frazzled when you make your entrance. There are only a few seats left in the large lecture hall, and they’re all up at the front. Reluctantly, he chooses one on the very end of the curved row, the seats in the hall forming a semi-circle that fan out like those ancient Greek theaters the professor had mentioned last week.

World History 101 – the most basic of basic history classes. Almost everyone here, Eddie included, is taking it as a required core class. But it isn’t the worst thing in the world; Eddie makes a game of it, searching for little tidbits he can add to his D&D games when he’s in need of inspiration.

The eye-candy isn’t half bad either. The professor, Mr. Smith, is actually pretty hot. Dark hair, a well-trimmed beard, glasses… Eddie can get on board. And halfway through his lecture, without fail, he’d take off his suit-jacket, loosen his tie, and roll up his sleeves, drawing the undivided attention of half the class. Aged to perfection, he can’t be more than in his early 40s, his hair just starting to get that salt and pepper color to it.

Unfortunately, he’s also known for being kind of a hardass. One of those guys with lots of chili peppers on RateMyProfessor, tempered by lots of comments about what a stickler he is for the rules.

The doors at the top of the hall open just as the professor is about to get started, and Eddie looks up.

Speaking of eye-candy, he thinks. It’s the guy that he’s had his eye on for half the semester. Hot-prof doesn’t hold a candle to this guy.  Steve. The name floats through his mind and his heart gives a little kick.

He hasn’t managed to talk to him yet, or even figure out how to covertly snag a seat near him. This class is pretty much just lectures and tests, no group projects – which doesn’t offer a lot of openings for an introduction. Eddie only knows his first name because he’d heard Mr. Smith use it once or twice. He may be an asshole about the rules, but he does try to learn their names. As much as one can with a class of 100+ students.

Steve hurries down the steps to the first row of seats. The only open desk is in the dead center, about 10 feet away from Mr. Smith’s podium.

“Shit,” Steve says under his breath, looking embarrassed. Eddie’s glad he’s not in his shoes. Even though he’s in the front row himself, he’s somewhat hidden off to the side. The curvature of the row gives him a great view of Steve without it being obvious he’s looking at him.

The professor greets Steve with a firm nod as Steve sits and pulls his notebook out of his backpack, settling in. Eddie sees his nose scrunch up in a sniff. Probably just from the run over here to make it on time.

“Welcome, everyone,” Mr. Smith pulls up a PowerPoint on the screen behind him, “Today’s lesson is going to cover the Renaissance, which is a period in time ranging from the 1400s to the 1600s. The Renaissance was a cultural movement that profoundly affected European intellectual life in the early modern period.”

A sound crackles through the air, and Eddie’s eyes snap back to Steve. He’s got his face buried in a tissue, eyes closed, blowing his nose for all he’s worth. Heat sparks to life low in Eddie’s belly. Oh god…is he-?

Mr. Smith shoots Steve a look over his glasses, waiting for him to finish. Steve sighs and swipes at his nose, managing to find a dry section of the ruined tissue. When he notices the professor’s gaze, he looks sheepish and whispers, “Sorry.”

Steve hides the crumpled tissue away in a pocket of his backpack and then pulls out a fresh one from – Is that a fucking car pack of Kleenex? Eddie wonders. Leave it to pretty-boy Steve to go out and buy the perfect size tissue box to fit in his backpack. Eddie would’ve just brought a roll of toilet paper.

With a nose that beautiful, he deserves the best, he can’t stop himself from thinking. Then he chastises himself for being so gone on this guy. He focuses back on his own notes, or rather, the doodle he’s already started, and tries not to be too much of a creep.

Mr. Smith drones on for several minutes, punctuated every so often by Steve’s wet sniffles. Eddie can see him rubbing the bridge of his nose out of the corner of his eye. He wonders if the whole class can hear him – auditoriums are designed to carry sound, after all – or if Eddie’s just hyper-aware.

The sniffles turn ominous, and Steve reaches for a tissue just as his breath starts to hitch. He holds it at the ready, splayed over both hands, inches from his face.

“Ha... ehh…hih…hih’AEESSHH’IUE!” The sneeze bursts from him as he snaps forward and buries his face in the waiting tissue. The sound ricochets throughout the room and lightning pulses through Eddie’s veins, white-hot. Oh fuck.

“’Scuse be,” Steve mumbles, his eyes glazed over as he snuffles up the loosened congestion.

Jesus, he’s actually really sick, Eddie thinks, his own elation at the sight at war with the pity he feels for the guy.

Mr. Smith gives a small, put-upon sigh. “Where was I? Oh yes - The unique political structures of Italy during the Late Middle Ages have led some to theorize that its unusual social climate allowed the emergence of a rare cultural efflorescence.”

Now that Eddie knows for sure that Steve is sick, it’s a struggle to keep his eyes off him. He doesn’t want to miss a moment; his gaze darts across the room without his permission, tracking every movement of those busy hands, the fluttering eyes, the flaring nostrils.

As the minutes tick by, anticipation curls warm through Eddie’s gut. Steve is holding a Kleenex in his hand, wiping his nose with it as subtly as he can, forced to breathe through his mouth due to the congestion that has taken up permanent residence deep in his sinuses.

Eddie wonders how long he’s been sick. If these are brand new symptoms or if he’s been suffering for the better part of a week. He looks contagious as hell, red nose constantly dripping into the tissue that he presses to his septum. Eddie feels for the students who were unlucky enough to sit next to him, but he would also happily take their place.

His thoughts are interrupted by a hitch in Steve’s breath, no doubt building to something more obscene and uncontrolled than the first go-round.

“Ehh… Oh god, haa-… hih-EETSSHHOO! Ha’AEESHHah!  Uhh…huh…ITTSCHHuh!” He groans, low and pained. “Oh bmy god. SNF. Sorry.” Eddie watches as Steve holds the destroyed tissue to his nose while fumbling in his bag for a fresh one. There’s no way that abused tissue contained all those haphazard sneezes. If the students next to him have to sit through an entire hour of that, they’re definitely screwed. Hell, Mr. Smith is probably screwed too, being directly in front of him, albeit several feet away.

“Are you quite finished?” Mr. Smith says primly.

“Ugh.” Steve gives a liquid sniffle and swipes under his nose with his bare hand. “I hobe so.”

Jesus Christ, Eddie is going to pop a semi in the middle of class. He slides his jacket off - it’s getting fucking hot in here anyway - and sets it over his lap.

The professor clears his throat and continues. “As I was saying, one theory is that the devastation in Florence caused by the Black Death, which hit Europe between 1348 and 1350, resulted in a shift in the world view of people in 14th century Italy.”

“Ha….HA’EHSSHHOO!” Steve’s whole body shakes with the strength of the sneeze, drenching his fistful of Kleenex. Oblivious to the teacher’s glare, Steve’s eyes flutter, his brows inching higher and higher with each sharp inhale, fighting against the prickling itch deep in his nose that’s begging for release.

“Italy was particularly badly hit by the plague,” Mr. Smith continues, pausing to direct a stern, pointed look at Steve. “And it has been speculated that the resulting familiarity with death caused thinkers to dwell more on their lives on Earth, rather than on spirituality and the afterlife.”

“Huh-ITTSSH’IEW!” The relentless barrage continues, Steve struggling helplessly against it. “uh…huh’GGKSSHH’IUE!”

Eddie stares, entranced. He can hear how wet they are, thick with mess that’s barely contained in the clump of increasingly soggy tissues Steve’s got a death grip on. Eddie gets another glimpse of Steve’s disobedient nose - pink, wet, and sore - as he pulls back from the tissues with a wobbly inhale, clearly not done. A flush darts up Eddie’s neck, his toes curling in his sneakers.

“It has also been argued that the Black Death prompted a new wave of piety, manifested in the sponsorship of religious works of art.” Mr. Smith soldiers on, agitation clear in his voice. “However, this does not fully explain why the Renaissance occurred specifically in Italy in the 14th centu-”

“Ahh…ihh…hih…HIH’EERRRSHH’IUE!” The last one tears through Steve in the middle of an attempt to grab a new batch of tissues. He curls into himself, unleashing the spraying sneeze across his lap and part of his desk. There’s a visible sheen on his cupid’s bow that he desperately swipes at with the back of his hand.

“Steve!” Mr. Smith says sharply. “I do not appreciate these interruptions!”

“I’b sigk, dude!” Steve argues, as if that isn’t obvious by the gurgling, cold-ridden noseblow that immediately follows. His features are a tired mix of annoyance and embarrassment.

“Please don’t call me dude, Steve.” Mr. Smith pins him with a flat look, clearly exasperated but unwilling to kick him out just yet. Steve glares at him.

“I’b sigk, professor – hih…ha’AESSHH’IEW!” The sneeze erupts from Steve, forceful and clearing. He puts much less effort into covering this one, holding the tissue inches away from his face and releasing a huge, spraying sneeze openly down onto it. Eddie can see the escaped stray droplets misting the air.

This motherfucker better not make me come in my pants, I swear to god, Eddie thinks as he adjusts himself, trying to find some kind of relief. He feels too hot in his own skin.

The students nearest Steve are leaning away from him in mounting horror, trapped without any open seats to flee to.

“If you’re feeling so poorly, why did you come to class today?” Mr. Smith radiates disapproval.

“Idt’s your attendance policy, bman.” Steve scrubs a finger back and forth under his raw nose. “I didn’t thigk it wa-aah…hah–Ha’ERRSHH’IUE!” The sneeze is only half-muffled against his fist, the rest scatters free into the air. “Ugh. Allowed.”

Mr. Smith’s mouth pulls into a frown. “Exceptions can be granted when there are legitimate… health reasons.” He eyes the growing pile of tissues on Steve’s desk with disgust, calculating the odds of how likely he is to catch his cold, no doubt increasing with every one of Steve’s careless, pathetic attempts at covering, with every slimy tissue added to the pile, cluttering up the desk, creating a foreboding minefield of germs.

Steve snorts up the clogged mess in his nose and clears his throat. He’s so congested that even his throat sounds thick with it. Pulling a tissue from his pack, he lays it across his cupped palms, ready, waiting.

“I didn’t thigk this would count. Idt’s just – heh – just a c-cold – Ha’GGSHT’CHUH!” His head snaps forward as he unleashes the sneeze vaguely downwards toward the tissue spread across his hands. Eddie can see the unrestrained spray of it swirling around in the several inches of open air between his agitated, rebellious nose and his hands.

He folds the splattered tissue up to release a crackling blow, so loud that Eddie thinks he must be doing it on purpose. When he’s done, Steve offers a pointed, “’Scuse mbe,” with a telling twist to his lips. Now apparently fully committed to his appearance as a plague rat, he breathes through his mouth, dabbing at his sore, chapped nose with the tattered remnants of the tissue. When he pulls it away, he has no shame – his red, glistening, contagious nose is on full display.

Oh, Eddie likes this one. A buzzy warmth fills him down to his toes, and he has to stop himself from shivering with it. His cock is rock-hard in his jeans. Has anyone ever died of blue balls? he wonders, shifting in his seat.

Rather than hiding it away in his backpack, Steve adds the sodden tissue to the pile on his desk like a challenge, trying to get a rise out of Mr. Smith. The brazen audacity of it is doing nothing to help the heat under Eddie’s skin.

“If you’re ill to the point of being a distraction in class, you should have emailed me, and I would have given my approval,” Mr. Smith says in a tense, clipped voice.

“I didn’t thigk I felt that ba-hah… bad – hih - odn the way over h-here,” he argues, quickly scrambling for a fresh tissue, “but I – huh… I cadn’t stob – ihh… s-sneeziihh… Ha-iih’ERRSSHH’IUE!” His brow furrows with the strength of it, shoulders curling in. He’s crumpled the tissue under his nose, anticipating the sheer amount of mess, which unfortunately leaves his mouth uncovered. The sneeze forces the breath from him in a violent gust that causes the used tissues on his desk to flutter and threaten to topple over the edge.

Eddie’s pulse jumps and he almost snaps his pencil in half, tapping his foot on the ground in an effort to not shake out of his skin with want. He tries not to openly stare as Steve pulls back the Kleenex from his face, having to pinch off the mess that still clings to him, wiping the spit from his lips with his other hand.

“Ugh, what a bmess.” Steve says, really playing it up. “Sorry. I’b trying to stob but they’re too strogg.”

“I can see that,” Mr. Smith grinds the words out between his teeth.

“I thigk I’b really contagious.” Steve presses the tissue to the underside of his tender, dripping nose. “I already godt all of mby roobmates sihh-sigk. Heh…Huh-HA’IIGGGHHH’SHOO! Ughhh. Trust mbe, you don’t want this…” He punctuates his warning with a truly miserable-sounding noseblow.

“I agree. We don’t need you getting the whole class sick.” Mr. Smith takes a few careful steps back, looking like he’d rather be running from the room entirely. “You can get the notes from one of your classmates.”

“Are you s-sure?” His nostrils flair and he cups a hand several inches from his face in a sluggish attempt to cover another impending outburst. “ihh – hih’iiiiGGHH’shue!” It scrapes from his throat, the last syllable drawn out into a pained exhale.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Mr. Smith says. Having reached the end of his rope, he points to the door. “Go. Before you infect us all with your pestilence.”

Satisfied, Steve gathers his things, touching them all with his germy hands in the process. The used tissues are scooped up and crammed into an open pocket in his backpack. The car-pack of tissues stays out. Clinging to it like a lifeline, Steve pulls two fresh ones from the cylinder.

“Thaggs, professor.” He quickly bunches the tissues to his face, his chest heaving with every hitch of his breath. “ahh… hiiiih… Hih’AAIIGH’shoo! SNF. I’ll see you next weegk.”

With that, he turns and makes his way up the stairs, pausing every few steps to shudder with a wrenching sneeze, barely contained in his damp fistful of Kleenex. Now that he’s not even trying to control them, it seems he’s completely at their mercy, pitching forward in several small fits, trying to cover as much ground as he can between them until he finally makes it to the door. Fumbling the clump of tissues into his pocket, he pulls at the door handle, finally making his escape into the hallway as an awkward hush settles over the rest of the class.

Mr. Smith attempts a joke and tries to refocus everyone’s attention. Eddie doesn’t hear any of it. His head feels all floaty and he’s trying not to come in his pants. That was insane. He blinks, trying to shake himself out of it.

By the time he’s managed to bring himself back to reality, Mr. Smith is making a show of marking off Steve’s excused absence. “Steve Harrington,” he announces as he notes it down, enunciating clearly as if to let the entire class know who’s to blame when half of them come down with this cold from hell.

Harrington. Something clicks in Eddie’s mind at that. Chrissy’s knowing smile flashes through the haze. A months-old memory washes over him in waves – she was telling him about some guy she made friends with in class… going on and on about him. About how one time he’d shown up for class sick as a dog, and how she wished Eddie could have been there - he’s just his type. She had wanted to introduce them.

At the time, Eddie’s interest had been piqued, how could it not? But this guy sounded like a Grade-A jock, and although he trusted Chrissy, Eddie dating a jock went against practically every facet of the Munson Doctrine. He had filed it directly under “Never Gonna Happen” in his brain, and they’d both forgotten about it, buried in finals, before heading off for winter break.

Since then, Chrissy might’ve mentioned her and Steve meeting up for coffee once or twice since they didn’t have a class together this semester, but her hopes of introducing them got lost in the throes of a busy Spring semester. If Eddie had known this was Chrissy’s Steve – a bit of a jock, sure, but still sweet and smart and with sneezes straight out of Eddie’s wildest fantasies – he sure as fuck would’ve made that introduction more of a priority.

Fuck. Now Eddie has to see if there’s still a shot. If Chrissy was going to introduce them, that means there’s a slim chance Steve might be into him, right? He’s going to text her as soon as class gets out and tell her he’s seen the light.

Eddie wonders if he could give Steve his notes from class. Didn’t the professor say something about that? Yeah, he’ll get his number from Chrissy, then bring him the notes… maybe some tea…

Shit, he’s got to get ahold of himself.

For once in his life, Eddie tries to take flawless notes. He’s only partially successful. It’s almost impossible to focus with replays of Steve’s little spectacle parading through his head. And if that wasn’t distracting enough, he can’t stop himself from imagining scenes from their future together like some kind of lovesick fool. He taps his pencil to the page, daring to hope.

He’ll start with notes and some tea.

#snzblr #snz fic #snzfic #snz fics #snzfics #cw: contagion #st/eve ha/rrington

[yeonyeonyeonjun]

Serendipity

pairing: choi yeonjun x fem!reader

word count: 505

synopsis: You were stood up by your date, when a mysterious man came to take his place.

warning: bickering, and I think that is all? let me know if I have missed something :)

a/n: I'm back? kinda. just wanted to try getting back to writing, but let's see how this goes. this is kinda a series? or just a collection of written works until I get bored? pls don't expect frequent updates, I swear I'm bad at all of this 😭 anyway, I hope you guys like this :)) pls feel free to give feedback <3

master list for this series

~~~

At this point, you wondered why you had decided to show up in the first place. You should have dumped him the last time he said he would change. But now here you were, munching on some bread, annoyed and potentially planning his murder. As you munched, you sadly, very SADLY made eye contact with the old couple sitting diagonally to you. They shot you a sad look as you smiled back awkwardly.

As your gaze made its way around the room, you realized, everyone was taking sneaky glances at you. You were so going to murder him. Just as you were about to give up and head home, someone sat across from you, sighing loudly.

“So sorry babe, the traffic was preposterous.” The mystery man said.

“Preposterous? You literally called traffic that?” You replied, not surprised by the choice of words.

“Hey, I’m trying to help you here, and you’re insulting me?!” The man continues.

“Um, well thank you-”

“Yeonjun.” He smiles.

“Yeonjun.” You smiled back.

“So, before this gets awkward and we just start to gawk at each other, why don’t you tell me something about this idiot being who stood you up?” He continues.

“Well, his name is Leo. He was supposed to show up about, let's say an hour ago?” You draw.

“Be honest, how long have you been waiting?”

“An hour and a half?”

“Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” You sigh.

“I’m surprised you haven’t thrown your glass of water at me.”

“I know, I should cause a scene. But that old couple sitting diagonally to us have been giving me pitied looks, and they’re looking at us now. So I’m kind of afraid that they might just get a heart attack if I do something this bold.” This makes the boy laugh.

Your eyes widen at the sound. You have encountered your fair share of attractive men, but this man, is something different. Even his laugh is something different. Maybe. Just maybe you are onto something with this date.

“Why did you decide to help me?” You ask, making Yeonjun tilt his head at you in response.

“What do you mean? I saw a pretty girl waiting for some douche and thought why not take a chance and treat you the way you should be treated? Nicely.” He asked.

“Sounds a little cocky to me.” You challenge.

“Agreed. Let’s just get to know each other as friends first. I am sure you will fall for my charms soon enough.” He smirks and shoots you a wink.

“Are you guys ready to order?” The waitress asks, and finally, you get to have food.

The entire night went by with you and Yeonjun conversing over something or the other. By the end, you were a little sad to be saying goodbye.

"Before you leave, I just want to say thank you. For everything." You say with a smile.

"I only accept thank yous in exchange for phone numbers." He says with a smile.

"Well, here you go then." You say, smiling back.

___

Part one done?

#yeonyeonyeonjun #txt #txt post #yeonjun imagines #choi yeonjun fanfic #choi yeonjun angst #choi yeonjun #choi yeonjun drabbles #choi yeonjun au #choi yeonjun scenarios #choi yeonjun fluff #yeonjun fluff #yeonjun #yeonjun imagine #txt yeonjun #yeonjun fanfic #yeonjun x reader #yeonjun angst #txt imagines #txt aus #txt fanfic #txt series #fluff #txt angst #txt fluff #txt suggestive #txt soft hours #txt scenarios #txt au #txt kpop

[jezmmart]

Unwarped version of the photo from the very end of the Summer Special for funsies.

No more jokes or avoiding questions about exactly how long it's going to be, the Summer Special is truly over now!  Thank you all again for reading. I hope it was enjoyable for those invested in the characters and those who just tune in each week for a quick chuckle alike.

It's been a fun challenge to write my first longform story for the comic, as it's far from something I'm confident in.  All together it clocked in at 85 pages (though shave a few off in spots where I just used negative space for dramatic effect rather than filling the longer pages with panels all the way down).  With the average page taking me 3-5 hours to make, that's about 14 days of work.  If I just didn't sleep I could've cranked this out in less than a month, dang!  Well, next time.

I've had the jist for this story in my head for a fair few years so it's been nice to finally realise it.  I'll get into the nitty-gritty when the trivia posts get this far I'm sure, but while it's still fresh in my mind, here's some off-the-cuff bits regarding the broad story for fun:

(Spoilers for anyone who hasn't read it yet!)

* I originally envisioned this as a thing I'd secretly work on behind the scenes and drop in its entirety for download, framed like a traditional "summer special" magazine. But unfortunately I just don't have that kind of time, and knowing that it would be years of work to do it alongside my other output, paired with the fear that not every reader would necessarily ever get around to reading a longform thing when they're used to just tuning in for a 30 second fix once a week and moving on, it became a no-brainer to just make it a "special" in spirit only and make it part of the main comic.  And I know myself, the only way this was ever getting done is if I just posted that first one and then locked myself in to having to finish it, one week at a time.

* The fact that I did it in 2022-2023, and the pacing of the story for the first half, was entirely dictated by the fact that Chamomile's update day was due to land on Christmas Day in 2022.  If I wanted to make that inappropriate Christmas Day comic joke, it was now or never, and because it needed to be a standalone ridiculous one comic scene in juxtoposition to the rest of the story-driven special, staging it as a dream sequence between the two days had to be the time for it.

* To that end... when I began working on it, I didn't have the whole thing planned out.  Day 1 of the trip was more or less sorted but I still had a ton of comics that were just scenes with no jokes yet, and Day 2 was a big question mark that somehow had to lead to Vi's dramatic reveal to Bri and realisation/meet-up with Sam at the end of it.  Day 2 was only fleshed out and finalised by around December last year, when everyone was going to bed on Day 1!  The idea to more thoroughly conclude Brianna's story in an extra epilogue, segregated off from the rest of the special so Sam and Vi's scene would still feel like a "climax", and also allowing the summer special to continue through this year's summer rather than ending right beforehand, only came to me early this year, and finalising the particulars of it came right down to the wire, with all the comics involved fleshed out and ready to go basically when I began drawing the first (or maybe even second, lol).

* On the note of Brianna, her story here is a lighter version of a story idea I had for her back before Cammie even existed and I was considering making a comic about her - a story in which someone returns to their hometown or a special place to find solace but instead finds out that everything has changed and has to learn a hard lesson about how nostalgia can't save you from adult life overwhelming you etc.  In my head it was to be a relatively sombre mood, but tbh I don't know where to begin writing something like that and have it be engaging throughout.  All I know is how to do jokes!!  So I mourn the loss of that imagined version but I'm happy I made something of it at last.  It's impossible to make stuff to your initial vague vision, it was always bound to change!

* While weekly updates meant I never had the time to flesh out their pre-relationship friendship as much as I'd always imagined I would... Sam and Vi have been destined to happen since Sam was introduced to the comic.  Been playing the long game in trying to make them inconspicious but shippers gonna ship and plenty of people saw it coming, but that's fine, haha!

* The elongated search for a 20p coin to get into the public toilets and then it turning out that contactless card payment could have been used the entire time was a real thing that happened to me and my partner during our 2016 holiday in New Forest.  It was really really funny and I've been sitting on the story in order to use it in Chamomile at some point for years and years.

That'll do for now!  Please look forward to the return to regular ol' classic Chamomile antics from Sunday!

#jezmm #art #chamomile comic #chamomile comic trivia #original character #character art #vienna #samantha #chamomile #brianna #layla

[captainsophiestark]

Always Be Prepared

Poe Dameron x Reader

Masterlist - Join My Taglist!

Written for Fictober 2023!

Fandom: Star Wars

Day 21 Prompt: "Just in case this doesn't work."

Summary: Poe and his SO are supposed to be completing a simple, subtle reconnaissance mission, but a complication might make the 'subtle' part challenging.

Word Count: 1,073

Category: Fluff

Putting work into an AI program without permission is illegal. You do not have my permission. Do not do it.

"This is... not good."

My boyfriend, Poe Dameron, and I stood shoulder to shoulder, tucked into our hiding spot as we watched First Order troops crawl all over the ship we were supposed to be escaping on. We'd come to this world on an intelligence gathering mission. Unfortunately for us, we apparently hadn't gone completely unnoticed.

Poe shrugged, nudging his shoulder against mine. "I don't know, it could be worse. We could've been in the ship when they swarmed it."

I huffed a laugh. "I guess that's true. So what do we do now?"

"Hmm. Did you see any other ships around here that we could take off with instead?"

"Not unless you count the ships the First Order came in on. And somehow I don't think we're gonna have much luck taking one of those."

"Then we need a distraction. Something big enough to draw them away from our ship, so big that we actually have half a shot at getting past those troopers."

Poe and I hummed in thought, each scanning our surroundings and staring off into space to try to get some inspiration. We'd spent enough time studying maps of this place and actually combing through it in the past few hours that if there was anything to be done, we should've been able to figure it out.

My eyes wandered over the door we'd just come from, leading to the heart of the building, including its power core.

A crazy, stupid, terrible idea hit me like lightning. I turned to Poe and found him staring back, the same spark of insanity I'd fallen in love with glimmering behind his eyes.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" he asked, a manic grin growing slowly on his face. I shook my head.

"I kind of hate to say this, but yeah, I think I am."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?"

A better, less dangerous idea, I thought, but didn't say it out loud. Poe and I had done and survived all kinds of crazy things in our time with the Resistance, both together and apart. If we'd made it this far, then odds were good that we'd keep making it. Right?

As one, we turned and headed in the opposite direction from our ship, back into the heart of the facility we'd stolen information from. With the discovery of our ship, security had surely been tightened, but we still made it to our target.

The building's energy core hummed before us like a giant glowing weak point. If someone were to blow it up, they'd certainly cause a distraction worthy of attention from a bunch of First Order stormtroopers.

"You know, I feel like it's concerning that we're so in sync about stuff like this," I said as Poe and I moved around the room, quickly identifying weak points where we could do the most damage with just a few charges.

"I think we should be more concerned about why you bring explosive charges with you every time we go on a mission."

I shrugged. "It's working out for us so far, isn't it? You never know when a fast and easy sabotage method might come in handy in our line of work."

"I... guess I can't argue with that," said Poe with a chuckle. We worked together to place the charges, then I hooked up a remote detonator while Poe watched the door. Once everything was set, I gave him a thumbs up and went to meet him by the door. We ducked and dodged through the ever-increasing security measures, thankfully, finally making it back to our hiding spot in front of our ship.

It seemed like another group or two of storm troopers had made their way over, and I knew it was only a matter of time until they started expanding their search radius. It wouldn't take them long to find Poe and I if we didn't do something soon.

"Alright, should we go for it?" I asked, holding the detonator up in question to Poe. Suddenly, this plan felt a lot riskier than before we'd actually been ready to implement it.

"Hold on, one more thing first."

With that, he wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me to him. He kissed me, hard, and after a second's surprise I melted into him, kissing him back just as hard. After a few long, savored moments, Poe pulled away, leaving me a little breathless as I subconsciously trailed after him. He grinned.

"Just in case this doesn't work," he said by way of explanation. I just smiled and shook my head.

"Get ready to run to the ship and go like hell, Flyboy. Once I press this button, it's mostly on you to get us out of here. I'll watch our backs."

Poe winked at me, and I smiled back at him. I took a deep breath, trying to steel myself as best I could, then pushed the button on the detonator.

A moment later, an explosion rocked the building. All the stormtroopers in front of us dropped what they were doing to look up in shock, and as the chain reaction of the explosion continued, they started shouting and rushing towards the building to try to do something. As a result, our ship was left almost completely unguarded.

In perfect sync, Poe and I took off running. I let him get a bit ahead of me, then turned as I ran, ready to shoot at anyone who tried to stop our escape.

Lucky for us, the distraction had worked even better than planned. With a First Order facility literally going up in smoke, even the few people left on the other ships in the yard were too distracted to notice Poe and I taking off until it was basically too late to stop us.

Once we made it to Hyperspace headed back for Resistance HQ, I let myself relax all the way. I put a hand on Poe's shoulder and kissed him on the cheek, then flopped back in my seat to watch the stars streak by.

"Nice work," I sighed. "We should start giving classes on pulling off insane shit like that."

"I hate to break it to you, but we're not out of the woods yet, sweetheart."

I frowned. "What do you mean?"

"One of us still has to explain the mess we left behind us to General Organa."

"Not it!"

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

Everything Taglist: @rosecentury

#fictober23 #star wars #the sequel trilogy #poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #star wars fanfiction #star wars imagine #star wars oneshot #poe dameron fanfiction #poe dameron imagine #poe dameron oneshot #the resistance #star wars x reader #star wars sequel trilogy #leia organa #general leia organa #the first order #first order #storm trooper #pilot

[datura-tea]

im excited for the university au prompt for the year of the otp challenge!! it's for april and i don't know what scene i'll be drawing yet, but it'll be of ulysses as a history professor, and moz as his student - but she's not really his student, actually she's not even enrolled, she dropped out years ago, she just sits in on random classes because she lives near the university and doesn't have much to do since the family restaurant has enough help :)

anyway here's how it goes:

moz starts a debate over something during ulysses' class and they spend the whole hour and a half going back and forth, with some students even joining in. it's the liveliest ulysses' class has ever been, and he and moz even discuss a few interesting points of their discussion after class - but moz never shows up again. ulysses realizes she's not really his student because he checked his attendance sheets and her name only showed up once and she's not in his official records, and he's just left wondering who she is... that is, until he catches her in a different history class, tearing the other professor down for whitewashing the subject, and he's like. obsessed. he waits for her to exit the class when it's done and confronts her about it and she laughs it off and tells him not to blow her cover. and he says i won't, if you keep coming to my classes. and so she keeps going to his twice weekly classes and does pretty well. they get to know each other in class and out of it - ulysses discovers moz is part-owner of one of his favorite hole-in-the-wall restaurants and moz finds out that ulysses used to do grafitti before he became a professor, and they slowly fall in love in between writing papers and grading reports and doing research and it's all very much like a rom com.

at the end of the semester, moz turns in a well-researched and carefully written term paper even when she doesn't have to and ulysses grades it honestly (it gets the highest grade) and in his office they have heated discussion about whether moz deserved the grade or whether ulysses graded her that way because he liked her. and well yeah he confesses that he does like her but still it was a good paper and so she deserved the grade and passed the class. and then they kiss for the first time. and lots of other things happen, like ulysses convinces moz to go back to university and finish her degree but basically they're big big nerds in this. i would write this properly if i had the time but i don't so this is all we're gonna get. if you got to the end of this mess, thanks for reading! i appreciate you!!

#shh peri shhh #we are bound by symmetry #i have mozulysses brainworms #year of the otp

[angst-fairygodmother]

Hi , how are you? Can you please do prompt #70 with Joe Velasco from the angst prompt list . The reader doesn’t work for SVU .

A/N: Hi Nonny! This was a more challenging request than I expected it to be (but in a good way) but I hope it works in the end. Word Count: 1228 Rating: T - swearing; heavy description of injuries; canon-typical implications of sex, drugs, violence; 

You remembered exactly when you met Joe. It had been an ordinary Tuesday in your ordinary laundromat. Until suddenly it wasn't ordinary at all, dark eyes and charming smile crashing into you, gentle hands catching you by the shoulders to hold you steady. Your basket of freshly washed sheets tumbled to the grubby tiles and you found yourself oddly unbothered by it. 

Eventually you both broke out of your trance, startled apart when someone cleared their throat and pointedly reached past you for an empty basket. Joe offered to buy you lunch, you countered with the suggestion that he pay to rewash your laundry. (He did both.) And you found yourself swept up in a whirlwind romance. 

Some days were hard. His job as a detective meant he kept odd hours and came home weighted down by the things he had seen, things you could only try to understand. Sometimes the cases would be particularly bad, and he seemed to be trying to protect you from his world, from himself, no matter how much you wanted to be let in. And your job wasn’t easy either, leaving you stressed sometimes, overworked and tired, but you wondered if there was a tiny part of him that resented you for the fact that you were free and sheltered from the darkest parts of the world.

But you loved each other. You knew that Joe would do anything for you, and you reciprocated, always trying to be, if nothing else, a safe port in a storm. And you tried to tell yourself that was enough. 

~

It was another night up late on the couch alone, clutching your phone in the desperate hope that Joe would be able to slip away from his cover-life and call, or even send a text. He had been gone for a while, and you missed him. 

Your eyes burned with exhaustion and the clock read just after two when the rattle of the front door knob sent a cold shock of adrenaline through you. You sat bolt upright, mind racing for possible weapons you could get to fast enough. There was a muffled thump, as if the person on the other side dropped an item that was soft but heavy and the sound was followed by muttered swears in a language you didn't speak but were as familiar with as the sound of your own name. Your heart leapt, half convinced you were in the delusion of a waking dream. 

You were ready to throw yourself into your boyfriend's arms as soon as he crossed the threshold, but the state of him made you stop short. A series of white butterfly sutures stood stark against his tan skin above one eye. His cheek was puffy, only drawing more attention to the haggard sunkenness of his eyes. As you stared, his tongue ran across his lower lip in an attempt to swipe away the blood slowly dewing there from a series of cracks in the skin. The sight of you still awake and waiting for him despite the hour drew a deep sigh, a mixed sound of weariness and guilt that quickly became a wince as it shook his left arm that sat pinned across his chest in a sling.

“Hey sweetheart,” he said, offering you a tired smile. “What are you doing up so late?”

You felt the wall around your heart grow more solid, no longer able to keep fighting its stony embrace. 

“What am I doing up?” You scoffed. “You're joking right? You've been gone for almost two months. I haven't heard from you in weeks! And you come in with a casual 'hey sweetheart' like it's nothing?”

“I–”

“I've been up waiting every goddamn night, Joe, for any kind of news. Anything at all. I can't remember the last time I got a good night's sleep, because of how worried I've been." You ran a frustrated hand through your hair and sighed. "You couldn't have at least texted and told me you were coming?”

“Jeez, I'm really feeling the love. I've been gone and the first thing you do is yell at me? If I didn't know better I'd think you didn't want me home.” He forced his tone to stay light, to feel like a joke. But you knew him too well for his little tricks to work on you, and you could read the tension, edged in anger, thrumming through every part of him.

“After everything we’ve been through, you still don’t think that I love you?” you laughed incredulously. “Fuck Joe, I’m this upset because of how much I love you.” 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? That makes no sense.” 

“Because you don’t want it to. Look at you. You look like hell. You came home in bandages, not for the first time. And I…I can’t deal with the possibility that it could be in a hospital bed or a body bag next time. Or that you’re just going to disappear and I’m never going to know what happened.”

You felt the tears welling in your eyes and turned away from him, hugging yourself to try and fight it back. Now that you had started, you couldn’t hold back the feelings anymore. But you knew that looking at him, probably giving you those sad puppy dog eyes he was so good at, would break you worse. 

“And where would that leave me? Alone, and in love with someone who wasn’t here and…not even your widow because you’ve never asked and I never had the balls to either and knowing us we’d never make it down the aisle anyway. And even if we did, what good would that do? A title that gives me permission to mourn longer, and a box of your stuff that would just taunt me from the corner because I’ll never go through it?”

You felt his good hand on your shoulder, and the heat of his body against your back, and it took all of your strength not to lean back into him. 

“Sweetheart, slow down,” he asked, voice soft and low and warm against your ear.

You could feel all of the rage that had been driving you and holding you up start to leach away. 

“I'm not asking you to stop being a cop…” you protested weakly even though he hadn't even suggested such a thing. “I know how much this job means to you.”

“I know,” you could almost hear his heart breaking in those two words.

“But…I'm not sure there's room for me too in that.” You turned to face him, even though you knew the sight of him might shake your resolve. 

“Come on sweetheart, don't…” he hesitated and the moment felt like it stretched into a pained eternity. “Don't say that.”

“Joe. We have to face reality someday.”

“Does it have to be tonight?” He pleaded. There were tears in his eyes, but that didn't bring the same to yours, which told you everything you needed to know.

“I'm not cut out for this, and it's not fair to either of us to keep pretending I am.”

“Tomorrow? Please, I promise we'll talk about this tomorrow and figure something out?”

You sighed, nodding. One more night in his arms was worth the pain the lie caused you as you told yourself it might work out. “Ok. Tomorrow.”

#angst #no happy ending #ambiguous ending #(if you squint) #I really tried to find a way for this not to go down the angst-and-breakup route but uh...that didn't work #I hope you like it Nonny. I know it's been a long wait #Joe Velasco x Reader #Law and Order SVU fic

[nelvana]

It’s been tricky for me in the past to emulate 3DS pokemon games, since my laptop certainly isn’t strong enough for that, but I’m home from college and decided to give Y a try! But with a twist: I played it in French.

For those unaware, I am bilingual, and know English and French. And with Kalos being based off of France, I figured it would be fitting to play it in French, in part to help make sure I don’t lose my touch on the language since I don’t have to speak it as much as I used to. I found it fairly easy to understand, but I think that has more to do with my knowledge of pokemon, since the French translation was awful. Some parts straight up weren’t translated (and sure, modern French, at least in my area, mixes in some English every now and then, but this was a bit much), constant grammar errors, and even simple pronoun issues. I had an npc call me “mon soeur” which to anyone who knows French, knows that that is just... wrong.

Regardless, I did enjoy my playthrough! I started about three weeks ago, beat it a couple weeks after starting, so here’s my usual team drawing for it!

Team stats and general gameplay info under the cut:

“Aodh”, Delphox, ♂, Flamethrower - Psychic - Grass Knot - Calm Mind

“Olivier”, Venusaur, ♂, Synthesis - Growth - Grass Pledge - Sludge Bomb

“Antoinette”, Aegislash, ♀, Iron Head - King’s Shield - Sacred Sword - Shadow Claw

“Taranis”, Heliolisk, ♂, Quick Attack - Volt Switch - Surf - Thunderbolt

“Maurelle”, Sylveon, ♂, Draining Kiss - Swift - Quick Attack - Moon Blast

“Peluda”, Noivern, ♀, Air Slash - Dragon Pulse - Fly - Boomburst

General Playthrough Notes:

My in-game time after all was said and done was a little over 32 hours! That includes me fucking around in the post-game a bit, I didn’t think to look at the in-game time after just doing the main game, but I didn’t do that much in the post-game so the amount of time was probably close.

When I got to the Elite Four my entire team was at least level 65. I think this is the first time I got to the league and wasn’t underleveled.

Needless to say, gen 6 is really easy. I kinda liked that though, it was funny to plow through the entire game without a second thought, and I even got to skip some trainers without worrying. There was a bit of a level jump at Victory Road, so if someone was really determined to stay underleveled for a challenge then they could be for the Elite Four.

The game being so easy did make the league a bit anticlimactic though? Taranis nearly fought half of the E4 members solo (the fire and water ones), only the talonflame getting the best of him.

I did still have some fun with the champion battle! Though that was mostly because of the spin I put on it, where I “assigned” each of my team members to fight one of hers, meaning that everyone got a chance to shine, which isn’t something I’ve ever gotten to do in a pokemon game. It also felt like the cumulation of all my efforts, since I had to know her team’s names in French to switch in my pokemon at the correct times.

I found the post-game to be a bit lackluster, unfortunately. The Battle Mansion feels bland (and it bored me so much that I nearly missed the rest of the post-game because the rival fight only happens after you do a fight in the Battle Mansion), I was too late to the Battle Castle to enjoy that, shiny hunting isn’t really my thing, and nor is hunting down all the legendaries the game shoved into the post-game (including roaming legendary bird, with the “fun” twist of you having to encounter it 11 times before you can try catching it, and also it teleports randomly). I love the Looker cases though! Of course, that’s all a bit of my personal tastes, it is a lot of content for those more interested, it just left me a bit disappointed.

Guys... listen, listen... gen 6 had so much potential it makes me upset. You can see what they wanted to say, what directions they wanted the characters to go, but it feels like they didn’t progress past the first draft. Lysandre could have been such a cool villain...

And even characters aside, you can see the care they put in to this game. All the little animations, fennekin’s ear fluff spikes out when it’s angry... the grass has wind blowing through it... I wish so badly that it had turned out better.

Back to the plot for a moment, I knew I wanted a noivern on my team, did you know that you can’t catch a noibat until after all the main Team Flare stuff? I didn’t know that until I was forced to bike across the entire region to save the world! Annoying in the moment, but it did quickly turn into a running gag in the Creators’ Guild (where I was sharing my experiences) of me just witnessing the end of the world like “I just wanted a noibat :(”

Speaking of running gags, the joke of “don’t worry, my pokemon will heal this status condition because they love me” is incredibly funny, that mechanic is so broken and I love it so much

There are no good clothing options for the female trainer! I am constantly jealous of the male clothes options! I found one (1) shirt that I really enjoyed and wore it with everything else default for pretty much the entire main game. In the post-game, I finally unlocked that stupid fancy clothes store in Lumiose City and bought the blue suit which I am simultaneously baffled and thankful is an option for girls in this game and it instantly gave me serotonin even if it cost nearly all my money.

THIS IS YOUR REMINDER!! IN GEN 6 YOU CAN PET YOU 4-5 HEART AFFECTION POKEMON IN BATTLE AFTER THEY DEFEAT A POKEMON! Apparently most people didn’t know that, so here’s your reminder to pet your pokemon :D

Aodh was a star player in every gym and I just wanted to mention that. Yes, even the rock-type one. He solo handled the first gym, despite all its fire-type counters. I’m so proud of him.

Just to say, it’s been nearly 3 years since I started doing this “draw your team after you beat a pokemon game” thing, and it’s really nice to see how far I’ve come. Here, have a link to my Leaf Green team post, look at how old that art is!

#pokemon #pokemon y #pokemon xy #gen 6 #3ds #gaming #game #video games #drawing #art #my art #digital art #delphox #venusaur #aegislash #heliolisk #sylveon #noivern #trainer #pokemon trainer #nelvana speaks #nelvana rambles

[halseyquinn]

I posted 61 times in 2022

That's 44 more posts than 2021!

45 posts created (74%)

16 posts reblogged (26%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@waitingonavision

@silver-words-and-inky-secrets

@reversia

@palestxrlight

@luxiferxx

I tagged 36 of my posts in 2022

Only 41% of my posts had no tags

#encanto - 28 posts

#bruno madrigal - 18 posts

#encanto fanart - 14 posts

#bruno encanto - 11 posts

#bruno madrigal fanart - 11 posts

#encanto bruno - 9 posts

#madrigal family - 5 posts

#encanto theory - 5 posts

#julieta madrigal - 5 posts

#alma madrigal - 5 posts

Longest Tag: 31 characters

#inkworld appreciation week 2022

My Top Posts in 2022:

#5

Sooo - I was wondering the other day: how is Bruno‘s hair still so comparatively short after 10 years behind the walls? Either he cut it himself or...he got “help” - this was probably the first (and last time) ever Bruno let the rats cut his hair LOL-

This is how it probably went:

Bruno: “Hey, little guys - do you think you could possibly help me with my hair?”

Rat 1: “Squeak?”

Bruno: “My hair - you know” *takes a pair of scissors and a strand of hair and cuts it*

Rat 1: “Squeak!” (to Bruno) *turns around to the other rats*: “Squeak-squeak!” [Translation: “Bruno needs help with preening his fur!”]

The other rats: “Squeak!” [Translation: “Alright, let’s do this!”]

Timeskip - about half an hour later...

Bruno: “Uh, guys? You know, the hair is supposed to be the same length on both sides?”

Rats 1, 2 & 3, who have been trying to cut Bruno’s hair for the last 30 minutes: “Squeak?”

Bruno [out loud]: “You know what? I think next time, I’ll just cut it myself - don’t want to trouble you again...”

Bruno [under his breath]: “Miércoles!��

37 notes - Posted July 13, 2022

#4

See the full post

39 notes - Posted April 2, 2022

#3

Mirabel adding something to her dress/skirt (as requested anonymously - I hope this is how you imagined the drawing :)

I personally think that sewing is not only a nice hobby for Mirabel: Each family member’s gift is symbolized by their clothes - so it only seems natural that Mirabel would like to add some “meaning” to her clothes, too - in order to feel more like a part of the family...

52 notes - Posted August 13, 2022

#2

My contribution to the Encanto DTIYS-challenge by the amazing @glitternightingale! Here’s the awesome original drawing: https://glitternightingale.tumblr.com/post/691303126623485952/glitters-dtiys-2022

I drew all of the characters separately bc I wasn’t sure how each one would turn out (I’ve never drawn any of them before, except for Bruno). Afterwards, I cut the drawings out and put them together like a collage and then I played around a bit with Photoshop and added a filter to make it look like an old photograph (I totally imagine them like this at the photographer’s ;) Hope you like it! :)

87 notes - Posted August 7, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

“Bruno grabbed a cup of coffee, pulled a rat out of it, and drank from it” (from the Encanto Deluxe Junior Novel). Ever since I read this, I’ve wanted to draw it - and since today’s Encantober prompt is “rats”, have this little video :)

164 notes - Posted October 23, 2022

[alphavanilla]

My Experience DMing for a class of kids!

This will be a bit of a long post, talking about my recent volunteer job as a DM for a D&D club, so I'll pop it under a read more break! For those interested in how this anxious artist managed to pull off running a D&D campaign for a class of kids for 2 months, read on!

So - let's start at the beginning. I was asked if I wanted to take over as DM for a D&D club that ran for 6 weeks over the final term of school. The current guy they had was leaving, and apparently the kids really wanted to keep playing. I, being absolutely thrilled that a school was taking an interest in D&D, gladly accepted, and begun my planning for what would be a challenging yet very fulfilling little project!

I had a chat with a couple of the students who were part of the club, and asked how their last campaign went. They said it was very slow, and they had to share characters, so I came up with the idea of splitting the class into 3 groups, and letting 2 student volunteers take the role of DM for two of these smaller groups. For this, I designed a small 5-room dungeon, and wrote a step-by-step guide on how to run it - similar to how a premade campaign book would, but in even simpler terms. I also simplified the game; a lot. I only got an hour a week with the kids, so I had to make it easy to digest and quick to learn.

I ditched the Wisdom and Charisma stats, ditched all of the ability/skills as well as saving throws - on the sheets I designed for them, I left Strength, Dex, Con, Intelligence, AC and Initiative, and I created 4 premade class sheets with the stats already rolled and filled in. They could be a Wizard, a Rogue, a Paladin or a Ranger. There was also a little box for them where they could draw their own character's portrait in, as I know kids love to be creative. The class sheets had 2 actions/attacks they could make (based on their class), or they could use a turn to drink a potion (for which I gave unlimited uses). For the dungeon I also created premade enemy sheets, with my two types of enemies being Mimics and Goblins. These would be part of the 'DM pack' that would help the volunteer DMs run the game. The map had a version that the players would see and move their tokens around on, and one was a DM map that had all the objects and enemies and traps labelled, that had corresponding letters to the DM guide I wrote.

This.. went about as disastrous as you could imagine. My own little group went amazingly; as I'm an experienced player, I was able to oversee and guide the players through the traps and puzzles I'd made, and we had a blast. I did spend the first half hour of the lesson trying to explain how to DM to my volunteers, but, as young'uns go, they were incredibly distracted and found it hard to pay attention. In the end, I just handed them the material and hoped for the best. They seemed to have fun, but they *Definitely* weren't playing by the rules, or even using the material.

So, I went home, and I scrapped nearly everything. I kept their player sheets as I thought the simplified sheets were working well, but I ditched a lot of rules, and decided to merge the group back into one big party, and oversee DMing myself, with a brand new dungeon, and without a map.

I started them off at the door of a giant, creepy gothic castle, and hinted that an evil vampire lord lived there. The kids loved being told about what monsters they might face, and we had a lot of banter (things got very noisy a lot of the time, so I did have to urge them all to quieten down and listen a lot. A bottle of water is recommended as I had to raise my voice above the chatter to get their attention quite often). I prepared several riddles, and found out I had underestimated my class as they immediately knew the answer to all of them, absolutely blasting through the front door. Here, I had prepared two monsters for them to face; a gargoyle and a giant bat. Now here, combat went slow. I had 12 kids that each needed to decide on what they were going to do and roll several dice that they were still struggling to tell the difference between, and by the end of the turn order, the kids were getting distracted and antsy again. I initially had stats, attacks and all the other components to an enemy block written down, but I soon realised it would be far better to just improvise the numbers on the spot, and let them defeat them when I thought they'd had enough rather than use actual numbers. If a kid asked me about the numbers, I'd just tap my nose and say that was for me to know, which kept them from discovering the secret that I was completely winging everything! If I noticed energy levels dropping and kids getting distracted, I'd let the next student who landed a hit get the killing strike and move on.

What I learned from this was that the kids loved rolling dice, and loved being asked and prompted about puzzles, but found it really hard to pay attention during my dramatic descriptions of the rooms they were in, and they'd often not bother looking around or investigating rooms for puzzle components - by session 3 or 4 I realised I should just ask one of them to roll an investigation check as soon as they entered a new room (just using their intelligence mod) and if they rolled higher than a 10 I'd point out whatever it was they needed to interact with. If they failed, I'd ask someone else to roll until we got a hit, and then I'd praise how the successful party member had helped them so they'd all cheer for them. The kids definitely needed a lot of prompting during exploration, so I would ask questions like 'So who wants to....' and then I'd be greeted with a flurry of hands stuck in the air, desperate to take part, rather than what I would otherwise have had - a distracted group of children who didn't really know what they were meant to be doing. Once they were sent on the right track however, enthusiasm soared, and I'd be swarmed by excited adventurers eager to suggest what they wanted to do.

I found asking them to recap what happened in the last session to be a good way to start each session, as it refreshed their memory and got them back into the mindset I wanted - eager to solve my next puzzles and finish off the one we left off. It also gave me a chance to let the more quieter kids say something by picking their hands if they ever raised. The whole time, I would be constantly asked 'when will we reach the evil vampire lord?!', which I would respond to with a foreboding chuckle and an ambiguous answer.

I played a fair few tricks on the party too; setting off false traps and sending my adventurers into a panic as they yelled what they wanted to do before the closing walls squished them, only for the countdown to end and the walls to stop just short of crushing them - I think the kids really loved the playfulness and sense of urgency created in these scenarios. Most of my puzzles were simple but required group participation - I borrowed a fair few puzzles from DM resources online, picking the ones I thought would be easy enough to solve but still make them think. They also had to be fairly quick puzzles as the kids would lose interest fast and grow bored if they couldn't solve it quick enough. My dungeon over the 6 weeks honestly felt like a rapid speedrun of many different puzzles, each teasing that the next would lead to the BBEG. They also wanted plenty of short combat encounters too; everyone wanted to be the one who got the last hit on the enemy and crowned the zombie-slayer or skeleton-slayer of the group. By this point, I'd scrapped even preparing monsters in my notes, and threw enemies at them whenever I felt we needed a pace change.

I increased the complexity of the puzzles near the end, with the final puzzle being quite a bit longer than the other ones; I wanted them to experience at least one full length puzzle that made the final room feel all the more earned. Thankfully, by this point they were used to my antics, and managed to solve my final puzzle. In the last room, I decided to give them the biggest enemy of all; a multi-headed vampiric dragon (my own on-the-spot invention, as I had hinted at a vampire this whole time only to throw a big dragon at them haha). I got them all excited to fight him, and let this combat feel like a real challenge compared to the others, so it really felt like a final fight. Near the end, some of the kids had gotten distracted again and started drifting off, but I completely lost track of time, realised we had 5 minutes left, and let the next hit be the one that slayed the dragon. As the reward, I had brought a big bag of candy with me as a surprise, and told them that amongst the treasure they found the dragons secret sweet-tooth stash; of course the kids went wild as I dished out handfuls of candy to my successful dragon-slayers.

So, that was the conclusion to my 6-week campaign, with a party of 12 children. The age groups were super mixed, and I definitely noticed the younger ones needed a lot more prompting and guidance, but all in all I think they all enjoyed it. I definitely had a few students who were actively interested in D&D, as they were always stuck right in and eager to join in and solve everything; but I also had a few kids that realised D&D probably wasn't for them, and wouldn't really participate unless prompted to - however, I really appreciated that they tried it a little bit and joined in when asked. In the last session, one of the kids ran up to me when I arrived and told me how much he loved the classes; I almost got teary-eyed! I also had a couple others tell me that they loved playing so much that they were now organising and planning to DM their own campaigns - I honestly couldn't be prouder to have inspired some of them to play again.

The experience was definitely stressful, definitely a challenge, and definitely gave me anxiety sometimes, but it was absolutely worth it. Through trial and error (and, lots of errors at that), I found a flow to work with, and knowing that I managed to guide a whole class of children who had never played D&D before through an entire dungeon, and to have them even tell me how much they enjoyed it, brought me so much joy and pride. I now feel super confident that I can DM my own real campaign for my small group of adult friends, as that will surely be a piece of cake compared to what I just achieved. I'm not sure if I'll do it again (though the school has said they would love to have me back to run it again next term), as it was very draining, but it was definitely an experience worth having. I'm going to miss my little adventurers!

I hope reading this was interesting, as it was definitely a new and challenging experience for me, and I thought it was worth keeping a record of - if nothing else but to remind myself that I'm a capable DM when it comes down to the wire!

[writteninthesewalls28]

Love, your chosen twin

A "family" one shot

A/n: This work is part of the "be my valentine challenge" by @bemyvalentinechallenge for the day 9 prompt. It’s also a one shot to my rather long fanfiction.

Summary: Milly’s best friend Kailey just died and Milly decides to write a letter to her, even though she’ll never be able to read it.

Warnings: major character death, grieving, anxiety, sadness, not proof read

"Dear Kailey,

I know you will never get this letter.

But I hope you are watching down on me right now and watch over every word I write."

were the first few sentences Milly wrote to say goodbye to her best friend. A goodbye for forever.

Sometimes she forgets about the fact that she won´t be standing next to her ever again and won´t talk to her again.

Life just wasn´t fair.

"I miss you, when I see the stars because they were your favorite, by the way. But… when I think about it, I actually miss you every single second of my life.

I don´t think, I´ll ever be able to have another best friend again. I don´t think, I´ll ever be able to trust someone again, at least not the way I trusted you."

Why did she even write this? Why did I she torture herself like that? She had absolutely no idea and just hoped this would end quickly.

Not only the letter, but the constant reminders of her. The pictures in her room, the oreos in the house, the drawings in the school hallways she walks past every day, everything was reminding her of her one friend. Kailey couldn´t be replaced by anyone. Her way to see this world and experience it had been the uniquest of them all.

"I wish I could talk about my exchange year in Australia with you, maybe you would even come with me. I´m so scared. I´m so scared to live without you."

She closed her eyes and saw Kailey´s dark brown hair with the curls in front of her inner eyes. She was smiling as always. It was the moment where they walked out of school one day and it was raining. Both of them forgot to bring an umbrella, so now they had to walk back home and would get wet. But they? They just didn´t care. They had fun and were together, that had been all that mattered for both.

But Milly never would´ve imagined, they wouldn´t be together some day.

And now she felt even more thankful for these type of memories she could keep in her mind forever.

"I feel like my heart was broken in half the day I met you in pre-school, they day you ripped on my left bun because you thought it´s funny. You took one half of my heart, you took it with you the day you left. Now my half of it is all that I´m left with. We had some good times, didn´t we?"

Oh, yes they did. Doing their make-up together the last few hours before prom, not caring how it looked, because all that mattered, was that they did it together.

"I know one thing for sure: I´ll miss you forever. Forever and always. I could never forget or not miss my chosen twin sister."

When they had been around 9 years old, Milly and Kailey decided they want to be twins.

So that´s what they called each other for the next years: "My chosen twin"

"But, you know. You gave me a forever within your numbered days, and I´m grateful.

Love,

Your chosen twin, Milly."

Now it was time, to get up and close up with this whole thing. That´s why she wrote this in the first place, to get rid of these cruel thoughts.

But instead, she stood up from the chair and just then realized the tears on her cheeks.

She had been crying for the whole time.

The feeling of emptiness, she had been experience for the past week now, got worse and worse.

What should she do now?

#bemyvalentine2024 #bemyvalentineno9 #quote #orginial character #original content #tw character death #tw anxiety #tw grieving #maddys writing

[pohlunaali]

Malaysia Trip (4 Nights 5 Days Trip)

A summarized blog post about my first time at Kuala Lumpur.

It was the last few chances to go for an overseas trip in my final year of school so why the heck not despite not knowing anyone in the trip.

DAY 1 (26TH SEPTEMBER 2023):

Heading off to Malaysia via Bus~

Didn't expect to see so many trees in the next few hours. Would have thought I spend the few hours in the bus drawing or doing something productive but no I just knocked out half of the ride, I guess this is what happens when you hit the adult age

Once we arrived to our hotel rooms -> A view from my room! ( Happy to say I had a real sweet roommate during this trip☺)

Dinner time aka Group of introverts battling their way through salespeople challenge

also lizard 🦎 I was hoping to see more lizards but this was the only one I saw through this trip

"hallo"

DAY 2: (27TH SEPTEMBER 2023)

Little do my legs know we are gonna have a leg day in the next two days.

On our way to Lemonsky Studio & Inspidea Studio vrrr ( Saw my fellow schoolmates interning at Inspidea as well! glad they recognized me haha covid has cause us to not know our class well)

Studio 1: Lemonsky Studio

Such a humongous studio with so many colleagues wowza and they had a cool lounge area with arcade games and gachas! It was cute how they named each room or door based on the big projects they worked with. My fellow colleagues lets meet at the final fantasy room

Also the number of projects they worked with, W o w

Brought home two of their postcards of the projects they worked with, Ratchet & Clank and Diavolo! ( I don't play these two games ! :D <- not a gamer ) I just thought the monster in the Diavolo postcard looks cute

Quick stop to the mall after that: (The speedrun of a quick bite so we can check out the anime store goal - My team's objective)

Spoiler: The anime store was boring but the arcade store next door wasn't! but it sure took some of our money like this darn clown claw machine which was bloody BROKEN and my coins are gone with it Damn cute clowns.... But is okay I got the highlight of this whole trip, my wittle lizard guy in a gacha machine. I luv him <3

Studio 2: Inspidea Studio

Their office was smaller than Lemonsky Studio but it was very cozy and welcoming. Their "head animator boss" was real cool -> image below

Oh to work there and have feline colleagues~

Was real neat to see my schoolmates currently interning there and hearing how their time was in an overseas internship. A studio that is still doing 2D Work and illustration was nice to see in this trip as it has mostly been 3D targeted sighhh

Next Stop: Batu Cave ( RIP My legs)

Off with 200 Steps up to the cave with monkeys eyeing you for food.

I came back down with having beef with these monkeys for trying to steal my drink. One of them stole one of our mountain dew and down it like a true gamer.

The view at the top was very worth it in the end also BIG chickens

and cat

With sore legs, we return to Pavillion Mall for dinner and shortly after I got lost 💞 (Is okay I was found)

Back to the hotel room, sore

DAY 3 (28TH SEPTEMBER 2023):

The actual reason why this overseas trip was a thing, a convention at KLCC with various animation/games studio and talks coming in to talk.

Drew DJ Subatomic Supernova and my guy at Inspidea Studio Booth's

SNUFKIN FROM FINNISH ANIMATION MOOMIN?!

also twin tower

Talked to Tenten Studio and listened into a talk about working in concept art for games. Got an interesting advice that they would be interested to see process of how you design the character/prop/environment from research in your portfolio. Though I don't know if I have the interest to grind my skills up to the level of a Games Concept Artist

Alright cutting this off as Part 1 of the blog | PART 2

#ali blog #malaysia #Kuala Lumpur

[garf-eats-vomit]

WATER BOTTLES.

When I was younger I had a lot of punishments. I still do. I live with my parents even though I'm 18 and they [mostly mother] treat me like a child. This hasn't happened in years, but there was a Maximum Punishment they would inflict once in a blue moon when they deemed it necessary. It was called water bottles. It was set up by grabbing two full water bottles, and my dad [he's a tall muscular man, much more so than myself, just for context] would come with me into a secluded room in the house. One time it was me and him in the kitchen at night, and I was in my pajamas. I don't remember if he actually got me out of bed, but that did happen a few times. Other times it was in his room, or my room, or the garage. Anyway, the way you played the game was you took two water bottles and held one in each of your hands by the tops, straight out in a T pose. You would do this until your arms got tired, and if they dropped for too long dad would make me put them down and you'd go over and get spanked. And he didn't do the usual light spankings where it was just a light swat. This man had me bend down over his knee and he'd smack me at full force, usually with a coat hanger, occasionally with his hand, several times. Then you'd go back over and do it all over again. This usually lasted for at least an hour. The whole time this was happening, he'd be asking you questions and lecturing you on whatever it was that you'd done. Usually this was school related. It boiled down to me not doing my work for no real reason. I just didn't want to. So they had to *make* me want to. Eventually this evolved, two tines in fact. The first was when water bottles were replaced with five pound weights. It was really just a matter of convenience. I still don't like the way weights feel when I lift them. Anyway. This change was largely inconsequential. The second change happened when I got older, from elementary to middle school. There was a new challenge added to the game, wall squats were introduced. They worked fundamentally the same as the water bottle/weight portion, do the squats until you couldn't anymore and go over for a spanking. The many times this has happened the game was played much the same, the only thing that really makes any individual time stick out in my memory is the location. Bedrooms in different houses, sometimes mine, sometimes my parents', that one time in the kitchen. I believe that was the very first time that punishment took place. It was for drawing with marker on the part of the tile that would never clean off. I might’ve been seven or eight. I don't remember. I think one of the most vivid memories I have is when I was perhaps in seventh grade. We had been doing water bottles for a while, in my parents' room. I was laid out over my dad's knee, crying my eyes out and getting snot everywhere. He hit me with the coat hanger once again, and the force was so strong the plastic broke, and it snapped clean in half and it flew across the room. I look back on it as funny now.

In the same house, I vividly remember coming home from a bad day at school, and the first thing I did was lock myself in the bathroom, sit down, and pray to God I wouldn't have to do water bottles.

Generally while he was talking, my dad would work himself up the longer it went on, and he's kind of an angry person in general. As a reminder, he's tall and muscular, going to the gym regularly, daily now. He would scream and break things. We still have an old cd player with a big black dent in it from when he kicked it with his boot. And for years one of our closet doors had a gaping hole in one side where there was evidence of him getting angry.

It's been years since I've had to do water bottles. We've moved past that. I don't believe he's hit me in years, I've grown up. Mother still does occasionally, but she treats me like a child in general, so that's not a surprise or anything. Suffice to say water bottles had something close to the impact they were looking for, I suppose.

#vent #eating vomit #child abuse #child abuse tw

[notyourdxmsel]

Winter Fever Verse One

They'd been here before. Guns drawn, pointed at each other and trying to pretend they would actually pull the trigger. Bucky knew exactly what she was capable of, but he also knew she wouldn't kill him. Nor would he her. Yet there they were, Barnes staring down the barrel of a Sig 228 while Alexandra's piercing green eyes stared straight through him. It felt like hours passed with the two of them frozen in place, before finally her gun lowered, the blonde tucking the pistol back into its holster at her back.

"You shouldn't have come," she stated flatly, moving into the kitchen of the barely furnished flat as if nothing had just happened. Alexandra wasn't used to much, but this was certainly a new low even for her. The small studio in the heart of Belarus seemed all but vacant, had it not been for the bed in the corner of the room and the few nonperishable foods that lingered on top of the refrigerator.

Bucky watched as she moved through the flat with a grace that was burned into his memory from years before, although she had a tension to her now that he'd never known her to have before. His movements were careful and calculated, gun still at his side, though he knew it was more for her protection than his own. "What did you expect? Thinking a person is dead tends to make you curious," Bucky said as he lowered his weapon to the dusty countertop, setting it down carefully. "Really not happy to see me?"

Alex scoffed a bit, shaking her head as she pulled a bottle of Russian vodka from the old refrigerator. "Last time I saw you, you were fucking some redhead from one of Steve's fan clubs....in our bed," the blonde stated with a pointed look in his direction. "Happy is not the word I would use," she said, setting the bottle down a little too rough on the counter.

Ouch. It was a memory Bucky wasn't fond of, despite the circumstances. The part that stuck out at him like a knife in the gut was the ring that was left on an entry table, and the scent of her perfume disappearing out the door and out of his life for nearly five years. His face grimaced, taking a seat at the small bartop. Instead of arguing the specifics around the instance she referred to, Bucky cleared his throat, grabbing the bottle from the counter before she could, and taking a long swig to settle his own nerves. "You know why I'm here. They're looking for you, and it's only a matter of time before they find you."

The nefarious they. There was always a 'they'. Good guys, bad guys, sometimes even bill collectors that were far less threatening but just as annoying. Not knowing what she was tended to bring out a lot of 'theys', especially when they needed a weapon in the form of a immeasurable antihuman.

Alexandra had been a point of study most of her life, her touch being able to draw energy from anywhere it was available, absorbing it and converting it into electricity that coursed through her entire body. The absorbing of energy gave her strength that rivaled Bucky's, among other abilities that were still making themselves known. It was one of the many reasons she stayed off the radar for the past several years, tired of being used as a 'weapon' in wars that she had no part in.

Dark lashes lifted to watch his every movement - the ticks in his jaw, the flit of his eyes as he watched the door. He was predictable enough, though whose side he was on remained to be seen. "Sounds like you've been watching me," she said as she grabbed the bottle from his hands, taking a drink herself, more so to keep from slapping him like she desperately wanted to do. "Is that why you're here? To bring me in?" Alexandra asked, brow arching at the idea of a challenge.

Yes. He didn't say the words out loud, but that was precisely why he was sent there, regardless what his actual intentions were. "I want to know why they're after you," he stated simply, pulling a tracker from his pocket and snapping it in half between his fingers. He'd definitely pay for that one later, but Fury didn't need to know everything.

"Would you now?" Alex replied, staring at him without flinching. "Your boss doesn't give you a detailed summary of every mission you're sent on? Or have you turned into one of those scary looking henchmen that CNN raves about?"

Bucky rolled his eyes at the reference, even though that was almost exactly what he was on the surface. "All I saw was a name and a face," he said. "I volunteered once I saw that face on a wanted poster."

Alex let her lips lift in the slightest smirk, almost unnoticeable. "Sounds like a pretty important target," she said nonchalantly, taking another gulp straight from the bottle. "Still doesn't explain why you're here right now."

Bucky's instructions were clear - get her back to SHIELD. It was a difficult task, considering the amount of baggage between them was enough to fill a Boeing 727, but he also knew what could happen if things went sideways. "I'm trying to keep you safe. Whatever you've gotten yourself into, you can't get yourself out. You know that, I know that, and Fury knows that. We need you, and I think you need us," he said, pulling a flip phone from his back pocket slowly, opening it and leaving one number on the screen.

"You can come with me, or take your chances with them. You've only got about thirty minutes, give or take," he stated simply, rising from his seat and tucking his gun back into the holster in his jeans, moving towards the door. "See you soon Lex," Bucky said before he disappeared through the front door as quickly as he'd come.

#{ fate or be fated;; } #i just need this verse like bad pls and thanks #marvel rp #bucky barnes #bucky rp

[haruhey]

Oh No

check out my masterlist!

buy me a coffee ¿?

Word count: 32k (haru write something shorter challenge failed)

Fluff | A Lot Of (but also lowkey useless??) Plot | Smut

The punishment for losing game night causes you to catch Daryl in a… predicament, but it’s nothing you can’t help with, and he’s certainly not opposed to it.

In Daryl’s defence, he had never once played UNO before.

You, well, you had concluded several turns ago that luck was working against you.

“Maybe you just suck.”

Whipping your head to the left, you’re met with Carl’s shit-eating grin as he places his remaining red six down and practically jumps from the tiny table you’re all playing on to high-five Glenn. Maggie groans, having only had two in hand, and begins drawing those loathsome, loathsome cards, steadily building her deck until she finally draws a red and places it onto the pile. God, you’ve all been at it for what felt like hours, but you can’t lose, let alone forfeit - there were consequences for that, after all.

“Y’know, Carl, if your dad wasn’t holding onto a mountain of plus two’s right now, I would actually, physically fight you.”

The kid laughs, your insincere threat doing nothing but boosting his teenage ego. He tilts his hat, seemingly satisfied with himself, and moves to sit on the couch behind his father, no doubt beginning to whisper to him about the best moves to screw with you. Well, at least screw with you the best he can without using those four damn cards that had you sitting on the edge of the little cushion you’d stolen from the couch in the basement. You know Rick’s saving those plus two’s for Daryl - all of you silently ganging up on him at every turn - but Daryl, sweet, sweet, clueless Daryl, is much more focused on not making what Glenn liked to call an ‘illegal move’ and having to draw any more of those stupid cards.

Pointing at his deck, Daryl cocks an eyebrow at Carol and she tells him what it does in a hushed voice. After a moment of thought, he scrunches his nose and lets out a noncommittal grunt, dropping a skip and pulling a silent curse from Rick before the turn makes it back to you. The miffed expression on Rick’s face makes you laugh before your gaze drops back down to your deck, running your thumbs over each card before the corner of your lips pull up to one side. Finally, you could play your reverse. Sure, Rick would probably be out next turn, but you just had to beat Maggie.

When you first agreed to play, a two loser punishment didn’t seem so bad. Now, though? Maybe you should have just gone to bed.

Daryl watches you from underneath his lashes, eyes flicking from his deck to your face in an unrelenting rhythm of apprehension as he tries to suppress a fond smile. Someone who didn’t know him any better would probably think he was gauging your reactions, looking for an eyebrow quirk or a cheek twitch like he was playing poker with Merle again, and he’s pretty damn happy to pass it off like that, but everyone knows it’s more. Everyone knows that when Daryl has that look in his eye, it’s reserved for you. Clearing his throat, he diverts his attention from the way you hook your lip between your teeth in a repressed smile, locking back onto cards with uses he only barely remembers.

“This an alright move?”

When Rick places his cards at Glenn's nod, you find yourself half-believing that he nodded to whatever was proposed just because Rick proceeds to play all seven of his plus two’s. Your jaw drops. Sure, you knew he had at least a few, but to drop them all at the same time without any forewarning seemed a little excessive. Michonne barely manages to suppress a laugh and your eyebrows rise in both shock and amusement, eyes flickering to Daryl who you swear is popping a vein from how hard he’s clenching his jaw. Part of you feels bad, but when he mumbles under his something about how ‘this game’s bullshit’ and begrudgingly picks up his 14, another laugh bubbles up from your throat and you’re at its mercy.

“This’s your fault, y’know? Playin’ that damn reverse like ya didn't know he had all them cards.”

His voice breaks your smile and childishly, you stick out your tongue at him, furrowing your eyebrows in faux-annoyance before you tease him, nose crinkling in a similarly false irritation.

“Never took you for a sore loser.”

A noise breaks from between his lips, one that almost catches in his throat - a scoff, maybe? - but it’s ill-timed, cut off abruptly by a surprised yell of ‘UNO’ from Rick and a hearty laugh from Abraham. Fuck, you could have sworn he still had a handful left.

“I ain’t lost yet.”

There’s a determination in his voice, a misplaced determination in your opinion, but if he wanted to hold out hope for a very, very, very underdog win, you won’t stop him. Maggie drops a plus four colour change and, despite the fact the shirt you’re wearing is too big for you, your muscles underneath the thin pajama flannel probably strain against the seams with how hard you clutch the cards. Your face contorts into an expression of pain and you send her something between a glare and a look of grief before you pick up your four, grimacing in response to Daryl.

“Well, we’ll see then, won’t we?”

And you do.

So does he.

God, family game night sucks.

UNO goes a few more rounds, a few more insufferable rounds and it’s no surprise to you that Rick gets out not soon after. Still, you envy him. It’s what, 3am? No, probably more like 11pm or midnight. You never know - the end of the world kind of fucked with your sense of reality. Yawning, you rub the fatigue from your eyes and resign yourself to the fact you’re probably going to lose. Maggie has already reached one card and you’re so tired you couldn’t care less about what was going on on the short mahogany table Abraham and Glenn had lugged into the centre of the living room.

Another yawn creeps up your throat and you cover your mouth with your UNO cards, eyes screwing shut as tears accumulate at the corners. Shaking your head in an effort to dispel any bit of exhaustion, you don’t catch Daryl’s yawn, no doubt brought on by the fact he can’t tear his gaze from how fucking cute you are when your eyebrows furrow like that, and you let out that cute little noise which makes him want to hug you and shit.

“Yawning’s contagious, you know that? It’s like you’re not even trying to hide the fact you’re staring.”

Ever observant, Carol notices, her voice barely above a whisper as she leans close to Daryl with the back of her hand covering her words. His eyes widen, crimson coating the tips of his ears and he chokes on his own spit. That fucking obvious, huh? Chastising himself, he tilts his head down immediately, as if suddenly interested in the blue and green cards and the blue and green cards only. The overtaking lull of silence is deafening now, lasting maybe only a second before he can hear Merle’s voice begin to mingle with the frustrated one in his head.

Good poker face, baby brother.

“Shut up, I’m jus’ tired too, tha’s all. Don’t go assumin’ nothin’.”

All Carol does is hum, a self-satisfied smirk playing on her lips when she sees the scowl on Daryl’s face. He’s an idiot - an adorable idiot muddling around in his feelings like some schoolboy, tongue tied and blushing at any smile you throw his way. His fingers can’t seem to still, fiddling along the flatness of the black-backed cards, stealing glances at you all the same despite his embarrassment. You were glowing, eyes crinkling at the corners and laughing at something Glenn said - and he realizes he’d be just about the biggest idiot in the world if he let that image slip past him.

He doesn’t even notice Maggie placing her last card.

Only as he watches you fling yours, acquiesced onto the table with your nose scrunched in disgust does he notice. He should have known he was screwed the minute Rick played his plus two’s. 14 fucking cards. How the hell did he ever think he could win with 14 more in his damn deck. Groaning, Daryl throws his head back and sighs, rolling his neck until he feels the pops and dropping his cards onto the table. You send him an apologetic smile, one he’d seen too often to count, screaming of reciprocated pity, and he sends one back, lips pulled into a tight line with one corner quirked up. It was all he could muster in a crowded room, but it was just for you.

Losing would have sucked either way, but God, Rosita and Glenn's snickering makes it even more unbearable. Sighing, you pull your legs from underneath you and stretch them out, turning around to face the two. They had won, luck of the draw you’re sure of it, and that meant they had the right to subject the two of you to anything they wanted. It didn’t matter if it was humiliating or physically taxing - laundry duty for the whole group was back breaking, and you certainly held a new respect for Carol after Tara had come to the infirmary with at least a few pulled muscles. All that mattered was that stupid verbal contract you had all agreed to, binding you and Daryl to whatever the both of them would come up with.

Yeah, you should have just gone to bed.

Without fail, everyone gets up and leaves the room, all of them shuffling into the other side of Rick’s huge house. You stifle a snort. After all, an open floor plan is not always the best when you’re trying to figure out a surprise punishment for two dejected UNO losers. To some degree, you knew what was in store and you knew Daryl knew too, much more talented at reading people than you were. Glenn always came up with stupid punishments - practically jumping at the opportunity to make Hershel fake a British accent the whole day or for Michonne, Beth and Carl to flashmob in the middle of the cafeteria during game nights at the prison - but Rosita was unpredictable.

Come to think of it, Rosita’s never won a game before.

At least, not when you were playing.

“What d’you think they’re gonna make us do?”

Your voice breaks him from nibbling on his permanent hangnail, opting to lift his eyes off the furnished wood floor to meet your gaze. Daryl’s heart skips a beat, eyes softening slightly when they meet yours, and he notes that you’ve turned back around to face him, the cushion you were sitting on now hugged between two fatigued arms. Your clothes weren’t anything special - Rosita caught you just seconds before your stomach hit your mattress and made Abraham practically haul you to Rick’s - but he clears his throat as if you were wearing the tightest shirt imaginable, not the red plaid he’s pretty sure you stole from the recesses of his closet. He can’t help but notice the way you lean forward, eyebrows slightly raised, prompting him with that expression. All your attention is focused on him and he can hear a small voice, nagging at him.

Selfish, selfish, selfish.

He’s selfish because he wants you to be like this all the time. He’s selfish because he wants to be the center of your world, just like how you’ve grown to be his. He’s selfish because, despite knowing it isn’t like that - that it will never be like that - he lives in it, anyways. He lives in this little shift in reality where he can pretend you’re his, willfully ignoring the fact that you’re not. A beat passes, inconsequential to you, but it means the world to him when you’re just looking like that, and his tongue scrambles for an adequate response.

“Hope she ain’t gonna make us take her watches. It’s still hot and I ain’t lookin’ to sweat off 50 pounds jus’ by standin’ up there.”

You let out a little noise, a subdued laugh accompanying your smile and his lips twitch upwards into a small smirk without his intent. Daryl can hear your voice in his head before you actually speak - it’s ‘cause you never take off your leather vest, idiot - and your response hangs in the air, piercing into his thoughts with the same accuracy you have when you shoot his crossbow.

“If she gives me her infirmary shifts, I might cry.”

Under his lashes, he watches as you outstretch your arms over the tabletop, slumping over the pillow you’ve sandwiched between your chest and the small table. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips as he watches you arch your back and stretch, white hot guilt creeping up his veins as he listens to the soft sigh of new relaxation, trailing just a second after your statement and muffled slightly against the mahogany.

“At least ya got air conditionin’. Out there, it’s jus’ me ‘n them ticks.”

This pulls an amused scoff, air forced out in a staccato as you remember the annoyance flushing through Daryl’s face that one time he misplaced those shoelaces he ties around his ankles. That morning he’d covered your watch shift, entrusting you with the day’s hunting and the resetting of his traps as he took care of all your little errands. It was a nice type of odd, knowing he was doing things that were so… domestic - returning back to your house to see him knocked out on your couch, all of your shirts haphazardly folded and stuffed into your closet kind of domestic. The oddest thing, though, was seeing him so clean, no doubt showered with not a speck of dirt on his sun-tanned skin. He smelled like those crappy shampoos the two of you had scrounged from a deserted hotel, mingled perfectly with the soft scent of bar soap and something inexplicably him.

Thank God you didn’t have an infirmary shift that night, or else you would have missed the way he looked with his cheek pressed up against one of those expensive throw pillows, hair still damp from the shower he’d taken before succumbing to an actually fulfilling rest - something you realized he desperately needed. It was always just a hair's breadth away, him being much too preoccupied with supply runs and hunting to allow himself more than a few hours in bed.

You had considered rousing him, maybe offering your bed or to walk him home to his, but Daryl just looked so at peace sleeping in that thin, black sleeveless shirt he always wore underneath his vest - a far cry from the state of your home. Even though he seemed to have torn your house apart, he missed the little closet that held a spare blanket, and you tried your best to cover his broad figure with it after digging it out. Next time, you told him when he eventually woke up, a few hours later in the late evening, make sure you grab it so I don’t need to tuck you in.

Daryl had grumbled then, pink-tipped ears peeking out from his strands of brown hair, and he swore to lock that piece of information into his memory as you handed him the shoelaces you had pulled off a dead walker. That night he crashed on your couch, the first of many, with that same throw blanket pulled to his chest. Without fail, it became a routine, seeking deeper sleep became as easy as his back hitting the polyester of your three seater sofa, and he thinks that fuzzy feeling blossoming from his chest pulls him into that lull. You cared for him, he knew that deep into the center of his being, but there was something so exhilarating about being the object of your affection; even if he did see himself unworthy.

He wanted it. Craved it, Pined for it.

“It’s not even tick season, is it?”

Humming, Daryl shrugs, acknowledging the desire to sleep laced between your words with a quiet flare of anger. In reality, only a few minutes had elapsed, and every rational part of his brain knew that the discussion would take longer, but if everyone kept taking their sweet time picking a punishment, you would be tired tomorrow. He was an early riser - always had been and he could run off a few hours of sleep - but you, he wanted you to feel rested, comfortable, alert. He didn’t want the rest you deserved to be stolen by some stupid game night the two of you had lost. You work hard, contribute all you can, didn’t they know that? Did they not respect that?

No, he thinks to himself, of course they do. They would be blind not to see it.

“Ticks ain’t gon’ wait for you to be ready.”

If he couldn’t give you sleep, he would give you laughter. And he does just that, a familiar tug on his heart when he hears the sound escape your lips, and it makes him feel on top of the world knowing he’s the reason for it. You don’t know how much it means to him, seeing you glow as your lips curl upwards, pushing your eyes into crescent shapes that put even the beauty of the moon to shame. He still remembers the first time he saw it, dreamt of it when the fall of the prison separated the two of you, but his memory doesn’t serve you justice - it never would.

Before you can speak, your response still tickling at your tongue and laced with just the right amount of sarcasm to make Daryl bark a laugh, everyone returns with an unceremoniously loud cloud of chatter and footsteps as if they were all still bickering about the circumstances of your punishment. Rosita and Glenn are smiling - no, smirking - satisfied with each other, and that’s really all that matters, you suppose. When you go to question them about whatever they had come up with, Rosita brushes you off, her smirk seeming only to widen.

“Just make sure you don’t have plans tomorrow.”

Whatever it is, she’s awfully… cheerful about it.

A shrill cry from Judith breaks from the baby monitor in the kitchen and Rick, Carl, Carol and Michonne all make moves towards it. Rick shakes his head at the other three, ever the dutiful father, and quickly rushes up the stairs into her room. Wordlessly, everyone takes it as a cue that the night has ended, and you share your goodbyes, floating between a state of sleep and consciousness the whole time before you swing open the front door and retire onto the pavement of the roads.

Daryl walks you home after, some excuse budding from his throat about how he knows your secret growing hate of the dark’s stillness. Like always, you thank him, a curve of your lips finding that familiar clench and bringing it to the forefront of his chest. It only grows when you invite him in, and he wants nothing more than to fall asleep under the lull of that deep ugly orange blanket - but he knows you’ll insist on digging it out. Despite the fact you’re damn tired, he knows you’ll insist on making sure he’s okay before you even think of yourself.

So Daryl declines your request even though every bone in his body denies his words, and lingers for a second before he turns on his heels and walks away. The longing he feels is no stranger to him, each step begging him to return to you and even though he knows he has no right to feel this way, he can’t rid himself of it. He knows what it is - it’s not a simple longing, it’s love. It’s love he’s been feeling since that first sunset he watched with you, and it scares him because he doesn’t know what the hell to do.

It was easy, he supposes, to fall for you.

Too damn easy.

His sleep isn’t restful. The tossing and turning on the cold bed pales in comparison to the sleep he finds on your couch, but it’s sleep and he’s learned not to be picky when it comes to it. Unlike you, Daryl doesn’t need much, and when he eventually wakes, his first thought is of how you slept. The game went longer than he expected, so maybe he could talk to Rosita and ask her if it would be okay for him to take your place on morning watch. It would do you good, resting up and he mentally pats himself on the back as he kicks up off his mattress.

It’s a lie, though maybe not completely, that he’s doing this to take care of you - to watch out for your health. Deep down, he knows he’s doing it to see a relieved smile blossom on your face, better yet, a thankful smile blossom on your face, and to feel that rush of pride and satisfaction knowing he’s the reason for it. But he’d never confess it. He’d take that fact to the grave.

Light beams in from the small window at the top of his basement bedroom when he wakes up, and Daryl haphazardly searches for the clothes he’d shed. Socks now on, he pulls on a pair of jeans before a loud banging at his door breaks him from his ingrained routine. That’s weird, usually nobody bothers him until he returns late in the morning after some hunting, but then he hears a tapping at the glass on his window and he sees Glenn’s smiling face as he kneels onto the dirt to lower himself into Daryl’s vision.

Excited.

Glenn looks terribly excited, but there’s something else in his eyes, and a feeling of dread washes over Daryl when he realizes what it is.

Mischief.

Oh no.

--

“Time to wake up, sunshine! The birds are chirpin' and you’ve got a bet to fulfill!”

Maggie’s voice tugs you harshly from sleep and your eyes snap open in an instant, turning your head to the direction of your door in a panic before you spot her leaning against the frame, arms behind her back and a grin plastered on her face. Stubborn, you dig your face back into your pillow and speak, eyes screwed shut as you mentally beg for sleep again, your voice mumbling into the stuffing beneath the plaid striped fabric covering.

“I should’ve never- God, I hate it here.”

A laugh mingles with Maggie’s and you peek one eye open, catching Rosita’s amused expression as she ambles her way to your blinds. You know what’s going to happen when she makes it there, and you turn to the other side, screwing your eyes shut to hold onto that darkness you need to fall back into your rest.

“C’mon, don’t be a baby. Glenn and Rick’ve already made Daryl wear his costume. He’s waiting downstairs.”

Rosita knows what she’s doing, mentioning him like that. She’s trying to get a reaction out of you - playing dirty so she can force out the flustered mess you become every time she brings up your feelings for him. That’s the only sure fire way she knows to get your blood pumping and pull you out of the lull of sleep.

The thought of him, however, annoys you early in the morning. Well, he doesn’t annoy you, neither does the thought of him as a person, it’s just the way he never seems to heed your one request. Daryl rarely comes to your house - if you weren’t with him on runs or hunting, he mostly swings by when you’re on shift in the infirmary or, more often than not, you hung around in his place until night falls - but when he does, he treks around in his dirty, mud-coated boots.

Without regard for your poor furnished wood floors, he trails streaks of dirt and God knows what against the deep red oak. He’d told you, late one night when the both of you were fighting a bout of insomnia, that his brother always told him to keep his shoes on. A hard habit to break, Daryl had said, since he’d drilled that advice into himself since the first - and last - time he’d run from his shithole home barefoot to escape one of his old man’s nightly beatings.

You’ve learned to cut him some slack, to say the least. Besides, it wasn’t his fault he had a sorry excuse for a father.

“He’s what? Did he- no, damn it, I just mopped two days ago.”

Did he take off his shoes?

That’s a stupid question because when does he?

Groaning, you pull the covers off your chest and sit up, resigning to blink fatigue from your eyes as you adjust towards the sunlight now streaming in through your - against your will, you may add - open blinds.

“It ain’t nice to lie like that, Rosita.”

Well, Maggie’s awfully chipper.

“But it’s just so fun.”

And so is Rosita.

God, how do they both have so much energy in the morning?

Kicking off the bed, you grab the canteen of water - when did it fall onto the floor? - and take a few gulps, setting it onto the little white dresser to your right. The cotton fleece of your sweatpants lie only a few inches where your fingers are now, and you move towards them before a hand reaches out to stop you. A noise of shared disagreement falls from both your friends’ lips and you quirk an eyebrow, pulling the excess fabric of your plaid shirt over your lap as you begin to feel a little exposed in just that and your underwear.

“We’re - actually, you’re - playing dress up today, and, not to brag or anything, but I think we’ve picked the best outfit by far.”

Rosita’s tone is so matter-of-fact that you just nod along, not giving her words even a second thought or noticing the weight of Maggie’s grip escaping your wrist before they click in your head.

“Wait, but I have to-”

You try to counter - besides, you’re pretty sure they both know full well you have evening watch after helping Gabriel with some Church thing he had to do, not to mention the run you were supposed to be planning with Rick in order to continue the one you two had went on a few days ago - but Rosita waves a dismissive hand, effectively stopping you from prattling on.

“We’ve taken care of that already - and let you sleep in - so don’t worry about it and have fun spending the whole day with your boyfriend.”

Oh, so it’s probably late morning the- wait, ‘boyfriend’?

The heat of a blush spreads up your chest. It blankets your cheeks when you hear that twinge of melody in her voice and you shake your head, your disheveled hair whipping against your skin as you bring your hands to cover your face.

“Well, Daryl, he’s not- I don’t- you know that I don’t have a boyfriend.”

They both laugh at you, but what else could you expect? You’re acting like it was the most scandalous thing in the world despite it being perhaps the most juvenile embarrassment you could muster up. True, you’d gotten used to the walkers that roamed outside the walls, learned how to hunt and learned how to care for the bodies of other humans - adapted, changed with the world - but your feelings, they were something else entirely. What you feel for Daryl, you swear had blindsided you; had slammed into you like a semi-truck the moment you realized when you had to take shelter with him for the night because of a thunderstorm.

You love him. God, you love him, but there’s no chance he could reciprocate. There was just too much going on in the world, too much responsibility shoved onto his shoulders for Daryl to even think about love. Yet here you are, pining over someone who probably never even thought about you in the way you wanted him to, but despite it, you can’t stop because you don’t know how. And maybe you don’t want to rid yourself of the fluttering feeling in your stomach when you see him, or the pangs of affection that spur from your chest when you hear his laugh or see him smile. He barely does it, but he does it for you.

Utterly and hopelessly in love - isn’t that stupid?

Rosita digs her hand into the pockets of her jacket and you hear a pile of thin metal hitting your desk, shaking you from your wallowing. When you look, you realize there’s at least two dozen safety pins now reflecting the sunlight from your window, and she walks towards you, grabbing both your hands and dragging you onto the little wooden stool in front of it. Rather unceremoniously - you moreso fall onto it than anything - your butt hits the seat and once you’re situated, you rub the remaining sleep from your eyes, patiently waiting for whatever the hell you’re supposed to be wearing that’s making them both so excited.

They share some sort of knowing glance; well, you can’t be sure because Rosita is slightly behind you, but if Maggie’s expression is anything to go by, it’s a signal for the unveil. Part of you holds your breath, wanting nothing more than to lose yourself to the childish appeal of a bet, but another part of you nags at you that this is stupid, that you have other things to worry about - things that mean life or death. You choose to listen to the former, that escape much too appealing, and your fingers grip the edge of the deep mahogany as you lean your body forward, watching Maggie slowly pace her way to you and bring her hand from behind her back.

It’s a dress, an obvious choice when you think about it, the fabric so… nice in a way you forgot was even possible and you reach out, plucking it from her and shaking it to straighten it out. It’s blue, a rich one - aegean, but not quite - and it looks self-coloured. Perhaps the previous owner used a store bought dye before the world ended, or perhaps made use of the black beans growing in their backyard, but the dress definitely used to be a crisp white; you could still see streaks of uneven saturation down the skirt.

“So… what do you think? I found it in my closet and thought it would be perfect for you.”

You pull your lips into a tight line at Rosita’s words, your eyebrows furrowing as you imagine yourself in it. It’s… cute? It looks to be a few sizes too big for you - ah, wait, the safety pins make that fact more-or-less dismissable - and the length isn’t too short. Turning it in your grasp, you make note of how plain it is, no special ribbing or firm bodice with a sweetheart neckline, but a small smile makes way onto your lips when you find deep pockets on both sides. Yeah, sure, it’s cute, and you tell them that much.

Maggie nods her head, satisfied with your answer and Rosita nudges your shoulder. When she enters your vision, she points towards your bathroom and urges you on, asking you to try it on with a voice that can barely contain her smug excitement. So you listen, ambling across the room to grab the fitted tank top on your dresser before escaping onto the tiled floor and shutting the door behind you, shedding your plaid shirt without a second thought.

“You could, y’know, have a boyfriend if you put on your big girl pants and just confessed to him already.”

A noise of confusion escapes your lips before it quickly turns into embarrassment - if only you could be as brazen with stating your feelings as Maggie is. Clearing your throat, you pull on your padded camisole and try to suppress the fluttering feeling sprouting in your stomach at the thought of potentially confessing to him.

“For the last time, Daryl does not have a crush on me.”

You mentally pat yourself on the back when your voice comes out firm, but it doesn’t matter because both of your friends scoff, and you can hear them through the door. Wow, they’re not even trying to hide it, are they? But truly, what can you do? Maggie had told you how she and Glenn meandered into their relationship, and although Rosita was more tight-lipped, a few beers and a little whisky had coaxed it out of her. They were bolder than you when it came to love, and although they nudged you - encouraged you, might be the right term - they never pushed you. However, if the two of you kept dancing around each other, they might have to because it’s fucking painful to watch.

“Right, and the sky isn’t blue.”

That warrants a scoff from you this time, something in the tone of Rosita’s words making you pretty damn sure she’s rolling her eyes, and you scrunch your nose for a second in frustration before pulling on the dress. You were right, it was definitely too big for you, the waist falling into a rectangle like you were a child who got lost in their mother’s closet.

Clearing your throat, you pull your bathroom door open and step out, bare feet making a beeline towards your sock drawer and grabbing a pair. In Rosita’s right hand, she holds a few safety pins and nudges you back onto the stool before Maggie enters the bathroom in search of your comb. Nimble fingers catch cotton fabric between the clasps and when Rosita’s satisfied with her work, Maggie emerges to attempt to deal with your hair. Tight pulls against your scalp cause you to wince and you shut your eyes, gripping the edge of your stool as you wait for her to finish. She’s adjusting and adjusting, trying her damndest to get two even pigtails on either side of your head and a few - more painful than expected - moments later, she gives a huff of accomplishment, stepping back away from you and letting you pull on the socks you threw haphazardly onto your table.

The moment you’ve finished, you’re herded back into the bathroom and faced to your mirror. They’re both behind you, anticipatory smiles gleaming on their faces and they gesture to your reflection, excitedly waving hands and pointing. A moment passes in silence as you take in your appearance, eyebrows furrowing as you study the - rather impressive - way the dress now flares from your body and the pretty decent way your hair sprouts from either side of your head.

“Aren’t you cute?”

Rosita breaks the silence, grinning smug ear to ear as she crosses her arms and shifts her weight onto one foot, speaking again when you pull your lips into a tight line and nod, a sign of noncommittal agreement.

“Today, you’re Bubbles from the Powerpuff Girls.”

Spinning on your covered feet, you turn to look at the back of your dress and suppress a small laugh - the fabric looks like it’s being held against your body with half a dozen safety pins and Rosita’s sheer force of will. When you look closer, you realize the two pigtails aren’t even, the right one being a tad bit higher than the left, but Maggie had tried, so you choose not to bring it up. At least, that’s the reason you tell yourself for not wanting to endure another one of her heavy handed adjustments.

“The outfit’s… uh… nice.”

Your response doesn’t seem to hit quite the right note with your two friends and they give you a disappointed look, both trying to figure out what could be missing. You weren’t lying, though, the outfit was nice, it just wasn’t practical. After spending so much time on the road and with Daryl, indulging in something that was ‘nice’ almost made you feel guilty - like you weren’t allowed because you should be focused on survival, not enjoyment. Another beat of silence passes before a proverbial lightbulb illuminates above Rosita’s head, its arrival accentuated with a gasp of realization.

“I can’t believe I almost forgot these! They’re the cherry on top.”

If her curling smile and the way she grabbed Maggie to scurry them both out was any indication of the amount of scheming her and Glenn had done, you were in for a long day. You sigh, the reality of the bet dawning on you as you hold the white thigh high socks that were shoved into your hands. Swallowing, you place them on the counter in exchange of beginning what your morning routine has been reduced to - peeing, brushing your teeth and washing your face with water.

You emerge after, the socks threatening to slip past your knees with each step you take, along with strands of baby hair and bangs sticking wet against your forehead. There are voices downstairs - Maggie’s, Glenn’s, Rosita’s, Rick’s - but as you descend the stairs to what you just know will be laughter and teasing, you don’t realize Daryl’s standing in front of your hallway’s bookshelf, reading titles off the spines with his head at what looks to be a painful 90° tilt. Like a sixth sense, the moment your body could even enter his field of vision, his eyes snap to you. He sees your legs first, descending the spiral with white cotton tapering upwards towards the hem of a blue dress, and he looks away as if just seeing you will burn him, beelining straight to the kitchen as he mutters about your arrival to the people in the living room.

Daryl spoons at one of the bowls of soup Carol had made, claiming it as his after he abruptly rushes into a seat in an attempt to look nonchalant. Glenn had taunted him before dragging him to your house, telling him about the adorable outfit Maggie and Rosita had picked out for you and he had been quivering with anticipation since. He had bit his nail bed nearly raw for an hour, he thinks, his lips were in that state as well, and when he saw those thigh highs - holy shit. For a moment, he had wondered if the two women had nudged out the part of his brain that he used when he was a teenager.

Rick sits on the L of your sectional sofa holding your crudely drawn - from memory, you should add - map, and the notepad page you had drafted the run up on is quietly being studied by Maggie. An immediate blush sets in, the heat of it painting across your neck upwards to the tips of your ears as his eyes unexpectedly flutter to yours. You’re pretty sure a large part of its appearance is due to the guilt and shame of missing a run, but you can’t deny that part of the reason is also due to the fact Rick’s eyebrows raise in amusement when he sees what you’re wearing. Glenn looks up from the pieces of paper when Rick’s voice trails off and he follows his line of sight until his own eyes are greeted by your poor rendition of a Powerpuff girl, biting the inside of his cheek in order not to burst out laughing.

He fails, though, and a noise breaks from his lips.

Rosita smacks Glenn’s shoulder, scolding him with an expression when she sees the way you want to fold into yourself, and Glenn is quick to apologize, stuttering through his words until he eventually lands on a ‘you don’t look half-bad.’ You can’t blame him, though, this was ridiculous and your disbelief only grows when Rick holds out a striped tie, informing you that another part of this wonderful plan was that you had to be blindfolded, too.

‘You can’t see Daryl before he sees you or the other way around, so just put this on yourself already. It’s already weird enough that I’m seeing you like this, please don’t make me do it for you.’ or some shit.

The second you secure the silk over your eyes, you’re led from one room to the other, feeling the smooth furnished wood floor catch into the cold tiles of your kitchen. You hear shuffling, Maggie telling Daryl to ‘suck it up’ after he tells her he ‘ain’t puttin’ that shit’ over his eyes, but before long, you can feel Daryl’s presence just a few feet from you, your skin alighting in something familiar. Tentatively, your mouth forms his name, but instead, Rosita tells you the rules of the bet: spend the whole day outside together - doesn’t matter what you’re doing - but you have to do it in these specific outfits. At least, until the sun sets.

Daryl grunts, gruff with all his sharp edges, and you nod, feeling the weight of your pigtails swish with each movement. It seems easy enough, time spent with him was never unwelcome, and in an odd way, losing this bet didn’t seem really that bad. Sure, your costume was stupid and you were beginning to fear what he’ll think about it, but you got to spend the day with a man you had begun to miss, despite him living just a few houses down. Today, you were both free from responsibility. Today, it was just you and him like it used to be back at the prison - like you were now Carl and Enid, sneaking off into the woods to just exist together.

Rosita’s voice cuts through your anticipation, beginning a three second countdown to when you can see each other. Daryl’s heart is thrumming like the engine of his motorcycle, the inch or so of skin he had caught glimpse of at the staircase is burned into his damn mind and he can’t help the twitch of his fingers when he considers just jumping the gun and ripping off the stupid blindfold. He wants to see you - wants to see if Glenn’s descriptions do you justice - and the second he can, the rich purple tie falls between his fingers.

His breath hitches, your hair alone is enough to surprise him, but it's your outfit that shocks him the most. Blue - it suits you, but then again, everything you wore seemed to suit you. He can’t remember the last time he’d seen you wear something so colourful, all the memories he’d catalogued of you burned only brown, gray, black and dark green against your skin tone. You don’t look bad, though. Not at all.

“You’re…”

Your voice is small, lip hooking between your teeth as you contemplate the right words to say. Daryl hums, thankful that he’s supposed to be taking in your appearance and you would think nothing of the fact he’s letting his eyes linger on every little detail of your outfit. A little pang of guilt, however, creeps up his chest when he has to clench his fist, begging himself to get rid of the desire to outstretch his hand and touch the fabric that hugs your body so well.

Dragging your own stare, you take in what he’s wearing and who Glenn and Rick had tried to emulate. It’s not perfect - why would you expect it to be? - but there’s enough there that you understand. The jeans he’s wearing look newer than the hole ridden ones you’d help him patch up, and the black turtleneck is fitted underneath the trenchcoat which seems to be suffocating his broad shoulders. A lump forms in your throat, and you swallow to rid it and moisten your dry mouth. Why does he look so good?

“Murphy from The Boondock Saints or somethin’. Glenn said I looked like ‘im.”

He’s missing his crossbow now, his hands feel empty without it and he goes to scratch at the back of his neck, making the black fabric stretch across his chest. Sure, you knew he was muscular, but it was never quite as intentionally on display as it was right now. Rosita gives Glenn a thumbs up from where they both lean against one of the pillars of your open living space, and you wish you could be mad at the smugness in their grins, but you can’t because damn it the clothes they picked out did little except remind you of how intimidating his build really could be.

“Right.”

The single word comes out as a squeak, voice embarrassed as you remember the night you had let a little too loose on the Greene farm and slipped to Jimmy about the resemblance you saw between the two. He was a cinephile, had shelves of DVDs in the room he shared with Beth, and he must have tattled to her, her in turn tattling to Maggie and Maggie spilling the beans to Glenn and Rosita not long after you lost - shit, was that why they were all smirking at you? Because they all just knew you would like it?

“Somethin’ wrong?”

There’s a hint of embarrassment in his voice that refuses to dissipate when you shake your head - quickly, maybe even too quickly - but he doesn’t realize as he stares at the way your pigtails follow your movements. Well, this is new. Definitely new, but Daryl doesn’t hate it, far from it. He likes it, a lot; maybe even too much, and he tries to shrink the reactions of his body. A whole day with you looking like this? It’s going to be fucking torture, he’s sure of it.

“No- just, uh, you look good.”

Maggie brings her palm to her forehead, cringing at the stutter of your compliment and she grabs Glenn’s arm, urging her husband to do something. He shakes his head, eyes widened as if silently telling her ‘they’re both hopeless’ and she sighs, nodding a dejected agreement before she nudges both Rick and Rosita, tilting her head in the direction of your front door.

“Yeah? Y’must be goin’ blind, then.”

They all shuffle from their spot and move behind you, saying their goodbyes only when Rosita has pulled on the handle. Glenn gives Daryl a thumbs up before he’s pulled outside by Maggie and Rick yells a ‘good luck’, allowing himself to be lugged towards one of the broken solar panels by a lingering Eugene. Shifting his weight from foot to foot, Daryl clears his throat, averting his eyes after he’s sure he’d memorized the way you look.

He’s blushing, you notice, an even crimson deepening by the second, but you chalk it up to the layers he’s wearing. Though it wasn’t summer anymore by your guess, the warmth of it still lingered, and with him wearing a trenchcoat like that, the muscular arms you were so used to seeing must be coated in his own body heat. It also didn’t help that he was wearing black, or that his jeans seemed to be too tight for his thighs.

“You took off your shoes.”

Rocking slightly on your heels, you notice the black socks on his feet - no chunky boots smacking against your tiled floor - an infectious smile forming on your lips, and he swears his heart doubles at the sight. Never in his life did he think that making someone happy could mean so much to him, but a slight lopsided grin claws way onto his face, a declaration to himself that those thoughts have changed now.

“Yeah, figured since you’re always givin’ me shit for it.”

A scoff breaks from you, amused and lacking any semblance of annoyance before the rumble of your stomach halts the blanket of momentary silence. Since getting to Alexandria, the meals have become more frequent - less reliant on the deer and squirrels in the woods behind the prison that the two of you had probably hunted to near extinction - and you had a decent two meals most days, your stomach regaining its appetite after months of just one if you were lucky. It felt good to eat until you were full, but that meant your body expected more food on a daily basis, and it had no trouble expressing so.

“Ya hungry?”

You shake your head, your expression betraying the movement of disagreement and he tilts his head towards your kitchen. He’s an early riser, a fact you’ve been much too aware of on runs with him, as well as someone who could eat almost double his weight if he could, so there’s little doubt in your mind that he’d eaten already. It’s awkward, to say the least, having a meal around somebody who isn’t, and you didn’t want to bother him too much - you would just wait for when lunch came around and save him from having to wander your house as you shovel stale bread into your mouth to satiate your hunger.

“I, uh, I brought ya some breakfast. Stew - it’s venison.”

Daryl knows you better than anyone, turning abruptly on his heels and cutting straight towards your kitchen before you can even think about turning down his offer. It’s not that he doesn’t care, far from it, it’s his concern for your health that drives him to pull out one of your drawers as you take a seat, grabbing another spoon and placing it into your bowl for you. Absentmindedly, you take a couple of sips before lifting the bowl to your lips and downing it in large gulps, realizing much too late that skipping dinner last night probably wasn’t the best idea.

For a second, he wonders if he should offer you his bowl as well, the desire to take care of you mounting and mounting as he watches the movement of your throat with each gulp you take. But then you push your empty bowl away, an unintentional signal to him that you’re full, your tongue darting out to collect the stock shiny across your top lip and his brain short circuits, lifting his bowl to his mouth so he blocks you from himself. Stretching your neck, you nod to yourself, indulging in a little dance of satisfaction before you stand up and make your way to the sink, back turned to Daryl and not catching the way he practically falls off his seat to follow your form.

“So… we’re just supposed to hang out all day? God, I can’t remember the last time we did something like that.”

As you speak, he averts his eyes, centering himself on the wooden chair to take those last few gulps and uses one of his sleeves to wipe off his mouth. Rushing water hits the ceramic of your bowl as you run your towel over it, and Daryl gets up too, fully intending to wash his own before you reach out a hand and give him a look which tells him to hand it to you. With a grunt, he thanks you, his calloused fingers brushing against your wet ones and he clears his throat, turning towards the backyard. The little garden you’ve taken to plant seems to be growing well, a couple of cucumbers and tomatoes hang off their vines and the slightest head of lettuce pokes through the grass.

To this day, he still has fond memories of your garden in the prison. It was tiny, barely a few feet that Rick and Hershel had let you stake claim on, but that little patch had become more important to him than he expected. You’d both often steal little cherry tomatoes off the vines that grew from it during late night stargazing, and he helped you uproot it when you wanted to try and grow some potatoes - even celebrated with you when you dug up a spud shaped vaguely like a heart.

Daryl couldn’t really see it, but you were so insistent, smiling triumphant while holding that deformed root in your dirt-covered hand that he had no choice but to pull his lips into that line you’d learned to take for a smile and begrudgingly agree. That was the first time, he thinks, that he had felt that pang of longing in his chest; you looked so radiant you had taken his breath captive for a moment. A heart?, he’d said between grunts of shovelling, sure, whatever makes ya happy. That day, he’d made damn sure to glare at anybody who even considered disagreeing about the shape.

“Ain’t they always teasin’ us about always bein’ together? Can’t see how the hell this’s‘pposed to be a bad thing.”

Humming, you turn off the sink and stack the two bowls, throwing your spoons back into the drawer Daryl had forgotten to close before speaking, using your hip to push it closed instead of your wet hands.

“If anything, this should be a reward for you.”

He scoffs, an amused huff of air escaping his lips and he can’t even bring himself to glare at you. It really was a reward for him, at least half of it was - getting to spend the whole day with you was something he had craved though he never brought it up, settling for some chaste visits to the infirmary or sharing just a simple watch slot. Turning, the buttons of his open trench coat clash against the glass of your sliding door and Daryl winces, whipping his head back to see if he’d cracked it. Instead, he makes eye-contact with a child in one of the windows in the house in front of your backyard and she pulls a face, giggling at him.

“Think the punishment must be bein’ seen wearin’ these stupid costumes. Carol ain’t never gonna let me live this down”

Grumbling, he turns back around, refusing to even face anything that’s not inside the house. You raise an eyebrow, curious as to why he’s squared his shoulders and straightened his back, wiping your hands off on the towel you hang on the oven. Making your way to where he’s standing with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket to avoid picking at a thread, you laugh when you see the young girl, no more than 6, now with who you could only assume is her brother and pointing frantically at your door.

A look of excitement crosses her face and her brother takes note, immediately pulling her hair to imitate yours before the little girl bursts into tears. You cringe, feeling bad that the pain of his tugs were brought on by you and you watch as he tries to soothe her, probably apologizing frantically by how his mouth is running a mile a minute.

“Yeah, me neither. I’ve got the pigtails and everything.”

Shaking your head, you pull open the glass door, letting some of the warm Virginian air into your house that has cooled considerably overnight, a wave of heat rushing from the outside that encases Daryl in a quick sheen of perspiration. He follows you when you move to your living room, spinning the handle of your right window while you’re preoccupied with the left. He swipes at his forehead, the combination of the tight shirt and jeans doing little to allow him any comfort from his own warmth. The clothes feel like a second skin, but wordlessly, he follows you around your house and helps you open your windows - until he doesn’t.

“Y’think you got it bad? I’m sweatin’ my ass off wearin’ a turtleneck and this damn jacket.”

Before you can even make a move to close the window you’ve just opened, the realization dawning on you that the breeze isn’t helping him cool down, another remark escapes him as he treads from your bathroom out into the hall and tugs at another. Now that he knows you want the windows like that, he’s going to make damn sure that they’re open for you

“Who the hell wears shit like this, anyways?”

He sounds like a kid, petulant when he talks like he is right now, but it’s refreshing to hear him let loose. Rarely does he ever speak like this, joking with no tension in his voice or underlying concern about the future, just something that could pass off as lighthearted even with the way he tugs at the neckline and scowls as he gestures to himself.

“Catholic Irish twins who fight the mob, apparently.”

A hum of acknowledgment sounds from his throat, an immediate exclamation mark popping up in his brain when he senses the slightest possibility you could have enjoyed whatever movie this person he’s supposed to be was in. He rounds to the stairs, tilting his chin towards the second floor in a silent communication you understand instantaneously, and you shake your head - if any more windows open, Daryl might actually melt away - walking towards the bookshelf just in front of him.

“Should we grab some books? Or… a book? It’s just one day, anyways - I think you could make it through a good few chapters of American Gods. It’s actually pretty good, a lot of mythology stuff you might like.”

By instinct, he steps back, giving you the room to explore the familiar titles that scatter across your wall and he fucking regrets it. He should be listening - and to be fair, he catches something about a dog and the nighttime - but the warmth of his costume is apparently melting away all his logical thinking and focus.

Daryl’s blushing because it’s hot, not because you’re bent slightly over, trying to read the spines of books on the shelves that barely reach your shoulders. He’s blushing because it’s hot, not because you’ve bent even further down to pull up the socks that have now fallen halfway across your shins. Jesus Christ, he needs to get this trenchcoat off him because he barely manages to squeeze out a response and avert his eyes to your bookshelf before you look over your shoulder for him.

“Who told ya I could read?”

Daryl hears the roll of your eyes at his piss poor attempt at a joke before he sees it, his sight flicking back to you for just a second before your attention gets stolen once again, wanting to pick the right book for the two of you to read. The person who had this house before was definitely a lover of classics, books you never thought you would read past high school English assignments had taken up two or three shelves; George Orwell’s 1984 shines crimson against the deep mahogany of the shelf, a matching set of Shakespeare’s plays standing just shy of it and next to a beautiful collector’s edition of Jane Eyre. You had run through a good few of their paperbacks already, balancing the dreariness of Generals Die In Bed with Kafka on the Shore’s fantasy, and if the world hadn’t ended, you could see yourself purchasing the white titles of Haruki Murakami, perhaps amassing an assemblage not unlike this one.

“Tha’s what the movie’s about? Mob fightin’? What's the point of makin’ ‘em Catholic?”

Daryl pokes at the embossed title of Erich Maria Remarque’s All Quiet on the Western Front, pulling it out and weighing it in his hands before flipping through the dull text, unsurprisingly shoving it back into its spot with a dissatisfied huff. Yeah, you didn’t really expect him to go for a book like that, and you reach for Neil Gaiman’s American Gods like you had suggested just minutes ago.

“You’ve never seen Boondock Saints before?”

Spinning around, you hold out the thick 400 or so page novel and hand it to him, his eyebrows raising as if silently asking you if you actually believed he could work though it. When you just give him an encouraging thumbs up and return to look for one of your own, he answers your question as he flips through the book, already deciding he could give it a try - besides if you liked it, it could be one more thing he could talk to you about.

“Didn’t exactly make a habit of spendin’ money we didn’t have.”

Humming, you pull out a copy of Dance Dance Dance, already having finished its prequel a few days prior, and hook it between your bicep and your ribs. Daryl knew the second you suggested reading where the two of you would be spending your day - on a bench in that gazebo out on one of the huge recreational fields Alexandria had. He couldn’t even count on both hands the amount of times he’d seen you lounging out there, the sun bouncing off each ridge of your face as you sat absorbed into whatever world the author was trying to build for you. And sometimes, on days he knew you might be busy, he would opt to do his second hunting of the day later, swapping it for afternoon watch just so he could catch you seated on it and studying up on one of the textbooks he had scavenged for you despite how much he burnt up there. Rick had caught him staring, so had Michonne and Tara, but they never said anything. At least, he didn’t think they did.

“It’s a fun movie. Your brother probably would have liked it.”

You’d, unfortunately, met Merle when the Governor still led Woodbury, offering to check up on his wounds after having been in somewhat of a developed stage of friendship with his brother. He was exactly like Daryl had described him, you’d noticed: loud, brazen, but a downright capable fighter - and it was a wonder how the hell Daryl had come out so much more likable than he was. Though, he meant something important to Daryl, so you handled him with at least some amount of respect, and it didn’t go unnoticed by either of them, Merle having stopped with the unnecessary, antagonizing comments the second you had touched up on one of the stitches that were threatening to give him gangrene.

“I ain’t never seen him watch a movie that wasn’t ‘bout gettin’ laid or killin’ bad guys.”

Daryl had told you before, on hunting trips and runs the two of you went on together, about the movie hopping he would do with his brother. Merle had snuck him into R rated films when he was no older than 14, the spy ones growing to be a personal favourite. When Merle left, Daryl had stopped doing illegal shit for the most part - even managed to become more focused on school, clawing his way up from failing grades - but still, the second his brother was discharged from the military, Daryl followed him on his motorcycle, falling into the drifter life they eventually lived. Anything, though, was better than staying at the hovel he could barely call a home with a father who beat him almost every night. 

“Well, the movie is all about ‘killin’ bad guys’ so...”

There’s a glint in your eye when you face him again, imitating his Southern drawl and having made your way back to the kitchen to fill up a canteen of water. Considering the amount of physical activity - or lack thereof - the two of you were going to be doing today, one canteen between the two of you is probably enough. You look almost excited, maybe, at the memories of the film, and he can’t help but pry, wanting to know what about it makes you so happy.

So he does - Daryl asks you what it’s about and you’re nearly glowing as you recount the plot points to him, all the while you fill up the canteen and secure the strap across your chest. Slipping into your shoes, you continue as you wait for him to tie his laces, buzzing with an enthusiasm he’s only seen a few times before, and he follows devoted when you pull open your front door and descend the stairs of your porch. There are some parts where you stop, combing through your brain in order to give him the, in your words, ‘proper experience’ of watching the wannabe James Bonds try to stop mob crime in their city and he nearly trips over his feet admiring you when you spin around, pointing your two hands now configured into a gun at him and saying something in a foreign language - the prayer, you tell him.

“Ya seem t’like it.”

It’s not a question, not a suggestion on his part. Just an observation - one that forces him not to get lost in the way a smile plays at your lips. Daryl never made it a habit of talking about his past, he’d tried hard to bury it deep into his mind, but yours; God, he could listen to you talk about yours until your voice went scratchy. You nod, your whole recount taking up the trip over to the gazebo you’ve grown familiar with, and you wave at Rosita on morning watch with Spencer. There’s no doubt in your mind that he notices your costumes, but he doesn’t make any obvious indication he thinks it’s stupid. That’s good. Maybe that means everyone else won’t care as much, either.

“Wish I could’a watched it, then.”

There’s a sincerity to his voice that makes your heart hurt, it lets you know he truly, actually meant it, and for a second you wish you could reach out and escape to another world with him. Maybe the two of you could try to scavenge through a Blockbuster - are they even still around? - and pick up a copy of the movie. Sure, it’s not the best use of your time, but Daryl deserves it. You have a TV in your house, after all, and a generator that powered enough for you and Carl to take turns playing Castlevania on an ancient PlayStation Eugene had nearly lost his shit over, so what will it hurt to watch a movie? Keeping the back of your dress’ skirt firmly on your thighs, you sit down and wait for the heft of his presence next to you again before you speak, as if wishing your words into existence.

“Yeah, me too. We could’ve watched it together and had a fun time - y’know, eating popcorn on my couch or something. Preferably without your brother, though. No offense to him.”

Huffing, he picks at the thread loose from one of the buttonholes on his trenchcoat to avoid getting flustered at the image that had popped into his head: your side against his with one arm slung over you, pulling you close as a bowl of popcorn sits on your thighs. If he held you like that, would you fall asleep against his shoulder? If he held you like that, would you have a problem if both of his arms just so happened to fall to your waist, and he pulled you flush against his chest as you sat between his legs? If he held you like that - fuck - would it compell you to crawl yourself fully into his lap? Kiss him silly and tell him not to worry about the movie? Calm down, he tells himself, and that pain in his chest comes back. A tug, a pull, but all towards you.

“Nah ‘s probably for the better. He ain’t the best around women.”

Then again, you knew the fact Merle had a habit of hitting on anything that could walk - he had even tried it on you before he realized Daryl had been brooding and glaring at him whenever he said anything remotely suggestive. It didn’t help that he had an unconventional way of flirting, either, using terms and euphemisms that went straight over your head, making you oblivious to the intentions behind what he was saying. Though Merle’s words eventually stopped being fueled by lust or any actual desire to ‘get busy’, he kept going because he just began to enjoy your confused reactions, and the fact he was starting to get underneath his younger brother’s skin. Sometimes, though, Daryl wished he had the confidence to speak out his desires so blatantly like his brother had done so many times. 

You realized he’s stopped talking, the silence lulling over the two of you taken up only by sounds of birds chirping and a few rhythmic beatings of a hammer, and you take it as your cue to get some reading in. Try as you might, the second you open your book, your legs are restless as they stay planted on the concrete beneath your shoes, not used to being bent at the knee. Folded and crossed over each other like in grade school or slung over Daryl’s lap like you used to do when you would crash the little office he had staked claim on as his room in the prison, that’s where you find the most comfort. You can’t bring yourself to ask, though - he didn’t have the mountain of straight sticks he would sharpen into bolts on hand to occupy him - but he’s much too perceptive and definitely is not wishing for an excuse to touch your skin.

In a second, he’s shrugging off his suffocating trenchcoat - an unintentional plus overshadowed by his primary intention - and letting out an grunt, signalling you to look over. When you do, eyes flickering off the first page of the novel and eyebrows slanted in that curious look he thinks could wipe all coherent thought from him, he pats at his thighs with one hand, the other holding the heavy dark brown fabric. It takes a second for his meaning to click in your head, and you’re not sure if you should take it up. You’re both in public, in eyeshot of one of the people who put you in this situation in the first place, and Daryl’s not usually one to put himself in any position that could even scent vulnerability. But here he is, offering you comfort he’d so readily given you in the familiar privacy of the prison’s administration office, and you can’t help but consider.

Rolling his eyes, just an insincere exasperated tilt of his head is enough for you to kick your legs up and over him, leaning your back against the cushion you’d left on the bench just yesterday. He spreads his legs until one rests at the crook of your ankles and the other at the crook of your knees, laying the trenchcoat almost tenderly across your lower body, its length easily covering up to your stomach. Your free hand digs into the neckline of it, the scratchiness of the fabric not going unnoticed, and he pushes the hem just enough for your shoes to peek through, his calloused fingers playing idly with your laces.

“That game was bullshit, by the way. Ain’t never played UNO before and Glenn knew it.”

Book forgotten just next to him, he speaks, wanting to hold onto the time he gets to spend with you. Perhaps it was selfish to have such an innate desire to steal you from whatever was taking your attention from him, but you’re so close that he can’t stop himself if he tried. You quirk an eyebrow, telling him not to feel bad because ‘UNO is just a bunch of dumb luck’, but your attempt at comfort is shattered when Daryl responds almost immediately with something along the lines of ‘y’only sayin’ that ‘cause y’ain’t got no other excuse for why ya lost?’, earning him a light smack on his shoulder from your paperback.

It’s a running gag between the two of you, the fact you never seem to win any of the game nights - to which you tell him you’ve barely been on the receiving end of punishments, either - but he refutes with his I Spy winning streak.

“That doesn’t count, Daryl! Your eyesight’s better than mine.”

“It ain’t, I’m jus’ better at it - guessin’ what you’re thinkin’. Admit it.”

He pulls his lips into a line and you can tell he’s holding back a smile. Challenge me, that’s what the look is telling you.

“If you played against Carol or Michonne, they would clobber you in an instant.”

“I jus’ gotta be better’n you an’ I’ll be happy.”

If you could hate him for anything, it would be the fact that, in this moment, Daryl deserves to be cocky. Beating you 16 - 9 in a child’s game, who knew it would mean so much to him?

“I spy with my little eye…. something that’s… red.”

Easily, he pins your statement to the robin perched on the gazebo’s hanging birdhouse, relishing in the rush of accomplishment he feels when he sees you scrunch up your nose in annoyance.

“Somethin’ brown.”

As expected, Daryl skips all the flowery decorum, getting straight to the point, and you do too, answering almost immediately with the worn leather of his boots. It goes on for a few more rounds, the two books you’ve taken now closed and forgotten in exchange for the childish delight of a simple game. The last time the two of you had played it was in a forest, shades of green being your only answers until the both of you got too bored - well, annoyed on Daryl’s part because you kept using titles like chartreuse and crocodile when there weren’t even any damn crocodiles around you both. Safe to say, you had won your ninth point that day.

“I spy with my little eye, something’s that’s… black.”

Grunting, he spots a figure in the distance, shoulders hunched inwards with rapidly increasing footsteps, beelining towards where the two of you are seated. Daryl recognizes him in an instant, realizing there would be no way you would miss an opportunity to point out one of your favourite features.

“C’mon, ya play like this, y’ain’t never gonna win.”

Side-eyeing Daryl, you stare straight at him and smile, something lingering behind your pupils that make him just the slightest bit nervous at his previously thought assured victory. But there’s no way he can’t win, he knows what you’re looking at - you’re not even trying to hide it, your sight falling back on the towering black mop that lies atop his head. 

“It’s Eugene’s stupid pompadour, ain’t it?”

A jubilant cheer explodes past your lips, your feet shaking his thighs as you do the cutest damn victory dance he’d ever seen.

“I think the correct term is actually a Tennessee Top Hat.”

Daryl’s eyes narrow, cerulean irises now a cold arctic sapphire and his lips turn up in disgust, paying no effort in hiding his annoyance. When he speaks, it’s barely above a sneer. the Southern accent that he had considered rough before now sharpened to a point with two simple words.

“Bullshit technicality.”

Your laugh’s melodic, eroding his frown into that tight lipped pull as you remind him of how he had spoken stubborn about how specific the two of you had to be. It made no real difference most of the time, but he was regretting his tenacity by the second, falling into the pull of your giggles and the warmth of your triumphant smile.

“That makes it, what, ten for me now?”

Shrugging, Daryl makes a show of his nonchalance, and he struggles to hold onto that annoyance that had first bubbled up when he had lost. He wants to be mad, feel something other than that affection that threatens to swallow him whole when you smile up at him underneath the sunshine, but he can’t. You’re much too beautiful for him to forget it, even for a moment.

“Don’t let it get to your head.”

Before you can respond, Eugene skids to a stop in front of your bench and Daryl corrects his features again, a perfected grimace on his face the second his words leave his lips. Part of you feels bad about the way Eugene cowers slightly under his expression, especially because you can almost hear his internal dialogue - Tennessee Top Hat, huh? You jus’ lost me the game, so I hope you have a damn good reason comin’ to talk to us - and frankly, it would be enough to make you cower if your legs weren’t slung over his, and his jacket wasn't the one stopping you from flashing everyone.

To Eugene’s credit though, he powers through, never stuttering even though Daryl’s neutral expression can be considered a glare, and hands you a crudely drawn photo of one of the solar panels along with what you recognize as an internal piece of the water filtration system. Daryl barely understands what Eugene is asking you, but you respond to his question just seconds after, lightly scanning the piece of paper he’s holding out for you. With no time to even try and decipher what you’ve said, Eugene opens his mouth again, syllables dropping from his lips like they were racing to escape his throat, and Daryl busies himself by hunching over your legs, untying and retying the laces on his boots.

He vaguely hears you say something, straightening back up and sparing a glance at Eugene before his eyes land back on you, your hands idly flipping whatever the hell Eugene had given you. He tries to focus in on your voice and not on the way your touch traces along each ridge and curve of what he thinks you’re attempting to fix, but he fails, your words becoming nothing more than white noise backdropping your nimble fingers. Only when Eugene swipes the convoluted piece of metal with a curt ‘you have my gratitude’ does he snap out of it, clearing his throat and watching the damn mullet sway in the wind.

“Think he’s ever gon’ cut it?”

Your chortle slides carefully into Daryl’s ear, worming its way down his neck and into his chest, pushing through his ribs and finding home straight into his heart before he even knows what’s happening. He was so tense when Eugene was around, like a cat with its hair raised, tail shot ramrod straight, and now that he’s gone, it’s like an immediate relaxation, tail now curled languid and swishing across the ground. Daryl’s eased up again - at least, as much as he can be with rough denim digging into his thighs - melting back into the bench under the familiar heat and weight of your legs before a troubling thought dawns on him. Could he be- no, he would never be. Not of Mr. Tennessee Top Hat.

“He’s probably gonna grow it long, honestly. Long and skinny - like a rat’s tail.”

You tilt your head in Eugene’s direction, averting your attention from Daryl, and he becomes acutely aware of how comfortable the sight of your pigtailed hair is becoming to him, as well as the acidic flavour of distaste lying right on the tip of his tongue. It’s childish, he knows it is, the juvenile desire to want you to focus on him - not university graduate Eugene or preppy rich kid Spencer, - just him, a damn redneck who would do anything to keep you safe, to keep you happy. They didn’t know how to do that, but he did. Did you know that he wanted to give you the stars? That you had shadowed the sun with your radiance?

Oh, Daryl’s seething now, he notices, a heat waving off his body that’s unmistakable in intention to himself, and he panics - have you caught him, that stupid caveman part of him that sparks alight when he thinks of you? He spares a glance and sighs in relief when he realizes you’re absorbed in trying to judge the position of the sun and count how many hours the two of you had spent outside already. You never could quite get the hang of it somehow, no matter how much he tried to teach you.

“Y’hungry? Looks past noon.”

He makes a move to get up, one large hand underneath both of your ankles as the need to provide for you drives his actions, but you lean forward stopping him with a clutch of his bicep. The heat of your talented fingers causes him to flex in surprise and he coughs - once, twice, then clears his throat for good measure - praying that will cover up his body’s oversensitivity to your touch. If you’ve noticed, you don’t say anything, instead using your free hand to point at another figure, someone nearing the both of you.

“Not really. I’m just- I think someone cooked too much or something. Look.”

Daryl narrows his eyes, squinting against the Virginian sun and he sees the figure you’re talking about, two bowls in hand and making good distance despite the fact he looks to be tripping over his own two feet trying to balance whatever food he’s intending to bring. 

“Think one of them run crews came back?”

You hum as a sign you’ve heard him and he grunts back that he’s heard you, his own little language you’ve learned to decipher. It’s possible, Olivia usually doesn’t log anything if any of the people working in the kitchen claim dibs on it before she gets to the haul, but if one of the crews really came, there would be a commotion - kids running out to greet parents, lovers running out for an embrace or a kiss - as well as the familiar once, twice honk of whatever vehicle they had taken out. No, it was more likely Rick had checked the traps, Daryl’s natural hunter’s instinct having yielded a few fat rabbits.

“Maybe the lessons you’ve been giving Aaron paid off.”

He scoffs, turning his head back to face you, remembering the smile you had worn when he told you about that night of Deanna’s party and how he had tried to build up the courage to mingle, but just couldn’t. You’d recognized that insecurity, saw that apprehension in yourself before Noah had ‘if I go, you go’ed you, but it must have been another level for Daryl, having always been shunned and being in the habit of hiding himself away. You’d left early in search of him - everything was too stuffy, too noisy, too.. reminiscent - and had found yourself at Aaron and Eric’s house, the only lights turned on in the street being theirs. 

“Could hardly call ‘em lessons.”

He can still hear your voice when he’d brought up being Aaron’s second recruiter, how he would let him tag along if he went hunting and you were busy, you immediately teasing him and congratulating him on his growing friendship - you replacing me now, huh Daryl? He’d scoffed, and in a moment of vulnerability, told you he would never - that he could never - replace you, before hurtling out of your house with fiery embarrassment. There weren’t many times when you had thought that maybe, just maybe, he reciprocated your feelings, but that night, your heart had welled up, twisted like a wrung out cloth with the desire to confess.

Problem is, neither of you did. Daryl had come close though, awake before the sun even began to rise and pacing in front of your door like a madman, yelling at himself to bite the bullet. But he just... couldn’t, running back to his house with his tail between his legs. You were you, mountains above him, and he was him, strapped down to the rough forest floor he had grown accustomed to.

Setting his jaw, he watches lovesick as a breeze rattles through you, escaping the broad shoulders which would have protected you from the strength of the wind, and you shiver, pulling your legs up to your chest. Daryl doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath, lip hooked between teeth as you unintentionally scoot closer to him and push his legs together, sandwiching them between your calves and your thighs.

Fuck, your skirt is probably bunched underneath you, just shy of his jeans, and you’re so warm pressed up against him. He’s thankful your eyes are shut as you let the shiver run through you because his are flickering back and forth from what’s beginning to form in his jeans to the dip of your neckline, now so much closer because your face is barely a foot and a half away. When did this bench get so damn small, anyways?

Before you can pull away, apologize for getting into his personal space, another voice interrupts you - a man’s, but not the Southern gravel you’ve memorized and bottled up in your chest - causing you to turn your head rather unceremoniously. Daryl glowers, the whites of his eyes hardly visible, two narrow slits shadowed by downward set brows and when he recognizes who it is, a rush of smug pride erupts when he realizes what this looks like, you folded up so close to him.

“I don’t know if this is an odd thought, but I was just wondering if you and this man are, perhaps, on a date? On account of your… outfits.”

It’s the man with the two bowls, you notice, the spoons in them falling along the ridge of ceramic. Your eyebrows raise in surprise, a blush crawling up your chest and you shake your head, your hands waving in urgent dismissal and feeling the weight of your two pigtails move with each movement.

“Oh- no- we, uh- no, we’re not- we’re just friends“

Daryl scoots back - cowers, he could say - when your stutters come out, your mouth opening and closing like a fish as you frantically point between you and him. It hurts, to see you so vehemently deny the notion, and it only serves as a reminder how out of reach you are to him. You’re close, physically close enough that the heat of your skin seeps through your white cotton socks and his ill fitting jeans, but emotionally, you’re yards away, too far for him to reach though he runs to catch you, and it only serves as a reminder you’re not his - that you’ll never be. You watch the man in front of you sigh a breath of relief, a charming smile blossoming on his face, reminiscent of those you’ve seen your friend fall for before, and he outstretches an arm, a bowl of warm soup just a foot away.

“That’s good, then.”

He’s… giving it to you?

“My name’s Andrew and, to be honest, I’ve been looking for an excuse to talk to you. I’m new around here - just recently came from the outside - and I was hoping I could get to know some people since I’ve been out there alone for a couple of weeks until I stumbled across these walls. It’s a really rough place out there - rougher than I thought - and honestly, if I hadn’t found Alexandria I think I might have, y’know, kicked the bucket or something.”

Nodding along, you search for the right words to say, watching the way the man - Andrew - lifts the bowl to his lips and takes several large gulps, obviously still getting used to the amount of food he’s starting to get. With a satisfied and, albeit a little unsettlingly obscene, groan, he offers you another smile, this time one that’s wolfish, not quite reaching his eyes, and gestures for you to do the same.

“That’s, uh, that’s cool - Daryl and I are from the outside too.”

The conversation is undeniably dry, but then again, what icebreakers aren’t? His gaze is heavy on your face, making you feel surprising sliminess despite the innocent exchange you’ve both just had. Introductions, that’s it. Names and a little bit of background - they shouldn’t make you tense up like you are right now. Daryl feels the change in your demeanor almost immediately, his already strong stranger instincts only doubled now that said stranger could potentially be a threat to you, and he squares his shoulders when you glance at him, eyes exposing the fact you’re just the slightest bit weary. Though, Andrew doesn’t seem to notice, the linger of his grin just barely there for a lull of silence before he speaks again.

“Wow, that’s crazy! Where are you working?”

The food is hot on your tongue when you swallow, searing down your throat into your stomach, and you cringe when you detect something in it that makes you want to shrivel up. A herb, maybe? A vegetable you don’t like? If he took the soup from the pantry, maybe it’s even the unsalvageable type of expired.

Hooking a lip between his teeth, Daryl scoffs at the harsh pivot in conversation Andrew makes, sparing him barely a glance before his sight reverts back to you, watching you spoon the tiniest bit of stew into your mouth - just to be courteous, he assumes - and your tongue darts out to catch the little dribble that escapes. The damn bastard knew where you were working, Daryl had caught him making eyes at you for the past few days on the off chance he returned back from his daily hunting, fortune shining upon him at the realization he could spare some time to visit you. There was no doubt in his mind that Andrew knew he knew, too, that he recognized his scowl the instant he had even considered walking over to where the two of you were sitting. It’s probably why that creepy smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Infirmary, actually. I got some medical training from a man I knew during this, but you’ll probably see Denise more than me there - I’m not, y’know, really a doctor. Daryl he’s one of-“

“Oh my gosh, really? I’m actually set to work at the infirmary too! Maybe we’ll bump into each other there, or… maybe we could meet up before then and get to know each other? Better?”

You quirk an eyebrow, the fact he’d interrupted you not going unnoticed, but you don’t catch the suggestive edge to his voice. Daryl does, though, and he sets his jaw, feeling like the world was tormenting him with how he just has to sit here and watch as some asshole hits on someone he’s been pining after for what feels like an eternity. Worse still is the fact that said asshole doesn’t seem to understand that you don’t want him here, that you don’t like whatever he’d put in that bowl of soup, and the thought that he might not even care that you don’t want him here makes him even more angry. It’s guys like this - guys like his brother when it comes to conquests - that make him seethe.

Daryl doesn’t even notice how tight the grip he has on the edge of the bench has become before you look over at him, nudging the ceramic into his hands with a slight ‘help me’ look. He doesn’t know if you intend it as a signal for him to down the food you’d just given him, or for him to help you out of this situation as a whole, but he decides to take the stew and let whatever is going on play out. You can handle yourself, he knows you can, so he tilts the bowl up to his mouth, glaring at Andrew from the edge as you speak.

A slight pride wells up in him, juvenile, neanderthal, and he wants to rub it in his face - do you know how many times she’s sat so close to me like this? How many times she’s looked at me to help her? Do you know how much she trusts me? - but he suffocates that urge, downing it with each gulp of the stew.

“Wow, that’s… that’s really cool, Andrew, but I’m more of, like, an assistant?”

You offer him a half smile before you continue, a deliberate side-step of answering his offer, though anyone - except Andrew, apparently - with even half-functioning eyes would see it comes insincere. Civil, that’s all. Sickeningly polite since Daryl knows that, when you’re friends with someone as dislikable as he is, you have to try extra hard to be tolerating. Lord knows how many people ended up tolerating him just because they liked you.

He places the bowl right over where your shins lie on his thighs, signalling the man in front of him to look. A rush of satisfaction washes over him when he sees the asshole set his jaw, that stupid fucking grin he has faltering for just a second. It seems like the immature side of him has won because now Daryl himself isn’t even trying to hide the fact he’s doing this just so he can show off how comfortable you are around him. Despite how brightly you outshine him, you choose to be around him and he’s not hesitating to parade it. Merle would call it ‘measuring dicks’, but Daryl considers it courtesy. Especially if someone is making you uncomfortable.

“I usually help out with the easier stuff like stitches and treating external wounds. I do other stuff, though, like I go on runs and hunt with Daryl. He-“

“You should give yourself more credit, you know that? Just knowing how to do stitches is pretty impressive. I was actually in the middle of residency when this started. Virginia Tech with aspirations to bec-“

Again? Does this prick not have an off switch? Any common decency to wait for someone to finish their sentence? If he isn’t going to give you the respect you deserve, Daryl’s decided that he doesn’t deserve that respect either. Sliding to the left and off the bench, he grabs the now empty bowl before straightening up and stretching his neck, making damn sure the asshole hears the cricks that resound.

“Man, shut up and let ‘er talk for more’n 5 seconds.”

He blanches. The bastard blanches as if his rude behaviour wouldn’t be reprimanded. Maybe not by you, your concern for decorum a common deterrent, but Daryl doesn’t care - will never care if he’s punching some asshole for talking about you the wrong way, or not letting you talk at all. It doesn’t matter to him.

“Even better, how ‘bout ya leave us the hell alone since ya can’t even seem to tell when someone wants ya gone?”

The second Daryl steps forward, shaking his bangs from his eyes, the prick takes a step back. Though he’s not especially tall, Daryl’s stocky, built broad with draw weight muscles only accentuated by his tight turtleneck, and he can be scary sometimes, though you can no longer see it. Once upon a time, you would have thought he was too, like a snarling wolf waiting to pounce, but you know him far too well now. You’ve held his forehead to the crook of your neck when he’d cried about Merle, about the prison, about Beth; you watch him get as close to giddy as he can manage when he wins childish games or lands particularly challenging shots off his crossbow, and you’d be an idiot to think he’s anything other than a big softie behind that wall he’s kept up since he was a teenager.

Daryl shoves the empty bowl on top of the one in that asshole’s hand when he stops cowering from his advancement. You raise your eyebrows and bite back a smile at the exchange, something very pleasant about watching Andrew try not to tremble like a leaf, and you shrug your shoulders when he looks at you with an expression on his face you’ve seen pulled from others before. You shouldn’t speak - it’s honestly probably best if you don’t and just let Daryl scare him off - but you can’t help it. A little bit of humiliation from someone wearing a shitty Powerpuff Girl costume never hurt anyone.

“There’s a reason why I’m not telling Daryl to stop, and I really think it would benefit us all if you figured out why.”

Colour returns to Andrew’s face, a beet red hue only seeming to grow more saturated when neither of you make another move, blank expressions he can’t read. Do they think I’m not worth it? Frustrated, he stamps a foot, and it’s almost comical how his free fist clenches and unclenches as his voice wavers, attempting not to yell. The metal spoons shake with the force of his movements, tinking against ceramic, and you wince when his voice raises. It’s subtle, barely there for a split second, but Daryl notices and immediately takes a step, putting himself more in front of you than to the side.

“Look, I came here to get a date with a pretty girl. I didn’t come here to be thrown away like I’m nothing. Certainly not in preference for a hillbilly who- who probably can't even read!”

Oh God, Andrew pulled the hillbilly card, pointing at the two books still lying abandoned on the bench and nearly jabbing his finger into the turtleneck covered chest in front of him. As much as Daryl could deny the way he didn’t care about how other people saw him, you can tell the insult affected him. His body tenses up, jaw locking as he shifts his weight from foot to foot, and it’s like he wants to pounce, or like he wants to run. Something breaks in you when you see him like this - insecure, you think would be the right word - and you’re on your feet before you even know it, Daryl’s trenchcoat held just underneath your chest, yet still long enough to cover well past your knees.

You’ve learnt not to act on the dull throb of rage that alights when someone wants to trample over you - men always fucking did that, especially in this new world. It doesn’t matter how many times they interrupt you, or question your competence outside the walls, but there’s something different about the anger when Daryl’s thrown in. It’s no longer a throb, it’s an ice-cold heat that pierces skin.

They don’t know what he’s been through. They don’t know what he's done - what he’s lost. They take for granted the risks he takes every time he leaves the walls to make their lives even the slightest bit better. Grunt work, that’s all they consider Daryl good for and it enrages you to no end. He’s a damn good man. Better than Anthon- Andrew could ever be.

“That’s too bad then, isn’t it? ‘Cause Daryl and I, we’re leaving, aren’t we? We had plans to hunt. You know, plans that don’t involve you.”

Shoving his trenchcoat on, you grab the two books in a huff and hold them to your chest with one arm, wrapping your hand around Daryl’s wrist in order to pull him along. He barely gives the other man a second glance, the anger in him melting away the second your fingers choose to move from the lift of bone and worm in between his. Something sweetly familiar swirls around in the pit of his stomach and he follows you like a lovesick slave, the realization dawning on him that he’d go anywhere you lead him to. Anywhere. But then again, he’s known that for a while.

What was that prick’s name, anyways?

Daryl can’t seem to remember.

“I’ll see you at the infirmary!”

A few feet, that’s all you make before that he speaks again - has the audacity to say something to you. He’s even more shameless than you’d imagined and you consider just ignoring him, it’s probably the better option, but then his insult rackets through you again and you spin around just enough to yell back.

That’s it - fuck decorum.

“Awesome! I’ll make sure we get alternating shifts!”

The abrupt movement of your body makes the water inside the full canteen strapped to you add momentum to your spin, and it offsets you, threatening to jerk you to one side before Daryl’s tug balances you once more. That was close to humiliation, and you smile at him, thankful, but not letting go of his hand until you reach your house. Maybe it was selfish, losing yourself in the heat of his rough hands, but he feels so right between your fingers you just hold him tighter.

Not that he minds, though, setting his jaw to keep himself from fucking whimpering. You’ve taken his hand before - led him to safety on runs, squeezed chaste when you saw something troubling him - but something about this feels different. It’s like he’s living out a fantasy, one deeply rooted in him since he realized there was even the possibility he loved you. Daryl wants to scream for everyone to watch as you clutch him like he might disappear, like you want to keep him close to you, just in arms reach. Like you want everyone to know he’s yours, because damn it does he want to be.

“God, he was such a- what a...”

With a huff, you let go of his hand to pull open your door, searching the full extent of the English language for the right word to describe the piece of work that was Andrew. And you had to work with him, too? Just great.

“An asshole?”

Your chuckle of agreement borders exasperated, nearly caught in your throat before it escapes, and you throw the two books onto the little table next to the door, resisting the urge to run your hands through your hair.

“He’s- yeah, insufferably… insufferably enraging too.”

Daryl watches, leant against the door as you pace, fists balling up and relaxing as you gesture, a habit he’s now found oddly endearing when it comes to you. His mouth opens to speak - some quip about how he’s sorry you’re gonna have to deal with that asshole - but he’s gone still, lips agape when you bend down just a few feet in front of him to pull up the socks now bunched down at the top of your sneakers.

Oh God, oh no.

He knows he should avert his eyes, that he should be giving you the respect you deserve, but his brain fries at the sight of how much skin he gets to see now that something in his trenchcoat catches onto the mountain of safety pins that made up the back of your dress. Swallowing, Daryl’s pangs of arousal find outlet in the gnaw of teeth to the inside of his cheek, and he’s pretty sure he draws blood when your hem floats to just barely scraping by decency, almost showing him whatever underwear you’re wearing and he feels guilty knowing that he wants just a peek.

Just a peek and he’ll be satisfied.

“Can you gimme a second?”

Your voice shocks him, but he hides it well with a grunt of agreement, hoping that the quick blink he does before focusing on his ever-interesting boots is enough to shed any suspicion on your part towards his actions. He watches you toe off your sneakers, a quick sprint up the stairs that has him following your figure before he’s yelling at himself to calm down. It feels like everything happened in a torrent - one second your bare thighs are against his, then you’re pulling him along with you, then your skin is tantalizingly on display for him and he can’t deal with the overwhelm of you.

Daryl needs to calm down, he’s begging himself to, and he tugs at the neckline of his turtleneck, the cotton sticking to the sheen of perspiration. Upstairs, he can hear the sound of your drawers being pulled open and he decides to crash your kitchen and down the jug of water you have on your counter, looking for anything to distract him from you before the two of you go - shit, what were you doing, again? - hunting. That’s right. Hunting. Just hunting. With you wearing dress and those cute fucking pigtails. Just hunting, nothing else.

Half the jug is gone when he finally hears your footsteps descend the stairs, holster secure across your waist, and he rounds the corner just as you’re beginning to look for him. Daryl calls your name, and when you turn around, he suppresses the wrench of his heart, the chaste blanket of hair covering your face opening to show that smile of yours he’d engrained into his memory. Outstretching your hand, you gesture for him to follow you and it’s unsurprising how easy he finds it to obey. Is he floating to you instead of walking? He feels like he is.

“He’s wrong, you know that?”

You’re nearly at his house when you finally speak, breaking the silence with a voice that makes him feel comforted - makes him feel right. There have only been a few people in Daryl’s life that have actually cared for him, and for a while it was only Merle in his own twisted way, but now he has you and he doesn’t know how the hell the world had thought him deserving. He grunts as he opens his door, rushing in just to grab his crossbow and feeling a pity within him when he realizes you’re waiting on his porch.

“Don’t worry ‘bout me, I ain’t worth the trouble.”

Scrunching your nose, you rush to follow him when he chooses to make use of his strong legs and speed forward.

“You don’t really think that do you?”

He doesn’t answer your question, only tightens his grip on his crossbow’s strap. How does he tell you that you’re better than that asshole? That he thinks you shouldn’t have even given him a second of your time? Of your thought? So what if that prick’s insult - and Daryl fucking loathes that it did - hurt his feelings? You shouldn’t need to worry about him.

“He called you ‘a hillbilly who can’t read’! I wasn’t gonna let him say that. You’re not stupid, Daryl, and people- people gotta stop thinking that.”

It’s the way your voice lilts that gets to him, your natural honey tone turning softer, genuine, soothing, and every other adjective that makes him want to crumble at your feet and tell you how much he just fucking loves you. Any anger that could have been in him melts away in an instant, and his voice returns the sentiment, wishing he could do just that.

“It don’t matter what he called me. If he thinks ‘bout me like that, there ain’t nothin’ I can do ‘bout it. But you, I don’t want you gettin’ in any trouble. An’ if ya do, it sure as hell ain’t gon’ be for someone like me.”

Someone like me.

Sometimes, you suppose, you hate Daryl. Like in moments like these, where he thinks so low of himself, where he thinks himself unworthy of anyone’s care - of anyone’s concern. He’s spent so long fighting for himself that he didn’t know how to let anyone care for him, so how do you convince him that you want to? How do you convince him that you want to give him everything?

“You’re one of my closest friends, you idiot. Don’t you know you’re worth getting into trouble for?”

He cringes at the word ‘friend’, but his heart swells all the same. Don’t you know I want more, Daryl wants to say - that I would do anything for you? - but he just can’t. If he does, he’ll lose you. He’d rather settle for just being a friend to you than to potentially ruin what the two of you shared right now. So he locks his jaw, unable to form any words without wanting to confess right then and there.

Don’t you know you’re worth getting in trouble for?

Those words are going to haunt him - he knows damn well they will - hung so sweetly over him like the apple that tempted Eve. It’s the knowledge that he’s that important to you that sets deep in the pit of his stomach, makes a rumble wrack through him that makes him want to lean down and kiss you, to worship your altar, to let you possess him and claim him as yours. Damn it, he has no hope of ever getting over you, the once tiny crush he thought he had continuing to fester even though it’s been months.

Daryl feels a squeeze at his shoulder, the same one you do when you want to ask him ‘are you okay?’, and it takes everything in him not to crumble under your touch. It’s a balm, he swears, and he nods, offering you a tight lipped smile because you’re both already so close to the gate. Of course, he has an image to protect, after all, and you laugh internally to yourself when he wipes even that from his face, returning to the rough scowl you’ve always seemed to find endearing.

“You gonna leave wearing that?”

A familiar voice sounds from above you, and you stop in place, Daryl imitating your movements before you realize it’s Rosita, still on watch duty even though the afternoon pair should have subbed in hours ago. You stare at her for a moment - she was certainly no prude who judged anyone on their clothing choices - but then her words click in your brain and you reach for the hem of your dress, pulling it up in one quick motion. Daryl’s eyes widen, snapping away from your direction and wondering where the hell your shame went.

Sure, he wants nothing more than to see whatever it is you’re hiding underneath, but not here where everyone else could see what was meant for his eyes only. Shit, ‘his eyes only’? You’re not his - he’s gotta stop letting himself think like that, let alone think that’s a possibility at all. He only dares to look back when he hears Rosita’s laughter, no doubt at his expense.

It clicks for him then, catching a quick glance before your skirt falls back into place.

You were showing her your shorts. The ones you had put on underneath your dress and he scoffs at himself, fighting the urge to cover his face with his hands as a blush rises from his neck. That must have been what the quick stop at your house was for - that and your knives. God, he was fucking stupid. As if you would flash people in the middle of the street much less leave the safety of Alexandria and fight walkers in a flimsy skirt.

Tugging open the gate, he swallows his embarrassment, tilting his head towards the forest the two of you had almost memorized together and he watches mesmerized as you take down a walker just beyond the small patch of grass which grows wildflowers, a smattering of black blood now on its yellow petals. Grimacing, you flick your knife, cleaning it using the force of your wrist, and you follow Daryl when he catches the slightest trail of deer tracks, nibbled on leaves still slick with its saliva.

He tracks it for a while, and part of him wonders if something innately selfish keeps him from lurching forward and advancing on the deer he knows can’t be very far. You’ve taken the lead halfway past that little creek you rinsed your knives in, and he’d given you his crossbow then, too, the both of you swapping weapons because you’d asked with that look on your face that he’s hopeless to deny. Slipping off the canteen, you take a few gulps, turning around to face him and holding it out to him.

A chuckle catches at his throat and he turns it into a grunt of gratitude before he downs a pretty large portion of the water. The crossbow looks comical in your hands, the size of it and the dull glint of its curve almost alien in your grasp, especially because he knows what violence has come from the taut bowstring. He knows how soft your fingers are, felt them on his skin with a tenderness he’d not known before, and it amazes him what they can do. They can heal things, nurture and comfort, but they’re skilled in other things too - pulling triggers, fighting so those important to you can live - and he’s not sure how many times he’s thought about them.

He wants to feel that softness on him everywhere.

Another few hours or so pass, the deer long since forgotten when you both find it gnawed on, organs pulled out by a walker knelt just between its four legs. After a quick run back into Alexandria to grab some rope, you’re both walking in the forest again, checking rabbit traps with a couple of squirrels tied around his shoulder and sharing conversation that never seems to idle. It’s been far too long since it’s just been the two of you out here, underneath the sun inching closer to the horizon, and you can’t believe you were beginning to forget just how fun it is to spend time around Daryl when he’s in his element.

An abrupt yelp breaks through a momentary lull of silence, followed by a swear, groaned with the vowel drawn out. You shouldn’t laugh, you know you shouldn’t, but the second you turn around and see Daryl lying flat on his ass, legs kicked out in front of him with the backs of his hands against his forehead, a sharp laugh forces its way out with its own volition. He groans again when he hears you and your quick footsteps nearing the patch of mud he’d slipped on, and he glares from beneath his palm, sighing when he sees you leant over him, both your arms outstretched. He knows you well enough - you’re going to say what he thinks you’re going to say, aren’t you?

“C’mon, take my hand - don’t think I can do it?”

Yup, there it is.

“I know ya can’t.”

His voice is gruff, tired, almost as if this was the billionth time you’ve both been over this. Most of the time, his footing is sure, as if he memorized the rise and fall of the ground beneath him, but sometimes he’s impatient, stressed because not catching anything meant that the people that relied on him would starve. Or, like this time, distracted by how at ease you seem to be around him - distracted by the fact that you let yourself be that way around him - and distracted by the way your two pigtails sway with each step you take, hypnotizing him to not watch where he’s going and to look at nothing but them; to look at nothing but you.

“Why? ‘Cause I’m just a little girl? C’mon.”

Scoffing, he indulges you, right hand taking yours and trying not to enjoy the way it fits so well in his. Soft, like he’s so familiar with. With a grunt, you pull, but Daryl lies there motionless, stationary like a mountain, one palm still resting on his forehead as he quirks an eyebrow, moving it just enough so you see the cocky expression on his face, the slightest edge of a smirk shadowing out of his lips. Stubborn still, you toss - place - his crossbow on his chest just to hear his deep ‘oof’ and use both arms to tug, a whine threatening to escape your throat when he still doesn’t budge.

“Pull with me, you idiot. C’mon”

So he does.

And you regret it.

With a yelp not dissimilar to the one you had heard just moments ago, your feet slide from the ground, your whole body falling victim to gravity, back meeting the forest floor with a dull thump before you can hear Daryl sputter a laugh between the syllables to ask if you’re okay. Insincerely dramatic, you lift one hand, giving him a bent thumbs up as you shift your back just slightly to move the canteen from digging into you.

“Thought ya said you could do it?”

A chortle breaks through you at how matter-of-fact he is - how he’s screaming that infuriating, oddly charming ‘I told you so’ without having to - and you can’t stop the smile that’s working its way to lift your cheeks, pushing your eyes into half-crescent shapes. Fuck, you missed this; missed spending time with him.

“That was before I found out you were like 300 pounds.”

The sun feels nice on your face, seeping through the cotton of your socks, dancing along the skin of your hands, and it feels different in the freedom of the forest. Daryl chuckles when he hears you, your voice at the forefront of singing birds and leaves whipping against each other in the breeze, and he wants to stay like this forever. Just you and him. Despite how exposed the two of you are here, it feels like, for a moment, that you’re both invincible to all the threats around purely because you’re together.

“All muscle, though, ain’t it?”

Another laugh escapes you, and he swears you’re perfect. Then again, he’d known it the first time he had hunted with you, revealing to you a piece of his world, and you had found your home in it.

“Sure, Daryl, all muscle.”

Humming, he closes his eyes again, bathing in the sunlight as if he would never experience it again. He knows he will, but it won’t ever be like this - not with you so pretty and so near him. Daryl props a leg up, his jeans probably cutting off his circulation at his knees with how tight they bunch there, but he doesn’t mind as he dares to lift his head, sneaking a glance at how you’ve all but stretched out in front of him, content smile on your face as you melt into the ground, and a thought lurches forward, an insistent one he’d been fighting all day.

What if he confessed right now?

Who knows what you would do if he did?

Run, probably, is the first answer that comes up. It’s the one he had been so used to forcing onto himself, but there were so many possibilities. You could reject him, that calm that you’ve used when dealing with other people could be turned on him, you choosing never to exchange another word with him despite your voice being the only one he wants to hear. You could say nothing, laugh it off until he was the one who ran away and pretend it never happened.

But, you could love him back, too, tell him those three words he wants so desperately to hear you say. You could kiss him underneath the sun, warm his mouth with yours and let him overheat from you. You could pull him by his stupid black turtleneck, push him up against a tree and introduce the liquor of your lips to the skin of his throat. Or you could… God, he would let you do anything to him.

“Hey Daryl?”

The tap of your foot against his ribs brings him back to reality and he immediately sits up, placing his crossbow over his lap and hoping your eyes are still closed so you don’t catch even the slightest clue of what he could have been thinking about. He breathes a silent sigh of relief when he discovers they are, and he grunts for you to continue.

“How much would you hate me if I threw up right now?”

An immediate panic washes over him, and Daryl’s on his feet in an instant, the only thought of you in his mind being the desire to make sure you’re okay. Maybe you’re sick - the flu? A cold that will never go away? That pneumo-whatever from the prison? - and he’s already trying to remember all the watch shifts you might have taken or runs you might have agreed to so he can take your place.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

Kicking up into a sit, you shake your head, knowing he might think it’s something serious and overreact. His eyes watch your every movement like a hawk, as if he’s waiting for you to do good on your question or something worse like collapse on him, his crossbow strapped to the front on his chest in preparation to carry you if he had to.

“I think it was something in Andrew’s food. I- I just- I don’t really feel too good.”

Oh yeah, him. Daryl had nearly forgotten about that asshole - would have probably forgotten about the urge to haymaker him if you hadn’t brought him up again - and the urge to do some, and he quotes you quoting that movie, ‘gratuitous violence’ on him because he’d bled even more into today, cutting it short. He’d bled into your day and made you feel physical discomfort. That asshole would be feeling some physical discomfort too, if Daryl relented to his base desires just one last time.

“Wanna go back? Get some rest?”

When you nod, Daryl holds out his arm, repeating your words - c’mon, take my hand - don’t think I can do it? - and part of you wants you to stand yourself just to spite him, but instead you take his hand, glaring annoyed at him until that facade breaks away when you’re on your feet, smiling up in thanks before turning towards the direction of Alexandria with a huff. Your hair is mussed but you make no attempt at fixing it, and the sight almost chokes him, his brain running with speculation of what else could have transpired to make your hair like that. If you let him, how long would it take for him to make your hair like that?

Fuck, he didn’t know how much more he could take. It was already bad enough he could barely keep his less than innocent feelings trapped inside when you looked normal, but now that you’re wearing that dress and wearing those fucking pigtails, he was both dreading and aching for the day to end so he can lock all his doors spend the night in his fist wishing it were you. You yell up to the two people at the gate, your voice sounding underwater as Daryl continues to think about what could have happened if he had just bitten the bullet and confessed to you under the canopy of trees and the warm sunlight.

He walks you both to the pantry, slipping off the string of game and giving Olivia a nod of acknowledgment before reverting back to watching you, finding the growing familiarity of your blue fabric like a homing beacon as you talk to Carol. She doesn’t laugh when she sees his outfit - just a chuckle since ‘oh, it isn’t so bad’ - but laughs with her hands bracing her stomach when she sees yours. Making a show of purposely groaning overdramatic, you let her have her fun, leaving Daryl staring at you from the door as you smile comfortably with her. After a few exchanges, she gives you a thumbs up and you reciprocate it, the same fake overly friendly shtick you and Carol had been making fun of together when you’d all first arrived at Alexandria, and you rejoin Daryl, leaving with him just a few steps ahead.

You’re both nearing his house when he eventually snaps out of his daze, shoving on the suffocating jacket the second you nudge it into his hands without a second thought. He recognizes the curve of the curb leading up to his porch and his whole body is thrumming with anticipation to finally be able to explore his all consuming thoughts. Working on autopilot, Daryl pulls his doorknob and it relents under his heavy grip, opening with a creak he had intended to oil weeks ago but never got around to. He should have known that when Rosita gave him that smirk on her face this morning that he was in for something. Shit, he didn’t know if he should thank her for the view it gave him, or curse her for the way he’s straining so painfully against the-

“Daryl? Is that okay with you?”

Shit, shit, shit - you were talking? He forgot to fucking listen.

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good.”

Turning around, he tries his best to make himself sound convincing, even nodding along as he speaks. Daryl didn’t know what the hell he had just agreed to, but his answer seems to satisfy you because you turn curtly on your heels to make your way back to your house. Stuck in place, he stares. He stares as if entranced by the way your legs move, innocent steps that seem to sway your hips more than usual and expanses of soft smooth skin tapering down from the blue fabric into white socks. It’s wrong to do it so blatantly, so openly with his mouth parted slightly and he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to stop. This is probably the last time he was ever going to see you like this - all dolled up in a pretty dress - and he swallows to wet his dry throat.

You make it a few houses down before you turn to face Daryl, waving an animated goodbye like you always did and pulling a scoff from him, lovesick in nature but he would rather die than admit it. Shit, you were cute, but thankfully you’ve chosen to continue walking, the fabric of your blue dress flaring out when you spin around, each step making your figure smaller and smaller as he stares. Clearing his throat, he closes his mouth and turns too, shutting the cream-coloured door with an audible boom before retreating into his house, thankfully away from prying eyes.

He has a plan, a plan Daryl had fully intended to follow made up of only three steps - take a preferably freezing shower, try not to think, and then force himself into a sleep - but his resolve collapses the second he finishes step one, it being not nearly as effective as he wanted. The cold was supposed to get rid of the problem that always formed when he thought too long about you, and it had worked for the ten fucking minutes he was under the spray until he put on his underwear and was beginning to move on to step two. Try not to think. Yeah, he was an idiot to think he could do that. Especially when it comes to you.

It’s a fantasy - just a fantasy - the thought of you, and Daryl knows he needs to learn to control himself, but he’s been trying to since the goddamn prison and his brain never fucking slows. He can’t stop his mind from wandering; nights have become lonely, empty, moreso than they ever have been for him, and the only thing that ever keeps him company is imagining you. He has your smile memorized, the rise of your cheekbones, the shade of your hair and the texture of your skin, and never in his life has he been more… has he felt more for somebody. You’ve overtaken him with your kindness, your beauty, your intelligence and wit; wormed your way into his heart and refused to leave. He couldn’t forget you even if he tried.

He can lie, tell himself that all he needs is one moment - that all he wants is just one heavy, heated moment to memorize each curve of your body even though he knows he aches for more. A lifetime with you, that’s what Daryl really wants. A lifetime of you underneath his skin, overtaking his senses, making him succumb to you over and over again in a mountain of sin only ever rivaled only by thoughts he would explore on nights very much like this one. But you weren’t meant for him, and he knew that.

That didn’t stop Daryl from pulling off his boxers the second he left the shower and entered his bedroom, though.

And it sure didn’t stop him from lying on his bed and grinding into his hand.

Your name curls along Daryl’s tongue as he strokes himself heavy, too drunk off the warmth of his spit covered palm to care how loud he is as he loses himself to his overflow. To the thoughts of your waist and the swell of your chest. To the thoughts of your legs, the skin of your thighs tapering out of the blue dress. To the thoughts of your - fuck - to the thoughts of your lips, how your breath would escape them if he slipped his fingers beneath the hem and how your eyes would hood with the effort to keep them open for him. And your damn hair; God, he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it would feel like to dig his grip to the base of your neck and tug in silent demand.

He would tell you to watch him.

He would tell you to let him see you as you fell apart so beautifully for him, then he would watch you do it again with the taste of your lips swimming through his brain and the warmth of you everywhere.

Fuck, he wasn’t going to last.

Pushing his back against the headboard, Daryl’s tugs grow shorter, faster and faster as he nears his finish with mixtures of his groans and the syllables of your name. In his mind, your head is thrown back, the column of your neck so pretty and inviting as your mouth hangs open and he licks his lips, imagining that he’s coating his tongue in the taste of your skin instead. You’re saying his name now, nails digging into his back as you tell him that you’re his, that you love him, that he’s making you feel so fucking good and moaning for him. Only for him.

He needs his release and he’s so close, hips thrashing up to meet his palm as he continues to groan your name, eyes screwed shut and building himself to that precipice. Daryl hears you in his mind, your whimpers echoing with the squeaks of his bed and it makes his thighs shake, heart threatening to burst out of his chest.

Just a few more-

The jangling of his doorknob alerts him much too late for him to hide his anything, his eyes popping open from beneath the hand on his forehead as he scrambles for his blanket.

“Shit! What the-”

Daryl doesn’t register who it is as he yells, his stare glued to the meager fabric covering his quickly softening cock. No, no this isn’t good. It’s far from good - it’s the worst. The fucking worst. It didn’t matter who the hell it is, he’s never going to live this down. Fuck, the first thing he’s going to do tomorrow is hop on his motorcycle and get the fuck out of Alexandria. Try his luck out on the road. He’s survived off of nature before, it won’t be that hard to fall into that routine aga-

“I’m- I- holy s- I-“

Your voice is jumbled, your eyes screwing shut, and in an instant he realizes it’s you. It’s you. The person he had been doing.. doing that to and moaning the name of like his life depended on it. No, no, no. Fuck, he could cry. This is a reckoning, isn’t it? Atonement for the months and months of wanting something he can’t have - of pretending there was even a possibility you would ever consider letting him be yours.

“It ain’t what it- I’m not- what- what the fuck’re ya doin’ here?”

It’s angry, the booming of his voice, his embarrassment mutated into aggression as each syllable bounces off the walls of his suffocating bedroom, and you flinch, arms tightening to your sides. Daryl hops to his feet, wiping his hand on his boxers as he searches frantically for something other than a flimsy blanket to cover him, but his brain is fogged over with the urge to run, refusing to cooperate with his shaking hands.

“I’m- I’m sorry I- I thought- I was- I didn’t- I-“

Spinning abruptly on your heel, you refuse to open your eyes and overestimate your once strong ability to maneuver your way through his house. You’ve been here a billion times, might’ve spent more time exploring his home than your own, but today is just not your day. The wood of his ajar door meets your face rather unceremoniously and you groan, white hot pain spreading from your nose as static blooms in your vision. Shit, you couldn’t see even if you opened your eyes. Today is really just fucking not your day.

“Daryl, I- ow f- I can go- I’m sorr-“

Your hand flies to your nose and it feels like whatever higher power’s up there is laughing at your misfortune, feeling a warm liquid rush down your fingers. The second Daryl sees blood - your blood - a different panic surges from his chest and he can’t stop himself from running to you, the instinct to make sure you’re okay unstoppable in the way it overtakes his body.

“No, you’re- you know damn well you’re hurt jus’- jus’- fuck- jus’ sit down an’ gimme a second.”

There’s no more anger in his words, no more frustration - just that hardened tone of concern he always had when you hurt yourself. It was the same one you’ve heard since you started a friendship with him, and you think you could have laughed if you weren’t so close to collapsing in on yourself from the sheer amount of embarrassment you feel. Daryl snatches up the red rag he’d left on his workbench and rushes in your direction, pressing it to your nose before he reaches down with his left hand, grabbing your dominant one to hold the cloth against yourself before scurrying off, quick feet leaving little noise to alert you of his movements. Other arm stretched forward, you try to reach for him, ask him to walk you home albeit humiliated, only to be met with the open air.

He fucking left you?

A beat of silence passes as you try to figure out what to do and you open your mouth to speak, to call out to him, but the scratchiness of your throat begs you to swallow before you register the sound of rushing water. Was he… was he washing his hands?

Of course he was, you had walked in on him-

And he was-

Daryl was thinking of you.

Trying to rid the blur coating your vision, you bring a hand to rub at your eyes, unintentionally smearing warm blood across your eyelids. It takes a second, the silence almost deafening as the true implications of what you had just witnessed dawned on you. Daryl, Daryl fucking Dixon, felt the same - wanted you like you wanted him - and it could have been relief that washed over you and made you lightheaded. But then again, it could have been the blood that’s still running into the rag held up against your face.

Extending an arm, you feel your way along the walls to his bed, your knees still weak at the realization and you sit at the foot, his blanket strewn to one side. Bare feet pad to where you’re sitting, his calloused fingers meeting yours which buzz dull with anticipation and bringing the rag down just enough to notice that the bleeding has slowed nearly to a stop. A rush of confidence surges through you, and you worm your hands out from under his, only to return to blanket them, moving his right hand so that he can touch the burning skin of your cheek.

Daryl buffers for a second, forgets how to fucking talk before he regains the ability just enough to ask you if you’re okay. When you nod, a sigh of relief escapes him and he checks the state of your nose again, realizing that your eyes are still closed. It’s stopped now, crimson liquid accumulated just along your philtrum and cupid's bow, smeared across the tip of your nose and halfway across your nose bridge. If he saw you like this, not known how the hell you’d gotten into the situation in the first place, he would have tracked down whichever asshole did this to you to the ends of the Earth and beat them into the ground.

Another few swipes, ones as soft as he can manage, and the blood is gone, your face returning to that perfect tone he only knows as you. Your eyes flutter open, maddeningly slow as they trail from his chest up and up to his face. Apprehension - you and him both recognize it in your movements. Daryl wants to run, to hide, to erase that moment from your memory and his, but despite it, he can’t will his body to move, to avert his gaze from yours even though he’s burning red. You’re looking at him - something so magic in your eyes - and he can’t focus on anything else.

“Daryl,”

It’s softer now and barely above a whisper. Your voice is so different, but he can’t put his finger on it no matter how hard he tries. For a second, he’s lost on what he should do, wanting nothing more than to succumb into the honey he hears, but then his brain snaps back on and he starts in a dash. He doesn’t even make it a step, only having succeeded in turning around before he feels a warm grip on his wrist, magnetic in the way it makes his movements stop. He could easily escape from it, it’s not one of those skillful knots that he’d taught you in order to reset his snares, but the fact that you could even still want him in your vicinity is too overwhelming for him to do anything but submit.

“Don’t go. Stay… stay here - please.”

So he does. Daryl follows the tug of your hands again when you urge him to sit down on the bed, and fights the floating feeling he gets when he even allows himself to believe you would do anything but run. You’ve stood up now, taken the blood soaked rag into your hands as you pad along on sock covered feet into the bathroom he was just in, a look thrown over your shoulder about how you need just a second before you come back and join him again. Why did you ask him to stay? It’s to laugh at him, isn’t it? To tell him to leave you alone? That you don’t want anything to do with him?

30 seconds pass - not that he’s counting, or anything - and he hears the near-silent thuds of your footsteps. He doesn’t lift his eyes from his clasped hands in his lap, hiding the part of his body that had gotten him into this situation in the first place, that same fiery embarrassment he had felt that night he almost confessed racketing through him.

When you return, standing just in front of his legs, you take his hands, an unintentional brush along his lap that he tries to ignore as he drowns himself in your touch. Why are you still here, Daryl wants to ask, but you speak first, asking him to look at you. He never could say no to you, and this time it’s no different, blown cerulean flicking up to meet yours. The second he sees you, your eyes filled with something so innocent, he feels that familiar rush of shame - one that’s become so common in the aftermaths of his lust-filled releases that he’s surprised it’s taken so long to make an appearance - and he’s speaking before he even realizes it, stuttering apologies.

“I’m sorry ya had to hea- see- see me like that. I didn’t mean- I wasn’t- fuck- I would never- I would never think about you like that.“

Logic tells you Daryl’s lying - he knows it, and he knows you know - the red coating his ears and the heat still lingering against your cheeks are proof of that fact, but you let him say those words anyways. Maybe just to listen to his voice again, maybe just to hold his shaking hands a little longer, or maybe, just maybe, you let him say those words so you can work up the courage to say something, too. To do something so bold it has you hesitating, unsure.

Silence follows, deafening almost and his heart beats in his ears, blood pumping at a rate he could call alarming, having never slowed down from the second he was caught. You’re warm where you touch him, and Daryl wants to run his fingers over your knuckles, bring them to his lips and kiss them chaste like he’d seen in movies, but he lets them lie limp in your grasp as he waits for you, eyes now moved and glued there as a wordless beg for your actions.

His fingers twitch when he feels you move them, and he swallows the second you unfurl him, your nails scratching lightly at his callouses. With a deep, wavering inhale, you place his palms on either side of your waist, and his breathing hitches, a sliver of skin warm where it peeks out from underneath that familiar flannel. It’s not even an inch, what you want him to touch, but the feeling of you underneath his fingers makes his head spin.

“What if- what if I wanted you to?”

Your words go straight to his cock, hardening embarrassingly fast underneath his boxers, and only then does he realize how bare he is in front of you - how vulnerable in mind and body. Daryl gulps, the sound of it almost comically loud, and his mouth falls open, a sign to you that he’s willing himself to form words, but that he doesn’t know what to say. Hooking your bottom lip between your teeth, you take a step forward, your knee coming between his and like it’s second nature when he opens for you, just enough for his thighs to be on either side of yours.

“What if I wanted you to think about me like… like that.”

It’s breathy, he notices, like the nicotine he welcomes into his lungs, and he’s getting addicted, he can tell. His grip tightens, wanting nothing more than to pull you down onto him, but your hand makes its way to his cold hair, still damp with the water from his shower, and you tilt his head up to face you. Look at me, and he does, melting into a puddle on his mattress from your threaded fingers and the lips not even a foot away from his.

“What if- what if I told you I thought about you like that, too?”

God, there’s nothing in his whole body that hasn’t been overtaken by you, and he submits to your confession, letting it seep into his bones and bleed his coherence dry. Daryl’s blinking up at you, eyes round, suspended in the disbelief of what you’re saying, and he nearly falls over when your fingers find home along the nape of his neck. His skin erupts in goosebumps at your touch, and he burns fiery red when you descend on him, sitting square across his thighs when you throw your legs on either side of his. You’re so fucking close to him, your lips just an inch away if he’s being generous, and he feels the breath of your words against his cheek.

“What if I told you I want you, too?”

I want you, too.

Those words swim in his head and he has to hold back a groan, thankful you haven’t chosen to sit forward just a little bit more because he’s twitching pathetically underneath his boxers. Swallowing, he relents, no longer fighting feeble against his desire, no longer fighting feeble against finally allowing himself to believe you could actually love him. You want him. You want him for him, for all his scars and rough edges, his grimaces, scowls and that stupid tight-lipped smile thing that he does that he’s pretty sure used to piss you off.

“Do- do you?”

Fuck, is that his voice? He sounds so small and so timid he’s not sure it could even be him. But Daryl knows he’s spoken, that he had willed his lips to form those very syllables. It is him, he realizes - you’ve just rendered him down into whatever he is now.

“I want you, Daryl.”

That’s your voice, he knows it. He would know it even in death - it could pull him from the edge of extinction - and he’s suspended in motion, everything hitting him like a truck. His fingers, no longer shaking but returning to his dextrous and nimble, dip underneath the hem of your flannel, travelling just atop to your upper back before he realizes you’re bare beneath the cotton. Again, he swallows, and when he speaks, his voice strains, wanton and desperate. He maneuvers his body back more so that the end of his mattress is against the inside of his knees. It’s more secure like this, safer for you, and your knees tighten against his pelvic bone, nearly squeezing a growl from him.

“Ya- fuck, ya can’t jus’ say somethin’ like that. ’S gonna drive me crazy.”

A rush of confidence surges from your chest when you hear him so ruined, so unlike anything you’ve heard before, and a wave of heat emerging from your core before you push yourself forward just slightly, registering his breath hitch when you begin your movement. Slowly - too fucking slowly for his taste - you pull your face from his ear and inch towards his lap. Daryl wants to use the two hands he has underneath your shirt to push you into him, to let him feel your chest against his, but he lets you take your time, biting his lip into almost a bleed when he feels you grind against him, a roll of your pelvis against his, his boxers and your added layer of flimsy drawstring shorts doing nothing to hide the arousal pinging between the two of you.

“Then, can I do this?”

You know his answer, the hands at your back now sliding down, grasping the flesh of your ass over the simple gray cloth covering you from him. He nods, but you whine a response, telling him he needs to say it and he can’t even hold back his words if he wanted, much too far gone from your needy stimulation bringing him already too damn close to his climax.

“Yeah, yeah, ya- shit- yeah ya can. Please.”

His hips lift off the bed, and a moan escapes your throat when he brushes up against that little bundle of nerves you’ve tried to avoid. You barely have a second to register what happened before he’s doing it again and again, pulling every single noise he can get from you, letting your fingers weave their way deeper into his hickory strands and begging you to pull. It’s affecting Daryl too - everything is, from the heat of your thighs, to the soft fabric of your shorts, to the hesitant rivulets of water dripping down from your still damp hair and onto his bare chest, some caught almost devastatingly at his collarbone, the image of you in the shower conjured up not even a second after - and it takes all the effort he can muster not to do something he hasn’t done since his teenage years.

It dawns on the both of you much too late that you haven’t even kissed him yet, and you seek him out almost animalistically. The second his mouth meets yours, his tongue darts out, unable to hold back from releasing the dreamt up phantom of your taste and replacing it with reality. Your lips part for him, welcoming him, and Daryl nearly crumbles under the caress of your smooth muscle. There’s a tenderness when your forehead presses against his, one detached from the desperation which shot you forth to him, and he forgets his hips then, them stilling for only a moment before you nearly cry against him, pushing your weight down on him and circling onto his lap.

He tenses up, his fingernails digging dull crescent shapes into your thighs, and his lips detach from yours just enough for him to lift you and spin you both around, your back hitting his unmade bed before he urges you up the mattress so he can kneel between your legs. He looks so good, unbelievably good freshly showered with his hair dripping wet drops onto your flannel shirt, and he’s burning pink knelt over you, the hue rising from the broad expanse of muscular shoulders.

“Can I see ya? An’- an’ touch ya? ‘Cause, fuck, if ya kept grindin’ on me I’d’a-”

Nodding, you cut him off by taking his hands and lifting them to your buttons as a ‘yes, please’ falls from you. You try to unbutton the bottom ones, trying to hurry along the process so you can feel his skin up against yours, but your fingers are shaking as Daryl works his way down, his tongue peeking out from between his teeth as he concentrates on trying to get you into the same state of undress as he is. When you realize he can do it, his fingers steady and warm along your skin, you rush to take off your socks and untie the string of your shorts, your legs lifting enough to kick the pieces of cotton somewhere you can’t really be bothered to consider.

The second your shirt falls from your chest, his lips descend, kisses to your mouth trailing down to your jawline then down and down to your collarbone. He digs his nose into the side of your neck, below the pulse point which beats so quick for him, and he sucks hard, tongue darting out to smooth over the skin which wraps just along the beginning of your shoulder. You reward him, whether you’re aware of it or not, with a moan that his cock reacts to before any other part of his body, and he’s only vaguely aware of how frantically his blood must be rushing to have him reacting like that.

He doesn’t know what to do if he’s being honest, the once or twice he’d done something like this immediately escaping him despite how much he wants to cling on to what little experience he has. Daryl’s never had someone who makes him react like you do - who lights a fire underneath him that never seems to fucking go out - and he’s gripping your waist, one of his palms smoothed out almost flush against your stomach, fingers rounding in an attempt to engulf your whole back. You feel perfect, like you were molded for him, and he never wants to stop.

Fuck, his hands are huge, and his touch never disappears, it seems to stretch for miles as he kneads wherever he can touch, feeling like a kid in a toy store with the amount of excitement coursing through his body. He wants to feel you in every way possible, and it’s almost laughable how desperate he is to - would it be wrong of him to reach down and dip his hand beneath your underwear? You notice, how in his head he is, and you reach for him, pulling his neck down by his nape so you can kiss him again. The second Daryl feels your tongue searching for him, he lets go of his apprehension. He needs you, the demand thrumming through every vein in his body, and he knows he should show you how.

So he does, he presses his fingers down into the waistband of your underwear and he tugs - tugs almost hard enough to snap the damn thing before his rational side emerges from the haze of lust. He didn’t know how many pairs you had and he detaches from you - fuck it, if he broke it, he’d give you the ones he’d never worn; as many as you needed, as many as you wanted, he doesn’t care - and he devolves into a light pull, a quick pang of shame overtaken by the reailzation of how slick you are with your own arousal.

The fact you were rubbing your legs together for some relief as you kissed doesn't escape him, the pads of his fingers coated at the slightest brush against your inner thighs, and Daryl has to make a physical effort not to smirk smug in response, his position knelt straight above you would let you see even the slightest change on his face. It wouldn’t be right, teasing you for your reaction to him. He hasn’t forgotten what got the two of you into this state in the first place.

“Can I touch ya here?”

Adrenaline makes him sloppy, a slur in his voice making you nod as if your movement could piece together his coherence. It doesn’t surprise you that it doesn't, instead still slurring his deep gravel about ‘using your words’ and he nearly keels over you when you tell him he can, that you’re his to touch. Adrenaline makes him sloppy, sure, but it makes him eager, too - eager to touch, to taste, to please - and he’s going to make damn sure that he’ll make up for his lack of experience with his sheer desire to make you feel good.

Daryl descends with his lips again, but this time he starts at your collarbone, slowly flattening his chest down to the mattress as he kisses down the swell of your breasts, the rise of your ribs when you arch yourself to him, across your stomach and the muscles that have formed there from your desire to keep your loved ones safe. You feel beautiful, underneath his hands and lips, and you look even better than his imagination could have conjured up.

His hands work desperately, both trailing down your pelvis and pushing you flush against his sheets before his middle finger dips downwards, running it up across your seam, his touch feather-light and gathering. Daryl’s watching you like a hawk, studying your expressions from between your legs, and when your eyes screw shut in preparation for him, he places a wet kiss to the inside of your thigh before pulling away enough to meet your lust-blown gaze. Trust me, that’s what he’s trying to say, and you tell him you do. You’re pretty sure you’ve never trusted anyone more.

The force of his touch becomes firmer at your declaration - though still slightly trembling at the thought of finally being able to love you like this - sliding across your bundle of nerves with ease and when you breathe his name like a prayer, he swears he’s never loved your voice more. Daryl, he’s the one doing this to you, and the hand splayed at the small of your back pulls you to him, his lips inching towards his finger. A taste, he just wants a taste, and he darts his tongue out, swallowing hard at the prospect.

You notice, of course you notice, somewhere in the haze of anticipation you can see the glint of lust in his eyes and can connect it to the parting of his mouth that he doesn’t even try to hide. He’s so close, but you can tell he’s hesitating, maybe out of embarrassment or something more deep-seated, and your fingers find themselves in his hair. Swiping, you push his bangs from his forehead and run your thumb over his cheekbones, asking him to tell you what he wants. The second he meets your eyes, vulnerable in all sense of the word and welcoming him to speak, he can’t stop himself - he doesn’t want to. He wants to bare his damn soul to you.

“I want- jus’ wanna make ya feel good. Will ya let me do that? Jus’- jus’ wanna make ya feel good.”

A rush of confidence leaps forward the second your voice begs for him to do just that. You can feel it in the shift of Daryl’s actions - less shaky, less hesitant - and his fingers dips into you the second you feel his lips attach. Another breath of his name falls from you, and he underestimates how much it affects him, the sound of you sending him grinding pathetically into the mattress.

Fuck, he can’t be doing that. His body isn’t young anymore, not as forgiving as it was when he used to finish in his pants during his drunken trysts, then still managed to harden again in a second, and he’s determined to hold out until he slots into you. He was so close when you had interrupted him in the beginning, it’s going to take close to nothing to get him there again. He wants you there, too, sensitive for him - begging for him. It's selfishness, one he knows must be a huge reason for why he’s trying to propel you into your high so quickly.

But there’s also another selfishness, one that makes him crazed to see your face scrunched up with pleasure so he can burn it into his memory, or to taste the physical evidence of it on his tongue like he’d been wanting since the prison, or to feel the way you clench around him as if you wanted to trap any part of him in your heat forever. Daryl wants you to want him the same way he wants you - the same desperation, the same all-consuming, never-ending mixture of love and lust.

The taste of you spreads along his tongue and he groans, obscene swallowing noises erupting from him and all you can do is whimper, trying not to tug too hard on his hair when his tongue flattens and he sucks, teeth grazing lightly against your bundle of nerves. When he pushes another finger into you, curling deeper into you and stretching you more than you’ve ever been since the apocalypse started, you nearly suffocate him with your reaction. Fuck, he feels so good as he takes cues from the way your hips are canting up into his touch, and before you can even notice, the hand which held you down by your pelvis spreads across the inside of your left thigh, prying it from his head as your right follows.

“Keep them legs open for me, alrigh’? ‘Else I gotta figure out how to keep ‘em open myself.”

You all but moan at the insinuation and your thighs shake from the feeling he’s making blossom and your determination to keep them the way he wants. He smiles against you and you can feel it, tongue peeking out to lick across the opening where his fingers are, and white hot pleasure surges through you, sending you pulling at his hair. He’s obsessed, observing you and letting you angle his head so that you can use him to chase your climax, and he pushes deeper, his thick fingers never seeming to end, pulling noise after fucking gorgeous noise from you and never wanting this to end.

A hoarse whisper of his name alerts him of your state - a warning? No, warnings usually come before something bad, and this is the furthest thing from bad - and you sound beautiful, like something out of his most salacious fantasies. How are you even real and not just something he’d dreamed up? He groans against you, knuckles deep with his lips coated in you and the vibration spreads across your body, goosebumps covering every inch of your skin.

You can feel the preshocks of your release already, and you try to hold onto enough sense to tell him, but everything you try to say just comes out half-formed, a word search of an alert. The only word that you can say is him, and so you do - Daryl, Daryl - trying to pull his head away so you get a little bit of purchase from the coil tightening and tightening in the base of your stomach, He’s so heightened, so sensitive to the way you’re pulling his head away from the intoxicating taste of you, and he growls almost in annoyance when he rips himself away.

His tongue peaks out over his lips, the image so depraved, animalistic in the same way he inhales his food, and you tighten around him even more, the push and pull of his fingers never ceasing from his heady rhythm even when it feels like you’re everywhere. He asks you what you want, why you’ve pulled him away, if he did something wrong, and when you tell him you were close - that breathless, scratchy damn whimper - he swears and presses his chest back down into the mattress, determined to get what he wants.

One pull of his fingers makes you choke a gasp of Daryl’s name, hips lifting up into his mouth, and he abuses the spot, searching it out with an eagerness that only erupts when it comes to you. You're sweating, a thin sheen of perspiration coating you like a second skin, and you might be moaning, might be groaning - hell, you might be fucking screaming - but everything sounds underwater, a ringing in your ear that doesn’t go away until his teeth graze lightly against that little bundle of nerves before he replaces its harshness with a suck, flicking his tongue and pushing himself deep, curling languid.

It breaks then, the coil snaps, and you’re rutting up to meet his mouth, his touch, his everything. He makes no move to hold you down, the hand secure across your inner thigh having wormed its way down to the swell of your ass to instead push you into him, tongue lapping so that nothing escapes his mouth. The cool of his bed sheets do little to temper the pleasure burning at your skin, nor does it do anything to lift the buzz of lust in your brain, but it grounds you, reminds you that you’re in his bed and he’s doing this to you.

He’s sloppy, messy, not really skilled in all his fervor, but you love it, it’s.. it’s endearing, his desire to please. Wholly selfless in his urgency. Like the blanket of safety he already makes you feel, your body’s reaction to him seeps into your bones and overtakes you, willing you to speak before you can even think about what you’re already saying.

“Daryl- you feel- fu- I love you, I love you- you’re- you feel so good.”

I love you.

He elates at your praise, at your confession, and he stills for a second just to bask. You love him. You love him, but he supposes he should have known that the second you didn’t run away when you found him rubbing one out to you. He knows you, knows that you’re deeply emotional even if you deny it sometimes, and if you were someone to just go off on a fling, he wouldn’t have been clueless to that fact, either. You’ve had opportunities: when his brother was alive, when the remaining Woodbury members first moved in, when you first got to Alexandria, but you never took them up. Never took them up because you loved him - still love him - and the confirmation makes him light-headed.

Sensing the sudden stop, you replay your words in your mind in an instant, and the - how does Abraham so eloquently describe it? - post-nut clarity hits you like an 18 wheeler, replacing the shockwaves of pleasure with a rush of dread. Did you really just say that to him? To Daryl fucking Dixon whose closest thing to a relationship was that one he had in high school before dropping out? Who has rejected every single man and woman who has ever expressed even the slightest interest in him? In the back of your mind, you know that he’s not like Merle, that he’s not one to be purely physical, but the freshness of everything happening right now, the months of pining, it makes you devolve into insecurity.

“I’m sorry I didn’t- I don’t even know if you-”

Your thighs shake with the effort of trying to detach yourself from him, his fingers slipping from you as you scramble upwards on his bed, your back against the headboard and apologizing in case all he wanted was a one-time thing, a no strings attached type thing. With him, you don’t think you could be content with just that, and maybe selfishly, you wanted to just experience what it would be like to be with him and pretend that he’s yours to go home to and yours to-

“Say it again.”

Daryl’s voice catches you off-guard, a ‘what?’ falling immediately from your lips, and he repeats what he said, a plea lilting at his gravelly voice. Say it again. And you do, not even feeling the slightest bit of embarrassment after you hear his near beg bouncing off the walls, the sound of it so sincere. He groans, deep and guttural, and he shoves his fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean before he rushes forward, hands balling into fists as he boxes you in.

One of his arms lies next to your pelvis, his smooth skin making yours tingle where he brushes up against you, and one is bent at the forearm right next to your head, giving him the leverage to look down into your eyes as he kneels between your spread legs. The cerulean you’re so familiar with - the one you’ve only recognized as Daryl - barely makes up a ring, and when he speaks, he never wavers from his headstrong gaze.

“I- ya think I’m not in love wit’ ya? How could I not be? Ever since- God, I‘ve been spendin’ months tellin’ myself Hell’d freeze over before ya say that to me.”

He never loses sight of the way you look at him, feeling a thick syrup drenching him and weighing him into inebriation. He wants to drown in you, in the scent of those shitty scavenged shampoos and soaps that never seem to smell the same but always revert to unmistakably you, in the savor that he can still taste on his tongue and would cling onto for days to come. It’s the realization that he can which renders his brain completely empty of every thought except you, you, you.

You have his name written across your heart like he’s had yours for what feels like an eternity, and when you tell him how you love him for how smart he is and how brave he is and how you’ve wanted him since the prison, something inside him snaps. You’ve both lost time - time you could have spent with each other doing this, time he could have spent being yours - and Daryl’s eyebrows turn to a furrow on his forehead. There’s lost time he needs to make up for, and his lips meet yours, almost knocking your head into the dull white of his bedroom wall, using the hand he now has gripped through your hair to push you into him.

You need to breathe, the short gasp of breath you took before he melded his mouth to yours is close to burning out in your lungs, but you ignore it for as long as you can. No longer shaking, you hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers, almost snapping the elastic to his pelvis when your rush to grip at the sides of his waist threatens to send your fingers flying into the empty air.

Urging, he moves you enough so you lie down on his pillow, the fact it’s going to be wet from your freshly showered hair being the least of his worries. He lets you pull that last bit of fabric off, your tugging reminiscent of his, and the second his cock can jut free against his stomach, Daryl sighs in relief, maneuvering his legs out of his boxers so that he kneels naked in front of you. Broad shoulders and broad chest heaving in display, he pulls away from you to take a deep breath before meeting your eyes again. Bare in front of you, in body and soul, and it’s like he’s waiting for you to reject him even though he knows you won’t.

How many times have you seen the scars on his back? Has he cried in your arms about the failure he’s felt not being able to find the Governor until he showed up right at your gates? About his failure to protect Beth? About the other kids that got on the bus, but didn’t get a future? You’ve never turned him away, never made him feel less than or anything other than the comfort of your soft words and the way you just are. This time it’s no different. This time, the second your eyes snap back together, you pull him to you - inviting him - hands looped around his waist in a delicious firm tug, so urgent he needs to brace himself with his forearms on either side of you.

“Daryl, please. I want this- want this so bad I- I- please.”

His mind is frying at this point - has been since that first tentative swirl of your hips against his - and he digs his dull nails into his palm so hard he might be drawing blood. Your knees part for him even more, feet firmly planted on his mattress, accommodating on either side of his knees with how you’ve positioned yourself underneath him, unfurling under his gaze.

In a rush, you snake a hand down to his cock, running him in a stroke that makes him breathe wrecked above you, and he has about half his original brain power left, mustering almost all of it up to wrap his fingers around yours and will you to a stop. When you look at him, hazy eyes with a hint of panic, he pulls your hand from him, bringing the back of it up to his lips, a silent apology for the fact that he would ever make you think your touch could be unwanted.

“Next time. I jus’ want- don’t want this to be over ‘fore it starts.”

Nodding, you trace his bottom lip with your thumb, yours probably the same amount of swollen, and he tilts his head, melting into the growing familiarity of your tender touch. You echo him, nodding a breathy confirmation of ‘next time’ and another wave of anticipation lines his insides. Leaning back on his knees, Daryl takes in the image that greets him, his cock throbbing in his grasp and he swallows his spit as if taking a picture in his mind before speaking.

“Fuck, you’re beautiful spread out like this for me, keepin’ your legs open like a good girl.”

You run your dominant hand through his hair, the other bracing at the bicep next to your head and another whine breaks through you as you try not to dissolve at his words. Willing your eyes to stay open, you nod to him, locking your calves around his torso to pull him closer to you. Before you can stop yourself, your hips rut up to his, unable to even entertain the thought of being empty with him so close.

“Daryl, please. I need- I need-”

Who is he to deny you when you sound so pretty?

His eyes feel like he’s burning holes into your skin, but you revel in his attention, hooking your bottom lip to prevent a groan falling from you when he runs himself along the slick remnants of pleasure he’s given you. Keep your legs open, his voice reverberates in your ears, and you’re trying your fucking best, but the second he starts inching into you, your thighs threaten to snap closed around him. Those weeks on the road and those months of not wanting anyone other than Daryl to touch you culminate into a dull, pulsing pain. When he notices the way your eyes start to screw shut, he stills his hips halfway in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your lips before he lifts his head to watch every contort of your face.

“We- we can stop. Jus’ tell me an’ I’ll stop.”

It’s immediate, your eyes squeezing shut and the shake of your head, a vehement denial of him to stop. ‘Keep going, please’ you can hear yourself stutter, and you don’t even feel the slightest bit embarrassed when you grab the hand holding himself and lift it to meet your bundle of nerves. He takes the hint, rubbing circles in the rhythm he’s learned you like, and he lets your legs push him in, lets you scratch into his back as he follows your every move, not wanting to cause you an inkling more of pain. Both of you groan when he finally slots in, the warmth of you tethering him to Earth, and you grind up into him.

He doesn’t move, waiting until you tell him to, letting you get accommodated to his size as he sneaks messy kisses down the column of your neck, sucking marks just below your collarbone that make you squirm against him. Part of him - probably that part of him he’s been entertaining too much lately - shudders with the thought of the neckline of your clothes falling enough for people to see it, but he mentally shakes that thought from his head, erased the second you pull his mouth to yours. Nodding against him, you breathe a ‘move’ that can only be considered a whimper, and Daryl pulls his hips back slowly, stilling his hand and letting the delicious drag of him make you clench.

You’ve invaded his senses as he has to yours, you rush through his veins, you pulse beneath his skin, you twist his chest and make him yours with every noise that falls from those kiss swollen lips - those kiss swollen lips that mirror his. All you can feel is Daryl as he trails his hand up your body, pausing to palm at your chest before grabbing your chin and turning your face to him when you dig your head into his pillow. He’s inches away, blue eyes snapped to yours, and he’s beautiful, brows furrowed in that same type of determined concentration he has when he stalks his quarry. You hear him swear when his sight drops down your body, and when yours follow his to where he’s rolling into you, you mewl, surprising both yourself and him with how ruined you sound.

He raises an eyebrow and plants the palms of his hand firmly at either side of your waist, letting the leverage of his weight drive him further into you as he leans on his knees, and you make the same noise, this time louder. Pure pleasure washes over him at the knowledge he’s pulling that from you as well as the warm wetness coating his cock and inner thighs when you fully engulf him. Daryl could get drunk on this - on the way you look and the way you feel and the way you sound - and he says your name again, realizing you’ve screwed your eyes shut at the deeper drag of him.

When you open your eyes, the sight that greets you catapults you to your finish, a pang of white hot lust erupting from the base of your stomach and causing you to moan wanton into the empty air in front of you. He’s sweating, flushed pink and grunting with each heavy thrust - a swear, your name, a praise of how good you feel or how pretty you are - and you clench around him, your fingernails scratching red impressions over his scarred tissue. Daryl hisses in pleasure at the feeling, wanting nothing more than to wake up the next day with a reminder of how he’d made you feel, how you’ve claimed him, and how you’ve covered those revolting scars on his back with a declaration of your desire for him. Those marks, the ones he’d lived with for nearly three decades, remind him of how unwanted he was, but with you painted over them, he’s reminded of whose name you have over your heart. Who you’ve deemed worthy enough to want.

Daryl, he can hear your voice say it - can hear your voice moan it.

Your back arches upwards, pushing your chest towards his and he snakes a hand into the emptiness you’ve created, his right forearm catching the rise of your lower back. You’re a damn sight, one straight out of his fantasies and he can’t stop the thoughts running through his mind. He tries to, tries to stop himself from thinking about those nights he’d spent defiling you in his brain - and he dips his lips down to distract himself from spiraling. You’d caught him in the middle of exploring one, and that led to this, something the two of you could have been doing for months if he had just fucking confessed, and the heft of the situation dawns on him.

“I- ‘m so - fuck - so sorry.”

An apology? As he’s still driving into you at this devastating pace? As he mumbles it into that spot on your neck that makes you crumble for him? What the hell is he apologizing for?

“Didn’t mean for- for you to find out like this. Wanted to - fuck - wanted t’ bring ya flowers an’ confess under the stars an’- an’ kiss ya nicely an’-”

His thrusts never stop, pounding and pounding into you like you’re a lifeline and he’s about to die. He could be - shit, Daryl can’t think straight so, yeah, maybe he could be - but he can’t bring himself to care as you clench around him, trying to tell him not to apologize but being rendered speechless when the hand at your thigh hitches your calf over his shoulder. He kisses the bruises littering your leg then, so soft and affectionate you forget for a second that he’s driving into you deeper and hitting a spot that makes you damn near scream for him. It makes you delirious with pleasure, sends you headfirst into the preshocks of your climax, and you try to warn him, but all that comes out is a strangled groan of his two syllable name.

“Didn’t mean for ya to find out- find out I love ya like this. Didn’t mean for our first time to - fuck - to be like this.”

His voice is scratchy, heady with desire, and your mind drinks him down like a smooth liquor, drowning you with each gulp into the taste of him. With a firm tug, you pull him down so he blankets you, both of his arms coming to brace himself so his fall doesn’t crush you, and a moan of your name breaks through his lips when you resolve yourself to suck a dark mark right above his collarbone. Mustering up all the coherence still left in your squirming body, it’s almost pure willpower that lets you speak.

“It’s okay. I love it - love you. Wanna- wanna be like this for- Daryl - forever.”

Again, those three words light something in him, his right hand descending down to where he meets you and rubbing a few tight circles into with his thumb, a moan of his name interrupting your sentence before a smug pride settles in him, feeling the way you’d clenched around his fingers before you’d unravelled for him now around his cock. It’s almost too much, but you need more, your heart pounding in your chest, and he encourages you under his breath, sounding almost as desperate as you. You listen to him, your release clawing at you, and you let his voice push you over the precipice - let yourself dissolve into the bedsheets that smell like him.

The pleasure of your high splinters, attacking across your skin and making your hips spasm beneath him, the leg he had propped up now falling to his side. All you can think about is Daryl, all you’re saying is ‘Daryl’, white noise buzzing at your ears and seeping through your body as he continues his heavy rhythm, faltering not even a moment as he chases his own climax. You squeal for him, writhe for him, scratch at him, and he memorizes your noises, the uneven rise and fall of your chest, the parting of your lips and the sweat accumulating on your forehead. He can’t believe anyone can look so good while they’re so ruined, hair mussed up and thrown across his pillow in an image he can only hope to sear into his brain, and it sends ripples through him, the base of his stomach tightening up with the urge to-

“Fuck, I’m-”

Daryl slips himself out from you, his own calloused hand running himself in those same rough, short tugs he had intended to finish with before you interrupted, and his arm nearly gives out when one of your hands stills his and the other replaces him. You imitate him, the push and pull of your hand so punishingly mean, and he feels the euphoria of his release rocketing through his body when you lean up and push your lips to his. He was right before when he’d denied your hand, he can barely hold out even a few strokes before he’s groaning against you, fists balled up as he spills himself on your stomach.

Breathing heavy, your dominant hand drops from him, the other threading through the back of his hair once again to pull him to you, kissing chaste before you beam up at him. When he sees your smile, Daryl hates that his body’s first reaction is to make his cock stir, but chuckles exasperated nonetheless - just because he’s yours now doesn’t mean his body desires you any less. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he might react even more knowing you want him that way. After all, his attraction to you wasn’t solely based on the fact he thought of you as unattainable.

He presses another kiss to your lips, making you laugh at the unintentional pout you caught glimpse of when you had pulled away, and his mouth travels downwards, heart elating at the giggles he hears from the feeling of his stubble tickling your neck. When he leans back up on his knees, Daryl takes a second to memorize the blissed out look on your face, an unadulterated affection taking root in his heart when your breathing begins to even out as you grin up at him and a glint of satisfaction plays at your eyes. Your thighs still trap him between them and he swallows when he sees the glisten of your climax accumulated there and how his release frames it just inches above - a crude marking of him on your body.

Blinking rapidly, he clears his throat, trying to dispel his thoughts and give you the respect the caveman part of him - which he’s beginning to believe makes up more of his brain than he’d originally thought - chooses not to give you, and he kisses your hand when you reach out to him, telling you to wait while he gets something to clean you up.

He dashes to the bathroom, grabbing a clean towel that he hadn’t used since he got to Alexandria, and runs it under the tap. When it’s damp, Daryl rushes back to you, patting himself on the back at the fact he’d only spent a couple of seconds ogling you, and stands at the side of his bed as he gathers the remnants of both yours and his releases, his touch so tender and careful it makes your heart lurch forwards.

“Sorry it’s cold - the generator ain’t on.”

He offers you a boyish smile, lopsided and charming, which you return with one of your own before a look of realization washes over him and his eyes widen.

“But- but I can turn it on if ya want. If ya want a shower or I can run a bath for ya. Y’know what, wait here, I’ll go right n-”

Abruptly, Daryl turns, having already made up his mind and yelling at himself for how stupid he was for only having that - of course, there was no way he would have known that this was going to happen, but you don’t deserve cold water - but your soft hand at his wrist stills him in his tracks.

“I don’t want any of that. I just- just want you.”

Fuck, you sound perfect.

He nods, basking in the clench of his heart before he pads back into the bathroom. Rinsing off the towel, he makes eye-contact with the person staring back at him in the mirror. It’s him, he knows it is, but he looks almost foreign to himself - reddened lips, a deep purple mark on the skin near his collarbone, and a smug smirk adorning his face. Is this him now?

Curiosity gets the better of him and he sets the towel onto the rack where his lies, turning himself on his heels and craning his neck to try and see what you’ve left on him. The second he sees them, impressions of your dull nails and pink-red streaks, he feels an instant pride well up in his chest, his cock in the beginning stages of hardening again when he lets himself relive what exactly happened to have you mark him like this. If this really is him now, Daryl could really get used to it.

Biting his lip, he treads back to his bed, silent feet growing even quieter when he realizes you’ve pulled his sheets over yourself and you’ve closed your eyes. He takes a moment just to watch the way your body in his bed looks doing something as domestic as sleeping, and he imagines that this is probably what his own personal Heaven would look like - waking up next to you. You being naked is just an added bonus.

As if you can sense his stare, you pull the blanket from yourself, welcoming him into your little bubble of warmth and Daryl has to hold himself back from sprinting to you. He slips into the sheets, slouching in his bed and not minding the odd angle on his neck when he notices the way you can cuddle up to him. He nearly fucking cries when you immediately push the pillow behind him, replacing its previous job with his chest, and the only thing he can think of is how pretty you look up against him, that fact distracting him from listening to what you just said as he draws a gentle shape into your shoulder.

“Hm? Yeah- yeah.”

A laugh breaks through you, one that catches at your throat and makes your cheeks sore up with the effort of keeping your face together, and he watches you brows furrowed, wondering what the hell he had just agreed to to make you react like this.

“You wanted me to catch you?”

Daryl’s eyes widen almost comically wide and you pull off him, your eyes instead choosing to narrow at the possibility he actually did. No way he was such a good actor, right? Sitting upright, you bundle some of his sheets in your hand as you cover your chest, leaning towards him slightly to study his face.

“Wh-what?”

He blushes as he speaks, flushing the same shade he was when you were both in the situation in question.

“You weren’t listening, were you? You were distracted like right now when I was talking to you at your door, right? ‘I’m gonna drop by after I change out of this stupid costume and shower so we can go to Carol’s for dinner together, are you down?’ doesn’t ring a bell?”

It hits him then, like a haymaker to the jaw as you repeat your words, and the expression on him gives you the satisfaction of knowing you’re right.

“Tha’s what I agreed to?”

Another laugh resounds from you and he would have smiled if he wasn’t burning red.

“I thought you knew I was coming, so when I heard you groan my name I thought you hurt yourself or something. I ran in, obviously - y’know, ‘cause I care about you - and I thought you tripped over some motorcycle parts and hit your head on your table or something. I, uh, the last thing I expected was to, um, catch you doing, uh, doing that.”

Daryl throws his head against the wood of his headboard after he watches you do a rather creative hand gesture, closing his eyes as a deep, silent groan reverberates his throat, his brain forcing him into reliving the embarrassment of having been caught. You can tell what he’s doing - beating himself up in his brain - and you drop the sheets from your chest, swinging your legs across him. When he feels the heat of your thighs over his, his open gaze snaps to you, brows quirked in an apprehensive amusement and lip hooked in anticipation.

“I didn’t know you thought about me like that.”

Your hands are behind him now, the crooks of your elbows snug against the nape of his neck and he swallows when you scoot forward. The weight of his arms looped around your waist becomes more familiar by the second, and when his hands come to rest at your ass, the smile that breaks out onto your face pushes your eyes into crescent shapes.

“‘S been months. I- I couldn’t stop.”

His voice strains deliciously near the end of his sentence, and when you press a quick kiss to his lips, Daryl tugs your lower body forward, sliding your thighs up his until they rest against his pelvis. Your body lights up again, stilling for a second to let the shockwave of pleasure rocket through, and he leans into your lips, turning your innocent peck into something heavier.

The hand palming at your ass pushes you against his cock, and he throbs against your stomach. Fuck, he feels like a teenager again, but he can’t bring himself to mind when you grind yourself against one of his legs and your fingernails are digging that decadent sear into his skin.

“Y’ain’t hungry?”

There’s the slightest hint of concern in his voice, of a restraint threatening to snap away in him now that he’s fully aware of your plans, and he stills the flex of his quads. Immediately, you shake your head, the need for him only growing when his teeth graze against your neck, and you tell him you brought some salad you could both pick at after. That is, if you both haven’t tired each other out - and Daryl is more than determined to do so.

“Good. ‘Cause I ain’t either, an’ I think we can skip them dinner reservations tonight.”

Swallowing, you nod in agreement, a new gush of arousal coating him that he gathers on a finger, pushing it into you to the second joint before three harsh knocks interrupt the hoarse moan you let out. You freeze on top of him, eyes widening as you hear his frustrated growl, one that begins in the base of his throat, and he begrudgingly pulls from you and takes his lips off the splattering of lovebites before placing a kiss onto the corner of your mouth in apology.

At least this time Daryl heard it.

Pouting, you kick off him and pull the sheets over you again, watching the demons tattooed on his shoulder as he brings his finger to his lips and sucks while he searches for his discarded pair of boxers, haphazardly pulling on a shirt he’d forgotten on his workbench. The second his hand touches the doorknob of his bedroom, he hears the awful squeak of his front door opening and he immediately goes to lock the two of you in, panic washing through the both of you when you hear Glenn and Maggie’s voices yelling your names.

Fuck, fuck, what the fuck.

In a split second, you’re on your feet, him helping you find your shorts and socks as you search desperately for your underwear, the threat of being caught looming over you. Pulling it on, you nearly fall over when you lift a leg up, but Daryl catches you in his arms, that same expression of mischievous delight on his face as when you both used to sneak out into the courtyard in the middle of the night, before he resets it into the horror of someone finding you half-naked and lets you go. He doesn’t care much about himself, he knows he’s not much to look at, but you’re a damn sight and he doesn’t want anyone to catch you in such a vulnerable state.

The familiar pattern of Rick’s footsteps descend the stairs and Daryl swears, a gruff ‘jus’ a second’ yelled out as he leans his weight against the door. Rick’s not a barbarian - he isn’t going to kick it down, or huff and puff like the Big Bad Wolf - but Daryl isn’t going to take the chance. It seems to satisfy Rick, yelling up to Maggie that he’s downstairs but you’re ‘not with him’ and he sighs in relief, rushing forward to pick up his turtleneck and nudge it into your hands as you pull on your second sock.

Slipping it over your head, you tuck the extra length under your shorts as you comb through your hair with your fingers, trying your best to make yourself look presentable and when you’re done, you turn to see Daryl fully dressed in a dark flannel and his patchy jeans. He nods, trying not to stare at the little bit of deep red barely peeking out from the turtleneck, and he schools his expression when you rush towards him, buttoning up another one of his buttons as it covers the little patch of purple underneath his collarbone which begs to be seen.

With a firm press of his lips against yours, he unlocks and pulls open his bedroom door, waiting for you to greet those - and he truly means this the most affectionate way he can - cockblockers before he ascends the stairs.

Dinner.

The two of you just need to get through dinner, because there’s something in Daryl that tells him he can convince you to stay for dessert.

──── ⋙

@daryldixonluv @pulplorrd @fuseburner @hells-mistress @maria--grey @marylimlp @pncnsc @tinachristeen @hail-yourselves @whimsicallymad @just-always-tired @phoenixblack89 @inkyvibin @riverscyberwife @jocyc1997 @avesxtxnas @candice666​ @angryunicornlady​ @caelys​ @akilababs​ @rhyrhy462​

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[captains-simp]

heksbdkshs you’re jock!carol fics give me life, could you do one where jock!carol and the reader have been keeping their relationship a secret and one of those girls that love gossip finds out and like the next day everyone knows ??

You've met soft!jock!Carol. Now it's time for angsty!jock!Carol

4.6k words

Warning: homophobia (plus slurs), bullying, mentions of declining mental health mild violence and some clique high school douchebags (yes that gets a warning)

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Buy me a coffee ☕

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You barely looked up when the paper airplane landed swiftly on your desk in front of you. It was only when you caught a glimpse of the red and blue stripe along the side that you spared it a glance. You prodded it with your pen and dragged it across the desk towards you, feeling a pair of eyes watching you eagerly from the back of the class. You unfolded the note carefully until a small sprawl of letters became visible, barely spelling out the word 'purple'.

You bit back a smile at the message and scrunched it up into a tight ball, throwing it in the bin near your desk before going back to writing your notes. You wanted to turn around and meet the eyes you were certain were staring at the back of your head but you knew you couldn't. It had become routine and you swore it was still the hardest part of your day - pretending you didn't notice her.

The bell in the corridor rung loudly and the second it did everyone in the class got up from their seats, ignoring the final reminders from the teacher at the front. Students swarmed into the corridor and amongst the crowd you lost sight of her for a few short moments until the wave of blonde hair appeared ahead of you where she maneuver to the side to be greeted by others in the same blue jacket. You caught her eye for a split second as you went by but it was no more than that. You wished so much that it could have been longer, that you could confidently stroll down those corridors hand in hand with her. A short hug. A brief kiss. A small smile. Anything. You just wished you could have more than fleeting moments with the blonde.

It felt like you could finally breathe properly when you left the suffocating building. The crowd dispersed into smaller groups while you walked out of the school grounds with a slight trot in your step. The further you went the less people you saw until the streets you walked down were near empty. The small corner shop eventually came into sight and you sped up slightly at the sight of your destination, not spying the red car you were always looking out for but knowing she was somewhere close by, she always got there first.

Instead of going into the corner store, you went through the narrow alleyway besides it and around the back of the store. You weren't in a sketchy part of town and even if you were you wouldn't have been afraid of going down the alley, not when you knew who was around the corner waiting for you. You had told her that last time you were there when she had asked you out of sheer curiosity. Apparently she wanted to challenge that truth.

A pair of hands shot out besides your and covered your eyes in an instant, not giving you any chance to stop it. Before you could even give a startled cry, her body pressed firmly against your back and the familiar smell of vanilla surrounded you. Relaxing in her grip, you felt her sway playfully as she leaned forwards to plant soft kisses along your neck. "Guess who?" She mused and you smiled as you tilted your head back for her.

"Hey, Care Bear." Carol groaned against your neck as she pulled her hands away. "I told you not to call me that." She complained, though her smile betrayed her when she spun you around to face her. You instinctively wrapped your arms around her neck as she held your waist softly, kissing you with enough passion to tell you she had been missing you too.

"How'd your test go?" Carol asked between kisses as she guided you backwards to lean against the nearest wall.

"Okay, I passed." You said absentmindedly. "How'd your game go?"

"Okay, I won." She copied and you couldn't help but smile faintly.

"That film you wanted to watch is on tonight, at 11. Wanna go?" The Captain asked as she stopped kissing you to talk properly and kept her hold on you so you stayed close.

"There's show times a lot earlier than 11." You laughed but stilled when Carol scrunched up her nose. "What? You don't want to be seen in public with me?" You teased but there was something very genuine to your question. You felt a familiar pang in your chest when Carol's grip loosened and she looked away.

"Y/n, we've talked about this." Your girlfriend sighed.

"I know, I'm sorry." You muttered as you tried to look as unbothered as possible but knew your face gave away the disappointment you felt so intensely. "You know if I could I would go out at all hours with you, where ever you'd want to go. It's just not that simple." It was hard to truly believe those words when your girlfriend sounded so exasperated, like she was having to explain to a child why they couldn't draw on the walls or have candy for breakfast.

"I know." You said because you really did and you felt guilty for bringing it up.

Carol had told you before you had even started dating her that your relationship would have to be secret. You didn't go to the most gay-friendly school for one thing. There were no openly gay couples there and to be honest you didn't have the nerve to be the first. Carol was content on being popular and you were happy staying under the radar with no intentions to change that. Above all Carol believed it would make securing her scholarship a great deal harder. You were never sure if that was just her fears or if it could really affect it but you respected where she was coming from. That didn't stop it hurting. It didn't stop you envying all the couples that got to openly love their partners. You always reminded yourself that keeping your relationship secret took as much of a toll on Carol as it did on you, she was just far better at hiding it. She was good at hiding a lot.

"Is that a no on the movie?" Carol asked with a strong hint of upset in her voice and unintentionally heart wrenching puppy dog eyes.

"11 right? Sounds like we have a lot of time to kill." You smiled wholly as you glanced at the old blanket fort you had built together months ago, right after you had gotten red and blue slushies that you had spilt on one of the blankets inside and stained purple. That wasn't the only thing that was turned purple that day but was the one that seemed to be permanent.

Carol smiled eagerly and wrapped her arms around you tightly again. "I love you, you know that right?" She asked genuinely and you returned her bright smile.

"Always, and I love you too, Care Bear." Carol rolled her eyes but kissed you softly again, treasuring the feeling of your soft lips against hers and the vague taste of the lunch she had discreetly bought you that day.

*

You swung open your locker door and made to shove as many of your school books inside as you could until you halted at the sight of a small, folded up, piece of paper in the base of your locker. You crammed your books into the tight space and stood as close as you could to it as you unfolded the note, knowing it wasn't for the eyes of the rest of the world. 'East feild field supply shed, lunch' was all it read in the familiarly rushed handwriting. You scrunched the note up and put it in your pocket, locked your locker and made your way down the corridor with a sense of uncertainty in your step. Carol never wanted to meet inside school - it was practically a rule. You would text each other as much as you could and even call if you were lucky, but you were never physically together.

You continued on to the field and walked across as nonchalantly as you could. You only vaguely knew where that specific supply shed was because it was rarely ever used and not to mention half submerged in the woodland bordering part of the field. You glanced around as you neared it and when you were sure no one was near by you dipped behind the back to an awaiting Carol, sat cross legged on the floor and trying to balance a spoon on her nose.

"Hey, are you alright?" You asked hastily as you put your bag down on the floor and stared at your girlfriend in concern.

"Of course I am, you're here." She said simply and held both her hands out to you. You took them with a confused smile as Carol guided you to sit on her lap and cupped your cheek with her hand.

"Are you sure? We don't usually- we never-" Carol pecked your lips to successfully silence you.

"I know, but I missed you too much." She said with a contagious smile. "Really. I just wanted to see you." Your smile grew as you nodded and lent forward slightly to kiss the blonde back.

"I missed you too."

You stayed like that for the rest of your lunch break, enjoying each other's company and embrace as you ignored the rest of the world that wasn't shielded by the old wood around you. It was pretty much perfect. You knew it couldn't become habit so you tried your hardest to just focus on the there and then. Carol seemed to be thinking the same thing, letting her guard down more than she ever had when you had to part days.

The Captain chuckled as she kissed you after backing you into the shed door. You pushed her back lightly with a giggle, feeling giddy from everything happening. "We gotta go." You laughed more when Carol trapped you against the shed, clearly not having any desire to attend her next lesson. "Carol." You scorned, making her pull away only to gaze at you adoringly.

"Okay." She huffed and stepped back to give you space to move. The moment you did she laced your fingers together and held up your hand to her lips, giving the back of it a soft kiss before letting you go. You grinned back at her as you started in opposite directions, your hand still tingling from your girlfriend's soft imprint.

You were both so blissfully unaware of your surroundings you forgot to make a quick check of anyone near by. Neither of you were aware of the eager eyes following both your steps, nor the digital lens that followed with them. However that was something that became very much apparent the next day. The eyes that landed on you as you ventured down the school corridors weren't subtle. They weren't kind either.

You felt like there was a spot light on you everywhere you went and it went on for a while. Some people would look away once you glanced anxiously in their direction while others stared back with a distasteful and all together brutal glare. It was clear that everyone knew something you didn't, something that soon brought your mind to Carol. Where was she?

That was a question you had to wait a while to be answered. Your girlfriend wasn't in any of the few classes you had together, something that wasn't completely unheard of for her but was especially anxiety inducing on that day. It was during lunch break that you finally saw her. You were thrilled and filled with relief when you saw the blonde hair and blue jacketed figure making its way towards you where you sat under a tree on the far edge of the field. However as she got closer and you were able to distinguish the infuriated look upon her face, all the relief drained away. You had seen her angry before. She had been known to have a short fuse and with a team that wasn't the brightest and some games not going the way she would have wanted, you knew what angry Carol entailed. But what you saw that day was something new.

"What the fuck?!" She yelled and you stumbled back a couple of steps in shock.

"W-what?" You fumbled when you realized Carol's new found fury was directed at you.

"What did you do?" She demanded as she advanced to being a short step away from you. Suddenly, having Carol so close didn't hold the comfort it usually did.

"I don't know. I don't know what's going on! Everything was fine until..." you trailed off when the Captain turned her attention to her phone. You glanced between her and the screen, not understanding why she suddenly didn't want to pay you any attention. However, when she showed you her screen your heart dropped. Any other couple wouldn't have minded the picture. They may even have loved it. You and Carol couldn't take a moment to admire the moment that was captured, because you both knew what it meant. You were so close together in the photo, arms tightly around each other as you shared a kiss. You were unbreakable. Were...

"Who... how did they..." You barely managed to speak, feeling far too numb.

"You tell me, y/n." Carol crossed her arms defensively and continued to glare right into your eyes. You thought that hurt more than anything else that had happened that day and honestly ever.

"I didn't do this." You whispered, too shocked to fully comprehend what your girlfriend was accusing you of.

"You wanna rethink that answer? Because this secret has always bothered you a lot more than it has for me." What? You felt sick at hearing her words. You had spent the whole relationship thinking, fooling yourself into believing that it was both sided. How much did she care?

"There was a time you wouldn't fucking shut up about it for two seconds and no matter how many times I explained to you why we couldn't go running around holding hands like goddamn kinder-gardeners you still couldn't get it through your skull that is was the smart decision. Do you not like what's happening today, y/n? Does it upset you?" She gritted in a sickeningly mocking tone that you had never heard before. It was just plain cruel. "Well buckle the fuck up because it's going to get a hell of a lot worse, especially for me. You'll be happy though, won't you? This is what you wanted." Carol finished, chest heaving and eyes ablaze. That was all you could really make it through your teary eyes.

"No this isn't what I wanted." You started to sob as you reached out for Carol's hand but she smacked it away hard. You recoiled in alarm and tried again. "Please Carol, I would never do this. I just wanted what you did." Carol scoffed at your pathetic attempt at explaining yourself, far from believing you in your hysteric state.

"Fuck off." She spat as she gave you one final glare and turned sharply on her heels to leave you were stood. Alone.

"Carol, please!" You begged but the blonde had had enough.

"Stay away from me." She shouted back and you stopped in your tracks, only able to watch her leave.

"No." You whimpered in defeat and dropped to your knees, breaking down in tears as you felt like your world was crumbling around you and there was nothing you could do to fix it. There wasn't even anyone who could help you through it anymore.

*

Carol was right. Things did get a lot worse after that, in a lot of different ways. Your heartbreak was the worse thing. You spent every moment you weren't in school curled up in bed, soaking your sheets and pillows with tears, scolding yourself for everything that had gone wrong. You knew, deep down, that it wasn't you fault, that it was Carol who was entirely in the wrong but you found it impossible to hate her. It would have been so much easier if you had been able to. It might have hurt less.

School was a much worse place to be. You saw Carol every day but a word was never passed between you. Anytime you caught her eye she looked away quicker than you could read her so it was hard to tell if she still hated you. All you knew was you weren't her favourite person. That was one thing, but the bullying was something else. It was relentless, ranging from everything between graffitied slurs on your locker to being shoved into them. Your grades dropped and your mental health declined with it.

"Move, fag." You gave a low 'oof' as you were tripped into the railings along the stairs. You held your stomach and winced at the instant throbbing pain there. You avoided the eyes you knew were on you but when you risked a glance up you saw the blonde you weren't sure if you were avoiding or not. You held her gaze longer than you had since she had broken your heart, your breath catching in your throat when you saw the undeniable pity written across her face. In that moment you found yourself wanting to go up to her. What you would do or say you weren't sure of, maybe it would have come to you got there.

You took a bold step forwards until you were cut off by a junior who gave you the first friendly smile you had seen in a while. You didn't trust it at all, like it was a mask worn by the devil himself to trick you. "Hey." He greeted. You opened your mouth to speak but you had no clue of what to say. "I just wanted to say I thinks it's pretty cool what you did." He said simply.

"What I did?" You asked slowly and he nodded back with the same smile.

"The picture." He clarified. You clenched your jaw and peered over at the blonde who was still watching you cautiously. "I know it wasn't you choice to have it taken or anything." He rushed when he noticed your defensive stance. "And I can't imagine what you're going through right now." He added with a sympathetic look. "But seeing you guys together in a town that isn't exactly the best place for it has given a lot of us a some hope. Most of the world is becoming more acceptant, it's only a matter of time before things change here too, even if you're not here when it does." He shrugged before getting distracted by someone in the corridor. "Plus you guys are a cute couple." Ouch. He smiled at you and waved at his friend as he made to leave.

"I gotta go but I hope I see you around." You nodded slightly as you pondered his words. You glanced at Carol and was surprised to still see her standing by her locker, it felt like some strange stand off and you wondered if she had heard what the junior had said to you. She wasn't that far away by the corridor was beginning to get crowded and loud.

You made to walk towards Carol but the second you did she took off like a startled deer. You sighed as you watched her go. Maybe it was for the best that you stay out of each other's way after all. Despite whatever the hell had just happened, the blonde's last words to you played as clear as ever in your head. They still made your heart ache as much as it did the first time around.

Things didn't change between you and Carol after that. It was hard, near impossible on some days, but you started to try and get over her. You didn't want to forget and you certainly didn't want to regret it because until the end, your relationship with Carol was the best thing that ever happened to you. Knowing that made it so much harder to move on. Not to mention a large part of you didn't even want to. You loved Carol. Making yourself fall out of love with her was just as difficult as when you had tried to stop yourself falling in love her nearly a year prior.

Given the absence of progress between you and the Captain, you honestly thought you were hallucinating when she called your name one day after school. You spun around in every direction to find her, something that wasn't that hard when she came jogging towards you. "Can we go somewhere more private?" She asked as she glanced at the onlookers. You nodded quickly, your mouth and throat feeling far too dry for you to even attempt to speak.

You walked in an extremely awkward silence towards the field. You were waiting for Carol to speak first and you were hoping she wasn't thinking that you would do the same thing given she had approached you. Unless she had done it on a whim, you really hoped not. It was only when you were alone that she piped up.

"I'm sorry." She blurted out. You glanced at her in surprise, an apology was the last thing you were expecting. "I'm so so sorry. I was so stupid- beyond stupid. What I did was something I promised I never would and I hate myself every moment for it." You stared at the blonde blankly as she continued to ramble away. You had never seen her so frantic and you were so taken off guard by it you didn't have a chance to notice the irony of what was happening and how drastically the roles had been reversed.

"I was just so scared and that's not an excuse I'm just trying to explain." She paused to peer at you properly, waiting to see if you really understood that. You gave her another weak nod. "I didn't know what to do. It felt like I couldn't trust anyone and I got defensive to try and protect myself. I didn't mean any of it. Anything. Especially about not finding the secret hard." That was something you had been longing to hear but once you did you couldn't bring it in yourself to believe her. "There were days I had to stop myself screaming in the corridors or in the cafeteria that I was in love with you. It was even harder not being able to hug or kiss you whenever I wanted to." You listened on intently.

"I just wanted what was best for you and I didn't know what that was." She admitted. You had the sudden strong urge to reach out and hug Carol, but you also wanted to walk away. You didn't get much chance to consider your options because a group of Carol's old friends came sauntering around the corner, eyes lighting up at the sight of you and the Captain.

"Don't stop on our account." One of them snickered.

"If you're gonna dyke out you might as well make a show out of it." Another added. Your skin crawled in discomfort and Carol noticed instantly.

"Fuck off." She spat but the group ignored her.

"You know you probably just haven't had the right dick." The first one said as he eyed you up and down. You backed up and found yourself moving closer to Carol. "I'm sure I could make you straight again." He mused sickeningly and made to grab your wrist but the blonde stepped in front of you.

"I said fuck off. No one wants your two inches, Walker." She challenged and got an instant reaction. He went to swing at Carol but she swiftly kneed him in the groin before he got the chance, barely able to stop herself smirking when he doubled over with a groan. The blonde turned to you and jumped forwards when she saw one of the other boys go to grab you.

"You get the fuck away from her." Acting on pure instinct and adrenaline, Carol swung her fist forwards and caught the jock in the jaw with a crunch. The other boys looked between the two injured and Carol, quickly making their call in grabbing their friends to leave.

Carol turned to you swiftly with worry and concern on every inch of her face. "Are you alright?" She asked as her eyes scanned you for any signs of injury. You gave a shaky yes, avoiding Carol's gaze. "Fuck, this is the kind of thing I was always afraid of, above everything else." She said as she ran a hand through her hair. You caught sight of her red fist and without any thought, took ahold of her hand gently. You ran your fingers over the redness softly, not realizing you were crying until a tear dropped down onto Carol's hand. At the sight of it you broke down crying more.

"Oh ba- y/n." The blonde sighed, heart breaking in smaller pieces at the sight of you. It hurt even more to see when she wasn't sure if she could hug you or not. Luckily for her she didn't have to feel useless for long because you reached out for her and clung onto her jacket as you buried your face into her chest, crying harder. "I've got you. It's okay, they're gone." She cooed. "I'll never let anyone hurt you again." You knew she was thinking of herself more than the boys when she said that.

You stood like that for a while, crying against Carol as she rubbed your back and continued to whisper reassurances to you. "Promise." You hiccuped between sniffles.

"I promise." She said instantly. You slowly pulled away to read Carol properly, watching closely for any tell of a lie and finding none. "Could you give me another chance?" The blonde asked, barely above a whisper as she feared your response. She would respect it entirely if you said no, but she really hoped you wouldn't. "There won't be anymore secrets and I'll never be a dick to you ever again."

"I'm scared." You admitted and Carol nodded tightly as she fought back tears herself.

"Me too." She admitted. "We don't have to stay here." You lifted your head up to look at Carol clearly and she continued. "We could leave, go where ever we want. There's only a couple months left of this shithole."

"A couple months." You repeated. Carol nodded encouragingly, desperate to find a bright side and winning point.

"Could you do a couple more months here?" She asked carefully and you nodded after a few seconds.

"Lets do it." You said with a sharp intake of breath.

"Fuck, really?" She laughed lightly and you found yourself doing the same.

"Yeah." You smiled. "I can't stop loving you and I don't want to." Tears started to fall down Carol's cheeks. You cupped her face gently and wiped the tears away with your thumbs. The blonde's own hands held yours as she smiled down at you.

"I love you too." With a sudden, unexpected, burst of confidence, you leaned forwards and kissed Carol longingly. She deepened the kiss instantly and wrapped her arms around your waist to keep you as close as possible, like she never wanted to let you go again.

"Everything's gonna work out." She whispered once she pulled away to rest your foreheads together.

"Of course it is." You smiled softly. "You'll be with me."

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