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[luveline]

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐞𝐝𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬

Aaron sets the record straight when an overheard conversation convinces you that you’re not good enough for him. 5k

c: fem, hurt/comfort, fluff, suggestive theme (non-graphic implied sex scene). hotch is a good husband. requested here  

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“Honey, this is Clint McMoore. We went to college together.”

You step into Aaron’s side. Clint McMoore is a handsome older man with silvering hair and a beard that looks out of control. His bowtie is loose around his neck, and his cheeks are blotchy with drink, but Clint smiles at you and offers his hand. “How do you do?” he asks. 

“Quite well, thank you.” You’ve been practising fancy dinner talk with Aaron’s friend Emily for weeks. She has all the political background you’d needed to see yourself into the culture. “It’s nice to meet one of Aaron’s school friends.” 

“While you still can,” Clint says with a chuckle. Something about being in your forties is obscene to these men, as though death waits for fifty candles to snuff them out. 

“Clint and I were in the Student Theatre club together, our first year.”

You grin, smile laced with teasing. Each time you’re reminded of Aaron’s young interest in drama, you have to focus very hard on not laughing; the Aaron who has his hand to your shoulder isn’t one you could envision on stage. “Did you perform together?” you ask. 

“Saturday Night Fever,” Clint says. 

They laugh and reminisce. You find these sorts of events hard to keep up with, but you come when Aaron asks because he so rarely asks you for anything. He hasn’t mentioned knowing that you don’t like coming, But perhaps he hasn’t noticed —it’s not like you to frown, not when you’re with Aaron. The way he treats you, he probably thinks you’re the happiest girl in the world. 

There’s a contentedness to be found when he touches you. He spreads a hand against your lower back and you let yourself sink into his side, curled into his embrace and amazed at the giggly laugh he lets out as Clint brings up the ‘King of the River’ tattoo Aaron has hidden beneath his shirt. You’re tempted to kiss his cheek.

Clint asks, “Isn’t that right?” and forces you back into the conversation. 

You’re wearing a dress you panicked over for days. It’s black, cut playfully just above your knees with small petal sleeves. Your necklace is of a delicate chain and a not so delicate pearl —a black Tahitian South Sea pearl that glows pink and green in the light. For you, Aaron wrote, his pretty scrawl inky across a square of scalloped card from atop the box. I’m in love with you. Forgive me for not having the courage to tell you in person. 

Your Aaron is quiet. Some days he comes home from work and doesn’t manage more than a sentence. Some days he can barely speak at all. But there are nights when he holds you to hold you and talks in murmurs against your ear, and he’s good at making calls when he’s away. Talking or not, smiling or otherwise, Aaron finds a way to let you know he loves you, and that’s all you care about. 

“Excuse us,” Aaron says, giving Clint a rare, warm smile, “I’m being flagged by my boss.” 

Sure enough, Erin Strauss is beckoning Aaron with a strange pained look.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quickly to Clint. He repeats your goodbye, and you and Aaron swerve around him. 

“He was nice,” you murmur. 

“Yeah, he’s okay.”

“How come you fell out of touch?” 

“Oh, you know how things go, honey, you forget all the people you meet and make room for new ones.” He kisses your cheek. “And besides, he used to gossip like my mother. Why don’t you go find JJ?” 

“You’ll be alright?” 

“No, maybe not.” He squeezes your elbow quickly. “Go, find some hors d’oeuvres, at least.”

You find neither JJ nor finger foods. The gala you’re attending is being held in a hotel in the richest part of D.C, and the events hall is huge. The ceiling is a fantasy, glass and miles upward, overhead chandeliers dangling lower, dousing the crowds below in a light that’s clean. The rich and powerful gather at the edges of the room, though the performance toward the back of the room is watched by a few tens of couples with flutes of champagne held in gloved hands. 

You hadn’t worn gloves. Hadn’t thought about it until you got here. Honestly, you felt grateful enough that JJ texted you to tell you to buy a shawl; if you weren’t wearing one you’re sure you’d feel bare. 

What you’re lacking in fancy is made up for by your earnestness, or so you’d like to believe. You aren’t rich nor powerful, but Aaron’s a good man and you his good wife. You work hard, which is more than some of the richest in the room can say. You hold your head high without a second thought. 

The hall is confusing. Tables are set but you aren’t sure Aaron said anything about a dinner service. Wait staff carry silver platters and hold bottles of champagne, but each time you approach one they seem to have already headed in another direction. JJ and Derek are both supposed to be here tonight, but you haven’t seen either of them since you arrived. You cast your gaze for Derek’s figure, searching for an easy gait and a strong set of shoulders. You cock your head waiting for a hint of JJ’s practised, polite laughter, but any familiar signs are gone. You can’t even find Aaron anymore, and your shoes are pinching your toes.

Disaster. You should’ve listened to Aaron when he told you to size up, just you doubted his knowledge of ladies shoes considering how rarely he wears them. Stupid man, you think to yourself, lovingly yet ruefully as you sit down at one of the uninhabited tables to the very side of the room. Knows everything. Tonight, you’ll limp back to the car and he won’t bother saying I told you so, he’s too good for it, which is worse. He’ll give you one of his amused smiles. He might offer you a massage. 

Ridiculous man, you further to yourself, biting back a cheesy smile as you peel your shoe from a sore foot. If you shove your hand deep enough into the toe you can stretch them out a little. 

“Darling.” 

You look up. Clint McMoore’s resurfaced just a table away with his back to you. A sweet-faced woman with brown hair sits adjacent to him, her shoulder under Clint’s hand. 

“You’ll never guess who I just bumped into,” he says. 

Me, you think. 

“Aaron Hotchner and his new wife.” 

“You didn’t,” the woman says. 

“I knew you’d be envious of that,” he laughs. “Charlotte, she’s unbelievable.” 

Your stomach does a strange flip. He’ll say something nice, you insist, but you know his tone is a precursor for gossipy nonsense. 

“I’ve never seen such a mismatched pair,” he says. 

Charlotte rolls her eyes at him. “Well, what were you expecting? They were married after six months of knowing one another. I couldn’t so much as tolerate you until our first anniversary.” 

“Hardy-har.” 

“What’s wrong with her, then?” Charlotte asks. 

“Nothing like that, Charlotte. She seemed perfectly pleasant–”

“But?” 

“But, she’s nothing like Aaron’s usual woman.” 

“Hm, I said as much when we saw their wedding photos.“ They both laugh. “It’s not like she had much of a chance. First Haley, and then that Beth, the designer, she’s in Milan now–”

“He seems rather besotted, in any case,” Clint says. “Very lady and the tramp.” 

“Gentleman and the tramp.” 

“Don’t be cruel, Charlotte.” 

You know in a way that Charlotte is kidding, but you boil up with anger the moment you recognise what it is they’re implying. Then they laugh, and your anger quickly finds itself taking a crueller shape. 

You slip your foot back into your shoe slowly. Your throat feels dry and then warm, like a crux of smouldering coal stuck in your windpipe as you stand, jerkily, hand stiff where it holds your weight on a silken tablecloth. 

You blink and stare at the floor. It’s marble. It’s shot through with dark veins like a drop of ichor in water. 

What the fuck? 

You aren’t sure why you’re leaving the hall until you’re walking down the steps of the hotel and turning along the skirts of a hedge. A low brick wall lies in front of it, just short enough to sit on with your heels. Your coccyx stings with the force of how hard you go down. 

Your head races with hurt feelings. 

You’re not unaware of your husband’s past loves. It comes as no surprise to you that people regard Haley and Beth highly —Haley was extremely beautiful and veritably brave, intelligent, kind-hearted. Beth was funny, Aaron said, and not too much else. Being a designer in Milan hasn’t been mentioned before, but it’s impressive. They’re both impressive, and– and his usual woman. 

You rub the starchy stockings stretched over your knees. 

What had they meant by usual woman?

Mismatched? 

It hadn’t felt mismatched when Aaron asked you to marry him. It wasn’t six months after knowing one another as Clint’s wife suggested, but it wasn’t much more than that. He proposed to you after eight months together, and you were married two months later, which is incredibly fast to some people but it just hadn't felt fast when he asked. It was exciting —it still is. 

“Would you marry me, if I asked you to?” he’d said, some seven months after you’d agreed to be his girlfriend. Your head in his lap, his fingers rubbing at the soft skin of your nape. A sleepy Sunday morning like any other, you suppose that was a proposal in itself, but you hadn’t realised that when you murmured, “Yeah, handsome. I would.” 

You thought it was just love. Making innocuous comments about the future is part of falling in love. It’s terrifying to tell someone that you’d like to live life in their lap, but you tell them, and they tell you to go ahead if you’re lucky. 

He asked you to get married a few weeks later. “I had to talk to Jack,” he explained, “or I would’ve asked you then and there.“

You’re a wife suddenly, a step-mother, a partner. Aaron would’ve sold the house and bought you a new one if you wanted him to, but you like his life. You’ve always felt like you fit right in. 

Angry again, you scrub at your knees with itchy palms and practise how you’re going to tell Aaron about his cruel friend. Gossipy was right, what a lark, and you’re not perfectly pleasant, you’re a delight, you hadn’t said one bad word to Clint and you didn’t deserve to be whipped and twisted into a bad joke between sips of Cristal. 

Your eyes burn with the injustice of the thing. 

Rawness overtakes. A thudding in your chest turns painful, neck wrought with tightness as you hang your head. Hiding from the cold air. November brings with it a promise of chapped lips the longer you stay there, biting into your thighs as your hands turn stiff with disuse. 

She was unbelievable. 

“Y/N!” The shout is sharp. You’ve never heard Aaron’s voice at that level or with that level of formidability, carrying from the bottom of the hotel stairs. You twist in shock on the wall and watch in real time as his face fills with relief. “Honey,” he says, calling but not half as scary as he jogs to you, “are you alright?” 

“What?” 

“You scared me,” he insists, bending down to hold your shoulders. “Nobody’s seen you for the last fifteen minutes, sweetheart, we talked about this. You can’t just disappear, you left your purse on the table, I thought something happened to you.” 

You startle at his scolding. “I–”

“You should feel my heart.” 

“I didn’t mean to come out here.” 

“I wish you would’ve let somebody know,” he says. His frown softens slowly, but the concern around his eyes remains. “What?” he asks. 

“Sorry.” 

His eyes finally soften. “No, I’m sorry. It’s alright, I just worry when you’re not with me.” 

“That’s romantic.” 

He holds your cheek, pulling you in, and gives you two gentle kisses. Your lips part instinctively to receive them. “We’ll get our things and go home. It looks as though dinner isn’t happening.” He smiles. “Why were you out here?” 

“Scavenging for food.” 

That gets a laugh out of him, and another nice kiss. “You tried your best.” 

—

Aaron takes you home, and when dinner’s been cleared away, when you’ve showered and he’s undressed, he pulls you toward the bed and kisses you warmly. His eyes track from your face to the tucked corner of your towel, a silent Can I?

You let him take it off. He lays you out, and for a while you’re only his. His wife, his half, his to tease and turn and delight. He says “Beautiful,” against your thigh, says, “Honey, is that okay?” says, “Please, I’ve got it, I have you, just let me have you…” 

After, he tells you he loves you, his voice still ever so slightly high in contrast to usual dulcet tones. 

“I love you, too,” you say. 

His breath comes fast. Your lap is a mess he’d wiped as clean as he could manage, the memory of him bearing down on you yet to fade. He lies on his stomach beside you with his arm over yours, his face turned into you, his nose on your cheek. 

“Are you alright?” he asks softly. “You feel tense.”

“Mm.” 

“No, did I hurt you? You’re rigid.” His hands fret a line down the side of your chest. “You didn’t…” 

You hadn’t said anything, because he really hadn’t hurt you. But the thoughts you’re having now are intrusive —am I okay? you think. Do I measure up? He’s never made any indication that you’ve let him down, not in sex or anything else, but you’re unbelievable. 

You swallow a lump. “Sorry,” you say, the lingering ebbs of pleasure twisting into tears faster than you can stop it. 

“Are you crying?” he asks under his breath. 

You suck in a breath as he pushes onto his hands. 

“These aren’t good tears,” he says. 

He’d know. They’re not. 

Aaron reaches over you to turn on the lamp on the nightstand before settling, his hand cupping your waist. It’s too much suddenly, too bare, he’s too much to look at as you squeeze your eyes closed. “Sorry,” you squeeze out. 

“What did I do?” he asks, holding you carefully. “Please, sweetheart, what’s hurting? I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s not you.” 

“But something does hurt?” 

“No, no, I’m okay.” You cover your face with your hands. When you start to sob, it shakes the entire mattress, Aaron’s hand wobbling where it cups your ribs. 

“Please.” His thumb works a soft spot into your skin. “Honey, please, you can’t cry now without telling me what’s wrong.” He tries a laugh, but it falls flat. “Honey. Honey.” 

It wasn’t the sex. He never does anything wrong, he’s so gentle even when he isn’t, and if he did you’d only have to tell him, but the rush of being touched by him so nicely, fuck, the way he’d been looking at you, the way he took your face into his hand as he moved —you’re not trying to be a crier, but he makes you feel like you’re everything and you’re just not. 

He looks sick. 

“It wasn’t you, it was at the gala,” you manage. 

For a long while after, you can’t get a word out. You shiver and sob as Aaron scoops you into his chest, his nose in your shoulder waiting for you to calm down. He rubs your waist, fingers parted and waving slowly as he shushes you. Not to make you stop, though. He’s reassuring. 

“What happened at the gala?” he asks quietly. 

“It’s so stupid.” 

“No, it’s alright. Can you tell me what happened? Did someone hurt you?” 

You wrap your arms around his head. It really is stupid, you feel smaller than an ant under the shadow of a giant heel. Aaron doesn’t waver when you struggle to answer, feeling around behind you for a pillow and helping you against it. He kisses your forehead. “Let me get you something to wear.” 

You catch his wrist. “It wasn’t you, wasn’t–” You lift your chin. 

He kisses you. “Okay,” he says simply. “Let’s get dressed.” 

He dresses quickly, bringing you underwear and one of your sleep shirts, a loose fit. You shuffle into them and watch him patiently as he cleans the small mess of the evening away. You’re sniffling softly when he returns to you, sitting with his back to your thighs. 

“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry if I read things wrong. I never would’ve initiated anything if I knew you were feeling like this.” 

You laugh weakly, worriedly, looking at him through your lashes. “It made me feel better,” you admit.

“If this is better, you must’ve been feeling awful.” 

You relax as he puts his hand on your thigh. 

“In the time I left you to talk to Strauss, something upset you. JJ and Morgan didn’t see you. So someone in the gala said something or did something that made you leave. If you tell me who it was, I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.” 

“You’re trying to bargain with me,” you mumble. 

“I’m just telling you what can be done. I can take care of things.” 

“It’s nothing… nothing so severe. You’ll wonder why I–” You give an unexpected sob. “Made all this fuss.” 

“I don’t think I’ll wonder,” he says. 

You laugh through tears. These ones are slow, your eyes already itchy from crying. 

“Please tell me.” He tries teasing instead of sternness, lowering his face to yours. “Or I’ll cry too.” 

“Aaron.” 

“I will. You think I can’t, but seeing you crying like this, it’s more than enough ammunition.” 

You let out a breath, admitting defeat. “Your friend, Clint? I overheard him with his wife. He didn’t have very nice things to say about me.” 

“What could he possibly have to say?” Aaron asks with a frown. 

You pull the sheets up your legs. “He said I’m… unbelievable, and I don’t think he meant it kindly. Said that I’m not your type, and that I… I had no chance of measuring up, because of who you’ve been with before. They were laughing about our wedding photos.” Your throat feels pressed into by a hot poker. “They said we were the gentleman and the tramp.” 

His eyes squint. He looks disgusted, and for an uncomfortable moment you feel like it might be directed at you, but then he scoffs. “What a crock of shit.” 

“Aaron!” you laugh. 

“What could Clint McMoore possibly know about marriage? This is his fourth wife. And to imply that you’re any sort of calibre below the women I’ve dated before isn’t just misogynistic nonsense, it’s not true. You are the most beautiful women I’ve ever met, and what’s that supposed to mean, gentlemen and the tramp?” He gives you such an earnest glare of confusion that you can’t for a second doubt what it is he’s saying. “I’m sorry, honey, I think he’s allowed himself a few too many nightcaps over the years. Perhaps he’s suffered a stroke.” 

“Aaron, don’t say that,” you chide, secretly very pleased. 

“Our wedding photos,” he says, his hand drifting further down your leg to rest just shy of somewhere more intimate, “are beautiful. You look beautiful. Clint would’ve writhed in jealousy in the pews if he’d been invited, because he would’ve seen it for himself.” 

“I just sat there while they laughed at me,” you mumble.

“What were you supposed to do?” His hand travels out, to your hip, and then he holds you by the waist with both of his hands. They have a way of making you feel encapsulated, big and strong and careful on the bump of your hips. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Nothing,” he says, meeting your eyes with his usual tender-hearted compassion. “You weren’t supposed to do or say anything.” Aaron appears younger than he is for a second, his eyebrows raised, eyes big and brown as they track over your lips. “Honey, I’m sorry. I didn’t realise he was like that. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” 

“I guess I’m just worried he’s right.” 

“He’s not right. You are everything to me.” Again, he puts weight on the word, roughly said, like it takes a lot from him to say it. “I’m lucky to have been with women who were beautiful, and intelligent, but if there’s a question of you measuring up, there’s no competition. I’ve never been this in love.” 

You take a shaky breath. “Never?” you ask. 

He holds your gaze. “I knew it when we met. That's why I couldn’t wait to ask you to marry me.” 

“You said you weren’t getting any younger.” 

“Well, I’m not, but not everything’s about my age, you know,” he says, giving your waist a playful squeeze. 

”You said it.” 

“I did. That felt easier to say than, if I don’t marry you soon I might implode,” —he shuffles forward, encroaching on your legs and pressing his lips to your cheek— “would’ve just,” —he kisses your cheek, before turning your head— “wasted all that time waiting for someone else’s idea of the right time,” —and he kisses the other cheek, his nose skirting up your face— “wishing I was your husband when I could just,” —he smiles into your eyebrow as his hand slips under your shirt, holding your bare back— “ask.” 

“I’m glad you asked me.” 

You’d cried then, too, but it was less to do with a rush of adrenaline that knocked you out of balance and more to do with how lovingly he’d taken your hand as he asked. You knew from that moment on that someone was going to take care of you for the rest of your life. He’s doing it right now. 

“I love you,” you say, forcing your arms over his shoulders. 

He pulls you in so much that you lift from the mattress. 

“I love you. Are you sure it wasn’t me that upset you? I have to check.” 

“No. What you did to me wasn’t particularly upsetting.” 

He laughs. “Are you sure? You can look a little teary–”

You shush him quickly.

He tips your head to the side to kiss your ear. “Maybe next time, you can tell me about whatever upset you beforehand.” 

“And you can make me feel even better.”

His laugh is nearly inaudible, but his lips are by the side of your head. You hear it, the warmth of his breath kissing the shell of your ear. 

—

Aaron likes to see you in your sweatpants. You look nice in everything, especially your dresses for the evening events he often drags you to, but he likes it when you wear sweatpants because it opens a window. You’ve purchased the wrong size, too big and too long, but you’ve tied them at the waist and you make do. You’re wearing the big shirt he helped you into the night before, sitting on the couch with your ferried breakfast. 

The night before has been washed away, no sign of tears or upset. You have a clean, bright face, one he’d quite like to kiss, or hold, or have pressed to his neck, but none of this is unusual. Your eyes look sore, if he really looks. He’ll make you a compress after breakfast. 

Dropped off by Jess an hour ago, Jack sits beside you picking at the breakfast tray. You’re sharing a plate. You don’t ever mind. 

“Are you eating that one?” you ask. 

Jack immediately nudges half of a chocolate chip pancake your way. “Was the gala fun?” 

“Uh, sure. Saw your dad’s friends. But they had a weird thing with the caterers and we had to get dinner on the way home.”

“You could’ve made dad cook.” 

“I guess, but we were tired. What did you have for dinner?” 

“Jess made spicy chicken. It was amazing.” Jack squints at you. “Your eyes are puffy, Y/N. Are you sick?” 

“I think I might be a little. Not enough to make you sick too, don’t worry.” 

Aaron piles the last of the pancakes onto a plate and carries them to you in the living room. “Here, you two.” 

“Did you eat?” you ask. 

He loves you, bending over to kiss your forehead right in the middle. “Yes.” 

“How come they didn’t have dinner at the gala, dad? I thought that was the whole point,” Jack says. 

He sits down next to Jack on the couch. You cut a big square of pancake and grin at him, seemingly pleased with your breakfast and Jack’s sense of humour. 

“It was a disaster, that’s all. No food, barely any wine, and terrible, awful company.” 

“I thought Miss Jareau went?” 

“She did. But besides her and a handful of others, it was a party for sad old people.” 

“And you didn’t have fun?” Jack asks. 

You laugh so hard tears gather in the corners of your eyes. Aaron cups Jack’s shoulder, surprised when his son doesn’t duck away from the touch. The older he gets the less affection he requires, so it’s nice for Aaron to hug him sideways and be allowed, better that you finish your choking laugh with a hug of your own. “Jack, thank you for that. I think you cured whatever illness I had,” you say.  

“Hey,” Aaron says. 

You run your hand up his neck. Your wedding ring catches against his jaw. 

“It was worth going, though, to see your step-mom in her nice dress,” Aaron says, peeling away from Jack so he has room to breathe. 

Jack turns to you, and his smile is audible, “Do you have any pictures?” 

“I didn’t take any, sorry.” 

“Just think of her now but in a dress, and that’s how beautiful she looked,” Aaron says. 

“Dad, don’t be gross,” Jack says, cutting into the pancakes with his fork.

“It’s not gross, it’s just a fact.” Jack drops pancake down his front. Warm chocolate chips stain his t-shirt. “Missed your mouth, bud. I’ll get a rag.” 

He’s up as quickly as he sat down, running his fingers along your arm and to the palm of your hand, touching you until he can’t. He heads back into the kitchen. His phone is beeping on the table, screen flashing with each new text. 

Penelope: boss, I think the thing you asked for is illegal 

Penelope: also, I assume you were kidding? 

Penelope: so while making it that every link on McMoore’s computer freezes the desktop would’ve been very very funny, I didn’t do that 

Aaron had been kidding, emphatically, because illegal activities aren’t his style. It was a sarcastic suggestion, and yet he’s disappointed nonetheless. 

Penelope: I just signed him up for a bunch of recovering narcissists forums and an email subscription for self help, and maybe also a free online class about manners and etiquette 

Penelope: And I ordered that big canvas for you. It was the one of you guys cutting the cake, right? 

Aaron texts her back quickly: Thank you, Penelope. I couldn’t work out the dimensions online. 

Penelope: You’re welcome! I live to serve :D 

The canvas will look good in the entryway, Aaron believes. Somewhere you can see it, and remember exactly what it is he thinks of you; his eyes glowing with love where he’d been staring at your face, his hand guided yours atop the knife as he traced your features, and you cut that first, fat slice of cake. 

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thanks so much for reading! please think about commenting, liking or reblogging if you enjoyed I love knowing what you think!❤️

also small note: this fic is in no way meant to diminish haley im a haley supporter usually (these days at least!) and I just didn’t mention her for brevity’s sake

[murdrdocs]

i’ve been thinking abt this for days now

[murdrdocs]

he’s so your older brothers best friend who is always sleeping over. he comes over in plaid pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt with slippers to finish it off. he throws a “mrs” before your moms first name always. he does backflips into the pool during pool days and does the same trick on the trampoline, never tiring of the one skill he knows. he offers to teach you how to do a flip and you agree to learn just so you can feel his hands on you.

[yunyuu]

[honeysucklewatr]

big ol’ freak.

smut | beefy jason | bulking season continues

jason is about to start going on his diet to reveal the muscles he’d been meticulously building for months. just hiding beneath a layer of delicious pudge you loved dearly.

but secretly, you don’t want him to.

you’d miss the warmth that his body radiates off of him and how secure you felt in his arms at night. how soft his chest was with the extra cushion he’d had, though you loved how strong he felt beneath it all too. or how good he looked in the morning when he’d stretch, and his shirt would raise enough for you to get a look of his abdomen and the happy trail leading to—

“you’re staring again,” he says, snapping you out of it.

“sorry, can’t help it,” sighing as you sit up on your bed, comforter gripped tight in your hands. “i am enjoying the show.”

he makes the same face he always makes, the one that pretends that he’s annoyed but you both know he’s not.

slowly, his resolve crumbles and a smirk emerges as he walks back towards the bed. his hand extends towards you to catch your wrist, fingers wrapping effortlessly around and tugging it up toward his lips. he kisses the back of your hand and stares at you through his half lidded eyes, the whole time.

when you decide you wanted to go to the gym with him, you end up gawking at him the whole time. jason’s got the barbell over his head and benching at least six plates on either side. groaning at the last couple reps while you stand by the mirror ahead of him, dumbbell in your hand doing the worlds slowest bulgarian split squats.

after he wiped his sweat, you notice his gaze on you this time. he moves closer with some of his own dumbbells and his presence looms over you like a protective shield. it wasn’t even leg day for him, but he always stays near you like a human barrier. jason starts to work in with you, the weight in his arms a ridiculous size and amount that it looked difficult to carry. but jason didn’t look like he was struggling at all.

“hmm, like this baby.” he coos from behind you. one of his hands slipping to your thigh and the other beneath your elbow. “breathe a little deeper and drive your knees out.”

then he sets up the smith machine with no hesitation, lifting up the plates and putting them on the bar for you. he encourages you to lift heavier, says he knows you can do a little more than that. from behind you, his hard body was unmistakable, pressing against your ass. he groans when you make a movement. his warm breath by your ear was entirely distracting but you did your reps, finished your sets, and stole glances at him through the mirror only to find him already staring. you bite your lip to contain yourself, but what the fuck is the use anyway?

“see something you like?” he asks when he catches you for the nth time, shit eating grin plastered on his perfect face.

you barely make it to the change room.

tugging on the drawstrings of his sweatpants while he moans lowly into your mouth. he shuts the door with one arm while the other holds you up against him. he knows you don’t like to touch communal spaces, no matter how clean your gym may be. so jason holds you up against him, pulling your weight back into him over and over. moving your hips until you’re grinding back against him while his hands on your hips keep you firmly planted there. though he second guesses himself still and he watches you intensely.

“are you sure you’re good ma? we can go home.”

you shake your head vigorously, tugging at the hair on the nape of his neck to bring his mouth closer to yours. “i’m not waiting jay.”

when you fucked like this, it was an out of body experience.

mostly because jason held your weight and his own like no problem and there was nothing to dwell on but how it felt. he places a large palm over your mouth when he guides his length through your soaked folds. dragging it up and teasing before pushing inside like he belonged. he let you moan into his hand and watched your eyes roll back in your skull. he shushes you by your ear.

“i know baby, i know.” groaning out quietly as he prods to fit himself in. “fuck— you’re so tight.”

tears prickling at your eyes already, you shake your head slowly while his hips make slow circling movements. “it’s cause you’re so big.”

jason smiles wide, hips thrusting a little meaner as he watches you try grind back against him, but still not to the hilt yet. “yeah? i’m big? but you like that shit don’t you?”

you’re nodding through the haze of pleasure, nails gripping his back as he continue fucking you through it slowly. not even fully inside, giving half just to pull it away. like being manhandled in the gentlest way possible. his strength unmatched and his body intentional, grinding his hips back into you over and over just feeding a few inches before taking it away. waiting to see you whisper in his ear that you need more, desperation evident.

then he waits until he sees the tears by your eyes start to dissipate before he gives you anymore. feeding another inch inside, his eyes drop to watch him split you open. though even after taking him before this, you weren’t used to his size.

“jay, it’s too much.” you gasp out, the feeling overwhelming. “it won’t fit.” too much and not enough at the same time.

“you’ve done this before ma.” jason tsks, “and said you could handle it. so you can take it hmm?”

his voice deliciously sensual already. you cave immediately. your lip trembles and you nod to let him continue. immediately you moan out loud enough for someone to hear and jason clasps his palm right over your mouth again. but he doesn’t coo you through it, his eyes stay piercing yours while his rhythm picks up and he pushes himself deeper. choking on his own spit at how you felt around him, his hold on you remained tight. he stays buried for a minute to stare at you, watch you catch your breath and adjust to his size.

“can you move please?” you’ll ask breathlessly and he’ll shake his head.

“remember what i said baby. deep breaths.” mimicking what he meant, he watches you. breathing deep and letting it out harshly. when you copy him he smiles. “there you go ma.”

then he shifts his hips again and you lose your train of thought. more intense than it usually is, every movement he makes feels like it drags through you. like you’re pulsating around him and he purposefully continues. but his hands still on your mouth when he realizes that you’re close and he pushes further like he could reach the depths of you. kissing your cervix effortlessly while he turns your head to bite at his shoulder. cause it only felt like the good kind of pain, he’d say.

jason would feel his high approaching and whisper sweet nothings in your ear, reminding you how much he loves you like he wasn’t taking you apart without breaking a sweat, yet. his flush tip with the perfect curve, hitting sweet spots everytime. it was a good idea to make you bite down on something.

groaning into your hair, he lifts you sloppily up and down on him, creating the perfect friction. he almost whines when you clamp around him and whisper that you can’t hold on.

he pants by your ear and his voice is huskier than when he’s not like this. “gonna fuck you so full. take you again when we’re home.”

entirely feral just as you are for him, jason caves and sputters when you wrap your legs around him tighter. he’s just as gone as you and you’re practically begging him to follow through on his words. when you finally let go, that’s when he does too. shooting rope after rope and painting you deep from the inside. like the most beautiful and precious thing he’d ever held, he holds you through it.

his hips with a mind of his own, continuing to thrust up into even when your legs wobble around him. he keeps one arm around your waist, firm and stable while the other rests on the wall to keep him upright as he loses himself completely. still sloppily pushing back into you when you whimper and drop your head against his. that’s when he finally stills and pulls your hair gently, just enough to see your face again.

then he kisses you with all the sweetness the world has to offer. he deepens it as he eases you with both arms now, and keeps your legs around him so you don’t fall. letting lips trail down to your neck to leave gentle bites.

when the door gets knocked on hard, the voice that followed made both of your faces burn. suddenly it occurs to both of you that anyone could’ve heard you. roy’s voice is whisper yelling but you’re sure anyone could’ve heard him with how thin the walls are.

“please stop fucking so i can change outta my trunks. i’m chafing over here.”

masterlist

[crowdedimagines]

The team figures it out (Showtime Extra) 

Aaron Hotchner x reader

an// YOU GUYS! Y’all crushed Showtime so much, I had to write a lil extra of the team figuring it all out! Truly thank you to everyone who enjoyed it, I cannot remember the last time I had a fic get so much support! TY 💐

-

It was hard for you and Aaron to go back to being at odds after being undercover. It's been weeks, but it’s taking some time for that mask to go completely back on at work. The team kicked it all back off again with a joke the second you sit down for a briefing. 

“Thanks for joining us, Mrs. Hayes.” Morgan smirks, turning in his chair back and forth. 

You roll your eyes while Emily sits down next to you and asks him, “You’re still stuck on that?”

“We watched them kiss how many times? You’ve moved on?”

You flip open your file, “You’re welcome for the obsession.”

Hotch doesn’t look up, “Focus, please.”

You look up and glance around at everyone in the room. Rossi’s eyes are already studying you with a small smile. 

He taps his fingers on the table before speaking, “Let’s profile a hypothetical.”

This cannot be good. 

Morgan perks up instantly, “Oh, this I like.” 

“Two coworkers,” Rossi continues, “Highly disciplined. Private. Excellent compartmentalization skills.” 

The team begins looking between you and Aaron in a curious way.

Emily laughs, “No way. Not with this unit. Impossible.”

“Is it?” Rossi questions. 

Hotch doesn’t look up from his file, and you take a sip of your coffee. No reaction. 

JJ leans forward, joining their hypothetical, “Okay, so what was the trigger event?”

“Undercover assignment that required intimacy.” Rossi gestures between you two. 

Morgan grins, “And boom, they’re both suddenly very convincing.”

“We’re right here.” You finally set down your file.

“Yes,” Garcia grins, “That’s what makes this fun!”

“That level of physical ease doesn’t come overnight.”

You don’t dare cut a look to Aaron, that would not go unnoticed right now. They go back and forth continuing to debate if Hotch was faking uncomfortability the first day undercover or if he was just uncomfortable under their eyes. 

“At the risk of my job,” Garcia meekly raises her hand, “After the Flagstaff case I did look into their schedules-”

“Garcia!” Hotch warns. 

She unsurprisingly barrels on anyway, “Their access badges have had the same arrival time since Halloween.” 

“Lots of people arrive at the same time.”

“Y/n and Hotch also leave within three minutes of each other on non-field days.” Spencer states. 

Hotch finally exhales one through his nose. You look up to the ceiling and fight the urge to just close your eyes. 

“And they have the same gym sessions blocked out every Tuesday and Thursday, but their badges are never scanned in.”

“Oh my god!” JJ gasps.

Rossi squints, “Why are you so calm right now?”

“Because,” You keep your voice even, “this is entertaining.”

Emily’s eyes widen and she smacks your shoulder, “Oh my god.”

You look over to Aaron finally, the corner of his mouth twitching up barely. 

“Hotch.” Morgan notices it too and calls him out. 

No denial. Just silence.

Morgan leans back slowly, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” 

The realization sinks in over the rest of the team. They no longer shout their ideas and evidence over each other, instead they look between you two eagerly. Chomping at the bit for any and every detail. 

JJ covers her mouth and repeats, “Oh my god!”

Morgan’s jaw falls slack, “You faked gym sessions to hide dating?”

Hotch finally speaks, his voice is calm and dry. 

“Cardio was implied.”

The room explodes. 

“You aren’t denying it.” Emily is practically shaking your shoulders now. 

You laugh while shrugging her away, “You’re profilers. Profile.” 

“Oh, that is so confirmation!” Garcia squeals. 

Morgan suddenly stands from his chair, “Months! This has been going on for months?”

Rossi smiles, still just looking between you at Hotch, “Minimum.”

“I feel betrayed,” Emily groans, “How many girls nights out have we had?”

“You let me make undercover kiss jokes for weeks.” Morgan chuckles, shaking his head in pure disbelief.

You can’t help but grin, “You seemed happy.” 

“This is the most controlled long-con relationship in BAU history.” Spencer points out. 

Hotch meets their eyes. No apology. Just a quiet and quick acknowledgement. 

“Yes.” 

Rossi claps one, “Well done. Both of you.” 

“You realize that we’re never letting this go, right?” 

You smile softly now, “We never never expected you would.”

“Human resources have been aware since the relationship started.” Hotch states. 

“Which was when exactly?” JJ raises her brows.

You know that Hotch has a lot he wants to reassure the team about. The power imbalance. The age-gap. All of them are completely valid concerns. 

Hotch finally closes his file and sets it back on the table. It’s clear they aren’t going to start this briefing anytime soon.

-

Towards the end of the day everyone is reviewing their reports at their desks, trying to get their work done to head home for the weekend. The bullpen is still riding the high of the new revelation, the energy still bouncing off of everyone. You contemplated working in the lair to get away from everyone’s teasing comments, but you know being trapped one on one with Garcia is far more dangerous than everyone else.

The elevator dings. 

JJ looks up first, “Hey, Jack’s here.”

Hotch looks up immediately, coming to stand at the top of the stairs by the door to his office. His whole expression softens when Jack trots in with his backpack on and a paper in hand. He makes a beeline for his dad, but detours halfway. Straight to you. 

You roll back from your desk in time for a big hug. 

“Hi.”

You smile down at him and instinctively brush his hair back, “Hey, you.”

Morgan freezes mid sip and Emily’s brows raise a couple degrees. 

JJ whispers, “Oh this is going to be good.”

Hotch clears his throat lightly, “Jack.”

He turns to look up at his dad, “What?”

“You wanna show me what you brought?” Hotch nods down to the piece of paper he has protectively in his hand. 

“In a second,” He turns back to you, “Are you still coming over tonight?”

The bullpen goes totally silent. 

You don’t miss a beat, “That depends. Did you do your chores already?”

“Yeah, Dad said we should do it before you came over this weekend.”

“Jack…” Hotch warns. 

You can tell he’s just getting started. 

“Look!” He finally presents the piece of paper he had been holding. It’s a drawing of three stick figures all standing together holding hands. It isn’t labeled with names, but the details make it’s clear who he drew. Jack, Aaron, and you. One of many drawings.

“This is a good one!” You smile softly and lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head, “Go show your dad.”

He launches off of you to chase up the stairs to his dad.

“We built a full behavioral timeline and Garcia hacked into numerous FBI databases when we could’ve just asked the witness.” Rossi shakes his head. 

“Always ask the child.” JJ nods. 

“Thanks, buddy.” Hotch takes the drawing from him and bends down to scoop him up in a hug. 

“I know you said we’re not supposed to tell people at work-”

“It’s okay, buddy.” Aaron reassures. 

“Weeks of deduction.” Morgan shakes his head. 

“Hell, you should hire him.” Rossi chuckles, “He’s a natural.” 

Jack looks confused, “Y/n said that honesty matters.”

You laugh, “Yes, I did. It does matter.” 

You hear Emily huff an ‘mhm’ somewhere behind you. You’re sure the whole team just rolled their eyes. 

Morgan walks up to Jack and offers him a fist bump, “You closed the case faster than all of us.”

Jack beams, “Does that mean I get a badge?”

“Okay,” Emily leans against the edge of her desk and asks, “Details, Agent.”

Jack nods seriously, “She sleeps over a lot.”

“Jack.” 

Hotch’s warning to his son does nothing to stop the red that takes over your face. Your elbows are resting on your desk when you put your head down in your hands.

“What? Honesty matters.”

“Define ‘a lot’.” Morgan continues. 

You look up and make eye contact with Aaron. Wordlessly, still holding each other’s gaze while letting them continue asking Jack a plethora of questions. You smile, quiet teasing with a shake of your head, “Rookie mistake.”

Aaron gives you a look. Warm and unguarded. His smile is real, full of life and tender. The expression that is totally foreign to the team on his face, but they now know it belongs to you. 

[crowdedimagines]

Showtime

Aaron Hotchner x reader

summary: The BAU team is being sent to catch an unsub going after couples with age-gap relationships. How are things going to go when you have to go undercover with your boss in order to catch him? word count: 7 K 🌵

-

“Alright,” Hotch’s voice evenly said, “Let’s go over what we know.” 

Garcia clicks the remote. Four crime scene photos take over the screen. The team breaks their gaze on their files in front of them to look. Same town. Similar neighborhoods. Same brutality. 

You take a long sip of your coffee. Trying anything to get your brain caught up with the team. You’ve been a part of the team for nearly nine-months, the newest and youngest addition. You thrive under the pressure, but seeing pictures like this at this hour of morning is something you hope to never get used to. You’ve gotten comfortable with the team at this point, facing countless horrors together is impossible not to bond someone. Except for Hotch. All frowns and corrections on the surface. You do a lot of things to make him frown. Some of the team had taller walls than others. Hotch being one of them. You tease him, but cling to the fact that his dark eyes follow you. Watch you when he thinks you won’t see. You can always feel it. 

“All victims are couples,” Garcia looks over the group, ducking away from the images, “All of the attacks occurred in the Coyote Springs just outside Flagstaff, Arizona. All within a gated subdivision, heavy neighborhood watch presence, but it’s a large neighborhood. There’s nearly 6,000 residents in the community.” 

“Woah, big neighborhood.” Emily sighs, looking back to the file. 

Reid clears his throat, “The murders span six weeks. Each murder escalates in violence, but consistent within method. This suggests the unsub is a local. Or at least familiar with the area.”

“Not a drifter,” Morgan adds, “He knows their routines. Knows who belongs.” 

Your gaze sharpens, “Which means he’s comfortable there.”

Hotch nods without looking up to acknowledge you, “And patient.” 

Reid leans forward to add more, “There’s another commonality. Every couple has a significant age gap.”

“Yeah,” JJ agrees, “All of these women are at least fifteen years younger than their husbands.” 

“That’s not a coincidence,” Prentiss confirms, “That’s motive.”

You speak without hesitation, “Resentment.” 

Rossi turns to you, “Elaborate.” 

“When I was working in hostage negotiation,” Your voice calm, “large age gaps in relationships came from extremist ideology and vigilante thinking. They see themselves as a moral authority. He isn’t killing these couples, he’s correcting something he sees as wrong.” 

All eyes on you. Your eyes dart to Hotch. “Theft of youth.” 

Reid’s eyes light up, “A savior complex. He may believe he’s actually rescuing the younger woman from-”

“-a perceived predator,” Rossi finishes. 

“Which makes Coyote Springs his hunting ground. His own aquarium. Everyone inside thinks they’re safe.” Emily continues. 

Hotch exhales slowly, “So we canvass. Interview neighbors. Increase patrol presence.” 

“That could spook him into hiding.” JJ argues. 

“Yeah,” Morgan agrees, “This guy thrives on control. You flood the neighborhood with badges, he disappears.” 

Prentiss tilts her head, “Unless he comes to us.” 

You feel the shift before anyone could actually say it. Her eyes darting to you. Then Hotch. 

Rossi’s eyes flick between you two now, “You’re thinking bait.” 

It didn’t go over anyone’s heads that you and Hotch have a scarily similar age gap as the victims. Beautiful. Active. The perfect setup. 

“I’m thinking opportunity.” Emily corrects, “Two people who could fit the pattern. A new couple moves in quietly. Lets the unsub think something perfect fell in his lap.”

“No.”

Hotch’s answer immediate. 

You blink. Then laugh. “Wow, look at us already on the same page.” 

His eyes turn to you now, sharp and warning, “This is not a game.” 

“Never said it was,” You reply lightly, “I’m just agreeing that maybe the two of us playing house isn’t the best play.”

JJ steps in, “If the unsub is watching, he’s choosing couples that look stable. Happy.”

“Yet another reason this wouldn’t work.” You mutter, Rossi elbow in your side tells you he’s the only one that caught the comment. 

“Which means?” Garcia questions. 

“A married couple, or at least one that presents that way would statistically be the most appealing to draw him out.”

More eyes fall back to you. 

You slowly look around, “Oh, absolutely not.”

Hotch doesn’t look at you, “Agreed.” 

“You telling me you’re scared, Y/Ln?” Morgan grins. 

You look him dead in the eye, “I’m telling you I’m smart enough to know that Hotch and I can’t sell married and in love.” 

“Well,” Rossi turns his gaze over to the rest of the group, “Are there any other alternatives here on the team?” 

The group looks around at each other. You know there aren’t any. You don’t need to look around to know that most of them are too close in age to raise that kind of brow. 

“I can’t believe this.” You shake your head with a humorless laugh. 

Hotch’s jaw tightens, “He’s looking for a performance.” 

The rest of the room quiets at his words. You’d be ashamed to admit to the warmth pooling at the dark look on his eyes. This shouldn’t be able to work. 

“Look, you’re both qualified.” Emily claps, “It wouldn’t be your first time going undercover.”

“I mean no offense by it, but Y/Ln is the perfect trophy wife bait.” Morgan holds up his hands in self defense. 

“Somehow I’m still offended.”

Rossi raises a brow to you and Hotch, “The unsub is escalating. If we miss him again, someone else dies. This isn’t about what’s comfortable. It’s about leverage.” 

Hotch pinches the bridge of his nose. Silence stretches while everyone tries to come up with an alternative.

“So maybe it is the best play.” You sigh, coming to the same conclusion as the rest of the team.  Your hand slides to cover your face with a groan. 

“For what it’s worth, this is like so hot.” Garcia bites the end of her pen looking at you both, “So hot.” 

“Babygirl.” Morgan sighs with the shake of his head. 

“You’re enjoying this way too much, Pen.” You warn with a smile that is anything but friendly. 

“Immensly.” She continues to beam. 

A long pause. 

Finally Hotch exhales, “If we do this-”

He pauses to read your face. You aren’t supposed to profile each other, but you can see he’s looking to see if you’re truly comfortable. If you can do this. You know you can. You give him a subtle nod. 

“-we do everything by the book.” He continues, “Full surveillance. Backup within minutes. No unnecessary risks.”

You suddenly smirk, “You’re gonna hate every second of this.” 

“Yes,” He said flatly. You grin wider, “Then I’m in.” 

He looks at you. Really looks. 

“Wheels up in two hours. We prep covers immediately.”

Garcia squeals. Prentiss smirks at you. Morgan claps once.

This is going to get complicated. 

-

The jet's familiar hum rings over them lowly. You’re curled sideways in your chair, Emily to your right. Hotch directly across from you, Rossi to his left. A table separating you both. Morgan was making calls to get a stakeout van for the rest of the team. They wouldn’t be the only eyes on you two while undercover, but they would be most watchful. 

“Alright,” You smile, “Let’s build our beautiful lie.” 

Hotch’s eyes dart to yours over his file, “We already have preliminary covers.”

“Preliminary is not convincing.” You reply, turning to Emily for help. 

“She’s right.” She shrugs, “Especially since we know this unsub is watching his victims.”

He doesn’t argue, he simply sets down his file on the table.  “Progress.” You bite your cheek.  “Aaron Hayes. Attorney. Corporate litigation.” 

“Third marriage,” You add with cheer, “Which no offence, you can sell.” 

His mouth tightens, “It’s realistic considering the previous victims.” 

“And it adds baggage.” You continue, “Baggage is realistic. That’s what he’ll like.” 

Rossi raises his brows, “What about you?”

“Y/n Hayes.” You quickly reach out a hand to shake his with a pearly smile plastered to your face, “Twenty-six. Former marketing assistant. Now… professionally vague.”

“Trophy wife.” Hotch said flatly. You beam, “Exactly.” 

His eyes study you, “You’re sure you’re comfortable with this?” 

“Hotch, you’ve seen me pretend to be sympathetic to truly terrible people. Being hot and underestimated is a vacation.” 

He exhales quietly. 

“I want to add something else.”

He looks back up. 

“Power.” 

He frowns, “Explain.” 

“You’re already older. Already established. Already married multiple times, but I think we lean into it harder.” You lean back in your chair, “Make you a professor. Law school. Ethics. Authority.”

He immediately stiffens, “That’s unnecessary.” 

“Is it?” You tilt your head, “Our unsub in punishing perceived imbalance. We don’t know how long he watches his victims, he may have already picked his next couple. But if we tip the scale? Give him something that makes his skin crawl.”

The jet goes silent as it’s clear he is contemplating your idea. 

“A professor implies mentorship. Influence.” 

“And the implication that I was dazzled,” You add lightly, “By your mind. Your status. Your power.” 

The silence stretches back over the jet. 

“That makes you uncomfortable.” You observe. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose, again, “It complicates the dynamic.” 

“That’s the point.”

He stares for a long moment, “Fine.” 

You grin, “Great! So, how did we meet?”

“A conference.” 

“Boring. Try again.” 

He sighs, “Guest lecture. You were assisting with event coordination.” 

“Ooh, I love that!” You agree, “I spilled coffee on you.” 

“You did not.” 

“I absolutely did. You were very patient about it. Very kind. I thought you were intimidating.”

Hotch’s lips twitch into a smile for a split second before he could correct it . For a split second, you saw it. 

“And then,” You continue, “you asked me to dinner. Which I declined. Twice.”

“Why twice?” 

“Because it makes you chase.” You answer obviously, “And because neighbors love that kind of story.” 

Hotch closes his file, “You’ve done this before.” 

“Something tells me you really didn’t look at my resume all the times Straus sent it back when I was brought on.”

Rossi leans in closer to Hotch, “She did this for a year for the FBI. It was prior to the hostage negotiation.” 

You watch the realization and curiosity pass over his face. He hadn’t looked into you much at all. There wasn’t much desire after Straus insisted upon you. 

The jet began to descend shortly after that. By the time you guys touchdown, the local office had coordinated everything. A house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the middle of Coyote Springs. Clean title. Plausible history. A U-Haul full of furniture staged to look like it was from a loving family. 

As soon as you both stepped onto the tarmac, you slid your hand into Hotch’s. Walking over to the small public airport rather than the waiting black SUVs with the rest of the team. Hotch froze for a half second. 

“Breathe. Like you like me.”

“I don’t-”

“In character.” You correct yourself, “It's game on.”

Realistically the unsub could be anyone. Which is why they weren’t afforded with the luxury of riding with the rest of the team. The show has begun. 

You keep your posture relaxed, smiling brightly. By the time Hotch parks the U-Haul in the driveway, three neighbors were already watching from their front porches. 

“Showtime.” You give Hotch one last smile before hopping out of the truck. 

You make your way around to his side, wrapping both arms around his waist and pressing a kiss to his cheek. You look at the house in front of you both. He stiffened again, then recovered. He slips an arm around your shoulders.

“There you go.” You whisper, “Professor Hayes.” 

He glances down at you, “You’re enjoying this.” 

“Immensely.” You tease. 

They began unloading the truck under several curious eyes. You laugh loudly at his dry comments. Leaning into him. Stolen touches and passes. Selling the lie with ease. 

“Newlyweds?” A voice calls out.

You turn to see a woman from two houses down. You answer without skipping a beat, “Six months!” 

Hotch blinks, looking back down at you. 

You tip your head forward before Hotch can flinch. Ripping off the bandaid. You knew he would tense if you didn’t catch him off guard. He’s still trying to protect you. You can feel the hesitation. Your lips are soft on his. Convincing. He relaxes into it.

When you pull back, the woman waves before heading inside. You look at Hotch, his eyes still on you. 

“Relax.” You place a hand on his chest, “You’re doing great.” 

His voice is low, “You don’t hesitate.” 

You pull him down for a hug, whispering in his ear, “Neither does our unsub. We can’t afford to.” 

You press another kiss to his cheek, grabbing another box out of the back of the truck and hauling it inside. Hotch stood for another second before grabbing something himself. He was beginning to have the feeling that this cover was going to test more than just his professionalism. 

-

The surveillance van arrives a couple hours after they had returned the U-Haul. It pulls into their corner of Coyote Springs under the guise of a local internet provider. Uniforms are convincing, and plenty of equipment inside. 

Garcia is already online and active before Morgan can put it in park. The cameras in the house are connected now. Her screens fill with all different angles. Street coverage. Door sensors. Motion alerts. 

She hums in their earpieces, “For the record, the neighbors clocked you as ‘very affectionate’ within twelve minutes of you pulling in the driveway. Linda from two doors down texted her sister Sharon about you.” 

You arch your brow, “What’d she say?”

You can practically hear Garcia’s grin, “Quote ‘The new wife is gorgeous and very young. He’s either lucky or stupid'."

”I’ll take it.” You hold up your mug of coffee in mock salute.

Word spreads fast in this neighborhood. 

The team backs off for a while, letting them get settled together. Leaving you in a house that grows quieter and quieter. Heavier.

You open the fridge and take a peek inside, “We should establish routines.” you say, practical as ever, “Food. Morning patterns. Something that feels lived in.” 

Hotch nods, “I’ll take mornings. Coffee. The paper.” “I don’t do early.” You decide immediately, “But I’ll fake it if I have to.” 

He glances at you, something like amusement flashing across his face before he hides it. “Noted.” 

“I can handle dinner.” You decide, “What kind of trophy would I be without something warm on the table for you?”

You make a face at him that reveals your true feelings about that role you're playing. You still need to establish how much the mask stays on inside. You know the unsub was watching his victims, but not how. You start pulling ingredients and getting things ready on the stove.

“I can help.” He gets up from the counter, eager to wipe the sour look from your face. 

“Respectfully, you moved us in today. You should shower.”

The way your grin lights up your face, turning back to the stove top without a care in the world, makes Hotch freeze. His heart skips a full beat. It already feels so domestic. You catch it and turn back, taking a half step closer to him. 

“Don’t forget, I’m your hot twenty-six year old wife. Act like it.” You press a kiss to his cheek before he can protest. Now you actually focus on the stove, eventually hearing his steps take him away from the room. 

By the time Hotch is done with his needed shower, he can smell the food coming from downstairs. Spaghetti. He’s impressed that you’ve even set the table. Creating the fantasy. Creating his illusion. You set down his plate at the end of the table, and you take the seat closest to his on the right. 

“If we’re too distant we stand out, and now that we’re here-” Hotch clears his throat, “You’re right. I need to act like it. At any point now the unsub could be watching us.” 

He smiles as if he hadn’t said something so horrifying. The place had already been swept for bugs, and now they had eyes on them. Now they would have to wait and see if the unsub was watching them too. 

“I’m glad you’re officially on board.” You grin, placing your hand in his.

You guys both practically drag your feet cleaning up from dinner. Avoiding the bedroom. The last line to cross. 

The room has been staged well, it’s a pretty room. A large bed right in the middle of it. Hotch pauses just behind you in the doorway, “We can take turns on the couch.” 

You shake your head immediately, “No. Couples like us don’t do that.” 

He exhales slowly, “Understood.” 

You leave him in the bathroom and take your bag to the bathroom. You change quickly and then open the door back up while you take off your makeup and brush your teeth. After spitting in the sink, you look up in the mirror to see Aaron walking in. He’s changed into long pajama pants and a black t-shirt. 

You were hoping if you were fast enough, Hotch would be in bed with the lights off by the time you came out. You blush when you notice him taking in your cover wardrobe. You’re supposed to be a young hot wife, that means little for the pajama department. 

He begins brushing his teeth while you do your skincare. The silence stretching painfully rather than peacefully is the only clue that this isn’t real. 

You’re nearly done by the time Hotch leaves and heads back to the bedroom. You follow after turning off the lights and pull back the covers. Total darkness and silence. 

You lie on your back, your hands folded over your stomach, “Night, Hotch.” 

“Goodnight.” 

Neither of you sleep very well. He stares at the opposite wall. Plagued by listening to your soft breaths while you sleep. Morning comes too fast. He’s already up by the time your eyelids pull open. 

You pad into the kitchen to see a pot of coffee on, Hotch manning the stove. He still has on his pajamas, his hair disheveled from sleep. You’re surprised he didn’t fix it first thing. But, this isn’t really him. 

“Morning, professor.” Your voice lazy from sleep. 

He freezes for half a second.

Then recovers, “Sleep well?”

You smile, taking steps closer to him. He reaches out an arm to wrap around your shoulders. The food smells good. 

“Like a dream.” You lie. He knows. 

You wrap your arms around his waist while you both sway together. You’d be ashamed to admit it once you were more awake, but you lean your weight against him to support. 

By noon, you’re laying out by the pool. The bikini is not subtle. It isn’t meant to be. 

Garcia groans over the comms you can all hear again, “This seems deeply unfair.”

“Tell me about it.” Emily whined. 

Hotch watches from inside, his jaw tight, posture rigid. He knows exactly what you are doing and why it works. He’s almost alarmed at the pace you could set for the unsub. 

Neighbors slow as they pass.  A man across the street checks his mail. Twice. 

You don’t look at any of them. You keep your sunglasses on, body relaxed and unconcerned. 

It’s bait. 

And it’s effective. 

Hotch’s eyes finally snap up from your figure when he sees someone approach the fence. A woman smiling brightly and waving you over. You get up from your lounge chair and walk over to her.

“Hi! I’m Linda. We’re having a block party on Friday, and I thought we’d invite the new couple!” 

You smile, all warmth and charm, “Isn’t that sweet!”

Hotch steps out the back patio door and walks over to join you. His arm wraps around your lower back so his hand can find home on your hip. Linda notices. Everyone does. 

“Aaron.” He extends his other hand to shake Linda’s. 

It’s clear Linda is trying to hide her gaze on their PDA. She stutters out the time while focusing on your hand placed on Hotch’s warm chest. The rock the FBI provided glimmering brightly on your ring finger. The sun continues to beat down, Hotch very aware of how you’re all skin right now. He’s only touching bare skin. He vaguely hears you ask if you should bring anything. He misses the response. 

“Lovely.” She waves, “We’ll see you then!”

Linda walks away, you wave goodbye as she walks back to her house. 

“So, that's what it takes to get you to come outside?” You turn, Hotch’s hold still on you, “Linda?”

“What-”

“I mean, I’ve been out here for how long, Garcia?”

His hand tightens again, not expecting you to circle the team back in. He forgot their eyes and ears are on everything.

“Forty-five minutes.” She answers. 

“Disappointing.” You whisper, it fans over his face. 

“I’ll work on it.” 

He leans down before you can pull another stunt, he presses a kiss to your brow. 

-

Later Emily and Morgan come over under the guise of friends bringing a housewarming gift. They welcome them both in and accept the wine with hugs. They gather together in the kitchen, everyone’s face all smiles but Emily’s tone tells another story. 

“I think we’ve got to work on being what the unsub is looking for.” She reminds, “You both need to work on being closer. Physically.”

Morgan nods, “She’s right. The profile says entitlement. Ownership. A guy who thinks he’s won.” 

“You don’t protect, Y/n. You flaunt her.” 

Hotch’s jaw tightens, “That’s not-”

“That’s the role,” She cuts in, “A man who would absolutely brag about locking down another wife half the age of the last one.” 

Emily is exaggerating obviously, but she makes her point clear. 

“I’m good, Hotch.” You smile, wrapping your hand around his arm and pulling him closer, “I’m not fragile.” 

He exhales slowly. Once. Controlled. 

“Understood.” 

The shift is nearly immediate. You can feel it. He changes how he stands. How close he is. How his hand settles on your waist when you pass him in the kitchen. Unapologetic. 

An arm draped over her shoulder as they sit on the front porch enjoying the summer night, the sky beginning to darken. Morgan and Emily left a little bit ago, leaving them alone again. This time you claim each other's space. 

A neighbor you haven’t met jogs by on a late run, waving to them as she passes. Linda’s husband takes out the trash, putting it at the end of their driveway. A group of kids pass through on their bikes, loud yells and laughter. 

Lots of activity in this neighborhood. Lots of eyes. You and Hotch are putting yourselves in full view. 

“You good?” You ask quietly. 

“Yes,” He answers, “Are you?”

You study him, “I’ve played worse roles than this.”

His mouth tightens, “That doesn’t make it easier.” 

“No, but it gets the job done.” 

You reach up to card your hands through his hair. Running along the side, pushing it back. 

“Uhh, guys?” Garcia chimes in the earpiece. You both keep faces neutral. 

“One of the exterior cameras just changed angles.” 

You still. Hotch does too. You’re not sure you would be able to tell if you weren’t practically in his lap right now. 

Inside the van, Rossi leans closer to the screen. “Did we do that?”

Garcia typing away furiously. 

“No. And the system didn’t flag it either.” 

Emily frowns, “Can someone access it remotely?”

Garcia hesitates before answering. 

“If they had administration credentials they would have remote access.” 

“So, the unsub is watching right now?” You ask, eyes still on Aaron. 

“I would assume so since he adjusted the exterior to include you both in frame.”

“Let’s give him a show.” 

You want to pull Aaron to you, but you know he needs to push this. He is the pursuer. Your hand is still in his hair when he leans down to connect your lips again. You don’t give him the chance to cut it short, leaning into him. 

He opens his mouth wider to deepen the kiss, you sit up against him. Throwing one leg over his lap, practically indecent for the front yard. 

“Take me to bed.” Your words are pressed against his lips. 

Hotch stiffens under you for a second. His eyes wide, before you give a small nod. He picks you up from his lap, carrying you into the house. You let him set you down and pull him up the stairs by the collar of his shirt. Still full of smiles and teasing. Aaron corners you against a wall in the hallway, pressing hot kisses down your neck.

You push back from him, taking his hand and pulling him into the bedroom and shut the door. The second the door shuts, you both let go, but are still out of breath. Hotch paces a few feet away from you. The bedroom is one of the few places they didn’t put a camera. 

“Garcia, did any other angles in the house change? Any interior cameras?” Your voice sounds a lot more calm and clear than you feel. 

“Um,” She clears her throat, obviously still reeling from everything she just witnessed. “Uh-I-uh it looks like he has. The hallway is angled more in the bedroom than it was when it was installed. I think I can see if he’s watching.”

There’s a long pause while she works before she comes back on, “Wait, yes! He’s online. He’s still active on the hall camera. I’m guessing he’s waiting for the afterparty.” 

Emily nods, “He’s watching for something. He wants to know if they fit his needs.” 

Inside, the performance continues. You mess up your hair, Hotch’s to be fair already was. You change out of the clothes you had on before and opt for just one of Aaron’s law t-shirts. It feels right. Puts a little pressure on that authority insecurity. 

“Is he still watching?” You ask Garcia. 

“Mhm.”

You open the door and casually skip down the stairs to the kitchen to get a glass of water. You're still flushed from the couch make out. Didn't have to fake that.

“Babygirl, you’re a genius.” Morgan claps. 

It only needs to give the illusion they need. Just enough to piss him off. 

-

You made brownies for the block party. Aaron had to run out to the store, leaving an opening for the unsub to approach as well. They don’t know his true patterns and if he’s confident enough to approach them both at once. 

All morning there is activity out in the street. People are setting up tables, music, and food. It looks like they don’t do anything small here in Coyote Springs. You picked out the perfect summer sun dress, and curled your hair and leaving it down simply. It’s short enough to put your legs on display. 

“Safe choice,” Hotch nods, looking at the tray covered in foil. 

Safe to comment on the food, not the dress.

You smile up at him, “People trust baked goods.” 

He opens the door for you both to walk out, and it’s already full. The party is already in full swing. People everywhere. Children running around. The smell of the grill takes over. 

Too many faces. 

You immediately feel your posture sag a little trying to keep track of everyone’s expressions while walking through. You keep one hand on the tray and the other curled possessively around Aaron’s bicep. You let him guide you around, introducing yourselves. 

He leans down to press the occasional kiss to your lips, temple, brow. Anything to hear your low laugh. You both look inseparable. 

From the street, it’s enviable. From the cameras, he’s raging. 

“We’ve got a lot of eyes.” Garcia says into the earpiece. 

JJ watches over the crowd, “He’s here. He wouldn’t pass up this opportunity.” 

You move slowly. Deliberately. Introductions begin to blur.  Retirees, young families, couples who’ve lived here twenty years. Kids continue to race around playing. Teens hang back in groups, too cool to really participate. You laugh easily, leaning into Hotch. You even let him speak over you once or twice.

You both stop near Linda, who is holding court beside the grill and a whole table of food. 

“Oh! You made it,” Linda says brightly. “And you brought something.”

“Brownies,” You smile. “I hope that’s okay.”

Linda takes the tray. “Oh, people will love you.”

Her gaze flicks to Hotch. “You’re a lucky man.”

Hotch smiles wide, proud, exactly the wrong way.

“I know,” he says. “I really do.”

The reaction is instant. Not from Linda.

From just behind her.

A boy, sixteen maybe seventeen goes still.

Too still.

You can feel pressure between your shoulder blades. Hotch squeezes your hand, he saw it too. 

“Oh, where are my manners!” Linda sighs, “Meet my family. This is my husband Bill, and my son Matthew.” 

She then turns where the other boy still watches. “And this is my sister Sharon and her son Toby. They live just a couple streets down.” 

Toby is tall, a little lanky. He wears a black hoodie despite the heat. He stands half in the shadow of a tree, his eyes won’t meet yours. Instead they’re on Hotch. Specifically where his hand is glued to your hip possessively. You shift closer and his grip bruises, Toby’s jaw tightens. 

You turn to speak over Aaron’s shoulder so they won’t notice what you ask Garcia. 

“Garcia, what do we know on Sharon and her son?”

There’s a pause. You turn back your attention to Linda and Sharon, waiting for her chipper voice to come on the earpiece. 

“Let me see what I can find!” She eagerly begins typing. They had to move the surveillance van a couple streets down for the block party. It would be curious for them to be parked there with all the homeowners having a party together. 

You keep smiling and turn your attention to Sharon and her son who hovers behind.  “So, how long have you guys lived here?”

“All of his life.” Sharon answers, smiling softly at him. 

“Must be hard,” You reply gently, “watching things change. New people are moving in, although I hope we’re welcomed!”

Everyone laughs at your comment, except for Toby. His gaze has yet to leave Hotch’s touch. 

Sharp. Hurt. Furious. 

Hotch squeezes a warning. 

His eyes flick up to your face for the first time. 

You excuse yourself from the group to refill both of your drinks. When you return, you immediately slide onto Hotch’s lap. You dive back into conversation totally unphased, but in your peripheral you can see Toby’s hands clenching.

Hotch makes sure to brag about his job, about you, about how good his life is now. Toby is locked in with his full attention. Every laugh from you is a needle. Every kiss gasoline. Building.

“I’ve got something juicy,” Garcia jumps back in, “Sharon was just divorced from Toby’s father last March. They had been married for twenty-two years, but he moved out and left. And then six weeks ago it looks like he was re-married.” 

“Right when the killings started.” Emily reminds. 

“It get better-or worse, I don’t know which is-what way it-” 

“Garcia.”

“He has been teaching the girls college soccer team almost as long as they were married. His new wife? She just graduated from the team last year. Can you spell slimy?”

Garcia gags over the earpiece nearly making you wince and yank it out of your ear. 

“She’s twenty-four, he’s fourty-nine.” 

Bingo. 

You turn to look over Hotch’s shoulder to see Toby’s expression, only to find him missing. Linda’s son is gone now too. 

“Does anyone have eyes on him?”

No answer. 

You both thank people as you’re saying goodbye. Smiles. Keep the act flawless. 

The house feels wrong the second your foot crosses the threshold. Hotch’s hand moves instinctively toward his weapon and stops. Static takes over the earpiece.

-

Back in the surveillance van, the team waits anxiously. Re-watching footage to see if they can spot him disappearing. Eerie silence from the couple undercover. Garcia watches the door shut and suddenly the screens turn to pixels, static playing over the speakers.

“What the hell is that?” Morgan yells. 

“I don’t know! Something is blocking the signal.” Garcia types furiously. 

“We’ve got to go in now.” Morgan grabs his vest and his gun.

“If he’s not with them, this will blow their cover. We’ll scare him away.” Rossi adds. 

“It won’t matter if they’re dead. Toby is the unsub, I’m sure of it.” 

-

Toby is standing in the living room, holding a gun he shouldn’t know how to handle. And it’s aimed right at you both. His hands are shaking. Your hand tightens around Aaron’s arm.

“Shut the door!” He yells, you both slowly step the rest of the way into the house and shut the door. 

His face is pale, eyes wide, and breathing way too fast. 

He raises the gun closer to them, “Upstairs. Now.”

Hotch manages to keep himself placed between you and the gun as he follows you both to the bedroom. Every step is deliberate, intentionally trying to put you in the least amount of harm.

“On your knees.” 

Neither of them hesitates. Neither of you tries to reach for your weapon. Yet. 

Hotch’s shoulders brush with yours. Toby paces in front of you, waving the gun wildly in their direction the entire time. 

“You think you’re better than everyone!” He yells, “You think it’s okay to take whatever you want.”

You tilt your head slightly, “What did he take from you?” 

You try to remind that Hotch is not his father, although with the anger in his eyes you’re not sure he can tell. His pacing stutters.

“You watch people like us?” You continue, “You think you’re correcting something?”

“Correcting what he’s taking!” He jabs the gun at Hotch’s chest. You feel the air get knocked out of your lungs. 

“Correcting my theft of youth?”

Your words from the beginning of the case now echo with Hotch’s voice. Toby freezes. 

“That’s what he did,” Toby’s voice growing hoarse, “He took her youth. He took our family and replaced it with something younger. Easier.”

Hotch swallows when Toby turns his focus onto you. He lets the barrel of the gun slide across your collarbone. 

“It’s despicable. This is the same thing.” He gestures between you two.

You hold his gaze, “I chose him. He didn’t take anything from me.”

Your voice softens, “And I don’t regret it.” 

The truth in your voice is unmistakable. Hotch feels it like a shockwave. An earthquake. 

“You don’t want to kill us.” You voice gentle, calming the room, “You want someone to admit what happened to you was wrong. That it was fucked up.” 

Toby’s hands shake more, his eyes fill. 

“He didn’t even talk to me about it. He just moved out.” 

You nod, “Don’t you want it to stop hurting?”

His head bobs. 

“Then put the gun down.”

He hesitates. 

Hotch keeps his voice low and steady. Using his dad voice, “You’re not a monster. You’re a kid that got left behind.”

The gun lowers. Just enough. You reach forward and take the gun from his grasp and pass it back to Hotch immediately. You kneel beside him while he cries. Morgan breaks through the door, armed and ready. 

“It’s okay, we’re all safe now.” 

Red and blue lights take over the room flashing in from the window. Morgan takes Toby down to the cars to bring him into the station. An ambulance. Police. Statements. Protocols. 

-

The team gathers in the living room to discuss everything that just unfolded and establishing a time to meet at the jet.

“Sharon works for CPI Security. That’s how Toby was able to access the homes and the cameras. He was using her devices.” Garcia explains their total blackout on seeing and hearing them. Toby was smarter than they had thought. That’s how he was without a trace. The team gives them a couple looks, quiet comments about their act while they try to wrap things up.

“Enough!” You shout, “I would like to shower and then get on a plane and go home! Is that too much to ask for?” 

“No ma’am!” “We’re going!” “Okay, okay!”

Rossi leaves to go get one of the SUVS so they can head to the airport. It would be a late night flight home. You and Aaron are left with a few officers downstairs taking pictures and taking statements while you both pack up your belongings. 

“Well, I suppose I will have to give this back to evidence.” You sigh, holding up the rock on your ring finger to the light with a chuckle. 

“Yeah, I’m sure that’ll take some getting used to. You’ll feel lighter.” 

You roll your eyes, putting your toiletries away, looking at him in the mirror. 

Leaning your hip against the counter you look up at him, soft now and unguarded. “You were very convincing. You stepped it up.”

He matches your lean, a step closer. 

“You were extraordinary from the beginning.”

The smile on your face shifts into something real, “You used my words back there.” 

“I know.” He says, “I know what they mean to you.”

A beat passes. You swallow, his eyes follow down your throat. One he has kissed numerous times now. 

“Do you regret it?” he asks. 

You shake your head without hesitation, “Not even a little.” 

Hotch reaches out, slowly. Deliberate. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. The touch is warm. Bare. Uncharacteristically gentle. 

“Neither do I.” 

-

The jet hums as it cuts through the dark sky. Hotch sits at the table with a file open in front of him that he is definitely not reading. You took the same seat across from him as usual. Emily and Rossi join the table, Morgan and Garcia sit on the couch facing them with wide grins. 

For the first six minutes of the flight, no one says a thing. 

“So,” Morgan starts far too casually, “We gonna talk about the kissing, or are we pretending none of that ever happened?”

You close your eyes. Hotch exhales through his nose. 

JJ doesn’t even look up from her tablet, “I witnessed at least nine when I was on cams.”

Garcia gasps, “I’ve got so many screenshots-

“Garcia.” Hotch warns.

You groan, “Oh my god.” 

Rossi smiles into his coffee, “You know, I’ve been undercover a lot. But I’ve never seen Hotch commit like that.” 

Morgan grins, “My boss went from ‘don’t touch me’ to ‘this is my wife, don’t even breathe in her direction’ in twenty-four hours.” 

Hotch clears his throat, “Focus.”

“Sir,” Emily smiles, “You grabbed her waist every time someone looked at her for more than two seconds.” 

“That was tactical.”

You snort loudly before you can even stop it. 

Morgan points immediately, “See! She knew it!”

Garcia’s cuts in, “And can we discuss the wardrobe?”

You straighten in your seat, “Garcia-”

“The bikini,” She barrels on, “The sundress. The backless sundress. The way you were charming everyone and-”

“Garcia!” You say both mortified and laughing.

JJ smiles, “To be fair, it worked. He didn’t stand a chance.” 

“Hotch or Toby?” Rossi asks with a jab. 

Hotch’s ears turn red. 

“Well, technically Y/n is closer in age to Toby than she is to Hotch.” Reid interjects.  “Please, don’t ever remind me of that again.” You shake your head, a sour look on your face. “I would also not like to be reminded of that.” Hotch agrees. 

Rossi raises his brow still looking at Hotch. 

“It was part of the profile.” He reminds. 

Impossibly so, Rossi’s brow aims higher at Aaron’s answer, “You told three different men you were ‘very lucky’ and ‘not stupid enough to mess this up’.”

Silence. 

Your lips twitch with a smile as you look over to him, “You did?”

His jaw tightens, “That… may have come up.”

Morgan outright laughs, “Boss, you were bragging.”

You cover your face with one hand, “I can never show my face in Arizona again.” 

“You absolutely can,” Emily disagrees, “You own that cul-de-sac now. Whatever you two were doing, it sold and it worked.”

Reid nods, “Yeah, no notes. Except, next time? I want hazard pay for having to watch all that.”

"Me on the other hand, " Garcia grins wickedly, "I saved it all!"

“You’re welcome, you pervs!” 

You toss a harmless handful of plane popcorn at them, rolling your eyes. There’s an unguarded and warm smile on your face that makes Hotch shake his head watching it all unfold. 

Hours later it’s early morning on the east coast when they finally land on the tarmac. 

“Debrief tomorrow at 9AM.” Hotch says, “Get some rest.” 

The team disperses, still chuckling and yawning as they walk to their cars. The cabin is quiet as you lean back in your seat while Hotch packs up his briefcase. 

“You think any of them bought it?” You ask, a soft smile on your face. Honest and open. 

He flashes you his rare smile. The one usually saved for you and Jack on the weekends.

“Probably not.”

extra of the team finding out here!

an// all too aware of the fact that it’s been almost two years since i’ve written for Hotch, but I am obsessed all over again i fear. i had so much fun writing for him again!

[goldenlikedayl1ght]

//hi i know this is the pot calling the kettle black but.

"matt murdock who fucks you so hard and makes you cum" "matt murdock who is a sex god" IM TIRED OF IT. BRING BACK YEARNING.

matt murdock who does not believe in soulmates until he meets you.

matt murdock who learns you, who memorizes you-- your favorite foods, your hatred of certain textures, the last color you painted your nails, the things that make you tick, the way your breathing changes when you've had a long day.

matt murdock who finds himself distracted when he hasn't heard from you, wondering if you're doing okay.

matt murdock who sends flowers to your office, just because.

matt murdock who goes from bachelor with only beer in his fridge to keeping the pantry fully stocked with snacks for whenever you get hungry.

matt murdock who feels his skin start to burn when you give him the gentlest of touches-- a caress of his arm, a hand on his shoulder. it drives him crazy.

matt murdock who is intoxicated by the mere sound of your voice, learning all the different tones you take in various situations, the way your voice softens when talking to anyone you deem a baby (cats, dogs, kids, drunk foggy), or the way it hardens when you're dealing with someone you find annoying (clients, assholes at the bar, etc)

matt murdock who gets drunk with his best friend one night and leaves you 27 voicemails, ranging from twenty seconds long to fourteen minutes, all rambling about how much he loves you.

matt murdock who spends months trying to hint that he likes you, buying you lunch, asking if you need anything, always pouring your coffee just the way you like it, asking if the book you finished was good and letting you ramble about it for twenty minutes.

matt murdock who has the biggest, fattest, most disgusting crush on you.

matt murdock who blushes whenever you enter the room.

matt murdock who yearns. yearns for you.

and yeah, also, he fucks. of course. get yourself someone who can do both. get yourself someone who makes you cry from overstimulation AND spends hours kissing literally every inch of your skin because he can and he wants to.

get yourself someone like matt murdock, who can only be described as head over heels in love with you.

[belleeebelleee]

Daryl Dixon (The Walking Dead) x fem!reader

Daryl tells you "I love you. I'm sorry." because he truly thinks that his love and loving him is something to feel bad for, that he's not enough. You make him see otherwise.

The first time Daryl Dixon tells you he loves you, he apologizes for it.

Not because he doesn’t mean it.

Because he does.

Completely.

And somewhere deep down, in all the scar tissue his father left behind and all the years the world spent teaching him he was too rough, too angry, too broken to be wanted gently, Daryl honestly believes loving him is a burden you shouldn’t have to carry.

The prison had been quiet that night.

Not silent—nothing was ever silent anymore. Walkers groaned somewhere beyond the fences, the generators hummed low, somebody coughed in the cellblock two rows down—but quiet enough that people had started sleeping through the night again.

You’d been sitting on the floor of your cell reading an old paperback by flashlight when Daryl appeared in the doorway.

He didn’t knock.

He never did.

He just leaned one shoulder against the frame, crossbow hanging from his back, curls damp from a late watch shift.

“You still awake?”

You looked up immediately, smiling before you could stop yourself.

“Obviously.”

His eyes flicked away.

That should’ve been your first clue something was wrong.

Daryl usually looked at you like he couldn’t help it. Like his gaze gravitated toward you against his will. Like every room naturally rearranged itself around wherever you stood.

Tonight he looked nervous.

Daryl Dixon nervous was subtle.

A tighter jaw.

Restless fingers.

A refusal to stay still longer than half a second.

You closed the book carefully. “What happened?”

“Nothin’.”

“Daryl.”

He sighed through his nose, pushing off the frame to pace two steps into the room before stopping again.

“I got somethin’ for ya.”

That surprised you enough to blink.

“You… what?”

From his vest pocket, he pulled a little piece of faded blue fabric.

A handkerchief.

Clean.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

“It ain’t much,” he muttered quickly, already defensive. “Found it on a run. Thought maybe you could use it or somethin’. Ain’t dirty.”

The thing about Daryl was that people who didn’t know him thought kindness came hard to him.

They were wrong.

Kindness came naturally to Daryl.

What came hard was letting anyone see it.

You took the handkerchief like it was made of glass.

“It’s pretty.”

His ears immediately went red.

“Yeah, well.”

You smiled softly. “Thank you.”

He shrugged, but his shoulders loosened slightly.

You folded the fabric carefully. “Sit down.”

“Nah.”

“Daryl.”

Another sigh.

Then he finally lowered himself beside you against the wall, close enough that your knees brushed.

Neither of you moved away.

That part had become normal months ago.

The lingering.

The touches that lasted too long.

The way everyone else already looked at the two of you like the answer was obvious while the two of you danced endlessly around saying it aloud.

You rested your head lightly against the concrete wall.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

“Tired.”

“You punched that walker so hard this morning Rick thought you broke your hand.”

“M’fine.”

“You’re impossible.”

A tiny twitch pulled at the corner of his mouth.

Victory.

You’d learned to treasure every small smile Daryl gave you because each one felt earned.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You listened to the prison breathe around you.

Then quietly, Daryl said, “Merle used to say people like me ain’t built for this kinda thing.”

You turned your head slightly. “What kind of thing?”

He picked at a loose thread on his jeans.

“This.” He gestured vaguely between you. “Caring ‘bout people. Stayin’. Bein’… good to somebody.”

Your chest tightened instantly.

Because Daryl only talked about himself like this when something was eating him alive.

“Merle said a lot of things.”

“Wasn’t wrong ‘bout all of ‘em.”

“Yes, he was.”

He shook his head.

“You dun’t know what I was like before.”

“Then tell me.”

That made him freeze.

You saw it happen—the immediate instinct to retreat.

Daryl had spent his whole life surviving by keeping pieces of himself buried where nobody could touch them.

Carefully, you nudged his shoulder with yours.

“You don’t have to tell me tonight,” you said gently. “But one day, maybe.”

His throat worked.

“You make it sound easy.”

“It isn’t.”

“Then why d’you keep tryin’?”

The question came out rougher than he intended.

More vulnerable, too.

Like he genuinely didn’t understand.

You looked at him for a long moment.

Because there it was again.

That terrible, heartbreaking confusion Daryl carried whenever someone cared about him too openly.

As if affection was a language everyone else understood except him.

“Because you matter to me,” you said simply.

He stared straight ahead after that.

Didn’t answer.

But his hand shifted against the floor until his pinky brushed yours.

And stayed there.

The problem with loving Daryl Dixon was that he loved like a starving man.

Quietly.

Desperately.

Like he was afraid someone would realize they’d made a mistake and take it back.

You noticed it in pieces.

The way he always made sure your gas tank on runs stayed full before his own bike.

The way he stood between you and every threat without thinking.

The way he remembered tiny things you mentioned once months ago.

You mentioned missing strawberries one evening.

Three weeks later he handed you a crushed container he’d found on a run like it was treasure.

You got cold during winter patrols.

Suddenly there was always an extra blanket appearing near your bunk.

You had nightmares.

Daryl started lingering outside your cell at night pretending he “couldn’t sleep neither.”

He loved in actions because words frightened him.

Words could be rejected.

Actions could pretend to mean less.

But sometimes you caught him looking at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

And those moments gave him away completely.

Like now.

You were crouched in the courtyard helping Hershel sort medical supplies while afternoon sunlight spilled warm across the concrete.

You laughed at something Glenn said.

Across the yard, Daryl looked up from sharpening a knife.

And just… stared.

Not lust.

Not fleeting interest.

Something deeper.

Softer.

The kind of look people wrote poetry about before the world ended.

Carol noticed it too.

Of course she did.

Carol noticed everything.

She smirked as she walked past him.

“You gonna tell her before the apocalypse ends or what?”

Daryl nearly dropped the knife.

“Shut up.”

“She already loves you, you know.”

That hit him like a physical blow.

You saw it from across the yard—the immediate panic in his face.

Because Daryl didn’t think people loved him permanently.

He thought they tolerated him until they came to their senses.

Carol’s expression softened instantly.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

He looked away immediately.

And that was the first moment she realized just how deep the damage went.

The fight happened three weeks later.

Not between you and Daryl.

Between Daryl and himself.

Though you ended up caught in the crossfire anyway.

A supply run went bad.

Walkers poured into an abandoned grocery store faster than expected, and in the chaos, you got separated.

By the time Daryl found you outside, you had blood soaking through your sleeve from a deep gash in your arm.

Not fatal.

But enough to scare him.

You’d never seen Daryl angry like that before.

Not at you.

At himself.

“What the hell were ya thinkin’?!” he snapped while wrapping your arm back at the prison infirmary.

“I was trying not to die.”

“You shouldn’ta been alone!”

“And whose fault is that?”

His hands stilled.

Immediately, guilt crashed over your irritation.

Because his face—

God.

Like you’d confirmed every terrible thing he already believed about himself.

You exhaled shakily. “Daryl…”

“Nah.” He stood abruptly, backing away. “You’re right.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Always happens.”

His voice sounded distant suddenly.

Cold in the way Daryl only got when he was trying not to feel anything at all.

“People get hurt around me.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.”

“You saved me.”

“Too damn late.”

You stared at him in disbelief.

“You think this changes how I feel about you?”

He laughed once.

A hollow, ugly sound.

“You shouldn’t feel nothin’ for me.”

Anger sparked hot in your chest then.

Not because he was hurting.

Because he genuinely believed it.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

His jaw clenched.

“You dun’t understand.”

“Then explain it.”

He shook his head violently.

“No.”

“Daryl—”

“No!” His voice cracked hard enough to silence the room. “You got any idea what happens to people who get close to me?!”

You stood slowly despite the pain in your arm.

“Nothing happened to me.”

“You almost died!”

“But I didn’t!”

His breathing turned ragged.

Like panic and fury were tearing him apart from the inside.

“You deserve somebody better.”

There it was.

The real wound.

Not the walkers.

Not the blood.

That.

You stepped closer.

“I don’t want somebody better.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I mean it.”

His eyes finally met yours then.

And the devastation inside them nearly shattered you.

Years of abuse.

Neglect.

Being treated like he was less than human until he started believing it too.

“You dun’t know what you’re askin’ for.”

“I’m asking for you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I am.”

Daryl backed away again like your words physically hurt him.

Then finally, quietly, brokenly, he said:

“I love you.”

Your breath caught.

He swallowed hard.

“I love you,” he repeated, voice trembling now. “An’ I’m sorry.”

The apology destroyed you.

Not because it was dramatic.

Because he meant it.

Entirely.

Like loving him was something you’d eventually regret.

Like he was apologizing in advance for disappointing you.

Your eyes burned instantly.

“Daryl…”

“I tried not to,” he whispered. “God, I tried.”

He looked terrified.

Actually terrified.

Like this confession was the worst thing he could’ve handed you.

“You make me…” He dragged a hand over his face roughly. “Make me wanna be somethin’ better than what I am.”

“You are good.”

“No, I ain’t.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You dun’t know half the things I done.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

His voice broke completely then.

“You should,” he repeated weakly.

You crossed the room before he could retreat again.

Daryl stiffened when you grabbed his face.

Not because he didn’t want you touching him.

Because tenderness still startled him.

You held him there firmly until he finally looked at you.

“You listen to me,” you said softly. “Loving is not something to apologise for.”

His eyes flooded instantly.

You kept going.

“You are not a burden. You are not poison. You are not too broken to be loved.”

He shook his head automatically.

You tightened your hold slightly.

“Yes, you are loved.”

A tear escaped before he could stop it.

Daryl looked horrified by it.

You brushed it away gently.

“I love the way you protect people even when you’re scared. I love the way you act like kindness embarrasses you. I love that you feed Judith before yourself. I love that you pretend you hate people while spending every second keeping them alive.”

His breathing hitched.

“I love you,” you whispered. “And I am not sorry.”

That broke him.

Not loudly.

Daryl Dixon didn’t break loudly.

He just folded suddenly, forehead dropping against yours with a shattered sound caught somewhere deep in his throat.

You wrapped your arms around him carefully.

And after one long second of hesitation—

He held you back.

Like he’d been starving for it.

Like he’d spent his whole life waiting for someone to say stay.

“I ain’t good at this,” he admitted against your shoulder.

“You don’t have to be.”

“What if I screw it up?”

“You will.”

That startled a breath of laughter out of him.

You smiled through tears.

“So will I.”

His arms tightened.

“You really mean it?”

“Yes.”

“Even me?”

Especially him.

You kissed him before you could say it.

Soft.

Slow.

Certain.

Daryl made a wounded sound into your mouth like he couldn’t believe this was real.

His hands shook against your back.

Nobody had ever kissed him like they intended to stay afterward.

When you pulled away, he looked dazed.

“You didn’t have to pity me.”

And there it was again.

That reflexive self-hatred.

You cupped his face harder this time.

“Daryl Dixon, if you apologize for loving me one more time, I’m going to kiss you until you shut up.”

For the first time since you’d met him, Daryl laughed fully.

Real laughter.

Warm and rough and beautiful.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A small smile lingered on his mouth afterward.

Fragile.

But real.

Then he leaned down carefully, touching his forehead to yours again.

And quietly, like he was trying the words on for the first time in his life, he whispered:

“I love you.”

No apology this time.

Only truth.

You smiled instantly.

“I love you too.”

Outside, the dead still walked.

The world was still broken.

Tomorrow would still be dangerous.

But Daryl held you like he was finally beginning to understand something enormous:

That being loved did not require him to become someone else first.

And for the first time in a very long time, Daryl Dixon believed he might actually deserve to stay alive long enough to be happy.

[omg-imstillatotalmess]

I have so many thoughts about ex-boyfriend!Daryl that it's not funny. Especially S1 Daryl. Like he's such a douchebag, but he cares so much. Enjoy!

Pairing: Ex-boyfirend!Daryl Dixon x Reader

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who immediately thinks of you when the world goes to shit. He knows there's no way to get to you, and even if there was, you probably wouldn't go with him, so he never tries.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who feels a crushing sense of guilt for that.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who finds himself wondering if you survived. Wondering if he should be out looking for you.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who freezes up when Rick comes back to camp with you walking cautiously behind him.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who dumps his crossbow on the ground and starts striding up to you like the fucking terminator, before he can even really figure out how he feels, making everyone nervous.

Ex-boyfirend!Daryl who doesn't give a fuck that he's your ex because you're alive. Tired, scared, and a little worse for wear, but alive.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who takes your face in his hands and just looks at you. Doesn't kiss you because he doesn't think he deserves to, but looks at you like he used to. Like you're the lady of the lake. Like you hung the goddamn moon.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who feels like he can take a breath for the first time since he realized he had to leave you behind.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who takes a shaking breath and tries to say something to you, maybe an apology, maybe something else, but can't do it. The words just stick in his throat.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who damn near takes Rick's hand off when he tries to pull you away, thinking Daryl might hurt you.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who feels such a sense of relief when you lean into him and tell him you missed him.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who's shoving down tears by sheer force of will while you say the difficult things for him. You wondered every day if he was alive. Wondered if you should look for him. That you still love him.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who can't believe he's been handed a second chance with you in this new, fucked up version of the world.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who doesn't know how to apologize for what happened before, and instead tries to atone by making sure you always eat before he does, sleep in the safest place, and never get so far away from him that he couldn't protect you.

Ex-boyfriend!Daryl who's suddenly not your ex-boyfriend anymore.

[tw1sters]

Taste of Heartbreak

Heartbreak isn’t loud — it’s quiet, creeping, and cruel. You thought letting Dick Grayson go would break you. You never imagined it might kill you.

▸ PAIRING: Dick Grayson x F!Reader ▸ WARNINGS: so many reader insecurities (it's that kind of angst), hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, probably non-canon compliant things bc im new to this world, reader gets extremely hurt, hospital scenes ▸ WORD COUNT: 7.2K ▸ A/N: this is actually the first dick fic i ever wrote but didn't post until now! i seem to have a thing for exploring insecurities in relationships when im writing a new character (see clark and bucky). i love him so much, he is sooo loverboy. tom taylor's is also such fine shit jfc. i hope you enjoy <3 if you do, all likes/comments/reblogs are appreciated :)

The movies always describe heartbreak as devastation. A tragedy. A travesty. They talk about the feeling of their hearts being ripped out of their chest, beating bloody until they cease completely. They speak of the way their hearts stop suddenly, abruptly; a flare of panic only momentary before everything stills. 

What they don’t tell you is that that’s not at all how heartbreak works. Heartbreak is oftentimes dramatized for the sake of entertainment. An exaggeration of the moment a heart splinters into a million pieces, parts that are impossible to glue back together into a whole.

Real heartbreak occurs quietly. It chips at you slowly; small cracks at first until you can no longer ignore the gaping wound in your chest. The missing center behind your ribcage. By the time you realize what has happened, the hole is too big to fill. The chasm impossible to bridge. They don’t tell you that it sneaks up on you, the curl of a cold-blooded snake around your neck that restricts your ability to breathe, to function. It hisses in your ear, a gentle whisper that only gets louder when the puncture isn’t tended to. 

Before you know it, the serpent has bared its teeth and sunk its poison into you. 

You didn’t think you would experience heartbreak with Dick Grayson. The man is loyal, loving. He anticipates your needs before you can even determine what’s missing. Raised to be observant and thoughtful, Dick is a fierce protector of those he cares about. You happen to be lucky enough to be one of them. 

You’ve seen how he is with his family, his friends, the people that he chooses to protect with his body, mind, and soul. There is not a thing he wouldn’t do to keep those he cherishes safe, even if it means sacrificing himself. 

Because of all this, Dick has to juggle one too many priorities. Not only are they things he already planned on doing, but he also has to account for the emergencies that crop up from time to time. Given that this is Blüdhaven, time to time means all the time. 

You’re used to it. Coming in second, that is. 

Your relationship with Dick is relatively new. Your dates aren’t life or death. So when he has to up and leave in the middle of dinner, it’s something you’ve grown accustomed to. The moment his phone vibrates on the table, you set your expectations. 

The first vibration, he ignores. 

The second one, his eyes flick down to his device before he refocuses on you.

Third time’s the charm. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly after you finish recounting your day. “Let me just check and make sure it isn’t anything urgent.”

But you already know the answer to that. It’s always urgent. It’s the city. You can’t blame him for it. Corruption is the norm in Blüdhaven; it bleeds through every crack and corner. From the police commissioner to the mayor, to the elites. Dick is ambitious, he thinks he can rid the city completely of its decrepit moral compass. 

The flicker of guilt that passes through his baby blues is the first sign. Then comes the sour curl of his lips when he realizes that he can’t disregard the threat alert from Oracle. Then comes the sympathetic look when he finally turns back to you. 

It’s that look that you can’t stand. That’s the one that always gets to you. Because you don’t want him to pity you. 

So you plaster a smile onto your lips and nod. “Go. The city needs you.”

Apologies automatically fall from his lips as he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, presses his credit card into your hands, and takes off. His dinner sits cold on the pristine white tablecloth. 

And you wonder if there will ever come a time when Blüdhaven will no longer need Nightwing. Or Dick Grayson. 

Maybe then you’ll have a chance at coming first. 

In his defense — and perhaps it comes from months of making excuses first for him as a friend and then as a lover, he does try. He tries to make time for you, slipping you into the little gaps he has in between investigations, philanthropic work, and patrols. It’s how you met him in the first place. 

Your job at the community center allowed you some governmental access which you used to help him take down a few bad apples in the mayor’s office. Small-time fry. But then he started doing more work for the people, building affordable housing and programming to help the city’s children, and you started seeing more of this elusive Dick Grayson. 

At first, you had been starstruck. The man is renowned all throughout the city — a savior to the good, a menace to the bad. The more time you spend with him, the more you learn about the Dick that he doesn’t show to the outside world. 

It’s the man who is weary down to the bone, cutting off one evil head only for two more to grow. It’s the man who bears the city’s burdens on his shoulders, carrying the weight of a million expectations with the limited resources that he has. It’s the man who slinks back into your arms after a long day and curls himself around you like it’s the only place he is meant to be. 

Falling in love with Dick had been all too easy. It’s like taking a nosedive off a cliff, knowing you’ll land in a wide-open ocean with a life jacket. 

When you find out that he also spends his nights as the masked hero Nightwing, he had been wary of how you would react. It’s ridiculous to think that you would feel anything other than pride when you see him in full gear for the first time. 

For some reason, Dick feels… further once you learn this fact. He already felt unattainable before —untouchable — as this generous, intelligent billionaire, heir to the famous Wayne family. Now that you know he is also a crime-fighting superhero, you feel those buried feelings of insecurity rise to the surface. The creeping voices clawing into your skin to question how you could ever be an adequate partner for him. 

How could you — someone so normal, so average — compare to the living legend Dick Grayson?

Of course, once the Nightwing gates are open, you also see the people he surrounds himself with. Martians. Kryptonians. Shapeshifters. Trained assassins. And Barbara Gordon — how do you even begin to describe Barbara Gordon?

Between Kori and Barbara, you were convinced that Dick had a thing for redheads. Dick reassured you that he really didn’t have a particular preference. No, no preference in terms of hair, but you can clearly see the pattern — all of his exes are skillful. Powerful. Hot.  

Gorgeous in a way that takes your breath away. Not only that, they’re fierce and bold and intelligent. They are out there saving the world day in and day out, whether it’s through ultraviolet energy projections or hacking into the most secure servers on the planet. 

That monster inside of you peeks around the corner with its talons out, ready to pierce through your fragile heart once more. You hate yourself for even thinking this way. It’s part of his job, these are his friends. You should feel lucky that you were even introduced to them. 

But that feeling has taken root and consumed your heart. Insufficient. Inadequate. Incapable. Who are you compared to all this greatness? 

It’s why you keep your head down, why you keep your mouth shut even as the fissures begin to appear in your heart. You disregard them, brush them off as a temporary blip in your confidence. You tell yourself that you’re lucky Dick’s even giving you the time of day. You can’t be another burden for him to bear. You should be making his life easier. 

So when he apologizes, you wave off his concern and tell him to go out there and save the world, Boy Wonder, because that’s what he does. The world comes first. You come second. It’s how it’s always been. It’s how it should be. 

The deeper you try to bury these feelings, these insecurities, the greater the cuts you slice inside your heart. You’re carving it out slowly, an excruciating process as you try to preserve what’s left of your emotions. 

Dick makes it up to you each time with flowers, with butterfly kisses, with the gentle touch of his hand. He promises you that next time will be better. He keeps his word. A few dates over the course of a few weeks, uninterrupted time, undivided attention. You’re on cloud nine by the time he drops you off at the doorstep, lingering for a fraction longer, enough time for you to invite him in to stay. 

He does. Every time. 

There are nights he returns to your side in uniform. His suit ripped, blood coating his skin crimson. These are times you’re reminded that he’s mortal. Human. You’re reminded that you could so easily lose him in all the work that he does. 

Nothing makes you feel more powerless than knowing that all you can do is help him tend to the aftermath. Your hands shake when you dab the antiseptic, when you wipe off all the red, when you wrap up the gauze around his body. 

You’re different from Barbara who guides him, who serves as his eyes and ears, and maps him a solution and exit each time. You’re different from Kori who fights alongside him with powers that he doesn’t have. You’re different from Bruce, Jason, Tim, and Damian, who know him in such intimate ways, moving in sync as he works through the city. 

You are someone watching from the sidelines. A character that could be so easily removed from his story, and nobody would blink twice. 

The thought pains you, but you suck it up and deal with it anyway. It’s easy to let these thoughts go when Dick murmurs saccharine sweet phrases into your neck. It’s easy to forget your place when he marks constellations across your body when he feels like having your company. 

You didn’t think it could get worse. You can only help. Right?

But you’re proven wrong the one time you’re all gathered at the Wayne Mansion. It’s a family dinner. The mood is light, the drinks are flowing, the food is delicious. Laughter ripples through the table and, for once, you aren’t overthinking your place at the table. 

That is, until an alarm sounds and everyone is immediately on high alert. They all seem to know what to do, whipping into action quickly while you sit there frozen. 

Dick gears up and then stiffens when he remembers you still at the dinner table, watching them all in awe and surprise. He looks at Alfred who is also preparing to help with the potential invasion of the mansion, then looks at you. “Stay here, okay? I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

You open your mouth, ready to offer your assistance, but stop when you look around the room. How can you possibly even think about helping these heroes? They are the heroes of the story. You are the damsel in distress. 

“Okay,” is all you manage to say.

True to his word, Dick returns a few hours later. You’re right where he left you. He looks relieved to see you untouched, immediately coming up to you to inspect you. “Are you okay?”

Even when the worst is happening, his concern is on you. You’re adding more weight to his already hefty load. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure him. “Is everyone else okay?”

He softens and nods. “Yeah, they’re okay. Let’s get you home, yeah?” 

Dick’s kisses should’ve chased away those worries as they always have, but the feeling persists. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. An invisible scar you can’t heal. The feeling festers and grows, sprawling into this ugly hopelessness inside of you. 

It doesn’t disappear when Dick picks you up from work the next day, chattering on about the programs he is hoping to stand up with the help of the new mayor. 

It doesn’t disappear when the two of you run into Barbara outside of his apartment, telling him that there’s work to be done with Blockbuster.

It doesn’t disappear when Dick shoots you an apologetic look, asking for a rain check on your movie night — even when he’s already carrying the bags of popcorn and treats. 

The more you think about it, the more you consider where you stand with Dick. He’s already so busy with everything else. The last thing you want to be is another item on his checklist, another to-do to cross off. He already has enough on his plate, you don’t want to make it harder for him by adding another thing for him to complete. 

So you do what you thought was best. 

“I don’t think this is working out, Dick.”

Dick’s gaze falters, a shudder in his confidence. “What— why would you say that?”

“You’re very busy. You have a lot of things going on. I don’t think a relationship is a good idea right now.” Not for you, you add in your mind. This is for Dick, you remind yourself. This is to help him, the only way you know how. 

He’s quiet, lips pinched together as he frowns. The two of you were supposed to get lunch together, but you thought it best to sever it clean before the two of you sit down for what would likely be an awkward meal. So here you two are, standing in front of a restaurant. People mill about, barely paying you any mind. Some pause to look at Dick in admiration, but he is only looking at you. 

“Is this what you want?” His voice is lower when he asks this. 

No. But, of course, you don’t say that. 

“Yes. I think this is what’s best.”

A part of you wants him to resist, wants him to fight for you. That selfish part of you begs him to beg you to stay, to tell you that he wants this as much as you do. That he cares about you as much as you do him. 

But the responsible voice inside of you wants him to agree and walk away. 

Luckily – or not, he agrees with the latter. So the two of you hug and part ways. You walk away with shoulders held high and the tears streaming down your face. You don’t let him see it. You never want him to see it. 

And that’s the day you walked away from Dick Grayson.

It may be dramatic to say that there is your life before Dick and a life after him. You never thought you would ever consider romance to be the end-all-be-all of your life — and it isn’t. But Dick Grayson is something special, isn’t he? He isn’t just any romance. 

He is the romance. 

The type that sticks to you, a permanent fixture like he’s been tattooed and engraved into an everlasting mark on your skin. He clings to you like a persistent memory. No matter how many drinks you swallow, how many things you do to keep busy, you can’t seem to shake the thought of him when you’re alone.

The nights are the worst. The world inside your head is too quiet, even in a city like this one. Even when there are sirens blaring from every corner of your apartment and neon lights glare into your bedroom, you’re left to pick apart the decision you’ve made, constantly turning it over in your mind to determine whether it was the right one. 

There are nights when you find yourself reaching for your phone, your thumb hovering over his contact. It would be easy to call him, to ask for him back. You miss him, incredibly so. It would be so simple to send him a text saying as such. 

I miss you. What are you doing tonight?

Thinking of you, are you thinking of me?

I made a mistake. Will you have me again?

You try not to think about him, but the ask is akin to asking you not to breathe. Thinking about Dick comes naturally to you. It’s in the places you frequent, the ghost of him is the only constant lurking in the shadows. It’s the voice inside your head, calming you down when the city gets too much. It’s the absence that you feel the most — the sudden quiet when you don’t have him talking to you about his day, about his family, his friends, his ambition. The silence when he isn’t peppering you with follow-up questions about your week, sincerity and genuine curiosity entwined into his every syllable. 

And just as you’re swirling into this black hole, your phone lights up with an email reminder. A date the two of you were supposed to have. Movie tickets booked weeks ago because you had been so excited to see it, Dick had purchased the tickets immediately. With everything that has happened, you completely forgot to cancel it. 

However, instead of wallowing, you decide to go for it anyway. You’ve been cooped up in your home for too long, burying yourself under this mountain of self-despair. Quality time with your friends helped, but it didn’t cease the voices at night when you’re alone. 

The movie is good, it could’ve been better if you didn’t have this empty seat next to you. The theater is full and yet there is this one gap that sticks out like a sore thumb on opening night. Your mind is half on the movie and half imagining what it would be like to be here with Dick.

He would get popcorn ahead of time, with extra butter, just the way he knows you like it. He would get sweet tea, not cola, because he knows how you don’t like to pair bubbly drinks with airy snacks. He would let you hold onto the bucket and take it as an opportunity to reach closer to you whenever he grabs a handful, even sliding an arm around you to tuck you into his side. When the popcorn is gone, he would hold your hand, squeezing whenever he thinks you need the extra support. 

It’s an almost miserable experience. It’s pathetic how far gone you are for him that you can’t even enjoy time by yourself anymore.

But as they say, heartbreak is supposed to get easier with time. Eventually, you won’t remember what his touch felt like, the warmth of his body next to yours. You won’t think about him every time you pass by the basketball court he used to frequent to keep the neighborhood kids company. You won’t cry when you realize how many people you’ve gotten to know and lost in the process. You won’t think about him and you’ll remember that you can be perfectly content on your own again. 

You try not to fall under the weight of your worries as you step out of the theater. Everyone else filters out in pairs or groups, and you’re left standing there alone in the golden light that casts a glow across the rain-streaked sidewalk. You’re waiting for a cab. A cab that you will soon learn won’t find you. 

Not when you feel the breath down your neck.

“Aren’t you a pretty little bird?”

The unknown voice has you jumping, but not too far when a firm grip wraps around your bicep. Your eyes flash to betray your fear as you take in the masked assailant. He looks familiar, like a photograph hung somewhere in the back of your subconscious. Maybe one of Dick’s files that he tends to strew across your coffee table. 

“You’re Grayson’s girl. I’ve seen you around with him. Blockbuster’s going to want to see you.”

“I’m not— we’re not—” together, you want to say, but you don’t get a chance to finish your words when the man zaps you out cold. 

By the time you wake, there is a dull throbbing on your side where you’ve been electrocuted. The room smells of wastewater but looks relatively clean. You must be near the sewage plant. There is no one in the room and your eyes quickly dart around. What would Dick do in this moment? 

Your hands are tied up with a rope behind your back, feet against the legs of the chair. You systematically go through your surroundings. A shelf with all sorts of items. Books, random paraphernalia, and a glass bottle at the top. An idea pops up in your head, the films you watch finally coming in helpful; it might not be one that Dick approves, but he’s not here to scold you right now. 

Based on the distance and the weight of the chair, you scooch your way towards it. You use your shoulder to bump the shelf, rattling it with the little force you have. You can hear the bottle stumble a bit, but it’s not quite there yet.

Another hard push with your limited movement has it finally dropping on its side, rolling down the shelf until it lands, split in pieces, on the ground next to you. Now, you have to carefully drop yourself onto the floor, making sure you’re not getting the shards on your skin. There is no graceful way to do this, so you just tip yourself over. With your face pressed against the cold cement floor, your hands wriggle around behind you to grasp a piece of the glass, slicing the tip of your finger in the process, but at least you have this. 

Slowly, you use the jagged edge to cut through the rope. It’s an arduous process. The entire time, you’re praying that maybe — on the very off-chance — Dick is still keeping track of you. That he’ll notice your disappearance. Maybe he’ll come to your rescue. It’s a naive thought, but it’s the hope that you cling to.  

When your wrists are finally free, you get to work on your ankles. Another slice on your leg in your hurry to break free before your captors return. You don’t know where you are or how you plan to escape, but that tiny window looks promising. 

You’re halfway up the wall, standing on your chair, struggling to unlock the window when the front door swings open. You whip around and see the imposing figure duck into the room. Fuck. It’s Blockbuster. He is the man who’s been out for Dick’s blood for as long as you can remember. 

And now he has you, trapped in this room. His broad frame takes up nearly half the width of the space. You fiddle with the lock faster, praying for some miracle that you can escape in time. 

But the man doesn’t even give you a chance — his thick arms wrap around your torso before he lifts you up and throws you back onto the ground. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you hear bones cracking. The pain that shoots through you is fast, blistering, blinding. It’s hot-white and has your vision spotting. 

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty bird?” Blockbuster rumbles in vile amusement. “You’re not leaving this room. You’re not leaving this space until I get some answers.”

“Answers about what?” You spit out, the liquid coming out in a smattering of red on the grey floor. 

“Grayson. I want to know his weaknesses, his vulnerable points. I want to know everything there is to know about him to destroy him.”

The wide smile that stretches across his face has your stomach churning in disgust. He crouches on the floor, leans towards you, close enough that his platinum hair brushes against your face. 

“Or maybe you’re it. Maybe you’re his only weakness. Maybe I already have the pretty bird in my hands to take him down.”

“He’s not going to let you get away with this, or anything. He’s going to destroy you before you even come close to him.”

Blockbuster laughs, the sound booming. “This bird’s got claws. I can see why Grayson likes you. Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll break each one before you leave today. I’ll make sure you can’t sing for him anymore. I’ll make you squawk.” 

The threat settles in deep in your gut and your heart plummets six feet under. 

Then it begins. The beating, the brutalizing. You’re on the ground, against the wall, and flying through the air. Your face, your ribs, your hair, your legs, your arms. It goes on and on for what feels like hours. The only light you see is the one that hangs overhead, but even that begins to fade as your eyes struggle to stay open. Your chest heaves with heavy breaths, strained wheezes slipping past your lips in your desperate attempt to stay alive. The glass bits you were so adamant on avoiding before are now affixed to your skin like glitter. 

Your vision goes between white and red and pitch black. When you start to lose consciousness, he jolts you awake again. The only sounds ringing in your ear are his questions, now a jumbled blur of words, and a cacophony of foul laughter. 

You’ve never been religious but in those final moments, you pray. You pray for a savior. You pray that you’ll survive this. You pray that Dick doesn’t have to see you in your final moments.

Despite all that has happened, you like to hope that Dick still cares — and when Dick cares, you know he would live with this weight for the rest of his life. The last thing you want to leave him with is another burden to carry. 

Your ears start ringing from the abuse you’ve undergone. At some point, the pain no longer flares, it ebbs and flows as your body grows numb. Not a single part of you untouched. You don’t think the man even has questions anymore; he only takes ill gratification in the fact that he has destroyed something of Dick’s. 

You swear you hear a different voice, a different sound. No longer your screams or his laughter. A curse, a thud, a yell. Your brain can’t fully comprehend it, not when your senses can no longer be trusted. Not when they barely work. In the spread of red, you see glimpses of blue and black. 

You hear your name. You hear it before you feel a gentle touch, a brush that’s barely there on your head. 

Then it all goes black. 

“We need you to let her go. Sir, we are trying to help.”

“You don’t know what she’s gone through—”

“We will work to diagnose all her injuries. For now, we need you to let us do our jobs.”

“I’m surprised she’s still breathing. The damage she’s taken…”

“Let’s just get through this and let the family know.”

“Sir, this is family only—”

“I am her family,” Dick’s voice snaps back. You’ve never heard him raise his voice like that before. 

Then you hear someone else, more stern, still warm. Bruce. “If you’ll allow my son to stay with her, she doesn’t have family in the area. I’ll handle the paperwork, if you’ll lead me.”

“Sweet girl, I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m not leaving.”

“Dick, you need to eat at least. You can’t help her like this.”

“I’m the reason she’s here to begin with. I’m not leaving her.”

“How’s she doing?” The deep baritone, you think it’s Bruce. 

Dick’s voice frays at the edges, like he’s barely keeping it together as he inhales. You can feel his eyes on you. “Better. Doctors think she’ll be fine but she doesn’t have the energy yet to be fully conscious.”

“She’s a strong one. She’ll be fine, Dick.”

A pause. You wonder how Dick looks, if he’s been eating— “I don’t think I can ever forgive myself if she isn’t.”

“I should’ve been there with her, you know. We bought those tickets weeks ago. I thought she refunded them when she broke up with me. Didn’t think she’d go alone to such a late showing.” 

A sigh. More high-pitched. Maybe Barbara. She’s been worried sick about him based on how many times she has come to visit. Her voice is more familiar than others. “You can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known that would happen.”

“It’s Blüdhaven, of course, something like this would happen. I should’ve expected this, that’s my entire job.” 

“Babs sent me here to deliver this. Can you please just eat first? Everyone’s worried about you.”

There’s the rustling of a plastic bag. You hope that Tim picked up Dick’s favorite Thai spot downtown, the one with the pad see ew he likes. Hopefully, that’ll cheer him up. “Thanks, but I’m good for now.”

“Dick, you’re not doing anyone any favors by punishing yourself. What would she say if she saw you like this, huh?”

“Well, she can’t really say anything now, can she? Because of me.”

“Stop blaming yourself. It’s Blockbuster’s fault. She wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Should’ve been me in this bed.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. God, I’ll do anything — I’ll give up anything. Just please wake up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t do this without you. I need you to wake up, pretty girl. Need to see those eyes again. Need you looking at me again.”

“I swear I’ll do better. I’ll work harder. Please. Don’t take her away from me.”

When your eyes finally flutter open, you feel as if it’s been years since you’ve seen the light. The bright fluorescent lamps above blind you as you groan and turn away. Crust nearly keeps your eyes shut but you reach up to brush them away, only to wince at the searing pain by your side.

“Hey, pretty girl, easy. Don’t move too fast. You’re hurt.” 

Dick. You slowly turn to the side to find him there. Then you briefly analyze your surroundings. 

White. All white. Hospital. The only splashes of color are in the flower arrangements sitting at the end of your bed. Large and wild. Alive. 

You’re alive. 

Christ, you’re alive. 

But Dick — he looks disheveled, the most you’ve ever seen him at least. There’s certainly more than a day’s worth of stubble peppering his jaw, his blue eyes shadowed by the circles surrounding them. His hair is a mussed-up mess, like he’s been running his hand through it nonstop for days. 

He’s fast to approach, gentle to touch. You swear you see the slight tremble in his fingertips as he brushes your hair away from your face. His eyes search yours, drinking you in like he is memorizing every inch of you. Old habits die hard, you suppose. He’s probably cataloging your injuries as if the doctor hasn’t done that already. 

“Hey, Dick,” you smile weakly, the stretch painful. Your throat feels dry, your voice comes out grainy. There’s a stiffness around your neck, which you soon realize is a brace. It hurts to breathe, let alone speak. “What day is it?”

Dick scrambles to grab the glass of water at your bedside table. He eases the rim between your lips, letting the cool liquid slowly pour between your chapped lips. “Easy, not too much. Not too fast,” he whispers, then adds, “Been four days.”

“Hmm, that’s a while, huh? Hope my boss doesn’t fire me for missing work that long. God knows we’re understaffed.”

Your attempt to laugh falls short when you feel the piercing twinge in your stomach, and it comes out as a raspy cough instead. 

Dick’s eyes widen and you shake your head to reassure him. You don’t like the way his forehead creases in concern, how dim his usually bright eyes are. Dick forces a smile at your poor endeavor at humor. “No, I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetheart. Called in for you.”

“Good. What a waste of PTO though.”

“Sweet girl,” Dick breathes out, closer this time as he leans forward and presses his lips against your temple. You barely feel it, still slightly numb under the bandage wrapped around your head. His breath is shaky when he exhales. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been there.”

You roll your eyes, but it only makes your head ache. “Don’t be silly. Why would you have been there? It wasn’t as if we had plans.”

“We were supposed to go together. We—” Dick chokes on his words as he sits on the chair next to your bed, bringing your hand up to his face and flattens the back of it against his cheek. “I’m sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that I wasn’t there.”

“You were, Dick. You came for me. I knew you would.”

“I wasn’t fast enough.”

“You were as fast as you could be.”

“I didn’t get him. I wanted to, but you were there and you were hurt and I needed to get you to the hospital first. He escaped and—”

“You’ll get him next time.”

“I let you get hurt.”

“You didn’t do anything except save me.”

Dick’s lips quiver as he inhales again, as he looks at you. 

“I love you.”

Then you hear another sharp gasp. Yours. 

“I love you. I should’ve told you that a long time ago, pretty girl. I love you so much. I shouldn’t have let you walk away. I should’ve fought harder for you. I just— I thought you deserved better than me. Someone who could treasure you properly. Hopefully, someone who loves you as much as I do, even if I don’t think it’s possible.”

Your throat is tight. Whether it’s the tears or from the injuries you’ve sustained, you’re not entirely sure. Your question is only answered when you taste the saltiness on your tongue, your fingers reaching up to touch the wet mess rolling down your face. 

“But I can’t let you go. People think I’m selfless, but god — I’m so fucking selfish when it comes to you. Never want you to leave my side again. I want you close so I can protect you, keep you safe, love you proper. I want you to know how much you mean to me. I want to remind you of it every day. I took it for granted before, but never again. I love you. I’ll do it right this time, if you’ll let me. If you’ll still have me.”

“Dick…”

“God, look at me babbling away when you should be resting,” Dick huffs, disgruntled with himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the doctor. I should’ve done that first.”

“Stay.”

“I have to—”

You reach for his fingers again, intertwining them. It’s been a while since you’ve had his big hands up close. These hands always remind you that you’re safe, that you’re his. Gentle, a contradiction against the harsh touch of Blüdhaven. “Just for a little while.”

Dick glances between the door and your joint hands in conflict. He caves in to you, because — of course, he does. He’s never been one to deny you when you want to touch him. It’s his weakness. If Clark had his Kryptonite, he had you. 

“For a little bit,” he murmurs reluctantly, “but I want them to check on you right after this, okay? I have to make sure you’re good.” 

For a while, the two of you let the silence seep in. It wraps around you like a blanket, warm and steady. The worries of the past few days — even the past few weeks — seem to melt away as you let your eyes slide close once more, your head pressing back into the pillow. Dick’s fingers twitch in your hand and you give him a squeeze to assure him you’re okay. 

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. You can’t meet his eyes. Not for this. “I wasn’t scared of Blockbuster. I was scared of what would happen if you found me a minute too late. If I didn’t make it.”

“Wh— why would you be scared of that?”

“Because I know you’d blame yourself. You already have, even though you saved me. I didn’t want to be another weight to carry. Another burden on your shoulders.”

There is a fracture in Dick’s voice when he says your name. Like a prayer. Like a desperate plea. “You could never be a burden. I— I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t make it in time. I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Might make things easier for you,” you try to tease, but the joke lands bitter on your tongue. “One less thing to worry about. I guess I already was when I ended things.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, you can’t even hear him breathe. So you turn to look at him again, curious eyes finding his slumped shoulders. “Don’t even joke about that. That’s not something I’m entertaining. I’m never not worrying about you,” he mutters, “kept tabs on you even after you broke up with me. I wanted to make sure you always had someone looking out for you, even if it’s someone you didn’t care about anymore.”

You frown then. “Why would you think I don’t care about you?”

His head tilts in question then, brows furrowing. “Isn’t— I mean, isn’t that why you ended things? Because you weren’t interested in me anymore. I wasn’t a great boyfriend, I know that. I should’ve done more. That’s on me. I just thought, you… didn’t care about me anymore. Maybe you found someone else.”

“Dick, oh my— no, not at all. I just—” your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the truth hanging on the tip of your tongue but you refuse to let it slip. 

He looks at you with such earnest eyes, ones that urge you to continue. 

How can you say no to him? How could you think for one second you could let him go?

“I thought it would be easier for you, if we broke up,” you admit quietly and are immediately answered by the deepening of his frown, “you have so much going on. Between Nightwing, Blüdhaven and Gotham, and all the community outreach you were doing, it just didn’t seem like you had time for a relationship. It’s not as if I was helping you in any way, I can’t really do that. Not like the others. So I did what I thought was best.”

The look on Dick’s face now, you don’t think you ever want to see again. He looks absolutely crestfallen. His lips slightly parted, eyes carrying the sort of melancholy that comes after a loss. “You— fuck, you thought that breaking up would be easier for me? How can you— what would even make you think that? I know I’ve been busy and I haven’t been the best boyfriend, but god, you— you never made things harder. Ever. If anything, I feel so much lighter with you around. I feel as if I could breathe again. When this city chokes out the last of me, I know I’ll at least have you. And god, I wasn’t perfect, I was a terrible boyfriend, but you put up with me. I don’t know why you did for as long as you did, but— I didn’t know that’s how you felt with me. I wish you’d told me.”

A laugh of disbelief escapes him, rising from his chest with acid on his tongue. 

“You were always so patient. I thought— I thought that’s all you wanted from me. A few dates here and there. I didn’t want to ask more of you, didn’t want to scare you off. I can be intense, overwhelming. I know I can certainly be, and I didn’t want you to think I was being too demanding.” 

“Dick, you’re… unbelievable. Do you know how much I admire you? Everything that you do? Sometimes, I don’t know what you see in me. When you have all these incredible people around you, when you’re doing all these incredible things. I didn’t think I’d be… enough.”

Dick stands then, cupping your face in his hands. His eyes are wild, alive now. It’s as if he’s been electrified in the last few moments of your conversation. “You are more than enough. You’re everything. Every day I see how hard you work, how much of your heart you put into this city and its people, and it reminds me of why I want to protect this city. It’s because of you. I want you safe, I want you happy here — with me. God, I fucking love you, you know that. I’m going to remind you of it every day. If you’ll let me have you again, I promise you — you’ll never have a doubt in your mind ever again when it comes to where you stand with me. You’ll see what I see in you.”

You crack another small smile, cheeks aching. You’re probably ripping open a couple of stitches, but it’s worth it when Dick breathes a sigh of relief. “Love you too, Dick.”

The smile he offers you is magnificent. The kind that you memorize, print, and tuck away for safekeeping on a rainy day. He presses another kiss to your forehead, then your hand. Firm this time. More confident. He hesitates before he leans to brush his lips against yours. 

And it feels like homecoming. 

“I’m going to put a tracker on you from now on. I’ll drop you off at work and pick you up. I’ll install new security measures in your office and our apartment—”

“Our?”

He freezes then flushes, pink tinging his neck. “If you want. I mean, I think you’ll be safer there. I know we haven’t been together long but I’ll feel better if you’re with me. We can spend more time together, I don’t have to let you go at the end of the day. If you’re not comfortable, I’ll set up a separate room for you first — not to say I won’t be crashing in there every night, but—”

“Dick,” you reprimand teasingly. “I’ll think about it. That’s a big move.”

“Right, yeah. Of course. You don’t have to. I’ll implement new security cameras and sensors at your place. I’ll booby trap some of the windows so no one can break in. We’ll upgrade your—”

“Dick,” you say again, softer this time. “Your offer isn’t a bad thing. I just… I have to think about it. I love you, I do. It’s just been a lot.”

He nods solemnly and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Always working. Always looking for a solution. 

“It’s not a no, baby.”

The pet name has him perking up, his eyes illuminating for the first time in a while since you’ve seen him. Crystal blue staring right back at you. 

“And Dick—”

“Yeah?”

“Probably time to get the doctor. I might’ve split open a few stitches.”

“Oh, shit yeah.” He jumps to his feet, ready to run out when you call for him again. He pops his head back in, gaze curious, happy, concerned. 

Your lips tug into a smile. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, pretty girl.”

dick is flying to (taglist): @catclaw1 @lunexiax @esunarint @lunaryoongie @alli0-0 @avgdestitute @parker-barnes-af @onecojg @lynnidc @winnichu173 @c3liaaaaa @my-drvidess @fruitypebsworld @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @take-it-on-the-run @a-very-fictional-girl @eiaf4uwn @vivianna2392 @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @its-pomegranite @athenxt

+ add yourself to my taglists !

[killshotx]

Dex fantasizes about killing your exes btw. It’s like. A comforting daydream he comes back to when he’s feeling stressed. God forbid you run into one of them while you’re out together, he would be stood behind you like a Doberman locked onto a squirrel. Not even trying to hide how much he wants to beat them to death in the middle of this Whole Foods.

“What if we’re on good terms though” EVEN WORSE!! now they’re a threat and he has to kill them so you can never go back to them. Do not even try to stay friends with any of your exes he will be puking crying rolling around on the floor hysterical. Non-zero chance that you read an article the next week about them dying of blunt force trauma to the head

[tinysunshine-deactivated2026020]

━━━ ✧˖° 𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘, 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐇𝐄’𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀 𝐌𝐀𝐍

‎ ‎ [ 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐥 𝐝𝐢𝐱𝐨𝐧 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 ]

female reader, inclusive language. minors dni.

kinks: protective daryl, reader is extremely girly and feminine, fingering, very light dom/sub, fucking on a motorcycle, daryl sucks his fingers, pet names, oral sex, cum swallowing, slightly rough sex, some dirty talk, true love

warnings and triggers: age difference, reader is a former sex worker, trauma bonding, violence, death, slut shaming, bullying

word count: 13.4k

plot with porn, slight alternate universe.

you’re known as the princess of your group - soft, feminine, a girly girl who doesn’t want to get her hands dirty. despite the cruel new world you’re living in, you still hold on to whatever remnants of beauty you can find, hoping for a better tomorrow.

daryl is the opposite of everything you stand for. he’s hardened, rugged, ruthless - he’ll do whatever it takes to survive. despite your differences, you find yourselves drawn to each other in ways nobody, not even you two, can really understand. you bring softness to his strength, and in daryl you find a friend, a lover, a protector.

he’s everything you find warm and safe in this cold, scary world. you cling to him, and the best part?

daryl clings back.

“Cookies?”

The look Daryl gives you actually makes you crack a smile, and it’s a nice feeling. It’s been a long time since you smiled, now that you think about it - but it’s not like you’re keeping score. 

Because if you were - you’d probably be able to count the amount of grins that’ve graced your face in the last eight months on one hand. Life has been brutal to everyone this year.

“I know it sounds weird,” you explain, crossing your legs on the rock you’re sitting on. Daryl’s supposed to be keeping watch of the camp while Rick and a few other men from the group make a run into the neighboring town for supplies. The plan was, because even the smallest things need well thought out plans in this world, that the women and children of the camp would rest, and if Daryl saw any walkers, he’d wake everyone up. 

Sort of dumb, in theory, with how fast things happen when walkers are added to the equation, but it’s all this group has got. 

Plans and Rick’s hope. 

You’re supposed to be resting too, since yesterday was a travel day - long and exhausting. But you can’t sleep. You’ve got a headache, you’re hungry, and your sleeping bag is still a little damp from your water bottle, the plastic gone thin from having been dropped too many times, breaking while you drove from your last destination. Your tent is cold and you’re sharing it with a single woman who has a child, and their crying is really starting to bum you out. 

So you decided to join Daryl keeping watch. He’s perched on a little ledge that overlooks the rest of the camp, able to see anything coming or going before anyone on the ground can. You’re not great with a gun, but since the world went to shit, you can handle yourself pretty well.

You want to help protect the camp and everyone in it, especially since you asked Rick to pick up another reusable water bottle for you while he was in town. The look on his face was so priceless it actually made you a little sad. 

“Doesn’t just sound weird,” Daryl replies, shifting to get more comfortable on the grassy ground. There’s another rock for him to sit on, but it’s something you’ve noticed about him - Daryl always chooses to sit close to the ground, even if there’s a proper place for him to sit. “It is weird,” he grumbles the last part, busying himself with chucking a rock a few feet away while a squirrel scampers up a tree. He curses under his breath, no doubt pissed at himself for not securing another meal. 

You’re distracting him. You should feel bad, but you don’t. 

Before walkers and the end of the world as you knew it, you used to be so concerned with manners. Worried about what others thought about you more than you worried about your own well being. You’re not like that anymore. It’s a dark, although funny thought - that it took something as drastic as an apocalypse to finally rid you of your people pleasing habit. 

There’s a crunching sound a few yards away that has the both of you tensing up, frozen while you listen for the sound of growling, but it never comes. Daryl visibly relaxes after a minute, which is your cue to start talking again. He just listens, although from the angle you’re sitting at, you swear you see him roll his eyes. 

“You ever think about how weird it is, the stuff we miss?” You ask, but you already know he’s not going to reply. Daryl rarely replies, but you know he’s listening. You don’t have any real proof that he is - but what else would he be doing while you chat his ear off? He can stand up for himself, doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do - if he didn’t want you talking to him, he’d tell you to fuck off. 

It’s a small victory you hold close to your heart - the fact that he just puts up with you. You continue. “I mean, everyone always says they miss things like hot showers, electricity, or whatever. I do, but I guess it’s not the thing I miss the most. For me, it’s cookies. But not bakery cookies. The kind of cookies you get from the store, the cheap ones. When you flatten the cookie dough yourself, and no matter what, always burn them or undercook them,” as you talk about it, you can taste the ghost of cookies past on your tongue. It waters a little, your mouth, which goes to show you just how hungry you are. 

All you eat these days are protein bars and uncooked cans of whatever food the group can find. Sometimes, with your eyes closed and your breath held, you’ll try bits of squirrel or owl or whatever other animal Daryl hunts and shares with the group, but even the thought makes you nauseated. You never knew you’d be able to have preferences when the other choice is starving to death, but the difficult human spirit prevails, you suppose. 

Daryl glances at you, and although it’s pretty dark, the moon shines light enough that you can see his expression. You’d expect his face to be mean, aggravated - tired. Listening to a young woman ramble about baking cookies while his body is on high alert to protect an entire fucking camp - but instead, Daryl’s expression is soft. He lets you continue, although his reaction does remind you that you’re also on guard. But aren’t you always?

The gun strapped to your hip and the knife in the pocket of your boot feel extra heavy at the reminder. 

You clear your throat, trying to keep your voice low. God forbid a fucking walker kills you or anyone else in this group because you couldn’t shut up about cookies. 

“Maybe it’s stupid, you know? I just,” you look down, playing with the zipper on your jacket. Suddenly, you feel really embarrassed. On the spot. Daryl probably thinks you’re a fucking idiot. Your face heats up. 

But it’s not just the cookies. You leave out the part where the cookies remind you of your parents. How your mom, when she was alive, used to make them for you after a rough day. That those cookies were the staple of every sleepover you’ve ever had with your best friends. How those cookies were -

“It ain’t,” Daryl’s voice takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him, brows furrowed. You catch his eyes for only a second, before he looks away quickly, pretending to be occupied by something on the dirty ground. “It ain’t stupid,” he finishes. 

You wonder that night, after Rick and the others come back to relieve you and Daryl of your duty, while you’re laid up in your sleeping bag that hardly protects you from the cold - what does Daryl miss? Sure, out of everyone in the group, he’s most equipped at living this kind of life. Knows how to hunt, can stomach raw fucking meat, isn’t scared of anything, or so he says. What reminds him of home? What thoughts comfort him?

Surely, whatever those thoughts are, they’re not as dumb as store bought cookie dough. 

But what Daryl said stuck with you. Not stupid. You fall asleep, albeit with one eye open, feeling a little less cold. 

Because for a moment, Daryl’s understanding?

It made the world feel a little less broken.

────

“Gross,” you mutter, blood slashing on your face. You just shot a walker in the head, and your ears are ringing from the loud noise of the gun. You’ll never get used to firing that thing. How loud it is, the way your hand shakes even minutes after you pull the trigger.

Daryl comes from behind you, and he lets out a laugh. It’s low, short - if you weren’t trained to hear the noise, you’d miss it. Because really - it’s like you’ve literally trained yourself to look for little cues that Daryl is having a good time. Or, since you doubt anyone these days is having a good time, at least that he’s alright. That he’s not annoyed at you for hanging around him or talking to him or irritated at your presence in general. 

“Blood on your face grosses you out, but you’ll pick through walker guts for a bottle of nail polish,” he shakes his head, but it's not like he’s judging. In fact, Daryl actually seems a little…fond? He’s teasing you, and normally the reputation you have in this group as a girl that’s afraid to get her hands dirty, too girly to do anything for yourself - it stings. 

But not when it comes from Daryl. You can tell he’s teasing, and you roll your eyes playfully. 

“Didn’t dig in walker guts for that nail polish,” you remind him, even as he walks past you to lead the way. You glance at his back, the angel wings on his leather vest, and will yourself to stop the heat rushing to your face and the arousal pooling in your belly at how fucking strong he is. Big arms, muscles that look like he should be on the cover of a body building magazine instead of in these creepy woods with a crossbow. You gulp. “There was a little blood in the nail polish section when we did a run the other day. I cleaned it off the bottle I wanted. No biggie.”

Daryl scoffs, and you smile. “Yer crazy, girl,” he replies, and at that you look down at your nails. Baby pink, the same color you always used to choose when you’d get your nails done back at home. You could shiver with pleasure, just from thinking about the feeling of warm water on your hands, someone paying special attention to your cuticles - lotion, that you don't have to share with every other woman at the camp. The polish you’re wearing, painted just two days ago, is chipped and stained red with walker blood, but it’s better than nothing. 

Makes you feel a little more human. A little more like a woman. A little more like yourself.

Now, if only you could find some hairspray and a razor. 

You’ve been joining Daryl whenever he lets you - or, more truthfully, whenever Rick tells Daryl it’s okay for you to join him. Rick still doesn’t believe that you know what you’re doing, thinks of you as a liability, but you’re determined to prove yourself. You got to go on a run the other day, and today, Daryl went to check out the perimeter of the grassy hill the group is currently camping in, and you volunteered to go with him. 

“You sure?” Rick had asked when the plan was originally made, looking at Daryl with squinted eyes. He pretended like you didn’t exist, even as you were standing right next to him. Daryl nodded. “S’okay with me. I’ll look out for her. Bring yer gun,” he told you, and you nodded, skipping after him down the trail. 

Around Daryl, and maybe this is why you like him so much - it’s easy to feel like a woman. Easy to feel safe, too. Daryl just knows what he’s doing, and he’s so strong, big, can handle so much. Being around him feels good, but you know it’s all just a farce. 

You’re not safe and neither is Daryl, a fact that becomes even clearer when you almost trip on a dead body by a stream you’re both passing on the way back to camp, alerting a walker that was only a few yards away. Daryl was able to kill him with an arrow, but it was a close call. 

One minute, laughing and talking. The next, like you’re begging death to open the door after ringing his doorbell a few too many times. 

You walk back to camp in silence, walker blood splattered on the both of you. When you get back, it’s nearly dark, and you help a few of the other women finish some laundry and keep an eye on a few restless kids. Life sucks in this world as an adult - but you can’t imagine living like this as a kid. Although, you think, watching them throw dirt at each other and believe the food their mothers are giving them really tastes just like chicken nuggets, maybe being so clueless is for the best. 

After dinner, on your way to your tent, you see Rick and Daryl talking. You try to listen in, pretending that you’re just getting your sleeping bag ready for bed, but you don’t hear anything of importance. Meaning, you don’t hear either of them bring up your name. You feel like a highschooler, desperate for friends, eager to belong - hoping your crush notices you. 

Because that’s what this is with Daryl, isn’t it? You’ve got a crush on him. Butterflies, wanting his attention, looking for excuses to be around him. It’s pathetic but a little beautiful, you admit - that even in a situation like this, where death surrounds every person, no matter who they are - there’s room in the human spirit for a little love. 

A crush, you think again, fixing your nails in your tent. You can almost convince yourself that life isn’t so horrible, just for a minute, until the woman you share your tent with comes in for bed and complains that the smell of the polish is too strong and makes it hard for her to sleep. 

Okay, bitch, you say in your head. It’s not like the walker guts and dead bodies beyond our tent smell any better. You bite your tongue and walk out of the tent, making your way to the empty clearing a little ways away from the tents. It’s so quiet, there’s no way you wouldn’t hear a walker if one was to come around you, but you have a knife on you just in case. No gun, since the noise would just draw more to you. 

You think these things through. You just wish Rick, and the rest of the group, would see that too. 

It’s dark, except for the moon and the stars shining pretty above you. Maybe the little fact you read online years ago about the environment is true - people are the cause of everything bad and all the pollution. A little more than half a year into the apocalypse, and there’s no smog clogging up the skies. It’s a gorgeous night. 

You sit with your hands flat on the ground, waiting for your nails to dry. You get a good few minutes of silence, until the noise of footsteps has you nearly jumping out of your boots, reaching for your knife, only to realize that it’s not a walker, but Daryl coming to plop down next to you.  

“Gosh, Daryl. You scared me,” you complain, letting out a whine. He doesn’t say anything, just sits next to you on the ground, although he moves so his back is facing your back. Makes sense, so you're both safe from all angles. Daryl always thinks about little things like that. 

He’s quiet for long enough that you start to think of something to fill the silence. “Damnit,” you mutter, letting out a huff. “I ruined my nails.”

“Oh, quit it,” Daryl replies. “Whatcha doin’ out here all by yerself? You got a death wish, girl?” You’re mortified that Daryl is scolding you like you’re a kid, like you’re an idiot, and coming from him it just hurts even more. 

You’ve always had an even temper, but in this new world, you lose it more often than you used to. It’s probably just the way life is now - the stress, the hunger, the cold and the dirt and the sweat and the lack of anything that used to bring anyone joy. It makes everyone crazy. 

“Yeah, well - ‘m sure your buddy Rick hopes a walker gets to me. Know he was talking shit about me earlier.” You sniffle, but you’re not crying yet - it just really hurts, that you feel like such dead weight at this camp. You’ve never really been insecure, but you feel like nobody likes you. Nobody understands you. And yeah, surviving is more important than being miss popular with a group of people in the apocalypse, but everyone’s always talking about this group being family. Does that include you? It doesn’t feel like it these days. 

Daryl is silent, as you expected. Normally you don’t mind the company, even if it’s a mute one, but tonight you’re feeling on edge. Until Daryl speaks. “Rick ain’t my friend. No one wants you to die, kid. Yer too much,” he mutters, and then you stand up, aggravated and not wanting to take it out on him. 

You begin to walk away when Daryl reaches out and grabs your ankle to stop you. “Daryl,” you warn, as if you’d do anything to retaliate even if he pulled you on the ground with him. But you keep up the hard ass attitude - it feels good, you admit, being difficult for once. You don’t get to be anything but accommodating at camp. 

“Rick and I were sayin’ how valuable you are to the group. How much you’ve grown,” he explains, and you roll your eyes, make a show of stomping away, knowing, loving that Daryl is right on your heels. Because there’s no reason for him to stay in that clearing - he’s not on watch tonight. He was only hanging around there for you. 

Despite acting like Rick’s comment meant nothing to you, on the inside, as you walk to your tent, you fight a smile. So Rick has noticed your effort. That’s all you wanted, except - 

You realize that maybe approval you wanted so badly never needed to come from Rick - 

Because the approval from Daryl feels pretty damn good.

────

Daryl fixes you with a look that makes you burst out laughing. 

You’ve only been at this spot in the woods for a few weeks, but so far, quality of life among the camp has improved. Almost a year in this new world, and this is the first time anyone’s ever slept with both eyes closed since before people turned into the living dead. There’s a river nearby perfect for fishing, and tonight at the campfire, you had your first taste of - what did Daryl call it?

Sushi.

“Just so you know,” you say, crossing a leg over the other on the little log you’re sitting on. The sun is going down, and the sky is a pretty shade of pink and even a little purple. You wonder if nature has always been this beautiful - you’d always just been too preoccupied to see it. You put a tiny piece of the fish Daryl caught and cooked into your mouth, surprised at the taste. You don’t have to fake your reaction. It’s not bad at all - but you wouldn’t necessarily say it’s good. Tastes better than another can of old spaghetti rings though, that’s for sure. 

Still, you can’t help teasing. You finish your original statement. “Sushi tastes much better than this.”

Daryl smiles, just slightly. And not the fake kind of smile he does when he’s just trying to be polite. Like when an elderly man from the group tells a joke no one else laughs at, or when the strap of your last bra broke and you started crying until Rick promised, cheeks red, that he’d look for your size on the next run.

Right now, it seems like Daryl’s actually having a good time. 

The thought makes you smile.

“Thank you,” you tell Daryl, and you swear you see him blush. “It's better than sushi, really.” 

“Yeah,” Daryl says, nodding. He’s grown uncomfortable with the compliments already. “It’s the best yer gonna get.” Others from the group join you around the campfire, and then Daryl takes off, but not before giving you one last lingering gaze. He has small eyes, you’ve noticed - a little hooded, but so beautiful. He’s incredibly handsome, in a unique way. A pretty, no, beautiful man. His stare burns you, warms you up even with the chill in the air.

It’s only later, when the rest of the group clears off and you and Daryl are alone again, that he speaks. He’s sharpening a knife, leaning on the side of a camper van for support, and you’re at a makeshift sink (bucket) washing the dishes. It was your least favorite chore before this new world, and it’s still your least favorite after. 

But, if you let your mind go there - something about the dynamic between Daryl cooking dinner and you cleaning the dishes up has you - 

No. You’ve got to stop acting so juvenile. 

On one hand, this little crush you have on Daryl is something positive that gets you through the day. Waiting to talk to him, excited to be around him - it shines light on a dark, terrible reality. On the other hand, getting attached to anyone at this camp is a bad idea. You just lost someone else a few days ago. 

The reality, that death really is lurking everywhere - that something could happen to you, or Daryl…it makes your palms sweat and your breathing become erratic. The reality of this new world is just so scary and cruel.

You’re done with the dishes and you dry your hands on an old flannel that the camp uses as a dish towel. You feel Daryl watching you, and you like it. 

“What are you looking at?” You tease, pushing some hair away from your face. “There a walker behind me or something? 

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t look at no walker like that,” he grumbles, but then he must realize what he said - what it really means. You’re so excited you’re almost vibrating, wondering, realizing now - that maybe this crush isn’t one sided. But you still try to play it cool, even as Daryl shakes his head, says, “Wasn’t lookin’ at nuthin.’”

You don’t know what to say to that. You begin to walk away, excited to spend the rest of the night in your tent going over this interaction until you fall asleep, but what Daryl says next stops you in your tracks. You freeze.

“Gotta get you a bra on the nex’ run,” he says, and your knees feel weak. “Those things almos’ poked me in the eye. You cold or sumthin’?’”

You fast walk to your tent, nearly crying from embarrassment - but your entire body is dizzy with excitement. It’s adrenaline, but not the same kind you get when you’re running or kill a walker and make it out alive - a different kind, one you haven’t felt since maybe even before the walkers. It lights you up inside, makes it hard to breathe - and the funniest part?

Daryl has no idea your nipples are hard because you’re aroused - all from watching him sharpen a knife. What can you say? A man who can handle a weapon like that can surely handle…other things.

────

The fire crackles as you sit back, the warmth from the flames doing little to ease the chill in your bones. It’s freezing outside, but you’re under a warm blanket, and if you delude yourself enough you can almost convince yourself that this is just a toasty evening with friends and not a risky fire that could very well lead walkers directly to the camp.

But there’s nothing the group can do - it’s simply too cold to go without a fire tonight. Even Daryl, king of having his arms always showing, is in a jacket tonight. Which sucks, because you really love looking at his arms…but this is survival.

There’s hushed conversation while Rick tells a story, a few pairs to the side chattering, and you feel left out until you notice that Daryl isn’t talking to anyone either. He’s just looking at the ground, then the fire, gaze flickering to you every few minutes. 

And you only notice that because your eyes can’t stay off of him. You can’t help it - it’s like you’re always looking for him. There’s something about that man, as dumb as it sounds, that makes him feel like your own security blanket. Even seeing him from across the camp, just a glimpse, can settle your nerves like nothing else. 

Suddenly, a voice from next to you tries to get your attention. It’s Derek, a decent looking guy about your age - but he’s pretty useless, as far as skills go. He accompanies the rest of the men for runs into town, can kill a walker if necessary, but he’s selfish and all about himself. Won’t even take watch at night, says it interferes with his sleep. You can’t stand him. 

You try to avoid his gaze and pretend to be busy, picking at your cuticles and hoping he leaves you alone, but no such luck. 

“Look at you, princess,” he teases, and you cringe so hard you wonder if it’s visible. It’s embarrassing, being referred to like that - so what, that you like the color pink and happen to be attractive? You’re not hurting anyone. The clothes you’re wearing, the pink clips you have to hold your hair back, the floral printed pillow case - those were all things you had before the world went to shit. 

You didn’t know the apocalypse had a dress code. 

You’re sick of being teased. Of being reduced to this overly feminine character - as if you don’t keep watch just as much as the men. As if you don’t kill walkers when they get close to the camp, while the other women hide. As if you don’t cook, and clean, and - 

Derek is still talking.

You sneak a glance across the campfire at Daryl, who holds your gaze for a minute before dropping it. You look back down too, play with your fingers on your lap. You’d go to your tent right now if you weren’t scared about the safety of falling asleep with no one actively on watch. 

“So, what’d you all do before this?” Derek asks, leaning forward. He’s asking the group, but he’s looking at you, which means - you’re supposed to go first?

You wonder if this has anything to do with what you told Cindy, someone you used to share a tent with before she found room in another one. There’s not much to do these days when you’re not cooking or cleaning or hunting or moving - lots of time to sit and talk. The apocalypse is so much more boring than you ever anticipated. You shared a lot about your past with her, but surely she wouldn’t gossip about you to the others in the camp?

You thought girl code was still a thing, even in these trying times. 

Everyone is silent, waiting for your answer. Even Daryl and Rick seem interested, which makes you feel even worse. You wanted to fit in, not be the center of attention.

You shift uncomfortably, before clearing your throat. You can feel Cindy’s eyes on you, sitting just a few people down. “Nothing special. Just,” you pause and shrug, unsure of what to say. “Whatever I had to. To survive.” 

Back then, surviving was all about money, and ever since your parents died when you were a teenager, money is the one thing you never had enough of. One thing you did have though, is your beauty. So you used it, to get the things you needed, and sometimes a little more - but it all boiled down to one thing, just like it does now - to survive. 

That’s all life is about, really? Take away the frills, the fun - people just want to stay alive, no matter how rough things get.

So - you had a boyfriend to pay your rent. A man that loved to take you shopping. A lonely guy who paid off your car. You’ve never lived in luxury, but you always made it. Always got by. Had the things you needed and a little bit more. Always -

“Yeah, well, we all knew you were a whore.”

The words leave Derek’s mouth and you’re frozen. Speechless - and that never happens to you. You’re so shocked at what he said that your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and it’s only then that you realize the bottle of hard liquor on his lap. 

You glare at Cindy, who quickly gets up and runs to her tent, more scared of you than walkers apparently - good, you think, because she’s such a bitch for talking about you behind your back. You try to be cool about it, to laugh it off like Derek is so wrong it doesn’t even deserve a reaction, but you’re so embarrassed you feel your chest aching. 

Has everyone known about your history the entire time you’ve been at camp? You shared those stories with Cindy in the beginning, one of the first nights you arrived, desperate for some comfort. Is that why everyone treats you so differently from the rest? Is that why you’re the black sheep of a fucking camp formed during the apocalypse?

Does Daryl know?

You’re ready to defend yourself, but you don’t get to. Because Daryl is around the fire so fast you don’t even have time to blink, grabbing Derek by the collar of his shirt and pounding his fists into his face. 

The sound of knuckles against bone is excruciating, makes you want to hurl - but you don’t tell him to stop. You’re frozen, and anyway, Derek deserves it, doesn’t he? 

It’s Rick, and a few other men that pull Daryl off of Derek, who’s sporting an eye so swollen it won’t shut and a busted lip, a cheek that’ll be purple for the next few weeks for sure. “Whore,” he spits, still able to talk, even as someone drags him away. “Man, shut up already,” one of the guys says to him, but nobody eases the sting of what he says. 

Daryl wipes sweat from his brow while Rick walks off to talk to Derek, but he can’t get a word in with the shit the other man is spewing. “Fucking whore,” he keeps grumbling. “There’s no money to milk from men anymore, is there? Bet you put out for that fish Dixon caught for you. Did you do the same for that new bra? Or that water bottle Rick brought back for you? Almost died you know, getting that shit for you, maybe you can thank me with,” Rick kicks him in the ribs before he can finish and tells him to shut up in that leader voice of his. 

You run off, now that the rest of the group has scattered, but you hear Daryl yell out, “Yeah, man, you should’ve died,” with a string of curse words. “All you fuckin’ people looking’ at her. Yer all whores in your own way. Useless too,” he continues, but you don’t hear it because you get into your tent and zip it up.

Great. All this drama, and now nobody is ever going to fucking like you now. You’ll be the black sheep forever, won’t you? It’s a harsh wake up call, and you’re thankful you’re alone. Your tentmate must’ve taken her daughter out to be with the other kids, away from the rowdiness at the fucking campfire. You sniffle, and climb into your sleeping bag. 

A minute later, before you’ve even had time to process what’s happening, Daryl enters the tent. He’s so big, it’s hard for him to fit, but he manages - cursing and crouching in a way that would make you laugh if this wasn’t such a depressing situation. 

He sits next to your sleeping bag. Knees bent, arms around his legs. He just sort of watches you. You look anywhere but his face, but you notice his knuckles are bloody red and torn, all because of you. 

“Didn’t have to defend me,’ you say, instead of thank you. “I wasn’t a whore, so,” but Daryl cuts you off. 

“Don’t matter what you were. He shouldn’t talk to you like that. Little prick deserves his ass kicked anyway. Can’t even shoot straight,” it’s like this moment is as uncomfortable for him as it is for you. You share a look, but you look away first, afraid of the intensity. You’ve never had someone stand up for you before - not like this. What are you supposed to say? What are you supposed to do? 

You say nothing at all. A few more minutes go by, with your vision blurry as you stare at Daryl’s knuckles and he stares at the hole that shows the grassy ground in the bottom of your tent. Finally, he sighs, annoyed, and even though you’re not talking you’re still worried he’s going to leave. He’s your teddy bear after all, right? Your security blanket. Maybe you’re selfish - but you don't want him to go. 

And he doesn’t. Instead, Daryl adjusts his position so he can reach into his pocket and pull something out. It’s bright pink, satin looking - you wonder if he’s going to hand you a pair of racy panties just to seal the deal that he thinks you’re a slut. A whore. 

But is he wrong? The look of the muscles in his arm, at his sheer size - at the smell of him, so masculine and woodsy in this little tent it almost makes you dizzy with want. 

After what just happened, how can you be thinking about sex? Maybe you are a slut. A whore. You’ve done things for money before, but -

Daryl hands the piece of pink satin to you. “S’posed to be a ribbon,” he says, shrugging. He’s embarrassed you realize, and it’s cute. “Found it on a toy, er, teddy bear, thought you might like it. If you don’t, I,” but you cut him off, scoot closer to him as you tie it around your wrist. 

“Thank you, Daryl,” you say softly, sweetly - and it feels so natural to lean in and press your lips against his cheek. His body is warm, and when you grip his bicep every cell in your body is on fire with desire. He must’ve taken his jacket off after the fight. If it could even be called that, with the way Daryl jumped Derek. Fights are usually a two way street.

Your heart swells, at the fact that he protected you. Thought about you on a run. Saw something and thought of you. Men have bought you things before, of course - but never something personal like this. Never something you didn’t have to ask for beforehand, for nothing in return.

Daryl, he - he gives you feelings so fuzzy and pure in your chest that you almost forget you’re sleeping just a few feet away from a forest of dead bodies. 

He doesn’t wipe his cheek when you pull away after the kiss, which is a step in the right direction. You’ve seen Daryl lose his shit over the intimacy of a simple thank you hug with someone else from camp before.

You feel special.

“Was nothin,’” he says, before pausing. He looks at you, then away again, wringing his hands before continuing. “Don’t feel any typa way about doin’ what you had to do to survive, ya hear me? I know what it’s like to do what you hav’to to live, ya know? That fucker. He doesn't have a clue about makin’ it on your own. How tough it can be. Don’ listen to the shit he’s got to say. Don’t listen to none of these people,” he won’t look at you, but you look at him, the side profile of his face so handsome you want to reach out and touch him. But you refrain. 

Instead, you squeeze his arm, bicep tan and bulging. You lick your bottom lip. “Daryl,” you interrupt him and he looks at you, gaze on your eyes, then your lips, then to the pretty ribbon tied around your wrist. He visibly swallows, before looking back at your eyes. His eyes are blue, pretty. Too pretty for a man as rugged as him, but what’s the saying? 

A person who is good on the inside - their beauty shines through. You think that’s true about Daryl. At this moment, you don’t think you’ve ever seen a man as beautiful as him. You breathe him in, going crazy over his pheromones - his smell. You can feel your body getting aroused at his closeness, and he’s not even doing anything sexual.

“Next time,” you say, teasing tone in your voice, “Can you bring the whole bear?”

────

“Look at us,” you say, trying not to skip beside Daryl. A mood this good feels eerie in this new world, but you can’t help the way you feel.

Daryl asked you to join him for a walk, and ever since that night when he gave you the ribbon in your tent - you’ve been closer than ever. You wear the ribbon around your wrist every single day, except for right now, when you’re wearing it to hold some of your hair back. 

You’re not sure what’s going on with you and Daryl, but there’s a freedom about it that fills you with joy. Helps you exhale easier in this crazy, cruel world - because he’s safe, and you like being around him, and he obviously likes you too, right? Or he wouldn’t ask you to go for a walk every single day, wouldn’t pay special attention to you during meals, making sure you’re eating enough - 

And he really wouldn’t have kissed you against a tree during his watch last week if he had any bad feelings towards you. 

Things at the camp are complicated, because that stunt Derek pulled separated the group. There’s people that hate you, because they’re really mad at Daryl - but nobody can be actually mad at Daryl, since he does so much for the entire group. Catches animals for food, is one of the strongest men besides Rick. You’re not exactly his girl, not even close, but you know that the only reason you haven’t been used as walker bait is because of Daryl’s status at the camp. 

When he kissed you, just a few weeks after that night in the tent - it was so much softer than you imagined. Because, yeah - you imagined what it would be like to kiss Daryl Dixon. Ever since you met him, really. He’s so tough, so crass, such a force. It’s always been an opinion of yours, that the toughest people really just need some softness. You wonder now, when he smiles shyly at you as you walk past a stream, if you’re that softness for him these days. 

“Look at us, what, girlie?” He asks, and you stifle a giggle, trying to remain serious for the bit of the joke. You brush your hand against his as you walk, wondering when he’ll grab it. Wondering when, if, he’ll ever claim you. But you’re trying not to rush things. It’s easy to get worried about time, when every single day is life and death - but there's something kind of beautiful about just going with the flow of what feels good. 

Living in the present, which is literally all you have now. All anyone has. And right now, your goal in the present, is to make Daryl laugh. 

“You’ve got your bow,” you say, gesturing to his weapon, “And I’ve got mine.” You flip your hair, showing off the pink, satin ribbon holding your hair away from your face. Daryl chuckles and shakes his head, but it only lasts for a second. 

Your face heats, pleased with yourself for making him laugh, and then your breath hitches when he grabs hold of your hand. 

“Yer sumthin’ else, girl,” he says fondly, and you walk into an area dense with trees before he nudges you against the trunk of one.

You don’t know what life was like for Daryl before walkers took over the population. You’re not sure if he had a lot, or a little, experience with women before this all happened. In fact, you don’t know a lot about Daryl at all. He’s closed off, he’s a little mean sometimes, too tough for his own good -

But god, the way he kisses. 

Hesitant, like he’s scared to take something he didn’t earn. You want to tell him that every single part of you, he has earned. You’ve known him for more time than your longest relationship. You’ve seen each other filthy, desperate, depraved. Covered in blood, covered in guts - starving, dirty, depressed. For a man that hardly talks, Daryl somehow knows you better than any man, maybe even any other person, ever has. 

He stood up for you. He tries to take care of you. He’s a good friend, he’s -

When he slips a hand to your hip and drops his crossbow on the ground, squeezes at your skin in a way that’s so possessive it makes your breath hitch, you literally let out a cry. Against your lips, Daryl murmurs, “Quiet, ‘less you wanna have a threesum with a walker.” His tongue tastes like cigarettes, a little bit like the apple juice one of the kids at the camp wanted him to try, because he’s a good sport, even if his resting bitch face might suggest otherwise. 

There’s something about him ordering you around that does it for you. You let him take charge of the kiss, but you grab his roaming hand and move it to your breast. He squeezes, but in your new bra, you don’t feel the friction you’re so desperately craving from him rubbing over your nipples. You want more, and you whine, trying not to be greedy but it’s just so damn hard. 

Against the tree, Daryl slips a leg between yours, and you shamelessly bend down to try to rub your aching core against it. “Daryl,” you whine, and he laughs, pulling away to look at you, his hair that’s getting longer plastered against his forehead with sweat. Everything about him is overwhelming. His smell, intense, his lips, delicious, his strength and size, so fucking hot you just want to curl up in the pocket of his shirt and stay safe forever. 

Because you don’t have a doubt in your mind - Daryl would keep you safe. You wonder, why you wasted your time with finance guys and entrepreneurs and men who’d never gotten their hands dirty, back when life was normal. Daryl, with calloused fingertips and his thick accent, a country boy through and through - he pleases you, makes you happier than anyone you’ve ever met before. 

Yeah, even in the apocalypse, you can find the romance. You kiss Daryl deeper. 

He moves his hand down from your breast to slip it into your pants, and he lets out a low noise in his throat at the feeling of your wetness already. Just from kissing him. You’re not ashamed - it’s been a long time since anyone touched your pussy like this, a long time since you even touched it yourself. There’s just no time alone, and you share a tent, and -

“Yer soakin,’” Daryl comments, and your entire body flushes with humiliation. But the good kind. You nod. “For you,” you whisper, and he leans his forehead against yours before capturing your lips in his again. 

Just as you expected, Darly is good with his fingers. He positions one of your legs over his hip so he has better access to finger you, rough hands, the calloused pads of his thumb dragging over your clit, so swollen after so long without cumming. It’s not going to take long, you know, to completely fucking burst. You want it so bad, to come apart on his fingers, to show him just how good you can be. He’s knuckle deep inside of you while still also putting pressure on your clit when you let out a screech, thankful you opened your eyes in time to see the walker coming from behind Daryl. 

You push him off of you until he curses and tries to pick up his crossbow, fingers still slick with your pussy, but you beat him to it. You grab the knife out of your boot, even though your body feels like jelly, and you slam it into the walker’s forehead as hard as you can. You huff and puff, because it takes a lot out of you, and when the walker is on the ground you slam your boot into its face a few too many times until the bottom of your shoe is covered with walker brains. 

“He’s dead,” Daryl says behind you. “Don’ waste yer energy.” You roll your eyes, wiping sweat from your face with a bandana you had in your pocket. 

“I know. That’s for him ruining my orgasm,” you say out loud, and behind you, Daryl lets out a low whistle. You’re really humiliated now, but what are the chances? A fucking walker trying to eat Daryl while you’re trying to get him to eat you? Some fucking luck. 

There’s still blood splattering on your face, and you turn to Daryl, wiping it with your sleeve. “Doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you,” you say sheepishly, unsure of how to read his bland expression. But just because a walker interrupted, doesn’t mean you don’t want to continue your little fingering session. Just in case, shame out the window, you reach for him. Daryl backs away slightly. 

“Slow down,” he says, pulling away from you. “Don’ wanna fuck you in the forest,” and you understand, but also - where else can you have sex? Everyone’s always watching each other. When else can you get some time alone? 

Daryl looks down at the bulge in his pants, and you reach down and grope him, like some kind of horny harlot. Maybe you are. He watches you, the color of your nails, your tiny hand - and he lets out a groan himself. 

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says, leaving you speechless and wet in the middle of the woods. He starts to walk away, but his head is turned to you and his eyes never leave you. You know it’s because he’s making sure you’re safe, watching over you, even with his dick chubbing up in his pants. He tugs his weapon up to rest on his shoulder. 

If that’s not a man, you don’t know what is. 

“Daryl,” you start to say, following him, about to beg him for something more, but he just throws an arm around your shoulders and tugs you along. You use the opportunity with his hand on your shoulder to tie the ribbon around his wrist, a small mark of your ownership. You wonder what he’ll say about that, if he’ll be mad -

He just squeezes your shoulder. “Not tryna deny you. I want you. Me and the little guy,” he looks down to his cock in his pants, obviously referring to that. “Yer just too pretty to do somethin’ like that in the woods. My tent, tonight?” You know that his tent mate is keeping watch tonight, so you’ll be alone for a good amount of time. Enough time to - you shiver just thinking about it. 

You nod eagerly. 

“You sure you’re not just disgusted at what I just did?” You phrase it like a joke, gently rubbing your lips on the healing cuts of his knuckles, but you’re serious. Maybe seeing a woman behave greedy, wanting, desperate - violent - maybe it was a huge turn off. 

Daryl shakes his head and tugs you closer, presses his lips to the top of your head. “Nah,” he assures, looking back down to the bulge in his pants. It’s even more noticeable than before. He takes the hand he used to finger you and sucks the digits, covered in your slick, into his mouth. The muscles in your cunt clench, at the way his cheekbones look, the level of lust in his eyes aimed at you. 

“That was fuckin’ sexy,” he assures, popping his fingers out of his mouth.

────

At dinner that night, which is squirrel - so you settle for half a protein bar and a bruised apple, Rick sits down beside you. You’re eating away from everyone else, because Daryl’s helping someone with something like he always is, but it’s alright because you’re in your own world, thinking about what’s to come later tonight with him. 

You’re in a trance, remembering the way he scratched at your scalp fondly when he walked you to your tent and watched you bend down to get inside. “Don’t sprain yer wrist before tonight,” he joked, insinuating you’d be finishing yourself off. He went off with a wink, leaving you reeling - because since when did Daryl Dixon joke around? 

You’ve been riding on a high for the rest of the night. 

Rick sitting beside you takes you out of your thoughts. You look at him and swallow the bit of stale protein bar you’ve been chewing for probably ten minutes, quirking an eyebrow at him. He’s so serious, it’s annoying. 

Don’t get it wrong - you like Rick. Appreciate everything he’s done, does for the camp - he’s just so intense, but he’s handsome in his own right too. Not your normal type, but then again - neither is Daryl. You just don’t understand a man like Rick, and he doesn’t get you. But he’s the best thing this group has, because he has everyone's interest at heart. Even someone like Daryl, well - 

He puts himself, and you by extension now, maybe - first. It’s not a bad thing, in fact, you find both sides of the coin admirable in their own way. 

“What’s up, Rick?” You finally ask. He looks down to his hands, before nodding behind you, and you turn and look at what he’s referring to - it’s Daryl, looking angrily at Derek, who’s by the fire drunkenly talking shit about everything while people try to calm him down. You sigh. 

“You and Daryl,” Rick says, and you’re not sure what to say to that - statement? Accusation? You just nod. “What about us?” You ask, and you really don’t mean to be rude, but you’re not sure why whatever you’re doing with Daryl is any of Rick, or anyone’s, business?

You expect a lecture. Something about needing to earn your keep, to stop distracting him, to make things right with Derek. Instead, Rick just pats you on the back, literally. 

“You’re good for him,” he says, before awkwardly walking off when someone calls his name. No doubt for a crisis that could easily be solved without his help. You feel sorta bad for Rick - people are so stressed, so traumatized in this new world, that they don’t want to use their brains at all. They put all their problems, no matter how small, on Rick, and that’s gotta be hard. 

You want to call out some sort of acknowledgement for all he does as he walks away, but Daryl begins walking towards you before you get the chance. You’re still looking towards Rick. “You checkin’ the boss out?” Daryl jokes, with something like possessiveness or jealousy in his tone. It burns you in the best way possible - that Daryl might worry about something like that. 

What can you say? You’ve always thought a possessive man was hot. 

Daryl plops down beside you. You’re sitting on a log, but he’s on the ground. Typical Daryl behavior. He wraps a hand around your ankle - and suddenly you’re very glad you got a chance to shave with the razor you stole from someone’s pile of toiletries after the last run. 

“That all yer eatin?’” He asks, referring to the empty wrapper in your hand. You shake your head and show off your sorry apple, but Daryl just shakes his head and scoffs. “Tha’s not enough. You can’t be picky about,” but he stops when he sees the expression on your face. 

You’ve talked to him about this before. He didn’t reply, but you know he was listening. Food - it’s the only thing you can be a little picky about. Everything else, you don't have any choice over. Where the camp goes, who you share a tent with. Food and now, this thing with Daryl - that’s all the power you have. Daryl nods, like he gets it but doesn’t like it, and then changes the subject. 

“Are you cold?” You ask, and Daryl laughs. As kind as he is to you, you know that he’s uncomfortable when you, or anyone, tries to show any kind of care for him. He nods his chin towards the ratty blanket you’re using. “You gon’ share with me, girlie?” You shake your head, a grin spreading across your face.

“No,” you say, tossing the blanket, the apple, and the wrapper into a duffle bag next to the log you’re sitting on. “Just thought I could warm you up in your tent.” Daryl looks like a deer caught in headlights as he peaks over your shoulder to where the rest of the group is getting ready for bed, his tent mate grabbing a gun before heading to the area where he’ll keep watch while everyone sleeps. 

Daryl nods. “Yer dirty,” he grumbles, standing up, but he runs his hands up and down his bare arms like he’s feigning being cold. “C’mon then. You gunna warm me up or what?”

────

The first time Daryl fucked you, he went slow. Took his time, opening you up with his thick fingers, even though you didn’t need the extra time. You were aching, wet - desperate for him to shove his cock inside of you, because you’d been thinking about it for too long. Too much kissing, humping, friction between the two of you - all you wanted, could imagine, was how his cock would feel against your throbbing center. 

When he finally thrusted inside of you, stretched you out and began to fuck into you, he didn’t let himself go like you always imagined. Insecurely, you narrowed your eyes, even as your back arched off of his sleeping bag. “When’s the last time?” You asked, referring to the last time he had sex. Daryl just let out a shaky laugh and calmed your fears with a thrust that made your toes curl and a moan escape your lips. 

“Long enough, pretty girl,” he assured, all while you huffed in brat and dug your nails into his shoulders. “Jus’ wanna enjoy it. We’ve finally got the time.” And Daryl was right, but really, when is he ever wrong?

The first time you had sex you got to enjoy going slow. But the rest of the times after that - and there’s been a lot now, it’s always a quickie. A rush, because shit hit the fan at your current camp soon after the first night together. The entire group had to move, you lost people to walkers (though not Derek, unfortunately), and now getting off with Daryl only happens in quick spurts whenever you’re alone. 

In a way, the drama surrounding the camp has made the two of you closer. 

When the entire group has to drive down a walker infested highway, normally you’d be in a camper van with the other women and children, but Daryl has your back. 

“You’re ridin’ with me,” he says, shooting Rick a look before anyone can object. As he walks off, he purposely bumps his shoulder into Derek, who scoffs and does the same to you. Daryl doesn’t notice, but Rick does, and he tells Derek off before Daryl can do anything drastic like beat his ass again. 

“Hey,” he warns, shoving Derek away from you. “Watch it,” Derek grumbles, glaring at you before hopping into the back of a truck with a few of the other men. “What?” He asks mockingly, because you’re frozen, watching him in a trance while Daryl starts up his bike. 

Derek just can’t leave you alone - he picks on you every single chance he gets. “You got Rick standing up for you now too, huh?” He says, shaking his head in disgust. “You let him fuck you too?”

It’s not his words that hurt so much, but it’s the fact that he’s saying them at all. You’ve never done anything to Derek, have only been nice, yet he looks at you like a target and it hurts so bad your eyes threaten to spill tears. Thankfully, Daryl comes for you, and you get on the back of his bike with ease. 

“You okay?” He asks, even though it’s hard to hear with the sound of the rumble from the motorcycle. You nod, and press your face into his back. Daryl takes off down the highway, leading the way while Rick follows behind, and you selfishly let yourself doze off against him. You trust Daryl, more than you’ve ever trusted another man - and that’s a lot of pressure. 

Trusting anyone these days means you’re putting your life in their hands. It’s exhausting. When you tell the women at camp you’ll watch their kids while they go to the restroom, or go for a walk - essentially what you’re saying is you’ll protect their kids if shit was going south. Even just the thought, being responsible for someone else - it makes your chest heave. 

Your arms are tight around Daryl as he drives. You’re not sure how long you’re on the road for when the motorcycle stops, but you know you’re much farther ahead then the rest of the group. In another life, you imagine Daryl happy and free - driving to a city, or another town on a brand new motorcycle. Maybe working in a shop. You feel a pang of sadness, that he’ll never get that. 

He deserves so much more than this shit. You all do. 

Except maybe Derek. 

And Cindy. Fuck that bitch.

Daryl stops the bike and you get off, stretching your legs. 

“You good, dolly?” He asks, and you wrinkle your nose at the nickname. You’re pretending not to like it, when in reality, it makes you tingle all over. You nod. 

“You go fast,” you say, and he laughs, steps off of the bike and walks to an empty field off to the side of the highway. “‘S the only way to go. Stay here,” he orders, before walking off. He grumbles something about taking a piss and you stifle a laugh, pretending to salute him. You see his hand twitch, like he wants to jokingly flip you off, but he stops himself. 

Something about that, that he won’t play rough with you, has your knees feeling wobbly. You feel like you can breathe, without the rest of the group breathing down your back, insulting you, accusing you of doing sexual things just to be treated like a human being. You try not to think about it, because you want to have a decent day and don’t want Derek to be the cause of tears when you’ve been through worse circumstances without crying. It’s hard though. 

You walk around the motorcycle, eyes on the ground. You catch a glimpse of your shoelace, pink against the black of your boot, because you used the ribbon for added flair when you gave your shoelace to someone at the camp who needed a belt. 

Daryl saw you, and promised you that night with his cock buried deep in your throat, “I’ll get you some more ribbons, pretty girl,” he assured, while you gagged and spit dribbled down your chin. “Too hard to hold your hair back when yer suckin’ me off like a pro.” 

That comment should’ve stung, but you know Daryl didn’t mean it like that. In fact, it was so hot that you did your best, until he spilled down your throat and you licked the mess you made off of his cock and balls and thighs. 

You’re lost in your thoughts, busy giving your pussy a heartbeat when you notice a little gold, bullet shaped thing on the ground. You’re not sure what it is, but if it is a bullet, you know having extra is always good. You reach down to grab it, only then realizing that it's a lipstick. 

You pop open the lid. It’s a pretty pink color, and while it’s used - you can’t even remember the last time you wore makeup. You wipe the top layer off before dabbing some with your finger and putting it on, trying to check yourself out in the mirror of the motorcycle when Daryl comes back. 

“The fuck are they?” He asks, zipping his pants up. He’s so, so, so - crass sometimes that it’s endearing. You shrug, and that’s when he notices the lipstick you’re wearing. His eyes are hooded, heavy with tiredness, and it makes him look all the more handsome. “There a makeup store aroun’ here I shud know about?” He teases, and you shake your head and hold up the lipstick tube. 

“Found this. How’s it look?” Daryl just nods, looking at you with a strange expression. You’re not sure what he’s thinking, until he tugs you closer to him by the wrist and tentatively presses his lips against yours. 

“Don’ care about the gloss,” he comments, and you resist the urge to explain it’s not gloss, it’s lipstick. “But I don’ call you pretty girl for no reason. Always pretty,” he says shyly, and Daryl is a perfect guy, but he never opens up. Hardly ever says how he feels, or what he thinks - but he’s being clear now. That he wants you, verbally, even though his actions in everything he do is always proving that to you. 

It’s crazy, the feeling of happiness bubbling in your chest, all thanks to Daryl Dixon. On the fucking highway filled with walkers probably silent in their cars, with flat tires and blood stains and ramsacked belongings, you stand on your tip toes and nudge the toe of your boots against his, grabbing hold of his handsome face and peppering kisses all over. You leave pink lipstick marks, but he doesn’t know that yet - and it makes you giggle. 

Putting your mark all over Daryl - you’ve never been possessive, but wow does it feel good. When you finally pull away, Daryl looks at you like you’re crazy. Then he takes a look down the highway to make sure nobody’s coming, before bending you over the front of his motorcycle. 

“Grab the handlebars,” he orders, a hand on your back before roughly pulling your pants down your ass. It’s risky, knowing that the rest of the camp could drive up at any minute, but who really cares? They already think so low of you. They already -

Your eyes shut as Daryl shoves his half hard cock inside of you, and your walls clamp down around him, so tight you feel him growing. It happened so fast he wasn’t even fully hard, but now he is, small thrusts so the both of you can get used to the feeling. Your hands are cramping where they grip the bars of his bike, so tight, until it almost starts to tip. Daryl has an idea. 

He pulls out, cock in hand with his fucking pants not even pulled all the way down, and he sits himself over his bike like normal. “Take em’ off,” he says, nodding towards your pants, and you obey, stripping them off until it takes too long because of your boots and Daryl just hauls you over to him. 

You almost trip as he lifts you onto the bike, bent over the handlebars, eyes on the road, before he slips his cock into you. It’s like you’re sitting on his lap, and he reaches around you, fully supporting your body while rubbing your clit. 

“Can you move?” He asks roughly, and you whine, trying to go up and down on his cock but it’s too hard at the angle. Daryl presses a kiss to your head, moves some of your hair back while he takes hold of your hips and ruts you back and forth over his dick. You know he’s strong, but feeling it first hand is something else entirely. It’s like you’re a doll with the way he easily controls your body, dick so thick it feels like he’s stretching your pussy into the perfect mold just for him.

“Don’ worry,” he assures, letting out a breath of pleasure right by your ear. “I got ya. Only time yer quiet ‘s when you got my cock in you, huh?”

He’s not wrong. You wish you could see his face, but this position, your back to his front, is pretty hot too.

It’s only a minute later, when his hand slips while you try to pull your body up to do some of the work, that he nearly pinches your clit and it’s the pain that sends you over the edge. You cum, that easily against him, and you cry out his name just as you both hear the sound of an engine in the distance. Daryl curses, throws his head back at the feel of your tight pussy squeezing him, and quite literally picks you up off his cock and puts you on your feet. 

“Knees,” he says quickly, and you obey, because of course you do, even though the gravel of the road is a little painful on your knees. He grabs you by your hair, and forces your mouth onto his cock where he spills his load down your throat. You swallow it down and kitten lick the head of his cock clean after, admiring the pink lipstick marks all over his perfect dick as he quickly zips tucks his dick in his pants and zips up, but not before helping you get your pants back up too. 

“If we live another day,” Daryl says, helping you straighten out your pants when the other cars pull up. He snaps the band of your panties, white cotton and floral print, against your skin while the rest of the group gets out of the cars to have a meeting over some bullshit, you’re sure. “I’ll return the favor,” he finishes. 

You don’t know if he’s joking or not, but you pull up his arm and cuddle into his side as he stands up, his tongue on your mind even though you just came all over his cock. You wish you could’ve had time to ride your orgasm out, but you’ll take what you can get.

Rick nods to Daryl as he gets out of his truck. He looks between the two of you, and for the first time, maybe ever, - you see him smirk a little. 

“‘S your color, man,” he says, closing the car door. Daryl is confused, and takes a look at himself in the rearview mirror of his motorcycle, notices all the kiss marks and another first happens -

Daryl Dixon blushes red.

────

“I wanna come,” you say, resisting the urge to literally stomp your foot as Rick and Daryl and a few other men head out on a run. 

It’s not like you actually want to go, but you can’t bear the thought of Daryl leaving without you. You know he can take care of himself, but the thought of him not returning - it literally makes you feel sick. You tug on the sleeves of your sweater while Daryl loads a bag of guns into the back of Rick’s truck, the other men exchanging glances that you know are them hoping Rick puts you in your place. 

Ever since people caught on about you and Daryl, they’ve kept their mouths shut in regards to you. Which is good. You’re still ignored, like before - but at least you’ve got a little respect. You cross your arms as Rick and Daryl walk towards you. 

“It’s dangerous out there,” Rick says, as if you’re an idiot who’s head has been buried in the sand for the past year. He sighs. “Look - we need you here. This is your role,” he looks like he wants to continue, but Daryl places a hand on his shoulder and gives him a look that Rick knows means let me handle this.

But you already know what Daryl is going to say to you, and you don’t want to fucking hear it. “I want to come, Daryl,” you say, trying not to whine. “I’m good with a gun, and since Derek can’t go,” you lower your voice, but Derek must’ve been slinking around. He pops up next to you, and Daryl tenses. 

“You,” Daryl warns, mood gone sour just from Derek’s presence. “Fuck off.”

Derek laughs, but he’s obviously pissed. He can’t go on anymore runs, at least not for a while - he’s too scared, after a walker almost bit him the last time. 

It’s only when you tense up, that Daryl realizes the other reason you don’t want to be left alone. 

You don’t want to be alone with Derek. Yes, there’s other women at the camp and a few other men, but Derek is a scary, loose cannon. He’s the last person you want to be around right now. Daryl’s jaw locks, and he looks between the two of you, at the way you’re uncomfortable. Someone in Rick’s truck blares the horn, and he turns around, stressed out, not knowing what to do. 

“Fuck face,” Daryl grumbles, running a hand down his face. He’s addressing Derek with a glare. He walks closer to him, chest to chest almost, backing Derek almost onto his ass. Derek can pretend to be tough all he wants - but he’s a bitch in comparison to a man like Daryl. 

“Stay away from her. Don’t even look at her. If I come back and you so much as,” but Derek smirks. “If,” he emphasizes, until Daryl literally shoves him. Rick calls his name, and Daryl backs off. 

You end up dropping whatever you’re saying, hating the position you’re putting Daryl in - like you’re a kid who has to have your way. Daryl is just trying to help the group, he has responsibilities - you don’t need to make his job harder than it is, so you wave him off. “I’ll be fine, Daryl. Just - come back safe.” You kiss his cheek and then he’s off.

You go to your tent to avoid Derek when the men going on the run are gone, but as you walk away you hear him speaking to you. “What’re you doing with that white trash? You might’ve been a whore, but you’re no trailer trash. You wouldn’t be with him if this was any other world.”

You stop in your tracks. “Don’t talk about Daryl like that,” you say softly, but firmly. For all Daryl does for everyone - you can’t believe Derek has the fucking nerve to talk shit. You want to flip him off, but he walks closer to you, and you freeze. You’re more scared of this man than a fucking walker, and your stomach flips with anxiety at his nearness.

“I worked in finance,” he says, like it matters. You actually have to stifle a laugh, confused at why his past matters - he’s so worthless that this is all he has to brag about? He thinks you care? Is he trying to relate to you, by putting Daryl down? He’s an idiot.

You smile sweetly, as if that’s anything to brag about. All the finance guys you knew in the city before all of this - they were horrible people. Of course that’s what Derek used to do. 

“Trust me, Derek,” you say, hoping it stings. “I know.”

You walk away again, but just as you do, he grabs you by the arm. You try to pull your arm out of his grasp, but he won’t let you go. He tugs you closer to him, and you wish anyone cared about you enough to help you. 

“Let go of me,” you spit, but Derek just shakes his head.

“You’re such a stupid bitch, you know that? Acting too good for any of us, treating all of us like shit. But you put out for fucking Dixon - let all of us hear you letting him fuck you in his tent and the woods. We saw you on your knees that day on the highway. I mean, it’s not a secret you’re a slut, but it’s another thing to see it. And now Rick is defending you? That why you were talking to him the other day for dinner? Offering yourself up for more rations or something? You’re sick,” Derek rants and raves, bruising your arm with his grip.

“Let me go,” you say, trying not to show how scared you are. “Or I’ll fucking scream.” 

Derek actually laughs, shaking his head. You’re disturbed to know that he’s been watching you? Following you and Daryl? Because the both of you know - you only ever fooled around with Daryl when nobody could listen and see unless they were trying to. You wouldn’t do that, and neither would Daryl.

“If I’m such a stupid slut, that must make you pretty bad, huh? That I won’t even put out for you,” you hate that you even say those words, like you’d ever consider having sex with this man, but you want to hurt him. To get him to see that he's wrong about you - you want him to leave you alone.  

“You fucking bitch,” Derek says, pushing you to the ground.

You let out a cry. You should’ve never told Daryl and Rick you’d be okay, you should’ve -

Suddenly Derek is off of you. You’re frozen for a second, before you hear screaming and someone calling out your name. 

You’re in shock as someone helps you up. You know it’s Rick, because you notice his watch. “Damnit,” he curses, and you register the sound of Daryl’s voice. You look around for him, and when you find him, you see Derek on the ground, an arrow in his head. 

He’s dead - for now. That fast. Until he turns into a walker. 

Daryl walks to you, pulls you into his arms. “What happened?” He asks, and you’re worried he’s going to blame you, because you provoked him, and you stupidly left your weapons in your tent. You’re worried he’s going to think differently of you, that Rick will be mad that Derek is dead, and all these worries start swirling in your head until you can’t be strong anymore. You start crying so loud that you know you’ll be responsible for any walkers coming into camp tonight. 

Rick starts to talk, but Daryl, for the first time ever, shuts him down harshly. “No, man. I ain’t sorry. He had it coming,” he says sharply, and Rick just swallows, holds his hands up like he agrees. 

“Jus’ was gonna say to finish the job,” and you know he means, kill the fucker before he turns. 

But you don't want Daryl to do it.

No, this is a job you can do. 

Wordlessly, you pull yourself out of Daryl’s arms and walk towards Derek’s corpse. Everyone at the camp has gathered around now, too little too fucking late, but Rick tries to stop you from getting closer. You smack his hand away, and hold your palm out. It takes a minute, until Daryl finally orders Rick to give you what you want. 

Rick hesitantly places a gun in your hand - and you shoot Derek in the head.

────

You’ve never killed someone who hasn’t turned yet. Derek was the first.

What scares you the most, is how little you care. 

After what happened, you told Daryl everything that Derek said. You learned that night, from both Rick and Daryl, that the reason Derek was so horrible is because he wanted you - and how scary is that? What if he hurt you in another way once he had you on the ground? You’re lucky Rick forgot his gun and backpack on the run, that they had to turn around and come back to camp - the reason they got to you in time.

Rick assured you that you did the right thing. Which felt good, coming from the moral compass of the group. Everyone else was kind too, apologetic - you guess Derek scared more people into submission than you thought. 

But Daryl was just pissed. More angry than you’d ever seen him. Throwing shit, breaking stuff - burning Derek the minute he dragged him a far enough distance from camp. Derek never even got a chance to turn. 

Daryl threatened to leave the group with just you. It seemed like a good idea at first, until the reality that two people can’t survive on their own. No matter how resourceful, strong, and brave Daryl is. 

But that meant a lot, that Daryl was trying - but the important thing is to survive. 

The last few weeks, you’ve kept your head down. You clean, you help cook, you even take a few bites of whatever Daryl cooks because he pretty much forces you to - and because, secretly, you like how proud of you he looks when you try something new. 

You just wish the world was different. But Daryl’s been amazing. 

Rick’s been kind too. Everyone has, and maybe -

The sound of the zipper on your tent takes you out of your thoughts. You’re braiding your hair since you just washed it, but it’s proving to be a difficult task. You’re thankful for the distraction.

It’s Daryl.

“I already ate,” you tell him, worried that he’s bringing you some rodent that’s badly cooked. But you’re trying to be nice - he’s the only good thing in your world these days, so you soften your words. “Come inside and cuddle.”

Daryl squeezes inside the tent, and he leans on his side by your sleeping bag, just watching you. His head balanced on his hand, propped up on his elbow.

“Have somethin’ for you,” he says, not waiting for you to reply. In his hand is something wrapped in a tissue and you wonder what it is. He places it on your lap, and you look at him, excited but also a little upset. 

“I told you to stop risking your life to get me things,” you scold, because everytime Daryl goes on a run, he finds things for you. Ribbons, hair clips, a pink toothbrush the other day. Lip gloss and lipstick (he knows the difference now), a pair of socks with little bows on them that are a size too big but still your favorite. He’s always saying how cute you are, how he thinks about you whenever he sees something pink.

It’s the best compliment ever.

You look to the other end of your sleeping bag, where a teddy bear Daryl found for you on a run a few weeks ago faces you both. It’s missing an eye, has the ribbon, the first gift he ever gave to you tied around its neck, and you love it so much that you sleep with it every night.

It’s definitely seen better days, and you don’t really know where he found it, but it’s so special to you - partly because Daryl gave it to you, and partly because it’s a little part of him that’s always with you. Part teddy bear, part security blanket - just like him.

It’s also a little scraggly. Sort of rough, dirty - but cuddly just the same. Kind of like Daryl. You move it a little closer.

Daryl groans in frustration and you almost roll your eyes at the dramatics. “Hush, lady, y’know I can take care of myself. ‘S nothing,” he nods to the thing on your lap, and you sigh and open the tissue. 

It’s a cookie. 

Your brows furrow, and you look at Daryl, all confused. “What,” you start, and he shrugs, sitting up. He rubs a hand down his face. 

“Remembered what you said, about the cookies,” he’s sheepish, as if this isn’t the sweetest thing in the world. You gulp, trying not to cry at how touched you are, but you can’t help it. Tears brim at your waterline, and you wipe your eyes. 

“Oh,” he scolds, letting out a huff. “Don’ cry. I just remembered what you said, is all. It’s probably not good anymore, but you’re my girl, and I want,” you smile even as tears run down your face. 

“Your girl,” you hold that close to your heart, and Daryl nods, avoiding eye contact. You don’t care. You throw yourself into his arms. 

His hug is warm, strong, and you feel the stress leave your body as he kisses your temple. He was listening, all those times you were talking. 

Daryl Dixon, you think, the man that you are. 

Your silence must be unexpected. He pulls away, watches your thumb brush over the most likely stale cookie he probably found on a run. You’re not really gonna eat it - but it’s the thought that counts. 

“You talked about what ya miss, from before. But when I look back,” pretty blue eyes look at you. He cups your chin, presses his lips against yours. 

You make a note to ask for chapstick for the both of you on the next run. 

“Don’ cry, c’mon. You’re makin me soft,” he complains, even as he holds you closer. You want tell him that you can’t make him something he already is, but what he says next throws the sass right out of you. “When I look back, before I knew you,” he finishes shyly, “I just miss you, ya know?” 

Daryl says that he’s not romantic, but he’s the most romantic man you've ever met. He’s a good person. He’s kind, and thoughtful, and even though he’s vague sometimes, too quiet for his own good - you know what he means. 

You can’t believe there was a time you didn’t know - a time you didn’t love - this man. He’s everything to you.

And maybe, yeah - this world is hell. There’s death and decay and too much sadness to catch a break, but there’s one good thing in all of it. One thing so important to the both of you, that gives a little bit of meaning to this shitty, shitty world. 

You found each other. You have each other. 

You sniffle and nod, holding the cookie close, but Daryl even closer.

“Yeah,” you say, kissing his cheek softly. You feel him relax at your touch. “I’ve always missed you too, Daryl.”

[crookshanks-07]

Mi Casa es Su Casa

Bruce Wayne x Reader 

Summary: The first time you sleep over at the manor, and the first time Bruce steps foot in your tiny one bed room apartment. 

Asks/requests are open!! Masterlist

The first night you stayed at Wayne Manor felt strangely intimate in a way you hadn’t expected. Not because of the mansion itself. If anything, the manor should’ve felt impersonal. Too large. Too polished. The kind of place where you were afraid to touch things because they probably cost more than your rent. Instead, it felt… lived in.

Warm.

There were books left open on side tables. Half-finished mugs of tea abandoned in sitting rooms. A sweater tossed over the back of a chair that was very obviously Dick’s because no human being besides Dick owned that many neon hoodies. And Bruce—

Bruce somehow made the entire massive place feel smaller just by existing in it. You were standing in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea when he walked in wearing the robe. You physically had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.

Bruce paused immediately. “What?”

“Oh my god,” you breathed. His brow furrowed slightly. “That robe is pink.”

“It is not pink.”

“It’s satin.”

“It’s silk.”

“That somehow makes it worse.”

Bruce looked down at himself with a tiny frown like he was reconsidering the robe for the first time in his life. The robe was absolutely pink. Not bright pink. But definitely some rich wine-colored silk situation that looked unbelievably soft and expensive and absurdly domestic on a man built like Bruce Wayne.

Your laughter finally slipped out. Bruce sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who’d apparently dealt with this before. “Damian bought it.”

You gasped dramatically. “Damian picked this out?”

“He said it looked distinguished.”

“That child thinks you’re a divorced millionaire in a Nancy Meyers movie.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched. And there it was. That tiny almost-smile he tried so hard to suppress sometimes. You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t you do that.”

“Do what?”

“That little smile thing where you pretend you’re not smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You literally are right now.”

Bruce took another sip of tea to hide it. Coward. You wandered closer, unable to help yourself, fingers brushing lightly against the silk sleeve of his robe.

Your eyes widened instantly. “Wait, this is actually insane.”

Bruce looked down at you quietly. “What?”

“It’s so soft.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I thought rich people fabric was all for aesthetics. This feels illegal.”

A quiet laugh escaped him then. Actual laughter. Low and warm and rough with sleep. It startled you enough that you looked up immediately. Bruce rarely laughed fully. Not like that. Usually it was restrained amusement. A quiet exhale through his nose. Tiny smiles hidden behind coffee mugs. But this?

This was softer. Sleepier. Real. And maybe because it was late, maybe because the kitchen lights were dim, maybe because Bruce looked so comfortable standing there in his ridiculous robe with messy hair and reading glasses halfway down his nose, you suddenly felt unbearably fond of him.

Your hand stayed resting lightly on his sleeve. Bruce glanced down at it before looking back at you. Neither of you moved for a second. Then Bruce quietly asked, “You tired?”

“A little.”

“You’ve been trying not to yawn for twenty minutes.”

“I was being polite.”

“You fell asleep during the documentary earlier.”

“In my defense, it was about architecture.”

“It was about sustainable city planning.”

You stared at him flatly. “Bruce, that’s worse.”

Another tiny smile. God, you loved making him smile. Bruce set his mug down before reaching out gently, fingers catching your wrist. Not forceful. Just guiding. He pulled you closer until your hip bumped lightly against his. And then, because apparently this terrifying man was secretly affectionate beyond belief in private, he simply wrapped both arms around you and tucked you against his chest.

Your brain short-circuited immediately. “…Oh.”

Bruce hummed softly above your head. “What?”

“You’re clingy.”

“I am not clingy.”

“You literally just bear-trapped me in a kitchen.”

“You walked into range.”

You laughed against his chest, and Bruce’s arms tightened slightly in response like the sound itself relaxed something in him. That was another thing you were learning. Bruce touched constantly when he loved someone. Not publicly. Never publicly.

But in private? A hand at your waist while passing behind you. Fingers brushing your knee during conversations. Pulling you absentmindedly against his side while reading. Small things. Quiet things. Like he was always reassuring himself you were still there.

You tilted your head back slightly to look at him. “You’re really different at home.”

Bruce’s expression softened almost immediately. “Is that bad?”

“No,” you said quietly. “I think it’s my favorite version of you.”

Something vulnerable flickered across his face so quickly most people probably would’ve missed it. But you didn’t. Bruce leaned down slightly, pressing a slow kiss against your forehead. Not rushed. Not heated. Just tender. The kind of kiss that felt like being cared for. “You should sleep,” he murmured softly.

“Mmm. Don’t wanna.”

“You said you were tired.”

“I am.”

“Then come to bed.”

The words were simple. Casual, even. But warmth still flooded your chest embarrassingly fast. Bruce must’ve noticed because the corner of his mouth lifted slightly before he brushed his thumb along your cheek. “C’mon.”

He took your hand then. And despite the size of Wayne Manor, despite the endless halls and towering ceilings and all the wealth surrounding you, walking through the quiet manor half-asleep with Bruce’s hand wrapped around yours somehow felt more like home than anything else.

The first time Bruce came to your apartment, you nearly canceled three separate times. Not because you didn’t want him there. That was the problem. You wanted him there too much. Which meant suddenly you were painfully aware of everything. The old radiator that hissed like it was possessed. The tiny kitchen with exactly three feet of counter space. The fact that your couch cushions sank weirdly in the middle.

You spent an embarrassing amount of time cleaning despite the apartment already being clean. Fluffing pillows. Lighting candles. Hiding the one chair that had become The Laundry Chair. And still, by the time Bruce knocked on the door, your stomach was in knots. Because Bruce lived in Wayne Manor.

Wayne fucking Manor.

Meanwhile your apartment building had a flickering hallway light and a neighbor who blasted music every Thursday night. You opened the door still wearing one sock because you’d lost the other one halfway through panic-cleaning. Bruce immediately noticed. “…You’re missing a sock.”

You stared at him. “Hello to you too.”

His mouth twitched slightly. And just like that, some of the tension eased. Bruce stood there dressed down in dark jeans and a black henley, one hand holding takeout bags from your favorite little noodle place across town. Not chauffeured-driver Bruce Wayne. Not billionaire gala Bruce Wayne. Just Bruce.

Your Bruce.

“You brought food?”

“You forgot dinner yesterday.”

“You remember my meals now?”

“You forget them often enough for it to qualify as a pattern.”

“Wow. Judgmental.”

Bruce leaned down slightly as he stepped inside, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead as he passed. “You’re nervous,” he murmured quietly.

Your eye twitched. “No I’m not.”

“You reorganized your bookshelf alphabetically.”

You froze. “…How did you know it wasn’t already like that?”

Bruce slowly looked at the stack of books beside the couch. “…Because those are still piled by color.”

You stared at him in horror. Bruce kissed the side of your head to hide his amusement. “You missed one,” he informed you gently.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

Unfortunately, he sounded very sure about that. Bruce moved deeper into the apartment while you shut the door behind him, and you couldn’t stop watching him. Not because he looked out of place. But because he didn’t. That was somehow worse. Bruce Wayne should’ve looked ridiculous standing in your tiny kitchen setting takeout containers on the counter. Instead, he looked… comfortable. Like he’d already decided this place mattered because it mattered to you.

His gaze wandered quietly around the apartment, not critical, not assessing financially, just observing. The string lights around the windows. The tiny framed movie posters. The books overflowing from shelves because you’d run out of room months ago. The blanket draped over the couch. He noticed everything. Of course he did. “You have more mugs than dishes,” Bruce observed after a moment.

“That’s because mugs are important.”

“Hm.”

“That was judgment in rich person.”

“That was observation.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Same thing.”

Bruce’s smile deepened slightly. God. That smile was unfair in normal lighting, but in your apartment with the warm lamps on and rain tapping softly against the windows? Lethal. You turned away before he noticed the effect he was having on you. Too late. Bruce’s hand slid lightly against your waist as you passed him. Effortless. Automatic. Like touching you had already become instinct for him.

“What?” you muttered suspiciously.

“You’re pacing.”

“I am not.”

“You’ve walked in a circle around the kitchen three times.”

“…This kitchen is like four feet wide.”

Bruce hummed thoughtfully. “Still counts.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “I’m being perceived.”

“You invited me over.”

“I regret allowing you to have observational skills.”

Bruce laughed quietly then. Actually laughed. Low and warm and fond. And suddenly your tiny apartment felt warmer for it. Bruce leaned back against your counter afterward, watching you plate noodles while soft jazz played faintly from your speaker. There was something deeply surreal about the image.

Bruce Wayne.

In your apartment.

Looking absurdly handsome while holding chopsticks.

You pointed at him suddenly. “You’re too relaxed.”

One brow lifted slightly. “Meaning?”

“You’re acting like you do this all the time.”

“I spend time at your apartment often.”

“You have been here for six minutes.”

“And yet.” You narrowed your eyes harder. Bruce only looked amused. Then, because apparently the universe enjoyed humiliating you, the shitty apartment radiator suddenly let out a loud metallic BANG. You flinched. Bruce didn’t even blink. “…Did it just do that naturally?” he asked calmly.

“Yes.”

“And you live like this willingly?”

“It builds character.”

“I think it builds tetanus.”

You laughed so suddenly you almost dropped your bowl. Bruce looked disproportionately pleased with himself for causing it. A little later, after dinner, you found Bruce sprawled across your couch like he belonged there. Which was insane. Truly insane. Because this was Bruce Wayne.

Billionaire CEO.

And he was currently wearing one of your fuzzy gray blankets over his lap with a green face mask spread across his face. You stood frozen in the hallway staring at him. Bruce glanced up from his phone. “…What?”

“You look ridiculous.”

“You put this on me.”

“I didn’t think you’d actually wear it!”

“You said it helps with dry skin.”

“You’re Bruce Wayne.”

“And?”

“And you look like a sleepy TikTok boyfriend.” Bruce looked entirely unashamed. Worse, he looked comfortable. Feet propped on your coffee table. One arm stretched along the back of the couch. The face mask somehow failing to make him look any less intimidating. You collapsed beside him laughing into your hands. “This is the weirdest moment of my life.”

Bruce looked over at you quietly then. Really looked at you. His expression softened in that private way he reserved only for the people he loved most. “I like it here,” he said softly.

Your laughter faded a little. “You do?”

Bruce nodded once. “It’s yours.”

The simplicity of it hit embarrassingly hard. Because he meant it. The apartment wasn’t impressive. It wasn’t glamorous. But Bruce looked around at your tiny living room like it was something precious because it belonged to you.

You shifted closer without thinking. Bruce immediately opened one arm for you on instinct alone. You curled against his side while rain tapped softly outside and the face mask on his stupidly handsome face cracked slightly when he smiled down at you. “You know,” you murmured, “if Gotham could see you right now, your reputation would be destroyed.”

Bruce kissed the top of your head lazily. “They’d survive.

[rkkuna]

— 𝜗𝜚⋆ he loves to kiss your wedding ring when you’re asleep.

night time is the best time for you both. it finally gives you a chance to wind down and relax from a busy day. the TV plays quietly in the quiet bedroom, he can’t remember what you both picked to watch tonight, maybe it was something you had chosen a few weeks ago and forgot to watch or maybe it was his pick, he doesn’t care either way. he’s more focused on you.

you’re curled up into his side, head tucked comfortably on his bare chest with your hand placed right beside it, and he is 99% sure you had fallen asleep not that long ago. he had one arm wrapped around you, thumb slowly stroking the skin of your shoulder and traced the apple of your cheek with his other finger, heart swelling when you sigh softly and curl more into him.

your lashes flutter against your cheek each time he drags his finger up and down, your soft snores and warm breath hitting his skin, causing his lips to curl up into a tired yet fond smile. a sudden shimmer of a smirk caught his attention, and he reluctantly turned away from your face and his eyes instantly landed on your hand.

more or so on the glittery diamond on your finger rested.

pride swells up in him, memories of every promise and vow echo in his mind as he gently reaches the hand that was stroking your cheek, out towards your hand and carefully wrapped his fingers around yours, bringing your hand up to his lips. he stares at the wedding ring for a while, smiling to himself once his thumb brushes across it.

he remembers the day he bought it, remembers how long he had it sitting in his jacket pocket on every single date you both went on. he always chickened out, not because he didn’t want to marry you, he was just scared and nervous you would say no. he remembers the night he managed to push through those worries on a random wednesday; you were both on the couch, eating your favourite take out and he couldn’t stop thinking of, despite how much you cried at one of your shows, you still looked effortlessly beautiful and how badly he was in love with you and that was all it took for him to blurt it out.

yes, he proposed to you while you were completely in tears over something on the television, clad in a pair of his sweatpants that were too big and a hoodie that had been washed so many times the colour was fading. despite so many of your friends going on vacation and getting proposed to, this was perfect for you. with the man you loved, eating food you both enjoy. you didn’t need to spend extortionate amounts of money for this moment. if he was there with you, it’s all you needed.

a tear slips down his cheek at the memory of your fork dropping onto the floor and a wide wet smile appears on your face the longer he stares at the wedding ring, but hearing you shout and scream yes over and over again in excitement will truly be one of the happiest memories he has of you.

he brings your hand closer, and then he’s pressing his lips to your fingers, the coldness of the metal melting against his skin, moving between your fingers and ring. “i love you.” he murmurs between kisses, each one a promise, something soft and precious just for you.

your fingers squeeze around his subconsciously and his heart leaps again, eyes leaving your hand and flickering to your face again. you looked more content, a subtle smile on your face despite being deeply asleep. his lips pressed against your wedding ring again, this time longer and his eyes never once left your face. watching your reaction. loving you even in silence.

the arm he still has around you, his thumb still continues those slow strokes, relaxing you without him even fully realising it. he can’t stop the way he litters kisses over your fingers, some on your wrist, he just keeps going because he loves you. you’re his entire world.

after a while, he finally slides his fingers between yours, gripping your hand gently and protectively and it’s only when he slides his other hand down from your shoulder and down your arm slowly that his eyes catch the gold band around his finger.

ring or not, you’re his and he’s yours. everything he has is yours no matter what. he walks the ground you walk on and making you happy and making sure you feel so loved is always at the front of his mind.

intertwined hands, he rests them both back on his chest and turns his head, presses his lips to your forehead and inhales softly. “i love you,” he repeats under his breath, thumb moving back and forth against your knuckles this time. “everything i have is yours, everything i do is for you, for us, forever.”

his & hers.

[aurynsia]

Hellooo, so I am obsessed with the James Potter fic and can’t help but think of how James would react if he caught Harry writing a letter for Ginny the same way he did for reader? Or maybe his daughter received a letter from someone?

Like Father, Like Son

Dad!James Potter x Reader

Summary: James discovers Harry has inherited his lover boy gene…

Warnings: Mum!Reader x Dad!James, reader is referred to as Harry’s mother with she/her pronouns, not edited.

Word Count: 1K

Masterlist

A/N: I LOVE THIS IDEA!!! Thank you so much for the request! This acts as a sequel to this series, but feel free to read it as a stand alone one shot <3

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

“Dear Ginny,

there have been three occasions in my life when I’ve known what love is.

The first was watching my parents fall in love more and more everyday, reminiscing on their years spent as high school sweethearts. My dad had confessed to my mum in a series of love letters, initially anonymous before she found him out. They’ve been together ever since, and I long for a love like theirs.

The second time I knew love, it was platonic. My best friends mean the world to me, and they’ve shown me more love in these past few years of school than I’d ever known before. I can trust them with my deepest, darkest secrets, and for that I am truely grateful.

The third time was brought on by you. Ginny Weasley, I’m in love with-“

“Need any help with that holiday homework, love?”

James peaked his ever messy head of hair around the young Potter’s door, balancing a plate of his various house husband specialties in his hand.

Harry flushed with a wide-eyed shock, frozen in place as James pushed further into the room and placed the food on his desk.

“N-no, thanks dad! It’s uh…it’s not hard!” Harry managed to stutter out in reply after a beat, eyeing James curiously as he dotted around the room.

“What do you have there? Is that potions?” James lit up, scurrying over to Harry’s desk, “You know, your mother and I excelled in potions in seventh year! I was head over heels-“

He paused, glancing between the letter on Harry’s desk and his son’s sheepish grin, his eyebrows furrowed in the guilt of being caught.

“My boy…” James began, “Is that a love letter?” Harry looked away, worry clouding his features as he often sought to avoid conversations about love with his dad - he didn’t want to make a fool of himself.

“You really are my son!” James exclaimed, running on the spot to release some pent up energy, “Oh, this is great! Who’s it for? Have I met her? Or him! You know I’d never judge-“

“It’s for Ginny, dad,” Harry groaned, interrupting the man who was behaving like a fourteen year old boy. “The Weasley girl?” James paused as Harry winced. “I know she’s my best friend’s sister, but-“

“She’s lovely! Oh, this is perfect! Yes, what a sweet girl - such a welcoming family, her parents are such a treat-“ James rambled as he paced his son’s room, ignoring the way Harry released the breath he held as he broke the news to his dad.

Harry always prayed his parents would never succumb to the expectations of blood status, marrying him off to some pretentious pure blood girl when he’d rather be with the quick witted red head who stole his heart.

Today, it seemed, those prayers had been answered.

“C’mon, son, let me help! I’m good at this, you know, swept your mother right off of her feet! A poet, she had called me, yes! What have you written so far?”

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

You pressed your key into the lock of your front door, twisting and turning to release the latch and enter the warmth of your home.

Letting out a shuddering breath from the frost that hit your neck in the street, you plunged into your hallway, throwing off your coat, bag and shoes before shuffling to the living room fireplace.

“Jamie,” you breathed, smiling with adoration at your husband’s perked up expression, anticipating your approach to the couch like an excited puppy after hearing the door slam.

“My lovely girl, welcome home! How was work? Are you hungry? There’s dinner on the stove,” he rattled off in a string of ecstatic exclamations, jumping off of the couch to wrap you in his strong arms.

You softened at his touch, humming in the warmth of his chest as you told him about your day and asked for late dinner.

“That sounds exhausting, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he mused, pulling you to his chest on the couch after guiding you to the plush cushions with a bowl of food in your hands. “We had quite the eventful day here, too,” he started, bright eyed and reeling, “I’m sure it’ll cheer you up!”

“Tell me all about it, Jamie,” you murmured, cuddling into his chest like it was moulded perfectly for your head. “Harry’s written a love letter, a good one,” he began enthusiastically, “for that lovely little Ginny Weasley he’s been so infatuated with recently!”

He practically squealed at the confession, adding pressure to your waist out of unconscious joy. You grinned in surprise, eyebrows reaching for your hairline as you spun around to face James. “Well, he really is his father’s son, hmm?”

James bounced you on his lap in glee, describing the letter that Harry planned to take back to Hogwarts with him. “And then he’ll slip it under her door! Oh, love, it’s perfect!”

You smiled sleepily at his explanation, rolling your head across his chest to stare up at him dreamily. “He deserves a love like ours,” you mused, “I remember that night, I was so enamoured by your beautiful writing…Harry’s got your big heart.”

“And your beautiful brain,” he kissed your forehead, “and your gorgeous eyes,” another kiss, “and your stunning smile,” one kiss more. You giggled at his touch, leaning impossibly closer to him on the couch.

“If all goes as planned, I suppose we should have the Weasleys over for Christmas,” you mumbled with a sleepy smile, closing your eyes and tightening your grip on James’ arms that captured your waist. “Oh! I’ll make dinner! We can have a big party!”

James Potter, the big, strong man with an even bigger heart who just had to make you fall for his hopeless romantics.

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

[reignpage]

Synopsis: in which nerdjo is manipulated and gaslit by his on-again and off-again girlfriend, and he fucking loves it!

Warnings: slice of life, smut, fluff and a lil angst, cunnilingus, subby/needy!gojo, femdom, switches, dry humping, bed humping, this is a reimagining of the gojo twins au but if they have girlfriends of their own, looking to be part of a sitcom-like series with no overall plot, alternate universe of Bubblegum Bitch if nerdjo didn't have erectile dysfunction lol, established relationship, toxic relationship?, reader needing reassurance, not proofread - honestly made in a rush so just push through Word Count: 3.9k

Apart from when he’s being ‘dragged’ (Toru would argue he comes more than willingly) to parties, Sato’s a homebody.

He likes the comforts of his room, where he can play games on his custom built PC, study for the next exam, and pretend he’s being pestered by his outgoing girlfriend.

Well, technically, you broke up. But not really. But also yes.

Who knows?

Sato finds it near impossible to keep up with whether you are or are not together at any given point.

You’re always getting mad at him for something or the other: he took too long playing (he went over the time limit you set by 1 minutes), the way he chews on the tip of his pen gave you the ick (not fair at all), he didn’t reply fast enough (he was in an exam), and he accidentally smacked you in the face when he was sleeping (a habit from childhood when he used to share a bed with his annoying cuddler of a twin). 

Today, you’re not dating. Still very much broken up. According to you. Except it’s hard to believe that when you showed up at his door looking as jaw droppingly beautiful as ever and shoved him aside.

And Sato could never turn you away. The thought didn’t even occur to him.

Since, you’ve been lounging on his bed. 

“Why do all these girls have such huge tits?” you ask, lying on your stomach. 

From his desk, Sato hums. “Do they? I never noticed.”

“Liar,” you immediately scoff. “I bet that’s the exact reason you got this manga, and all the others. I also bet these drawings were your first wank.”

Pen tapping on his textbook, he huffs. “You sound like my brother.” 

His first wank was to Mewto, but he won’t admit that. Why did you even come back here if you hate him so much? Just to drive him crazy with insults, and with that short skirt riding up thighs he knows are softer than marshmallows?

“Well, then you should listen to us both; two people can’t be wrong.”

Sato snorts. “Actually, I think if the two of you agree on something, then you’re both definitely wrong.”

That gets a giggle out of you. He’ll admit that sound has him feeling a sense of victory and pride. 

Tossing the book aside, you clamber off the bed and skip over to him. You hug his head to your chest, cradling the thing between your breasts. He notices. Of course he does. “Wanna get back together, Sato? I’m horny.”

His scrawling stops. 

You aren’t usually this honest, this vulnerable. Sure, he’d much rather you were wanting to get back with him because you were going insane without him, because you realised you can’t live without him, because you missed him and not his dick. But this still feels like a small victory. 

Proceed carefully, he tells himself.

“You broke up with me,” Sato reminds you, slowly as though walking through a minefield. 

“Yeah, and now I want to unbreak up with you. Is that a crazy thought?” You’re raking your acrylic nails on his scalp. His lashes flutter. You always did know just how to weaken his resolve. “My toys died on me, and because of you and your loudmouth twin, no guy will go anywhere near me.”

There’s some truth to that — Toru’s projective of you and of his brother’s heart, and has made it abundantly clear to the scrubs that frequent his parties that his 'future sister-in-law' is a strict 'no-touching zone.'

However, it’s important to note that you could have any man you want, if you set your mind to it, so he doesn’t buy it for a second. Sato’s long learned not to take your words at face value. 

He knows from experience, therefore, that you just regret breaking up with him. If an orgasm was all you wanted, after all, then you would have just shoved his face between your legs, rode his tongue, then gone along on your merry way. Which has happened before. 

It’s tempting. 

Really. 

But it’s rare that you’re the one to break first. And a man ought to make a stand here and there. Maybe the fact that he’s always the one who reaches out first and grovels, even if he didn’t do anything wrong, is why you do this so often. He just can’t miss the opportunity to drag this out. 

So Sato casually replies, “Nah. I’m enjoying the peace and quiet. It helps me study better.”

A moment of silence passes. 

It’s thick.

Your raking nails stop. Your body stills. 

“Oh,” you say. “Okay.”

You’re gathering your stuff and making your way to the door with no further argument, not a second later.

That’s not how he thought that would go.

Where’s the shouting? The slapping his chest and stomping your feet? Where’s the deadly glare, the calling him names that’ll get him hard? The throwing of things, the threatening to kick his monitor screen in, the showing him hell hath no fury like a woman scorned and rejected?

Sato jumps out of his seat faster than the speed of light. He clutches you to him, heart beating so fast he’s sure you can feel it. 

“Wait, wait. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I miss you, baby. Always miss you when you’re not here. I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad at me. I’ll do anything — do you want more clothes? I’ll buy out your baskets again. All of them. J-just anything.”

Thank god he’s hugging you from behind, because if he wasn’t, he’d see the devilish grin warping your face.

This had been Toru’s idea. He told you, if you give Sato any ounce of power, he’d grow arrogant with it, which you can use to your advantage. And judging by the way he’s literally shaking as he holds you, you owe the man a rematch at beer pong.

Forcing a sad tone, you ask, “A-are you sure, Sato? I know I’m always bothering you, but I thought you like when I do. I didn’t realise I was holding you back.”

Inside, he feels something break

“No, baby. No, that’s not it at all.” Sato spins you around, bending down slightly to meet your eyes. His gaze has softened from the usual aloof expression he wears. He looks like he’s in near tears. “You don’t bother me in any way I don’t like. You know I love you.”

Eyes fluttering, you sniffle a little. “Really? Even when I’m always saying mean things?”

Sato pecks your lips. Once. Twice. Third for good luck. And a fourth because he needs his fill after the two day break you two had. 

“Baby, you know I get so hard when you say mean things. To me, to my brother, to everyone. Just never about yourself,” he pleads, cradling your face in his hands. “I love everything about you. I was just being an idiot.”

You grip the hem of his sweater, bringing it up and up so you can rake your nails up his abs. “Yeah, you were, Sato. You really hurt me.” With big doe eyes you meet his gaze. “I should be able to hurt you back, don’t you think?”

In his sweatpants, something stirs. 

So predictable. Like putty in your hands. 

He gulps. Then nods. Greedily. “Y-yeah. That’s fair. Whatever you want.”

In a flurry he can’t process fast enough, he finds himself pushed down onto his bed, sweater ripped right off his body. You straddle his hips. Your skirt has ridden up. Pussy lips through your panties cradling his hard on. 

How does it always end up like this?

As you run a finger down his chest, his breath shudders. “Oh, Sato,” you coo, “why did we ever break up?”

“You said my last name won’t go well with your name if we marry,” he reminds you. “I disagree, but you don’t have to take my name. You know I’m not traditional.”

Oh, yeah, that’s why. A better woman would be ashamed for breaking up with their boyfriend for such a non-issue, but you’re not a better woman, and the reminder nearly has you wanting to ditch him again.  

Sato adjusts his glasses as he peers up at you. When you glower at him, his lips twitch. “You’re so pretty when you’re mad at me. So, so pretty.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm. The prettiest.”

You smile. “Yeah, I am, aren’t I?”

Underneath you, he throbs, punctuating his point. You bite back a moan — if you get too needy and start dry humping him, you’ll lose your upper hand. Keep your head in the game, you tell yourself. 

Picking up lipstick from your purse, you twist the base slowly. It clicks with every centimetre it emerges. 

Sato’s almost panting, like a bitch in heat. His imagination is running wild, wondering what you’re going to do with that lipstick, where it’s going to go. His hands fall onto your bare thighs, rubbing warmth there but also just wanting to feel you. 

You hold his gaze. 

On his flawless chest, you write:

M

I

N

E

“What does it say, Sato?”

He swallows, hips starting to rut up, chasing the friction. “Mine.”

“Which means?”

“I’m yours. All yours,” he breathes out. Sato’s releasing low moans, which grow louder when you start grinding down on him. He always did love dry humping.

You cup his cheek. You brush your thumb over his flushed skin there, right under the rim of his glasses. Then you slap him. Hard. Hard enough that it leaves a bright, red mark.

Sato’s hips buck. His eyes widen to saucers. “FUCK!” he cries out. 

Those hands that hold your thighs are gripping your hips now, hastily guiding you back and forth his clothed length. You moan, head thrown back. 

“I hate that you didn’t chase after me,” you tell him.

Usually, Sato would spam you with apologies. Usually, you’d ignore them until you got bored, then you'd send him a TikTok. He’d sends one back. And you two act like nothing ever happened. 

This time, he hadn’t. 

He didn’t show up outside your classes with a cup of coffee or a sweet treat. He didn’t text you poorly taken nudes in hopes of enticing you to take him back. Didn’t send flowers to your doors or money or his twin brother with a prepared speech about how men are experiencing a mental health crisis. 

He just didn’t. 

Worry had been weighing you down — what if he got tired of you? What if he finally saw sense and realised you’re not a good girlfriend, you’re not even a good person? What if he found someone better, someone smarter, someone he has shared interest with that extended beyond great bed chem?

Toru reassured you that none of that is possible; his brother eats, sleeps, and breathes you. He’d heard enough about how amazing and incredible you are before you started dating, when he was pining after you, and during, when you started teaching him all sorts of things he never realised about himself. 

None of that reassured you. Nothing could.

Not even the raging boner you’re humping, the lewd groans and moans and whines and whimpers he’s letting out, or the spot of pre wetting his sweatpants. 

Because that’s sex. 

That’s the body talking.

You want that, of course. But you also want his heart. 

“Do you still love me, Sato?” you ask. No bravado. No sass. No faux pout. Just a question. “Like really love me?”

“Yes,” he replies without missing a beat. His brows knit together. He must notice something serious and sad in your eyes; he sits up. “Hey, hey, baby. What’s wrong? Are we not playing anymore?”

Bottom lip quivering, you say, “We’re always playing, Sato. I know I start most of it, and I really can’t talk, but sometimes I wonder if we play too much. If it’s all we do, all we have.”

Teas are springing to your eyes, wetting your false lashes. If he were anyone else, you’d gouge out his eyes so he’d never know you were capable of crying. This nerd, however, has brought you to tears with his tongue, fingers and dick enough times to know you’re just a wet mess waiting to happen.

“Is this what I am to you? Just someone to slap you around, to entertain you between classes, someone to keep for fun?” A little embarrassed, you force a chuckle. “I mean, it’s okay if I am. I know what I look and act like. And I know I’m not someone you take home to father.”

“Mother,” he mutters. Sato wipes an errant tear away, angry at the mere sight of it. “The saying is ‘take home to mother’ and I don’t care if you are or aren’t — our mother’s a bitch. So is our father. All I care about is why you think you’re any less than the love of my life.”

You bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Forget it. Just whip your cock out. Imma suck it.”

He ignores that.

In a graceful move, you land on your back, pushed down gently. He hovers above you, casting a shadow. 

Sato’s frowning hard. Really hard. He looks livid. 

“I love you,” he says. Firmly. Unwaveringly. With all the certainty in the world. “I love you. So much. So much so that you’re the first thing I think about.”

He bends his arms to reach your face. You accept his kiss. It’s soft, tender, the kind of kiss that’s all about taking your time to taste and feel. The kind that would have your leg kicking up if you were standing. The one that has your heart racing. Cheeks flushing. Lips tingling. 

Pulling back, he presses a kiss to the pulse point at your neck. He descends to your chest. Sato hooks the neckline down so he can kiss right over your heart. To each breast, he kisses the peaks, nuzzling between them. You moan, hand threading through his hair. He slides the hem up to kiss your belly. 

Every inch of skin he touches tickles, like a current of electricity runs under it.

“I wonder where you are, what you’re doing. If you’ve slept through your alarm. If you’re late to class, if you’re even going. I wonder if you’ve eaten, and what. And I get all restless when I think about you only eating snacks and not getting any real food.”

You can do nothing but watch as Sato flicks your skirt up, revealing your g-string to him. A small smile appears on his pretty face. He continues with his lips grazing your pelvis, “I think about what you’re wearing. If you’re matching your panties to your nails or to your bag. If you’ve gone with a tight skirt because you’re feeling good about how your ass looks, or if you’ve gone for something loose because you’re bloated.”

Wetness readily flows out of you, staining your panties. He notices. Turns out, he notices everything about you. 

A thumb pushes itself between your puffy pussy lips. A lewd squelch reaches your ears. He circles your clit over the material. Sato’s breath fans over the sensitive skin there as he slots himself between your thighs, lying down on his stomach. He gets real comfortable.

“In class, here, studying, showering, getting Toru out of trouble, even in my dreams, I think of you.” G-string pulled to the side, Sato finally presses to your clit. Skin to skin. You sigh. He rasps, “It’s always you, don’t you get that? Always you. Even before I knew you existed — I may not believe in God or any religions, but I do believe that if we had souls, mine was calling out for you this whole time.”

You pout. “That’s cheesy, Sato.”

He chuckles before he licks a stripe up your slit, groaning at your taste. “Yeah, I know. And if you tell Toru I said any of that, I’ll pretend you’re lying.” He releases a tense breath. “I mean it though. You bring out this side of me that I’d never show anyone, that I didn’t realise I had. I know we do things differently to other couples, and we’re probably a little childish about things — that’s what Toru says at least, and you know I hate to hear that from him — but we work. Despite it all, we work.”

Dazzling blue eyes stare up at you. Your breath gets stuck in your throat. 

“I. Love. You. If there’s anything you need to believe, it’s that,” he says, sounding damn near ready to set fire to anyone who tries to convince you otherwise.

You brush locks of his hair away from his face. His eyes shut at the feeling of your hand soothing him. “Okay, Sato,” you whisper. “I believe you. Now eat it.”

Your hand yanks him to your pussy.

His muffled surprise vibrates against your heated flesh. Head thrown back, you moan in bliss when he quickly recovers and starts sucking on your pulsing clit.

Sato is a smart boy. 

He always knows the right words to bring you back down. 

Who else would have the patience to deal with you?

“Mm, fuck, I missed how sweet your pussy is,” he mumbles right inside you, tongue lapping up your wetness. He collects the juices just to spread it over your clit. Sato rubs the bundle of nerves in tight circles, with the perfect amount of pressure to have your back arching. 

Moaning, you say, “Fuck, baby, you’re -ngh- eating me out so good. More. Suck my clit more!”

“I love when you boss me around,” he whines, dominant voice gone. In its place is your boyfriend who complains when you leave his arms at night to go to the bathroom. “Love when you tell me exactly what you need. Always wanna be good for you.”

“Oh, you’re so good, Sato,” you mewl. “Always so good.”

Fingers work their way inside your cunt. They force the ring of muscle at the entrance to take them in. His digits are long, reaching your cervix with ease and finding that sensitive spot inside. When he curls up, your thighs tighten around his head, threatening to suffocate him.

But Sato doesn’t complain; he only groans, eyes rolling back. 

Doubling the intensity, he flattens his tongue up your entire pussy and licks up again and again. He’s slurrrrrrping! all your juices up with no shame or reservation. Yet, there’s always something measured and calculated with each move. 

He’s wholly aware of how you like your pussy eaten out, of where you’re most sensitive, of what pace to tongue you. His brain never turns off. 

Orgasm impending, you tug at his hair to keep him in place as your hips grind on their own. The tip of his nose bumps your clit delectably. “Sato, fuck!”

He whimpers approvingly. “Yes, baby. That’s it. Ride my face.”

The bed’s rocking. You realise then, through the haze of pleasure, that he’s humping the bed, like a dog. It reminds you of the first time he ate you out, how he’d been so obsessed with the smell, the sight, the sweetness, and the warmth of your pussy that he came from his pants and was too embarrassed to get up to show you. 

In spite of how long it’s been, you don’t think he’s ever really forgiven you for getting so drunk that you told Toru. Oh, he ate you out that night for hours and hours, with your wrists bound by ties to the headboard so you couldn’t squirm or push him away in retaliation. You were certain your clit would fall off. 

It’s been a while since he’d come untouched…

Knowing that he’s feeling good from the taste of your pussy he’s missed has you feeling lightheaded.

“I’m,” you gasp out, toes curling, “I’m gonna cum!”

“Oh, fuck yes. Cum, baby. Cum on my face. Let me taste you,” he begs. “I want it so bad. Come on, please. Please, baby.”

A shriek tears right though you. Your whole body spasms. Around his fingers, your walls pulse. He keeps fucking them inside, knowing your g-spot is most sensitive during and after an orgasm. His lips are wrapped around your clit, sucking and sucking, and wringing out vulgar squelches!

When you come down from your high, he’s already hovering over you again. His lips are swollen. Glossy. He licks them. His eyes flicker down, hungry. 

You know what he wants.

Lazily, you smile. “Go on, Sato. Give your soulmate a kiss.”

He groans. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

Then he’s sloppily making out with you. 

You can taste yourself on his tongue. Not that you mind. 

Sato ruts his raging boner against your bare pussy, getting his sweatpants all wet. He doesn’t care about anything other than feeling good, than grinding onto you, than tasting you. This is better than the thrill of shopping.

Most of the time, Sato’s the one who leads. He’s the one telling you what position to get in, how many orgasms he wants you to give him, and he says when you’re done. He’s a sadist — he loves to spank, to tie you up, gag you, and make you beg for it. Which no one would expect from the judgemental, little nerd. But sometimes, when you’ve pulled at his heartstrings enough, you get these rare and precious moments where you can get him to say the things he doesn’t even say to himself. 

Only for you, when you’ve convinced him he’s hurt you too much or too far, does he relinquish control and let you ride him emotionally and sexually. And the high you get from it is unlike any other. It’s almost as good as following his commands. 

You suppose, after the two day break, you were just more emotional, more in need of reassurance, than ever. He understood that. And without complaint, without another word about it, he was more than ready and willing to give you everything you need. 

He really is your soulmate.

A string of spit connects you both when he parts from you maybe hours later. His cock’s out, bobbing right by your pussy — you didn’t even notice he’d taken it out. His soft hand’s tugging on the length, squeezing out beads of pre cum.

God, it’s so pretty.

Sato taps the flushed cock head on your clit. “Mm, Sato!” 

“Don’t think I didn’t realise what you were doing,” he mutters. Those gorgeous eyes flit up to yours. A corner of his mouth curls up into an arrogant smirk. “You never have to manipulate me to get me to eat your pussy and make love confessions, but I do find it entertaining when you do.”

Grinning, you casually start groping your tits. “I know. That’s why I do it. I know my kitty gets so wet for Mean Sato most times, but I like being the mean one in bed sometimes too. Can’t we have an even balance?”

“80-20.”

You pout. “60-40?”

His cock pushes in, inch by inch. You gasp. Your hands fall to grab his arms. The backs of your thighs are resting on his as he lifts your hips up to fuck his cock down at a delicious angle. 

Sato presses down on your lower belly. Your walls clench down around him. He groans. You love when he does that; you can feel him even better when he bottoms out. He drawls, “80-20 and I buy you another pair of heels.”

“Deal!”

“Oh, and we’re back together again,” he adds.

As he rocks into you, you breathe out, “We were always together.”

He nods before kissing you on the nose. 

“And don’t you forget it.”

[mononijikayu]

let it be — higuruma hiromi.

imagining higuruma hiromi, the best divorce lawyer in the industry, who is unhappily stuck in this stupid case that hasn’t ended for nearly a year and a half. and he hates it. he utterly hates it, as much as he hates them.

he should be at home with you, his beloved actress wife, who is by now heavily pregnant with your first child and ready to give birth. but you told him you would be fine and to let it be, that he should go and get it done with.

unfortunately for him, his job means he can’t be around, even when he wants to. and people do not like being forced to wait, especially entitled people like these. the opposing council’s office conference room had been designed by people who believed throwing away their wealth at something could solve sadness.

he frowned when he got in that morning, his junior co-lawyer trailing behind him. this office just screams sterile dullness. everything gleamed with the smug confidence of expensive furniture. the walnut table shone beneath recessed lighting.

crystal water glasses stood untouched beside perfectly aligned legal pads. the leather chairs looked costly enough to have their own opinions.  even the air smelled curated. it was insane. it was all horribly cool, and too sterilely clean, and most of all, intensely smelling of putrid money, money that was not well spent.

it was the sort of room where marriages came to die with excellent posture. one that he was certain had sucked people dry. at the head of the table sat the head council for the aggrieved wife, higuruma hiromi, who wished he could be at home.

his suit was immaculate, charcoal pressed so sharply it could have been used in surgery. his tie remained perfectly centered despite three hours of argument. a stack of files lay before him in frighteningly neat order, every page tabbed, highlighted, and annotated in handwriting so precise it looked judgmental.

across from him sat the couple who had once vowed eternal love and now could not share oxygen without endless bitter resentment between one another. if they were not there, higuruma hiromi was certain they would start jumping across the table and do the harm they wanted.

but this was enough harm as it was, it was enough torture to get a divorce like this, infringing on everyone’s lives, especially hiromi’s life. he sighed as he started writing notes as he heard the opposing council speak the same tired demands made by that stupid husband.

the said stupid husband was flushed red with indignation as he glared at his wife, an expensive watch flashing every time he pointed at something no one cared about. he was horribly nodding his head, in a way that was reminiscent of a chicken.

his wife sat rigid in cream silk and diamonds, posture perfect, expression murderous just beside hiromi. hiromi thinks that as much as she herself could be a carbon copy of her husband, she was less worse than him. otherwise, he would not have represented her.

the rest of the other lawyers were speaking in hushed tones, listening to the opposing council’s main lawyer, trying to find counters, or paths to match it. it was the same old situation they had been in for the past year and a half. 

still, everything had progressed beyond mediation, hiromi is fairly aware of this. rich people know that. this was just entertainment for them, as much as they have animosity from each other. because he knew how fun it was, how interesting it was to simply see who could weaponize vocabulary first.

“this valuation is absurd, isn’t it?” the husband’s counsel snapped, shoving a folder forward. “your client is inflating the market rate by nearly forty percent.”

“it reflects the post-renovation value, as we have discussed time and time again.” hiromi replied, not even looking up, writing his notes still. “you would know that if you had read appendix three.”

the attorney stiffened. “do not patronize me.”

“i would never need to, and you know that.” the dark eyed man said mildly, snickering. it earns the wife’s laugh. “i mean, you are doing an admirable job yourself each time you argue the same circus to people without interest in it.”

“higuruma-san—”

“it’s not a joke if it’s true.”

a collective inhale passed through the room. the one of the more formal lawyers at his side pinched the bridge of her nose. one junior associate wrote some things in his notebook while mouthing ‘wow’ multiple times. the opposing council’s lawyer looked too red in the face, while his subordinates looked like they were ready to laugh.

higuruma hiromi sighed, lifting his head as he slowly adjusted his glasses and continued reviewing the page in front of him as though he had just commented on cloud coverage. he raised a brow, then looked at the opposing council again.

“you’re wanting me to be nice about it?” hiromi asked, voice level and dry enough to preserve wood. he flipped to another page with the smooth indifference of a man reviewing weather reports. “that’s not my job, isn’t it?”

the husband’s attorney bristled immediately. “professional courtesy is expected in mediation.”

“professional competence was also expected, to be sure.” hiromi replied back. “yet here we are, aren’t we?”

the room went still. the husband muttered something vulgar. his soon-to-be ex-wife, seated elegantly beside the dark eyed lawyer, and took a slow sip of water to hide her smile. Hiromi carefully flipped the page, and continued reading.

“now what is this spousal support amendment?” he asked. “why is your client asking for one hundred million yen a month?”

the husband straightened. “because i built the life she enjoys. and i deserve compensation for it.”

the wife laughed outright. “you leased most of it.”

hiromi did not look up. “that does appear consistent with the financial records.”

the husband’s lawyer snapped, “that number reflects the lifestyle maintained during the marriage.”

“Interesting tonation, really.” hiromi said, turning a page. “because these statements suggest the lifestyle was maintained primarily by loans, vanity, and several questionable business decisions. my client is fine, she has a trust fund from her father. but…i don’t know about your client.”

one junior associate from the opposing council near the wall nearly swallowed his pen. that was what unsettled people most about him, he supposed. he never shouted. he never slammed tables. he never loosened his tie and pretended volume was authority.

he never postured, either. he remained exactly as he was, every single time. higuruma hiromi was always calm. he knew what actions to do, and how measured they have to be. immaculately polite in the same way a guillotine was efficient. while everyone else emotionally free-fell around him.

the husband jabbed a finger across the table. “are you accusing me of fraud?”

“not yet, sir.” hiromi retorted mildly. “at present, i am simply literate.”

the wife choked on another laugh. her assistant handed her a tissue without making eye contact. before long, the mediator looked at him. “higuruma-san, we should continue—” the mediator said carefully, sensing blood in the water.

“perhaps we should work again, shouldn’t we?” he said after a pause, closing the file with a soft tap. “we ought to resume behaving like professionals. unless everyone would prefer i classify this hour as live theater and bill accordingly.”

the husband scoffed. “this is absurd.”

“not really, sir.” higuruma replied, opening another folder. “what i think is absurd was the hidden offshore account. this is page twelve.”

the room detonated into silence.

the husband’s lawyer went pale.

the wife laughed too hard, nearly falling off.

the lawyer looked at his client and blinked twice. “offshore account?”

he adjusted his glasses. “ah i see.” he said calmly. “you hadn’t reached page twelve yet. or was this a mistake? let me know, so i can weaponize it.”

no one laughed.

no one was brave enough.

the husband sat back with a huff, shaking. the wife muttered something that was probably vile against her husband and laughed again. higuruma hiromi reached for the next file. but before long, he felt his phone vibrate. once then it stopped. he ignored it. then it rang in vibrations again. he pursed his lips as a third one happened to vibrate.

a slight crease appeared between his brows. three times in rapid succession. everyone seemed to notice, because higuruma hiromi never allowed interruptions. his phone was usually buried somewhere in his briefcase like an artifact from a lost civilization.

he finally allowed himself to glance down. before long he noticed it was you calling, his wife, from the safe confines of home. for the first time all day, he found himself frozen. the shift was small, but dramatic enough that both clients stopped hating each other long enough to notice it.

he answered immediately. “sweetheart, what is it?”

your voice came through strained, breathless, and deeply unimpressed. “hiromi, darling.”

he was already standing. “what happened?”

“i think my water broke.”

the room ceased to matter to him in that moment. all the sudden, the table vanished. the clients vanished. the millions and millions of yen in dispute over houses, paintings, and emotional damage with parking spaces attached vanished.

“when?”

“i don’t know—ten minutes ago? maybe fifteen? i was timing contractions and then i dropped my script paper because, shockingly, this hurts a lot.”

his chair scraped back so fast one associate flinched. “where are you?”

“at home. i called the driver but traffic is bad and—”

“i’m coming.”

“hiromi, just meet me there—”

“absolutely not.”

the room had gone silent all the sudden as they watched higuruma hiromi in haste. the husband stared. the wife blinked. one lawyer slowly removed his glasses like he needed to witness this in higher resolution. hiromi was already gathering his files with terrifying efficiency. 

papers appropriately stacked. his sharp pen capped. long coat on, briefcase shut as his emotional priorities rearranged as he started to speak to one of the other lawyers from the firm who was nodding back at him.

“higuruma-san, what are you doing?” opposing counsel said carefully, “we are in the middle of a signed mediation schedule.”

“my wife is in labor.” the statement hit the room like divine intervention.

still, the husband attempted nonsense. “you’re leaving?” he demanded. “now?”

hiromi looked at him over the rim of his glasses. those who are judges had a look for contempt. those who are teachers had a look for cheating. but higuruma hiromi had to look for people who made life harder on purpose. he pursed his lips.

“yes, something came up, something real important now, so i must leave.” he said to all of them.

“but we flew in from osaka for this.”

“and my child appears to be flying in from my wife today, that’s very much a big deal.” hiromi replied evenly. “that takes precedence over your airline points.”

someone in the corner choked trying not to laugh, as the other associates tried to not laugh at how bluntly he said those words. the other opposing council lawyer raised their hand and spoke. “surely another thirty minutes would allow us to finalize custody terms—”

“no, i don’t think so.” he said. 

it was not dramatic at all, if anything it reminded someone of how it felt to have a verbal equivalent to a locked door, one that would not open even when you  ram it hard and fast. he fastened his briefcase and looked at the couple. for one brief second, his expression softened into pity.

“you have spent six months fighting over paintings neither of you like, then the next six trying to fight for the rights to have vacation homes neither of you visit, and just these four months about dogs who prefer the nanny, and now you add this alimony situation.”

he takes his associate’s copy and starts marking off the pages. “here are the pages which will win us the case. if you have no rebuttals on those like you had no rebuttals for the offshore company dealings, give up to your wife, okay?”

neither spoke. but then the laugh started laughing again. “ah, as expected! its really why you’re the best lawyer in the industry.”

he nodded at her. “and now i’ve gotta go. i am going to witness something worth fighting for.”

he turned and strode from the room, coat moving behind him like vengeance in tailored wool as the wife started mocking her husband who all but sank down onto his chair, being quizzed by his lawyers. no one stopped hiromi. mostly because they were all a little scared. but because, it wasn’t the time.

after all, he was about to be a father.

the drive to the hospital was the longest thirty minutes of his life. he called you twice as he broke traffic rules. he was anything else but calm. he was unable to let it be. not when you were not picking up.

when you picked up late into the the first time, you answered the call mid-contraction and informed him that if he asked one more time whether the hospital bag was packed, he would personally require medical attention.

the second time, he heard only heavy breathing before you snapped back. “stop timing contractions from traffic and drive faster with your mind. i need you here, not there. hurry up already, you bastard! FUCK—”

he apologized and nearly ran head first into driving like a madman, even though he probably should not. before long, he was screaming at someone about a parking space. but he won that one with dissecting that he’s also cheating on his wife, which point blank, he was. he immediately gave up his parking.

it took hiromi about five minutes to get to the hospital but when he arrived, his appearance had suffered historic damage. his tie was now really truly loosened. his dark colored hair was out of place everywhere. one sleeve was folded wrong. his expression suggested the city itself had offended him, which he was sure they have.

a nurse at reception looked up just in time to see a severe man speed-walking toward maternity like he was filing an emergency lawsuit against biology. “sir, what are you doing—”

“my wife is in labor.”

the room number provided immediately, which he was grateful for, as much as he was grateful for no follow-up questions. before long, he entered your room without knocking. you were propped against the bed, hair damp, hospital gown wrinkled, fury radiant.

“you took thirty-three minutes.”

“i broke about ten traffic laws.”

“you still took thirty-three minutes, you bastard. i swear to god—” 

you felt another contraction, which made him look concerned. he crossed the room instantly. the sight of you seemed to hit him harder than any courtroom loss ever could. you were sweaty. and so blatantly exhausted and in extraordinary pain. and still the most beautiful person he had ever seen.

he took your hand carefully. “i’m here now, sweetheart.” he said softly. “i’m so sorry for being so late.”

a contraction hit. you crushed his fingers with enough force to revise bone structure as you screamed profanities at him. he did not make a sound, though his ancestors probably did. the nurse glanced at the monitor, then at his hand, then quietly respected you more.

“breathe with me, sweetheart.” he murmured.

“you breathe!” you hissed.

“yes, dear.”

the nurse turned away to laugh into a clipboard. hours passed in waves of pain, instruction, and you threatening him creatively and he was sure later, he will list them down for you for entertainment. but right now, he was all but focused on you.

in this time, he held water cups for you to drink water when you needed. he dutifully wiped your forehead. he counted breaths with you as you took your time to regulate yourself. higuruma hiromi accepted verbal abuse with dignity, still letting you change the figure of his bones as you held tightly to his hand.

at one point you accused him of causing this entire process, in puddle of tears. he merely nodded as you kept saying things that certainly didn’t make sense out loud. “i accept partial liability, sweetheart. don’t worry.” he said solemnly.

you threw a pillow at his shoulder. “fair.”

then, at last, hours later, there was a cry splitting the room. it was booming and loud, far too sharp and even more so, offended. one would think it was a legal demand, represented in little babbles and a loud cry. everything stopped for higuruma hiromi in that moment. 

this dream he has waited on for ten years.

the woman of his dreams by his side.

and now the long awaited child.

the nurse smiled. “healthy lungs.”

your eyes immediately filled with tears and you laughed. higuruma hiromi stood motionless, staring as the nurse wrapped the tiny squirming infant. he didn’t think this moment would ever come and yet, here it was right in front of him, almost like a fantastical dream. 

it was now reality.

“father?”

he blinked once, like his soul had briefly left and returned, and then he stepped forward, slowly, so carefully. as if still not believing this was real. but then, as they placed your son in his arms, it started to hit him. flesh against flesh, warmth against warmth. this was real.

the man who had dismantled witnesses and terrified executives looked down at seven pounds of rage and immediately lost every argument he would ever have again. the baby’s face scrunched. a tiny fist escaped the blanket. it was then he sneezed directly onto hiromi’s tie.

you laughed so hard you almost needed another nurse.

“he’s loud already, isn’t he?” hiromi whispered.

“he’s yours, darling.” you said to him, giving a small smile. “of course he would be loud.”

his dark raven eyes lifted to you, so full of warmth, so full of love. every hard edge in his face softened. every guarded wall opened. the terrifying attorney disappeared, leaving only your husband, your child’s father. utterly loving, utterly yours.

“no, sweetheart. he’s ours.” he said quietly, voice rough. “after all, he looks so beautiful because of you.”

you felt tears gather again almost instantly. “that is a ridiculous thing to say when he currently resembles an angry old man.”

“an angry old man, little man….” hiromi replied solemnly, “with excellent bone structure.”

“he’s got your nose too.”

“that he does.” he laughs softly.

"still you're right...even our angry old little man, he looks so small, so precious."

"hm, that he is, darling."

the nurse snorted so suddenly she had to pretend to check a machine. hiromi carefully placed the baby into your arms, moving with the caution of a man handling priceless glass. the moment your son settled against your chest, he quieted. his tiny fingers flexed once, then curled against the fabric of your gown. 

hiromi stared. “he likes you better already, sweetheart.” 

“i carried him for nine months.”

“i was emotionally supportive.”

you looked at him flatly “you alphabetized the nursery.”

“organization is support, isn’t it? he’ll like it, don’t worry.”

you laughed softly, exhausted and glowing. for once, higuruma hiromi had nothing clever left to say. there was only that echo of endless emotions he could not explain easily. wonder. relief. terror. that blossoming devotion in his heart so deep it made speech inadequate.

yet he accepted every bit of it willingly. his hand trembled as he rested it over both of you, thumb brushing lightly over the baby’s blanket. “hello, little one.” he said quietly to his son, as though introducing himself to someone important. “i’m your father.”

the baby opened one eye, frowned, then began to cry again. you burst into laughter. hiromi blinked. “i see.”

the nurse bit the inside of her cheek. “he has objections already, doesn’t he?” you managed between laughs.

“then he is definitely my child.” he leaned down and kissed your forehead first. then your son’s tiny head. when he straightened, his eyes were suspiciously bright. “you did well, sweetheart.” he told you softly.

“i know.” you replied.

he let out a quiet laugh, the kind only you ever heard, kissing your forehead once again. “you’re amazing. you’re everything.”

outside the room, phones continued ringing, clients continued demanding, paperwork continued existing. inside the room, none of it mattered. in this world, this was all that mattered to him. you, your son, this family he had always dreamed of….this is all that matters.

higuruma hiromi pulled a chair beside your bed and sat down without removing his hand from either of you. you watched him as he started to speak with your son, who kept answering in small mewls, almost like a cat.

for the first time in years, the man who always had the final word was perfectly content to say nothing at all. and perhaps that’s why it’s perfect. everything else washes away. because such beautiful things often don’t need words to describe it. you can only feel it, and let it be. 

you let it be.

“i love you.” he whispers to you as he lifts his head and then looks at your son. “i love you both.”

you felt your heart swell. “i love you too. both of you.”