can u plz write a twilight fic jasper x deaf male reader <3
Something Steady (Jasper Hale x Deaf!Male Reader)
The Cullen house always seemed alive in the way no other house could match. Even in its stillness, you could feel it: laughter humming around the walls, the low buzz of piano keys from Edward's room, Emmett's booming footsteps and laughter upstairs. But with Jasper, it was different. Jasper made the world quiet. Not like you truly could tell the difference, but it just felt quieter.
You were curled against him on the living room couch, your head resting on his shoulder, your legs stretched out with his arms wrapped loosely around your waist. A book lay forgotten on the table. You had been reading aloud earlier, signing sentences while Jasper traced them back to you with his hands. Now, it was enough just to sit here.
He tilted his head, golden eyes studying you. "You're tired." His lips moved slowly, carefully, and he signed the word tried to match. His handshapes were cleaner now, sharper. Weeks of practice had paid off.
You smirked and signed back: You always know how I feel.
Jasper's mouth curved into a faint grin. "That's sort of my thing." His drawl softened the joke, but the truth of it sat between you. He could feel emotions like a current running under the skin, and yours, right now, were calm. Safe. He shifted, lifting your hand and tracing your palm with a feather-light touch, How was school? he signed.
You rolled your eyes. Well if someone didn't leave me. You gave Jasper a pointed glare as he smirked softly. Same old. People still ask if you taught me to read lips.
That got an actual laugh out of him, you could feel it vibrate through his chest where you'd laid you head. He signed back: Do they think I'm that smart?
You snorted and shoved his shoulder. His cold skin met yours, but it wasn't unpleasant, it was grounding in a way.
The laughter faded into a quieter moment. Jasper brushed his thumb across your knuckles, steady, almost reverent. "You know," he said, slower now, "It's...different with you. Being close, I don't have to fight so hard to keep control. You make it easy."
You blinked at him, heart tugging. Jasper wasn’t one for spilling feelings — usually his honesty slipped out in pieces, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to say them. You sat up a little, catching his gaze. With both hands, you signed carefully: I’m not afraid of you. For a second, his expression faltered. Then something eased in his features — not quite relief, not quite joy, but something steadier.
He leaned in, just enough that his forehead brushed against yours. The room was quiet, rain tapping faintly on the roof, but in that closeness you felt everything he didn’t say out loud.
You kissed him — slow, unhurried. His lips were cool against yours, but the hand that cupped your jaw was steady, anchoring you in place. When you pulled back, his smile was small but real, the kind that looked like it belonged only to you.
Walking Dead Guys Reacting to You Stealing Their Clothes
Rick Grimes
You didn’t think he’d notice. It was just a flannel. Warm, slightly too big on you, and smelled exactly like him. And with how many shirts Rick owned, what was one missing? But he had noticed. He found you sitting on the front porch one evening, sipping from your cup like nothing was wrong. His flannel was draped over your shoulders like it had belonged there this whole time.
The porch creaked as you leaned back in the chair, pretending to focus on the fading light instead of the warmth blooming in your chest. You didn’t miss the way his steps slowed when he reached the end of the walkway, like he was fighting with himself about turning back. Sure enough, a moment later, Rick came around again and settled on the porch rail beside you. He folded his arms, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“You know,” he said, eyes flickering to the flannel draped around you. “I wore that thing near every day back at the farm. Didn’t think I’d see it again.”
You smirked into your cup. “Guess it wanted a better home.”
His laugh was quiet but genuine this time, breaking through the tired edge he always carried. “That right? It just… wandered off and found its way onto you?”
You shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”
Rick shook his head, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he let the silence stretch, his gaze fixed on the treeline like he was keeping watch–but his body stayed loose, angled towards you. After a while, he said, almost too soft, “Glad it;s you wearin’ it. Makes me feel like you’re safe. Like I’m right here even when I ain’t.”
Your chest tightened, and suddenly the flannel felt heavier, like it carried more than just warmth. You swallowed, fingers brushing the fabric. “Guess I’ll have to keep it then.”
This time, Rick didn’t hide his smile. “Guess you will.”
Glenn Rhee
It started with a screwdriver. Then one of his hats. Then a hoodie. Glenn pretended not to notice at first, but after the fifth item vanished into your mysterious hoard, which he found buried against the wall on your side of the bed. He decided he’d had enough. So, naturally, he staged a full-blown intervention. In front of everyone.
He burst into the common room like a man on a mission, making everyone else look up for half a second before going back to their business. You, however, barely flinched, curled up on the couch with your legs tucked under you, flipping through a dog-eared magazine you’d found on a run. Glenn marched over, dropped himself onto the cushion beside you, and crossed his arms. “We need to talk.”
You blinked, giving him the slowest, most innocent look you could muster. “About?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he jabbed a finger toward the hoodie you were currently drowning in–his hoodie, grey and soft, the sleeves hanging long past your hands. “That’s mine.”
Your lips twitched up for a split second. “Is it?”
“And so is the hat you wore yesterday,” he continued, his voice climbing theatrically, “and the screwdriver you swore you ‘just found.’ Oh, and don’t think I didn’t see you using my toothbrush the other day.”
You froze mid-page turn, eyes darting up to him. “...Okay, that one was an accident.”
Glenn narrowed his eyes like he was weighing the severity of your crimes. He tried, truly tried, to hold the glare, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. A grin slipped through.
“You know,” he said, shaking his head, “in most cases, I’d be annoyed. But considering I kinda like seeing you in my stuff…” His gaze flicked over you once, lingering just long enough to make your cheeks warm. “...I’ll allow it.”
You let out a laugh, leaning back into the couch cushions with exaggerated relief. “Oh, thank you, Your Highness. I’ll try not to steal anything too important, then.”
Glenn leaned back smugly, clearly enjoying himself. “Glad you understand. But if you steal my snacks again,” he added, pointing a stern finger your way, “I’m calling war.”
Your mouth dropped open. “War? Really?”
He nodded gravely. “Full-scale. No survivors.”
You burst out laughing, pulling the hoodie tighter around you like a shield. Glenn watched you with that same stupid grin– the one that softened all his edges and made it very clear that, for all his dramatics, he didn’t actually want any of his stuff back. Not really.
Daryl Dixon
You’d borrowed one of his vests. Once. Weeks ago. Just to run out on watch when the evening chill had crept in sharper than expected. You’d meant to give it back, honestly you had, but somehow it never found its way out of your things.
Daryl never mentioned it. Not once. He wasn’t the type to fuss over clothing anyway. But every time you wore it, you caught him looking. Not in a give it back way. More like a don’t know what to do with these feelings. The kind of look he never quite held long enough for you to call him out on.
That day, you’d been helping Maggie mend some fencing, Daryl lingering nearby with his crossbow slung loose. You’d tugged the vest closer around you when the wind picked up, and sure enough, when you glanced over, there he was–eyes flicking to you, then back down, jaw tight like he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to. You set the wire cutters down and tilted your head. “You want it back?”
His eyes lifted to yours, unreadable for a beat too long. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “Nah.”
You frowned faintly, waiting for him to add something else, but he didn’t. He never did.
“…You sure?” you pressed.
Daryl shifted, thumb hooking against his belt as if he’d rather be anywhere else than standing under your gaze. Finally, he gave a half-shrug, eyes darting away again. “Smells like you now.”
The words were quiet, almost muttered — like he hadn’t meant to say them out loud at all.
Your breath caught in your throat. For a moment, the world seemed to still, the wind, the distant voices, all of it drowned out by the echo of what he’d just admitted without really admitting.
Before you could form a response, he cleared his throat and straightened, brushing dust from his jeans like it was the most important task in the world. Without another word, he hitched the crossbow back into place and started walking off, shoulders stiff. You stared after him, the weight of his vest suddenly heavier on your shoulders, warmer somehow. He hadn’t just let you keep it. He’d given it to you. In the only way Daryl Dixon knew how.
Carl Grimes
It was just a hat. His hat. The one he’d worn forever — scuffed, sun-bleached, the leather band cracked from years of use. You’d tried it on once as a joke, tilting it low over your eyes and giving him your best cowboy impression. Somehow… you never gave it back.
Carl never said anything. At first. He’d glance your way sometimes, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth, but he never asked for it. You figured if it really bothered him, he would’ve spoken up.
Then one morning, he walked into breakfast, rubbing sleep from his eyes and looking every bit the picture of teenage exhaustion. He paused mid-step when he saw you already at the table, hat tipped back on your head like it had been yours all along.
Carl let out a long, exaggerated sigh as he slid into the chair across from you. “I think you’ve officially worn it more than I have.”
You grinned over your plate. “You mad?”
He grabbed an apple from the basket in the center of the table, rolling it absently between his palms. “No.” He bit into it, then nodded at you, a little smirk sneaking out. “You look cute.”
The word landed heavier than you expected. You froze, fork halfway to your mouth, blinking at him. “Wait—what?”
Carl shrugged, suddenly fascinated with his apple, though the tips of his ears betrayed him by turning pink. “I dunno. Just… kinda like knowing you’re wearing something that was mine.” He risked a glance at you, then quickly looked back down. “Makes it feel like we’re… connected or something.”
Your face went hot instantly, and you ducked your head, mumbling something incoherent into your food. Carl didn’t push. He just leaned back, chewing leisurely, clearly pleased with himself. And when he finally glanced up again, that smug little smirk was still tugging at his mouth.
He’d never admit it out loud — not yet, anyway — but you knew in that moment he wasn’t planning on asking for the hat back. Ever.
“Your instincts will take over if you let them. The key is to choose what you chase.”
At first the words were just that, a sound without meaning, a fragile thread in the churning feeling inside Jasper’s chest. His jaw tightened, shoulders rigid, every nerve alive with the ache of hunger. He didn’t understand what you meant until the wind shifted. The cold breeze didn’t affect him anymore but its smell hit him like a freight train. The air carried thousands of new smells that were once invisible to his senses. A dozen heartbeats beat against his skull like war drums, each rhythm a call to violence. He could taste the fear of a bird fluttering above the two of you into the trees above, its heart a frantic flutter barely strong enough to register. The steady rhythm of a deer nearby thrummed like a bassline in the earth itself, patient and solid. And further still, almost lost beneath the rest, a quick staccato thrum of a rabbit skittering through brush, wild and desperate.
But then…another sound. Different. The beat of something heavier. Slower. Human.
His throat clenched tight, venom already pooling hot and sharp against his tongue. The human rhythm was faint, but it was enough to promise release of his hunger. His body leaned into it instinctively, his eyes flaring darker, breath stalling in his chest. That's when you moved. You stepped into his line of sight, your presence a barrier as effective as iron bars. Your hand rested against his chest as you stared him down. “No,” you said. Your voice wasn’t raised, not pleading, but sharp and certain, a command cutting through the haze.
Jasper’s muscles locked. His instincts screamed at him to move past you, to tear through the trees and claim the heartbeat pounding in the distance. But your gaze anchored him, dragging his focus away from the hunger, pinning him to something steadier.
“Follow me,” you ordered, softer now, though no less firm. And he did. God help him, he followed like a lost puppy.
Every step seemed to require just as much focus as the war did. The human heartbeat tugged at him like a hook in his ribs, dragging him backward, promising the burn in his throat would end if only he gave in. But then the wind shifted again, and another scent cut across his senses. A sharp, warm, copper-sweet scent hit his nose. Animal blood. It hit him like a lifeline. His head snapped towards it, eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring as the tang grew stronger. You were leading him right to it, coaxing his instincts into another channel.
When the deer broke into the clearing ahead, the world narrowed to a single point. Jasper didn’t think, he couldn’t. His body surged forward in a blur of motion, power flooding his limbs with a feral precision he hadn’t felt since the war. The deer barely had time to turn before his hands closed around it. The rush was immediate, warmth flooding his mouth, strength burning into his muscles. It was violent, yes, but clean. The blood filled him without igniting the furnace of shame that always followed when he thought of humans
When it was done, Jasper straightened slowly, shoulders rising and falling with a breath he didn’t need but took anyway, grounding himself in the act. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the last trace of crimson away. The pull in his throat had dulled to something tolerable, the monster in him quieter now, if only for the moment. Then he realized you were still there, watching him feed quietly.
His eyes lifted to yours. They were still dark, but flecks of gold shimmered faintly in them, like embers catching in ash. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel entirely lost. “I reckon I can live with this,” he said, voice rough but steadier than before.
You allowed yourself a faint smile, not relief exactly, but something close acknowledgment. You fell softly to your knees next to him, still silent. Worry filled him softly as you stared at him, seemingly studying his face. He nearly shot up when he felt a soft fabric touch his cheek. You wiped away the last remnants of blood decorating his face as you watched him slowly come down from hunger. He closed his eyes, relaxing for once, when you finally spoke up. “Then you’ll survive a lot longer than most.”
The words settled into him like a truth he hadn’t realized he’d been waiting to hear.
The fire spread through his body before Jasper even understood what you had done. One moment, the night air was cool against his sweat-damp skin, the metallic tang of fear sharp on his tongue; the next, your lips were at his throat. The first bite was a lightning strike; white-hot pain searing into him so suddenly his body stiffened in shock. He tried to jerk away, but your arms closed around him not with cruelty, but with an iron, inescapable certainty. There was no malice in your hold, he knew that, you haven’t even glared at him since that faithful night. You’d all but dragged him and his horse to a small cabin you had, hidden away from your kind and his. You sat him down that night and explained everything to him: vampires, your eating habits, the covens around Texas and being mates. That’s what led to this moment. He all but begged (Y/N) to turn him after a couple of days. His family was gone, his men had gone, and he didn’t know if his home was still standing. And this pull he had towards was intoxicating.
“Breathe,” you murmured against his skin, your voice low and steady, as if speaking to a wounded animal. “It will hurt, but you’ll live.”
Live. The word was absurd, because every heartbeat felt like it was tearing him apart from the inside. His pulse thundered in his ears, drawing out the rustle of the grass beneath his knees. His vision blurred, and for a dizzying second he was sure you were lying; that this was the end of him.
Then your voice came again, softer this time, threading through the roar in his head. “You’ll thank me for this one day. You’re mine now, Jasper Whitlock..”
The pain spread like wildfire from his throat, sweeping down into his chest, curling into his heart like a branding iron. His arms and legs lit up with it next–each muscle twisting in agony as though the flames were eager to devour every inch of him. It was a soldier's torment, the kind that didn’t relent, didn’t falter, and certainly didn’t grant him the dignity of unconsciousness. His breath came ragged. He clawed at the dirt beneath him, nails filling with soil, the ground damp and cold under his fingertips. Somewhere above the crackling in his head, he could still hear you; your words like a rope tethering him to earth.
You stayed by his side. Hands curled up in his hair as you cooed softly in his ear. Not that Jasper could really hear it. You laid with him in the grass, even though you wished he had let you turn him in the comfort of your guy's bed, but who were you to deny his request. So here you lied, cradling the crying man in your arms knowing you both would spend the rest of eternity together.
Time seemed to unravel. The hours bled into days. Sometimes, in the haze of burning, he thought he was back on the battlefield, the sound of distant gunfire popping like fireworks in the heat of the pain. Other times, he swore he could hear your heartbeat– slow, steady, unchanging–right beside him. When the fire finally, mercifully, began to fade, it didn’t go away like a candle light. It receded, reluctantly, like a tide dragging away from the shore, leaving him hollowed out and strange.
The world is suddenly too sharp, too bright. He could hear the scuttle of insects in the grass a dozen yards away, smell the dampness of the earth, taste the faint copper of his own blood. The night no longer felt cold–he was the cold one now. And there you were, smiling down at him, the first thing his new eyes saw.
You were close, crouched in front of him, the moonlight painting your skin silver. Your gaze locked onto his–unflinching, unyielding–and for the first time since the agony began, something inside him stilled. It wasn't relief. It wasn’t peace. It was recognition.
“I told you,” you said, almost gently now, brushing an errant lock of hair from his forehead. “You’re mine.”
The words didn’t feel like a threat. They felt like truth, carved into the marrow of his new existence. And as the last traces of fire smoldered in his veins, Jasper realized with unsettling certainty that he would follow you anywhere. Forever.
The moment only lasted a minute before the hunger set in…
The summer of 1863 was cruel to the South, but then again, they deserved it didn’t they? Texas had been hot before, but the war had burned it dry, leaving the land cracked and the air heavy with the smell of dust and smoke. Jasper Whitlock rode alone along the worn trail toward Galveston, his gray Confederate coat clinging to his frame, dust in the seams. His horse limped from a thrown shoe, and he himself was not much better off: hungry, exhausted, and carrying a fresh wound on his side from a skirmish two days ago.
He was hoping to find a town, any town for that matter, before nightfall. Instead, the sun slipped beneath the horizon too soon, bleeding red light across the earth before the shadows swallowed it whole. He was still two miles from the next settlement when the temperature seemed to shift. The air also seemed to grow still, almost unnaturally.
That’s when she stepped out from the tree line like she’d been part of them a moment before, her figure gliding over the uneven ground without a sound. At first, Jasper thought she was just a simple woman– young, beautiful, and a strange air of confidence, as if she feared nothing in a land where fear was currency and everyone had it. But the moonlight touched her face, and that’s when he noticed her eyes.
They weren’t the dull brown or blue of any neighbor or kin he’d known. They were molten– a deep, burnished color that almost looked golden that seemed to glow faintly against the night. He instinctively tightened his grip on the reins.
“You’re hurt,” she said, her voice low but clear. Jasper tensed instantly as she stared at him. His wound was wrapped, not properly but enough that the blood was at least absorbed in the makeshift bandage instead of his coat, and hidden from sight with his coat. No one was around when it happened and especially not a civilian.
Jasper swallowed hard. “It’s nothing that’ll stop me Miss.”
“You’ve been bleeding for miles,” she continued, stepping closer. “And if I could smell it, others could too.”
He didn’t understand what she meant until he saw the way she was looking at him–like she knew him already, like she’d been waiting for him. There was something in her gaze that rooted him, and his horse apparently, some ancient certainty that told him he shouldn’t take off even though every soldier instinct in him said to.
“You’re not from here,” he said cautiously, slowly getting off his horse as it walked off towards the grass.
A faint smile touched her lips as she followed the horse’s movements. “I’m not from anywhere anymore.”
She circled him slowly, her movements too smooth to be natural, her presence pulling at something deep in his chest. His heart pounded harder, not from fear but from an unexplainable pull. When she came to stand in front of him again, her eyes softened.
“I should leave you to your fate,” she murmured, almost to herself. “But you’re mine.”
The words should have chilled him, made him get back on his horse and take off on her, but instead they settled in his bones like truth. He didn’t understand them, not yet, but they felt as solid as the earth beneath his boots. Something seemed to draw him into her that he couldn’t explain. Something supernatural in a way.
“What are you?” Jasper asked.
“Something you can’t go back from once you know.” Her hand lifted, slow enough for him to see her fingers tremble almost as if she was restraining from something. “And you…you’re the only one in over a century who’s ever made me hesitate.”
The wind picked up then, brushing her hair across her face, carrying with it a scent Jasper couldn’t place. Sweet, sharp, alive. She stepped closer, and he didn’t back away.
“You could die tonight,”she said plainly. “From your wound, from thirst, from the wrong traveler crossing your path. Or…” Her gaze flicked to his throat for only a moment before meeting his eyes again. “You could live forever. With me.”
Jasper wasn’t a man who made choices lightly. War had taught him the price of every decision. But here, now, staring at this strange, impossible woman, he felt the same certainty he did the first time he’d led men into battle; the kind that came from knowing you were exactly where you were meant to be. Who you knew you were meant to be with.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She smiled, and the world seemed smaller for a moment, holding only them. “(Y/N).”
He gave a slow nod. “Then, Miss (Y/N), I reckon you’ve found yourself a willing man.”
And when she stepped forward, faster than his eyes could follow, her arms around him cold and unyielding, Jasper realized that the night wasn’t dangerous because of the war or the wilderness. It was dangerous because of her. And God help him; he wanted that danger more than anything else.
It wasn’t supposed to be an overnight scouting mission. You and Carl had gone out just after lunch, a simple scouting run along the outer edge of the woods beyond Alexandria’s fence. Walk the perimeter, look for tracks or signs of movement, report back by sundown. Quick out-and-back, Rick had said. A couple hours at most. But the weather had other plans apparently. It started as a faint drizzle, then came the wind, and soon the thunder followed close behind, low and threatening. And then, the sky had suddenly decided to make an example out of you both. The rain didn’t just pick up slowly, it smashed down to the ground. Sheets of it poured from above, blinding and relentless, hammering the trees and turning the trail beneath your boots into a slippery, sloshing mess.
Visibility dropped to a few feet. The woods became a blur of motion and noise: wind whipping the branches, water pouring off your hood, thunder rumbling so loudly it felt like the ground might split. By the time you and Carl stumbled across the old hunting shack half-hidden in the undergrowth, you were both drenched, breathless, shivering, and far more pissed off than afraid.
Carl kicked the door open with a grunt and hauled it shut behind you both with a loud clang, bracing it with his shoulder until the old latch clicked into place. The interior was dim, musty, and colder than you’d hoped, but it was dry. And that, right now, made it feel like a goddamn palace.
“You okay?” Carl asked, his voice slightly hoarse from the cold, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. You nodded, teeth chattering as you pushed your wet hair out of your face. “Yeah,” you huffed, tugging your soaked sleeves down past your wrists. “Could be worse.:
Carl pulled off his hat, letting it hang in his fingers. His dark curls were flattened and dripping, plastered to his forehead. “At least we’re dry now.”
“That’s debatable,” you muttered, wringing out your sleeves. Water splatted onto the wooden floor. The inside of the shack was small–barely enough room for the two of you to move without bumping elbows. It smelled faintly of old smoke and damp leaves. A rusted wood stove sat in one corner, but the chimney was cracked and useless. The stone fireplace, though also damaged, looked just functional enough.
You stripped off your wet jackets and boots and found a couple of dusty, fleece blankets in a lidded bin beneath a busted chair, thankfully they weren’t molded. Carl scavenged some dry bark from a bin under the hearth and used his lighter to coax a flame from what little kindling you had. The fire came to life slowly, then steadily, small, flickering orange light casting long shadows across the walls. You both huddled close, knees drawn up, wrapped in separate halves of the same oversized blanket, shoulder to shoulder, waiting for your clothes to dry and the numbness in your fingers to fade.
At first, you didn’t talk much. Just quiet murmurs. A few tired jokes. You teased him for slipping in the mud, he teased you for screaming when a branch slapped you in the face. You both laughed when the fire cracked too loud and startled you, heads bumping as you jumped at the same time. But the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It never was with Carl. He was like that, steady and quiet in a way that didn’t demand attention, didn’t push. Being with him was like being in the eye of a storm; calm in the middle of chaos.
The fire grew warmer. The blanket felt heavier. And your eyelids drooped. You didn’t mean to fall asleep. Definitely not like that. Not halfway through telling Carl some dumb story about the time a squirrel stole your granola bar during a supply run. Not with your voice growing softer mid-sentence, your head lolling gently to the side, your body leaning until, without warning, it found solid ground. Carl’s shoulder.
He froze when your head finally landed, rigid for half a second, breath caught, eyes wide. Your hair damp against his collar, your cheek pressed to his chest, one of your hands sliding against his wrist where it rested loosely in your lap. But you didn’t wake. And then slowly, cautiously, Carl moved. Not away. Just enough to make room. His arm shifted behind you, not quite touching, but close, He tugged the blankets tighter around your legs, tucking it in gently, making sure you were covered. And then he sat there.
Completely still. Staring into the fire. Pretending like his heart wasn’t thudding so hard it echoed in his ears louder than the rain on the roof. You murmured something in your sleep and instinctively, you snuggled in closer. Your face tucked further into the crook of his neck. Your breath warm against his skin. One of your legs nudged against his beneath the blanket and didn’t move away.
Carl swallowed hard. His hand twitched slightly where it hovered behind your back. He wanted to touch you–to hold you–but didn’t dare. He just sat there in stunned, awed silence. By the time morning crept in through the slates in the wooden walls, light soft and golden, the storm long passed, the fire was mostly embers. The cabin was warmer, but not by much. The faint smell of woodsmoke lingered in your clothes. And you…wrapped around Carl like a sleepy, human-sized octopus. Your arm had found its way around his waist at some point. Your knee was hitched over his. Your face, tucked in close, was still pressed to his collarbone. Carl hadn’t moved all night.
And he might’ve never moved if you hadn’t finally stirred — eyes fluttering open, brain catching up slowly to where you were, how you were positioned. You blinked. Once. Twice.
“What–?” you murmured, sitting up fast, heart rising. “Oh my god. Did I–? Was I–?”
Carl flushed hard, running a hand through his mess of curls, avoiding your eyes. “You fell asleep,” he said quickly. “I didn’t wanna wake you.”
“I was on top of you.”
“You’re not that heavy,” he muttered, his cheeks burning.
You stared at him, heart still pounding, trying to process the fact that not only had you unknowingly clung to Carl like a koala in your sleep — he’d let you.
You narrowed your eyes. “Carl… did you cuddle me on purpose?”
His ears turned bright red. “I—no—I mean—maybe a little—”
You laughed then, the tension bursting out of your chest in a warm rush. Your heart was fluttering, but not from panic anymore. From something else. Something new. “Next time,” you said with a smile, “just ask.”
Carl looked up sharply, surprised. “...Next time?”
“Yeah.” You shrugged, tucking the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “I don’t mind.”
He looked at you for a moment longer, his expression soft, caught somewhere between relief and disbelief. Then, slowly, he smiled. The kind of smile that didn’t show up often. The kind of smile that made you wonder if you’d just woken up into something much bigger than a thunderstorm.
You hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Hell, you hadn’t even meant to sit next to Daryl. But after the hunt that morning–a grueling, muddy, thorn ridden mess that ended in dragging a hundred-pound boar back to camp with sore arms and half-ripped sleeve–you were entirely spent. You’d barely had the energy to clean the blood off your hands before Carol was in your ear, scolding you for not eating enough, for looking too pale, and for forgetting to take a second helping of the stew she'd slaved over, using the very boar you just dragged there. You’d mumbled something half-coherent in response, waving her off with a tired smile, and then collapsed onto the nearest log by the fire. You hadn’t even noticed Daryl was already there until the wood creaked beneath your weight and he shifted ever so slightly to make room.
He didn’t say anything, just kept working the blade in his hand, carving slowly, even strokes down the length of what looked like a branch of cedar. The rhythmic scritch, scrape of the knife against wood was the only sound between you. No greeting. No sideways glance he normally gives people. But then again Daryl wasn’t exactly known to be a people person.
He didn’t do idle conversation. He didn’t laugh at dumb jokes or shoot the shit during downtime. He didn’t join the card games or hover around the stew pot waiting for seconds. He didn’t complain when his knuckles cracked from the bowstring, or when he got back to camp late and the only thing left was cold beans. But he did notice things.
He noticed when you were limping, and always walked a little slower beside you. He noticed when you were shivering, and always tossed you an extra blanket without a word. He noticed when new faces showed up, and he always, always, stood a little too close, just in case they gave you a reason not to trust them. And now, beside him in the glow of the fire, the warmth licking against your face and the cold beginning to creep into your bones, you found yourself drifting. Your eyes fluttered. Your breathing slowed. The tension in your shoulders started to loosen.
The soft, repetitive sound of his knife carving wood, the occasional pop of the fire, the low rustle of leaves, it all became an odd lullaby of sorts. And at some point, without meaning to, you leaned. You didn’t realize you’d fallen asleep until you woke up. It was darker now. The sky had turned ink-black above the trees, and only embers remained in the firepit. The air had gone sharp and cold, biting against any skin now wrapped in flannel or fleece. You shifted slightly, groggy. And that’s when you noticed: you were no longer upright. You were leaning on something solid. Warm. Something that breathed… Someone…
Your eyes flew open. You blinked, vision adjusting to the firelight, and felt your heart stutter. Daryl. You practically curled into him, your head resting against his shoulder, your fingers curled softly into the worn material of his vest, like your body had decided it belonged there. His arm was slung along the back of the log behind you, not quite holding you…but close. His body radiated heat like a furnace, and you were pressed against it with no shame, without awareness, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
A spike of panic bloomed in your chest. You sat completely still, caught somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief. You’d fallen asleep on Daryl Dixon. And he hadn’t moved. Hadn’t shoved you off. Hadn’t barked at you to get off him. Hadn’t made a sound. And then, before you could open your mouth to sputter out an apology, his voice cut through the silence, low and rough and barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “You were shiverin’.”
You froze. “...So you let me use you as a human heater?” you whispered, not entirely trusting your own voice.
Daryl grunted softly. You felt it vibrate through his chest, against your cheek. “Didn’t say that.” You shifted slightly, not quite pulling away but just enough to lift your head. You sat up slowly, unsure if you should laugh or run. “I should’ve–sorry. I didn’t mean to–”
“It’s fine,” he muttered, a little too quickly. His eyes stayed locked on the fire, his jaw tense. He didn’t look angry. Just…stiff. Braced for something. “Ain’t like I minded.”
Your breath caught. That wasn’t what you’d expected. “Oh.”
He finally turned his head, just enough to glance at you, those piercing blue eyes catching the low light, flickering with something unreadable. Not quite embarrassment. Not quite discomfort. Something…softer.
“You looked tired,” he added after a moment. “Didn’t want to wake you.”
You nodded, your fingers brushing the rough edge of the blanket that had somehow ended up covering both your legs. “Thanks…for not letting me freeze out here.”
Daryl gave a one-shouldered shrug, like it was nothing. But you saw the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket–twisting it slightly, releasing it, twisting again. Like nervous energy had nowhere else to go.
“Didn’t mean nothin’ by it,” he said after a beat.
But…he wasn’t pulling away either. His shoulders still brushed yours when you shifted. His boot tapped lightly against yours under the blanket. Just once. Just enough to feel. Your lips quirked into a quiet smile.
“Still,” you murmured, voice soft as you nudged his leg with yours. “Next time you wanna cuddle, you can just ask.”
Daryl stiffened immediately, like a spooked deer. “Ain’t what this was.”
You turned to look at him, arching a brow. “Sure it wasn’t.”
He shot you a glare, the kind that would’ve made a walker hesitate, but it lost its bite when you noticed the telltale flush creeping up his ears. Bright red. Impossible to miss, even in the firelight. He didn’t argue again. Didn’t get up. Didn’t shift away. And he definitely didn’t stop your knee from resting against his under the blanket. So, you stayed. And when the fire finally died, and the cold pressed in around the edges, you learned just a little to be closer, not enough to make a scene, just enough to feel his warmth again. And this time, you were both awake for it.
The group had finally stumbled on it just before sundown, a weather-beaten cabin hidden deep in the woods, shrouded in tangled bush and towering pines that it felt like it had appeared out of nowhere. The cold Georgia winter was finally showing its head and everyone in the group was feeling its effects. There were no walkers in sight, no rot, and no smell of death. Just dry wood, thick wall, and a roof that didn’t leak and windows still in one piece. Inside, the air was stale carrying the faint musk of dust and long-settled age. A sagging couch slumped in the corner, cushions warped but intact. Dusty throw blankets hung across the back, smelling faintly of cedar and time rather than mildew. A stone fireplace crouched against one wall, and after a little coaxing and swearing from Daryl, a small fire was finally started within it.
No one said it out loud, but after days of slogging through ankle-deep mud, waking with rain dripping in their faces, and shivering under half-torn tarps, this cabin felt like a five-star hotel. Boots and bags were discarded and the last granola bar was split without argument,
You and Glenn have both volunteered for early watch, maybe out of habit, maybe because you wanted to give the others a chance to collapse without worry. But this place felt…safe. This was deep-breath safe. The watch turned quickly into something else, the two of you settled on the worn couch, talking low as the fire popped and whispered. You traded scraps of conversation: a weird dream Glenn had last week. How Eugene’s snores could probably lure walkers from miles away.Whether the dust drifting lazily in the firelight looked more like snow or ash.
Somewhere between your second yawn and his third, you both shifted a little closer, just enough that your knees touched beneath the thin blanket thrown over your legs.
“You should sleep,” you murmured, nudging his arm with your elbow.
Glenn’s head lolled slightly as he shook it, his eyelids heavy. “Nah, I got you. You sleep. I’ll keep watch.”
You smirked. “Glenn, you’re literally falling sideways.”
His normal sheepish grin spread against his face, “Fine,” he muttered, leaning back. “Just for a second.”
Seconds, apparently, had their own definition for Glenn. His head tipped slowly until it found your shoulder, the weight warm and steady. He mumbled something and then went still. One of his hands drifted across your arm, not holding but anchoring, like he’d found something solid in a world where nothing was. You could have moved. Should have. But you didn’t want to. The fire sank lower, painting the room in gold and shadow. Glenn’s face, softened by sleep, looked years younger. The usual sharp lines of survival melted away, leaving only the boy who’d once delivered pizza in a world that didn’t hunt him down.
You shifted carefully, easing your weight against the cushions. The motion made him lean closer, forehead brushing the curve of your neck. A quiet, involuntary sound escaped him before his arm curled around your waist with the unthinking ease of someone who belonged there.
You told yourself it was fine. That it meant nothing. That you’d move in a minute. But the steady rise and fall of his chest slowed your racing pulse, and the quiet certainty of his hold felt…good. Too good. So you stayed.
Morning crept in slow, a pale wash of light through warped blinds. You woke to find Glenn already watching you hair mussed, eyes heavy with sleep but awake.
“Did we…?” His voice was husky with morning, barely above a whisper.
“Not on purpose,” you blurted, heat rushing to your face. “It just…happened.”
He blinked, processing, then let out a short, almost amused breath. “That’s good. I mean–not bad. Just…good to know.”
You shifted, aware of how close you still were–of the hand still resting at you waist, warm through your shirt. “I can move if–”
“No,” he said softly, certainty threading through the word. His fingers tightened briefly, like he wasn’t ready to let go. “It’s okay. I liked it.”
You looked up, startled, but there was nothing teasing in his eyes. He smiled, lopsied and sleep-roug. “Next time, maybe I’ll pretend it’s an accident again.”
You snorted despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He sat up, rubbing at his eyes, but his hand brushed your side one last time before it fell away a quiet, wordless parting. “But you didn’t move either.” You didn't argue. Because he was right, and maybe next time, you wouldn’t pretend at all.
It had started around the fire. It was warm enough to keep Georgia’s cold night away from the two of you. The flames danced low and steady, casting flickering shadows against the trees, painting gold across Rick’s face and yours. You and Rick had both volunteered for the late watch, stationed near the tree line just outside Alexandria’s wall. You two both sat in silence while watching for any sign of movement. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It was a comfortable kind of silence and neither of you two needed to fill it. You could hear the soft rustle of wind through the trees, the distant chirp of insects, and the crackle of logs shifting in the fire. And under that, even quieter–Rick’s breathing. Steady. Grounding.
At first, you had sat a few feet apart, your rifles propped in the dirt, boots to the fire. But the cold crept in like it always did on nights like this and conversation had grown sparse. At some point the blanket had come out. You had spread it over both your shoulders without really thinking, and then somehow–somehow-you were leaning in just enough that your shoulders touched with every breath.
Rick was the first to nod off. His head titled back against the truck of a tree, arms crossed, the revolver still cradled lossely in his lap. His jaw was slack, brow smooth–a rare softness for a man who always seemed half-wired, like he couldn’t ever fully let go of the weight he carried. You’d watched him for a moment longer than you meant to. It was easy to forget he was just a man sometimes–not a leader, not a fighter, not the one people looked for answers from when anything small went wrong. Just Rick Grimes. Old, hurt, tired, probably more than he let on. Human.
Eventually, your own body gave in, lulled by the heat of the fire and the quiet rhythm of his breathing. Sleep came gently. And when you stirred next–not fully awake yet– the world had shifted. Your head was resting on his chest now, the warmth of him seeping into your skin. His arm had found its way around your waist, reesting there like it belonged. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing beheath your cheek, and your heart began to race, not with fear, but with something much more dangerous. Something tender and domestic.
For a long, frozen moment, you didn’t move. You barely breathed. Worried that you’d wake Rick up and have to leave his side, his warmth. The fire had burned low at this point, casting only a small glow. The rest of the world was covered in darkness and silence. Rick was still asleep–or so you had thought–his fingers twitching lightly against your side, as if his body was dreaming along with him. Your brain screamed at you to move. To untangle yourself, laugh it off, play it cool. Blame the cold or exhaustion or the way the blanket must’ve shifted while you two slept. But the softer part of you, the one that hadn’t surfaced in a long time, stayed still. Just for a moment longer. Because being held like this, so simply, so gentle, felt safe for once. And that was a rare thing these days.
“You…awake?” Rick’s voice came low and hoarse, still tangled in sleep.
Your heart nearly jumped out of your chest when you heard his low morning voice. “Y-Yeah,” you breathed, barely above a whisper. “Just now.” He didn’t move. Didn’t shift away. In fact, his arm tightened ever so slightly, like his body was answering before his mind had caught up fully.
“Didn’t mean to…y’know,” you mumbled, awkwardly. “End up like this.”
“S’okay,” Rick said, calm and quiet like usual. “I didn’t either.” The silence that followed wasn’t strained. It settled around you both like another blanket, warn and oddly comforting. You felt him exhale a long, slow breath that moved through his chest and into your cheek.
“I haven’t slept that good in weeks,” he murmured after a beat.
You smiled small, private. “Guess I make a good pillow.”
Rick let out a soft, low laugh–the kind you didn’t hear often, the kind that tugged at the corner of his mouth. Then, finally, he tilted his head down to look at you. His blue eyes were heavy-lidded but soft, the firelight catching the flecks of gray in his beard and the faint crow’s feet at the edges of his gaze.
“You do,” he said, quiet but sincere. Like it actually meant something more.
Your stomach flipped, and you cursed the heat beginning to bloom on your cheeks. “Well…if you get cold again sometime, I guess you know where to find me.”
His thumb brushed in a slow, thoughtful arc along your waist–the kind of touch that didn;t ask for anything but still managed to say everything.
“Yeah,” Rick said, his voice a little firmer now. Like a promise. “I do.”
The rain outside had settled into a steady rhythm against the glass windows in the Cullen home living room. It echoed faintly through the wide open space joining the soft crackling of the fireplace. Everyone had decided to use this day to go out. Jasper had been feeling hungry lately so you offered–more like wanted too–stay with him even with his very persistent no’s.
You sat nestled into the corner of the long leather couch, Carlise recently bought, a thick blanket wrapped around your body, legs curled beneath you. The fabric smelled faintly of lavender and Esme’s detergent–conforting in ways you couldn’t explain. In your hands, the third novel in a series you’ve been enjoying, but the words had long since blurred into nothing. Your gaze kept flickering towards Jasper.
He sat just across from you, posture relaxed but guarded at the same time somehow. A hardcover book rested on his lap–some old philosophical text he’d claimed to have read dozens of times already–but he hadn’t turned a page in nearly fifteen minutes. His golen eyes weren’t focused on the book. They were on you. Again.
You didn’t look up fully immediately. You waited, just long enough for the moment to stretch thin between you two, the asked without glazing over, “You’re doing that thing again.”
There was a pause. Then his voice–low, rich, with that soft Southern drawl that somehow made every word feel slower and more thoughtful–cut through the silence. “What thing?”
You turned your head to face him. “Staring at me like I’m going to vanish on you.”
He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but didn’t quite meet the standards of his usual smile. “You just..look peaceful,” he finally said, as he closed his book softly.
You raised a brow, gently teasing, “And that’s suspicious to you?”
“No,” he replied softly. “Just rare.” You watched him for a moment, taking in his sharp jawline, the tension in his shoulders that never seemed to go away, even when pretending to be at ease. The man moved like a soldier still hearing gunfire from somewhere distant. Always alert. Always prepared in case something that would never come.
“Jasper,” you called, voice barely above a whisper, “you’re allowed to rest now.”
You watched as his eyes closed briefly. Like your words struck something deep in him. “I know,” he said eventually. “But sometimes it still feels like something is going to happen. Like I’m one wrong move from the house collapsing.
You set your book aside and pushed the blanket off, rising slowly to sit beside him. His cool hand reached for yours before you could even fully settle beside him. The way he held you–carefully, like you were a fragile piece of glass–made your chest ache in the best way. “You know you don’t have to worry about that,” you told him. “You clawed your way out of darkness and built something better. You chose love. You chose me and the family. That’s what matters right now.”
His fingers tightened around yours. You could feel it then–the sfot ripple of calm that radiated from him, not by accident now, but interntional. He leaned forward and pushed his head into the cold crook of your neck. Nuzzling to where your pulse should be. You slowly massaged his hair as your other hand rubbed his back gently. “I’ve never known love like this,” he said, voice rougher now. “Something that doesn’t need words. Just…moments.”
You leaned your head onto his shoulder, your voice muffled in the sleeve of his shirt. “Then let’s keep it like this. Quiet. Simple. Ours.”
He was silent for a long time. But his thumb stroked slow circles across the back of your hand, like he needed that anchor to stay in the moment. You couldn’t help but laugh softly at his new sense of neediness. “Promise me something,” he said quietly.
“Anything.”
He looked up at you–eyes soft, but something ancient still flickering behind them. The weight of years of war and regret, but also the faint glimmer of hope for something newer.
“Don’t ever grow tired of this,” he whispered. “Of the quiet. Of me.”
You turned your head just enough to kiss his shoulder, your lips barely brushing fabric and cool skin beneath it.
“Not a chance,” you murmured. “You’re my peace, Jasper. I could live a hundred lifetimes and still choose this.”
He didn’t speak again. But the way he held you–still and steady as the rain against the windows–said everything he couldn’t. And for the first time in what might’ve been over a century, Jasper Hale believed it. Believe you. Believed in your relationship. Believed in this. In love that felt quiet like safety…instead of silence like guilt.
Walking Dead Characters Reacting to You Checking Them Out
Rick Grimes
It was one of the early mornings where you were keeping early watch after having to quietly scold Daryl to go to sleep. You were nursing a thing of cold coffee you had when you noticed a figure coming through the woods. You instantly grabbed your knife ready to walk over when you noticed it was just Rick. You sat back down slowly, grabbing your coffee, as you watched him pick up some of the mess from dinner last night. You didn’t mean to stare as much as you did but something about the way Rick stood in the morning light, his shirt clinging to his back, his hair damp from washing up at the creek nearby just seemed to draw you in. You were lost in thought-going between I shouldn’t be staring and good lord, that man is carved from fucking stone– when he turned around and his blue eyes locked on yours.
You froze, coffee mug halfway to your lips as you both stared at eachother in silence. He raised a brow, almost amused. “Something on my face?’ he asked, walking towards you.
“No,” you mumbled quickly. “Just… zoning out.”
“Zoning out,” he repeated slowly, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Well, next time you wanna ‘zone out,’ try not to blush so hard.”
Glenn Rhee
You and Glenn had been designated to sort all the food within that prison kitchen so that it could be easyily rationed out. Even though it was getting very close to winter, the kitchen area seemed to be heating itself immensely as you two worked. You had long ago lost your long sleeve shirt for the tank top you wore underneath but Glenn continued to wear that thick flannel you had gifted him after a run. But he slowly began to lose his wit and decided it was time for the flannel to go.
He pulled off the flannel, revealing a white undershirt damp with sweat. He began to put some of the boxes on the higher shelves and his shirt clung to his back showing off the slight back muscles he had. You caught yourself looking–a tad bit too long– and immediately turned away but you were too late.
“I saw that,” he said, not even looking up from the box he had begun to tape up. “Busted.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied quickly, face burning. “Oh, okay,” Glenn teased, grinning now. “You were just admiring the way I taped that box. Real sexy tape work.”: He winked and tossed you a bottle of water. “Good to know I’ve still got it.”
Daryl Dixon
The fence at the edge of the prison had a small tear from a group of very persistent walkers. Rick had designated you and Daryl to fix it and you were slowly beginning to hate him for that decision. It wasn’t the first time you had caught yourself working but how couldn’t you stare? Daryl was currently fixing the fence, his arms flexing as he yanked a loose wire back into place, when he paused, head titling just slightly. His eyes soon found yours in an instant, sharp and unreadable as you both stared silently at each other.
“You gonna help or just keep gawkin’?” he asked. You opened your mouth. Closed it then tried again to respond. After a solid minute of you two just staring at eachother you were able to squeak out a response. “I–I was just making sure you didn’t need anything.” Daryl stepped closer, just enough to make your breath catch. “Yeah. Could use a pair of eyes that ain’t burning a hole in my back.” He smirked faintly, then turned back to his work. You weren’t sure if he was annoyed or secretly flattered. Knowing Daryl, it was most likely both.
Carl Grimes
You two were trying to enjoy a sunny day at Alexandria and were sitting on the swing on the porch. You were trying to read a random book Maggie gave you while Carl was sharpening his knife on some random rock he found. His hoodie sleeves were pushed up, as his face was entirely focused on his knife. You’d been sneaking glances for a while now–there was just something about the way he was growing into himself, confidence tucked just beneath his quiet demeanor. But then he looked up and caught you staring.
You panicked, dropping the book into your lap. Carl blinked. “Were you…looking at me?”
“No!” you said too fast. “I mean–not like that. Just…yeah. Maybe…” He turned a little red but not as red as your face actively was. For a moment, neither of you said anything. Then Carl muttered, “Well, if you were, it’s cool. I was kinda…looking at you,too” You both looked away, flustered. But neither of you stopped smiling as you went right back to what you two were doing.
Twilight Boys Reacting to You Calling Them Cute but Clingy
Edward Cullen
“You know you are lucky you’re cute because you are clingy as hell,” you teased as he rested against you whilst you cooked some noodles for yourself. You could feel Edward freeze behind you,
“Clingy?” he echoes, clearly both offended and amused.
His brow furrows as he runs a quick mental scan of everything he’s done in the past 48 hours: walking you to every class while carrying you books, texting you goodnight, playing your lullaby on piano when you and Alice were out leaving him alone…oh just maybe he was.
“I simply prefer to know you’re safe,” he says, trying to remain elegant, but you noticed how his jaw clenched which gave him a way in an instant
Then he laughs softly burying his head further into your neck, he’s more embarrassed than annoyed. “I’ll allow cute, but only if you take back clingy right now…”
You don’t. So now he’s kissing your forehead repeatedly in silent protest, just proving your point even further.
Jasper Hale
The whole family was deciding to have a lazy day at the house which consisted of everyone sitting in the living room as they all took turns on the new gaming system Carlise bought. Right now Emmett and Edward were playing against eachother as everyone else was watching and being entertained by their arguing. You and Jasper took residence on the new loveseat Carlise after Emmett broke the old one. You were laying on your back as Jasper was resting against your chest. You were running your fingers through his hair when that silly little thought passed through your head, “You really are clingy for being a southern gentleman,” you teased him.
Jasper looked up from your chest looking genuinely hurt for a split second, “Am I smotherin’ you?” he asks, sitting up slightly. You panicked and tried to explain immediately: “No, no! It;s a compliment. Like…emotionally affectionate clingy. I like it”
Jasper stared at you, still skeptical, before finally relaxing with a small chuckle. “You’re lucky you’re cute, darlin’. Teasin’ a man like that could be dangerous. Cue him pressing you closer with a smug little smile as the family around you laughed softly at you two.
Emmett Cullen
“Clingy?!” Emmett grinned at you like he’s been waiting his whole immortal life to be called that by you. See the two of you were walking around town one cloudy day and he had his arm wrapped around your waist all day and only left you alone when you were going to the bathroom.
“Babe, I invented clingy. You literally sat on my lap while I benched a Volvo last week.”
He continued to bug you about it as he drove you both back to the Cullen house. The moment he parked the car, he was out of it throwing you over his shouler and parading around the house like some golden retriever with its favorite toy. He continued to just carry you around while bringing in the bags of clothes and decorations you bought for your guys room. Thankfully none of the other Cullen’s were home yet.
“You said I’m cute, though. Can you say it again but like, slow-mo, with dramatic music in the background?” You shook your head laughing at you both began to wrestle on the couch once he finished putting all the bags in your room. You were laughing your head off when suddenly Emmett dramatically gasps, “YOU THINK I’M CUTE!?” This is when you finally started to both relax.”You're very cute but kinda slow Em.” He playfully pouts as he wraps his body around you like a weighted blanket and whispers, “Clingy and proud, baby.”
Carlise Cullen
You had just arrived home from a weekly ‘girl’s day’ that Alice set up and Carlise, being the gentleman he is, was ‘helping’ you carry the bags in. “Darling? You know I can carry the bags and not crumble, right?” You laughed as Carlise dropped the last couple of bags and wrapped his arms around your waist. He massaged your back softly as he rested his head in the crook of your neck. You ran your fingers through the hairs by his neck before your mind began to linger on something you’ve thought for awhile. “You know you're kinda clingy for being a centuries old vampire although it is quite cute, you know?.”
He pulls away and blinks in surprise, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Clingy?” he repeats gently, as if tasting the word. “That’s…new.” He steps back slightly, offering you space with the immediate grace of a gentleman. “I didn’t realize I was overwhelming you.”
You quickly reach for his hand and shake your head softly, “No! It’s not bad. I like it. You’re clingy in, like, a sweet, husband-core kind of way.” This seemed to just confuse him even more. “Husband-core. That’s certainly not a term I’ve heard in my centuries.” His golden eyes crinkled at the edges as he gave you a smile. “If being affectionate means I’m guilty of being ‘clingy but cute,’ then I suppose I’ll accept the charge.” He pulled you back to his body wrapping his arms back around you but this time his grip was tightened–because deep down, he’s thrilled that you noticed just how much he cared, even if it was in a slightly strange way.
Charlie Swan
You and Charlie were enjoying your early breakfast together. Charlie was sitting down at the table drinking his first of many coffees and reading the morning newspaper while you happily cooked bacon and eggs when you decided to tease Charlie, especially because of the marks he left on you that can’t be hidden easily. “You know I’ve been thinking recently but you are quite clingy. Although it is cute at times,” you kissed his head softly as you placed his plate of food down in front of him. Charlie nearly spit out his coffee when you told him that, and just kind of blinkas at you as you sat down across from him.
“Clingy?” he repeats, confused and half-offended. “I gave you three feet of personal space when we watched that movie last night!” You raised an eyebrow at him. “It was more like three centimeters and the marks on my neck prove that. But you also made me dinner, checked if my car had enough oil, texted me ‘let me know when you get home’ twice in the span of ten minutes, and called to make sure I locked the door before you got home." Charlie scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly embarrassed, “That’s not clingy. That’s just…being responsible.” You laugh out loud at that and repeat your statement of him being adorable when he cared. He mutters something about “damn kids with your weird words” but there’s a very subtle blush on his face as he hides behind his mug. Later that day, you caught him putting a post it on your dashboard that said, “Text me when you get there.” Clingy? Maybe. Cute? Always.
It was one of those rare rainy days where all the kids went out. Alice and Rosalie dragged Jasper and Emmett into some random clothing store to try on everything in reach. Edward and Bella were out on a simple date and Esme was having alone time at a cafe. And you and Carlisle were left alone at home.
Carlisle decided to take a day off work and was currently in a sweatshirt and sweatpants, sprawled out across the couch. His normal gelled back golden hair was left in a fluffy mop on top of his head. His arm was behind his head as he watched you move some of the furniture around after the boys re-arranged it to wrestle in the living room. You were dressed almost exactly like him, one of his sweatshirts was loosely hanging off your body and a pair of your short shorts hugged your thighs. Your hair was put into a messy bun that was half following out now that you kept moving.
Carlisle could feel sleep taking over him, or at least the closest thing to sleep a vampire could experience. But the sudden sound of music filled the room as well as your laughter. Carlisle opened his eyes to see you already smiling at him with your hand out expectantly.
“Really? You want to dance while I look like this?” Carlisle says, as he sits up on the couch. A piece of his hair fell in front of his eyes as he tilted his head smiling right back at you.
“I don’t see anything wrong with how you look,” your hand slowly moved his hair away from his face, “Believe it or not but I really like how peaceful you look right now. And I would love to have a dance with youmy lady?”
Carlisle couldn’t help but laugh as you did a dramatic half bow at him still waiting for him to take your hand. He finally gave you his hand and you immediately pulled him up and wrapped your arms around his neck. His arms looped around your waist and he slowly swayed with you around the coffee table.
“So what song are we dancing to sweetheart?” Carlisle rested his forehead to yours while pulling you closer.
“It’s a composition from Bonifazio Graziani,” you respond as you close your eyes enjoying how close you two were.
You both slowly danced around the living room as the music continued onto another piece. Carlisle’s hands ran over your sides softly as you cradled his face in your hand. Your thumb ran under his eyes to the bottom of his lips as he let a soft breeze of air escape his lips. You both slowly leaned into eachother until suddenly a bright light filled both your visions and the unmistakable click of Alice’s camera filled the room along with the kids' laughter.
You and Carlisle break away from eachother in surprise and look over to the entrance. All the kids stared at the two of you: Edward, Bella and Esme softly smiling at the two of you, Rosalie and Emmett both smirking (Emmett’s being far more playful and teasing), and Alice and Jasper both laughing at the two of you as Alice shook her polaroid and proudly showing you two the photo.
“How long have you all been there,” Carlisle asks while awkwardly laughing as his arm snaked around your waist.
“Long enough to see you two almost get at it!” Emmett replied, trying to dodge Rosalie’s elbow from his rib cage.
You let out a snort of amusement as Alice immediately started laying out the bags the girls acquired while the rest of you sat down on the couches. You leaned against Carlisle’s shoulder. As much as you loved moments where it was just the two of you, you couldn’t help but love hanging out with your adopted children.
germansingergirl
ellievsbear
kaledo-art
jbbartram-illu
annaxmalina