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★ 19 she/her ★

[laugi0]

★ Spanish 19 yo Girl professionally obsessed with old men ;p

★ I upload mainly about Daryl Dixon and male video game characters!!

★ I appreciate and love every comment and reblog, it's incredible that someone likes my paranoia :3

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[laugi0]

Hi!! I'm going to start writing a fanfic and I started with the moodboards. I think they look pretty good 😋

[laugi0]

⋆ʟɪᴘ ɢᴀʟʟᴀɢʜᴇʀ⋆

Summary: On a cold Chicago night, Lip's frustration with college boils over into a heated argument in the backyard about his drinking and weed habits.

wc: 2,4k

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The November Chicago cold cut right through your skin, but the air in the Gallagher backyard felt even denser, thick with that dirty South Side humidity that seeped straight into your lungs. You were sitting on the splintered wooden steps of the back porch, knees pulled tight to your chest underneath a sweatshirt three sizes too big for you. The only light came from the yellowish bulb flickering above the kitchen, casting long, warped shadows across the overgrown grass and the remains of a half-scrapped car.

You heard the kitchen door creak before you actually saw him. Lip appeared, dragging his boots, his shoulders slumped under a faded denim jacket and his eyes glued to the ground. He stumbled barely a millimeter as he stepped down the first stair—a movement almost imperceptible to anyone else, but not to you. You knew how to read every single millimeter of his body language. He smelled like cheap draft beer and the stale air of whatever sketchy dive bar near the college he was supposed to be coming from.

He sat down next to you without saying a word, letting his entire weight drop and making the wood groan. His hair was messy, a dirtier blonde than usual, and the dark circles under his blue eyes looked like bruises. Without looking at you, he shoved his hand into his jacket pocket and pulled out a half-smoked, slightly crushed joint, along with a worn-out promotional lighter. His fingers, stained with motor grease and pen ink, trembled slightly as he tried to light it. The wind blew out the flame twice.

—Give it here —you said, reaching out your hand.

Lip let out a low grunt, but he handed you the lighter. You cupped your hands around his face to shield the flame from the wind. Your skin brushed against his; he was freezing, but his cheeks were burning from the alcohol. When the tip of the marijuana caught fire, the orange glow lit up the tension in his jaw for a split second. Lip took a deep drag, closing his eyes as he held the smoke in his lungs before slowly letting it out. The sweet, earthy smell of cheap weed immediately mixed with the night cold.

He passed you the joint. You took a short hit, feeling the smoke scrape your throat, before handing it back. The silence between the two of you used to be comfortable, a refuge from the constant chaos of living around the Gallaghers, but tonight it felt like a short fuse.

—Where were you? —you asked, breaking the quiet. Your voice sounded more muffled than you intended, but the worry weighed on your chest like a stone.

—Around —he answered evasively, taking another long drag. The paper crackled as it burned down—. With some guys from campus. Rich pricks who think coming from the suburbs is some kind of sideshow attraction.

—You smell like a distillery, Lip. Don't bullshit me with the idea that you were just smoking with preppies.

Lip let out a dry laugh, completely devoid of any real amusement. He ran his free hand over his face, rubbing his eyes in frustration.

—Are you gonna give me a breathalyzer test now too? I already have enough with Fiona sticking her nose into my life every five minutes. I just had a couple of beers to deal with the economics professors' bullshit. It’s not a big deal.

—It’s not just a couple of beers and you know it —you said, turning completely on the step to face him. The marijuana smoke was making your senses a bit hazy, but the anger kept you painfully lucid—. You’ve been coming home at all hours for two weeks, reeking of booze, with your eyes bloodshot. You have midterms on Thursday, Lip. You spent months complaining about how you didn't fit into that goddamn rich-kid university, and now that you have the chance to shove your brilliant fucking brain in their faces, you decide to throw it all away?

—Throw it all away? —Lip snapped his head toward you, finally holding your gaze. His blue eyes were blazing, a dangerous mix of drunkenness, exhaustion, and a wounded pride you knew all too well—. You have no fucking idea what it's like over there. Everyone looks at me like I'm some freak. They think because I know how to fix a radiator and come from a house with a leaky ceiling, I'm some fucking charity case. I need to unwind. I need to turn my brain off for one second, okay?

—And your way of unwinding is turning into your father? —The words slipped out before you could filter them. You knew you had crossed a line the second Lip’s face hardened, morphing into a mask of pure hostility.

The joint hung suspended between his fingers, the smoke rising in a thin thread toward the black Chicago sky. Lip stood up abruptly, forcing you to look up at him. The shift in height gave him a physical advantage that usually intimidated anyone, but not you.

—Don't you ever compare me to Frank again —he said, his voice eerily low, dangerous—. Don't compare me to that piece of shit. I go to class. I work at the shop. I keep my grades up. I do whatever the fuck I want with my free time, and if I want to drink a bottle of vodka so I don't throw myself out of the library window, I will. You're nobody to tell me which path I'm taking.

You stood up too, digging your boots into the wood of the step, leaving barely any inches between you and his chest. The distance between the two of you vanished, reduced to nothing. You could smell the weed, the hard liquor, and the furious heat radiating from his body.

—I don't give a shit about your Gallagher pride, Lip! —you yelled back, your heart hammering against your ribs—. Look at what happened to Ian! Look at Fiona trying to pay the bills while you're busy feeling sorry for yourself with a bottle! I see you, Lip. I see you hiding the flask in your jacket before going to office hours. I see how your hands shake in the morning until you can get that first sip down. You're not turning your brain off, you're destroying yourself because you're terrified of failing, and it's easier to blame the alcohol than to admit you're scared.

—Shut your fucking mouth! —Lip roared, kicking an empty tin can that rolled across the yard with a metallic clatter. He stepped so close that his hot, erratic breath hit your face—. You don't know a single shit about me. You don't know the weight of this. You think because you spend your nights sitting out here with me, you have the right to judge me. You’re just a nosy little brat who doesn't know when to lock her jaw.

—A brat? —You laughed, a hysterical laugh born from pure frustration and the pain of watching the person you loved dig their own grave—. I'm here because I love you, you idiot! I'm here holding down the fort with you while you're busy draining bottles! Because I care about what happens to you, even if you're too busy trying to self-destruct to notice!

—Oh, yeah? Is that why? —Lip dropped the joint onto the ground and crushed it with the toe of his boot with unnecessary violence. He took another step forward, pinning you against the wooden railing of the stairs. His eyes dropped from your eyes to your lips, and then shot back up, heavy with a fury that was no longer just about the argument. It was months of built-up tension, a chaotic, toxic attraction that had always floated between the two of you and that the alcohol and weed had just caused to detonate—. You love me? Or do you just like playing social worker with the broken neighborhood boy?

—Go to hell, Gallagher —you spat out, trying to shove his chest to push him away from you.

But your hands against his denim jacket didn't move him a single inch. Instead of backing off, Lip grabbed your wrists with a brutally firm grip, pinning them against your own body. His touch burned. Your rapid, ragged breaths were the only sound left in the yard, clashing against each other.

—Let me go —you said, though your voice lacked its earlier conviction. Your eyes remained locked onto his, defiant.

—Make me —he challenged, his jaw rigid.

The space between your lips was ridiculous. Neither of you moved for a second that felt eternal, measuring your strength, letting the mutual anger warp into an electric current that raced down your spine. Lip swore under his breath, a muffled word that got lost when he closed the gap and slammed his lips against yours.

The kiss was a violent collision. There was no softness, no preamble, no romance. It was rough, urgent—a clash of teeth and lips that tasted like the weed you had shared and the bitterness of the alcohol he carried in his mouth. Lip let go of your wrists only to run his hands through your hair, gripping your strands tightly to tilt your head back and deepen the kiss with an almost animal desperation. You let out a gasp of surprise that he muffled by shoving his tongue in, claiming your mouth with a possessiveness that made your legs shake.

Your hands, free now, didn't push him away. They dug into his shoulders, bunching the fabric of his jacket, pulling him toward you with the same violence with which he held you. You pressed your body against his, feeling the hardness of his chest against yours and the rigidity of his need hitting your thighs. The anger was still there, simmering, but it had channeled into a destructive, addictive physical urgency.

Lip shoved you backward without breaking the kiss, forcing you to retreat the few steps separating you from the back door. He kicked it open with his back, pulling you into the dimness of the Gallagher kitchen. At this hour, luckily, the house was unusually quiet; the younger ones were probably asleep. Lip pushed you against the kitchen counter, causing some clean dishes to rattle in the drying rack.

He lifted you up by your thighs. You immediately wrapped your legs around his waist, seeking more contact. Lip bit your bottom lip hard, drawing a gasp out of you that he used to slide his lips down your jawline, straight to your neck. His hands moved down to your ass, squeezing tightly, hoisting you higher against him as his pelvis pressed hard against your center through your clothes.

—You’re still an asshole —you whispered into his ear, panting, as you dug your nails into the scruff of his neck.

—Shut up —he growled against your skin, his hot breath sending shivers all through your body.

With clumsy, desperate movements, Lip started getting rid of the obstacles. He yanked your oversized sweatshirt off in one go, leaving you in your tank top in the middle of the cold kitchen, though you barely noticed it over the heat radiating from his body. His hands flew down to the button of your jeans, yanking the zipper down impatiently. You shifted on the counter to make his job easier, letting him slide your pants and underwear down to your knees.

He didn't bother taking off his own clothes; the urgency was too much. He unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans with one hand while holding you by the back of the neck with the other, devouring your mouth again. When his hand slid down and found the space between your legs, you were already completely wet. Lip let out a hoarse groan at the feel of your slickness, brushing his fingers against your lips before shoving his own clothes aside. Without any more delay, he lined himself up between your open legs and, with one firm, direct thrust, buried himself completely inside you.

The whimper that escaped your throat was smothered instantly. Lip didn't use his hand this time; he pressed his mouth right against your ear, his breath hitching as he grit his teeth.

—Shh... Shut your fucking mouth —he hissed suddenly, his voice a harsh rasp that set off goosebumps across your arms.

His words, rough and authoritative, only turned you on twice as much. The adrenaline of doing it on the counter where they ate breakfast every morning, with half the family sleeping just yards away, tightened your stomach. Lip stayed still inside you for a second, stretching you out, cursing under his breath while his hands gripped your thighs so hard you knew they’d leave purple bruises tomorrow.

When he started moving, it wasn't a gentle, rhythmic slide. He hit you with short, hard thrusts—a blunt, heavy pounding that made the wooden counter vibrate. You had to bite the back of your hand to keep from screaming whenever he bottomed out, digging your heels into his back to force him even deeper. Lip was unhinged, driven by the haze of weed and alcohol clouding his eyes, using you like a life raft in the middle of his shipwreck.

In the middle of the frantic rhythm, Lip stretched his left arm blindly across the counter, knocking over a plastic spice bottle that luckily landed on a dish towel without making a sound. His fingers fumbled around until they found what he was looking for: the crumpled pack of cigarettes Fiona had left on top of the microwave. Without stopping his pace, his pelvis pounding rhythmically against your ass and dragging muffled gasps from your chest, Lip pulled a cigarette out with his teeth.

He flicked the lighter with absurd dexterity, the spark illuminating his sweaty, focused face for a split second, and lit the cigarette. He took a long drag, holding the smoke in while his hips kept hammering away at a relentless pace that was making you lose your mind.

He looked down at you, the smoke trapped between you in the dim kitchen light, and exhaled the gray air right into your face. His eyes were hooded—a dirty, wild look, completely detached from reality.

—You smoke too much, Gallagher —you teased in a breathy whisper, arching your back when he rubbed his thumb over your clit with his free hand.

—And you talk too much —he shot back, taking one more quick drag before leaving the cigarette resting on the metal edge of the sink, still lit, burning down into a thin stream of smoke.

Having both of his hands back on you was the breaking point. Lip grabbed you by your armpits and dragged you right to the edge of the counter, forcing you to lean way back. The shift in angle made him slide into you so cleanly and deeply that tears pricked your eyes. He started taking his frustration out on you ruthlessly—fast, dry thrusts, his denim jeans rubbing against the sensitive skin of your bare thighs in a chaotic friction. The pleasure clouded your mind completely; you weren’t thinking about the argument anymore, or Frank, or Thursday's midterms. There was only the constant impact of his body, the smell of tobacco, and the desperate need to finish.

Lip realized you were hitting the edge by the way your walls started squeezing tight around him, trapping him. A muffled curse escaped him and he dropped his entire weight onto you, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he accelerated his pace into a frantic blur. The climax hit you in intense waves that forced you to bury your teeth into his shoulder to keep the rule of silence; Lip let out a rough, sordo groan against your skin as he felt you twitch, giving three final brutal thrusts before coming deep inside you, pinning his body against yours until he ran out of air.

The silence crashed back down on the kitchen, thick and heavy, broken only by the sound of your chests thumping together as you breathed. The thread of smoke from the cigarette on the sink kept rising, almost burnt out.

Lip pulled out slowly with a low groan, wiping the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Just as you slid off the counter and finished pulling up your jeans in one quick tug, buttoning them with no intention of hiding, the creak of the wooden stairs froze both of you mid-motion.

—Lip? —Debbie’s sleepy, high-pitched voice echoed from the hallway connecting to the stairs.

Lip zipped up his jeans with a smooth movement of pure Gallagher instinct, right as the girl's silhouette appeared at the kitchen doorway, rubbing one eye.

You stayed leaning against the counter, arms crossed over your chest and your hair a complete disaster, holding Debbie’s gaze without flinching. Nobody in that house got freaked out by seeing someone half-dressed at odd hours, and you weren't about to degrade yourself by hiding under a table like you’d done something wrong.

Debbie was wearing worn-out flannel pajamas and mismatched socks. She looked at Lip first and then drifted her sleepy eyes over to you. She swept her gaze over both of you with absolute indifference and annoyance, way too used to her family’s chaotic comings and goings to be scandalized by finding her brother and you reeking of sex and smoke at three in the morning.

—What are you guys doing awake? —Debbie asked, her voice raspy from sleep, wrinkling her nose as she stared at the smoke floating in the air.

—Nothing, Debs —Lip answered. His voice sounded completely normal, a little deep, as he picked up the dying cigarette from the sink—. Couldn't sleep because of a midterm headache. Came down to get a glass of water.

Debbie let out a skeptical snort, staring hard at your crookedly buttoned jeans and your cheeks still flushed from the effort.

—Fiona’s gonna kill you guys if you wake her up —the girl grumbled, lazily turning back toward the stairs—. And make less noise with the dishes, you can hear everything from upstairs. People are trying to sleep.

—Go back to bed, come on —Lip told her, his tone strangely soft, almost paternal, as he watched her disappear.

Debbie’s footsteps headed back up the stairs until the slam of her bedroom door echoed from upstairs. Only then did you let out a muffled laugh, the lingering adrenaline of the scare turning into pure amusement.

Lip let out a chuckle too, shaking his head as he looked at you with a mix of entertainment and respect for not running away. He bent down to the floor to pick up the massive sweatshirt he had stripped off you earlier and handed it over.

You pulled it over your head, feeling the kitchen cold quickly reclaim the room now that the heat of the moment was fading. Sex hadn't fixed a single damn thing, and both of you knew it perfectly well. The flask was still in his denim jacket, college was still a hostile environment for a South Side kid, and Thursday's exam was still looming. But as Lip gave one last tug to your sweatshirt to pull you into his side and leave a short, firm kiss on your forehead, you knew that at least for tonight, you had managed to buy a few hours of truce from the storm.

[laugi0]

⋆ʟᴇᴏɴ ᴋᴇɴɴᴇᴅʏ⋆

Summary: A rare moment of late-night intimacy between you and a retired Leon is derailed by your two-year-old’s tears. Leon steps up for crib duty, but he stays gone so long that you find him fast asleep in the rocking chair, completely defeated by a toddler's cuddle.

wc: 3,17k

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The dim light of the moon filtered through the slats of the blinds, drawing silver lines across the duvet of the master bed. The silence in the house was a luxury you savored with a mix of relief and legitimate exhaustion. At twenty-eight years old, you felt that motherhood was the most beautiful and demanding marathon of your life, especially since your two-year-old daughter, Loretta, seemed to have inherited an internal battery of infinite duration.

You took a few seconds in the hallway to adjust the cuffs of your satin pajamas and exhale the last trace of the day's tension. You had just left the little girl fast asleep in her crib—or so you thought. You entered the main bedroom with feline steps, closing the door behind you with an almost imperceptible click.

Looking up, you met Leon's silhouette. He was sitting on the edge of the mattress, his back to you, removing the gray t-shirt he used for lounging around the house. The nightstand light, dimmed to its lowest setting, cast long shadows across his bare back. A back you knew by heart: the map of scars that narrated his turbulent past with the Government, the marks of battles against horrors the world preferred to ignore, and the accumulated tension in his shoulders that still persisted, despite months having passed since his forced retirement.

At thirty-six years old, Leon Kennedy's body and mind had finally said enough. The diagnosis of severe PTSD, combined with a series of chronic injuries to his left knee and right shoulder, had permanently sidelined him from field operations. It hadn't been an easy transition for the great DSO hero, but destiny had reserved a corner of peace for him. Now, his privileged mind was dedicated to strategic research and tactical consulting from a comfortable security office. A desk job, well-paying, that not only kept his mind sharp without risking his life, but also allowed you the enormous privilege of dedicating yourself entirely to raising your daughter during her early years.

Leon turned when he noticed your presence. His golden hair, now a bit longer and messier than usual, fell over his blue eyes. Upon seeing you, those tired eyes lit up with a warmth that only you and Loretta managed to awaken in him.

—Well —he whispered, with that deep, raspy voice that always gave you goosebumps—. I thought the wild beast had taken you hostage in her room.

—Almost —you replied with a playful smile, walking toward him—. She resisted, but Operation 'Crib' was a resounding success. She's completely out.

Leon let out a low chuckle, a deep sound that vibrated in his chest. He leaned back against the pillows, stretching his arms out to you in a silent invitation.

You didn't think twice. You climbed onto the bed, crawling with deliberate slowness, enjoying the way Leon's gaze darkened as you drew closer. You sat astride his thighs, feeling the heat of his exposed skin against yours. Your hands immediately slid up his firm abdomen, tracing the familiar scars until they reached his neck, where you tangled your fingers in his blonde strands.

—I missed you today —you admitted in a whisper, leaning down toward him.

—I've been here all day, beautiful —he countered, though his hands had already settled on your hips, squeezing gently.

—Yeah, but Loretta kidnapped you the second you walked through the door. You haven't given me a proper kiss since five in the afternoon.

Leon smiled, showing those dimples identical to yours that Loretta also sported with pride whenever she grinned.

—You're right. That's a federal crime. Let me make it up to you.

He leaned up, closing the distance between your lips. The kiss began softly, a tender brush that tasted like home and shared secrets, but the spark caught quickly. Leon groaned softly against your mouth, sliding his hands up your back beneath the fabric of your pajamas, seeking direct contact with your skin. Your body responded instantly, fitting perfectly against his.

The intensity shifted gears. The kisses moved down your jawline to your neck, making you arch your back as you muffled a gasp. Leon was a big, strong man, but with you, he always moved with an almost reverent delicacy, as if afraid he might break you—even though you knew all too well he could hold up the weight of the world if he chose to.

—God, you are so beautiful —he murmured against your ear, his ragged breath brushing your skin—. You have no idea how much I needed this.

You moved subtly over him, feeling his arousal pressing against you through the fabric of his pants. Desire turned into a shared urgency. Your hands slid to the waistband of his sweatpants, ready to rid him of them, while Leon's large fingers fumbled with desperate clumsiness at the buttons of your satin shirt. You were at that point of no return. Literally, Leon was one movement away from entering you, from sealing that connection you had both craved all week between diapers, research reports, and domestic routines.

And then, the universe decided to remind you that you were parents.

Through the baby monitor sitting on the nightstand, and echoing through the hallway wall, came a sharp, shrill, and completely unmistakable sound.

*Waaaah... Mommy! Daddy! Waaaah*

Both of you froze completely in the exact same position. Leon's forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. The silence that followed the first cry lasted only two seconds before Loretta broke into tears again, louder this time. It was a nightmare cry, the kind that happens when a child wakes up disoriented in the dark.

—No way... —you groaned against Leon's shoulder, closing your eyes in mock frustration—. Swear to me she didn't hear the mattress. She has radar. That girl has military-grade radar.

Leon let out a long sigh, a mixture of resigned laughter and masculine frustration that made his jaw tighten. However, the protective instinct that defined him took over immediately.

—It's my fault —he joked in a husky voice, rubbing your back to comfort you—. She inherited my reflexes and my ability to ruin perfect timing.

You made a move to climb off him and get up.

—I'll go. Stay in bed, your knee has been bothering you this afternoon because of the rain.

But before your feet could touch the floor, Leon's large hand gently caught your wrist.

—No, no. Stay here. Let me go —he said, his tone turning tender and firm. He sat up on the bed, reaching for his shirt on the floor—. You've been dealing with her tornado energy all day while I was reviewing reports. It's your turn to rest. Besides, you know she falls asleep in two minutes flat with me when she gets like this.

You stayed seated in the middle of the rumpled bed, watching him with a mix of adoration and lingering desire as he pulled the shirt over his head and stood up. Seeing Leon Kennedy, the man who had survived Raccoon City, a cult in Spain, and unspeakable biological mutations, walking barefoot down the hallway in the middle of the night to soothe a two-year-old's tantrum was an image that never failed to touch your heart.

—Don't be long —you asked him, pulling the covers up to your chin, still holding the warmth of your bodies.

—I'll be back before you know it, gorgeous —he winked at you before stepping out and leaving the door ajar.

You lay there, listening to the echo of his muffled footsteps on the hallway carpet. You heard Loretta's bedroom door open and how the heartbreaking crying stopped almost instantly, giving way to those whimpering hiccups that preceded cuddling.

—Shh, it's okay, sweetheart. Daddy's here. It was just a bad dream, Lore... I've got you —Leon’s deep, soothing voice drifted down the hall.

You smiled to yourself, nesting your head in Leon's pillow, breathing in his scent of cedarwood, mint, and that clean soap he always used. You resolved to wait up for him. You mentally promised yourself that the moment he returned, you would pick up exactly where you had left off, no matter how late it was.

Five minutes passed. Then ten. Then fifteen.

Silence reigned over the house once more, but it was a bit too heavy. Normally, Leon didn't take long to calm her down, place her back in the crib, and return with that smug grin you loved so much. However, the digital clock on the nightstand already marked twenty minutes since his departure.

Curiosity, mixed with a slight touch of worry in case Loretta had come down with something, forced you out from under the covers. You buttoned up your satin pajama top, slipped your feet into your house slippers, and crept out of the room cautiously.

The hallway was dark, save for the faint glow of the star-shaped nightlight spilling from the toddler's room. You walked on your tiptoes, carefully avoiding the third floorboard of the parquet, which always creaked if you stepped too hard.

Reaching the threshold of Loretta’s room, you paused. The door was slightly ajar, revealing an interior bathed in a soft yellowish and blue glow. You weren't prepared for the scene that unfolded before your eyes—an image so perfect it made your heart squeeze with pure tenderness.

In the corner of the room, right by the window where the moon still shone brightly, sat the oak rocking chair you had bought together before Loretta was born. And there was Leon.

The former special operations agent had fallen fast asleep in the rocking chair. His head was tilted slightly back, resting against the backrest, with a few blonde strands falling messily over his forehead. His breathing was deep, slow, and steady. In his arms, tucked against his chest as if it were the safest place on the planet, was Loretta.

The little girl had one tiny hand tightly clutching the fabric of her father's t-shirt. Her little blonde head rested right underneath Leon's chin. From your angle, you could perfectly see their profiles. The physical resemblance they shared was unbelievable. Loretta had the same golden hair as Leon and you, but the arrangement of her features was a genetic masterpiece. Right under her left eye, the little girl had a tiny mole, in the exact same spot where Leon had his. And as she exhaled a soft puff of air through her mouth, her relaxed cheeks revealed the dimples she had inherited from you.

The nightlight cast their silhouettes against the wall. Leon kept his massive, protective arms wrapped securely around the toddler’s small body, ensuring even in his sleep that she wouldn't slip. His PTSD usually gifted him with restless nights and violent nightmares, but at this exact moment, seeing absolute peace on your husband's face was a miracle. His daughter's presence seemed to act as a soothing balm for his internal demons.

A knot of pure love tightened in your throat. You knew this moment couldn't be allowed to dissolve into the oblivion of the night.

Without making a sound, you turned around and retraced your steps to your bedroom. You groped around the nightstand until your fingers brushed against the cool metal of your phone. You unlocked it quickly, lowering the screen brightness to the minimum so as not to break the magical atmosphere of the house, and made sure it was on silent mode. You wouldn't forgive yourself if the shutter sound woke them up.

You returned to the nursery with your phone raised, framing the scene from the doorway. You waited for the moonlight to illuminate both their profiles perfectly and pressed the digital button.

*Click.*

The screen captured the image: the rugged, relentless Leon Kennedy reduced to absolute tenderness by a two-year-old with his same moles. You saved the photo to your favorites folder, knowing this would be your lock screen for the rest of your days.

You left the phone on the nearby changing table and stepped into the room. You knelt slowly in front of the rocking chair. Looking closely at Loretta, you could see the faint trail of dried tears on her cheeks, framed by those brown eyes that now remained closed, identical to yours. She was an energetic girl, a whirlwind who during the day ran all over the house mimicking her father’s "training," driving Leon crazy as he tried to keep her from breaking anything or jumping off the couch yelling "secret mission!". But right now, she was just a helpless angel.

With a movement practiced through a thousand nights of experience, you reached out and slid your hands under Loretta's body, lifting her from Leon’s chest with surgical delicacy. The little girl whimpered slightly, instinctively seeking her father’s warmth, but you pulled her close to your own chest, shushing her softly until she relaxed completely again.

You walked the two steps to the crib and laid her down on the mattress, tucking her in with her teddy bear blanket. Loretta rolled onto her side, popped her thumb into her mouth, and continued her deep sleep, oblivious to the world.

One part of the mission was accomplished. Now came the heavy lifting: waking up the Sleeping Beauty agent.

You turned back to the rocking chair. Leon was still in the same position, though without the weight of the child, his breathing had grown a bit lighter—a sign he was drifting out of his deep slumber.

You leaned over him, placing your hands on his knees.

—Leon... —you whispered, planting a soft kiss on his cheek, right over the two-day stubble that was starting to scratch—. Hey, cowboy. Wake up.

Leon let out a rough groan, slowly blinking his eyes open. His blue gaze took a couple of seconds to focus on you, disoriented by exhaustion. He looked down at his empty arms with a momentary flash of panic, but your hands moved up to his face to soothe him.

—Easy. Loretta is in her crib. She's fine —you told him gently.

He blinked a few times, running a large hand over his face to wake himself up. A tired, slightly embarrassed smile appeared on his lips, deepening his dimples.

—I crashed, didn't I? —his voice was a deep, sleepy murmur.

—Completely. You looked like a bear protecting its cub. If I hadn't come to get you, dawn would've caught you here and tomorrow you wouldn't even be able to move that knee.

Leon let out a sigh, stretching his legs lazily and indeed feeling the twinge of his chronic injury. He stood up with a slight grunt that he tried to hide, but you knew him too well for it to slip past you. You wrapped an arm around his waist, letting him lean some of his weight on you as you both walked out of the nursery.

—Thanks, babe —he muttered, kissing the crown of your head as you walked down the dark hallway together.

—Don't mention it. But just so you know, you owe me a photoshoot. You two looked way too cute.

—You took a picture? —he asked with an eyebrow raised, a corner of his mouth tugging upward as you entered your room.

—Of course I did. It's my right as a mother and a wife. I'll show you tomorrow.

Entering the master bedroom, the atmosphere of interrupted passion from half an hour ago had transformed into something else. The desire was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but physical exhaustion and the peace of the moment begged for something different.

Leon sank onto his side of the bed with a sigh of relief, stretching out his bad leg. You walked around the mattress and slid under the covers, immediately seeking his body. It didn't take you a second to settle against his side. You rested your head on his good chest, right over where his heart beat with a steady, peaceful rhythm. You threw a leg over his, tangling yourselves together completely.

Leon's free arm wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you closer, while his fingers began tracing lazy circles on your bare arm.

—I'm sorry about earlier —he said suddenly, breaking the silence—. I know... well, that you wanted us to have some time to ourselves.

You propped yourself up a bit, resting your chin on his chest to look into his eyes. The nightstand lamp was still on low, allowing you to see the honesty in his gaze.

—Leon, you never have to apologize for that. Never —you assured him, caressing his cheek—. Seeing what a great father you are, seeing how you take care of Loretta... That makes me fall in love with you so much more than anything else. Our time together isn't going anywhere. We have a whole lifetime.

Leon stared at you, and for a moment, his eyes shone with an emotional intensity that took your breath away. Sometimes you forgot how much having this ordinary life meant to him. For a man who had believed he would die young in a ditch infected by bio-weapons, having a wife who loved him, a healthy daughter who looked like him, and a safe bed to sleep in was a dream he feared waking up from at any moment.

—I'm incredibly lucky to have you —he said, his voice thick with genuine emotion. He leaned up and gave you a long, slow kiss, filled with a devotion that needed no words—. To have both of you. Loretta is a terror, but she's the best thing that ever happened to us.

—She inherited your energy, Kennedy. Don't go blaming me —you laughed softly, settling your head back onto his chest.

—She has your eyes —he countered, kissing your forehead—. And your dimples. Every time she smiles at me when she's up to no good, I can't even get mad because I see your face in her. I'm completely screwed for the rest of my life.

—You are entirely whipped by the two women in this house and you know it.

—And I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world —he admitted with a note of absolute pride.

Leon reached his free arm out to turn off the nightstand lamp, plunging the room into the comforting darkness of the night. The only sound left was that of your synchronized breathing and the soft thud of his heart beneath your ear.

You snuggled deeper against him, inhaling his scent, feeling the security of his strong arms holding you tight. You knew the next morning would start early, likely with Loretta bouncing in the middle of the bed by seven, tugging at Leon's hair and demanding her breakfast while running all over the kitchen. It would be chaotic, loud, and exhausting.

But as you felt Leon's hand intertwine with yours over the sheets, giving it a gentle squeeze before falling fast asleep, you knew you wouldn't trade that chaos for any other peace in the world. You were exactly where you belonged: in the arms of your retired hero, building a future over the ashes of the past.

[radioshepard]

So…

[lavandine]

⸻ 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑦.

It wasn’t a good book. Hell, you’d go so far as to say that it was pretty damn bad, but that didn’t matter. This shitty novel had given you a break. It was a way to escape this fucked up place that the world had become, and everyone was glad that Dale shared it.

Glenn had already read it. It had surprised you initially, since you hadn’t taken him for a reader. He seemed more like an action movie kind of guy, obsessed with fast cars as he was. Then again, the apocalypse left little options.

As he gave it to you, Dale insisted that he’d have packed better books if he had known the world was going to end. It made you laugh, and sparked a conversation between you and the elderly man. Sitting on top of the RV, keeping watch wasn’t your favorite task, no. You’d constantly worry about missing a walker approaching the farm, or worse, a horde. On top of that, you weren’t a great shot. The isolation of the whole thing left you wondering why Andrea liked it so much, but you guessed not everyone enjoyed doing laundry and cooking all day.

Now, you could understand it a little bit better. The sun was beating down on the RV, heat making it almost unbearable to stay out in the open. Luckily, it would get colder soon.

It wasn’t too bad sitting here in company. From what you could gather, Dale had an amazing taste in books. Came with 65 years of reading, probably. He seemed happy that you could match his impressive literary knowledge, allowing for a nice talk.

It really wasn’t so bad up here if you had company.

It made you think about what it would be like to keep watch with Daryl.

The redneck had occupied your thoughts for a while. Since his dedication in the hunt for Sophia, to be exact. He was incredible at tracking, and still, it didn’t amount to the end everyone had wished for Carol.

Of course, Carol was devastated. Pretty much everyone was. The search had been a reason to keep going, even though deep down, it was clear to you all that you had been chasing a shadow. Now that it was over, morale was at an all time low. Some doubted Rick’s leading abilities, and tension arose within the group.

It made sense that everone was affected. However, no one seemed to see the effect that this failure had on Daryl. Either that, or they simply didn’t want to. He made it easy for them to ignore him, avoiding the group in general. Kept himself holed up in his one man tent further away from the rest of the group. And that after he took a bullet, too.

You’d think he’d admit his vulnerability and accept help, but since the second he was allowed to get up after the wound was tended too, he hadn’t been back. Andrea had come to apologize, Lori had brought him food, even Carol had come by, but none of them had managed to get more than a few words out of the man.

While you understood that he was frustrated and angry at himself, you were determined to coax him out of his hardened shell.

How? Well, you had a reason now.

That was at least what you told yourself as you made your way to his tent.

Your dedication diminished with every step you took. Standing directly in front of it, you weren’t even sure if you should go inside anymore. Maybe you were overstepping. Maybe he would throw you out and feel even worse after you had talked to him.

About to turn around and forget about the whole thing, you flinched when you heard rustling inside of the tent and finally, its zipper being pulled down.

You were met with the sight of Daryl, resting on his cot inside the tent. He lowered his arm and raised a brow, seemingly surprised at the sight of you.

“What d’ya want? I can hear ya shufflin’ 'round, y’know. Didn’t shoot me, ain’t got nothin’ ta apologize for.”

You straightened, looking a little sheepish as you shook your head.

“I know. Look, I was gonna leave, but— I thought you could use a distraction. Must be boring being stuck here all day.”

He hummed. “S’pose.”

That wasn’t a direct rejection, so you pulled yourself together and kneeled down at the tent’s entrance. Threw him an experimental smile, not hesistant, but not confident either.

“Right. That’s why I wanted to give you this. There isn’t exactly much else to do in here.”

You held out your hand, offering him the book.

He eyed it, then glanced up at you. Seemed wary, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of the gesture. “A book?”

You nodded. “What, never seen one before?”

It was supposed to sound light-hearted, ease the tension between the two of you, but with your intimidated, wavering voice, it probably did a poor job. You cringed internally, cursing yourself for even trying to start a conversation with him. He probably felt bothered by you, peace disturbed and wished you would just leave already so he could—

Oh. Your thoughts went quiet when he reached out and took it, sitting up a little straighter on his dirty blanket. The surpressed wince didn’t go unnoticed by you, and you were about to ask him if he was okay, but he was faster.

“That Dale’s?”

A meek nod. “Yeah.” Unsure of what to add to this, you stayed quiet, eyes flickering up to his face.

Daryl huffed, flipping through the pages. Then looked at you. You were ready to be told off for intruding at last, but it was his turn to surprise you.

“What, no pictures?” If you didn’t know any better, you’d thought you had made out the hint of a smirk around his lips, but it was gone too quickly for you to be sure.

Your face fell, caught off guard. “You— you can’t read?” Shock must have been written all over your face judging by the roll of his eyes.

“Nah”, he scoffed, “I can read alrigh', girl. Just ain’t a fan.” He scratched his neck, eyes falling down to the book in his hands.

A faint blush spread on your cheeks. Of course he could, what were you thinking. This didn’t have to be so awkward but of course you’d go and call him an analphabet, for god’s sake…

You cleared your throat, “Oh. Sorry. I mean, I have only read half of it so far, but Glenn said it wasn’t half bad. Maybe better than being all alone with your thoughts? I’ll take it back to Dale, if you want to, I mean—"

He shook his head, interrupting your nervous babbling.

“Don’t gotta take it back”, he huffed. Curt and to the point, as always. His rough voice didn’t fail to make you feel a little silly, intimidated by the one man that had protected you for months now. And the others, of course. Not you especially.

“Sure. Okay, I’ll leave you to it.” Embarrassed, you began getting up when his head snapped up, following your movement.

Daryl frowned, brows pulled together tightly. “Wha', ya ain’t gonna read it to me?” He seemed a little offended if anything, making you stop in your tracks and falter.

“Huh? You want me to stay?” Now it was your turn to be confused. However, he ended that by patting down a spot in the tent next to him.

A shrug, “Ya said ya were only halfway through. Course I ain’t gonna take it from ya now. Ya could be dead tomorrow, fer all I know. Might as well finish that damn story.” His voice didn’t leave much space for discussion.

You were strangely touched. He payed attention to every word you were saying, apparently. Not only did he refrain from throwing you out, he wanted you further inside the tent.

Your braced yourself, smiling at him. “Oh, uh, sure. I’ll read to you.”

As you crawled inside the tent, he reached for the zipper to close the opening. You made yourself as comfortable as was possible in the small room, leaving space between you and him. Didn’t want to overstay your welcome or make him feel uncomfortable. After all, it was rare for Daryl to allow others near him at all, always the closed off hunter. Actually, you hadn't heard him talk this much in weeks.

You counted yourself lucky. Must have caught him at a good time, then.

“Okay, I’ll start with chapter one.”

“Nah, just go on from where ya left off.”

“Are you sure? You won’t understand the story if—"

“Don’t care.”

“Well, if you insist.”

And so you began reading, stealing the occasional glance at him, spread out on his blanket, arms under his head. He was staring at the tents ceiling, blue eyes trained on the worn fabric. His focus however was on you and you only. He listened to your gentle voice, losing himelf solely in the sound instead of the story. Fuck, he could care less for the story.

No, he only cared about the way the words formed in your throat, flowing out of your lips. The soft breathing, how it hitched when you reached an exciting passage. The small noise of frustration when you stumbled over a sentence and had to begin anew…

If only you knew how much he liked your presence.

Honestly, if someone had asked him anything about the content of the novel by the point you said goodnight and left his tent to return to yours, he would have been at a loss. Didn’t remember a thing about the characters, but all about the way you had invented distinctly unique voices for each of them.

That book may have not been the best, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t grateful for every single chapter.

𝐼'𝑑 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩𝑡𝑠! 𝑀𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑙𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑚𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑜𝑟 𝑟𝑒𝑞𝑢𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑎 𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 🤍 𝐷𝑎𝑟𝑦𝑙 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡

[laugi0]

⋆ᴛʜᴏᴍᴀs sʜᴇʟʙʏ⋆

Summary: Before war and ambition changed him forever, nineteen-year-old Thomas Shelby finds his only haven of peace in a hidden meadow in Birmingham with the girl he loves.

wc: 1k

────୨ৎ────

Before the streets of Birmingham turned gray in his memory, before the mud of France buried half of his soul and the smoke from the factories came to live in his lungs, Thomas Shelby knew how to smile. He was nineteen years old, with eyes of a clear blue and a pair of skillful hands that had not yet closed into fists cursed by ambition or war.

The first time he saw you was at the Small Heath fair. You had moved to the neighborhood barely two weeks prior, fleeing the even more suffocating bustle of London to settle with your family in a small but decent house. To you, the Shelby dialect and the chaos of the gypsies selling horses felt like an alien world. You were standing by the shooting gallery, overwhelmed by the shouting, the laughter, and the music of the accordions, when a young man with a tilted cap and broad shoulders stopped by your side.

—If you keep looking at that rifle with so much fear, it’s going to end up going off by itself —Thomas said, with a spark of amusement he rarely showed to strangers.

You answered him with a hint of shyness, but without backing down.

—It’s just that you Birmingham men make too much noise. There’s no hearing oneself think here.

Thomas, far from taking offense, let out a clean laugh that the factory folk rarely heard from him. That same afternoon, he won you a small teddy bear at the attraction, walked you to the corner of your street, and proposed something that changed the course of your days.

—Outside the factories, up the hill, there’s a meadow where the smoke from the chimneys doesn’t reach —he told you, looking at you intently—. Come meet me there next Sunday.

And you went. From then on, that green meadow, surrounded by ancient oaks and dotted with wildflowers, became your secret sanctuary. A space suspended in time where you stopped being the new girl trying to fit in, and he stopped being a Shelby forced to grow up before his time.

The May sun fell with an unusual warmth over the hill. You walked at a brisk pace, feeling the brush of the fresh grass against your bare ankles. You wore a light white cotton dress, a simple garment that moved with the gentle afternoon breeze. An electric anticipation fluttered in your chest; every meeting with Thomas felt like a theft from destiny, a delicious secret that belonged only to the two of you.

Reaching the crest of the meadow, you saw him. Thomas was leaning against the trunk of the great oak, his dark jacket folded over a rock and the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms tanned by the spring sun. He wasn't wearing his cap; his brown, slightly curly hair moved messily in the wind. When his blue eyes landed on you, his face lit up with that smile he reserved exclusively for your eyes. Behind his back, he was hiding something with a charming clumsiness.

—You’re late —he teased, taking a step toward you. His voice was a soft lull, devoid of the harshness he would use years later.

—The path is steep, Shelby. You should have a little more consideration for a lady —you replied, stopping a few meters away, hands clasped behind your back and a playful smile on your lips.

—I have all the consideration in the world. In fact... —Tommy extended his arm, revealing what he was hiding—. I’ve been busy before you arrived.

In his hand, he held an abundant, messy bouquet of wildflowers: daisies, bluebells, and red poppies that contrasted with the whiteness of his fingers. He had tied it roughly with a piece of twine. The gesture touched you so deeply that you took a step forward, your heart skipping a beat.

—Did you pick them yourself? —you asked, moved, reaching out your fingers.

—We Shelbys have a bad reputation, but we know how to appreciate beautiful things —he said, taking another step, his eyes fixed on yours with an intensity that made your knees go weak—. Though none of these flowers do you justice, truly.

When he held the bouquet out to you, shyness and mischief mingled in your chest. Just as your fingers brushed his to take the flowers, you took a step back, a melodic laugh escaping your throat.

—If you want them, you’ll have to catch me first, Thomas —you challenged, eyes shining with pure provocation.

Without waiting for an answer, you spun around and dashed down the gentle slope of the meadow. The white dress floated around you like a cloud, and your hand gripped the bouquet tightly as you ran. You felt absolute freedom and the scent of damp earth filling everything. You heard Thomas’s exclamation of surprise, followed immediately by the sound of his heavy boots thudding hard against the grass.

—You’re going to fall! —he shouted, though his voice was full of laughter—. Come back here right now!

You looked over your shoulder, seeing him gain ground with astonishing ease. Thomas was fast, athletic, and determined. Adrenaline rushed through your veins as the wind whipped your face. You felt the sun on your skin and the laughter trapped in your chest. The bouquet of flowers shook in your hand, losing a few petals along the way, leaving a trail of color on the deep green.

You didn't get much further. In a swift, coordinated movement, Thomas caught up to you. His strong arms wrapped around your waist from behind, lifting you off the ground for a second as the momentum sent you both tumbling.

The fall was soft, cushioned by the thick blanket of grass and clover. You rolled a couple of times, tangling into each other amidst breathless laughter, until Thomas was hovering over you, supporting his weight on his forearms so as not to crush you. The bouquet of flowers lay to one side, scattered over the earth, staining the ground in vivid hues. Your hair was messy, full of blades of grass, and your cheeks were flushed from the effort and excitement. Thomas looked down at you, his breath coming in short gasps, his eyes darkened by an affection so deep it stole your breath away. His gaze drifted down to your intertwined hands, then rose to meet your eyes.

—I’ve got you —he whispered, with infinite tenderness—. I told you I’d catch you.

—You cheated... You’re much taller and you run faster —you protested in barely a whisper, but your hands had already slid up to his shoulders, caressing the fine fabric of his shirt, feeling the comforting warmth radiating from his body.

—All’s fair in love and betting, beautiful.

Thomas didn't wait any longer. He leaned down and kissed you. It was a slow, deep kiss, born from the sweet restraint of Sundays spent waiting for this exact moment. His mouth molded to yours with a gentleness that made you sigh, while his fingers slid along your cheek, brushing away the strands of hair the wind had tangled across your face. Your hands clung to his neck, pulling him closer, wanting to erase any distance between you.

With slow, protective movements, Thomas sat up on the grass without breaking the kiss and pulled you into his lap. You remained united in the center of that immense meadow, sheltered by the rustle of the oak leaves. His right hand traveled up to your shoulder, gently sliding down the strap of your white dress, leaving your bare skin exposed to the warm breeze and the devotion of his lips. Thomas began to trail down, leaving a path of soft kisses along your neck, making you shiver with pure emotion.

—You’re the purest thing in my life —he murmured against your ear, his voice thick with emotion—. Sometimes I think I dreamed you up in the middle of the factory.

—I’m not a dream, Tommy... I’m right here —you replied, caressing the back of his neck, feeling the wild beating of his heart against your own chest.

The romanticism of the era gave way to a barefoot, sincere intimacy. With a beautiful modesty that was nonetheless heavy with desire, your clothes slipped onto the green tapestry of the hill, leaving nature as the sole witness to your union. When Thomas held you in his arms again, the closeness of your bodies sent a thrill across your skin. You looked into each other's eyes; the blue of his gaze was a clean ocean, filled with a promise of absolute loyalty.

—Look at me —he requested in a whisper, resting his forehead against yours.

As you joined together, time seemed to stop completely. It was a soft, unhurried encounter, where pleasure was measured in the synchrony of your sighs and the warmth of your skin melting into one. Thomas moved with a sweet cadence, rocking you upon the grass, cradling every touch as if you were the most fragile treasure in the world. You rested your hands on his firm shoulders, letting yourself be carried away by the tide of sensations flooding your chest.

There was no rush, none of the urgency of the gray world below; only your names whispered between kisses, the brush of your fingers on his back, and the tender sway that lifted you both, bit by bit, toward the very sky.

—I love you, Tommy... —you confessed in a sweet gasp, surrendering your entire soul in those words.

—And I love you. Since the bloody first day at the fair —he replied, his eyes misty with an overflowing happiness.

The rhythm grew a little deeper, more devoted, a perfect dance where your hearts beat as one. The caress of the setting sun wrapped you both in a golden aura as you guided each other toward the end of the path. Holding each other with a clean strength, you reached the peak in an eternal sigh, a sweet, shattering climax that left you trembling with love, shedding tears of pure bliss upon the crushed grass.

Silence took over the meadow once more, interrupted only by your rhythmic breathing. Thomas didn't move away; he stayed still, keeping you sheltered against his chest, covering you with his own body to protect you from the cool evening air. The sky above you had turned completely into shades of pink and mauve.

With a sigh of peace, Thomas looped an arm over your shoulders and pulled you closer, while his other hand played idly with a strand of your messy hair. Beside you, the bouquet of wildflowers scattered its rustic scent, sealing the memory of a perfect afternoon.

—I wish we could stay here forever —you whispered, resting your chin on his chest to look at him. His face was completely relaxed, stripped of the shadows the future would bring him.

Thomas smiled sideways, kissing the tip of your nose with infinite tenderness.

—We’ll stay as long as you want —he promised, his soft voice enveloping you like a caress—. While we’re up here, the world below doesn’t exist. It’s just you, me, and the flowers.

Author's note: This story surely has several parts!! I have many ideas with Thomas Shelby.

[laugi0]

⋆ʟᴇᴏɴ ᴋᴇɴɴᴇᴅʏ⋆

Summary: Being married to the best DSO agent for three years does not make seventy-two hours of absolute radio silence easier to endure.

wc: 3k

────୨ৎ────

You had been married for almost three years, three years of living on the edge because of Leon’s stupid job.

That was what you repeated to yourself every time he sent you a text saying, 'I have to stay late at the office, I love you,' or 'An issue just came up, I have to leave on a mission, I’ll keep you posted.' You were sick of the little missions and the overtime, but above all, you were sick of the fear. Because unlike other wives, you didn’t believe your husband was in a boring business meeting; you knew perfectly well what the word "mission" meant in the DSO.

Leon had a job that was crucial to the world, and you were deeply proud of his bravery, but you hated waiting for entire weeks with your heart in your throat, consumed by anxiety, only for him to come back so broken and traumatized that he didn't even want to talk. And when he did seek your touch, you were so angry about the suffering his absence caused you that you simply ignored him.

You stared at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen, but the accumulated rage and fear wouldn't dissipate. The house felt too big, too cold, like a hospital waiting room. You looked at the clock on the kitchen counter: two-thirty in the morning. Another night where the meal you had painstakingly prepared had gone cold on the counter, covered by a piece of aluminum foil that seemed to mock your silent agony.

You got up from your chair, ready to turn off all the lights and go to bed to sleep alone, trying to convince yourself that the fact that two plainclothes agents hadn't knocked on your door meant he was still alive. But just as your hand brushed the hallway switch, the subtle yet unmistakable sound of a key turning in the lock froze you in place.

The front door opened slowly, letting out a slight creak.

Leon shuffled inside. He wasn't wearing a uniform, but his dark leather jacket seemed to weigh a ton on his shoulders, and his duffel bag hung loosely from his right hand. His blonde hair was messy and slightly damp from the rain outside, and when the dim light of the hallway illuminated his face, your stomach dropped completely. He had deep, dark circles carved beneath those blue eyes that usually overflowed with confidence. He looked like a man who had just returned from hell itself. And you knew that was exactly where he had come from.

Seeing you standing there in the middle of the hallway, Leon stopped. He dropped the bag onto the floor with a dull thud and sighed—a raspy sound that came from the deepest part of his chest, heavy with a exhaustion that went far beyond the physical.

—You're still awake —he said, and his voice sounded more broken, rough, and cracked than usual.

—Someone has to be in this house —you replied, crossing your arms and keeping your voice as icy as you could, even though inside you were collapsing from pure relief—. I thought extraction was on Tuesday, Leon. Today is Thursday. Three whole days without a single sign of life. Do you have any idea what goes through my head every time the hours pass and the agency gives me no information?

Leon closed the door behind him and leaned against it, letting his head fall back against the wood. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, exhausted. He had just come from an infected nest in the middle of nowhere, his ribs bruised from the impact of a mutated creature, and the horror of having had to activate a purge protocol still fresh on his retinas. Unlike before, he didn't have to invent a lie about canceled flights or board meetings; he knew you understood the weight of the silence perfectly well.

—I'm sorry —he whispered, opening his eyes to look at you. There was a silent plea in his gaze, a vulnerability so dense it hurt—. The containment got complicated. The area was cut off, and we lost communications before the chopper arrived. I had no way to bypass the radio protocol, I swear.

—It always gets complicated, Leon! —you exploded, taking a step back, shaking your head as tears of frustration and pent-up terror welled in your eyes—. I'm sick of it. I'm sick of being the one left behind, waiting to see if my husband returns whole, infected, or in a body bag. I can't keep living with this knot in my throat every time you leave. I feel like I'm married to a man who already has one foot in the grave. If saving the world from biological destruction matters so much to you, maybe you should permanently move into the DSO barracks and stop giving me hope.

Your words, born from the sheer panic of losing him, sounded cruel in the silence of the early morning. You watched his jaw tighten noticeably and pain cross his blue eyes. Leon took a step toward you, reaching out a gloved-less hand, showing the rough, strong skin of his fingers, scarred from handling weapons.

—Don't say that. Please —he pleaded, his voice trembling with a note of genuine desperation. The indefatigable agent seemed to be on the verge of collapsing right in front of you—. I know the hell I put you through. I know that knowing the truth makes it a thousand times worse for you... but I swear on my life that the only thing that keeps me sane down there, the only thing that pushes me to keep shooting and stay alive, is knowing that you are here, in this apartment, waiting for me. You are my only reality, not the monsters.

—Well, your reality is costing you your mental health! —you snapped, turning around to head to the bedroom. You didn't want to soften so quickly. You didn't want the relief of seeing him alive to erase the trauma of having presumed him dead for the last seventy-two hours.

But Leon didn't let you escape. With two quick strides, he closed the distance. His large, warm hand caught your wrist with a desperate firmness, as if you were the only anchor keeping him from being swept away by the current of his own ghosts. He pulled you against his body and, before you could protest or strike his injured chest, his arms wrapped completely around you, trapping you against him in a suffocating embrace.

—Let me go, Leon —you growled, trying to break free, though your own body sabotaged your words by pressing closer to him—. Let me go. I'm angry with you. I am terrified with you.

—Just a second —he begged against your ear, and you felt his ragged breath hit your neck. The heat radiating from him was suffocating, mixed with the smell of leather from his jacket,

the night rain, and that subtle trace of gunpowder that always seemed burned into his skin—. Just let me feel that I made it. Let me feel that I'm home. I'm begging you.

His body trembled slightly against yours. It wasn't from the cold; it was the adrenaline crash, the post-traumatic stress of someone who had just dodged death once again. Noticing that shudder in his broad shoulders, your resistance broke completely. Your arms slowly slid up to rest on his back, clinging to him with the same force. You felt the heavy fabric of his jacket and pressed yourself against his chest, confirming with your own body that his heart was still beating, that he was alive and whole.

Leon hid his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply, filling his lungs with you. To him, you were cleanliness, purity, and peace in a world rotted by bioterrorism.

You spent several minutes like that, in the middle of the hallway, barely swaying in a silent embrace that consumed the anger and the fear.

—I haven't slept at all since Tuesday —Leon whispered, his voice muffled against your skin—. I only had your face in my mind. I had to come back.

—You're an idiot —you said, pulling back a little to look at his face. You caressed his cheek, feeling the several days' stubble—. You're wrecked, Leon. Let me see where you're hurt. I saw how you moved when you came in.

He offered a bitter smile—one of those half-smiles so characteristic of him—though his eyes remained fixed on yours with a consuming intensity.

—We'll worry about my ribs later —he replied in a low voice. His eyes immediately drifted down to your lips, and the atmosphere in the hallway shifted instantly. The pain and exhaustion gave way to a thick, burning electric current that ignited your own pulse—. Right now, I need something else to know I'm still alive.

Because you knew perfectly well what he faced, you understood that look. You knew that after witnessing horror, Leon developed an almost primal, hungry, and desperate need to touch human skin, to reclaim life through sex, to immerse himself in you until the images of the mission were erased. It was his way of purging the darkness.

Leon caught your face between his large hands. His palms were warm, a bit rough from training, and he forced you to look straight at him.

—I missed you to the point of going crazy —he said, and before you could say anything, his lips slammed against yours.

The kiss was desperate, hungry, devoid of any gentleness. Leon kissed you as if he were drowning and your lips were the only pure air left on the planet. His tongue forced its way in urgently, tasting you with a possessiveness that made you let out a weak whimper of pure need. He grabbed your waist tightly, lifting you slightly off the floor to press you completely against his body, making you feel the rigidity of his chest against yours.

The fear you had felt instantly transformed into a voracious, thick desire. Your hands moved up to his neck, tangling in his blonde hair, pulling him closer to deepen the kiss, responding with the same needy intensity. You knew how close he had come to not returning, and that thought made you want him with a savage force.

Without breaking the kiss, Leon began to walk backward, dragging you with him toward the master bedroom. His heavy boots echoed on the hardwood floor, a rhythmic sound that set the pace for your shared urgency. He tripped slightly on the corner of the dresser, but he didn't even flinch; his attention was entirely concentrated on your mouth, on your whimpers, on your hands that were now desperately trying to strip him of his leather jacket.

When you entered the bedroom, illuminated only by the silver moonlight filtering through the window, Leon gently pushed you onto the bed. The mattress sank under your combined weight as he quickly positioned himself between your legs, trapping you with his towering frame.

He broke away for a second to pull off his jacket, tossing it to the floor without even looking where it landed. Underneath, he wore a tight black thermal shirt that perfectly accentuated his broad shoulders and the muscles of his arms. As he turned back to you, you clearly saw the massive, dark bruise covering the side of his torso, the battle scar from his last mission. You tried to touch it with concern, but Leon quickly caught your hands, intertwining his fingers with yours and pinning them firmly to the pillows on either side of your head.

—Don't look at that right now —he whispered, his breath hitched, lowering his head to kiss your jaw, your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin right where it met your shoulder, making you arch your back with a shiver—. Look at me. Tell me you're mine. I need to hear it, you need to remind me after this week.

—I'm yours, Leon —you moaned, tilting your head to give him more access, feeling his hot lips mercilessly marking your skin—. I'm always yours, but be careful with your ribs…

—Fuck the ribs —he growled, and that hint of military roughness turned you on completely.

Those words seemed to break the last vestige of control he had left. He released your hands only to slide his underneath your shirt, yanking it over your head and tossing it somewhere.

His hot palms came into direct contact with the bare skin of your ribs and waist, squeezing with an urgency that ripped a loud gasp from you. His fingers dug into your hips, making it clear there would be no slow foreplay; he needed the impact of your body to erase the horror of the DSO.

Leon moved down your body, kissing your stomach, unbuttoning your pants with hands clumsy from haste, stripping you of them and your underwear until you were completely exposed beneath the moonlight. He quickly shed his own clothes, staying mostly in the shadows, not caring that you saw the old scars and the new combat marks. You knew the story behind each one; you knew the price his body paid for his work. You only wanted to see his eyes, and those blue eyes shone with an almost dangerous steadiness, heavy with absolute possessiveness.

He positioned himself between your thighs again, opening them gently but with a determination that admitted no argument. His hands returned to your hips, holding you firmly, lifting your body slightly toward him to align you perfectly.

—Look into my eyes —he ordered you in a raspy, low, authoritative voice—the same tone he used when a situation required absolute control. He took your chin with two fingers to ensure you didn't look away—. Don't close your eyes. I want you to see that I am alive. That I am here inside you, that we won again.

And then, he thrust inside you in a single, deep, firm, and overwhelming motion.

A muffled cry caught in your throat at the intensity of the penetration, but Leon caught it immediately, sealing his lips against yours as he began to move inside you. The rhythm was intense from the very first second—a heavy, needy, and possessive cadence that offered no respite. Each of his thrusts was an absolute reclamation, a way to purge the death he had seen and replace it with your warmth, with your life. Because you knew what he was doing, you understood that this force wasn't a lack of love, but an excess of desperation to cling to existence.

Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, wanting to pull him closer, eliminating any trace of distance or air between the two of you. You felt the sweat begin to glisten on his forehead, the friction of his chest against yours, and the sound of your ragged breathing filling the quiet room.

Leon didn't take his eyes off you for a single second. His blue gaze was an anchor keeping you both tethered to life as pleasure began to cloud your minds. His hands shifted, moving up to your neck, caressing your jawline with his thumbs, and then one of them moved down to entwine with yours against the mattress again, squeezing your fingers tightly each time he buried himself deeper inside you.

—You are my only sanctuary —you heard him whisper against your ear, his voice so low, rough, and dirty that it sent a shockwave down your spine—. Only you. It doesn't matter how many monsters I have to shoot out there... I always come back to you. You're the only clean thing I have left, the only thing worth coming back alive for from those piece-of-shit missions.

That dirty language, that raw confession he only showed between the sheets when the

weight of knowing the truth crushed you both, finally shattered all your emotional defenses. You forgot the anger from the hours of anguish, you forgot the nights staring at the phone waiting for a call from the agency, you forgot the resentment. In that moment, held by his strong arms and his desperation, nothing existed but the scorching heat of his body and the certainty that your husband was still alive and belonged to you.

The pace became even faster and more urgent. Leon gritted his teeth, ignoring the pain in his bruised ribs, the muscles in his shoulders and arms taut as piano wires as he accelerated his thrusts. You felt the climax just around the corner, a wave of internal heat threatening to make you lose consciousness. Your fingers dug tightly into the flesh of his back, accidentally scratching his skin, but he didn't seem to care in the slightest; on the contrary, he let out a low, almost animalistic growl and drove in even deeper, forcing you to arch your back completely under his weight.

Your body contracted violently around his in a shattering climax that left you completely breathless, floating in the dimness of the room. A second later, with a raspy, muffled groan that echoed loudly in your ear, Leon tensed completely over you, burying himself one last time to the hilt before releasing his full weight, finally surrendering to the orgasm he had been chasing ever since the mission went sideways.

He collapsed gently onto your chest, managing his weight so as not to hurt you, his breath wheezing and his heart beating a mile a minute against your ribs. Your bodies were drenched in sweat, joined in the middle of the unmade bed, surrounded by the peaceful silence of the night that he fought so hard to protect from the rest of the biological threats.

Several minutes passed where the only sound was the two of you trying to catch your breath. Leon didn't move from his position; he kept his head hidden in your neck, basking in the warmth, the residual spasms of your body, and the endorphin rush that finally managed to turn off the danger alarms in his military brain.

Slowly, he slid to one side, but he didn't allow you to move even an inch away. He stretched his long arm out to slide it under your head, pulling you into his side, forcing you to rest your cheek against his still damp, warm chest. With his other hand, he pulled the top sheet up to cover you both, shielding you from the early morning chill that was starting to seep through the window.

Your fingers, still trembling from the intensity of what had just happened, rested on his bare torso, right next to the bruise. You felt the steady, strong, and rhythmic beat of his heart beneath your palm. Your mind, now cooler and clearer, weighed the reality of your marriage once more.

—Leon —you said in a low voice, breaking the silence of the room.

—Mmm? —he replied with his eyes closed, running his hand through your hair with slow, soft, relaxed movements—the sweet Leon that only you knew.

—I know how important your work at the DSO is. I know you save lives and that you're the best agent they have... but the fact that I know what you're facing is killing me inside. Those seventy-two hours of radio silence... I really thought that this time you had turned into one of them or that they had left you in some abandoned lab. You can't do this to me again. The next time you leave, demand that they keep me informed, or I swear I'm going to show up at the agency headquarters and make a scene.

Leon stopped his hand in your hair for a second that felt eternal. He opened his eyes and stared at the dark ceiling, swallowing hard in silence. He knew perfectly well the psychological hell it was for you to know the truth; to know that monsters existed and that your husband fought them with his bare hands. But he looked at your tired face, your soft skin under the moonlight, and he knew he could never leave this job, but he could never leave you either. You were the only thing that reminded him why humanity was worth saving.

—You're right —he said, and this time his voice regained that soft edge, the tone of the man who loved you above any duty—. I'll talk to Hunnigan and my direct superiors. I'll demand an emergency channel or a direct notification protocol for you. If they want me to keep being their best piece on the board, they're going to have to take care of my wife. I promise you.

—Are you really going to do it? —you looked up at him, searching for his gaze in the dim light, wanting to make sure it wasn't just a promise to placate you after sex.

Leon leaned over you and gave you a short, tender kiss on the lips—an absolute contrast to the passionate violence of a few minutes prior.

—Really. I can't do my job right if I know you're at home dying of terror because of me. I need you whole, because you're the one who cleans the darkness out of my head when I come back.

You knew your life would never be entirely normal, that there would always be classified missions and biohazards lurking in the shadows, but in that moment, held by his strong arms, feeling the beat of his heart, and hearing his sincere promise, you decided to leave the fear behind for the night. You snuggled closer against his injured side, seeking his warmth, finally closing your eyes, carried away by exhaustion and the peace of having him back.

Leon stayed awake a little longer, watching over your sleep in the darkness of the room, making sure your breathing was calm and steady. For a few hours, the viruses, the labs, and the global conspiracies didn't matter. There was only you, his accomplice and his wife sleeping deeply in the only real and safe refuge he had left in the world.

[laugi0]

ᴅᴀʀʏʟ ᴅɪxᴏɴ ⋆ ᴘʀᴇ ᴀᴘᴏᴄᴀʟʏᴘsᴇ

summary: An ultra-conservative people of Georgia divided between the "decent people" and the Dixon brothers, who live marginalised in a dilapidated trailer. Merle is the older brother, violent and criminal; Daryl is the youngest, a lonely, taciturn and skilled guy with the crossbow who lives under the shadow of the poor family reputation.

This fanfiction is heavily inspired by the song «Lo Que Quiero Hacerte» by La Mafia del Amor (a prominent urban/reggaeton group from Spain).

────୨ৎ────

On the official maps of the state of Georgia, Oglethorpe was little more than an invisible dot, a speck of red dust surrounded by thousands of acres of young pine trees and back roads where cargo trucks sped past without a second glance. It was the typical Deep South town where everyone knew exactly what your faults were long before you even stepped out your front door. People's lives were divided into two unyielding factions, separated by an invisible but implacable line. On one side stood the decent folk: those who went to the Baptist church on Sunday mornings in crisply ironed shirts, kept their lawns immaculate, and ate dinner with the lights on at seven in the evening. On the other side, completely cast out to the fringes of local sanity, were the Dixon brothers.

The Dixons were a shameful birthmark on the county’s history. A pair of social outcasts who scraped by in a prefab trailer with walls eaten away by dampness, surrounded by a yard that looked like an illegal junkyard full of scrap metal, rusted engine parts, overgrown weeds, and empty cans of the cheapest beer sold at the local gas station. Merle was the violent drug dealer who went in and out of the municipal lockup as if walking into his own kitchen, and Daryl... Daryl was the taciturn younger brother, the guy who moved through town on a loud, battered motorcycle, hustling whatever came his way, hunting with a crossbow, and living in the shadow of a miserable reputation that he himself maintained through sheer silence.

You belonged, by birthright, to the first group. You were the pride of a respectable family, the girl who walked down the main sidewalk smelling of expensive shampoo, the one with a guaranteed future at a northern university far away from this suffocating hole. Your father was the man who pulled the town's strings, and his greatest achievement was keeping you safe, clean, and pure from any trace of local decay.

That was precisely why standing inside the abandoned mechanic shop the Dixons used at the end of county road 9, at two in the morning on a Tuesday, felt like digging your own grave with a smile on your lips. But curiosity was a slow poison, and you had been swallowing it for months every time you crossed paths with those sharp blue eyes at the supply store.

The air inside the shed was heavy, thick, almost unbearable. It reeked of burnt motor oil, kerosene, cold metal, and the dense smoke of the cigarette that Daryl Dixon kept permanently stuck to the left corner of his lip. The only illumination breaking the night's gloom was the flickering glow of a work lamp hooked to the open hood of a battered Ford truck. Daryl was leaning over the engine block, his arms completely smeared with black grease up to his elbows. The muscles of his broad back, hardened by rough labor, tensed beneath a filthy gray tank top that revealed—with every movement—the map of his past: the pale, rugged lines of a couple of old scars that crossed his left shoulder blade from top to bottom.

The silence between you stretched for several minutes, broken only by the clinking of tools and the buzzing of crickets outside. It was a physical tension, a rope right at its breaking point. Suddenly, Daryl dropped a wrench onto the solid wood workbench with too much force, causing a metallic crash that made you give a small flinch. He turned around slowly, dragging his boots, and wiped his calloused hands on a dish rag that looked absolutely revolting. His blue eyes, always hidden and elusive behind that greasy, unkempt fringe of hair, locked onto you with an intensity so direct it forced you to take a step back, hitting your spine against a rack full of old tires.

—What the fuck are you doing here again? —his voice sounded like gravel being dragged, a rough and hostile vibration, typical of a guy who didn't talk to anyone unless it was strictly necessary or to tell someone to fuck off—. I’ve told you a thousand times that the dirt road out here isn't safe for a good little girl like you at this hour. If your daddy smells the smoke from this place when you get back to your clean little bed, he's gonna bring holy hell down on me. And I ain't in the mood for more trouble.

—My father is asleep in his room, Daryl —you said, making a superhuman effort to keep your voice from trembling as you took a firm step into the circle of yellowish light projected by the lamp. The visual contrast between the two of you was ridiculous, almost obscene. Your flawless clothes, your soft skin, against the accumulated filth of his sanctuary—. And we both know perfectly well that you aren't afraid of my father. Or anyone else in this town.

Daryl let out a rough grunt, a cheap imitation of a laugh that split the corner of his lip right at the exact spot where a small, white, vertical scar divided his skin. He threw the cigarette butt onto the damaged concrete floor and crushed it ruthlessly with the toe of his worn leather boot.

—I ain't afraid of him, brat. I'm afraid of you —Daryl muttered, closing the distance between you with that heavy yet feline way of walking, like a wild animal measuring the strength of its prey—. You don't have a damn clue what you're getting into coming out here looking for me. You're looking to ruin your record, stain your family name—is that what you want? A little fling with the trash of road 9 just to feel rebellious?

He stopped mere inches away from you, forcing you to lift your chin. You could smell him with total clarity; it was a primitive scent, a suffocating mix of sweat, rolling tobacco, gasoline, cheap bar soap, and that rustic forest and damp earth smell that clung to his skin from spending whole afternoons hunting in the brush. He was delinquency personified, the real danger your well-to-do friends whispered about with a mix of panic and morbid fascination in the high school hallways.

—I'm gonna force you to commit a sin —Daryl whispered, tilting his head down, so close that his lips brushed your earlobe, sending a shiver through your entire body. The contrast of his rough, hot skin against yours cut off your breathing completely—. That way I get to feel like a saint for once in my miserable life. Let's just do it out of pure wickedness, since you came here looking for it.

His large hand, stained with black motor grease and rough-fingered from manual labor, suddenly clamped around your jaw. He didn't squeeze hard enough to cause real pain, but he held you with the implacable firmness of someone demanding you stay still and look him in the eye. There was no room for tenderness or cheesy foreplay in the touch of his fingers; there was only a restrained hunger, pent up for months, that made your stomach flip violently. You realized right then that you were never going to walk out of this abandoned shop as the same good, exemplary girl you used to be.

Daryl wasn't a guy who waited for permission to take what he wanted. In his world of back alleys, bar fights, and basic survival, you didn't ask nicely; you grabbed it tight before someone faster came along to take it right out of your hands. His grip slid up from your jaw to the back of your neck, burying his fingers into your clean hair without the slightest care, and he yanked you toward his body with a abruptness that forced a sharp gasp from your throat. His mouth slammed against yours with a savage hunger, a dirty, rough kiss that tasted of tobacco and pure, pent-up desperation. There was nothing choreographed, nothing subtle or delicate about the way he devoured your tongue, forcing your head back against the rack of old tires, which rattled loudly behind you from the impact.

You let out a muffled moan, feeling the freezing contrast of the metal against your bare back and the scorching, almost feverish heat of his body pressed hard against yours. His arms were tense, blocking any escape route, and his rough fingers slid beneath the hem of your shirt, seeking direct contact with your bare skin.

—Look at you... You're shaking like a leaf —Daryl growled against your lips, pulling back barely a few millimeters to catch his breath. His blue eyes were pitch black, his pupils dilated with desire, locked onto your panicked face—. You got a curiosity burning you up inside, don't you? You've been watching me for months in town, wanting to see what the Dixon trash does when nobody's looking. Wanting to see what it's like to get properly fucked.

—Daryl... please —your voice was a meaningless wisp of air, completely unable to articulate a coherent defense. Your heart was racing so fast you could feel the beats hammering against your ribs with painful force.

—You don't have a fucking clue what I wanna do to you right here —he whispered, a lopsided, almost cruel smirk stretching the white scar on his lower lip—. I ain't like those preppy boys you go out with on weekends, the ones who hold your hand at the movies and ask for permission to touch your shoulder. I need more. I always need more of everything.

With a single clean, sharp, upward hoist, Daryl lifted you right off the floor. The difference in physical strength was so massive it was ridiculous. He slammed you down onto the solid oak workbench, knocking away a couple of wrenches and several used oil cans with a violent sweep of his arm. They hit the concrete floor with a metallic crash that echoed in every corner of the shed. He forced your legs wide apart to wedge himself between them, cornering you against the splintered edge of the wood.

With hands clumsy and rushed by the urgency of the moment, he unbuckled his old leather belt and pushed his jeans down just enough to free himself. His blue eyes didn't waver from yours for a single millisecond, reading every tiny change in your expression, feeding on that exact blend of absolute panic and savage desire that completely dominated you. As his large hands gripped your thighs to push them even wider, you could clearly see the map of scars covering his arms: knife marks from old fights, deep cuts from shop tools, and old cigarette burns. It was a battered body, broken by life, but fucking powerful.

—If I tie you down to this table, what are you gonna do, huh? You gonna like it, or is it gonna scare you so bad you'll run straight home to your daddy? —he taunted in that raspy voice that chilled you to the bone, grabbing both of your wrists with just one of his calloused hands and pinning them above your head with an unrelenting firmness that completely immobilized you.

—Stop talking so much, Dixon. Just do it already —you snapped back, a surge of anger and adrenaline rising from your stomach, locking your eyes onto his without blinking.

Daryl muttered a loud curse under his breath, visibly pleased by your show of resistance. Without warning and without any kind of foreplay to soften the impact, he lined himself up with you and buried himself inside you in a single direct, brutal thrust, filling you completely. The impact knocked the wind right out of you instantly. Your head flew back, your eyes went wide with a perfect look of panic, and a sharp, muffled cry died in the back of your throat before it could even escape.

—That's it... look right at my face —he ordered, gritting his teeth, starting to move in a heavy, rough, completely wild rhythm that made the wooden table legs creak with every stroke. His sweaty chest rose and fell violently against yours, transferring the dirt and grease from his skin onto your spotless clothes—. You wanted a poor guy to fuck you illegally, didn't you? You wanted to know what danger feels like. Well, now you hold on tight and take every bit of it.

Sex with him was a crime in itself, a vandalism against the town's rules. Daryl dragged you into his dark territory with deep, rhythmic, and merciless thrusts that made you lose your sense of direction at times. You bit your own lower lip so hard you tasted the metallic tang of blood in your mouth, all to keep from screaming his name to the high heavens, while Daryl completely dominated you in the shadows of the shop, claiming your body as if it were the only clean and sacred thing he was ever going to touch in his entire miserable existence.

However, the perfect, suffocating bubble of the abandoned shop didn't take long to shatter into a million pieces, because in a place like Oglethorpe, shit always floated to the surface much faster than usual. It took barely a couple of weeks of secret encounters for the rumors to start spreading like wildfire across the diner tables and the gas station pumps. Someone swore they had seen your family car parked near county road 9 at odd hours; someone said they had seen Daryl Dixon staring at you too intently from the seat of his motorcycle while you walked out of the library. Your father, predictably, almost had a stroke from the shock.

The lecture waiting for you at home that evening was monumental: shouts that could be heard from the street, serious threats of packing your bags to send you off to a boarding school out of state, and a string of disgusting, derogatory words about "that white trash Dixon boy" that made your blood boil with pure anger. That was precisely why, when you snuck out again that same night, slipping past your bedroom window, and walked into Daryl’s prefab trailer—taking advantage of the fact that Merle was locked up in the county jail over a fight—the atmosphere surrounding the two of you wasn't one of romance or reunion. It was a fucking war zone.

—I told you to get the fuck out of my house right now! —Daryl yelled at you the second you crossed the front threshold. He was standing in the middle of the cluttered living room, barefoot, holding a half-finished can of warm beer, his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. Frustration and resentment seeped from every pore of his skin—. Are you a complete idiot or what the fuck is wrong with your head? Your old man was at the shop this morning threatening to call the sheriff in front of everybody. Says I'm dragging you into my shit, that I'm corrupting you.

—I don't give a damn about what my father says or what this whole stupid town thinks! —you yelled back at the top of your lungs, giving him a sharp shove right in the middle of his chest that barely moved him an inch. You were furious, out of your mind, with tears of pent-up rage burning your eyes—. Why do you have to agree with him? Why do you always act like you're less than them, like you're just trash?

—Because I am less than them, goddammit! —Daryl roared with all his might, slamming the beer can against the drywall, splashing the old, splintered wood floor—. Look at you and look at me. I don't have a dime to my name, I ain't got a future, and my brother is a fucking junkie that the whole town laughs at. You were just dying for a poor guy to fuck you so you could rebel against your perfect fucking family, wasn't that it? Well, you've had your dose of the gutter and delinquency. Now go back to your daddy's clean house and leave me the fuck alone once and for all.

The insult, the raw way he reduced what you shared to a rich girl's whim, hurt so deeply in the center of your chest that you reacted purely on instinct: you slapped him clean across the face, a sharp crack that echoed through the empty room.

Daryl stood completely still, his head tilted from the force of the blow, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons stood out, and his breathing so rapid that the map of scars on his back rose and fell violently under the dull light of the room. He locked a gaze onto you loaded with a fury so primitive, so animalistic, that your heart flipped completely. There were no more words; none were needed. He grabbed both of your wrists with a brute force that made it clear you had crossed the line, spun you around in a single movement, and shoved you hard against the battered mattress he had lying directly on his bedroom floor, sending the stale sheets flying.

—You wanna play like we're equals? You wanna play rough? Then let's fucking play for real —he growled, climbing over you before you had the slightest chance to react or try to twist away.

You fought him tooth and nail. You insulted him, called him a brute, an animal, and a savage as you tried to turn your body on the mattress, discharging in every movement all the helplessness, hatred, and frustration that class conflict had imposed on you since day one. But Daryl wasn't deterred in the slightest by your insults. He immobilized both of your arms above your head, pinning your wrists against the mattress fabric with just one of his hands, and with the other, he pulled your pants down without a shred of gentleness. He gave you a couple of firm, loud, and sharp slaps, directly against the bare skin of your buttocks; a few spanks loaded with anger that made you let out a sharp cry of pure surprise, humiliation, and frustration.

You were crying, yes, tears streaming down your cheeks and soaking the pillow, but neither of you was fooling the other: they weren't tears of physical pain. They were tears of pure adrenaline, of rage accumulated against the town's expectations, against your father's tyranny, and against that invisible wall of social status that separated you on the street but crumbled completely in here. And Daryl knew it perfectly well. He read the tension in your muscles, saw how your pelvis lifted seeking his contact despite your complaints, and knew that this rough, direct play was the only way either of you had to extinguish the fire burning you up inside.

—Cry all you want, insult me all you damn well please, but I know perfectly well you're liking this just as much as I am —he muttered directly into your ear, his voice broken, thick, and panting, before forcing your legs wide apart and sinking into you without warning, with an overwhelming force.

This time there was no room for a slow pace, nor for doubt, nor for any kind of gentleness. It was a savage thrusting, a mutual and desperate punishment you inflicted on each other against the old mattress. You clung to his broad shoulders with your nails, digging them deeply into the scars on his back, returning every hip stroke with the same violence and desperation with which he subdued you. You were destroying and saving each other's lives at the exact same time, using rough, unfiltered sex as the only true language where respectable last names, bank money, and Oglethorpe's social classes lost every bit of meaning.

The act left both of you completely exhausted, with sweat clinging to both bodies and the bedroom atmosphere plunged into a dense, almost sacred calm. You lay sideways on the old mattress, your breathing trying to return to normal, staring at the silhouette of Daryl’s back. He was sitting right on the edge of the bed, his back to you, his head low and his bare elbows resting on his knees. His long fingers traced the scars on his ribs in absolute silence. He fed on your soul, on your constant presence in this godforsaken hole, and you knew perfectly well that despite his facade of a sullen, dangerous delinquent, he loved you the only way a wounded, cornered animal knows how to love someone: with an absolute, blind, and dangerous loyalty.

The peace of the moment lasted exactly twenty minutes.

The screeching sound of tires suddenly sliding over the loose gravel in the yard outside put both of you on high alert in a second. The front door of the prefab house was kicked open with a single blow, and Merle Dixon stormed into the living room like a total whirlwind of violence. His face was completely twisted with panic, a large black canvas bag tucked under his right arm, and a fresh, bright bloodstain soaking the sleeve of his flannel shirt.

—Daryl, get the fucking motorcycle keys and move now! —Merle yelled from the living room, completely out of his mind, not giving a single shit that you were in there half-dressed—. Things went completely sideways with the guys from the next county during the handoff. They came armed to the teeth, dammit. We took the stash from them but they're right on our heels, and the state troopers are coming up behind them too. We gotta get the fuck out of here now if we don't wanna spend the next ten years in a cell.

Daryl bolted off the floor mattress as if triggered by a military spring, stepping through the discarded clothes and buttoning his jeans in a rush. Real panic—the kind he never showed anyone—reflected in his blue eyes again, but this time it wasn't about reputation or your father; it was about losing his freedom. He turned to you, grabbing you by the shoulders with a physical desperation you had never seen in him the whole time you'd been together.

—Get out of here right now. Go out the back window, cut through the woods, and run home before anyone gets here. Right now you don't exist here, you hear me? —he ordered you, his voice shaking for the first time in his life—. This ain't a little adventure to piss off your parents anymore. This is a real federal crime. If they catch you here, you're finished forever.

You looked Daryl in the eyes, fixed on his face marked by life's scars; you looked at Merle, who was tearing up the kitchen looking for ammo, and then you locked your gaze onto the large black canvas bag containing the stolen goods. Something clicked definitively and sharply inside your head. The established order, Sunday church services, university, your father's approval, and the respect of decent folk... that entire house of cards evaporated in a millisecond. If Daryl and Merle fled together on the bike down the county road with police cars patrolling, they'd be caught in less than five minutes. The bike was too easy a target.

—Daryl, give me your motorcycle keys right now —you said, with a coldness and a determination in your voice that surprised even you, standing up from the floor mattress and pulling your hair back into a quick ponytail.

—What the fuck are you saying? Have you lost your damn mind? —he roared, looking at you like you were speaking a foreign language.

—Merle, give me the fucking canvas bag right now —you ordered the older brother with a tone of authority that left him completely petrified in the middle of the living room, staring at you with his mouth open—. The state police and the guys from the other county are looking for a Ford truck and a loud motorcycle driven by a Dixon. Nobody in the entire state of Georgia is going to stop or search the trunk of the mayor's daughter's personal car at this hour of the night. I'm putting the stash in my car and taking it out of this county via the old dirt road, the one without checkpoints. Daryl, you're getting in the passenger seat with me right now. Merle, you go get lost on foot in the northern woods if you don't want to take the fall.

Daryl stared at you intensely for three seconds that felt like an eternity, processing your words, and deep within his blue eyes a spark of pure respect, awe, and a savage devotion ignited—something he had never felt for any human being before. You had accepted the sin completely. You were crossing the line into criminality holding his hand, destroying your perfect life just to keep him safe.

—You're a fucking psycho —Daryl muttered with a half-smile that stretched the scar on his lip. But he didn't waste time. He snatched the canvas bag from his brother with a hard yank, grabbed you firmly by the back of your neck with his large hand, and planted a quick, violent kiss—loaded with sweat and pure adrenaline—on your lips—. Let's go to the car. Moving now.

Ten minutes later, you were gripping the steering wheel of your family car, driving over ninety kilometers per hour down a pitch-black secondary dirt road, kicking up a thick cloud of red dust in your wake. The flashing blue lights of the state police cars patrolled in the distance, cutting against the highway horizon, searching for ghosts that were no longer there.

Beside you, sitting in the passenger seat, Oglethorpe's official criminal, Daryl Dixon, sat low in the fabric seat, his left hand resting firmly on your right thigh, squeezing your muscles with a constant force that transmitted all his heat, his silent gratitude, and his relief. His other hand held a lit cigarette butt that intermittently illuminated the scars on his face in the dimness of the vehicle.

You glanced at the rearview mirror, remembering what was hidden away in the trunk of your clean car. You were a criminal in the eyes of the law. You had helped conceal stolen goods from an armed gang. You had officially become his accomplice for life, his most faithful shadow, and at that precise moment you knew, with absolute and cold certainty, that no matter what happened from that night on with the town, with your family, or with your future, your life would never be the same again

[laugi0]

⋆sɪᴍᴏɴ ʀɪʟᴇʏ⋆

summary: You're Johnny's little sister, also known as Soap Mactavish, and you've just happened to be sleeping with his best friend, Simon "Ghost" Riley.

wc: 1.8k

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The sound of rain pounding against the apartment windows was completely eclipsed by the heavy, erratic rhythm of our breathing. In the dimness of the room, broken only by the orange glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds, the outside world ceased to exist. There were no missions, no casualty reports to fill out, no hierarchies to respect. There was only the heat of skin, the rough rub of sheets, and Simon's crushing weight on top of you.

Your hands were buried in his short, blond hair, tugging at the strands every time he thrust with that force that stole your breath. He held you by the hips; his calloused fingers sinking into your soft skin, marking the rhythm with an obsessive precision.

Simon was an imposing mass of muscle and war scars. Every time he moved, you could feel under your palms the rough map of his past: the long lines of old sutures on his shoulders, the circular burn marks near his ribs, and the deep gashes on his back that spoke of battles you would never fully understand. But you didn't care about the scars. On the contrary, you traced the edges of each one with your fingertips, a gesture that drove him crazy, completely disarming the fearsome Lieutenant "Ghost" of Task Force 141.

—Look at me —he growled in that deep voice, rough from tobacco and exertion, that always made the hair on your neck stand up.

You opened your eyes and met Simon's icy gaze just inches from your face. He wasn't wearing the mask. In the privacy of his safehouse flat, far from the barracks and the curious looks on base, he shed the monster. He allowed himself to simply be a man. A man who, at that moment, looked at you as if you were the only real thing he had left in the world.

—Simon... —you whispered, your voice breaking into a stifled moan when he changed the angle, finding that exact spot that made you arch your back against the mattress.

He let out a low growl, a deep vibration you felt against your own chest as he leaned in to kiss you. His kisses were like everything about him: hungry, dominant, devoid of any unnecessary tenderness, but with a millimeter-thin restraint that showed how aware he was of his own strength. Simon knew you weren't a recruit. You weren't made of Kevlar, you didn't train daily to withstand impacts, and you didn't know how to take a punch. You were soft, you smelled of fruity perfume, nothing like the gunpowder on base, and that civilian fragility was precisely what made him addicted to you.

The heat became almost unbearable. Simon quickened the pace, his broad, tattooed shoulders tensing to the limit. You wrapped your legs around his waist, sinking deeper into the mattress and surrendering to the sway of your sweaty bodies.

You both knew perfectly well what you were doing. And also the trouble you'd be in if anyone found out. Simon knew exactly who you were: Johnny "Soap" MacTavish's little sister. His sergeant. The man who had his back in the mud, the one he himself had to order into dangerous situations. And you knew exactly who the giant was who took you against his bed three times a week. You weren't some stranger from a bar; you were the sister of his most loyal subordinate, and he, as her Lieutenant, was breaking every rule imaginable by having you in his bed while Johnny probably thought you were safe in your city flat, far from the military world.

With one last deep thrust and a rough groan muffled against the hollow of your neck, Simon tensed completely, spilling inside you with an abruptness that dragged you straight to the edge. You clung to his shoulders, digging your nails into the weathered skin of his back as the climax shook you in waves, forcing you to bite your lower lip to keep from screaming his name too loud.

Silence returned to the room, broken only by the constant patter of the storm outside and the rhythmic sound of your breathing trying to return to normal.

Simon collapsed next to you with a heavy sigh, resting a burly arm over his eyes to block the faint streetlight. His chest, covered in light hair and crossed by a striking faded scar from collarbone to abdomen, rose and fell slowly. Sweat made his skin gleam in the half-darkness.

You turned over. You rested your cheek on the damp pillow and took a few minutes to watch him unhurriedly. Despite the chaos of his very existence, being like this with him gave you a strange peace. You reached out your hand and, with lazy slowness, began to trace the large scar on his side with your index finger. Simon didn't even flinch; he was used to your curious touches, to that way you had of claiming the broken parts of his body without judging them.

—You're going to wear out my skin —he said. His voice still sounded thick, rough from the recent orgasm.

—I seriously doubt anything can wear you out, Lieutenant —you retorted with a slight smile, stopping your finger just above a smaller mark near his ribs—. I didn't see this one clearly last time. What was it from?

Simon lowered his arm and looked at you out of the corner of his eye. There was a faint spark of amusement in his gray gaze.

—Shrapnel in Al Mazrah. Nothing special. Your brother has a similar one on his leg, hasn't he shown you?

You shook your head, pulling the sheet up over your chest.

—Johnny only shows me the scars he's proud of after a good mission. The ones that really hurt, he keeps to himself. Just like you do.

—He's a good soldier —Simon stated, and his tone was full of sincere honesty. Despite being his superior, the respect and affection he had for MacTavish as a comrade was undeniable—. Speaking of the sergeant... he stopped me this afternoon as I was leaving the offices. He wanted to know if I felt like going for a drink this weekend at a pub downtown. He asked if I knew anything about you, because according to him, you hadn't picked up your phone since noon. He's protective of you.

You made a guilty face and reached toward the nightstand for your bag.

—I had my phone on silent. I didn't want him interrupting me while I was coming here. So what did you tell your sergeant? Did you give him an order to change the subject?

Simon let out a low snort, a stifled laugh that vibrated through the mattress. He sat up a little, resting his back against the wooden headboard, revealing the full extent of his tattooed and scarred torso.

—I told him I had no idea where you were. That you were probably busy with your city things. I wasn't going to raise suspicions.

—I have my own job —you protested, sitting up next to him and letting the sheet fall to your waist—. Although I admit that if he knew I was here, in his superior's bed, he wouldn't know how to react. It breaks all his schemas.

—He wouldn't take it well, that's for sure —Simon clarified, reaching one of his huge hands for the pack of cigarettes and the metal lighter—. He'd probably feel caught between a rock and a hard place, torn between his military loyalty and his role as a brother. Better to save him that headache.

You watched his fingers, dexterous despite their size, pull out two cigarettes. He offered you one, placing it gently between your lips, then put his own in his mouth. The click of the lighter illuminated his face for a brief second, highlighting the hard lines of his jaw and the small marks near the corner of his mouth. He brought the flame toward you, waiting for you to take the first drag before lighting his.

A small orange ember came to life in the darkness. You exhaled the smoke slowly toward the ceiling, feeling how the bitter taste of tobacco finally relaxed your muscles after the intensity of the sex. Simon mimicked the gesture, resting the arm not holding the cigarette on your shoulders, drawing you firmly against his side.

You leaned against his chest, feeling the constant beat of his heart under your cheek. The smell of tobacco mixed with sweat and his own cologne was the definitive aroma of that apartment. Your refuge.

—Don't you feel a little guilty? —you asked, watching their smoke mingle in the air—. You're supposed to keep a professional distance from everything involving your men.

—Guilty? For fucking my sergeant's sister? —Simon took another long drag—. You're not under my command. And in here, there is no base.

—How pragmatic you are, Riley —you quipped, giving him a light elbow to the ribs.

—I'm a soldier. Don't ask me for sentimental speeches —he said, but his grip on your shoulder tightened slightly—. As long as we keep this separate from the base, no one gets hurt. Johnny stays focused on his job, which is what I need from him, and we have our space.

—Fair enough —you admitted, tapping the ash into the glass ashtray—. Johnny takes his position very seriously. He respects you a lot as a leader.

Simon was silent for a moment, staring at the ember of his cigarette

—He's one of the best men I have —he said quietly—. That's exactly why this has to stay here, between these walls.

They stayed quiet for a while, enjoying each other's company and the comforting sound of the storm outside. For you, all of this was a game of contrasts. Simon was the man from the classified reports, the shadow that commanded respect in any corner of the world. But there, sharing a cigarette in the half-darkness of a rumpled bed, he was simply the man who touched you as if you were valuable and who cared, in his rough way, that you didn't get cold.

—I have to be at the hangar at five tomorrow morning —Simon commented, stubbing out his cigarette—. Check the unit's gear before target practice.

—Don't destroy them completely tomorrow —you said, handing him your cigarette to put out.

Simon put the ashtray away and turned completely toward you, trapping you again in his arms. His light eyes shone with renewed intensity in the darkness, and one of his hands moved down your side.

—On the field, I'm Lieutenant Ghost —he whispered, bringing his lips to yours—. But in here, the rules stay outside. Just a little longer.

You didn't answer with words. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down to resume that shared secret you both loved so much, knowing that as long as the night lasted, the army and the rest of the world could wait.