I think I mentioned at some point that quinn is basically the only person with it/its privileges for alex bc it/its is reserved for Very Special Friends, so quinn uses it pronouns for alex while nat uses he/him
I have established that epilogue nat also uses it/its for alex so that's nice c:
At first, not going to lie, Jett didn't really see cheerleading as a sport.
No hate on you, of course!! She's just spent 15-20 years playing a really demanding sport, and she has a hard time comprehending "dancing around" (in her words) as being a sport. She also wouldn't call any sort of dance a sport, either, and she'd be on the fence about gymnastics.
It's only once you join the Thorns cheerleaders that she really starts paying attention.
It helps that you're... rather pretty in uniform.
You've had a crush on Jett since you first saw her on your television screen performing a slamdunk. It's been your dream to cheer for the Thorns, and now here you are!!
Jett thinks it's absolutely adorable how nervous you are meeting the team. Like, she can't stop smiling as you stumble over your words speaking to them all.
Now, during halftimes, her eyes are glued to you. Is she purring? No. No... Okay, maybe a little.
She watches you shout and jump and do all these flips and moves that she's not sure she could attempt even on a good day. Her back hurts just watching you.
Okay, she really needs to start doing research on cheerleading.
She wants to talk to you so bad, but she's also terrified. She hasn't been in any relationship at all since she took up roarball.
She's worried that the idea of being in the spotlight constantly will scare you off. Plus, she's not even sure if you like girls like that.
She was ready to just wallow in her feelings and keep it to herself until Will noticed how much she stared at you. From there, he talked with the rest of the team, and they were more than ready to be her wingmen/women/whatever Modo identifies as. (Honestly, they all thought her getting a girlfriend would finally make her chill out for once.)
Dennis was even getting in on it - he started drafting more plays that showed Jett off and was pushing her closer to the edge of the court, more specifically closer to where you always sat off to the side when you weren't cheering.
The whole team started talking up Jett to you, not that she needed talking up in the first place.
You had to be the one to approach Jett, eventually. She was totally cool and not at all freaked out the whole time talking to you. It was like a reverse of when you first met - you cool and collected, her stumbling over her words.
You asked her out on a first date to Whiskers (Will's idea), somewhere comfortable and in town without being too private.
The media circus takes notice immediately, but Jett is already too proud of you to back down.
"Yeah, I went on a date. With a girl. Our cheerleader. What of it?"
If you ask nicely, I'm sure she'll gift you her hoodie to wear before and after halftime shows. It smells like her.
She's really bad at this whole dating thing due to inexperience, but for you? She's trying really hard to be better, she wants to be better.
Just don't laugh at her too much for being an old lady when it comes to romance, okay?
Yes, she purrs in her sleep while you guys are cuddling. No, you're not allowed to bring it up.
Doesn't use a lot of petnames, but will occasionally call you "babe"/"baby". She'll blush at any petname you give her, though.
Brings you up often during interviews. You may be her cheerleader, but she's always going to be your biggest supporter.
Authors note: I wrote this on my phone on a plane and I’m pretty sure I traumatised the man next to me who was defo reading this as I typed. Maybe I gave him some ideas idk 😝 anyway this may be shit cuz typing on your phone with acrylics is HARD but anyway hope you enjoy 🙈
The late afternoon sun threw long, golden bars across the courtyard, casting warm light over Daryl's hunched form beside his bike. His hands were slick with grease, black smudges working their way past his knuckles as he adjusted the chain, but his ears were trained on the familiar cadence of boots scraping over gravel.
He didn't even look up at first-just sat back slowly, wiping his palms on a rag, because he felt you before he saw you.
And then you appeared around the corner, squinting into the sun, your expression halfway between a scowl and a grimace.
Yeah. He'd missed you. Not that he'd say it out loud.
You stomped straight past the garden, past the communal tables, past Carol and her grilling station and the goat tied to the post, and collapsed onto his bike like it was a throne. It creaked under your weight, and you let out a long, theatrical groan, dragging a hand down your face.
"Don't even talk to me," you muttered.
Daryl blinked, still crouched. "Didn't say nothin'" You jabbed a finger at him without opening your eyes. "You were gonna."
He rocked back on his heels, watching as you flopped dramatically over the tank, face mashed sideways against the cool metal. "Rough patrol?"
"Rough life," you grumbled, your voice muffled by the bike. "Everything sucks. I'm tired, I stink, I have blood in places there shouldn't be blood, and Karen is off banging Tyreese, so I said l'd cover for her, because I'm stupid and nice and I hate myself."
Daryl bit down a smirk. "Sounds like you had a good day."
You sat up sharply, one hand stabbing through your hair. "And Derek-oh my god, Derek-his dumbass muffler is hanging off by a literal shoelace, and he asked me if I could take a look cause he's too scared to ask you, and then Maggie cornered me about tomorrow's run, asking if i could get somethings for her, and I still haven't done my goddamn laundry, and I have worn these exact socks for four days straight. I smell like if a foot had a panic attack."
Daryl leaned back against the bench, looking up at you like you were some loud, angry creature who'd wandered into his line of sight. He liked it, though. Your fire. The way you vented to him without holding back.
You waved your arms now. "I've got nothing left.
No underwear. Just vibes. And a maxi pad that's hanging on for dear life. I swear to god, if I sneeze, it's over."
He snorted and stood, dusting his palms on his jeans. "Jeez, alright."
"Alright?" You raised a brow.
"I'll do it."
"Do what?"
He shrugged. "All of it. Derek's car, Karen's post, Maggie's list, your laundry. Whatever. Just write it down."
You stared at him like he'd just offered you a full spa day and a weekend off. "Are you serious?"You blinked, basically waiting for him to say nah never mind."I mean, I was just gonna throw it in with Rick's load. He said he was putting one on later anyway."
Daryl's whole expression twisted like you'd just confessed to something deeply upsetting. "What?"
You shrugged. "I didn't think it was a big-"
"Rick don't need to be eyeballin' your drawers, alright? Jesus." He rubbed his hand down his face, probably and shook his head like it should have been obviously that he didn’t want some other dude to see your underwear.
You opened your mouth to argue-halfheartedly, maybe to tease him-but decided against it. Your body sagged in visible relief, like the tension in your spine finally gave up.
"Really?"
He nodded again. "Go get cleaned up. I'll take care of the rest."
You slid off the bike, still flushed and sticky from the heat, and started walking away. But then you stopped in your tracks, remembering something you forgot and turned back around towards him. He thought maybe you were gonna keep listing your complaints, but instead, you just curled your fingers around his collar and kissed him.
Not a big kiss. Not desperate.
Just soft, pressed lips and a shared exhale that tasted like sweat and dust and end-of-day warmth.
"Hi," you murmured against his lips.
His ears went red immediately. "Hi," he grunted back. The look on his face was ray of completiony smitten. You pecked him on the lips again before say:"You're such a sap."
"Shut up."
You smirked and tapped his chest before strutting off toward the house. He waited until the door shut behind you before looking down. Holy shit he could not stop smiling. He rubbed his stubble as if to try and rub off the smitten that he was riddled with but it was useless.
With a sigh he got up and went towards Karen’s post. Sure, he’s got it bad for you but that doesn’t mean he’s stopped being useful.
——-
He climbed the stairs two at a time, the afternoon heat clinging to his shoulders and the faint scent of bike oil still clinging to his hands. He'd done everything. Tightened Derek's belt pulley, told Eugene to stop sniffing around Rosita's absence, watered the garden, filled up the propane tank, even got an inventory list from Siddiq.
Everything... but your laundry.
He entered your shared room and there you were, curled in the center of the bed like a half-dead cat—his boxer briefs hanging loose on your hips, a ratty old bra you only wore on
"survival mode" days stretched across your chest, your hair still damp and plastered to your temple in soft curls. A hot water bottle rose and fell gently against your belly like it had become part of you.
You looked perfect there and he simply couldn’t resist walking over to you.
You didn't stir until he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss into your hair.
"Mmnghh," you grumbled, burrowing deeper into the blanket.
Daryl chuckled under his breath and grabbed the laundry basket near the door.
It was heavy with a vengeance
-your jeans, your sweatshirts, your underwear, your socks that had probably given up their will to live. He heaved it into his arms and started toward the stairs. To say this was a foreign experience for Daryl was an understatement. Usually he either never bothered with laundry or someone else would do it for him like you or carol. He didn’t ask you to you just did it. Just like he just makes sure your hot water bottle is always filled and that you have some painkillers (even though you refuse to take it because someone else could need it more).
"Hey," he called over his shoulder. "Where do we keep that... detergent stuff?"
"Top shelf," you replied without even opening your eyes. "Left of the emergency tampons, right of the oatmeal."
He squinted. "Oatmeal?"
“It’s Alexandria,” you muttered. "We store what we fear."
He snorted and padded back down the stairs, nudging the laundry room door open with his foot. The top shelf was exactly as promised: a chaotic shrine of cleaning products, feminine hygiene supplies, and an old canister labeled NOT SALT in angry black Sharpie.
He grabbed the detergent, unscrewed the cap, and promptly forgot everything you'd ever told him about sorting.
Did black go with color? Did period sweatpants count as darks? What the hell even were delicates?
With the confidence of a man who'd never once considered the tensile strength of bra underwire, he chucked everything in-lace panties, gym socks, old T-shirts, your favorite hoodie-and poured a generous waterfall of detergent in after them. No measuring cup. Just guessing.
Then he hit some buttons.
One beeped. Another lit up blue. He saw the word sanitize and thought that sounded promising.
"Hey!" you called from upstairs, a little louder now. "You sure you know what you're doing? I can come down if_"
"I'm a grown man!" he hollered back, smacking the
'Start' button with more conviction than knowledge. "I know how to do laundry!"
He did not.
Especially not when the machine clicked, whirred, and locked itself shut like a vault about to commit war crimes. It was thought that count thought right?
—————
The door creaked softly as Daryl pushed it open with his shoulder, carrying the still-warm laundry basket. He nudged it into the room with his boot and set it beside the dresser with a grunt, already pulling off his flannel as he turned.
You were exactly where he’d left you hours ago—curled up on your side in the middle of the bed, one arm draped over a hot water bottle, the other tucked under your cheek. His boxer briefs sat low on your hips, waistband slightly twisted, and your bra—God help it—looked like it was clinging to life by stubborn elastic and nostalgia. It had to be at least five years old. The only clean one left.
His chest did something sharp and soft all at once.
The sight of you—tousled, flushed from cramps and exhaustion, surrounded by pillows like a nesting creature—hit him square in the sternum. You looked miserable. And beautiful. And absolutely like his.
He crouched down beside the bed, pressing a warm kiss to your temple.
You stirred, eyes blinking open slowly.
“Hey,” he said, voice rough from the day. “You eat?”
“Wasn’t hungry,” you murmured, not moving a muscle. “I’m fine.”
“Yeah, well. I did your laundry.” He said it like an accomplishment.
You gave him a lazy look. “I’m very proud of you.”
Daryl exhaled a breath that might’ve been a laugh, but it came out more like a resigned huff. His hand moved to rest gently on your side, hovering just above the hot water bottle.
“You want somethin’? Painkillers? Soup?”
You shook your head. “Someone else’ll need it more. Just stay.”
He didn’t need to be told twice. He climbed in behind you, stretching out on his side and pulling you back gently into his chest. One arm curled around your chest, the other folded over the hot water bottle, pressing it snug against you.
Silence settled between you, not an uncomfortable one but peaceful. Then—soft as breath—he pressed a kiss to your shoulder. Just one. Barely a touch and you didn’t react.
Another followed, slower this time. Then another, tucked behind your ear, the kind that made your skin prickle.
You let out a soft noise, not quite a sigh, and shifted a little closer.
His lips found the curve of your neck. The dip behind your jaw. Fuck. Why did you have to be on your fucking period when your ridiculously hot boyfriend wants to bump uglies with you.
“Daryl…” you murmured, half-warning, half-weary.
“I know,” he said, mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Just wanna help.”
You tilted your head back slightly, letting him in.
“Ain’t scared of a little blood,” he whispered, like it was nothing. “Just wanna make ya feel better.”
You didn’t speak. Just exhaled—deep and shaky—and let your body sink into his.
His mouth moved down your neck again, a trail of heat and softness. His hand left the hot water bottle, sliding under the hem of the boxer briefs with aching slowness, fingertips brushing the curve of your hip, gently tugging them down midway to your thighs. He wasn’t in any rush. Just learning you again, re-mapping the places that made you melt.
He paused when he reached your ass, warm hand resting there like a question.
You answered by pressing back into him, nudging his chest with your shoulder.
His breath hitched.
When his hand moved higher, cupping your breast, you inhaled sharply from the slight aching pain in your breast, but he adjusted instantly. Less pressure. Just his thumb brushing in slow, lazy circles.
“This ok?” he asked quietly.
You swallowed. “Yeah.. just a little sensitive there.”
“This better?” He whispered in to your ear as he fondled your breast with touch lighter than a feather. The pad of his thumb brushed in small, reverent strokes until you were sighing under him, lips parted.
The ache began to shift. Soften.
You nodded against the pillow, breath catching. “Yeah.”
He shifted behind you, still spooned close, and tugged his shirt off with a quiet grunt. You felt the movement more than saw it—heat leaving his skin, muscles shifting as he folded the shirt one-handed and reached around to tuck it beneath your hip. Not a word spoken. Just quiet care.
With your—his—boxers shoved halfway down your legs, your ass was bare to the air and to him. And God, the sight of you like that—soft and flushed and waiting—nearly knocked the air out of his lungs.
He let his hand trail over you slowly, reverently, palm broad as it curved around your hip. His fingers found the swell of you and gently coaxed the skin apart, just enough to look. Just enough to see. And what he saw made him go still.
You were slick. Puffy and red from arousal and heat, blood already painting the inside of your thighs in thin, sticky streaks. The swollen, glistening part of you twitched under his touch, like you were straining toward him even in stillness. He swallowed hard—almost too hard. The blood pounded in his ears. His cock throbbed behind his jeans, still confined while you were laid bare like some fever-dream offering he hadn’t earned.
He very nearly came from the sight of you alone.
But he breathed through it, slow and thick, grounding himself against the frantic need clawing up his spine. When he finally moved, it was with painstaking care. He shoved his jeans down with one hand, just enough, fumbling a little, dragging the waistband low with a soft hiss between his teeth. His skin met yours—fever-warm, flushed, raw with want.
One arm slid under your head again, curling you tight to his chest, while the other found your bare hip, steadying you. Then he reached down and aligned himself—his knuckles brushing your thigh, his cock nudging against the blood-slick heat of you.
You made a sound then, soft and helpless, and clutched the sheets tighter beneath your fingers. The heat of his chest behind you anchored you in place.
“You okay?” he rasped, voice breaking as his mouth brushed your hairline.
You turned your head just enough for your nose to brush his jaw. Your eyes fluttered. “Mhmm.” It came out weak. Boneless. But full of trust.
And that was all he needed.
He pressed in slowly, inch by inch, the stretch so gradual it felt endless. His cock eased through the mess—slick from blood—until he was seated fully inside you, hips flush to your ass, chest pressed tight to your back.
Your breath hitched. He kissed your neck.
And then he moved. Barely. Just a roll of his hips, gentle and deep, like the steady ebb of a tide pulling you toward him. One arm circled your waist and locked you against him, the other splayed over your lower belly, warm and unmoving, holding the pressure there like a balm.
You couldn’t move with him holding you like that—not that you wanted to. You were cradled completely, surrounded by heat and skin and muscle, your body shaking with every slow thrust that pushed you further into the sheets. This was home. The curve of his hand on your stomach. The heat of his breath on your neck. The way he whispered things into your skin that weren’t quite words.
Everything about his touch was slow. Grounded. Purposeful. Each movement was measured, coaxing instead of claiming, like he wasn’t just trying to fuck you—he was trying to put you back together.
Your bodies rocked together in a rhythm that belonged to no one else. Every slow glide of his cock dragged against places that ached with tenderness, with craving. The cramps you’d been drowning in all day were fading now—swallowed under the warmth building low in your belly, in the soft clench of your muscles around him.
The wet sounds between you were obscene—messy and constant, every stroke echoing off your slick walls, made worse by the blood that had smeared between your thighs and now soaked into Daryl’s shirt beneath you. You could feel it dripping slowly down the side of your ass, warm and unbothered, painting both of you in a truth that didn’t disgust him, didn’t slow him. He never flinched. Just kept you close, kept moving, soft groans slipping from his throat every time you clenched tighter. If anything, it turned him on more.
He didn’t let up. Didn’t falter. Every thrust was slow and deep, every exhale catching at the end like he was barely holding himself back. His arm squeezed tighter around your waist. He kissed the place behind your ear. You felt the shiver run through him, through you, through everything.
“Daryl…” you breathed into the pillow, your voice thinned with tension, pleasure crawling up your spine in slow, tightening coils. You were already hovering—your body flushed, hypersensitive, every inch of you alive with the stretch of him, the weight of him behind you, the unbearable goodness of how slowly he moved inside you.
“You close, baby?” he murmured, lips grazing your temple. His voice was tight, breath hitching like he was holding something back.
“Right there,” you whispered. “Right there…”
You weren’t thinking when you said it.
“Deeper.”
His whole body stilled—just for a second. And then something shifted.
He didn’t speed up. He didn’t lose rhythm.
But God, he sank deeper.
His hips rolled forward with a deliberate press, burying himself in you inch by inch until he bottomed out, staying there for a heartbeat like he needed to feel every shiver of you wrapped around him. The arm around your waist tightened, anchoring you back into his chest, and he let out a groan that sounded like it had been waiting all night to escape.
“Yeah,” he rasped, voice frayed. “This what you want?”
You couldn’t speak—you just moaned into the pillow, a long, trembling sound, your body going slack in his arms. It was almost too much—being so full, so stretched, the slick glide of him now drowned in the mess between you. His cock moved slow and heavy inside you, dragging over every nerve ending, grinding so deep you saw sparks behind your eyes.
It wasn’t rough. It was intimate—filthy only because of how much there was to feel.
But he didn’t stop. He just held you tighter. So tight that your bodies were like one, wrapped in his arms, there was no space between your bodies. He kissed the nape of your neck; whispered things you couldn’t hear properly, not over the sound of your own heartbeat crashing in your ears.
Your body tensed when you came, thighs trembling as your orgasm rippled through you like fire spreading across dry leaves. Crying out into the pillow, your cunt clenched around him so tight it knocked the air from your lungs—and from his. He let out a low, desperate groan, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he followed, cock twitching deep inside you.
He came with a low, drawn-out moan, hips barely moving now, just rocking into you in soft, greedy rolls. His come flooded you in long, hot pulses, mixing with everything else already dripping down your thighs.
Still, he stayed buried inside you. Still moving. Still holding you like he never wanted to let go.
And you—soaked, aching, trembling—just curled tighter into his arms, breath catching in your throat as your body finally began to go still.
“Ya feel any better?” Daryl murmured against your cheek, his voice low and husky, lips brushing your skin like he didn’t want to break the spell. He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, slow and lingering, like he was letting himself savor it.
You nodded, lips parted, still catching your breath, your body heavy and molten in his arms. “You even gotta ask?” you croaked, your voice rough and raspy with exhaustion and satisfaction.
He chuckled against your skin—one of those rare, quiet laughs that vibrated low in his chest and made your belly flip. He kissed your cheek again, softer this time, the scratch of his stubble grazing your flushed skin as he nuzzled in like he couldn’t get close enough.
The room exhaled around you. The hum of the fan, the creak of the old mattress beneath your tangled limbs, the faint rustle of leaves brushing the window—everything slowed, stilled.
Neither of you spoke for a long while.
His hand was sprawled across your stomach, warm and firm, fingers absently tracing slow, lazy circles over your skin like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it. Your legs were a tangled mess beneath the sheets, your thigh slung over his, one of your feet tucked under his calf for warmth. The air smelled like sweat and sex and detergent. It smelled like you two.
You broke the silence first, your voice small and thick with sleep. “Thank you.”
He didn’t move. Just gave a quiet huff against your ear, teeth grazing the lobe as he nibbled on it with deliberate laziness. “Whatcha thankin’ me for?” he muttered, more amused than curious.
You sighed, the sound melting into a smile as you sank deeper into him. “Just… today,” you mumbled, your words almost slurred from how soft and warm you were.
“For helpin’ me with everything,” you mumbled, voice thick with sleep and leftover breathlessness. “With Karen’s post. With Derek’s piece-of-shit car. Maggie’s endless damn shopping list. My laundry and—uh…”
Your stomach flipped, and not from nerves. Just the memory—hot, sticky, vivid—of the things he’d just done to you, and what exactly had happened on that now thoroughly ruined duvet. You trailed off, blinking at the ceiling, your brain momentarily short-circuited by the phantom echo of his grip, his pathetic groans, the way he’d filled you so completely—
He chuckled low against your neck, a lazy, sinful sound, like he knew exactly what image had just hijacked your thoughts and stolen the words clean from your mouth.
You rolled your eyes, smiling in spite of yourself.
“—And everything else,” you muttered, cheeks warm, eyes still shut as your grin spread. “So… thanks.”
His arms tightened around you, drawing you in until there wasn’t an inch of space left between your bodies. You could feel the way his chest rose and fell against your back, the way his chin tucked over your shoulder, the way his palm splayed across your stomach like he was trying to keep something in—like he was holding it there on purpose.
“Any time,” he said, voice quiet but undeniably smug.
You didn’t need to see him to know he was grinning like a bastard. You could feel it in the curl of his fingers on your belly, in the warmth radiating off his skin, in the way his leg shifted just enough to trap you there, locked in place under the weight of him.
Neither of you moved to clean up. Not even a little.
The sheets were a disaster—sticky, rumpled, probably ruined—but you didn’t give a damn. Getting up now would’ve felt like ripping the covers off someone who just got comfortable for the first time in hours. Maybe days.
And Daryl was too warm. Too firm. Too solid and there to even think about letting go.
Wrapped up in him like that, in the heat and the stillness, in the smell of sweat and his shampoo and that faded aftershave he swore he didn’t wear—you didn’t feel like moving. You barely felt like breathing.
The mess could wait. Hell, it could dry there for all you cared. That was tomorrow’s problem.
————
Tomorrow came.
And you were barely conscious when the knock hit the door.
"Ten minutes!" Michonne's voice rang clear from the hallway. "Get up or I'm leaving without you!"
Your voice was croaky from sleep. "If someone doesn't kill me by the end of the day, I'm gonna."
Daryl snorted through his nose and got off you, using a shirt to clean himself which quite honestly looked straight out a horror movie but he didn’t bat an eye. He sat up, scratching his ribs and yawning like he didn't just look stupid hot doing the bare minimum. "S'posed to be your favourite route," he mumbled, standing up and tucking himself in while walking to the dresser. "You know that stretch better than anybody."
“Could’ve drawn y’all a map…. Ugh whatever" you muttered, rolling to your feet and stumbling toward the bathroom.
By the time you finished brushing your teeth, Daryl was already dressed and waiting for you downstairs.
"Damn miracle you didn't shrink your own shit," you teased, rifling through the basket for your usual patrol shirt.
But the second your fingers closed around the cotton, your stomach dropped.
It felt wrong. Tighter. Like a sock that had been boiled alive.
"Mm. Okay." You frowned, tugging it out and inspecting it. "Maybe it just feels smaller."
It didn't just feel smaller.
You wriggled into it anyway— mostly because you were short on time, and bras were non-negotiable with the way your boobs felt like two bags of wet sand—and the shirt clung like paint. You had to yank it down just to stop it from riding up your ribs. It hugged your shoulders, pulled across your chest, squished your boobs together like a stripper and absolutely refused to be kind to your underarms.
Your pants were worse.
You had to hop, wriggle, and physically stuff yourself into them like pastry dough. They fought you the whole way up
-scraping your thighs, pinching your hips—and by the time they buttoned-barely-you were flushed, sweaty, and on the verge of losing your entire will to live.
"Oh,fuck no."
You stomping out into the hallway , arms stiff at your sides. "Daryl!"
He bolted up the stairs, as if you were in danger or something. Yeah in danger of losing my shit.
When he got to the hallway and saw you the reaction was instant.
Like lightning to the base of his skull. His eyes went wide and took a step back as if you were a fire hazard . “…Shit.”
“Shit is right,” you snapped, tugging your shirt down. “What the fuck did you do to my clothes? Did you boil them? Did you sacrifice them to a demon? I look like a glazed ham.”
He tried to meet your eyeliner but eyes eyes were stuck to your body and how you looked in those tiny pieces of fabric. “I—uh—I just washed ’em. Like clothes. With the soap and the—uh. You know. Laundry stuff.”
You jabbed a finger at him. “I told you not to touch the delicates! There’s a whole basket just for—oh my God, is this a wedgie or a medical emergency?”
You twisted, trying to unstick the pants from your ass. Every part of you squeaked with friction. It felt like denim shrink-wrapped around your soul.
And the worst part was Daryl - just standing there, staring, like he’d never seen woman in his life.
Fuck, you thought. He’s got his sex face on.
“Don’t,” you warned. “Not one word from you.
He took another step back, hand raised in surrender, but the smirk on his face betrayed him. “Ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Just—y’know. That shirt’s workin’ real hard, is all.”
“You ruined my entire wardrobe!” you screamed. “Look at me! I mean I can’t go out like this!”
Daryl dear-in-headlights Dixon, ever the poet, only grunted in response and you swore he had a bit of drool on him. Well that and the tent he was pitching in his jeans.
You sighed, defeated, dragging your jacket from the hook. “You’re doing my laundry forever now.”
"Yes, ma'am." His voice was low, quiet as if he hadn’t meant to speak.
"I swear to God," you added, pulling your belt tight,"if i so much as bend over my pants are gonna rip.
Daryl was still staring. Eyes glued to your hips like a man possessed.
Before he could say something crass, you flipped him off, storming out the door-pants too tight, shirt too short, and a boyfriend absolutely no help at all. Well that is with laundry anyway.
Thinking about…. Chris is like 16 and Buck and Eddie get married in a friends to married way and they asked if Chris was okay with it and he said yeah because maybe some big Event had just happened and he was caught up in the relief and love of the moment but now it's been a few months and he's having some weird feelings about it that he's not sure he's allowed to have because he already gave his approval. It's just…. He didn't even know his dad liked men. Which is fine! It's whatever! Eddie just never told him about it. And Chris doesn't know if it's just men or just Buck or if he likes girls still too or what that means for his mom or even like. Ana or Marisol. Or Kim. Like what is his dad's problem. Is he going to fuck up and drive Buck away too? But…. He looks so happy. Chris isn't sure he's ever in his life seen Eddie this relaxed and happy and that feels weird too because… was he not enough? And Chris loves Buck, of course he does, but like. As a dad? Buck is suddenly his dad now? And like everyone was clear he doesn't have to call him dad or anything but like that's what all this means, right?
And then like… they're doing a geology unit in school and they learn about tsunamis and of course the LA tsunami is used as an example and Chris says he was on the pier and the teacher says…. Well you must have been pretty little when that happened, I'm sure you're misremembering where you were and Chris is like no Buck threw me in a prize booth. It smelled like popcorn. There was a bright purple teddy bear. And the teacher looks like shocked and disturbed and as they learn more about what happened exactly and the death toll and Chris remembers Buck was on blood thinners back then he's like. How in the fuck did we survive that.
So he’s just… thinking about buck a lot and how he fits into his life and the demonstrable extreme lengths he’d go to for Chris and he’s feeling even more guilty that he’s not just purely happy that they’re a real family on paper now and he's carrying around this gratitude and fear about this event that he lived through but maybe didn't understand the specifics of until now and then he overhears Buck and Eddie having an argument (Buck: just- will you fucking listen to me? How many times do I have to tell you that? God- don't roll your eyes at me-) and is like catastrophizing that it's over and all these mixed feelings were for nothing, and then some of his cool new high school friends have those electric bikes and one of them asks him if Chris wants to ride behind them on the seat and Chris is like. Fuck it. Yeah. But it takes more strength/coordination than he thought even just to be a passenger and he ends up falling off and breaking his arm and at first he's begging his friends not to call 911 and they're like uh dude we're absolutely calling 911 and Chris is like fine just- just don't say my name! And when they get to the hospital he asks them to call Buck and not Eddie (as soon as they got married they got everybody on everyone else's paperwork as much as they could) and the doctor dismisses that request initially but one of his friends who stuck around is like uh hey that's not cool if he's on the paperwork it should be fine right you should listen to him! And the doctor is like well fine I guess and Chris is grateful to the friend but also fucking angry and just. Embarrassed that he didn't get listened to and it's maybe because he's a teenager but probably because they saw a kid who speaks and moves differently and figured he couldn't make any choices for himself. So he's sitting there stewing and his arm fucking hurts and Dad is going to be so so mad at him and it's nice that his friend stuck around but he doesn't even know her that well and she's obviously getting kind of bored and this is the worst day ever and then Buck appears. Hisses air through his teeth. Oh bud, looks like you've had a rough one, huh.
And Chris nods and tries not to immediately start crying and Buck tells the friend he's got it from here and sits with him and asks what happened and like…. Chris has a moment of realizing that Buck knows he was the one who got called because Chris thinks of him as the… not-really dad. And Buck sees Chris having this realization and is like oh kid it's okay, Eddie is your dad first and is always going to be, it's okay that it's different with me, I'm just so glad to be a part of your family in any way I am. And anyway I'm the cool one he's gonna have a fit when he hears about this. And Chris laughs a little and then starts crying harder and Buck's like aw.. Chris, he's just going to be mad because he's worried… he loves you so much….
And they also kind of get into…. Buck got himself hurt a lot as a kid and some of it was intentional self harm but some of it really was just because he was a dumb kid having fun! He thinks that's important! Chris should also get to be a dumb kid who has fun! But says like…. “Any time you're going to do something that could maybe get you hurt I just want you to remember that I love you, and Eddie loves you, no matter what.”
And maybe they talk about the tsunami a little and Chris’ feelings in general about Buck and the marriage and Chris cries again (ugh) because he's realizing… he really does love Buck so so so much, he really is also his dad, a lot of the weird feelings were partly just fear that this was temporary or didn't mean as much to anyone else as it means to Chris, but of course this is forever of course Buck LOVES his kid!! Chris is his kid he loves him SO much!!!!
Enough to soft launch the injury over the phone while Chris gets the cast out on (hellooooo my beloved, my dearest one, love of my life, okay don't freak out there's just one broken bone and it isn't even broken that badly!) and to be a buffer as Eddie comes rocketing in half an hour later, and they all eventually head home together and Buck and Eddie have resolved whatever fight they had and they're both fussing over Chris and Chris and Eddie talk about Buck, and happiness (oh, mijo.. you can’t- happiness can’t come all from one person. You’ve never made me sad, it wasn’t your fault if I wasn’t- I just needed a partner, an adult, someone to, you know, romantically love and be loved by that i wasn’t forcing myself to choose because it felt like the right choice) and Eddie's sexuality and stuff and… I dunno, yeah, I just think Chris has a lot of big big feelings!! He's a teen! He’s got a whole life he’s living with his own thoughts and feelings and problems! He's been through so much!!!! This family all loves each other so much but they're all often kind of bad at explaining that to each other!! They'll get there eventually though!!
"So, I offer the job to Henrietta Wilson. Oh, of course, yes, your Aunt Hen. And she says no. And I get it but also like...c'mon. Alright, fine, then I tell your dad that the job is his, if he wants it. Because it's the 118! They're the controlled burn of the LAFD, not just anyone can lead that contained chaos, you know? No also. So, I'm scrambling. I'm trying. It's a delicate situation. Finally, I narrow it down to three people, and I'm like, "cool. let's get Chimney involved. He can help determine this for sure. All of the sudden, I'm invited to a fancy dinner with your dad. Okay fine, he wants the job, I'm glad we got there in the end. So, I leave the restaurant, thinking about how we could have saved ourselves months of time, but whatever. And guess what? Y E A H, your uncle Buck is there. Never a good sign. I swear that dude blinks his blonde eyelashes and it costs me thousands of dollars and patches of hair. Anyway, he's got Harry Grant with him. Yeah, Athena's kid. He wants back in after dropping out! Typical 118 stuff, and he's not even there yet. You can TELL he's Bobby Nash's stepson. They're stalking me at my nice dinner! I swear I get no peace, but hey, I bet you'd know all about that, eh? When your dad told me that you were the best first responder therapist in the game, I thought he was making a joke, but you're actually pretty good. Oh? I'm running overtime and you have Hen waiting outside. Understood. Okay next session can we discuss about how I made one of my employees go to space to get us money and then she almost died? Nice, how much is the copay for this one? Two Gerber Banana Puffs? Sounds good, I'll leave it with your mom out front."
warnings: gender neutral!reader, angst author writes fluff, victor's strained relationship with his family and the holidays, not really a warning but ft. the earring!!, kissing, getting together, happy ending
word count: 1.7k | AO3 Mirror
a/n: happy holidays folks, thanks for all your support! I kinda hopped on the dispatch train a little late, but I'm very happy to be here. I've had a blast writing and talking with you all which I haven't done in like four fucking years, so please take this as a token of gratitude <33
summary: In which Victor receives a gift.
There’s a Christmas tree in the office.
Blazer insisted on it, saying it would ‘boost morale.’
So there it sits in the corner of the bullpen, looking desperately out of place under the dull drop ceilings and drab carpet.
Just some stupid plastic thing with lights that hurt to look at—none of the warmth in them of the holidays when he was a kid. Back when everything was coated in the haze of incandescent youth. Back before everything went to shit in his hands. Back when his family still talked to him.
So yeah.
Maybe the tree’s got Sonar feeling some kind of way, and maybe he thinks about kicking it over and stamping on those horrible blue lights that let out such a fucking annoying whining noise no one else can hear.
But the rest of the team seem to like it, they all get stupid, shitty gifts for each other and wrap them terribly underneath it. Except the one for Robert. Even Sonar was down to chip in for the personalized coffee mug with a team selfie custom printed on the side for their favorite (read: only) dispatcher. That one is wrapped neatly—by you he’s sure—and set aside for opening at the office holiday party tonight. Everyone else has gone home to get ready before heading back in to christen the conference room with their first official Z-Team holiday gathering.
He’s thinking about skipping. Taking a page out of Punch’s book and just Irish goodbye-ing his ass home early. Mal will ask questions, but she’ll back off if he mopes enough about it. And probably everyone else will be drunk enough not to notice he’s gone. Cooped up at his place, where there's no tree and no electric whine of harsh lights cause they’re more fucking eco concious or whatever and no one to ask why he’s being such a fucking bummer—
“Hey.”
Sonar jumps about ten feet in the air and whips around. He thought the office was empty this late at night. Even Robert had packed up and headed out. But you snuck up on him somehow, lost in thought enough to not hear your soft footfalls on the carpet. It’s dim, nothing but the shitty multicolored lights that cast a purple glow across the vacant room. You manage to look nice though, even under the LEDs.
Maybe he should tell you that.
“Fuck, jesus what are you still doing here?” he asks ears stuck straight up and honed in on you against his will.
“Sorry, had some paperwork to catch up on. I thought you heard me,” you’re laughing a little, but he’ll let it go. It’s a pretty sound even with the undercurrent of electricity.
It feels smooth in his ears, like running his hands over cool wood. The sound of it has a corresponding flavor as they often do for him—whipped frosting, the artificial sugar of a snack cake, warm from hours shoved in a lunch box, shared on a bus ride home.
“No, I was, uh…” he gestures vaguely in the air around his head, tries to signal ‘contemplating my strained relationship with the holiday season now that I’m such a fucking dissapointment’ without actually sharing any of that.
You nod like that means anything to you and drift a little closer, eyeing the tree and the mess of tape underneath. It really looks like hell except for the knitted tree skirt, a special donation from Waterboy’s grandma.
“It’s pretty,” you say, waving at the tree.
“Oh yeah, really brightens up the office.”
God he’s so stupid.
“Well, I don’t think anything can really make this place look good necessarily,” you chuckle again and it’s all parquet floors—Little Debbie sweet on his tongue.
“Yeah no, we should just trash it.”
So. Fucking. Whipped.
Not that you know that. Or maybe you do and you’re just being nice by not reporting him for staring so much. You are nice. Especially to him. God knows why. On the eye roll at his own expense Sonar catches a glimpse of a box in your hand clutched tightly in a fist.
You notice him noticing and start to fidget a little on your feet. His ear flicks in your direction as the background sound of your heart kicks up in tempo.
“Oh, right, this is for you.” The tiny gift sits in the center of your outstretched palm, delicately wrapped in pretty, navy blue paper that sparkles with snowflakes. It’s the exact shade of Sonar’s blazer. “I thought it would be better—well cause we’re doing gag gifts, or just that you might want to open it before the party?”
It’s a little odd seeing you nervous. You’ve got him all worked up too, excited deep in the pit of his stomach. Something he hasn’t felt since he opened that acceptance letter with the big H monogrammed on the envelope. Sitting in his parents kitchen, thinking of what might be inside.
How it’ll change things forever.
Sonar reaches out a hand slowly and takes the box, ripping the paper at the seams and popping it open on the hinge.
“Holy shit, is that—?”
An earring sits in a jewelry box, shiny, real gold from the looks of it with an intricate engraving. It may have once been a ring, judging on the size. He imagines it will fit perfectly, rubbing an unconscious finger over the empty piercing by the tip of his ear. His old one fell out at some point on his first day in this goddamn office. He never bothered to find a new one.
“Yeah, Mal said you lost yours when I asked,” you murmur, rubbing at the back of your neck. “I found it in one of the vintage stores downtown and had it redone as an earring. Figured it’s kinda hard to find ones that would fit your ears.”
“Wow, thank you,” he offers lamely, admiring the box and ignoring the warm feeling in his belly at the idea of you asking about him. Walking your pretty self all over town to get something he’d want. Making sure it’s just right.
He didn’t even think to get you something, fuck—
“I don’t expect anything back, so don’t sweat it. I just wanted to do something nice,” you say it like you mean it and that’s the worst part somehow.
Four fucking years and a Harvard degree and he can’t even remember to get his office crush a gift on Christmas. Here you are, so fucking perfect and he’s losing it a little more every day. His mother hasn’t called him in over a year.
“It’s perfect,” he says instead and offers the box back to you, gestures towards his ear. “Could you?”
You’ve got this giddy little smile on your face—satisfied with yourself—rocking back and forth a bit when you nod. This close he can smell your perfume, hear the little intake of breath when he bends down so your faces are just inches apart. Gentle fingers skate against the sensitive skin inside his ear when you lean in on your toes to clip the little ring in place.
“It’s cute,” you say, eyes flicking down to his lips.
Holy shit, you’re definitely looking at his mouth. Gaze going up to his and back down again and he can’t be misreading that right? God, he should lean in. He’s done this like a million times, but there’s no smooth pick up lines coming to mind and he can’t fucking figure out what to do with his hands. Why is this so hard now?
Now, when it actually matters.
But his thoughts all slam to a roaring halt a moment later.
And then the world is all peppermint.
The room is reduced to the sharp sugary bite of candy canes when you rest your palms on his lapels and seal your mouths together. There’s nothing but static snow in his ears. You press in closer, lips gliding against his again before pulling away.
“I’m not misreading this, right?” you whisper against him and your breath is all cool like the wind on the opposite coast he’s never been back to but misses every winter.
Sonar’s still stuck trying to think of the last time someone kissed him first and keeps coming up blank. He’s not sure what to do with it. Not sure how to make the second move.
“God no,” he replies when his brain catches up, hands wandering to your waist and pulling you in again, savoring it this time. Enjoying the way you move with him, follow his rhythm, lead him in your own.
You’re really fucking great at this actually, it’s a little dizzying.
He’s got to really reign in the urge to whine when you pull away, force his fingers not to grasp on tighter when you step back and let your hands fall down to your sides.
“So, I’ve perhaps gone a bit out of order here,” you clear your throat, bite at your lip which is so fucking cute he might curl up and die. “But can I take this to mean you might not be opposed to coming as my date to the staff party tonight? Prism decided we should all couple up and I thought maybe—”
“Yes,” Sonar replies, the word just tumbling right off his lips. His hands are fucking shaking. “Yeah, yes I would not be opposed to that at all.”
It sounds just as desperate as he feels and he doesn’t even care. Not if you smile like that.
“Okay,” you breathe out in a rush and do that little bouncing thing on your heels again. “I’m gonna go home and change, then. Pick me up in an hour?”
He just nods dumbly, jaw slack and ear pleasantly heavy with the phantom weight of your fingers. You smile again, and he watches you go until the office wall obscures his view. Until he hears the front door click shut and your footsteps fade away into the parking lot.
Then he stands some more, stares back at the tree and for a split second—probably just a trick of the light—the string of little bulbs has a softer hue. There’s a gentle halo around each fleck of color, warmer and subdued.
the afternoon of the next day comes by quicker than you thought. the day was simple, talking to nobara, yuji, and megumi, training, sparing, getting made fun of by gojo and geto. not to be complaining too much about geto.
You found yourself to be really fitting in.
in your dorm nobara lays on your bed in a tank top and baggy pj pants, “Soooo…” you look to her
“soo?” she sits up immediately
“GETO.” you throw a pillow at her
“shhh you’re loud.. but yea.. hes so cute.” she nods
“cute but… i dont know i got vibes.. like flirting vibes. But soft launch flirting you know?”
you feel you’re face heat up, “really? i dont really know… i mean i hope.”
“HE KEPT TRYING TO FIND WAYS TO HELP YOU WITH YOUR TECHNIQUE Y/NNN. it was so cute.” you blush and hug your knees
“maybe..” you glance at your phone.
“shouldn’t we be heading to yujis room soon?”
she shrugs “im always late when we hang out, i think maki was gonna come to your dorm first anyway.” just as she said her name maki knocks at your door. maki comes in with a nonchalant look on her face and sits on the bed next to you. You’ve never seen her in person. she has burn marks up her whole body, toned muscles,short hair that suits her amazingly. You find yourself blushing and staring but you look away quickly.
“so when are we going to itadori’s?” her voice is so smooth.. so nice to hear.
“u-uh whenever you guys want.. i was gonna change first though. i wanna look cute because this is the first time im meeting everyone.”
nobara rolls her eyes, “you already look cute, i mean look at me and maki we are dressed like bums..” she leans against maki and maki wraps a strong arm around her laughing slightly.
“yea y/n you look pretty,” maki adds. the compliment makes you blush, it felt different coming from her for some reason. you go to your closet and find something cute.
you change infront of them and the rooms erupts into whistles and flirty jokes.
“you guys are stupid.” you laugh while fixing your reflection in the mirror.
"yeah, yeah, whatever," nobara says, standing up dramatically. "can we go now? i'm starving and if yuji ate all the snacks before we get there, i'm fighting him."
"you fight him every day anyway," maki points out.
"exactly."
the three of you leave your dorm and start walking across campus. the evening air is cool, carrying the sounds of students training in the distance. nobara and maki spend most of the walk arguing about what movie you're watching while you trail beside them, smiling to yourself.
you hadn't expected any of this.
you thought that you would be alone. but you aren’t. You have friends. Real friends.
as you approach yuji's dorm building, loud shouting echoes through the hallway.
"that is literally not how you make popcorn!"
"it literally is!"
"you burned it!"
"it's lightly toasted!"
nobara sighs.
"yuji."
maki sighs.
"yuji."
you laugh.
definitely yuji.
nobara pushes open the dorm room door without knocking.
"move, idiots."
the room is already crowded.
you scanned the room and waved awkwardly.
yuji is standing beside a microwave with smoke suspiciously drifting out of it.
megumi is sitting on the floor looking like he regrets every decision that led him here.
yuta and panda are sitting on the bed arguing with yuji, and inumaki sits quietly, staring at you. you slide next to him, barely any space so you’re thigh to thigh with him.
“Hi inumaki.” you poked his side.
“S-salmon.” he stutters, you furrowed your eyebrows.
“Hungry?” he shakes his head no. megumi cuts in
“Inumaki is a cursed speech user, his speech amplifies the power and compulsion of words. he limits his vocabulary to keep others safe.”
you look up slightly intrigued. “So if he told someone to cum their pants right now they’d do it?” inumaki blushes, stifles out a laugh, and nods frantically. “Salmon salmon.”
you poke his side again, “so i guess that means everyone woman is satisfied?” yuta laughs.
“as if he could get any.” inumaki rolls his eyes and opens his mouth
“be quiet.”
yutas mouth shuts immediately. “mmm! mm! mmmm!” he throws something at inumaki and he undoes it.
the situation causes you to laugh, “you’re funny inumaki.”
something about the way you laugh and say his name causes him to freeze for half a second.
yuta notices.
panda notices.
megumi notices.
yuji definitely notices.
“rizz god my ass,” yuta mutters and inumaki shoves him.
yuji gives panda and yuta a look and they get up, leaving y/n and inumaki on the bed.
“So what are we watching?” you ask, megumi opens a bag of chips and nobara sits next to him and takes the bag. megumi shoves her, takes the bag back and hands her one chip.
The process of choosing a movie takes twenty minutes.
Twenty.
Minutes.
Every suggestion gets shut down immediately.
“Romance.”
“No.”
“Comedy.”
“No.”
“Action.”
“No.”
“Horror.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why do we keep asking if we're picking horror anyway?” Megumi asks.
“Because democracy matters.” nobara says
“That's not democracy.”
“It's democracy when I win.”
Megumi looks ready to leave.
“i hate everyone.”
you perk up. “Lets watch obsession. it’s supposed to be like really scary.”
the room agrees, just as yuji was about to press play the dorm room swings open. gojo and geto walk in.
“Yuj- oh? planning a movie night without the coolest strongest sorcerers here? and my little cousin didn’t even tell me.” gojo crosses his arms and geto makes eye contact with you. a blush creeps up to your face and you wave. megumi sighs
“as if this couldnt get any worse.”
"well, there's no way we're not joining," geto says. "especially when our favorite second-year is here."
your face burns.
gojo immediately notices.
"oh, that's cute."
"shut up."
"i didn't say anything."
"you were thinking it."
the two settle onto the floor.
without really thinking about it, you stand and move over.
