#I’m from Georgia lol | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

formulaforza · 6 months

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miss americana and the heartbreak prince

—07. Homegrown —word count: 15.8k —warnings: none :) love, mackie... I don't really have much to say lol... just that I love this chapter and it got a little out of hand. I hope you love it like I do!

Chris takes a personal day at work on the Thursday Charles gets into Georgia. She wants to make sure she’s the one picking him up from the airport, doesn’t want to spend a single second longer than she needs to without seeing him, hugging him, kissing him.

His flight lands at 10:15, but by the time he gets through customs, baggage, and calls Chris three times after getting lost in the Atlanta airport, it’s 11:30. She finally finds him outside the Maynard Terminal, backpack slung over his shoulders, suitcase next to him. He looks so perfectly like a boyfriend, she thinks. “I can see you,” she says. “Do you see my car?”

“No,” he laughs, and it pours from the car speakers like sweet honey. “I don’t.”

“Okay, well, stay put, then. I’m coming to you.” She manages to make her way across two lanes to be right on the curb, and then he spots her, his whole expression taking shape when their eyes lock. She rolls her window down as he approaches, and slots the car into park. “Oh my god,” she giggles. “Is that Charles Leclerc?”

He rolls his eyes. “Open the trunk?”

“Charles Leclerc wants me to open the trunk?” She says, pushing the button on her door-panel to pop the hatch open.

“Charles Leclerc wants you,” he says, hoisting his suitcase up into the back of the car, tossing his backpack there, too. “Could have stopped there,” he chuckles, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. She blushes, a cheek-aching smile still on her face. He slams the trunk shut and makes his way around the car, opening the passenger door. “Hi, pretty girl,” he properly greets her. “What’s this?” He asks.

Sitting there, on the passenger seat, is a bouquet of flowers. Red roses, white roses, and white carnations for passion, new romance, and luck. Filler greens and red estelles for encouragement. Manilla and sheer white tissue paper wrap the flowers, a dark red ribbon tied into a bow around the stems. Next to it, is a matching envelope with his name scribbled in purple pen. Inside the envelope is a white greeting card with “just because” printed in simple, black lettering, a handwritten note from Chris on the inside.

Chris smiles. “They’re for you.”

“For me?” He asks, the hint of a giggle in his tone. “You didn’t have to do all this.”

Chris shrugs, watches him carefully pick up the flowers and the card and climb into the car where he further examines them. “It’s not a big deal,” she says, tucking her bangs behind her ears. “I had to go with Hannah to the florist this morning.”

“No, it’s so cool. Nobody has ever gotten me flowers before.”

Chris frowns. “Never?”

“I mean,” he shrugs, “my mum once, but that doesn’t count,” and then he starts to open the envelope, but Chris stops him.

“No, please,” she says, her hand covering his. “I can’t watch you read it, I’ll die.”

He laughs, “you’re so cute.”

Her face stays straight and solemn. “I’m serious.”

“I know,” he sets the flowers and the card down securely between his feet. “I’ll wait.”

“Thank you.”

Chris can feel the heat rushing to her cheeks. God, she feels like such a child. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m going to kiss you, now.”

“Okay,” she giggles. “You’re going to kiss me, now.”

His lips meet hers in a tender, lingering kiss. It’s like they hadn’t been apart at all, the way their mouths perfectly fit together. His hand finds her cheek, thumb moving carefully over her skin, letting her deepen the kiss. They let themselves just be for a few moments, to let everything else fade away and cling onto their perfect moment. “Seriously,” he says when they pull apart, and then he gives her another quick peck. “Thank you,” and then another on her forehead. “I missed you. How are you?”

“I’m good,” she nods. “Hungry. Very hungry. How are you?”

“Hungry, also.”

“How hungry?”

“Very.”

Chris nods, kisses him again, just because she can. Because she couldn’t for so many days. “I know a place, but it’s a surprise.”

It’s a twenty-three minute drive to Pig’n’Chik Barbeque in Northern Atlanta. Charles is visibly apprehensive of the little red building and the parking lot filled with the aroma of southern barbeque, but he keeps his commentary to himself. Chris knows it’s probably a little overkill, the hole-in-the wall joint being even a little too gimmicky for her taste, but that’s the whole point. The place is supposed to be gimmicky, while also being good. Chris used to love this place as a little kid—Bill would always take the kids there whenever they’d gone to the city. It was his favorite place then, and so it will always hold a place in her heart.

Charles holds open the door, a bell attached to it announcing their entrance, eliciting a greeting from the staff, a “Hey, guys! How’re you doing?”

“Good, thank you,” Chris smiles, moving through the restaurant towards the diner-style bar at the back. She holds her hand out behind her for Charles, turns to tell him: “You might not have been able to get a seat at your sushi bar, but I can get us up at the Pig’n’Chik bar,” she laughs.

Charles matches her laugh, a playful eye roll and the shake of his head before they’re sitting down on the red leather barstools.

She’s telling him before they even have the menus in front of them what they need to order; fried pickles to split, lemonade to drink because it’s not pig’n’chik without their lemonade. She’s going to order the shrimp and grits and he absolutely needs to have the catfish.

When he cocks his head at the idea of… eating… catfish… she tells him he’s not allowed to look it up, and that he also has to trust her. “It’s the best thing on the menu,” she says.

Charles quirks a brow. “Then why aren’t you eating it?”

“Because the hushpuppies will kill me,” she answers matter-of-factly. “Honestly, you probably shouldn’t eat them, either.” The grease that comes along with eating a deep-fried batter ball isn’t good for anyone’s system, especially not someone who isn’t used to this kind of food. The last thing she needs this weekend is a boyfriend who can’t be more than three feet from a bathroom.

It’s an hour and a half, at least, until they’re pulling into what Chris affectionately calls her “driveway.” Charles thinks that anyone else would more likely call it a dirt road. A trail, even, that turns into a driveway after the trees clear and you can actually see the house.

“This is all yours?” he asks, swears her yard is the size of his apartment lobby.

She nods. “I mean, it’s mostly trees, but, yeah.”

He’s taken on a tour of the old-style farmhouse, which, by the way, is so incredibly her you’d think the place was built for her—lots of beadboard, all this delicate woodworking that a FaceTime call has never been able to do justice. Thick glass windows with the frame painted over, no central heating or cooling, a couple window air conditioners and old radiators to boot. The most like her, though, is the back porch. It’s screened in, has a creek to the floor that the dusty, antique rugs can only attempt to muffle. There’s two couches that couldn’t match less, but still somehow go with each other, both cozy with throw pillows and cushions and warmth. The whole place smells like her, sounds like her, feels like her. He’s immediately comfortable.

Chris and Charles spend most of their afternoon trying to plan out their evening. Starting tomorrow morning, their weekend is on a strict schedule, so they want to make the most of their free time tonight before their dinner with her family. They want to make the most of it so badly that they can’t decide on anything at all, and end up falling asleep on her living room couch.

When Chris’ alarm goes off—the one she’d set the first time she caught herself dozing off, realizing Charles was already passed out next to her—they grumpily get ready to head over to her parents’ house. It’s then, while Charles navigates around Chris and the countertop of her makeup, that she tells him all about Thanksgiving, about her mom pointing out the hickey, and she offers up a warning. “They’re going to pretend they hate you for like, half an hour,” she tells him. “Pretend you’re intimidated.”

“And…” Charles begins, running gelled fingers through his hair. “What if they actually don’t like me?”

“My mom likes everyone,” she says, gestures away at his words. “And my Dad, well, you’ve already met him. He liked you good enough then.”

“He liked me enough to talk to me for ten minutes,” Charles counters. “That doesn’t mean he liked me enough to date his daughter.”

Chris smiles in the mirror, carefully applying her lipstick. “Lucky for you,” she says, “he doesn’t get a say.”

– – –

His leg bounces for the entirety of the ten-minute drive, so much so that at a stop light he can feel how much he shakes the car. Despite that, he doesn’t realize just how nervous he is until they’re in the driveway—which is just as long and trail-like as Chris’ is. Their house is bigger, though. Much bigger.

His palms are clammy, and he wipes them off on his jeans—should he have worn something nicer than jeans? Jeans are really all he brought besides clothes for the wedding, for sleeping, for working out in. Jeans are fine. Jeans are good. Their driveway is a dirt road, jeans are good.

“Relax,” Chris says, trying (and failing) to hold back a little chuckle. “It’s not that serious.” He rolls his eyes because it quite literally is that serious. You only get one chance to make a first impression on your girlfriend’s parents, and when your girlfriend is as close to their family as Chris is, it’s an impression you’d really rather not screw the fuck up. “And the longer we sit here, the longer they’re going to watch from the kitchen window.”

With a deep breath, he climbs out of the car, walks up the rest of the drive and onto the porch a pace behind Chris. She raises her hand to knock twice, turning the doorknob and letting herself in before anyone could even attempt to answer the knock. He steps in behind her, into a wallpapered entryway with a tall table full of keys and pictures and discarded mail on one side, and a wooden bench with tan throw pillows on the other side. “Mom! Dad! We’re here!” She shouts into the house.

A woman’s voice calls back, “in the kitchen! Dad’s upstairs in the office.”

Chris slips off her shoes and Charles follows suit, slotting them under the wooden bench next to hers. He hadn’t worn a coat, but she ducks into a hall closet to hang hers up. He’d worn a sweatshirt over a t-shirt, and he’s pretty sure he’d already sweat through the t-shirt.

He thinks he could smell his way to the kitchen, the way the scent of the home cooked dinner fills the entire house. He follows behind Chris like a lost puppy into the kitchen, and as soon as she turns the corner and walks through the archway, she’s being greeted by her mom, wrapped into an oven-mitt clad hug. He gets a perfect view of her mom, gaze slotted over Chris’ shoulder. She’s not so scary, he thinks. He can recognize more than one of Chris’ features on her face—in the way she smiles and the shape of her eyes, too. That’s where her smile comes from, and her eyes, too.

Over her shoulder, Chris’ mom opens her eyes, waves a bangle-bracelet clad, oven-mitt covered hand in his direction. Charles steps fully into the kitchen, determined to make a good first impression. “And I take it this,” her mom says, pulling away from the hug, “is the charming gentleman you’ve been telling me nothing about?”

Chris laughs, catching his eyes when she says: “Yes, Mom, this is Charles. Charles, this is my mom, Cindy.”

“Hi,” Charles offers a handshake. His friends had reminded him—briefed him, basically—that Americans are fond of their personal space, and he figures if Chris is right, and they are going to be playing the intimidation game with him, there’s no chance he’s getting anything more than a—

“Oh, please,” Cindy laughs, swatting his hand out of the way. “We hug in this family,” and he’s already being pulled in. His surprised eyes catch Chris’, who looks back at him with an oh, my God. I’m so sorry, glance, which makes him chuckle. If this is what pretending not to like him looks like, he’d hate to see what actually liking him is all about. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine,” he hums, finally pulling away from the hug. “I have heard so much about you.”

“I can’t say the same,” Cindy laughs pointedly at Chris. “But what I have heard has all been good.”

“Well, anything you want to know, I came tonight with my life story ready.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Cindy nods. “Her dad’ll like that a lot.”

“Mama, where’s Beans?” Chris asks, and before he knows it he’s following her out into the backyard for the introduction that he knows is actually the most important. As they stepped onto the lush, green grass, a gentle breeze rustled through the trees. In the corner of the yard, the aforementioned Beans, a friendly Golden Retriever, lays beneath the growing shade of an old oak tree. The fur around his snout is a distinguished shade of white, and he looks up with wise, kind eyes as Chris approaches, his tail shaking slowly at her presence.

“Here he is, my Beanie Baby,” Chris says with affectionate enthusiasm, crouching down to stroke the dog’s ears. He follows suit, squatting down beside her. “Beanie, this is Charles.”

Charles approaches cautiously, fully aware of just how important this introduction was. He extends his hand, letting Beans sniff it gently. The elderly Golden accepts the gesture, the pace of his tail wagging picking up speed. “Hey Beans,” Charles said softly, voice warm. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you?”

Beans responds with a content sigh, his old eyes conveying the years of love and happiness he’s had in this very yard. He leans into Charles’ touch, relishing in the attention.

Chris laughs, “I think he likes you. He’s a bit slower these days, but he’s still the sweetest dog you’ll ever meet.”

After much convincing, and the promise (and fulfillment) of several treat bribes, they’re able to convince Beans to come back into the house, where he curls up on his bed with his milkbones.

Chris’ dad, who joins everyone else downstairs ten minutes later, pops into the dining room while Chris and Charles are setting the table. Chris looks up in the direction of his footsteps with that radiant smile, warm eyes, like always. “Hi, Dad,” she says, her voice drenched in affection.

“Mums,” the man smiles softly, greeting her with open arms and a gentle hug.

“You remember Charles,” she says, and he steps forward, leaving the silverware settings on the tablecloth. Charles extends his hand first, is met with Bill’s firm, heavy handshake.

“Mr. Elliott, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” His voice is stiff, polite, but there’s still a touch of earnestness that betrays his nerves. “Thank you for having me, I’ve heard a lot about you and your family.”

“Now, son, if I’m bein’ completely honest with you. I never thought I was gonna see you again after Texas. I wasn’t feelin’ you out the way I should’a been, if you know what I mean?”

Charles nods, even though he thinks he picked up about seventy-five percent of what was said. “Yes, sir.” He thinks he’d probably answer any question thrown his way, if it meant when he left tonight it was in her parents’ good graces.

Her parents, Bill especially, do maintain their intimidating presence for just as long as Chris says they will. Sat at the dinner table with all of them, next to Chris and across from Cindy and Bill, he can’t help but feel the weight of the situation as they all eat.

“So, Charles,” Bill says, wiping his mouth with a napkin and taking a sip of wine. They’re all nursing glasses of wine, even Charles, who despite never having been particularly fond of the drink, was too scared to say no when Cindy offered. He’d glared daggers at Chris to keep her from speaking up. “Monaco, right?”

Charles nods. “That’s right.”

“A racecar driver from the rich and famous’ playground,” Bill continued. His voice is low and inquisitive. “I’m sure you can see why I might be a lil’...” he chuckles, “worried about you.”

Next to him, Chris cocks her head defensively, leans forward in her seat. “What are you trying to imply, Dad?” Charles unconsciously moves his hand to her lower back in an attempt to reassure her silently. He knows why Bill’s asking questions like this, he knows the reputation certain aspects of his life carry with them. It does put a butterfly or two in his stomach that she’s so eager to jump to his defense, though.

“Nothing, nothing. It’s just quite the party lifestyle you live, isn’t it, Charles?”

“I don’t know if I would say that,” Charles laughs awkwardly. Chris takes a big sip of her wine, leans back in her chair again. He moves his hand from her back to her leg, where she interlocks it with her own under the table. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’ll go out with my friends when I’m in town, or we have something to celebrate, but… I’ve honestly become more of a home person these last years.”

Bill raises his brows, takes another bite of his food. “Really?” Charles nods. “That must be difficult, son, all the traveling you do. Alotta’ people in alotta’ cities. How d’ya handle that?”

Charles smiles, fully aware that Bill is just attempting to gauge his character. “It can be lonely at times, but I'm committed to a steady relationship. I like to think I’ve learned to balance my racing career and my personal life.”

“A steady relationship with our daughter.”

Chris squeezes his hand, he squeezes back, smiles softly. “A steady, committed relationship with your daughter, yes.”

Cindy takes a sip of her wine, smiles into the red liquid. She seems satisfied. Bill, not so much. “And what is it that you like most about her?” He asks.

“Dad,” Chris laughs pointedly at her father, a hint of disbelief in the action. “That’s enough.”

“Sorry, Charles,” Cindy interrupts with an awkward chuckle, an attempt to keep the peace before Chris lunges over the table at her dad. Charles isn’t offended by the question, so he wonders if maybe Cindy is apologizing to Chris more than she is to Charles. “He doesn’t mean to come off so investigative. Chris is just our baby, everyone has always looked out for her.”

“It’s okay, I understand,” he nods, takes a bite of food. “As for the question nobody wants you to ask me,” he looks to Bill, remnants of his food still in his mouth. He speaks with the napkin over his lips. “It’s hard to even find a place to start with that, right? I mean, she…” he glances to Chris, finds that she’s already listening to him intently. He smiles, “you are an incredible person,” and he has to look away, because if he keeps going while staring into her brown eyes, he’s going to be as red as a tomato, completely and utterly smitten. “If you really want me to pick something, I guess I would say her kindness, and I’m sure you’re both familiar enough with her heart that I don’t need to ramble on about how lucky I am to have her in my life.”

Chris sinks in her seat, finishes off what’s left of her wine. “Well, now that I’m properly embarrassed for the rest of my life.”

Cindy laughs. “Oh, Chrissy, I haven’t even gotten the baby pictures out yet.” Chris turns to bury herself in Charles’ arm. He can feel how warm her face is through the fabric of his sweatshirt, and it makes him laugh.

“Oh, my God,” she mumbles.

Charles’ ears perk up. “There’s baby pictures?”

Chris nods against his arm. “She’s a scrapbooker.”

He’s so boggled by the way that they can just switch up after that, the way that they stop trying to intimidate him and welcome him with open arms. He thinks that his Mum could never, that she knows within the first thirty seconds of meeting someone if she likes them or not. When it comes to Pascale Leclerc, you’re forever categorized by her first impression. He didn’t tell Chris that, because he didn’t want to worry her more than she already was in her sweats and messy-hair in Abu Dhabi.

After the meal had been cleaned up, the four of them sat comfortably in the living room of Chris’ childhood home. Their home is so nice, so warm and welcoming. He wonders if it’s always been such a comfortable place.

Chris is sprawled out on the corner-seat of the sectional couch, Beans taking up the seat next to her, his head in her lap while she pets him mindlessly. Charles sits on the floor, back to the corner cushion, legs outstretched in front of him under the coffee table. Bill is in the recliner in the corner, working his way through a newspaper crossword puzzle, half-dozing off every ten minutes.

Cindy carries a cardboard box down the stairs, sets it down on the coffee table in the middle of the family room. It’s full to the brim with worn, leather-bound scrapbooks, with Christyn Claire neatly written on the side of the box. She sits down on the floor next to him. Carefully, she pulls one out and gently sets it on the table, brushing the dust off the black leather cover.

Charles watches as she flips open the pages, each one filled with their own vibrant photos, handwritten notes, and little trinkets that tell a story of young Chris. Charles can’t help the smile on his face when he sees the images of her in every stage of life, from a curious toddler with messy, curly pigtails to a teenager with the same smile he can’t get enough of.

Cindy’s eyes sparkle with pride, and she has an anecdote for each and every photo. He’s captivated by it, not just the snapshots, but also the obvious love Cindy carries for her daughter.

“This is Chrissy on the first day of school,” She explained, pointing to a picture of a young girl with a backpack almost as big as herself. “She was so excited to learn, has always been eager to take on new challenges.” Charles nods, hangs onto every word she says. “She’s always been a quick learner, even then.”

Cindy continues to flip through the pages, her and Charles silently sharing in knowing smiles at photos they both know Chris would find particularly embarrassing, making sure she doesn’t catch onto their shared moment from her seat on the couch. Cindy reveals photos from family vacations, birthdays, and school events. Her tales of Chris’ adventures—combined with Chris’ personal renditions added in—make for quite a delightful, and humorous, evening.

“Ah, this one,” Cindy chuckles as she turns the page, revealing a picture of a grinning Chris covered head to toe in colorful paint. “We had an art day in the backyard, and Chrissy decided she'd rather paint herself than the paper.”

He laughed along, felt like he was growing more and more connected to Chris and her family with every shared memory. Part of him wonders if this is still a part of the protective parent act. If it is, it’s definitely doing its job. You can’t be mean to someone when you look at them and imagine the tiny version of them playing dress-up in a princess themed bedroom, or helping wash Dad’s car, or taking a nap at the beach on a mermaid towel. He should get a few baby pictures from his mom, he thinks. To show them to Chris, just so that she isn’t allowed to hurt him.

“She’s always had a big heart,” Cindy said, her smile warm. “Her friends were like extended family,” she continues, pointing out a picture of Chris and several other little children. She points to a blonde, “You’ve met Hannah, right?”

“We’re going there, next, Ma,” Chris interjects.

“Oh, well. This is her when she was five. I think Chris invited her to spend the night for weeks at a time.”

Charles nods, everything he knows about her, the way that she makes friends with anyone she interacts with, it all tracks, can all be seen in these pictures. He thinks that he could sit on the floor all night and go through every single picture in every single scrapbook, and still wouldn’t have enough, wouldn’t know enough about her.

– – –

They leave the Elliott’s house a little after nine, and the air outside is cooler, now, the day fully transitioned into night. Charles sits in the passenger seat, eyeing Chris’ ability to perfectly maintain a speed two under the limit, and the way that she flipped her brights on everytime another car wasn’t cruising down the road. It seemed like this entire town was half-covered in wooded areas, so he supposes it’s better to keep an eye out for any wild animals. The warmth of the evening experience with her parents still radiates through him, but their conversation is now focused on their next destination; Chase and Hannah’s house.

Chris, in the driver’s seat, is more animated than ever. She was preparing him carefully for the meeting, the anticipation of how her best friend and brother would perceive him hung in the air. She explained on the drive from the airport earlier that day that she’d “promised Hannah she would meet you before the wedding.”

As they rolled to a stop at a red light, Charles cast a quick glance over to her, feeling the weight of her guidance. “What should I know about them? Any advice on how to impress them?”

“Gosh,” she’d said, “I don’t know. Hannah’s easy. Chase is weird, but, just talk about cars or something. He really likes, um,” she pauses. “He races with you… from Australia, I think.”

Charles mulled over the comment, committing it to memory. There’s only one Australian he can think of racing against. “Daniel?”

“Yeah,” Chris nods. “Daniel Ricciardo. He really likes him.”

Charles absorbs the information, realizing that Daniel would serve as an excellent conversation starter about racing. The light turns green, and she checks the intersection for a comically long amount of time before proceeding. He does everything he can not to laugh, and is hit with a sudden wave of gratitude towards the way he’s been wholly and completely welcomed into her life like this. The night of endless nerves aside, the excitement of learning all the chapters of her life that predate him is something he isn’t going to take for granted.

– – –

They arrive at Chase and Hannah’s house for a relatively relaxed night in, greeted by the warm glow of a bonfire crackling in the backyard. The air was filled with the smokey scent of burning wood, and the soft lull of a country song pouring from a speaker.

“Hi!” Hannah calls before the couple is even halfway through the back gate. “Hi, Hi, Hi, oh my gosh!” she squeals, hurrying over to the gate to greet them. “It’s about fucking time,” she adds, pulling Chris into a tight hug. You’d think it was the first time they’d seen each other in weeks, but Charles knew they were together just that morning. “And you,” the blonde continues, “must be Charles. Unlike everyone else around here, I’ve actually heard a lot about you,” she laughs.

He laughs too, accepts her open-arms for a hug. “I’ve heard a lot about you, too.”

“William Chase,” Hannah calls to the man standing over the fire, a stoker stick in one hand, a glass beer bottle in the other. His head shoots up from the embers when he’s called. He holds his beer up as a welcoming gesture, but Hannah isn’t satisfied. “Get over here!”

He meets them halfway through the yard, in a part that’s unlit by either the house lights or the glow of the fire. “Hey,” Chase says with a relaxed smile, pulling Chris into a side hug, and then approaching Charles with an outstretched hand. “You must be Charles,” he says, the two exchanging a laid-back handshake before pulling each other into a bro-hug. “It’s good to meet you, man. You want a beer or something?”

“I can get it myself,” Charles assures, “just tell me where they are.”

“Don’t be silly,” Hannah scoffs, “You’re a guest,” she insists, and it is already halfway up the steps of the back porch. “You want one, too, Chris?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Chris smiles, her hand finding his in the space between their bodies, interlocking their fingers and pulling him over to the fire Chase has already returned to.

Chris and Charles find a cozy spot on the porch swing that sits in front of the firepit, a shared bench that seemed to be the ideal medium between two chairs and sitting on top of each other, perfect for family introductions. They sit side by side, thighs brushing against each other, his arm around her nursing his beer. Charles keeps the swing moving with his feet, but Chris has one leg crossed over the other, the base of her beer bottle leaving a darkened ring of condensation on her jeans everytime she picks it up.

“You want another one, Chris?” Chase asks, shaking his empty beer bottle by its neck when he heads back inside for another round, and per Hannah’s request, to check on Reid.

“I’m okay,” Chris smiles. She’s turned fully sideways, now, her back resting against his shoulder, both legs off the ground and onto the other end of the bench. “I’m driving home,” and then she cranes her neck to look at him. “Do you want another?”

“No,” he says, because he’s pretty sure he can already feel her dozing off while they swing, is almost certain it’s going to end up being him driving back to her place tonight. “Thank you, though,” and then he kisses the top of her head, pulls his arm out from under her body weight to wrap around her front lazily. She adjusts to his adjustment, leans into him and finds a comfortable curve in his chest.

Even among the scent of wood and fresh cut grass and smoke, he’s found himself in the perfect position to smell her hair without even trying. He thinks he’s finally nailed her shampoo, coconut and rose, he’s almost sure of it.

“Mate, Chris was telling me you’re a Daniel Ricciardo fan?” Charles asks, looking for a way to break the ice into a more active conversation, utilizing the very few tools he has at his disposal. Chase and Hannah seem both way lower-stress than Bill and Cindy did, but he'd still like to leave tonight knowing he made a good impression. Or, at least leave knowing he tried his hardest to make one.

“Yeah, man. We actually started racing at COTA in 2020, and Renault and Daniel did this thing with our team, gave me a little good-luck message and stuff. It was real cool. I’ve been a fan of him since.”

Surprised, and trying to find common ground, Charles asks: “Do you follow Formula One?”

“You know, I tried after the whole Daniel thing, but,” he shrugs nonchalantly, takes another swig of his beer and leans back in his seat. “Honestly, all respect, but there’s just nothing quite like the roar of a stock car at Daytona for me. It’s like thunder, man.”

Charles nodded, an eager grin on his face. He doesn’t know much about NASCAR, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t study up on it during the flight over. “The sound of those engines at full throttle must be crazy. It’s V8’s, right?”

“Yeah, V8. What are y’all running? Isn’t it hybrids?”

“Yes,” Charles laughs. “They’re crazy with the engineering. Basically, you have a turbo V6 combined with energy recovery systems… it all helps keep us lightweight.”

“That’s another thing that blows my mind, how light your cars are! I know you pull crazy downforce, but I swear it’s a totally different game on an oval, dude. Our cars are like, thirty-three hundo.”

Charles’ eyes go wide. He knew they were heavier, but that’s like… it’s more than double, he thinks, or has to be close to it “Oh, my God!” He laughs, taking another sip of his beer. Chris chuckles, too—he feels it in his chest. He also feels the nonsensical shapes and patterns that she traces over his sweatshirt sleeve while he talks, the way she seems completely lost in toying with the fabric.

“I know, you guys got fuckin’ feathers compared to us!” Chase gins, joining in on the laughter.

Charles leans forwards a bit, and when he does it, Chris adjusts her positioning. She’s somehow managed to slide gracefully down until she was curled up on the wooden bench, resting on her side with her head on his tights. She’d found a makeshift pillow in his lap, and he couldn’t mind it less. “Yeah, I don’t know,” he says, checking his watch so that when Chris asks him later tonight ‘when did I fall asleep?’ he can give her a proper answer. “We are all about precision, crazy aero packages. It’s not just about speed and downforce, it has to be managed so perfectly.”

“There ain’t no time for precision when you’re wheel-to-wheel at Talladega. It’s all about survival. We’re out there swapping paint and shit. Bumping and drafting are all a part of the game.”

“How crazy is that?” He questions, even though he doesn’t have more than an educated guess as to what drafting is. “The way the air affects your car when you’re always that close?”

“I mean, I guess I don’t notice it all that much because I’m so used to it, but yeah. We’re always pushing the limits, especially in the high-banked ovals. Drafting is both your best friend and your worst enemy.”

“Drafting, mate,” he peruses, taking a shot in the dark when he says: “that’s like getting the slipstream, no?”

“Exactly, yeah,” Chase nods. “All drag reduction shit.”

“It’s crazy, when we’re wheel-to-wheel, we’ll do about anything not to make contact”

“It’s ‘cause your shit weighs ten pounds,” Chase laughs. “It’ll fly away if there’s any contact.”

They go on like that for some time, comparing technicalities. There are few things Charles appreciates more in life than actually getting to sit down and talk racing with someone—true, technical, perfectionist racing. There’s no investigating what the problem with this year’s car is, or what he hopes happens next season. It’s just… how they work. How different formula racing is from stock cars. He feels like this is something he can actually talk about, a conversation he knows he can contribute knowledge to.

“Riveting stuff, boys, really,” Hannah finally interjects, sitting down into her camping chair. Charles hadn’t even noticed she’d left, but here she was popping the bottle cap off another beer, taking a big swig. “You put Chris to sleep and I’m on my fucking way.”

Charles stills, his movements suddenly gentler as he tries to crane his neck to see her face. “She’s asleep?” He asks, half-whispered.

Hannah nods, and Chase chuckles, “Dude, she’s been out cold for like half an hour.”

He smiles down at her, shaking his head, and then checks his watch again. 10:36pm, she didn’t even make it an hour and a half, poor girl. Charles brushes her hair out of her face and carries on with the conversation. His mind is completely absent to the fact that his fingers continue their exploration of her hair, a natural masterpiece of unruly waves. Each strand has its own rhythm, defying any form of order. The curls become even more pronounced as they cascade toward the nape of her neck, dancing freely with the erratic breeze.

At the root of her bangs, there’s a stubborn cowlick, and one side of her face-framing cut has a mind of its own, constantly threatening to tumble into her eyes. Amidst all that delightful chaos, small, intricate braids intermingle with the curls, held together with tiny brown elastics. His touch is reverent as he selects one, playfully twisting it around his finger while he speaks.

With painstaking care, he slides the elastic from the braid, and doesn't miss a beat in conversation with Hannah and Chase as he carefully unravels it. Their words dance in the air around him, and by the time he becomes cognizant of his actions, he’s on the last little braid.

When it’s time to turn in for the evening, when the conversations are more yawns than actual questions, Charles wakes Chris up softly. He runs his hand up and down her upper arm slowly, squeezes her elbow to coax the sleep from her heavy eyes. “Baby,” he hums softly.

Chris stirs with a groan, sits up and stares back at him with empty eyes, like she has no clue what year it is. He bites back a smile at the state of her, raises his brows and waits for her to say something, to scold him grumpily for waking her up. Chris Elliott is a force to be reckoned with when she’s woken up, and it’s something you only have to witness once to be scared of ever seeing again. She doesn’t scold, though.

Instead, a soft smile pulls on the corner of her lips. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he smiles back. She’s already leaning against the far armrest of the swing, curling up into the corner like she’s going to go back to sleep. She probably will, it’s been far too easy to wake her up. His hand finds her knee, thumb rubbing circles along the denim fabric. “Are you ready to go home?”

She nods, but her eyes are already closed again. Chase is already dousing the fire with water. Hannah’s already inside cleaning up. Charles opts to leave her there, sweet and peaceful, while he collects her things from inside.

It’s the first time he’s been in the house, and it's just as ambient as the backyard is. The warm glow of the dimmed lights accentuate the charm of their modern-farmhouse decor; wooden shelves bathed in the soft radiance, full of potted succulents, framed photographs, and small artworks that offer a glimpse into their lives. Large, strategically placed windows allowed for a gentle cascade of moonlight to slow, making the entire place feel calm and serene.

Chris has been wearing a pair of Hannah’s slippers since she went inside for the first time, so the first thing he looks for is her shoes. He finds them in the entryway, just outside the door, and finds her keys on a small table there, too. Her phone is on the kitchen counter, the purple silicone case practically glowing against the black granite countertops and pristine white cabinetry. In the living room, he notices a little figure lying on the couch—Reid, he assumes, lies nestled under a Cars blanket, a scene of pure childhood innocence set against the backdrop of grown-up sophistication. The entire room excludes warmth, thanks to an oversized gray sofa and a plush rug, all enhanced by the dull LCD of the quiet television and subtle nighttime lighting. Behind a throw pillow on the same couch, he finally uncovers her purse, carefully slipping it out so as to not disturb the sleeping child.

“It’s not worth the fight sometimes,” Hannah explains, but Charles didn’t need one. He remembers the age of begging to have a sleepover on the living room couch, to stay out past his bedtime and watch shows on the big television. It was the highlight of his weekends, sometimes.

“He’s adorable,” Charles says. “I love the blanket.”

Hannah chuckles softly, crossing her arms over each other to hug her small frame. “It’s his favorite movie,” she shrugs. “Wants to be just like his dad.”

He puts all of her things in the car before he even attempts at getting her into the car. Everything is neatly put into a place, her address typed into his GPS by Hannah and plugged into the aux on the radio, and she still sleeps on the swing.

His humor buoyed by the absurdity of the situation, Charles decided to start with the slippers. He gently slid them off her feet, one by one, and handed them over to Chase, who watched on with the bemusement of an audience at a comedy show. With a soft, nearly conspiratorial tone, Charles whispers: “Chris, baby,” planting a tender kiss on her forehead.

In response, she produces a mumbling symphony of incoherent sounds. “That’s not French, mon amour,” he chides playfully, prompting a breathy laugh from her lips. His aim is to keep her here, to prolong that delicate state of semi-sleep where she tattered between slumber and annoyance. “Let’s go home, yes?” he inquired.

Chris, in her hazy state, offered a subtle nod. Charles grinned, heart painfully warm, and said, “Could you help me out?”

In response, she obligingly wraps her arms around his neck, and he effortlessly hoists her into his arms, carrying her in a bridal-style embrace. He guides her to the waiting car with gentle steps, Chase strolling alongside them to open the car door. She stirs when he sets her in the seat, fastening her seatbelt.

Chase shuts the door and the two of them exchange a classic, old-as-time bro-handshake-goodbye, a silent acknowledgement of both their meeting today and their future introductions all weekend long.

It’s not until they’re at her house, the soft purr of the engine falling silent as he properly parked in the driveway, that she’s really awake. Her sleepy eyes flutter open with the automatic cab lights.

He moves swiftly, circling the car quickly to open the door for her. As she grumpily emerges from the car, he gives her an encouraging smile. “Go get ‘em, killer.” he playfully whispers, his hands working against her shoulders. She meets him with a death-glare he could never possibly be afraid of.

Chuckling, he plucks her phone from the passenger seat, locks the car before following her up the driveway.

The journey inside concludes shortly in her room. Chris has an early morning ahead, and a late night, too. Charles marvels at the resilience; doesn’t know how she’ll manage tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. As she settles in under the comforter, he can’t help but watch her for a moment, all sweet and sleepy and beautiful, like always.

Soon enough, the exhaustion creeps up on him, too, and he finally succumbs to sleep’s gentle embrace, entwined with the woman he finds himself cherishing more with what feels like each passing breath.

– – –

He wakes up when the soft chimes of her alarm break through the morning darkness. The dim glow of the clock on the nightstand reads 6:30 am, and it was clear that daylight has yet to pierce the veil of a southern winter outside.

He can’t help but appreciate her attempts to tiptoe through her morning routine. The effort is commendable, really, but the old, creaky wooden floors and the protesting door dram betray her intentions. He doesn’t mind, though—How could he? Any moment with her, even early morning ones where she bustles around the space, is better than a moment without.

Lying in the cozy bed—which, by the way, her bed is so fucking comfortable, he allows himself to fully wake up, knows that her morning rituals would be far more entertaining than any dream he could have cocooned in sleep.

His sleepy gaze watches her as she moves through the bedroom gracefully, her face illuminated by the soft glow of dawn creeping in from the curtains. He smiles at the little sounds and routines that make up her life, the ones he never gets to see, to savor. Watching her move about is a special kind of beauty, one that makes him feel lucky, insanely so, to experience a life with her in it.

Leaving the comfort of the bed, he ventures out into the kitchen. He knew she had an early start, a long day away from him, and he was determined to steal every extra moment they could share.

She’s finishing her lunch, packing it into her backpack when he sneaks up behind her, snaking his arms around her middle and hugging her from behind. “Hi,” she laughs, turning around in his arms to face him properly.

He gives her a kiss and her lips taste like her morning coffee. He marvels at the ease with which she can make someone’s day—make his day.

She grins, and there is a special kind of mischief in her eyes when she playfully warns him: “Promise you won’t get lost in the woods and eaten by a bear today,” she says, and then, because she can’t help but add it, “At least wait until I’m there to witness it.”

With a chuckle, he teases, “I can always outrun you, they say you only have to be faster than the other guy.”

Her laughter bubbles out, filling the room, and his chest, with warmth. “You wouldn’t let me get eaten by a bear,” she replies.

He pauses for a minute, then playfully concedes, “Well, I might.”

“Wouldn’t.”

“Would.”

– – –

After she left work, he found himself helpless in the war against sleep. What was the point if she wasn’t around to keep him up? If nothing was around to keep him up? It was almost eight o’clock before he finally got up for the day, feeling refreshed and ready for yet another evening of introductions.

His breakfast consists of a simple serving of toast, nothing anywhere near extravagant, but enough to stave off his hunger. Not to mention, he’d rather not make a mess in her house with the very first thing he does all day.

After breakfast, he heads out for a run, decides he’s going to try and navigate his way around without getting lost. He fails, miserably, because it seems like everywhere he looks has the same landmarks—trees, trees, and more trees. The cool air is invigorating, though, and the rhythmic pounding of his feet on the pavement keeps his mind clear, gives him a certain appreciation for the fact that he doesn’t have to keep his eyes and ears open for anyone who might be watching him. No, here it’s just him, just Charles. There’s nothing special about it, which is what makes it so fucking special.

Returning home—to her home—he enjoys a shower that washes away the cold sweat of the run. Dressed and ready, he ponders his plans for the rest of his day. It’s hours still until Chris is home and the festivities really kick off.

As if on cue, his phone buzzes, Chase’s name popping up on the Caller ID. Hannah had insisted on him exchanging numbers with both of them the night earlier. Just in case Chris decides to fuck off to another country again without telling us, she’d said.

He answers, listens to Chase’s offer to join in on a round of 9 holes with him and Bill, considers it for only a moment, and accepts enthusiastically. He’s in the passenger seat of Chase’s truck within the half-hour.

“Survived the dragon, I see?” Chase greets Charles with a smile, clearly still amused over the previous night’s encounter.

Charles chuckles. “Just barely.”

– – –

The day was pristine for golf, with a brilliant blue sky overhead and a gentle breeze. Charles has played at some pretty impressive courses around the world, but something about this one felt special. The green really wasn’t all the lush, and the views weren’t outstandingly picturesque, but. But, there was something that felt so special about it.

Bill, the most experienced of them, begins the round with an expertly executed swing that has Charles chuckling under his breath. His ball soars through the air, landing with pinpoint accuracy in the fairway. Chase follows with a powerful drive that seems to only gain momentum as it sails. It gracefully lands not far from Bill’s.

Charles takes his stance, feels a bit like a circus clown amidst his partners, but steadies himself nonetheless. He draws the club back, manages a swing with a surprising degree of finesse. The ball leaps from the tee and manages an astonishingly straight shot that lands in a… respectable position. He’s not too far off Bill and Chase.

Charles would never call himself a golfer, but he’s grateful for Chase and Bill’s attitude—the way they are constantly pretending he’s better than he is, blaming any mistakes (he has a beach full of sand in his shoes from all the traps) on the fact he’s rented his clubs from the course.

As they stroll down the lush, sunlit fairway on one of the holes, Charles decides he’s brave enough to start a conversation, rather than just participate in one. He turns to Chase as he addresses the only topic he can think of. “So, tomorrow’s the big day, huh? You’re feeling good?”

Chase grinned, golf club slung casually over his shoulder. “Dude, more than anything. I’ve been trying to marry Hannah for a long time. I’m lucky, you know.”

Bill nodded, “Y’all are all but by now.”

“Anything specific you’re excited for?” Charles questions, can’t help but be curious about the details. “Or just a big ball of excited?”

Chase chuckles. “I’m really looking forward to the ceremony. The moment I see her walking down the aisle, it’s gonna be somethin’ else.”

Charles smiles. He wasn’t expecting such a romantic answer, not given what he’s experienced from Chase up to this point. His answer feels more like something you tell your closest friends, not your little sister’s boyfriend you’d just met for the first time the night before. “How about the holiday? Any special plans?”

Chase’s eyes lit up into a laugh. “Ah, the honeymoon. Yeah, we’re going somewhere… sometime. I don’t know, it’s not at the top of our list of things to get done.”

“All I know, Son,” Bill, whose been quiet for what feels like some time now, offers up some wisdom, “Tomorrow’s gonna be real overwhelmin’, but remember it’s your day. Savor all of it.”

Chase nods in agreement, “Don’t worry, Pops,” he chuckles, pats Bill on the shoulder, “I’ll savor it all.”

“And if you get nervous,” Charles laughs, “feel free to let it mess you up out here,” he says, gesturing to the fairway. The whole trio shares a laugh, but Charles seriously wouldn’t mind if the other two suddenly forgot how to golf.

With Chase excusing himself to meet up with Hannah at the rehearsal dinner venue, Charles is left with just Bill, the pair heading up to the country club’s restaurant for a late lunch. The ambiance inside is refined, and they sit next to big floor-to-ceiling windows that offer views of the manicured greens and vast wooded area they’re situated inside.

As they settle into their table, Charles takes a sip of his water, wiping the condensation from his hand on the side of his pants. He can feel the weight of the conversation that’s likely to follow—there’s no Cindy or Chris around to keep him in check like there was last night.

Bill, cutting right to the chase, speaks in a casual tone. “So, Charles, how’re you finding our little corner of Georgia? I reckon it’s awful different from Monaco.”

Charles smiled, appreciating the comfortability of his voice. Maybe Chris was right, he was getting himself worked up yesterday over nothing. “It’s different, for sure,” he laughs. “Home is home, but there is something about the calmness here, the open space. It’s refreshing. And meeting everyone, it’s been great.”

Bill, who’s been nothing but stern in his expression for the entire time Charles has known him, seems to soften, even if just slightly. “I gotta admit, I was a lil’bit… cautious when I first learned about you and Chris. Fathers, y’know, we worry.”

“I can imagine,” Charles nods. He understands. Of course he understands. “You have my word, I have pure intents. Chris means a lot to me.”

Bill seems fully contemplative now, his usual sternness fully replaced when he looks back at Charles. “She’s real happy with you from what I can see, and her brother tells me you treat her real well. That’s the kinda stuff that matters to me.”

His chest feels stupidly warm at the remark. If Chris is half as happy as he is, they’ve really got something here. Something real. Scary real. “I care about her deeply, Sir, and I want her to be happy, too.”

Bill chuckles under his breath, shakes his head softly. “You’re not seventeen, son. You can call me Bill.”

“I care a lot about your daughter, Bill.” It’s an easy thing to do, he thinks. There can’t be a person in this world that knows her and doesn’t care for her. Not when everything about her makes him believe in luck, in something otherworldly—Gods or guardian angels or invisible strings.

“See?” Bill questions, picking around what’s left on his plate with his fork. “We’re already buddies.”

– – –

Bill drops Charles off just before Chris gets home from work. He’s not in the house for ten minutes, is still moving around the kitchen searching for a glass to fill with water when the door swings open. Chris enters the kitchen with Reid, half a dozen things in her arms and a familiar four-year-old in tow. “Hey,” she greets, lifting her bags onto the counter next to him, setting down all of her belongings.

“Hi,” he greets, hand finding a familiar space on her lower back, pulling her closer to him, to lean down and give her a quick kiss. “How was your day?”

“Long… and chaotic,” she sighs, forcing a weary smile onto her lips. Charles frowns. Searching her eyes for elaboration, she just shrugs. “Reid, say hi to Charles,” she introduces. “Charles, this is my little tornado, my nephew, Reid.”

Reid looks up at him with bright eyes and a mischievous grin. “Can I call you Chuck?”

Charles laughs. “No, you can call him Charles,” Chris answers on his behalf, before he gets the chance to tell the kid to call him whatever he wants.

Reid rolls his eyes. “Hi, Charles,” he huffs. “Auntie Chris says you’re gonna help me get ready.”

Charles smiles warmly. “That’s what I hear. It’s quite a mission to accomplish, do you think you are up for it?”

Reid nodded enthusiastically. “Totally. I’m almost five.”

Chris chuckles, and Charles’ eyes shoot over to her when she does. Hearing her laugh isn’t enough, he needs to see it, to share in it. “Good luck with the tie,” she tells him. Charles winks at Chris, grins down at the kid in front of him. “Reid, you like Cars, right?”

Reid’s eyes go wide, his head snapping over to look at Chris, who matches his expression with a smile on her face. He turns back to face Charles, “How did you know that?”

“So, it’s true?”

Reid nods apprehensively. “I love Cars. My Dad is in Cars 3, y’know? He’s got, like, a awesome race car.”

Charles feigned surprise, “No way! That’s like being a superhero.” He leans down conspiratorially, speaks quietly, just to Reid. “Do you know Lightning McQueen?”

Reid’s eyes gleamed with excitement as he launched into a passionate monologue about the Cars movies, the story, and the characters—paying a special interest to Chase’s automotive-self in the animated world. Charles listens with genuine interest while Chris quietly prepares a snack for the boy.

He gets ready while Reid eats, moves around Chris in the bathroom. “Sorry, sorry,” she says, using her entire arm to move her stuff off one side of the sink vanity. “I’m taking up your side,” she continues, pulling her curling iron out of her hair, carefully cradling the steaming strands. Charles smiles. His side. He kisses her softly, then— mindful of her unfinished makeup and hair. She smiles out of it, gives him another quick peck, “what was that for?”

He shrugs, reaching for his hair gel, “Just because.”

– – –

They get to Dahlonega right at five o’clock, thanks in massive part to Charles’ ability to comfortably drive above the speed limit, and in small part to Chris’ ability to finish her makeup while Charles does a poor job at avoiding potholes.

Every event this weekend takes place at the same place—a vineyard about thirty (if you speed) minutes from Chris’ house, but it’s nothing like what he would usually think of as a quote-en-quote vineyard. It’s more of a… barn put in the middle of a field, but. It’s beautiful nonetheless.

“How do I look?” Chris asks as they walk up the long drive from the parking lot to the barn. She runs her hands over the thighs of her jeans, straightening them out.

“Do a spin,” Charles says, and she does. “Hot,” he nods, smiles. Chris rolls her eyes. “Always hot.”

Hannah is running around with a woman wearing a nametag—the wedding planner, he assumes—like a chicken with its head cut off when they get there. Reid bolts away from them as soon as Chase is in his eyeline, chatting with his groomsmen around the bar. Charles trails behind Chris, hand interlocked with hers, as she makes her way over to a frazzled Hannah.

She greets them with a smile, swiping her hair off her shoulders and opening her arms for hugs. “You look beautiful,” Charles comments, kisses either of her cheeks.

“Oh,” She laughs. “This is new.”

Charles laughs, pulling away from the hug, “Sorry.”

“Oh, no. It’s fun,” she says, looking to Chris. “You should’ve dated someone French a long time ago.”

“He’s not French.”

“But y—”

Chris cuts her off. “Monégasque,” she continues. Charles smiles meekly. “And very proud.”

The setting sun cast a warm glow over the venue as the wedding rehearsal began. Charles found himself sitting in the second row, behind both Chase’s family and with the rest of the partners of the bridal party.

They’re orchestrated by the meticulous woman with a name tag from earlier, carefully moved through the motions of the ceremony tomorrow. Charles watches with quiet amusement as they navigate each and every step with precision. The officiant guided them through the script, the words blending into a hum that surrounded the ceremony space.

He partakes in the bland small talk with the other partners—how beautiful, how exciting, how sweet—all the stuff that random strangers with no present connections have to talk about. Charles can't help but glance at Chris intermittently, catching her eye and exchanging silent conversations that only they understand. She’s just so pretty up there, her brown curls cascading off her shoulders while she holds two mock-up bouquets of flowers. She bounces in place, practically, obviously half as tired and bored with it all as he is.

As the run-throughs progress, he can feel her restlessness like it’s his own. Her wide eyes betray her thoughts when, without words she tells him, this is so boring.

He chuckles under his breath, meeting her gaze with the minute raise of his brows, an unspoken agreement passing between them. So boring.

The repetition of the steps continues, though, each run-through blending together into the next. Charles and Chris share more glances, continue to communicate the same sentiment of impatience to a point of amusement. In the stolen moments, he finds solace in the connection, a reminder that even the most orchestrated events can’t stifle their shared sense of humor.

As the rehearsal finally drew to a close, the sun dipped below the horizon casting a warm, golden hue over the gathering. The group dispersed, heading towards the dinner that awaited them.

When Charles catches up to Chris, she’s talking with the best man—Ryan, who the wedding planner kept asking to take this a bit more seriously. He seems nice enough, brother-y enough. Charles thinks he probably has a few good stories about Chris, even more about Chase.

“Everyone always thought we had a thing going,” Chris tells him after the introduction has finished, while the two of them wait at the bar for their drinks.

His brows raise, leaning back off the bar to scan the room for the guy. “Do you want me to be jealous?” He asks, lets his hand rest on the small of her back, thumb moving smoothly against the fabric of her top.

“No,” she says, but the smile on her lips tells him she’d be entertained by the sight of a jealous version of him. “I just didn’t want you to hear it from someone else this weekend.”

He nods, picking up the drink that’s set down in front of him/ “Well, did you?” He asks, taking a swig of the dark liquor.

“Did I what?” Chris asks, moving her drink closer to her, stirring it with a little black straw.

“Did you guys date?”

“Oh,” she shakes her head. “Never.”

Charles nods. “Shame, I was going to put on a show.”

The welcome party kicks into full swing after the satisfying sit-down meal. Laughter and chatter fill the rustic barn, the air buzzing with the lively energy of the gathering, of the weekend. Charles, having eaten the entirety of his dinner earlier, finds himself following Chris as she seamlessly navigates the crowd.

The burger truck, stationed at the edge of the venue, offered a tempting array of late-night treats. The scene of grilled meat wafted through the air, enticing those who weren’t around for the earlier, intimate dinner.

The barn was alive with the murmur of voices, the clinking of glasses, the bursts of laughter. It seems like a million people fill the space, a million strangers—a mix of extended family and friends and coworkers and distant relatives and even distant-er friends. For him, all of these faces are unfamiliar, and he relies on Chris like a lifeline to guide him through most of the interactions.

She effortlessly leads the way, introducing him with a warmth that mirrors her nature of being. She moves through the place like she owned it, with a grace that seems to come naturally to her, connecting with friends and family alike. Everyone seems thrilled to see her, absolutely beside themselves. He understands them, even if he doesn’t know them, and observes with quiet admiration her ability to make everyone feel at ease.

She seems to flourish in social settings, her personality shining brightly. She greets old friends with hugs, shares jokes with cousins, compliments grandparents’ outfits, and introduces him to each and every one of them, punctuates every interaction with her infectious laughter.

He’s always felt like he’s more of a one-on-one guy, that his connections are better made independently rather than in groups. Chris, though, could lead a crowd anywhere with this unwavering confidence. She doesn’t make a single misstep all night, navigating the whole evening perfectly, makes an evening he’d spent the majority of outside his comfort zone anything but unsettling. With her, his words feel valued, important, intelligent. He’s content to be her partner in social settings longer than anyone should be.

It’s long past midnight when they finally get back to her house, the fatigue of the day well-settled on their skin, casting a convincing sleeping spell that made the prospect of a comfortable bed a welcomed one.

The house is silent, the hush of the night hugging them as they reach the bedroom, the weariness of their bones palpable. Anything but falling into the comforter seems like quite the ambitious endeavor.

The comfort of the sheets cradles them as they sink into the mattress, a shared haven offering respite from the busy weekend. “Next time I come here,” Charles yawns, the effort of the evening present in his voice, “we are doing nothing.”

She must be more drained, he thinks, she’d worked almost a whole day before this, but contently, she responds with a gentle hum, snuggled up close to him. “Mmm,” she murmured. “Perfect.” The simplicity of doing nothing seems like the perfect plan, a promise of unhurried moments and the luxury of just being together. He wants more of that. He wants more of her.

– – –

He wakes up for the first time that morning, if you can really call it waking up, to the shift of the bed as she climbs out of it. He doesn’t check the clock, doesn’t even hear more than the creak of the floor before he’s back asleep. He wakes up for the second time, and you still probably can’t call it that, to her standing over him, fingers running through his hair. She gives him a kiss and comments on something he can’t hear through sleep.

The third time he wakes up that morning, it’s to the ringing of his phone on the bedside table. Her name is on the screen, a photo of her grinning in front of a statue in Monaco and holding a thumbs-up. 8:34, his phone reads. The sun is shining in through the opening in the curtains.

She’d forgotten the steamer on the living room coffee table when one of the other bridesmaids picked her up two hours earlier. He says he’ll bring it, asks if the girls want coffee, swears he remembers her order. She texts him the other three girls’ orders. Within the hour, he’s riding with the wedding planner on a golf cart from the parking lot to the bridal suite with four long-winded coffees in one hand and a steamer in the other.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting when he walked into the bridal suite, but it wasn’t what he found. The chaos hangs in the air like a sweet perfume. He weaves between makeup artists, hair stylists, and bridesmaids to find Chris, talking with Hannah and a makeup artist about what’s about to be painted onto the bride-to-be’s face, fulfilling her maid-of-honor duties.

Chris looks up quickly to scan the room, eyes landing on him and immediately returning to the conversation at hand before doing a double-take, a heavy sigh leaving her lips when she recognizes him and the objects he carries.

“Hey,” she greets, takes the steamer from his hand and kisses him. “You’re a lifesaver, thank you,” and she kisses him again. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he laughs, pulls a coffee out of the cardboard cup holder and hands it to her. “Your hot dirty chai with one shot of espresso, oat milk, and salted caramel.”

“A man after my heart,” she says, taking a sip of the drink. He winks—anything more and he’d blush bright red—and continues reading the orders off.

“Brown sugar oat milk latte with blonde espresso for Hannah,” he says, pulling it out and handing it to the blonde and pulling out the next one. “This is the… Iced matcha latte with soy milk and strawberry cold foam, and the…” he holds up the cupholder, one drink left in it, “Caramel brûlée latte.”

The groom’s house—which is where he’s affectionately sent to after the coffee delivery—is a direct contrast to the bridal suite. College football plays on the television, the cheers and groans of the game providing a lively soundtrack to the prelude of the wedding. The girls were all half-ready, but the guys are still shoveling breakfast foods into their mouths on the leather sofa.

Noon arrives, and with it the collective decision that it was time to actually start getting ready for the wedding. Chase and his groomsmen needed to be ready for pictures at three, which meant that Charles and the rest of the bridesmaid’s boyfriends needed to be ready to be anywhere but the groom’s house at three.

Between the laughter and the beers and the arguing over the best way to iron a shirt, there’s a knock on the door. He doesn’t even bother to look who it is, assumes it’s a relative of some sort. When Ryan, the never-had-a-thing, you-don’t-need-to-be-jealous Best Man has a hand on his shoulder, telling him “Chris is outside, she wants to talk to you,” he meets the guy with furrowed brows.

He finds her just where Ryan said she was, pacing outside on the concrete patio, ready head-to-toe for the wedding procession. He can’t help but be struck by her beauty, the way the delicate fabric of her dress accentuates her figure, the way the color complimented the glow of her skin perfectly. Her hair is pulled back off her face, revealing the curve of her neck, her subtle makeup highlighting her features.

He feels like he’s seen her a million times by now, in a million different ways, but there was something almost ethereal… angelic about her in this moment. The nerves in her eyes and the tension in her shoulders only add to the charm, make her feel more real, more human.

He’s never looked at her and thought she wasn’t beautiful, but there are moments where he’s particularly struck by her allure. This is one of them.

As soon as she lays eyes on him, her words rush out in a torrent. No hello, no pleasantries, just— “I’m freaking out, Charles. This speech… I’m just. I’m terrified I’m going to mess it up.”

“You’re not going to mess it up,” he promises. He’s heard Chris’ maid-of-honor speech probably a dozen times by now, and she’s a different level of nervous every time. This might be the most nervous he’s seen her about it, though. “Can you… can you listen to it, please?”

He nods, his gaze steadying her shaky one. “Of course, let’s hear it.”

She unfolds the tiny, half-crumpled piece of paper out and delves into her speech. He focuses on her words, the genuine affection and admiration for Hannah present in each and every syllable. When she finishes, she meets his eyes, a mix of hope and anxiety in hers.

“Well?” She asked, her lip caught between her teeth.

Charles smiles. “It’s amazing. You are going to do great.”

“Are you sure? Because the part where I talk about Colorado—”

Charles shakes his head, puts his hands on her shoulders. “It’s perfect,” he says, gives her a quick kiss. “You’re perfect.”

She sighs, relief visibly washing away the tension. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He grins, “You would still do great. But I’m here anytime you need it.” She gives him a quick hug, and he can feel the gratitude seeping through the squeeze, so he makes it last just that moment longer. He just, he gets such a surge of pride that he gets to call her his, that he’s lucky enough to call her his girlfriend. “Go knock ‘em dead,” he laughs.

When three o’clock finally does roll around, the wedding party separates to head off for pictures, and Charles, along with the other significant others, joins the convoy heading down to the ceremony space. The excitement among the group was palpable, everyone connected in some way to Hannah and Chase’s love story, ready to witness and be a part of their union.

The ceremony starts at four, and hell if he can’t stop catching Chris’ eyes the entire time. He doesn’t think he’s ever enjoyed a wedding quite like he’s enjoying this one. Chase and Hannah are lovely, and the officiant’s words resonate with sincerity, but he’s less attuned to the details of the ceremony itself and more absorbed in the captivating spectacle that is Chris.

Her laughter, musical and infectious, is all he hears when the entire place laughs, and her discrete attempts to wipe away tears, to pretend they aren’t falling, melt his heart entirely. Even the way she plays with the ribbon on the bouquets she holds—something so small and trivial, it all captivates him.

He finds himself swept away by a tide of emotions, some messy kaleidoscope of feelings that defy articulation. There’s something magnetic about her, an irresistible urge to kiss her that seems to linger in the back of his mind, always. It’s all lined up for him, a million synchronized harmonies that underscore every interaction.

The changing colors of leaves and the smell of rain on a pine patio, the heartbeat of a conversation, a light in every room. His perception of his own emotions, the way he feels about this fucking woman, it’s so clear it becomes cloudy. Every stolen glance and shared smile is this integral part of their connection, this thing that he can’t let go of.

There’s something so fucking special about her, and he can’t make sense of any of it.

Cocktail hour is at five, and the whole family—everyone at this entire wedding he knows—are off doing ‘golden hour’ pictures. Charles lingers by the bar, stuck to the outskirts like a wallflower.

He’s suddenly hit with a wave of insecurity. It’s not often he’s put somewhere completely on his own like this, almost always has someone he can use as a lifeline if he needs to. Everyone here seems to have known eachother forever, and he feels like an intrusion on their camaraderie, worries that if he does manage up the courage to start a conversation with someone, they won’t understand him, or worse—he won’t understand them.

His social battery is just… it’s drained. It’s been a long couple days of mingling with strangers, of trying to impress everyone. He’s ready to just curl up somewhere with Chris and enjoy the limited time they do get to spend together—alone—this weekend.

Maybe then, with some more fucking time, he could sort out all his nonsensical thoughts. Make some sense of his own feelings.

At the reception, he’s seated at the family table with Bill, Cindy, and Reid. Chandler is there, too, but she and her girlfriend Lex seem about as interested in him as they are the dinner menu. They give him a passing greeting, an introduction, if you can call it that, but content to leave it at that.

They’re only a few feet away from the head table, where Chase, Hannah, and the bridal party are sat. So close, but when you’re as drained as he is, when you’ve been prim and perfectly proper for more hours than you can count, just want to be with the one person around who you don’t need to impress… Chris’ nameplate might as well be a quarter of the way around the world.

There isn’t some big announcement or introduction for the bridal party, they just filter in after the conclusion of pictures with the rest of the family. Chris is one of the last to filter in, and finds that the rest of the bridesmaids and the groomsmen are all settled in their seats. Chris doesn’t head for her seat. Instead, she makes a bee-line for her family table, for Charles, who is scrolling through his phone and nursing what she thinks is Chase’s signature drink.

She sneaks up on him, but he isn’t startled by her arms when they wrap over his shoulders. “Hi,” she greets, leaning over to kiss him. It doesn’t take her but a second to feel how tense he is—it’s in his shoulders, in his kiss, in the way he just keeps spinning the liquid around his glass instead of drinking it. Most of all, it’s in the way she doesn’t get even a hello back, just a focus smile and a kiss. Her brows furrow in concern. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “I’m just tired. It has been a busy couple of days.”

“I know,” she nods in agreement. “I was thinking, we should get super drunk tonight, skip brunch tomorrow, and then do nothing all day. What do you think?”

He laughs, and she feels the vibrations in her hands. “Deal,” he says, holding out his hand to shake on it right as the DJ comes over the microphone. Ladies and Gentleman, Chris’ eyes go wide, practically death-dropping into a squat so quickly she nearly loses her balance in her heels. Charles laughs, but she doesn’t miss his hand reaching out to steady her. If I can direct your attention to the barn door, let’s all give a warm welcome to the reason we’re all here tonight. I’m pleased to introduce for the very first time as husband and wife, Mr. and Mrs. Elliott! Even from her squatted position, she still claps and cheers for Chase and Hannah.

As the clapping dies down, the instrumental of their first dance song transitions in. She shifts on her feet, from one heel to the other, and thinks about how graceful she would have to be to attempt to slip her shoes off in her current position. When she looks to Charles, she’s met with the clearest what-the-heck-are-you-doing look she’s ever been on the receiving end of, and a nod that all but picks her up and puts her in his lap itself. His arms slip around her waist lazily, like it’s where they’re supposed to belong, like a magnet pulling itself to the fridge.

As their first dance song starts, as Chase and Hannah sway around the dance floor as husband and wife, Charles places a soft kiss into her exposed shoulder. The warmth of his lips sends a chill up her spine. “Are you cold?” He whispers, and she shakes her head even though she’s been chilly since she put the dress on that morning—who the heck chooses one-shoulder bridesmaid dresses for their outdoor wedding in December? He runs his hands up and down her arms to warm her up with the friction. “You can have my jacket if you want.”

“I’m okay,” she says.

“Okay.” Another kiss, and then he rests his chin on her shoulder. “Let me know.”

After the first dance, Hannah and Chase give a short welcome speech, thanking everyone for coming to celebrate with them, for making their day so perfect. And then, it’s time to eat.

She offers to pull over a chair and eat with him, and then offers again silently after Bill makes a joke about how we won’t bite him. She doesn’t like to see him like this, so tired, so drained. “I’m good,” he says, “I promise.”

“Okay,” she says, but her return to the head table is hesitant, and she keeps an eye on him the entire meal.

– – –

“For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Chris, and for those of you who do, you probably knew this was coming,” Chris laughs nervously, microphone in sweaty hands. She can’t believe she has to follow Ryan’s speech. He had the whole crowd laughing until they couldn’t breathe. “I’m not one for public speaking, which I know you all find very funny considering my career choice, but when your best friend since the oh-so tender age of seven is getting married, you throw caution to the wind.”

She looks at Charles, but has to look away quickly. Just imagine me in my underwear, he’d told her before she got up here. She can’t do that. She can’t look at Hannah or Chase, either, though, or else she’ll burst into tears. So, she just looks at the piece of paper in her hand.

“So, let’s talk about Hannah. We’ve been through it all together, from the back of a Sunday school class at Grace Haven where two little girls made their first friend, to hiding from customers in the kitchen of the Pool Room listening to Mr. Gordon tell us about his ‘shine days. We weathered the storms of adolescence, rocked the awkward phase, and somehow managed to make it out on the other side with our sanity intact—well, mostly,” the room chuckles. Hannah laughs, and Chris thinks that maybe she can look at her—she can’t, can already feel the tears welling, the frog in the back of her throat.

“But,” she cracks, “It’s not about the trials we faced in high school, it’s about the triumph that is happening right now. Chase and Hannah, standing—sitting—here, about to embark on a new chapter of their lives.” Chris turns to the next page of her notes, hand shaky when she does it. “It wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows getting here. Life threw us some curveballs, as it tends to do. But Hannah, she’s a force of nature. She faces challenges head-on, and with the strength of a thousand warriors.”

Chris’ eyes catch Reid, sitting on Bill’s lap next to Charles. He’s not paying any attention, but what four-year-old would? Instead, he’s swinging his legs back and forth, tapping Charles’ knee with the toe of his shoes everytime. Charles takes turns grabbing one of the attacking feet, his eyes unbreaking from her, before letting Reid wiggle it away, laughing softly at the interaction each time. “My best friend became a mom at nineteen, and there wasn’t much about it that was easy. But, like I always do, I watched her rise to the occasion, and I’ve never been prouder. I work with five-year-olds every day, and as similar as Reid is to Chase, he’s his mother’s son, and I would pay a million dollars to have twenty of him in my classroom. And Chase, you were there through all of it. When things got tough, you didn’t run; you stood by her. You became not just the guy she loved, but the rock she could lean on, the partner she deserved.”

Chris nods, continuing. “Some might say they don’t have the most conventional love story. But what is love if not a journey? One that involves bumps and twists and unexpected turns? Chase and Hannah, you’ve proven that love isn’t just for fairytales; it’s for the real, messy, complicated, and beautiful moments of life.”

Chris looks past Hannah, to Chase. It's just as hard to maintain eye contact with him. Harder, maybe, because he looks like he’s about to cry, too. Chris can count on one hand the amount of times she’s seen her brother cry. “Chase, my big brother,” she laughs through a tear.

“Fuck you, dude,” he says back, through an equally tearful laugh. Hannah’s hand runs in circles on his back.

“You are so lucky to have Hannah. Everyone in this room knows that she has this magical quality about her—this remarkable ability to make even the most unlovable people feel like the center of the universe. I’ve seen her do it time and time again, watched her sprinkle her own special kind of magic everywhere she goes.”

“Hannah,” she says, turning fully to face her best friend, abandoning the piece of paper she has memorized and replacing it with Hannah’s hand. “You are my confidante, my partner in crime, my source of strength, and my beacon of light. You are the kind of friend who not only stands by people in the good times, but also holds you up when life gets a little bit wobbly,” Chris feels a single tear fall down her cheek, and then another. She sniffles softly. “Thank you for helping me through the wobbles,” she squeaks. “You’ve been my sister as long as I’ve known you, Han, I’m just glad it’s finally official.”

Chris turns back to address the crowd, raising a glass of champagne to two of her favorite people. “To Hannah and Chase. May your love be modern enough to survive the times, but old-fashioned enough to last forever. Cheers to the messy, the beautiful, and the happily ever after you both so richly deserve.”

Hannah wastes no time enveloping Chris into a bear hug, rocking back and forth on their feet. The lace and tulle from Hannah’s dress scratch against Chris’ arms, but she doesn’t mind. She’s too busy trying not to cry onto the fabric while the rest of the tables clink their glasses to her speech. Chase is next with the hugs, a stupid one that’s stronger than Hannah’s.

“Dude,” he laughs, “you didn’t have to make me cry.”

Chris sniffles. “I love you.”

Chase pauses, squeezes her a little bit tighter. “I love you, too.”

Speeches are followed by the father-daughter and mother-son dances. Chris sneaks back over to the family table during the latter, makes her dad move over into Cindy’s seat so she can sit next to Charles. He has a fresh glass of the same drink from earlier, and is nursing it the same way he did the first one.

“You know,” she says, checking the state of her makeup with her phone’s camera. “You’re going to have to pick up the pace if we’re getting wasted tonight.”

He laughs, the side of his foot bumping against hers under the table. She leans her foot back on the heel of her shoe, toys with the hem of his slacks. “Is that right?” He spins the drink, talks into the bottom of the glass, but she’s not fooled. His ears are red at the simple action.

“Yeah,” she nods. “Let me show you,” and then takes the glass from his hand, downing what’s left without a scowl. It’s dark liquor. She loves the burn.

Chris is like… she reminds him of that battery rabbit. A constant source of energy. She’s practically bouncing off the walls, giddily introducing him to anyone they come across that he doesn’t already know. She’s just so personable, and the buzz she’s gotten from the champagne and the stolen sips of his drinks only make her more lively. She knows everyone here, he’s sure of it, but she could befriend a brick wall if it gave her five minutes.

It’s impossible for even the most sullen people not to feed off her energy—everyone is swallowed up by her laugh, every conversation brightened by her presence. She’s so fun to watch that he wonders if he’s dreamt her up, created a figment of his imagination in the shape of someone just so good. God, she’s good.

They survive the newlywed games and the anniversary dances, even make it all the way to the cake cutting before it becomes an Elliott family party—which, if you didn’t know, is synonymous with a drunken rager. As soon as Hannah swipes a finger full of frosting across Chase’s cheek, it’s game over.

Drinks flow as freely as laughter echoes, and the dance floor is nothing more than a playground for a bunch of drunken idiots. Chris and Hannah, seasoned dance partners, showcase their moves with infectious enthusiasm, dancing the blurry line between elegance and idiocy.

When the music slows, though, she’s always finding her way to him, heavy arms around his neck, his around her waist. If they know the song, they take turns butchering the vocals and giggling until the other person kisses them.

“So, how was my speech?” She asks soberly, swaying along to the tune of some slow song he’s never heard of.

“You made that speech your bitch, baby,” he slurs, even though he has a million and one questions about her speech.

He’d heard it. So many fucking times, he’d heard it, and not once had he heard the ending. He thought he heard the ending—he did hear the ending. It was just different. Shorter. Sweeter. Didn’t put a confused knot in his stomach. Thank you for helping me through my wobbles. A remarkable ability to make even the most unlovable people feel like the center of the universe. He doesn’t want to entertain them as connected, to live in a world where they’re connected.

“You think so?” She beams. He can’t ask when she smiles like that.

“Yeah,” his tongue feels dry in his mouth—cottony. He’s bothered, and he doesn’t understand why. “It was great, very personal.” He shouldn’t let it bother him. It’s a fucking speech at a wedding for people he barely knows. It shouldn’t bother him, it shouldn’t rot his insides, the concept that two sentences could be in any way related to one another. It shouldn’t bother him, really. It does, though. And he can’t stop himself when he’s half-drunk the way he could if he was sober. “Everything you talked about… it’s all you two, huh?”

“Yeah,” Chris nods. “Hannah’s done a lot for me, y’know. I’m sure we’re like you and Joris, just. I cry more than you.”

“Even the, uh…” he clears his throat. “Even the whole thing about, um…”

“Charles,” she laughs, brows furrowed in a way he thinks only he could perceive.

He sighs. “You know that you’re the kind of person who is easy to love, yes?”

She doesn’t look at him when she nods, or when she smiles, or when she kisses him. “I know,” she mumbles, and it’s the most unbelievable thing she’s ever said. The easiest lie he’s ever spotted, but it’s even clearer that she doesn’t want him to push on it, so he doesn’t. He’s smart enough to know when it’s time to just dance with his girlfriend.

– – –

They wake up the next morning disgustingly hungover. Like, stare at the white ceiling for twenty minutes talking about how hungover they are and praying they don’t throw up, hungover. Her ceiling is textured, and the pattern repeats every foot-or-so like it’s been stamped on. That’s how hungover he is.

He showers while she makes them prairie oysters, and despite how absolutely horrifying it looks, sounds, and sells, he manages to find enough trust in her to force it down with a grim scowl. Fuck, it’s disgusting. Horrifically so.

They take an uber out to the wedding venue to retrieve Chris’ car, and she gives directions back to the Dawsonville Pool Room with her eyes half closed, sunglasses over her eyes. Everytime he looks at her he thinks she’s turning green.

The owner recognizes her as soon as they’re walking through the door. Charles doesn’t understand a single fucking word the guy says. Chris orders “two Bully Burgers, but I swear to holy Heaven if you put slaw anywhere near my plate you’re gonna see the Devil, Mr. Gordon.”

He responds in something Charles could technically call English, and Chris shakes her head, a smile pulling on her lips. “I’m serious, he’ll back me up,” she says, thumb pointing to him. “He’s not from around here, you’re just another stranger.”

The greasiest, sloppiest, most mediocre burger he’s ever eaten is put in front of him five minutes later, and he feels like a new man after. Still absolutely strung out and exhausted, yes, but like his stomach is content to stay inside his body.

Later that afternoon, when they’re both half asleep on the couch, some stupid sitcom playing as background nose, he’s still thinking about her fucking speech from the night earlier. It’s still bugging him. “Baby?” he mumbles against the skin of her shoulder. He doesn’t even know if she’s awake to answer.

“Hmm?” She hums.

“We do not have to talk about it if you don’t want to, but. You are a very lovable person, I think.” He couldn’t give any specific examples of what makes him so sure of this fact, he honestly couldn’t. But isn’t that proof enough? That just her being is enough to answer the question.

“Babe,” she stretches against him, speaks through a yawn.

“Sorry,” he says. “Sorry, I just. I don’t know.”

“No, it’s okay. We can talk about it.” She adjusts, if just slightly, so that it’s easier for her to look at him while they speak. “When everyone has the same complaint, all your old friends and old boyfriends tell you that you’re too much or too little, you realize maybe you’re the crazy one.”

He doesn't like that reasoning. He thinks it’s a load of bullshit, actually. “Why do you think of yourself in this way?”

Chris laughs. “It’s fine, really.”

“It’s not,” he says, because he knows it’s a lie.

“It is, because I’ve come to terms with it. I accept it.”

He frowns, hates the way she seems so content with this. Like it’s something that is even kind of rational. It’s not, he knows. He pauses, can’t even come up with something to say to her level of absurdity. “I don’t think you should accept that.”

She turns away, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears, and laughs softly. “I’m sure you don’t.”

“You are not unlovable.” She’s not. She’s not. He knows she’s not. He knows, he knows, because of rain on a pine patio and leaves that change colors. He knows, because if she was unlovable, he wouldn’t love her. And he does, he does love her.

Wait.

“Well, we’ll see. Everyone always sees.”

No, hold on. Wait. His stomach is tangled, flip-flopping and fluttering like every butterfly this side of the Atlantic has suddenly taken up residence in his insides. You don’t love her, you idiot, he thinks. But he does. Fucking… His heart races. He hopes to God, pays to something he’s not sure he believes in that she can’t feel it against his chest. That he can get away with it. “See what?”

She shrugs. “If I knew, nobody would see it,” she laughs. He laughs along, too, but it’s so forced that it sounds like some pre-recorded bit. She’s so casual about all of this that he feels like he needs to pinch himself. It doesn’t make sense, he can’t wrap his mind around it. But Chris, she’s comfortable enough with her bull-fucking-shit ‘facts’ that she can pull her phone out and scroll through it while they wrap up the conversation. “And before you ask, ‘What if I don’t see anything?’ like everyone else but Hannah always asks, nothing happens.”

“Nothing happens?”

She opens her fucking email. He’s in love with her, and she’s opening her fucking email while telling him it’s not possible. “You win, I guess.”

“I win you?”

“I mean, I don’t like to consider myself something that can be won,” she says, and he rolls his eyes. His heart is beating so loud he thinks the neighbors can probably hear it. “But for lack of a better word… sure. You win me.”

He nods. There’s nothing more he can add to the conversation, not now. Not when he’s just ran face-first into a brick wall of I love you. Fuck. Fuck. He’s totally in love with her. What the fuck is he supposed to do now?

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pretty-red-garnet · 8 months

Text

Sparkly Blues

Daryl Dixon x fem! Reader • Pre-apocalypse/Prison • Fluff/Angst

I’m not really sure how I feel about this one. I kept going back and forth about it and deleting parts and then rewriting and blah blah blah. But it took way too long to write, so I’m posting it anyway lol. I hope someone enjoys it. Also! I’m taking requests! So give me some for our love Daryl. <3

You had met Daryl by bartending. You were new to the town and it was the only shit job you could manage to get. You were staying in the small Georgia town to take care of a sick family member, and all the money you could get was needed. Even if the job sucked.

It was the hot spot for the local bikers. The patrons you were forced to deal with were all seedy, loud, and rude. You had to stop a bar fight at least twice a night, and got groped and flirted with at least a thousand times. You had only been there a few weeks and you were about to quit. If you thought your sick aunt could make it back to your home town, you would've packed her up in a second.

But then Daryl showed up, in toe with his rowdy older brother. They sat at the bar, and one flash of his sparkly blue eyes and you were hooked. Your heart did one hard thump and your knees just nearly buckled. Damn he was cute.

"Hey, give us two pints!" His brother demanded, his eyes also blue but lacking the sparkle the younger man had. Lacking what made his eyes so pretty. His were empty and had blown pupils. His demand broke your daze, and you rushed to give them their beers. You smiled lightly at Daryl, who just avoided your eyes. You could just barely see in the dim lighting his face was a little pink.

At closing, you questioned your coworker about the brothers, mostly to learn more about the cute quiet one. She paused her wiping a table to look at you with confused eyes.

"Merle and Daryl? They've been coming for years, they go on hunting trips a lot though. That's why you haven't met them," she explains.

"Sooo... who's the quiet one?" She gives you a questioning look with a brow raised.

"You mean Daryl? Daryl Dixon?" She had asked.

"Is Daryl the really cute one with pretty blue eyes?" She laughed and rolled her eyes. "What? I'm serious!"

"Y/N, he's a Dixon," she said, like that was all the explanation you needed. You raised your brows at her to keep talking, she rolls her eyes. "They're no good. Believe me."

"He seemed plenty nice to me..." you say with a shrug. "Quiet, shy, he even thanked me! I mean I think it's the first 'thank you' I've gotten since I got hired."

"Daryl isn't bad I guess. He doesn't really talk to anyone." You nod and when she stops talking, you nudge her. "Y/N believe me, maybe he was ok today, but he's gotten in his fair share of fight. He doesn't say much, but when he does, it's usually yelling. And he's Merle's brother, who you should really stay away from."

"Damn," you mumble with a sigh. "He's really cute though." She laughed and slapped your shoulder.

"This isn't the place to find boyfriend material." She sighed dramatically and fumbled with something behind the bar. You looked at her with a puzzled expression. "But it is the place to drink!" She slams a hefty bottle on the bar and you laugh.

When the weekend rolls around the Dixons come again. You try to snap yourself out of your daze and do your work, but it's a little hard with the handsome stranger sitting there and your coworker snickering whenever you so much as glanced at him. When closing time came around, you grabbed the wet towel you were cleaning with and snapped her behind with it.

"Can you blame me?! Have you seen his eyes?!" You snapped at her with a red face, but she only laughed even harder.

This little routine continued for another two weeks. Stealing little glances at the man and your friend laughing and poking at you until you were red as a firetruck.

One night though, during a busy Friday night, your friend called out. You were all alone managing both the bar and waitressing as she did. You scurried to the bar from the backroom as you heard a loud ruckus and yelling. And to no one's surprise, it was another bar fight.

This time it was the Dixon brothers against another two biker assholes. Merle against one and Daryl the other. You yelled and shouted at them to stop, but no one was letting up. Daryl was almost underneath the biker he was fighting, and so against your better judgment, you stepped in.

"Alright, alright! Enough!" You shouted and tried grabbing his arm that was just about to wail on Daryl. He looked back just a split second before breaking his arm from your grasp and slamming it back into your face. You immediately stumbled back and onto the floor clutching your head, where he got you with a big metal ring right in the temple.

Finally, an older, more respected biker stepped in. He broke up the fight and shoved the two bikers— who you assumed must've started the fight— out the door.

You reached up a hand and slightly panicked when you pulled your fingers away and saw blood. Your vision was a little blurry and you looked up blearily to who crouched in front of you, only to see the prettiest eyes imaginable.

"You alright?" Daryl asked. You nodded in a daze, but his brows furrowed in concern still.

"Y-yeah. I'm ok." He nodded and reached his hands out to help you up. Even in your state, you can see his knuckles are bloodied and busted.

He helped you to sit on a bar stool before walking off, and you took a quick glance around. It was just about closing time now, so most were gone. All that remained was the older biker that broke up the fight, a few stragglers, and Merle bragging that he won the brawl.

"Everybody out! Come on," Daryl calls out. The stragglers filter out the doors pretty quick, still probably buzzing from the excitement of the fight.

Daryl retuned to you with a little first aid kid. He grabbed a clean wet towel and wiped at the blood on your face. If you weren't still seeing stars, you'd probably be having a conniption right now.

"You gonna fix up the girl, baby brother?" Merle asks with a sickening grin. Daryl just hummed a yes. "Don't come home without getting some tail first!"

"Shut up, man!" Daryl yelled, turning to him. He turned back once he was out the door and his checks were a little flushed.

"You need a hospital?" He asked a moment later, recovered from Merle's obnoxious comment. His tongue was peaking out of his lip in concentration as he puts a little bandage to your cut. Oh boy.

"No, no," you stammer out. Now that you were beginning to recover from your state, you realize you were completely alone with him, and he was helping you. Being all gentle while he wipes your face softly, close to his face, staring into his eyes... this is heaven. "I'm ok. Thanks."

He nods, biting the inside of his lip. He closes the first aid kit and stashed it where it belongs behind the bar.

"'M sorry you got hurt," he mutters. You just give him a small smile.

"It's ok. I know you didn't start the fight." He shuffled back over to you and hovers awkwardly. "And you cleaned me up. Thank you."

"My fault anyway," he says with a shrug. He still didn't meet your eyes.

"Well," you start, but hesitate. Daryl looks at you and waits patiently for you to continue. "I know a way you can repay me. If you really want."

"What's that?" He asks.

"Drive me home?"

From that day forward you and Daryl were somewhat inseparable. He always came to the bar if you knew you were working, sometimes even without Merle which you appreciated. He gave you the creeps, even though Daryl had assured you he wouldn't do anything to you. He also might've threatened to knock him out for you if he ever stepped out of line.

Despite your coworkers concerns, Daryl was pretty perfect— even if a little rough around the edges at times. He was sweet, and while Merle and most of the other bikers looked at you as if you were meat, Daryl always looked at you so genuinely. So sweetly.

He even drove you home most nights now ever since that first night you both really talked. He learned your car broke down, and between your aunt's medical bills and your job's shitty pay, you couldn't get it fixed. Daryl had tried to fix it, but the part you needed was way too pricey. He didn't like that you walked home at almost three in the morning, so he drove you after every shift. Even if he didn't hang out at the bar that night.

You were pretty positive Daryl was the greatest guy you had ever met. So kind, and attentive, and always doing his best to help you with whatever you needed. Helpful without expecting something in return.

When your aunt eventually died, a few months after being close with Daryl, he was the first one you called. You were in hysterics, and he sped over to the hospital as fast as he could just to hug and hold you.

He stayed with you for days, made your meals, even hunted so you would have fresh meat for him to cook you. But mostly, he stayed by your side like wet on water.

Daryl wasn't the best with comforting people, or really with emotions at all, but he tried. And you always appreciated it. Even if he didn't know what to say, and he'd just hold you tight and let you cry. Or played with your hair when you couldn't sleep. Daryl was better with actions than with words, and you didn't mind a bit.

It was during this time that you knew you didn't just care about him as a good friend, or even as a crush, but was in love with him. You loved how caring and loyal he was, how you were completely comfortable with him and knew you could always rely on him.

"Daryl, I need to tell you something," you murmured, you voice cloudy with tears still. It was only a week after your aunts passing and while you were getting better, you had a really rough day. Memories flashing through your mind and making it nearly impossible to get through your day without breaking down.

"Hm," Daryl hummed. You felt the vibrations in your chest, as he held you close to him and stroked your hair.

"I love you," you said, nuzzling your face in his neck, too scared to see his face. To see that he didn't feel for you that way. Or try to push you away. You couldn't look at him.

Hesitantly, he gently pulled your face away from his neck to look at you. Your eyes were still red and rimmed with tears, which he brushed away with a thumb. You were scared to see rejection, but when you worked up the nerve to look at his face, you saw anything but.

You saw pure love.

"Daryl," you called.

"What?" He said from the other room, shortly before entering the living room where you stood. He was shirtless, wearing only jeans. His hair was still damp from his shower and you took a second to take in the sight before voicing your concerns.

"I don't think you should go on that hunting trip." You looked back to the news, who was reporting about strange serial killings around the country, now hitting Atlanta. They were eating the bodies.

He walked up to stand by you. You looked at him in worry. He smiled and brushed a hand down your face gently.

"That's Atlanta. If anything, me and Merle will be safer from those freaks in the woods," he says and presses his lips to yours to smooth away your worry. "You should come, too."

"I can't." You level him with a serious look. "My coworker is sick with some flu, I'll be taking care of the bar all by myself."

Daryl pushes his face into your neck and lays down kisses on your neck, moving down to your shoulders, then chest. You adore the scratchy feeling of his stubble on your delicate skin.

"Come on," he complains into your chest, and you giggle a little at his whining. "They can close the bar for one goddamn weekend."

"The money doesn't hurt either, Mr. Dixon," you tease. He pulls away to look you in the eye, hands on your hips and that same soft and genuine look on his face that you fell in love with to begin with. And those eyes. Despite all the years you've been with the man, his sparkly blues were still the prettiest thing you've ever seen.

"Fine," he obliges, but he still with a little frown. You wipe it away with a firm peck and a caress to his cheek. His eyes close momentarily, soaking in the feeling, before opening them again. He gazes at you with half lidded eyes, so lovingly and tenderly. "Whatever you say, Mrs. Dixon."

That morning was the last time you'd seen your husband. The flesh eating 'serial killers'—which you now are reanimated corpses— made their way to your small town while he was gone. You tried to stay as long as you could, but soon a herd trying to make their way into your house and you couldn't stay.

You tried to get to where the Dixons were camping, but was too late. They were already gone for god knows how long. And so you moved around, trying to find him. You had no clue where to look, you weren't a tracker like Daryl, but you tried.

You moved through the woods and stayed at cabins you found, or made a little camp with cans on wire surrounding it so you can hear anything coming. Daryl had taught you that, when you stayed at a campground with him once where there were larger animals roaming around.

You missed him.

You missed how he could always ease your worries and calm you down. His gentle touches and soft kisses. How soft he was with you. The way he always looked at you with love and care. You missed all of him.

You're ashamed to think that maybe you'll never find him. Or maybe he only lives in your memories now. Maybe the last time you saw him was truly the last time.

You could still see his eyes in your mind whenever you tried to sleep. You stayed awake most of the time now.

You move around an abandoned gas station. It was your little camp for the moment. It had four walls and the doors held well enough, for now anyway. It's been almost a year of this now. Of moving around trying to find Daryl, with not even a clue. You needed to hunker down for at least a week, you're growing too weak and exhausted.

The gas station was littered with dirt and grime, along with some candy and other snacks that weren't scavenged. Some water bottles were still in the coolers, but barren shelves took up most of the space.

You're moving some of the shelving to the door, hoping that blocking it would keep the monsters out. If they didn't hear or see you, maybe they'll just wander by.

You set up a blanket in the corner and throw your pack down before laying your head on it. You take a deep breath and try to fight the tears. You can't do this anymore. You can't just survive anymore. Is there even a point? Tears burn at your eyes and you close them shut.

You must fall asleep at some point, because when your eyes fly open to voices, it's bright out.

"There's something blocking the door," a woman says, trying in vain to push the doors open. You grab your gun quickly and rush to hide behind some shelving.

"Hang on, let me try," a man says, before you hear more loud screeching from the metal shelves scraping on the floor. You point your gun in front of you, really hoping you don't have to use it.

You hear footsteps, and see light streaming in now that the shelves weren't blocking the sun. Your hands shake a little on the gun.

"Seems clear," the man says. You hold your breath. Maybe they'll just leave. You peak ever so slightly over the shelve to see the two. Ones a Asian guy, and the other is a pretty brunette girl.

"Glenn," she says, and points over to your blanket and pack. "Someone was here."

You slink back down, slowly and carefully. You can hear as the two begin to walk cautiously around the tiny store. The guy—Glenn— begins to walk around the shelf you're hiding behind, so you try to move to block yourself from his sight. But you didn't see the empty can by your foot, and kick it, causing it to roll out in the open. Shit.

"Whoever's back there, come out!" Glenn calls out. "We won't hurt you, just come out slow."

You weight your options in your head, but decide to walk out. They looked put together and well kept, maybe they had some sort of camp? A stable enough place that they wouldn't kill you for a can a beans and a half empty bottle of water?

"Put the gun down," the girl says, flanking you from behind while the man is in front. You oblige, and the gun drops to the floor with a metallic thump. Your heart beats a million miles a second.

"You have a camp?" Glenn asks.

"This is my camp," you answer. Your hands were raised slightly in front of you, not wanting to startle them in any way and end up with a bullet between your eyes.

"What about a group? Are you with anyone?" He asks. He eyes your warily, but they seemed kind. The girl walked out in front of you, her gun in hand but not held up. They didn't seem malicious. Maybe this could work out?

"No, just me," you answer. He and the woman give you a long look.

"We have a camp, answer our questions and we can take you back," the girl says, holstering her weapon. Glenn lowers his but keeps it in his hand. "My names Maggie, and that's Glenn." You nod, and your eyes dance from one to the other. They didn't seem bad, but you can't be too careful nowadays.

"How many walkers have you killed?" Glenn asks.

"I don't know," you say with a shrug. "I've been moving around a lot, so a bunch I guess."

"How many people?" You gulp at his question.

"I shot a guy trying to rob me, not sure if I killed him." The man nods, and you wonder what's going to happen to you. They have a camp, but is it safe? Even if it is, would you go? Daryl could still be out there...

"Our camp is a prison not far, you can come back with us," Maggie says, a kind smile gracing her pretty face. "What's your name?"

"Y/N, Y/N Dixon." The couples eyes fly open, their jaws drop slightly. "What?"

"You wouldn't happen to know a Daryl Dixon, would you?" She asks, and your heart just about burst right out of your chest.

"Yeah, he's my husband," you say, excitedly. Your heart is thumping almost painfully against your ribs. "You know him?"

"Daryl's married?!" Glenn shouts out. Maggie thumps him once on the shoulder and gives him a stern look. "What?"

The whole trip to the prison you thought you were dreaming. Maybe this isn't happening. I'm asleep still. Daryl is gone.... You still tried to hold onto hope, your chest tight and fingers anxiously drumming against your leg.

Maggie and Glenn were sweet, both with matching grins at the idea of yours and Daryl's reunion. They asked questions along the way, how you'd met him and how long you were married. You answered them all happily, almost to the point of tears.

When the car drove up to the prison fences, you looked around in awe. There were animals and crop gardens, kids running around the fields. It was something you never thought you'd see again.

A man opened the fence for you three, and a grey haired woman followed after seeing you step out of the car. The man had a beard and cowboy boots on, and he smiled warmly when he saw you. The woman had a look just as kind.

"Rick, Carol, you'll never guess who this is," Maggie says, a huge smile plastered on her face as she jumped out of the car. They both give you a second glance and look at her a little confused, and the man— Rick— nodded for her to continue. "Daryl's wife."

"Oh!" Carol gasped, a big smile on her face. "So nice to meet you! I've heard so much about you!"

"Only good things I hope," you say. You're still buzzing, and your eyes fly across the field in hope of catching a glance of your husband. Your heart flutters, your knees feel weak, and you still feel this may be a dream. A figment of your imagination.

And then you see him.

Your eyes widen, and with one last glance at your four new friends, you book it towards him. Your feet barely touch the grass as you bolt towards your husband.

"Daryl!" He turns sharply at the sound of your voice. He's half bent over his bike, hands full of grease and grime, and still he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen. He stops in his tracks for just a second before running to meet you in the middle.

You jump into his arms, his grease caked hands rubbing all over you but you couldn't care less. His fingers tremble where they lay on your back. Your face is shoved into his neck and you relish in the feeling of him.

"I thought I lost you I—" he says, cutting himself off, like he couldn't even think of it. "I looked for you everywhere."

"Me too," you say, voice laced with tears. This has to be a dream, it has to be. Your burrow your face even deeper into him and tighten your hold. "I don't want this to be a dream."

"Shh, it's not," he murmurs lovingly in your ear. "I promise, I'm right here."

Tears flow down your face even faster. Negative thoughts still plague your brain. Daryl brushes his hands down your back, up to caress your shoulders, before moving back down to clutch at your hips. His touches become more desperate and clingy. You think he's never going to let you go, you never want him to.

Finally, you muster up the courage to look at him. You slowly peel your face away from his neck. Daryl presses a kiss to your forehead, resting a hand on your cheek softly. You look at him with matching tear stained faces, smiling. Gently, you push his grown out fringe away from his face.

He's smiling, probably the happiest you've ever seen him, even with tear tracks down his pretty face. And when you finally lock eyes with those sparkly blues you've only seen in your dreams for so long, you know he's really there.

#the walking dead #daryl dixon #daryl fanfiction #daryl x you #the walking dead daryl #twd daryl #daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixion x reader #daryl dixon oneshot #daryl x reader #twd

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cloveroctobers · 7 months

Text

OCTOBER PROMPTS 🎃 — 1. Luca

PROMPTS from here + here and I’m using: “I really appreciate that you’re getting into the Halloween spirit, but it’s ten in the morning, please turn off the slasher films so I can eat my breakfast in peace.” + “Pumpkin spiced latte, please.”

A/N: so glad Luca was voted for the most on the poll lol because he’s the only one out of the options I started writing for in the drafts! let’s see if I can keep up with making these short this year 🤭! This is nothing but fluff and a smidge of annoyance — reader on Luca’s nerves just a bit really. Mentions of a classic horror film, that I actually need to go back and watch! I think I watched it once before since I won’t lie I usually watch the more updated versions when it comes to that franchise more so,, although I’m not the biggest fan of the series anyways like dear Luca…don’t drag us too much ⚔️!!!

WARNINGS: Reader being a bum for the day? Luca just wants to eat without background noise? + slight language, oh and pumpkin slander!

*GIF BELONGS TO: @wiha-jun !

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°。

Luca prefers his mornings to be soothing, not filled with screams that can make anyone’s ear drums bleed or have the neighbors in the cul- de-sac sending the coppers right over. He had just gotten back from his morning run around the city, finding you sleeping down on the couch now compared to your shared bed. Which was humorous that you had the energy to climb out of the bed wrapped in mountains of blankets that you kept stored in a woven basket tucked away in the living space; during his absence just to continue your rest on the pale gray sofa.

You barely budged when he announced he was heading out into the damp morning and also repeated the same motion when he’s back, gently bending down to press a kiss to your edges before disappearing upstairs to shower. You’re awake with lidded eyes once he’s arrived downstairs, smelling of fresh mint soap and Olibanum as you’re messing around with the flatscreen on the entertainment center.

“Are you truly awake for the day darling or is it going to be another two to three business days?” Luca jokes on his way by, not expecting what you were going to set the television on.

You’re mocking him, voice still full of sleep, leaving the taller man to chuckle to himself as he heads into the kitchen, searching the fridge around the corner to ponder over what he can whip up. There’s plenty of possibilities as Luca’s eyes scan over what’s stocked in the fridge, finding that’s something he had to do now that you both shared a home together.

He could do cold smoked salmon…putting the protein to good use along with the radish and watercress…yet you were out of cream cheese. He could always ask his favorite critic, brace yourselves, it’s not Luca himself but rather you, what you were feeling like for breakfast but he knew regardless what he prepared you’d probably eat.

Thinking to himself, fingers tapping against the handle of the open fridge, he decides to go for something simple and more festive if you will. So he decides on homemade maple pancakes, without the walnuts since you were allergic and picks the pecans that your grandfather brought over from his pecan tree back in Georgia earlier this year. He’ll fry up some danish bacon with thyme searing the pan—hoping to bring flavor to the pork—or really to basically get rid of it, although it was a kind gesture from a neighbor who learned Luca was in the culinary field—the both of you were not the biggest fans of Denmark’s bacon.

No disrespect of course.

“Hey, want some of this Risalamande?” Luca calls out as you began to get engaged into the film, that’s probably been on for about twenty minutes since Luca takes more time debating on what to eat at home than when he’s out in the city.

Immediately your nose scrunches up as Luca is diving into the colorful rice pudding, leaning against the doorway that leads to the living room and front of the detached home, “Texture, Luca. Come on!”

Luca snorts with a slight roll of his eyes, “Ah, I see I’m getting picky you this morning, yeah?”

A wag of your finger as if it were a wand goes shooting into the air while you respond, “Sssh!”

“Rude.”

Luca spins back into the kitchen with a shake of his head, downing what most would consider a Christmas dessert but he doesn’t care one bit. He’s a man that enjoys eating and Christmas was more of his holiday anyway.

That holds him over long enough and he’s got the comfort of him whisking the dry ingredients together, focus steady on getting just the right mixture before moving onto the wet ingredients. It’s easy work really, which means Luca doesn’t mind making breakfast more than any other meal. It was similar to his own work, yet pastries were more his speed and he often challenged himself to try out new techniques majority of the time, so it wouldn’t always be easy but it was the pleasure in knowing that this is the starting point of your day, which beats a protein bar any way.

Luca uses his hands everyday and yeah it so happened to surprisingly be his weekend off, he didn’t mind keeping his hands busy when it came to breakfast and serving to the person he truly adores.

He’s at the stove, with minutes passing by at ease, his arched brows raising so often when the tempo of the movie begins to picks up. “What are you watching?”

He can’t help but to ask.

“…The Evil Dead, 1981.” He’s shocked he even gets a response from you since you tend to zone out when it comes to media.

Sometimes it was certainly a bad habit. You were an environmental documentary editor so it wasn’t unusual for you to get wrapped up in screens. Yet Luca couldn’t really blame you for that since he got lost in his craft as well; the both of you were working to get better with turning those habits off when together.

…if you don’t count right now that is! There was nothing wrong with being passionate about your interests but it was also always important to prioritize your partner, especially when work was a good chunk of your lives, yet it wasn’t the only thing that mattered. The both of you understood that.

He hums, finding possession films and gory themes weren’t really his thing. He actually has a weak system when it came to those type of horror films or rather blood (passing out from the mere sight fake or not or simply the stench of it is not something Luca was proud to admit) and let’s just say he was glad to not be in the room with you now. Horror really wasn’t your lane either, you were more into sci-fi films whereas Luca loved a good action film or documentary.

You were both each others test subjects, you with his food and him with your edits on your hybrid schedule.

“Come eat,” Luca says after while, the food steaming and filling the house with a sweet, salty and slightly earthy aroma.

He’s wiping his hands off with a rag, which he steps to the center of the kitchen, balling up the used rag to toss with a swift flick of the wrist into the laundry room up ahead. The rag plunks right on the washer and Luca smirks to himself before heading back to the dining table tucked in the corner by the oven. He always sits with his back to the oven because in a sense it’s brings him placidness. It didn’t make much sense to you since you originally thought Luca just wanted the view of the screened in conservatory all to himself but he flirted that you were enough of a view for him. Nonetheless he didn’t really need to explain it to you, if that’s the spot Luca wanted then so be it. You rarely argued about it simply because you could eat out there if you really wanted. He could keep the meaning of sitting with his back to the oven to himself. Perhaps it was his way of putting it behind him for awhile when engaged with you? Who truly knows but you did think about it a bit once you settled into the shared home.

Luca’s pulling himself up to the table, picking up a fork to start plating and clenched his eyes as more screams fill the home.

“I really appreciate that you’re getting into the Halloween spirit, but it’s ten in the morning, please turn off the slasher film so I can eat my breakfast in peace.” Luca calls out to you, after picking up that you were in a lazy mood and not ready to join him at the table.

The film actually gets lower as Luca shoves the pancake into his mouth, beginning to chew the meal as you say back, “pumpkin spiced latte, please.”

Luca questions with his mouth full, “what was that?”

“I’ll join you if there’s a pumpkin spiced latte waiting for me.”

Luca sits back in his chair and swallows, “you don’t even enjoy pumpkin so what are you on about?”

“But it’s fall, Luca.”

Luca pinches the space in between his skinny brows, “…for fucks sake, you’re quite spoiled you know that?”

“I love you.” You sing out while Luca scoffs.

He comments, “You better.”

So now he’s up on his feet again, messing with the olive espresso machine that you still won’t tell him how much you paid for last Christmas, he’ll use the last bit of maple syrup that he had leftover from the pancakes, there’s no pumpkin spice in the flat since he isn’t a big fan of pumpkin flavor either so he uses: 2 teaspoons cinnamon, 1/8 teaspoon nutmeg, 1/8 teaspoon ginger, and 1/8 teaspoon of ground cloves, yet he brought home some pumpkin purée that one of his fall-loving co-workers gave to him; homemade from her mini pumpkin patch in her backyard, he steams the oat milk, mixes the espresso, puree, syrup, spices, and vanilla all together before combining it with the milk. From there he frothed it just for a few seconds to get some foam and finally tops it off with whipped cream and more cinnamon.

Sitting back down, he slides the drink over to your side of the table and before he can call out to you to inform it’s ready, he’s hearing the shuffle of your feet in those ridiculous hot pink fluffy slippers. Luca glances at you and finds you rather cute still in your cozy pj’s and hair a complete mess.

“Your royalty,” Luca bows towards your drink, making you gasp playfully as you approach him, placing a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, “it’s still hot,” he warns as you reach over for the handle of the mug at the same time but you pick it up with ease.

You peek at the latte and then back at him saying, “Shoo,” you wave your hand making Luca frown up at you.

You and these damn hand movements, you should be a conductor like your older sibling instead.

He soon picks up on what else you want, making yourself comfortable right in his lap, making Luca shake his head at you, tangling around you now so he can finish the breakfast but with you in his lap.

You on the other hand werent much of a breakfast person, although you loved a good brunch moment with your mates! but you hardly turned down much of what Luca prepared. He knew you’d get around to the pancakes if you didn’t start picking at his own plate soon.

“How is it?”

You nod, running your tongue over the top of your lip to get rid of the whipped cream, “hmm, now I kinda see what those pumpkin bitches go crazy over.”

Luca chuckles, “do I get to sample?”

“It’s the least I can do,” you tease as you blow on the steam before tipping the mug towards Luca’s lips.

He ends up blowing on it more before sipping and it’s your turn to watch his own opinion before he says it. You can always tell what direction this may go based on the way his eyebrows and eyes move.

“Not half bad if I do say so myself but a smoked butterscotch latte from Café bønne is actually better. I frankly don’t see the hype with this latte.” Luca shrugged with a pinch of his lips in thought before turning his hand back to the bacon.

You groan, “we haven’t been there in ages! We should go there today.”

“Nope, storms coming in this afternoon actually with a chance of power outages which is why you should eat those pancakes sooner than later, love.” Luca explains before adding, “should have gone running with me this morning. I passed by that route today too.” Luca tells you while you take another sip of the latte.

You weren’t aware of any storm coming in but you had to admit that you fell asleep on the news last night after the show you stayed up to watch with Luca went off. It really amazes you how he can stay up late and get up to function the next day. You on the other hand? Had to follow a routine or else you’ll be no good at work, hybrid schedule or not.

“Fine, I guess the shitty pumpkin makes up for it.”

Luca peeks at you mid chew, “Are you insulting my beverage when you asked for it?”

“Never! This definitely gets a 8.5 across the board. So I’ll shut my spoiled self up, babes.”

“Now that’s the spirit.”

A shove to his shoulder makes Luca wink and grin over at you, poking his lips out for a peck, making you aware that he was only teasing you.

Sighing you lean forward to press your lips against his in a chaste kiss, “thanks for breakfast.”

With his free tatted hand, he runs the pad of his thumb against the childhood scar on your kneecap stating with a smile, “anytime, darling.” He says as he peers at you from underneath his eyelashes before tossing in, “Even when you’re being a picky pain in my arse.”

“Welp! Moment’s ruined.” You hopped off Luca’s lap while he tried to latch onto you with a laugh but you swung your hips out of his reach, however not without plunking up his last pancake to take with you.

See!

Luca huffs, sticking his tongue into the side of his cheek before taking your plate with him to follow you into the living room. You’re seated back on the couch and he sits on the opposite end of it, tangling his limbs with yours as you cover each other with the blankets.

“This pancake is delicious.”

“So are yours,” Luca is smug as he eats from your plate now before glancing at the horror film on screen with disgust, then softening his expression as he sets his eyes back on you.

Which leads to the both of you taking turns eating pancakes and sharing the pumpkin latte, making the feel of autumn in the atmosphere sink in with the warmth of each other.

Hours later…you’re laying cuddled up to Luca’s chest on the couch, the rhythm of his chest rising and falling along with his hands clasped together against the small of your back is enough to almost put you to sleep. The wind has picked up now, whistling through the cloudy skies of Copenhagen followed by a harsh patter of rain that can be heard from the ceiling of the living room.

Which is just enough remedy for the both of you while you rest until you suddenly ask, “what did you think of the evil dead?”

Luca almost grimaces before he states, “…I prefer midsommar.”

“I want to debunk that with you but I also want to go back to sleep.”

Luca laughs before nuzzling his cheek against your head, “Fine by me, we have time to get into it later.”

“Over pancakes?”

“Breakfast for dinner? As long as you promise to actually sit at the table with me?”

“There’s no place I’d rather be…and I also want to hear your thoughts on that film. A true Mukbang starring us two, can’t get any better than that, no?”

A smile curls onto Luca’s lips at your excitement, then he speaks, “who’s the audience then?”

“The entities that maybe lurking around this house.”

Luca pops a eye open, “I really don’t like how you just said that. Especially after you had me watching that horrid fucking film.”

“Hey! A lot of horror lovers will definitely drag you for that but don’t worry, I’ll fight anything and anyone that dares to step to my man and that’s on what?”

Luca shakes his head while pretending to think about it, “period? Or whatever it is you say. You’re still a brat for saying that though. I don’t know if you notice but Halloween isn’t until the end of the month.”

“I’m sorry,” you coo squeezing his shoulder, “but Halloween starts as soon as September hits and don’t you forget it you big baby.” You curl your hand from around Luca’s shoulder to squeeze his cheeks together.

“You’re the…baby.” Luca mimics, his cheeks now appearing like a gapping fish due to your actions, “Taking thirty naps a day and being a massive pain in my bum.”

“NAURR,” you exaggerate making Luca lift his brows in annoyance before you continue, “I’m your favorite headache.”

Luca let’s out a sigh, “you’re not wrong.”

“I never am,” you sass before the room goes quiet a bit more—besides the weather outside until you voice your thoughts out loud, “Midsommar though? Really? I wouldn’t put that and Evil Dead in the same category.”

Now it was Luca’s turn to shush you.

⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°。 ⋆༺♱༻⋆。 °⛧ ⛧°

Continue along with my October anthology prompts here.

#the bear #the bear season 2 #the bear s2 #the bear hulu #the bear fx #luca the bear #will poulter #october prompts #Luca the bear x reader #will poulter x reader #queued #Spotify

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ctitan98official · 3 months

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Anonymous: Hi! Can I request the re8 ladies + mia and how they would react to a reader with a southern twang/accent? (I have a horrible southern accent and often get picked on for it lol)

Bruh, sameeee. I’m originally from Georgia. The amount of times my accent has been picked on is astounding. I’ve tried to train myself out of my accent, but that only goes so far. My extended family from Ireland think it’s cute, though. Everyone assumes I’m a dumbass conservative because of it (I’m not. I’m literally a progressive trans woman but way to generalize, lmao). Let’s get into it!

Alcina:

She absolutely thinks it’s charming.

She could listen to you talk for hours.

To be completely honest, though… She thought you would be kind of dumb when she first heard you speak.

She loves to hear you sing as well.

Definitely a fan. She’s met a few Americans in her travels as a Jazz singer, but never anyone with this kind of accent.

Donna:

She thinks it’s very sexy. Especially when you whisper in her ears during… Adult stuff.

She has never heard an accent like this. It makes her knees go weak.

You love when a bit of her Italian accent creeps in, so this is a fair tradeoff.

She just wants to pinch your cheeks sometimes, you are too cute.

Makes you a stetson hat, for sure.

Miranda:

She actually has a bit of a hard time understanding you at first.

Add that to some of the slang from home? She’s… Confused.

Over time, she learns your quirky phrases and gets better at knowing what you’re saying.

Silly birb.

She loves when you drop your voice to a husky whisper and tell her “You’re just about the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen, darlin’.”

Bela:

She is in love with your accent. It’s definitely one of her favorite perks of dating you.

She very much enjoys when you read out loud to her. She gets so wrapped up in your delivery that she could spend hours just listening to you speak and not even know it.

Bela likes to hear you talk about home and the adventures you had before meeting her.

She can never get enough of your voice.

Cassandra:

At first, Cass makes fun of you a bit. An American southern accent in rural Romania? She had never heard anything like it.

She gets over her culture shock when she hears you say certain words. It just makes her spine tingle and she wants more.

Cass asks you to sing her to sleep a few times. Your voice is so soothing.

She can’t hear this accent anywhere else in the village, so she is hyper-aware when you do speak and tries to soak it all up.

Daniela:

She totally gushes over your accent.

She feels like she’s in a romance novel.

Of course Dani thinks your accent is a turn on (She’s a pro at sexualizing things)

She bought you fuckin’ ass-less chaps and a lasso so you could wrangle her and tie her up. You tell Dani no and laugh at her idea. She was disappointed and still wanted you to do it. You eventually gave in.

Mia:

So, I think Mia’s actually from Texas originally, but I might be wrong so don’t quote me on that.

She is an American so she’s kind of used to southern accents and isn’t quite as caught off guard as the other ladies.

She still loves the way you talk, though. It’s so uniquely you and she’s definitely a fan of it.

She loves when you call her pet names like “Babe” or “Sweetheart” with your accent. It makes her melt.

Masterlist

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paintyoureyeswithavividmind · 10 months

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close to home | chapter eleven

plot: this chapter features the first time jump as her and Daryl grow closer on a hunting trip, but find themselves in some trouble

series masterlist

Pairing: Eventual Daryl Dixon x f!reader Word Count: 2,289 Warnings: violence, blood A/N: thanks for reading! (also, the timeline between s3 and s4 always confuses me a bit, so just go with it lol) I am still in recovery after surgery, it went well, so updates might be slow for a little while. I can’t even put my laptop on my stomach lol

It had been weeks since your group took in the people from Woodbury. Things were improving every single day after that. The prison expanded its resources, and everyone chipped in. The courtyard had a dining room awning, and flowers and herbs grew. The front meadow held pigs, horses, and crops. A water pump brought water into the prison daily, and with gas coming in from runs, the generators were running from time to time. Hunting parties brought in a circulation of food to feed everyone. While there wasn’t plenty, there was enough.

Newcomers seemed to come in steadily, and a council was formed. You were offered a seat, and while you wanted to decline it, Michonne and Carol talked you into it. They believed you got a voice after all the help you did. And you were family.

Summer was in full bloom. It was nearly a hundred degrees out daily, and even though you hated the heat, you couldn’t find reasons to hate anything. Not with how happy things have been, not with how happy you’ve been.

In the time you’ve been here, you and Michonne have grown exceptionally close. The two of you joined the group around the same time and went through many of the same motions. But she wasn’t the person you were closest to.

“Hey, you comin’ or what?” Daryl yelled over at you.

Your hair was still damp from the shower you had earlier today, and it dripped down on your gray t-shirt. The shower was probably not the best idea since you started sweating when you stepped out into the Georgia heat.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” You waved him off, walking up to Carol. She handed you a bag full of the needed supplies, and you thanked her before walking over to Carl, sitting at the table. You finally found Tora there, and she meowed when you rubbed behind her ears. “I should’ve known you would’ve stolen her right from me. Little traitor.” You said, lightly flicking the rim of Carl’s hat.

“It’s not my fault she likes me so much,” Carl laughed, feeding her some meat.

You hummed and leaned down, kissing Tora on her head. “You just watch her while I’m gone.” But you didn’t need to worry about that, as Tora took a very quick liking to the boy and bounced back and forth between you and him. He knew all her whistles and commands, and you knew Carl always closely watched the giant cat. Especially since she was so popular with the children.

“Come on, I don’ got all day,” Darl yelled again.

You rolled your eyes as you finally approached him, adjusting the strap on your bag. “Take a chill pill, Daryl. The sun’s only been up twenty minutes. You have all day with me. You don’t gotta rush me outta here,” You replied.

He scuffed, and you laughed at his reaction as you walked over to your jeep. “Come on, we don’t wanna be late,” You said.

***

It was a bit cooler once you and Daryl got to your usual hunting grounds. The trees provided ample shading, but the breeze was still warm, and it was still early. You were a good few miles away from the prison, where the walkers were more spread out and the noise level was quieter. Still, you’d taken out quite a number of them.

Despite the heat, the ground was still a bit damp from the rain last night, and your jeans soaked through as you knelt on the ground, checking the snare traps. It took you and Daryl about twenty minutes to go through the cycle, and you successfully caught three rabbits, four squirrels, and a groundhog. You reset the snares and would come back tomorrow.

You heard a whistle and turned back to Daryl, who pointed toward the ground. Your eyes narrowed, and you walked over, trying to see what it was. “Walker?” You asked.

“Nah, person,” He said.

“How do you know?” You asked.

“You see here,” He pointed, “The footprints are in a line. Ain’ zig zaggin’ all ‘ver the place.” He knelt down and moved some of the leaves away from the trail. “How many?”

You knelt down beside him and looked, taking a few more seconds than he did to come up with an answer. “Just one. Only one set of boot marks.” Daryl nodded in confirmation, and you smiled at him before standing up. “Soon, I’ll be an expert tracker like you,” You said.

“You only been doin’ it a couple weeks, give it a few more years,”

You laughed and swung your bag around, grabbing your canteen of water and taking a sip. “It’s hot out here today,” You said and handed him the water. After he took a sip you put it away. “I bet it’s the end of July,”

“Maybe,” He muttered, looking at another pair of tracks on the ground, “Come ‘ere, check ‘em out,”

You walked over and looked, not recognizing what they were. “Some type of bird?”

“I think wild turkeys, trail goes this way. Look kinda fresh too,”

“Maybe we should follow them if we can catch some and bring them back, that’s fresh eggs during their breeding season, and we can raise a number of them in the meadow or something,” You said, “Maybe depending on how many we find we can kill a couple. Have Thanksgiving in July,” You laughed.

Daryl shook his head and turned, but you caught him smiling before he did.

***

An hour later, you and Daryl were still tracking the turkey tracks when you came across a lake, It was small but crystal clear, and there were plenty of animal tracks around the muddy bank. It was getting warmer, and you’d thrown your hair up in a ponytail.

The trees were forty feet back and the meadow gave a really nice viewpoint of the area around you. You weren’t exactly sure of where you were, other than north of the prison. You didn’t need to say anything to Daryl, you both knew that this was a good place to take a breather and have your breakfast.

“You wanna know what I miss more than anything?” You asked, biting into a well-expired granola bar. You didn’t need to wait for him to answer. “Chocolate chip pancakes. Or waffles. I loved breakfast food. Lots of syrup and butter. So much better than this shit,” You said.

“I liked the grits we found,” He said.

You groaned, “Ugh, I hate that crap. I hate the texture.”

“It’s filling, though,” He countered.

You shrugged your shoulders and leaned back in the grass. The sun was heavy on you, and a part of you wanted to take a swim through the lake. It’d been so long since you’d been swimming. But you only had another hour or so before heading back. The council decided smaller hunting parties wouldn’t go out for long hours at a time. It was too risky after a couple of newbies never came back.

The little break you and Daryl took was enough to make you curl up and go to sleep. Just like everyone else, your sleeping schedule wasn’t what it should be. Days were long, even though life was easier.

“We should get goin’ in a minute,” Daryl said but went against his words and laid back a few feet away from you.

You sighed but didn’t say anything. It was peaceful out here, despite the danger around every tree. Still, it reminded you of when it was just you and Tora. When your days were spent wandering the forest for food and scaling trees to avoid passing walkers. As much as you like your new life with your family and the prison, sometimes you miss the simplicity of when it was just you.

The sky was mostly clear, with only a few white puffy clouds on the canvas. You laughed as one passed and pointed up at it, “That one looks like a bear,”

“Which one?”

You moved a couple inches closer to him and pointed, trying to angle your finger right. “There,”

“Pft, no it ain’,”

You rolled your eyes and sat up. That was when you saw a few wild turkeys by the other side of the lake. “Daryl, the turkeys,”

He sat up immediately and grabbed his crossbow. “Only four, not enough to bring back.”

Your eyes narrowed briefly, “No babies, I wonder what happened to them.” You said. Neither of you needed to say what happened to them. You both knew.

The two of you grabbed your gear and started toward the other side of the lake. Your stomach grumbled at the sight of them, and you felt terrible, but not bad enough. You grabbed Daryl's arm when you got as close as you could to them. “Let me try?”

“Again?”

“Yes, yes, come on. We can’t shoot them, and I need the practice if I’m going to get good at the bow and arrow we found,” You said.

He sighed loudly and handed you the crossbow. You handed him your gun and adjusted the bow in your hand. He’d only let you try a couple of times, and you never could get used to the weight of it. But that bow and arrow was just sitting in your cell at the prison, and you did want to learn it.

“Gotta take the bow out more,” Daryl said to you, “We can do some target practice. Glenn been teachin’ some of the others to shoot. Maybe we’ll go with ‘em?”

You nodded and lifted the bow, repeating the instructions in your head on how to use it. You set your finger on the trigger and waited for a few heartbeats before aiming, then waited again and then fired. The arrow pierced the leg of the animal, and you cringed when you heard its painful clucks. This was the part you hated most about hunting.

“Dammit,” You muttered.

Daryl looked at you, “You’re leanin’, can’ kill it with just a shot yet, it’s okay,”

You sighed and lowered the crossbow while Daryl went to kill the injured bird. The other three scattered off but didn’t go too far. You were entirely disappointed in yourself, and the sound of the turkey in distress only made it worse.

You were just around to tell Daryl he could get the rest when an arm around your throat pulled you backward, and you felt the sharp tip of a knife touch the base of your throat.

“Don’t move,” A deep voice said in your ear.

Daryl turned around with the gun raised at the sound of a new voice. “Let ‘er go,” He said.

A different man came into view with a gun too, and you closed your eyes for a second. You were fucked.

“Nobody’s gotta get hurt,” The man said, “We’re just gonna take your shit, and we’ll be on our way,” The man holding you hostage said. “Drop your weapon, and I won’t slit her throat,”

Your eyes met Daryl’s, and you could see the anger and worry on his face. He was breathing heavily. Slowly he put the gun on the ground.

“Adam, get the bags and the bird,” The man said.

Adam moved to grab the bags, and you quickly pulled his arm away from your throat in the opportunity of your attacker's lack of attention. That quick second of reaction gave you enough time to duck under the arm, pull out your own knife, and slam it into the side of his body. He screamed in pain, and you pulled it out, dropping to the ground to swing your legs. His head hit the ground at the same time as you heard a gunshot, but you didn’t stop.

You drove the knife down into your attacker's arm, and he screamed again, dropping the knife he did have. With his weapon removed, you turned back, ready to throw a knife at Adam, but he was already on the ground.

You barely had time to react before Daryl was on the man, and you grimaced when you heard the sickening crunch of bone as Daryl assaulted the man.

“Daryl!” You yelled, grabbing his arm mid-punch and using all your strength to keep him from beating the man to death.

“He woulda killed ya!” Daryl yelled, pulling his arm free.

“Doesn’t mean we gotta kill him!” You yelled.

“Nah, this asshole is dead,”

“No!” You yelled, trying to shove Daryl off of the unconscious man. “He’s as good as dead as it is. We don’t know if it was just the two of them. We need to go, Daryl, now. Please.” You stressed. You weren’t sure what exactly caused Daryl to stop, but thankfully he did, and he cursed loudly as he stood up.

When he looked at you, his eyes dropped to your arm. “You’re bleedin’,”

You looked down and saw a two-inch gash on your bicep. You hadn’t even felt it. “Crap,” You muttered, immediately putting pressure on the wound. You hadn’t noticed the blood dripping down your arm either.

“We got stuff in the bag,” Daryl grunted and went to get the supplies.

You followed him and watched silently as he quickly cleaned up the cut and put a gauze pad over it. It would have to do until you got home.

“Let’s get out of ‘ere, don’ wanna be ‘ere when he wakes up. I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em,” Daryl cursed.

#daryl x y/n #daryl x reader #daryl fanfiction #daryl dixion x reader #the walking dead daryl

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theteasetwrites · 1 year

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The Dixon Problem

❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader ❧ Era: Season 1 (The Beginning Is the End Is the Beginning series) ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: swearing, mild violence ❧ Word Count: 5k

❧ Summary: Not everyone is happy with the Dixons’ presence in the camp, especially Shane. When things go haywire, the only solution is a compromise, and to let Daryl know you care.

❧ A/N: I realize I’m posting this after a weird little argument over the ethics of zooming in on a man’s crotch but here we are. This is a fanfiction blog, believe it or not. Anyway, here’s another fic set in the same universe as The Beginning (I really like doing these ok), and this one takes place between Chapter 4 and Chapter 5. I really wanted to do some oneshots that would’ve happened before they got together because idk it just seems to cool to read about them before they kissed at the CDC and sort of build up to that. I find it fun to hint at their burgeoning attraction to one another, and how they’re both kind of in denial about their little crushes lol. We all know it was love at first sight. Also I loved writing Daryl fighting with Shane it was so fun. Daryl should’ve punched Shane in the show don’t @ me.

A deep huff escaped your lips as the back of your hand wiped the dripping sweat from your brow. The sun was a few hours from setting, but Georgia summers were unforgiving, and even a setting sun would prove to be dangerous if you didn’t hydrate.

Taking a sip of water from the crinkly plastic bottle, you watched Lori skillfully sew up the rips in one of Shane’s shirts. It was a skill you had neglected, but at one point, you were pretty good with a machine. Hand sewing was something else entirely.

“You’re so good at that,” you said. “How’d you learn?”

Lori smiled as she looked at you, staring in awe. “My mom sewed, my granny sewed, and I wouldn’t be surprised if my great granny sewed, too.”

“That’s sweet… Maybe you could teach me sometime?”

“Sure, but I thought you were trying to get Mr. Crossbow to teach you how to hunt?” She spoke with a crooked smile, on the verge of laughing. You failed to see what was so funny, frankly.

But mostly, you were embarrassed. The warm blush on your cheeks and the butterflies doing somersaults in your belly betrayed you, though you just pretended none of it was there.

“Well, he, uh, said I should learn how to fight first. He said he’d teach me that, though.”

“Oh?”

“Mhm… Why are you laughing?”

Lori lowered her head until her hair covered her face, but you heard a few snorts and giggles from beneath the dark curtain.

“You’re so cute,” she said. “That’s all.”

“Cute? Why am I cute?”

“You just are…” She leaned closer to speak in a quiet voice. “I bet Daryl thinks you’re really cute.”

You scoffed, trying to laugh it off as you awkwardly nudged her shoulder with yours. “Stop. That’s not funny. Not true, either. I think he finds me annoying.”

“Oh, really?” she asked. “What about the little rock he cracked open for you? That doesn’t sound like the actions of a man who’s annoyed.”

That “little rock” was now your prized possession. You had one half, and you’d let Daryl keep the other. It was a simple gesture, but it meant the world to you. That rock was a geode, something your father would’ve added to his extensive collection. Maybe you were thinking too much into it, and maybe it was cliché, but you liked to think that it represented the last beautiful thing in the world. You kept it by your cot, on full display so it was the first thing you saw each morning. Sometimes, the translucent purple shards would catch the new light that streamed through your tent in just the most perfect way.

“He was just being nice,” you said. “Daryl’s… really nice. I mean, he’s a little… grumpy, but he’s got a good heart. I can tell. I wouldn’t have brought him here if I didn’t think so.”

Before Lori could respond with another teasing quip, you both flinched at the sound of Daryl, the man you were just talking, and thinking a little too deeply, about. His voice was raised, one decibel away from being a yell. It sounded like it was coming from the center of camp, near Dale’s RV, so you both jogged over, anxious to see whatever was causing Daryl to yell a series of curse words and a few other words you couldn’t yet make out.

“Stupid cop!” you heard, now getting closer. “Who the hell do ya think you are?! This ain’t Miami Vice.”

You stumbled upon Daryl, with his chest puffed up and his hands moving vigorously along with his hostile words, in some kind of argument with Shane, who only shook his head with his hands on his waist as the bowman hurled insults his way.

“Listen, Dixon,” replied Shane, who was visibly also beginning to lose his temper, “we gotta maintain some order ‘round here. Now, I don’t give a shit ‘bout what you and your white trash redneck brother used to get up to in bumfuck nowhere, but there’s women and kids here, and I don’t want this shit ‘round ‘em.”

Oh, noble Shane, you thought to yourself, but then again, you still had no idea what the men were arguing about, so maybe he had a point. Still, you did take some issue to being compared to a child, but you weren’t about to jump in the middle of a fight between two burly, hotheaded men for the sake of feminism.

“Are you fuckin’ kidding me?! It ain’t nothin’, Merle goes off into the woods to do it! Ain’t no women or children gonna get hurt. You’re just as stupid as you look, Columbo.”

“It ain’t them seein’ the drugs I’m worried about,” Shane replied, getting closer to Daryl until their chests were nearly touching. “It’s you and your ugly ass brother.”

Drugs? You knew Merle had a stash of drugs, including crystal meth, and most others figured it based on, well, everything about him, but you didn’t think Shane would pick a fight with Daryl over it. Maybe Merle himself, but not Daryl. Merle wasn’t even there that day, having taken his turn to go hunting, though he never brought back nearly as much as his brother. You weren’t sure if it was because Merle wasn’t a very good hunter, or because he just didn’t care enough to bring back food for your group, but either way, it was clear which brother was better.

“Man, that’s bullshit,” he replied, narrowing his eyes at Shane. “You wanna see a threat then look in the mirror. There’ll be a big arrogant prick starin’ back at ya.” Daryl punctuated his sentence by shoving the other man backwards, but before Daryl could strut away as he planned, Shane shoved him back.

“Watch yourself,” Daryl warned, voice low and raspy. “I don’t want your pig blood on my hands.”

He tried to brush past Shane, but the man was fuming. He shoved Daryl back once more, knocking him to the ground.

A puff of dirt swallowed his body as you let out a small gasp of disbelief. No one in the group had gotten physical with anyone like this yet. Maybe it was only a matter of time before it happened. After all, a group of several strangers under incredible physical and mental stress in the middle of the end of the world was a recipe for disaster, but you’d hoped it wouldn’t happen so soon.

All you could register was the sound of Daryl’s grunting before he sprung back up to sock Shane across the face, disorienting him. He soon struck back, but Daryl ducked and delivered a blow to Shane’s stomach.

Shane had managed to deliver a few blows of his own, but at this point, all you could focus on was thinking of a way to break them up without getting hurt yourself.

“H-hey!” you shouted out, along with Lori and several other women who’d gathered around, yelling to the men to stop. “Stop it!”

Dale was frantically climbing down the ladder of the RV, then greeted the scene with wide eyes. “Hey, hey! Break it up!” He managed to get his arms between the two of them, but he could only keep Shane back. Daryl even tried to get around Dale so he could deliver one last blow to Shane’s face, but T-Dog came up behind and pinned the enraged man’s arms back.

“Get offa me!” he yelled to T-Dog, then turned his attention back to Shane. “I’m gonna beat your ass, you hear me, bacon bits?!”

Dale stood between them, holding his hands out to keep them both at bay. Their chests swelled with heavy, panting breaths as their faces molded into their own unique scowls. Shane’s was terrifying, much more than Daryl’s. His dark brown eyes didn’t need to narrow at all, they were just as terrifying in their wideness. His mouth wasn’t agape, it was sealed shut as the breaths pumped out of his flared nostrils. He stood completely still, like a ticking time bomb. You’d never been more terrified of the man.

Daryl paced back and forth for a few feet on each side of him, his face much more natural looking, but still enraged. At least you could make some sense of Daryl in his anger. He didn’t send a shiver down your spine like Shane did. Well, and maybe you were a little partial to Daryl now, since he’d shown you kindness. In any case, the awkward silence that permeated the stiff, humid air was excruciating.

“Just calm down,” panted Dale, arms still outstretched between them. “What the hell is going on here?”

Shane huffed before speaking. “I was just tryin’ to have a civil conversation about the drug use goin’ on in this camp.”

“Drug use?” questioned Lori. “No, no way. No drugs, not around the kids. That’s the last thing we need right now.”

Daryl turned to look at Lori, not with anger, but confusion. He seemed troubled, unable to reconcile something in his head. His eyes squinted shut as he wiped his nose, which had just begun to bleed from the punch. He spat a glob of pinkish saliva onto the dirt ground, then turned back to face Shane.

“Talk to Merle,” was all he said. His voice was quieter now, almost timid, but still with an air of defensiveness.

He turned back again, in the direction of his tent. You met his glance for a moment, at which point he seemed to stop in his tracks. His foot backstepped, flashes of blue still on you until they averted to the ground. When he regained his focus, he moved quicker, more determined. Still, his confidence seemed drained after he looked your way, but all you could pay attention to now was Shane, who was walking directly towards you, huffing and puffing.

“What the hell were you thinkin’, bringin’ those meth heads here, huh? You stupid or somethin’? I thought you were some kinda… librarian.” He ended his sentence with a sarcastic chuckle.

Before you could respond, Lori spoke up, and thank God she did. You were still petrified by Shane’s aggression, and Lori knew him from before the fall. Maybe he’d actually listen to her.

“Stop it, Shane,” she scolded in an almost motherly tone. Fitting, since the argument between him and Daryl seemed more like that of children than two grown men in their thirties. “It’s done. No point in arguing about it.”

For your part, you took a moment to collect your thoughts, then spoke to Shane with as much bravado as you could muster. “It’s because of Daryl that we’re not starving to death,” you said.

Dale stepped forward, hand outstretched slightly to gesture towards you. “That’s a good point, but what about the drugs?”

You shook your head profusely. “I don’t know anything about any drugs.” That wasn’t true, you knew Merle was getting high, and that he was a dealer, but that honestly didn’t matter to you much at this point. As far as you were concerned, everything that had ever separated the human race from each other was out the window. Drug addicts were no different from Mormons now. Granted, Merle could be unpredictable, and you hated him, frankly, but Daryl and Merle seemed like a package deal, so you’d have to deal with both of them if your group was to reap the benefits of having a skilled hunter.

Plus, you might’ve fostered a bit of admiration for him. Friendly admiration, of course.

“Well, I just ain’t havin’ no crystal meth in this camp,” replied Shane. “And I’m about this close to killin’ your buddy, so’s as far as I’m concerned, this is your problem to solve if you wanna keep them here.”

Diplomacy wasn’t your strong suit, but if it kept Shane from kicking out the Dixon’s, you’d try your best to find some common ground.

“Compromise,” Dale said with a nod. “(Y/N), you should talk to Daryl, ask him to talk some sense into Merle when he gets back to camp. We give them shelter, they get rid of the drugs.”

It sounded more like an ultimatum than a compromise, but you were perhaps the only person who’d had any meaningful contact with the slightly more tolerable brother, so you put aside your reservations to head to the Dixons’ camp, several yards away from the rest of the group.

He was on one knee as he chopped the head off a squirrel on the sawed log he was using as a butcher block. The sound of the axe slicing through the flesh and digging into the wood was so powerful that you flinched, alerting the hunter to your presence.

Though he didn’t look your way. He simply set aside the axe and continued skinning the creature as if you weren’t there.

“You want a piece of me, too, woman?” he asked. “Whatever you gotta say, I ain’t in the mood.”

You bit your lip as you stood still, thinking of what to say. Daryl was tricky, you knew that. Sometimes he was nice to you, and sometimes he wanted nothing to do with you. No one in the camp knew how to deal with him, really. You only knew a little because you somehow found yourself trying to ingratiate yourself with him, but why? You still weren’t exactly sure.

“May I sit down?” you blurted out, thinking that might be the first step to talking to him.

He looked up at you then, with a suspicious glare.

“Why?”

Just as you were still trying to get used to talking to him, he was still trying to get used to your desire to talk to him in the first place. Why would a woman like you want anything to do with a man like him, anyway? Surely you had an ulterior motive, though he couldn’t deny there was something genuinely kind and soft about your face. Maybe even, dare he say, pretty? Not just physically, though he was painfully aware of that, but through and through, you were quite lovely. Well, that’s how it seemed, anyway.

Merle always said that women couldn’t be trusted, that if they weren’t childlike and dumb, they were manipulative and cunning. Nothing else, nothing in between. Of course, Daryl had a hard time believing that. People weren’t that simple, and Merle’s authority on the topic of women was questionable at best. Still, old habits die hard, and maybe he was just a little skeptical of your intentions. After all, no woman or man had ever shown this much interest in talking to him.

Daryl was, for all intents and purposes, a loser. He still felt like one, though he had to admit, when you brought him to your camp, insisting that your group needed him, he did feel a small sense of real, genuine pride, for the first time in his life. Maybe he had something to offer, something good he could do. Maybe you really wanted him there, and he wasn’t just a loser with a bad temper and a meth head brother.

His deeply ingrained insecurity, though, told him otherwise, and that you were only kind to him because of what he could offer your group, not because you actually appreciated him. But then again, the rest of the group had all but ignored him since he arrived, and you were the one who’d spoken more than five words to him at a time. That had to mean something, right?

“I want to talk to you,” you said simply. “So, can I?”

He chewed his lip as he looked you up and down, as if inspecting you. Wordlessly, he nodded, then lowered his head again to focus on the mutilated squirrel.

As you cleared your throat, you sat yourself on a dinky camping chair across from the fire pit. Both of you were silent for a little while, with only the sounds of flesh tearing from the muscle of the little furry critters Daryl was skinning. You watched with furrowed brows, though at a certain point, you had to stop looking, otherwise you’d get a little woozy, so you lifted your gaze to the top of Daryl’s head, covered in short, choppy brown hair.

Surprisingly, just before you were about to say something, Daryl spoke first. “I ain’t no meth head,” he said abruptly. “I don’t touch that shit.” Not anymore, he thought, but something stopped him. Could it be… embarrassment? Maybe shame. All he knew was there was a part of him that cared what you thought, for some odd reason. He’d trained himself not to give a damn about anything, though it was in his nature to. Why was your presence bringing out his sensitivity? It was a blessing and a curse. It hurts to care, he’d always thought. Nothing good could come of it. He cared once, before he knew how cruel people could be.

“I never said you did.”

“S’what you all think,” he replied. “Y’all think I’m some kinda… stupid redneck bastard.” Wouldn’t be wrong, a voice inside him retorted.

“I don’t think that.”

He finally raised his eyes again, glowering at you. “You will.”

It shouldn’t have hurt you, but it did, just a little bit. “I bet you I won’t.”

He shook his head and stood up to retrieve the red rag that was often dangling from his back pocket. Wiping his hands, he nodded towards you. “What’d ya really come over ‘ere for? They send ya over to kick me out?”

You shook your head immediately. “No, no. Not at all. Just… You need to tell Merle to quit with the drugs.”

Daryl scoffed, almost a laugh. “Askin’ Merle to give up crystal’s like askin’ him to cut off his own hand. ‘Sides, ya don’t think I’ve tried? Ain’t no use in it. Might as well jus’ kick us to the curb ‘cause it ain’t gonna happen.”

His apathy frustrated you, and you let out an exasperated, now quite irritated, puff of air. “So you’d rather live out in the woods by yourselves than in a group, with people who will look out for you?”

“None of these people will look out for me,” he scoffed.

“Well, I would.”

He looked your way again, this time not suspicious, but confused. “Why’d ya bring me and Merle here in the first place? All ya got to show for it is bein’ yelled at and bossed around by that asshole Shane.” He spat the man’s name out in obvious distaste.

“I told you,” you said, “I thought you would be able to help us… And you saved me. I’d be dead right now if it weren’t for you.”

He lowered his head again, busying himself by cleaning between his fingers with the rag in the hopes of distracting you from the obvious blush on his cheeks. When he didn’t respond, you realized you hadn’t asked him a similar question.

“Why’d you save me, anyway?” you asked, your voice a little more quiet, as if afraid of him even hearing it.

After all, you were a complete stranger, why should he have helped you? What you knew from human nature was that people often only helped others if they knew there was something in it for them. True altruism was hard to come by, and often not evolutionarily beneficial. Those who helped others and put themselves in danger often died out before their lineage could carry on. Well, that was your vague memories of anthropology class resurfacing, but it still applied.

Indeed, you yourself hadn’t been acting out of true altruism. You had decided to bring Merle and Daryl into the fold because they were hunters, and they could benefit your group by providing your people sustenance. But Daryl’s motivations were less clear.

He swallowed hard as thought for a moment, himself now forced with the reality of facing that question. Why did he help you?

For the next several moments, he transported himself to that day just a month ago, when he was trudging around in the woods outside Atlanta, listening to Merle ramble on about some drunken memory, a relic of his “glory days” that he seemed unable to forget about. They had no destination, no idea where they were going. They’d tried the refugee center in the city, but that had been overrun about as soon as it was set up. Merle was quite content to rough it, and so was Daryl, so long as there weren’t flesh-eating monsters roaming around.

When he heard the rather faint sound of a woman screaming, somewhere ahead in the maze of aspen trees dotting the humid forest, something in him switched, and though he remembered the muffled sound of Merle’s protesting, all he could hear at the time was the scream getting closer and closer.

Soon he was in a small clearing, setting sight on a decrepit creature. Below it were two squirming legs, belonging to the screaming woman who was just inches away from becoming something’s lunch.

Without hesitation, he lifted his bow to shoot, snagging the creature in the head until it fell less than gracefully onto your chest. Pushing the body off, you faced him, mouth panting and eyes hazy with tears.

He tried to think of what he thought then, but it was difficult to put himself in that position again. He only remembered your face, how scared you were. You seemed so fragile, and yet somehow brave enough to look him in the eye. Most of all, you were peculiar to him, different from anyone or anything he’d seen before. Of course, there was nothing particularly strange looking about you, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. You were just… special, with a calming aura of warmth around you, something he was instinctively drawn to for whatever reason.

So, how was he supposed to explain that? You seemed special, important, warm… Creepy. He knew that would’ve sounded creepy. He was already embarrassed from Shane’s display earlier, and his stomach stung to think of you seeing that cop strike him across the face, to appear weak. Once again, he wondered why he cared in the first place.

He finally settled for a somewhat satisfactory explanation. “S’just what people do.”

Indeed, he would’ve done it for anyone. That wasn’t the issue Daryl struggled with, he knew right from wrong, for the most part. He struggled with understanding why you looked at him the way you did, and why he found himself wanting to keep you safe even after the creature attacking you was long dead.

At least you seemed happy with that answer, as one corner of your lips upturned into a small smile. “Well, I am sure some people wouldn’t have done anything. I’m really grateful… And I really don’t want you to go. Merle… I will put up with him if it means you stay here, but if you could please talk to him, try to get him to at least hide the drugs better and maybe go further away from camp to do it, I’d be even more grateful.”

Though he had no idea how he was going to get Merle to agree to changing anything about himself, he couldn’t deny that you were convincing. Something about your wide, almost pleading eyes. Somehow, making you happy seemed to make him happy, too.

“I’ll try,” he said. “But I ain’t promisin’ anything. Merle don’t care ‘bout what I got to say.”

“Well, he should,” you said as you stood to your feet. “He’s your brother… I have a brother, too. We used to talk all the time, though we sort of lost touch before all this.” You gestured around vaguely, ending your sentence with a small nervous chuckle.

Daryl almost didn’t speak, didn’t want to ask what he was thinking, but the look on your face as your lips began to droop and your eyes became vague made him wonder if maybe you needed to talk about it.

“Where is he?” he asked simply, though he immediately began to regret it when he noticed you shifting awkwardly where you stood. “I mean… I, uh… Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you replied with a shake of your head. “No, it’s fine. He’s, well… I don’t know where he is. Last time we talked he was in Atlanta. Actually, that’s why I was headed there when it happened.”

It seemed to be a universally agreed upon signifier. The fall, the turn, the apocalypse, the plague… Everyone called it something different, but what it all came down to was The End, or The Beginning, depending on who you asked.

“Sorry,” was all he could reply, though he found himself going further, speaking more than he normally would’ve. “Hope he’s all right.”

That meant more to you than anything anyone had ever said to you since the world turned. You hadn’t told anyone about your brother, and you weren’t sure why you decided to tell Daryl, but it felt right. In a world where everything was suddenly wrong, lots of things still felt right, all of which had to do with him. Strange.

“Thank you. I do too. He means a lot to me… I’m sure your brother means a lot to you, too, so I understand why you care so much about him. He’s lucky to have you as a brother.”

If Daryl wasn’t so strangely calmed by your presence in this moment, he might’ve protested to the assertion that Merle meant a lot to him, but he supposed he really did, whether or not Daryl liked it.

As he shifted his shoulders, he raised his hand to scratch his neck, chewing the inside of his bottom lip all the while. The unique little nervous mannerisms he had were already becoming part of your ever-growing encyclopedia of quirks Daryl displayed, and you had to say you found that quite endearing. Indeed, you truly felt that Daryl could become a friend. You wanted him to be a friend.

It reminded you that Daryl spent almost all of his time alone. Whenever Merle was gone or at the edge of camp getting up to his illicit activities, Daryl was by himself. You figured he had to get lonely, and surely the sole company of a man like Merle would eventually drive him insane, even if he was his brother.

“Daryl?” you asked, moving closer as you tried to telepathically direct his gaze up at you.

He did, and a flash of silvery blue eyes that caught little sparkles of light from the sun looked up at you. His eyes were quite deep set and narrow, making them seem at first glance to be cold and uninviting, but that wasn’t really the case at all. Now that you saw them in full view, there was mystery there, something waiting to be revealed. You had a feeling whatever it was, it was something lovely. Your curiosity made you eager to get to the bottom of it.

“Yeah?”

Even the strange softness of his often rough, gravelly voice struck you. As he licked his chapped lips, you found yourself trailing your eyes to his light stubble, sparse on his cheeks but more concentrated around his lips, which weren’t particularly full, but beautifully sculpted as if by delicate, intentional little hands. You found his face much more tolerable than his brother’s. Handsome, even. Perhaps not an A-list Hollywood movie star (certainly no one so clean-cut as Tom Cruise or Brad Pitt, both of whom you had at one point hung posters of on your closet door in the mid-nineties) but he had been blessed with good proportions and a pleasant visage that you only dwelled on for a moment until your subconsciousness took the image into its darkest recesses. The last thing you needed to do today was to admire a man’s physical appearance, though it did tempt you for just a few seconds. Maybe a few more.

“You should really join us for dinner tonight,” you said. “You know, around the fire… Dale’s going to make something special. I have no idea what, he says it’s a surprise.”

When his breath seemed to hitch and his muscles flexed in seemingly anxious response, you quickly tried to explain yourself. “I mean, I know it’s awkward, with the Shane thing… but Shane has watch during dinner tonight. Maybe you can just… talk to me, and Dale, Andrea, Amy, Glenn, Jacqui… We all sort of congregate, talk a little bit. I’m sure they’d like to get to know you more.”

He found himself wondering how to respond, how to tell you that he hated talking, especially to people he hardly knew. Then again, he liked talking to you. That was clear to him.

“Maybe… I dunno.”

Though you didn’t want to pressure him, it was hard not to try to convince him. You were shy sometimes, too, but the older you got, the more you realized that you needed people, and that couldn’t be more evident than right now, when people were hard to come by.

“All we have is each other,” you said. “You told me that the world’s never gonna be like how it was, and you’re right. We should never take people for granted anymore.”

He’d never wrap his head around the way you spoke sometimes, how you could be so articulate and intelligent, and at other times, so high-strung or bubbly or aloof… You were about as hard to read to him as he was to you.

“I’ll try,” was all he replied.

“That’s all that matters.”

When he briefly lurked around the fire that night, exchanging a few brief words with Dale and Andrea (and you, of course), you felt like you’d gotten somewhere further with the temperamental hunter.

He didn’t stay for long, and hardly ate any of Dale’s “mushroom mash,” but it was something, and though the day started with a fight between Shane and Daryl, it ended with the latter feeling just a little more welcome.

Most of all, you had no regrets about bringing Daryl Dixon to your camp. You had a feeling it was the right thing to do.

Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and comments of any kind are always appreciated!

Masterlist

#the walking dead #the beginning series #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon #twd #the walking dead fanfic #daryl dixon fanfic #twd fanfic #norman reedus #norman reedus x reader #norman reedus fanfiction #the beginning oneshot #theteasetwrites oneshot #theteasetwrites fanfiction #theteasetwrites series

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superhero-appreciation-blog · 8 months

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This is a very silly/random idea but I think it would be funny if Tim started making all new aliases based off US states

So for anyone who doesn’t know, one of Tim’s disguises is Caroline Hill (Caroline could be considered a name based off the states N. & S. Carolina)

(Images from Batman #626 & WFA ep 9)

So I think his next alias should be something like Georgie (Georgia) Summers or Mary-Lynn (Maryland) Hodges or Rhode (Rhode Island) Herring or Tex Rowland (don’t judge the last names too harshly please, I cared more about the first names being US states but a step to the left lol) etc etc

Idk I just think it would be a funny ongoing gag

Plus I know I’m not the only one who wants to see more Tim disguises so win win, I think lol

#tim drake #robin #caroline hill #Batman #wayne family adventures #dc comics

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cardierreh15 · 6 months

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Goddess of the Moon

A lil sumn, sumn for Kinktober. (No, I have no special list lol I’m just doing whatever tickles my brain) I hope y’all enjoy! 🧡🤎

***I do not give anyone permission to repost or copy my work!!!

Warnings 18+: Death , Gore , Blood , Monster Fucking 😌 , Cunnilingus , Doggy Style , Size Kink (kind of? He’s pretty fucking massive) , Breeding Kink , Cursing .

Pairing: Werewolf!Walter Marshall x Selene/Goddess (Black!Plus Size Female)

Description: Selene goes on a trip to Minnesota with her friends when something life changing happens.

Word Count: 4.1K

One Shot

She sat in the cold interrogation room, bouncing her knee vigorously as her arms were folded across her chest. She was gently rocking back and forward, her body riddled with goosebumps as she tried to warm up.

Her head snapped up at the door to see two gentlemen walking through. It was then when she felt a strange shift in the room. A different kind of aura. One that reminded her of the horrors of last night.

One of the men was bald and wore glasses. A clean shaven face. He wasn’t as tall and stocky as the other. He looked regular and mundane. But he was decently handsome.

The other stranger was tall with thick messy curls that rested atop his head. He donned a thick beard that seemed to hide the beauty of his features but also, it enhanced them too. He had broad shoulders with big and sturdy arms to match.

‘I-I’m sorry… you said that I could leave Mr. Harper.’

‘I know. And I do apologize just.. hear me out alright?’

Afraid that they’d tell her that she had to stay a little while longer, she held her breath; digging her own nails into her flesh.

‘This is Detective Marshall. He is here to hear your story.’

Just as she thought, she scoffed as tears brimmed her eyes in frustration. ‘I told you guys my story 3 times already! Is this what you do to people?! Continue to torture and traumatize them until there’s nothing left?!’

Detective Marshall glanced over at Commissioner Harper as he tried to piece and put his words together accordingly.

‘I understand Ms. Carson. But we are all under the impression that there is a dangerous murderer around and—‘

‘Wh-Did you not listen to me?!’ Her voice began to crack, ‘There’s no murderer! Just a big…’ she waved her hands around; trying to exaggerate the size of the beast, ‘Humanoid wolf running around killing people! I know what I saw OK? I’m not crazy!’

Commissioner Harper let out a gentle sigh and nodded, ‘You’re right honey. You aren’t. Just let my Detective do his job ok? He is the best at what he does. He just wants to listen.’

Her reddish eyes stung vigorously as she looked over at Detective Marshall before he gave her a gentle nod. His bright cobalt blue eyes were somehow… familiar.

‘Al-alright. I suppose it’s okay.’

Harper let out a silent breath in relief and pat his Detective on the shoulder, ‘Go easy on her.’ He mumbled before walking out of the room.

The room was quiet for a few moments after Harper left the room. He’d placed the clipboard down on the cool metal table and sat down in his seat.

He looked over at her, noticing little details about her that somehow made her familiar to him. The beauty mark above her full lips and another on her left cheek. Then there were her hazel eyes. Deep and dark crevices and patterns made them so unique… and again… very fucking familiar.

He finally spoke up, blinking away ‘I know this is a rough time for you. But you have to tell me what’s going on so I can help you. What is your name?’

She reached over and grabbed a Kleenex tissue and blew her nose. ‘Selene Carson.’

‘Well, it’s nice to meet you Selene. I am dreadfully sorry that it’s under these circumstances. My name is Walter. I understand that you’re not from here, is that correct?’

She nodded slowly as he began to write down on the clipboard. ‘Yes.’

‘OK. What state, City are you from?’

‘Atlanta, Georgia.’ She mumbled as she began to chew the inside of her lip again. A thing she did when she was anxious. Her eyes fell to his hand that gripped the pen as he wrote on the paper.

‘And why’d you come?’

Selene let out a gentle yet shaky sigh as she looked up at the ceiling. She was just so tired of these questions. ‘Year vacation. Every year around my birthday we go somewhere and disconnect. Try to enjoy the little things in life and Mother Nature. It was my idea. To come here.. they didn’t even wanna come here! They—‘ she whipped her tears with her thumb, ‘They wanted to go to Wyoming again. God I should’ve listened.’

Walter looked up at her and a great deal of grief shrouded him. It was like he was going through what she was going through. Feeling her feelings. Something he never experienced before. Not even with his ex-wife.

‘It’s alright, Selene. We’re going to get to the bottom of this I promise.’

She nodded as she sobbed into her tissue.

‘Alright. The stupid questions are over… tell me what happened.’

Selene swallowed her sticky spit in her mouth and sighed, ‘Well…’

***

The girls were sitting around the fire, snuggled up in their thick winter coats as they roasted some marshmallows.

It was quiet for a little moment; they’d just finished a conversation about how things were when they were little girls. All the shit they use to get into and damn near give their parents heart attacks. Now they are all grown up.

Heather was about to marry her boyfriend of 3 years. Adaline had just started her dream career of being a computer Engineer. Kelly had just got a hefty raise at her job and Selene had finally bought her dream house back home in Atlanta.

The girls were literally living their dream lives. And they all had one another…

But soon it’ll be taken away from them.

‘Girls… I know we all had a busy year. And our money has been going elsewhere. But I want y’all to know that I am so grateful that we all made the time to take this trip together.’ Selene smiled softly.

‘Of course girl! You’re our best friend!’ Said Kelly.

‘And it’s your birthday! Just because we’ve taken upon big changes in our lives doesn’t mean that we still can’t make time for one another.’ Adaline added as she reached over and gave her friend a pat on the shoulder.

‘I know. Just —can we all promise.. that we’ll never stop doing this together? That all our traveling will be done within this group?’

The four girls laughed in sync before Heather put her fist out, extending her thumb and pinkie. ‘That’s a promise I can get behind!’

The other three girls extended their right hands and did just the same, wrapping their pinkies into the thumbs of their friends.

After a little while longer of snacking on s’mores and singing silly childhood songs, they all agreed that it was time to hit the sack. They had plans to see the mountains tomorrow at Whale Lake. It was sure to be packed with how gorgeous the weather was going to be.

3 hours later…

Selene was having trouble sleeping. She didn’t know if it was because of the excitement that pumped through her like adrenaline or simply because she never came down from that sugar high.

So she sat up in her tent, checked her phone to see that it along with her AirPods were fully charged.

‘How about a little walk? Maybe one of the girls wants to go with me?’ She said to herself.

Pulling her boots onto her feet, jacket over her back and gloves over her hands, she unzipped her tent and stepped outside.

She was immediately met with the silvery brightness of the moon. ‘Luna… my you are such a beauty tonight.’ She said softly as she placed her hand over her heart. Selene could never understand why she always had this pull towards the moon or anything night related. Other than the fact that she was born at night, nothing else truly made sense.

After sharing such an intimate moment with Luna, she quietly crept over to each tent. And each one had their own snoring song. The girls were out for the count.

‘Well, guess I’m on my own.’ She shrugged as she shoved her AirPods in her ears and ventured into the woods.

Selene walked for what seemed to be hours. She caught pictures of nocturnal animals. Bunnies, some doe and bucks, frogs and just the aesthetic of the woods. With all of the nature walks she’s been on, this was all the basic stuff. She wanted something that would stand out to her! Something she could brag about at brunch tomorrow.

Suddenly, she tripped and fell over a rock as she tried to adjust the brightness on her camera.

‘Oof!’

Luckily, she was able to save herself without injury but not so much her camera. ‘Awwww no!’ She whimpered as she began to scramble up the broken pieces. She kissed her teeth, ‘Dammit! And there goes $3,000. Fuck.’

As she picked up her trash, the glistening snow caught her attention. A pair of large paw prints made a statement in the snow.

The sheer size of it made her heart sink. She saw wolves up close in Colorado at the rehabilitation center. Their paws were owned by pups compared to this monster.

Turning on her phone’s light to help her combat the darkness, a dozen more paw prints circled her. The image made her sick to her stomach. It was here! It was stalking her like prey. Or so she thought.

Her heart began to race in her chest, slowly backing up as she did her best to pull herself together. ‘OK Selene. We’re just going to head back to camp. Pretend like none of this had happened.’

She inhaled and exhaled slowly to help calm herself down. But that’ll mean nothing pretty soon.

Doing her best to clear her mind of the troubling thoughts that she’d seen, Selene walked back towards the camp in a hurry. Her headphones were away for the sake of her own safety.

Suddenly, blood curdling screams echoed through the woods.

Selene dropped the destroyed camera and dashed down the abandoned path in a hurry.

‘HEATHER!’ She called out as she pushed and fought the twigs, and bushes that dared to stand in her way. ‘KELLY! ADALINE!’ No answer.

No matter how fast she ran, she felt as if she wasn’t running fast enough. Because soon enough, the screaming and wailing had come to an eerie stop.

Damn near tumbling down a steep hill, she balanced herself before she fell at the base of it. But she didn’t let that stop her. She pulled herself up and continued to run.

‘KELLY! ADA! HEATHER!! Fuck!’ She cursed as the cool air burned at her lungs and throat. She could barely breathe but she kept fighting.

The brightness of the coals had illuminated the area. And she saw things she never thought she’d witness.

The tents were clawed, splattered and painted with blood and gore.

‘Oh my god…’ she placed a hand on her stomach as her knees grew weak. Tears filled her eyes as they landed on torn pieces of body parts and insides. The cool autumn air smelled of pure iron and blood.

It was then when her insides betrayed her and her stomach began to feel queasy.

Squatting down, she threw up everything she ate and drank. Her palms gripped at the snow as her vile stained it.

***

Selene bounced her knee once again as tears just fell down her face like waterfalls. She kept her eyes away from him, unable to look anyone in the eyes because she just felt so shameful. ‘I—I—…’

‘It’s alright… take your time.’ Walter reassured her. ‘Can you tell me what else happened?’

It was then when she looked over at him. The goosebumps had returned once again when she thought about the events that came afterwards. She then glanced down at the paper, noticing how he’d written just about everything. There was no way anyone would believe this story. Let alone the next part. So she did her best to spare the next part.

But he persisted.

Walter looked down at the paper and then back up at her, ‘I don’t have to write down the next part if you don’t want me to.’

Selene sat there silently before looking away once again.

‘Selene… I promise you can trust me. What you say now, will stay between us.’

Her sad eyes glanced back over at him then, the double sided mirror before she looked at him again. ‘You swear.’

‘Hope to die.’

She swallowed her spit and sat up straight, lacing her cold hands together before resting her upper body atop the table. ‘It didn’t stop there.’

***

Selene slowly picked herself up off the ground, sobbing as she did her best to find her footing. But she just collapsed once again before Heather’s mangled body. ‘He—Heather?! Please!’ She called out for her friend as she gripped at her corpse.

‘HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE! HELP ME!’ She wailed before a soul crushing, realm bending scream erupted from her body. But little did she know… it was more of a call.

She was too busy trying to process the deaths of her beloved friends to notice the rattling of the trees and the stirring of the wind.

When she was able to pull herself together, she pulled her phone out of her pocket to see that it was cracked. ‘Shit.’ She whimpered before tossing it to the side. She then stood up and began to rummage around in their tents to find their phones. Fortunately for her, all of the phones were in great shape… but there was no service.

‘GOD-DAMMIT!’ She screamed as slammed all three of the working phones into the snow. Allowing her anger, sadness and blame take hold, she stomped on the electronics. Damn near turning them into confetti pieces.

‘Oooh this is all my fault! I’m so sorry girls.’ She sobbed. ‘We weren’t even supposed to be here, this is all my fault.’ She cried and sniffed.

After moments to allow herself to grieve, a shift of energy breezed through the air. It caused even her hairs to stand up on her skin beneath her coat. She didn’t feel safe.

Shortly after came a low hungry growl. Then, she felt a hot breath on the back of her neck. She remained still in her spot like a statue.

Her lips trembled as more tears filled her eyes and fell down her icy cheeks. She then closed her eyes as she prepared to meet her maker. But like a fool, she took off running and immediately regretted the idea of doing so.

The beast howled behind her before it began to chase her down. And it didn’t take long! He swiped at her ankles which caused her to fall face front.

Trying to scurry to her feet, the beast grabbed her ankles and yanked her back towards him.

‘NO! NO! PLEASE! NO!’ She hollered as she tried to find anything to hold for leverage. But nothing. Just the snow and the leaves.

When the beast quickly flipped her over, she laid there trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. But she did take in this opportunity to take in all of its details to the best of her ability. Though she couldn’t see the figure clearly, the moon graced him with a silhouette. It had jet black fur, bright blue eyes and an elongated snout. It growled down at her, revealing its large canine teeth before its frightening tongue licked at his grill.

A wolf. If she’d ever seen one. But this wasn’t an ordinary wolf.

Staring up at the creature in fear, she immediately snapped her head away as it leaned in to capture her scent. It’s wet nose tickled her cheek and ear. Then, it nestled itself in her curls.

When the beast pulled away, it howled at the moon. Shivering, she slowly looked up at it once again. Ironic enough, the creature probably has to be the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Suddenly, something about it made her feel… safe. Like it wasn’t there to bring her harm.

The wolf then rests its snout on her lower belly, letting out small songs of howls onto her. It caused her entire body to vibrate. And all she could do was watch until she build up the courage to speak.

‘What— what are you doing?’

Then he began to let out little whimpers as if he were trying to speak. He kept doing this until something distorted rumbled in his chest.

‘Heat. Imprint. Heeeat.’

He began to pant as he placed his paw onto her chest and pressed his weight into her.

‘Unnff! Can’t. Breathe.’ She choked out before he removed his paw and split her coat down the middle with a single claw.

‘Why are you doing this? Please stop this!’

And he clawed at her shirt, revealing her sports bra that held her perky breasts. Then, the tips of his talons grazed all the way down to the middle part of her cargo pants.

‘Heat. Breed. Imprint. Heat.’

He croaked out once again. But, the word breed was off putting. It caused her eyes to grow before she quickly tried to roll over and crawl away. But he used his free hand to grab her wrists and pinned her down.

‘Don’t. move.’

She nodded slowly as he easily shredded her pants to pieces. Then, he nuzzled his snout between her warm thighs. She wanted to kick away but that would just piss him off. So she just laid there, allowing him to do whatever it was that he wanted until this nightmare was all over.

‘So. Warm.’ He growled, ‘Need. Taste.’

Selene began to squirm a little as he spread her thighs and snapped the core of her panties, exposing her delicious flower.

The beast leaned in, huffing and sniffing as her pheromones caused his nerves to tingle. He couldn’t wait any longer. The beast finally rested it’s long tongue against her slit and licked up to her clit. It was a taste test. He wanted to see if she tasted as good as she smelled.

She tasted better.

Selene let out a generous moan as the creature went to work on her pussy. Curling, folding and flicking its tongue for her. ‘Ooh.’ She shuddered out. With the warmth of ecstasy and the being’s body heat, she felt nice and cozy.

Her heart raced in her chest as her mind tried to understand what the hell was going on and why her body just gave in so easily to this being. Her body began to tense up and her toes began to curl as he flicked his massive tongue sloppily against her womanhood.

Her eyebrows tugged into one and her eyes drifted crossed. ‘Aah! Oh my go—‘ The poor girl was so close already. It was as if he knew her body! The things that drove her wild, ‘YES!!’ She cried out, her clit throbbing at the blissful orgasm and abuse. Her small hands clawing at the air above her.

Satisfied with her taste, the beast licked her sticky nectar off of his snout and let out another howl, this time shorter than before. It caused her to jump at the sudden call. Then, he began panting again. He was in dire need.

He released his tight grip on her wrists. Now she was able to see him clearly. He had to be twice her size! He was burly and prodigious as if he were probably the King or a pack leader. Thick dark hair donned his shoulders, arms with a thick patch across his chest. Selene’s eyes roamed from his chest to his abdomen that resembled the torso of a human. It had trapezius and toned muscles. So defined and detailed even in the darkness of the night. Then she noticed the ripped, bloodied shorts he wore. There was no way she was looking at one of the most infamous beasts of all time.

A Werewolf.

He licked along her cheek before pressing his snout into her there. She couldn’t help the giggle that left her lips before she looked over at him.

‘What is your name?’ She asked softly.

He growled before flipping her over on her stomach in a hurry before pulling her up to her knees, snatching off the remaining of the torn fabrics that she wore. ‘Ooh!’ She gasped at the sudden movement.

Looking behind her, she watched as his heavy paws stumped around her. ‘What’s wrong?’ It was then when she noticed his big bushy tail wagging excitedly behind him. ‘How fucking cute!?’ She thought.

He said nothing, just let out a loud huff before his wet nose pressed against the back of her thigh. Behind her, she could hear the tear of thick fabric then a warm heavy member rested on her rump.

‘Smell. Good.’

His nose sniffed along her warm, sepia brown skin. Her scent clouded his brain like a drug. He began to whimper softly as he licked at her shoulder.

No longer frightened to death, Selene closed her eyes as she pressed her back against him. Begging him without using her words. It was strange. She felt like she’d ingested a bunch of Tequila. It made her feel carefree and sexy. What did he do to her?

‘Selene.’

Her eyes flashed open at the sound of her name but before she could react further, he’d began to sink his thick shaft into her pussy. A sharp inhale left her lips as he stretched her to fit himself in. She began to grip the snow beneath her once more, ‘UGH!’ He was massive!

He began to huff and growl once again until he finally nestled within the home inside of her, bottoming out completely. Her toes curled as a familiar numbness shrouded her body. Her nipples hardened, her clit erect and throbbing.

‘Uhhh!’ She wailed as she quickly got adjusted to his enormous size. A few strokes and he was sending her to pound town! Using her body as he saw fit and she was having a damn good time.

Selene’s face grew warm, her eyes rolling back as she took his monstrous cock. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck!’ She mewed out as his large hands held onto her waist tightly, ramming his member into her warm abyss.

She reached behind him, placing her small hand against his lower abdomen. He was so warm, so strong. If she were to end up like her friends after this, what a beautiful death it would be. His sharp claws gently stabbing into her smooth, brown skin. Careful enough not to puncture and rip her to pieces.

At this point, Selene completely forgot about the fact that he actually knew her name.

But that much didn’t matter when such a beauty of a beast was using you like a personal flesh light.

He let out hungry grunts as drool fell from his lips upon her back. ‘Breed. Goddess. Breed. Selene.’

‘Oooh my fucking god yes! Uh huh! Fuck me!’ She begged as he began to pump his hips harder and faster. Her sweet, innocent moans were no more. Instead they were turned into filthy cursing and carnal screams as she came over and over again like a desperate little whore.

Soon enough, his whimpers and grunts became constant and his thrusts became demanding and rugged. He let out an animalistic bark before he settled his dick deep inside of her. Coating her soft, spongy cervix and walls with his cum. He howled as she began to throw her ass back against him. Milking him for every drop.

Finally, when he pulled out his member, he collapsed into the snowy ground, exhausted. But he whispered, ‘Imprint. Breed.’

Trying to catch her own breath, she collapsed right next to him. She couldn’t take her eyes off of him. Partly because he was truly the most magnificent thing she’d ever seen (even though he did murder her friends…) but she couldn’t understand these codes. What was he saying to her?

‘No name… Selene. Imprint.’

***

‘Look you’ve got to believe me OK? Throw me on the damn Lie Detector test! It really happened!’

Walter sat across the room, his eyes glazed over with shock and disbelief. He couldn’t say anything. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe her. In fact, he believed her probably more than anyone else.

‘Uhm… you said he didn’t have a name? Did he say anything else about himself?’

She pressed her lips together, shaking her head, ‘No. Just he kept saying “Breed. Imprint.”. I kept asking what it meant but he just couldn’t seem to put the words together?’

He couldn’t believe his ears. Was it really her?! His Goddess?! Was she really his soulmate, his imprintee? A lot of nights he couldn’t remember things but he remembered this one clear as day!

Walter blinked and looked down as he could hear her moans, begging and pleading in his ears. He cleared his throat before glanced back up at her.

‘Did he— did he say anything else?’

Selene looked over at him, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. She grew defensive, ‘Why?! Ain’t like you’re gonna believe me anyway.’ She looked down into her lap, a somber look upon her gorgeous features.

He looked back up at her and let out a gentle sigh. ‘Selene, I probably believe you more than you believe it yourself.’

It grew quiet for a few more moments before he spoke up again. He had to confirm it for himself. ‘What did he say?’

She bit into her bottom lip before she left out a huff. ‘Mine.’

‘Mine. My Selene.’

It was probably safe to say that Walter was not only spooked but grateful. It was unfortunate what happened to her friends. They were in the way. But he’d never tell her that.

Trying to piece together the words, his heart answered before his mind could.

‘It’s you.’

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