🌌✨High_On_Life✨🌌

Feeling sick? Gotta pee? Could you fake puke? Maybe just sneak away to your room—But before you could settle on anything useful, the bottle neck drifted to a stop.

It pointed straight at Brian.

A loud whistle cut through the room. Toby was sprawled across the loveseat between Natalie and Jack, clearly more drunk than he’d realized or cared to acknowledge. His wonky grin took up the majority of his face as he pointed his finger at Brian like he’d just won the lottery.

Brian stood up slowly, stretching his arms over his head and rolling his shoulders like he had all the time in the world. The picture of calm. Toby scrambled up after him, wobbling on his feet before slinging an arm around Brian’s shoulders and smacking his chest.

“C’mon, man! T-This is perfect,” Toby slurred, grinning at you. “Brian’s a great guy. R-Re-Real stand-up. You should give him a chance, he’s got thh-that whole good guy vibe going on. Suuuuper reliable. Never le-leaves dishes in the sink or n-nothin’!”

Tim, leaning against the wall behind them with a beer in hand, tried (and failed) to hide his grin behind the bottle. His shoulders shook with silent laughter as he watched the whole thing unfold, having to look away to get a grip.

Brian let out a short laugh and pushed Toby off of him with a playful, “Fuck off, kid.”

Toby dramatically stumbled backward and collapsed back onto the loveseat, landing right in Natalie and Jack’s laps. Natalie ruffled his hair while Jack just sighed, all resigned as he took Toby’s legs atop his lap. The rest of the room stumbled into teasing whistles and catcalls. Jeff yelled something crude about Brian finally getting lucky, and Nina clapped like she was watching a sports game, but everybody was slowly turning their attention to you—who was still sitting on the floor, dumbfounded.

Brian ignored all of them. He waved the noise off with one hand and walked over to you, stopping right in front. He held his hand out for you to take with a grin on his face.

“I’m a gentleman,” he made sure to emphasize, “unlike these freaks. You ready?”

You stared at his hand for a second, your nerves wobbling in your chest. It felt more awkward to just sit here and stare at him, so you stomped down your hopes of escape. After a beat, you took his hand.

Brian’s fingers closed around yours. He gave you a gentle tug to help you up, then kept hold of your hand as he led you down the hallway toward the closet. The music got louder behind you as someone, probably Ben, cranked it up again, right before you heard Toby yell something about ‘more beer.’

When you reached the closet door, he opened it for you first, releasing your hand.

“Go on in,” he said easily.

You stepped inside. Brian was right behind you, but just as he moved to follow, he paused like he’d forgotten something.

“Hold on a second,” he told you, leaving the door cracked open. “I’ll be right back.”

You watched him disappear back down the hall. With a sigh, you reached up and tugged the pull chain. The single bulb clicked on, casting a weak yellow glow over everything. The closet was crammed with old coats hanging on the rod and stacks of dusty boxes shoved against the walls. It was tight, but not suffocating, with enough room that you wouldn’t be stepping on each other’s feet.

That wouldn’t make it any less awkward, however.

A moment later, you heard footsteps coming back. Brian reappeared in the doorway, two cold beer necks clutched between his fingers. He stepped inside, ducking slightly under the low frame, and pulled the door shut behind him with a tug. The loud music from the living room instantly dulled to a distant thump.

He held one of the beers out to you with a sheepish smile, showcasing the gap between his teeth.

“Figured we could use these,” he said. “Didn’t want to spend the whole time sober while everyone else is losing their minds out there.”

You took the cold bottle from him, the chill biting pleasantly against your palm. Brian leaned back against the wall across from you, twisting the cap off his own beer with a hiss from the air-tight seal. He took a sip, then looked at you, his eyes giving you a quick up-down.

You gave him a quick once-over as well. Brian was dressed like he always was, but somehow it looked a little nicer tonight, if only because of the lighting—worn jeans, a baggy black t-shirt, and a gray zip-up jacket thrown over top. His usual work boots were on, scuffed and familiar. No mask, though. Nobody was wearing one tonight, which was an extremely pleasant change from the usual Halloween-ish nightmare you all lived in. His short brown-blond hair was a little messy, and the unkempt stubble on his jaw made his already tired, sad-looking eyes seem even more downturned. Still, it worked with the constant grin he was wearing right now—definitely helped along by the alcohol.

You popped the cap off your beer and took a sip. The cold liquid felt nice going down, but the bitter taste made you cringe. Brian must have noticed and let out an amused chuckle.

“Yeah, it’s not great,” he said, taking a sip of his own. “But who drinks for the flavor anyway?”

He leaned back against the wall, looking comfortable even despite the little space. For a moment it was quiet, just the muffled thump of music and distant laughter filtering through the door.

“So,” Brian kept his voice casual, “how’s your night been so far? Besides getting dragged into this whole game, I mean.”

You let out a laugh, shrugging. “It’s been… loud. Before we kicked everyone out, I was mainly just crowd-watching. Other than that, I’ve mostly been trying to stay out of the worst of it.”

Brian nodded, smiling a little. “Smart. I saw Jeff spike the punch with a couple of different things. Not sure what he put in it, but I’m staying far away.” He took another sip, eyes flicking back to you. “Who else have you talked to tonight? Anyone give you trouble?”

It was kind of like he was cataloging what you’d done tonight.

You shook your head. “Not really. Toby tried to get me to shotgun a beer with him, but I managed to dodge that one. Other than that… just floating around, I guess.”

He hummed, “Floating around isn’t bad— Which reminds me.”

Brian cut himself off, reaching around into his back jean pocket. He fished out a small, slim handheld camcorder, tucking his beer against his side as he flipped the screen open and turned it on. You leaned in a little, curious as to what he was doing. The tiny screen lit up, glowing a dim blue across his face.

“Have you been recording all night?” you asked, watching as he tapped through the menu.

Brian nodded, a little mischievous smile pulling at his lips. “Secretly. I like to collect blackmail. Never know when it’ll come in handy.”

He pressed his back against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, legs stretched out in front of him. He pulled his legs to the side to give you room.

“C’mere. Sit with me.”

You hesitated for half a second before sliding down the wall opposite him, knees tucked up against your chest. It felt better sitting like this, more relaxed and less like you were trapped in here. Brian’s calm energy was contagious.

He took a sip from his beer and started flipping through the clips, thumb clicking the side buttons as he searched for something. The screen flashed with blurry moments from the night, and you’d catch familiar faces and rooms, but he’d click onto the next one before you could really register any of them. Brian chuckled under his breath at one clip, then paused immediately on the next.

“Mmh— here,” he said, turning the screen toward you.

You took the camcorder from Brian’s hand, the small device surprisingly heavy for its size. You clicked the play button.

It was Tim.

He was out on the back porch, leaning against the railing with a cigarette between his teeth, just like always. The camera shook a little as Brian’s voice came through the speaker behind the screen, teasing the shorter man.

“Smile for the camera, Timothy.”

Tim turned his head, eyes narrowing with irritation. “Get that thing out of my face.”

Brian’s laugh crackled through. “Relax, man. It’s just for posterity.”

In the background, Jeff and Ben came strolling into frame, both of them already looking pretty gone. Jeff shoulder-checked Tim as he walked past, not even trying to be subtle.

“’Scuse me, old man,” Jeff headed toward the far end of the porch.

Tim grumbled something under his breath, taking a long drag from his cigarette. Jeff set his red Solo cup—probably full of tequila or vodka, knowing him—down on the railing next to him. He and Ben started rolling a joint, laughing about something stupid as they looked out towards the yard and away from their cups.

Brian leaned in closer on the recording, whispering something to Tim that the camera mic didn’t quite catch. Whatever it was, it made Tim’s mouth pull into a grin.

You watched as Tim casually reached over, picked up the ashtray he had sitting on the railing, and tipped it straight into Jeff’s cup. The ashes and cigarette butts settled into the liquor without a sound.

The clip ended with Jeff reaching for his drink, completely oblivious, as Tim and Brian briskly walked away and fumbled the camera off.

You let out a surprised laugh, looking up from the screen. Brian was grinning at you, clearly pleased with himself.

“He drank the whole thing,” he said, his tone warm with amusement. “Didn’t even notice until his entire drink was about gone”

You shook your head, “You two are evil.”

Brian shrugged, “I could always do worse.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can I look at some others?”

Brian nodded, satisfied to sit back and nurse his bottle.

You flipped through the library. There were dozens of short clips—some familiar faces, some you didn’t recognize at all. A lot of them were exactly what you’d expect from a party like this: full of blurry footage of people slamming drinks, someone throwing up into a plant, Jeff doing something stupid. Toby doing something stupid. You skipped past most of those pretty quickly.

Then you landed on one that made you pause. It was Toby.

He was standing in the kitchen, his head tilted back as he chugged a beer straight through the gash in his cheek. At the same time, he was trying to take a shot with his actual mouth. Beer and liquor both spilled messily down his chin and neck while he laughed. You cringed, nose wrinkling at the thought of the taste and the burn he wouldn’t feel.

“Oh my god,” you muttered, moving on to a clip of Kate.

She was curled up in the corner of the dining room, her arms wrapped tightly around Smile Dog like he was a giant stuffed animal. The massive canine looked surprisingly content, his tongue lolling out as she drunkenly scratched behind the husky’s ears. Kate’s voice came through the speaker, slurred and grumpy as it had been earlier.

“Go away, Brian… Leave us alone.”

Brian’s voice filtered through the speaker again. “Kate, you can’t bring him down here. Jeff’s gonna lose his shit if he sees you snuck him out of his room.”

Kate just hugged the dog tighter and flipped Brian off without looking up.

You flipped through a few more clips, skipping until your attention was caught again.

Brian was walking up the stairs, the camera pointed forward as he pushed past a few people crowding the hallway. He reached the bathroom door and tried the handle. It was unlocked. The camera pushed in as the door swung open.

Inside, Jane stood between Nina’s legs, Nina perched on the sink counter. The two of them were kissing, lost in the other and clearly not expecting company. Nina gasped against Jane’s mouth when she heard the door open, then goofily waved at the camera with a tipsy little grin. Jane whipped around and slammed the door shut so hard the camera shook.

Brian’s laugh crackled through the speaker right before the clip cut off.

You looked up at him, eyes wide with shock, but Brian just nodded. “Can’t wait to use that one later,” he grinned.

You let out a stunned laugh and shut the camcorder, handing it back to him. Brian took it and slid it into his back pocket again before draining the rest of his beer in one go.

“I never thought about how many people probably sneak around at parties like this,” you said, still a little amazed. “Or how many weird pairs end up together once everyone gets drunk.”

Brian set his empty bottle on the floor beside him and leaned his head back against the wall, looking at you down the bridge of his nose.

“Yeah. You’d be surprised. People get loose when there’s not a big boss around. All the tension, all the pretending… it comes out eventually.” He gave a shrug. “Sometimes it’s just for the night. Sometimes it sticks around longer than you meant for it to.”

He just eyed your expression as he spoke.

“Doesn’t always make sense,” he added, almost like he was talking to himself. “But that’s half the fun, I guess.”

You leaned your head back against the wall too, letting out a breath as you thought about what he said.

It was funny, really. Tonight felt different. People weren’t just tolerating each other like they usually did for the sake of missions and appearances with Slender. They were actually with the people they liked. EJ, Toby, and Natalie had been glued together all night, moving from room to room together like it was the most natural thing in the world for them. Jeff and Ben hanging out for more than ten minutes without fighting. And then there was Jane and Nina in that clip—which was clearly not their first time.

You let out a laugh.

“What?” Brian grinned.

“Nothing, just… thinking about how many weird pairs there are tonight,” you rambled. “Like, people are really hanging out with who they actually want to be around instead of who they’re forced to work with. It’s kind of nice.”

Brian hummed in agreement.

You kept going, the thought unfolding as you spoke. “And now here we are. You and me. That’s pretty unusual too, right? It could’ve been anyone in here with me. Could’ve been Tim. Or Jeff.” You shivered visibly at the last one and laughed. “God, imagine being stuck in here with him right now.”

Brian sat up a little straighter, keeping his speaking tone level.

“Would you have preferred it to be Jeff?” He kept his expression blank.

You shook your head quickly. “Nah. He’s too full of himself tonight. I don’t think I could’ve had an actual conversation with him without wanting to smack him.”

Brian chuckled at that, leaning back again. “Fair enough.” He then paused, before asking, “Is there anyone else you would’ve preferred it to be?”

You weighed the question for a second, staring at the dusty boxes across from you. Then you looked back at him.

“No,” you said honestly. “This is… nice. A lot less awkward than I thought it was gonna be.”

Brian’s demeanor softened. He looked at you for a long moment, before his tone evened out to a nice hum.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It is.”

You felt your cheeks warm a little and quickly tried to push the feeling down, focusing on picking at the beer label in your hands instead. You went to ask how much time he thought was left when—

A loud slam echoed through the walls, followed immediately by the sharp shatter of glass. The floorboards vibrated under you. It sounded like someone had taken a hard fall.

You went to speak—

Then another slam, this time quickly followed by loud voices and the thumping music cutting off. You sat up straighter. “Should we go check that out?”

Before Brian could answer, two voices rose above the rest—one of them unmistakably Toby’s, which was very loud and very angry. Brian was already climbing to his feet.

“Yeah,” he held out a hand to you, hauling you up when you took it. “Come on.”

The two of you pushed out of the closet and hurried down the hall. The moment you rounded the corner into the living room, the mess became clear. The lamp that used to sit on the coffee table was now in pieces across the floor, shards of glass scattered everywhere across the rug. Playing cards and half-empty bottles were scattered everywhere, like someone had swept an entire game off the table in one angry motion.

You looked left, finding Toby storming toward the front door, his shoulders up and tight, yelling at someone just ahead of him. Whoever it was yelled right back. The rest of the group was already spilling outside after them, the screen door slamming again and again.

You and Brian followed, stepping out into the brisk night air.

The night air hit you immediately, cool and refreshing after the stuffy warmth of the house and the intense amounts of cigarette smoke in the air. At the uproar, the party had migrated onto the front lawn and porch, forming a loose, noisy circle around whatever was happening out in the yard. You stepped down the porch steps with Brian right behind you, both of you pushing through the loose crowd.

In the center of it all stood Toby, his shoulders squared and fists clenched, looking mad as hell. And across from him, of course, was Jeff. Because who else would it be?

Brian came up beside you and let out a long, exhausted groan at the sight. “Every damn time. This kid.”

Before you could say anything, someone else slid up to your other side. You turned to see a worn out looking Tim with an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips, chewing tensely on the filter.

You opened your mouth to ask what happened, but Tim beat you to it, his tone drenched with irritation. “Tell your boy to give me my lighter back.”

Brian chuckled under his breath and reached into his pocket, pulling out the lighter with a sly, “Sorry, man. Must’ve slipped in there.” He handed it over, and Tim snatched it, lighting his cigarette quickly.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke and muttered, “This is the second fight tonight. Christ.”

You glanced between them. “What happened?”

Tim took another long pull from his cigarette, his tired eyes roaming the scene before you. “They were playing King’s Cup. Jeff made some nasty fucking comment about Natalie. Called her Toby’s ‘sleeve,’ said he could show her a much better time and wouldn’t ghost her at the end of the night like Toby does.”

He shook his head, smoke pushing through his nose.

“I watched Toby fly across that table like a goddamn dog. That’s when I told them both to take it outside before they break anything else in the house. If they wanna fight, they can fight out here.”

Brian sighed beside you, running a hand through his hair. “Should’ve known it was gonna end up like this.”

Tim just continued to nurse his cigarette, muttering under his breath, “Idiots.”

Jeff went first.

With a big smile splitting his face, he launched himself at Toby like an animal. The collision was a very heavy thud of bodies hitting each other, then the grass. Toby hit the ground on his back under the weight of Jeff, but he didn’t stay down. Within seconds they were a mess of limbs, fists, and grunts, rolling and scrambling for the upper hand as they slapped and punched at the other.

Jeff got the first real swing in first, clipping Toby’s jaw just enough to make his head snap to the side. Everyone flinched at the sight, but Toby couldn't feel the pain of the impact. Instead, he drove his elbow straight into Jeff’s ribs, shoving hard and fast enough that you heard the impact. Jeff made a shrill noise, like a pained laugh, before grabbing a fistful of Toby’s hoodie and yanking him forward, cracking his forehead into Toby’s nose.

Brian crossed his arms beside you, shaking his head. “Not a smart idea to get into a punching match with a guy who can’t feel your punches,” he muttered dryly.

You nodded, eyes glued to the fight. Toby was landing hits one after the other, sending punches that looked like they should’ve hurt way more than Jeff made them seem like they did. Jeff was faster and more careless, smiling through every hit like the pain fueled him. Blood was already starting to show through a cut above Toby’s eyebrow from Jeff, and a nasty split in Jeff’s lip that had opened and was now dripping down his chin.

It was incredibly interesting to see how they fought now that they were impaired with alcohol and other things. Toby, who tonight had been nothing but a funny drunk, was now the embodiment of hatred. You don’t think you’ve seen his face this dead set on someone before, let alone this passionate about a fight. And Jeff? He just seemed like he was having more fun. All over a stupid comment about a stupid problem.

You scanned the crowd quickly. Natalie was nowhere in sight. At least not near the fight.

“Nat’s not here,” you said quietly.

Brian shrugged. “If somebody called out my weird cookout relationship like that, I probably wouldn’t want to stick around for the fight either.”

He nudged your side with his elbow, then reached into his back pocket and pulled out his camcorder. He held it out to you expectantly.

You lit up a little, rolling your eyes even as you took it. “You’re terrible.”

Still, you flipped it open, turned it on, and angled it discreetly toward the fight, pretending you were just holding it casually. The little screen flickered to life as you started recording. You captured it all. On the lawn, Jeff had finagled his way on top of Toby and was raining down punches. Toby blocked some with his forearms, then suddenly bucked his hips and flipped them over, slamming Jeff into the dirt. He got a solid hit in—a nasty right hook that snapped Jeff’s head to the side and sent blood spraying from his already split lip and now his nose too.

“You talk about her like that again and I’ll cut off your dick and feed it to your mutt.” Toby growled, snarling his teeth.

Jeff just laughed, kicking at the other. “What’s the matter, twitchy? Can’t handle the truth? She deserves better than your defective ass—”

Toby cut off his sentence with a punch to the jaw.

The crowd reacted in waves—some cheering them on, others groaning or shouting for them to stop. You caught Ben and Nina in the crowd, both of them onlooking the fight and cringing every time Jeff got hit. Alternatively, Kate was drunkenly yelling for Toby to smear Jeff’s face on the pavement.

Toby let out a furious shout and shoved Jeff off him with both hands, sending the other boy scrambling backward across the grass. Jeff’s grin never faltered. He shuffled back on his hands until his fingers closed around something on the ground. You couldn’t quite make it out through the camcorder screen at first, but when you looked up, your stomach turned a little in your gut.

Jeff had grabbed a discarded beer bottle someone littered in the yard. In one sharp motion, he smashed it against the ground. Glass shattered, broken shards shooting out into the grass. He rose back to his feet holding the broken neck, the jagged shards pointing outward like a crude knife.

Tim dropped his cigarette from his mouth and stomped it out. “Alright, that’s enough,” he grumbled. “Someone’s gonna end up killed.”

Brian groaned beside you, clearly disappointed that the entertainment was ending. “I wanted to see who wins, though…” He shot you a gapped toothy grin. Tim shot him a withering look instead and started forward. Brian sighed but followed, both of them pushing through the circle of onlookers to break it up.

But the second Jeff saw them coming, his wild eyes lit up as he spun around, brandishing the broken bottle toward Tim and Brian like it was a real weapon.

Toby was panting on the ground, but grabbed a handful on dirt and flung it at the two approaching, “I don’t need your fu-fucking help.”

But when did Tim and Brian listen to anyone but Slender?

Jeff lunged at Brian with the glass, swiping wildly to try and get a hit in. Brian took a last-minute step to the side, grabbing Jeff’s wrist to keep the jagged edge away from his face. At the same time, Toby scrambled up and threw himself at Tim, who cursed loudly as he tried to restrain the boy without hurting the both of them.

You kept the camcorder going.

Toby was swinging at Tim with reckless abandon, screaming something about not needing babysitters. He’d seemingly forgotten about Jeff, who was now trying to stab at Brian, the two of them grappling at each other and trying to get a good hold. Brian was clearly trying to de-escalate while also not getting sliced open, while Tim was using his size to pin Toby down, grumbling the whole time about “goddamn children,” and their “dicks for brains.”

Fiddling with the camera to try and find the zoom button, you felt someone step up beside you and turned your head. EJ looked thoroughly bored by the whole spectacle unfolding before him, seemingly coming from inside the house.

“Where’s Nat?” you asked.

Jack let out a tired grumble. “She ran off somewhere with a bottle of whiskey. Probably doesn’t want to be disturbed right now.”

You nodded, turning your attention back to the fight just in time to see Toby land a solid punch on Tim’s jaw. Tim had been trying to pull him off Jeff, but the hit made him stagger back a step, cursing before he stepped back in.

You glanced at EJ again. “Why aren’t you getting in on this too?”

He grinned, showcasing the sharp points of his teeth. “I fight my own battles.”

You went to laugh, but the sound hadn’t even fully left your mouth before a blur of movement slammed into you from the side. The camcorder flew from your hands, clattering somewhere in the grass. The impact knocked the air straight out of your lungs as your back hit the hard ground. A heavy weight landed on top of you, pinning you down.

You grabbed at the body instinctively—and found yourself staring up at Jeff’s bloodied, grinning face inches from yours.

“Whoops,” his voice sounded hoarse. “Hi, pretty.”

He panted as he hovered above you, droplets of blood sliding down his chin and the front of his shirt. One hand braced beside your head, the other fisted in the front of your shirt from the collision. He looked completely unrepentant—and way too pleased with himself.

You cringed, but were too stunned and out of breath to shove him off of you the way you wanted to. His tangled hair fell like a curtain around his face. “Didn’t mean to knock you over like that,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Though… I’m not complaining about the view.”

You tried to scramble Jeff off of you, shoving at his chest with avail, but before you could get any leverage, Tim’s voice cut through the noise like a whip, “Brian—!”

Behind Jeff’s shoulder, you saw Brian—the picture of absolute hatred. He grabbed a fistful of Jeff’s hair and hauled him upright in one brutal motion, then slammed him down into the dirt in the opposite direction.

You scrambled up as quickly as you could. Jack steadied you with a hand on your arm as you both watched the fight explode into something much messier than what it was previously.

You think Brian might kill him.

He didn’t hold back. His fists came down hard and fast, knuckles cracking against Jeff’s face with wet, ugly sounds. Jeff laughed at first, like he always does, but it soon turned into grunts and curses as Brian kept swinging. Toby and Tim rushed in, trying to pull Brian off, but Brian was furious, locked in on nothing else. He shook them off like they weighed nothing, landing another heavy punch that split Jeff’s cheek open.

You wiped dirt and grass from your clothes, your heart hammering in your chest, when Jeff suddenly snatched the broken beer bottle again. He swung blindly, catching Brian across the shoulder and then the side. Blood immediately soaked through Brian’s shirt, dark stains spreading across the fabric.

You yelled out, cringing at every thunk of fist on flesh.

Eventually Jeff struggled his way out from under the brunet, his nose clearly broken but going completely ignored. He looked feral, if anything.

You watched as EJ moved from his spot next to you.

The tall figure walked straight into the fray, grabbed Jeff by the back of the neck with one large hand, and shoved his head down toward the ground. Jeff struggled, snarling and swinging, but EJ’s strength was undeniable. He held him in place like a disobedient dog, guiding him away from Brian with terrifying ease.

You rushed over to Brian. He was still on one knee, breathing hard, blood seeping through the rips in his clothes. You grabbed his arm and helped pull him up, ducking under his shoulder so he could lean his weight on you.

“I’ve got you,” you said, acting as a crutch while he steadied himself. Brian winced but didn’t complain, one hand pressing against the cut on his side. His face was tight with pain and lingering anger, but he let you support most of his weight.

Around you, the yard was loud with overlapping voices of laughter and conversation, but you couldn’t focus elsewhere at the moment. Tim had finally gotten a solid hold on Toby, who was still whirring with adrenaline and spitting curses. Jack kept Jeff held next to him. He gave Toby and Brian a quick once-over before turning to Tim.

“Take Toby on a walk,” he said firmly. “Get him away from here.”

Tim nodded without argument, grabbing Toby by the back of his hoodie and steering him toward the treeline. Toby was still muttering curses under his breath, but he let himself be led away.

Jack’s gaze shifted to you and Brian. “There are spare bandages and stuff in the laundry room. Take him there. I’ll handle Jeff.”

Jeff immediately started cursing. “The fuck you will, you freak—”

But EJ was already moving, hauling Jeff toward the house without a word. The two of them disappeared inside, Jeff still spitting insults the whole way.

You slipped your arm more securely around Brian’s torso. “Come on.”

Brian winced as you helped him up the porch steps, but he didn’t complain. Halfway across the yard he paused you, bending down with a small groan to scoop up his camcorder from the grass. He tucked it into his pocket.

The house felt strangely quiet after all the yelling outside. You guided Brian down the hall, pushed open the laundry room door, and flipped on the light. The fluorescent bulb buzzed to life overhead as you shut the door behind you, cutting off the distant noise from outside. Brian leaned against the dryer and tried catching his breath. His gray zip-up was dark with blood in a couple places, it having soaked through his shirt now. You turned to the cabinets and started rifling through them, looking for the first aid supplies.

“You alright?” you asked, glancing over your shoulder as you pulled out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and a box of medical wrap and bandages. Brian let out a tired huff and started shrugging off his jacket, wincing when the fabric pulled at the cuts on his shoulder and side.

“I’ve had worse,” he strained. “Jeff’s got a mean swing when he’s pissed, but he’s sloppy. Mostly got my shoulder and side.”

You set the supplies on the counter and turned to look at him properly. The cuts weren’t too deep, but they were bleeding steadily, and bruises were already starting to bloom across his skin. You grabbed a clean towel from one of the shelves and stepped closer. 

“You’re gonna have to take your shirt off,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I can’t clean them properly like this.”

Brian smiled at you, which turned into a chuckle. “If you just wanted to get my shirt off, you could’ve asked nicely.”

You swatted at his arm, your cheeks burning hotter with every second. “Shut up and take it off.”

He obliged with a small hiss of pain, reaching back to pull the black t-shirt over his head. The fabric dragged against the cuts, making him grimace.

Your eyes betrayed you the second the shirt came off.

Brian was… unfairly built. Neat, blond hair dusted across his chest, trailing down over the defined lines of his abs. His shoulders and arms were strong and corded from years of rough work, and a sharp V-line disappearing beneath his belt buckle made your mouth go a little dry. The happy trail that led downward only made it worse. He wasn’t even doing anything, and yet just looking at him felt vulgar.

You had to physically blink yourself out of it before stepping closer.

You pressed the clean towel against the worst of the bleeding on his side. Being this close to him made the already small laundry room feel more cramped than the closet, which definitely had significantly less room. You could feel the heat rolling off his skin, could almost see steam rising where the cool air met his body. The bleeding had mostly slowed, but the cuts were still open enough that they needed covering to prevent any infection. You dabbed carefully, trying to be as gentle as possible.

“Sorry,” you whispered when he groaned.

“It’s okay,” Brian teased. “I can take it. I’m tough.”

You rolled your eyes, but smiled despite yourself. Once the area was as clean as you could get it with the towel, you picked up a rag from the same laundry stack and wetted it with the hydrogen peroxide.

“This might burn,” you warned.

He nodded, tightening his jaw as you pressed the rag to the cuts. He hissed through his teeth but stayed still, one hand gripping the edge of the dryer for support.

You worked in silence for a moment before the question slipped out. “Why did you fight Jeff like that?” you dabbed at a particularly nasty slice on his shoulder.

Brian didn’t answer right away. You glanced up at his face. His gaze was softer now, more focused on your face than on the pain.

“Is it because he fell on me?” you asked quietly. “It was an accident, Brian.”

He shook his head, eyes fixed somewhere above your head now. “It wasn’t.”

You paused, looking up at him. “What do you mean?”

Brian let out a deep breath. “Jeff saw you weren’t looking. He crashed into you on purpose. He knew it would piss me off.”

You blinked, processing his words. Your hand stilled against his side. “Are you… jealous?”

Brian didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted slightly so you could reach the cut under his arm better, ignoring your question. “He hurt you on purpose,” that was the only thing that mattered.

You didn’t push the jealousy question. “Still… nobody else reacted the way you did.”

Brian stayed silent as you finished cleaning the last of the cuts. You tore open a few bandage packets and started placing the squares over the worst ones, smoothing medical tape over them with careful fingers. He moved when you needed him to, lifting his arm or turning slightly without complaint.

When you were almost done, he spoke again, startling you a bit.

“He didn’t hurt you at all, did he?”

You shook your head. “Just knocked me down. I’m fine.”

“I’ll kill him.”

You let out a surprised laugh. “Why are you so mad?”

He didn’t answer.

You pressed another bandage into place, then looked up at him. “You’re dodging my questions. That’s three tonight.”

Brian huffed, exasperated that you’d called him out. “I’m not dodging. You’re just asking very difficult things.”

You raised an eyebrow, wiping your hands on the towel. “Okay. Fine. Simple questions only.” You smoothed one last piece of tape over his ribs. “What made you get so mad at Jeff?”

Brian watched you for a long moment. “Because he hurt you,” was all he said.

You sighed. “I’m not hurt.”

“You could’ve been.”

The words hung between you. You leaned back a little, studying him as you crossed your arms and reviewed your work. Brian’s bare chest rose and fell steadily under your gaze, the fresh bandages standing out against his skin, but staying secure nonetheless. It was a hack job, but at least he wasn’t bleeding anymore.

“Okay. You so many questions. My turn.” Brian crossed his arms. “Jeff hit you. Why aren’t you angry?”

You thought about it, then shrugged. “Because I know he’s an idiot. He does stuff like that to get a rise out of people, to get attention. If he actually wanted to hurt me, he would’ve been. It wasn’t about me. It was about getting under your skin.”

Brian looked at you for a long second, then glanced down at the fresh bandages on his side. He smoothed his fingers over one of them absently.

You crossed your arms too. “Why didn’t you haul Jeff off of Toby in the first place instead of jumping in?”

“Because Toby needed to get a little of his own back,” Brian said. “And he had a reason to fight.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you didn’t?”

Brian shook his head, a little smile tugging at his mouth. “My turn.”

You grumbled but let him have it.

“Did I look cool fighting Jeff?” he asked, completely serious.

You couldn’t help but laugh, the question breaking your faux seriousness. “Yeah. You looked awesome.”

Brian’s grin widened, pleased with himself. But you quickly got back on track. “Why do you keep asking me questions about Jeff?” 

He shrugged. “Just want to know your opinions on him.”

You opened your mouth to ask another, but Brian was already speaking again.

“Why are you being such an interrogator tonight?”

“I’m not,” you said, a little defensive. Then you turned it back on him. “Why are you being so defensive? You literally fought for me in front of everyone, but now you won’t even answer my questions about why?”

Brian blew out a long breath and ran a hand over his face. He looked tired all of a sudden, but more of a restless type.

You pressed anyway, asking the same question from before. “Are you jealous of Jeff?”

He didn’t answer right away. The feeling of this silence was more thick than the cigarette smoke outside. Then Brian pushed off the dryer and stepped forward, crowding your space until your hips were nearly against the dryer. He looked down at you, grumbling as he spoke.

“No.”

You swallowed. “Liar.”

Brian’s eyes stayed on yours. For a moment, the only sound was your own heartbeat in your ears. When he spoke, he basically mumbled it.

“I don’t want anyone’s hands touching you but mine.”

It was around that moment that you began to smell the dried blood and peroxide in the air, and it made you a bit dizzy. Paired with the intense rush of adrenaline that shot through your gut at those words, you couldn’t do anything but blink at him. You could feel the warmth coming off his bare chest. Your hands itched to reach out, but you kept them at your sides, your heart racing as you looked up at him.

The outside world felt very far away now.

“Was that too forward?” His eyes looked all over your face, eyeing any expression you’d make.

You swallowed, throat suddenly very dry. “No.” The word came out quieter than you meant it to.

Brian let out a deep breath. Then his hands moved. They came up from his sides and settled on the edge of the dryer on either side of your hips, effectively pinning you back against the machine. The heat of his bare skin radiated toward you close enough that you could feel it even without him fully touching you.

Your heart kicked into a wild pace. Your eyes couldn’t decide where to settle—darting between his face and the toned lines of his chest, the sheen of sweat drying on his skin from the fight, the fresh bandages you’d just put on him. It was all so close.

It was your turn to ask something. You forced the words out.

“Why did you get so mad at Jeff… really?”

Brian breathed in deeply, his chest rising and falling right in front of you. For a moment he didn’t answer. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth for half a second before returning to your eyes.

“Because it made me so fucking mad,” he admitted, his voice turning a little gritty, “seeing him on you like that. He was so careless. Like you were just something to push around. He wouldn’t know how to handle you. He wouldn’t know what to do with you if he tried.”

The words hit you square in the chest. You stared at him, stunned into silence again. Brian watched your expression carefully, like he was bracing for you to pull away or tell him to stop.

Then, “Is this okay?”

He slid one hand from the edge of the dryer to rest on your hip. His palm was warm but rough from years of hauling weapons and bodies. The skin underneath erupted with goosebumps. His thumb brushed an absent circle over the fabric of your shirt.

You nodded, barely trusting your voice. Your hand came up slowly, your fingers wrapping around the forearm of the hand he still had braced on the dryer. Brian’s eyes flicked down to where you touched him, watching for a moment before his other hand slid from your hip up to the small of your waist, settling just atop your ribs. He leaned in just a tad closer.

You swallowed around the question you needed to ask. “Are you only doing this because you’re drunk and you want to hook up?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it. Your mind flashed back to your talk earlier—all those drunken pairs, Nina and Jane in the bathroom, the way people get when they’re under substances and lonely.

But Brian shook his head, giving you a certain look. “I’m not drunk.”

You blinked at him. “I’m… not either.”

He grinned just a bit. His thumb swept slowly across your side, catching just under the curve of your breast. The feeling made you gasp.

Brain looked at your lips. “Can I kiss you?”

You didn’t even have to think about it. “Yeah,” you whispered.

You both leaned in at the same time.

Your hand slid from his forearm up to his jaw, cupping his face as your lips met. Brian’s mouth was soft against yours, tasting faintly of beer and cigarette ash. Then he tilted his head slightly, deepening it, and everything seemed to melt in your brain and your nerves.

His hand on your waist pulled you closer, pressing your hips against his as his jaw worked to kiss you as deep as he could. You sighed into his mouth, your fingers sliding into the short hair at the nape of his neck and gripping there. Brian made a quiet sound in response and gripped at your waist a little harder.

When you finally pulled back for air, your foreheads stayed pressed together. Brian’s eyes were half-lidded, breathing a little uneven as his thumb continued its soothing stroke along your side.

“Been wanting to do that for a while,” he admitted.

You let out a shaky laugh, still cupping his jaw. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pecked at your lips. “Way longer than just tonight.”

Brian kissed you again. Both of his hands settled on your waist, sliding slowly over the fabric of your shirt, exploring the curves he found. “I was so happy when the bottle landed on me,” he admitted between kisses. “I wanted to tell you. Wanted to kiss you the second we stepped in here. But you seemed content to just hang out and talk… so I was okay with that too.”

“You should’ve.”

Brian shook his head. “But when Jeff hit you… I was so mad. I just wanted to tear him to pieces. I didn’t know what to do with it.”

He leaned down a little, his hands sliding behind your thighs. In one smooth motion, he hauled you upward. You gripped his shoulders for balance, careful of his bandages, as he lifted you onto the top of the dryer, stepping between your legs. His hands splayed over your thighs, pushing them open just a little wider so he could press in as close as possible.

Then he kissed you again.

Your hands came up to cup either side of his jaw, and Brian made a frustrated noise as he spoke between more kisses.

“Jeff wouldn’t know how to touch you,” he murmured against your mouth. “Wouldn’t know how to be gentle. Wouldn’t know what you like… how you sound when you’re feeling good.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, raising an eyebrow at his statements. “And you do?”

He nodded very seriously, as if that were even a question.

“I can show you,” he mumbled. “If you’ll let me.”

Before you could answer, his hands slid down to your thighs, tugging you forward until you were sitting right on the edge of the dryer. He stepped in closer, pressing his hips between your spread legs.

You felt him immediately—felt the hard, unmistakable outline of his cock pushing against you through both your jeans. You couldn’t help but gasp. Your hand flew down to his abdomen, your palm pressing flat against his warm skin to keep him from pressing any harder. You didn’t know if you could handle it right now. You let your other hand fall behind you, bracing your weight up. His abs were firm under your fingers, and the heat of him made your head spin.

“We shouldn’t do this in here,” you whispered.

Brian’s eyes stayed locked on yours.

“But you want to,” he hummed. “I can see it.”

You shivered, glancing over his shoulder at the closed laundry room door. “Someone could come in… there’s not even a lock on that door.”

Brian didn’t answer with words. Instead, he rolled his hips forward in the barest grind against your clothed center. Your eyes fluttered shut at the friction, a quiet groan catching in your throat. When you opened them again, Brian was looking down between your bodies, watching the way he pressed against you with heavy-lidded eyes.

The sight of him like that made something hot twist in your stomach.

Your hand slid from his abs down to the waistband of his jeans. Your fingers curled into the hem, gripping his belt. Then, almost without thinking, you tugged him forward, pulling his hips firmer against yours.

Brian’s eyes rolled back slightly as he grabbed your hips, letting you guide the rhythm while he ground against your clothed cunt. Sparks shot through your entire body with every slow roll of his hips against yours.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. You couldn’t believe this was actually happening. Your resolve was dissolving by the second, and as Brian began to speak endlessly, it didn’t help in the slightest.

“That’s it… feels so good already,” he breathed. “Look at that cute face. You feel good, don’t you?”

He pulled back just enough to give a little faux thrust between your legs, bumping his hard cock right against your center through your jeans. The quick bump made you jump, a sharp whine escaping you. Brian grinned against your lips as he leaned in, clearly enjoying your reaction, and did it again. And again.

He kept that rhythm—grinding hard when your hips met, then pulling back to give those teasing thrusts that made your thighs tremble. Somewhere in the middle of it, one of his hands slid up from your hip, cupping your chest over your shirt. His thumb brushed across your nipple through the fabric, and your head fell back against the wall.

“Brian—” you whined as quietly as you could.

“Tell me how you feel,” he murmured.

You swallowed, trying to catch your breath. “It feels good… really good. But you have to talk quieter. Please.”

Brian laughed quietly. “It’ll be alright,” he whispered. “Nobody’s coming in here.”

Before you could respond, he gripped your hips and tugged you off the dryer, setting you on your feet. He turned you around, pressing up behind you until your hips met the edge of the machine again. You braced your hands against the cool metal as he pushed forward, grinding his cock against your ass through your jeans.

Brian’s arms came around your waist, hugging your torso from behind as he pulled you back against his chest. His lips found your cheek, then your jaw, kissing you softly while he rolled his hips in little pushes.

“You okay?” his lips brushed against your ear. “I can stop if you want me to.”

You shook your head quickly. “No… just be easy.”

He hummed, “I’ll be so easy for you.”

His hands slipped under the hem of your shirt and his palms splayed across your stomach. He explored anything he could feel, his fingers tracing your skin as he pulled you tighter against him. Then his hands traveled higher, cupping your chest over your bra and squeezing handfuls.

You tried your best to push back against him, rolling your hips in time with his, but Brian was doing most of the work of guiding you with his hands and the rhythm of his body. Every grind against you made you feel the hard length of him, the friction sending heat curling up through your stomach.

“Can I finger you?” he whispered.

You barely had time to nod before his hands slid down your stomach, his fingers deftly popping the button of your jeans open. He tugged your zipper down, and you felt your face growing hotter by the second. 

“Why do you have to be so vulgar?” you groaned.

Brian chuckled, “I like how you react.” He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and panties together and started pulling them down your hips. “Can I?”

You nodded quickly. “Yeah…”

He pushed your jeans down just past your hips, letting them bunch around your thighs. The cool air hit your exposed cunt and you shivered, but Brian made sure to quickly warm you up. 

“These are cute,” he murmured, running his fingers along the waistband of your panties before tugging them the rest of the way down with your jeans. “But they’re in the way.”

His hands roamed over you—his palms sliding across your pelvis, your upper thighs, then between them. You pushed your hips back against him instinctively and Brian groaned when his fingers finally pushed between your folds, feeling just how wet you were.

“Fuck… you’re soaked,” His middle finger found your clit immediately and started rubbing eager, tight circles. You gripped his forearm as you whined, gritting your teeth.

“I should’ve done this sooner,” he groaned. “You clearly need it.”

His fingertips teased at your entrance, massaging the tight ring of muscle before swiping back up to your clit. You reached back with one hand, threading your fingers into his hair as he kissed and nipped at your neck, whispering filthy little comments between kisses.

“Would anybody else be able to make you feel this good? Nah, just me.”

Your hips rocked against his hand. Brian pressed his middle finger against your entrance and slowly pushed it inside.

You groaned, falling forward a little to brace against the dryer. The little stretch felt so good it made your head spin.

Brian hummed. “Ah, you can take more than that.”

Before you could respond, he pushed a second thick finger in alongside the first, stretching your cunt open. You clamped your hand over your mouth to muffle the moan that tried to escape, your eyes squeezing shut as pleasure flooded through you. His fingers curled and pressed against your insides.

“Brian—hold on—”

“Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”

He fingered you irritatingly slowly, letting his knuckles push in and out rhythmically. You felt every bit of it—the stretch, the drag, the way his fingers curled and pressed against your walls with intent. Your eyes rolled back each time his knuckles sank back into you.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Brian huffed. “Gonna stretch you out nice and slow, don’t you worry.”

“It feels good… really good—”

“You think Jeff could make you feel like this?” His fingers curled distinctly on each word, like he was making a point. “Think his fingers could do this?”

You let out a frustrated whine. “Can you not talk about another guy right now?”

Brian chuckled, “Sorry, hun. I just want you to know exactly who’s making you feel this good.”

You melted a little at the pet name. “You are,” you whispered.

“Yeah, I know,” he kissed your temple. “Let me hear how good it feels.”

He pumped his fingers a little faster, thrusting deeper and more thoroughly than before, the wet squelching sounds of his hand working between your legs filling the small room. You moaned openly now, unable to hold your voice back, your hips rocking back to meet every movement as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your core.

Brian’s free hand left the warmth under your shirt and moved behind you. You heard the clink and shuffle of his belt buckle coming undone, followed by the sound of his zipper. A fresh rush of anxiety hit you as he shoved the front of his jeans down against your ass, then pushed his boxers down too. Something hot, heavy, and wet pressed against your bare skin. You felt him grip himself, tapping the thick head of his cock against your ass a couple of times.

Your hand flew back, gripping his hip tightly.

“Wait— Brian, wait a minute,” you panted.

He tugged his fingers from your insides, taking to steadying you instead with his hand on your hip. “What’s the matter?”

You looked back over your shoulder at him. Your eyes trailed down his body—the strong shoulders, the defined chest, the sharp V-line and happy trail that led lower—and then you saw it.

Oh my god.

He was long. Nauseatingly. Thick enough to match the rest of his tall, toned frame. The flushed red tip glistened with pre and throbbed against your skin. It looked intimidating resting against your ass.

You faced forward again, whispering under your breath, “Oh my god…”

Brian made a funny “ahh” sound, like he understood immediately what was troubling you.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “If I’m gonna fuck you, it’s gonna be in a much better setting than this dusty old room.”

You felt a strange little pang of disappointment in your chest. You turned your head slightly, wanting to say something, but decided against it.

Brian noticed anyway. “What’s wrong?”

You stayed quiet. After a second, he let out another soft “ahhh,” like the realization had clicked. You wanted to flog him for saying “ahh” more than once at a time like this.

“I know what you like,” he murmured.

He pushed his flat hand on your back, guiding you to lean further over the dryer. You braced your hands on the cool metal as he tapped the thick head of his cock against your skin again, then angled it downward.

You opened your mouth to say “wait,” but Brian was already moving.

He slid the hot length of his cock between the gap in your thighs, pressing it up firmly against your soaked cunt from below. The thick shaft nestled perfectly between your folds, the head nudging out past your clit.

“Fuck… do you feel that?” Brian breathed against the back of your neck as he leaned over you. “Haha, you’re gonna kill me.”

He rolled his hips again, letting the thick length of him slide back and forth between your thighs, rubbing right against your clit with every pass. Paired with the slickness of you, it felt maddening.

Brian groaned happily. “That’s it… Here, here. Press your thighs together a bit more. Yeahh, like that.”

You did as you were told, and it pushed Brian’s cock against your cunt more firmly. The two of you sighed, holding onto anything and everything to stabilize yourselves as Brian began to shallowly fuck your thighs. The head of his cock would catch on your clit, then push through the front of your thighs, before retreating right back in.

You moaned as Brian’s fingertips dug into your hips, tugging you back against him with every pass. The friction of his cock sliding between your thighs and against your soaked cunt was driving you crazy.

“Fuck, listen to you,” he pantsd. “Soaking my cock like this… You’d love it if I just pushed into you right now, huh?”

You gave a little “yeah, yeah” pushing back against him. But you felt his pace falter and his hips turn a bit like he was reaching for something behind him. You turned to look over your shoulder, just to see Brian had fished out his camcorder and was turning it on.

You turned your head away quickly. “Brian—”

“Shh. I wanted to document all of tonight,” he muttered, flipping the screen open. He watched as the screen lit up and started recording. “This is arguably the most important moment.”

You rolled your eyes, but you didn’t stop him. Instead, you bent forward a little more over the dryer, arching your back and pushing your ass out toward him.

Brian groaned in approval. He kept one hand on the camcorder, angling it down to capture the sight of his cock sliding between your thighs, while his other hand returned to your hip. He started thrusting again, slower this time, letting the wet head of his cock drag along your folds and bump against your clit with every pass.

The new angle made your ass slap softly against his pelvis with each bump of his hips, a little rhythmic pat-pat-pat that filled the room alongside your shaky breaths.

“Goddamn… look at that,” Brian muttered. “On the camera it looks like I’m actually fucking you. Hnn, I wish I was inside you right now.”

You moaned louder, arching your back even more so the tip of his cock bumped harder against your clit on every thrust. 

“You want that?” he played at the thought. “Just say the word and I’ll fuck you right here, hun.”

Filthy promises. Filthy promises that made your stomach flip over on itself.

“I think… I think I want to cum,” you whimpered, each thrust punching the words from your mouth.

You could hear him smile as he spoke, “That works too.”

He pulled the camcorder away from where he’d been filming your ass and reached around in front of you, setting it on the top of the dryer before you. The lens pointed directly at your torso and below. The little red recording light blinked rhythmically, capturing it all.

You suddenly felt very embarrassed about your compromising position. You brought both hands up to cover your face when you felt your cheeks begin to burn.

Brian didn’t like that much.

He caught your wrists and pulled them down, folding your arms behind your back. You felt his strong hand come to grasp your wrists, contorting your arms behind you. His other hand returned to your hip, an iron grip pressing into your skin as he fucked your legs.

You moaned out loud, pulling weakly against his grip, but it was useless. He was so much stronger than you. You wondered if anyone could hear the noises you were making, or at least the tink, tink of Brian’s belt buckle hitting against the back of your thighs every time he thrusted. Probably. The thought made your face burn even hotter.

Fuck… you were gonna cum.

You looked down between your pressed-together legs, watching the flushed, drooling tip of Brian’s cock thrust back and forth, breaching between your thighs before retreating back in. The sight was obscene. You couldn’t stop staring.

How did it look on camera? You thought through your dizzy haze. Was the lens catching your face right now? Would they be able to see your mouth falling open? Or how badly you were shaking? You couldn’t stop. Would Brian watch this back later? Would he jerk himself off to it in his room, replaying the sounds you made? Would he show it to Tim? To Toby? Would he use it as blackmail against you someday?

The thought should have horrified you.

It didn’t.

If it felt this good without him even fucking you yet… you’d probably let him do whatever he wanted.

Brian must have noticed how lost you were in your own head, because he suddenly wrapped both arms around your middle, hugging your body tight against his chest. The warmth of him surrounded you completely.

“Look at me,” he murmured.

You turned your head, and the moment you did, he caught your lips in a hungry kiss. Your arms were trapped between your back and his torso, feeling the flex and tension of his muscles as he moved. You pushed your hands lower, sliding them down until your fingers brushed the trail of hair on his pelvis, then wrapped around the thick base of his cock.

Brian hissed sharply against your mouth, his hips stuttering for a moment at your touch.

You could feel how wet he was—his length soaked from sliding between your folds, practically pulsing in your grip. He was rock hard.

“You feel how hard I am for you?” he smiled.

You nodded frantically, squeezing the base of his cock as he started thrusting between your thighs again, and now thrusting into your hand. The grip let you angle him so the head of his cock rubbed right against your clit directly instead of bumping it as it passed. Brian’s arms tightened around you, holding you up as your legs started to shake.

“If you keep doing that…” he panted, “I’m gonna cum. Yeah. Yeah, I’m gonna cum.”

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The pressure was too much, too good. Your climax snuck up on you suddenly, crashing over you without warning.

Your eyes clamped shut as your body went limp in his arms. Your walls clenched pitifully around nothing, pulsing as waves of pleasure ripped through you. You rode the length of his cock desperately, grinding your clit against him as you couldn’t do much more than whine.

Brian grunted, “Me too—me too, fuck—show the camera, hun. Tell ‘em how good you feel.”

You gasped, barely able to form words as your orgasm rolled through your muscles. “I’m cumming—Brian, I’m cuu-cumming—” you babbled. “Feels so good—oh god—mmhn—”

“Yeah, you are,” his words were slurred a bit. “I can feel it. Fuuuck, I feel you throbbing—”

His hips could barely stutter forward anymore. He hurriedly reached over and grabbed the towel you’d used earlier, pressing it against your thighs right where the head of his cock kept popping out between them.

“Gonna cum—” that was all the warning you got.

You felt him throb against you. Then he was spilling thick ropes of cum into the towel as he buried his hips as firmly as he could against your ass. His fingers dug into the skin of your waist, branding into your muscles.

You felt the warm stickiness of his cum press against the front of your thighs, soaking into the towel.

It felt like an eternity before Brian’s arms around you eventually loosened, and when they did, your legs gave out. You slumped forward, bracing yourself against the dryer with both hands as you lost all the strength you previously had.

Brian chuckled and reached past you to grab the camcorder. You blindly fumbled for it first, shutting the screen and ending the recording before he could think to capture anything else embarrassing of you. He took the device from your hand and set it aside, then grabbed a fresh towel from the stack of laundry. He was gentle as he cleaned you up, making sure to wipe the mess from between your thighs, along your skin, careful not to press too hard where you were still sensitive. Once you were clean, he took care of himself, wiping the bits of cum and your arousal from his cock and lower stomach before tossing the dirty towel aside.

You tried to push yourself upright, but Brian’s hands were already on your thighs and tugging your panties and jeans back up your legs. He helped you wiggle lthem over your hips before spinning you around to face him. He pressed your hips back against the dryer, caging you in with his body like he had before.

“Fuck you,” you muttered, though there was no real heat behind it.

Brian just smiled his little crooked smile that showed the little gap between his front teeth and reached down to zip and button your jeans for you. He cupped your jaw as he tilted your face up to his. He kissed you again, slower to savor the moment, or maybe something dumb like that.

“Thank you,” he hummed.

You blinked up at him, a little dazed. Then you reached behind you, grabbed the camcorder, and handed it back to him. Brian took it with a nod and slid it into his back pocket. “This will come in handy later.”

You rolled your eyes, but your gaze dropped to his shoulder and ribs. The fresh bandages you’d put on him were already blooming with red stains, the cuts having restarted their bleeding due to all the jostling and movement.

“Fuck, Brian,” you hissed, reaching out to gently touch the edge of one bandage that was peeling up a little. “They’re bleeding again.”

He glanced down at himself, then back up at you with an unrepentant grin.

“I didn’t want to stop,” he said simply with a shrug.

Now that your senses were starting to come back online, you could hear the music had restarted in the living room. Underneath it was the dull rumble of conversation, people laughing and shouting like the fight outside had already been forgotten and their quarrels were set aside.

You pressed off the dryer, testing the steadiness of your legs before deciding they were usable. Brian reached down and grabbed his torn shirt and blood-stained jacket off the floor. He pulled them over his head and cringed, the dried blood making the fabric stiff and uncomfortable against his fresh bandages.

“Someone definitely heard us,” you grumbled, smoothing your own shirt down.

Brian waved you off. “C’mon now. Nobody would care anyway.”

He reached for the door handle, cracked it open, and peeked out first. Then he let out a very dry laugh.

You felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

Brian looked out at whoever was there and said, “How long have you been here for?”

Oh god.

A familiar voice answered from the hallway. “Long enough.”

Tim. Of course it was Tim. These two couldn’t stand to be more than ten feet apart at any given time.

“Somebody had to stand guard out here and make sure you didn’t get walked in on.”

Brian glanced over his shoulder at you, then opened the door wider so you could see each other. You gave an awkward little wave, wanting very much to disappear at this moment. Tim had his arms crossed, leaning against the opposite wall of the door. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes looked as bored and flat as ever.

You felt like you were about to get scolded, but instead Tim looked at Brian and said, dry as bone, “Only you’re allowed to touch, huh?”

Brian grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Oh c’mon man, you know I’ll always put out for you.”

Tim huffed a laugh and shook his head, pushing off the wall. You and Brian walked out and fell into step with him. You walked between them, standing just like when you went out looking for them earlier tonight. 

You glanced up at Tim. “How’s Toby?”

“Threw up about twice. He’s somewhere with his little posse now. Probably getting babied.”

“And Jeff?”

“Jack’s relocating his nose downstairs,” Tim said flatly. “Might be a while.”

You shook your head. “Everyone should make those two clean up everything by themselves. Since they wanted to make more of a mess.”

Brian nodded beside you, his arm sliding around your shoulders as you walked. You turned your head to see him digging into his back pocket and pull out the camcorder, shaking it lightly toward Tim.

“And I’ve got a fun idea for a movie Tim should watch later,” he said, grinning.

Tim’s eyes narrowed, “I’m not watching your porno.”

“C’mon. You know… for posterity.”

You elbowed him, but not without smiling a little too.

Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!

๑ prologue

๑ back to my masterlists

That's why he stops torturing himself by staying away at all cost. He’s still not talking, though. Wouldn’t ever consider telling you about his suffering either — no, nothing could be further from his mind. Good thing he isn’t a big talker naturally, so it goes by unnoticed, or so he hopes.

Daryl follows you around, now. Not in a creepy way! He just figures if he can't stay away anyway, he might as well devote his time to protecting you if necessary. Though it is questionable whether you really needed an escort on the way to the pantry and back.

Plus — his newest hope is that maybe exposure will make that weird feeling go away. If he spends time with you constantly, he might become immune, right? He ain’t a doctor or anything like that, but he’s pretty sure that’s how it works.

… It’s not how it works. At least judging by his personal experience. Daryl still can’t control his pulse, nor stop his palms from getting sweaty, and that’s not even mentioning the painful pang of jealousy shooting through his heart whenever you’re laughing at something someone else said. Stupid Glenn or whatever. Like, the guy had a wife, why did he have to get all close with you on top of it? Daryl almost never made you laugh. Not that he’s been trying. Collecting your smiles, yeah, but he doesn't possess the arrogance it would take to want to be the reason for it.

He’s content just watching you from afar. Or from close by. Anything as long as it involves you, really.

But yeah, he still gets jealous. And he honestly hates himself for feeling that way.

It’s so not an appropriate reaction, and it hurts, and he doesn’t ever want to make you uncomfortable. He literally has no right to feel like that when he hasn’t even talked to you in a week!

So he buries the hot anger and insecurity coiling deep in his gut. Tries really hard to forget all about it. But he doesn’t know how, and it’s infuriating. Daryl hasn’t ever been ina situation like this before. He has no idea how to stop the spiraling thoughts or the daydreams. Not that he minds the daydreams in particular— No, fuck, scratch that, he’d be happy if he at least managed to actually want to put an end to it.

Because no matter what he tells himself, he doesn’t really want it to stop. Doesn’t really want to ban you from his mind… It’s such a lonely place without you.

Tries to convince himself that alright, if that’s what it takes, he’ll just keep it this way. Indulge in fantasies as long as it keeps him satisfied, keeps him from making hopeful thinking a reality.

Only, well, he’s not satisfied. Nothing can cure him from this strange new hunger gnawing at his flesh, leaving him starving even worse than a couple of days without food.

In fact, it’s even become easier to get by without supplies for a while, because, yeah, you’re constantly on his mind. It’s a nice distraction. Yet another reason to jusitify indulging in daydreaming, he tells himself. It keeps him alive!

… Daryl probably wouldn’t be able to stop even if it was killing him. Everything is connected to you. That flower at the roadside? You would love the color. Shame that he can’t pick it to show you later, ‘cause you’d get all sad about it being dead and torn out of its home next to the grass. That tree over there? Would make a good place to watch out for walkers from above. He could climb it. Woud you climb it if you were here? Are you okay with heights? Which way up would you choose, this branch or the one next to it? Like — it doesn’t even make sense anymore at this point. Not everything is correlated to you!

It’s just that, ugh… To him it is.

He can’t escape it.

The longer he thinks about it he begins to believe that you’re the only way out of this infuriating infatuation, too. If only you’d tell him off, he might act on it. Yeah, if it was your voice crushing his hopes instead of his conscience that might actually have an effect!

If only you knew about it. Daryl wishes you did, you’d have to for this scenario, but then again, he wishes you didn’t because he doesn’t want to lose you. Fuck, he doesn’t even have you and he still fears losing you.

Damn it, put him out of his misery already!

Only problem? He’s not ever gonna tell you. He’d rather take on a horde of walkers instead of making the first step.

Which, yeah, that’s really fucking stupid. No way you’re going to find out on your own, right? Also, he probably wouldn't be able to survive long inmidst a whole horde. And if he was dead he’d be losing you for sure.

This is all so stupid. It honestly has him considering if he should make you angry at him on purpose.

But… man, that isn’t working either.

Because you did not bat an eye when he just — stopped speaking to you. Nor did you look affected in any way when he began following you around like some lost puppy. You’re so — so fucking calm about this while he is panicking inside during any interaction and for the rest of the day, reliving it in his head.

No matter how offputting he tries to be on purpose by giving in to his whims and acting like a lovesick creep… you don’t seem weirded out at all! Yesterday he brought you a skinned squirrel, just laid it down in front of your cot while you were sleeping and… Fuck. He was so sure that was the final strike but instead, he just woke up to the scent of cooked meat and you preparing breakfast for the group all cheerfully.

Daryl felt defeated, yeah, mostly because he couldn’t help that wave of giddiness that washes over him, almost drowning his heart. But then again, there was another smile for his collection.

He rubbed his eyes groggily, still dumbstruck by the fact that you had just... accepted his little offering. Blinked once to make sure this was real, and then your eyes met his over the camp. He swore he could see them softening right then. But of course, something else caught your attention right at this moment and he was left alone with the nagging thoughts again.

You knew, right? That it was him? The chance that anyone else would have given you that squirrel is very low. Plus, even though it was skinned already — he’s a gentleman, you see, no need for you to get your hands bloody — there was still a hole visible where he had impaled the animal on his arrow.

It’s then that Daryl realizes, begrudgingly, that he wants you to know. It felt good having his action acknowledged, overwhelmingly so.

And when he watched you gently handing a plate to Maggie, eyes flickering over to him yet again for just a second, he can’t help but wonder if you’ve known about his little crush this whole time.

… 𝐴𝑛𝑑 𝑖𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑏𝑎𝑑 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑖𝑑.

"I'm heading out," Dante said, not even looking at you as he checked his equipment. He didn't offer a kiss. He didn't ask if you needed anything. He was simply moving on to his next task, treating your presence in the room as an inconvenience rather than a partnership.

"The borders are shifting," you reminded him, your voice sounding thin in the quiet room. "The patrol said there was activity near the northern gate. Maybe we should stay close."

Dante laughed, a short, dismissive sound that curdled in your stomach. "They can handle it. I’ve got things to do. Don't wait up."

He was gone before you could answer, leaving you in a space that felt colder for his absence. It wasn't the first time he had dismissed your concerns, and it certainly wasn't the first time he had left you to fend for yourself when the threats intensified. He was a man who acted as though he was always one foot out the door, never fully committed, never truly there. He was the opposite of Daryl, who seemed to materialize whenever you were truly in trouble, like a storm front you could set your watch by.

A week later, the illness hit like a tidal wave. Slow, at first. But gradually getting alarming.

It started as a dull throb behind your eyes, a persistent, rhythmic beating that suggested a fever was brewing. You tried to fight it, pushing yourself through the daily chores, the training, the patrol duty. But by the third day, the world felt like it was tilting on an axis you couldn't control. Your limbs turned to lead, and the simple act of standing upright made your vision swim with black spots.

You were lying on your cot, shivering violently despite the warmth of the blankets, when Dante finally deigned to stop by. He walked in, his eyes scanning the room with... impatience.

"You're still in bed?" he asked, his tone laced with irritation rather than concern.

"I think I’m sick," you whispered, your throat feeling like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. "Dante, I can't... I can't breathe right. Can you get me some water? Or find Siddiq?"

He sighed, a loud, theatrical exhaling of breath that made your head pulse.

"You’re just exhausted. Everyone’s tired, Y/N. You’re overreacting. Just sleep it off. I’ve got to go report to the council."

He didn't touch you. He didn't check your temperature. He just turned and walked out, leaving you to the silence of the room and the suffocating heat of your own skin.

Hours bled into days. You drifted in and out of a haze of fever dreams, where the faces of your old crew morphed into the faces of walkers, where the sound of the rain outside sounded like the ticking of a countdown clock you couldn't stop. You were burning up, the illness stripping away your defenses until you felt like a child lost in a forest.

Then, the door creaked open.

You barely had the strength to turn your head. You expected it to be Dante, coming back to finally acknowledge that you were dying, but the silhouette that filled the doorway was broader, heavier, and carried the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth.

Daryl.

He didn't speak. He just moved into the room, his eyes scanning your prone form with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. He took in the state of the room: the untouched water, the mess, the way you looked, pale and sunken in the dim light.

"Dante said ya were fine," Daryl muttered, his voice rough. He crossed the room in two strides, his hand pressing against your forehead. His palm was calloused and warm, and the contact was so startlingly gentle that you let out a ragged sigh.

"I'm not," you managed to choke out.

"I can see that," he said, his brow furrowing in a mixture of anger and concern. He retreated, only to return a moment later with a basin of cool water and a rag. He sat on the edge of the cot, his weight dipping the mattress, and began to wipe your face.

He didn't ask what you needed. He didn't ask if you were sure. He just started working. He had already gone to see Siddiq, you realized, as he began to administer a mixture of electrolytes and bitter, herbal medicine. He was methodical, stripping away the layers of your confusion with the same precision he used when tracking a target.

"Where's Dante?" you asked, your voice barely audible.

Daryl’s jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek jumping. "Don't worry about him."

"Daryl..."

"Drink," he commanded, though the harshness of the word was undercut by the way he gently supported your neck, ensuring you didn't choke.

For the next two days, Daryl Dixon didn't leave your side. He brought food that you couldn't eat, but he sat there until you managed a few bites. He kept the room cool, he kept the water flowing, and he kept the silence, a companionable, heavy silence that made you feel safer than you had in years. He was the anchor you hadn't realized you were dragging behind you.

On the third night, the fever finally broke. You woke up drenched in sweat, your head feeling clearer than it had in a week. The candle on the nightstand had burned down to a nub, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. Daryl was still there, slumped in the chair beside your bed, his head resting against his chest, his breathing steady and deep.

The sight of him, exhausted and disheveled, doing this for you, for a woman who, technically, belonged to someone else, tightened your chest in a way that had nothing to do with the sickness.

"Yer awake," he noted, his voice gravelly from disuse.

"You stayed," you said, stating the obvious.

"Someone had to," he replied, shifting in the chair. "Ya weren't gonna make it if I didn't."

The world shattered shortly after you recovered.

The news ripped through Alexandria like a wildfire. Siddiq, the man who had been the pillar of the infirmary, was dead. And Dante? Dante wasn't just a survivor. He was a Whisperer. He was the hand that had brought the plague into your walls.

You sat on the floor of your home, the walls feeling like they were closing in. The betrayal was a physical weight, a sickness that settled in your stomach that no amount of water could cure. You had let a monster into your bed, into your life, while the man who actually cared for you stood on the periphery, watching you destroy yourself.

The door creaked open. Daryl didn't knock. He didn't have to. He stood there, his shoulders hunched, his eyes dark and heavy. He didn't say a word about Dante. He didn't say "I told you so." He just walked over and sat on the floor across from you, his boots scraping against the wood.

"They're taking 'im to the holding cell," he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "It’s done."

You hugged your knees to your chest, your hands trembling.

"I let him in, Daryl. I sat there, and I let him pretend to be something he wasn't. How could I be so stupid? I thought I knew what a predator looked like. I lived as one for years."

Daryl shifted, his hand moving tentatively toward you before settling on the floor between you.

"Ya didn't know. Nobody did. He was a snake, Y/N. Snakes don't show their teeth until they're ready to bite."

"I should have seen it," you whispered, the guilt clawing at your throat. "I have this knack for picking the wrong ones. It’s like I’m wired to find the people who are going to break me."

"Ya ain't wired for that," Daryl said, his voice rising in intensity. "Ya were lookin' for somethin' real in a world that’s mostly fake. That don't make ya broken."

You looked up at him, your eyes burning.

"Why are you here? After everything? After I chose him? I’m an idiot, Daryl. I’m a liability."

Daryl leaned forward, his face illuminated by the flickering light of a single candle.

"Ya ain' a liability. Yer the only person who sees me, and I see ya. Dante? He was playin' a part. He never saw ya. Not really."

"And you do?"

"I've always seen ya," he murmured. The admission was raw, stripped of all the defenses he usually kept raised.

"Every time ya walked through those gates, every time ya went out into the woods with those scythes a' yours. I watched ya. I worried about ya. I didn't say nothin' 'cause ya were with him, and I wasn't gonna be the one to cause trouble. But I watched."

The realization hit you; the quiet, consistent loyalty he had shown you during your illness wasn't just friendship. It was the only honest thing you had experienced in years. The shame of your past choices felt suddenly, violently distant, eclipsed by the sheer gravity of the man sitting in front of you.

"I don't know how to do this," you confessed, your voice cracking. "I don't know how to be with someone who isn't a disaster."

"Maybe ya stop lookin' for the disaster," Daryl murmured, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over cold stone. He didn't reach out immediately. His hand hovered in the space between you, fingers twitching as he fought the instinct to pull away. When he finally pressed his palm to your jaw, it was with a clumsy, heavy sort of reverence, as if he were terrified that his touch, or the simple act of claiming you, would be the very thing that broke you.

He didn't look at you with the smooth confidence of a man sure of his footing. His gaze was frantic, darting over your features as if he were trying to memorize them before they were stolen away. His eyes were wide, haunted by a lifetime of names and faces that had slipped through his fingers no matter how hard he’d gripped them.

You leaned into him, hungry for the solidity, but his body was rigid. He wasn't just holding you; he was bracing himself against an impact he was sure was coming.

"I’m done with the noise," you whispered, the truth of it anchoring you against the floorboards.

Daryl flinched, his jaw tightening until the muscle bulged.

"Noise… it don't stop, Y/N. You think it does, but it’s always waitin' right outside the wall. It’s in the trees. It’s in the air."

He looked down, his knuckles turning white where he gripped his own knee.

"You want somethin' real? Real is hurtin'. Real is watchin' people turn into nothin' before you can even get your hands on 'em. You want me? You’re askin' for a heavy kind of weight. I ain't the kind of man that keeps folks safe. I’m the kind of man that people lose."

"I don't need you to be a shield, Daryl," you said, reaching for him. "I just need you to be here."

The kiss was not an act of bravado. It was a surrender. He leaned in, his lips meeting yours with a hesitation that spoke of years of self-imposed isolation. He kissed like a man stepping into a minefield, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the explosion. It tasted of salt and the lingering, metallic tang of the apocalypse, of a man who had survived by keeping his heart buried so deep it barely beat.

His hand slid into your hair, gentle, holding you in place as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He was trembling. You felt the strength in him, the hard-won muscle and the grit, but underneath it all, he was shaking like a leaf. He was terrified of the connection, of the vulnerability that came with letting someone in. He was waiting for the moment when your eyes would turn cold, when he would fail you, when the luck he’d always counted on would finally run dry.

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing shallow and ragged. He looked like a man who had just touched a live wire.

"I can't save ya," he breathed, the admission tasting like ash in the small, cramped room. "I try, but I... I lose everyone. I don't know how to do this without waitin' for the sky to fall. Every time I get close to someone, every time I let 'em get under my skin... they end up gone. I don't know if I can watch that happen to you. I don't know if I can survive it."

You looked at him, the man who had carried water for you when you were delirious, the man who had stood by you when you were foolish, the man who carried the world on his shoulders and felt every crack. You realized then that he wasn't rejecting you; he was trying to protect you from the shadow of his own history.

"I’m not them," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "And you’re not the one who decides when I go."

Daryl let out a shaky, jagged breath. He pulled you close again, his arms wrapping around you with a possessive, protective weight that bordered on desperate. He didn't treat you like a prize; he treated you like a fleeting gift he was terrified to break. In the quiet of your room, while the world outside continued to spin in its chaotic, violent orbit, he was trying to learn a language he’d never been taught: the language of staying.

"I'm heading out," Dante said, not even looking at you as he checked his equipment. He didn't offer a kiss. He didn't ask if you needed anything. He was simply moving on to his next task, treating your presence in the room as an inconvenience rather than a partnership.

"The borders are shifting," you reminded him, your voice sounding thin in the quiet room. "The patrol said there was activity near the northern gate. Maybe we should stay close."

Dante laughed, a short, dismissive sound that curdled in your stomach. "They can handle it. I’ve got things to do. Don't wait up."

He was gone before you could answer, leaving you in a space that felt colder for his absence. It wasn't the first time he had dismissed your concerns, and it certainly wasn't the first time he had left you to fend for yourself when the threats intensified. He was a man who acted as though he was always one foot out the door, never fully committed, never truly there. He was the opposite of Daryl, who seemed to materialize whenever you were truly in trouble, like a storm front you could set your watch by.

A week later, the illness hit like a tidal wave. Slow, at first. But gradually getting alarming.

It started as a dull throb behind your eyes, a persistent, rhythmic beating that suggested a fever was brewing. You tried to fight it, pushing yourself through the daily chores, the training, the patrol duty. But by the third day, the world felt like it was tilting on an axis you couldn't control. Your limbs turned to lead, and the simple act of standing upright made your vision swim with black spots.

You were lying on your cot, shivering violently despite the warmth of the blankets, when Dante finally deigned to stop by. He walked in, his eyes scanning the room with... impatience.

"You're still in bed?" he asked, his tone laced with irritation rather than concern.

"I think I’m sick," you whispered, your throat feeling like it had been scrubbed with sandpaper. "Dante, I can't... I can't breathe right. Can you get me some water? Or find Siddiq?"

He sighed, a loud, theatrical exhaling of breath that made your head pulse.

"You’re just exhausted. Everyone’s tired, Y/N. You’re overreacting. Just sleep it off. I’ve got to go report to the council."

He didn't touch you. He didn't check your temperature. He just turned and walked out, leaving you to the silence of the room and the suffocating heat of your own skin.

Hours bled into days. You drifted in and out of a haze of fever dreams, where the faces of your old crew morphed into the faces of walkers, where the sound of the rain outside sounded like the ticking of a countdown clock you couldn't stop. You were burning up, the illness stripping away your defenses until you felt like a child lost in a forest.

Then, the door creaked open.

You barely had the strength to turn your head. You expected it to be Dante, coming back to finally acknowledge that you were dying, but the silhouette that filled the doorway was broader, heavier, and carried the scent of woodsmoke and damp earth.

Daryl.

He didn't speak. He just moved into the room, his eyes scanning your prone form with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. He took in the state of the room: the untouched water, the mess, the way you looked, pale and sunken in the dim light.

"Dante said ya were fine," Daryl muttered, his voice rough. He crossed the room in two strides, his hand pressing against your forehead. His palm was calloused and warm, and the contact was so startlingly gentle that you let out a ragged sigh.

"I'm not," you managed to choke out.

"I can see that," he said, his brow furrowing in a mixture of anger and concern. He retreated, only to return a moment later with a basin of cool water and a rag. He sat on the edge of the cot, his weight dipping the mattress, and began to wipe your face.

He didn't ask what you needed. He didn't ask if you were sure. He just started working. He had already gone to see Siddiq, you realized, as he began to administer a mixture of electrolytes and bitter, herbal medicine. He was methodical, stripping away the layers of your confusion with the same precision he used when tracking a target.

"Where's Dante?" you asked, your voice barely audible.

Daryl’s jaw tightened, a muscle in his cheek jumping. "Don't worry about him."

"Daryl..."

"Drink," he commanded, though the harshness of the word was undercut by the way he gently supported your neck, ensuring you didn't choke.

For the next two days, Daryl Dixon didn't leave your side. He brought food that you couldn't eat, but he sat there until you managed a few bites. He kept the room cool, he kept the water flowing, and he kept the silence, a companionable, heavy silence that made you feel safer than you had in years. He was the anchor you hadn't realized you were dragging behind you.

On the third night, the fever finally broke. You woke up drenched in sweat, your head feeling clearer than it had in a week. The candle on the nightstand had burned down to a nub, casting long, dancing shadows across the room. Daryl was still there, slumped in the chair beside your bed, his head resting against his chest, his breathing steady and deep.

The sight of him, exhausted and disheveled, doing this for you, for a woman who, technically, belonged to someone else, tightened your chest in a way that had nothing to do with the sickness.

"Yer awake," he noted, his voice gravelly from disuse.

"You stayed," you said, stating the obvious.

"Someone had to," he replied, shifting in the chair. "Ya weren't gonna make it if I didn't."

The world shattered shortly after you recovered.

The news ripped through Alexandria like a wildfire. Siddiq, the man who had been the pillar of the infirmary, was dead. And Dante? Dante wasn't just a survivor. He was a Whisperer. He was the hand that had brought the plague into your walls.

You sat on the floor of your home, the walls feeling like they were closing in. The betrayal was a physical weight, a sickness that settled in your stomach that no amount of water could cure. You had let a monster into your bed, into your life, while the man who actually cared for you stood on the periphery, watching you destroy yourself.

The door creaked open. Daryl didn't knock. He didn't have to. He stood there, his shoulders hunched, his eyes dark and heavy. He didn't say a word about Dante. He didn't say "I told you so." He just walked over and sat on the floor across from you, his boots scraping against the wood.

"They're taking 'im to the holding cell," he said, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "It’s done."

You hugged your knees to your chest, your hands trembling.

"I let him in, Daryl. I sat there, and I let him pretend to be something he wasn't. How could I be so stupid? I thought I knew what a predator looked like. I lived as one for years."

Daryl shifted, his hand moving tentatively toward you before settling on the floor between you.

"Ya didn't know. Nobody did. He was a snake, Y/N. Snakes don't show their teeth until they're ready to bite."

"I should have seen it," you whispered, the guilt clawing at your throat. "I have this knack for picking the wrong ones. It’s like I’m wired to find the people who are going to break me."

"Ya ain't wired for that," Daryl said, his voice rising in intensity. "Ya were lookin' for somethin' real in a world that’s mostly fake. That don't make ya broken."

You looked up at him, your eyes burning.

"Why are you here? After everything? After I chose him? I’m an idiot, Daryl. I’m a liability."

Daryl leaned forward, his face illuminated by the flickering light of a single candle.

"Ya ain' a liability. Yer the only person who sees me, and I see ya. Dante? He was playin' a part. He never saw ya. Not really."

"And you do?"

"I've always seen ya," he murmured. The admission was raw, stripped of all the defenses he usually kept raised.

"Every time ya walked through those gates, every time ya went out into the woods with those scythes a' yours. I watched ya. I worried about ya. I didn't say nothin' 'cause ya were with him, and I wasn't gonna be the one to cause trouble. But I watched."

The realization hit you; the quiet, consistent loyalty he had shown you during your illness wasn't just friendship. It was the only honest thing you had experienced in years. The shame of your past choices felt suddenly, violently distant, eclipsed by the sheer gravity of the man sitting in front of you.

"I don't know how to do this," you confessed, your voice cracking. "I don't know how to be with someone who isn't a disaster."

"Maybe ya stop lookin' for the disaster," Daryl murmured, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering over cold stone. He didn't reach out immediately. His hand hovered in the space between you, fingers twitching as he fought the instinct to pull away. When he finally pressed his palm to your jaw, it was with a clumsy, heavy sort of reverence, as if he were terrified that his touch, or the simple act of claiming you, would be the very thing that broke you.

He didn't look at you with the smooth confidence of a man sure of his footing. His gaze was frantic, darting over your features as if he were trying to memorize them before they were stolen away. His eyes were wide, haunted by a lifetime of names and faces that had slipped through his fingers no matter how hard he’d gripped them.

You leaned into him, hungry for the solidity, but his body was rigid. He wasn't just holding you; he was bracing himself against an impact he was sure was coming.

"I’m done with the noise," you whispered, the truth of it anchoring you against the floorboards.

Daryl flinched, his jaw tightening until the muscle bulged.

"Noise… it don't stop, Y/N. You think it does, but it’s always waitin' right outside the wall. It’s in the trees. It’s in the air."

He looked down, his knuckles turning white where he gripped his own knee.

"You want somethin' real? Real is hurtin'. Real is watchin' people turn into nothin' before you can even get your hands on 'em. You want me? You’re askin' for a heavy kind of weight. I ain't the kind of man that keeps folks safe. I’m the kind of man that people lose."

"I don't need you to be a shield, Daryl," you said, reaching for him. "I just need you to be here."

The kiss was not an act of bravado. It was a surrender. He leaned in, his lips meeting yours with a hesitation that spoke of years of self-imposed isolation. He kissed like a man stepping into a minefield, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for the explosion. It tasted of salt and the lingering, metallic tang of the apocalypse, of a man who had survived by keeping his heart buried so deep it barely beat.

His hand slid into your hair, gentle, holding you in place as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth. He was trembling. You felt the strength in him, the hard-won muscle and the grit, but underneath it all, he was shaking like a leaf. He was terrified of the connection, of the vulnerability that came with letting someone in. He was waiting for the moment when your eyes would turn cold, when he would fail you, when the luck he’d always counted on would finally run dry.

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing shallow and ragged. He looked like a man who had just touched a live wire.

"I can't save ya," he breathed, the admission tasting like ash in the small, cramped room. "I try, but I... I lose everyone. I don't know how to do this without waitin' for the sky to fall. Every time I get close to someone, every time I let 'em get under my skin... they end up gone. I don't know if I can watch that happen to you. I don't know if I can survive it."

You looked at him, the man who had carried water for you when you were delirious, the man who had stood by you when you were foolish, the man who carried the world on his shoulders and felt every crack. You realized then that he wasn't rejecting you; he was trying to protect you from the shadow of his own history.

"I’m not them," you whispered, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "And you’re not the one who decides when I go."

Daryl let out a shaky, jagged breath. He pulled you close again, his arms wrapping around you with a possessive, protective weight that bordered on desperate. He didn't treat you like a prize; he treated you like a fleeting gift he was terrified to break. In the quiet of your room, while the world outside continued to spin in its chaotic, violent orbit, he was trying to learn a language he’d never been taught: the language of staying.

He didn't complain once.

Just grunted and expected me to keep up.

I however was complaining at every chance.

I could tell I was driving him insane. Although he'd never admit that.

"My feet hurt."

Daryl didn't even turn around.

"Keep movin'."

I let out an exaggerated sigh.

"My bag's heavy."

"Then quit packin' junk."

I frowned at his back.

"It's too bright."

He grunted.

"Sun ain't gonna listen to ya."

"Can we stop for a second?"

This time, he glanced over his shoulder.

"Ain't stoppin' out here. Keep up."

Despite my feet screaming at me I trailed after him.

Daryl and I ended up together after the prison fell through. We were never close. Well I tried to be, it was like trying to form a relationship with a sock.

He walked a couple feet ahead. The sun was highlighting the beads of sweat on his arms. Oh his arms. The muscle under his skin moved with each movement he did. Almost like it was taunting me. God what I'd give to be that bead of sweat resting on his bicep-

Thunk

I walked straight into his back, immediately pulled out of my thoughts.

Daryl turned his head to look at me over his shoulder, brow furrowed. Crossbow hanging loosely from his hand.

"...What're you doin??"

I immediately choked down a nervous laugh and blamed it on him.

"You're the one who immediately stopped walking."

"Mhm."

He jerked his chin towards the other side of the cracked road.

"Look."

I followed his gaze.

An old roadside motel sat just off the highway. Time had weathered the faded yellow walls, and the giant NO VACANCY sign leaned dangerously to one side. Most of the doors had rotted clean off their hinges, the roof of most rooms fell through. Windows smashed in.

But one room...

One room was still intact.

God I could've cried. Finally.

We both walked towards said room. Daryl puts his arm out to stop me from going in yet.

"Stop. Lemme check." His voice low and gravelly. Like it always was. Dehydration however playing a part.

I leaned against the peeling wall outside the room, resisting the urge to groan.

My legs ached. My shoulders ached. My feet had progressed past aching hours ago and were now staging a full blown protest inside my boots.

Meanwhile, Daryl was taking approximately seventeen business days to check one motel room.

I knew why he did it. I did.

Didn't mean I couldn't complain about it.

Daryl slowly pushed open the door of the room marked "7" with his left arm. His crossbow raised in his other hand.

He inched further into the room checking each corner with practiced precision. Under the bed, behind the door. Inside the bathroom.

He finally gave a small but firm nod to me.

"Clear."

Only then did he nod me inside.

Daryl would never admit it out loud, but he checked every room like his life depended on it. Under the bed. Behind the bathroom door. Every window. Every dark corner.

Maybe it wasn't just his life he was worried about.

If anything ever happened to me, I don't think he'd forgive himself.

He'd deny it until the day he died, of course. Probably grunt and tell me not to flatter myself.

But he never once let me walk into a room before he did.

As I walked into the motel room he reached behind me and closed the door. Picking up the dingy chair from infront of the window and propping it under the door handle.

Meanwhile I groaned and flopped face first onto the bed. Boots on. Bag still on my burnt shoulders.

"Least take ya shoes off." Daryl grunted.

I hummed in response. Not moving an inch.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then I heard the heavy thud of his boots crossing the room.

I expected another gruff comment. Instead, the mattress dipped beside me.

I cracked one eye open just in time to see Daryl kneeling on the bed next to me.

"...What're you doin'?"

"Boots."

"I can do it."

He only grunted, already working at the laces.

His hands gently cupped the arch of my foot as he tugged the boots loose. His calloused hand settled around my ankle as he loosened the laces. Every movement was careful, almost hesitant, as though he was afraid of hurting me.

It was strange. The same hands that drew a crossbow and fought walkers with ease were now treating my blistered feet as though they were something fragile.

Daryl wasn't the type to wear his heart on his sleeve. He cared in quieter ways. In making sure I ate. In checking every room before I stepped inside. In kneeling on the floor of a rundown motel just to ease the ache in my feet.

"You don't have to-" He cut me off before I could carry on.

"Mm." He said lowly, tossing my last boot onto the old carpet.

Our eyes met for a second. Daryl cleared his throat and pushed up from off the bed, brushing the dust from off his jeans.

"Food."

I sat up from my position on the bed and leaned against the dingy headboard. Bag now shrugged off onto the floor.

He dug through his backpack before tossing me a can of dented peaches.

"Lucky day."

I chuckled and caught the can, turning it over in my hands. My face twisted in disgust.

"This is your idea of lucky?"

"Coulda been dog food." He retorted while opening his own can of plain beans with his pocket knife.

I looked down at the peaches before glancing over at him again.

Beans.

Of course he'd handed me the better can without a second thought.

He hooked a thumb beneath the lid of the bean can and folded it back with his pocket knife.

No bowl. No spoon.

He tipped the can back, eating the cold beans straight from it as if he'd done it a thousand times before.

I stared at him.

"Really?"

He shrugged, swallowing.

"Food's food." Talking with his mouth full.

After a few more bites, he wandered toward the bathroom, still holding the can in one hand.

The door creaked open.

Silence.

I frowned.

"...Daryl?"

A second later his voice drifted back.

"Huh."

"What?"

"C'mere."

I pushed myself off the bed, setting my can of peaches on the creaky bedside table and crossed the room.

The bathroom was tiny. Cracked mirror. Rust staining the sink. Half the tiles had fallen from the wall.

But when Daryl twisted one of the taps.

Water sputtered from the showerhead.

Then, unbelievably, it kept running.

We both just stared at it.

"No way..." I whispered.

Daryl glanced at me, one corner of his mouth almost twitching.

He stuck his hand out under the water before giving a small grunt.

"Waters warm."

Daryl licked his fingers clean from the beans before rummaging through his backpack and pulling out an old faded towel. Without a word, shoved it into my hands.

"Take your time," he muttered, already turning away.

He shut the bathroom door behind him.

Not because he was embarrassed.

Because he knew how much I needed this.

The water wasn't perfect. It smelled faintly of rust, and the pressure was weak.

I didn't care. I hadn't showered in weeks.

It could've been freezing. It could've been brown.

Right then, it felt like the greatest luxury I'd ever known.

Heat spread through my aching shoulders, washing away hours of dust, sweat and dried blood. Mud spiralled down the drain in brown ribbons.

I hadn't realised how tightly I'd been holding myself together until my muscles finally let go.

Steam still curled through the tiny bathroom as I switched the shower off.

I wrapped Daryl's faded towel around myself, the fabric rough from years of use but warm all the same.

For a moment, I just stood there.

Clean.

The cracked mirror hung crooked above the sink.

I almost didn't look.

When I did... I barely recognised the woman staring back at me.

My hair wasn't plastered to my forehead with sweat anymore. The dirt was gone from my face. The dried blood I'd stopped noticing had disappeared down the drain.

I looked...

Normal.

My throat tightened.

I'd forgotten what I looked like without weeks of grime caked into my skin.

Forgotten what it felt like to stand in a bathroom instead of a forest. To be wrapped in a towel instead of a rain-soaked jacket.

It was so painfully. ordinary.

I never thought I'd miss ordinary.

A knock sounded softly against the door.

"Y'alright?"

I quickly wiped beneath my eyes.

"Yeah."

My voice came out smaller than I intended.

"Yeah... I'm coming."

took a steadying breath before opening the bathroom door.

Steam drifted out around me.

My head stayed lowered as I stepped into the room, fingers gripping the edge of the towel.

I almost walked straight into him.

Daryl was standing just outside the door.

"...Hey."

I kept my eyes on the floor.

"M'fine."

A rough, calloused finger hooked gently beneath my chin.

"Look at me."

Reluctantly, I did.

His brow furrowed the second he saw my face.

"...You cryin'?"

I let out a small laugh that came out shakier than I'd intended.

"It's stupid."

He didn't answer.

Just waited.

"I..." My voice caught. "I'd forgotten what it felt like to be... clean."

The words sounded ridiculous once they left my mouth.

"Forgotten what I looked like."

His eyes softened almost imperceptibly.

"Ain't stupid."

His hands gently cupped the sides of my face. His calloused thumb softly brushed under my eye. He held my gaze for a moment like he was trying to memorise my face.

Daryl wrapped his arms around my shoulders. Pressing my head under his chin. I practically melt.

"C'mere. You're alright." He says softly. His voice softer than ever.

I inhaled slowly. He smelt like oil, oak and worn leather with a faint slither of smoke that never left him. God.

I felt his lips press a kiss to the top of my damp hair. A second one to my hairline. My temples. My forehead. On top of my eyelids. Each kiss was a silent confession.

"You're okay." A kiss to my left cheek.

"I've got you." A kiss to my right.

Each kiss carried the words he never knew how to say.

He pulled back slightly. Resting his forehead on mine. Sharing breath. His eyes met mine for a second.

I never realised how many shades of blue lived in his eyes until I was close enough to count them.

The hard edges he'd carried all day disappeared whenever he looked at me like this.

He hesitated, his gaze flicking between my eyes.

Like he was giving me every chance to pull away.

When I didn't, he closed the last inch between us.

The kiss was gentle. Careful.

As though I were something precious he'd forgotten he was allowed to hold.

Daryls hands came to rest on my waist as he deepened the kiss. Drawing me closer to him. I wrapped my arms around his neck pulling our bodies closer.

I exhaled shakily into the kiss. My knees weakened.

He pulled back from the kiss slightly and huffed out a small chuckle. His hands travelled down to my thighs. Gripping them softly and lifting me, wrapping my legs around his waist. I giggled quietly into his neck suddenly shy.

Daryl smirked and carried me over to the dingy motel bed, setting me down ever so softly.

His hands brushed back the damp hair from my forehead before he leaned down and pressed a kiss to my hairline.

"Such a pretty girl hm?"

My face slowly burned red. The colour started at the sides of my neck before creeping up my cheeks. I tucked my head away, covering my face with my hands. Praying he didn’t notice.

"You're alright, girl." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Quit duckin' your head."

He nudged my chin back up with two rough fingers.

"C'mere. Don't hide from me."

Daryls hands gently came to pull my hands away from my face.

"There she is."

Part 2- No Vacancy p2

AN:

Ahhhhh okay this is my first time writing fan fiction you'll all have to let me know what you thought 🩷🩷🩷

Next part will be soon thankyou so much for reading 🇺🇲🍒