- Neither of them would admit how much they rely on you.
- Ryland is the type to constantly check if you’re comfortable, fed, warm enough, and emotionally okay.
- Simon notices things too, but he expresses it differently. He’ll silently hand you a jacket when you’re cold or stand closer to you in crowded places.
- Together, they end up orbiting around you without realizing it.
- If you’re having a bad day, both of them immediately switch into problem-solving mode, just with very different approaches.
- Ryland asks twenty questions trying to help.
- Simon quietly sits beside you until you’re ready to talk.
- Ryland gets excited about literally everything.
- Simon pretends he isn’t interested but eventually gets dragged into conversations anyway.
- You once asked a simple question about stars and accidentally listened to Ryland lecture for forty-five minutes.
- Simon sat there the entire time pretending to be annoyed while secretly listening.
- Eventually you catch Simon using one of Ryland’s science facts in conversation.
- Ryland is insufferably proud of himself afterward.
- Neither of them particularly cares about expensive dates. Their favorite moments are quiet ones.
- Sharing breakfast.
- Falling asleep on the couch together.
- Late-night conversations when everyone should be asleep.
- Simon likes sitting in comfortable silence.
- Ryland likes filling that silence with random thoughts that somehow jump from biology to aliens to breakfast cereal.
- This is probably the biggest challenge in the relationship.
- Ryland tends to downplay his own importance.
- Simon carries enough guilt and emotional baggage to fill an entire cargo ship.
- Both struggle to understand why you chose them.
- You’ll catch them looking at you sometimes with this expression that says, “How are you real?”
- Reassurance becomes important.
- They remember every compliment you give them, even years later.
- Ryland is secretly very clingy. He loves physical affection once he’s comfortable. If you’re sitting together, eventually he’s leaning against you somehow.
- Simon is harder to read. At first he’s stiff and awkward about touch. Over time he becomes the type who unconsciously seeks you out.
- You’ll wake up and find Simon’s arm wrapped around your waist while Ryland is asleep with his head on your shoulder.
Ryland:
Makes you laugh when you’re upset. Leaves little notes around. Remembers every tiny detail you mention. Gets excited about your interests because you’re excited about them.
Simon:
Protects you without drawing attention to it. Watches your back in situations that make him nervous. Learns your routines and quietly helps. Gives affection through actions rather than words. Together, they balance each other surprisingly well.
- Ryland spirals outward and Simon spirals inward. You quickly learn the difference. Ryland talks through his fears. Simon goes quiet and withdraws.
- During those moments, the three of you develop an unspoken system.
- Ryland helps pull Simon out of his shell.
- Simon helps ground Ryland when his thoughts start racing.
- You help both of them remember they’re not alone.
- Ryland realizes it first in the middle of his day.
- You’re laughing at one of his terrible jokes, and suddenly he’s staring because he can’t imagine a future without you in it.
- Simon takes longer. He fights the feeling for weeks or months. But eventually he notices that every time something happens, whether it’s good or bad, you’re the first person he wants to tell. That’s when it finally clicks.
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Simon is pressing his hands to the hull window during a "night" cycle when everyone is meant to be asleep, feeling the cool glass beneath his palm.
Ryland saddles up beside him, resting his chin on his shoulder. He slid his arms around Simon's waist and hummed lightly "you alright, bud?" His voice rough with sleep.
Simon thought for a moment, he looked at Ryland in the reflection on the window and then to your form curled up in the bed behind them. "Yeah, just, thinking" "thats a dangerous thing"
Simon huffs, laughing a little "Yeah, yeah" he hits Ryland's shoulder lightly, looking happier than he had been in a long time.
Something shifts behind them, fabric shuffling "party started without me?" You ask as you make your way to your partners.
"You came just in time" Ryland murmurs, kissing your temple. "We're just,,, looking" Simon says as if he isn't sure himself. "Just looking" Ryland echoes, nodding along.
"Well, we've got plenty of time to look" you decide, one arm around each of them. "All the way to erid"
First of all absolutely incredible edit I love it so so much
Secondly I always giggle to myself whenever I see something like this because this image beams itself into my mind when I see myself pop up alongside these movies
God sometimes I'm writing smut and I'll like, delete a sentence because I'm like, no, I can't write that. It's too indulgent. And then it's like. Girl, what the fuck are you even going to the candy store for if you're just going to buy raisins. Get real.
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it was a stroke of genius to give James T Kirk a bitchy flip phone in the 60's, truly amazing to watch him slam it shut like a pissed off socialite girl in 2000's teen shows
Daryl figures out you're touch-starved. It ruins both of your lives.
Daryl Dixon figured out you were touch-starved entirely by accident.
Which honestly made it worse.
Because once Daryl noticed something—
Really noticed it—
He became impossible about it.
And unfortunately for both of you, Daryl noticing you practically melted under casual affection ruined the remainder of your lives permanently.
It started small.
Tiny things.
The prison had become strangely gentle lately.
Not safe exactly.
Never safe.
But calmer.
There were routines now.
Gardens growing in the yard.
Laundry lines swaying in the breeze.
People laughed sometimes.
You still startled when people touched you, though.
Not in fear.
Just surprise.
Like you weren’t used to it.
Daryl noticed because Daryl noticed everything about you.
The way you froze slightly anytime Carol squeezed your shoulder.
How your entire expression softened whenever Beth linked arms with you.
How you lingered embarrassingly long after hugs.
At first, he didn’t think much of it.
Then one evening Glenn threw an arm around your shoulders while telling some stupid story during dinner.
And you—
You leaned into it instinctively.
Tiny movement.
Barely noticeable.
But your whole body relaxed like someone finally loosened a wire pulled too tight.
Daryl stared.
Because the look on your face—
Jesus.
Like warmth physically surprised you.
Then Glenn let go after a second and you smiled like you were trying not to miss it already.
Something uncomfortable twisted in Daryl’s chest.
The realization hit fully a few days later.
You’d gotten hurt on a run.
Nothing major.
A twisted ankle and a few cuts after slipping down an embankment.
Still enough that Hershel ordered you off your feet for the day.
Daryl found you sitting alone in one of the prison cells that evening changing the bandage around your ankle.
You looked frustrated.
Mostly at yourself.
“Need help?” he asked from the doorway.
You startled slightly before relaxing.
“Oh. Hey.”
Daryl crouched beside you automatically.
Large rough hands reaching for the bandage.
You hesitated only a second before letting him help.
Silence settled comfortably.
Then—
When Daryl’s hand wrapped carefully around your ankle to steady it—
You went still.
Not tense.
Still.
Your breath caught softly.
Daryl glanced up immediately.
You looked embarrassed suddenly.
“…Sorry.”
His brow furrowed.
“For what?”
You shrugged awkwardly.
“Nothin’.”
But your face had softened in that same strange way again.
Like simple touch affected you too much.
Daryl stared at your ankle in his hands.
Then slowly:
“…When’s the last time somebody took care’a you?”
The question slipped out before he could stop it.
You blinked.
Then looked away.
Daryl’s stomach dropped immediately.
Because that silence?
That silence was answer enough.
“Oh,” he said quietly.
You laughed awkwardly.
“It’s not a big deal.”
The words sounded rehearsed.
Like you said them often.
Daryl hated that instantly.
He finished wrapping your ankle carefully.
Then without really thinking about it, his thumb brushed lightly over your skin once.
You visibly melted.
Not dramatically.
Just—
Your shoulders loosened.
Your eyes fluttered slightly.
Tiny reaction.
Huge impact.
Daryl’s brain short-circuited completely.
Because suddenly he understood.
You weren’t just shy.
You were touch-starved.
And apparently nobody had been taking proper care of you.
Something deeply possessive and furious rose inside his chest.
Not at you.
Never at you.
At the idea of someone going this long without softness.
Without affection.
Without being held.
Daryl swallowed hard.
“…That feels nice, huh?”
Your face immediately turned red.
You looked horrified at being noticed.
“I—”
Daryl’s expression softened instantly.
“Hey. Ain’t makin’ fun.”
You stared at him uncertainly.
Then quietly:
“Yeah.”
The honesty in that tiny word wrecked him.
After that, Daryl couldn’t stop noticing it.
And once he noticed it—
He started doing something about it.
Not consciously at first.
Instinctively.
Like his body made decisions before his brain caught up.
He’d hand you things and let his fingers linger slightly.
Stand close enough your shoulders brushed.
Rest his palm briefly against your back guiding you through doorways.
Every single time, you reacted.
Subtle.
But there.
A tiny breath.
A softened expression.
A quiet almost-startled look of relief.
And every single time, Daryl felt like he was losing his damn mind.
Because you looked at touch like it was something precious.
Like you weren’t used to being handled gently.
It made his chest ache.
The first hug happened because of a nightmare.
You woke the prison with a scream.
Daryl was moving before he fully woke up.
Knife in hand.
Heart pounding.
He found you sitting upright on your cot breathing hard, eyes glassy with panic.
No danger.
Just fear.
Daryl lowered the knife slowly.
“Hey.”
You looked up immediately.
Humiliation crossed your face.
“Sorry.”
Again with the apologizing.
Daryl hated that too.
“You ain’t gotta apologize for nightmares.”
You rubbed at your eyes quickly.
“M’fine.”
Bullshit.
Daryl stepped closer carefully.
Then stopped.
Because he wanted to touch you.
Badly.
Wanted to comfort you.
Wanted to ease that awful lonely look in your eyes.
“You want a hug?”
The question came out rough.
Awkward.
Like he physically wasn’t used to offering things like that.
You stared at him like he’d spoken another language.
“A what?”
Daryl shifted uncomfortably.
“A hug,” he repeated. “Jesus Christ.”
Your eyes widened slightly.
“You’d hug me?”
The sheer disbelief in your voice nearly fucking killed him.
Of course he would.
Jesus.
Daryl’s chest tightened painfully.
“…C’mere.”
You moved instantly.
Like your body decided before your brain could.
And the second Daryl wrapped his arms around you—
You collapsed against him.
A tiny broken sound escaped your throat as your hands clutched weakly at the back of his vest.
Daryl froze.
Because nobody had ever held onto him like that before.
Like he was safety.
Like he was home.
Your entire body relaxed by degrees in his arms.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Like you were afraid it might disappear.
Daryl tightened his hold immediately.
Protective instinct hitting him so hard it almost hurt.
“It’s okay,” he murmured awkwardly into your hair. “Gotcha.”
You trembled once against him.
Then whispered so quietly he almost missed it:
“Thank you.”
And that—
That absolutely ruined him.
After that, things escalated quickly.
Because now Daryl knew.
And now you knew he knew.
Which meant every bit of affection became charged with unbearable awareness.
Daryl started touching you constantly.
Not even on purpose anymore.
A hand at your waist.
Your knee pressed against his during dinner.
His arm slung around your shoulders during watch duty.
And every single time, you unconsciously leaned into him like a moth to a flame.
Daryl became addicted to it immediately.
The way your eyes softened when he touched you.
The sleepy little sighs you made.
How naturally you started seeking him out afterward.
It destroyed him.
Completely.
Carol noticed first.
“You’ve gotta stop looking at her like that.”
Daryl frowned.
“Like what?”
“Like she hung the moon and invented kindness.”
Daryl looked offended.
“Ain’t lookin’ at her like nothin’.”
Carol stared.
“You carried her juice box across the yard yesterday.”
“…She asked.”
“She was fifteen feet away.”
Daryl grunted and walked off.
Carol laughed herself breathless.
You were not doing much better.
Because Daryl Dixon touched like he meant it.
Careful.
Steady.
Protective.
Every casual touch from him felt devastatingly intimate because Daryl wasn’t casually affectionate with anybody else.
Only you.
And the worst part?
He always looked at you afterward.
Like he needed to make sure you were okay.
Like your comfort mattered to him more than breathing.
One evening in the common area, you ended up tucked against Daryl’s side beneath a blanket.
Halfway through the conversations, you realized his fingers were absentmindedly rubbing slow circles against your arm.
Your brain nearly shut down.
You tilted your head slightly to look at him.
Daryl noticed immediately.
“What?”
“…Nothing.”
His hand paused.
“You want me t’stop?”
Immediate panic hit you.
“No.”
Too fast.
Too desperate.
Heat flooded your face instantly.
Daryl stared at you.
Then very slowly resumed the gentle motion against your arm.
Something soft and wrecked crossed his face.
Like that answer affected him way too much.
Truthfully?
It did.
The breaking point came during a storm.
Heavy rain hammered against the prison roof while everyone crowded into the cafeteria overnight.
Space was limited.
Blankets everywhere.
People sleeping shoulder-to-shoulder.
You sat beside Daryl shivering slightly from the cold.
Without a word, he opened one arm toward you.
Invitation.
Your heart stumbled.
“Y’sure?” you whispered.
Daryl looked at you like the question offended him.
“Get over here.”
You curled against his side carefully.
Daryl immediately wrapped his arm around you fully.
Warm.
Solid.
Safe.
Then—
Without thinking—
You nuzzled slightly closer.
Tiny movement.
Instinctive.
Daryl stopped breathing.
Because holy shit.
You trusted him.
Trusted him enough to seek comfort from him naturally.
His hand tightened carefully against your shoulder.
And then quietly, rough like confession:
“Ain’t nobody been takin’ care’a you right.”
Your chest tightened painfully.
You looked down.
“No,” you admitted softly.
Daryl went still beside you.
Then after a long moment:
“Gonna change that.”
Your breath caught.
You looked up slowly.
Daryl was already staring at you.
Eyes dark.
Intense.
Terrifyingly honest.
“Don’t think I can stop now anyway,” he muttered.
And suddenly you realized something equally devastating.
Daryl wasn’t just comforting you because he pitied you.
Daryl liked touching you.
Needed it too.
Maybe almost as much as you did.
Your voice came out barely above a whisper.
“Daryl…”
His hand slid carefully up your back.
Slow.
Gentle.
“You got any idea what ya do to me?” he asked hoarsely.
No.
No, you really didn’t.
But judging by the way Daryl looked at you right now—
Like touching you had become something dangerous and necessary all at once—
You were starting to understand.
Then finally, slowly, Daryl pressed his forehead against yours.
Summary: You try to hide that you’re sick, but Daryl notices your fever and makes you rest. He acts gruff and annoyed at first, but stays by your side all night, changing the cloth on your forehead, bringing you water, and quietly worrying while pretending he isn’t.
You knew you were getting sick before anyone else did.
It started as a weird ache behind your eyes. Then came the chill that clung under your skin no matter how close you stood to the fire. By morning, your throat felt raw, your arms felt too heavy, and every little noise around camp seemed to hit your skull like a hammer.
Still, you got up.
There was always something to do. Water to carry. Clothes to wash. Food to sort through. People were already stretched thin enough, and you hated the thought of being one more thing for everybody to worry about.
So you tied your hair back, pulled on your boots, and pretended your hands weren’t shaking.
You made it almost an hour before Daryl noticed.
He was sitting near his bike, cleaning dirt from one of his bolts, when his eyes caught on you. You were stood by the water buckets, one hand pressed lightly against the side of your head like you could hold yourself together if you just applied enough pressure.
His gaze narrowed.
“You alright?”
You straightened too fast. The world tilted for half a second.
“Yeah,” you said, voice coming out rougher than you wanted. “I’m fine.”
Daryl didn’t move at first. He just looked at you in that quiet way he had, like he was reading all the things you were trying not to say.
“You don’t sound fine.”
You forced a small laugh and reached for one of the buckets. “That’s because you’re dramatic.”
“Mhm.”
You managed about three steps before your grip slipped. The bucket hit the ground with a heavy splash, water spilling into the dirt around your boots.
Daryl was up before you even had time to swear.
“Hey.” His voice sharpened as he crossed the space between you. “The hell are you doin’?”
“I dropped it,” you muttered, bending down.
He caught your arm before you could grab the handle.
You looked up at him, ready to argue, but his expression shifted the second his hand touched your skin.
His brows pulled together.
“You’re burnin’ up.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m just warm.”
“It’s freezing.”
You glanced away, annoyed because he was right and even more annoyed because he knew he was right.
Daryl let go of your arm, but he didn’t step back. “Go lie down.”
“I’m fine, Daryl.”
He scoffed under his breath. “Stop bein’ stubborn.”
“I’m not being stubborn. I’m helping.”
“You’re about to fall on your ass in the middle of camp.”
You rolled your eyes, but the movement made your head throb. You tried to hide the wince. Of course, he saw it.
His jaw tightened.
“That’s it,” he muttered.
Before you could ask what he meant, he grabbed the bucket with one hand and nudged you gently but firmly in the direction of the house.
“Daryl-”
“Walk.”
“I don’t need to be babysat.”
“Then quit actin’ like a damn child.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder. “You’re very comforting, you know that?”
“Good. Maybe you’ll listen.”
You wanted to argue again, mostly out of pride, but your body had started giving up on you. Every step felt heavier than the last, and by the time you reached the spare room, your legs were shaking badly enough that Daryl had to put a hand at your back.
Not pushing. Not rushing.
Just there.
You sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, trying to make it seem casual.
Daryl stood in front of you, arms crossed, looking deeply unimpressed.
“Boots off.”
You blinked at him. “Excuse me?”
“Boots. Off.”
“You’re bossy when you’re worried.”
“I ain’t worried.”
“Right.”
He looked away too quickly.
You smiled a little, though it faded when another shiver rolled through you.
Daryl noticed that too.
He crouched down without saying anything and tugged at the laces of your boots. You watched him quietly, your fever making everything feel soft around the edges. The room, the light through the window, his hair falling into his face as he worked.
He pulled one boot off, then the other, setting them neatly beside the bed like it mattered.
“You eat today?” he asked.
You hesitated.
His eyes lifted.
“That means no.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Course you weren’t.”
He stood and grabbed the blanket from the chair, throwing it over you with less care than he clearly meant to. It landed half across your shoulder and half across your face.
You pulled it down with a weak laugh. “Trying to smother me?”
“Don’t tempt me.”
But his voice was softer now.
He disappeared for a few minutes, and you told yourself you were only going to rest your eyes until he came back.
Then you woke up to cool water touching your forehead.
You flinched slightly.
“Easy,” Daryl murmured.
The room was darker now. You didn’t know how long you’d been out, only that your clothes were sticking to your skin and your head felt like it was full of smoke.
Daryl sat beside the bed, one elbow on his knee, a damp cloth in his hand. There was a small bowl of water on the floor beside him, along with a cup and what looked like the sad remains of some soup Carol had probably forced into his hands.
“You’re still here?” you whispered.
He glanced at you. “Where else would I be?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere useful.”
His face tightened at that. “Ain’t useless.”
You looked at him for a moment.
He wouldn’t meet your eyes.
Daryl dipped the cloth back into the water, wrung it out, and placed it across your forehead again. His fingers brushed your temple, rough but careful.
You closed your eyes.
“That feels nice,” you admitted quietly.
“Fever’s high.”
“You been checking?”
“Had to. You were mumblin’.”
Your eyes opened. “What was I saying?”
“Bunch of nonsense.”
“That’s not an answer.”
He shrugged, but there was the smallest hint of amusement in his face. “Said somethin’ about Rick’s hat lookin’ stupid.”
You let out a breathy laugh, which turned into a cough.
Daryl leaned forward instantly, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he wanted to help but wasn’t sure how to do it without making a whole thing of it.
You waved him off once it passed. “I stand by that.”
“Yeah, well, don’t say it in front of Carl.”
You smiled faintly, but the tiredness was already pulling at you again.
Daryl noticed. He always noticed.
“Drink.”
You made a face.
“Don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Your face did.”
He helped you sit up enough to take the cup. You tried to hold it yourself, but your hands were unsteady, so he kept his fingers around it too, pretending he wasn’t basically helping you drink water like you were made of glass.
It should’ve embarrassed you.
It didn’t.
Not really.
Not with him.
When you were done, you sank back down into the pillow, exhausted from doing almost nothing.
Daryl adjusted the blanket around you. Again, not gently at first glance. But he tucked it close around your sides so the cold air couldn’t get in.
“You don’t have to stay,” you murmured.
He sat back in the chair, stretching one leg out. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“You’ll get sick.”
“Had worse.”
“That’s not comforting either.”
“Go to sleep.”
You turned your head slightly, watching him through half-open eyes. He looked tired. More tired than he’d ever admit. His shoulders were tense, his fingers tapping against his knee, his gaze flicking from your face to the cloth to the window and back again.
Pretending he wasn’t worried sick.
You knew better.
“Daryl?”
“What?”
“You’re being nice.”
He scoffed. “Fever’s makin’ you delusional.”
“No,” you whispered, smiling faintly. “You’re always nice. You just make it weird.”
He looked at you then, properly. For a second, all the gruffness slipped. His eyes softened in a way that made your chest ache more than the fever did.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, looking down. “Somebody’s gotta keep you from dyin’ over a damn cold.”
You hummed. “So dramatic.”
“Sleep.”
This time, you listened.
You drifted in and out for the rest of the night. Sometimes you woke to the cloth being changed. Sometimes to Daryl shifting in the chair. Once, you woke to him standing by the window, crossbow in hand, checking the dark outside like your fever was something the whole world might try to take advantage of.
Each time, he came back.
Each time, the cloth was cool again.
At some point near dawn, when the sky had gone pale and the worst of the heat had finally started to break, you opened your eyes and found him sitting on the floor beside the bed, his back against the wall.
His head had tipped forward slightly, eyes closed, arms folded over his chest.
He’d fallen asleep sitting up.
You watched him for a while, too weak to move, too warm in a different way now.
“Daryl,” you whispered.
His eyes opened immediately.
He looked at you like he’d been awake the whole time.
“You okay?”
You nodded a little. “Think so.”
He leaned forward and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. Then your cheek. His expression loosened by the smallest amount.
“Fever’s goin’ down.”
“Told you I was fine.”
He gave you a look. “Don’t push it.”
You smiled.
He reached for the cloth again, but you caught his wrist lightly before he could move away.
“Thank you.”
Daryl froze for half a second.
Then he shrugged, like he hadn’t spent the whole night beside you. Like he hadn’t checked on you every time your breathing changed. Like he hadn’t looked scared when he thought you weren’t awake enough to see it.
“Ain’t nothin’.”
Your fingers slipped from his wrist, but he didn’t move back right away.
His hand stayed near yours on the blanket.
Close enough that your pinky brushed his.
Neither of you said anything.
Then he cleared his throat and stood, grabbing the bowl of water like he suddenly had a very serious job to do.
“Gonna get you more water. Maybe somethin’ to eat.”
You settled back into the pillow, smiling to yourself.
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one genre of fanfiction that seems to have mostly disappeared since i became an adult is shenanigans-type fics. like not exactly crack but just "the gang goes to 7-11" type, extremely low-stakes plot stories. the beach episodes of fanfiction. i just feel like i don't see those around so much anymore. whered they go. i miss them :(
a person from 150 years ago would be terrified by modern stuff . however , a duck from 150 years ago would just be all like ,still got lakes? yes ? okay cool
Reblogging again because I thought they changed the quote so I decided to look up the actual quote and it’s not fake that is very much the actual quote
one cool thing about having an autistic dad whose special interest is underwater spearfishing is that when he catches fish he'll just call up a nearby chinese restaurant like "hi. i caught a fish. can you cook it and i'll bring my family by?" and they're like "yeah sure come on over white boy" and the fish is delicious.
it's worth adding that my mom is chinese and she always gets embarrassed by this. like she doesn't want to come to the restaurant with us. she doesn't want to be seen with the white man she caught plus the fish that her white man caught. everyone who works at the restaurant thinks my dad is awesome and compliments him + her for choosing him and we all find this very fun except for her.
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this is so late renaissance early mannerism. the controversial male nudity? the lighting and value on the figure of emphasis?? him bathed in light and placed ABOVE while the police are clad in dark and BELOW?? Uh HES HITTING THE CONTRAPPOSTO??
Imagine Grace defined his name as the elegance definition of grace and Rocky spends years thinking how fucking ironic this clumsy leaky space blobs name is.
Until Grace slips out a sentence along the lines of "could you give me a little grace here" and Rocky immediately points out he used a word wrong so Grace has to explain that yeah, grace means elegance but it can also mean mercy sometimes too.
And Rocky has to suddenly reconcile that the clumsy leaky blob that saved his life twice, that almost certainly doomed himself to come back for him, name is Mercy.
