#Original Female Character

[themoonlitquill]

Whispers Woven in Shadow. (3/?)

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙝 𝘼𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧? 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚? 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚? 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 ; 𝖠𝗓𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗅 𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆!𝖮𝖢 (𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅).

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 ; I seriously cannot thank ya’ll enough for ALLLL the love!! 😭 I’m blown away! Honestly. I’m really happy and I’ve been BUZZING. EEEE! So, I hope you enjoy this chapter. It took me a little longer because I wanted to get it just right and I think this is the closest I could. 😬 Also!! I made the visual up above (I made Pinterest boards too PLS FMDKDKKD) and the filter is called ‘tardiness’ by @elliesnovella on Insta! ENJOY. 🩵

𝖳𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 ; 𝗠𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 (𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳), 𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗲𝗿-𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗺𝗼𝗶𝗹, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 (𝗹𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁) 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘀𝘁𝘆 𝘀𝗮𝗱.

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 ; 4116.

Two days had passed and Ariadne still hadn’t tried talking to anyone else.

Except for the shadow when it came to check in on her - at least, that’s what she assumed it was doing - and herself, but that wasn’t out of the ordinary.

She thought about trying with Nesta first and then quickly took that right off the list when she had stopped by to bring a few books she thought her sister might like, only to be glared at and the stack snatched from her arms with the door slamming seconds after.

Nesta had taken the books though.

And that was something.

Then she considered Elain, who was marked off even quicker than Nesta. Their rooms were connected and when Ariadne had knocked, the door flew open to reveal the eldest Archeron with her blue eyes seeming to glow and had spoken in a tone so sharp that it made her ears ring.

She wasn’t great at lip reading - everyone always spoke too fast - but she managed to catch ‘leave’ and judging by the vitriol in her sister’s expression, she guessed it wasn’t a particularly pleasant string of words; it led to her decision of staying away for a while.

That’s when she found herself thinking of Feyre and how much she missed her.

Ariadne knew that she would be the first to want to try, to actually be able to talk instead of half-relayed messages on paper, and yet, it wasn’t possible. Because Feyre had gone with… What was his name? The High Lord of Spring. Timothy? Yeah, okay. Either way, her sister had left, with no clue as to when she’d be coming back.

It was an ever-present ache in Ariadne’s chest and no matter how hard she tried, it wouldn’t go away.

You need to get out of this room. You’re suffocating in here and the more you think, the more you’ll drive yourself insane, she blows a huff through her nose, finding she was annoyed with herself, which was worse than being annoyed at someone else in her opinion. Just get up and leave. Go explore! Do something! Anything!

Her thumb and index finger reach up to pinch the bridge of her nose as she releases an exasperated sigh; she stands from the seat by the window and follows her own advice, leaving the damn room and storming off towards the library.

No one would bother her there.

Ariadne throws open the doors with all her strength and strides over to the armchair she always sat in, plopping down with a second huff, brow furrowed. She hated being at war with herself because she couldn’t get away from herself. So, she tended to avoid the things that frustrated her the most, which almost never worked out.

Maybe on a special occasion, if there was such a thing.

But usually, she ended up doing what she tried to avoid and always searched for a place of solitude. The irony was not lost on her; the deaf girl looking to be in an even quieter place, having found comfort in the isolated silence. It would make her laugh if she thought she was capable of it anymore.

And now?

It was like she couldn’t sit still no matter what and she wanted to be around people. She didn’t even care who it was, but it seemed that she was the only one wandering around here since her sisters refused to come out, which limited the available options.

Ariadne closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, willing herself to relax her mind so it didn’t explode from the pressure building; it made it more difficult to focus and all she wanted was for it to go away. She needed to scream and she couldn’t do that, not now, not again.

Deep breaths, Ari. You’re fine. Relax. I promise, she swallows dryly and picks at the skin around her fingers, wishing for any sort of distraction. Feyre will come back and everything will be alright. She’ll listen. You’ll have her to talk to. Even if it isn’t all the time, it’s still something.

She flexes her hands to stop the incessant bad habit and then smooths them over the satin fabric of the pants she wore, the cool texture against her palms paired with the motion actually managing to soothe her.

See? You’re okay. Got all worked up for nothing, Ariadne takes a breath, then another, and tilts her head, the air around her shifting, tickling her skin. A sigh of relief emits from her lips and the opalescent wall in her mind begins to tremble, the doorway appearing more quickly than it ever had.

Everything rushes out of her at once. “I’m glad you’re here, thank that blasted Cauldron! I couldn’t stay in that room any longer. I couldn’t! Where have you been? I haven’t seen you all day!”

Nothing.

Silence.

“You can talk.”

Everything freezes.

That wasn’t the shadow, no, in fact, that was the furthest thing from the shadow.

Her eyes snap open and a soft whoosh leaves her as she stares directly into hazel tinged with gold - rimmed with lashes that even Nesta would be jealous of - and held a mixture of shock, curiosity, and something else that she wasn’t quite sure of.

It was Azriel.

She had just spoken to Azriel.

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

Ariadne couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything other than stare. What had she just done? He wasn’t supposed to be the first one she revealed this to! It was supposed to be Feyre - the one person who always cared about what she wanted and what mattered to her - and even if she had to wait to do it, she knew it was going to be perfectly fine and now that was all over with.

It was supposed to be Feyre. This was all wrong!

“You’re a Daemati,” Azriel’s voice rolls in and she’s actually able to hear it inside her head, as clearly as her own. It was low, deep, velvety, and her breath hitches; it wasn’t like the shadow’s whisper at all, instead, there was quiet authority laced in his tone and a richness that reminded her of a thick chocolate, though there was a slight edge that emanated a danger of the lethal kind. It was… It was beautiful.

“Yes,” Ariadne blinks and watches him as he watches her, noting that even in the crouched position he was in, he still remained a respectable enough distance away. “A new one.”

His head tilts and the shadows around his shoulder flourish about excitedly. With a subtle tug, he manages to reel them in and give his full attention to the Archeron sister who had managed to take him completely by surprise, which wasn’t exactly easy to do. “You seem to be doing pretty well.”

She falls silent for a moment, unsure how to proceed. Talking with the shadow hadn’t been hard at all and now she felt like a fish out of water, flopping around and utterly devoid of any semblance of words; she didn’t know what to do.

Azriel waits patiently with his elbows rested on his knees, deducting that this must be even more jarring to her than it was for him. He wasn’t impatient by any means and had no intention to rush her.

“I’ve been practicing,” Ariadne finally responds, a single hand reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind one of her delicately pointed ears and he tracks the movement without her notice.

“Have you?”

She nods her head, clasping her hands back together. “The basics. Opening and closing the door, some organizing,” her thumb brushes over her knuckles. Why was she so nervous? There was no way she’d ever feel this way if it were Feyre. That had to be it; Ariadne just didn’t know Azriel, if she did, there wouldn’t be any of this feeling. “But no knowledge of obliterating minds. I don’t want to do that.”

The corner of Azriel’s lips twitch. She was different than he expected and it piqued his interest, making him wonder what else there might be. “It would be a good idea to learn regardless.”

“And if I did, who would I ask, Shadowmaster? You? Rhysand? Feyre isn’t here, you know,” she levels him with a look and his eyebrows raise before there’s a deep rumbling in her head, rich, warm, and sending a shiver down the length of her spine. What was that? A laugh? Maybe? If it was, she wasn’t sure why, which brought back the annoyed expression on her face. “What’s so funny?”

He works to suppress the smile struggling to show itself, though the amusement was definitive. “I’m the Shadowmaster now?”

Azriel watches keenly as Ariadne’s narrowed eyes widen a fraction, realization setting in, and she tenses slightly, breath stilling, and he finds himself feeling a sense of relief when she inhales. She sits up straighter and her voice fills his head as it had before; tentative and unsure, then flowing in like a whisper of moonlight, luminescent, gentle and fleeting.

“I mixed up your titles, didn’t I? I did it twice,” a frown tugs at the corners of her mouth and he doesn’t like the way it settles so quickly, appearing too comfortable. “That would make you the Spymaster and a Shadowsinger.”

“I think I like Shadowmaster better.”

Surprise flashes across her face before she relaxes a little, though there was still an uneasiness in the way she swallowed, and how her eyes flitted to him and then to her hands and back again. Azriel wasn’t sure what was bothering her so badly that it was lingering around, but it left a bad taste on his tongue.

“But you can call me Azriel.”

Ariadne blinks, noting the subtle hopefulness that was woven into his tone and finding that curious. Wouldn’t everyone call him that? “Azriel,” his shadows slither towards her, reaching for her ankles when they suddenly retreat and she tilts her head. “Why did you do that?”

His eyes seem to glow a little more golden then and they remind her of the sunrise peeking over a lush forest.

“Do what?”

“Pull them away from me.”

Azriel falls silent and his shoulders move, signifying he had taken a deep breath. Why? He stands from the crouched position and Ariadne leans forward suddenly, which is strange because what was she going to do? Follow him? He turns around and starts walking away, causing a pang to hit her chest, and she digs her nails into her skin. “Wait! I’m sorry, I… I didn’t mean to assume anything. I just thought that you commanded the shadows and I didn’t want you to think they scare me because they don’t. I actually think they’re very sweet.”

He moves further and her heart drops to her stomach; she had managed to drive away the first person she talked to because she had said the wrong thing.

How could this happen so fast? Was she really so bad?

Ariadne gnaws on her inner lower lip, thinking over how she should have worded it differently or if maybe she was too invasive? The shadows were his and he could do whatever he wanted to with them. It wasn’t any of her business.

If Azriel didn’t want them to touch her, then that was his right.

A flash of black catches her eye and she blinks, head lifting to find that the Shadowsinger had grabbed the other armchair and dragged it until it was only a few feet away from hers, now sitting with his wings lifted up over the back so they wouldn’t be crushed under his weight. His gaze finds hers, brow raising as he leans to the left with his arm rested on the chair and the other at his side, gloved hand on his thigh.

“I do and I don’t. They came to me and chose to listen to what orders I give. Though, I prefer to think of them as requests. They’re smarter than most people think and that actually ends up being a benefit to me and the work I do for Rhys,” Azriel dips his head, a few shadows curling around the arch of his wings, movements fluid as they swirl and reminding her of falling feathers dancing. “They’re meant to be kept close in case I need them. Good to know what you think of them though,” his lips curve slightly. “Does that answer your question?”

It did and it didn’t; there was still the unanswered one of why he felt the need to keep them from her. Surely she couldn’t be that big of a distraction? And if they had come to him willingly, shouldn’t they be allowed to have a bit of leeway too? The understanding of it all was just out of her reach and she desperately wished she could grab and hold onto it.

Ariadne sits back in the chair and pulls her legs underneath her, deciding to keep it to herself. This could possibly be the start of something great and she refused to ruin it, especially when she had never had an actual friend before.

“Yes,” No. She taps her finger on her knee. “What sort of work do you do?”

Azriel watches the subtle shifts in her expression - a twitch of her brow before they came together, the way her bottom lip moved as she bit the inside, and how her eyelashes fluttered across her cheeks like butterfly wings when she seemed to fall into her thoughts - and feels something stir inside of him.

Almost like being asleep for a long time and finally starting to wake up.

“Gathering intel, observing, and making sure that we know everything we can that goes on in other Courts,” his wings stretch outwards a little and her eyes roam over the movement, noting the scars that were littered across the membranes and she can’t help but be reminded of the horror back in Hybern, how he must of suffered in agony with no way to get out of it. “When I can’t be somewhere, I send the shadows and they bring back what they find.”

“Do you like doing all of that?”

“It keeps me busy.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

Azriel didn’t know what to say to that.

Everyone in the Inner Circle knew what he did and had to do, but no one had ever pursued the topic any further, having figured if he wanted to tell them, he would.

And here comes this little Fae, asking because she… what? Because she wanted to? The idea was ridiculous and yet, Azriel found himself unsure and it was disconcerting.

He takes a breath, weighing over his thoughts and debating on how to word what he wanted to say. “Sometimes it’s difficult. There are certain things,” flashes of Truth-Teller slicing into flesh, crimson dripping onto the floor, the sound of screams, and his jaw tightens. “That I have to do and a certain way of doing them that isn’t always my favorite.”

Ariadne tilts her head. There was a darkness swirling within the gold that wasn’t there before and it was clear that there was a lot more to it than that. She wanted to know what he had to do that would make him this haunted and she came to the conclusion that it must be awful, which didn’t sit well with her. Did no one bother to ask? Did no one bother to even try?

A part of her wanted to ask Azriel herself, but how in the stupid Cauldron was she supposed to do that? Would it be over-stepping? How should she say it? What if it made him angry? Or upset? She didn’t want to do that to him.

But she wanted to know.

There was something telling her that she needed to and it was yet another thing that she didn’t understand, so she decided to just go with it like she did everything else until she had the answers.

“There are certain things that I don’t like to remember either. Particularly how they made me feel,” Ariadne swallows, using the pad of her thumb to rub small circles into the back of her hand. “Everything else is heightened since I can’t hear in a normal way and that isn’t always a good thing,” she takes a deep breath, skin prickling. “It makes the pain worse.”

Her body shifts and she lifts her chin to find that Azriel’s shadows were whipping around his back and shoulders - movements a bit wilder than they usually were - with the tips refined into razor sharp points; they seemed ready to cause some serious damage and she wished she could smooth her hands over them, if only to calm.

“I do know if I leave it alone for too long, that it’ll be harder for me to deal with when the time comes,” her eyes trail along each obsidian tendril, noting that they were shaking, blurring slightly at the edges. “I’m not ready for it right now, but I’m hoping that one day I will be. Even if it hurts, I know it’s something I have to do,” she marvels at the way they flow through the air, like water down a stream, and a soft hum emits from her throat.

“I think it’s something we all have to do at some point,” Ariadne tears her eyes away from the shadows in search of that golden hue to find that Azriel was already looking at her. She inhales. “No matter if we hate it,” she exhales. “No matter if it isn’t our favorite.”

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

Azriel couldn’t remember the last time someone had stunned him into silence; as a matter of fact, he didn’t think it had ever happened before, which was a complete conundrum and left his mind in a scramble and it was the most unorthodox thing he had ever experienced.

How?

Why?

There was something about Ariadne that was different from her sisters, a secret locked away with a hidden key, and the Shadowsinger wanted to dive into every square inch of her mind until he knew everything that there was to know about her.

He already knew she was intuitive and witty, genuine, perceptive, curious - soft - and probably one of the most intelligent people he’d ever met, which he would be sure to keep from Rhys lest he fall into his usual flair for the dramatics.

But he wanted to know more.

Because as soon as Azriel thought he had a good grip on who he thought she was, the little thing slipped through his fingers and changed direction.

And now he couldn’t form words into a sentence that would make sense of what he wished to say to her, coming up short several times and beginning to get frustrated with the whole ordeal. He wanted to keep the line of communication open and have her presence so near to his, and it seemed that his desire for that was what was making his mind draw blanks.

If this were to happen with Rhys or Cass, he would’ve left the room by now.

Azriel quickly discovered that was the last thing he wanted to do where Ariadne was concerned.

So he stayed.

His shadows had settled and he marveled at the warmth of her honey-eyed gaze and the featherlight caress of her whisper, which seemed to be soothing them and causing their own anger to ebb away like the tide; it took him by surprise - he sensed a theme here - and he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

They were an extension of Azriel, every part of them intertwined with him, and no one had ever had such an influence before.

How is it possible? What does it mean? He didn’t have the answers and it made him want to question everything until he finally got them.

“That’s easier said than done,” is what he responds with, tone a bit gruffer than usual.

Ariadne’s expression shifts to a mixture of perplexity and mirth, the corners of her mouth twitching and she purses her lips. “I never said it would be easy, Shadowsinger. You have to put in the effort if you want the results.”

A single brow raises. “You seem to have all the answers.”

“Not hardly, but I can read people fairly well and I can tell that you’ve never considered it before.”

She was right. He hadn’t.

Azriel readjusts his position and leans forward in the chair, elbows resting on his knees as the gold swirls around his irises. “You really aren’t afraid.”

Her brow mimics the action of his, the amusement still tugging at her lips, though she manages to keep it at bay. “Do I have a reason to be?”

He tracks the movement and finds himself wishing that she would show her smile, wanting to see how it changed her expression; if it would make her eyes light up as joy filtered through or if it would disappear quicker than a blink and have him eager for the day that he could stop, stare, and admire the beauty of it.

“No,” his wings unfurl to stretch and he stands, having made a decision to keep her in his orbit for just a while longer. “You might change your mind eventually, but we can revisit after.”

Confusion flashes across her face. “After what?”

“We’re going to have dinner. You have to eat, don’t you?”

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

This is bizarre, isn’t it? Ariadne stares at the notebook in her lap, quill poised between her fingers. All of this.

She had, in fact, had dinner with Azriel and she was still reeling a bit; the house had provided soup and sandwiches, along with her usual tea, and even a plate of lemon bars that she actually decided to try, which was a good idea because they were delicious. It was sour and sweet and citrusy, and it made her tongue tingle.

Azriel kept the conversation focused on her and it was strange. She didn’t know if there was a line for how much she was allowed to reveal considering she’d never had to worry about it before, so she tried to pull the detail back in her answers as much as she could, not wanting to overwhelm him or ramble or do anything to offend.

And that was the part that left her utterly confused; he seemed to be disappointed in what she said and it didn’t make sense because why?

Wasn’t polite conversation supposed to be light? Simple?

That’s what she had gathered from Elain over the years and it seemed to work just fine, so what was the problem?

It seems like a balancing act, Ariadne doodles a crescent moon into the top right corner and allows herself to work through it. You don’t want to tell too much because that would be an overload of information and no one wants that, she adds a couple stars. But you also don’t want to give too little because that would be boring and no one wants that either.

She writes her name in the center before boldening the ‘A.’

You need to give just enough so it stays flowing and keeps the interest there. See, a balancing act! Makes sense. It’s okay, you didn’t know. You’re learning, aren’t you? Don’t expect to be perfect the first time around. That isn’t realistic and you know it.

A drop of ink falls from the tip of the quill and soaks into the page, ruining the ‘A’ and she releases a huff as she shuts the notebook and sets it on the bedside table.

Today was a lot. That’s all. You need to try and sleep or at the very least, rest your eyes. Start again tomorrow. I’m sure you’ll feel better about everything then. Maybe. A little bit.

Ariadne leans against the headboard and stretches her legs out in front of her, wiggling her toes that were dressed in fuzzy socks and wishing more than anything that she knew the things she was missing. It was a hindrance and above all else, it was annoying.

Stop it. More has happened in the last three days than you’re used to and it’s impossible for you to go through it for the fifth time when you’re this tired.

She finally closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths, willing her thoughts to stop running wild so she’d be able to steal a couple hours before the nightmares came.

The questions, the shadow, the knowledge of Daemati and what she could now do, Nesta and Elain, Feyre, and everything else could wait.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ; @ashblooddragons , @rcarbo1 , @waytoomanyteenagefeels , @prettylittlewrites , @tele86 , @missxmarvelous , @herondale-lightworm .

[ravenclawshermione]

Chapter Update - Bat Fam Pool Party

“A family party?” Phoebe asked, looking down at me incredulously, “What kind of party?”

We were in an old garage I had out near the docks. I’d had some long overdue maintenance planned for my car that I wanted to get done before Roy and Lian came down to visit, and when a last minute shift swap had left Phoebe with nothing else to do, she’d asked to join me. She was perched on the edge of a workbench, all dressed up and distracting as hell in that tight little pencil skirt, her dark green button shirt untucked and unbuttoned to reveal a red tank top. 

“A pool party. I wouldn’t be going if I didn’t owe Dami, I usually try to avoid these things when I can.”

“What’s it for?”

“Just a birthday thing,” I said, rolling back under the car, “I’ll probably be able to ditch pretty early and come over after, if you’d rather not go.”

The sound of her throat clearing came from too close and I realized my mistake. I twisted my head to see her sensible black heels and tights, standing close enough that I had to be careful rolling back out to avoid seeing more than I should. She was glaring down at me, hands on her hips.

“Jason Todd, were you seriously not going to tell me that it’s your birthday party?”

“It’s not just mine,” I said, flustered, “It’s mostly for Damian and Steph and Duke.”

“So this party, who all will be there? And how much am I supposed to know?”

“The whole family, everyone’s partners, and at least a few friends. It’s an ‘in the know’ party,” I explained, “But Steph said that she only told Cass and Barbie about your ability, so in theory the only other people that will know would be Dick and Calla. The rest of them will probably just assume I told you.”

She bit her lip, considering, and I carefully slid the rest of the way out and stood, grabbing a rag to try and wipe some of the grime off my hands. 

“There’s something else…” I had to fight not to look away, “Bruce already knows that you know. I don’t know how, and I don’t think he knows that you’re a meta, but he knows that you know, and he wants to meet you. It’s why he asked me to invite you. He said that he’d behave, but I don’t trust him half as far as I can throw him.”

“I’m not afraid of him,” she said fiercely, and for a moment I had to hold back a laugh. Then her expression shifted to something less certain as she looked away, “I don’t want you to feel like you have to invite me just because of him. If you don’t want me-”

“I do,” I cut in, “That is, I mean, it’s not that I don’t want you there. I just… He doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to people knowing any of our secret identities. Especially civilians. And he’s got some very weird hang ups when it comes to metas in Gotham, especially ones who don’t answer to him. And even without that, the rest of my family… They mean well, they do, but they’re a lot. I don’t want to drag you into all that.”

“You’re not dragging me anywhere,” she said, amused, “But I will need a ride. I’m pretty sure there’s no bus stops near Wayne manor, or wherever it is you’re going to have this thing.”

“Are you sure you-”

She reached up and put one finger on my lips, silencing me, “I’m sure, Jason. Now, when is this thing? I need to get a new swimsuit.”

https://archiveofourown.org/works/59228794/chapters/160874614

[hatakxraikai]

Izuna and Ren (イズナと連) - Uncle and Nephew

Something I wanted to do for a lOONG time now, a interaction scene between Izuna and baby Ren 🥹🫶 I felt it was my duty to animate this scene so I could give Izuna some moar affection, I mean, Kishimoto/Studio Pierrot only gave practically two scenes of the boy, like?? And one of these two was him dying, that's wasn't fairrr DX - I might finish this one someday, wait for me.

So hey, here's a small scene of Izuna meeting his nephew, Ren (Madara's and Tomoe's first born son) <3. As Izuna wasn't at the Uchiha compound when Ren was born, he couldn't meet his nephew until like, a week later or something. And, as in my headcanon, Izuna had never interacted with a baby this close in his entire life, he awkwardly fell into despair not knowing what to do when Ren started to get fussy and called his brother so he could help his ass

"Big brother..! Is he…supposed to do that?!" (I haven't finished the lipsync cause the site I use to join the frames together didn't helped me with seeing the thumbnails, and as I don't have much of patience, I gave up :D so in the gif itself there's only short of the "Big brother" line)

[love2write2626]

Chasing The Wind (Tyler Owens x OFC)

Summary: Five years have gone by since the life-altering storm chase that impacted Y/N and her sister Kate. Through the years Y/N has experienced Highs and lows, but eventually found her place with Tyler and The rest of the Tornado Wranglers. However, when Kate returns home to collaborate with Storm Par, Y/N attempts to mend their relationship only to be rebuffed. It appears that Kate is solely heeding Javi's words and disregarding reality. Will she be able to make Kate see the truth?

Read the Prologue here

Chapter 1

5 Years Later

“Bye Mama” I said hugging her

“Bye sweetheart, thank you for coming to visit” I smiled

“Of course, Mama” I got out of the car, and as I’m walking to the diner she yells “Y/N!” I turn around “You tell Tyler to be careful” I rolled my eyes

“We will be careful” She squinted her eyes suspiciously

“I’m telling you, if you get hurt, I am coming for him” I laughed

“Ok mom, I’ll tell him”

“That’s all I ask. Love you sweetie”

“Love you too” I waved as she drove off. I looked around the old Diner, I haven’t been here in a while. It looks pretty much the same, just a little worn down. The parking lot is full of wanna be storm chasers waiting for news of a big twister coming so they can go and take lots of pictures.

As I walk further I let out a scoff when I see Storm Par waiting in the wings. Javi and I started Storm Par and I was so excited. Then Javi brought in a new business partner and I kind of got pushed to the side, which I didn’t mind all that much at first, but when I saw the shady investors they were dealing with I packed up my stuff and left. When we started we were in the business of helping people, now It seems they are in the business of just making money.

Scott, Javi’s business partner saw me and gave me a cocky smirk before turning around and went back to his conversation.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

After quickly running to the bathroom I walk back out and stop in my tracks when I see Javi, and “KATE?” I yelled. Her head snapped up and she gave me a slight smile, but didn’t seem that happy to see me. I walked over and gave her a hug, even though she didn’t return it I didn’t care

“Hey sis” Kate said “What are you doing out here? Are you still chasing?” She asked

“Yeah, You would know that If you answered my calls” I said with a laugh, she frowned

“I’m not that good with communication Y/N” I nodded, Javi walked over to us and I glared at him. This man use to be one of my best friends now I can’t stand the sight of him.

“Hey, Y/N”

“Javi” I greeted, turning my head back to Kate

“So what are you doing out here?” I asked her

“I convinced her to come out for a week, to help us get our data. You know she has the best instincts.”

“I believe I was talking to my sister, not you” I said

“Y/N, Chill” Javi said, I know my face was full of anger “Kate is in safe hands with Storm Par… you know better than anyone we have some of the best safety protocols” Kate looked in-between the two of us.

“Y/N, you chase with Storm Par? Why didn’t you tell me Javi?” She asked confused

“No, No she use to work with us, hell this company was her idea… Our baby if you will” I rolled my eyes, and let out a sarcastic laugh “Then she ditched us to go be with some less funded storm chasers”

“That’s not the full story Javi and you know it, maybe you should tell her the truth about where all the money comes from and how you are nothing but a fraud” Kate put her hand up

“Y/N stop, Javi is our friend”

“Maybe your friend, he hasn’t been mine in a long time” We were cut off by loud music coming into the parking lot, and even though I was not in a particularly good mood, I still couldn’t help but smile when I saw Tyler drive up

“Behold, Tyler Owens” Javi said

“Who is he?” Kate asked, but before I have a chance to answer Javi said

“Redneck storm chasers with a youtube channel” I rolled my eyes “Him and his group including Y/N, call themselves Tornado Wranglers. The go around and do crazy stunts and stupid shit that is going to get them all killed one day” of course he leaves out the part about how we help the community and help get people food and water, but whatever. Kate turned to me

“You left Storm Par for that”

“I did, but I’m not going to explain myself to you sis. Go ahead and believe every word out of Javi’s mouth, but when you’re ready to hear the true story you have my number” I said walking over to the truck. I pushed my way through the adoring fans, and When Tyler saw me he smiled brightly.

“ONE MORE TIME, IF YOU FEEL IT…”

“CHASE IT” everyone yelled back, He hopped down off the running board and took my hand in his.

“Hey baby” he finally said to me, I wrapped my arms around him, and he immediately hugged me back. “You ok?” he asked.

“Not really, but I’m happy you’re here” He ran his hands up and down my back

“C’mon” He said, he grabbed my hand and pulled me with him, I couldn’t help but giggle, I have no idea where we are going but I don’t care I would follow Tyler anywhere. I love this man with all my heart. He is the smartest, funniest, kindest, hottest man I have ever met in my life. He pulled me around the back of the diner, and once we were out of sight of everyone. We stopped walking.

“I have a good idea of what we are doing back here Ty, but do you wanna tell me why you dragged me back here?” I smirked. Without saying a word or breaking eye contact. He walked me back against the wall.

“You look so fucking sexy when you wear my shirts” I looked down at what I am wearing, Tyler’s shirts get torn up a lot so most of the time instead of throwing them out, I will cut them into a crop top or something, and it turns him feral. He nuzzled his face into my neck, and started leaving light kisses “I missed you, next time you are coming to Arkansas with me”

“I missed you too, and you got it” I giggled. “What?” I asked when I noticed he was staring at me.

“Nothing, just Sometimes I just like to look at you just because you are so beautiful” I frowned

“Ty” I said attempting to push him away. He knows I hate being called pretty, or beautiful because I’m not. My body is covered in horrible scars from the accident 5 years ago. My car flipped 10 times, I know I am lucky because I could be dead, but it doesn’t make it any easier. His hard strong body stopped made it easy for him to keep me pushed against the wall.

“Y/N, Baby” He whispered into my ear. I felt a shiver run down my spine “You are a fucking goddess, the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on. You are beautiful, funny, smart, and a whirlwind and I love you more than anything in this world. The scars are just proof of how strong you are, in my eyes they make you 10x more beautiful than you already are.” I know I have tears in my eyes. I reach up and wrap my arms around his neck.

“I love you too, Now will you please kiss me?” he smirked, he leaned down and brought his lips to mine. I sighed into the kiss, He has been gone a week, and a week without kissing him has been torture. I felt his hands run down my back, and down to my butt. He squeezed my ass, and I broke the kiss to let out a little laugh and squeal.

“TYLER” I giggled. Without warning he immediately lifted me up, I wrapped my legs around his waist and made sure I held tight as he pushed me back against the wall and we continued to make out.

“Tyler and Y/N! Can ya’ll stop sucking face for 2 seconds so we can go chase a storm?” Boone yelled, I giggled.

“We’ll be there in a minute Boone” Tyler said. Once Boone walked away, I Jumped down and sighed.

“That was cut much shorter than I would have liked” I mumbled

“Don’t worry baby, tonight we make up for a week of no alone time” I giggled. He grabbed my hand and we started walking toward the truck. When I heard

“Y/N” I turned around and saw Kate running over to me. Tyler looked at me suspiciously, I smiled

“Go ahead I’ll be there in a second” He nodded before walking off.

“Javi just told me all about Tyler and ya’ll Tornado Wranglers” I smirked

“And?” I said waiting for her to continue

“Y/N, how could you abandon Storm Par, and Javi for that jerk. Are you sleeping with him?” I looked at her shocked.

“I see Javi didn’t tell you the truth, so don’t come over here and make me out to be some sort of bad guy. You don’t know the full story, but by all means listen to Javi and not your own sister.” I started to walk away, and she yelled.

“Javi wouldn’t lie to me” She said I nodded

“Sure he wouldn’t” I started to walk away again when I yelled back, “Oh by the way I am sleeping with Tyler by the way, it’s quite normal for women to sleep with their fiancé’s”

“You’re… you’re getting married?”

“You would have known that if you answered any of my calls” I sighed “You know sis, I don’t know what Javi did or said to get you to come back out here… but just so you know he has other motives.” I walked back toward the truck, I opened the passenger door

“Boone get in the back” Tyler said

“Why?” I sighed

“Boone get in the damn back, before I make you stay here” He grumbled and climbed in.

“Ready baby?” Tyler asked

“Always”

What do you think??? Is this worth being continued???? Leave a comment and let me know.

[psychotic-nonsense]

In October of 1967, Steve Harrington is born in Hawkins, Indiana.

He's raised there, forced to live under the strict expectations of his parents, Richard and Samantha. Barely escapes their clutches, freedom fueled by the kids and adults that take the role of guardian and family when the time is right. Keeps himself in check with the always impending apocalypses that arise beneath his feet.

In June of 1985 - when Steve Harrington is 18, while Richard and Samantha Harrington are visiting New York for an extended work trip - Veronica Harrington is born.

She was carried and raised in secret from their hometown. They take care of her between their business hours, dropping her in the hands of nannies and babysitters galore. They don't even think of Indiana during Veronica's early childhood, too focused on work and making sure their daughter starts up right.

In October of 1986 - when Steve Harrington is 19, aged further by ending the Vecna War, yet tamed by his newfound love in Eddie Munson - Richard and Samantha Harrington return to Hawkins.

They don't ask about what happened to their son. They don't ask about the town. They don't ask questions, just give responses to them. Sneering at Steve's friends, complaining about the state of the house, commenting at the disfunctional chaos their home has become.

In November of 1986, Richard and Samantha Harrington disown Steve.

They just let him go. They at least give him a folder of his legal documents, but otherwise just tell him to get out of their house and never use their name again. Claiming Steve doesn't need anything from the room because the Harrington's own everything in it. They don't call him son, they don't say goodbye, they don't acknowledge who's actually taken care of the house, they don't admit most of Steve's former room has changed with money Steve earned himself, they don't dare to give him any money or care where he goes. They just say they're sick of dealing with an unworthy mistake of a child, and force him out of their house.

In November of 1986, the Party's adults adopt Steve.

He runs to them first after everything happens. Held himself together at the start, but broke down the second the words were out. While everyone was trying to comfort Steve, Wayne Munson and Jim Hopper were the first to succeed. They know firsthand that this family would never be the same as blood, no matter how much that blood has boiled and burned before, but the love will be stronger and it will be here. When everyone seconds it, Steve finally accepts it. He becomes a child of the Party - he's everyone's son and everyone's brother, taking whatever surname he sees fit.

In November of 1986, Steve Henderson and Eddie Munson leave Hawkins.

Despite all this good, Steve can't bear to stay in this damned town a second longer, where everyone knows who he is and will soon know everything he isn't. And it's not like Eddie was looking forward to sticking around Hawkins either, especially without his Steve. The kids are the first to agree, surprisingly, and the adults promise to find a way for the boys to get out. Later that week, when Richard and Samantha leave the house to prepare for Veronica, Steve and Eddie break in to take everything that's rightfully theirs. While they're there, not sure what prompts him, Steve makes a bag of his clothes with shoes and his wallet tucked within it, shoving it into his closet. Dustin's mom uses an old favor to get the boys an apartment in Chicago, the Party has one last farewell, and the two boys are gone.

From 1986 onward, Veronica Harrington is raised in Hawkins, Indiana.

Richard and Samantha are adamant in their daughter coming out exactly how she should. They steadily convince the town to forget the Harringtons ever had a son and lock the room on the second floor next to the stairs without ever touching the inside. They raise her with formality and pride at the top of their expectations, wanting at least one child to come out right.

But Veronica is the spitting image of Steve's honesty and care. She puts on a facade when needed, but even at a young age, she wants nothing more than to be someone's light in the darkness. She plays with every lonely kid at school, and tries to make people laugh at the business parties she's dragged to. It's not received well by her parents, but Veronica is much too strong willed and stubborn to let it phase her.

In April of 1991 - when she's 6 and they're so much stronger around their hearts - Veronica Harrington meets Steve and Eddie Munson for the first time.

It's the year Erica is set to graduate high school. Steve and Eddie have been making the drive for every holiday this year, ordered determined to give her the best senior year she could have. It's Easter Sunday, and Wayne somehow managed to drag his boys away to church - a Munson custom, as even Eddie insisted they go.

While at the snack table post sermon, a little girl comes up to Steve, mistaking him for her father. He and Eddie gently comfort the girl, introducing themselves and offering to help the girl find her parents. That's when Veronica introduces herself, striking Steve deep in his heart. Still, he keeps quiet, even gifting her a little origami crane made from napkins at the table. He calls her "chickpea" for the color of her dress, tells her to keep the crane secret and safe, "If ever you need to find your way back home, you hold that close, and it'll tell you."

Meanwhile, Wayne has come across Richard and Samantha in the crowd opposite the kids. Exchanging formalities, Wayne mentions his son and nephew are in town, news the Harrington's are surprised at, as Wayne didn't seem like the father type. However, trying to keep face, they remain civil and insist on introducing their daughter.

Cue Veronica running to her parents with Steve and Eddie in tow. Cue Steve calling Wayne dad right to Richard's face. Cue the Harrington's immediate leave from the church, Veronica waving behind her with a crane placed carefully in her pocket.

From then on, Veronica Harrington's life changes indefinitely.

Her parents' expectations grow tenfold. She finds out she's horribly allergic to chickpeas. All of her friends must be approved by her parents, and any that don't fit their image are ordered to leave her.

Veronica takes these changes in stride - is her class's top student, captain of the softball and volleyball teams in junior high, keeps the friends she wants in secret from her parents - but she can't help but keep the crane in a little box in her room. Gets a necklace with a little origami crane pendant, holds it whenever she needs to make a hard choice. Can't help but expand herself in secret, learn things her parents would never approve of - lock picking, other languages, sleight of hand, a clothing style that's nothing like the dark blues of her family, all warmth and light. She explores every room in her house, yet is unable to find her way into that room upstairs next to the steps.

In May of 1998, Veronica Harrington discovers the truth about her brother.

She's about to be a freshman. Her class was touring the high school in preparation, and while passing the athletics hall, her eyes hit the swimming trophies. Each row stuffed with trophies, and each one with a name that stabbed her right in the stomach: Steve Harrington.

After that, she couldn't bear all the secrecy anymore. Late that same night, she finally uses her lock picking skills to break into that room. And though it's devoid of life, it is a bedroom, so evidently lived in. It's frozen in time, twisted sheets covered in dust, old papers crinkled from being stepped on but not picked up, old clean clothes still sitting in the hamper. It's a boy's room, clearly, and Veronica is careful walking around this place of memories.

She does still explore, quietly clicking on lights around the room, too cautious to touch the overhead lights. She looks under the bed, finding a bat and a trash can lid, both embedded with rusty nails. A shirt that still smells like fresh laundry yet has a back stained permanently with long red lines down the shoulders. Dozens of stapled documents labeled NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT, detailing horrific events that each have that same name signed at the bottom.

With shaking hands she checks the closet, and finds it mostly empty. All except for a deep green graduation robe and cap, a cream Hawkins High letterman, and a duffel bag hidden in the back corner. The cap has a 1985 tassel, and the letterman has Harrington branded on the back with basketball and swimming patches galore. And the bag, when she checks it, looks like a survivalist pack someone would make in an apocalypse. At the top sits a wallet, and inside is an ID for a Steve Harrington, who has the same face as the one in her origami memories.

And Veronica is done. She wakes up the next morning and throws Steve's jacket on the kitchen table, startling both her parents mid sip of coffee. She finds herself in a screaming match with her father, demanding them to quit lying to her, begging to know who her brother is.

In a fit of rage, Richard tells her. Tells her everything Richard and Samantha never saw in Steve, about Veronica's secret birth, the disownment, Steve's disappearance from the Harrington house and Hawkins. She's reminded of that one Easter Sunday, and is told how Richard and Samantha faked Veronica's allergy to keep her mind from being tainted by whatever curse befell their bloodline before. Orders her to never say that name again.

In a fit of rage, Veronica bites back. Calls her parents cruel and overly expectant. Comes clean about her secret freedom. Says she'd rather be nothing than ever carry the burden of the Harrington name ever again.

She hides away in her room after the fight. Cries in her closet with her origami box cradled tightly to her chest, begging it to take her home because this place isn't anymore, maybe never was. Cries for the brother she never even got to meet, who went through so many horrible things yet still got put through this same punishment. Cries for the future she won't get to have, losing her hope for a new beginning that will now never be.

At the start of June, 1998, Veronica runs away.

She makes it through the rest of May in near silence. She writes notes for all of her friends at the end of the school year, and one for her parents to inevitably find. Finds 75 dollars in Steve's old wallet, stuffs the duffel bag the rest of the way with her belongings, and says goodbye to Hawkins.

She takes the first bus she can find out of town. Doesn't care that it's going to Chicago, doesn't really care where she's going now. She befriends an old homeless man riding the bus as well, becomes another interesting name in his "Book of Wanders (Pronounced as Wonders)." As Veronica's telling the story about unknowingly meeting her brother, she remembers the crane in her bag. She reaches in to retrieve the little box, then the crane, nearly crying seeing how disheveled and unfolded it is. Broken and doomed, just like her. But looking at it now after so long, she thinks she sees something written inside it. Despite it shattering her heart pieces, she carefully unfolds the little crane.

At its center, in old, bleeding blue text, reads, "Find the Swooping Bat if you've lost your way."

The old man laughs then, taking Veronica's hand and placing it onto her chest, over her heart. "It's fate," he whispers in the dark bus. "There's a place called that in Chicago."

Veronica uses her money to rent them both a hotel for the night, giving the old man a warm bath for the first time in weeks. She gifts him the clothes as well, saying it's, "an honorary thanks from my brother, for helping me get here." They bid each other farewell in the morning, the old man telling her to keep hold of fate.

She finds her way to the Swooping Bat easily, hand on her necklace guiding her way. It's a quaint little diner, popular enough to be comfortably warm when she walks in. A young lady in a wheelchair - Max, says her nametag, with pins saying things like, "Summer work blows" and "USC grad or bust!" resting on her collar - guides her to a booth next to the sunrise.

"Anything I can get you today?" Max asks when Veronica's seated.

Veronica's fully ready to order everything on the menu, what with how delicious this place smells, but then she remembers her funds. 5 bucks, if she's lucky. "Just a chocolate milk, for now. Biggest one you have, please." She somehow plays off Max's skeptical look, her eyes sweeping over Veronica's no doubt disheveled and no-food-in-36-hours appearance.

It somehow works out, and Max is wheeling away. Veronica allows herself a moment to collapse, stomach growling in pain and eyes burning with the realization she has no idea what she's going to do now. She just has this last bit of hope to hold onto, and without it, she'll be nothing but a husk.

She's not sure how long she sits there, staring at the sunrise and letting sound and AC whisk her mind away, but there's suddenly a little knock on her table. Her head snaps up, and there's Max again, setting down a giant glass of chocolate milk... alongside a loaded breakfast plate.

"It's on the house," Max rushes to explain, all fondness when Veronica scrambles to get her wallet. "Courtesy of the owner. And between you and me," she whispers with a wink, "just take the damn food, kid."

Veronica stumbles over herself for a moment, rendered near speechless, before she finally comes back. She begs Max to thank the owner profusely, before rushing to dig into the pancakes before her. She's halfway done dousing the stack in syrup by the time Max wheels away, when there's suddenly someone laughing.

"Of course," says a choked-up voice behind her. "Can't have any chickpeas starving in my booths."

Veronica nearly drops her fork. She turns so sharply she gets dizzy. Seven years can't change a person that much, surely, because though he's bigger in the torso and he has glasses on the bridge of his nose and his hair is cut so close, he still has the same softness in his voice and the same slouch in his stance and the same moles around his eyes and his smile is so bright despite the tears in his eyes, and though Veronica can barely see through tears herself, it's not like she needs them anyway to know it's-

"Steve!" she cries, scrambling out of the booth to meet her brother halfway. The relief of it all working out has the rest of her restraint collapsing, forcing harsh sobs out of her and into Steve's shoulder. The siblings hold each other in the middle of a restaurant, a voice in the background asking everyone to leave them be. Steve doesn't stop whispering, even as his chest heaves with broken gasps between tears, "You're save, Veronica, I got you, I got you, it's gonna be okay, you're safe here, it's okay, sis, it's okay..."

"That you, lil' chickpea?" whispers a different voice once they've calmed down. Veronica reluctantly pulls away and finds a man kneeling beside them, a hand on Steve's shoulder and similar tears in his eyes. His hair and tattoos remind her of the tamed wild from seven years ago, covered in black in the middle of church yet glowing brighter than the stained glass, the one that Steve looks at in past and present with a glowing love Veronica never saw between her parents.

"Yeah," she whispers, wiping her tears away before placing a hand atop her necklace. It catches Eddie and Steve's eyes and make them beam with pride and relief. "Yeah, it's... it's me...."

[argo-nautical]

everyone and their mothers are posting spidersona stuff rn so I thought I’d share my doodle I made after the first spiderverse movie

I’m a huge spiderman nerd, I have a lot of the comics and was super excited to see Hobie Brown and Ben Reilly (rip Otto, I was really hoping to see him 😭)

[qu1cks1lversb1tch]

Astera, lounging in an armchair with a book abandoned in her lap: If I had a title that didn't directly tie me to my home court or my brother, what would it be?

Cassian, immediately: Shadowfucker

Azriel, after a few moments of contemplation: Lady of Nightmares

Cassian: That one's good. She's terrifying.

Astera, cracking an eye open to glance at Cassian: I'm not that bad, Cass

Cassian, side eyeing her: . . . Riiiiiiiighhhht

Rhysand, smirking:

Astera, with a sigh: Rhys, I swear to gods. . . If you say 'the High Lord's whore'

Rhysand: I didn't. . . Say anything. But you did, darling

Astera, regretting asking the question: Yeah, I won't be the High Lord's whore tonight

Rhysand, gaping at her: Now that's not fair

Azriel, raising an eyebrow at her: Who will you be?

Astera, casually: Shadowfucker, probably. . .

Cassian: Can. . . Can I?

Astera: Maybe

Your honor, they're so silly. I love them.

[chainsawsangel]

but the evil is necessary.

Corrupted!Pup commission, done by @irlplasticlamb

-

This turned out absolutely PHENOMENAL, OH MY GODDDDD. I absolutely am in love with the spooky, cryptid vibes that are within this piece and I love it! Pup looks spooky and stellar, it's great!

I have to thank @irlplasticlamb for this commission of my THE BOYS Werewolf!OC/Self-insert, this is a version of pup that's very feral and very out of it! I think what they did with her matches perfectly with how I imagine her to be in this state.

GOD, I love this.

(and yes, she is calling out to Ben/Soldier Boy)

[fictionalreads]

This Was Never Meant to Be What It Feels Like

A/N: Hey y'all! I'm not really a writer so this is my first time posting any writing here on Tumblr, but I'm apparently incapable of not thinking about Armando (*Whatta Man by Salt-N-Pepa plays in my head) so this kind of...happened. I figured I'd share ☺️ Also, I know Armando thinks Aretas is his dad in the movies but I changed it a bit.

Title is from Satisfaction by SiR (if you haven't heard it do yourself a favor and go listen)

Pairing: Armando Aretas x Original Female Character

Fandom: Bad Boys Movies

Prompt: Shay (OC) wants to get to know Armando better and figures her best bet is to ask when he's...relaxed.

Warnings ⚠️: Uh...complicated parental relationships. Talk of smut, but no actual smut.

“Tell me something.”

“Hm?”

Shay kept her focus on drawing invisible shapes on Armando’s shoulder with her finger. Her blue stiletto shaped nails going down almost to his elbow before finding its way back up to his collar bone. It was something she did often after they had sex and she knew it calmed him much like it was now. His breathing had slowed into something calmer than the frantic breaths of ten minutes ago when he was trying to catch his breath. The open window blew in a decent ocean breeze, adding to the peaceful feeling in her bedroom. She tried to play it cool, like she wasn’t disturbing the moment, wasn’t asking him to do the one thing she knew he hated - opening up.

Shay had been seeing Armando for about three months now, and she knew next to nothing about the man. She knew it was a red flag, hell she knew he probably wasn’t a law abiding citizen, but she couldn’t help it. 

There was something so magnetizing, so sensual about his presence. He commanded attention even though she got the feeling he wanted nothing more than to blend in and be lowkey. She couldn’t help but notice the way he held himself, the way he spoke and moved with the confidence of a man who was sure of himself. Don’t get her started on the way he smelled - it was divine and pure man.

The point was basically this - he was a ten but he refused to tell her more about himself.

Shay was determined to get to know him better, because despite playing things close to his chest, she was in love with him. She didn’t know his last name, but she knew he would bring her flowers and food if she was having a bad day just to make her smile. She didn’t know what he did for a living - honestly, part of her was glad for this if it was illegal as she was imagining. Plausible deniability. - but she knew if she needed him to, he would fix anything she needed him to or at least find someone who could. She didn’t know what his crucible entailed that made him like this, but she knew he loved her like she was something precious.

So she was taking the risk that this would blow up in her face. “Tell me something about you that I don’t know.” She kissed his chest, like she was softening the blow of the question. Not that she needed to, it was an open ended question on purpose. The more freedom she gave about the topic, the more likely he was to answer.

He gently shifted her to the pillow as he lifted himself on his elbow, facing her with a suspicious look on his face. “Like what?” God, what she wouldn’t give to take whatever hurt that made him so distrustful of her just wanting to know him away. Who had betrayed him? Who took advantage of his trust and made him so wary of genuine love?

She thought over her answer, a million topics coming to mind but needing to pick one that wouldn’t have him shutting down immediately. Armando had let the conversation start but he could end it if she said the wrong thing.

“Your family.” She could feel him pulling away as if it was physically happening so she quickly explained her choice. “Did you grow up with siblings? Are your parents married?” Bare minimum. 

It seemed to have worked he looked at her as if debating what to say, if anything, before laying back down and staring at the ceiling. The relaxed man that was in her bed mere minutes ago, gone. Now he was tense, as if ready for a fight. She slowly and obviously resumed her previous position on his chest, giving him time to tell her no if he needed the space. Her nails went back to their drawings in the hopes of calming him enough to talk. He took a breath before, “I grew up an only child. My mom was my world, she taught me everything I knew.”

Her nails stopped moving. “Was?” It was the word that caught the most of her attention out of everything he just said.

“She passed away a few years ago.” His face was blank, as if he was just stating a fact of life rather than talking about the death of the person that raised him and whom he clearly loved.

Shay rubbed the shoulder she wasn’t laying on in an effort to comfort him.“I’m sorry to hear that.” Armando shrugged it off but she could tell it still hurt him. “What about your dad?”

“Our relationship is…complicated at best. He wasn’t around for most of my life. We were introduced a few months before my mom died. I didn’t even know who he was to me until my mom told me on her deathbed.” 

“You never asked your mom about him before?”

“If there was one thing I knew about my father growing up, it was that my mom hated him. She always told me that he left us behind and didn’t look back at all. As a kid I was curious but as I got older, I started to hate him too. I mean he was supposed to love my mom, and he turned on her and left me behind like I was trash. Fuck ‘im. Now I know it wasn’t so black and white.”

“How so?”

“The few times my mom spoke about him, she always heavily implied that he knew she was pregnant with me and left anyway. Looking back, she never said the words. When I confronted my father about it, he said they were a doomed couple that wasn’t ever going to last. They were both too selfish. Said he didn’t even know she had been pregnant until we met.”

“Sounds like he cares. I mean if he knew do you think he would have been around?”

“There’s no doubt in my mind he would have been there, raised me. I know he loves me, that he just wants what’s best for me, but I’m just having a hard time accepting it. I spent so much time hating him that reconciling this truth with this perception I’ve always had of him is hard.”

“Not to mention it means confronting that you didn’t know your mom as well as you thought you did. The woman she was to you isn’t the woman she was to others.”

“And she’s not here to explain it, which just makes me mad all over again. He’s usually the target of my anger.”

“Makes sense to me.” She shrugged in response to his questioning look. “He’s here. Add in the fact that he wasn’t there for so long its easy to blame him for a lot.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

Like a flip had been switched, he once again moves her onto the bed and hovers over her.

“Enough about them. Talking is not exactly what I had in mind for us tonight,” he pleads. 

She could see the desperation and fear in his eyes. She had a feeling that being that honest with her scared him. He wasn’t exactly the vulnerable type and telling her all this put him on display in the most raw way, an unknown for him. It also meant he had to be honest with himself about he felt, something she didn’t think happened a lot. He wanted to escape the real hurt he was feeling about it all, he didn’t want to face what the truth might mean for his memory of his mother. If a reprieve is what he needed, she could do that for him. She would do that for him.

She bit her bottom lip, looking at him through her lashes, feeling herself get wet at his suggestive tone and slight touches. “What did you have in mind?”

❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥

The next morning she woke up alone, his side of the bed cold. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence as he often left before she woke. She was used to him leaving and coming back randomly, sometimes being gone for days. After their conversation and the way he seemed to just need her last night, she figured this was coming. Something told her him leaving was different this time, that she had pushed him too far. She had the sickening feeling that he wasn’t coming back.

Round two had been fast and rough, needy in a way. Round three had been teasing and playful, like he was apologizing for being so rough before. Round four was…slow and passionate, reverent almost.

It felt like a goodbye.

A/N: 🫣So how'd I do? Let me know in the comments. Likes and reblogs are always appreciated! OH AND HOW SHOULD I TAG THIS?! Anything I should add to get more people to see it?

Part 2 Part 3

[cinnamon-galaxies]

“Smile, dear!”

Just Al and my OC Mara tormenting Vaggie.

Once Alastor had introduced his wife to the hotel gang, they quickly learned she’s no better than him – the hard way.

[themoonlitquill]

Whispers Woven in Shadow. (1/?)

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙝 𝘼𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧? 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚? 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚? 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 ; 𝖠𝗓𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗅 𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆!𝖮𝖢 (𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅).

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 ; I’m terrible at summaries, so please don’t hate me for that! This is an OC that I’ve been playing around with for literal ages and I finally made the choice to really dive in and develop her, and then the ideas just started flowing in and I couldn’t stop writing! I’m already working on a second chapter for this, but let me know your thoughts if you’d like to see this continued! I don’t post my writing too often, so be kind if you don’t mind!! Oh, && special thanks to @coffeebooksrain18 for the moodboard! 🩵 Enjoy!

𝖳𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 ; 𝗠𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳-𝗶𝘀𝗼𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻, 𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗻, 𝗹𝗮𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳-𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗲, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗴𝘀𝘁𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗲𝗿-𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗺𝗼𝗶𝗹.

𝖶𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖢𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍 ; 3802.

Everything is different now, Ariadne Archeron blinks as she looks out the window to the clear skies of robin’s egg blue with rays of sunlight streaming through to cast a golden hue that emitted warmth and yet, she had never felt so cold, so empty. Her mind was spinning around in circles, jumping from thought to thought, never settling and making her skin itch with such an intensity that she had to refrain herself from digging her nails in and ripping flesh from bone.

It was all wrong. Every single bit of it. And she couldn’t understand what was going on and why she was feeling this way.

The simple answer was because she had been thrown into a massive pot that stripped her humanity from her without consent and replaced it with immortality, which was something she had only wondered about in the stories that Elain used to show her as a little girl; she never imagined that it would come true and become her life.

Feyre had accepted being Made into High Fae graciously, almost eagerly, while Nesta seethed and resented, focusing her pent up emotions into care and concern for Elain. That left Ariadne to deal with it alone and if she were to be honest with herself, she wasn’t doing a very good job of it.

She was broken, lost, and confused, nearly a shell of her former self. How was she to handle this? What was she to do? There wasn’t a set of rules for something like this and there was no one to turn to for advice, not that she could anyway with her inability to speak.

It seemed that magic couldn’t heal everything.

Ariadne had been born deaf and could only communicate through gestures and looks, which made everything that much harder for her compared to her sisters. She couldn’t get her mouth to form the words that ran rampant in her head, not that she didn’t try, and eventually, she gave up, coming to the realization that what she so desperately wanted to say would never be heard by anyone other than herself.

She had never felt sorry about her ailment before, knowing that Nesta understood when she was irritated by the way her eyes narrowed with a hand placed defiantly on her hip and that Elain knew when she needed a moment away from their father when a frustrated huff emitted from her nose, followed with the incessant picking at the skin around her fingernails.

And Feyre, well, she was able to decipher what Ariadne wanted before she even did.

But it was different now. It wasn’t the same and the changes she was going through had to be dealt with, with no help from anyone. It wasn’t fair.

She wanted to scream and yell and cry and throw things, but she couldn’t, and if she could, she wouldn’t want to. That wasn’t who she was and it definitely wasn’t how she acted when life didn’t go the way she wished for it to. Instead, Ariadne kept it hidden away from prying eyes and suffered in silence, because that’s what this all was.

Suffering.

Agony.

Without any end in sight.

Ariadne works to swallow the dry lump that had formed in her throat and she withholds a wince, knowing that she needed something to drink and she was already dreading the fact that she’d have to leave the bit of safety in the room, that was now hers, to go get it.

Unless she wanted to stick her mouth under the faucet again and she most definitely did not.

Downstairs it is, she gnaws on the inside of her lower lip until she tastes the unmistakable tang of copper on her tongue, the nerves already setting in. You can do this, Ari. Just stand up and walk. It isn’t that hard, her fingers clenched into a fist, nails biting into her palm. Get UP! Get up, get up, get up!

Why couldn’t she move? What was wrong with her?

Ariadne sucks in a breath and holds it for a moment, then releases, her eyelids fluttering as she struggles to keep herself composed. The tears were right there and there was no way she would allow them to fall; she had to be strong like Feyre would be, not letting anything knock her down, and if it did, she’d get back up to try again. She could do that, couldn’t she?

It’ll be quick. Start with putting your feet on the floor. That’s easy enough to do, she reopens her eyes and stares straight ahead for several minutes, working on keeping each breath steady. On the count of three… One, her skin prickles, but she manages to sit up straight, legs unfolding. Two, sweat forms on her brow as she moves her feet to hover over the carpet. Three!

The distance closes and she freezes when she feels the plush material against her skin, finding that it was kind of… nice. See, not so bad, right? One thing at a time. You can do that no problem.

A small bit of confidence surges through her and she quickly rests her arms on either side of the chair, bracing herself before pushing herself up; her knees wobble and her brow furrows, but Ariadne - more determined than she realized - finds her balance and straightens, taking a deep breath in order to calm down a little.

Hey! Look at that. You did it, there’s a twitch at the corner of her mouth, which she dutifully ignores. Now, another deep breath. Start walking, was it too soon to do this? It had only been a week since- Don’t go there, Ari. You’re doing so well. You aren’t there anymore. You’re fine, she lifts her chin and turns towards the door. Go on, she takes a step.

Ariadne keeps going, one foot at a time, and becomes more steady, making her way across the - her - room to the door and stopping to stand in front of it. Her hand wrapped around the handle, halfway turned, but she froze again. Completely immobile. Why was her heart beating so quickly? This wasn’t normal. It made no sense to feel like this and she couldn’t find a way to understand it, which was incredibly frustrating.

It’s good that you want to see something else besides these same four walls. Nothing wrong with that. No one is even going to be out there, she turns it the rest of the way. Nesta is with Elain, and Feyre, her heart clenches painfully. Feyre isn’t here right now, so you’re going to have to do this yourself, she pulls and it opens. There you go.

Ariadne peers out into the hall and looks down both ends, not seeing anything other than the rest of the doors, all closed, and the sconces that emitted a warm light. She slips through and begins to walk, her feet padding softly against the floor and she was hoping that the kitchen was in this direction or else she was going to be wandering around for a while; the House of Wind was huge.

She continues on with her hands clasped together in front of her, the pad of her thumb rubbing soothing circles onto the top and she can’t help but look around, never having seen anything like it before. Not even Archeron Estate. The amount of money that Rhysand had to build something like this? He must’ve grown up rich. Her gaze roams over the intricate carvings on the large columned archways, head tilted in quiet admiration. They were pretty.

The hallway comes to a set of stairs, only four, and Ariadne pauses before taking each one down to find a kitchen to the left that led to what she assumed was the dining room, and held a grand table in the center with multiple high-backed chairs.

Yeah, definitely rich from birth, she walks further in and flicks her eyes over the cabinets, realizing that she had no clue where anything was. Look through all of them. It isn’t going to matter anyway, she reaches up on her tip-toes and her fingertips barely brush against the handle. Oh, great, she sighs. Where’s a ladder when you need one?

She notes the sink only a few inches away and she moves to crouch down in front, beginning to search through and eventually coming up empty. Please don’t tell me I have to climb on a counter, Ariadne stands back up straight. Again, there was really no other way, was there? Of course not.

Her brow furrows as she surveys the correct way to do it without getting hurt, knowing that no one was there to help if things went awry; she finally settles on using the shelf that went across the middle of the bottom cabinet to use to give her a boost and then she’d be able to get her leg up by bracing her weight against the wall.

It seemed simple enough.

After getting into position, Ariadne takes a breath and places her hand to the left as she pushes her foot against the shelf. She grunts from the effort to lift her leg, managing to get her knee onto the counter and use what strength she had to pull the rest of herself on top.

She grasps at the handle on the cabinet to steady herself before she adjusts her knees and leans over a little to open it, only to find plates. An annoyed huff makes her nostrils flare and she carefully shuts it. I should’ve just drank from the faucet again, her arm extends and her fingers wrap around the next handle as she moves over. This is way too much to do for a cup, she keeps her spine straight and prays to whatever higher power hailed over Prythian that this was the right one.

Ariadne pulls, and she doesn’t notice the fabric of her dress shift or when she starts to slide; she peeks inside and her eyes brighten when she sees what she had been hoping for. Yes!

Her body goes to lean like she had done a couple minutes ago and her knees give out from under her, a surprised sound leaving her lips as her other arm flails, unable to find anything to hold onto. No!

Everything went sideways and Ariadne began to fall, the top of her foot hitting the edge of the counter and she hisses through her teeth, eyes squeezing shut and bracing for the impact of her body against the tiled floor. But it never came. There was something looped around her waist, cool and soft, flowing like silk and holding with a gentleness that she had never felt before. What is it? Where did it come from?

Whatever it was had decided to turn her upright and place her down safely, which is when she decided to open her eyes; the first thing noticed were the wings, massive and actually really beautiful, but holding a power that matched that of the one, two, three, four… seven siphons, which reminded her of sapphires, and then it was the deep bronze skin that was littered with dirt, grime, and only the Gods knew what else, followed by a tousle of dark hair, slightly curly.

Though, what Ariadne noticed the most was the golden glow that faded into hazel. There was a mixture of guardedness, curiosity, and worry - maybe? - swirling within the shifting shades of green and brown, but she wasn’t sure if she could trust it. Azriel, I think. The other one is who Nesta can’t stand. Cassian? This is the… Spysinger, her lips pressed together. No, that isn’t right. Oh! Shadowmaster. Yeah, that makes more sense.

She blinks and realizes that she had been staring at him for longer than she should’ve and quickly refocuses to see that he had come around from the other side of the counter to stand a few feet away from her.

It looked like the Shadowmaster had been in a few fights and then slept on the ground afterwards, which was weird to her because she swore Cassian was the aggressive one. Never judge a book, Ari. People look at you and think you’re not capable of anything or that you’re stupid, she lifts her chin and finds that she could now only see his chest when she did that, so she tilts her head back further until she finds his face again.

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

Azriel watches in silence as the youngest Archeron sister - Ariadne - nearly breaks her neck in order to meet his gaze, the warm honey of her eyes full of questions, trepidation, and a sadness that was trying to hide itself and he was certain it was much larger than what he already caught. He found himself wishing he could ask her about it, but that was impossible for two important reasons; one, Azriel didn’t do things like that and two, even if he did, Ariadne wouldn’t be able to hear him.

And who was to say that if she could, she would answer?

He resorts to raising a single brow, inclining his head towards the counter as he keeps his sights set on her, surveying her expression for the slightest change; it starts with a flicker of surprise before shifting to neutral and she nods, the smallest of sighs emitting from her parted lips and she glances at the still open cabinet that held the cups, then tapping her fingers at the base of her throat.

Ah, he steps forward and reaches inside to grab one, lowering it down and handing it to her. There’s a moment of hesitation, though it doesn’t seem to be an aversion to him. It was more so of someone unsure how to accept help when they had been doing everything without it for a long time. You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?

The ever-present shadows that swirled around Azriel became tense at the thought and he quickly pushed it to the back of his mind to be locked away.

Now wasn’t the time.

Ariadne was staring at the glass and he realized that she had no idea that the House of Wind would provide anything she wanted. After all, how was she going to know anything about a world she had been thrown into? Stories that passed over to the human lands weren’t always accurate.

Will you- He hears a quiet gasp and he cuts himself off, attention snapping back to the small Fae in front of him that was watching as… orange juice filled to the brim. Apparently, she figured it out a lot quicker than he thought she would. The corner of his mouth twitches. Smart girl.

Azriel takes a couple steps back and leans his hip against the counter, arms crossed over his chest with his wings tucked behind. Ariadne turns her head and blinks at him, observing his position before giving a single dip of her chin and he had a feeling that it was her way of saying ‘thank you.’

He returns the gesture and she begins to walk by, more than likely heading back to her room, and that’s when he smells it; cherry blossoms. It was sweet and soft, hints of creamy vanilla bean and almond with a warmth that made him want to reach out and touch her.

It’s his turn to blink now and he waits for Ariadne to pass before he looks over his shoulder, hazel returning to that golden hue as she makes her way back up the steps and disappears down the hall. His shadows begin curling around his neck and ears, whispering to him in cool breaths, some louder than others.

She is special. Yes, special. And alone. Afraid. She is lost. No way to understand. She cannot ask. She wants to understand. Must help her understand. Yes. Help her.

Azriel gives a small tug and they fall silent, though they flick against his skin in protest and to show their evident distaste for his dismissal. He rolls his eyes with a heavy exhale, giving his head a shake before he pushes himself away from the counter and disappears into the same temperamental darkness that matched that of himself.

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

Ariadne was unsure how to feel about her brief interaction with Azriel; he understood what she’d been trying to do and had even helped her, which was odd for her, but it made him better than most people she had met. He didn’t invade her personal space either, didn’t try to do anything at all that would make her the slightest bit uncomfortable.

In fact, he seemed to be a fairly decent male. She couldn’t remember a single instance over the few times she had been around him - even as a human - where he had ever acted out or caused any sort of problem. And if he did, she had an inkling that it would have to be over something important.

Her eyes lifted to the window and found that the sun had set, painting the sky in magenta and lavender with bursts of burnt orange and yellow; it reminded her of something that Feyre might like to recreate on canvas. There’s a sharp pang in the center of her heart at the thought of her sister and she winces, reaching up to rub the spot with her hand.

It was hard without Feyre. Yes, Nesta and Elain were there, but they were handling being Made even worse than Ariadne was. At least she had left the room. Granted, it was only once and she wasn’t gone for that long. It was still more than what they were doing.

And that had to count for something, didn’t it?

Ariadne had been the closest with Feyre, in age and in every other way. They were inseparable and a lot of love was shared between the two of them, along with a deep-rooted loyalty and respect for who they each were. And now? She felt like she was missing a vital piece of herself that she didn’t know how to get back and the longer the stretch of days went on, the more painful it got.

She picks at the skin around her nails and shifts her gaze to the floor, not wanting to think about any of this anymore. That was the thing about having no way to talk to someone; she tended to inner-monologue and go too into detail about things, overwhelming herself until she disassociated from it all.

Not the best solution, but it worked for her.

A flicker of movement in the corner catches her attention and she zeroes in on it, eyes narrowing slightly. Don’t tell me this place has ghosts now, Ariadne stands, noting how it was darker than it should’ve been with the way the light was streaming in. Because I will find a way to get out of here. There can’t be that many stairs.

She takes a couple steps forward, head tilted with curiosity and a bit of fear if it was actually a ghost. Whatever you are, I’m not going to hurt you, so that means you can’t hurt me either. That’s how this works.

The unknown something moves again, causing a shift in the air that her new Fae eyes are able to detect; it looked like smoke, though more refined and smooth, shimmering with an iridescence that reminded her of the stars. She reaches out. What are you?

It slithers forward and Ariadne watches as it brushes against one of her fingers, almost as if it were curious about her too, and that’s when she feels that same softness that had been around her waist earlier, silken and surprisingly strong.

You’re one of Azriel’s shadows, it curls around her finger and Ariadne hums. What are you doing here? Did he send you?

The shadow moves further up until it’s wrapped around her wrist, the end curled between her fingers and she feels something push at the back of her skull. It didn’t hurt, but it was strange; it sort of felt like someone was trying to fit the wrong key into a lock.

Ariadne keeps her eye on the shadow and takes a breath. Are you trying to get in? Feyre mentioned that before, but I can’t remember what it’s called. It’s mind reading though, isn’t it? Are you saying I can do it too?

There’s an instantaneous pressure around her wrist and she sucks in another breath. Okay, that’s… Okay, her brow furrows; how did the shadow know before she did? Was it because of Azriel being their master? But then that would mean he would know too, wouldn’t he? And he had never given any inclination that he did, so how?

She wished she knew all of the information that Feyre had given back when she first showed them that she was High Fae. Ariadne could read, some, from the few books Nesta was able to get when they lived in the small cottage and then even more so when their father had suddenly been offered a business deal that made them wealthy again, not that she remembered any of that part of their life, and was given lessons; she didn’t like them and proceeded to have a glare off with her eldest sister until it was made clear that there would be no changing her mind.

Ariadne would teach herself.

And reading turned into writing.

But it had been slow going at first and when Feyre had arrived with Rhysand, Azriel, and Cassian, she had only gotten so far and there was some of it that had been written down that she either got mixed up or couldn’t remember at all. It was all bits and pieces.

The tightening around her wrist draws her attention back to the present and she shakes her head. Right. Focus, Ari. If the shadow is trying to tell me what I think it is, I have to try, don’t I?

Ariadne closes her eyes and recedes back into her mind, maneuvering through the jumbled mess of thoughts before she comes across an opalescent wall, shimmering with a moonlight glow and she couldn’t help but think how pretty it was. Why had she never noticed this before? Her head tilts and she probes further, searching for some way to open it.

It brushed softly against her just as the shadow did and she gave an instinctive squeeze in return before the wall of light brightened, beginning to shake and shift, soon revealing a small entryway for a single person to get through. She gasps.

Whoa! How did I do that? Ariadne opens her eyes and looks down to see the little thing was weaving between her fingers. Can you hear me now?

Yes.

[sleekervae]

Flickers | the projectionist (johnny) x reader

Masterlist

A/N: had this idea knocking around in my head for a few days. And while still not clear on his real name in the movie, I'm going with Johnny for simplicity sake.

Pairing: the projectionist (johnny) x fem!reader

Summary: late night at the cinema and a salacious book has poor johnny in a bind for his colleague.

Warnings: erotic writing, heavy smut, oral, penetration, nudity

Word Count: 4,436

Johnny first met Sophie on the tail end of a smoky September evening, the air thick with the scent of roasted peanuts from the vendor outside the theater. She was leaning against the wall near the alley, cigarette perched between her fingers, looking every bit like she belonged in one of those French pictures he sometimes screened after hours. Her boss—a producer Johnny had worked with before—had sent her ahead to fetch some reels, but it was clear from the way she moved, slow and deliberate, that Sophie wasn’t the type to rush.

She was all sharp cheekbones and sharper wit, her dark hair pinned back haphazardly as though she’d stopped caring halfway through the task. When she introduced herself, her tone was low and indifferent, like she wasn’t used to people looking twice at her. Johnny had glanced down at her shoes—simple flats, scuffed at the edges—and wondered if she realized how much attention her quiet presence commanded.

At first, they only spoke in passing, exchanging a few words while Sophie handled errands for her boss. But over time, she lingered. She’d stay after picking up reels or dropping off schedules, watching him from the doorway as he adjusted the projector.

“I didn’t think anyone still cared about this old junk,” she remarked once, arms crossed, her voice carrying a trace of amusement.

Johnny looked up from splicing a reel, the dim light catching on her pale skin. “Well, someone’s gotta make sure it runs smooth. Besides, this junk’s how I pay rent.”

She laughed—a low, throaty sound—and it hit him harder than he expected.

It wasn’t long before she started coming around on her own time, sitting in the empty theater while he threaded film for the midnight show. She’d sit near the back, legs crossed, watching the flickering images with an intensity that made him uneasy in the best way. One night, she waited until the credits rolled to ask him:

“You ever think about what’s not on the screen? The stuff they won’t show?”

It was an odd question, but Sophie was full of those. Her curiosity was sharp and relentless, poking at ideas most people shied away from. Johnny didn’t know what to say, so she filled the silence herself, telling him about the scripts she was working on.

“They’re not normal,” she admitted, the word slipping out like a taunt. “Producers don’t like ‘em. Too weird. Too… honest.”

She wouldn’t let him read them at first, claiming they weren’t ready. But she couldn’t resist teasing him with snippets. A line of dialogue here, a provocative idea there. The more she shared, the more Johnny’s imagination took off. Her writing was raw, full of heat and longing that had nothing to do with love and everything to do with desire.

It wasn’t just her words that got under his skin. It was the way she said them—leaning close, her voice barely above a whisper, like she was sharing a secret too dangerous for anyone else to hear. Her eyes would linger on him, searching for a reaction, and he’d have to fight the urge to shift under her gaze.

Johnny wasn’t sure when he started picturing her in the scenarios she described, but once the idea took root, it spread fast. He’d catch himself watching her hands as she gestured, wondering what they’d feel like on his skin. He started noticing the curve of her lips when she spoke, the slight rasp in her voice that made everything she said sound like a proposition.

He told himself it was just curiosity—admiration for her creativity, maybe—but the truth sat heavier in his chest. Johnny was down bad for Sophie, the way she embraced the messy, carnal parts of human nature without apology. She made him feel like a character in one of her stories, teetering on the edge of something raw and thrilling.

And maybe, just maybe, he wanted to see how far she’d let him fall.

It was one of those late nights where the air in the projection room felt heavy, the low hum of the machines lulling them into an easy rhythm. Sophie had perched herself in the chair in the corner, legs crossed, cigarette forgotten between her fingers.

“You really want to read it?” she asked, her voice a little too casual.

Johnny didn’t look up from the reel he was inspecting, though his hands faltered for half a beat. “Been asking you for weeks, haven’t I?”

Sophie smirked, but there was something sharper underneath it, like she was testing him. She reached into her bag and pulled out a neatly folded stack of pages, bound with a frayed ribbon.

“Fine. But don’t blame me if it messes with your head,” she said, tossing it onto the counter.

He wiped his hands on his trousers before picking it up, the weight of her work feeling heavier than it should’ve. The title scrawled across the top in her loopy handwriting read Flickers.

Johnny picked the script off the counter, his fingers brushing the ribbon binding it together. The room felt warmer now, Sophie’s proximity a heavy presence that made it harder to focus. He flipped through the pages until he landed on a scene near the middle—words catching his eye like fireflies in the dark.

He cleared his throat, half for himself and half to test the waters. “Mind if I…”

Sophie raised a brow, but there was a softness to her smirk. “Go ahead... If you dare.”

The challenge in her voice spurred him on, and he began to read.

“'Paul's hands traced the curves of her body, firm and possessive. His voice was a husky whisper in her ear as he demanded, "Tell me how much you want me." Lucille gasped, her body responding eagerly, guiding his hands to where she needed him most.'

“'His grip tightened around her as he felt her body molding to his touch, her warmth enveloping him. His tongue darted out to taste her skin, and she shivered beneath him in response. She arched her back, pushing herself closer to him as he traced patterns over her stomach and sides with his fingers. The softness of her skin sent shockwaves of desire through him, and he growled low in his throat. His hands found their way up to cup her breasts, kneading them gently before pulling on her nipples through the fabric of her shirt. Lucille threw her head back with a soft moan, the sound echoing in the room. Her scent was intoxicating—a mix of sweet perfume and primal need.”

Johnny paused, his voice trailing off as he glanced up. Sophie had turned her face away, her dark lashes casting shadows against her cheeks. But she wasn’t as indifferent as she pretended to be—he caught the faintest curve of her lips, a smile threatening to give her away.

“Keep going,” she said softly, her tone lacking the teasing edge it usually carried.

Johnny swallowed, taking a seat in the chair beside her, “You sure?”

Her eyes flicked to his, holding his gaze for just a moment too long. “I’m sure.”

He returned to the page, his voice lower now, threading through the quiet tension between them.

“‘You like watching me unravel,’ Paul murmured, his hands tightening on her waist. ‘Does it make you feel powerful?’

“She smiled—a wicked, knowing smile that sent a shiver down his spine. ‘It makes me feel alive.’

“With one swift motion, Paul pulled back Lucille's bustier, revealing supple curves that seemed endless in the dim light. He ran his hands along the smooth expanse of skin, tracing patterns that made her gasp and squirm beneath him. His lips followed suit, kissing and nipping along her collarbone and down towards her breasts. They stood tall and proud under his admiring gaze, begging for attention. With a soft sigh, he bent down to capture one nipple in his mouth, sucking gently at first before increasing the pressure. Lucille cried out, her fingers tangling in his hair as she arched her back off the bed.”

Johnny stopped again, unable to ignore the way Sophie shifted closer to him, her knee brushing against his thigh. “This is… something else,” he murmured, not realizing he’d said it out loud.

Sophie finally turned to him, her cheeks flushed but her smile unshaken. “You like it?”

He let out a low laugh, setting the script down but keeping his eyes on her. “I think you’re trying to get me in trouble.”

She bit her lip, that wicked, knowing smile from the page mirrored on her face now. “Or maybe I just know what I want,” she said, her voice quiet but sure, “Keep going,” she urged.

The room suddenly felt claustrophobic as the scene unfold. His heart raced as Paul buried himself between Lucille's legs, read how she moaned and screamed for him, their encounter brimming with unbridled desire. Every word and gesture built to a tantalizing climax, sending Johnny's mind reeling with fantasies. But it wasn't Paul or Lucille anymore; it was him and Sophie. Her seductive smirk and intense gaze held him spellbound, igniting a fire within him that he could not resist.

“You write like this all the time?” he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

“Only when I feel inspired,” Sophie replied, standing now. She stepped closer, her movements deliberate, as though testing just how far she could push him. “What do you think?”

“I think…” He set the pages down, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “I think you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Her lips curled into a grin. “Do I?”

The silence between them thickened, charged with all the things Johnny wasn’t saying. The way her scripts had lodged themselves in his brain, filling the quiet moments with flashes of heat. The way she seemed to know, without him ever admitting it, how badly he wanted her.

Sophie closed the distance between them, stopping just short of touching him. “If you’re too shy to finish, I can always act it out for you,” she teased, her voice barely above a whisper.

Johnny’s breath hitched. He couldn’t tell if she was joking, but the way her eyes lingered on his lips told him she wasn’t.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” he warned, though his voice lacked conviction.

Sophie smirked, leaning in until her mouth was inches from his. “Who says I can’t?”

And that was it—whatever thin thread of control Johnny had been clinging to snapped. He closed the gap, his hands gripping her waist as their mouths collided. She tasted like smoke and something sweeter, her body pressing into his as though daring him to take more.

The pages of her script fluttered to the floor, forgotten, as Johnny pulled her into his lap, her legs falling on either side of him. Sophie’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her breath hitching against his lips. She didn’t hold back—her movements were confident, commanding, like she’d been waiting for this moment as much as he had.

For Johnny, it wasn’t just about the heat of the moment. It was the way Sophie unraveled him, her words and presence stripping him bare until there was nothing left but want. She made him feel like he was part of her story, and for once, he didn’t care if it had a happy ending.

The room was awash with raw desire and urgency as Johnny's hands fumbled to undo the intricate clasps of Sophie's bustier, the fabric falling away to reveal the soft curve of her skin. Sophie's nails grazed down his chest, leaving a trail of fire in their wake, as she leaned in to capture his lips hungrily. The sound of fabric tearing filled the air as Johnny tore off her dress in a rush, his movements desperate and primal.

Sophie gasped against his mouth, arching into his touch as he explored every inch of her exposed skin. Her hands were everywhere at once, tugging at his tie and unbuttoning his shirt with a fervor that matched his own. The air crackled with electricity between them, passion igniting like a wildfire that threatened to consume them whole.

Their kiss deepened, becoming a symphony of need and longing that echoed through the room. Johnny's hands roamed over Sophie's body, memorizing every curve and

dip, every smooth plane and luscious valley that lay beneath the surface. He traced her spine with reverence, his fingers dancing down the small of her back and around to cup her hip, pulling her against him in a desperate plea for contact.

Sophie whimpered into his mouth, her own hands finding their way beneath his shirt, tracing the muscular lines of his abdomen as she felt the heat radiating off of him. The fire between them was building, growing in intensity until it threatened to consume them both in its fervor. She couldn't remember ever feeling this way before – so alive, so consumed by a need that seemed to pulse through her very veins.

And then Johnny's lips were on her neck, trailing kisses down to where her pulse raced wildly beneath the surface. And despite herself, Sophie's knees began to weaken. His teeth gently nipped at the tender skin of her shoulder, sending shivers of desire coursing through her veins. She could feel the heat from his body seeping into hers, warming her to her very core. And as much as she tried to fight it, it was impossible to deny the sheer power that he held over her in this moment.

The room was spinning with a mix of lust and adrenaline, the two of them lost in a whirlwind of passion that threatened to consume them both. Johnny's breath was hot against her skin, his lips trailing kisses down her neck and across her collarbone until he finally reached the delicate curve of her breasts.

She gasped as he took one in his mouth, sucking gently on the taut nipple while running his hands down over her hips and towards the sway of her backside. Sophie moaned softly into his hair, her hands fisting in his shirt as she arched her back, the pleasure coursing through her. This was beyond anything she'd ever experienced, anything she could write—a fire burning bright within her that only he could fan into flames.

As his lips moved from one breast to the other, Sophie's breath became ragged, her body trembling with need. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him closer still. She felt like she was dancing on the edge of something dangerous and exhilarating, and she was powerless to resist it.

Johnny's hands trailed down her back, tracing the curve of her hips before sliding beneath her, lifting her onto the chair. She let out a soft gasp as he settled her onto the wooden frame, his strong arms supporting her weight. The room was filled with a heavy silence punctuated only by their ragged breathing and the sound of fabric rustling as they tore at each other's clothes.

With an unspoken demand, Johnny lifted her gently and placed her on the small wooden table in the corner of the room. Her breath hitched as she realized how exposed she was, how vulnerable she felt. But in that moment, she didn't want to be anywhere else. She wanted him to take her, to claim her with a passion and intensity that was like nothing she'd ever known.

Johnny pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his hands firm but tender as they settled on her thighs. “Hold on,” he murmured, his voice thick with restraint.

Sophie blinked, her lips parted in protest, but he silenced her with a smirk that promised he wasn’t going far. He strode to the projection room door, turning the lock with a decisive click that echoed through the space.

“No interruptions,” he said, more to himself than her, before his eyes flicked back to her.

Sophie was still perched on the table, her legs slightly apart, the hem of her skirt riding dangerously high. She looked at him with a mix of confidence and vulnerability, her breath shallow as he crossed the room again.

“And here — I thought you changed your mind,” she teased, though her voice wavered slightly.

Johnny’s grin deepened, his eyes dark and intent as he stepped closer. His hands settled on her waist, drawing her toward the edge of the table with an easy confidence. “Couldn’t have that,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly. “Not when you look at me like that.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth, his words a whispered promise against her skin. “Not when I’ve been dying to know how far you’ll let me go.”

Her gasp turned into a moan as his hands slid down, tracing the curve of her hips before tugging her closer. Sophie gripped the edge of the table, her knuckles white, as Johnny’s mouth moved to her neck, his stubble rough against her soft skin.

“Johnny…” she whispered, her voice breathless and pleading.

“Shh,” he murmured, his lips trailing lower. “You don’t want anyone hearing us, do you?”

He continued, his touch feather-light as he traced the delicate line of her stomach, her skin quivering beneath his fingers. Sophie bit her lip, her eyes closing as he marveled at the way her body arched towards him.

As she felt his fingers slide under the hem of her undergarments, she caught her breath in a sharp gasp. He looked up at her from where he knelt, his eyes dark with desire and a hint of fear. "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice barely audible over the pounding of their hearts.

Sophie nodded, an array of emotions playing across her face as she met his gaze. "Yes," she murmured, her voice trembling with a mix of anticipation and fear. She wanted this; she needed this.

Johnny's eyes locked onto hers for a moment longer before they flicked lower, the heat of desire still smouldering in their depth. He took a shuddering breath, his hands steady as he pulled her underwear down, revealing the most intimate part of her. For a moment, he simply looked, drinking in the sight of her before him.

Sophie's heart threatened to burst from her chest, the sight of Johnny looking at her like that making her feel powerful and delicate all at once. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to pull him closer and reassure him that she was alright. But she also craved the touch of his skin against hers, the warmth of his body enveloping hers in passion's embrace.

With a deep inhale, Johnny let his fingers brush against the sensitive skin before him. Sophie let out a soft moan, her eyes fluttering shut as waves of pleasure washed over her. His touch was gentle yet firm, as if he were caressing a delicate flower with utmost care. She felt herself growing warmer, her body trembling with anticipation.

Johnny's eyes met hers, the intensity of his gaze making her heart flutter. He leaned in closer, his breath warm against her skin as he placed soft kisses along her inner thigh. Sophie let out a shaky sigh, her hands gripping the edge of the table tightly as she felt the world around her fade away.

There was something magical about this moment, something that she knew would stay with her for eternity. Johnny's experience and passion were intertwined with her own desires, creating a symphony of touch and emotion. His hands traced delicate patterns on her skin, sending shivers down her spine and causing a fire to ignite within her core.

As his lips brushed against her folds, Sophie's breath hitched. The room was filled with the sounds of pleasure and need, of their bodies speaking volumes without a single word being spoken. She could feel Johnny's warmth at her entrance, the anticipation of what was to come making her tremble with excitement.

Johnny then descended upon Sophie's slick, wet pussy like a starved animal. His tongue delved into her folds, tasting her sweet nectar, as his lips wrapped around her clit and sucked gently. Sophie's back arched out as a moan escaped her lips. Her fingers threaded through Johnny's hair, pulling him closer as he devoured her.

His tongue darted in and out of her pussy, fucking her with it like a little cock. He teased her entrance, tasting her sweet juices before plunging deeper. Sophie's hips bucked as she ground herself against his face, desperate for more. Her moans grew louder as her pleasure built, her breath hitching with every flick of Johnny's tongue against her clit.

Her legs trembled as she felt her orgasm building. Johnny's skilled tongue worked her into a frenzy, his fingers digging into her thighs as he held her in place. She could feel herself on the edge, ready to tumble over into pure ecstasy. With one final flick of his tongue, Sophie came undone.

Her orgasm tore through her like a tidal wave. Sophie's eyes rolled back into her head as she cried out in pleasure. Johnny continued to lick and suck at her pussy, drawing out every last shiver and shudder of her orgasm. When Sophie finally came down from her high, Johnny looked up at her with a smug smile on his face.

"Good girl," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "You taste so fucking sweet."

Sophie could only blush and pant in response, still reeling from the most intense orgasm of her life. Johnny's mouth on her pussy had been filthy and depraved, but she couldn't get enough. She knew she'd be begging for more in no time.

With a smile that promised more, Johnny stood and pulled his pants down, his impressive erection bobbing in front of them. Sophie smiled up at him, her heart hammering in her chest. She reached out to him, her fingers tracing the length of his cock.

"Take me," she whispered, her voice full of desire. "I’m all yours, Johnny."

Johnny positioned himself at Sophie's entrance and slowly pushed inside. She gasped at the sensation of him filling her up, stretching her tight hole until she was overflowing with him. He began to move, his body slamming into hers with a rhythm that matched their hearts' desires.

Sophie's eyes fluttered closed as she felt Johnny's cock pound against her insides. She met every stroke with a moan or a whimper, her nails digging into his shoulders as she held onto him for dear life. The room was filled with the sounds of their bodies colliding—skin slapping against skin, breaths becoming ragged gasps for air.

The air in the room was thick, their bodies entwined in a rhythm that left no room for restraint. Johnny's movements were deliberate yet teasing, each thrust pulling a gasp from Sophie's lips. His mouth found her ear, his breath hot and unrelenting as he whispered.

"Is this how you pictured it?" he murmured, his tone laced with a wicked edge. "When you wrote those words—was it me you imagined, Sophie?"

Her hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as she tried to find balance amidst the chaos he was unleashing on her. She couldn’t answer, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe beyond the sensation of him inside her.

"You’ve got a filthy imagination," Johnny continued, his voice dripping with mock admonishment, though his thrusts deepened with every word. "I read every line, you know. Every single detail. Do you squirm when you write it? Did you get this wet just thinking about it?"

Sophie’s moan was all the response he needed, her head falling back as she clung to him, desperate for more. Her body betrayed her, arching into his touch, meeting every movement with equal fervor.

He chuckled, low and rough, his teeth grazing her neck. "Thought so. You’re squeezing me like you never want me to stop." His hand slid to her thigh, lifting it higher to anchor her against him. "So tell me, Sophie—am I better than your story?"

Her breath hitched, and she forced herself to meet his gaze, her cheeks flushed with heat. “Y-you’re better,” she managed, though her voice was barely a whisper, “So fucking better.”

"That’s what I thought," Johnny growled, his lips crashing against hers as he drove them both closer to the edge. Sophie arched her back as he reached between them to rub circles on her clit with his thumb.

"Come for me again," he commanded, nibbling at her ear while still teasing her clit. With a cry, Sophie obeyed, her body shuddering with pleasure. Her walls clenched around him, milking his cock as he continued to move inside her.

Never had she felt so alive, so desired. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex as their bodies moved as one, lost in the haze of desire and passion. Johnny's lips found hers once more, their tongues tangling in a messy dance of lust and love.

He pulled out at the last moment, his come splattering against her swollen clit. She cried out in ecstasy as he filled her up again, painting her insides with his release. And then they collapsed together in a heap on the table, their breathing ragged and heavy as they came down from their high.

Sophie couldn't believe it—she'd never felt anything like this before. This raw, unrestrained passion that burned bright between them. As she looked into Johnny's eyes, she knew that whatever words she’d written couldn’t truly capture the essence of their connection. Not like this.

Their bodies, slick with sweat and desire, lay entwined, hearts pounding in sync with the fading echoes of their passionate embrace. As their breaths slowly returned to normal, Sophie traced her fingers through the damp hair on Johnny's chest, marveling at the man before her. He was more than just a character in her story; he was real, and he had brought her words to life in a way she never thought possible.

Johnny turned his head towards her hand and captured it in his, bringing it to his lips for a gentle kiss. "That was... incredible," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears of overwhelming emotion. "You truly are a wordsmith, Sophie."

She smiled, the corners of her lips turning up in a knowing grin. "I can't take all the credit. You helped bring the idea to life."

He chuckled softly and brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Well then, let's write another chapter, shall we?"

[swangirlxoxo]

Ladybug

young daryl dixon x original female character

pre and post apocalypse

PART I : BEFORE

-

Stevie St. James was an odd girl.

She knew this.

Everyone else knew it, too.

And they liked to remind her. Often.

"You’re really weird, Stevie," Daryl said one day.

It was after church, and they were playing on the rusted playground set in the courtyard. The swings creaked, and the metal slide was chipped and worn. Daryl’s mama was nearby, chatting with Stevie’s Gran, voices a soft hum against the backdrop of their play. Daryl’s mama was always talking to Gran, ‘cause his mama was real good friends with Stevie’s mama when they were little like them. So, after church, they spent hours gossiping while the kids entertained themselves in the sun.

But why was Stevie so weird? It couldn’t have been because of the spider she was holding.

She had found it on the slide, nestled in the cracks of the old metal, its tiny legs twitching. Daryl had almost crushed it, but Stevie had yelled and scooped it up. It wasn’t a dangerous one, just a little baby Hobo Spider— Tegenaria agrestis, she’d read in one of her bug books.

She stared at the spider, her small hand cradling it carefully, a focused look in her eyes as she examined its body in the afternoon light. Daryl was still there, his face scrunched with confusion, eyes squinted. She was absorbed in the creature, trying to explain it to him in that serious tone that made adults laugh at her.

“The Hobo Spider,” she began, her voice taking on the cadence of someone reading from a book, “also known as Tegenaria agrestis, is a large spider in the Agelenidae family. In Britain, they’re called ‘funnel weavers’ or ‘cobweb spiders’ ‘cause of the way they build their webs. They—”

“Stevie, baby! Time for lunch!” Gran called.

She broke off mid-sentence. She stood up, still holding the spider delicately in her hands. Daryl just stared at her, a mix of awe and confusion on his face, but she barely noticed. The spider had to go back where it belonged.

She walked briskly to the trees, her worn Mary-Janes crunching on the leaves. She placed the little spider gently on a tree, far from the slide and the noisy church. Then, she turned and ran back toward Gran, Daryl trailing behind her in silent bewilderment.

-

They weren’t in the same class at school. Daryl was in fourth grade, and Stevie was only in third. But they still sat together at lunch and played together during recess.

It was a crisp fall day, and Stevie was eating the soup her Gran had packed her. Daryl, though, had no lunch. His mom had forgotten to pack him anything. Again. Mrs. Dixon was drunk most of the time, evenon Sundays. Gran said she was a lost soul. Sometimes Stevie wondered how Daryl got by at all.

Gran always made sure to pack extra food for him, even when money was tight. It was just how things were. Gran had taught Stevie to share, even when they barely had enough for themselves. Stevie handed over a ham sandwich, packed just for Daryl, watching him unwrap it without a word. She didn’t expect a thanks, not really. Daryl didn’t say much, ever. But neither did she.

As Stevie watched him, something caught her eye. There, on his cheek, was a big black-and-blue splotch against his pale skin. Her stomach tightened as she stared at it, her spoon frozen halfway to her mouth.

"Daryl," she said quietly, her voice faltering just a little, "What happened to your face?"

Daryl didn’t look up. He took a big bite of the sandwich, chewing slowly, eyes on the table. He didn’t answer.

Stevie bit her lip, unsure of what to say next. She knew he got hurt a lot. Daryl was a roughhouser, always fighting with his older brother Merle, who was already in high school and had no time for Daryl anymore—except when they were fighting. Then there were the hunting trips with his dad, the ones Stevie didn’t know much about. 

Stevie didn’t know much about daddies. She’d never had one herself, so she couldn’t exactly say what a good one looked like. But she knew Daryl’s daddy was no-good.

She’d heard the way Mrs. Dixon, with bruises like Daryl’s, talked about him in the few moments of clarity she had. Bastard was the word.

She reached out tentatively, touching the edge of the bruise with a soft finger. Daryl winced, pulling away.

“Was it Merle?” she asked. She didn’t like Merle, not much at all. He was loud and rude and smoked cigarettes - she hated the smell. And he always tugged at her braids, which Gran had braided just perfectly, and made fun of her for all sort of things.

Daryl’s face twisted, and his jaw clenched. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something, but instead, his lips pressed tight together. He pushed the sandwich aside with more force than necessary, his fists curling.

“Nah,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and sharp. “Just—just leave me alone, Stevie.”

Stevie shrank back. She hadn’t meant to make him angry. Daryl was mean sometimes. But he was her only friend.

“I just-“

He shot up, his chair scraping against the floor with a harsh noise that made the other kids in the small lunchroom glance over. Some of them giggled at the outburst, but no one dared approach. Daryl’s anger was well known.

“Stop bein’ such a nosy bitch!” he yelled at her, his face flushed. His voice cracked as he turned on his heel, his too-small shoes scuffing the ground as he stormed off.

Stevie’s eyes went wide. She hated bad words. And Daryl had started to say them a lot, just like Merle, just like their daddy.

Some of the other kids now turned their attention to Stevie. A few whispered, eyes flicking from Daryl’s retreating figure to her. Stevie shrank further into herself, pulling her shoulders up toward her ears, wishing she could disappear.

Her hands trembled as she sat there, the remnants of her lunch forgotten in front of her. Her throat tightened, her face burning with embarrassment. She wanted to call out to him, to apologize, to tell him she didn’t mean to be nosy. But she didn’t - couldn’t.

The bell rang, sharp and jarring, signaling the end of lunch, and the other kids began to scatter. Stevie remained seated, her hands folded tightly in her lap, staring down at the table, willing the earth to open up and swallow her whole.

-

Stevie was a girl who liked routines, the kind of order that made the world feel predictable.  

Gran braided her hair the same way every morning. Her dresses were always floral and ironed neatly. The ruffles of her socks stayed pure white, and the scuffs on her shoes were polished away.  

Stevie found comfort in the small things—organizing her books into neat stacks by size, keeping track of the bugs she found in the woods with Daryl, and the way the soft wool of her favorite sweater felt against her skin.  

When something disrupted that peace—her routines—it felt like the ground beneath her feet became unstable.

Daryl disrupted her routines. He didn’t mean to; it just happened. He was unpredictable, like people always were. Stevie didn’t like being around people much. It wasn’t that she disliked them exactly—she just found them difficult to understand. That was why Stevie stayed away from people as best she could. But she couldn’t seem to stay away from Daryl, even if he ruined her routines.  

Sometimes, when they were supposed to play in the woods, his daddy would keep him home. Sometimes, when he was supposed to eat lunch with her, he wouldn’t come to school. Sometimes, when he was supposed to be nice to her, he would be cruel.  

When everything felt disturbed, Stevie turned to bugs.  

When she found a new bug, her heart raced with excitement. She crouched down, her fingers gently brushing the grass or cracked sidewalk, careful not to startle her tiny subject. She would watch it for what felt like hours, her eyes locked on its every movement, her mind cataloging its size, color, and behavior.  

She had towering stacks of books on bugs from the library, which she read and reread so many times that she could recite nearly everything she had absorbed.

Gran always smiled when Stevie talked about her bugs, even if she didn’t quite understand why her granddaughter cared so much about them. "You gotta eye for the lil’ things, Stevie," Gran would say, patting her head affectionately. "The world needs more folks who pay attention to the small stuff."  

The night after Daryl yelled at her at lunch, when the sun hung low and painted the sky in streaks of pink and gold, there was a knock at the door. Stevie peeked through the lace curtains and saw Daryl standing there. He looked dirty and out of breath, like he had ran the mile all the way from his trailer to her little house. A dark bruise shadowed his cheek, deeper in color than it had been earlier in the day.  

Gran answered the door, her smile warm. 

"Hi, ma’am," Stevie heard Daryl mutter. "Uh…Stevie ‘round?"  

"She is," Gran said, stepping aside to let him in.  

When he entered, his eyes locked on Stevie’s where she sat on the couch, a mason jar in her lap. She gave him a small smile and a wave.  

"Why don’cha stay for dinner, hmm? You’re lookin’ too thin again," Gran said.  

Daryl hesitated. "I ain’t wanna be a bother—"  

"Nonsense," Gran interrupted, already heading to the kitchen. "Sit yourself down. I’ll make somethin’ you like."  

“What’s that?” Daryl asked Stevie, pointing at the jar.  

“Ladybugs,” she said, holding up the jar for him to see. He took it and brought it up to his eyes, watching the little red-and-black bugs wander around on a stick she had placed inside.  

“Are you gonna keep ’em?”  

Stevie rolled her eyes. “No. I told you already. They’re meant to live outside. They just come on vacation in my jar sometimes.”  

Gran bustled in. "How ‘bout some fried chicken? I know how you love it, Daryl."  

His ears turned red. "You ain’t gotta—"  

"I want to," Gran said firmly. "Go wash on up, the both of you."  

Dinner was a quiet affair, at least by most people’s standards. Stevie ate in her usual deliberate way, savoring each bite and watching Daryl out of the corner of her eye. He didn’t talk much, but she could tell he liked the chicken; he ate every piece Gran piled on his plate, right down to the bone.  

When the meal was done, Gran brought out a pie she had baked that morning, the scent of apples and cinnamon filling the room. "Daryl," she said, her voice softening, "you’re welcome here anytime. Don’t you be a stranger now, you hear?"  

Daryl nodded, mumbling a shy "Thank you, Mrs. St. James."  

"I been tellin’ you, call me Gran."  

Stevie watched him as he scraped the last bit of pie crust from his plate, and for once, she didn’t mind the disruption. Daryl might not have made sense to her, but he didn’t need to. He was just Daryl—unpredictable and sometimes cruel, but sometimes kind and comforting in ways no one else ever was.  

As the night settled in and the dishes were done, Gran sent Daryl home with a warm hug and a Tupperware full of leftovers. Stevie sat by the window, watching as he disappeared into the dark woods.  

“Gran?” she asked softly.  

“Yes, sweetheart?”  

“Did Daryl’s daddy hit him? Like he hits Mrs. Dixon?” She knew Gran had noticed the bruise. She had caught Gran staring at it with those puppy-dog sad eyes.  

Gran was quiet for a moment. “I don’t know, Stevie,” her voice low and sad, very un-Gran-like. “I don’t know. But I do know we gotta give that boy love, you hear?”

-

As Stevie grew older, she began to look more and more like her mother.  

She had never known her mother—never even met her, except for the day she was born, she supposed—but Gran kept the photos of her daughter up. Stevie’s mama’s school pictures lined the walls, along with scattered Polaroids on the fridge.  

They shared the same shade of curly golden hair, the same smattering of freckles across their cheeks, the same wide gap between their front teeth, and the same round face. But Stevie’s eyes were brown, not green like her mama’s. She must have gotten them from her daddy, though she had no idea who he was. Gran didn’t have any pictures of him, because Gran didn’t know who he was either. Maybe he had brown eyes. Maybe.  

Mrs. Dixon used to love telling Stevie how much she looked like her mama. Mrs. Dixon and Stevie’s mama had been the best of friends once upon a time. But Stevie’s mama was gone, and now Mrs. Dixon was too—she had died in a fire a year back. A few months after that, Merle enlisted in the army. After that, Stevie saw less and less of Daryl. He started missing school, and when he did show up, he barely spoke to her. Even though she kept inviting him over for dinner, he stopped coming. She didn’t know what he was up to these days. She didn’t even know if he would show up for school.  

She hoped he would. She felt utterly alone—no friends, no one. Well, except for Gran and a few of Gran’s church and bingo friends. All old women who liked to pinch her cheeks and offer her baked goods.  

She spent the summer doing what she always did when there was no school to keep her busy. She read books about bugs, searched for them in the woods, and spent hours on the library computer bidding on taxidermy bugs with her chore money. She meticulously prepared her bug displays, knitted with Gran, went to church with Gran, attended bingo night with Gran, cooked with Gran, tended to Gran’s garden, and watched old westerns with Gran.  

Bugs and Gran. That was about it.  

On the morning of her first day of high school, Stevie stood in front of the living room wall, staring at her mama’s school pictures. It was almost like looking into a reflection. Gran found her there, silent, and didn’t say anything. She just gave Stevie that sad smile—the one she always wore when Stevie’s mama came up.  

Stevie was good at reading people. She noticed things others didn’t. She knew that Gran missed her mama terribly. She knew that Gran carried so many regrets. She also knew that in Stevie, Gran saw a second chance at raising a daughter.  

Mrs. Dixon had told Stevie so many stories about her mama. "She was a total hippy," she would say. She wore long skirts and sandals, piled on layers of jewelry, and always had music from the seventies playing—especially Fleetwood Mac. That was her thing. It wasn’t just the music, either. It was the way she carried herself, carefree and wild, with a spirit that seemed to float just above the ground.  

The one thing Stevie’s mama had done for her—the only thing that tied them together—was give her a name. Stevie Nicks, her mama’s favorite singer. That was her gift. She passed it down before handing Stevie over to Gran and skipping town, leaving without a word or a trace. Never to be seen again.  

Gran didn’t talk much about Stevie’s mama, except to tell stories of how wild she had been, how full of life. Mrs. Dixon’s stories painted a picture of a woman who was always searching for something—something bigger than herself, something that couldn’t be found in a small town like this. Stevie often wondered if her mama had ever found whatever it was she was looking for.  

As Stevie grew older, she started to understand why Gran didn’t talk about her. The absence was painful. Stevie’s mama was a ghost in their lives. For Stevie, her name was the one tangible connection to her. As soon as she could, she started playing her namesake’s songs over and over, searching for a thread of connection to the woman in the photos on the walls.

-

The first day of high school was already shaping up to be one of Stevie’s least favorite days of the year. She hated crowds, hated the noise of everyone shouting over each other in the hallways, hated the way the fluorescent lights hummed overhead and cast an unflattering glare on everything. The air smelled like cheap cologne and cafeteria food, and the sound of lockers slamming felt like tiny earthquakes rattling her nerves.

She found her first class—a cramped, stuffy room with mismatched desks and a chalkboard that still bore the faint ghost of last year’s lessons. Stevie picked a seat near the middle of the room, close enough to hear the teacher but not so close that she’d draw attention to herself. She took out her notebook and smoothed the edges of the pages, focusing on the familiar rhythm of straightening everything just so.

The bell rang, and the last few stragglers shuffled in. Stevie kept her head down, staring at her notebook, until she heard the scrape of a chair behind her. She glanced back cautiously and caught a flash of someone sitting down. When she turned slightly, she froze.

Daryl Dixon was sitting directly behind her.

Of course. It was an incredibly small school, and it seemed like Daryl had been held back, so it would make sense that he was placed in this class.

He looked about the same as the last time she’d seen him—messy brown hair that stuck out at odd angles, faint bruises that hadn’t entirely faded, and that same scowl that made him look like he’d rather be anywhere else. He didn’t seem to notice her right away, slumping into his chair and tapping a pencil on the desk.

Stevie felt her stomach flip. She wanted to say something—anything—but her tongue felt heavy, and her thoughts tangled into a knot of panic. What was she supposed to say? Hey, long time no see? How’s your summer? Why did you stop coming over?

The teacher started talking, sparing her from having to figure it out. She kept her head down for most of the class, her mind half on the lesson and half on the boy sitting behind her. When the bell finally rang, she gathered her things as quickly as possible, hoping to slip out before he noticed her.

“Stevie?”

His voice stopped her cold. She turned slowly, clutching her notebook to her chest.

“Hi,” Daryl said, his voice gruff but quieter than she remembered. He shoved his hands into his pockets, looking just as awkward as she felt.

“Hi,” she mumbled, staring at a spot on the floor near his feet.

For a moment, neither of them said anything. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable.

“You, uh…you look different,” Daryl finally said, rubbing the back of his neck.

Stevie blinked at him, unsure if that was supposed to be a compliment or just an observation. “So do you,” she said softly.

He shrugged, glancing away. “How’s Gran?”

“Good. She’s good.” She missed you. Asked about you all the time.

He nodded. “You still, uh…you still got all those bugs?”

Her heart fluttered a little at the question. “Yeah,” she said, her voice picking up a bit of enthusiasm. “I got a whole new case. I found a Harlequin beetle on ebay. Spent all summer reorganizing my collection.”

Daryl gave her a small, lopsided grin. “Sounds like you.”

Stevie wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so she didn’t. The silence crept back in, and she shifted on her feet.

“Wanna hang out sometime?” Daryl blurted.

Stevie’s eyes snapped to his, wide with surprise. “Uh…I…sure. I mean, if you wanna.”

“Yeah,” he said, shrugging like it wasn’t a big deal, but she noticed the way he shifted awkwardly. “After school, maybe. We could go to the woods or somethin’.”

Stevie hesitated, her mind racing through the possibilities—what they’d do, what they’d talk about, whether it would mess up her routine. But then she nodded. “Okay. After school.”

Daryl gave her a quick nod. “Cool. See you then.”

As she watched him walk away, a strange mix of nervousness and excitement bubbled in her chest. For the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel quite so alone.

-

Stevie had never given much thought to kissing. She read about it in books and saw it in movies, but the idea of actually doing it herself always felt foreign, distant—like something other people did, not her.  

She was a sophomore when it happened, on a Spring evening in the woods behind her house. 

Daryl had been quiet all day, quieter than usual. Stevie noticed the way he kept stealing glances at her, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his old jacket. He hadn’t teased her about her bugs, hadn’t made any sarcastic comments about the way she was still wearing her favorite dress even though it was full of holes.  

“You’re actin’ weird,” Stevie finally said, stopping in her tracks. She turned to face him, folding her arms across her chest.  

Daryl kicked at a rock on the path, avoiding her gaze. “I ain’t actin’ weird.”  

“You are,” she insisted. “You’ve barely said anythin’ all day. Did I do somethin’?”  

“No.” His voice was quiet, and he shifted uncomfortably. “You didn’t do nothin’. I just…” He trailed off, finally looking up at her.  

Stevie tilted her head. “What?”  

Daryl scratched the back of his neck, his face flushing red. “I was just thinkin’ ‘bout somethin’.”  

“What?” she asked again.

Instead of answering, Daryl took a step closer. He hesitated, his hands twitching like he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “Can I…Can I try somethin’?”  

Stevie’s heart thumped in her chest. She blinked at him, the weight of the moment sinking in as she realized what he was asking. “O-okay,” she stammered, unsure what else to say.  

Daryl leaned in slowly, his movements awkward and uncertain. Stevie stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat. When his lips finally brushed hers, it was soft and hesitant, like he was afraid of doing it wrong.  

The kiss lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like time had stretched, the world narrowing down to just the two of them. When Daryl pulled back, his face was even redder, and he couldn’t quite meet her eyes.  

“Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I probably shouldn’t’ve—”  

“It’s okay,” Stevie interrupted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her cheeks were burning, but she couldn’t stop the small, shy smile that tugged at her lips.  

“Yeah?” Daryl glanced at her, relief flickering across his face.  

“Yeah,” she said, fidgeting with the hem of her sweater. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel after something like that, but her chest felt warm, like she’d just taken a deep breath on a chilly morning.  

They stood there for a moment, the woods quiet around them. Then Daryl gave her a lopsided grin and nudged her arm with his elbow. “Come on. I bet there’s still some frogs by the creek.”  

Stevie laughed, the sound soft and light. She followed him down the trail, her heart still fluttering from the kiss. For the first time, she thought maybe kissing wasn’t so strange after all.  

“Daryl?”

”Hmm?”

“Are we goin’ steady now?”

“…Guess so.”

-

“Call me when my dad ain’t home,” Daryl had said that morning while he was driving her to school. He did that almost every morning - pick Stevie up, drop her off at school, and go to work. He had dropped out, leaving her unfortunately utterly alone at school. But she didn’t mind much. “He won’t be back ‘round till late.”  

Stevie had nodded, then she pressed a kiss to his lips before hopping out of his truck.

Later, she’d dialed the Dixon’s number.

It rang twice before someone picked up.  

“What?” A gruff voice snapped on the other end of the line.  

Stevie froze. That wasn’t Daryl.  

“Uh… um…” She stammered, panic rising in her chest.  

“Who is this?” The voice barked.  

“It’s Stevie St. James, sir. Is Daryl there?”

She got no response. Only a huff, and then the cut-off slam of the phone.

That evening, she heard a knock at the door. Stevie jumped up from the couch, her heart leaping as she ran to answer it.  

Daryl stood there, slouched and battered. His right eye was swollen shut, his lip split, and there was a cut along his cheekbone that looked like it hadn’t stopped bleeding yet.  

“Daryl!” Stevie gasped, reaching for him.  

“M’fine,” he muttered, brushing past her into the house.  

“You are not fine,” Gran said firmly, appearing in the doorway to the kitchen with her hands on her hips. Her eyes softened when she saw the state of him. “Lord, child. Sit before you fall down.”  

Daryl hesitated but obeyed, collapsing onto the couch with a wince. Stevie followed him, hovering nearby, unsure what to do.  

“Go get the first aid kit,” Gran said, her voice calm but urgent.  

Stevie nodded and dashed off, returning moments later with the kit. Gran knelt beside Daryl, opening it and inspecting his injuries with the practiced care of someone who’d done this too many times.  

“This ain’t nothin’,” Daryl mumbled as Gran dabbed at his cheek with a damp cloth. He flinched but didn’t pull away.  

“Don’t you dare,” Gran scolded gently. “Now, you wanna tell me what happened, or do I have to guess?”  

Daryl looked down at his hands, picking at a loose thread on his jeans. “He was mad ‘bout the phone,” he admitted quietly.  

Stevie’s heart sank. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice trembling.  

“Don’t,” Daryl said quickly, glancing up at her. “Ain’t your fault.”  

Gran sighed, shaking her head. “That man’s got no business puttin’ his hands on you. You hear me?”  

Daryl didn’t respond, his jaw tightening.  

“You’re stayin’ here tonight,” Gran said firmly. “No arguments.”  

Daryl looked like he wanted to protest but thought better of it. Instead, he nodded, his shoulders slumping in relief.  

Stevie sat beside him on the couch, her hands twisting together in her lap. She wanted to say something, to tell him how much she hated seeing him like this, how much she cared about him, but the words wouldn’t come.  

Instead, she reached out and took his hand. He didn’t pull away.  

Gran finished patching him up and stood, patting his shoulder gently. “I’ll make you some tea,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.  

For a moment, it was just Stevie and Daryl, the room quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator.  

“I hate him,” Stevie whispered, her voice shaking with the weight of emotions she didn’t know how to express.  

“I know,” Daryl said softly, his fingers tightening around hers. “But I’m all right.”  

She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes. “No, you ain’t.”  

“Will be. ‘Cause I got you.”

-

Stevie’s senior year was a whirlwind of heartbreak and change.

Gran’s death in the early months hit her harder than anything ever had. One moment, Gran was bustling around the house like always, scolding Stevie for forgetting her umbrella on a rainy day, and the next, she was gone—slipping away quietly in her sleep.

Gran had left everything to Stevie: the house, the small savings account, even the old Volkswagen she’d loved so much.

Daryl was her anchor through it all. He spent every free moment at the house, fixing broken pipes, mowing the lawn, and making sure Stevie ate when she forgot. But he was struggling too. A few months after Gran’s passing, Daryl’s father died of a sudden heart attack (no doubt caused from years of alcohol abuse), leaving behind a mountain of debt and a broken trailer. Merle was nowhere to be found, not that Daryl expected him to step up.

Stevie offered what little support she could. She watched Daryl sell the trailer and everything his dad had left behind, just to make ends meet. And when he had nowhere else to go, she told him he could live at Gran’s house, with her.

One evening, long after the sun had set, they found themselves sitting together on the old couch in the living room. Stevie had been cleaning out some of Gran’s things earlier in the day and had stumbled across an old quilt. Now, it was draped over them as they watched a rerun of some black-and-white Western that Gran had loved.

Daryl was quiet, his arm stretched across the back of the couch, his fingers idly brushing against Stevie’s shoulder. She leaned into him, her head resting against his chest.

“You okay?” he asked softly, his voice breaking the comfortable silence.

She nodded, her hand clutching a corner of the quilt. “I think so.”

“You’re doin’ good, Ladybug,” he said, using his nickname for her that he oh-so cleverly came up with a few years back, his hand moving to rest on her arm. “Gran would be proud of you.”

The mention of Gran made her chest tighten, but she didn’t cry. Instead, she tilted her head up to look at him. His face was lined with exhaustion, the weight of the past year visible in every angle.

“You’ve been good to me, Daryl,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You’ve been good to me, too.”

The air between them shifted, a quiet tension settling in as their eyes met. Stevie’s heart pounded in her chest, a mix of nerves and something deeper. She didn’t know who moved first, but his lips were on hers, soft and warm and hesitant.

Stevie loved kissing Daryl. They did it often. It only went past kissing a handful of times, but never all the way.

She straddled him, grinding down, making him gasp and clutch at the back of her sweater.

“Stevie,” he murmured breathlessly against her lips,

“I want it,” she whispered back, pulling at the hem if his shirt. “I want it. I want you.”

They moved slowly, carefully, as if afraid to break the moment. Daryl’s hands traced the curve of her back, his touch reverent, while Stevie’s fingers tangled in his hair. 

“Are you sure?” Daryl asked, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm against her skin.

Stevie nodded, her voice steady despite the rapid beat of her heart. “I’m sure.”

What followed was quiet and tender, filled with whispered reassurances and gentle touches. It wasn’t perfect—nothing ever was—but it was theirs, a moment carved out of the chaos of their lives where nothing else mattered but each other.

Afterward, they lay tangled together on the couch. Stevie rested her head on Daryl’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart as his fingers ran through her hair.

“I love you,” he said quietly, almost as if he was afraid to say it too loudly.

Oh. 

He loved her.

Stevie grinned. “I love you, too.”

In the weeks that followed, Daryl moved his few belongings into the house. It was a bittersweet arrangement—born out of necessity, but filled with a quiet hope for the future. Together, they started to rebuild, turning the house into a home for both of them.

-

Stevie kept her head down as she wiped the counter. Ever since Daryl’s proposal on her nineteenth birthday, she felt like everyone who looked at her could see the ring on her finger. It wasn’t big or flashy—something small and gold from the pawnshop—but it was perfect. Just like the butterfly he’d given her, a Ulysses butterfly, encased in glass with vibrant blue wings that seemed almost alive. She’d never felt more loved in her life.

Charlotte, a fellow waitress a few years older than Stevie, leaned on the counter beside her, smile warm and easy. “So, Mrs. Dixon, when’s the big day?”

Stevie’s cheeks turned crimson. “I...don’t know. We haven’t talked ‘bout it yet,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes on the coffee pot she was refilling.

Charlotte chuckled. “Well, you better start talkin’. Weddings don’t plan themselves, Vie.”

She wanted to say that there wasn’t going to be a wedding, not in the traditional sense. Who would come? Both of them had no family around, hardly had any people they considered friends. They would mostly likely just go down to the courthouse the next day they had free.

Before she could say that, the door jingled, and Stevie stiffened, instinctively shrinking into herself as a group of men walked in, loud and boisterous. One of them, the same man who had been giving Charlotte trouble, looked around the diner and grinned.

“Well, if it ain’t my favorite waitress,” he drawled, his eyes locking on Charlotte.

Charlotte’s smile didn’t falter, though her eyes hardened. “What can I get for you today?” she asked, her tone cool but professional.

The man leaned on the counter, far too close for comfort. “How ’bout a smile to go with my coffee? Black. Just how I like my women.”

Charlotte, ever the professional, kept her cool. She just smiled largely, sarcastically. “Right on it.”

Stevie wasn’t brave like Daryl, but she couldn’t let this slide. She had only been working at the diner for a few months, but already, Charlotte  became her friend. Her first friend in her whole life, besides Daryl. Charlotte didn’t mind her oddness, her quietness, the way she always seemed off in another world internally.

So, when the men finished ordering and went to sit, Stevie got started on the coffee. She fixed up a tray, and turned, facing Charlotte. Locking eyes with her friend, Stevie spit directly in the mug of black coffee, before turning back around and serving the men the drinks. She could hear Charlotte attempt to cover her laughter behind her, making Stevie smile to herself.

-

Stevie’s hands trembled as she set a coffee cup in front of a customer. The morning sickness wasn’t too bad today, but her nerves were on edge. Daryl had been quiet since she took the pregnancy test—she could tell something was eating at him.

She didn’t blame him. The idea of becoming parents scared her too, though her fear felt different—less like dread and more like a worry. She always wanted a baby, and she wanted Daryl to believe he could be a good dad.

The diner door jingled, and Stevie glanced up. A wiry man with a swagger that immediately put her on edge walked in. His eyes scanned the room before landing on her. His face broke into a wide grin.

Oh. She knew that grin.

“Well, if it ain’t lil’ Miss St. James,” he drawled, his voice too loud and too familiar.

Stevie stiffened, gripping the coffee pot tighter. “It’s Dixon now,” she said, her voice quiet, as she rounded the bar, putting a blockage between them.

Merle’s grin widened as he sauntered over to the counter and sat down. “Dixon, huh? So you actually went and hitched up with my baby brother. Always knew he had the hots for you. Why else would he follow you ‘round everywhere like a lost dog?”

Stevie forced a tight smile. It was awkwardly silent for a moment, Merle just grinning at her. “Got married a few months back,” she said, feeling uncomfortable.

“Well, congrats, Mrs. Dixon. Welcome to the fuckin’ family. Where’s my little brother, anyways? I went by that dump of a trailer, and some strangers were there. What the hell’s that ‘bout?”

Stevie hesitated. She didn’t owe him any explanations, but she also didn’t want trouble. “Daryl sold it.”

Merle’s expression darkened, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the counter. “Sold it? That trailer was our dad’s. Daryl didn’t have no right to do that.”

“It was fallin’ apart. He needed the money. He couldn’t get ahold of you. He tried.”

“Excuse me, I was busy servin’ our fine country. That trailer’s got history. And you come along, and now Daryl’s sellin’ off family stuff like it don’t mean nothin’?”

“Daryl made the decision. If you’ve got a problem with it, take it up with him.”

Merle’s face twisted in anger as he leaned closer to Stevie, his voice dripping with disdain. “Take it up with him, huh? You think you’re real smart, don’t you? Bet you’ve got him doin’ whatever you say, like a damn puppet. You don’t know the first thing ‘bout family, do you? You’re just some dumb little bitch whose slut mama ran out on her the second she shot you out  her pussy.” Merle laughed harshly, his eyes narrowing. “Bet you don’t even know how to take care of yourself, let alone him. Hell, you probably got the whole town thinkin’ he’s gone soft, runnin’ around with some retard-”

“Excuse me,” Charlotte said, suddenly, appearing behind Stevie, tone sharp. “I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Merle snorted, leaning back slightly but still smirking. “Oh, now the cavalry’s here? Look, lady, this is between me and my sistah-in-law.”

Charlotte didn’t flinch. “Unless you’re plannin’ to order somethin’ and sit down quietly, you can get the hell out.”

Merle stared at her for a moment, his smirk faltering under her unrelenting gaze. “Whatever,” he muttered, stepping back. He turned to Stevie, pointing a finger at her. “This ain’t over, lil’ girl. Tell my brother I need to talk.”

He stormed out, the door slamming shut behind him.

“What a fuckin’ prick,” Charlotte scowled.

-

The smell of spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove filled the small house. Stevie was curled up on the couch, absently running her hand over the small swell of her belly. Daryl shuffled in from the kitchen, carrying two plates piled high with spaghetti and garlic bread, handing one to her before collapsing onto the couch beside her.

"Thanks, Dar," Stevie said with a smile, already twirling a forkful of pasta.

Daryl grunted in response, though the corner of his mouth twitched up. He started eating, his knee bumping against hers on the cramped couch.

“Merle find a couch to crash on tonight?” Stevie asked between bites.

“Yeah, some guy he used to run with back in the day,” Daryl muttered. “Ain’t gonna last long if he don’t keep his mouth shut.”

Stevie rolled her eyes. “Typical.”

Daryl hesitated, swirling his fork through his spaghetti. “I got him in with that guy over at the junkyard. Said he’d give Merle a trial shift tomorrow. It’s somethin’.”

“That’s good,” Stevie said, her tone careful. She didn’t care for Merle—he’d been nothing but trouble since he’d shown up in town—but she saw how hard Daryl was trying to help his brother after he was discharged. Still, she refused to let him in her house. Daryl agreed.

They ate and talked idly about their days, Stevie scarfing down spaghetti, her feet in Daryl’s lap, the news on the TV humming in the background. She paused her recounting of seeing some Cicada’s in the backyard earlier when she hears the newscaster start to speak urgently.

“Reports are coming in of a mysterious illness spreading rapidly across parts of Europe and Asia…”

Stevie glanced at the screen, frowning. “That’s...weird,” she said, voice uneasy.

“Eh, prolly just some flu thing,” Daryl said, reaching for the remote. “Ain’t our problem.” He changed the channel to some sitcom, discarding his plate and melting into the couch, resting a hand on her ankle. “So, uh…you thinkin’ ‘bout names any?”

Stevie grinned. “Oh, yes. I have a list, actually. Up here.” She tapped her temple.

“A list?” Daryl raised an eyebrow.

“Of course.”

“Please don’t say no bug name.”

She rolled her eyes. “No Ladybug for a lil’ girl?”

“I already gotta Ladybug.”

-

PART II : AFTER

-

The diner buzzed with the comforting hum of a normal day. The smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee filled the air as Stevie wiped down the counter, her movements almost mechanical. The lunch rush had yet to hit, but the small-town chatter of a few regulars made the space feel alive. Charlotte, balancing a tray of plates, breezed past her.

“Table four needs a coffee refill,” Charlotte said, flashing Stevie a quick grin.

Stevie grabbed the coffee pot and made her way to table four, nodding politely at the older couple seated there. “Refill?” she asked, tone cheerful.

Before they could answer, a man stumbled in through the front door. His clothes were torn, and his skin was pale, almost gray. His eyes, wild and unfocused, darted around the room.

“Sir, are you okay?” Stevie asked, concern lacing her voice.

The man didn’t respond. Instead, he lurched forward, his movements jerky and unnatural. Stevie froze, the coffee pot trembling in her hand.

“Hey, buddy, you lost or somethin’?” one of the regulars called out from the counter.

The man suddenly snarled—a guttural, inhumansound—and lunged at the nearest person, sinking his teeth into their neck.

Like a damn animal.

Blood sprayed across the diner as screams erupted.

Stevie dropped the coffee pot, hot liquid splashing across her shoes. Her heart pounded as chaos unfolded around her. More figures stumbled into the diner, lifeless eyes locking onto the living.

“Stevie!” Charlotte’s voice cut through the noise. She was standing by the kitchen door, and eyes wide. “Run!”

Stevie snapped out of her daze and bolted toward Charlotte. A man with blood dripping down his chin grabbed at her arm, but she twisted away, nearly slipping on the blood-slick floor. Charlotte grabbed her wrist and yanked her into the kitchen, slamming the door shut behind them.

“Lock it!” Charlotte shouted.

Stevie fumbled with the lock, her hands shaking violently. She managed to secure it, and the pounding started almost immediately. People threw themselves against the door, growling and snarling.

“Oh my God,” Stevie whispered, backing away from the door. Her breathing quickened, her chest heaving. “Oh my God, what is happenin’? What’s wrong with them?”

“Must be that thing—that disease.”

“Thought it was overseas?” Stevie could hardly breathe. There was blood all over her crisp blue uniform.  Hot coffee all over her legs and pearly white sneakers. She felt dirty—so dirty.

“Stevie, breathe,” Charlotte said, grabbing her shoulders. “Look at me. Breathe.”

“I—I can’t!” Stevie gasped, clutching her chest. “Lottie, I can’t—”

“You can,” Charlotte said firmly, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. “You have to. Come on, breathe. That door is solid. You’ve gotta calm down, or you’re gonna pass out. It ain’t good for the baby.”

Stevie tried to focus on Charlotte’s voice, but the noise outside was deafening. Those people—whatever was wrong with them— were relentless, their pounding like a drumbeat. Her vision blurred as tears spilled down her cheeks.

“I want Daryl,” she cried. “I can’t—I can’t—I need—“

“Okay, okay,” Charlotte said, pulling Stevie down to sit on the floor. “We’ll do this together. Look at me. Breathe in—one, two, three. Out—one, two, three. Come on, Stevie.”

Stevie tried to follow Charlotte’s lead, her breaths shaky and uneven. Slowly, the tightness in her chest began to ease, though the panic still hovered.

“That’s it,” Charlotte said softly, squeezing Stevie’s hands. “You’re doin’ good. Keep goin’.”

Stevie nodded, her eyes darting toward the door. “What if they get in?” she whispered.

“They won’t,” Charlotte said, though her voice wavered slightly. “Not right now. And if they do, we’ll figure it out. We’re not dyin’ in this damn diner, you hear me?”

“Okay,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Okay.”

Stevie reached in her pocket, pulling out her flip phone. Charlotte did the same. Stevie tried to call Daryl, but the phone wouldn’t even ring.

“Ain’t workin’?” Charlotte asked, and Stevie shook her head. “Mine neither. Shit.”

They sat together on the cold kitchen floor, clutching each other, the horrid sounds outside continuing.

-

Every thud against the door made Stevie flinch, but she clung to Charlotte’s steady presence like a lifeline.

Then, soon, the noise began to fade.

Charlotte lifted her head, her brow furrowing. “Do you hear that?”

Stevie wiped at her tear-streaked face. “What?”

Charlotte tilted her head, listening intently. The pounding had grown sporadic, the growls quieter. After another agonizing moment, the sounds outside the door vanished altogether.

“Where did they go?” Stevie whispered, voice hoarse.

Charlotte shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe they found somethin’ else to chase.” She stood cautiously, her hand gripping the nearest kitchen knife. “Stay here. I’m gonna check.”

Stevie grabbed her arm. “No! What if they’re still out there?”

“We can’t stay locked in here, Stevie. If the coast is clear, we needa get out while we can.”

Stevie hesitated but nodded, her hand going to rest protectively on her belly.

Charlotte unlocked the door slowly, the sound of the bolt sliding back deafening in the silence. She cracked the door open and peeked out.

“They’re gone,” Charlotte whispered, pushing the door open further.

Stevie followed, her heart hammering as she stepped into the dining area. The once-bustling diner was now a blood-soaked nightmare. Overturned chairs and shattered dishes littered the floor, and the air was thick with the tang of death.

“Let’s move,” Charlotte urged, her voice low.

They crept toward the front door, their footsteps careful. Just as they reached the exit, Stevie’s foot caught on something, and she stumbled. She looked down—and screamed.

It was the older couple from table four. Their bodies were crumpled on the floor, broken and torn apart. Blood pooled beneath them, dark and sticky.

“Oh God,” Stevie choked, stomach lurching.

Charlotte grabbed her under the arms and hauled her up. “Come on! Don’t look. Let’s go!”

Stevie tried to avert her gaze, but the image was burned into her mind. She let Charlotte drag her toward the parking lot, her legs wobbling beneath her.

Charlotte’s car was parked a few feet away, splattered with blood but miraculously intact. Charlotte yanked the door open and shoved Stevie inside before scrambling into the driver’s seat. She started the engine, her hands shaking, and threw the car into reverse.

“Buckle up,” Charlotte barked, glancing in the rearview mirror as she sped out of the lot.

Stevie fumbled with the seatbelt, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. “Where we goin’?”

“No fuckin’ clue,” she replied, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. “Your house. Then mine, I guess.”

Stevie tried her phone again, only to find it dead.

-

They had gone to Stevie’s house first.

It was silent, the front door still locked. There was no sign of Daryl, either. He’d left for work that morning, planning to come home at noon for lunch. It was nearing sundown, and he was not there.

Stevie had searched every room, calling out his name until her voice cracked. She found his hunting rifle and ammo in the closet, the sight of it hitting her like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t been here; he wouldn’t have left that behind, with everything going on out there.

Stevie went to their bedroom, breath hitching as she looked around. The walls and shelves were lined with the collection she’d spent her life creating. She couldn’t take them all, of course. There wasn’t room, and there wasn’t time.

But she could bring one, maybe. One could certainly fit in her bag. Charlotte said to get necessities. Stevie felt this was one.

On her bedside table sat the Ulysses butterfly Daryl had given her for her birthday just months earlier. She slipped the case into her backpack carefully before zipping the bag shut.

Charlotte had been quiet, standing guard and giving Stevie space as she packed what she could. Clothes, toiletries, her prenatal vitamins, whatever food was left in the pantry. She wrote a note for Daryl and left it on the kitchen counter.

“Let’s go,” Charlotte called from the doorway.

Stevie lingered for one last look at her gran’s house, the one she grew up in, before following Charlotte out.

From there, they went to Charlotte’s house. It was empty too, but not untouched. A few drawers had been pulled open, and the back door swung slightly ajar, creaking on its hinges.

“They left in a hurry,” Charlotte murmured, her brow furrowed as she looked around.

But her parents and her older brother Theodore were gone, and the heaviness in her chest was evident as Stevie watched her friend stare at the empty dinner table.

-

The search continued.

They checked the police station and the firehouse, hoping to find survivors or some kind of authority. Instead, they found chaos. The places were crawling with people—only, they weren’t people anymore. They were sick with something, their skin pale and torn, their eyes vacant and hungry.

Stevie had sobbed and sobbed that night, crying for Daryl, clutching her stomach as if holding her baby could keep her grounded. Charlotte sat beside her in the car, staring out at the darkness, holding Daryl’s rifle. She didn’t say much, but her presence alone the only thing keeping Stevie from falling apart entirely. She couldn’t do this alone.

-

For weeks, they drove through the town and its outskirts, searching for Daryl and Charlotte’s family. Every house, every store, every quiet road was the same—empty of answers, full of the sick.

They slept in Charlotte’s car, curled up under thin blankets. Nights were restless, full of the sounds of the sick shuffling outside or distant screams that neither of them dared to investigate.

One night, Stevie whispered into the darkness, her voice trembling. “What if they’re gone?”

Charlotte didn’t answer right away. When she did, her voice was quiet but firm. “Then we keep goin’. For you. For the baby.”

Stevie nodded, tears slipping down her face.

-

After weeks of searching, they were beginning to believe that they we’re the only living people left in Georgia. But then, one day, they heard it—a crackling message over a battery-powered radio they’d scavenged from a gas station.

“This is a message for any survivors. The CDC in Atlanta is offering refuge. Repeat, the CDC in Atlanta is offering refuge. Bring food, water, and any medical supplies you can carry. Stay safe.”

Charlotte looked at Stevie, then down at her belly, growing bigger as the days went by. “Atlanta ain’t a long drive.”

As they drove away from the town they’d once called home, neither of them looked back. Their hearts ached with the weight of what they’d lost, but the road ahead held a sliver of hope, and that was all they had left.

-

The CDC was destroyed.

Blown up—recently, based on the small active fires among the desolated building.

Charlotte stood beside Stevie, her shoulders squared but trembling slightly as they stared at what had once been their last hope. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The sound of the wind rushing past the car and the distant groans of the sick filled the silence.

Charlotte broke first. Bowing her head, she whispered a prayer under her breath, her lips moving in words Stevie couldn’t quite make out.

Stevie glanced at her, biting back the bitter remark that rose to her lips. She’d grown up in church, mostly to make her Gran happy, but she’d never believed in any of it. Especially not now—not when the world had turned into this nightmare.

She looked back at the smoldering ruins, her heart sinking deeper. There was nothing left. No CDC. No rescue. No answers. 

“What are you doin’?” Stevie asked, voice sharper than she intended. Perhaps it was the hormones, or perhaps the dread.

Charlotte didn’t look up, her voice low and steady. “Prayin’.”

“For what?” Stevie snapped, throwing her hands out at the ruins. “For a miracle? For some answer? Because this—” she gestured wildly at the destruction—“this ain’t look like the kinda thing God’s gonna fix anytime soon!”

Charlotte slowly raised her head, her face calm but weary. “I ain’t prayin’ for answers, Stevie. I’m prayin’ for strength. For both of us. For your baby.”

-

The drive back out of the city was silent. Stevie kept her eyes on the road, knuckles white as she gripped the wheel. Beside her, Charlotte stared out the window, face gloomy.

They pulled over just before sundown, parking on the shoulder of an overgrown highway. The car was nearly out of gas, and neither of them had the energy to go any farther.

Charlotte climbed out, rifle slung over her shoulder. “I’ll check the area,” she said, her voice brisk. “Stay here.”

Stevie didn’t argue. She sat in the car, her hands resting on her swollen belly.

What were they going to do now? Where would they go? Would they ever find Daryl—or anyone?

Charlotte returned a few minutes later, her face unreadable. “It’s clear,” she said. “We’ll sleep here tonight.”

As they sat together, the silence stretched on until Stevie couldn’t take it anymore. “Do you think it’s even worth it?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Charlotte looked at her sharply. “What?”

“This,” Stevie said, gesturing vaguely around them. “Survivin’. Tryin’. What’s the point if everythin’s just gonna fall apart?”

Charlotte stared at her for a long moment before answering. “The point is the baby,” she said simply. “The point is you. And me. We keep goin’ ‘cause that’s what we do. We survived, and we will survive. That’s all we can do.”

Stevie blinked back tears, her throat tight. 

Charlotte leaned back in the seat,  rifle resting across her lap. “I ain’t sayin’ it’s gonna be easy. Fuck, it ain’t been easy since day one. But if we give up now, then what’s all this been for?”

Stevie nodded slowly, wiping her eyes. “Okay,” she said softly. “We keep goin’.”

Charlotte gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Yeah. We keep goin’.”

-

More days blurred into more weeks which blurred into more months. Stevie and Charlotte stayed on the move, hopping from town to town, scavenging for supplies, and avoiding the sick as best they could.

Charlotte was the protector. Her father had been a hunter, and she’d grown up learning how to handle firearms. The rifle slung over her shoulder and the pistol at her hip had practically become extensions of her.

Stevie, on the other hand, avoided guns whenever she could. She’d grown up watching Daryl hunt, even shooting at cans for practice in the woods, but the thought of pulling the trigger on something—even something already dead—made her stomach turn. Charlotte never pressed her, instead taking it upon herself to handle the sick whenever they got too close.

“Don’t worry,” Charlotte said. “I’ve got us.”

Stevie nodded, hugging her knees to her chest. “I hate feelin’ useless, though. I’m slowin’ you down.”

Charlotte shook her head firmly. “You ain’t. You gotta sharp mind, you’re smart. The way you spot things, the supplies you find—that keeps us alive. We’re a team.”

The next morning, Stevie proved Charlotte’s point when she spotted a sick person lurking near an abandoned gas station before Charlotte did.

“Two o’clock,” Stevie whispered, pointing to the shadow moving between the pumps.

Charlotte nodded, her hand already on her pistol. She crept forward, her steps silent and deliberate. Stevie stayed back, gripping her knife tightly just in case. With one clean shot, Charlotte put the sick man down, and the area was silent once more.

“See?” Charlotte said, grinning as she holstered the gun. “A team.”

Stevie often thought about Daryl. Where was he? Was he even alive? The questions haunted her.

One evening, as they sat in a dusty motel room they’d claimed for the night, Stevie turned to Charlotte. “Do you think it’s always gonna be like this? Just us, runnin’ from place to place?”

Charlotte shrugged, cleaning her pistol. “Maybe. Maybe not. I ain’t much for thinkin’ that far ahead.” She glanced at Stevie. “But I’ll tell you this—if it’s just us, I’m good with that.”

Stevie smiled faintly, her heart aching with gratitude and guilt. “Thanks, Lottie. For everythin’.”

Charlotte gave her a small, wry grin. “Don’t get mushy on me now, Vie.”

As the months dragged on, they grew more efficient, slipping through ghost towns and taking only what they needed. They avoided other survivors when they could (upon concluding that they weren’t the people they were searching for), figuring that people could be just as dangerous as the sick—if not more so. They were two young women against a shattered world, but they’d made it this far together.

Even in the worst of times, Stevie couldn’t help but hope that somewhere out there, Daryl was alive, looking for her.

-

The house was their sanctuary. A big, two-story farmhouse surrounded by a sturdy iron gate, perched on the edge of a quiet wooded area. They’d stumbled upon it weeks ago, finding it intact and mercifully sick-free. The gate had been an old relic, likely once decorative, but it had held strong against any stragglers that wandered too close.

Charlotte had become the protector in every sense of the word, fiercely guarding their little corner of the world. She set traps around the property, patrolled the fence daily, and made frequent supply runs into nearby towns. Stevie, whose stomach had grown round and heavy in recent months, had tried to go with her at first, but Charlotte put her foot down.

“You’re stayin’ here,” Charlotte had said firmly one morning as Stevie tried to lace up her boots. “You can barely tie your shoes without gettin’ winded. I’ll be fine.”

Stevie had wanted to argue but relented, knowing Charlotte was right. Instead, she turned her focus inward, spending her days tending to the house and preparing for the baby.

The bookshelf in the living room was now packed with dog-eared books on childbirth and parenting, scavenged from libraries and abandoned houses. Stevie and Charlotte had poured over them endlessly, trying to absorb every detail, every bit of advice.

“You’re gonna be a good mama,” Charlotte said one night, her voice breaking the silence as they sat in the candle lit living room.

Stevie glanced up from the book in her lap, surprised. “You think so?”

Charlotte nodded without hesitation. “Yeah. You’ve got the heart for it. And the kid’s gonna have both of us. We’ll make it work.”

Stevie blinked back tears, her hand resting on her belly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” she said softly.

Charlotte smiled. “Good thing you ain’t havta find out. We’re sisters now, ‘kay?”

-

The early hours of the morning brought a bitter chill that seeped through the farmhouse walls. Stevie sat on the couch in the living room, staring out at the darkened yard beyond the window. She’d been restless all night, her body aching with a heaviness that she couldn’t shake.

Charlotte came in from her patrol, setting her rifle down by the door. “You good?” she asked, her voice soft but alert.

Stevie nodded absently, her hand rubbing small circles on her back. “I think so. Just… uncomfortable.”

Charlotte frowned, walking over to crouch beside her. “Uncomfortable how?”

Before Stevie could answer, a sharp pain shot through her abdomen, forcing a gasp from her lips. She gripped the armrest of the couch, her knuckles white.

“Like that,” Stevie said through gritted teeth.

Charlotte’s eyes widened. “Okay, okay. Let’s get you to the room.” She slipped an arm around Stevie’s back and helped her to her feet, her voice calm but firm. “We knew this was comin’. You’ve got this.”

Stevie let herself be guided to the bedroom they’d prepared weeks ago—Stevie’s birthing chamber, Charlotte had dubbed it. It wasn’t much—a clean bed, a pile of blankets, and a few supplies Charlotte had scavenged—but it was all they had. Stevie lay down, the pain coming in waves now, each one stronger than the last.

“Lottie,” Stevie gasped, face slick with sweat. “I ain’t ready. I can’t do this.”

Charlotte knelt beside the bed, gripping Stevie’s hand tightly. “Yes, you can. You’re strong. Just breathe, okay? Focus on me.”

Hours passed, her water breaking and the contractions growing closer together, each one stealing Stevie’s breath and filling the room with muffled cries of pain. Charlotte stayed by her side, wiping her forehead with a damp cloth and whispering words of encouragement, as Stevie cried for Daryl and Gran, who she desperately wished for.

“Push, Stevie,” Charlotte urged when the time came, her voice steady but edged with worry.

“I can’t,” Stevie whimpered, her entire body trembling. “It hurts too much.”

“You can,” Charlotte insisted, her hands gripping Stevie’s knees, pulling her legs apart. “You can. You gotta.”

Stevie gritted her teeth and bore down, screaming through the pain. The minutes dragged on like hours, each push feeling like it might tear her apart. She felt like she was drowning, the world blurring around her. She never knew pain like this.

“Almost there,” Charlotte said. “Just one more, Stevie. One more.”

With a guttural cry, Stevie gave one final push, collapsing back against the pillows as a thin, wailing cry filled the room.

Charlotte’s face broke into a tearful grin as she held the tiny, wriggling baby in her hands. “You did it,” she said, her voice choked. “You did it, Stevie.” It was a boy. A baby boy.

Stevie sobbed with relief, her body heavy with exhaustion. “Is he okay?” she asked weakly, eyes fluttering.

Charlotte nodded, before she cut the umbilical cord and suctioned his little mouth a bit. She wrapped the baby in a clean blanket. “He’s perfect,” she said, laying him gently on Stevie’s chest.

Stevie looked down at her son, her heart swelling as his cries quieted and his tiny fingers curled against her skin. “Hi,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face. “Hi, baby.”

Charlotte sat back, watching with a soft smile. “He’s got your stubbornness already. Took his sweet time gettin’ here.”

Stevie laughed weakly, cradling the baby close.

The room fell quiet, the weight of the moment settling over them. Outside, the world was still as dangerous as ever, but inside this little house, there was a new kind of hope.

“So…what do we call him?” Charlotte asked after a while.

They had been talking about names for a long time, going back and forth. Stevie wanted the baby to have a strong name—something solid, something that would carry them through this broken world.

She’d thought about naming the baby after Daryl or her Gran, Clara. But every time the names crossed her mind, they felt like too much—too heavy, too painful. Still, she couldn’t let them go entirely. 

Stevie smiled down at the baby, her voice trembling. “I think…I think I’ll go with Charlie.”

“Charlie? That wasn’t on the list?”

“I know. I wanted to suprise you. Charlie for Charlotte. My savior, my sister.”

“Really?” Tears poured down her cheeks.

Stevie nodded enthusiasticly. “Charlie Daryl Dixon.”

-

The storm raged outside, its winds battering the house as if trying to tear it apart. Stevie sat in the rocking chair by the fireplace, cradling Charlie against her chest. His tiny face was scrunched up, his cries soft but insistent as if he could sense her worry.

Stevie’s eyes kept flicking to the door. Charlotte had been gone too long, on a run to find food.

“She’s fine,” Stevie murmured to her crying baby, trying to convince herself. “She’s fine. She’ll walk through that door any second.” Since his birth four months ago, Stevie and Charlotte had both taken to talking to him as if he could understand their words. It made them feel a little less alone.

Lightning split the sky, illuminating the emptiness outside. No sign of Charlotte. Just wind and darkness and the gnawing silence that probably meant something terrible was waiting. Stevie hugged Charlie closer.

Another minute passed. Then another. Stevie’s chest felt like it might cave in.

Finally, the front door unlocked.

Stevie shot up, clutching Charlie to her chest. Relief surged through her, crashing over her like a wave.

“Lottie!” she cried.

But her joy was fleeting.

Charlotte stumbled into the house, soaked to the bone, face pale as death. Her hand was clutching her shoulder, blood seeping through her fingers. The door slammed shut behind her, blown shut by the wind.

Stevie froze.

“Stevie,” Charlotte croaked, her voice trembling.

“Where…Where were you?” Stevie stammered, taking a shaky step forward. Then she saw the wound. A jagged, unmistakable bite, leaking blood. 

“No,” Stevie whispered, her knees wobbling. “No, no, no! Tell me that ain’t...”

Charlotte leaned against the wall, strength failing her. Tears streamed down her face, mixing with the rainwater. “I tried, Stevie. I tried to get back. But there were so many sick people, and the rain…I couldn’t see them until it was too late.”

Stevie’s legs gave out, and she sank to the floor, clutching Charlie tightly. Her tears came fast and hot, her chest heaving as the reality of the situation crushed her.

“You can’t do this to me!” she screamed, her voice raw. “You can’t leave me and Charlie! We need you, Charlotte!”

Charlotte knelt down in front of her, her own tears falling freely. She reached out, her shaking hand brushing Stevie’s cheek. “I ain’t wanna leave you,” she choked out. “God, Stevie, I ain’t wanna leave. But it’s already happenin’, I can feel it. I’m sick. You know what you gotta do.”

Stevie shook her head violently. “No. Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that! There has to be somethin’—some way—”

“There ain’t,” Charlotte sobbed. “You know that. I ain’t got much time.” She glanced town at Charlie, who was now wailing in Stevie’s arms, his tiny fists flailing. “You have to protect him, Stevie. You have to keep him safe.”

“I can’t do this without you,” Stevie cried. “You’re all we have, Lottie. I can’t do it  alone.”

Charlotte leaned her forehead against Stevie’s, her tears falling onto Charlie’s blanket. “You can do this. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. You’re gonna make it through this, for him. For me.”

They stayed there, clinging to each other as the storm roared outside. Stevie’s sobs shook her entire body, her chest burning as she tried to breathe.

“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I’m so scared.”

Charlotte’s hand cupped her face, her thumb brushing away a tear. “I know. But you’re gonna be okay. And Charlie’s gonna grow up knowin’ how much you love him. How much his Aunt Lottie loved him.” Her voice broke, and she pulled Stevie into a hug, the baby between them.

When Charlotte finally pulled back, her face was pale, her eyes heavy with sorrow. “It’s time.”

Stevie shook her head, trembling. “I can’t.”

“You gotta,” Charlotte whispered. “I ain’t wanna to hurt you, Stevie. I ain’t wanna hurt Charlie. Please. Do it before I lose myself. I’m sick, Vie, I’m hurtin’.”

Stevie trembled as she placed her crying baby in the playpen, before she reached for a knife on the table. Her vision blurred with tears, breath coming in ragged gasps.

Stevie crouched back down to where Charlotte now laid on the ground, practically convulsing, clutching the knife with trembling hands.

“I love you,” she sobbed, voice barely audible.

“I love you too,” Charlotte whispered. “My sister.”

She looked at Charlotte one last time, committing every detail of her face to memory—the curve of her smile, the warmth in her eyes, even now, even at the end.

Charlotte closed her eyes, her tears streaming down her cheeks. “S’okay, Vie. S’okay.”

With a sob, Stevie jammed the knife into Charlotte’s temple .

-

Stevie’s face was pale and gaunt. Her clothes hung loosely on her frame, and the dark circles under her eyes told the story of too many sleepless nights.

Charlie squirmed in her arms, his cries weak.

“I know, baby,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “Mama’s tryin���.”

Her milk had nearly dried up. The food Charlotte had stalked up on was mostly gone. The sparse handfuls of nuts, fruits, and the occasional squirrel Stevie managed to catch weren’t enough to sustain her. She knew she couldn’t keep this up. If she didn’t find food soon, she wouldn’t be able to feed Charlie.

With trembling hands, she wrapped Charlie against her chest in the makeshift sling. He nuzzled into her, his tiny body warm against her own. She kissed his head, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she murmured. “I hate leavin’ here, but we ain’t gotta choice.”

Grabbing the gun and the last few bullets she had, Stevie stepped out into the cold morning.

The car groaned to life, and she winced at the noise. She hated the way it echoed, hated how it might attract the sick.

The drive to the nearby town was nerve-wracking. Every shadow seemed like it could be death lurking just out of sight.

When she arrived to the marked area on the map (which Charlotte had luckily annotated months prior), the streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional moan of a sick person shuffling in the distance.

She parked and took a deep breath.

With Charlie strapped to her chest, Stevie stepped out, gun in hand. She hadn’t gone more than a few feet when a sick person lunged at her from behind a rusted car. She screamed, the sound startling Charlie, who began to cry. She fumbled with the gun but managed to fire a shaky shot, hitting the sick woman in the chest.

“Dammit!” she hissed, aiming again. This time, the bullet hit its head, and it crumpled to the ground.

More were coming. She could hear them. Stevie wiped sweat from her brow and forced herself to keep moving. She didn’t have the luxury of fear—not now, not with Charlie depending on her.

Inside a small grocery store, she searched frantically for anything edible. Most of the shelves were empty, picked clean long ago. Still, she managed to find a few cans tucked behind a stack of dusty boxes. Her relief was short-lived when she heard footsteps behind her.

Stevie whirled around, raising the gun with trembling hands. A woman stood in the doorway, a long sword-looking weapon in her hands.

“Stay back!” Stevie shouted, her voice cracking.

The woman raised her hands slowly, her face remaining calm. “I’m not here to hurt you,” she said evenly. Her eyes flicked down to Charlie, who was whimpering softly in his sling. “I see you’ve got a little one. I mean no harm.”

Stevie’s chest heaved as she kept the gun trained on the stranger. “What do you want?”

“My name is Michonne,” the woman replied. “Are you alone?”

“No,” Stevie snapped. Charlotte warned her how people could be in this new world. Cruel and merciless. Stevie couldn’t let her know she was alone - utterly alone.

The woman nodded. “You have a group?”

“Yes.”

The woman gave her a small, knowing smile. Stevie never was a good liar. “Well, I’m also with a group. We’ve got a community not far from here. We’ve got food, shelter…kids. Your group could come, talk to our council.”

Stevie’s heart ached at the mention of food. Her instincts screamed not to trust anyone, but when she looked into Michonne’s eyes, she saw no deceit. She was always good at reading people. With her nerves slowly calming, Stevie could sense that this woman seemed genuine.

“Actually…I am alone. ‘Sides him.” She nods at the baby strapped to her.

-

Back at the farmhouse, Stevie hurried to gather her few belongings. She packed clothes for herself and Charlie, the few belongings she’d gathered. Her hands lingered on the Ulysses butterfly on the nightstand. She wrapped it carefully in cloth and placed it in the bag.

Micchone was waiting for her outside. When she was ready to leave, Stevie looked around the farmhouse one last time. This place had been her world for over a year. This was where Charlie was born, ten long months ago. In the backyard was where she had buried Charlotte.

But she couldn’t stay. Deep down, she always knew this. She knew she couldn’t survive in her own, that she wasn’t strong enough.

Michonne waited by the truck. “You ready?” she asked when Stevie emerged.

Stevie nodded, adjusting Charlie in the sling.

The drive to the prison was tense. Michone asked her questions about herself, which Stevie responded to shyly.

When they reached the gates, Stevie nearly gasped. It was a prison, its fences lined with guards. She could see children playing in the yard, their laughter faint but real.

-

As the gates to the prison creaked open, Stevie stepped through hesitantly, clutching Charlie in his sling, Michonne having graciously taken her bag. Her eyes darted around, taking in the sight of people—men and women walking about, children playing under watchful eyes.

“This way,” Michonne said, motioning for Stevie to follow.

Stevie clutched Charlie close as she trailed behind Michonne, heart pounding. She hadn’t been around this many people in so long. It was overwhelming. It made her skin crawl. She was suddenly very conscious about her appearance. She had always prided herself in her cleanliness and upkeep. She must’ve looked terrible, insane, to these well kept people.

They entered a building, where Michonne gestured toward a small group of people.

“Rick, this is Stevie,” Michonne said to a man apporaching them. “And her son, Charlie.”

Rick stepped forward, face softening when he saw the baby. “Welcome,” he said warmly. “You’re safe here. We’ll get you settled in.”

Stevie nodded, throat too tight to speak.

She was introduced to a few others who lingering in the space. A young boy, Carl, who gave her a shy smile, eyes curious. An older woman named Carol greeted her gently, cooing at Charlie.

Michonne and Rick guided her to a prison cell. She almost let out a hysterical laugh. She never imaged she, of all people, would end up living in a prison cell, least of all with a baby, at just twenty years old.

The two people helped her set down her belongings, and Rick even brought her a cradle. He had a daughter, he told her, only a few months old. They were stocked up on baby supplies. This fact alone made her believe she made a good choice.

They even brought her food. Real food. Which she scarfed down embarrassingly fast with red cheeks.

They tried to talk to her some more, but Stevie hardly heard their words. Her nerves were fraying, exhaustion catching up. The bide her a goodbye, sensing her tiredness.

Stevie fell alseep in a prison cell after breast-feeding her baby, her stomach full for the first time in months.

-

She woke up to someone shaking her shoulder, making her gasp awake in fear and grab onto Charlie, who slept curled into her side.

“Sorry!” A voice said. “It’s just me. Carol, from earlier.”

Stevie sighed deeply as she sat up in bed, locking eyes with the older woman. “M’so sorry, ma’am,” she whispered.

She shook her head with a small smile. “It’s okay, no need to apologize. I wanted you to eat while dinner is still hot. You need some meat on those bones.” She held up a plate stacked high with steaming food.

Stevie offered a polite smile. “Thank you, ma’am.” Tentatively, she placed Charlie, still dozing, into the cradle and took the plate, her stomach growling at the smell.

Carol pulled up a chair from the small desk, sitting across from her, as Stevie began to dig in. “You doing okay?”

Stevie hesitated, glancing over at Charlie. “I think so. It’s just…a lot.”

Carol nodded. “I get that. Coming here, being around so many people again—it’s not easy. You and your baby are safe here. I promise.”

Stevie nodded. “It’s hard to believe that after everythin’.” She paused, voice trembling. “I’ve been alone for awhile. Just me and Charlie. I didn’t think I’d ever find other people. Nice people.”

Carol leaned forward slightly. “Don’t worry. We’re nice people, I swear.” She smiled at Charlie. “How old is he?”

“‘Bout ten months, ma’am.”

“You don’t have to call me ma’am. Call me Carol.” She gave a warm smile. “You gave birth alone? All by yourself?”

“No…” Stevie trails off, looking away from Carol’s tender gaze. “I was with someone. My friend, a waitress I worked with before. She died a few months ago. She got, you know…bit by one of the sick people.”

There was a beat of silence before Carol said, “I’m so sorry. His dad—was he…?”

Stevie swallowed hard. She didn’t see the harm in opening up to this woman. She seemed very nice, and sort of reminded her of a younger Gran, warm and motherly. “My husband and I were separated right at the start. I was a few months pregnant when everything happened. I thinks he’s…gone.”

Carol tilted her head, studying her closely. “Did you try to find him?”

Stevie nodded. “Lottie and I - that was my friend- we searched and searched all through town. Couldn’t find nobody. We just…kept movin’. Kept survivin’.”

Carol’s eyes narrowed slightly, her expression shifting as if something had clicked. “What was your husbands name?”

Stevie hesitated, as if saying it out loud would break something inside her. “Daryl,” she whispered.

Carol froze, her breath catching. “Daryl?”

Stevie nodded slowly, her brow furrowing at Carol’s reaction. “Yeah…why?”

Carol leaned back, her expression stunned. “What’s your full name, Stevie?”

Stevie frowned, confused. “Stevie Dixon.”

The room seemed to go silent, the weight of Stevie’s words hanging in the air. Carol’s mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out at first. Finally, she stood abruptly. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

Stevie’s heart began to race. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I’ll be right back,” Carol said, voice tight with urgency. Without another word, she hurried out of the cell, leaving Stevie staring after her, bewildered.

A few minutes later, Carol returned, but this time she wasn’t alone. A man was behind her.

A man she knew.

Daryl Dixon.

They locked eyes.

He stepped into the cell, his eyes wide with disbelief.

Stevie stood slowly, legs trembling beneath her. “Daryl?” she breathed, voice breaking.

He froze, his hand gripping the doorframe as if he needed it to hold himself up. “Stevie…” His voice was hoarse, barely audible.

Her hand flew to her mouth, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Oh my God…I found you.”

Daryl took a step forward, then another, until he was standing right in front of her, his hand hovering near her shoulders, as if scared to touch her. As if she might fade away like a ghost if he did. “I thought…I thought you were gone. The diner…”

“I thought the same about you,” Stevie sobbed. “I looked a looked. I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.”

Daryl cupped her face with both hands, staring at her like he couldn’t believe she was real. “I looked for you. For so long.”

Then, finanly, she threw her arms around his neck and sobbed into him, his arms instinctively wrapping around her. Her feet were off the ground, as he clutched her and cried just as she was.

“Stevie, Stevie, Stevie-“ He whispered, voice wet with sobs. “You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re here.”

A confused cry broke the moment.

Charlie had woken, and he was standing up in the cradle, holding onto the side, looking up at them.

Daryl’s leaned back from Stevie and looked down at Charlie. “Is…is this…?”

“Our baby boy. Charlie. I listened to you — didn’t pick no bug name.”

-

[cyanide-mustard]

I don't have the words to describe (how much you mean to me) Chapter 1

Also on Ao3

One day a portal opens in Jayce and Viktor's lab and the pair becomes a trio.

A young woman falls through a portal into the Arcane universe. Bad news number one is she can't get back. Bad news number two is that she doesn't speak any of the languages in the Arcane universe. The good news is that Jayce and Viktor take her in while she learns Piltovan

Here's the link if you want to read it on Ao3 instead

“Jayce”

“Yeah Vitya?” Jayce answers while keeping his eyes down the project he’s currently tinkering on.

“Correct me if I am wrong but that glowing portal is not one of ours, is it?”

“What are y-” He stops mid sentence as his eyes follow where his partners are currently fixed on. A blue hue starts to fill the room as items all around them start to lift a little off the ground. Jayce himself starts to float out of his chair. He looks over at Viktor who wears a nervous and slightly curious furrow to his brow. Just as he is about to open his mouth a low buzz begins to emanate from the portal. Jayce and Viktor look at each other, more nervous than before as the buzzing grows louder into a full scream. The blue glow seems to burn brighter as both the men turn their heads and cover their eyes. Just as the portal seemed to border on all consuming to the senses, it stopped.

It took a second to adjust their eyes back to the slightly darkened room in the evening sun. But no screaming and blue light seemed like a win. Once their eyes finally adjusted, they looked at where the portal once was and now stood nothing. Jayce was the first to break the silence.

“What do you think that was?”

“I have not a single clue”

“𝝸𝝺𝝠 𝞔𝝺𝜓 𝝇𝞒𝝃𝝥 𝜩𝞀𝜓 𝞾𝝠𝞒 𝜩𝞖𝛴 𝝸𝝺𝜓𝞀𝜓 𝜩𝞀𝜓 𝝇𝞒𝝃𝝥 𝜩𝟇 𝛃!”

In their determined focus on where the portal used to be, the two men failed to notice the young woman standing on the other side of the room. The woman took deep heaving breaths, holding a screwdriver that once laid on Viktor’s work table, arms holding it straight out despite small trembles that seemed to go through her entire body. Her eyes focused on Jayce and Viktor, trying to hold onto an air of intimidation, but behind that thin layer, was a papitable sense of fear.

She spoke again, her voice quieter than the previous time but with a sharper edge.“𝝸𝝺𝝠 𝜩𝞀𝜓 𝞾𝝠𝞒 𝜩𝞖𝛴 𝝸𝝺𝜓𝞀𝜓 𝜩𝟇 𝛃?”

“Woah, put down the screwdriver. We aren’t gonna hurt you” Jayce slowly moved towards the woman with his hands in the air. As Jayce progressed forward, the woman pointed the screwdriver towards Jayce but only moved backwards, her body curling into itself as if to make herself smaller and less vulnerable. Her ripped clothes, lack of shoewear and trembling only made her look like a cornered bunny.

“Jayce wait a minute” Jayce stopped moving towards the woman as Viktor moved to grab the blanket that resided in the lab, one used during many late nights, where the men couldn’t find the energy to walk home. He walked closer, blanket in one hand, his cane in the other, which reminded him to keep a steady slow pace to prevent the woman from bolting. As he moved closer to the woman he raised his hand holding the blanket for the woman to take. She looked at him with apprehension before slightly lowering the arm holding the screwdriver and snatching the blanket from him. Jayce and Vitkor both took a couple steps back, enough space so the woman wouldn't feel trapped, as she wrapped the blanket around herself. She still held the screwdriver tightly but no longer at arms length, now instead by her side.

“𝝸𝝺𝜩𝞔 𝛃𝞏 𝝺𝜩𝝮𝝮𝜓𝞖𝛃𝞖𝝋?” she spoke again in a soft voice this time, nervous but no longer shaking with the same fear she once was.

Viktor and Jayce looked at each other.

“I don’t think she speaks Piltovian” Jayce was the first to speak

They looked back at the woman who seemed to be coming to the same realization as the two men.

“𝞾𝝠𝞒 𝛴𝝠𝞖’𝞔 𝞏𝝮𝜓𝜩𝝥 𝜓𝞖𝝋𝟄𝛃𝞏𝝺? Parlez-vous Français? 한국어?”

She seemed to be rattling off a list, looking for the correct answer on the two men’s faces, becoming more frantic every time there was no reaction from the two. They realised that she was speaking different languages. She even started moving her hands in a way that looked like something beyond just gestures and more like an organized sequence of meanings. Jayce and Viktor felt like they were back to their teenage years and just received a test they didn’t study for. Every answer, their silence, was a wrong answer, but the disappointment and desperation on the women’s face was worse than any bad mark the two could’ve ever received. Once she seemed to be done the list she yelled out “𝝇𝞒𝝃𝝥!!!” and sank to the floor.

“𝛃 𝝥𝞖𝝠𝝸 8 𝟄𝜩𝞖𝝋𝜩𝜓𝞏 𝜩𝞖𝛴 𝞖𝝠𝞖𝜓 𝝠𝝇 𝞔𝝺𝜓𝟇 𝜩𝜓𝞀 𝞒𝞏𝜓𝝇𝞒𝟄 𝞔𝝠 𝟇𝜓 𝞖𝝠𝝸” She mumbled under breath.

A moment later, Viktor moved to the floor and sat beside the woman, she lifted her head to him, eyes red with tears starting to form in the corners. Viktor’s preferred method of comforting others was not by touching them. He preferred to speak to them and soothe them that way, however given that he seemed to be unable to communicate verbally to the woman in a way she would understand, he decided to take a page out of Jayce’s book. He wrapped a hesitant arm around her shoulder, nervous she might be upset by his gesture, but she accepted it and leaned her head against his shoulder as she took deep calming breaths.

She lifted her head, calmer now as she spoke. “𝞔𝝺𝜩𝞖𝝥 𝞾𝝠𝞒” she bowed her head slightly to Viktor.

He seemed to understand she was thanking him then.

In the midst of all this Jayce, took the opportunity to grab a glass of water and snacks he kept in his desk for times he was hungry but couldn’t break away from his work. He moved closer to the pair on the floor, heart breaking at the lost look on the woman’s face. He offered the woman the glass of water and snacks, which she looked at cautiously, almost like she thought it was poisoned. In response, Jayce took a sip of the water and took one of the crackers into his mouth before putting them on the floor in front of her and giving a big thumbs up. She let out a small giggle at seeing his goofy display. Both men softened at her reaction. As she ate and drank a bit, the two men seemed to be having a conversation with their eyes.

When you work together as much as they do, your brain starts to be in sync with the other. They contemplated their next steps. If they alerted anyone else about her it was likely that she’d be locked up somewhere given that she couldn’t communicate where she’d come from and she’d most likely be seen as a threat given that she came through a portal. The two men could tell from their short time with her that she wasn’t a threat, merely a frightened and lost woman, not where she should be. However others might not see it that way. They decided that they would take her in until they could get across the language barrier or keep her safe.

Before they could continue their “discussion” any further, the woman cleared her throat and pointed at herself.

“𝝣𝜩𝟇𝜓𝞏” she said, both men wore a furrowed brow. She repeated herself “𝝣𝜩𝟇𝜓𝞏”

Realization came to the two men that she was saying her name.

Jayce repeated after her “Jaybs?”

“𝞖𝝠,𝞖𝝠𝞔 𝞈𝞒𝛃𝞔𝜓” She laughed softly “𝝣𝜩𝟇𝜓𝞏”

“James?” He repeated again

“𝞾𝜓𝞏!” She exclaimed.

“Your name is James” Viktor tried as well, leading to a big grin making its way onto her face.

“𝟇𝞾 𝞖𝜩𝟇𝜓 𝛃𝞏 𝝣𝜩𝟇𝜓𝞏”

She then pointed her finger at Viktor with a questioning expression on her face. “𝝸𝝺𝜩𝞔 𝛃𝞏 𝞾𝝠𝞒𝞀 𝞖𝜩𝟇𝜓?”

“My name is Viktor”

“Name is 𝞃ik𝞔or?”

“Viktor”

“Viktor”

Satisfied with her pronunciation, she turned to Jayce and asked the same thing

“Jayce”

“Ja𝞾ce𝞒”

“Jayce” he repeated again

“Jayce”

The boys seemed stuck on what to do next, thankfully James seemed to have more of an idea of what to do next. She stood abruptly, dashing over to Viktor’s desk, searching for something. She wasn’t calm but she was kind enough to not displace any of the objects on his desk in her search. She slowed when she found a pen but didn’t stop. Viktor walked over sensing what she was looking for next. He pressed a small hidden button on his cane which revealed a small hidden compartment. He reached in and held a small key in between his fingers. He placed the key in the lock on the bottom draw. As he pulled the drawer open Jayce’s eyes widened.

“You’ve been hiding new notebooks in here the whole time!”

Viktor reached for the notebook at the top of the pile and gently passed it to James. Viktor looked a little sheepish.

“You go through 5 notebooks a week, if I had let you into my stash it would not be a stash for long and I would being going out to get new notebook books every week like you”

“Jayce, Viktor” a firm voice spoke out beside them. While the two were going back and forth, James had drawn out a picture in the notebook. She presented it to the two.

“A library…?” Viktor looked up at her, “Why would you want to go there?”

“Library” James repeated after him. She then tapped her notebook and passed Viktor the pen. Confused on what to do next, she rolled her eyes and gestured for him to write on the page. He obliged.

“We can’t take her there now, the library is closed” Jayce looked out at mid summer darkening sky. “Even if it was open, she’s too noticeable with what she’s wearing”

At that moment James seemed to become aware that her less than put together appearance might draw some attention.

Jayce sighed before speaking “We’ll take her back to our house, I’ll go tomorrow morning to see if Caitlyn has any clothes that she can borrow, and then we’ll take her to the library”

James’ face lit up at hearing the word library. “Library 𝞔𝝠𝛴𝜩𝞾?”

Viktor began drawing their plan. He drew a stick figure in a house under the moon and another drawing of the sun out and them at the library.

Realisation made its way onto her face followed by a smile. “𝜩𝝺𝝺𝝺 Library 𝞔𝝠𝟇𝝠𝞀𝞀𝝠𝝸!”

Jayce grabbed the blanket dropped in James’ search for stationary and placed it on her shoulders.

“𝞔𝝺𝜩𝞖𝝥 𝞾𝝠𝞒” She said softly.

He felt a slight blush crawl up his neck as he turned around and finished packing his bag.

While James and Viktor stood waiting for Jayce, she passed him her notebook and pen once more and pointed to the first picture he drew.

“𝝸𝝺𝜩𝞔?” She asked

“What is it?”

She nodded

“House”

“h𝝠us𝜓”

“House”

“House

He wrote the word down underneath, as she then did the same but in her language.

Just as she finished writing, Jayce walked up beside them. They proceeded to walk home under the cover of night.

Translations:

who the fuck are you and where the fuck am I? = 𝝸𝝺𝝠 𝞔𝝺𝜓 𝝇𝞒𝝃𝝥 𝜩𝞀𝜓 𝞾𝝠𝞒 𝜩𝞖𝛴 𝝸𝝺𝜓𝞀𝜓 𝜩𝞀𝜓 𝝇𝞒𝝃𝝥 𝜩𝟇 𝛃!?, who are you and where am I? = 𝝸𝝺𝝠 𝜩𝞀𝜓 𝞾𝝠𝞒 𝜩𝞖𝛴 𝝸𝝺𝜓𝞀𝜓 𝜩𝟇 𝛃?, What is happening? = 𝝸𝝺𝜩𝞔 𝛃𝞏 𝝺𝜩𝝮𝝮𝜓𝞖𝛃𝞖𝝋?, You don’t speak English? What about French? Korean? = 𝞾𝝠𝞒 𝛴𝝠𝞖’𝞔 𝞏𝝮𝜓𝜩𝝥 𝜓𝞖𝝋𝟄𝛃𝞏𝝺? Parlez-vous Français? 한국어?, Fuck =𝝇𝞒𝝃𝝥, I know 8 languages and none of them are useful to me now = 𝛃 𝝥𝞖𝝠𝝸 8 𝟄𝜩𝞖𝝋𝜩𝜓𝞏 𝜩𝞖𝛴 𝞖𝝠𝞖𝜓 𝝠𝝇 𝞔𝝺𝜓𝟇 𝜩𝜓𝞀 𝞒𝞏𝜓𝝇𝞒𝟄 𝞔𝝠 𝟇𝜓 𝞖𝝠𝝸, Thank you = 𝞔𝝺𝜩𝞖𝝥 𝞾𝝠𝞒, James = 𝝣𝜩𝟇𝜓𝞏, No, not quite = 𝞖𝝠,𝞖𝝠𝞔 𝞈𝞒𝛃𝞔𝜓, Yes = 𝞾𝜓𝞏, My name is James = 𝟇𝞾 𝞖𝜩𝟇𝜓 𝛃𝞏 𝝣𝜩𝟇𝜓𝞏, What is your name? = 𝝸𝝺𝜩𝞔 𝛃𝞏 𝞾𝝠𝞒𝞀 𝞖𝜩𝟇𝜓?, Today = 𝞔𝝠𝛴𝜩𝞾, Ahhh = 𝜩𝝺𝝺𝝺, Tomorrow = 𝞔𝝠𝟇𝝠𝞀𝞀𝝠𝝸, What = 𝝸𝝺𝜩𝞔, House = 𝝺𝝠𝞒𝞏𝜓

[doumadono]

I'm excited to share this incredible artwork created for me by the super kind and talented @explosion-island ♡ It features Bakugo alongside my two MHA OCs - Ayame (his wife) and Mikka (their teenage daughter). I love how Bakugo is dressed formally but with a slight messy touch - his tie not perfectly tied, combat boots instead of patent leather shoes, and his tuxedo slightly rumpled. It perfectly captures his personality - he's just being himself. In my little AU, he's already the number two pro hero, and his daughter attends U.A., aspiring to be a hero like her dad ♡

I want to express my gratitude once again to the artist for creating this beautiful drawing for my birthday. It was truly one of the sweetest gifts I've ever received!

[ragnarockz]

AO3 Works

On Hands and Knees (Agatha Harkness/F!OC) A shared, comfortable silence opens the floodgates, which allows Agatha to make the next move in her growing romantic relationship with Sam.

Depression & Obsession (Agatha Harkness/F!OC) It's hard to give yourself grace when you feel like the worst person in the world. Agatha dealing with her internal struggle of wanting to be loved yet feeling her and Sam's relationship crosses between obsession caused by her guilt, sadness and, grief.

The Raw You (Agatha Harkness/F!OC) A raw and intimate moment between Agatha and Sam.

Liquid Poison (Agatha Harkness/F!OC) Sam stakes out the infamous nosy neighbor Agnes to let her know she's onto her but, is she aware that Agnes knows how to play that game, too?

Oh, So Familiar (Agatha Harkness/Rio Vidal) Agatha finds Rio in everything and Rio, cannot help but to find Agatha everywhere she goes.

Swallow The Hook (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) Agent Vidal shows up at Detective Agnes O'Connor's door; there's a spell that needs to be broken and Agent Vidal has the magic touch to break Agnes out of it.

Dagger: An Invitation (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) Detective Agnes O'Connor must work with Agent Vidal on a stake out for their prime suspect in Agnes' case. Agent Vidal doesn't necessarily see the importance of the stake out; there's more important things to focus on when you're alone in a car in the middle of the night with Detective O'Connor.

A Feral Pet (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) Agent Vidal and Agnes O'Connor are playing a little game; can a feral pet become tamed to pleasure?

Watch Me, See Me (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) Agnes O'Connor is working late and Agent Vidal decides to pop in for a late-night visit. Good thing no one else works overtime at the Westview Police Station.

I Drink of My Sisters (Agatha Harkness/F!OCs/Rio Vidal) May 3, 1996 and it's opening night of The Craft in theaters. Agatha takes her group of young witches to see it; her treat. She has a surprise for them right after to keep their spirits up, a promise and a chance for them to walk the Road.

Five Star (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) Agent Vidal has asked Detective Agnes O'Connor out for a nice date at an upscale restaurant. Detective Agnes O'Connor feels like a fish out of water. Agent Vidal, smooths out Agnes' uncertainties.

Taking It (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) Detective Agnes O'Connor promised Agent Vidal they would spend more time together after working hours; even if it meant they were a phone-call apart.

A Promise Kept (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) A grand crescendo of the growing relationship between Detective Agnes O'Connor and Agent Vidal. A promise is a promise and Agent Vidal is showing Agnes that she is keeping it.

Ripple Effect (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) A direct follow up to A Promise Kept; Agent Vidal recalls the moments in between her and Agnes' night together and a colossal shift between them.

The Good Detective (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) Using the prompt: "Be good for me and I'll untie you", Agent Vidal wants to see just how far she can push Detective Agnes O'Connor while being tied up like a present for her own use.

Off The Record (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) Using the prompt: “You used to hate me and now you can't keep your eyes off of me,” Agent Vidal and Detective Agnes O'Connor are granted access to Westview's Public Library after-hours to follow a lead in the case. Agnes comes clean about their power dynamic thus far.

Friday Night (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) Agent Vidal and Detective Agnes O'Connor go out drinking on a Friday night. Drinks and dancing catch up to these two; making them unable to keep their hands off of one another 🥃💜💚

Salivating (Agnes O'Connor/Agent Vidal) Agent Vidal has a favorite game she likes to play with Agnes; look but don't touch. Just how long can Agnes follow the rules without breaking them?

Butch!Agatha/Agent Vidal Prompts: Series on all my Tumblr writing prompts