#and not only that but before meeting the other survivors she was his only light in this fucked up bullshit and she probably knew that

[arolesbianism]

Let it not be forgotten how much I love Abby. She is the character of all time. 2 me. It's me and my needlessly in depth Abby hcs against the world

[dixons-sunshine]

you most definitely can decline if you have too much on your plate/you don’t want to, but could i request platonic dad!daryl and daughter!reader? where they get separated when the prison falls (reader was on her own and then met with the group at terminus). After the events at Terminus they finally get a chance to hug and spend time together and reader is crying and ranting about how she was so scared and she wishes she could be strong like Daryl, and Daryl lets her in on his own worries and comforts her? i was thinking reader is like early teens (14-15)

again feel free to decline if you want! 🧡

His Little Girl—Daryl Dixon x Daughter!Reader

*GIF isn't mine.*

Summary: After Terminus, you finally reunited with your father. While he was busy bandaging your arm after an injury you sustained, you let all your emotions out. Daryl, in a rare moment, shared his own feelings with you.

Genre: Fluff.

Era: Post Terminus.

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of near death experiences.

Word count: 1.2k.

A/n: Had to throw in a little bit of overprotective Dad!Daryl at the end. I hope you like this!

➳༻❀✿❀༺➳

You winced in pain when your father poured alcohol over your open wound. Your hand instinctively jerked back, the long gash on your arm burning with the fire of a thousand suns. You scrunched your face in pain, closing your eyes against the pain.

“M'sorry, Bean,” Daryl apologized, pulling the bottle away and placing it on the ground. He reached into his bag and grabbed a bandage he had managed to find in some abandoned house, and he started wrapping it around the gnarly wound. “Jus' try and hold still, alrigh'? This'll be over sooner if ya do.”

“Okay,” you whispered, opening your eyes and looking at your father's face. His face betrayed no emotions; he simply focused on bandaging your arm, his usual stoic expression on his face. He showed no ounce of fear, nothing to show that he thought he was going to die. That made you kind of envious. “How do you do it?”

Daryl halted his movements with the bandage, his blue eyes flicking up to meet your gaze. “M'guessin' yer not talkin' 'bout bandagin' someone's arm, are ya?”

You shook your head. “No, I'm not,” you replied in a broken whisper.

“Talk to me, Bean,” Daryl urged you, slowly resuming with the task of bandaging your arm. “Wha's on yer mind?”

You stayed silent for a moment, your eyes straying to the rest of the group. The only thing you could see in the dark was the light that the campfire emitted. The group was seated around the fire, a couple of them laying down to catch some sleep while a couple of others stayed up, mindlessly staring into the fire while others were keeping a cautious eyes on the tree line, trying to see if walkers or the survivors of Terminus were going to attack.

Shifting your attention back to your father, you swallowed deeply, trying to will the lump in your throat to go away. “How are you so brave?”

Daryl frowned in confusion. “Wha'?”

“How are you so brave?” you repeated, diverting your eyes to the ground. “You're not afraid of anything. You weren't scared when the camp at the quarry got overrun. You weren't scared at the CDC. When the farm fell, and then the prison, Terminus... You weren't scared at all. I was. I still am. When the prison fell, I escaped with someone, but he didn't make it long. The walkers got to him. Then I was alone, and I was so scared. I thought I was gonna die out there, alone, without knowing whether or not everyone was alive or not. Then I saw the Terminus maps, and I managed to find my way there, but everything quickly went to crap. I got thrown into that train cart, and I thought I was gonna be killed, but there you were. You were alive and you all had a plan to get out. It was a close call, and I almost got killed, but we got out. Through all of that, you weren't scared. You're so brave, and I'm not. I'm not.”

Daryl tightened the bandage around your arm before he withdrew his hands. He stayed silent for a few moments before he sighed, shaking his head.

“Ya ain't got no idea how wrong ya are,” he started, chuckling slightly at the way you furrowed your eyebrows in confusion—a trait you had inherited from him. “Bean, I was real fuckin' scared. All those times ya mentioned, I was terrified. I jus' put on a brave face fer ya 'cause I know ya needed me to be. When I saw the walkers back at the quarry camp, and I couldn't find ya immediately, I thought the walkers got ya. At the CDC, when tha' asshole wouldn't unlock the door, I thought we were gon' get blown up. I thought tha' my twelve year old lil' girl was gon' die, and there wasn't anythin' I could do to stop it. With the farm and now the prison, I thought ya didn't make it out. I spent the whole time wonderin' if ya were alive. I thought—I thought tha' ya were dead. I was so scared, Bean. I ain't ever been as scared like I was when the prison fell. I felt broken, empty. And then I found ya, but those psychopaths almost killed ya in front of me. I jus'... I can't lose ya. Yer my baby girl, even if yer already fourteen years old. I'd rather die than lose ya again.”

You leaned forward and wrapped your arms around him, sniffling as Daryl wrapped his arms around you tightly. He pressed a kiss to your temple and slightly rocked you from side to side, just like he used to do when you were younger and had just woken up from a nightmare. Being in your father's embrace made you feel safe, like nothing could ever hurt you again. You wished you could always feel that way.

“I love you, Dad,” you whispered softly.

“Love ya too, Bean. More than ya know.” Daryl soon pulled back from the hug and gave you a small smile, and nudged his head in the direction of the campfire. “C'mon, let's head back. Ya need somethin' to eat.”

You nodded and got up, following behind your father as you walked back to the rest of the group. You settled down beside Carl while Daryl sat down next to Rick.

Carl sent you a small smile, nervously fiddling with his hands. “Hey, Y/n. How's your arm?”

You smiled at him and shrugged. “I'll live. I've had worse.”

“Yeah, and yet you're still alive,” Carl replied, still nervously fidgeting with his hands. “You're a badass.”

“Thanks, Carl,” you thanked him. Noticing his fidgeting, but mistaking his nerves for coldness, you grabbed one of his hands and held it in your own. “Here, let me warm your hands for you. My hands are like a furnace.”

You missed the way Carl ducked his head, a blush spreading across his face but he smiled in silent glee. “Yeah, okay.”

As you and Carl silently conversed to yourselves, with Carl staring at you in awe, Daryl watched the two of you closely. His glare rested on his best friend's son and the way he held your hand, and Daryl couldn't help the surge of overprotectiveness that flooded his body. He visibly stiffened, catching Rick's attention.

Rick followed his line of sight and chuckled at what he saw. “Look at that. Young love, huh?”

Daryl glared at Rick. “Yer son better keep his hands off'a her. They're too young to be thinkin'a tha'.”

“Do what you want, Daryl, but if they wanna be together, they're gonna find a way, despite your rules.”

Well, Daryl thought, then he'd just have to bestow the fear of god into the young boy, and make sure that if he ever hurt you, his little girl, walkers would be the least of his problems.

[shadow-fell]

On Moonrise Towers, the Thorm Family, and the Shadow Curse

Once another compilation so that I don't need to go constantly digging for things. A general timeline of events:

Reithwin town founded by the Thorm family

Moonrise Towers constructed

Melodia Thorm dies

Isobel Thorm dies

Ketheric turns to Shar

Gauntlet of Shar constructed/rebuilt; Reithwin turns to Sharran worship

Nightsong is captured by Ketheric and Balthazar

Flaming Fist sends Art Cullagh to investigate Ketheric

Harpers, Druids, and Flaming Fist team up to fight Ketheric

Mason who built Moonrise Towers + the Gauntlet of Shar makes a deal with Raphael; Yurgir kills all the Sharrans in the Gauntlet/Grymforge save one

Ketheric is killed, Shadow Curse released

Survivors of the battle flee

Ketheric resurrects, turns to Myrkul

Gortash and the Dark Urge bring Ketheric in on the Absolute plan

Ketheric resurrects Isobel (maybe before ^ but probably after)

Isobel flees to the Last Light Inn

Now, expanding on the details, sources, and adding some firmer dates? that's all going below the cut.

Construction of Moonrise Towers

The first, and as far as I know only reference to Moonrise Towers outside of BG3 is in the Code of the Harpers, where it is described as the base of the Crescent Coat, officer of the High Heralds (a group spinning out of the Harpers, referenced by Halsin in game), in 1368.

So, we know when it must be established by - but how much earlier can we go? Pretty far given that the Thorms are elven/half-elven.

Our best boundary is that we know Balduran visited Moonrise Towers before becoming an Illithid. His initial departure from Baldur's Gate and shipwreck happened around 1050 DR, at 300 years before BG1/2, so he has to come to Moonrise Towers sometime after that. FR Wiki states this is ~1150 or later, but I don't know where they're getting that from? I think that's a reasonable timeframe, though.

We know the same architect built Moonrise as the Gauntlet of Shar (from talking to him in the House of Hope), but there's no record of what race he was (only meeting him as a skeleton), and if an elf could easily still be working a few centuries after the construction.

Ketheric is a half-elf for sure, though, but he is an old one. How old exactly is hard to say. 3rd edition gave "old" at 93, with a maximum age of 130-190, while 5e just says "often exceeding 180 years". If we take that he looks the way he did in ~1370 as his death, that places his birth at a minimum of ~1170, but probably later, and the construction of Moonrise Towers ~1200 at the earliest, which is maybe a bit long for Balduran but not unreasonably so.

The other thing of note is that Moonrise Towers has a 'sister' in the Sunrise Spire, a Lathanderian Monastery destroyed in 1177 during a territorial war. Combined with the (undated) fall of Rosymorn Monastery, there is perhaps something interesting about the regional shift from Lathander to Selune, and the construction happening after the destruction further supports a date around ~1200.

Personally, I'd want to push things earlier rather than later - it wouldn't be difficult to say that Ketheric is more elven than human, pushing his age a bit further out, so somewhere between 1180-1200 fits the sweet spot. But really, all we have for sure is "before 1368"

Melodia and the Thorm Family

Melodia Thorm is a human worshipper of Selune, who married Ketheric Thorm and converted him to her worship. They had a daughter, Isobel, who was young when Melodia died (or, at least, Melodia still called her their little girl).

Ketheric is a half-elf; every other member of the Thorm family is an elf - Malus, Gerringothe, and Thisobald all have the longer ears (although the hood makes this less clear on Thisobald).

Malus refers to (presumably) Ketheric as his nephew, making him the only certain branch of the family tree. Gerringothe, we have no idea where she fits in, although as a full elf, we can assume no one is Ketheric's siblings, only parents/aunts/uncles/cousins/more distant relatives.

Thisobald...is complicated. He calls Ketheric father, however, the phrasing is ambiguous (capitalized in a religious sense) in addition to the lack of reference to him in accounts of Melodia/Isobel, and the fact he appears to be fully elven. The two possibilities is that Thisobald and Isobel are half-siblings, with Thisobald's other parent being a full elf, and this being the source of disconnect between him and Ketheric, or that Father is not literal and he is related to Ketheric another way.

We know that Malus Thorm was alive in 986, where he recorded battle casualties from a Dark Justiciar/Selunite/Druid conflict. Given that only the Dark Justiciars are named, it seems likely he was a Sharran at that time. If we take the date as legitimate and not referring to the 1370s conflict, then at least Malus worshipped Shar before Reithwin turned to Selunite worship.

Gauntlet of Shar

Around 800 years before Ketheric Thorm's turn, Grymforge was a city of Shar worshippers. He attempted to revitalize it - creating or rebuilding the Gauntlet of Shar in the process.

And, yes, these two are connected - you can see the entrance to the Gauntlet from one of the points in the lava and through the hall where Nere is trapped. There is a further section not accessible seen from where the Mimic fight is, mainly what appear to be another set of docks.

While we're told the Mason constructed the Gauntlet, given that Shadowheart has heard legends of it, the more likely option seems to be it was rebuilt, since it's quite a large place to construct in only a handful of years. Especially if Malus was a Sharran in 986, it would explain the presence of Shar worshippers before Ketheric's turn.

So, we have the initial Dark Justiciar trials around 600 DR, followed by a decline (with the Gauntlet perhaps lasting past the fall of the city, hidden under Reithwin) enough to establish a myth that can then be built on in the 1370s.

Death of Isobel

How Isobel died is an unresolved plot point, revolving around cut content, so it's hard to call anything "canonical" but the two potential paths are as follows:

In the earliest version, she was killed by Halsin, during a meeting between her (and other Reithwin locals) and the druids, before Shar's influence (and the song of the Nightsong, potentially) drove them mad, and Halsin stabbed Isobel with Sorrow, leaving it cursed). This sparked the conflict between Ketheric and the Druid-Harper alliance.

In a later version, Balthazar killed her, framing Aylin for the deed, which led to Ketheric capturing her and trapping her in the Gauntlet of Shar. Isobel was tethered to Ketheric, and needed to be separated before he was killed

Either way, Isobel has no memory of her death upon being resurrected a century later. It happened probably ~1370, triggering the conflict. While it may have happened earlier (with Ketheric keeping his Shar worship hidden) probably not earlier than 1368.

Conflict with the Harpers

Alright, so this is where we get back into figuring out hard dates. Generally, this happened a century ago - so ~1392, but any time something is that round I always assume it's off.

Again, we know things are business as usual around 1368 because of the Heralds; this means that while Ketheric may have turned to Shar, it wasn't public. However, we do have some dates related to the conflict.

The Harpers try and fail to surrender in a letter by Khelben Arunsun - he's expelled from the Harpers in 1371, founding a splinter group, and dies in 1374. That makes 1369-1370 the most likely timing.

However, the records from Moonhaven and from the Emerald Grove push it to being a later date. Uktar 1371 is the date that the Apothecary and Apprentice arrive from Thay, the start of the Apprentice's journal, which ends with the Dark Justiciars killing him. Toth's logbook is the Apothecary's account, and has a raid in late Uktar and in Nightal; this may be the same year, but more likely later. We know there was at least one failed raid on Moonhaven before it fell completely.

Uktar 1371 we also get the Logbook from the Emerald Grove - they're dealing with far more minor problems and presumably aren't yet at war with the Dark Justiciars, which further supports the idea that the raids on Moonhaven happen in 1372 or 1373.

To account for Khelben's presence, we could assume the failed surrender is from an initial conflict in 1369-1370, that ended with the Harpers retreating, but more likely, the threat Ketheric Thorm posed was enough that the Harpers and Moonstars (Khelben's splinter group) were in alliance - after all, it wasn't a clean split and there was still a great deal of overlap, and he's still the Blackstaff.

The details of the conflict are largely uncertain. We know the Dark Justiciars destroyed Moonhaven, and presumably some other villages, and that the shadow curse claimed the region around Moonrise Towers and Reithwin.

However, we do know how it ended. The Mason made a deal with Raphael to destroy the Dark Justiciar army, which brought Yurgir to the Gauntlet, where he killed all but one (hiding as a swarm of rats). While we only see Yurgir's impact in Grymforge and the Gauntlet, presumably Raphael helped with defeating the entire army.

How Ketheric died and came to be buried in the mausoleum is unclear, but in the final moments of the battle, he cursed the lands around Moonrise Towers with the Shadow Curse, killing many of the Harpers and Druid, and lasting for well over a century, until he came to be resurrected in the name of Myrkul.

My Proposed Timeline

You've read the evidence above. This is therefore a mix of canon, reasonably makes sense in canon, and completely made up headcanon

1492 - Balthazar resurrects Isobel; she flees to the Last Light Inn

???? - Balthazar resurrects Ketheric, he becomes Myrkul's chosen

1373 - Yurgir kills Dark Justiciar Army; Ketheric dies and the Shadow Curse falls

1372 - Dark Justiciars spread out and attack local villages, destroying Moonhaven. The Emerald Grove, Harpers, Moonstars, and Flaming Fist ally together

1370 - The Nightsong is captured, used as the final test for the new Dark Justiciar army Ketheric builds

1369 - Isobel killed by [Halsin/Balthazar/???]. Ketheric completes turn to Shar, forces Reithwin to convert, has the mason begin reconstructing Grymforge

1350 - Melodia dies. Ketheric's faith begins to waver.

1340 - Isobel born

1325 - Melodia and Ketheric marry

1300 - Melodia born.

1200s - Moonrise Towers constructed; Reithwin slowly builds up prominence as a trade stop amon

1170s - Ketheric Thorm born.

1150s-1250s - young Halsin grows up in the lands around Reithwin, where he befriends Thaniel.

980s - Dark Justiciar/Druid/Harper conflict, Malus Thorm attending. Sharrans in the region go further into hiding; Reithwin is known as a Selunite enclave.

600s - Grymforge is a thriving Sharran city. Dark Justiciar trials are held within the Gauntlet of Shar.

[starrydixon]

Faint

*Requested from this ask :)*

Era: Farm  Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Pronouns: None-Specified Word Count: 2.5k Warnings: mild language, brief descriptions of fainting and dehydration, fluff!!

Summary: After pushing yourself a little too hard in the hot Georgia sun, you find yourself losing consciousness. Luckily, Daryl’s right there to help you out. 

It was hot—probably one of the hottest days since the apocalypse started. The blaring sun was not holding back, as there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky to block the assaulting rays from your skin for even a few seconds. The Georgia humidity also wasn’t helping; it made the air you breathed feel denser and like there wasn’t much oxygen to inhale. Sweat collected across your hairline, around your neck, and dripped down your spine. The clothes you were wearing stuck to your body like another layer of skin, and you were sure there were patches of sweat staining your shirt. Before the outbreak happened, you would have been embarrassed by it, but there were more important things to be worried about nowadays instead of people seeing you sweat.

With most of the group out of commission or being assigned to do something else, it was only you and Daryl looking for Sophia today. Daryl was heading towards the creek, seeing what he could find at the only landmark the little girl had to go by, while you searched in the opposite direction; just in case she had wandered out further than anticipated.

The water in your canteen had run out hours ago. You knew you should have gone back to the farm to refill from one of the wells, but finding Sophia was more important than relieving your dry throat. You hadn’t realized just how draining the sun was on your body until you noticed that your once stealthy footsteps had turned heavy and noisy. That should have been your other sign to go back to the farm, but you still pushed on. When your vision began to go out of focus not even twenty minutes later, you knew you were treading dangerously on succumbing to heat stroke. As much as you wanted to keep looking for Sophia, up until the hot sun began to set over the horizon, you knew you wouldn’t be very useful if you were delirious and or unconscious. 

As the blue sky began to tint with light shades of oranges and pinks, Daryl had assumed you had already made it back to the farm when he reentered the property. The hunter was perceptive; keeping to himself most days and observing the people around him. He instantly felt the lack of your presence around camp when he returned from his search. Maybe it was because you were the only person within the small group of survivors that he was immediately drawn to when he and his brother first showed up to the camp at the Quarry. You had always been genuinely nice to him, and didn’t treat him like the outsider he felt and knew that he was. So your absence was significant to him.

With Sophia still missing, and presumably lost in the vast forest that surrounded the immediate area, Daryl couldn’t help but fear that you were now lost too. Of course he hoped you were only taking so long to return because you had found Sophia, or at least found a warm trail of her, but his anxiety was getting the best of him. He couldn’t take that chance; having another person lost on his account. The archer didn’t hesitate to go back out there, find your tracks, and make sure that you were okay. 

Just as he was beginning to cross the field of overgrown grass and weeds, Daryl was met with the welcomed sight of you emerging from the tree line of the woods. He didn’t know if he was projecting his fears with Sophia on you, or if it was something else, but he was relieved to see you back in one piece with his own eyes. Daryl hadn’t broken stride, planning to meet you halfway and converse about any evidence you may have found during your search. The closer he got, the clearer your weary body language and sweat sheened face became. 

“Y/N?” Daryl called out to you, cupping a hand next to his mouth in an attempt to magnify the sound of his voice. When the only response he got from you was witnessing your body drop to the ground, his once relaxed strides quickly turned into a full on run.

Internal alarms that Daryl didn’t know he possessed began to go off, causing his heart to race and his breathing to become labored. Daryl kept calling out to you as he made his way over to you, hoping that your face would miraculously pop up from the overgrown foliage and reassure him that you were fine and had just tripped over an upturned pile of dirt. When that didn’t happen, curse words rooted from fear flew out his mouth. 

Daryl had no idea what to do when he finally reached you. Kneeling down beside you, his hands hovered around the frame of your face and sides of your head. He was worried that his touch, no matter how gentle he tried to be, would somehow hurt you. .

“Hey-hey.” The archer’s voice was soft, but still held that distinctive gravely undertone as he watched your facial expressions begin to stir. Daryl’s breath quickened and his ears had a deafening ring in them due to the adrenaline rushing through his veins.

The second you opened your eyes, just a crack, you instantly squeezed them shut again. A distressed groan sounded from under your breath as the near blinding brightness and nauseating dizziness stung your sensitive eyes. If it weren’t for Daryl’s voice sounding so close, yet so distant, you probably would have panicked at how disoriented you felt.

“Easy now…” Daryl trailed off cautiously as you began to sit up. His hands hovered around your frame, spotting you in case you fell down again.

“Don’t…don’t take me to Hershel.” You informed the archer as you blinked your vision back into focus. Your muscles still felt heavy and weak, and you were sure you’d fall over again soon as it was becoming difficult to keep yourself upright. 

“Just—help me to some shade.”

Daryl was hesitant about following your wishes, as he thought you should be seen by someone who had a medical background. You noticed his hesitation, and shot him a heated warning look with whatever energy you had left to spare. With a shake of his head and a light scoff escaping past his lips, Daryl helped you to your feet and led you over to the closest tree; which was one of the many peach trees residing around the Greene’s farm. 

“Water…please.” Your voice was breathy and weak as you slumped back against the sturdy tree trunk. If your body wasn’t so exerted of energy, you would have found the rigged wood that dug into your back uncomfortable.

“Right—water.” Daryl patted his body, searching for the canteen he often carried on his person. When one of his hands bumped into the container, the archer clumsily removed the strap from off his shoulder and practically shoved the canteen in your face due to his hasted mindset. 

A thank you barely made it out of your mouth before you eagerly drank the refreshing water. You knew you would need more than a half-full canteen worth of water to hydrate your body again, but just the mere feel of the cool liquid filing your dry mouth and going down your scratchy throat was replenishing enough. 

“You seem awfully calm for someone who just passed out.” The archer’s distinctive southern drawl seemed even more prominent when he spoke. Carefully, Daryl sat down beside you under the tree that was providing your hot skin with cooling shade. 

For a moment, you could only shrug your shoulders dismissively in response as you let your head fall back against the tree trunk. The golden hue of the sunset caused the overgrown grassland in front of you to seem like it was glowing. It was a peaceful view, and you couldn’t help but allow its peace to calm you for a few moments. 

“If I wasn’t aware of why I fainted, I definitely wouldn’t be this level-headed.” Your voice was slow, but composed and lucid. It made Daryl’s looming anxiety settle and his protective guard to slightly drop. “I ran out of water hours ago…I just wanted to keep looking for Sophia.”

For a fleeting second, Daryl felt a surge of warmth spread over the expanse of his chest. You didn’t have to explain yourself further; he understood where you were coming from completely and was perplexedly endeared that you were just as committed to finding Sophia as he was. Carefully, Daryl glanced over at you, and felt an electric shock shoot up his spine when he saw your tired eyes and half smile aimed at him. The brightness radiating off of your face practically blinded him, and he had to avert his gaze so he wouldn’t risk having you see the dust of pink he was sure was beginning to cover his cheeks.

Clearing his throat, Daryl only hummed vaguely in response before standing up and brush his hands over his pants to remove some of the dirt that stuck to the worn denim. Squinting through the setting sunlight, the archer took a few steps back and examined the peaches that hung from the branches. Since the peaches hung a few feet too high for Daryl to reach, he knew he'd have to poke the branch until the stem of the fruit broke free from the branch.

“I’d watch your head if I were you.” Daryl warned while raising his crossbow and nudging the branch. 

Placing both arms over your head, you subconsciously winced as you anticipated the feeling of raining fruit falling on you at any moment. The last thing you needed was a head injury on top of your mild heat stroke. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” You expressed endearingly as a weak smile uplifted the corners of your mouth. The archer just shrugged indifferently.

“Ya gotta eat somethin’... these things got lots of vitamins and minerals or whatever and that’ll help ya feel better.” Daryl explained while gesturing to the few peaches that were now cradled in his arms. 

As Daryl kneeled down beside you again and offered you the ripest peach in the bunch, he felt his heart skip a beat when his gaze caught your genuine smile. After making sure to thank the archer once again, you quickly brushed your fingers against the peach to remove any lingering dirt and bit into the sweet and juicy fruit. A comfortable silence fell over you and Daryl as you both enjoyed the delectable snack.

Daryl wasn’t the type of person who normally pried into other people’s business. His rule of thumb was that if something wanted to be said or talked about, it would be eventually at the person's own discretion. This time, however, your health was more important than his comfortability and he was curious as to why you didn’t want to be checked on and cared for with medicine. 

“Is there uh—a reason why ya don wanna see Hershel? He could help ya feel better faster.” Daryl threw the near bare peach pit a few feet in front of him, and watched the pit become hidden within the overgrown foliage of the farmland. 

“Oh…I just don’t want to be more of a burden, you know?”

You too had finished your peach, and threw the pit in the same direction Daryl had. Your’s didn’t land as far as Daryl’s did, and you were going to blame your dehydrated body for your lack of strength instead of your lack of muscles. Wiping your hands of the sticky peach juice on your jeans, you brought the canteen to your lips and drank the remaining liquid. Although your eyes remained on the field in front of you, you could see Daryl’s attention turn to you from the corner of your eye, and feel his curious gaze flit over the side of your face. 

“Should take the medical care while we still got it.” Daryl reasserted while resting his arm on top of his bent knee. 

“I want us all to stay here longer…and if asking for help diminishes that chance, then I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Daryl couldn’t help but admire your selflessness. He wasn’t sure how many other people in the broken group of survivors would also make that kind of stance. To visually show that he was done pushing his own concern onto you, the archer raised his hands in faux surrender. You couldn’t help but chuckle at the small glimpse of charisma from the usually guarded man. 

After a few beats of silence had passed, you found yourself chuckling quietly again and rubbing a distressed hand over your face. “Maybe eating those peaches without asking already ruined our chance.”

“I won’t tell if you won’t.” Daryl compromised with a suggestively raised eyebrow. You couldn’t help but belly laugh with as much strength you could muster while lightly nudging the archer’s arm with your elbow. Daryl couldn’t help but find your laugh contagious and quietly chuckle along.

“Can I get ya some more water?” Daryl asked once the laughter had settled between you two. With his hand, he motioned towards the empty canteen sitting in between your legs. 

“That would be great, actually. Thanks.” 

“Might be more comfortable restin’ in your tent, too.” Daryl suggested lightly as he stood up from the ground. In an attempt to seem less pestering, he shrugged his shoulders indifferently.

“Probably…but I think if I even try to stand up right now, I’d go cross eyed and pass out again.” Despite how serious you were, there was a teasing lilt in your voice to delude the concern. 

Your lightheartedness didn’t seem to have any affect on Daryl, as he stared down at you with a wary look in his eyes. “Right…” Daryl’s drawl was heavy when he spoke, and he shifted uneasily on his feet as those panic-induced alarms began to go off again. 

“I’m fine, seriously. I just need to drink a shit ton of water...and maybe eat another peach” You reassured him encouragingly while handing the canteen to Daryl. The archer just hummed, unconvinced, and snatched the container from you. 

“Don’t pass out while I’m gone…I’ll be pissed if ya do.” Daryl warned while pointing an accusing finger at you. 

“Aren’t you always?” One of your eyebrows rose in speculation as a sly smile formed on your lips. 

Daryl scoffed and took a few steps away from you. He could feel heat begin to flush the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears as he blurted out his rather flirtatious thoughts without thinking. 

“Nah—not around you…you’re just different I guess.”

Instead of the blaring sun and borderline heatstroke heating up your face, it was Daryl’s alluring comment. All you could do was shake your head dismissively and try (but fail miserably) to conceal the flustered smile that contorted the shape of your lips. A lopsided smile formed on Daryl’s lips as he slowly retreated from you; all the while rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. 

As you watched Daryl jog across the field to the nearest watering well, a wave of invigorating energy coursed through you. You thought only shade and replenishing water could cure your drained and dehydrated body, but it turns out a rugged archer whose strong facade was slowly crumbling to reveal the man he truly was, was just as healing.

-

-

A/N: I just started my twd rewatch, and just had to write something with early season Daryl! Also, I’m so sorry this is out a little later than anticipated! Thank you to the anon who requested this, and I hope you all enjoyed reading! <3

[kybercrystals94]

Barrier

Read here on Ao3!

Whumptober 2024 - Day 6 - Prompt: Not Realizing They're Injured / "It's not my blood."

Rated: T | Words: 729

CW: Blood (in case the prompt didn't give it away)...nothing too graphic, but just wanted to mention it!

Hunter is thrown when another explosion detonates, hitting a wall with enough force it drives the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping through his respirator. Debris clatters like hail against his plastoid armor. He isn’t surprised everything hurts, head ringing from the impact, but he pushes himself up even before the reverberation of the blast settles, the ground trembling under his boots as he stumbles forward to the first citizen he sees. 

The woman is leaning forward, gripping her ankle with both hands, voice sobbing in a language Hunter doesn’t understand. He kneels down in front of her. “We’ll get you out of here,” he tells her. 

The woman’s wild eyed gaze traverses Hunter’s dirty armor, and she shakes her head, continuing to speak frantically in her native tongue. He doesn’t have time for arguing, the transport will be back soon for survivors, and she is only one of many. He scoops her up in his arms in a bridal cary, careful to avoid jostling her injured ankle. She pushes against his breastplate, continuing to speak the same words over and over again. 

“I don’t understand,” Hunter tells her. His head is still ringing, dull pounding pain throbbing throughout his skull. Distantly, he wonders if he has a concussion. 

The woman points to her own abdomen, and Hunter looks down. Blood blooms across her torn blouse. How did he not see that before? He nods at her, trying to communicate that he understands that she is injured. The rendezvous isn’t far, and Hunter moves as fast as he dares. Tech is there, tending the wounded as they arrive. He will know what to do. 

Tech meets him when he arrives. “What are her injuries?” he asks, motioning for Hunter to lay the woman down by a tree where several other civilians are already situated. 

“Abdomen wound, seems like it’s bleeding heavily,” Hunter tells him. “But she was holding her ankle when I found her. I don’t think she can walk on her own.” 

Tech nods, already reaching for a fresh roll of gauze from his med pack. 

Hunter draws back from the woman, moving to stand again when she catches his arm in both hands. She speaks frantically, this time looking at Tech. 

Tech looks at Hunter, his eyes wide behind his goggles. 

“What is she saying?” Hunter asks.

“She says that it isn’t her blood,” Tech says, tone too even to be truly calm. “It is yours.” 

“I’m not…” Hunter begins, but Tech points to Hunter’s own midsection. Hunter looks down and sees it. Shrapnel, dark and ominous, protrudes from his armor. He didn’t even notice, felt nothing but the pain in his head, the ache in his muscles. But now, his skin feels like fire and the warmth of blood pooling under his armor, soaking into his blacks. His head goes light, vision spotting with dark splotches under his visor. 

He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to clear his vision, but when he opens them again, he is on the Marauder, the sound of Wrecker snoring in the bunk above him, the dim lighting of night cycle glowing around him. 

“Thanks for your help with the evacuation,” Crosshair says from the crash sheet, “Couldn’t have done it without you. Oh, wait, we did.” 

“Please don’t antagonize the wounded,” Tech chides, and he appears in Hunter’s eyeline, hovering over him. “How do you feel?” 

Hunter groans. “Not great.” 

“To be expected,” Tech agrees. “Alami said that she tried to warn you before you picked her up.” 

“A language barrier is no excuse,” Crosshair admonishes. 

“It is actually a quite reasonable excuse,” Tech tells him guilelessly. A pause. “You were being sardonic.”  

Crosshair chuckles. 

Hunter suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. He knows it will only aggravate his lingering headache. 

“The mission was a success?” he asks.

Tech hums, checking the bandages wrapped around Hunter’s midsection. “Of course it was. It turned out Alami is the village’s doctor. She was able to take over my duties, and I was able to assist with yours. If you had to rescue one last individual before becoming incapacitated, you chose the right one.” 

Hunter sighs, exhaustion tugging at his consciousness enticingly. He wants to ask more, to hear everything that happened…but he knows his brothers will tell him everything he wants to know when he wakes again. 

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[honeycombclaire]

You know what I need? I need the Marvel time-travel trope, but everyone goes back to the 40s.

(I say everyone, I mean the Avengers pre-Infinity War.)

Because everyone says Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes are men out of time (and they’re not technically wrong). But I want to see the Avengers (sans Steve and Bucky) getting sent back in time by some wizard or a freak Asgardian lightning storm or something, and poof, they’re back in the 40s, right smack in the middle of the war.

I want the Avengers to witness what life was like during the war, hiding in bomb shelters and seeing the after effects of the world crawling out of the Great Depression and hurtling into the second World War in twenty years.

Life when Steve really was the weirdest thing science ever created. When he was desperately needed and internationally adored. Because all of the Avengers have PTSD, but Steve and Bucky went through World War II and got spit back out into the 20th and 21st centuries, and that’s a whole different category of PTSD and trauma.

I want the Avengers to actually meet the survivors of Azzano, when Steve marched into the massive Nazi base and saved hundreds of soldiers, part because he could and part because he was desperate to save his best friend, and didn’t think twice about it.

I want the Avengers to see Steve and Bucky thrive. I want them to witness Steve and Bucky with the Howling Commandos. Steve’s first team. I want them to see how Steve and Bucky lived, what life was like, because it was drastically different than the modern world.

I want the Avengers to witness firsthand life on a military base. I want Tony to have to look his father in the eye and pretend he doesn’t know who he is, but get to see all the good his father did because all he remembers is his father being an asshole. How much Steve really did care about Howard (and that Bucky did, too, because Howard made weapons to keep Steve safe).

I want Natasha to see that just because she’s an assassin doesn’t mean she’s a bad person, because there were hundreds of military assassins and spies during the war that did bad things to get information.

I want them to hear about the Tesseract and learn that sometimes Steve’s intelligence should be taken seriously, because he has experience and knowledge that none of the other Avengers will ever have. (“You should have left it in the water.” “This is the guy my dad never shut up about?”)

I want them to see how much Steve loved Peggy, how she and Bucky were the only ones who saw him for who he really was, and realize how awful it must have been for him to come back and work for the organization she created after his death and have to live without her.

I want them to hide and watch as Past Steve screams as Past Bucky falls from the train. I want them to see Past Steve realize he can’t get drunk, and the only way he can cope is to kill the Red Skull and end HYDRA. To avenge his friend. I want them to realize that not only did Past Steve crash the plane for nothing, but that Steve knows, has to live with that knowledge for the rest of his life.

I want them to listen with Peggy as Past Steve realizes he’s going to have to crash the plane. I want them to hear the slight tremble in Past Steve’s voice as he talks about dancing with Peggy, believing he’ll never get the chance, and that he’s going to die alone in the freezing cold ocean. I want them to not get the change to promise him that he’ll survive. I want them to hear the sudden static that cuts off Past Steve’s voice, and the heavy silence that comes after it.

I want them to see the world mourn for Captain America, who died just months before the war ended.

And then I want them to come back to the 21st century and see. I want them to see the way Steve’s eyes linger on pictures of Peggy and Howard, see the rows of records from the 30s and 40s in a whole new light, see rows of 30s-style clothes in his closet that he hardly ever wears because a lot of people will make jabs about it, see the way he always keeps Bucky in his sight, hugs him just a little bit tighter than he hugs everyone else.

I want them to see the bags under his and Bucky’s eyes when they have nightmares. I want Sam to quietly show them Steve’s list, and see that every line on every page is filled because he missed so much. I want them to find two more little books filled up just as much. I want them to realize how lost Steve still is despite how much he’s adapted.

I want them to see the subtle military training still ingrained in Steve’s bones, because any and every war was horrible, but World War II was something else entirely, and so was desperation that existed within the soldiers and the people. I want them to see Steve’s recklessness of jumping out of planes without a parachute, the way his eyes always scan the area when he enters a room, watching ever little detail and listening for any sound that might indicate danger. How he is always, always, on alert, even when he seems relaxed.

I want them to understand why Steve was so against the Sokovia Accords. It wasn’t because he wanted the power to do what he thought was best; it was because he was afraid of the consequences of having too many restrictions. Because even with international laws and the damn Geneva Convention, the Nazis still destroyed half the world, and decades later Nazi HYDRA was still carrying out their mission that Steve sacrificed his life for. Steve was a human experiment. The Serum was a biochemical weapon. The military broke the rules to protect the greater good, and Steve knew that. The war would have gone very differently without him.

Whether he was right or wrong about the Accords, after what Steve experienced, I want the Avengers finally understand where he was coming from. Why he was so afraid of strict regulations.

I want Tony to finally fully understand the significance of Steve giving up his shield in Siberia.

Why he was so determined to protect Bucky from the world. Not just because he was his best friend, or because it was the right thing to do. But also because Bucky was the only thing Steve physically had left of his life before the crash, save for his dog tags, and he was scared of what that would mean if Steve lost him.

Steve Rogers has so much trauma that Marvel completely ignored. They focused on Tony’s and Bucky’s and Natasha’s trauma; and that’s great, that’s important; but so much of Steve’s moral character doesn’t get explained because it gets glossed over with the excuse that he’s “Mr Good and Righteous.” And that’s true, but that’s just scratching the surface.

He’s Mr. Good and Righteous for a reason, and it doesn’t get talked about enough.

[heartofroses112]

Our Own Choices Deleted Scenes — finding Ahsoka and Rex, pt. 1

The ship groaned, metal shifting around her. She tensed, recognizing the change for what it was: someone was forcing their way into the freighter. Beneath her, Rex moaned, his signature flaring brightly for a moment before returning once more to the hazy darkness of unconsciousness. For a moment, she was two decades in the past, sabers ignited as she stood above Rex, arms burning as she held back the strength of Grievous’s attacks.

Ahsoka snarled, crouching in front of Rex with his blasters raised. A quick push of the Force ensured that his prone form was hidden from sight by her cloak. She longed to draw her sabers, longed to find comfort in their harsh white glow. But giving herself away as a Jedi right away was not the smartest move, especially since she had no idea who she was about to face.

She felt three presences outside of the wreck. Something about their signatures drew Ahsoka in, and she very nearly opened herself to the Force to get more information. She tightened her control of the Force, raising mental shields as thick as the day she’d fought Maul. She wouldn’t put it past the Inquisitors or other Darksiders to trick her into a false sense of security before springing some mental trap or another.

No, Master Obi-Wan had trained her too well against the ploys and manipulations of the dark side. Ahsoka would not walk off of this ship in any other state besides free.

Ahsoka took a deep breath, calming the inner turmoil of her thoughts. She had survived this long by keeping a level-head and not acting until all of the facts were known (Again, something she’d learned from Master Obi-Wan). This confrontation would be nothing in comparison to everything she had done up until now.

For a moment, the only sound was her own ragged breathing. The signatures were coming closer, the freighter creaking as they progressed through the wreck and toward the cockpit. Ahsoka adjusted her grip on Rex’s blasters, aiming them at the doorway.

The doors clanged and shuddered, and then they were being forced open. Light poured into the cockpit, both natural and artificial from the suns outside and the flashlights the strangers had. Ahsoka hissed, eyes squinting as her vision adjusted to the change in brightness.

“Who are you?” she asked, dropping her voice an octave. She couldn’t risk being recognized, not before she had a solid understanding of the situation.

“Are you Fulcrum?” came the response.

“I asked you first.”

One of the strangers sighed, clicking off their flashlight so she was no longer blinded by the brilliant beam of light. It was hard to see them with her hood pulled low enough to conceal her face, but Ahsoka was able to make out three armored figures, their armor dark and their bodies on guard. They each had a blaster trained on her, waiting for any unwanted movement.

Ahsoka remained crouched, guns raised and senses stretched to the limit. Her position was one she found herself in often, although usually her hands were wrapped around the hilts of her lightsabers. Wielding blasters was something she had not done in a while.

When the four of them continued to stare at each other for several long moments, Ahsoka found her patience growing thin. “I said, who are you?”

One of the figures, the one in the middle, moved slowly. They crouched down, letting their blaster slide to the ground with a soft clatter. They kept their hands raised as they rose back to their full height. “We don’t mean you any harm.”

“My ship just got shot out of the sky, so I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“We weren’t the ones who shot you.” The stranger spoke in soothing tones as if calming a panicked animal. Ahsoka didn’t appreciate it. It reminded her too strongly of Master Obi-Wan trying to diffuse a situation that Anakin had assuredly created. “We were here to meet Fulcrum. We saw your ship go down and wanted to check for survivors.”

“None of what you’re saying is assuring me of your intentions.” Ahsoka adjusted her grip on the blasters again, palms beginning to sweat. “If you’re going to kill me, let’s get this over with before I get bored, hm?”

The stranger sighed again, motioning at their companions to lower their weapons. “Senator Organa set up this meeting. He wanted the leader of his armed forces and the head of his underground network to start working together. I don’t know what else I can do to make you understand that we are allies.”

“For all I know, you captured my actual associate and learned all of this information from them.” She let the blasters sink inch, trusting in her abilities to fire before the disarmed figures. “I’d suggest you all leave. If you really are working with my informant, he can set up another meeting for us.”

The figure shook their head as if aggravated. “Have you always been this distrusting?”

“Have you always been this shady?” She shot back. “Is it really so surprising that I refuse to believe the first people I meet after getting shot out of the sky?”

The figure on the left turned toward the leader of their group. “Commander, we’re running out of time. I’m tracking a group approaching from the west; they must be coming to confirm the death of Fulcrum.”

Ahsoka snorted, eyes flitting between the three figures. She felt Rex shift behind her, his arm now resting against the back of her calves. She prayed he remained silent and unnoticed. “Yeah, real convincing.”

Seeing no other option, she waved her right hand slightly, drawing on the Force as much as she could with her steel shields. “You will be on your way.”

The lead figure shook his head as if clearing it. Their shoulders tensed, but they made no move for their blaster still laying on the floor. Their helmet tilted. “You’re a Jedi.”

Ahsoka tried again, ignoring the waver in her voice. “You will be on your way.”

“Mind tricks don’t work on us.” The figure continued to examine her, and she fought the urge to shift uncomfortably beneath their gaze. She cursed mentally, drawing her shields even tighter. It was always a gamble, attempting to change a being’s mind with the Force. But all it had gotten her was more trouble now that these strangers knew what she once was.

Even with all of her efforts to remain as shrouded as possible—with the cloak and the dropped voice and the blasters—something must have slipped beyond her last-ditch use of the Force. The center figure stiffened, and their head dipped, as if trying to find her face beneath her cowl. She tensed, prepared for the worst. The Imperial forces had confirmed her existence, now the Inquisitors would be on their way. A lone Jedi was one thing; Ahsoka Tano was another. There was no way Imperials would let her out of their sight without at least one attempt to bring her down. 

She was prepared for blaster fire and death. She was not prepared for what the stranger said.

“Commander Tano?”

Ahsoka froze. Her heart stuttered in her chest, breath catching in her throat. It’s impossible. Only one group of men had ever referred to her as such, even with all of her efforts to get them to call her by her name. But as far as she knew, all but three were gone, either still enslaved to the Empire or killed far too early.

She raised the blasters in a second, hands trembling ever so slightly as she trained both weapons on the center figure. “Who the hell are you?”

“I think you know, Commander.” Despite the tense situation, the stranger almost sounded… fond.

Ahsoka swallowed, unable to calm the shaking of her muscles. “Remove your helmets, then.”

“Can’t do that, Commander,” he said. “We’ve survived this long because of our anonymity. I’m sure you understand.”

She grunted. Oh, she completely knew the need for secrecy. Didn’t mean she had to like it, especially when her brain told her she could not trust them for as long as they continued to hide their identities from her.

“Commander.” The figure on the left called for her attention. He appeared much softer than he had just moments before. He crouched down so he was on her level, elbows resting on armored thighs. She vaguely noticed that his right arm ended in a scomp link. “Commander, hey, remember that game you would play with the General?” She sucked in a breath. “He was always telling you about Force signatures or whatever, and you would always give him a hard time back and claim you knew more about that then he did.”

Her eyes burned at the reminder.

The figure continued, nonchalant despite his earlier worries of approaching enemies. “So, the two of you would go to the mess, close your eyes, and try to name the most amount of brothers by feel alone.”

“He always accused me of being a sore loser,” she murmured, blasters slowly drifting down once more. “But I know he had Jesse help him cheat.”

The figure snorted. “Jesse was a terrible liar. I’m not surprised you figured it out.”

A lump had lodged in her throat as the clone in front of her spoke. But now she swallowed past it, raising the blasters yet again. “What’s your point?”

“Use the Force,” he said simply. “You know my Force signature. Reach out, see who I am, and then you’ll know you can trust us.”

“And if this is a trap by the dark side?”

The clone shrugged. “You’ll just have to trust me, Commander.” She got the strangest sense that he was grinning. “’Sides, you’ve always been strong. Even if we were Darksiders, you’d probably be able to overwhelm us.”

Ahsoka choked on a laugh. She had let her guard down far too easily; she knew better than to be swayed by a compliment and a story that anyone aboard the Resolute would know. But something about this stranger… well, he wasn’t a stranger, was he? Ahsoka wasn’t sure who he was, but he was familiar. All three of them were.

So, she decided to trust them. Or, at least, trust she could defend herself against them if she needed to.

Ahsoka closed her eyes, stretching out with the Force to brush against the three presences in front of her. One, the leader, she assumed, had shields nearly as strong as hers, and she had no idea who he might be. But the other two…

The one on the right. The one who had not yet spoken. She’d not met him many times, and it took her a while to understand whose signature she was feeling. But then it clicked, and a mental image of Master Secura filled her mind. Bly.That was Commander Bly. Her mind wheeled with the implications of that.

“Bly,” she said. His head dipped in acknowledgment.

Almost fervently, she reached toward the other one, the clone who knew her, who knew Jesse and Anakin and the rest of the 501st. A name came to the forefront of her mind immediately. Ahsoka pushed it away, searching for a different one. It wasn’t the right name, not the right man. She had watched him die months before the Order had ever gone through. It couldn’t be, it wasn’t, it was, it was, it was.

“Echo?” she breathed, eyes flying open. Rex’s blasters clattered to the ground as she hastened to throw back the cowl of her cloak.

“It’s me, Commander. I promise, it’s not a trick.” He paused for a moment. “But while we’re out here, it’s just Corporal, okay?” Even with the vocoder that seemed to be a part of all of their helmets, she recognized the cadence of Echo’s voice, the grumpiness that had always been stronger after dealing with Fives. When she learned of Fives’s death, she thought Domino squad was gone forever. But what terrible things must Echo have lived through in order to still be standing before her? Did he know his twin had saved her life? Saved Rex’s life?

Although she longed to embrace the lost soldier, she held her position, still covering Rex. She trained her attention on the clone in the middle, the one that Echo had only referred to as ‘Commander.’ There was something familiar in his mental shields, something she recognized in the foundation and the construction. “And who are you?”

He was saved from answering by a loud ping from the datapad hanging off of Echo’s belt. Echo cursed, scanning the screen for information.

“How much time?” Bly asked, his voice rougher than even Echo’s. He raised his blaster again, but turned to aim it at the door while still looking at his brother.

“Ten, maybe fifteen minutes at most. They’re getting slowed down by the terrain.”

“Commander Tano, come with us,” the leader said, as serious as she had heard him this entire time. “If you’re Fulcrum, then we can have this discussion on our ship. But we need to get you out of here, and this freighter isn’t flying.”

“I…” Ahsoka didn’t know what to say. She knew it was the only valid option, but with Rex the way he was… and so much of her role in the rebellion came from remaining separate from the larger forces, especially with the Inquisitors constantly on her tail. Could she join them, her friends, in good conscious, knowing she may be putting them in danger simply by her presence? She shifted, wincing as she accidently put weight on Rex’s hand, the limb still limp against her legs.

Echo was on high alert. “You’re injured.”

“No. No, I’m fine.”

“This crash wasn’t one of Skywalker’s.” The Commander crossed his arms, examining her again. “You’re not fine. But…”

“Ahsoka.”

She turned in an instant, falling to her knees at Rex’s side as he groaned her name. His eyes remained closed, and she sensed him fading once more. She grabbed his hand, placing her free one against his cheek. “I’m here.”

He squeezed her hand ever so lightly. “Ahsoka,” he breathed out again, and then he was gone, mind dragged under as his subconscious forced his body to rest and heal. She watched him for another long moment, searching his bare face for any sign of discomfort or pain.

“Rex.” The Commander nearly choked on the name, voice so full of feeling and pain. With her mind still open to the Force as it was, she felt as his shields buckled before collapsing, emotions bursting out as his presence spilled and swirled in the cockpit.

Ahsoka gasped, nearly overcome with the power of the Commander’s thoughts and feelings. Before she knew it, he was crashing to his knees beside her, reaching out with trembling hands to brush against the top of Rex’s head, almost as if he didn’t really believe the old captain was really there. She could barely breathe; the Commander’s signature was so strong, so powerful, so overwhelming.

It was so completely and undeniably Cody.

A broken laugh pushed out of her mouth, and she stared at the side of his helmet, imagining the face beneath, curling scar and harsh features undercut by soft eyes. He wasn’t looking at her, attention fully locked on the injured brother at his feet. His hand now rest gently on Rex’s head, gloved thumb rubbing against the faint, silvery scar on Rex’s forehead.

“What happened?” She’d never heard him show emotion so plainly, not even after Kadavo when Master Obi-Wan and Rex had been in bad shape. Ahsoka tried to imagine how it must feel, thinking Rex had been dead for the past seventeen years. She shuddered. It was too terrible. How had he managed?

She forced herself to focus. “His side of the ship got hit. He was thrown before we even crashed.” Ahsoka squeezed Rex’s hand tightly, hating the lack of a response. “He wasn’t wearing his helmet when we went down. He might have a concussion, I’m not sure.” She swallowed hard. “He hasn’t woken up yet. That was the most responsive he’s been.”

The Commander continued to kneel at her side, and they stared down at Rex for another long moment.

“Commanders.” Bly coughed, drawing their attention. Ahsoka turned, lekku thrown over her shoulder with the motion. She felt the pain in his mind as he watched her. “Rex is gonna be fine, he always is. But we have only a few minutes before we have company, and in your condition, sir, I don’t know if the three of us can fight them all off.”

“I can still fight,” Ahsoka argued, letting go of Rex’s hand as she rose to her feet. “I’m a little bruised, sure, but—”

“I was talking more about the Commander, sir.” Ahsoka got the sense that Bly was embarrassed.

It took the Commander a long moment before he turned to address Bly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Marshal. I’ve sustained no injury.”

Bly shook his head. “No, but your concentration isn’t here.”

“I know how to compartmentalize.”

Despite the serious nature of their conversation, Ahsoka couldn’t help the snort. The Commander looked at her, and she could picture an affronted look on his face that almost made her giggle more. Instead, she offered a smile. “You sound just like he did.” She did not need to explain. He knew who she spoke of. The grief and regret spilling out of his broken shields proved that. The Commander turned away, staring at the damaged wall instead of any of the living souls in the cockpit.

Ahsoka swallowed, reaching out to lay a hand against the upper part of his arm. He stiffened under her touch, but made no move to pull away. “Look, we’ll have time to discuss everything later. But Bly’s right.”

She got the sense he was about to interrupt her, so she pushed forward. “Commander, you’re the only person in the world I trust to protect Rex as well as I would. So how about you and the Corporal carry him, and me and the Marshal can keep watch?”

“No offense, Commander,” Echo drawled, “but if you’re going to keep using the Captain’s blasters, maybe we should switch places.”

She scoffed, narrowing her eyes at him, and feeling for all the world like she was fifteen again. “Why, Corporal, I have no idea what you mean.”

Echo laughed. It was the best sound she had ever heard.

Ahsoka grinned in response. “No, don’t worry. I have a few other tricks up my sleeves.”

“At least you’re wearing sleeves now,” he shot back. She shook her head with a chuckle. She’d not felt this happy, this light, in years.

“It’s a good plan, Commander,” Bly said. He leaned down, grabbing the Commander’s blaster before jerking his head toward the door. “Now, let’s get Rex on his feet and out of here before we find ourselves in the middle of a firefight.”

The Commander’s helmet moved in a slow arc, starting with Bly, and ending at Rex. Finally, he nodded slowly. “All right. Corporal, help me out.”

Echo shoved his blaster into its holster before crouching on Rex’s other side. With Ahsoka using the Force to make their job easier, both men got one of Rex’s arms around their shoulders. The Commander held him tightly against his side, right arm tucked around Rex’s waist and less hand holding onto Rex’s arm. Echo was in a similar position on the opposite side, albeit less secure as his scomp link didn’t provide much support.

Ahsoka met Bly’s gaze. “Front or back?” she asked.

“Front,” he answered immediately. “If we’re going to run into anyone, they’ll be coming up behind us. You’ll be more of a help if you’re able to shield us from behind.”

She nodded once. Bly copied the gesture. Then he led the way out of the cockpit, both his and the Commander’s blasters held at the ready. Somewhat awkwardly, Echo and the Commander managed to maneuver Rex out of the doorway, and Ahsoka began to follow them. She paused, turning to look around the broken ship. They were forgetting something. But what?

A small exclamation left her lips as she spotted Rex’s discarded helmet in the corner. She ducked to grab it, the old plastoid dusty and weathered beneath her fingertips. Ahsoka stared down into the face of the helmet for a moment longer, seeing in it the faces of all of the men she had loved, the brothers who had died because she had not been enough to save them.

Jesse.

Kix.

Fives.

Echo.

Hardcase.

Tup.

Vaughn.

Appo.

Denal.

Coric.

Dogma.

There were so many more. So many she had failed. So many she would never see again. Ahsoka brought Rex’s helmet up to rest against her forehead, eyes falling shut as she remembered. For the first time in many years, her eyes burned as tears threatened to fall.

She remained that way for another long moment. Then she heard Echo quietly calling her name. She returned to the present, but the weight of those she had lost continued to press down against her chest.I’ll have time later for grief, she reminded herself. Ahsoka squared her shoulders, clipping Rex’s helmet to the side of her belt. For now, I must push forward. Besides, she smiled softly to herself, leaving the cockpit with assured steps, how can I grieve when I’ve just gotten back my friends?

pt 1 | pt 2 | pt 3 | pt 4

[devoted-horror]

Haiiiii :3 this might be a little silly and your free to ignore it but can I request any slasher or dbd killer of your choice with an S/O (gender-neutral) who likes giving handmade gifts? But if you can include Julie from Legion then I'll love you forever 🙏🙏🙏🙏

a/n: hi sorry this took so long nd that it's so short </3 i'm trying to get back into writing and am using this as a way to do that so!!

includes: the legion (julie), the trickster, baby firefly, and brahms heelshire.

warnings: typical slashers and dbd warnings, mentions of murder, technically captivity in brahms' part if u think too hard on it, jiwoon's kinda mean but i mean. he's jiwoon. idk it's pretty light tbh.

THE LEGION (JULIE)

And people (Joey, mostly) say romance is dead!

If this is before the fog, then she 100% keeps any gifts you give her on her dresser in her bedroom. She'll admire every intricate little detail, knowing you put a lot of effort into making something that suits her style.

If this is after the fog, it really depends on whether you're a killer or survivor. If you're a killer, Julie will probably be a little surprised the first time you give her a gift, mostly because she doesn't interact much with the other killers like the other members of Legion.

She'll be flattered, of course, but she could also suspect you of having ulterior motives of some kind.

But if you're a survivor, she'll be really shocked the first time you give her a gift, and maybe even the next few times afterwards. Why would you, a survivor, even consider making her, a killer, gifts?

She's murdered so many people, probably murdered you, too many times to keep count, so when you snuck up on her during a trial to give her a gift, it left her feeling... conflicted.

When she returns from the trial, the other members of Legion question her on the little bunny figure you had gifted her, made of scrap presumably from other trials.

Susie thought it was cute, and maybe she's a little jealous but she'd probably ask Julie to get you to make her one too the next time you're in a trial with her. Frank is equally as jealous, if not a little more, and he'd probably say the gift was dumb but that's a lie. Joey doesn't care at all, honestly. It's not his business.

She keeps any gift you give her, and if the entity allows it, she may even hang them as little charms on her hooks.

THE TRICKSTER

This guy is used to getting gifts, he almost expects it.

As an idol, it was only natural for his fans to give him gifts, be it during little meet and greets or by other... intruding means that leads to them being featured on his next release.

So when you first start giving him gifts, he might not even react much. The most he'll give is a small 'how nice' that was ingrained into him by his manager.

And if you're a survivor, he might even go as far as to mock you for giving him a gift when his only real interest is hearing you scream. Bastard is mean as hell we should stone him.

I can't say he'd keep your gifts. Unless he's by some chance formed a bond with you, chances are he will throw anything you give him away. The attention is nice, but... he doesn't care.

And if he does form a bond with you, then he will most likely demand you make him things, if we're being honest. Like I said, the attention is nice, and he thrives off it. You giving him gifts just solidifies in his mind that you like him.

He's mostly fond of things that can be worn as jewelry, especially earrings. He'll mix and match the earrings, and he might even go as far as to show the little gifts off to other killers and survivors. He annoys both sides equally doing this.

But his favorite gift by far is the little charm you made to hang from the handle of his bat. It's like a declaration of love to him. You, accepting every little part of him.

So yeah. Give him everything you have. He wants it all.

BABY FIREFLY

She absolutely adores any gift you give her, but it's tenfold when you make it yourself.

The Firefly family is filled with some of the most creative people she knows, so she always enjoys seeing people just... create.

Maybe you're part of the family, or maybe you're some person she met at a club when she and Otis went out searching for their next playthings.

Either way, you have her attention, baby.

She'll wear anything you make her, if it's designed that way. Necklaces, bracelets, earrings, rings... if she can wear it, then trust me. She'll rock it.

Baby will reciprocate any gifts you give her, so it's like a never-ending contest of who can give the other the most gifts.

She'll even go as far as to pester Otis into helping her out with some of the more elaborate gifts she makes you.

It's all sweet and cute and it makes Otis wanna gouge his eyes out every time he has to witness you two give each other gifts.

But yeah! All of your gifts are kept in her room. Any jewelry you make is kept at her wardrobe, and the little trinkets and drawings are displayed for her to admire whenever she wants.

BRAHMS HEELSHIRE

Brahms knew you were the one for him the moment you started making little accessories for the doll.

He liked the fact that you were so creative, that you somehow managed to make gifts for the doll while still sticking to the schedule.

Before you know about him, he'll sneak out while you're sleeping to steal any gifts you made for the doll. It's not technically stealing if you made them for him, so he doesn't see the problem.

Besides, he found your frown cute when you realized the stuff you had made disappeared.

He's basically made a little shrine in his room in the wall just filled with all the stuff you've made.

But at some point, he started getting a little... jealous of the doll. He wanted you to make gifts for him. He wants you to smile at him as you hand him a little trinket or a bracelet you made.

And when he finally reveals himself to you, he expects you to do exactly that. Even if you're scared, he doesn't care.

He'll go as far as to throw a tantrum if you don't, so you really don't have any choice but to continue making gifts for him.

He's sure you'll get used to him being around, and soon enough your smiles won't be so forced anymore when you give him things. You have no other choice.

[fishermanshook]

HELLO :33 could i request some hurt/comfort w norton or edgar?? maybe their so get's badly injured in a match like dying at their feet and stuff and when they come back their partner comforts them?? ;^;

of course annon! enjoy <3

Meet Me Here Again (prospector x gn!reader x painter , separate)

INTRO

You really must've done something to piss Geisha off, as she usually isn't one to put Survivors in situations like this. But none the less, she's left you to bleed out on the ground of Leo's Memory, where the cold has numbed your fingers and turned your lips blue.

But Geisha can't help but secretly writhe in the way your body crawls towards her, leaving a bread crumb trail of your blood as you plead desperately to just be chaired already.

The match leaves your body bloodied and bruised and will definitely haunt your dreams from here on out. But have no fear, your boyfriend is here and will help nurse you back from just one of your many traumatizing matches.

The Prospector

Norton doesn't learn of the events that took place until the next morning, when he's noticed you've skipped breakfast and only finds out now. Last night's match ended horribly, as evident by the cuts and bruises that have decorated themselves across your body. The Prospector almost drops your breakfast as you explain the situation to him with tears streaming down your face. The man swears to stay by your side as he helps you recover. Unfortunately, the world still moves, and he's forced to complete his daily match(es) before he can return to your side.

Norton hates having to see you in pain let only hearing you moan in agony. Norton's already had to change your sheets twice because your cuts kept bleeding through the bandages— and oh god he just hates seeing you like this. The Prospectors pissed that Geisha left you in a state like that, as bleeding out is a serious deal and shouldn't be taken lightly. But at last, Hunters will be Hunters. He can only hope that you heal up quickly as he spoon feeds you a second serving of soup.

The Painter

Edgar finds out earlier than Norton, having gone to your room after he finished his last match. All he wanted to do was cuddle a little with his s/o before falling asleep, but it seemed the manor had other plans for him. After opening the door, he's greeted with sniffling and immediately knows something's wrong. Turning on the light, he rushes over to you and bombards you with questions as to what happened. Gently lifting up the covers answers all his questions, as he's met with countless scars and bruises across your body. He thinks he might cry just seeing you like this. The Painter slowly lowers himself into your bed and wraps his arms around you in an attempt to comfort you.

The Painter brings his painting supplies over to your room, as he's in it almost half the time. He's inside your room even more now that you're hurt. You wonder how Edgar still finds inspiration to paint in your room, he just says you are his inspiration. Wherever you are, his heart can't help but follow. You think it's true, as he seems to paint even more when you're with him. So despite you being bed bound, he'll stay by your side.

note: i didn't think art block would kick me in the a this badly, sorry this is so short :(

(2023)©️fishermanshook — do not steal, translate, plagiarize, or repost my work on any other platform

[saintmagx]

✨ Cruel Summer ✨

pairing: Solo Sikoa x reader, Jey Uso x reader (briefly)

AN: Literally making this for myself, so if I do ever end up publishing - enjoy I guess? 🤪

w/c: 1198

⚠️ Warnings: 18+ , swearing, violence (this is the WWE after all) slight smut, infidelity(if you squint), jealous Jey, toxic behaviour, bad/embarrassing writing ⚠️

doesn’t follow a specific timeline however it is more recent, total divas making a return.

✨ I love you ain’t that the worst thing you’ve ever heard - he looks up grinning like the devil ✨

• ❃°•°❀°•°❃•❃°•°❀°•°❃•❃°•°❀°•°❃•❃°•°❀°•°❃•

“I dunno Trin, the thought of being recorded for 12 hours of the day, like, I enjoy my privacy”.

“Think about it as an opportunity, having the fans see a different side of you. Showing them how hard you work your ass off.”

Trinity is my best friend, she helped me out so much when I joined the WWE 6 years ago. She and her husband Jon took me into their family and helped me adapt into the crazy world of being a WWE superstar.

“Just think about it is all I’m saying. It’ll be fun” trin says nudging me.

Ever since I moved here, we have had a weekly tradition of Wednesday Girls Night, its just snacks, Chinese takeout, and movies, it’s just time for us to catch up and wind down from the gruelling travel schedule.

Right on queue at exactly 11:30pm Jon walks in the door.

“Times up ladies” he says, which is swiftly followed by two pillows being thrown at his head.

“Come on uce, you know better than to interrupt gIrLs NiGhT”

The couch beside me dipped and once again I felt the heat from the body of Josh Fatu, my one weakness. His hand falls to his side and creeps closer to me caressing the side of my bare thigh. You see what people don’t know is Josh and I have an ‘agreement’ - no feelings, just sex and friendship, and it was going great until it wasn’t, feeling were caught, specifically by me and I’m stuck between a rock and hard place as I’m falling hard for him, but I cant let this agreement end because I would rather have him this way than not have him at all.

“Spoke with Joe today, Hunter is bringing him up to the main roster, can’t wait to have my other younger brother fighting by my side”. A third pillow is thrown at Jon from the direction of Josh.

“We are twins, and you are only older by 8 minutes”.

Never a dull moment where the Fatu boys are concerned.

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First day of filming (TD Interview Segment)

Okay, so lets start with a basic intro okay? Ready, go!

The room falls silent the light shines bright on me, I have at least 6 pair of eyes on me, goading me into starting. Gosh why did I sign up to do this!!!

Hi there, my names yn, I am currently on the Smackdown roster and I am the current WWE Women’s Champion.

I’ve been with the WWE for 6 years now and I wouldn’t have survived if it wasn’t for my adoptive sister Trinity, she took me under her wing and I’ve been there ever since. As you guys know – and if you didn't know, the accent should be a huge giveaway, I’m originally from the United Kingdom, I came to the states with a dream in hand and no one there to help me through this bumpy ride. I can never repay her or Jon for the way they have accepted and welcomed me into their little dynamic. Although, travelling the world with Jon and Josh is hard work, they boys are chaotic, I don't know how Trin managed to do it herself for so long!

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Friday Night Smackdown, Atlanta Georgia, 8 weeks before Survivor Series

Walking into the arena for Smackdown I get a message from Hunter asking to meet him in his office. A mixture of anxiety and curiosity fill in the pit of my stomach. In his office I’m met with the familiar faces of Jon, Josh, and Joseph, smiling I look over to Hunter who invites me to sit.

“I got your message, what’s up?

“We have been toying with the idea of a cross brand rivalry - for Survivor Series. Now that Joe has come up to the main roster, we think the Usos and Solo v The Judgement Day would pique interest from the WWE universe.”

“So why am I here?”

“Demi is the Women’s World Champion and part of Judgment Day; it would only seem right that she faces the Women’s Champion”.

Without hesitation I accept. Hunter debriefs us on how it’s going to play out over the next few weeks. We will have to be on both RAW and Smackdown over the next few weeks, so looks like it will be me and the brothers travelling together since Trin is exclusive to Smackdown!

Gorilla, few hours later (TD segment)

Tonight, I have a singles match, however Demi has to interfere and cost me the match – thus starting our road to Survivor Series.

I see Hunter in his usual place over at the screens with his headset on talking to Randy Orton, Randy spots me and immediately comes over to me.

“There’s my favourite girl.”

“I wouldn’t let your wife hear you say that Randy”.

Randy Orton, he is exactly how you would imagine him to be, a cocky little shit, flirtatious as hell, a menace but he has a heart of gold. Many nights we would hit the gym together and training with him before his injury really improved my in-ring ability. He is another one I would call my family away from family.

A familiar scent fills my nostrils, Josh. He stands next to me wrapping his arm around me pulling me closer, as if to stake his claim in me.

“I’ve been looking for you, come on let’s go”.

I smile apologetically at Randy, he just waves me off laughing, as much as I say people don’t know anything about me and Josh, it’s not to say there isn’t rumours flying around, people have their own take on it, and that’s okay, we just laugh it off.

Trin and Jon (TD Interview segment)

“You see yn and josh think they are so slick hiding their little late-night rendezvous” says Jon

Trin sighing, “I just wish they would bang their heads together and realise they are meant to be. Think of the double dates we could finally have Jon.”

Jon’s laugh fills the small interview room, “yeah it would be sweet, and yn is already like family, it would be an easy transition.”

Away from the cameras

“What were you talking to Randy about?” Josh quizzes

“Nothing, you came in and ushered me away before I could say anything.”

“Good, I don’t like it when you get attention from other guys, just me, okay?”

“I think you’ll find Josh that I can speak to who I like”. I say frustrated with his behaviour.

You see as much as I love Josh, this, this right here the way he wants to have his cake and eat it too drives me insane. I so much as look at another guy and he is right there to remind me I’m his, yet he can look at and speak to as many girls and I can’t say shit.

“I’ve got a match to get to, I’ll see you later J.”

“Goodluck out there baby girl, not that you need it.” Before he can come any closer to me, I slip out the room and let my frustrated sigh out. How much longer am I going to keep torturing myself.  

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[ludinusdaleth]

this is something ive had brewing in my mind for a while, but now that this aeor arc seems concluded, im really thinking on ludinus & other calamity survivors, and the idea of no perfect victim & moving forward.

ludinus & leylas are about the same age, have lived the same years. when we meet leylas, she is sending her soldiers to war in large part because she has seen the cycles of exandria unfold so consistently she cannot imagine peace until she defeats her enemy (quana still prays for it, and unity among everyone. but she holds her tongue). ludinus, on the opposite side of the mountains, knows the cycles too. and he thinks he must wage them to break them. leylas worships the luxon to free herself from the gods. ludinus despises the luxon for being seen as a god at all, that leylas as a survivor would dare worship it. both see the exact same thing but in opposite ways. but leylas gives a small smile of surprise when the m9 stop the war of ash & light. she is surprised, but happy to be wrong, in this one moment; her faith in these non dynasty folk paid off. all ludinus, one who hates cycles seeing a cycle caught short, sees, is a loss at taking more beacons, at destroying the "religious drivel" of the luxons religion. at least he can get to work on the big picture, the cycle he actually cares about, over any he enforces.

devexian & alyxian awaken the same year, devexian by the m9, in the ruins of his (and ludinus's) home. he can only laugh dryly at its fate, say it is a cruel joke of history. he picks up the pieces, tries to bring his people back to life. he wants them to start anew. he wants them to let go. if ludinus cant escape the day the city fell then it seems devexian wants nothing more than to leave it for tomorrow. alyxian has been caught in the hell of being a demigod of divinity & ruidis left to rot in half death. (depending on your netherdeep ending) he awakens to a new dawn, suddenly ancient & old in body, but.... free. freed by your party. he was torn asunder by avandra/correlon/sehanine & predathos within him, their powers festering in him as gruumsh destroyed him - and still he tries to be kind, and have faith, even if he is not the warrior he was, even if everything he ever knew was destroyed. he can see society flourish again, even after his & gruumsh's battle destroyed half of marquet. ludinus has seen society rebuild its entire course of time - and all he sees is a world never as brilliant as what it was before.

all of these calamity survivors are completely fucked. leylas is paranoid, losing her mind from living too long, and still haunted by lolth. quana is resigned to stay at her lovers side even as madness takes her when all she wants is unity with others. devexian is clearly so unwilling to face history repeating he wont tell other aeormatons their heritage. alyxian is broken & battered after an eon of nonstop torture.

but they had help from others, from kind souls, who reached a hand out. and they took that kindness and internalized it. and they have vowed to help their people any way they can. to spread that glimmer of hope. to rebuild.

ludinus hasnt. and i think there is deep tragedy in that. i dont know if he has much hope, ironically, beyond raging cleansing fire. in that broad big picture it is both incredibly real & also heartbreaking when recovery falls through the cracks so badly. to have so little of a support group of survivors around you that you smack the hand of those who came out of it differently, and not have known others who could show you it was okay to move on. you hurt other survivors in your refusal to breathe, and live too large to see the others choosing a small destiny. it is unfair to him to had to have suffered and unfair to inflict that on calamity survivors again for your own agenda.

i fixate on him not disagreeing with the bells finding a third option. deep down, he wants to have that hope the others share so fucking bad. we'll see if he ever finds it.

[sshassh-sshout-you]

"Creation" Chapter 3. Fantasy Vision

A/N: I hope the surprise was a success. This chapter is a bit short, but the next one, I promise, will contain more paragraphs and events

Word count: 3,4K

Mentions: not much detailed descriptions of nudity, voyeurism, brief mentions of murder, death and violence, swear words, a pinch of adult thoughts (a veeeery small pinch, bunnies...)

🎧 Sleeping At Last — As If in a Dream

The splash of troubled waters. The glare of a yawning crescent moon. The chirping of forest dwellers. Everything fades and becomes silent in one second.

Only the curves of your body remain.

A graceful neck – and marks of strangulation. A sloping shoulders – and cuts. A thin waist – and a healed wound. A narrow back – and traces of a whip. A rounded hips – and a fresh scar of a knife wound. Hair falling in waves. Shiny drops running down the skin. Plump lips closed in fear...

Noa can not take his eyes off you. No matter how hard he tries.

Your body is exhausted, but despite all the pain, all the suffering and torment you have endured, your body radiates femininity. A completely different femininity than that of the females in the clan. You are a ringing echo, a blossoming human girl. And of course, you are different from the female chimps. From the top of your head to the tips of your toes.

Noa intrigued by you.

***

It had already happened when Noa first met people on the way he was taking. It had interested him then, as everything unknown interests him. Then another human girl had disappeared from sight as suddenly as she had appeared, taking a different way. It was regularity. People need other people, they seek out colonies of sane survivors – and they live completely different lives. It had been an accident then, for rethink the present.

And then Noa could not imagine that his path would once again intertwine with the path of the echo. With the path of the human girl who does not disappear, but remains.

Because this human girl cannot go back to people — after all, only a painful, perverted death awaits her there.

It was a measure of coexistence then. To have a shared experience, to say goodbye, to exchange the last important words – and never meet again because of different aspirations. Different truths. Then the echo went to other echoes. Noa hopes she found what she was searching.

But you will not living to next to apes, among echoes like you. You are going to live with apes. That complicates everything.

What are you aspirating for? What is your truth?

Certainly, that you were not aspirating for a life among all that was alien. And Noa has already learned part of your truth from your eloquent, caustic gestures. Noa does not condemn you at all, and even more so, does not feel offended — how else can you defend yourself?

Back then, Noa was solve people out without understanding them – and that interested him as a conundrum. As a task that requires a strategic solution. Now, that interests him in a different way.

All, that Noa knows about you — is your name. Trying to solve you out yields nothing but vague guesses. Maybe it will be like this in days, weeks, months. No answers to questions. No one tactics help get closer to you. Honesty breeds more doubts in you. Acts of kindness make you distance yourself. Care makes you choke on sobs. What did they do to you in the place you managed to escape from? What did those from whom Noa saved you do to you? What did your past do to you?..

Understand you — is to choose the path that leads into the unknown.

Noa tries to understand you, and when he succeeds, even just a little — it is attracting.

It is tempting. And it is impossible to resist.

Your fragility enchants Noa. And it is unlike anything he is ever experienced before.

Noa justifies himself by that he is obliged to protect you, so fragile — and only for this reason is he glued to you, as if sticky resin.

Knowing that you were defenseless against all the dangers lurking in the light and in the shadows, that could break you again, Noa followed you. The whole way you traveled, he protected you. Even if without your knowledge. Otherwise, you would not have allowed it. If you knew that Noa was coming for you, you would again break your voice in begging to leave you, not to touch you, not to look... Not to care...

But who knows, maybe there are other ruthless men hunting for you?

Having learned how vast and multifaceted the world outside his home was, Noa now explored the forests and plains to find lost, dusty knowledge. These were the remains of human science, human creativity, and human culture. A legacy, not worthy of oblivion.

Staying late one evening, Noa saw you. Wounded. Consisting of a scarlet mess and hopeless rags.

You shook and cried, scraping your skin against the thorns of the bush. And the scavengers stalked your trail. Noa had heard everything, all their foul intentions. Noa had heard that they had decided to use you, torture you to death — but before, fulfilling every lustful desire. Not the desires that were part of courtship and mating rituals. Not the desires that offered fidelity and asked for reciprocity, no. Obsessive, base desires. The human curses they spat out, and the way they guffaw as they discussed their cruel pleasures was incomprehensibly vile.

Noa did not believe that someone's mind could be so corrupted. But they reveled in the upcoming reprisal on you — and Noa could not remain idly.

Noa learned how senselessly cruel the world can be, when two monsters threw you into a ravine.

Prepared to attack and heard you fall, Noa scolded himself for hesitating. That, you did not die there from your broken bones right away — miracle.

Attacking them, who mocked you, taking away your almost cut-off life, Noa seemed himself like a monster.

Noa hated himself for the way you saw him that night. Killing two and looking like an sinister angered shadow.

Their dead bodies were a nightmare. Even as they took turns trying to deal Noa the killing blow — he did not want to kill them. He wanted to send them back to where they came from. To keep their smell from being in a place where the soles of their boots should not be. When Noa's palms turned crimson, he regretted.

But if Noa had not done this, he himself now would be dead.

And you would be dead. But first — vulgarized.

Why did they want to abuse you, huddled against the ground and cobblestones with hopelessness frozen in your pupils, so filthily? Noa thinks that killing two scavengers — is not the same as ruining two souls. But the justification still seems insufficient, guilt scratches at him from within.

Guilt that also for that now he is no better than them in your eyes.

That is why, as soon as you regain consciousness, you always recoil from Noa, like from fire. You are afraid of what you saw that night. You are afraid of what you ran away from - and you are afraid of where you ended up. Fear takes root in you.

Something tells Noa — someone from the past you left behind can still cause you irreparable harm.

And you will not be able to save yourself alone, running away and trying to be brave. Your trembling, the tears shining in the corners of your eyes and your racing heartbeat are noticeable even in the short moments when you forget about everything that scares you. But then you go to the lake alone, and the evening falls on the forest like a darkening blanket. What would you do if the events of that ill-fated night were repeat? What would you do if Noa had not followed you like a silent shadow again? You are so improvident, that Noa would like to say everything he thinks to your face.

The determination to do so would have prevailed - if at that second when Noa thought of everything that could happen, you had not hastily started to take off your clothes.

If Noa came to you now, you would dismiss his behavior as instincts.

Taking a deep breath, Noa straightens his back. Every his muscle, every vain tightens.

As you untie the scraps of your shirt, Noa nods to himself, remembering your recent words in the bird pen. This is why you came here. As you pull down the shreds of your pants, leaving the robe he gave you on the sand, Noa approaches on two legs, bristling his fur. To protect you if necessary.

Lying to himself — is shameful and pointless. The excuse Noa gives for every thought that comes to mind, sounds out of place in his own head.

***

Even if there was no need to protect you, even if you were not hurt and could handle it yourself, Noa could have not leave. The grass around Noah’s feet is tangled in the coastal grass — and as much as he wants to turn around, walk down the beaten path, and go back to his usual business, leaving you alone in the darkness, — he cannot leave.

Noa admires you as a graceful, flawless work of art. But the admiration is mixed with something else, unknown and inexpressible, beyond any definition Noa knows, no matter what he tries to find.

When you take off your shirt, soaked in blood and healing ointment — Noa gets on all fours, furrowed his brows and swallows.

So as not to lose balance.

If you turned even an inch, Noa would see your firm breasts.

When you enter the water, Noa cannot control his breathing. The world freezes, everything seems like an unimportant backdrop. You turn around, covering with your hands, looking up at the trees that are growing in a solid wall. Flowing strands of hair fall on your collarbones. The smoothness of your hands and wrists framing your breasts takes the ground under his feet. Standing right beyond the treetops, Noa gasps for air, unable to stop the mad knock that pierces his ribs.

You appear to him absolutely naked.

This should not have happened. Fate is playing tricks on him, like a fool.

Although, why would fate fool Noa, if he had already fooled himself?

Allowing himself to stare too long, Noa chides himself. But it is no use. He cannot move, mesmerized by you. The way the water embraces you — so pure, so vulnerable, — takes Noa back to the moment when he once saw human art celebrating beauty.

Drawned in pencil wonderful woman with a fish tail, holding a baby in her arms. Also with a fish tail, but small. She seems to be looking out of a drawing, overflowing with the joy of motherhood. Peace, care and awe emanate from the graphite strokes. The immaculate beauty of the moment envelops the paper, barely touched by time. The woman holds the child in such a way that the loving, tender touch seems not depicted, but the most that is real...

Must be, people call these amazing entities mermaids.

This is a myth. People have invented many myths. Good and evil. Instruct and absurd. Seductive.

Noa thought, he knew what that word meant. Delightful lie, that could never come true.

But seeing you now, Noa realizes that he was wrong — what else were you now, if not a myth in reality?

As you dive under a boulder, Noa imagines the how the azure scales on your feet and ankles shimmering. How the fins wriggling along the lines of your body. You are surrounded by an aura of magic and innocence. Noa feels like if he takes one more breath — you will immediately dissipate into a mist. That kind that spreads along the surface of the water in the morning.

In the spring, the evenings here are especially long. They come in all shades of pink, red, and gold — before the darkness takes the place of light. Noa sees you shining, wrapped in the rising stars. As bright, as if the brightest hour of day still lasts.

Can Noa look at you like this? Can Noa gaze at you, in the spilled moonlight, like this?

Can Noa admire you?

Swearing under his teeth, Noa curses himself for what he feels.

You circling like an underwater nymph. Hiding, you disappear like a fairytale vision. Noa exhales awe that permeates him to the bones, to the heart and to the pain.

Above the water only your eyes peering into the april twilight.

Noa looks at you from a distance of two outstretched, clasped hands.

You heard a presence. And you were scared.

Looking for a place further away, a place to hide, you swam up to Noa. And you did not realize it yourself. Cause you do not feel his smell.

Breathing in and breathing out, Noah smells you too clearly - you smell like lake coolness, fragrant flowers, and something else... Something that seeps from his nostrils straight into his consciousness. Something that confuses.

Your concern? That, should be, what it is.

You are truly worried that someone will attack you again. Hearing every sound, feeling every touch, you are afraid of new blows and encroachments. But Noa voluntarily laid responsibility for you on his shoulders, how can he not keep you?

No way. From now on, Noa will do anything, to make sure no one dares to even think about breaking you. In any way. No matter what it takes.

You — mermaid, almost caught in a net. You — flower, almost crushed to crumbly. But Noa would not let anyone catch you and crush you. Not for anything.

Noa assures himself, that he does this out of an unspoken duty. Out of principles. Out of justice, after all.

But Noa's thoughts are in mess.

Noa's thoughts are feverish. Like he is gravely ill, like he is dying. Like Noa knows he is going to have a disappointing outcome. And it does. Noa places his hand where his heart beats — where the memory of your weakening touch is still fresh.

To think that, Noa touched you. His hands touched almost every curve of your body — almost everything he is so absorbed in right now. It seems unreal now, when you are seems like a maddening miraculous illusion.

You are beautiful. More beautiful than anyone or anything, that Noa has ever seen.

You are so beautiful, that Noa feels, like in you merged all the things that can inspire veneration.

And if all the thoughts that flashed through Noa's head were obvious, not requiring comprehension and acceptance — with this thought, filling his mind quickly and irrevocably, Noa cannot come to terms. You charmed Noa at your first meeting, despite the circumstances. Covered in blood and dirt, tearful and scared, but trying to fight... Holding you in his arms, Noa saw the fading glow. You no longer hoped for anything, and the glow faded into a lonely ember.

That morning, Noa hoped that the glow emanating from you would not fade, but flare up brighter — but Noa was not prepared for the fact that now, washed from all troubles, healing, you shine even more unbearably beautifully.

Noa close his eyes so you don't blind him, like a fallen, blessed star.

Must not, Noa must not look at you. For now it is only the absorption of your image — but later, Noa is sure, he will think of you something, that he will desire and be ashamed of. Something, that is an inherent part of nature intent.

Noa does not know how to deal with the thoughts of you, that are rushing through him turbulent current.

All that Noa knows — he has to stop right now. Has to turn away, forget about this. Wait until you're dressed — and then follow you, still silently, ensuring safety.

And Noa certainly should not become like a scavenger. After what happened to you, you are free to not let any man touch you. The lingering thoughts about you — that what will only make Noah feel worse right now. He is not even a human man. He is a beast that you will continue to hide from, no matter what your life in your new home is like.

Noa rely — if he does not indulge his own fantasies, everything will remain the same.

World sounds and moves again, but the rhythm is completely different. The dark silence is filled with repercussions and undertones. Noa watches as you peer fearfully into the leaves rustling from his strained breathing.

World will never be the same for Noa again.

Noah curses himself for his uneven thoughts, as your wet hair shines, clinging to your tempting silhouette.

But he is obliged to hide all thoughts more reliably than you hide, again clutching on boulder.

In order not to disturb you, not to make a single unnecessary sound, Noa clenches his jaw. His larynx is constricted with frustration. What is he hoping for? He is an ape. You can hardly trust him. You have absorbed the fear of apes, probably, from the moment of birth. People teach their children to be quiet and afraid, so that they survive this invisible, multi-year struggle. People teach their children both to avoid battles and to fight apes.

Noa feels captivated by your beauty. Losed in this battle. And the strength he used in the fight will not help him free himself from this captivity.

Beauty shimmers in every your fleeting movement, in every flutter of your eyelashes. Beauty is at your fingertips. Beauty is in your voice, when you threaten the thick evening, assuring that you are armed.

If it were anyone else here right now — these would be the last words left on your lips.

From your body and your soul would have be nothing but scraps. You have just literally pointed the hunter to you, the victim.

Listening to the melody of your voice, Noa almost falls to his knees — as if you finished him off, relieving him of torment. Listening to your voice, when it is full of confidence and shoreless, just as the lake enveloping your body is shoreless now, is a blessing for Noa. Unexpecting. In response to any action of Noa you hide, scream and cry — in the short time spent with you, he got used to this and decided that for his ears you will not sound any different.

But you talk to the forest in a way that makes Noa petrified. He would give anything, for you to talk to him like that.

It seems like a dumb wish — Noa would do anything, to you say something to him. At least even just one word, eye to eye.

But what needs to happen, for you do this?

Perhaps, even if snow covers the slopes in the middle of summer — inside you nothing will grow instead of fear. Noa laughs in vexation — no matter what he does, you will always feel like you are a little cornered animal and someone's gaping maw is about to eat you up.

Standing unacceptably close, Noa growls gutturally. Unrecognizable — so that you decide that the forest beast has taken you for prey. So that you think about how to protect yourself on your next willfully foray. Because, obviously, you will go off alone to who knows where more than once.

***

Noa leaves the worst, most menacing thing in him in a growl that resound for miles. He barely recognizes himself, but he continues even more louder — so that you do not guess anything.

You will never know he saw you like this. So enchanting, so pristine.

Because you are destined not for his gaze.

You turn your head back and forth, making splashes. Water hits Noa's bristling fur, sobering him up. Silently retreating step by step, Noa thinks, this is conveniently. Otherwise, he was not have been able to cope with the unknown feeling you have kindled in him. He walks away to the glade, where the flower petals shared with you their scent.

The leaves, surrounding the lake, no longer rustle.

***

From the thundering growl you afraid to drop your heart to the bottom of the lake. You count the seconds, until the inhuman noise stops. You wait - and dive into the depths to reach the shore unnoticed.

At first, heard breathing among the trees, you thought — they has come to kill you.

Damn bastards of the settlement. When you were a child newly trapped in their rusty dungeon, they punish with death a woman who had climbed to the surface. Said she was infected, cursed by demons swarming the surface, that she would bring death to all unless she was gotten rid of. Shot her. Carried on, as nothing had happened, their fanatical blathering, as if it were the for edification.

That terrible event deprived you of any desire to escape. But you kept inside you your only truth.

They lied and jeered. Hell was there. Find a way out was impossible.

You would have accepted your fate sooner or later, like everyone else living here. If they hadn't done the same thing, that you hated them for, once again. When you were so small you could barely pronounce your own name — you could't help your blood mother and father. And even as an adult, you couldn't have time to save your foster mother and father — there no way you could have overtake two fired from a pistol bullets.

But you were able to find weapons there, where you weren't allowed to enter without order.

You were able to kill one of them.

You were able to escape so far.

If it were them — you would have to pray to God, that death would take you before they could carry out the punishment, that awaits you for every broken rule.

But when the growl rang out, you felt that anxiety dripping from you along with the water.

Anything more stupid, than rejoicing at the growl of a hungry beast, you can't even imagine.

But they are cowards. You've heard a lot of their dead drunk talk while exploring the dungeon corridors. They know where the prey is found, and where the predators is found. And they've never hunted where they could be attacked by those who rightfully own the land above. It means, they sure don't turn up over here.

So, whoever made that deafening roar — you thanked fate.

Approach the shore, you reach out to the light-blue fabric to quickly put it on and tie it around yourself. All that remains is to wash the dirty rags, which you do in a hurry.

Still, Noa asked you to come back before dark.

Darkness descended the forest without warning. Your tank top and shorts are drying right on you. From barely squizzed shirt, that you've wore over the thin fabric, dripping drops. The wind is pulling your hair in all directions, heralding a cold night to come.

Along the way, you look back to wish the flowers survive the badweather.

The path leads you to the apes's huts. To your hut, where you have to settle in and tidy up. The dwellings are visible, hanging lights show the way. All the work for today is done, everyone is probably heading to the nests. You yawn.

You look ahead. The routine arranged by the apes is boiling, just as it was when you came here as a stranger. Surely, you didn't hallucinated, due to wounds, exhaustion and cold exposure, and life here flows peacefully?..

You turn carefully to tap your look at the doe with her little deer. They seem as like hugging.

They not afraid of you, not at all.

They see you, and they don't hide in the forest, as you take a few short steps toward them. You stretch out an open hand, and with your fingertips you stroke the doe's honey-brown fur. You know from books, that deer are not easy to see. They wary and unnoticeable. Why then does this forest mother like speak to you about something? Her dark eyes look at you and the top of the fawn's head. She allows you to caress her baby, and it cuddles into your palm.

You smile, transforming all yourself into a carefulness, so as not to disturb them. You would stay in this moment forever, standing next to the doe and fawn.

It's similar to what were taken away from you twice family warmth.

The glade illuminating, as if it were a sunny morning. Embracing you in-deer maneer, the mother and child leave. You know for some reason, that you will see them again — after all forward there are many sunsets and sunrises.

Seeing your hut, you walk faster.

Questions that were scurrying through your head this morning are still scurrying. The clan's abutments still seem strange to you, because you yet know almost nothing. You are healthy, but still weak. But now you feel a warming hope.

And in any case, you cross the threshold of a new home, thinking not about yesterday, but about tomorrow.

[jelzorz]

194.

So much of it happens in a blur. Opeli only remembers bits and pieces of how it started to begin with before the softer parts of her brain shut down to let her do what she needed to do. She remembers an explosion, the air filled with fire and smoke, a crumbling tower and Soren beside her, ushering her towards the nearest exit, his words in her ear—stay low, keep going, go, go, go—and then there was light, and screaming, and chaos, and the rest had simply happened, because there was no time to think about it and too many people to save. There were the guards, the civilians, the dragon circling in the air; the order to evacuate and then Soren leaving her in the stairwell with Hat trembling in her palm; more fire, more smoke, a spell? And now—

The magic that protected them from the fires is starting to wear off now. Most people look like themselves again which is a relief, but it gives Opeli a chance to survey the survivors better too. Raids and wars and attacks are brutal and terrifying in the moment, but the aftermath is almost always worse—and this is the worst is has ever been. The injuries look worse on flesh and blood; broken limbs and crushed legs and burns are so much more visceral now that she can see them, now that they're able to set them and bind them and dress them with gauze. Doctors are in short supply out here, so she and the other clerics have been helping with first aid as much as they can. It's not enough. There are still people who will not see the morning. There will be more rites to give before the sun sets again.

This is why she seeks Soren out, she thinks. He's seen it all. He knows how blood looks on his hands. He knows how to handle all this.

She finds him helping to settle a couple of kids. They are fine, thank the Five Sisters, and their parents are fine, just scared and a little hungry, and he is offering them his rations when she gets to him. They hurry away as she approaches, their smiles shy but grateful, but when Soren gets up, he looks just as wary as she.

"That was very kind," she says quietly.

He shrugs. "They need it more than me. Is everything okay?"

"They could be better." Opeli presses her lips together as she studies him, swallowing the emotion that rises when she remembers he is injured too. The gash on his forehead has dried, matting the hair just above his brow, and she almost can't tell if the marks on his face are made of bruises or soot.

She is so tired of blood. So sick of how red it is, how sticky it feels on her fingers. She likes it even less on him.

“You need that looked at,” she says at last, nodding at his forehead.

He waves her off. “It’s just a scratch. The other clerics have their hands full. I’ll be fine.”

Opeli sets her jaw. “My hands are free. I’ll take care of it.”

“Opeli, seriously, it’s okay—”

“I owe you.” It slips out before she means it to. She knows he doesn't want to feel like his bravery has to be repaid. It's his job to protect his people, just as it is hers—but she thinks of the window in the tower, the dragon in the sky, the glow of an inferno and of the heat of dragonfire as it blew the glass inward, right where she would have been standing if he hadn't—

"You don't owe me anything."

"You saved my life," she points out. Twice today, she thinks, when he tackled her out of the way of Sol Regem's attack, and then she was in the crowd by the bridge, trapped by the fires after he left her with Hat to speak to his father. There was a third time too, when Viren crowned himself King and would have branded her and Corvus traitors to the realm. "Let me stitch you up. It's the least I can do."

"Opeli—"

"Soren." She gives him a look, stern, unyielding, the same kind she uses at meetings when someone won't agree to doing something reasonable. "I wouldn't be here to offer if it wasn't for you. Let me help."

He chuckles, then relents. "Fine," he mumbles after a moment. "Let's get it over with."

x

They find a quieter spot, a little away from the crowd but still close enough to keep watch over them in case something else happens. Opeli picks up a first aid kit from one of the younger clerics as they pass, one whose hands are shaking with the shock and exhaustion of treating so many wounded. She is not the only one: Opeli has already ordered two others to go to bed and leave their kits with soldiers or civilian volunteers. One of the guards threw up when Opeli reset someone's dislocated shoulder. Another had her head in her hands and jumped at every sudden noise.

The cracks are starting to show in everyone, and it's not just because of the trauma caused by a dragon attacking the castle. They are all simply exhausted, and the work does not seem to stop. The soldiers keep watch in shifts but then have to assist the civilians with tents, with food, with moving the injured and the dead.

But Soren is steady. His resolve keeps her hands from shaking, even as he winces while she drags thread through his skin. The stitches are not as neat as they would have been this morning, but the gash is clean and closed, and he's not bleeding anymore.

Opeli clicks her tongue at her work, wishing it was better, wishing she could do more, but he catches her hand as she frets over it, the warmth of his fingers like an anchor to this, to now.

"You don't owe me," he says again.

"I owe you three times over," she says. "Three times now, I—"

"You don't," he insists. "It's my job."

"It's your job to keep Ezran safe. Keeping me alive is certainly not—"

"Do not finish that sentence."

"I only—"

"Opeli." His fingers tighten. Opeli's breath catches in her throat. "It's my job to protect my friends," he says. "My family. I've lost enough. Don't act like I can afford to lose more."

There's a pause. Opeli looks away, and then, to her horror, she starts to cry.

Soren stares at her but his grip is firm, even as she hiccoughs and hides her tears in the recesses of her hood. It's all so much. Too much. The smoke and the fire and loss of life; the windows exploding inwards, the wound on his forehead, the castle crumbling to the ground. And now this too? "Thank you," she murmurs.

"Opeli, come on, you don't even owe me that."

"Not for that. For—" Opeli sniffles. "For considering me your friend. I'm honoured."

He almost laughs at her, his fingers tightening that little bit more, a man clinging to what little he has left. "You're pretty well family now," he says quietly. "Don't thank me," he says again. "Just don't die or leave or whatever else. I don't think I can—" He swallows. "Just stick around and we'll call it even. Okay?"

Opeli twitches her lips despite herself. "I can do my best."

[paperbackribs]

Witch Steve

(working title)

next: Chapter 2: The Aftermath

So 👉👈 You were all so encouraging that I was inspired to write 14 chapters of Witch Steve. This will eventually be going up on Ao3, but while I'm finishing it up and re-editing I'll post the start of it all on Tumblr. Chapter content: steddie to come, platonic stobin, ~2K words.

Edit/Update: This is a 15 chapter fic. Ao3 here.

Chapter 1 The Sacrifice

Robin fiddles with the vodka bottle full of gasoline in her hands, “…in the face of the world ending, the stakes of my love life feel spectacularly low.”

She sighs, stuffing one of their rags into the mouth of the clear glass and completing their next Molotov cocktail. Steve watches the resignation on her face and thinks that if anyone deserves to have a moment of love and joy in the face of the world ending, it’s Robin.

It’s all of them, he reflects, looking out onto the grassy clearing.

The forest of trees behind Lucas and Erica reminds him of where they will be taking their battle to shortly. Vecna waiting in the Upside Down like a venomous spider in his web. Manipulating the troubled emotions and frightening visions of his victims, ready to break them in more than one way for his selfish desires.

Exuberant laughter draws his eyes over Nancy tailoring her weapon to Dustin as he dodges Eddie’s outstretched hands. Fondness rises within Steve like the warmth of rising bread. The fading sun frames the two boys as Eddie speaks earnestly into Dustin’s grinning face, the bond between them obvious even from here.

“Maybe it’s not the time for romance,” he admits, pensive as he watches Eddie tackle Dustin to the ground with a cackle. “But isn't love the most important thing when it is the end of the world.”

Robin knocks her knees amicably against his and he knows that this is her way of saying she loves him. He smiles back at her; he loves her too. He says it silently because he does, more than he can say at this moment. The words heavy and stuck at the back of his throat.

He wishes she could have had her moment with Vickie before they face the coming danger. The fragility of their situation leaves him with a disturbing feeling of unease churning in his gut.

It’s the fear of losing Robin that further feeds into Steve’s increasing sense of foreboding, making his teeth clench and nails dig into his palms. He has to Know, Steve decides; he needs to make sure there is hope for a later where love and romance can be indulged.

In the heart of the quiet afternoon, Steve allows the sounds of the boys roughhousing and Erica’s sharp, but not unkind, words to become muffled. While he relaxes his fists and Robin fades from his sight, Steve unfurls his uncanny gift to see into the murky depths of their futures. He hears a soft, haunting melody reaching out to him through the ethereal and a glimmering sheen covers his vision.

Like a weaver of fate, he gently unravels the white threads of destiny that intertwine around the lives of those he cherishes. Even Eddie, new to the party but just as entrenched in their fight, running scared; yet Steve thinks, just as courageously meeting the more experienced members toe to toe.

And it is only Eddie’s fate that gleams a terrible ox-blood red, a twisted tapestry of the future revealing a grim reality. Steve’s unease deepens as he Sees two roads diverging before Eddie, each leading to vastly different destinies.

One road, he is unsurprised to find, is golden bright and brilliant, full of joy, love, and friendship. This Eddie would be the guiding light for those he loves and who will love him just as fiercely as he holds them to his heart.

Steve swallows over the hard knot in his throat at the thought of all the beauty that is stolen if Eddie loses that path: because the other is shrouded in a terrible darkness.

If Eddie chooses this road, a jagged tear will be torn through the tapestry of too many lives. An unravelling thread that leads to the frayed fabric of its survivors in a way that Steve thinks the self-deprecating Eddie would never suspect.

Aside from family, only one other person knows Steve’s truth. Keeps his secret close to her breast, alongside twin confessions on a bathroom floor. Robin haltingly refusing Steve’s advances to favour Tammy Thompson and Steve blurting out that he comes from a long line of Witches. Taught at his nana’s knee and made to understand that this is something just as private to him as Robin understands her sexuality to be to her.

He watches Dustin’s wide smile, still innocent amongst a grim collection of dark moments, and Knows that this will be a turning point for his young friend. One in which Dustin lives a life spirited and mirthful or another irrecoverable scarred and linked to a critical event of grief and regret. A shiver runs down Steve’s spine and he decides he can’t stand idly by, watching as Eddie teeters on the precipice of these two divergent paths.

Drawing from long lessons of heritage and the power he and his kind hold, Steve decides on a potent action that will allow him to weave a new pattern.

---

Scarlet lightning roars in the darkness behind Eddie and Dustin as the boys wait for Steve, Robin and Nancy to depart and attack Vecna. The trailer behind the boys is tightly wrapped in the sinister vines of the Upside Down and the smell of sulphur rains down with the grey ash that coats the world in a bitter blanket. Steve watches the ghostly flakes drift onto the cloud of Eddie’s bound-back hair, and he knows that this is the moment that he readied for.

Steve reaches out to Eddie with his uncanny gift — a glass sphere, like a marble, is cradled innocently at the centre of his hand. It is as big as an apricot pit and strangely swirls with warm browns and flecks of gold, like the gentle play of sunlight flickering through to a forest floor. Steve holds his open palm out to Eddie, his hazel eyes filled with a heartfelt entreaty.

"Eddie," he asks softly, "take the marble and swallow it. Please, trust me."

Even in the short time that Steve has known Eddie, he gets that the other guy isn’t known for his impulse control. Despite this, he’s still somewhat surprised when Eddie, with no hesitation, takes the marble and swallows it down. Doe-eyed pools of warm brown look up at him through dark bangs.

“I do,” Eddie shrugs with a mysterious smile.

“What was that” Dustin shrieks, the faux military tags he had insisted on wearing jingling in agitation.

Robin stays silent behind him; Steve knows she’s holding her questions for later, having cottoned onto that he was up to something mystical when he’d hidden in the RV for a while. Only clasping his arm briefly in support when he had walked past, sweating and still pale.

Nancy though is just as surprised as Dustin and looks on at them suspiciously.

Eddie knocks an arm lightly into Dustin’s side, “I don’t know, but it tastes like hot chocolate. Warm,” he chuckles softly, “even comforting.” He turns questioning eyes back to Steve, “but, yeah, what was that?”

Steve feels how tight his smile is. “A little insurance.”

He talks to both of them, trying to instil them to obey by the force of his words alone. Knows that Dustin can be a stubborn little shit. “Just… if this goes south, I mean, at all. You abort.” But his focus turns, inevitably, to Eddie. “Don’t be a hero, man. Okay?”

A flash of emotion crosses Eddie’s face too quickly for Steve to understand before he slings an arm around Dustin’s skinny shoulders. “Of course, look at us. We are not heroes.” Under his hoodie and headband, Dustin grimaces in agreement.

The deep feeling of foreboding in his gut is untouched by their reassurance, but Steve doesn’t bother to unravel his Sight again. He’s done what he can and now he follows the girls to battle Vecna and maybe free them all from this nightmare once and for damn good.

As they travel through the dark forest, neither girl notices the small glowing pulse that Steve presses to each of them. The marks fade softly before the other can notice it. Transported by a light brush over Nancy’s tight shoulders and a firm squeeze of Robin’s sweaty hand in his.

The attack against Vecna is fierce but the three of them have never struck more certain or true. Steve with his axe, Robin and her cocktails, and Nancy with the shorn-off shotgun. Their attacks land every time and between their physical assault and Max’s diversion, something must go right because the world shudders once, then twice, but stays steady before Vecna screams harshly and his pale, grotesque body falls broken to floor. His web of terror finally shattered.

The rest of the decrepit house, vines and all, quickly catch from the blazing gasoline and the three stumble after each other, racing to the still-rancid outdoor air. But it’s air free of Vecna and that makes it all the sweeter.

With a whoop, Robin jumps into Steve’s waiting arms and breathlessly he swings her in joy. Resting his forehead on hers, he knows she can see every nuance of his relief, sensing him finally releasing the suffocating fear of the Upside Down. “This is it, Robin. I can feel it.” Steve exclaims.

Robin’s blue eyes, which sometimes can be so cynical for a person this young, gleam in belief. Belief in Steve and that he can See the truth of it all. She wraps her hands around his shoulders and is shaking in a combination of comfort and ebbing adrenalin. “Thank god,” she breathes.

“Let’s hope so,” Nancy interrupts. But she’s looking on at them with a small smile.

Steve knows it will take a long time for her to believe that it is true. And she doesn’t have the benefit of Steve’s Knowing as they do. But she’ll get there, he thinks. Much like it will take them all time to heal, they will. And the kids will bounce back, he thinks with faith. They’ve been made to be too resilient for children their age but he’s grateful for it, nonetheless.

It’s at the thought of Dustin that Steve remembers Eddie and those two paths he had seen; he urges the girls on, back to the uncanny version of the trailer park. Impatience sparking through to his fingertips.

They’ve not quite reached it yet when Steve hears the haunting cries of anguish that echo through the empty forest and roads of the Upside Down.

Dustin is hunched over the still-warm but devastatingly motionless body of his beloved Dungeon Master and friend. Bright red blood spills everywhere, coating Dustin's hands and across his face where he has smeared a hand over his cheeks. Eyes filled with tears and pain, Dustin looks up at Steve and cries out that the older boy had tried to save him.

“He said he didn’t run, Steve. But he did. He did. He ran to the demo-bats and they— they—"

Dustin starts hiccupping between tears and short, frantic breaths. He grabs at Eddie’s camouflage jacket, shaking the body as if it will jolt the older boy awake.

“Eddie!” Dustin cries. His voice, often bigger and louder than his short body would seem, breaks through the empty quiet of the Upside Down. No more swarming bats or jagged bolts of red lightning to distract from the palpable sense of grief saturating into their tired bodies. The only cruel answer is the flakes of ash gathering over Eddie’s unresponsive body like this terrible world is already trying to bury him away.

Steve’s heart is breaking, he feels the crack of it cleanly through his chest and in the thickening at the back of his throat and burning behind his eyes. But he is not powerless; this is exactly what he prepared for.

With a firm, yet gentle hand, Steve unlocks Dustin’s stiff fingers and shifts him into Nancy’s waiting embrace. She tries to turn him in her arms, but Dustin refuses to look away.

Nancy must think that Steve is going to quietly close the lids over Eddie’s blank eyes, which should be bright and expressive; eyes that were full of mischief just hours ago. Or that Steve will try to pick up the body and take it back with them, impossible as it seems in the moment, to think of carrying a heavy and limp weight vertically and against gravity where climbing through the Upside Down gates, with only their own bodies to support them, had been hard enough.

He’s not going to do any of those things, Steve thinks fiercely. He won’t need to.

With an unwavering determination, Steve drops to his knees and pushes his left hand down, through and deep into the realm of the mystical, until he finds an answering beat, a corresponding warmth. He pulls, straining with every ounce of physical and spiritual strength he possesses. A pearlescent light suddenly pushes out from Steve's link to Eddie, it pours unendingly into the dark landscape before pulsing sharply. The ethereal cuts precisely through the unclean atmosphere before rapidly shrinking back into the connection between the two boys.

Steve's own spirit is being drained, a live wire shooting up his arm and threading through every vein of his body in a white, blinding heat. But Steve knows that it is in this critical moment where he could lose his own body and soul, where the world hangs in the balance between life and death, that something miraculous can happen.

And it does.

Eddie draws a shuddering breath and his eyelids flutter open. His chest starts to rise even as his gaze looks unsteadily out into the living world once more.

“Steve?” he whispers hoarsely.

“I’ve got you, Eddie,” Steve murmurs, checking that the wounds are healing under the slick blood. His left arm is numb, but he uses the shaking right to examine Eddie’s torso where jagged gashes are rapidly closing over.

“It’s all right, we’ll get you help, you’re gonna be okay."

“No, Steve, your eyes…” Eddie lifts a shaking finger to touch Steve’s face, leaving a red fingerprint behind to mark Steve with the very essence of his mortal life.

Steve knows what he must see since this has worked. Because reality is not the same as when Eddie had closed his eyes for seemingly the last time. As Eddie returned from the brink of death, Steve now sees the world through one rich hazel eye, while the other will remain forever white and sightless, an eerie testament to the price paid to mend the shattered threads of destiny.

If you liked anything, please consider leaving a comment over on Ao3 :-) It would make my day!

Taglist

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@whackyrach

[findmeinasunshower]

"𝑨𝒍𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒏": 𝑱𝒐𝒆𝒍 𝑴𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒓 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

word-count: 2.2k

summary: Eight weeks after arriving in Jackson, Ellie drags Joel to the Tipsy Bison, where he meets you :) soft get-together fic because joel deserves some happy fluff, dammit

warnings: none :)

“Joel, right?”

The man in question finds himself ducking slightly at the sound of an unfamiliar voice saying his name. He'd managed to avoid The Tipsy Bison for eight weeks after he and Ellie settled in Jackson—his reputation as Tommy’s brother precedes him around town, and to be honest...he hasn’t been inclined to make small talk for years.

So Joel isn’t exactly welcoming when he glances up at the bartender who spoke to him. You smirk, unperturbed by his scowl, and raise your eyebrows in a gentle prompt for him to answer. Joel clears his throat. “Uh, yeah. That’s me.”

“Hm. Maria’s description was spot on.”

Your smile widens at your quip, and it’s Joel’s eyebrows that raise this time. He can’t remember the last time anyone besides Ellie ribbed him without having an ulterior motive. A joking smile spreads across your pretty face, lit by the warm lights of the bar, and something in Joel relaxes a little at the sight.

His mouth responds before he can stop himself: “And what exactly did Maria have to say?” he asks, leaning forward in his seat.

“Tall, dark, and broody,” you respond simply, eyes trailing down his shoulders and to the bar. You lean down to place your freshly-shined glass underneath the counter, and Joel finds himself tracking your movements. “'Clint Eastwood come to life.' Figured you’d sit at the corner of the bar to avoid the crowd, but that you’d also pick a seat that can see the entire room.

"Plus, I figured I wouldn’t see you in here until Ellie dragged you.” You flick your gaze pointedly to something behind him—Ellie, he takes. “I recognized you as soon as you sat down,” you tease.

He leans back with a hum, impressed and, admittedly, intrigued. Three years ago, he would’ve felt threatened by the way you managed to take him apart so completely before you even spoke a word to him. Now, he’s just stunned that anyone cares enough about him to do that sort of analysis. “Anything else?” he asks dryly.

You smirk and begin shining a new glass. “Tommy’s the only other person in this town who orders Tito’s straight. You Texas boys are all the same.” Joel nods and chuckles internally.

“In some ways,” he agrees. He takes a moment to swirl the aforementioned drink in his glass before he lifts his gaze back to yours. “You know Ellie?”

“She just might be the most entertaining person I’ve ever met," you deadpan, and Joel finds himself huffing a small laugh at that.

“Yeah, that’s one way to put it.”

“How would you put it?” you ask, and the hardened survivor finds himself stumbling slightly under the sincerity of your gaze.

One of the first things he learns about you is that you can’t hide a damn thing on your face. Your question is an honest one; you genuinely want to know how he, a man you just met and have heard who-knows-what about, feels. And while something about your sincerity makes him uncomfortable, he feels himself opening his mouth to respond. He wants to delve into this conversation with you, any conversation with you. He wants to flirt with you a little bit more.

Just as he begins to stumble toward an answer, a familiar gangly form shoves itself onto the barstool next to his. “Hey, (y/n)!” Ellie greets you brightly.

“’sup, kiddo?” You greet her so casually, Joel can tell you and the girl are already well into being friends. He regains his composure as you finally begin cleaning the glass in your hands. “Staying out of trouble?” you ask.

“Yup.”

“—Nope,” Joel interjects.

You smile at the way Ellie and Joel glare at each other, him with an exasperated sigh and Ellie an incredulous scowl. “I’ve been good!” she insists.

“Just because you haven’t been caught don't mean you’ve been good,” Joel growls.

You find yourself laughing out loud at that as you set the newly-shined glass back on the rack. “Now I’m really curious.”

“Don’t be,” Joel grumbles.

“What’s taking you so long?” Ellie asks Joel, happy to change the subject. “Tommy’s been waiting for his drink.”

“His complainin’ is exactly why I’m still over here. Just...” Joel sighs. “Gimme a sec.”

Ellie rolls her eyes and snags the lemonade you proffered her off of the bar, along with Tommy’s own glass of Tito’s. “Nope, let’s go. Maria’s orders.”

Joel sighs deeply at that. “Alright, alright.”

“Later, (y/n)!”

“Bye, Ellie.”

Joel groans and pushes off of the barstool and to his feet, eyes on his drink, as for some reason he finds himself unable to meet your eye again. “It was—” He clears his throat before continuing: “It was nice to meet you.”

The smile you offer him when he looks back up is endearing in its honesty, and Joel finds himself thinking about it when he closes his eyes that night.

~*~

The second time Joel winds up in the Tipsy Bison, it’s the absolute last place he wants to be.

He, Tommy, and a few other guards on the night shift successfully prevented a rather large raid in the early hours of the morning. The raiders had scouted the city and discovered what they thought was a skeleton shift in the patrol…not knowing that Joel is basically a one-man army.

So, he was dragged to The Tipsy Bison to celebrate. And now, he’s looking at you from across the bar as you catch his eye and hold up a rocks glass in silent question. Joel shakes his head and fights a small smile.

He had seen you around town a few times since the night you met. You greeted him with a friendly wave each time, sometimes even a conversation. But you always left him with a look that lingered just a little bit too long not to be some sort of hint.

Joel’s lip twitches when you duck back down beneath the bar, only to pop up cutely with a pint glass and an innocent tilt of your head. Joel glances down at Tommy and Maria, still deep in conversation with a woman he can’t remember the name of, before shaking his head at you again.

You nod dramatically and start to reach for a margarita glass on the top shelf, and suddenly Joel is covering his incoming laughter with a fake coughing fit.

Tommy gives him a strange look. "You alright there brother?" he asks, and Joel swallows when his younger brother’s gaze flicks to you briefly.

“Yeah, just...” Joel rubs the back of his neck and sighs in defeat. “I’ll be by the bar.” He ignores Tommy’s not-so-subtle whistle as he shoulders his way through the crowd. It ain’t his fault he’s rusty, who cares if he’s being obvious or not?

When he arrives at your little corner, you’ve set out a martini glass, a pint, and a rocks glass. “So, which is it?” you ask, blinking up at him expectantly.

“How about two of your specialty and ten minutes of your time?”

You lean back slightly in surprise, heat rushing to your face at the intensity of Joel’s gaze—He decides to catch you off guard more often if you look this adorable when he does. But, despite the heat in your cheeks, you’re quick to recover. You smile at him as you pull out two clean glasses and set them on the bar top. “Are you flirting with me, Joel Miller?”

He nods slowly. “If that’s alright with you.”

“It’s more than all right,” you mumble shyly.

Joel crosses his arms and shifts his weight, satisfied and inexplicably warmed by your answer. “Alright then.”

You join Joel on the other side of the bar for the rest of the night, thankful that your coworkers were more than happy to cover for you. The dimly lit corner might as well be its own little world with how intently the two of you focus on each other, knee to knee as you talk. When it comes time to close, you lean over and kiss his cheek underneath that flickering overhead light, before leaving to help your coworkers close up.

Joel can smell cherries in the air as you walk away.

~*~

A week later, Joel can’t take the lingering looks anymore.

You smile up at him so sweetly when he approaches you at the bar with Tommy at his back. His brother claps his shoulder before peeling off to speak with someone else, and Joel silently thanks him for the privacy. He allows himself to melt a little at the sight of you now that Tommy isn’t around to see him, and he’s nearly distracted enough that he doesn’t hear you speak:

“What’ll it be tonight, Joel? Everything’s on the house, considering you cleared a basement full of clickers—”

“How about some hot cider at mine?” Joel interrupts. Your mouth forms an o-shape at the abrupt question, and he backtracks when your eyebrows raise in surprise. “Not to—I mean, if—I just—”

“I think I’d like that, Texas.”

Joel blinks. He looks down at the bar. Settles himself. Looks back up at you. You're unable to move beneath his gaze, eyes reflecting gold under the lights of the bar, like a midwestern summer sunset. “Would you like to go on a date with me, (y/n)?” Joel asks, calmly and slowly.

“Really?” you ask. “I just, uh,” you trail off, carefully folding away the cloth you were holding. “If I’m being honest, I thought I was imagining—”

“—You got an active imagination,” Joel agrees, leaning across the bar toward you. You gasp slightly at his sudden closeness, inhaling the smell of pine and the sweet lemon tang of saddle cleaner as Joel tilts forward and into your space. “But you ain’t imaginin’ this,” he finishes.

You smile and lean back slightly so you’re looking down your nose at him playfully. “...Alright, then.”

~*~

Joel offers his arm to you for the walk to his house, and you don’t hesitate to accept. He likes the feel of you pressed against him, shamelessly using his broad frame to block the harsh winter wind. He likes how much more bashful your smile is now that you’re on the same side of the bar. He likes the way your breath hitches slightly when he drops a hand to your waist to guide you over a particularly icy patch.

He likes you.

When the two of you finally settle in front of his roaring fireplace, hot mugs of cider in hand, Joel is unable to look away. You tell him about how you ended up in Jackson not long before he did. A month after you arrived, Maria dragged you to the Tipsy Bison and forced you to learn to bartend, fed up with your inability to socialize on your own. You like people but have never been one to actively seek out crowds. You’d rather get your hands dirty in the greenhouses or help out in the clinic, and let that be the extent of your social life.

You’re vibrant in the way you talk about your life and the people and things in it and, for the first time in a long time, Joel is actively interested in learning about another person. When he asks how you met Ellie, you outright laugh before even starting the story, and Joel finds himself chuckling along with you. You and Ellie bonded over training Buckley to do the most inane things, pissing off Tommy to no end that the sweet old dog could never learn normal tricks.

It feels too soon that you insist you should be heading home. Joel walks you as far as the edge of his porch because you insist he not brave the bitter winter wind for you again when his house is so warm right now. A light breeze buffets you both as you step outside, sending the windchimes above his door into a happy little dance. His hair is tossed into messy curls when you turn to face him, and you long to sink your fingers into it.

You’re just opening your mouth to say good night when Joel takes one last, hopeful step toward you. “Can I kiss you?”

You sag in relief and grab the collar of his flannel to pull him closer, running your thumbs over the worn lapels. You roll up onto your toes, nose bumping his as you whisper: “Please.”

His lips are chapped from the wind when they meet yours, but you sigh against him anyway, pressing your fingertips into the soft edge of his beard. Joel hums and circles his arms around you, pulling you so close that you’re practically able to feel the heat of his hands through your thick winter coat. You gasp when he tugs you up onto your toes, sealing his mouth to yours anew.

Joel’s arms are the only reason you’re still standing when he pulls away and presses his nose to your temple, breathing you in. “Are you sure I can’t walk you home?” he murmurs.

You sigh and press a kiss to his jaw. “If you did, I don’t think I’d let you leave.”

Joel’s chest rumbles against yours when he laughs, and you immediately become addicted to the sensation. “That’s alright,” he murmurs, and your breath stutters as he drags his lips down your cheek to hover over your mouth. “I don’t want to rush.”

“I don’t either.” You pull back just enough to look him in the eye and run your hands down his broad shoulders. “But keep kissing me like that, and I’m going to get impatient.”

Joel’s warm breath ghosts across your face as he chuckles, and you find yourself smiling along with him. “Alright, then.”

You sigh when his lips meet yours in another warm press. A few more minutes couldn’t hurt.

[milkywayes]

dreamt a cipher

a shepard/garrus post-destroy ending longfic.

[AO3 link]

I’ve debated a while about when to start posting this. Now it’s the new year, and I’ve been working on Cipher for over a year and a half, and I’ve waited long enough to start sharing it with you all. I’ve decided it’s finally time to start uploading while I work on the final chapters.

I started writing this before I ever drew a single piece of fanart for Mass Effect. It’s all the things that were bouncing around in my head after choosing the destroy ending with a mostly-paragon Shepard—consequence and responsibility and self-recrimination; her relationship with Garrus and with herself; their ties to each other and how much weight they can bear; their differing perspectives and how they slot together—all that fun stuff—compressed into a story, a place, a narrative. 

I believe in the power of love, and I promise a happy ending. They’ve just been taking the long way to get there. Feel free to yell at me in the meantime.

A huge thank you to @callista-curations for her meticulous and invaluable beta work, and to @that-wildwolf and @gammaraydeath for being the best hypemen I could ask for!

A more detailed list of warnings can be found on AO3.

I've posted the full cover art here.

────

Summary:

Pairing: Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian Rating: M (subject to change) Important Tags: post-destroy ending - angst with a happy ending - slow burn (of sorts) - arguing - reconciliation - survivor guilt - minor original characters Her own personal Noverian peak. That’s what it was supposed to be. Nothing but the discovery: no distractions, no comfort, no windows looking out—no familiar faces. But it's starting to look like her winning streak might have ended in that pile of Citadel rubble, if it ever extended that far to begin with. ──── “How does the Earth idiom go? No use beating a dead—” A long-suffering sigh. “What was it again?” “A dead horse. And yet, you’re here. Beating it.” Pot, kettle. She wishes he’d just fucking say it.

-> AO3.

Read the start of Chapter 1: Constant Velocity under the cut!

────

The overhead lights flicker as they always do when the data screens are up and running. It’s not something one gets used to, even so. It stings at her ocular nerves—or something like that, anyway, somewhere along the delicate wires that extend from her eyeballs into her brain—but her focus on the data doesn’t waver.

“In that case,” says Shepard, squinting against the ache, “what we need is salvage from a relay outside the immediate burst zone. Four jumps away. Five, if possible. There’s no point to any of this if we can’t scrape together a control group.”

She glances back at Elsawy, who so far hasn’t made it more than a meter into the room. She nods without looking up from her omni-tool; orange shimmers off her shiny, black hair, giving her the uncomfortable air of a Cerberus operative. Not the worst comparison, except that Miranda would waste no time letting her know if her logic took a faulty turn somewhere. Elsawy’s just as likely to agree now and write a message detailing all her crap conclusions later.

Leaning her hip against the conference table, Shepard shifts her weight off her left leg, bites down on the sigh that almost manages to slip out. Once in the clear, she grouses, “Where the hell is Meyer? He’s the one that called this meeting.”

As it is, it’s three people in attendance and she’s the only one talking. She could’ve achieved the same results with a voice call from her quarters, where she could elevate her leg in peace and without witnesses. In the dark.

“Lab Two,” answers Elsawy, finally ripping her attention off the omni-screen and gracing Shepard with a second of eye contact. Maybe in another life she could appreciate the effort—Jesus, as if she hasn’t had her fill of lives already. “We’re close to a breakthrough on the initial output patterns. Sorry. He’s been feeding his data to me.”

“Right.” She blinks once, twice, in time with the flickering. It doesn’t help; it never does. “I’ll swing by later, then. Anything else he asked you to relay?” 

“Just that, Commander.” Elsawy is mumbling just enough that her voice has to compete with the drone of the air vents. The translator takes a second to filter out and amplify it. The result is less than perfect: “More salvage—” bzzrt—“bigger picture, you got it.” She narrows her eyes, and Shepard raises a brow. “Left leg or—” bzz!—“left hip?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Commander.”

“It’s nothing relevant,” she says pleasantly, forcing herself to stand up straight again. There’s a brief tremor shaking up her hamstrings; she waves a hand to distract from it. In the frenzy of the lights, the movement looks jerky, nervous. She soldiers on. “Old field injury. Unrelated. Anything can set it off.”

Funny, kind of, since it’s that very leg that ends in the most perfect, cooperative example of a foot she’s ever had the pleasure of treading on. It’s cloned; a replacement. Not the only one either. They should’ve just done away with the whole limb, but she hadn’t been consulted. Same with her trick shoulder. Not even Cerberus had managed to get that one back on the straight and narrow.

“I’d rather you bring it up with the doctor,” replies Elsawy. This is, apparently, what it takes for her to finally speak at a reasonable volume. “If we manage to fill even one of the data gaps…”

“I know,” she says. “I know, and I’m telling you, it’s unrelated.”

-> continue reading on AO3